It seemed unlikely that she would keep her promise, but I couldn’t think of any decent way to get out of the room. I settled back in my chair. “Now, I’ve been to see the baby,” I told her. “Seems quite healthy, I’d say from the looks of him.”
“Did you see him, Miss Vinton?”
“I told you. I’ve just been by the nursery.”
“I meant Jeremy. Did you see him?”
“Yes, this morning I did.”
“How did he look? Was he all right?”
“He was fine,” I told her. “Just fine.”
“They won’t let me use the phone again until I’m up and about,” Mary said, “and that won’t be till tomorrow. It’s out in the hall. All I want to do is ask how the children are, and get this misunderstanding straightened out. I can’t stand just lying here thinking that—”
“The children are managing beautifully,” I said.
“Are they doing what he tells them to?”
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t always know quite how to handle them, you see, and I worry that—”
“They’re fine,” I told her.
“He said he wanted to come visit me.”
“Oh, good, good,” I said. I thought that was a wonderful sign; before he had always left the visiting to me.
“I told him not to.”
“Mary Pauling! Why ever not?”
“It’s so hard for him,” Mary said. “I told him not to bother.”
Some people take a terribly long time learning things.
I went home and found everything in chaos—Buddy cooking spaghetti, Jeremy changing Hannah’s diaper, Mr. Somerset stroking the carpet with an old bent broom. There is something so pathetic about men trying to figure out the way a house works. “Here,” I said to Jeremy, “let me do that.” He had laid a clean diaper on the floor but he seemed to be having trouble getting Hannah to set herself down on it. I said, “At eight o’clock it will be visiting hour at the hospital. I’ll stay with the children while you go.”
“She doesn’t want me to,” he said. He looked at me with his eyes very wide and steady. It nearly broke my heart.
“Jeremy,” I said, “are you sure she doesn’t?”
“She asked me not to come.”
Then Hannah started wandering off toward a stack of blocks. I grabbed her. “Now listen, young lady,” I said, “this has gone far enough, do you hear?” Only Hannah, of course, was not really who I was mad at.
It is very difficult to live among people you love and hold back from offering them advice.
I have never been married and never planned to be, never had the inclination to be. Yet I don’t believe I am an unhappy person. I had a normal childhood, good parents, five fine brothers and sisters. I had the usual number of young men to come calling when I was the proper age. Still, I did not once consider the possibility of marrying any of them. If you were to ask my vision of the future back then, my favorite daydream, it was this: I would be reading a book alone in my room, and no one would ever, ever interrupt me. I realize how antisocial that sounds. But it seemed to me that my life was so crowded, when I was young. There were always so many people around. Everyone knew everyone’s secrets. And then later, when my father died and my brothers and sisters married and moved away, I was the one who nursed my mother through her final illness. I chose to; it wasn’t a case of the put-upon spinster daughter. And my mother was never one of those querulous old ladies. She was kind and cheerful, right to the end. But the sharing we did! The five years of meals shared, house shared, news shared, plans and worries and money problems, even the plots of books shared. I knew everything about her, because I had to: the state of her bowels and the foods that disagreed with her and the thoughts that kept her awake nights. And she knew about me because there was no escaping me; I was perpetually with her. Toward the end I even slept on a cot in her bedroom. When she died I was awakened merely by the silence—the stopping of a breath that I had lived with continually for five long years. Solitude shocked my eyes open. I was alone. I went through her funeral fully composed, and the only thing that disturbed me was the noise of all those brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews that had gathered for the occasion. “Oh, Mildred,” they said, “we know how you feel: you can’t believe it yet.” That was how they explained my not crying. Then Carrie, the sister closest to me, said, “I guess it must be almost a relief to you, her going. None of us would be shocked to hear it.” But it wasn’t the kind of relief she meant. I wasn’t relieved to be free, or to be rid of the work; I was relieved to have my privacy. If you were to shake me awake in the middle of the night and say, “Quick, without thinking: What is the most important thing in the world?” I would say, “Privacy.” I know that’s not right; you don’t have to tell me. I know that the true answer is probably love, or understanding, or feeling needed—even for me. But I am telling you what comes to mind first, and that’s privacy. Sitting alone in a room reading a book, with no one to interrupt me. That is all I ever consciously wanted out of life.
When I first came here, immediately after Mother died, I announced my requirements from the doorstep. “I see you let rooms,” I said. “I’d like one that’s cheap and quiet. No noise, no people in large numbers. Can you provide that?” At the time, I had no way of knowing that everything I said was unnecessary. Jeremy Pauling and his mother were more private than I had ever thought it possible to be. That front door might as well have had a curtain of cobwebs across it, like the Sleeping Beauty’s palace gate, with the two of them inside trying to make as little noise as possible and the rest of the world outside—some large cold frightening force waiting to pounce, something certain to win, superior to them in every way. Mrs. Pauling, going to the grocery store, wore several layers of clothing no matter how hot the weather was, as if she wished for armor. She stopped outside the house and looked all around her with a timid blue startled gaze, checking on what the enemy had in mind for her. She returned pushing a wire tote cart so packed with non-perishables that it seemed she was expecting a siege, and she would scurry inside with them and line them up in rows in her cupboards and then stand back to stare at them a long time, moving her lips as if counting. After one of those trips she might not go to the store again for weeks—or anywhere else, except church occasionally. She and Jeremy stayed inside and drank hot cocoa. Was there any other door in the world so suitable for me to knock upon? Originally I was going to live here only a few months, until I found a job and had saved the money for an apartment. Then I could be truly alone. But the years passed and I just never got around to it, and now I suppose that I never will. I like it here. If you want my opinion, our whole society would be better off living in boarding houses. I mean even families, even married couples. Everyone should have his single room with a door that locks, and then a larger room downstairs where people can mingle or not as they please. For I do like some people. I’m no hermit. I like to watch Jeremy’s and Mary’s children growing up, and the medical students turning into doctors, and Mr. Somerset shuffling through his pension. For such a good life, isn’t it fair that I should have to pay some price? The price is silence. Keeping silent when I am moved to speak, staying out of other people’s affairs, holding back my advice, giving them the privacy I have asked for myself. Often I wonder if I am making a mistake. I think: Am I missing something? Have I forfeited too much? Is there a time when people I love might not want to be left alone? But I resist; I climb the stairs to my room. I turn the key in the lock. One sad thing about this world is that the acts that take the most out of you are usually the ones that other people will never know about.
Mary stayed in the hospital five days, and believe me those were five mighty long days. At home the disorder grew worse, and the children got cranky and the house didn’t feel right any more. Daytimes Jeremy pottered around looking helpless; nights he worked in his studio till nearly dawn, and came to breakfast so tired and pale he could hardly speak. He never did go to the hospital. I
went. I went every afternoon and every evening and watched Mary cry. Oh, I don’t mean that’s all she did. She had her cheerful moments, particularly when she’d just been with the baby. She made friends with the mothers in her ward, she received other visitors (Buddy, Buddy’s girlfriend, a few of the women in the park once word seeped out), and she wrote little notes for me to take home to the children. But at least once on every visit she would break down and cry. “Oh, why can’t I just go home to him?” she said once, and then, “Do you think I shouldn’t have had this baby?” One evening she was telling me why she’d wanted such a big family. “I was an only child,” she said (the first mention she had ever made to me of any kind of past), “and I always promised myself I would have at least a dozen children when I grew up. Well, I’m keeping my promise, aren’t I?” Then her eyes glazed over with tears. I wasn’t at all prepared, right then. “But sometimes,” she said, “I feel that every new baby is another rope, tying me down like a tent. I don’t have the option to leave any more. I’m forced to depend on him. He’s not dependable.”
“Hush, now, my goodness,” I said.
“I love him more than I ever loved anyone, do you believe me? But sometimes I start falling in love with my doctor or even the children’s doctor, they’re both so sure of what they’re doing. Even the furnace man, who knows exactly where the leak is, or the man who delivers my groceries. He whistles cheerful songs and slams that big box of groceries on my kitchen table.”
“You’re just upset,” I said.
I went home upset myself, and lay awake hoping that she would forget she had ever told me such things.
In the beginning, when they were first married, she asked so much of him. It was plain that she didn’t realize he was different from anybody else. “Come with me to pick out curtains,” I heard her say once. And another time, “Why don’t we ever go to movies, Jeremy?” Of course none of us had discussed the subject with her. Julia Jarrett always believed that for Mary’s sake he would change, and you might say that in a sense he did. He does go out more now. Why, presumably he had to go off this block for his wedding, and then there were those trips to the hospital and three years ago he went to Darcy’s school to see her play a flower in Red Riding Hood’s forest. (She gave Red Riding Hood a warning in a silvery little voice—I was there. “Be careful, little girl, remember what your mother told you.” Jeremy walked seven blocks to hear that and applauded all alone the minute she said her line, which naturally made Darcy furious. But I admired him for that. There are other kinds of heroes than the ones who swim through burning oil.) But no, he has never gone to Hecht’s to pick out curtains. He has never taken Mary to a movie. How does she explain that to herself? When did she put two and two together and realize that he never would? I really have no idea. All I can say is that bit by bit, it seemed she stopped asking him. It seemed she grew quieter, older, stronger. There was something more loving in the way she treated him. Then I heard her talking with Buddy, back before he knew us well. He was telling her about a play that she and Jeremy shouldn’t miss. “Oh,” she said, “Jeremy has nearly stopped going to plays. His eyes have been bothering him.” And I knew the pieces had finally fallen into place for her, she had stopped expecting him to be like other people. Still I worried. I realized, of course, that it was none of my business. Yet I was so anxious for Jeremy, so quick to imagine him in all possible scenes of failure with her. During the first few weeks of their marriage I sent her silent, invisible messages: If you are unkind it will be a sin, the worst you’ve ever committed. Don’t forget that this is a very special man you are dealing with. A genius. Not some run-of-the-mill insurance salesman. It wasn’t that I disliked her, you see; I was fond of her even that far back. But in some ways Mary is an everyday kind of woman, and this marriage was as odd for her, as distant from her main road, as it was for Jeremy. Look at the telephone pad in the hall! Her doodles are minute line drawings of steam irons and tricycles and Mixmasters. She adds to their incomes by sending household hints to ladies’ magazines. Is it any wonder I worried? All for nothing, as it turned out. She remained her serene and contented self, while Jeremy seemed ready to burst out of his skin with pride and happiness. I remember one morning she wore a new dress to breakfast, practically the only one I have ever seen her in. She looked just beautiful. I said, “My, that’s attractive. Isn’t it, Jeremy?” But Jeremy was in that mood he gets when he is about to start a new piece—a thousand miles away. He gave her a wide, blank smile and said nothing. I said, “Jeremy? Doesn’t Mary look pretty?” Because now it seemed he had to answer, for Mary’s sake. Jeremy said, “What?” He stood up and left. Now, a thing like that can seem important to some women. But when I looked over at Mary I saw that she was laughing, and she said, “Don’t worry, he loves it. I know because last week he cut a patch from inside the hem and used it for one of his pieces. He thought I wouldn’t notice.”
I was so relieved when I heard that. I thought, “Well, at least she understands him.” I never dreamed she would grow to be too understanding.
On Thursday evening Brian came by for Jeremy’s new batch of work. Brian’s visits are quite an event in this household. He himself is so impressive, in the first place—a handsome kind-faced man with a square-cut beard—and then too it is always the first glimpse we have of what Jeremy has been up to lately. The things they brought down that night were the best I’d yet seen. It’s strange how over the years Jeremy’s pieces have grown up. I mean physically, literally. They have doubled in size, and they are so deeply textured that they are almost sculptures. Ordinary objects are crowded into them—Dixie cups and bus tickets and his children’s plaid shoelaces, still recognizable—and his subjects are ordinary too, the smallest and most unnoticed scenes on earth. I found a man with a rake, a woman ironing a shirt, a child strapping on a roller skate. Their features were gone and they were bare of detail; they were layered over with the Dixie cups and the bus tickets. They made me sad.
Have you ever seen a television show that ends with stills from the scenes you have just finished watching? Music plays and the titles roll over them. The effect is of distance. Moments that you just witnessed are suspended forever while you yourself recede from them with every breath you take. The moments grow smaller, and yet clearer. You see some sorrow in them you had never before suspected. Now, does it make any sense when I say that Jeremy’s pieces affect me in the same way? This man with the rake, slightly stooped and motionless, reminded me that life is nothing but motion and passes too swiftly for us to observe with the naked eye. At least, for me to observe. Jeremy has no trouble whatsoever. He sees from a distance at all times, without trying, even trying not to. It is his condition. He lives at a distance. He makes pictures the way other men make maps—setting down the few fixed points that he knows, hoping they will guide him as he goes floating through this unfamiliar planet. He keeps his eyes on the horizon while his hands work blind. Am I the only one who sees this? Surely Brian never has. Brian merely tapped the pictures with his knuckles and nodded, chewing his pipe. “Good work, good work,” he said. Then he went on to talk about a boat he had bought. “In the spring I’m going to try a real trip on her,” he said. “I’m going to do it old style. I’ll eat what I catch, I’ll sail by celestial navigation.” Jeremy listened with his eyes wide, his expression awed and admiring. He stood beside his very best piece and forgot it utterly. Oh, Jeremy, I wanted to tell him, you too sail by celestial navigation and it is far more celestial than Brian’s.
But, of course, I didn’t say it out loud.
On Friday I went to visit Mary and she said they were letting her come home Saturday. She didn’t seem as happy as you’d expect. “Why, that’s wonderful!” I said. “I have Saturday off this week. I’ll drive everybody over at ten o’clock or so, shall I?”
“Oh well,” Mary said, “this time I think you might just come by yourself if you don’t mind.”
“What, alone?”
“It’s simpler that way.”
>
“Who asked it to be simple?” I said.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t have spoken out like that, but I could tell this new arrangement wasn’t really what she wanted. She was twining a wisp of hair very slowly around her fingers and not meeting my eyes when she spoke. She looked limp and uncombed. “Look,” I told her. “There’s no law that says you can’t change your mind. Call him up. Tell him you want him to come for you after all.”
“I never told him I didn’t want him to come,” she said.
“Then what’s all this about?”
“I’ve been waiting for him to offer, but he hasn’t.”
“You know it would be hard for him to offer.”
“I mean that he won’t even speak to me on the phone.”
“He won’t?” I said. I hadn’t realized that.
“When I telephone, one of the children always answers, and if I ask to speak to him they go off to call him and come back and say he’s in the middle of changing Hannah or frying eggs or something. He’s angry.”
Jeremy angry?
“No, he’s hurt, Mary,” I said.
“Well, I’m hurt too. I’ve been waiting all this time, thinking surely he would give in and call me. I lie here just for hours. Don’t you think I would say yes like a shot if he called and asked to visit me and take me home?”
“Of course. Yes, I know. But you could call, Mary.”
“I spend my life calling!” Mary said. She sat up in bed, and a few of the other women in the ward turned to stare. “It’s always me,” she said more quietly. “Never him. I make the first move every time. I’m tired.”
“Yes, now, I know,” I said, trying to hush her. And after that she did grow more reasonable. For the rest of the hour we talked about ordinary things. But when finally I rose to go, when I turned in the doorway to say goodbye, the last thing I saw was Mary sitting with her hands folded and her eyes lowered and her face sad and wistful. She reminded me of a girl waiting for an invitation to dance. Even her lace-trimmed nightgown had a pathetic look, like a ball dress carefully ironed by some loving mother who had imagined her daughter waltzing all evening, and never dreamed it could be otherwise.