My Dearest Friend (40 page)

The faculty lounge was crowded. Grabbing up a glass of white wine, Daphne took a moment to look around. She didn’t see the Whites. But there was Madeline Spencer, thank heaven, and the Van Lieus were across the room in a corner. She would head their way.

“Daphne,” an arctic voice said.

Daphne turned toward the voice. “Aah,” she said, stifling a scream. She was as startled as if a creature had risen dripping from the dead before her, and hadn’t she in a way already consigned Claire to those departed from us? She hadn’t thought she would see Claire here—or, rather, she hadn’t thought of Claire at all.

“You seem surprised to see me.”

Claire was wearing a mustard-colored wool suit that had to be thirty years old; it had that kind of iron-strong stern cut to it. She had lost weight, and her color was not good, not that any human being alive could have good color in that suit.

“Hello, Claire,” Daphne said, trying to be civil, thinking: Oh, God. “How are you?”

“Since you ask, Daphne, I am not well. I am heartbroken. I am lonely, and frightened, and humiliated.”

Daphne stared at Claire. She could not believe Claire was saying this. She would never have thought Claire capable of such a thing. “But, Claire,” she began, “Hudson said—”

“That I took the news well? That I faced the firing squad with dignity? Of course I did. Did you expect I would grovel, or plead, or debase myself, and beg him to stay?”

Daphne stared at Claire in horror. Claire did look awful, the whites of her brilliant eyes yellowish now, her skin puffy and wrinkled, her shoulders slumping.

“I’m so sorry,” Daphne said, almost whispering.

“Are you really?” Claire sneered. “I don’t think so. I think you are in fact quite happy. After all these years of chasing him, you finally got him.”

“That’s not fair!” Daphne snapped. “I never chased him!”

“Of course you did, in your own way. I’m not a fool. Neither are you. You weren’t brazen about it, but you chased him all the same. I know it, everyone knows it. Now you’ve caught him. Don’t pretend you’re sorry.”

“Well, I’m not sorry about that,” Daphne said. “I mean, about Hudson. I mean, I didn’t chase him, but I do love him. But I am sorry you are so unhappy, Claire, and I never meant—”

“Did you think that because I am old now it would be easy for me? Or that because I am proud and particular I have no feelings? Do you really believe that my relatives and dogs will console me for the loss of a husband of twenty-five years? Yes, I shall survive, but I’ll never be happy again in my life.”

“Oh, you will,” Daphne said. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

“You have no right to contradict me!” Claire said. “Don’t demean my feelings, you do not have the right. I am telling you that losing Hudson is horrible for me, and I shall never recover from it, and I shall never be happy again. I want you to know that, Daphne Miller. I want you to remember that you have bought your happiness with my grief.”

“I’m so sorry,” Daphne said again, pleading.

“Your apology is not accepted,” Claire replied. “I shall never, ever forgive you.”

Then Claire walked away. She moved slowly, as if in pain, and Daphne realized then that several people had been watching her and Claire. Now one of the older professors came forward and took Claire by the arm and assisted her across to a chair. Claire took the drink the professor handed her. She looked terribly aged, aeons older than Hudson.

Daphne was certain of only one thing at this moment: she could not stay at the party. She was shaking, and the least she owed Claire was the rest of the night in this room without her. She hurried out of the main room, found her coat, and went into the night.

When Hudson came home after his long meeting, Daphne told him about the encounter. Hudson was baffled.

“I’m sure she’ll be all right, Daphne,” he said. “I can’t imagine her saying such things to you. She’s never been given to dramatics before.”

“Hasn’t she ever cried about all this?” Daphne asked. “Or called you names or cursed you? Hudson, I don’t want details, I just want to know whether she’s shown any anger.”

“Not really,” Hudson said. “Perhaps Claire’s more angry with you than with me.”

“But that’s not fair!” Daphne cried.

“Perhaps she sees you as a seductress,” Hudson said. He smiled. “While I am only a poor simple man, helpless in my masculine lusts.”

Daphne was glad when, in March, Claire went away to England. But very soon after the move, Claire began to write to Hudson; at least once a week Daphne would find one of Claire’s pale blue airmail envelopes in their mail. It drove Daphne crazy each time Hudson glanced at the envelope, then casually stuck it in his briefcase to read in his study with his university papers. When she questioned him, he said only, “More legal affairs, Daphne, nothing important.” One day, seeing her expression, Hudson said, “Would you like to read the letter, Daphne?”

“Oh, no, no, of course not!” Daphne replied, horrified that he would realize how nosy and insecure she was. After that she tried to pretend she didn’t notice the letters.

But one day she could stand it no longer and sneaked into Hudson’s study while she knew he was teaching. There in his beautiful old wooden filing cabinet, in a manila folder, was a file labeled “Claire,” and in the folder were the letters. And Hudson had not been lying. The letters were about legal matters for the most part, but Claire also wrote about her new life, chattily and wittily. Daphne’s heart was pounding so heavily that she feared she’d have a heart attack and be found dead on Hudson’s floor, Claire’s letters in her hand, so she put them back and left his study. But whenever a new letter came, she found herself as obsessed as a maniac, until she had once more sneaked in and read it. There was no passion in the letters, no sign of love or sexuality, nor of grief or pain or temptation. Nor was there any sign that Claire was receiving letters from Hudson. What was Daphne to do? Confront Hudson? Ask him if he were writing to Claire? Ask him not to write to Claire? If what Hudson had said was true, that Claire was angry with Daphne and not with Hudson, then how clever Claire was being, how sneakily vengeful, writing these plain newsy letters to Hudson, sending them to Hudson and Daphne’s home, where she knew Daphne would note their presence, rather than to the college, where Daphne
would never know. The letters were only an irritation in Daphne’s life, but how clever of Claire to be so irritating. In a way, Daphne was grateful—Claire’s letters kept Daphne’s life from being perfect. Daphne knew that nothing perfect could last on earth, and her life was becoming dangerously close to that.

In March, Cynthia said during one of her casual phone calls that she would like to come back to live with Daphne and Hudson instead of remaining with Joe and Laura. She missed her friends, her school, even the East Coast.

“But, darling,” Daphne said, “what about living in England? What about RADA?”

“Mom, I really don’t think I’d make it into RADA. That was just a dream. Even I can tell I’m too inexperienced.”

“Still, you never know until you try—”

“Mom, I didn’t even get cast as the lead in the high-school play.”

“Heavens, Cyn, you can’t give up because of—”

“I’m not giving up, Mom! I’m just becoming, oh, more sensible, I guess. More realistic about my abilities.”

Thank heaven for that much, Daphne thought. Cynthia was actually learning some humility.

“Besides,” Cynthia went on, “I wouldn’t want to act in Hollywood anyway. It’s so tacky. I want to be a real actress, I want to act onstage, on Broadway. Well, I’ll have to start off-Broadway, of course. And you and Hudson live so close to New York.”

“So much for humility.”

“What?”

“Nothing, darling. We’ll be glad to have you with us.”

That was true. She and Hudson had chosen their house with the thought in mind that Cynthia might come back, and before school was out Cynthia was with them, installed in her bedroom on the third floor of their gingerbread Victorian, where she could have girlfriends spend the night and play her stereo full volume without disturbing Hudson and Daphne. Cynthia had become fairly independent of Daphne, and although she was around Daphne less—always out with friends or in her room—when she was with Daphne she seemed more loving and relaxed.

Cynthia loved Hudson. She thought he was sophisticated.

“I think it’s awesome, Hudson marrying you,” Cyn said one day to her mother
when they were folding laundry.

“Why?” Daphne asked, amused.

“Well, Hudson’s so brilliant and important and … debonair.”

“Well, I’m no frog!” Daphne snapped.

But her anger was short-lived. She knew it was only natural that Cynthia should take for granted any charms Daphne had, balanced out as they were by all the times Cynthia had seen Daphne in a rage or a fit of red-eyed self-pity. She was fortunate that her new husband and her daughter liked each other.

In fact, she was fortunate in every way, which was the difficult part: whenever one of Claire’s blue airmail envelopes arrived for Hudson, Daphne would be reminded of Claire facing her old age alone, and she would feel overcome with guilt. Daphne could not help but compare Hudson’s desertion of Claire with Joe’s desertion of her, so long ago, and she hoped that someday she would become more forgiving of Joe and Laura, at least in her own heart. Bitterness was such a waste of spirit.

She did not dwell on the bitterness much anymore. Now she pondered guilt. It had always been a point of pride in her life that when faced with a choice, she chose the action that would hurt the fewest people, even if that meant she was the one who was hurt most. For that reason she had not slept with Jack. For that reason she had refused to marry David, because she knew the pleasure of his company would be ruined by the times of drunkenness, which would frighten Cynthia.

One rainy morning in April, when Cynthia was at school and Hudson was at the college, Daphne sat finishing her second cup of coffee and looking out the window at the rain. With a sort of melancholy pleasure she was worrying at the thorn of guilt that had lodged very physically in her heart. She made herself think about the last time she had been with David.

He had been dying, for months, of cirrhosis of the liver. It was not an easy death. During his forty-seventh year of life, David had lost weight because he was unable to eat. For a while he only grew more brilliant-eyed and handsome, but finally he had begun to look skeletal, his face a death’s-head, his complexion jaundiced and mapped with broken veins.

During the last few days, Daphne had sent Cynthia to stay with a friend so that she could be with David constantly. She was with him when he entered the hospital. By then, the doctors had told him there was nothing they could do for him except to make
him more comfortable. Really, they could not do even that. He was nauseated, and vomited from time to time, with blood in his vomit. His liver had simply shut down, and his spleen was enlarged, he had edema, so that his limbs and stomach were swollen grotesquely. He had to work to breathe.

Daphne had sat next to him, holding his hand. She had wanted to be brave for him. She had pretended that they both understood that soon, suddenly, miraculously, he would be well. In his turn, he had tried to act lighthearted and carefree.

But once, when he smiled, and she saw how rusty his teeth looked, because of his bleeding gums, her anger broke forth. Her anger and her grief.

“Oh, David, damn you!” she said. “I’m so angry with you. You should have stopped drinking. You could have stopped drinking! Now I’ll miss you so much. I’ll be so sad and lonely. You’re not doing this just to yourself, you know, you’re doing it to me. Why didn’t you stop drinking! Don’t you feel guilty?”

David had thought about her question. Holding her hand, gasping as he fought to breathe, he had thought, staring in a blurry, melancholy way, as if truly looking over his entire life. Finally he had said, “Guilty? No. I don’t feel guilty. But I do feel … regret.”

Shortly after that he had slipped into a coma and died.

Now, in her kitchen, her new kitchen in her new Hudson-and-Daphne life, Daphne mused on David and his words. After his death she had felt guilty. Perhaps, if she had married him, he would have stopped drinking. Perhaps, if she had married him, he would not have died.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. She had certainly wrestled with this question many times before. David had already had two loving wives who had left him because of his drinking. He had always known that Daphne would marry him the moment he stopped drinking. What it all came down to was that Daphne had had to bet her life and Cynthia’s—and David’s—that if they married he would continue to drink, and ultimately inflict his ugly scenes on Cynthia. Daphne had had to make a choice.

When she had agreed to marry Hudson, she had once again made a choice, and this time she had chosen her own happiness over someone else’s. She and Hudson were guilty of causing Claire sorrow.

Did that mean she loved Hudson more than she had loved David? Or was it simply that she realized at last—and it was about time, for she was getting old—that almost everyone on this earth, in order to be happy, must choose at times to do something
that hurts someone else. Everyone on this earth must live with some degree of guilt.

Very well, then, she had chosen to take her happiness at the expense of Claire’s. She was guilty.

But about this choice, she did not feel regret.

Carey Ann was having her period and having cramps and feeling awful, so Jack was in Grand Union buying Doritos and chocolate ice cream for her, and bananas and frozen chicken patties for Alexandra, and he didn’t know what for himself. This was what had become of him. He couldn’t even decide what he wanted to eat for dinner. Slouching over his metal cart, inching drearily up and down the aisles, he castigated himself: he wasn’t a man, he was a slug. An adult, with money in his pocket, he could have anything he wanted for dinner. He could buy a frozen gourmet dinner of clams in tomato sauce. He could stop by Burger King and buy five thick cheeseburgers and all the crisp french fries he’d ever wanted in his life, and now he wouldn’t break out in pimples. He could choose the freshest vegetables and expensive boned skinned chicken breasts and make himself a healthy stir-fry. He could get really wild and drink a six-pack of beer along with bagels, cream cheese, hot salted pretzels, and bacon sandwiches. But he didn’t have the energy to make the decision, let alone fix his own meal.