Family Happiness (6 page)

“Polly Demarest,” said Polly.

“Dora,” Lincoln said, “isn't it?”

“Everyone calls me Polly.”

“Of course. Well, Andreya. What do you think?”

“I cannot understand these pictures, Lincoln,” Andreya said. “They are about
things
. What do they mean?”

“Andreya likes for everything to have a lot of abstract meaning,” Henry, Jr., said. “It's her European heritage. It's a shame we didn't bring the dog. He would really go for this stuff.”

“Stop being such an oaf, Henry,” said Polly. “These pictures are just beautiful. They don't need to be explained.”

“I have to go and mingle with these art types,” said Lincoln. “I'd rather stay here, but I'll be back.”

Henry and Andreya wanted to circle the gallery once more. Polly went with them, and then Henry began to yawn and Andreya began to itch. Like small children, they expressed their boredom physically.

“Let's get out of here,” Henry said.

“One second,” Polly said. “Wait for me. I'll be right back.”

She searched the room for Lincoln, and when she spotted him it seemed to her that he was looking in her direction. She went right up to him.

“I want to buy one of those oil-on-paper pictures,” she said.

“You'll have to come to my studio,” said Lincoln. “Tomorrow is good for me.”

“Me, too,” said Polly. “What time?”

“Any old time. Lunchtime. I'll write my address on this piece of paper. Here.”

The next day Polly felt rather fevered. She was distracted all morning, then lost track of time and had to race out of the office and down to the subway, her heart pounding. She was going to have an adventure, she knew: lunch with a painter. She was going to buy a painting. Polly's life was full, but she did not get out much by herself. She and Henry had inherited pictures and had bought pictures together, but this was to be all hers. She would hang it in her office and no one would have to know that she had bought it.

She ran out of the subway and searched around for Lincoln's street. It was not a part of town she had ever been in before. She finally found the piece of paper to check his address, rang his bell, and waited. When he opened the door, Polly impulsively kissed him.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought you were someone else.”

This gesture shocked both of them. They stood awkwardly at the door until Lincoln composed himself enough to smile and show Polly in. The front of the studio was his work space, with an apple-green floor. Lincoln was as precise as a Japanese master: his shelves were neat and his walls were bare except for his black-and-silver kite, and a large pencil drawing of a cat and a rabbit in the style of Dürer which Lincoln had done at the age of seventeen. His paintings were stacked against the wall, stretcher side out, so they could not be seen.

In the back, looking out on an overgrown yard, was his living space. Behind a painted screen was his bed, covered with a green-and-red coverlet. There was a table and four chairs, a green armchair and hassock. Way in back were his kitchen and bath. The table was set for lunch: bread, cheese, butter, a bunch of grapes, a bottle of red wine, and coffee. The sight of it touched Polly. Lincoln sat her down and asked her questions. During lunch, encouraged by Lincoln, Polly talked about her job, her family, and about the picture she wanted to buy.

And since this picture was still hanging in the show, it was necessary for Polly and Lincoln to meet to discuss whether it was exactly the picture she wanted. They met at his gallery. They met at the studio so that Polly could look through some of his watercolor drawings. She found it difficult to make up her mind.

Finally the show was taken down, and Polly went to see Lincoln for what she believed would be their last meeting. He had lunch waiting for her again, but she had no appetite. The bread was straw to her, and the wine tasted sharp. She sat looking out the window, drinking her coffee. She knew this was not correct social behavior but Lincoln wasn't saying anything either. Polly knew she was supposed to speak—to talk to Lincoln about his work, to ask him questions and bring him out—but all her training had fallen away from her. She felt totally miserable, and she did not know why. She decided to say something—anything. She decided to say the first thing that came into her mind.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't know what's come over me. I feel very emotional.”

“I do, too,” Lincoln said.

“I think it's because if I take my picture away today I won't see you again,” Polly said. “I liked having lunch with you.”

Lincoln was silent.

“I'm very old-fashioned,” said Polly, her voice quavering. “I'm not very grown-up. I mean I'm not sophisticated. I'm just a wife and mother and a reading project evaluator. I don't know anything about the other world, anymore. I'm emotional because you kissed me at your show.”

The great foolishness of what she was saying occurred to her and she stood up. Her eyes were full of tears. She was looking out the window as Lincoln looked at her.

“I can't stay here,” Polly said. “I'm making a terrible fool of myself.”

Lincoln grabbed her wrist. “Don't go,” he said. “Sit down.”

She didn't sit down. She stood listening to her heart beat. Lincoln stood up and took her into his arms.

“I'm so fond of you I don't know what to do,” he said.

“Oh, Lincoln,” said Polly, who was now in tears. “This is awful. I'm so fond of you
I
don't know what to do. I thought I was buying a picture from you. I told myself that over and over.”

“I told myself over and over that you were just buying a picture from me,” Lincoln said.

“It didn't work,” said Polly.

“I told myself that girls like you don't go around kissing painters.”

“How wrong you were,” said Polly. They held each other close. Lincoln smelled of spice and wool. Polly smelled of talcum powder and slightly of lemons.

“I'm very confused,” said Polly. “These things don't happen to me.”

“Nothing has to happen,” said Lincoln. “You can go home and we don't ever have to see each other again.”

“Oh, no!” Polly said. “Oh, please, no.” She cried into her hands until Lincoln took her hands away and then she cried onto his sweater.

“I barely know you,” Polly said. “How can I feel so much about someone I barely know?”

“Apparently love works that way,” Lincoln said.

“Apparently,” said Polly.

Thus had they fallen into each other's arms. They were so innocent and open in their feelings that they declared themselves at once. That first afternoon, they sat up in Lincoln's bed and plotted. Lincoln said how he hated the telephone and told her to give him a ring-once signal, and then ring again. Polly explained to him that she worked Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and told him at what hour she got to her office. She told him when the children left for school on Mondays and Fridays and when Henry went to work. They were both very organized, after all.

She had gone home in a blaze, fed the children in a fog, listened to them as if they were shouting at her across a meadow. She was amazed at herself. As she sorted the laundry the afternoon with Lincoln seemed as remote as a dream. She went to bed without taking a bath, and the plain truth was that she didn't want to wash the afternoon off her. Henry was away, and when he called, late that night, she was half asleep. It was his voice that reminded her of the enormity of what had happened. She had committed adultery, that's what.

The next morning she had paced around the bedroom trying not to call Lincoln. After the children left for school and she had the apartment to herself, she talked out loud—something she had never done before.

“Of course it's right that I should never see him again,” she said. “This will only get me into terrible trouble. I mustn't call him and if he calls me I will have to tell him I can't ever see him.” Tears she did not immediately notice slid down her cheeks. “I must do the right thing,” she said. “I must not slide into self-indulgence. This is all
very, very
wrong.”

Just then the telephone rang.

It was Lincoln. He was angry. He did not say hello. He said, “I believe Mr. Demarest is away, so I have taken the liberty of calling you. Good morning. This is Lincoln Bennett, the painter. Perhaps you remember me. You also remember that you said you would call me, but of course you had no clothes on at the time.”

“Oh, Lincoln,” said Polly. “I'm so confused and upset.”

“So am I,” said Lincoln. “But I hate a chicken. You should have called.”

“I was about to.”

“So you say. Would you like to be let off the hook? We can hang up and never see each other again.”

“No,” said Polly.

“Okay,” said Lincoln. “In that case, can we see each other?”

“We could actually have dinner,” Polly said.

“That would doubtless be a very enriching experience,” said Lincoln. “Come and fetch me, okay?”

“Okay,” said Polly.

“You don't have to,” said Lincoln.

“Oh, Lincoln,” Polly said. “I want to.”

She had fetched him, and from that time they were as inseparable as two people, one of whom is married and the other of whom likes to live as a hermit, can be. Each weekday morning they spoke on the telephone. On the days they did not see each other they spoke in the afternoon as well. The first flush of love left Polly high and full of energy. It made life easier. That Henry was away so much and worked so hard when he was home was not so dire. If he was preoccupied, if he was snappish, if he was exhausted, Polly knew she would be restored. She did not love Henry any less, she felt. Some balance had been established that made life more … “bearable” was the word but she did not like to think it.

Four

Lincoln had finished his smoked salmon. Polly had finished her second cup of coffee. Now they lay under the heavy blanket in Lincoln's bed. They were holding hands.

“I hurl myself at you,” Polly said.

“It's just the other way around,” said Lincoln.

“I don't know how I got this way,” said Polly. “I was never like this before.”

Polly often said this, and Lincoln often wondered if she meant that she had never been so passionate, or that she had never swerved off her straight path. Polly did not say much about Henry. She was filled with a sense of propriety and mentioned him only when Lincoln asked. She always said that she loved Henry, and from her description of their courtship it was clear they had genuinely fallen in love. It was also clear that Polly felt that she was married to the right person. But Lincoln also knew she felt neglected and taken for granted—and as if she did not have much right to complain, since she had always been neglected and taken for granted but, as she was loved, honored, and revered, had never felt the need to complain in the past. She said of herself, “I'm just tireder now. I'm weaker.”

“What way were you before?” Lincoln asked. “Please put your head on my shoulder and speak into my ear.”

“I was like my cousin Janet,” said Polly into his neck.

“Oh, yes,” said Lincoln. “Saint Janet Solo-Miller. How often and eloquently you speak of her. Mother of four, professor of French, wife of the dashing and demanding Robert Felix, perfect wife, mother, and cook, and never anything but a perfect thought in her head. You wouldn't catch
her
sleeping with a painter at four in the afternoon, would you?”

“No,” said Polly.

“My point exactly,” said Lincoln. “Wonderful Cousin Janet. Why
isn't
she sleeping with a painter at four in the afternoon? Come along, Dora. Say why.”

“Because she's such a fine, upstanding person,” Polly said.

“Right you are,” said Lincoln. “Let's hear it for Cousin Janet. I've been to your awful cousin Janet's house, you know. She's an old friend of Violet's. Every time she and that perfect husband of hers think it's time for a few live painters to round out their elevated social circle, they phone me up. They mostly like dead painters but the dead ones won't come for supper—that's the problem. Your cousin Janet is just too thrilled with herself, and what for? She's not half as nice as you.”

Polly listened to this with a bleak smile, the only one of her expressions Lincoln didn't love. He felt he was set up by Polly to make seditious speeches—that she badly needed to hear them. They bucked her up, but the guilt in her smile hurt his feelings.

“Oh, to hell with your relatives,” Lincoln said. “You were going to tell me everything you felt and did since Friday.”

There wasn't much to tell, but Polly reeled off her list. She found herself talking to Lincoln about her job, and about the office.

“This can't be interesting,” Polly said, as she had said dozens of times. “You can't really want to hear about the Board of Estimate's memo.”

“I do,” Lincoln said.

“I don't know why you do,” Polly said. “You don't have school-age children and you can't possibly find this sort of bureaucratic nonsense fascinating.”

“I find you fascinating, you stupid girl,” said Lincoln. “Besides, is it so thrilling for you to hear how I had a fight with my gallery? Or how the green paint I ordered from Italy didn't come?”

“I'm not going to tell you another thing,” said Polly. She was looking at the clock. “I want to kiss you some more and then it will be time for me to leave.”

She hid her face in his neck. At this time of the afternoon—close to the time to go home—Polly wore a variety of expressions on her face: confusion, dread, guilt, and longing. Lincoln said these expressions were as visible as the snakes that grew out of Medusa's head. He pulled her away and made her look at him.