what you're left with is only bitter, bitter anger. Quietly she went out and undressed in the bathroom. Her eyes were slits between swollen lids and pale, puffed cheeks. Her face was hideous. If only there were some way of calling Francine and Dad not to come tomorrow! But how, and with what excuse? It was impossible.
But no, nothing was really impossible. She spoke aloud to herself: “Nothing. It's simply a situation that has to be met. Somehow.”
“A washcloth soaked in ice water will help,” Gerald said.
He was standing in the doorway. Perhaps her slight fumbling had awakened him, or perhaps he had only pretended to be asleep.
“I'll tell you what will help. My return to the place from which you so joyfully took me. What is that poem of Robert Frost's? ‘Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ But it will only be temporary. I can manage alone. I and my baby can manage. We don't need you.”
“What time does their flight get in tomorrow?” he asked, ignoring her words.
“Ten-fifteen. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. You can't go looking like this, and you can't let them stand there waiting.”
“It's not your problem. They're my parents, and I'll go for them.”
“That's ridiculous. I left the morning free for their visit.”
“Oh, you care so much about them, don't you?”
“I want to give you another hour and a half to get your face back to normal before they see you.”
“What are you saying? That you think this horror can be kept secret?”
“To begin with, it isn't a horror. It's a thing that can be discussed with reason if you'll only try. But we don'thave to greet them with it the minute they set foot at the door. That's all I'm saying.”
“Don't lecture me. I hate that harsh voice. If it weren't for the baby that's growing in me, I'd want to die tonight, or murder you.”
“Hyacinth, will you listen to me? And for God's sake, for the thousandth time, will you throw the goddamn cigarette away? I'm sick of seeing it.”
“Then don't look at it. Let me alone. I don't know you. I don't want to know you.”
There was no other place to sleep than in the bed. The night had turned chilly and, shivering from dampness and tension, she lay long with open eyes, watching light flare in and out as clouds moved over the moon. Whether he slept or not, she neither knew nor cared.
Yesterday's asters, retrieved from the floor, were on the table. On either side of them stood the crystal candlesticks that Jim and Francine had just brought. Hyacinth had made her father's old favorite chicken-and-shrimp dish. She had iced the celebratory champagne, and Gerald had poured it. Francine had reported on all the brothers and their children; in her scarlet blouse and her pearls, she glowed. She never has any trouble, Hy thought. It was all very familiar, all very cozy. Or to be accurate, it would have been so, if she had not still been wavering between telling them now or waiting to write or telephone them later, after they were home.
Conversation ranged from their grandchildren who, like most grandchildren, were extraordinary, to George'stransfer back home from Singapore, to Paul's new house. Jim did most of the talking. Francine, unusually quiet, seemed to be glancing more often than necessary at Hyacinth.
“We were thinking,” Jim said, “only beginning to think that our house is getting too large and empty for us. Of course, I love my garden. We both do. But if we could find a smaller house with the same outdoor space, and if maybe you folks when you come back east were interested in our house, we might do something about giving it to you.”
“It's a beautiful house,” Gerald exclaimed. “An incredible gift!”
“It's far too early to talk about it now.” Francine's intervention was pleasant and practical.
“Well, of course,” Gerald said. “Right now I'm in another world.” And he launched into an account of his daily routine, which appeared to
But no, nothing was really impossible. She spoke aloud to herself: “Nothing. It's simply a situation that has to be met. Somehow.”
“A washcloth soaked in ice water will help,” Gerald said.
He was standing in the doorway. Perhaps her slight fumbling had awakened him, or perhaps he had only pretended to be asleep.
“I'll tell you what will help. My return to the place from which you so joyfully took me. What is that poem of Robert Frost's? ‘Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ But it will only be temporary. I can manage alone. I and my baby can manage. We don't need you.”
“What time does their flight get in tomorrow?” he asked, ignoring her words.
“Ten-fifteen. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. You can't go looking like this, and you can't let them stand there waiting.”
“It's not your problem. They're my parents, and I'll go for them.”
“That's ridiculous. I left the morning free for their visit.”
“Oh, you care so much about them, don't you?”
“I want to give you another hour and a half to get your face back to normal before they see you.”
“What are you saying? That you think this horror can be kept secret?”
“To begin with, it isn't a horror. It's a thing that can be discussed with reason if you'll only try. But we don'thave to greet them with it the minute they set foot at the door. That's all I'm saying.”
“Don't lecture me. I hate that harsh voice. If it weren't for the baby that's growing in me, I'd want to die tonight, or murder you.”
“Hyacinth, will you listen to me? And for God's sake, for the thousandth time, will you throw the goddamn cigarette away? I'm sick of seeing it.”
“Then don't look at it. Let me alone. I don't know you. I don't want to know you.”
There was no other place to sleep than in the bed. The night had turned chilly and, shivering from dampness and tension, she lay long with open eyes, watching light flare in and out as clouds moved over the moon. Whether he slept or not, she neither knew nor cared.
Yesterday's asters, retrieved from the floor, were on the table. On either side of them stood the crystal candlesticks that Jim and Francine had just brought. Hyacinth had made her father's old favorite chicken-and-shrimp dish. She had iced the celebratory champagne, and Gerald had poured it. Francine had reported on all the brothers and their children; in her scarlet blouse and her pearls, she glowed. She never has any trouble, Hy thought. It was all very familiar, all very cozy. Or to be accurate, it would have been so, if she had not still been wavering between telling them now or waiting to write or telephone them later, after they were home.
Conversation ranged from their grandchildren who, like most grandchildren, were extraordinary, to George'stransfer back home from Singapore, to Paul's new house. Jim did most of the talking. Francine, unusually quiet, seemed to be glancing more often than necessary at Hyacinth.
“We were thinking,” Jim said, “only beginning to think that our house is getting too large and empty for us. Of course, I love my garden. We both do. But if we could find a smaller house with the same outdoor space, and if maybe you folks when you come back east were interested in our house, we might do something about giving it to you.”
“It's a beautiful house,” Gerald exclaimed. “An incredible gift!”
“It's far too early to talk about it now.” Francine's intervention was pleasant and practical.
“Well, of course,” Gerald said. “Right now I'm in another world.” And he launched into an account of his daily routine, which appeared to
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