Chapter Forty-Seven
“Hal, can we please go back to New York?”
“No,” he replies, quick and decisive. We are out for a walk with Miranda on a mild summer day.
The well-heeled neighbors we pass at regular intervals flash us friendly, inquisitive smiles; the Prince of Pittsburgh and his Broadway beauty, that’s how they see us.
We nod, returning their greetings, but I’m grateful that the puppy serves as a distraction, her wayward exploration pulling us along.
I had been hopeful that the pleasant weather, the lovely walk, might present the right opportunity for me to raise the topic I’ve been ruminating on.
I’m not going to give up on this easily, so I press on, my tone delicate but steady.
“Not to stay, dear. Just a visit. Summer in New York. Don’t you miss it at all? ”
“Miss it?” Hal flashes me a scowl. “Why, it’s a den of beasts. A modern-day Sodom. The only good thing to come out of it was you, booful. And I got you out just in time.”
I can see the clenching of his jaw, can hear the unyielding tenor of his determination. Fearing that he might bring up Stan’s name, I quickly pivot. “Fine, then London? Even if only for a visit?”
Hal pauses his steps now, and I can see the faintest pearls of perspiration on his temples as he leans his head to the side and asks, “Why are you so desperate to leave Pittsburgh?”
Miranda, unhappy with the pause, tugs on her leash in my hands. But I stand still, facing my husband and fixing a bland expression on my features. “I need a change…of scenery.”
It is perhaps the most watered-down understatement I have ever uttered.
The truth is, I need a change—of all of it.
His mother. The dark and dreary mansion, which has come to feel more like a haunted castle.
His erratic behavior, the frequency with which he now struts around with a revolver at his waist. The nights when he reeks of booze or, worse, behaves as if he’s taken his god-awful morphine.
This town where I have not a single friend.
My endless days of monotonous solitude, during which I can only find some small measure of peace in the hours when I swim my morning laps or walk Miranda.
No, it cannot go on; I’m twenty years old, locked up in this castle, finding it more unbearable with each passing day.
Hal looks around, surveying this gracious stretch of Beechwood Boulevard, its grand and well-groomed mansions lined up like a row of society brides on display at a debutante ball. And then, with a disinterested shrug, he resumes his walk. “I think this scenery is just fine.”
Frustrated by his certitude that it’s his decision alone to make, I answer: “Then I’d like to invite Penny here for a visit.”
My husband throws me a horrified look, as though I’ve just told him that I’ve taken a lover.
I clench my hands into two fists at my sides and forge ahead, steadying my tone as much as I can manage.
“Hal, you know Penny well. You know she’s a nice girl.
Why, we were always together, surely you remember.
And I deserve to see a friend, don’t I?”
“Mother will say no,” he says, his eyes pointing straight ahead.
“This time, I’m not asking. It’s our house, too, ain’t it?”
He halts his steps again, heaving a sigh.
And in that, I allow myself to hope that perhaps he’s softening.
Perhaps he’s considering my perspective.
I press on: “Hal, I’m lonely. I’m so very lonely.
We’ve been here for a year. I’ve been the good wife you asked for, haven’t I?
But I wish to see a friend. I’ve got no one but Miranda. ”
“And me,” he retorts, wounded.
“Yes, you,” I hurry to agree. “Of course I have you. But you have your time with your fellows—dining out, drinks at the club, shooting parties. Hal, I have—”
“Booful, I had no idea you could be so stubborn.”
Stubborn? I’ve been quite the opposite. Unendingly compliant, more like. It feels as if I’ve been so willing to bend for him—and Mother—that I’m now in danger of breaking if I don’t come up for a gasp of air in the immediate future.
But hearing my pet name, I get the sense—and very much hope—that he is warming to my point. And I dare not argue. Not if I’m so close to my goal.
Flashing me a benevolent smile, as though he’s the indulgent adult who has just told me I may have a sweet before my supper, he says, “It’s fine by me. To invite Penny for a brief visit.”
“Oh, Hal, thank you! I am so very—”
“But Mother won’t stand for it.”
His words land like rocks in my belly. He’s right. His mother would be outraged by the very thought. Why, I’m not even allowed to speak of my former days on the stage, but to think—hosting a Broadway showgirl under her very roof! “No,” I say, breathing out. “No, she’d spoil the whole thing.”
Another one of those indulgent grins, and Hal raises his hand to stroke my cheek. I force myself not to recoil from his touch, but instead to meet his pale gaze. With his stare direct and intense, he says, “Booful, you know I only wish to make you happy.”
I swallow, saying nothing. I remind myself to nod.
“If this is what you really want, then I shall see to it,” he says. “I’ll spirit Mother away to Hot Springs. I’ll tell her it’s for her health, a quick trip to take the waters, just the pair of us. So that Penny may come to visit.”
“Really?” I’m surprised—and so deliriously happy. “You will?”
“But only for a weekend, wife. Do we have a deal?”
For the first time in weeks, perhaps months, I feel as though I’d like to kiss him. With my heart leaping against my chest, I say, “Oh, yes, we do! Thank you.”
I await Penny at the depot on a chilly December day. It took us months to find a time for her to get away from New York, given her busy schedule of performances, but around the Christmas holiday—and my birthday—she’s taking a few days off.
Mother Thorne was delighted to think her son was so thoughtfully devoted as to whisk her away somewhere warm and curative, just the two of them.
She certainly did not invite me to join, nor did she lament the fact that I was not party to their plans.
Does she suspect I’m up to something in her absence?
I don’t know, but neither do I care. For here I am, standing alone, ready to embrace my friend for the first time in over a year.
And we will have two whole days to ourselves!
When I spot Penny stepping off the train, her lean body wrapped in a thick and stylish coat of caramel-colored fur, my own body unclenches, as though the mere sight of her does something curative for me. I hadn’t realized I’d been so tense.
“Pen!” I call out to her through the jostling crowds.
She turns at the sound of her name. I can’t help but laugh as I take her in across the platform, her figure standing out among the throng of gray-and-black-clad travelers.
With her chic sable coat and matching hat, her stylishly tall pumps, and the slash of bright red across her lips, she’s the very image of a Broadway starlet.
And here I stand, feeling downright dowdy before her in my matronly coat of charcoal wool.
It’s as though she’s bringing me the fire of Broadway’s sparkle and song on this frigidly cold Pittsburgh day.
I am desperate to warm myself beside her.
“Oh, Pen,” I say happily, “you are a sight for my sore eyes. Thank you for coming.”
“I’m your lucky Penny, Ev! I’ll always show up.” We fall into a hug, and I nestle into her, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair and perfume. Before I realize it’s happening, I begin to cry.
“Mrs. Thorne!” She leans back, holding me at arm’s length. With her appraising gaze resting on my tear-slicked face, she cocks her head to the side. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Pen, I’m just so happy to see you. Tears of joy.” That’s all I say. That’s all I can say; otherwise, this dripping of tears might build to a full deluge right here on the cold platform.
Penny, for her part, seems lighthearted and gay as her eyes take in the crowded scene.
A porter appears with her luggage on a small trolley, and I guide us all toward the waiting motorcar.
“Just like old times, Ev,” Penny says, slipping her arm around my waist. “Little ol’ me hitching a ride alongside you in your sweetheart’s chauffeured auto. ”
With her arm looped through mine, the solidity of her body at my side, I allow myself to savor her smile, and some of the faded memories of the old times. What it felt like to have my best friend with me. For now, that’s all I want. And it’s what I very much need.
—
That evening, I order supper on trays, and we eat together in my bedroom.
I don’t want anyone to listen in or spoil anything.
I want my lucky Penny all to myself. Just as true friends can do, we slip back into the rapport of our younger selves, no closeness lost in spite of the distance that has kept us apart for so long.
Penny tells me about the new show she’s in, a musical production set in California during the Gold Rush.
I tell her, in response to her questioning, that I don’t dance or sing much these days, but I have taken up swimming with great enthusiasm.
She plays a bit with Miranda, feeding her small nibbles of our cheeses and steak.
And then Penny’s voice grows serious, and her smile slips as she says, “I saw your mother.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I say nothing, but Penny continues, “I was dropping off your Christmas card last week, with the concierge in her building, like you asked.”
“And what…?” I shift on the bed. “What did she say?”
“It happened so fast.”
“Did she open my card?”
“I’m not sure,” Penny says, with a look like sympathy in her eyes. “But I did tell her that I was coming to visit you.”
“Did she give you…any message?”
Penny shakes her head, then lowers her gaze. I nod once, no longer hungry for the supper spread before us. “How did she seem?” I ask.