“I doubt that,” Lucy said. She felt nervous and unlucky and she had to hold her hands together to keep them from fidgeting. Bad luck, bad luck, she thought. Tony not there, when she had herself all prepared, finally, to confront him—and instead, this hostile, unhappy, cynical, pathetic girl, with her disturbing revelations about him, with her little anthology of her husband’s bitter aphorisms on exile and despair, her challenging, open devotion in the face of neglect, or worse than neglect.
“Oh,” the girl was saying, suddenly polite and hostesslike, “that’s enough about me. I’d love to hear something about you now. You look so young …”
“I’m not so young,” Lucy said.
“I knew you were beautiful. Tony told me,” the girl said, sounding genuine and artless, her eyes smiling, looking directly at Lucy, unexpectedly approving of her, as though she had decided to observe her objectively, with no reference to her history, no reference to what was behind the smartly cut dark blond hair, the wide, deep eyes, the large, youthful, pleasant mouth. “But it just never occurred to me that you could look like this—that when I saw you, it would still all be there like this …”
“It really isn’t still all there, my dear,” Lucy said.
“You ought to see my mother.” Dora chuckled mischievously. “Garden-club type. Light-heavyweight division. When she decided to let herself go, she took the longest cruise that was being offered.”
The two women laughed together, a gossipy, feline, comfortable laugh.
“You must hang around,” Dora said, “and teach me the trick. I never’ve been able to stand the idea of growing old. When I was sixteen, I made a holy vow to myself—to commit suicide on my fortieth birthday. Maybe you can save me from that.”
The trick, Lucy thought, smiling at her daughter-in-law, but feeling something sober and shadowy within her, the trick is to suffer and be alone and never be certain enough of anything to fall back comfortably and know that someone is there to catch you. The trick, if you’re interested, is to struggle constantly.
“It’s a shame it isn’t afternoon,” Dora said. “We ought to have a drink to celebrate meeting each other, after all these years.” She looked inquiringly at Lucy. “Would you think it was sinful to have a drink at this hour of the morning?”
Lucy looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty-five.
“Well …” she said doubtfully. She had known several women who were constantly looking for excuses to drink at all hours of the day and night. Maybe that was it, maybe that was why Tony kept away from his home so much …
The girl giggled. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, understanding. “I’ve never had a drink before noon in my whole life.”
Lucy laughed again, pleased with the girl’s perceptiveness. “I think it would be a wonderful idea,” she said.
Dora stood up and went over to a small, marble-topped table against the wall, on which stood some glasses and bottles. She poured Scotch and a little soda into two glasses. Her movements were precise and graceful and she looked like a serious and slender child with her head inclined to one side, measuring out the drinks. Watching her, Lucy felt a sharp twinge of dislike for her son, for causing pain to a girl like that, who, because of her beauty, must have expected, ever since her first look in a mirror, that kindness, forbearance and love would be the constant climate of her life.
Dora offered her a glass. “At French festivals, in little towns,” she said, “they often drink in the morning. A lot of people are invited and they advertise it in the local newspaper as the Verre d’Amitié, or the Coupe d’Honneur. That’s the glass of friendship,” she translated conscientiously, “or the cup of honor. What should we call this?”
“Well, let me see,” Lucy said, “how about a little bit of both?”
“A little bit of both.” Dora nodded and raised her glass, and they drank. Dora rolled the liquor around on her tongue, considering it. “Now I know why people drink in the morning. It tastes so much more significant in the morning, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Lucy agreed. The flavor of hostility had vanished and she was beginning to feel very much at home with the girl and approving of her son, at least in this one respect, for having chosen her.
“Now,” Dora said, between sips, “I’ve talked enough about myself and Tony. How about you? What’re you doing here? Touring?”
“Only partly,” Lucy said. “I work for an organization in New York that’s attached, more or less unofficially, to the United Nations. It devotes itself to children. We sort of meddle all over the world, making politicians uncomfortable if they don’t take a proper stand on child-labor and voting credits for schools and making sure all the little citizens are vaccinated and eligible for a few pints of milk a year. And we’re very stern about illegitimate children getting full rights before the law. Things like that.” She spoke lightly, but her pride in the work she was doing and her fundamental seriousness about it were not disguised. “And a lot of money comes our way from people in America, and we decide how it’s to be spent. I’ve been roaming around Europe for five weeks now, looking solemn at meetings and taking notes and patting small dark heads in Greece and Yugoslavia and Sicily. I had a conference last night and everything had to be translated into three languages and it didn’t end till after one A.M. and I was famished when I got back to my hotel, because I missed my dinner. That’s how I happened to go into that place and see Tony …”
“You sound like a very important person,” Dora said, youthfully impressed. “Do you give press conferences and all that?”
“Occasionally.” Lucy smiled. “I’m very strong on birth control.”
“I never did anything,” Dora said absently, twirling her glass. “I didn’t even finish college. I came over here for a vacation in my sophomore year and I met Tony and there went college … It must be a wonderful thing to feel useful.”
“It is,” Lucy said soberly, meaning it.
“Maybe when Tony finally leaves me,” Dora said matter-of-factly, “I’ll take steps to become useful.”
The door from the dining room was slowly pushed open and a small boy’s head appeared, poking out behind it. “Mummy,” the boy said, “Yvonne says this afternoon is her day off and if you say all right she’ll take me to visit her sister-in-law. Her sister-in-law has three birds in a cage.”
“Come in here, Bobby,” Dora said, “and say hello.”
“I have to tell Yvonne,” the boy said. “Right away.” But he came into the room, shyly ignoring Lucy, straight-backed, sturdy, with thoughtful gray reminiscent eyes and a domed, long head. His hair was cut close and he was wearing shorts and a knitted shirt and his bare arms and legs, scarred by the usual mishaps and antiseptics of childhood, were straight and surprisingly strong-looking.
Lucy watched him, feeling dazed, forgetting to smile, remembering what Tony had looked like at that age. Why didn’t she tell me they had a son, Lucy thought, aggrieved and mistrustful once again, feeling that somehow Dora had purposely and with some ulterior motive held back this key piece of information.
“This is your grandmother,” Dora was saying, smoothing the boy’s hair gently. “Say hello, Bobby.”
Silently, his eyes still averted, the boy came over to Lucy and put out his hand. They shook hands gravely. Then, unable to resist it, and at the risk of frightening or offending the boy, Lucy took him in her arms and kissed him. Bobby stood politely, waiting to be released.
Lucy held onto him, not because she wanted to prolong the kiss, but because if she let him go, she was afraid that he would see her crying. Now, suddenly, with her arms around the bony shoulders, with the soft, firm child’s skin under her fingers, the sense of loss, of wasted years, which until then had been only abstract and theoretical, became real, painful, sadly and powerfully fleshed.