“He's still not here, is he?” Imogene whispered to Ruth as Ray escorted her back to their table.
But just then he was coming toward them. “Behind you,” Ruth whispered, and Imogene turned and intercepted him. As she led him by the hand smoothly onto the dance floor, he looked over his shoulder once toward Ruth, but she was turned away from him, talking to Ray.
“Not so hot tonight, is it?” Ray said.
“Yes, it's nice.” Arthur looked at me, Ruth thought, and felt ashamed.
“I suppose we could dance, if you want to,” Ray offered.
“Maybe in a little while.” It was ridiculous, despicable, wanting Arthur to look at her. Ruth felt a little sick to her stomach, thinking of it.
“Well, I'm about ready to get myself a drink. Want anything?”
“Yes, please, Ray. Whatever you're having.” While she waited for him to return with the drinks, Ruth tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that she was merely being foolish. After all, a glance, a kindness, a dance, an idle compliment—they meant nothing, of course, nothing outside her own silly mind. But wasn't that the horror of it? That there was no true feeling between Arthur and herself, and still she would betray Imogene in her thoughts?
Ruth got up from the table and wandered over to peer through the screen at the winking carnival lights of Nagawaukee Beach across the lake. The waves, distinct in the streak of moonlight and invisible in the darkness on either side, seemed to move much more quickly than they did in the daytime, as if they were part of some frantic river. In their speed, they gave the illusion that the pavilion itself was sliding in the opposite direction, and Ruth had to grab the railing to keep her balance. She looked over her shoulder at the faces tilted back with laughter or forward in concentration.
“C'mon, Ruth,” Imogene said, tugging at her arm, “we're going out in the boat again.”
It was just as before, Arthur steadying the women in their unsteady shoes one by one as they stepped off the pier and Bobby, standing below, helping them find their footing in the boat. Everyone was talking, laughing, reminding Bobby to bring enough liquor, and ribbing him about the morning's race.
“I was starting to get dizzy watching you reround that mark,” Arthur said.
“I had to give you a chance to catch up. Wasn't I taking my spinnaker down before you'd even finished your reach?”
“But Maynard and Arthur picked the right side of the lake on the last windward leg,” Kitty put in. Ruth could tell she'd said it to prove she knew what they were talking about, while Ruth and Imogene did not.
Kitty paused a moment before stepping forward after she took Arthur's hand. “It isn't fair that you're always the last one in,” she said.
“I like my job, as long as Bobby doesn't leave without me.”
Kitty looked at Arthur significantly. “Shall I save you a seat?”
“Sure.” He sounded surprised, Ruth thought, taken aback, but still he said, “Sure.”
Kitty nodded. “See you soon, then.” And keeping her eyes down as she stepped from the gunwale to the seat, she wiggled the fingers of her free hand in the air.
Imogene, whose turn was next, also looked at Arthur, and Ruth saw her smile, as if the whole outing had not in a matter of seconds been ruined for her. She took his hand lightly, only touching her fingers to his palm, weightless and undemanding. “Bobby,” she said, turning away and planting her delicate shoe, with its high stalk of a heel on the gunwale, “catch me!”
She didn't mean it. She didn't jump into his arms, nothing so reckless as that, but she stepped into the boat too quickly, with too much of her mind focused on acting blithe, instead of on placing her feet. She reached for Bobby's shoulder just as he was putting his hands around her waist, but somehow he lost his balance, and they both tumbled to the floor. Imogene was laughing and groaning at once.
“Genie, are you all right?” Ruth jumped into the boat, and Arthur followed her.
“Yes, fine! No, I don't think so!” She yelped as she tried to put weight on her foot and crumpled onto the seat.
“And she's an actress, too, our little Eau de Grub,” Zita whispered to Kitty.
“I'm all right,” Imogene insisted, but Arthur said he'd better take her home, and she let herself be helped out of the boat and carried off the pier.
“He's come to visit every day!” Imogene crowed from the chaise in her mother's front room on Sunday. She kept to herself the words and kisses by which he'd made his intentions clear at last.
“So it was worth it?”
“You don't think I did this on purpose, do you?” She leaned forward to rub the swollen ankle she'd propped on a pile of pillows. “Although I was so mad at that Kitty, I wanted to push her in the drink.”
“I know, she's hideous. Let's not have anything more to do with those people.”
“But they're Arthur's friends. If Arthur and I …”
“It's so sweet of you, Ruth dear, to do this for Genie,” Mrs. Lindgren said, interrupting her daughter as she came into the room. She stood behind Imogene and smoothed the girl's hair behind her ears.
“Your hands smell!” Imogene protested but she let her head fall against her mother's arm.
“I told her a hundred times,” Mrs. Lindgren went on indulgently, “that she'd tip right over in those shoes, but she never listens.”
“What am I doing for you, Imogene?”
“Mother, you didn't give me a chance to ask her yet.” Imogene turned to Ruth. “The thing is … everyone's being unreasonable about my ankle. Dr. Karbler says I can't walk on it, at least for another day, and Mother's scared I'll fall on that hill if I use the crutches. I hate to let Mrs. Owens down. Would you fill in for me tomorrow?”
“But I'm an awful secretary.”
“It doesn't matter. She won't rush you, and mostly I do things like answer the telephone and sort the mail. Anyone can do it. It's simple—personal, bills, charity.” She mimed putting each in a separate pile. “Pay the bills, keep the accounts, and as far as the charity stuff goes, Mrs. Owens'll look at each piece and tell you what to do.”
“Aunt Amanda won't like me missing Brown's. Not after she's paid for it.”
“Do you have to tell her? It's only one day, Ruth.”
Ruth bit one of her thumbnails. “I suppose for one day it'd be all right. I might as well see if I can do this stuff I'm supposed to have learned. What'll I do until the mail comes?”
“Oh, you'll find something. I'm sure I left some letters from last week on the desk to be typed and sent out. Or you can get Arthur to give you a tour of the house.”
“I couldn't do that!”
“I'm only joking. Don't worry, someone'll tell you what to do.” Imogene's voice followed Ruth as she left. “Don't forget to wear something nice.”
Chapter Fifteen
Amanda
In November the baby was so large in front of me, I had to lean back to keep my balance. That must be why I didn't see Joe until he was already on the grass, partway up the path to the house. I was standing at the bottom of the front steps, halfheartedly rolling the acorns off the walk with a broom. There was nowhere to hide, not even a decent shrub to cover me now that the leaves had dropped. My middle stood out starkly behind the narrow broomstick.
I ran. Heavy as I was, running, it seemed, was still what I did best. I ran around the back of the house and pushed Mathilda out the front.
Joe had come with a letter: Carl was on his way home.
In the yard, Mathilda danced. She swooped Ruth off her feet and danced. She twirled and danced. She danced with Joe; she danced with Ruth—Carl was coming home. I sat on Ruth's little bed, trying to keep the panic down. Inside of me, the baby danced, just like Mattie. It kicked up its heels and danced and danced.
Before Joe left, he also told Mathilda a sad story. I could imagine him, holding his cap and bowing his head, pretending he wasn't thinking about what he'd seen inside of me. Poor Mary Louise had had her baby, a girl as still as ice.
r /> Amanda steered a straight course through the early morning mist, one hand on the little four-horse Evinrude Joe had given her when he bought a more powerful one for himself. The motor buzzed so loudly she couldn't think, but she had to think. She hadn't decided what she would say or how she would say it, but Arthur had to leave Imogene alone—that much was obvious—and Clement, if he had any ideas … but that was unthinkable. Anyway, she told herself firmly, the time had come to make clear that this was her place, not his, and that he had caused enough trouble for one lifetime.
As she drew close to his boathouse, the smell nearly beat her back. The weed barge must have been cutting that morning, and a sea of weeds, studded with dead fish, clogged the water all along the shore. She killed the motor before the stringy fronds could tangle in the propeller and rowed the little distance to the pier. She tied her boat, and then on an impulse got out and sat on the boards where she had seen him sunbathe. She stretched her legs out full in front of her and tipped her chin back to catch the sun. She faced the middle of the lake, away from the lawn from which she knew he'd come. If anyone else found her first, well, let them.
“Motor trouble?” His voice sang over the weed-choked water, deep and clear as she remembered it.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. Dazzled by the brightness that had been beating against her eyelids, she could at first see only light and shadow. He was just stepping from the grass to the sand, and he raised his hand to shade his eyes.
“Need help?”
She didn't answer, could not answer. Her throat seemed to have swollen shut, and she trembled. It had been a mistake to come, a terrible error to think his betrayal would no longer sear her. Slowly, she turned to face him, tucking her knees under her chin and wrapping her arms around them to hold herself together. When he reached the pier, he was no longer looking straight into the sun.
“Amy?” He squinted in her direction, frowning, and then glanced quickly but unmistakably back toward the house, before hurrying toward her. The boards of the pier sprang under his weight, so that she rose and fell with each of his steps.
It seemed natural, his bending to give her his hand. Her cheek brushed the arm of his bathrobe as she allowed him to help her to her feet. She smelled the same old soap he'd used so many years ago, and those months with him rushed back upon her. Yes, for an instant she felt pleasure above all, as his nearness confirmed that a young, hopeful Amanda had once existed and was remembered, and the sweetness of this sensation was only intensified by the bitter realization that she existed no more. This man knew her, had known her, she corrected herself, however much he'd abused that knowledge.
He stared and stared at her, shaking his head in surprise. “Amy. Look at you. Just look at you.”
And against her will, she exulted in his approval. But she pulled herself back, sorry she'd let him, of all people, catch her up again. “I need to talk to you.”
“Of course, of course, Amy. But”—and he glanced, rather furtively, she noticed, to either side along the lakeshore—“not here, I think. Say,” he said, brightening, “why don't we take your boat and get away from this stink?”
She hesitated. She wanted to get it over with, but she still hadn't decided exactly what she meant to say. Keep your son away from my friend's daughter? It hardly sounded convincing. “All right,” she said. Talking to him would be easier, she told herself, if they weren't standing on his pier in full sight of his wife's windows.
The moment he stepped into her boat, she realized she hated him. He rowed a few strokes to get them clear of the weeds, and she kept on hating him, hated the certainty with which he handled the oars, just as he'd once handled her. She gave the cord on the motor two fierce tugs, and the Evinrude sputtered to life. Slowly, the tiny engine barely creating a ripple behind them, they crept into deeper water.
They didn't try to talk over the engine noise. Finally Clement, who'd been looking over Amanda's shoulder at the receding shoreline, said, “Might as well stop here as anywhere.”
Amanda noticed they were too far from shore to be seen, although not if the viewer had a pair of binoculars.
“So, Amy. What is it? Do you need money?”
It was her turn to stare at him. “Money? No, of course not.”
“Well, lots of people do these days. It's nothing to be ashamed of. And I'd be happy to see what I could do. I don't know how much exactly, but I'm sure I could loan you something.”
“Clement, stop. I don't need money.”
“Well, what then?”
She looked away from him over the water. What? What did she want to say? Imogene is our daughter. Was that it? She opened her mouth. “Why don't you go ahead and take your swim?” she said.
“What?”
“I mean I suppose you meant to take a swim this morning. You're dressed for swimming, aren't you? Why don't you go ahead as long as we're out here away from the weeds?”
Obviously puzzled, he said nothing at first, and then began to loosen the knot securing his bathrobe. “Well, all right,” he said. “Maybe I will. I like to get in at least a couple of laps every day. Then maybe we can drive around a bit. See that island you were always telling me about.”
He remembered the island. Amanda felt disproportionately grateful, and then disgusted with herself for that gratitude. It was funny, she thought, as he took off his robe and climbed onto the seat, how comfortable he acted with her, as if she had no reason to hate him, as if they'd parted on good terms and not very long ago at that, as if none of the terrible things she'd experienced had happened. He dove, shoving the boat several feet away from him as he thrust himself forward. Of course, as far as he knew, nothing much had happened. She'd cried, and they'd broken off, that was all. She realized with a start that he might even think she'd come back to him, that she didn't care anymore that he was married. Or perhaps that was ungenerous, she thought as she watched his slow crawl away from the boat. Perhaps he was only glad to see her again. Perhaps he thought she'd forgiven him.
Ruth reached under the collar of her dress and tugged at the strap that threatened to slip down her arm. It was eight-thirty. She was a full half hour early. Below her, the lake shimmered invitingly. Fishing boats manned by those irregular types who had no morning employment lounged in the pockets along its edges, and far out a man was diving from a little rowboat, his white torso shining in the strong, new sun.
Once she'd begun straying toward the sparkling waves, the slope pulled her down the hill, until she was standing on a concrete sea wall. Two feet below, the lake at its annual low point swelled and receded biliously, raising and lowering its fetid cargo of red and white bobbers, brown paper sandwich wrappers, and stinking dead fish, all caught in a net of weeds. Ruth backed away. She might as well go early to work.
“Coffee?” the maid asked when she'd shown Ruth upstairs to a bright room, in which a roll-top desk stood against one wall.
“Oh, no, thank you.” Ruth slipped her hand over a scorched spot she'd just noticed on her skirt.
“Miss Lindgren always has coffee. With cream and three sugars. Like a confection.” The woman frowned disapprovingly and with that left the room, shutting the door behind her, and Ruth was left alone to regret declining the coffee.
She fingered the key in the desk. Should she wait or open it? Imogene should've given her more direction. Ruth paced around the room, passing her eyes over engravings and the spines of books without any real awareness of what she was seeing. She didn't want to be caught snooping. She could imagine Mrs. Owens in her wide-shouldered cinnamon suit and feathered hat—although probably she wouldn't be wearing the hat at home—bursting in, wondering why she hadn't gotten started. Hadn't Genie said there was some typing?
Ruth went back to the roll-top, turned the key and slid the top open. Yes, there was a Remington, and a stenographer's notebook open to a page of Imogene's neat shorthand. She slid into the desk chair, separated a clean sheet of paper from the stack and rolled it into the typewriter
.
Twenty minutes later she was leaning over the machine, trying to decide whether a mistyped i could be adequately covered with an l, or whether she ought to start the page over, as her instructors at Brown's would have insisted. The door opened behind her.
“It doesn't have to be perfect, just legible,” Mrs. Owens said. Mrs. Owens, Ruth saw, would never burst into a room. She was stately and poised; in her gray dress she looked something like a great blue heron. She glided forward, extending her hand. “You must be Rose. I'm so grateful to you for filling in for Imogene this week.” Her skin, smooth and cool, made Ruth conscious of the ink on her own fingers. “Didn't Ellen bring you any coffee?” And before Ruth could protest, Mrs. Owens was speaking into a device in the wall. “Would you bring coffee for two, please, Ellen? And don't forget the cream and sugar.” She turned back to Ruth and whispered, “Ellen doesn't approve of sweets.”
For an hour or so Mrs. Owens paced around the room as she dictated notes for a speech convincing her circle to donate funds to establish a summer camp for poor children. “Help me, Rose. I need to say something about fresh air, the importance of fresh air and exercise for both physical and moral growth. How can we expect these children to develop into upstanding citizens if we don't expose them to the healthy innocence of the countryside? Yes, that's good, Rose, get that down.”
Then, while Ruth transcribed the most promising lines, Mrs. Owens made telephone calls. “Well,” she sighed, setting the receiver down after the third call, “I guess that's all I'm going to get done today. I've got to ooh and ahh over the new pulmonary wing at St. Joseph's. If you could just finish up the typing and copy these into the appointment book, it would be such a help. If anything conflicts, let me know.” She handed Ruth a few letters. “Ellen will bring you lunch, of course. Just call her through the intercom whenever you want it.”