Philip said again, “You made Daniel lie to me. He was a little boy. You put a lie between me and my son.”
“We had such a wonderful time that holiday, the three of us,” Iris said, weakly. Philip’s voice had broken as he spoke this last, awful, and surely disproportionate accusation; she felt a tickle of panic that he had so misunderstood. “He adored you, how can you think that anything could come between you.”
“Iris.” There was a pause as he removed his glasses, streaked and beaded with raindrops, flashing amber and saffron in the reflected light of slow-passing headlights.
“Better you had stayed with Giles,” he said, quietly. “Better some truth, finally, so there would be no, no wound between me and my son. Better anything than distance with my son, than a lie between us. He must have been so bewildered and you colluded with him, you and Giles, and made his father into a— I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t understand. And Daniel isn’t here. He isn’t here for me to tell him not to worry.” He took several steps backward, unsteadily, away from her.
“We’ll talk more in the car; come on,” said Iris, turning decisively. “Darling, this is madness, he was a child, he’d forgotten it by the time he’d had a crepe and seen a little of Paris.” She felt perilously close to a full-blown row, something that had not happened, she realized, since the day they’d finally signed their divorce papers. Or perhaps not since the day he had shouted at her for shouting at Julia for wearing black to Daniel’s funeral. In any case, she couldn’t stand to see him standing in this downpour, could not bear the way the rain had plastered his fine, white hair to his scalp, the way fat drops slipped down his cheeks like tears. Without glasses he looked vulnerable, and very old. How could Philip Alden be so old? He should not be out in this weather, at this time. She put her head down and strode the few remaining steps to draw him with her into the car. She turned on the engine, the heater, the heated seats. The first thing was to get him warm and dry, and then she could explain. But he had not followed her.
34.
It did not seem fair to involve James in her mother-in-law’s unexpected packing but James presumed himself involved, and Julia was grateful. Whatever mattered to Julia was drawn without question into the inner circle of James’s concern, a way of his she’d noticed and admired, early on. In any case, without his and Nathan’s assistance the team would comprise only tiny, slender Julia herself, arthritic and unsteady Philip, and a queasy and evermore distractible Gwen, who at present did everything with irritating, self-satisfied lassitude. No doubt she would find several opportunities throughout the day to remind them that she couldn’t lift heavy objects because she was pregnant, she couldn’t join them for too many coffees or cups of tea because she was pregnant, she couldn’t leave them a moment’s peace to forget she was pregnant, because she was pregnant. For lightening the load and the atmosphere they needed James, even if no one else in the family would admit it.
The furniture would go with professional movers the following day, which was the formal date of sale, but there remained the stuff: velvet cushions the removal men were not permitted to touch; framed prints and pictures; three drawers of splitting Kodak photograph packets spilling muddled, slippery negatives; a great deal of musty, unused but beautifully pressed table linen; a white archive box of ancient telephones, from a black, midnineties cordless all the way back to an avocado Bakelite rotary, which enchanted Gwen. Supermarket bags of unidentifiable wires and chargers for items long discarded. Shadeless lamps in which expired bulbs wore a gray fuzz cap of static dust. A printer. A scanner. A cumbersome fax machine of sickly oat-colored plastic with which Iris could not be enjoined to part, though it transpired that she only exchanged faxes with Philip, whom she also e-mailed, texted, and instant messaged. Box files containing hundreds of sallow, fading newspapers in which Iris had a byline. And books, and books, and books. Iris had supposedly been sorting and packing (certainly she had made frequent reference to her toils) and yet the house looked discouragingly unaltered. It had been the Alden family home in one configuration or another for decades. Julia had known of her mother-in-law’s intentions for barely a fortnight, and this final exodus was supposed to be accomplished in a day.
“They’ll do it all tomorrow if we add a few more hours to the booking,” Julia ventured for the final time. She, James, Nathan, and Gwen had arrived early as planned, armed with tape dispensers and scissors and marker pens, but she still nurtured the wild hope that Iris would permit the professional movers to do it all, and they could instead go to South End Green for eggs Benedict and cappuccinos. The man on the phone had quoted for the lot. They were thorough, he told her, she needn’t lift a finger. His boys even packed the toilet paper off the holder, don’t you worry, love. Iris was having none of it. Boxes and bubble wrap had already been delivered.
“Darling, I won’t have unknown gentlemen fishing around in my possessions,” trilled Gwen. Everyone laughed except James, who would not, Julia knew, have dared even to smile at Iris’s expense. Instead he rolled up his sleeves and began to construct the flat-packed cardboard boxes that were leaning in the hallway.
“Well, I won’t,” Iris said, with an elegant and unapologetic shrug. She had dressed for the occasion in black slacks and a narrow-ribbed black cashmere sweater with a high turtleneck, unseen since the early years of their acquaintance. Unfamiliar enameled bangles in cobalt and emerald clinked on her knobbed, narrow wrists—clearly this move had unearthed some long-lost, once-loved treasures. “It would be ghastly to have them poking about. They’d manhandle everything and mix it all up and break things. I’d really much rather the family did it.” She kissed Julia, embraced Gwen, and gave James a dry and unprecedented peck on the cheek. Julia felt briefly touched, until she remembered that Iris must also realize that James’s presence was essential. “Is Philip here yet?” she asked, prompted to remember the sweetest and most ludicrous manual laborer among them.
Iris kicked off neat, black pumps and stalked back to the kitchen. Julia and Gwen followed her. “Philip Alden’s not here at present. Shall we start upstairs? Or here? Shall I make us some tea?”