Read Online The Collected Stories of Hortense Calisher by Hortense Calisher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hortense Calisher
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funny she doesn’t say where the Senator is? At least make his excuses or something?”
“Away on business, probably.”
“Well, why isn’t she in Washington with him, then? I would be—if it were you.”
“Thank you ,” he said. “But how come you got through college? There’s no Connecticut senator to Washington named Hawthorn.”
“Luke! I knew there was something fishy! Maybe there isn’t any Senator. Or maybe he’s divorced her, and nobody around here will know her. Or maybe she’s a little off, from his being dead, and wants to go on pretending he’s alive. With people like us—who wouldn’t know.”
He put back his head in laughter. “Now I know how you did get through college.” He kissed the back of my neck, and pushed me through the door. “State senator, dope,” he whispered, as we knocked at Mrs. Hawthorn’s.
“Ready?” She opened the door and held it back in such a way that we knew we were to look in. “This is the only room I changed,” she said. “I had it done again last year, the same way. I thought the man from Sloane would drop in his tracks when I insisted on the same thing. All that pink. Ninety yards of it in the curtains alone.” She laughed, as she had done at the child in Bermuda. “Of course I had no idea back then … I thought it was lovely, so help me. And now I’m used to it.”
We looked around. All that pink, as she had said. The room, from its shape, must be directly above the big room below; its great windows jutted out like a huge pink prow, overlooking the three bodies of water. Chairs with the sickly sheen of hard candy pursed their Louis Quatorze legs on a rose madder rug, under lamps the tinge of old powder puffs. There were a few glossy prints on the walls—nymphs couched like bonbons in ambiguous verdure. Marble putti held back the curtains, and each morning, between ninety yards of rosy lingerie, there would rise the craggy, seamed face of the sea.
Mrs. Hawthorn put her hand on one of the cherubs, and looked out. “We sailed from there on our honeymoon,” she said. “On the old Hawthorns’ yacht, right from the end of the dock. I remember thinking it would give, there were so many people on the end of it.” She took a fur from a chair, slung it around her shoulders, and walked to the door. At the door, she turned back and surveyed the room. “Ain’t it orful!” she said, in her normal voice. “Harry can’t bear it.”
She had two voices, I thought, as we followed her downstairs and got in the car she referred to as her runabout, that she’d made Harry give her in place of the chauffeur-driven Rolls. One voice for that tranced tale of first possession—when the house, the dock, the boudoir, Harry were new. And one for now—slangy, agnostic, amused.
She drove well, the way she swam, with a crisp, physical intensity. There had been bridle paths through these woods, she told us, but she hadn’t really minded giving up the horses; swimming was the only thing she liked to do alone. She swam every day; it kept her weight down to the same as when she married. “You’ll be having to pick yourself some exercise now too, honey,” she said, sighing. “And stick to it the rest of your days.”
We would turn on to the main road soon, I thought, probably to one of those roadhouses full of Saturday night daters such as Luke and I had been the year before, spinning out the evening on the cover charge and a couple of setups, and looking down our noses at the fat middle-agers who didn’t have to watch the tab, but were such a nuisance on the floor.
The car veered suddenly to the left, and reduced speed. Now we seemed to be riding on one of the overgrown paths. Twigs whipped through the open window and slurred out again as we passed. Beside me, Luke rolled up the window. We were all in the front seat together. No one spoke.
We stopped. We must be in the heart of the woods, I thought. There was nothing except the blind probe of the headlamps
“Away on business, probably.”
“Well, why isn’t she in Washington with him, then? I would be—if it were you.”
“Thank you ,” he said. “But how come you got through college? There’s no Connecticut senator to Washington named Hawthorn.”
“Luke! I knew there was something fishy! Maybe there isn’t any Senator. Or maybe he’s divorced her, and nobody around here will know her. Or maybe she’s a little off, from his being dead, and wants to go on pretending he’s alive. With people like us—who wouldn’t know.”
He put back his head in laughter. “Now I know how you did get through college.” He kissed the back of my neck, and pushed me through the door. “State senator, dope,” he whispered, as we knocked at Mrs. Hawthorn’s.
“Ready?” She opened the door and held it back in such a way that we knew we were to look in. “This is the only room I changed,” she said. “I had it done again last year, the same way. I thought the man from Sloane would drop in his tracks when I insisted on the same thing. All that pink. Ninety yards of it in the curtains alone.” She laughed, as she had done at the child in Bermuda. “Of course I had no idea back then … I thought it was lovely, so help me. And now I’m used to it.”
We looked around. All that pink, as she had said. The room, from its shape, must be directly above the big room below; its great windows jutted out like a huge pink prow, overlooking the three bodies of water. Chairs with the sickly sheen of hard candy pursed their Louis Quatorze legs on a rose madder rug, under lamps the tinge of old powder puffs. There were a few glossy prints on the walls—nymphs couched like bonbons in ambiguous verdure. Marble putti held back the curtains, and each morning, between ninety yards of rosy lingerie, there would rise the craggy, seamed face of the sea.
Mrs. Hawthorn put her hand on one of the cherubs, and looked out. “We sailed from there on our honeymoon,” she said. “On the old Hawthorns’ yacht, right from the end of the dock. I remember thinking it would give, there were so many people on the end of it.” She took a fur from a chair, slung it around her shoulders, and walked to the door. At the door, she turned back and surveyed the room. “Ain’t it orful!” she said, in her normal voice. “Harry can’t bear it.”
She had two voices, I thought, as we followed her downstairs and got in the car she referred to as her runabout, that she’d made Harry give her in place of the chauffeur-driven Rolls. One voice for that tranced tale of first possession—when the house, the dock, the boudoir, Harry were new. And one for now—slangy, agnostic, amused.
She drove well, the way she swam, with a crisp, physical intensity. There had been bridle paths through these woods, she told us, but she hadn’t really minded giving up the horses; swimming was the only thing she liked to do alone. She swam every day; it kept her weight down to the same as when she married. “You’ll be having to pick yourself some exercise now too, honey,” she said, sighing. “And stick to it the rest of your days.”
We would turn on to the main road soon, I thought, probably to one of those roadhouses full of Saturday night daters such as Luke and I had been the year before, spinning out the evening on the cover charge and a couple of setups, and looking down our noses at the fat middle-agers who didn’t have to watch the tab, but were such a nuisance on the floor.
The car veered suddenly to the left, and reduced speed. Now we seemed to be riding on one of the overgrown paths. Twigs whipped through the open window and slurred out again as we passed. Beside me, Luke rolled up the window. We were all in the front seat together. No one spoke.
We stopped. We must be in the heart of the woods, I thought. There was nothing except the blind probe of the headlamps
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