Read an Excerpt
Crucial Conversations
A Novel
By May Sarton OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1975 May Sarton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8549-9
CHAPTER 1
The September morning was so fine that Philip decided to walk the half mile to the Whitelaws for their ritual game of tennis and Sunday dinner. He was smiling in anticipation as he took his racquet down and was still smiling as he caught himself in the hall mirror, reassured to note that this tall thin presence in shorts looked a lot younger than fifty. "Not bad, old man, not bad at all," he said to himself and to Perseus, the black cat, who was waiting at the door to be let out. "Come along then!"
He was really quite disgustingly happy this morning, the best kind of happiness that settles in for no reason on an autumn day. Am I becoming smug, he wondered, as he stood outside on the stoop for a moment, watching the poplar leaves, thin gold discs, slip down almost as weightless as the bright air? Not smug, he dared to hope, but lately there had been a certain absence of tension in his life, as though everything had fallen into place to be quietly enjoyed for its own sake, his work included.
At the moment he was engaged in the kind of job he liked, where the challenge was to design something livable and beautiful for little money, a barnlike studio and living quarters for a young man. Poppy would say he did not impose his own ideas, too willing to compromise, but she had never really accepted the particular pleasure it was for Philip to create the right environment for a client, at the expense often of an original design. She was so uncompromising herself!
At that moment Philip nearly stumbled on Perseus "Look out, you silly!" The stumble jarred his poise, and as he reached the gate, he had to admit that he was a little anxious about Poppy. She had seemed more on edge than usual lately and Philip wondered whether she were not in for a bout of colitis. Should he take it on himself to suggest that she see a doctor?
Oh well, he told himself, clicking the gate shut so Perseus could not escape, he would know soon enough and worrying would not help. Poppy's moods and illnesses were the dark side of her glittering charm. By the time he reached the Whitelaws the mercurial creature might well be in soaring spirits.
She was working, she had told him, and that was a good sign, but if only she could take the sculpture a little less seriously! She blazed away for a time and then quite suddenly there was a short-circuit. She lost control, or became ill ... and she herself did not know why. It was puzzling. And of course her black moods made Reed irritable, he who never felt better than when he was up against challenge.
Philip walked fast, propelled by these ruminations, then forced himself to slow down, and to take it easy. Why allow anxiety to interrupt the full sweep of the day, the brilliant gold of a maple against the blue sky? After all there has to be some gristle in a marriage to keep it from going stale. Nothing stale about Reed and Poppy! Happiness flowed back as Philip realized how precious their friendship was to him, and had been for twenty-five years now. These Sundays of hard play and good talk were anything but routine. Each remained an occasion, enriched by all the years of their companionship, yet as fresh and startling as the autumn itself. How splendid Mrs. Welch's chrysanthemums were this year!
He whistled a little tune as he walked along, swinging his racquet. Mr. Norton was out mowing his grass; Philip waved as he went by, and waved again at the Goldsteins on their bicycles. What a nice comfortable neighborhood it had become, though they all talked about moving "farther out"—talked about it, but had worked so hard over the years to make their gardens, put in swimming pools and tennis courts, had planted so many trees, that, really, there was no idea of doing so. Besides, where would they find this agreeable atmosphere? Nearly everyone gave a cocktail party for the neighbors once a year, but otherwise privacy was respected and when it came to the real things, they knew very little about one another. So what a shock when Reed's next-door neighbor, Ned Brokaw, was found to have juggled five million dollars from the bank of which he was president! This had happened in the past year and Philip, passing the house, wondered about it again ... how did Ned imagine he could get away with it? It was as though a shark had suddenly surfaced in tranquil waters among the Sunday bathers. The trial was months away and Ned went about his business as though nothing had happened. The Brokaws even gave a big party one Sunday—the quiet street was suddenly lined with Cadillacs and Porsches, and the hi-fi blared till all hours.
"They are goons, that's all" was Poppy's verdict. "Caresse was simply never an authentic person."
"But was Ned your idea of an authentic cad?" Reed had teased.
And they were off on one of their battles, for Reed insisted that Ned had been caught juggling some money and was simply unlucky enough to be caught—hundreds of bank presidents probably did the same thing.
Philip quickened his pace, eager to find out what delicious concoction Poppy was cooking for their dinner, she the world's worst housekeeper but an excellent cook. He pushed open the door and called out, "Where is everybody?" No Mozart record was playing. The silence seemed strange.
"Reed?"
"I'm in here, Phil, in the library."
Reed was sitting at the big desk. He lifted his head and stared at Philip.
"What is it? Is Poppy sick?"
"Yes, in a way." Reed got up. His hands, holding two sheets of paper, were trembling. "I just got back from taking mother to church and found this on the desk. Perhaps you'd better read it yourself, while I change."
Philip took the two typewritten sheets and sat down on the green velvet sofa, Poppy's first extravagance when Reed began to make money years ago. It had faded, Philip noted. He was rattled. At first he could hardly concentrate on the words, but as he read on, he saw that this letter must be taken seriously.
Sept. 15th
Dear Reed,
I have not come to this letter and the decision it conveys easily or lightly. The seeds go back a long way in our marriage. Increasingly in the past years I have buried feelings of outrage and despair. And I must say now, before you read the rest of what I have to say, that I have decided a separation is necessary if I am ever to become a whole human being.
It seems quite useless to explain. I have tried many times to tell you what troubles me, only to be brushed aside, cajoled, or beaten down. You have, for a long time, appeared unable to look at yourself or to examine our relationship as it has deteriorated year by year. Was it ever really good after we fell out of love?
Lately sex has been a temporary and false means of allaying anxiety and of coming to a moment's rest. But I cannot believe that after twenty-seven years of marriage sex can be almost the only means of communicating—and if it is, there is no valid communication in it.
We have resented each other for a long time. We have not understood each other for a long time. There has been no meeting of minds even about politics for a long time. The Vietnam war separated us in some final and excruciating way. It is the best example I can think of of your need to avoid unpleasant truths, to cut yourself off from feeling anything that may prove disturbing. No doubt your success in business stems from this ability to cut off what might hurt or dismay if faced.
Our children have left home. I carried that responsibility to the end. And now I have come to understand that if I am ever to do serious work, it will have to be soon. I have about twenty years before me. You have never taken me seriously as an artist and that is, I know, partly my fault. I have found it difficult to believe in myself, let alone persuade you that "art is long, and time is fleeting." But I am determined now at last to get at it with all I have in me to give. It's a tremendous risk, but it is better than slow murder—or perhaps I should say "self—murder"-and that is what has been going on.
You will ask, Why now? What triggered this madness? My answer may mystify you, but it is the truth. The Watergate televised sessions, with all they revealed of how easily nice clean-cut young men could deceive themselves in a climate of power, was what shocked me into recognition. We cannot go on like this, I said to myself, and I meant you and me. Honesty has got to begin somewhere or we are going to be trapped in a public ethos so deadly that it has begun to poison even private lives. It is a long time since I have felt like an authentic human being. Perhaps you do. If so, that is one more reason why I have to go.
I have gone to mother's as a temporary measure. Later on I would like to study in England where there are sculptors I admire and could learn from, and later on to Italy to work with marble. I presume you will be willing to give me some support. I am not interested in marrying again. There is no one else. But a legal divorce may be best, for I do not intend to come back.
Poppy
Philip read the letter twice, then laid it on the desk and went to the French windows to stand looking out into the garden, to try to gather himself together. He felt slowed down as though he were swimming under water, unable to react quickly. Yet he must try to summon something to say when Reed came back. What help could he offer? He was in a state of violent inner disorder in which the only clear thing was that Poppy meant what she had written.
"So there it is!" Reed said, looking flushed. He had changed into shorts. "We'd better get out of the house. I can't stand it in here. Want a drink?"
"No thanks. A bit early, isn't it?"
"What time is it, anyway?"
"Half-past eleven."
They went out to the patio and sat stiffly in two armchairs. The marguerites Poppy had set out in five huge pots were still in profuse bloom, ragged mounds of pale yellow, and Philip commented on how well they had done.
"How can she wreck all this? Just walk out, for Christ's sake?" Reed pounded the arm of his chair with his fist.
Philip knew that anger was bound to be the first reaction, self-protective anger. "The letter makes it clear, Reed."
"What's clear about it? She doesn't know what she's doing. She hasn't the foggiest idea what it will be like to be on her own after all these years. Do you believe she's the great artist she imagines she is?" And, as Philip could not answer this, "Do you?" Reed insisted.
"I don't know."
"Exactly. Nobody knows, not even Poppy herself. She's used her so-called art as a weapon against me for years. Anything I wanted or needed that she didn't want she got out of by saying she had to work. And where did it get her? What did she accomplish, after all—even after we built her the studio? I wish I'd never done it."
"Come on, Reed, you did it because it was something Poppy wanted very much, and you love her."
"O.K. So I'm generous, and she walks out on me, walks out for no reason!"
"Well, she seems to have thought it out pretty carefully."
"It's a dirty trick."
"No." Philip was determined not to get into an argument, but he was not about to lie, either. And he wished Reed would stop shouting at him.
"Why didn't she say all this ages ago? Why bury it and spring it on me now? Apparently she's been lying to me for years. I've been going to bed for years with a woman who despised me. That's what it amounts to, can't you see? I've been had!"
"I don't think talking now is going to help, Reed. You're in a state of shock. I think I'd better go on home."
"Hell, don't go. I'll pull myself together," Reed muttered. Again he banged the arm of his chair with his fist, over and over, as though he were battering out words, ugly, angry words. And Philip, who had half risen, sat down again and waited miserably. It was like watching a big cat thrash around in a cage and being helpless to free the beast. Philip ran a finger round his collar, soaked through, he discovered. This is what is called "sweating it out," he thought. "I suppose Poppy will have told the children?"
"How do I know? She didn't tell Emerson ... I called him just before you came."
Yes, Emerson was the one he would tell, of course.
"He must have been pretty upset."
"His chief concern seemed to be whether I could send him a windbreaker he left in the hall closet. He did offer to come home, but what good would that do? He's trying out for the freshman soccer team. The children will be all right. Poppy chose her time well. I'm the one who gets hurt, you see. 'He who gets slapped'!" Reed laughed harshly.
And Philip sat there, perfectly still, waiting, the rock, he supposed, for the angry sea to batter itself against. And batter it did.
"This is what I get for having endured Poppy's rages, her migraine headaches, her depressions, for twenty-seven years! You know I've never had a wife in the ordinary sense of the word. Did Poppy entertain visiting firemen? Did Poppy have our friends in for cosy dinners? At the very suggestion of such a thing she took to her bed. Do you remember that time years ago, when we were to give a party for once, and she had to be hospitalized at the last minute? And left me with a huge sack of cabbages to be made into coleslaw? Good Christ, what a marriage!" Catching Philip's smile, for those cabbages were a cause célèbre, he shouted, "It's not funny, God damn it!"
"I know," Philip said gently. "I didn't mean it was. But those cabbages ..." And suddenly they were both laughing a little hysterically. "We had cabbages coming out of our ears!" Because the tension had broken at last, he was able to say, "At least Poppy never bored you. Half the marriages I know are temples to boredom. You and Poppy stayed alive."
Reed was in no mood to admit that. He took another tack, man to man now, his tone confidential. "Why should I support her? I'd like to see Poppy earn her living for a change. What if I tell her, 'Fine. Go your own way. But you'll get no help from me'?"
"I don't know the law on that, but would you want to keep her as a prisoner?"
Reed flushed dark red. For a second he looked as though he were going to turn on Philip, but instead shook his head. "Let's play. We might as well."
Facing Reed on the court, Philip realized how much anger he had held back in the last half hour, and how fine it was to have a legitimate way to let the tension out. He felt fiercely alive down to his toes, as he delivered a hard, flat serve that Reed missed. They were nicely matched, but Philip often lost simply because he hadn't Reed's implacable will to win. Today he was determined to win. He enjoyed the steady, hard plop-plop of the balls, one after another. Even the sound of the game fitted his angry mood, and when Reed put over some high lobs he felt electric energy in his body as he ran back, putting out everything he had. Poppy had often called them a bear and a leopard, he remembered, and today the bear was heavy and the leopard full of fire. The leopard won the set.
Reed flung his racquet down. "God damn it, I can't even play tennis any more." He was panting.
"I thought you played well. We needed to let off steam, didn't we? Another set?"
"Not today. I'm done in. Let's have a beer."
Just as well, Philip thought. He himself was drained now, quite exhausted, as a matter of fact. He had a stitch in his side, and was glad to sit down on the terrace while Reed went in to get the beer. In this state of passive physical slump Philip had no defense against woe. Poppy's absence hung over him, and he realized that their Sundays together as a threesome would probably never happen again.
Reed handed him a bottle and a glass, and drank half of his own bottle in one gulp before he sat down. "I'm a bad loser," he said. "After all these years I don't have to tell you that."
"Winning's easier," Philip smiled. For a moment, as Reed sat down heavily, he thought that this man was not young. Reed was so highly charged and all of a piece that he had seemed young well into his forties. Now he looked his age, and in the suddenly perceived thickness of the jowls Philip saw something obtuse, something that age had not refined. Quite the contrary. What was there was force, at the expense of sensitivity. Yet Reed had intelligence, Philip reminded himself, that could grasp abstract ideas and put them quickly and ingeniously to work for him in his business. It was as though in the last hour Philip had had to look at this old friend in a new light. And he felt a kind of shame at making judgments. What had changed all of a sudden?
Reed interrupted these ruminations by turning toward him. "What does Poppy mean when she talks about Watergate as though it had something to do with me? With us? Isn't that just plain crazy? What connection can she make?" Reed's tone was speculative now, not angry.
"I can't explain it," Philip said, after a second's pause when he decided not to try. "But there is a clue there, I'm sure. Remember how furious she was when you defended Ned?"
"I was only teasing, Phil. You know that!"
"Poppy was serious. Maybe neither of us realized how serious she was."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Crucial Conversations by May Sarton. Copyright © 1975 May Sarton. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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