The Cosmopolitans (12 page)

Dinner was served.

This was the prelude to a special night of laughing. Of Bette bringing out a box of assorted chocolates she'd bought at Barton's on a lark on the way back home from work. Then Earl brought out a bottle of brandy he had saved for so long that he'd never imagined actually drinking it. He had been waiting for a happy occasion. He had been hoping that Leon would be the one.
Someone to celebrate with
. But now he knew that was never going to happen, so no point in not drinking it.

On an actor's impulse, Hortense asked for her first taste of brandy.

“I want to lose my head,” she said.

Both Bette and Earl imagined that was a line from some movie, but they too were losing their heads. They were happy. They were all happy. They didn't
have much, their next accomplishments were all before them, all unknown, and yet they felt good in the moment, enjoyed the ride. It wasn't all about wishing for something that would never come and then enduring that fact. Life could have a moment of gaiety and cracking open the ten-year-old brandy bottle.

Silly girl
, thought Earl, bringing youthful energy into their lives. And he had a strange feeling. As she was singing now, singing a song from that new show
West Side Story
.

              
Tonight, tonight
,

              
Won't be just any night
,

              
Tonight there will be no morning star
.

He started thinking about Leon, listening to Hortense's sweet voice. He drank some more brandy, and felt . . . Earl felt . . . he really wanted something . . . he wanted . . . want.

              
Tonight, tonight, I'll see my love tonight
.

              
And for us, stars will stop where they are
.

She stopped singing. It was late. He could see that Bette was exhausted. Earl was the guest here, he was keeping them up. Old folks have to turn in. But he didn't want to. He wanted to keep singing.

“Oh well,” Bette yawned. “Time for sleep.”

Earl caught Hortense's eye. She didn't want to sleep either. She wanted to stay up. With him.

The end of the evening was now inevitable, and yet Earl and Hortense had communicated to each other,
silently, that there could be more fun. If only they had been allowed to stay up longer. But they could not. Because Bette needed to sleep.

At the door, Earl held out his hand. Hortense took it, and they shook good-night. But when it came to Bette, impulsively, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Oh my,” Bette said.

It was unusual. The gesture.

When the door was closed after him, Bette and Hortense exchanged a smile. A great feeling had been shared between them. The two women started to tidy up, push back the table, as they now did together every night, in order to pull out the sofa bed. Hortense was so practiced at this transformation that she knew to take the pillow out of the hall closet and to pile the cushions on the old sofa. This was her task now. This was how she lay down to rest at the end of her day. There was no more yellow canopy bed in Hortense's life. No more wallpaper. No more matching bureau. No more ribbons in her hair. There was no more old toy chest filled with the dolls of her youth. Everything was blank, starting from scratch. Her mother would never buy her another thing. It was all Hortense's job to make it happen, her life. She had to start thinking that way. This was permanent now. Nothing at her service. If she wanted more, she had to plan. Decide. Opportunity was all that awaited Hortense. And it was her turn to leap.

Chapter 12

H
ortense was possessed by an overwhelming knowledge. As her cousin bustled about with the night's final preparations, Hortense could not move to help her. Something enormous had occurred. She had become . . . a woman. And it was nothing she had imagined back in her yellow bedroom, in the flowered fields, or even on the bus rolling across the farms of Pennsylvania hurtling east. She had never really understood what adulthood would entail, but now she did. Passion. Not imagining, wanting, or yearning for something better. But instead, a depth of commitment to what truly existed in her life
right now
, and the fierce, vicious loyalty it required to make it inseparable, unloseable, permanent.

Hortense turned toward the window. Suddenly, she could see
it
, the thing that kept Bette herself staring for hours in the way that relatives repeatedly flocked to church or an astronomer chose the stars over earth. Hortense understood that the living cinema, the human
theater outside that window was now
her
world. It no longer belonged to Bette alone. These were the streets where her life would take place, under the old wrought iron gaslight transformed for electric, whose eerie glow had no parallel in nature. This was her Act One, and the climax and intermission were soon approaching. She opened the window wider and brought her body to the night.

A silent bicycle passed through the shadows below. A man lit a cigarette, a dog whimpered. She could hear the whoosh of his match. Then the dog, comforted somehow, was silent. Any moment now, a bevy of dancing girls would tap out onto the avenue, followed by chorus boys dressed as toughs. It reminded her of the set of
Guys and Dolls
, which she had seen on Broadway for four dollars, and made her yearn even more for the new movie version that was not yet released. This was her life now. Hortense Marybelle Webb. Riding the subway was not a rocket ship to Hollywood, it was Hollywood. Turns out Busby Berkeley was a kitchen-sink realist compared to everyday life on the island of Manhattan. And New Yorkers naturally conversed in that snappy dialogue overflowing with wisecracks and comebacks that sounded written, but were in fact expertly improvised on the smooth.

“He had a voice like rancid butter.”

The short kid in her scene class had actually uttered that line as part of lunchtime banter.

Hortense was a star, having her star turn. This was her moment. This, she knew, was her cue. This was
it
.

“Bette?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to stop.”

If ever a human being had spoken to Bette that way, given her an order like an old dairy farmwife or an Ashtabula school marm assuming the role of God, well, if anyone had even tried this approach over the last thirty years, Bette could not recall it happening. After all, a reasonable person must be reasoned with, not commanded. The sharp rebuke was so unfamiliar an occurrence that Bette felt nothing but curiosity. Too preposterous for anger, only a genuine question seemed right.

“Stop what?”

Now, on the third line, Hortense turned from the window to face Bette fully. Only now that she had turned could Bette see the tears in her eyes. Background music, please.

“Stop treating me like a child.” Hortense paused, brought her vocal tone down to room temperature. “There is no need.”

Truth be told, Bette did wonder, at first, if the girl was performing a scene from a play. But then she saw Hortense's expression of determination, one that could be accessed but never imitated. She saw that it was both willful and childish. Reminiscent of Shirley Temple singing “On the Good Ship Lollipop.” Lips pursed, cheeks puffed, imitating authority in a manner that had no authority. Trying it on for size.

“I agree,” Bette said. “There is absolutely no reason for me to treat you like a child. Are you worried that you might be acting like a child?”

“I know,” Hortense barreled forth, losing her nerve
and then grabbing it again. “I know that you and Earl are lovers.”

There. She'd done it.

“You do?” Bette almost laughed.

“Yes. The passion between you is palpable.”

Bette considered. Then decided.

“It is?”

“Yes.”

Hortense was in full swing now. She started coming toward Bette.
Downstage cross
. It was the action that began her monologue.

“Bette.”

Pause.

“Bette, I want you to know for sure that there is no need to abide by the hypocritical conventions of Christian chastity for my sake.”

“I agree.” Bette tried not to laugh.

“Christian chastity” was a phrase she had not heard uttered since her childhood. But more importantly, it was an idea she had not heard considered. It was on the garbage heap of history along with
outhouse
and
Satan
. Concepts that modern man no longer regarded as worthy of consideration. It was outdated, part of a benign nostalgia for rural times gone by. Bette would never see that world again. She added to the list of things forgotten:
pigs' feet, ice cream churn, dandelion greens, quilting
. Oh yes, also
stable boy
and the song “Bringing in the Sheaves.” Actually, no. Bette and Earl had sung “Bringing in the Sheaves” when he got the postcard saying that his mother had died. But never again since that day.

“Because,” Hortense continued, “after all, Bette, we are both grown women.”

“I have been one for some time,” Bette concurred, at least about herself.

Bette looked at her young cousin. She could see her flaws and her strengths. She was fun, engaged, hopeful, lively, and had commitments. This was marvelous. But she was also unaware of what others were thinking. That was a significant flaw. Of course, Bette knew, one could never be a mind reader, but at minimum it was important to factor into one's imagination that others
were
thinking and that the content of these thoughts was always in question. Hortense did not seem to know this to be true.

The matter at stake here, Bette noted, was that if Hortense did not know that others had their own considerations, she could not understand who they really were. That would apply to Earl as well as to herself. It was almost strange, to be that oblivious. But the recognition made Bette want to help the girl to change. Bette wanted to watch Hortense as she grew.

“I mean,” Hortense took Bette's hand in hers, “you, Cousin Bette. You have desires, dreams, deep loves. And like all women who have walked their own path, you also have a soul mate. And I understand that true soul mates are chosen by God, they cannot be replaced or denied. So, I truly understand . . .” Here Hortense opened her eyes so wide, they devoured her face. “So I truly understand that soul mates do not need a piece of paper from city hall, as long as they have their lives intertwined as they wish.”

“I see.” Bette was taken aback by the God talk. She
had long put those promises aside and wondered if Hortense actually believed these things. That Jesus Christ was the Son of God, born of a virgin. And that he had died for their sins and rose again. It seemed impossible for Hortense to be the kind of person to take this seriously, so the invocation of God could only be a bad habit. At the same time, she did feel partially pleased that Hortense recognized the primacy of her commitment with Earl. Yes, they were soul mates of a sort. They were friends for life. That was true. And it was very precious. A treasure. But Hortense's histrionics around their friendship seemed a bit silly. It was the racial element, Bette knew, that had brought this to a fever pitch.

“True,” Hortense continued. “You two could never marry.”

“Why not?”

“Isn't it illegal?” Hortense seemed suddenly unsure as to the factual basis of her deep concern.

“Not illegal in New York,” Bette answered with pride. It then occurred to her that marriage between blacks and whites might still be illegal in Ohio, and she resolved to stop at the library and look that up. This had never crossed her mind before because she had never considered marriage under any circumstance, and neither had Earl. It simply did not come up, except in relation to poor Anthony and how the power of the thing sucked him away.

Hortense fell back to the windowsill, glanced out. There it was again! The play's next scene had begun. Someone was making his entrance, coming home late. He was staggering, whistling. Where was he headed?
Another bar? A tenement walk-up to an angry put-upon wife and child, whose rent money he had just drunk down? A posh elevator building filled with martinis and evening gowns?
Oh my
, he was whistling a song from
Guys and Dolls
.

              
Luck be a lady tonight
.

              
Luck if you've ever been a lady to begin with
.

              
Luck be a lady tonight
.

Bette looked at Hortense's back, her long hair, and felt amused. Yet, she did not know how to respond. The truth about Earl was out of the question. It would be many years before Hortense would be able to understand the homosexual way. It would take experience and the recognition that she, herself, was not superior. And even then Earl would have to start the conversation in his own time. His own fashion. Unless, of course, he found a new love, then it would all be presented, matter-of-factly, and she'd have to jump on board. But, meanwhile Bette had enjoyed being imagined, by another person, in that silly, dreamy way. Of course, Hortense did not fully understand about Frederick. He was her father. She claimed to see through him, but there could still be sentimentality residing there, enough to keep her from being able to internalize the full truth. Was Bette ready to risk it? She had been patient, waiting to see if there was a moment when Hortense would be able to understand. Perhaps that moment was upon them. After all, Bette had also been twenty when his initial cruelty had unfolded. Perhaps
she could empathize with that other young girl Bette had been so long before.

“I just want to be sure that you know,” Hortense added, a bit lost somehow, “that I understand, Cousin Bette. And that . . .”

“Yes, dear?”

“That I love you.”

“You love me?”

Oh.

A door opened then. For them both.

Appropriately a bird soared by. City birds don't fly at night, unless a certain freedom of spirit takes hold of their hearts. So the swoop of their glide means joy and the whimsy to take a chance. Or it could mean that a New Jersey gas tank had exploded into flames.

Bette felt as though she wished to cry, and yet she did not cry. Someone who she was related to loved her. This person saw her, somewhat self-centeredly, but with good intentions nonetheless. And this young girl was kind. Bette had not thought about, considered, imagined, or wished for such an experience for many, many years. That ancient hope had only brought dismembering pain and had to be pushed aside. And yet, somehow, miraculously, it had come to her. It had knocked at her door, and it had delivered.

“I don't want you to hide anything from me,” Hortense said.

“I can try,” Bette answered.

“My father and my mother live in a state of one lie following the other. Lying is the structure upon which they lean.” She spoke to Bette as an equal, invested in
the same thought. “They don't tell each other anything that matters, and they certainly don't tell me. I swear they no longer know what is actually taking place. The scramble to strategize through lies has become a way of life.”

Just as I feared
. Bette felt confirmed and therefore free to be sad that these people, so important to her fate, had made the wrong choices. And now everyone was suffering. Bette, the least.

“I don't want that to be my life,” Hortense said. “I want to know the truth and I want you to know the truth.”

All these years Bette had worked hard to keep the facts straight. She recited them regularly when she was alone, memorized them, like lists. She did this as an investment in the future, so that one day, if ever the opportunity should arise, the facts could be easily recited and honestly conveyed. So that others could be made to know and understand.

       
(1)
  
Frederick lied.

       
(2)
  
I was punished as a consequence of his lie.

       
(3)
  
Et cetera.

And now that day had come.

“Do you understand?” Hortense was finished, it seemed. Waiting for a response.

“Yes,” Bette said quietly. “I do understand.”

For some strange reason having to do with time, luck, coincidence, fate, and justice, on this strange Tuesday night, in her nightgown, that long longed for
moment had come to pass. This was finally the place for those facts, that story, to be recited. Out loud.

“Your father,” Bette began haltingly. Those were difficult words to form, as his daughter had never been her imagined audience. So strange to yield now to feelings large and unwieldy. Bette had not told this story since that one full recitation to Anthony and Earl when they were all so young. Anthony, still living, poor thing.

“Your father is my one great true love. Your father.”

“What did he do?”

Bette spoke slowly, but she was steady. She picked her way from rock to rock over the swirling dangers of the swollen river.

“Your father seduced me by the banks of the Ashtabula River.”

The breeze.

“The next day, my family, that is to say
yours
, my mother, my father, my smoking brother back from the war, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, Frederick's parents, his sisters. Our neighbors, our world. We were all summoned to the parlor of his father's—your grandfather's—home. Paid for by the labor of the workers at his mill. Now your father's, I suppose.”