Sea’s Vicissitudes
Brigit was on late shift. Gregory sat, paced, anxious for her to come home. He had become the youngest chief of research in the short time since finishing his fellowship. He picked up the newspaper, rustled the pages. The news was much the same except that now, in 1952, the Korean War had been a constant reminder of death and hatred. He wondered, looking at the headline, whether the world had forgotten so soon the obscenity of a world war.
MacArthur wanted to use nuclear weapons. The Chinese desired to reveal a new world power.
Gregory smiled. Here he was working in a laboratory to find cures to keep people alive or how to better treat them, and in Korea men worked to undo his work. More dead bodies, more atrocities. Nothing he did in a laboratory could help or stop what was happening. One day, however, he believed he would succeed, that he had not fought in the war for nothing and been permanently wounded uselessly, for his work was one answer. Yet there was the sadness that only Brigit could cure. In her presence, making love to her, the odor of her skin, the pleasure of running his fingers through her red hair, the feel of her response and her calming effect as she lay back looking up at him, seeing their reflections in one another’s eyes, was the peace the world sought, that he had found.
He lay down thinking about her, knowing she would be happy when she heard his news.
When she came home, 11:30 p.m., he was asleep on the sofa. She walked softly to him, lightly touched his hair, and went to the kitchen. Although she thought she was quiet, he woke, walked to her and hugged, pulling her against him.
“Oh. I’m sorry I woke you. Here I thought I was being so quiet.” She turned and kissed him, looked at him, her whole life seen in him.
“I love you,” and he nuzzled his nose in her neck and hair. “What are you making?” He wanted to tell her, but wanted her to relax first, to be comfortable.
“Soup. Coffee. Want some?”
“Hmmm.”
She removed her uniform, got a robe, returned. He enjoyed watching the sureness with which she moved, the glow in her face because she was home. “You look so fetching. Come here and kiss me.” He put up his arms, and smiling, she went to him. She sat on his lap, kissing and hugging for a while. “O.K. Let’s eat,” she whispered.
While they ate, he told her, “I have something special to tell you.”
“What? You found another woman?” she laughed.
“That’s not funny. I couldn’t leave you even if dragged by a chain. No one can match that dazzling face and body, that voice. Brigit, do you realize how much I do love you.”
She watched his face and eyes as he spoke. “Yes, as much as I love you. Now tell me.”
“A friend of mine from Cape Astraea offered me Chief of Isotope Research at the Maine Center for Illness and Research. Coincidentally we were at med school together. He’s got an in with the administration and Chief of Staff, and without my knowing or my consent, submitted my name. They told him to get me. Naturally, they’ll want to see and interview me. But he thinks there’ll be no doubt. What do you think?”
“That’s tremendous. See, I told you you were going places.” She was somewhat sad to be leaving her position, if they went to Maine. She had become a head nurse in Ob/Gyn and Birthing and would have to start all over again. But she couldn’t hold Gregory back, even though his reputation was growing in Boston. That’s why they want him. I can’t keep him here. I’m happy for him. Shall I bring up marriage now? It’s time. We’ve lived together long enough. I know they talk behind my back, think I’m a fallen woman. I am. My parents aren’t happy. Marriage will satisfy them after all this time even if he is Jewish. Why should I care now? It’s Maine, different people. His parents? They’ve always been nice. Mary and I get along so well. It’s no good any longer with him rising.
“You’re so quiet, Brigit.”
“Thinking.”
“You don’t want me to accept?” he questioned quizzically.
She hesitated. Stood.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think it’s so wonderful for you.” Again she hesitated.
“Something’s wrong. Leaving your job?”
“Partly.” She paused. “Greg, you know I love you.”
“I know that. We love each other. But you’re unhappy.”
Oh, why have I done this? What good is it? The way we’re living. I just can’t do it anymore. Some of the nurses talk about me. I know they do. I come into a room, and they stop talking. Yeah. They’re all virgins - like fun. I know men have gone into their rooms, seen them, heard two of them one night when I had to stay for a delivery. The war destroyed virginity. She smiled, started to laugh. Virginity. How about the 1920s? The first time, I was scared and excited and wondered whether he had made me pregnant. What’s wrong with me? I’ve never truly cared. I have. I’ve fooled myself – and Greg. Thomas Erickson’s been after me. Asked me out after I helped him with the patient with ovarian cancer. He’s a nice guy. No one can take Gregory’s place. No one. But it’s time.
Gregory sat watching her, rose and went to her and touched her shoulder. “Brigit. You’re so far away. What’s wrong? If you don’t want me to go . . .” I have to go. “What’s wrong, dear?”
She turned, pushed him toward the sofa, fell on him. “Gregory Hurwitz.” She looked in his eyes. “Greg. I want you to be good at what you do. You are. You’ll be famous.” She hesitated, placed her head between his head and shoulder. “Greg. It’s . . .” Why should I be proposing? “Well, it’s time we married. My family, yours, want it, will be happier about us.” She stopped, embarrassed.
He pushed up from below her, straightened her so she sat straight. “Brigit Donovan. I love you. Did you know that? Will you marry me?”
“Yes, you idiot.” She smiled happily, laughed. “Why have you waited so long? I’ve done everything I know how to get you to ask. I bat my eyes, do strip teases for you. Say, you never took me to Scollay Square. I buy sexy clothes and underwear. And I bet you . . . .” Her face reddened.
“You don’t have to say it,” he laughed. “No. Nobody can take your place in bed.”
“We’ll have to have the ceremony in Las Cruces, you know.”
“I know that. Tell your mother to arrange it, but let’s wait until I’ve actually got the position so we can surprise everyone. I won’t even tell my parents, until then.”
“You can’t do that. Someone will tell your father we were there. He probably knows about it already.”
“You do want to marry me, Greg?”
“Stop it. We’ve talked about this. I don’t even know why we waited so long.”
“I do. Because you’ve had me.” She stopped, sorry she said it, though she had often thought it. Let a man have you, and he’s got you cornered in your own desire. When I think of that nurse, how she was so sure and then dropped. It was horrible watching her.
“I don’t want you to talk like that. Nobody’s your equal.”
The next afternoon, Gregory went to a jewelry store on Boylston Street, looked at the rings and decided he’d take Brigit with him so she could help choose and get the right fit. “No. She’s home today.” He called. “Brigit, are you doing anything?”
“Thinking of what to make for dinner tonight. It’s something special.”
“Well how about if we go out, say the Parker House – or. No. We’re going to the Ritz.” Before she could answer, he spoke again. “Are you dressed? If not, get into some nice clothes and meet me at the corner of Boylston and Arlington Streets, say in about an hour. That will give you time to fix your face etc. Love you, darling,” and hung up.
He waited impatiently, saw her come from the subway stop and walk toward him, watching the movement of her body, watching men look at her, one turning to see her rear and its sway. “Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. Sorry, buddy. She’s mine.” For a moment he thought of the hospital and the men talking about her as a piece of ass. It still infuriated him.
He ran up to her, took her hand. “C’mon.” He pulled her gently toward the store.
“Greg. Stop. I’m in high heels.”
“Sorry.” He slowed, walked beside her. When she saw where he was taking her, she screamed softly. “I was going to do this on my own and present it to you tonight but thought you should have your choice and the right fit.” And so the first step, an engagement ring they both liked, that he immediately placed on her finger, and the wedding ring held for later. She wanted to kiss him, hug him tightly. The quivering through her body was almost sexual.
They left slowly. It was twilight. “Let’s have a drink. Then we can go to the dining room. I made reservations. O.K.?”
“Yes,” she told him quietly. “I want to kiss you right now.” She turned to him, neglecting propriety, the crowd of people, placed her arms about him and put her lips to his mouth. They stood together, people separating and passing them, looking, smiling, “I’d rather we go to bed.”
“We’ll drink and eat first. Can you wait?”
“What an insult. You turned me down.” She pulled him harder to herself and kissed him, her tongue licking his. “We can’t do it on the street. In fact, we’ve made a show of ourselves, so we’ll do things your way.” She doubted she had ever been so happy. She wanted his hands on her breasts, moving over her entire body. “I’m so excited. Are you?”
“I am. Believe me. I am.”
They went to the lounge after which they went to the dining room. Seated close by a window looking out on the Public Garden, Gregory happened to turn toward the restaurant entrance. A husky, tall man was taking a wrap from a woman with dark hair and a very attractive face. She moved her shoulders in a provocative manner, enabling the wrap to fall into his hand that he nonchalantly gave to the maître d. She was perhaps as tall as Brigit, wore a bare-shouldered dress, her right ring finger displaying for the public a large diamond ring. About her neck was a single strand of pearls. Exhibiting herself, she walked slowly, self-assuredly to their table. Other dinner guests also watched her. She turned and smiled at her escort as a waiter held the chair for her. She sat slowly, pulling slightly at her long skirt.
Étienne was clearly proud of his younger companion who wore his jewels. Both were known to the staff, they having been here a number of times before. But tonight was special. He had recently returned from Greece and sold two pieces of art to the Walker Museum of Antiquities. Deirdre prepared the way for him, for a number of museums in the United States knew of him and his work. Early on he had introduced her as his colleague to his connections sometime during the past year. Deirdre now had her introduction to the art world and society.
Brigit, talking to Gregory, saw Deirdre. Now there’s a sexy, rich one. The guy she’s with has money, knows how to get them like her. She thought of saying something to Gregory but thought better, only he had also seen her. “Look at that dress and the ring. Wow.”
“I don’t need one like that. But if you want, I’ll get an identical to hear your “Wow.”
He laughed. “You’re jealous.”
“I am not. What’s she got that I don’t, except for that rich geezer she’s with.” She was comparing herself to Deirdre but realized the woman was no better looking than was she. Two gorgeous women vying for the diners’ recognition. Brigit got the same attention when she walked in, noticing the men and women looking, smiling to herself, trying to appear serious and nonchalant, yet pleased by the attention. When they sat at their table, she displayed her ring in its platinum setting, placing her hand on the table for the waiters and those near them to see.
Gregory smiled. “Well, at least I’m not a geezer.”
“No. A famous researcher, Nobel Prize winner to be.”
“What faith.” It pleased him she regarded him so. “I wouldn’t wait for the Nobel.”
“I won’t, as long as I have you.” She glanced at Deirdre, again comparing herself to the unknown woman. I will get a dress something like that. It’ll be part of my trousseau. Gather ye fruits while ye may. How many years can my body last like it is now. She started to take the mirror from her handbag, wanting to imagine what she’d become. Stupid. You’re desirable. For the remainder of the dinner there were just two newly engaged people, adoring one another, talking of their future and she interspersing the conversation with wedding plans.
When Gregory was looking at the bill, Brigit did glance at Deirdre. I need a dress that’ll show my bust like hers does. Well, mine does. Maybe we’re distant twins. In fact, their bodies were much alike and a matter of how each would choose to show it.
When they were home and as they closed the door, Brigit brushed against him, hugging him with her coat open, knowing he could feel her breasts. “It was a lovely evening, Greg. I’m so excited.” She raised her hand. “It’s so beautiful” She went to a lamp, placed her hand in the light. “Look how it shines.”
“Look how you shine.”
She sat on the sofa. “Come here.” And the night of love had begun, their sounds of pleasure ending in the excitement and relaxations of several orgasms. We’re one.” She rested her head on his chest, moving her fingers over his nipples. “Feel good?” quietly.
Murmured. “Hmm. I love you, always will.”
~
Gregory’s parents and Mary met them at the station. Mary, in her last year of medical school, asked permission for a weekend off from clinical duties reluctantly granted when she explained. She purposely returned home the night before.
Brigit had already called her parents who had spoken to both of them excitedly, happily. Luke felt the difficult restraint preventing him from saying, “It’s about time,” but he was as happy as Maureen. “Just tell us when you’ll come home, dear, for the arrangements.”
“My darling, darling daughter. We’re rejoicing for both of you.” Maureen looked at Luke, daring him to say anything hurtful. He smiled at her, patted her shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’m pleased.”
Everyone was happy. Gregory and Brigit went to his home. His parents had arranged an engagement party for people from Cape Astraea and in Portland that included some with whom Gregory could possibly be working. The friend who suggested him for the position was also there. He was an affable family man, knowledgeable, but not as forceful or thoughtful as Gregory. Perhaps because he knew he did not have the insights or administrative skills of Gregory he was aware the Center needed his friend.
It was a gay evening, laughter, music, drinks, dancing in a large room cleared of furniture where the Hurwitz children once played.
Later, when everyone was gone, with the moon shining, Gregory took Brigit for a ride by the sea, calm right now, the moonlight a streak of light across the water, waves gently rolling toward the shore. They stopped, simultaneously turned to one another.
“You’re happy, Brigit.”
“You know I am. I love your parents, and Mary is such a good friend. I’m glad you have one sister anyway. And we’re so close in age. We can have woman talk, no fear of gossip coming from either of us. Oh, how I love you.” She put her arms about his neck. He had already moved closer. It was a warm spring night with no need for coats to hinder them. She sat on his lap, first sideways, feeling him moving upward to press against her, turned and faced him, both kissing as they rubbed. She then lay back on the seat for him. She whispered, “I wish we could sleep in the same room.”
“I’ll come to you when everyone is asleep. And if they’re not, I’ll just creep softly like I did as a kid.”
When they arrived home, Mary was still up. Brigit’s face reddened when she looked at Mary.
“Hi. How was the ocean?” She wanted to tease but stopped. “Want some company for a while, Brigit, as if you haven’t had enough already?”
“Sure.” She could still feel Gregory’s hands on her breasts, the tightening of her nipples, his fingers inside, he inside, and remembered she hadn’t put back her bra but had pushed it into her pocketbook or that she had not even buttoned her dress completely. What difference? Mary knows. She knew when she looked at me. As long as she doesn’t say something embarrassing. But she wouldn’t. When she sees how I’m almost undressed? Maybe I’ll tell her I’m tired.
Mary smiled at her. “Would you rather wait ’til tomorrow and we can have some time to ourselves? You have to be tired.”
“Oh no,” Brigit quickly interrupted. She kissed Gregory goodnight at her bedroom door, her eyes telling him “later.” Mary followed through the door.
“I know you’re tired. I said that already.” She noticed the dress, knew Brigit was not wearing her bra.
“Let me go freshen up,” averting Mary’s eyes.
Mary couldn’t help herself.
“Brigit. We’re friends and always will be, I hope. Don’t make up tales for me. You know about me. If I had someone like Greg, only a woman – well, I may; her name is Evelyn - I’d be in his – her bed or on the floor with her, anywhere. As it is. Oh well, I have my times.”
“Just be sure for yourself, Mary as I have,” Brigit called as she quickly drew a wet facecloth over her thigh, put on her bra, completely buttoned her dress, and returned, not caring about lipstick.
“My brother doesn’t realize how fortunate he is.”
“He does.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, he will.” She wanted to ask about their intimacy but knew she couldn’t, that it would only come out if Brigit said something.
“You’ll wait until I finish the year and just before I go to my internship, I hope.”
“We’ve already talked about that. Besides, I want you as one of my bridesmaids. My sisters will also be. But I want you, Mary. Mary, I’m so happy.” They both had tears in their eyes and hugged one another. “You know. I think I fell in love with him the day in the hospital when he was so bad to you. That’s peculiar. I guess it was after and his remorse for treating you so horribly. I knew he was soft inside. But he was in such pain.” She stopped, remembering how sorry she felt for both brother and sister who obviously cared for one another.
“You look tired, Brigit. We both ought to go to sleep.”
“Yes.”
Mary could not help herself. “Don’t let him come to you later. I saw those looks,” she teased.
“Oh, c’mon.” And they both laughed.
“I love and almost – almost, get it - envy you, Brigit.” Mary then hugged her again, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and told her, “I have a sister I always wanted. Thank you.” She turned her head, while trying to choke back crying. Once more, however, they were both in tears, trembling, crying happily.
_______________
I did go to her room that night. We made love. I think we both fell asleep about the same time. Early morning, she woke me to leave the room. I felt her against me, her arm wanting to hold me back.
Pamela’s coming in. It has to be so hard waiting for grad school and looking after me. Except now she has some help. Brigit comes. That amazes me. And there’s that home care nurse. Pam’s mother is off again, business with the French guy. What the hell are they up to?
No. Brigit and I didn’t go to Las Cruces. Her family hates me I’m sure, probably doesn’t care, if they know, I’m ill and hope I die. Peculiar how things turn out, and I’m still in love with Brigit, always was. What was I ever thinking? Fucking women with their sexiness, perfumes, and purring, falling all over you and the stupidity of ass-hole men like me. Did I love her? Brigit was with me.
That shadow in the hall. Who was that? Brigit? My mind wanders too much now. I couldn’t work even if I could go in. Well, occasionally I do. Everyone at the lab is so nice, but I know they’re just feigning, allowing me to look, make suggestions that no one will ever follow. Well, they did one day. I told them to try human cells. I’m certain that has possibilities. It’s always bothered me that we have never looked at heart cells. It’s so rare they come up cancerous. Oh well. I’m not the man I was. Was I ever a man? The war? Yes. I fucked those Sicilian and Italian women who would let me. No. I never paid, but I did take them gifts of food etc. Remember Brigit asking me about the foreign women during the war? I just smiled. The men on the ship coming back with V.D. But the few I had seemed to come from nice families, like the sisters in that family photo I brought back or sent home to let everyone know I was meeting nice girls.
Oh, God, now I’m coughing again.
“Are you all right, Greg? Want a glass of water? Your water jar’s empty.” She places her hand on my sweaty forehead. It feels so right, like it used to, wherever she touched me. Does Pamela resent her? I don’t think so. They get along so well together. Better than when Pamela’s with her mother.
“You’re here. You are foolish.”
“Keep quiet.”
“I never stopped loving you.”
“Nor I you.”
“That night at the Ritz. The celebration all because of what we had achieved in the lab, and the Walker Museum of Ancient Antiquities was celebrating at the same time. And she was there with that Frenchman. It wasn’t ’til later I found out she had been a WAC OSS and in France. She and that Frenchman had just sold some art work to the Walker.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Gregory. It’s over, happened a long time ago. We have our lives now and from that time. I wish you’d try to sleep. I have to make some dinner for Pamela. Your daughter’s such a lovely girl. Both of them are.” She and Melinda could have been mine, both ours. I never fought hard enough. I should have become pregnant. Then there wouldn’t have been the Ritz, at least the way it turned out. Imagine me going there to celebrate and being pregnant, people looking at my belly. You damn fool, making sure about your cycle and making him wear a condom. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But I loved him inside me, wrapping my legs around him, holding him tightly against me, feeling . . . Stop. You’re hurting yourself. Think about him now. I won’t leave here, though, without us doing it again. He’ll be strong enough.
I’m standing by the window, gazing at Greg.
“Brigit.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“You’re just standing there, somewhere else. Is it Thomas you’re thinking about? Why he let you come here is beyond me.”
“No, Greg. I wasn’t thinking of him, just thinking.”
“That night, dearest. I never . . .”
“Keep quiet.”
“I can’t help it.”
~
We had left the apartment early. Brigit was wearing a long evening dress, blue, somewhat tight. It had just a short slit so she could walk better. She was so lovely, that red hair coming close to her shoulders. She didn’t do it up like the other women, knowing I liked it longer. It gave her that allure. Those green eyes. The dress emphasized her breasts and was just tight enough so you would notice her hips and rear when she walked. I was so proud to be able to show her off. Everyone had met her before, but they rarely saw her at something so formal and important. I was to receive a reward for the liver research and how I proved we could diagnose with the isotope. It started with the paper I published. My boss insisted he be first author. But all knew. So we’d both be feted.
And there she was, standing there in that black dress that fell from her left shoulder to just above her breast, holding a drink, laughing, touching – I found out his name later – Étienne’s hand every so often reaching to sip at her drink. She turned and we were gazing at one another. Her black hair and brown eyes, tall like Brigit, perhaps a bit shorter, thin and desirable. I couldn’t help myself and turned to compare her to Brigit. The museum people then went to another room for their own celebration, but somehow or other she came to our room again, looking at me. She stopped by someone from the hospital. Later she told me she asked about me. It seemed she knew everyone. She did. I found out later how well she knew. Seeing that Brigit was talking to someone else, I asked about her, who she was. No one seemed to know except for the man to whom she had spoken. He told me later she seemed interested in me.
Brigit did notice the interplay but said nothing, just used her female senses. How stupid men are, forgetting the ability women have to notice, to observe, to feel, to hear, to perceive. We neglect their insight and sensitivity.
It was just before we went to Cape Astraea. I kept thinking about her, the way she looked, the gaze as she stood there before she disappeared that evening to go to the museum party. I excused myself, said I had to go to the men’s room, looked at Brigit and knew her eyes were following me. I walked into the connecting hall between party rooms, saw her chatting with her male friend and other people, men and women. She saw me and waved. I bent my head and smiled in greeting. She seemed to excuse herself and came toward me.
“Hello.” It was soft, shimmering.
“Hello.”
“You’re one of the doctors being honored tonight. I asked about you.”
I did not know what to say except, “Yes.” In fact, my heart beat faster. She was extremely attractive. I could not help noticing the way she used her body, shifting, bending her back slightly above the waist, just enough to emphasize her bosom more.
“Well, I have to get back. They’ll be calling on me soon.”
“Give a good talk. By the way, doctor, what’s your name?” She already knew, had asked. I know because she told me later when we were getting to know one another well. I answered her, hoping my voice was normal.
“I’m Deirdre Cunningham, in case you want to know more about art or want to purchase something unusual,” she said slyly as she seemingly inadvertently touched me with her hip when she turned to walk away. “I have read about you,” her face turned partly toward me. “I hope we can meet again,” she said invitingly.
“Well, if you were a researcher. But you have something to do with the art world. I doubt we’ll cross paths. But it was nice meeting you.”
“It was nice.” She started to walk back to her friend, glanced back at me. “We’ll meet again.” And she looked at me, her eyes bright and directly lingering, flirting. I watched her walk with that sway and have to admit I wondered what she’d be like in bed. “Whew,” I softly told myself.
When I got back to the table, Brigit asked if I was nervous. “You were so long.” In fact, she had gone into the hall looking for me, fearing I’d be late for my talk. She saw us.
“I was worried they’d call you before you got back.” There was a moment’s pause. “Who was she, Greg? Someone you know? We never met.” There was subdued anger in the way she talked.
“Oh, her. I don’t know. She met me in the hall, stopped to talk and asked me what our party was about. Curiosity I guess.” I flushed.
“Oh, come on. You were flirting with her. I’m your woman, and don’t you ever forget it, Gregory Hurwitz,” and under the table she kicked my ankle.
“Ouch” I almost said aloud.
She smiled. “Remember.” I swear there was a sadness in her face as though she felt there could be trouble.
I gave my talk, people stood and clapped. Newspaper and med school or hospital photographers took pictures. I looked toward Brigit. She was smiling, pleased and happy and without care sent me a kiss, rubbing her palm over her lip and toward me.
How much more pleasant could life be? For a brief moment I thought back to the mine sweeper, thinking how my life had been saved for this moment of recognition and the love of a woman such as Brigit.
~
The days in Cape Astraea were so pleasant. The weather had warmed. We woke to sunshine. The sea was calm except when a breeze came up. We would stand on a jut of land feeling the wind against our faces, I watching Brigit brush back her hair. We watched the water and point when in the wind the sea became angry white foam that erupted against the rocks, streaks rising, falling rapidly, warning of the sea’s fury and deceptive beauty, until in the calm its other self rose to the surface and lured us forward to walk barefooted, carrying our shoes, along the edge of the soft lapping. Brigit couldn’t resist the sea any more than home. “Greg, I so love the desert and often miss Las Cruces. You see the sands, sometimes like rolling waves. Yuk, but the dust storms. I used to laugh when I would take a shower and the floor would become almost a mud pile when the sand washed from my hair and body. I think I belong here, but I shall always love my home.”
Suddenly she reminded me of “Heimat,” that haunting aria. I saw the wistfulness in her face, tears coming to eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I am. I’m happy,” and she pushed against me. She looked straight at me, with the tears of that joy and sadness. I thought then I would never do anything to hurt her.
“I love you so. I promise you we’ll go to your home whenever possible. I liked it when you took me there. I’m anxious to see your family again. But you know what I liked, maybe almost most? Cloudcroft. It’s so much like New England. It made me think of here. Oh. We are a pair of lost souls.”
She looked at me suddenly, questioning, here eyes wider. “Why did you say that? Promise you’ll never say that again.”
“What’s wrong?” Astonished, I asked.
“I just don’t ever want to hear you say that again. We are not lost. Only God . . .” and she stopped, except what she was thinking was obvious. Her religion, at least what she still believed, would always be part of her. Perhaps that was part of the almost indescribable beauty. Perhaps her God placed her by me.
But would her God allow to happen what did? I don’t even want to think about it.
~
She and Pamela are here together. I can hear them talking. Pamela, having made an office upstairs for writing, very much likes Brigit, perhaps wishes she were her mother. Don’t start that ironic laugh. Yes. Remember the time she thought she was pregnant? She told me she missed her period, something that never happened. She almost seemed ashamed, “Greg, I’ve got something to tell you. I think I’m pregnant,” but instead of looking at me, she looked down as though embarrassed, but when she raised her head, she was smiling. “We’ll have to,” she hesitated. “We’ll have to get married. You don’t mind this way?”
“I wouldn’t care any way. I should have asked you ages ago.”
“Are you happy?”
“I’m happy, pleased. Maybe it’ll be a girl like you, two beautiful females in the house.” But then she came to me some time later and told me she had her period. She was crying. “I wanted to be pregnant. I want a child, our child.” I moved her to the sofa, put my arms about her. “One day it will happen, be true. We are going to get married. You’ve gone through enough of this being single sex stuff. I feel sometimes as though I’m taking advantage of you.”
“You aren’t,” she said through her tears, sniffling.
But Pamela wasn’t her daughter. Goddamn this world and the mess we make of it and ourselves.
There’s that Viet Nam war we’ve just been through. The stupidity. The lives destroyed. The fucking dumb generals. Leaders. Fuck them all. Fuck my life.
Brigit came to the door. She sat on the bed beside me. “Hey. Push over and give me some room. . . . Greg, you’re angry. What’s wrong?” I told her nothing, but she knew better. “I’d like to crawl in there with you. I can make you happy, cure you. You know my powers.” But what powers? She didn’t have them to stop what happened. “Do you want me to lie beside you?” She looked toward the door. “Pamela’s upstairs writing.” She pushed the blanket aside, neglecting my partly wet pajamas, pulled up her skirt so I could feel her legs against me. “I hate this fucking world, Brigit. What I did to you. I never stopped loving you.”
She pulled me closer to her, ignoring the perspiration. “I never. . . .” She didn’t finish. Perhaps she was thinking of Thomas. But then she looked at me. “I never stopped loving you either, dearest one.” There were tears in her eyes. “I want you to be better. I want you inside me.” She placed a leg over my side and pushed into my thigh. “I want to. Do you think you could?”
Somehow we managed, and I was happy though I was so exhausted. She looked so content, the way we used to be with one another.
We heard Pamela coming down the stairs and Brigit slipped quickly from the bed and straightened her clothes and brushed back her hair. I think Pamela knew, from her somewhat surprised look when she came to the door, her quick gaze going from Brigit’s hair, reddened face, to her skirt. But if she did, she ignored it. By her eyes, however, it was evident she knew or realized Brigit and I were having sex. She began to retreat, having seen Brigit’s hand movements.
“Oh. Pamela. Come in. Done with writing?” forcing a normal voice but obviously embarrassed, also hesitant. Pamela managed “Yes,” Pamela's and Brigit's faces both coloring. “Come in, Pamela. Your dad and I,” and she stopped. Lying was preposterous. Brigit refused to become lost in subterfuge. Pamela looked at me, hesitated, and came in when I motioned. Pamela walked to Brigit, looking intently in her eyes. “I hope you're making him happy. He needs that,” she stopped a moment, “and you.” She blushed. She was uncertain about continuing. “Brigit, there's something I've wanted to say.”
“Fine. With me just say it.”
Brigit could see the questioning in her face.
“I love you, Brigit. I do. I – I wish you were my mother.” Her face flushed again. “Oh, that’s terrible, but I don’t care. I mean it.”
As Brigit kissed her, Pamela looked at me in the bed, at the messy covers at which I had quickly pulled.
Her face coloring again, she blurted, “You all belong together,” Her voice dropped. “You're both married to others.” She had to be thinking of our adultery and tried to shrug it off. She wanted to say something more. Before she could, Brigit placed her hand over Pamela’s mouth. “I wish I were too. You’re so easy to love, and I do love you. You remember that, regardless of what happens. I’ll always be there for you.” Brigit looked away, then back to Pamela. “I guess you remind me of my daughter, as if you two were sisters. I wish . . . .” and the words were lost in the seas of fear and love. She had cheated on Thomas, I on her, who I wondered on Deirdre. I know Deirdre was screwing that Frenchman and God knows who else. What did it matter anymore? But I believe there was pain for Brigit.
I knew Pamela would talk to Melinda. “If only,” perhaps Pamela was thinking. “But only’s don’t count.” She paused, stammering, “I love you both. I’m going back to my room. O.K.? probably write a little.”
Brigit looked back at me, her hand inadvertently going to her inner thigh and lightly, quickly rubbing. “I do love your daughter, Greg, and I intend to take care of you both.” Later she told me, “I meant what I said, regardless of cost – except for my son and daughter.
So much has happened and so much before watching and listening to Pam and Brigit. Brigit who could have been her mother. Pam wishing it so.
_______________
The first time a Chinese antique – a Ming vase Deirdre told me – appeared in our living room, I wondered why this suddenly became part of the décor. “Deirdre, where did that come from?”
“Oh, Étienne gave it to me for a present, for the work I helped him with. Remember my last trip?”
“Yes. I just was wondering if you were thinking of changing the living room around. It seems out of place.”
“Oh, it does not. It’s beautiful right where it is. Who knows, maybe I will change as we come across more things.”
“What, every time you get something new, everything changes?”
“Stop being foolish. There won’t be that much. Most of what we find you know goes to the Walker Museum.”
And now that the Korean war was over, it became a bit easier, perhaps, for Étienne to travel to the East. Somewhere he always wanted to go. But he never lost sight of Greece. That country was becoming more protective, but he managed somehow. He knew the right people.
“He’s good, Gregory.”
“I don’t trust him. You’re going to get into trouble Deirdre.”
“Stop being so damned stupid. Gregory.” She always called him Gregory, as though she were talking to a young son. “You know I knew him in France, how we fought together.”
“Yeah. You and I. Two war heroes. Only I didn’t have a woman on the ship.”
“Are you accusing me of fucking him?”
“I said no such thing. I only want you to be careful.”
~
Careful. I thought back to Boston, the first time I saw her, and then the second in that gown that expressed every part of her body, left the rest to imagination. How she came forward, sultry and slowly to me, eyes wide, directly on me, her deep brown eyes mesmerizing me when Brigit had gone to the powder room. I and other men, stared as she crossed, showing her face and body to the hushed and admiring men. The women curious to know who she was, some jealous, others fascinated, others wishing. All the women but Brigit could have been outshone if she cared to be seen and known as a voluptuous sex object, perhaps a representation of Heddy Lamar. I continued watching as though she were about to reveal herself, what she had to offer but would hide and take away when the expectant heart and mind of the viewer stopped and she slid behind a curtain then purposely teased by showing a bare leg and thigh. Beckoning.
“Dr. . . . by the way, what is your name?”
Why is she fibbing? She already knows my name.
“Hurwitz. Gregory.”
“Do you come from Boston?”
“No.” I looked toward the ladies’ room.
“Dr. Don’t worry. She’ll be in there like the rest of us, touching up ourselves to be more tempting.
“Well, where are you from?”
“Maine. Cape Astraea.”
“Really. I’m from Maine, not such a fancy place. Warrington.” She moved her leg against mine. “Any chance of our meeting again?” as she saw Brigit coming through the door. “It would be nice. I’d like it very much. Your work interests me. Perhaps mine would fascinate you. I travel here and there looking with my friend for art objects for the Walker Museum of Ancient Antiquities.”
“Yes, I know from the last time you all were here when the lab had its party.”
My mouth was dry. I wanted to see her. Brigit sat beside me, surprising me. She saw Deirdre slyly smile. “I’m Deirdre Cunningham,” she told Brigit who was watching her, I imagine Brigit wondering which one of them was the more appealing.
My face is hot, an emptiness in my stomach. That’s foolish. There’s something sophisticatedly cheap about her. The way she’s looking at Greg, though, like she’s ready to seduce him. I wonder if he’s dumb enough not to notice. I’ll fight, but I can’t flaunt like that one.
Whatever she may have been thinking, Deirdre interrupted her thoughts. “I came over, because I was here the night he was honored and just wanted to say hello.” She looked at Brigit’s left ring finger. Woman. I can take him from you. I just may.
She rose slowly for Brigit and me to watch her. I looked at her breasts, even thought about the underwear she might be wearing, gazed at her slim waist cinched by the dress and emphasizing her hips.
Brigit, rarely vicious, could not help herself, even though I believe now she thought she might be the loser. “Careful, dear, you almost caught that long skirt in the leg of the chair. You don’t want to embarrass yourself with a fall. It’s terrible when people see you in an awkward position. And you could twist your ankle terribly. Think of being laid up for a while. I know, being a nurse, and seen some of that.” Brigit, Deirdre did not know, was sorry she had said anything, that she had made herself appear bitchy, which she knew I noticed from the disgust on my face.
Deirdre angrily stared back at her. Neither you nor he is going to escape me, you bitch. I’ll show you how to trip. She walked slowly away, turned back to us and smiled, her eyes partly closed then opening, knowing her long lashes had been visible and swayed her hips a bit more with her back to us. You’re no match for me, bitch Brigit.
Suddenly she returned to the table and in a soft, seductive voice, told me, “Don’t forget, doctor, you said I could see your laboratory. I’ll make an appointment.” She smiled at Brigit, and as an afterthought, “It was nice meeting you.” But I doubt we’ll see each other much again. He’s mine.
I stared after the sultry woman who would remain in my imagination.
“What did she mean by that?” Brigit interrupted.
“What?”
“Why’s she coming to the lab? I can’t imagine she knows anything about what your work means diagnostically.” Unfortunately, Brigit, also rarely jealous, said, “I bet she’s ignorant about anything to do with science.” Brigit’s face was growing hot with anger that she could not hide. “Who the hell is she?”
“Like she said,” I answered with annoyance. “She saw us at the honors and was curious. What’s wrong with that? Why are you so angry?”
You stupid man. A whore appears and you’re lost – in her pants. If you’re such a simpleton, she can have you. Brigit’s face colored again. Why am I mad? Calm down. I could tear his and her eyes out. If she means so much to him, he can have her. Then let’s see what happens to your grand design for your future.
She must have decided she would not mention Deirdre again, that we would spend the remainder of the evening dancing and talking as though nothing had happened. With that, when we arrived home, Brigit seemed to be herself, but she was unsettled and was determined I would never know. We kissed goodnight while she turned away from me, staring into the dark bedroom, looking sad she had lost her temper, had shown it; but she knew this woman was a Venus’s fly trap for men.
~
Deirdre decided she would wait a week or even two before appearing, surprise him by arriving about lunchtime, so he would be forced to ask her to lunch. From there the remainder of the day would tactically be hers.
“So, Dr. Hurwitz,” surprising him, touching him on the shoulder as he heard her voice and started to turn from a microscope.
“Oh. Hello. Come in.” He rose somewhat awkwardly and gave her his seat and took another for himself.
“Please just don’t touch the microscope.” He felt stupid for telling her that.
“It must be something interesting. May I look?” She glanced at him, smiling. “Well, I don’t know much about these things, though I did take a science course at Radcliffe. But don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to . . . .”
She interrupted. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I should have called before coming and would never touch anything without your permission. But I am interested.”
By now, the focused scientist seemed to have lost his calm from seeing her, trying furtively to look at her from her face to her feet. Her dress was short skirted, coming just below her knees but raised when she sat. She made no effort to cover them, knowing he would be distracted.
“It’s nice to see you again, Miss . . . . I don’t know your last name.”
“Well,” she smiled, her eyes directly on him, “Let’s not be that formal. I’m Deirdre. You’re Gregory. O.K.? Now show me what’s in the microscope.”
He came closer, telling her what to do, though she knew and having taken more than one science course, thinking they might help her with the art she concentrated on, learning scientifically, if possible, what was fake and what was real, learning disciplined thought.
Their shoulders touched. He moved away. “No. Come here, Gregory,” she said in a low, sultry voice. “You need to tell me what’s here, like those little things wiggling in there. What does this have to do with, oh with isotopes?”
“Well, something, I believe. If I can diagnose with what we are using, and then we can treat the disease, we’ll erase what you see there. It’s not really wiggling, you see. They’re cancer cells moving about in the solution.”
“Oh,” she easily made herself sound excited while all the while concentrating on him, his voice, what he would be like as a lover. She had already decided to find out. For Brigit, despite her appeal, was no match for her. Here we are two models on the runway, but I’ll run with him, Brigit dear. I want him. He’s known, has money from what I heard. That’s for me. If he isn’t that great a lover, I’ll teach him.
“Well, that’s interesting. She purposely looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s lunch time. I’m keeping you.”
“No,” he replied almost too loudly. “We can go to that small restaurant just across the street. My treat.” He paused. “That is, if you have time. I’m pleased you came. Actually, I remember you said you would, but I thought it was just. Oh well.” His face colored. “I’m glad you came,” he repeated to hide his exasperation with himself and wanting to quiet his faster beating heart.
At the restaurant, a friend noticed them and came for a curious hello, questioning who this woman was. When he left, Deirdre laughed. “Did you see his face?”
He tried to ignore her, thinking of Brigit and whether anyone would say something to her.
She interrupted the silence. “Are you free after lunch. You know, my partner and I do deal in art, but I think I could persuade him to give money for your work. If you’re free, why don’t you come with me, and we’ll talk about it.”
“I’d love to,” and he criticized himself for answering so quickly. He hesitated, calmed some, “Yes. That would be nice. I can take off. I’ll just call in.”
Deirdre had almost and so easily completed her plan, laughing to herself, enjoying the thought of her eventual conquest.
She took him to Étienne’s and her apartment at the foot of Beacon Hill. She had always wanted to live on the hill, but for now a house was unobtainable. This man with his money and his reputation? Étienne? He was a jealous man, occasionally wondering whether she thought of him as too old for her, despite his ability to satisfy her sexually and with money. He’d either understand how an association with Gregory would help them or she’d persuade him as she usually did. She’d have both men, any she wanted.
Gregory hesitated. “Is something wrong?” as she held his arm and pulled slightly toward the door.
“I, I was just thinking of something.”
Thinking of that bitch of his, so sweet, lovely, homebody. Well, in a while I’ll be your somebody, everything you think she is and more.
In a sweet voice, “Come on Gregory. If it’s something at work that can’t wait, well another time,” she feigned.
“No. I’ll take care of it later.” He feared going in with her, knowing she could easily enrapture him, mesmerized as he was now and had been the first time he had seen her.
She started to raise her voice, caught herself. “Well then, come on.”
When he heard the door close, he knew, despite what might happen, hoped would, Brigit would never know.
“You sit there on the sofa. Take off your jacket and be comfortable. You can even loosen your tie. Here let me.” All the while her voice was soft, tantalizing. She went to him, pushed him toward the corner of the sofa. “We can talk better this way.”
There was a painting of a nude on the wall facing them. He gazed at it as she undid his tie.
“You like that painting? Well, you should see me.”
Her comment astounded Gregory who tried to hide his surprise, still thinking of Brigit and that he would not do what was about to happen. But when Deirdre began to unbutton the back of her dress and stood before him in her zippered latex corset and fashionable pointed bra and her panties, Brigit disappeared. Deirdre leaned toward him, started to unbutton his shirt, stopped. She took his hand. “Come,” and she continued, whispering, “We belong together. I knew it the first time I saw you.”
“Come,” and she led him toward her bedroom, the large bed, sat him on the edge, watched him move back to become more comfortable, unbuttoned his shirt, undid his trousers, pulled at them and took off his underwear. “That’s nice,” she added, watching him grow, leaving him there, his heart beating faster as he became hard. She went to her bathroom. “I’ll be right back.” She unzipped her girdle, took off her garter belt and stockings, smiled. She put on some perfume, returned, undid her bra, stepped out of her panties and stood before him. “You like what you see?” as she ran her hands from her breasts to her inner thighs.
He swallowed, nodded, his hands reaching for her breasts and moving below in a slow massage as she closed her eyes, purposely loudly moaned, lying softly on top of him, then pulling him with her as she turned on her back, spreading and raising her legs to fold about him.
~
Arriving home late was nothing for Brigit and me. We expected it. When I walked in, she had been waiting and had eaten alone. She was reading the evening news about what was happening in Korea and the horror of MacArthur advocating atom bombs on Manchuria. She hated war, had seen too much of its damage and what it had done to me. She despised MacArthur. I did too. In disgust, she threw the paper on the floor.
“Hi, sweet.” I watched nervously as she came toward me, put out her arms, placed them around my neck. Guiltily I hesitated and then put my arms about her and took her to me, happy to see her. But she drew back suddenly. “What’s that?”
“That odor in you hair.” She was obviously stunned. I had showered at Deirdre’s but the perfume lingered slightly. “You have a soapy smell, not ours.”
“It’s your imagination,” I nervously told her.
“Greg. You’re lying. You’ve been with someone.” She hesitated, her eyes wide. “You fucked that woman.” Then, though she hated the word, rarely used it but could not help herself nor did she care, she repeated, her voice loud, “You fucked her.”
I never thought while washing my hair, never would have thought of perfumed soap. It was on my body and what we had done. Did I feel bad? Well - yes. More importantly, sadly, I was still thinking of being inside Deirdre, what it felt like, the smoothness of her skin, her firm, lovely-to-feel breasts, both of us looking at our naked bodies as she watched me shower, that captivating smile, her alluring voice telling me she would be here, in this place, any time. Then, with certainty, “You'll be back as soon as you can so we can be ourselves, no pretending to care, and - she smiled - enjoying ourselves.” I don't think, or didn't, there could be any other man for her now. I stood there, wet, looking at that lithe body, not wanting to leave it or her. It was as though she could read my thoughts, for she stepped into the shower and moved against me, tantalizing me, and with those soft, caressing hands gliding over me, telling me I was captured. And truly I was. Brigit had faded from my conscience.
But not here in Brigit’s and my apartment that brought me to reality, for with a jolt, Brigit forcefully pushed me away and ran to the bedroom, sobbing.
I stood, unable to move, not knowing whether I should go to her. I did think of the ring I had given her and the plans for Las Cruces and the wedding, asking myself how I could have failed her and given in to my sexual desire. But I did admit to myself that I enjoyed it and Deirdre. There I was, punishing myself, thinking of Deirdre, her softness and the enjoyment, and Brigit, the woman I was to marry or had been going to marry.
Brigit came to the bedroom door, walked slowly into the living room, shaking, crying, rubbing away the tears with the back of her hand, her face red with anger and disbelief.
She raised her left hand, pulled off the ring, and threw it at me. “I could never trust you again,” and she sobbed, sadly mumbled, “Never again. That whore is all yours. Marry her and have a good life. That’s what she wants. Well, she’s got it,” she paused for some time, staring at me, her hair disheveled, her face streaked, “Got it all.”
She started for the bedroom, turned. “I’m packing and going to the nurses’ quarters. You can screw her here from now on, in public for all I care.” She thought, spoke again. “You know, Gregory, you have destroyed your life.”
I suppose you’d expect her to fight, but I believe she didn’t want to be involved in something messy or to lower herself by fighting Deirdre, something of which she was quite capable. Rather, I think she preferred, hopefully, to see either Deirdre or me demolished in our self-desire.
I do know now we never stopped loving each other.
~
Brigit took a vacation and went home to Las Cruces, wanting to hide herself in the desert. As she drove from El Paso to home, occasionally she would stop, look, comparing herself to the desolate and sparse growth. She had loved this land, her home that was green below Alamogordo. Thinking of Cloudcroft, she thought she might go there to be alone even if it would remind her of New England. Yet, she did not want such a vivid memory of Gregory’s visit. On one stop, she pulled to the side of the road, looked in the mirror, brushed her hair with her hand, reached in her pocketbook for her lipstick, saying to herself, “Why bother? What good has this body been to me, this face? And I let him have it, soil me. Never, never again.” She laughed. I could find a woman for companionship and, well, yes, sex. That way, we’d understand each other, what we feel, how we feel, none of that pretending. That’s what I’ve been doing. Pretending. Oh shut up, Brigit, you fake. You still love that man and always will.
Her depression faded as she drove up to her house. Her mother, hearing the car, had come to the door. Here was that solid, certain woman, who in her younger years could have almost been a twin of her daughter. Brigit had always loved looking at her photographs before and after she was married to Brigit’s father. As one would expect, Maureen loved all her daughters. Perhaps, though, she also felt God had given her a twin of whom she would always be proud and protective. Now, as she watched Brigit running toward her, her arms outstretched, letting out a little scream of love and happiness, protection was most important to Maureen. As their arms enfolded one another, Brigit felt since leaving Boston the touch of love that would never die. Gregory could not kill love, but he could instill hopelessness, loneliness, and uncertainty of a woman’s attractiveness and holding power. At least, that was for now. Would it ever change? Brigit determined it would. No one could defeat this healer and saint from the past. She lived now. That her parents named her after the healer and the saint was all in the distant Celtic past and early Christianity. Brigit had never believed any of this, but now she wondered. I am strong, and I do have love. It may be a different kind of love, but at least it’s lasting and real. Well, I'm no saint. Saint Brigit was a virgin. She laughed aloud. I'm sure not the Saint, world. But, I’ll never regret. It’s almost like I can feel him inside, or there with his mouth, or my arms about him. So good. She frowned. Stop thinking about it. I don’t want to remember any of it. You always will, Brigit. Believe it, fool. You still love him and just accept him. You willingly gave yourself to him. You’ll always be part of him. He’ll find out. He’ll rue. Don’t be a vengeful witch, Brigit. But he will. I know it.
Her mother interrupted her mind’s rambling. “It’s so good to have you home.” Maureen was sorry she said it that way, as though nothing had happened, that the family had been preparing for a wedding never to be. “We’re so glad you’re here. Oh, dearest.” Maureen started to cry. “I’m so sorry. You must be . . . .” and she stopped, not wanting to inflame a wound so deep that only her daughter could feel, that no one else in the family had been so defiled, insulted, embarrassed. She hated Gregory, never wanted to hear his name again, wondering what she would or could do to help Brigit. Perhaps being with her sisters, perhaps visiting the convent and Anne, spending time in the peace the convent offered. Perhaps. All was “perhaps” now. Except Maureen knew Brigit was the strongest of her daughters. She would ask no question, however, tell Luke not to, but wait until Brigit said something. Maureen had seen deserted married women, listened to their bitterness, their swearing, their desire for vengeance. Once she made the mistake of suggesting a priest and the quiet of the church to a friend, the rejoinder being a damnation of religion, the church that did nothing but demean women as the preying beings responsible for their own downfall – exhibiting and dressing in sexual clothing and colored faces to lure. The women to whom Maureen listened always said it was the other woman who caused the break-up, that it was her flirtations that ensured the hungering men’s sense of victory and her own. The deserter was always vile, stupid being trapped and leaving a loving wife and his children. The victims, unsuspecting Brigits. But the church blamed the good woman, if there were such a person.
Maureen, horrified, took many months to forgive the abandoned friend because of her damnation of the church, although she coolly kept in touch with her, Maureen still sorrowful for the woman’s pain. The world was cruel. In Korea our soldiers and the unprotected civilians being killed, maimed while a craven General urges atomic weapons which if allowed would end us all, our torments, tears, pleasures, laughter. How different here at home is the pain and suffering? Here we smother the greatest gift – love – with plundered sexual satisfaction. My daughter. A man treating her the way he did, a woman so beautiful, so good, so loyal, so accomplished. Don’t say anything, Maureen. Let it all come out of her. She’ll talk to both Luke and me. I know that. And she has her sisters.
But was there anyone who could end the agony of betrayal and abandonment? The tears, the memories, the unspeakable hurt? A deserted woman thrust aside by a lover deceived by that female predator.
When Brigit entered the house, the familiarity wrapped her in its memories of growing up on the ranch, horseback riding, traveling northward across the desert to Albuquerque and Taos. She would sometimes ski in Taos and learned as much as she could about the Pueblo, remembering the men sitting in the small town square in the early morning, wrapped in their blankets, rarely speaking. Or there was the time she was in the Pueblo, startled by the beauty of the young pueblo woman leaning against her doorway, watching, so silent, so apparently content. Brigit told herself at that moment that she must find her way to such peace, such self-possession. It was a religious experience found only in oneself. From that time, Brigit never forgot the young woman and always felt a kinship to her, a spiritual connection that she never felt in church. She had decided that she would never tell her parents but that it would be part of her secret self never to be revealed.
Now she wondered whether she had destroyed that image and feeling by having given herself to Gregory and having been deserted. The more she thought about it, however, perhaps it would be her triumph, her rediscovery of herself and the love that she had given so freely. Perhaps, she began to think, she didn’t despise Gregory, that her love might never fade.
In a conversation with her sisters Ellen and Marie who appeared so satisfied in their marriages, she told them of her sorrow, the pain, the many tears. Hearing what had happened, they were angry, Marie even raising her voice and cursing Gregory and Deirdre.
“Stop,” Brigit insisted. “Don’t yell. I can’t stand it,” and she began to cry. “I’m so miserable. I look at you all apparently so content, your children. I suppose I pictured myself living like you, having children running about. Are you both as happy as you seem?” Her conscience suddenly bothered her, for she wanted an answer that told her what she saw in Marie’s and Ellen’s houses was appearance.
Ellen placed her hand on Brigit’s face. “I wouldn’t change for anything, dear; but there are times you want to take a frying pan and slam it over your husband’s head. It’s not all love. Sometimes there’s, well, I think, something close to despising him for paying so little attention to me. But then something will happen, and when he makes love to me, or rubs my back or kisses me when he comes home, or I’m listening to the yelling and laughter of the children, I know it’s all worth it. But it’s confining being held so close to your home. You have your profession. We have always envied you for that.”
Watching the changing expressions on her sister’s face, and looking at Marie who nodded agreement, Brigit smiled slightly, wiped at her eyes thinking of Gregory. “You know, I still love him. I want to hate him, and I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever be free. For that I despise him. So I love and despise.” She stopped, catching her breath, feeling her heart beat faster, “Oh I don’t know. But please, please don’t ever tell mom and dad what I just said.”
“Mom called us and told us about when you walked into the house with that look of pleasure on your face, how she followed you to your room and what happened when dad came home.”
“She would,” was all that Brigit answered. Her sisters faded, and she was just coming home and she and her mother were standing together, both crying from happiness at seeing each other and at the horrible unjustness Brigit had experienced.
Brigit remembered thinking and wanting to tell her mother, Oh, mom. I gave myself to him. I slept with him, lived with him, and I know that hurt you, my living with a man in sin. Forgive me. Yet, immediately she realized she could not say that, for she did not regret that love between them and the joy of their lovemaking, how they had learned to accept what was good and imperfect in each of them.
Then her father had come home, and rather than go to wash up, shower, as he always did, he came to Brigit’s bedroom where she was resting, her head turned to the window, seeing what? Thinking what? The door was open enough so her father saw her and did not want to disturb her. However, she heard his step, turned from her dreaming, looking at him, while wiping at her eyes.
“May I come in, Brigit?”
“Yes.” She sat up. “I guess I was just resting and thinking. You know, I wondered whether I should even go to Hotel Santé and find out if they have an opening in my field. But then, I don’t know, dad. I don’t know anything right now.”
He sat on her bed and pulled her to him. “It’s so good to see you, to have you home.” He faltered, unsure of what to say. “You look good.”
“Dad, don’t be afraid to talk. Just don’t tell me what to do. I have to work through this myself.”
“I, well, I wasn’t going to tell you . . .”
“Oh, forget it. You don’t have to apologize and worry whether you’re saying something wrong. What is there to say? I have to work through this myself,” she repeated.
Inadvertently he raised her left hand. She looked at the bare ring finger, as did he, and could not stop the tears. Luke dropped the hand, his face reddened by anger and mindlessness. “What a stupid man.” He couldn’t help himself. “To have a woman like you.”
She blurted unintentionally. “Dad, I love him. He’s always going to be in my heart. I may despise him right now, but all you men,” and she smiled weakly at her father. “Oh, I don’t mean you, but admit it. You see a pretty woman in town and you look and wonder. Women do it too. It’s all human, only this particular woman turned him from the one who would support him come the worst, if he lost his standing or . . . oh I don’t know.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I am right, but . . .”
“You’ll never forgive him.”
“You mean you’ll never forgive him, that if he were here you’d batter him for hurting your daughter. What good is revenge? Don’t forget your Bible, dad,” she finished sarcastically.
Bible. Who created those stories? But who can turn her back on Jesus’ words. He raised Mary Magdalene. Will He do the same for me? How do I know? Damn you, Gregory. You took all of me, feasted on me, and here I am asking Jesus to raise me like he did the Magdalene. Hah, I’ll go back to my Celtic ancestors before there was the Saint Brigit, when there was only the healer Brigit. Is she that good, Gregory? Is she that good in bed, better than I? Is she . . . . Oh I don’t know. I just don’t. But I know. I know. Something is going to happen. She’s that kind of woman. You can’t see it, your eyes glazed over by that delusory woman, given a body no better than mine. The difference? She has that deceptive mind. Enjoy yourself, Gregory. It’s funny. I remember the first time we hugged. I turned my body to be certain you could feel the softness of my breast against your body. I wonder what you thought. Stop it, Brigit. You’re driving yourself mad.
Luke left the bed. She felt the mattress’s light upward movement. “When you’re rested, dear, come down. Your mother and I will be there. Do you mind if we invite Ellen and Marie and their families to dinner? I wish Anne, well Sister Angelina, could be here too. By the way, you are going to see her?”
“Yes and no. Let’s have the whole family here.”
And so Brigit managed to become an actress, but she did enjoy the prattling children and the family warmth.
Later in the week she went to Sister Angelina. As she approached the convent, there were memories of school, of the sisters lecturing them about being good girls, protected by God and honored by their future husbands, unless they decided to enter Orders and become a servant of God, a truly blessed life. But purity is most important whether in Orders or as a wife.
They went to the chapel, knelt and said their prayers. Sister Angelina seemed so different to Brigit, her calmness and certainty. Brigit realized she felt a twinge of envy at what seemed to be the peace that enfolded her. But would she ever know life? There was so much beyond the convent that perhaps Sister Angelina would never even feel. Yet, she was jealous of the peace and listened as her sister quietly told her to believe in herself and her ability and her willingness to help people that would bring her peace, the peace, perhaps, that Sister Angelina experiences. Yet, you are a woman with woman’s feelings and desires. I know it. You’re just as human as I, but you have learned to discipline yourself. I can listen to you and be soothed, but I am a Woman and need the love not only of my profession but of a man.
They sat on a cement bench against the wall of the cloister, so quiet, green with flora, trees, prickly pear cacti tended by the Sisters. Brigit started to speak in a whisper, caught herself, laughing. “Anne,” “Call me Angelina, Brigit. It’s my name now. I could have kept Anne.” “I’ll try to get used to it. It reminds me of Galileo and his daughter. They always used her religious name.”
Angelina perhaps thought her sister a grave sinner. Maureen had told her that Brigit, unmarried, was living with a man she met during the war. Sister Angelina told Maureen she would pray for her soul and that God forgive and protect her. Maureen blanched, thinking of her daughter’s soul and cohabitation with a Jew of all things. How many times multiplied was her sin? Nothing the family could have said would have been well received. Moreover, Maureen did not believe she should interfere in any of her children’s lives. She loved them too deeply. It was often a wonder to her that they rarely quarreled, that they could often talk rather intimately as women do with one another. Growing up may have been different when there was friction; but, for the most part, it seemed to have disappeared, except when it came to Brigit who, though she deeply loved her mother, would never allow her to direct her life, nor her father either. Luke and Maureen had learned to accept Brigit for who she was and how she lived, and her independence. That was the meaning of love to Maureen. Acceptance, sheltering.
After a time, Brigit told them she was going to Taos. She would stop in Santa Fe to look through the galleries, but she wanted to be in Taos, still remembering that Indian woman in the doorway, posing perhaps, communing but so peaceful. Brigit would find her own peace in that town.
~
In the small hotel overlooking the square, she rose early to watch the men wrapped in their blankets, feeling the familiarity, soothed by the apparent tranquility as they sat, the silent communication with the coolness of morning, oblivious to all around them but Nature’s morning sky.
She had also been reading D.H. Lawrence lately and knew that Ravalgi and Frieda Lawrence were in Taos. When she went downstairs for a small lunch, she saw Ravalgi enter the bar and wanted to follow him, to ask what he did to take Frieda from Lawrence. She wouldn’t because of the imposition on a personal life. She did wonder how Lawrence had come between Frieda and her husband and children whom she abandoned for her lower-class lover. What was the effect on her conscience? What was it like sleeping with a man with whom she had fled to Italy and then come with him to Taos? What was her sense of desertion when she slept with Ravalgi? Or was she perhaps like Deirdre? She wanted to visit Frieda, perhaps help herself, if Frieda would answer her questions. She lay there imagining a conversation.
“Why did you leave your children and the security of a home, Mrs. Lawrence?”
“My life was not too terribly exciting before I met Lawrence. He was handsome, intelligent. Before too much time, he persuaded me to go with him to Taormina. I was happy. I did think of the children but knew they would be taken care of. But Lawrence was the man I wanted. And, yes, I did have an affair with Ravalgi, and as you know, he and I are now married.”
“I saw him going into the bar at the hotel. Truthfully, he looked at me the way men usually do.”
“Men and women wonder about one another. It’s natural. And sometimes it turns out the way my life has. And you. You are not married. A woman like you should attract many lovers or those who would be. I know what it’s like.”
“Doesn’t every woman? And if not, even if they are homely, they hope.”
“Well, Lawrence and I had a rocky time. One time up at the ranch – have you seen it?”
Brigit interrupted. “I am going there. I wanted to meet you first.”
“Love is, well, you ought to know. One time I got so angry, I threw a coffee mug at him that, I suppose if it hit him, would have killed him. Anyhow, tell me about you, so lovely, so enticing. I was not as thin as you, but, oh, the men looked at me.”
“I wanted to meet you because I had become fascinated by Lawrence and you. I wanted to meet you because of your experiences. You see,” Brigit hesitated, “I was deserted. I lived with the man I thought was going to be my husband, but he left me for another woman. I couldn’t compete with her.” Brigit felt quite free with Frieda and could talk to her as she never could with her family. Oh, perhaps Mary. But they hadn’t talked much to one another since Gregory left.
“Perhaps.”
“No. I couldn’t. Certainly I can flirt, but I can’t flaunt myself.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes. I’m angry at him, at her, at myself. I feel desolate.” There were tears in Brigit’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I never meant for the visit to be like this. I was so pleased that you would see and talk to me, that you’re so approachable.”
“Perhaps because at times I felt guilt at what I had done with Lawrence and Ravalgi. I also missed my children and fought against Lawrence’s jealousy when I wanted to and did go to see my children. I know jealousy also, hurt, especially when he spent so much time with Mrs. Sterne on a book. And I was sometimes jealous of Lady Brett being with us. But would I change anything? No. I have liked it here. We both did, Lawrence felt such freedom at Kiowa, the mountain ranch. You must go there. It’s overwhelming being on Mt. Lobo. The family taking care of the ranch now is very friendly.
“Would you change anything?”
“I do not regret giving myself to him although it makes me angry when I think of what he and she have done to me – left me lonely and longing, wondering what is wrong with me when I know I’m so attractive.”
“Brigit.” She felt Frieda placing her hand on her knee. “You are experiencing what men and women have done to one another forever. You go to the ranch. Up there in the mountains you will find answers. Do you have another man?”
“Oh, there is someone who has been after me,” and Brigit smiled. “Now I’ll wonder if he’s sincere, that is, if I allow myself to be with him, to see him. I have to be sure of myself again.”
“Go to the ranch. It will soothe you, give you something good to think about and how strong you can be.”
They sat for a while longer. “I will,” and they parted, Brigit feeling lighter, more like herself.
Brigit laughed, at herself and her imagination. She rose, setting her mind on a drive to the Kiowa ranch. She felt inexplicably more secure and at peace than she had since leaving Boston. Adding to her satisfaction was the rutted drive up the mountainside to Kiowa ranch where she met a young woman caring for what was now Frieda’s possession. They sat before the chapel looking out at the mountains, the sun coming through the trees, the distant multi-painted peaks, and spoke of the Lawrences, of the tranquilizing beauty surrounding them. Brigit felt close to the woman, for the identical emotions they appeared to experience. The soothing freshness of the air, of the slight breeze that blew against Brigit’s face, informing her she had rediscovered herself. All found in a mythical Utopia created by an author whom she now understood and who reawakened in her the spirit to which she had been born and grown in. The hurt would perhaps remain, straining her mind, her body, but she still had known love, knew love, what it was.
On the ride back, she went to the pueblo again, wishing impossibly she would see the young Indian woman in relief against the entrance to her pueblo. The image would remain with her. Here on this trip she believed she had rediscovered herself. As she drove along the two-lane road away from Taos, she decided she would go all the way to Albuquerque. She smiled, visualizing living in that imagined world that could give its strength to a receptive spirit.
Arriving in the dark, tired, she thought she would skip dinner but decided against it. In the dining room, she saw a man who looked similar to Thomas. Her heart skipped. Thomas. She may have thought of him when she came to her family. She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to think of men. Perhaps her sister had found the answer in a life of service and devotion in the convent. That isn’t for me, not who I am. Thomas. He certainly doesn’t make my heart beat any faster, doesn’t arouse me. Foolish. You’re thinking of sex. You had that. Oh. Don’t knock it. You enjoyed, loved it. I just don’t want to think about it now. Or do I? My lower belly. That feeling. Stop. All because you thought you saw Thomas. Don’t you dare waste this trip on Gregory and what might have been. It’s not worth it. Thomas. He’s a nice guy. Stop. Now.
Back in her room, she turned on the radio, lay on the bed, listening, “One alone, to be my own/ I alone to know her caresses” rose, turned the station, thinking of Taos, her eyes starting to close. She woke during the night, perspiring, her heart rapidly beating It was a car going off the road and down a steep decline. It turned over and over. I screamed. Gregory pitched toward the windshield. We lay outside, breathlessly and slowly trying to reach one another. He was bleeding from his leg and I from my chest. I couldn’t move. He crept toward me but could go no further. I passed out. Was I dead? I think so. Then she came toward me, bending over me, making a cross. She drifted toward Gregory, rose, leaving him to care for himself.
She sat, still fully clothed, listening to her heart, feeling wet from the perspiration. When she calmed, she slowly undressed, crying. Looking at her tear-blurred figure in the mirror she spoke loudly, “You Fool,” wiped at her eyes. “Fool.” She lightly slapped her face, as she wiped at her eyes, still shaking, and raised her leg to climb into the tub shower, staying a long while, allowing the warm water to comfort her.
When she arrived home. She talked little about Boston or what had happened. Taos kept coming back to her, and she made passing reference to it, keeping its spiritual influence to herself.
“We missed you, dear, but I’m pleased you went and had such a good time,” Maureen told her.
Brigit never mentioned the nightmare, but for some reason it made her think about Thomas, perhaps that by accepting an invitation from him would further ease the wound. She laughed. The Ob/Gyn man would cure her heart of this particular cancer that she now knew was still and forever a love she would have for Gregory.
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