“Why?” Lucy asked.
“Because I want to own you. I want to own your past, and all the time you are away from me, and your future.”
“Be careful,” Lucy warned him.
“And I don’t want to be careful,” he said. “What about your marriage? The fundamental marriage?”
“I always thought,” Lucy said, speaking soberly, “that it was satisfactory.”
“And now?”
“From the middle of September on I’ll think it is satisfactory—again.”
Jeff stood up and walked toward the edge of the porch and leaned against the pillar, staring out at the lake.
“Lucy,” he said.
“Yes?”
“When he comes up here,” Jeff said in a low voice. “Crown. Are you going to go to bed with him?” He turned and faced her.
Lucy stood up briskly and picked up her raincoat. “I think it’s time we went and got me that drink,” she said.
“Answer me,” said Jeff.
“You mustn’t be silly.” There was a warning note in Lucy’s voice now.
“Answer me.”
“It has nothing to do with us.” Lucy put on the raincoat and started to button it.
“I want you to promise me something,” Jeff said, not moving from the front of the porch, still leaning against the pillar.
“What?”
“I want you to promise not to have anything to do with your husband while …”
“While what?” Lucy asked.
“While we’re together.”
Lucy finished buttoning the coat and put the collar up against her ears. “And just how long will that be?”
Jeff swallowed miserably. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Give me a figure,” said Lucy. “Two days? A week? A season? Five years?”
Jeff came over to her but didn’t touch her. “Don’t be angry.” He spoke brokenly. “It’s just that I can’t bear the thought … Listen, we can see each other all the time. I can come down to the city at least once a month. And the holidays—Thanksgiving, the Christmas vacation. And almost every week-end I can get into Boston.”
Lucy nodded as though she were taking this very seriously. “Uhuh. Boston. What hotels do you propose I stop at? The Ritz? The Copley? Or perhaps one of the traveling-salesmen hotels. The Touraine? The Statler? And should I wear my wedding ring?”
Jeff put up his hands as though to ward off blows. “Lucy,” he said, tortured. “Don’t.”
“And how should I introduce you in Boston?” Lucy went on. “As my son? My nephew? An old friend?”
“Don’t make it ugly,” Jeff said angrily.
“What do you propose I tell my husband? A person who shall be nameless has raised certain objections to …”
“Stop it,” Jeff said. “There are a lot of ways of doing things like that.”
“Are there?” Lucy said, sounding agreeably surprised. “Perhaps you’ll write me a note. As a budding diplomat. It’ll be good practice for you later on, when you have to send a protest to the Prime Minister of Iran or a sharp reminder to the Hungarian Foreign Office. Dear Sir: It has come to the attention of this office that there are several conflicting claims on the body of your wife …”
“Don’t make fun of me,” said Jeff. He was sullen now. “What do you expect me to do?” he pleaded. “Lucy, darling, it’s been perfect up to now. Are you going to blame me because I want to keep it that way?”
“Perfect.” Lucy nodded in ironic agreement. “They loved each other perfectly—on school holidays, in various inexpensive hotel rooms—and the young man always managed to get to his first class on Monday on time. Is that your idea of perfect?”
“Oh, God,” Jeff said. “I feel so trapped. If I were older, settled, with some money of my own …”
“Then what?” Lucy challenged him.
“Then we could go off together,” Jeff said. “Get married. Live together.”
Lucy hesitated for a moment. Then she spoke in a low, assuaging voice. “Be glad,” she said, “that you’re not older, settled, with money of your own.”
“Why?”
“Because I wouldn’t go with you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“And then,” Lucy said, “you’d blame yourself instead of your youth or your poverty. And it would hurt a lot, more. This way you can go back in the autumn and boast in the dormitories on the cold nights about the lively summer you had at your sister’s house in the mountains. I can just hear you say it now and I forgive you in advance and half envy you the pleasure you’re going to have in saying it. ‘I don’t know what it is about me,’ you can say, ‘but married women of a certain age’—you can wink at the other boys here—‘just throw themselves at me.’”
“What are you trying to do?” Jeff asked.
“I’m trying to tell you,” Lucy said, “that summertime is summertime. That the hotels close. That the cottages are shuttered against the snow. That the lake freezes over. That the birds fly south. That the children go back to school and the grownups go back to … to shopping lists, bridge games, imperfection, security, reality …”
Now Jeff’s face looked stricken in the last cold rays of the sun. “You don’t love me,” he said.
Lucy came over to him, smiling gently. “Even that isn’t quite true,” she said. Lightly she took his chin in her hand and kissed him. Then she relinquished him and shrugged. “Don’t look so sad, little boy,” she said, turning away. “The summertime still has two weeks to go.”
Jeff took a step after her and then stopped because he saw Tony coming out of the shade of the trees, walking slowly toward the house across the lawn. Lucy saw him at the same time and stepped off the porch to greet the boy. Tony stopped and regarded his mother and Jeff without expression. He looked tired and, in the gray light, pale.
“Hello, Tony,” Lucy said. “Where have you been until now?”
“No place much,” Tony said. He carefully avoided going close to his mother as he stepped on the porch.
“How was the hayride?” Jeff asked.
“Okay,” said Tony. He leaned against the wall of the porch and examined Jeff. “How’s your tooth?”
“Okay,” said Jeff.
“Did you have a good time at the movies?” Tony asked his mother. “What was playing?”
“I … I didn’t go,” Lucy said. “I found out that they only showed them on week-ends.”
“Oh,” said Tony politely. “Where did you go?”
“I did a little shopping,” Lucy said. “For antiques.”
“Did you buy anything?” Tony asked.
“No,” said Lucy. “Everything is too expensive. I just looked around. Jeff and I are going down to the hotel for a drink. Do you want to join us? You can have a Coke.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Tony said.
“Even so,” Lucy said.
“I’m not thirsty,” Tony repeated.
Lucy went over to him and felt his forehead. “Are you all right?”
The boy twisted away. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just a little tired,” he explained vaguely. “The hayride. I missed my nap. I think I’ll just lie down for fifteen minutes.” Then, afraid that his mother would bustle over him, he smiled widely, disingenuously, at her. “Those hayrides are rough,” he said. “See you later.” He went in and lay down on his bed. He lay stiffly, with his eyes open, and when he heard his mother and Jeff walk past his window on the way down to the hotel bar, he counted up to five hundred slowly, one by one, and then went into the living room and called his father in Hartford.
11
THE CAR WAS MUD-SPATTERED when it drove up to the cottage and the wipers had made two smeary crescents on the windshield, which gleamed dully in the reflection of the headlights off the wet trees. Oliver stopped the car and sat for a moment at the wheel, resting after the long drive in the rain. There was a light on in the cottage but Oliver saw no one moving within. He got out of the car, carrying his raincoat and a small overnight bag that he had thrown into the back of the car. He went in the front door. The room was empty. The only sound to be heard was the small drip of rain from the maple whose branches hung over one side of the house. There were newspapers scattered on the table in the middle of the room and a book was lying open, face down, on the couch. There were some chessmen scattered over the chessboard and two or three of the pieces had fallen to the floor. Some petals had drifted down from a bunch of peonies in a vase on the mantelpiece and had dropped onto the rug.