All That Is

20


THE HOUSE ON THE POND



It was all still asleep, untouched by the wand. Along the road there were farmhouses, some with their land, and one, old and white, that was a boardinghouse. You could rent a room by the week or for the season and look out at the flat, unbroken fields and walk meditatively or ride a crippled bicycle to the beach about a mile away. Further along was a cemetery that the road split around like a wrecked ship and still further a drab, unpainted house beneath the trees that was rented to young people who sometimes had parties outside at the end of the day and into the evening, cars parked around haphazardly and pitchers of cheap wine.

In earlier years the painters had all come because it was cheap and because of the light, clear, transcendent light that seemed to come for miles in the long afternoon. Life was casual. There were large houses behind the hedges and others on flag lots, some from the earliest days. The flood of discovery had not yet swept in. Simple cottages, some belonging to the farmers, stood on the dunes.

The country suited Christine, she said this herself. It was beautiful and open. The light was such as you had never seen, the air and the wind from the sea. She avoided going back to the city and Bowman came on the long weekends. Her feeling of happiness greeted him. Her glorious smile. At the roadside stand with its flatbeds of produce, fresh corn, tomatoes, strawberries right from the field, they recognized her. Normally hardened to customers, when she stood at the counter with her arms filled, they relented and smiled.

She had decided to renew her broker’s license, and she went to see Evelyn Hinds, whose name she’d seen on For Sale signs. Mrs. Hinds’ office was in her house just off New Town Lane, white with a white picket fence and a neatly lettered sign.

Evelyn Hinds was a dumpling of a woman with bright eyes that took things in immediately and a ready laugh. She was at ease with people. Her first husband had crashed at sea—it was thought he crashed, no one ever saw him again—but she’d been married two times after that and was on good terms with both her former husbands. Christine came to see her in dark slacks and a short linen jacket.

“Chris, can I call you that?” Mrs. Hinds said. “How old are you, do you mind my asking?”

“Thirty-four,” Christine said.

“Thirty-four. Really? You don’t look it.”

“Well, it’s worse than that. I sometimes claim to be a bit younger.”

“And you live out here?”

“Yes, I’m living here now. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. I was a broker in the city for seven years.”

It was not quite that long but Mrs. Hinds didn’t question it.

“Who were you with?” she said.

“A small firm in the village, Walter Bruno.”

“Did you do sales or rentals?”

“I did mostly sales.”

“I love to put customers together with houses.”

“I like that, too.”

“It’s like marrying them off. Are you married?”

“No, I’m separated,” Christine said. “I’m not looking for a husband.”

“Thank goodness.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one else would have a chance,” Mrs. Hinds said.

She liked Christine and took her on.

It was a small agency, just four of them. She told Bowman she was going to like it.

“I’ve seen her name,” he said. “What’s she like?”

“Very straightforward, but there’s one other important thing. Now that I’m doing it again,” she said, “I’ll find you a house.”

Anet, who had come home from school, was waiting at the station with her mother, and Bowman met her for the first time when he got off the train. She had a fresh, young face and hung behind Christine a bit. Car doors were slamming and families calling out to one another.

“These have been the most beautiful days,” Christine told him as they walked to the car. “They say it’s going to be like this all through the weekend.”

“When did you get here?” he asked Anet.

He wanted it to be easy between them.

“When did I get here?” she turned to Christine.

“On Wednesday.”

“It’s great to have you here,” he said.

They worked their way out of the traffic around the station and went along in the early evening, the headlights bright and flowing ahead like an invitation to a wondrous night.

“Where should we go?” he said to Christine. “Did you make dinner?”

“I have some things at home,” she said.

“Should we go to Billy’s? Let’s go there. Have you been to any of these places yet?” he asked Anet somewhat foolishly.

“No,” she said.

“I’d rather go to that first place, the two brothers,” Christine said.

“You’re right. That’s a better idea.”

As they went up the steps and then in, Bowman felt a full-bodied happiness, the two women and the aura they gave. Anet talked during the meal but only to her mother. Bowman enjoyed it, however. It seemed comfortable. They drove home through a deep, luxurious blue, past houses with their reassuring lights.

Anet was not shy but she kept her distance from him. She belonged to her mother and, certainly, to her father. She was loyal to them both. It was hard to win her acceptance. He also sensed her unhappiness that he was her mother’s lover, a word he never used—there was a jealousy born in the blood. She expressed it by excluding him although they sometimes sat together, the three of them, in a natural way listening to music or watching TV. He noticed the womanly gestures that were like her mother’s. He was always, despite himself, aware of her presence in the house, sometimes terrifically aware. His thoughts went back to Jackie Ettinger, the girl long ago in Summit, the almost mythic girl. He never knew Jackie. It seemed he would not know Anet either.

When he was away from her—during the week—he was able to think about it more calmly, the figure he wanted to be, the longtime consort—that was not the word—the man her mother loved, probably not in any way more sexually than Anet’s father although that was clearly not so, given the intensity of Bowman’s feelings, an emotional intensity that was almost constantly present.

On a Sunday morning when the heat of the day had not yet begun but the light was dazzling all along the beach, the surf in a line almost violent in its brightness, they sat near the dunes with sections of the paper, reading in contemplation, feeling the sun. The water was cold, there were only a few other people. It was like Mexico, he felt, though he had never been there. The simplicity. It was June and summer had arrived. People were there but not yet the crowds. It was a kind of exile. They were reading what had happened in the world. When the sun was above their shoulders they would go home for lunch.

The Murphys in Antibes must have had such a life. They’d had a house, themselves, further east. Gerald Murphy liked to swim and swam for a mile in the ocean every day. Bowman had mentioned this but to no one’s interest. Other people, three or four of them, were swimming he noticed. He got up and went down to the water. He was surprised to find it warmer than he expected. It came in around his ankles almost temptingly. He went in up to his knees.

He came back to where they were lying near the weathered palings.

“The water’s warm,” he said.

“You always say that.”

“It’s quite warm.”

“Brrr,” Anet said.

“Come in and see.”

“Anet, you go.”

“I’m afraid of the waves.”

“Those are no waves, those are just swells. Come on, I’ll go in, too. Philip almost drowned me last summer.”

“How?”

“In some real waves. They’re not that big today. Come on, let’s go in.”

The water was chilly at first. Anet stood in it unwilling but Christine went in and she followed, reluctantly walking deeper. The bottom was smooth. They passed the low line of waves and into the water beyond, where the swells lifted them gently. They swam without speaking, just their heads above the water, rising and falling. The sky seemed to smooth all feelings. Twice in the weeks past Anet had remarked to him after some jot of advice, “You’re not my father,” and he had felt the sting, but now she smiled at him, not in warmth but satisfaction.

“Well?” he said to her.

“I love it,” she replied.

They came out as a trio, out of breath and smiling. Anet walked ahead of them, lithe and striding, running her fingers through her hair to straighten it out. She sat down close to Christine, their knees almost touching, and leaned against her in happiness.

She had made some friends, among them a girl named Sophie, who was self-possessed and had wavy blond hair. She was the daughter of a psychiatrist. On a rainy day they had sat, the four of them, playing hearts. Sophie had taken off an earring and was examining it as the play went around the table. When it came to her she sloughed a low spade.

“You made a mistake,” Bowman commented helpfully.

“Did I?” she said. She was practicing for life.

She didn’t bother to pick up the badly played card, but then almost patiently took it back and played another. Christine admired her aplomb and the dark-red lipstick she used, until the night Anet went to the movies with her and didn’t come back until after midnight. Christine had waited concerned, watching television. She finally heard the door close in the kitchen.

“Anet?” she called.

“Yes.”

“Where’ve you been? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry. I should have called.”

“Where’ve you been? The movie let out hours ago.”

“We didn’t go to the movie,” Anet said.

Bowman felt he should not be listening. He went into the kitchen but could still hear them.

“You said you were going to the movies.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What did you do?”

“We walked.”

“You walked? Where?”

“Just on the street.”

Christine’s waiting had made her nerves jagged, and there was something resistant in Anet’s voice.

“Have you had anything to drink?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Never mind why I ask. Have you?”

There was silence.

“Have you been smoking? Grass?”

“I had a glass of wine.”

“Where were you drinking? It’s against the law.”

“It’s not against the law in Europe.”

“This isn’t Europe. Where were you? Who were you with?”

“We were with some friends of Sophie’s.”

“Boys.”

“Yes.”

She was speaking in a lower voice.

“Well, who are they? What are their names?”

“Brad.”

“Brad who?”

“I don’t know his other name.”

“Who was the other boy?”

“I don’t know,” Anet said.

“You don’t know their names.”

“Sophie does,” Anet said.

Her voice had begun to waver.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you crying about?” Christine repeated.

“I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t!”

“Anet!” Christine called.

She had left the room. After a few moments Christine came into the kitchen.

“I could hear it all,” Bowman said.

Christine was clearly disturbed.

“It’s my worst nightmare,” she said.

“She seemed very forthcoming. It didn’t sound like anything much.”

“Why is she doing this?”

“She’s not really doing anything. They do meet boys.”

“How do you know?”

“What does that mean, how do I know?”

“You don’t have a daughter.”

“No,” he said.

The front door slammed. Christine closed her eyes and put her forefingers over them to soothe them.

“Do you know I’m afraid I’m going to hear a car start. Darling, please. Would you go out and make her come in? I’m just too keyed up to.”

Bowman said nothing, but after a few moments he went outside in the darkness. Finally he made her out past the end of the driveway. She had heard him coming but didn’t turn. He had no confidence in what he was doing.

“Anet,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He waited.

“I don’t really have much say in this,” he said, “but I think it probably amounts to less than it seems.”

She seemed not to be listening.

“Perhaps you could just give her a call next time, say everything’s fine, you’ll be a little late. Could you do that?”

She wouldn’t reply. She was watching something white moving along the dark tops of the far-off trees. It went along and then seemed to turn somehow and disappear. Almost immediately it came back higher.

“It’s a heron,” he said.

As they watched, it went towards the solid black trees and then up through an opening in the topmost branches, into the night sky.

“That was a heron?” she said.

“You could see its neck.”

“I didn’t think they flew at night.”

“I guess they do.”

“Heron gone,” she said.

He glanced at her to see if she’d intended the pun but couldn’t tell. His fear of her had lessened and, saying nothing further, he followed her back towards the house.


On an afternoon that fall, Christine called him. Her voice was filled with excitement.

“Philip?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“The most wonderful thing. I found the house.”

“What house?”

“I found a perfect house, the one you’ve been looking for. I knew it the minute I saw it. It’s an old house, not terribly big, but it has four bedrooms, and it’s on a pond, part of a pond. There’s an old couple who’ve owned it for thirty years. They haven’t listed it, but they’re interested in selling.”

“How did you find it?”

“Evelyn knew about it. She knows everything that’s going on.”

“How much is it?”

“Only a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Is that all? I’ll take it,” he said airily.

“No, but let me show it to you this weekend. You have to see it.”

The pond could not be seen from the road. It was down below. There was a long dirt driveway that appeared to end between two ancient trees. It was a clear October morning. As they drove up, suddenly there was the house. He would never forget the first sight of it, the feeling of familiarity he immediately had though he’d had no idea of what to expect. It was a beautiful old house, like a farmhouse but in isolation near the pond. They entered through the kitchen door across a narrow porch. The kitchen itself was a large square room with open shelves and a pantry in what had been a closet. The main bedroom was downstairs. There were three small bedrooms above. The stairway banister, he noticed, was plain unfinished pine worn smooth by hands. The floorboards were wide and the windows also.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a nice house.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, it’s really something special.”

The walls and ceiling were in good condition. There were no leak stains or cracks. Two of the small bedrooms he thought could be combined.

The view from upstairs was of two good-sized houses across the water, half-hidden in trees.

“Does it have heat?” he said.

“Yes. There’s a half basement with a furnace.”

They walked outside and down to the pond where, not far out, the dim outline of a sunken rowboat could be seen.

“There’s how much land, did you say?”

“There’s all this. The property goes to the road. It’s a little over an acre.”

“One twenty,” he said.

“That’s all. That’s a very good price.”

“Well, I think I’ll have to buy it.”

“I’m so happy! I knew you’d want it.”

“It’s going to be very nice living here. We could even get married.”

“Yes, we could.”

“Is that an acceptance?”

“I would have to get a divorce.”

“Why don’t we get married and get the divorce later?”

“And we could live in jail,” she said. “That would be all right.”


He bought the house, including some furnishings, for $120,000. He bought it in both their names, a country house that was ideal, big enough to have a guest or two occasionally, perfectly located, a house unto itself.

The bank in Bridgehampton took a generous view of his assets and gave him a mortgage of $65,000. He had some difficulties coming up with the difference. He sold most of the stocks he owned and borrowed $8,000 on a line of credit.

They closed the first week in December and moved in that very day carrying two upholstered chairs bought from an antiques—really, used furniture—dealer in Southampton. They were very happy. That night they lit a fire and made some supper. They drank a bottle of wine and while listening to music, part of another. A dreamed-of night, their first in the house. In bed she slipped the nightgown over her head and let it fall to the floor. She lay in his arms, it was like a wedding night. He took her arm and pressed his lips to the inside of her elbow in a long fervent kiss.

Soon after came Christmas. Anet had gone to Athens to be with her father. The house as yet had little furniture, only a sofa, some chairs, two tables, and a bed. The windows had neither shades nor curtains, and it would have been stark to be there for the holidays, even with a tree. In the city, the streets were alive. It was Christmas in New York, crowds hurrying home in the early darkness, captains of the Salvation Army ringing their bells, St. Patrick’s, the brilliant theater of the great store windows, mansions of plenty, the prosperous-looking people. They were playing “Good King Wenceslas,” bartenders were wearing reindeer antlers—Christmas of the Western world, as in Berlin before the war, the deep green forests of Slovakia, Paris, Dickens’ London.

There was a party at Baum’s. Bowman hadn’t been in the apartment for a long time. As he came in with Christine and a man in a white jacket took their coats, he thought back to having been there the first time with Vivian in her confident young naïveté.

“Philip, it’s so good to see you,” Diana greeted him.

“This is Christine Vassilaros,” he said.

“Hello,” Diana said taking Christine’s hand in hers. “Please come in.”

The room was crowded. Diana was paying special attention to Christine, no doubt having heard about her. Christine had a daughter, she learned, and asked,

“How old is she?”

“She’s sixteen.”

“She must be a beauty,” Diana said with sincerity. “Our son, Julian, is in law school at Michigan. He refused to go to Harvard. It was elitist. I felt like killing him.”

“Do you want a cigar?” Baum asked Bowman.

“No, thanks.”

“These are really fine. They’re Cuban. Take one, smoke it later. I’ve started smoking cigars. One a day. I like to sit and smoke one after dinner. A cigar should touch your lips exactly twenty-two times, anyway that’s what someone told me. Otherwise, as Cheever said, hick. Actually, he was talking about how to hold a cigar properly. I forget how that was.”

“My one regret,” Diana said to Christine, “is that we didn’t have more children. I wish we had three or four.”

“Four is a lot.”

“The happiest days of my life were when Julian was a little boy. Nothing really compares with that. You’re fortunate,” she told Christine, “you can still have children. That’s the whole point of it, it really is. Now we’re free, more or less. We go to Italy. It’s beautiful, but then I think of the love of a little boy.”

“I love Italy,” Baum said. “The people. You know, I call my Italian colleague and his secretary answers the phone—his assistant, I should say. Roberto! It’s wonderful to talk to you! You should be in Rome, it’s such a beautiful day, the sun is shining, you should be here! There’s nobody like them.”

“Why do you call her his assistant?” Diana asked.

“His secretary, then.”

“They’re not all like that. She’s a bit of a songbird. Eduardo is nothing like that. You talk to him and he says, hello, I feel terrible, the world is a mess. He’s the publisher.”

Other guests were coming in. Diana left to greet them. Baum stayed to talk on with Christine, he liked her looks. After the party, he asked his wife,

“What did you think of Philip’s new girlfriend?”

“Is she new?”

“Well, not exactly new but certainly not old.”

“No, she’s quite a bit younger.”

“It’s made him a bit younger.”

“Yes, that’s the general belief,” Diana said.


That spring Beatrice Bowman died. She had been weak and disoriented for a long time. She thought her son was someone else, and his visits had long periods of silence when she seemed to at least be aware of his company while he sat near her and read. To the world she knew, to the few friends who had by then drifted away, to everyone except himself and Dorothy, it was no longer important that she live. What had been her life, the people she knew and the deep pool of memory and knowing, had vanished or dried up and fallen apart. Or so it seemed when she could think about it. She would not have wanted to go on, but she had not been able to prevent it. Outwardly she was still handsome if baffled, and the lines in her face were gentle. She had many times said a final good-bye.

In contrast to her normal agitation, she died calmly. She simply did not wake one morning. Perhaps she had known something the night before, some not quite familiar sadness, a lessening of strength. Except for not breathing, one sleep was indistinguishable from the other.

She left no instructions. Bowman agreed with Dorothy that she should be cremated, and together they went to the funeral home to arrange for it. They asked for the casket to be open, they both wanted to see her for a last time. In the silent room, there his mother lay. They had done her hair and put some light cosmetic on her lips and cheek. He bent and kissed her brow. It seemed indecent. Some quality in her that he knew, not merely life, had been erased.

She had never told him all she knew, nor could he remember all the days of childhood and things they had done together. She had given him his character, a part of it, the rest had formed itself somehow. He thought, with a kind of desperation, of things he would like to talk to her about or talk about once more. She had been a young woman in New York, newly married, and in the blazing summer morning had been blessed with a son.

His stepmother, as it happened, died the same spring. He had never met her or either of the preceding ones. Someone sent him a clipping from a Houston paper. Vanessa Storrs Bowman was her name, she was seventy-three, a social figure. Examining the photo he read on until with a stab of something—it was not grief—he saw that his father had died two years earlier. He felt a strange jolt of time, as if he had been living a partly fraudulent life, and though in all the years he had never seen or heard from his father, some essential connection was now gone. Vanessa Storrs Bowman had two brothers and her father had been president of an oil company. The impression was of money, even wealth. He thought of his mother and the distant rich relative, cousin perhaps, whose mansion just off Fifth Avenue he remembered having been pointed out to him. Did he remember this or was it a dream, three or four dark granite stories, a green roof, and iron and glass doors? Perhaps it did not really exist. He had always expected to pass by it some day but never did.