The Four Temperaments Read online

  “Only twice!” he asserted, feeling dumb and ashamed. “And if you knew how sorry I was, how sorry I am—”

  “Not as sorry as you're going to be,” said Ruth. “Not as sorry as we're all going to be. Because I hope you understand that this is happening to all of us.” She pulled herself up and looked at him steadily. “You'd better come in and sit down. There are some things we ought to talk about. If Penelope finds out . . .” She didn't need to finish the sentence. Even without knowing all the details, Oscar could guess at the fragility of his son's wife. He knew the story about his granddaughter's name—thank God Gabriel had prevailed on that—and the rejected baby clothes. Today he had seen how oblivious to everyone Penelope seemed, everyone except Isobel, of course. And then there was the eating. Penelope was a vegetarian, and Ruth was happy to prepare a soy casserole and to make sure there were lots of vegetable dishes for her. But today she refused cooked food altogether. “It's too greasy or something,” she explained to Ruth. “I don't know. It seems fermented or rotten to me. Do you have any raw vegetables?” Oscar, who watched all this, knew that Ruth was hurt, but she graciously tried to hide it.

  “I could grate you some carrots,” Ruth said. “And some cabbage. Oh, I also have some plain lettuce left from the salad.”

  “Cabbage! No cabbage, please. But the lettuce and raw carrots would be perfect,” said Penelope.

  “What about the baby?” Ruth had asked. “Can she have some of the rice pilaf? Or the cooked carrots? She loved how I made them when I came out to visit you.”

  “No, no, that's all right,” said Penelope. “I brought food for her. She'll just eat what Mommy brings,” she said, and nuzzled Isobel's nose with her own.

  “What can we do?” Oscar asked Ruth, feeling helpless. He was ashamed of asking Ruth this; he realized that he was the one who had brought Ginny into their lives. Why should his wife help him now?

  “I'm not really sure,” Ruth said slowly. “But we ought to do something.”

  “How much longer are they going to be on the East Coast?” Oscar asked.

  “Only a couple of days. They're making it short this year.”

  “Thank God for small blessings,” he murmured.

  “We should see them before they go. I told Penelope we'd go up to Greenwich for the day. They're staying with Caroline.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. I think you should find a way to be alone with Gabriel. Tell him to stay away from Ginny.”

  “Why should he listen to me?” Oscar said. “He never has before.”

  That night, Oscar lay stiffly next to Ruth, not daring to touch her, even in the most casual way. Still, he was keenly aware of her presence next to him in the dark. He was sure that she was awake too. He wanted to talk to her—about Gabriel, about Penelope and, most of all, about Ginny. But how to begin? Then there was a loud, long sigh from Ruth. Oscar opened his mouth and said her name very softly.

  “I'm here,” she said. “What is it?”

  “I wanted to talk to you—”

  “About her? Ginny?”

  “Yes, yes, about Ginny,” said Oscar, relieved that she would listen, that she hadn't stopped her ears or thrown him out or barred the doors.

  “You will,” she said calmly. “You'll tell me everything. But not now. For one thing, I don't think I can hear it yet. And we have to think about Gabriel and Penelope. That's the most important thing. More important than you and me. Because we've done our job. Our children are grown. But Isobel . . .” Oscar reached over to take her hand. She didn't return the pressure, but she didn't withdraw her hand either. “Promise me you'll talk to him tomorrow,” said Ruth. “Promise you'll do everything you can.”

  The next day was cold and clear. Oscar and Ruth took a taxi to Grand Central Terminal and from there the train to Greenwich, Connecticut. Oscar looked out the window at the bare trees, the bright sky, the landscape that was patched and brown. He liked the brief glimpses of the passing houses and liked to imagine the lives they might contain. It took his mind off his own life, and the mess he had made of it. He thought of Ginny too, and although he would be ashamed to have admitted it, he knew that he still wanted her.

  Caroline met them at the train station; Penelope and Gabriel had slept late and were still at the house with Isobel. “Penelope seems a little tired to me,” said Caroline. “I don't think she's getting enough rest.”

  “Well, she's still nursing,” Ruth said sympathetically.

  “I know,” said Caroline. “That's the problem. Time to wean that baby if you ask me. But of course Penelope doesn't want my advice. She never did.”

  Penelope's mother lived in a big old house right on the shore of Long Island Sound. The windows all along one side overlooked the water. It was the house in which Penelope had grown up, and the one in which her father had died. She and Caroline were somewhat indifferent to its grandeur. Inside, it had the kind of shabby, genteel elegance Oscar associated with old WASPs who had plenty of money but didn't care to advertise it. The rooms needed painting and the chintz slipcovers were faded by the sun. Caroline kept several cats, and bits of their shed fur could be seen in the corners and under the Chippendale furniture. In fact, Oscar saw one cat snoozing on a sofa, and discovered another sleeping on the dining room chair where Caroline had just told him to sit.

  “Go on now,” said Caroline, shaking the chair a bit and waking the cat, who blinked at her several times before jumping to the floor and walking off with an indignant twitch of its tail. Then they all sat down to lunch, where Oscar had the chance to observe his son and daughter-in-law. Gabriel was more relaxed today. He tilted his chair back from the table—how many times had Ruth chided him for this in the past?—or draped his arm protectively around the back of Penelope's seat. Penelope and Ruth were absorbed with Isobel, who was seated in her high chair, so Gabriel advised Caroline about some work she was considering doing on the house, though privately Oscar suspected that she would never embark upon this or any other renovation project, and was just finding a way to be polite to her son-in-law. After the meal, when Penelope had gone upstairs to nurse Isobel and put her down for a nap, Oscar rose from the table and trying to sound casual said, “Gabriel. I'm stuffed. Let's go take a walk on the beach.”

  “All right,” Gabriel agreed, and went to get their coats. Oscar felt Ruth looking at him, but he didn't trust himself to look back.

  The beach on which they walked was deserted on this November day and the wind stronger than it was in the city. The sand down by the water was packed hard and damp from the receding tide and it was along this sand that Gabriel strode quickly and Oscar—older, heavier—was forced to struggle to keep up.

  Oscar remembered the beach in another, more benign season: he and Gabriel walked here on the day of Gabriel's wedding. The party was winding down; still wearing their formal clothes, father and son ducked out for a short stroll along the rippled and fragrant shoreline. Oscar recalled how happy Gabriel seemed that day, with the breeze blowing his tie back and ruffling his hair. What had happened since then to bring Gabriel to this moment?

  “You'll have to slow down just a bit,” Oscar finally said, panting slightly.

  “Sorry, Dad,” said Gabriel, immediately slowing his pace. “I wasn't thinking. Or I mean I was thinking. But not about walking.”

  “What were you thinking, then?” Oscar asked. His heart was beating very quickly in his chest. Was it the exertion, or was he that nervous about what was to take place?

  “You know.” He stopped and looked at Oscar then. “I'm sure Mom told you about yesterday.”

  “She did.” Oscar started moving again and Gabriel followed along.

  “Look, it's nothing I planned or intended. I mean, why would I even look at anyone else with Penelope around, right? But that girl. There's something about that girl.”

  “I know,” said Oscar, and without meaning to, he sighed deeply. There was an uncomfortable pause in which Gabriel tried to assimilate the significance of th
at sigh.

  “Are you saying that you and Ginny . . .?”

  “Yes” was the only thing Oscar could say. This had to be the worst, most painful conversation he had ever had with his son, and it had scarcely even begun. There was a momentary silence in which they came to a group of rocks that stretched out into the Sound; far out at the tip the rocks were wet and black, but here near the shore they were gray and dry enough for sitting. Oscar eased himself onto one of them and waited.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Gabriel. He did not sit, but continued to stand, glaring down at Oscar. “How could you?”

  “How could I? Well, let me ask you the same question. How could you?” said Oscar, feeling the need to reassert himself; even at this late and wholly compromised juncture, he was still the father, the authority, the one in charge. He stood up.

  “What about Mom? Does she know about this?”

  “Not that it's any of your business but, yes, she does.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gabriel repeated, but this time more softly, almost like an entreaty.

  “Look, Gabriel, you're a grown man now. It's not my place to tell you what to do. But I promised your mother I would talk to you. Warn you. Think about what you're doing. About what it will mean to Penelope if she finds out.”

  “You haven't told her, have you?”

  “No, of course not. But someone always finds out, don't they?”

  “You should know,” Gabriel said bitterly. Oscar said nothing, for he knew he deserved this. “Poor Mom,” he added.

  “Your mother is special,” Oscar said. “She takes a broader view of things than most people.” He took a deep breath to steel himself. “Penelope isn't like her.”

  “And I'm not like you!” Gabriel shot back, and then he was gone, striding once more down the shoreline at his angry, young man's pace. Oscar sat back down on the rock; only after he was seated did he realize that the rock was now wet, drenched by a cold, foamy wave that had splashed over it. He stared out at the wide expanse of water, wondering what in the world he would tell Ruth when she asked how this conversation had gone.

  GINNY

  In December, the ballet company would start dancing The Nutcracker again. Ginny couldn't wait. They did it last year, of course—the company danced it every year in time for Christmas—and she had been so excited that during her first performance, she anticipated her cue and came onstage a full sixteen beats early. The group of dancers already there had to try very hard not to laugh out loud. Ginny knew she must have looked ridiculous prancing around the outside of the stage, but she had tried to make the best of the situation. Later, Erik didn't even yell at her. He seemed to understand how thrilling it was to perform to live music when all you were used to was the canned stuff.

  But it wasn't just the music. Ginny believed The Nutcracker was part of her destiny. Rita used to take her to see it when she was very small. She remembered how they sold souvenir books and other trinkets in the lobby of the theater, and, after some pestering, Rita had bought her a tiny silver pin shaped like a pair of pointe shoes. Ginny wore that pin for years, during ballet classes and the performances of the one-act Nutcracker that Wes staged for the winter recital. One year, Ginny was the little girl, Marie. Another time she was a snowflake and the best of all was when she danced Dewdrop. Rita sewed the costume herself. The skirt was net and over it were layers of filmy, silver material that lifted and floated like petals. The top was an iridescent silver and pink fabric, and the whole neckline was studded with rhinestones. Ginny was dazzled—her mama had outdone herself. Most of the other girls, even the rich ones, went to the costume shop over in the strip mall just outside of town. Rita and Ginny tried going there too, but Rita fingered the crudely made satin and rickrack numbers with disdain. “Pretty ugly and pretty apt to stay that way,” was her verdict, and instead they went to a sewing shop where the fabric came from France and Italy. Rita bought everything she needed—trim, material, silver thread and bobbins—and when they went home, she pulled out her portable Singer sewing machine from the bedroom closet and set it out on the pink-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth that covered the kitchen table. “You'd better strip,” she told Ginny, a mouth full of pins muffling her speech, “I'm going to have to fit you.”

  When Rita had finished, Ginny thought the result looked terrific. And it did: she had the pictures to prove it. The best one showed her in an arabesque, arms raised high in front, and her leg even higher in the back. You'd never guess that she was an amateur from looking at that picture. Even then, she looked like the real thing. She wore the little pin right at the place where the neckline of the costume dipped low. Although you couldn't see it what with all those glittery stones, Ginny knew it was there. Funny how she managed to lose it somehow; she couldn't say where it had gone to, but from time to time, she wished she had it back. It was a kind of charm, she thought, a reminder of the promises you made to yourself, the ones that were the hardest and the most important of all to keep.

  The Nutcracker was also the first ballet Ginny learned when she joined the company. The production here was the best she had ever seen. There was a part in which the Christmas tree in Marie's parlor started growing out of the floor until it finally took up the whole height of the stage. The parlor window grew large too, and so did the doll bed where the wounded Nutcracker slept. The children in the audience always cheered and whooped when that happened. It was the only time Ginny didn't mind the noise because she knew that it was impossible to be quiet during a performance of Nutcracker. Then there were those iridescent white squares—they shimmered pink, blue, lilac and gold under the brightness of the stage lights—that were used as snowflakes at the end of act one. Later, they turned up everywhere: in her hair, in the bodice of her costume, at the bottom of her pointe shoes. And there were stray ones that appeared in the dressing room or on the stage for months afterward. Ginny kept them all in an envelope somewhere in her apartment. She wanted to find that envelope soon because she was going to add some more this year. And these snowflakes would be extra-special, because this was the first year that she was going to dance a solo. A solo in The Nutcracker. She knew it for a fact—Erik told her so himself.

  He called her into his office to give her the news. Erik Holtz was compact and tightly muscled, with extremely dark eyes, a beak of a nose and a few lines around his mouth that looked as if they had been etched with a blade. He wore the black outfit that day—black sweatshirt, tight black jeans, black leather sneakers—as opposed to the faded blue jeans and Knicks jersey he wore during rehearsals. On one wrist was a complicated, expensive-looking watch; on the other, a large turquoise cuff. Ginny knew that lots of girls in the company—and not just the ones in the corps de ballet, either—had a crush on him. But not her.

  “I'm going to try you out in a solo,” he said, getting right to the point. “Coffee. The Arabian dance. Think you can handle it?” Did she think she could handle it? Was he kidding? But Ginny tried to remember what Mama might have wanted her to say and she answered him as nicely as she could. Coffee was one of the variations that came near the end of the ballet, when Marie and the Prince were being offered treats from all over the world. Seated on a pair of golden thrones, they watched the dances, each of which represented some tasty thing or other. The whole stage looked like a sweet shop gone wild—giant dishes of ice cream studded with gumdrops; pillars made of peppermint canes; enormous cakes and fruit tarts everywhere. The stage was backlit with a deep pink light, and, for once, Ginny didn't object to the color.

  There was a Chinese dance that represented Tea; a Spanish dance that represented Hot Chocolate. Her dance—and Ginny thought of it that way already—was Coffee, and it was inspired by traditional Middle Eastern forms, like belly dancing. She was so giddy at the thought that she scarcely heard the rest of what Erik was saying, though she caught some bits of it like “. . . check the bulletin board for the rehearsal schedule. And you'll have to visit the costume shop for a fitting . . .” But mostly the refrain run
ning through her head sang, “Coffee, coffee, coffee.”

  After that, Ginny was wrapped up in learning the new part. Not that it was long—she would be on the stage for a matter of minutes—but she would be dancing alone on the stage of the New York State Theater for the very first time. She went to the dance library and got video tapes of past performances. She wanted to see how the variation had been danced before, but, in her heart, she knew how she wanted it to look. Aromatic and sensual, with a slightly bitter undertone that was the true taste of the coffee bean itself.

  She had so many things to think about. There was a new rehearsal schedule, private coaching from one of the soloists, plus the costume fittings that had to be squeezed in somehow. All of the ballet company's costumes were still cut and sewn by hand. Ginny thought of Mama, and how hard she had worked just making that one. It reminded her not to annoy Madame Dubrovska, the costume mistress, who was always chastising the dancers for tearing, sweating in and otherwise destroying the exquisitely wrought creations that were her life. Lord help you if you dumped a tutu on the floor during a particularly quick change. Madame would go on about it for weeks, bringing it up whenever she saw you in the elevators or hallways.

  Ginny had looked forward to Thanksgiving, anticipating how she could safely spend a day with Oscar then. She had tried to discourage him without actually telling him that the sexual thing between them was over. It wasn't that she didn't feel affection for him. But sex upset things too much. It made her the one with all the power, and she didn't like it. She liked things the way they had been. Oscar had been like a father, the father she never knew but used to invent sometimes: in control, solid, wise, like Robert Young in the old reruns of Father Knows Best. She missed that. So she tried to bring them back to where they had been before, even though she could see it wasn't working. At least not for him.