The Three Weissmanns of Westport Page 11

  Remembering those shaggy morning parades of boyish beauty, Annie found it natural to fall into a state of admiration for the handsome young Kit, and would have felt no unease if Miranda had done the same. But Miranda's reaction to Kit was not what Annie expected. First of all, Miranda rarely spoke of him, never extravagantly extolled the virtues that would later be cataloged as vices. Nor did she call him on the phone at short, regular intervals. She did not buy him absurdly expensive presents. She did not loudly announce her intense happiness, at last!, to salesgirls and crossing guards and the man behind the meat counter at the grocery store. This one time, Miranda did not fall impetuously in love, announcing that here at last was the one and only man for her. She did not spend every waking minute with him for four weeks and then weep her eyes out when she discovered that he was a fundamentalist, a lush, a Republican, whatever it was that rose up and disappointed her. This time, Miranda, depressed and disoriented by the collapse of her life of the past couple of hard-earned decades, had apparently not had the energy to throw herself into one of her accustomed ferocious love affairs. Her relationship with Kit was different, more even, more peaceful, more plain. Miranda seemed happy, which made Annie happy. But there was something worrisome, too. For who'd ever heard of a temperate Miranda? Without her cloak of extravagance, Miranda seemed so unprotected. She had let down her guard: her gaudy, frenetic, romantic guard. Which meant, Annie thought with dread, that anything could happen now.

  10

  The first time Kit and Miranda made love, it was late in the afternoon, two days after they met. Henry was asleep in his crib. The light was golden, saturated, and the white curtains on the windows fluttered noisily in the breeze that swept in from the water. Miranda felt the same arms around her, the Adonis arms, the hero arms that had lifted her from the tossing sea. She laughed out loud, thinking what a fool she was to cast her soggy rescue in such epic terms. When she laughed, Kit told her she was beautiful, that he had found her floating in the ocean and that he would keep her, finders keepers, it was only fair. She allowed herself to disappear, to dissolve into his arms. It was a conscious, almost frenzied release. This was another kind of freedom, this letting go. All responsibility, all aspiration, all disappointment, all of life before that moment was left far, far behind. He undressed her, and she felt her jeans and her sweater, her bra, each bit of clothing slip over her skin. He undressed himself, too, slowly, sure she was watching, she noticed, stringing it out.

  They spent almost every afternoon like that, she reeling from the heady emotional simmer: her own fierce, demanding extinction, beneath which rested a calm, solid sense that she was as safe as houses.

  When Henry woke up, she would leave Kit asleep in the boathouse and take Henry for a walk on the beach. Tide pools glazed the smooth dark sand, and silver flakes of mica reflected the setting sun. When it rained, they squatted in their slickers and watched the raindrops disrupt the surfaces of the shallow beach puddles. They held hands and spoke in undertones. Miranda had never been religious, but she thought that she could worship Henry with fervor and joy. She thought, I already do.

  Cousin Lou was not religious, either: he claimed that he would not like to insult the memory of his benefactress, Mrs. H., by worshipping any god but her. This sacrilegious declaration made both Rosalyn and Betty squirm, but Annie and Miranda laughed every time he said it. In spite of his irreligiosity, however, their cousin could not give up an occasion for a large gathering, and he planned to have thirty for dinner on Rosh Hashanah. The three Weissmanns were invited, as were Kit Maybank and Henry. Among the other guests were a woman Cousin Lou had recently become acquainted with at the Westport YMCA pool during free swim who turned out to be a distant cousin of Rosalyn's; Lou's accountant, Marty, with Marty's large family of several generations; a fellow Lou knew from the golf course who had invented a folding six-foot ladder that was only three-quarters of an inch deep; a plastic surgeon who was always very popular at dinner parties for his willingness to put on his reading glasses and take a closer look; the psychiatrist and his wife; the lawyers; the judge; the metal sculptor; a retired factor from Seventh Avenue; and a former cultural minister of Estonia Lou and Rosalyn had met thirteen years earlier at a spa in Ischia.

  When Rosh Hashanah came, a bright, clear, unseasonably warm day, none of the Weissmanns went to synagogue. It had not been their custom for many years, and Betty particularly did not want to this year because, she explained, as one so recently widowed, she could not stand the spiritual strain. So the three women sat on the sunporch and enjoyed the warmth and read the newspaper until, around two o'clock, Kit's white MINI pulled into the driveway.

  "They're awfully early," Betty said, eyeing the child in the car seat and wondering if her quiet day was about to be invaded.

  Miranda gave her mother a look and went to the car. She could barely contain her excitement. She had just gotten a pair of Crocs that were identical to Henry's own tiny pair of rubber clogs. They were not the kind of footwear she would have ever considered before, not even to wear on the beach, but when she saw them in the store, she imagined Henry's amazement, his pleasure. They were still in the box. She couldn't wait to show him.

  She opened the car door and reached in to unstrap Henry.

  "No," Kit said, putting a hand out as if to protect the child. "I mean, we're not staying. I mean, we're going."

  "But dinner isn't until seven. You can hang out here. Or if you have stuff to do, just leave Henry with me. We have important things to discuss, don't we, Henry?"

  "Going on a airplane," Henry said. He clapped his hands.

  "An airplane?" Miranda said, clapping in response. "When?"

  "Today!"

  "Wow! Is the airplane going to take you to Cousin Lou's for dinner?"

  He shook his head with vigor. His lower lip pushed out. His eyes screwed shut. And he began, like a thundercloud that blows in with a sudden downpour, to wail.

  "Baby," Miranda said, squatting beside the car, reaching in through the open door to stroke his hair. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"

  Kit had twisted up his own handsome face uncomfortably. He looked around him, as if searching for reinforcements, then bit his lip, then said, "Look, I'm sorry, Miranda. But we do have to get going . . . Henry, hush, it will be okay . . ." He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out an old, half-eaten Fruit Roll-Up. "Here, Henry. Now stop crying, okay, buddy?"

  Henry sucked sadly on the scrap of red fruit leather.

  Miranda continued to stroke his head. "My poor little boy," she said softly. "What was all that about?"

  Henry kissed her wrist as it passed near his lips. The pressure, so gentle, like a butterfly's wing, seemed to travel through her entire body. She took his free hand and held it against her cheek. This, she thought, is all there is. This little hand. In mine.

  Miranda then had a sharp, clear, overpowering vision of holding Henry on her hip while she . . . well, not while she cooked. No, but while she entered a restaurant. With Kit beside her. She saw them feeding the child bits of California roll, without wasabi, the way Henry liked it. She could feel the bedtime sheets, too, pulling them up as she tucked Henry in at night, could feel his soft, warm breath on her hand as she stroked his cheek. The sweaty, wet sweetness of his body, soggy diaper and all, when he woke up--she clutched that against her; the echoing crunch of Henry eating cereal--she could hear it. Every night, every morning. Then, in a year or so, he would go off to preschool and make wobbly little friends his own age, and she would walk him there, holding his hand, slowing her pace for him, lifting him up when he got tired. Truck, he would call out, pointing at the garbage men rumbling by. He would want to grow up to be a garbage man, and she would look at him proudly and think, You are perfect, Henry. You are perfect, and I belong to you.

  When Kit spoke, now standing beside her, she turned a beatific face to him.

  "Hmm?" she said. "Sorry . . ."

  "I said we really do have to catch a plane . . ."

 
Miranda tilted her head, like a dog, a trusting and innocent dog who has been given a confusing command.

  "Plane?" she said, looking up at Kit.

  "Listen, I just wanted to say goodbye. It's so sudden and crazy. And I wanted to apologize about tonight . . ."

  "Wait," Miranda said. "What?"

  She'd thought for a moment that Kit said he had to catch a plane. Henry's fingers were now splayed out in the air in front of him. She watched them, marveled at them. They were like some glorious, exotic insect. A new species, one she had discovered.

  "I got a part," Kit said.

  Miranda thought she heard "I've got to part," and wondered why Kit said "I" and not "We," but then realized what he meant.

  "Part?" she asked.

  "Look, I just found out." Kit was kicking the dirt of the driveway nervously. "It's a real break. I mean, it's nothing, it's tiny, but it's work."

  Work, Miranda thought. Work is good. Say something nice. But she felt panicked. Work was what she had loved once. Now she loved Henry. And maybe, just maybe, Kit as well.

  "Work!" she said.

  Betty observed the threesome from the porch. She thought how much they looked like a family. Perhaps, somehow, against all odds, this improbable arrangement would work for Miranda. If only Miranda could find some kind of domestic peace at last. Betty waved hello to Kit and, followed by Annie, descended the cracked cement steps onto the patchy stubble of lawn.

  "Hello, Kit!" they called. "Hello, Henry! What brings you here so early?"

  "A part!" Miranda said, trying to smile. "Kit got a part."

  "Oh well," Kit murmured. "Small part . . . Independent film . . ."

  "Kit and Henry are going away," Miranda said in a bizarre sing-song, as if she were addressing Henry, or were insane. "On an airplane."

  Betty was visited by the swift, looping nausea she'd had when Joseph announced his departure. She saw Miranda's expression, she heard the loud crashing echo, felt the chill, the vortex. She had been married to Joseph forever, Miranda and Kit had known each other for a month or so. But however long it had been or however short, did it matter? Did it ever really matter? No, Betty thought. A broken heart is a broken heart.

  "How long will you be gone?" she asked, though she thought she knew. He had that look about him, that I'm-not-sure-how-long look, that look of goodbye.

  "I have to go to L.A. . . . I don't really know how long," Kit said. He turned back to Miranda. "Look, I'm so sorry about tonight . . . I mean, I'm sorry period."

  Miranda took Henry's hand again. "L.A." She wanted to explain to Kit that L.A. was too far away, that even a short trip was interminable, that one day would be one day too many. She wanted to explain that she had had a vision of their lives together, she wanted him to understand what she had just discovered, that her heart had found a home at last.

  Instead, controlling her voice as well as she could, she asked if Kit would like to leave Henry with her. "Won't that make it easier for you? I mean, if it's a short time . . ."

  Kit drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. "Look, Miranda, I don't know how long it will be. And his mother will be back soon, so she can get him, right?"

  His mother. Miranda held Henry's hand against her cheek, pressing it there, absorbing the touch of each small finger.

  "I'm really sorry about all this . . ." Kit was saying. "I'll miss you, Miranda. We'll both miss you."

  "Hey, don't be sorry," she forced herself to say. "A part in a movie! It's great, Kit."

  "Yeah." He shrugged and looked miserable.

  "What?"

  "No 'what.' It's great."

  "Jesus, cheer up, then. Right, Henry?" She leaned farther into the car and pressed her face against Henry's. He made kissing, smacking sounds, then pushed his sugary lips on her cheek. "I love you, Henry," she whispered.

  "I love Randa," he shouted.

  Miranda stood up. She felt off balance, disconnected from the little car, the man in front of her, her mother, her sister. How silly of her. They were just going away for a while. She had no claim on either of them. Visions were dreams. Dreams were fiction. Fiction was lies. "Break a leg," she said to Kit with her big public smile.

  "Yeah. Thanks. Well, I'll call you." He gave her a quick hug. "I really will."

  Betty noted the "really." She reached out for Miranda's hand and squeezed it.

  Miranda pulled her hand away. "I'm fine."

  "Randa!" Henry cried with sudden desperation as they pulled out of the driveway. "Randa! Randa!"

  "Oh God," Kit was saying. "Not now, Henry, please."

  Miranda waved and called goodbye to Henry, who waved a chubby hand as his father reached back and shoved a pacifier in his mouth.

  Miranda stood in the driveway beneath the dying pine tree. Her smile faltered, sagged into heavy, slack resignation.

  "I realize he just found out and he had a plane to catch. But, boy, that was so sudden," said Annie.

  "We'll miss Henry," Betty said. She could not bring herself to say anything about Kit. "Cute little fellow."

  Miranda said simply, "They're gone."

  Betty tried to ignore the visceral, light-headed wave of empathy. Emptiness was so unexpectedly heavy, so solid and massive. So pervasive and muffled. So hateful. "Well," she said, trying to shake herself out of it. "We all must have boundaries, and we all must learn to separate. All the therapists on television agree on that. Anyway, the boys will be back soon. And L.A. is not very far away, is it?" The clatter of her own voice rang unconvincingly in her ears. "Not in this day and age."

  "That's true, Miranda," Annie said.

  "Oh Christ, what do you know about it?" Miranda snapped. "Either of you?"

  When they arrived for Rosh Hashanah dinner at Lou's big house overlooking Long Island Sound, Miranda was quiet and subdued. She had barely spoken a word to her mother and sister since the departure of Kit and Henry. Annie was surprised Miranda had even agreed to come with them. There had been a moment when, after coming out of her room dressed and made up and looking beautiful, if a little grim, Miranda's hand had gone to her forehead and her eyes had closed and Annie had braced herself for some sort of histrionic display. But Miranda had merely pushed her hair back, opened her eyes, and said, "Oh, let's get it over with." Perhaps with the real difficulties that had befallen them, Miranda had finally grown out of her stormy theatrical fits. Annie decided to take Miranda's passivity as a good sign. Yet when she stole a glance at her sister's face, colorless, expressionless, she almost wished Miranda would give a good rant, would fume and tear out her hair.

  "It won't be as much fun without little Henry here," Annie said, looking around at the crowd of senior citizens, most of whom continued to refer to themselves as middle-aged. She did miss the presence of the little boy, but she also meant to convey some kind of sympathy--although Miranda did not always appreciate sympathy from her sister, usually interpreting it as pity or criticism. "I'll miss him."

  "You have your own children."

  "Well, yes, but . . ."

  "But nothing," Miranda said savagely, then turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving Annie and Betty nonplussed and, both, somewhat embarrassed.

  A knot of people were already gathered in the living room and engaged in fervent conversation. The surgeon had complimented the cultural minister of Estonia on breaking away from the Soviet Union thereby escaping socialized medicine, because just look at Canada, to which the lawyer responded that Canada had no privacy laws. At this, the woman from the YMCA pool said that if you have nothing to hide, privacy should not be an issue. The metal sculptor pointed out that you could still live a bohemian life in Montreal, what with cheap rents and government grants, even without privacy and a falling U.S. dollar, to which the surgeon replied that a government grant would not be much solace if you had to wait six months for a knee replacement by a doctor who spoke only French, which caused the inventor to lament that French President Sarkozy's flamboyant behavior was perhaps not as good for the Jews as he had a
t first hoped.

  "President Bling-Bling," Cousin Lou said, savoring the sound of the words.

  "Oh, Betty!" cried Rosalyn. Seeing her cousin and suddenly reminded by the word "bling," she waved her wrist with its heavy gold-and-emerald bracelet. "What do you think?"

  "Beautiful. Beautiful."

  "Not too much? I don't want to look gaudy. The economy is so bad, it could be offensive. I try to be sensitive to these things."

  "They're cabochon, that tones it down."

  "I'm a limousine liberal," Lou said. "Why not be comfortable?"

  "You were always an iconoclast, dear," said Rosalyn, patting his arm indulgently.

  There was very good wine. Rosalyn had tried, in the early years, to economize by serving lesser wines to the constant flow of guests, but Lou had prevailed.

  "But they're here every night," Rosalyn had said.

  "And so are we," Lou had explained.

  Rosalyn bowed to what she understood to be self-interest, but in fact Lou would have served his guests good wine even if he'd been a teetotaler. He enjoyed raising a glass of the good stuff with his guests, however, then raising another. On this Rosh Hashanah night, he held his third up to the light to watch the liquid cling to the sides as he gently swirled it. It has legs, he thought happily. Like a play that is a success. Like a showgirl. Like a table. Lou loved the English language. English was part of his American identity, and so he cherished it. He had been told that when he left a message on an answering machine, you could hear his German accent, but he dismissed that information as complete nonsense, making sure however, from that moment on, if someone did not pick up their telephone themselves, to hang up and try again later.