“Have some more coffee, Matthew.”
“Thank you, I will. There’s a matter of consent involved, too, Julia. Usually, the parents’ consent is required, except when the child is over fourteen, in which case her consent is required, too. Well, Kate’s real father is dead, and her mother... well...” He hesitated.
“You can tell me, Matthew,” she said gently.
“Her mother is institutionalized, Julia. And since she’s been adjudged incompetent, we then needed the consent of the Director of Social Welfare, but this too could have been waived by the court. Well, the court wouldn’t waive, so we’ve been waiting for the results of the investigation. There’s got to be an investigation and report by the director, you see, after six months of residence in the proposed home. And then, when he finally decides it’s all right for us to keep Kate, and to love Kate, the proceedings to adopt will be held in a Minnesota juvenile court in the county of residence of Kate’s real mother. Ordinarily, the place of venue would have been the adopting parents’ county, but here again we run into the Minnesota-Connecticut confusion. Believe me, it’s been annoying and frustrating.”
“But does it look as if it’ll go through?”
“Yes, I think so. At last. I’d hazard a guess and say Kate’ll be ours within the next six months.”
“Well, that’s good, Matthew.”
“Yes.” He smiled. The radio was playing music now. The November wind lashed under the eaves of the old house. The house felt warm and secure and snug. He finished his second cup of coffee, stayed a few moments longer, and then put on his coat and got ready to leave. Before he left, he kissed her on the cheek.
He stopped by to see her regularly after that. He was always welcomed and he never had to call beforehand. Sometimes he dropped in on the way home from work, and Julia would mix a Martini for him, and he would sit in the living room with her and sip at his drink, and tell her some of the things that had happened at the office, or simply discuss Talmadge affairs, or sometimes discuss nothing at all, sometimes just sit quietly with her and sip at his drink. Once, sitting opposite her, he said, “I want to kiss you, Julia.”
“Please,” she said.
He went to her, and she tilted her head.
“I need to,” he said.
“Please.”
But that was the last time, and he felt better afterward, knowing it would not happen again. He went to her house without guilt, openly, with no attempt to deceive or to hide. He parked his car blatantly in her driveway, with a total disregard for the opinion of the Talmadge townsfolk. He told Amanda that Julia Regan was his friend, and perhaps she was. He did not question his relationship with her too closely. He knew only that he found something in her home, something he had not known for a very long time. He did not ask himself what this something was. He knew it had to do with a relaxed feeling of irresponsibility. He owed this woman nothing. Nothing, really, was demanded of him. He could come to her or not come as he desired. He could talk or remain silent. He could arrive in a sulk and rant in her living room for a half hour before leaving. He could tell jokes if he chose to, but no demand for entertainment was ever made. He could think sometimes of taking her to bed, knowing full well he would never take her to bed. She gave, she gave to him out of her merciful bounty, and he took, he took with both hands.
Once, he was moved to the point of tears. He had brought her a gift for Christmas. There was a large decorated tree in the living room, and Julia was standing on a ladder when he came into the house, putting a star on the top of the tree. He came into the house and stamped snow from his feet, and then blew on his hands, and then looked into the living room, and saw her standing on the ladder, reaching for the tip of the tree, and stood suddenly transfixed in the doorway, silent, watching her.
“Oh, hello, Matthew,” she said. “Is it cold enough out there?”
It seemed to him he had walked into this same room long ago, in Glen City. He nodded dumbly. She came down off the ladder and said, “Come, I’ll make you some tea,” and embraced him and took him into the kitchen. He was very silent that day. He kept watching her silently, as if discovering her for the first time. They drank their tea in the living room. The grandfather clock ticked off time in a rigid solid voice. The clock, too, seemed familiar. He finished his tea, and got into his coat again. She was sitting in a large mohair chair, facing the clock. She seemed older that day. He suddenly realized how old she was. His eyes had misted over. He felt he wanted to cry, but he did not, he would not let the tears come.
“Merry Christmas, Julia,” he said.
“Merry Christmas, Matthew,” she answered.
He went out of the house quietly. Julia sat quite still in the living room and listened to the voice of the clock.
Time.
Past and present merged in the mind of Julia Regan. October, November, and now December, now January, a new year. They set off the air-raid siren on the roof of the firehouse to welcome 1953. She went to a party at the Bridges’ house, and she listened to Matthew tell her about his progress in the adoption proceedings, apparently the investigation had been made and adoption had been recommended, and now it was a question of making the requisite trip to Minnesota.
He was slightly drunk. He put his hand on her knee and said, “It takes such a damn long time, Julia. I love that kid. She’s my daughter, do you know what I mean? Really, Julia. She’s my daughter. But it takes such a goddamn long time.”
Time.
1939 in Rome. The long wait.
And the threat of war hovering everywhere, Renato gone more and more frequently, Millie on the edge of hysteria, “Julia, we’ve got to get out of here. I don’t care what—”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“I’m frightened. Julia, if war breaks out...”
“There’s nothing we can do, Millie.”
“Well then, I’ll go home. Alone.”
“You can’t do that, Millie.”
“Why did you get yourself into this? You’re a grown woman! I always thought—”
“There were a lot of things I always thought, too, Millie.”
“You make me want to cry. Seeing you like this, helpless, just helpless. You make me want to cry.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“If war comes...”
“Millie, please, please...”
April approaching. Spring in Rome. She had promised Arthur she’d be back in April. She sent him a cable stating that Millie was ill and unable to travel. She knew the war was coming, but her following letter said: “... Everyone here seems convinced that Hitler is bluffing. In any case, there does not seem to be a climate of preparation for war, no matter what you felt at Christmastime. I know this is foremost in your mind, Arthur, but believe me, darling, Millie and I are in no immediate danger.” Lies. Lies all through May, the promise that she would be home soon, the dangling carrot, I will be home soon, I will be home soon, and knowing it was impossible for her to leave Italy.
Time.
Past and present flowing together, the memory of those months in Rome overshadowing the real spring of 1953 in Talmadge, the opening of buds everywhere around her, how quickly the winter had gone, how quickly it was spring again, how quickly the months went by, and the years, how long ago had it been, how long ago to July 26, 1939, to that day when Renato held her, trembling and sweating in the small room, “Ti voglio bene,” he said, “tesorino, non dimenticarlo mai.” The crying. She would not forget the crying. July 26. The end was near. It was odd how the beginning was the end. It was odd how time folded in upon itself, how Rome had been the beginning of a life and the end of a life, the pattern was endless, and present merged with past so that sometimes she could not tell which was now and which was then.