The Things We Fear Most: Stories

by Gloria Vanderbilt

Overview

Penned by the multitalented Gloria Vanderbilt herself, this collection features stories that are touching, surprising, and told in a beautifully calibrated prose. The tales seize upon brief moments that are resonant with the random static of everyday disaster, illustrating characters who merely step into a room to find that everything in their lives has been inexplicably reversed. Engaging and enigmatic, this anthology relates powerful narratives of passionate love as well as compelling defeat.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781550963625
Publisher:	Exile Editions
Publication date:	08/24/2018
Sold by:	INDEPENDENT PUB GROUP - EPUB - EBKS
Format:	eBook
Pages:	144
File size:	276 KB

About the Author

Gloria Vanderbilt is an actress, an artist, and a fashion designer. She is the author of It Seemed Important at the Time and Obsession and has contributed to Elle, the New York Times, and Vanity Fair. She lives in New York City.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

THE HOUR BETWEEN

I was gathering tulips in the garden, finding happiness in beauty as my love lay in the grass beside me. Muffled at first, then unmistakably intruding into our lazy conversation – sounds of bees – no, something else. A voice that sounded like mine, but it was his, far and away, coming from a face distorted as by a mirror in a fun house. But it is not him, it's mine too, struggling to prevent a quarrel that fast accelerates into a roller coaster speeding over the top, on down, crashing, unable to stop.

It took four men to place it in the bay window of our dining room – an aviary. We marveled at the delicacy of line conceived by a master builder, a castle of lacy wire arabesques painted white for lovebirds to inhabit. But touching, there was chill, a bitter taste of steel. Later my love found paroquets from Uruguay, yellow as butter and black of eye. Close, close, home he brought the pair, yellow, so black of eye, he set them free to inhabit the aviary, standing, his arm around me, kissing me as the paroquets nestled on the perch.

I knew about it from the beginning, and sometimes wondered if anyone else did? The hours between light and dark – to be feared, because the day has ended and what night may bring has not yet happened.

The bell tower chimes five as I stand in the snow turning the key into the lock. Streetlight filters into the dark house, spirals of snow hiss on panes of glass melting into nothingness. Far down the corridor the white aviary stands outlined against the bay window. Snow appears to be swirling into the house, bursting into sun-drenched crystals, and everywhere the sounds of birds making love. I hasten towards our garden of Eden, but sudden – silence. Then laughter. Has he gone to another rendezvous (that may or may not happen)? Holding my breath I wait for the hour between to end, but I can't. Pressing forward I peer into the aviary – no birds yellow there, no birds black of eye but two strange creatures, necks entwined, beaks embedded in each other they lie on the floor of the cage, yellow feathers drenched with blood, tucked neatly in a bed of snow.

CHAPTER 2

THE EYELET LACE DRESS

Phoebe went to Los Angeles for a two-week visit with her estranged mother the summer she was seventeen, packing in her suitcase a white eyelet party dress. She had coveted the dress in the window of Best & Co., never imagining to own it. But she did – soon after – a birthday present from her stingy, rich Aunt Emmy with whom she had been sent to live soon after her father died and her mother tooted off on a wild goose chase. But now her mother, having married and divorced a Texas tycoon, had settled down in Los Angeles where, in a Bel Air mansion, she was reinventing herself into a Beverly Hills socialite. The dress had spaghetti straps with eyelet lace flouncing in tiers, making a full skirt that swirled when she gazed in wonder at herself, pirouetting in the mirror. She had worn it only once before leaving, when her boyfriend Pete took her dancing for the first time at the Starlight Roof at the Waldorf Astoria where Xavier Cougat's big band orchestra was playing. Pete was a senior at Princeton and he was crazy about that dress. "Oh honey," he'd said and, speechless, had circled her in his arms as they moved around the dance floor to the Cuban rhythms.

Later they went back to Aunt Emmy's house on Fifth Avenue and sneaked up to the top floor where the rooms were dark, unused, the furniture covered in sheets. They had been there many times before – a hideaway, unbeknownst to Aunt Emmy. Although Phoebe wanted more Pete was adamant that they wait, holding it as a cherished trust, sacred for their wedding night. The promise of this thrilled her, and each time he touched her and they both cried out in joy, she knew Pete was right, they should wait, because when it did happen surely it would be miraculous, for then they would truly belong to each other.

Since living with Aunt Emmy her mother had only made sporadic trips to visit Phoebe in New York, keeping in touch with postcards from faraway places, and so when Phoebe arrived in Los Angeles, her excitement turned to apprehension when her mother did not meet her at the airport, sending instead a chauffeur to pick her up. Phoebe sat back in the air-conditioned beige Mercedes looking through the windows as they drove through relentless sunlight along streets lined with palm trees, past houses with neat gardens until the car stopped at gates leading into the secluded enclave called Bel Air. A guard let them through and the chauffeur made his way up to a house that looked like an antebellum mansion in a movie. "Welcome home, Miss Phoebe," the chauffeur said, giving her suitcase to the butler, who handed it to the maid, who said, "Mrs. Frayne is asleep, but she's expecting you Miss Phoebe – please follow me," and they went up the curving staircase to a landing, on down a corridor into a room where her suitcase was placed on a folding rack at the foot of a bed canopied in dotted swiss. The maid started to unpack her suitcase, but Phoebe said, "Oh, no thanks, I'll do it myself." "As you wish," the maid replied, opening the armoire to indicate hangers padded with flowered chintz before leaving. Phoebe opened her suitcase, shook out the ruffles on the eyelet dress, and hung it in the closet, leaving the rest of her things to unpack later. She sat on the bed gazing around the room – silvered tables on either side of the bed holding crystal bowls of fluffy flowers, a white carpet needlepointed with pink cabbage roses, a chaise upholstered in pink and white stripes, the walls covered in crisp white linen. She kept thinking of Aunt Emmy's house, dark, filled with antiques as if a museum. She had never seen a room so fresh, so white, so perfect, so filled with sunlight. Phoebe dared speculate her mother had decorated it especially for her. She went to the open window and looked down into the garden – nothing moved except sprinklers on the lawn, round and round they went, mesmerizing her by sprays of water catching rainbows from the sun, as they spattered the lawn with dew. Hours later – but it was only a few minutes – there was a knock on the door and the maid was back saying, "Mrs. Frayne will see you now," and she followed her down another long corridor into her mother's room.

Her mother sat under flowered Porthault sheets, a white wicker breakfast tray over her lap, shining dark hair fanned around her shoulders. Phoebe had never seen her mother without makeup until now. It was difficult to connect her to the person she had seen the last time they met. She appeared luminous, her skin translucent, features blunted as though partly erased.

"Catkin, there you are." Her mother held out her arms, calling out, "No – no wait a minute – stand back, let me take a look at you." Phoebe stood still, but after a quick glance her mother said, "Well – we'll have to do something with your hair. Tulio is coming later to do mine for the party I'm giving tonight – he's genius, pure genius – and he'll do something with yours – the party is for you, Catkin – and tout Hollywood is turning out. Now – let's see what you've brought to wear," and ringing for the maid to take the tray, she jumped out of bed, threw a marabou robe over charmeuse nightgown, slid coral-lacquered toes into pom-pommed mules and, giving Phoebe a hug, took her hand and led her on back down the corridor into the guest room from which Phoebe had come.

"What's this?" her mother said, going to the closet, taking the eyelet lace dress, holding it up, shaking her head. "Phoebe – where in God's name did this come from?"

"It's really pretty, Mummy – once you see it on."

"But you're not a baby anymore, Catkin," her mother said, casting it onto the bed.

"It's the only party dress I came with —"

"Well – it won't do – come, let's see what we can come up with." Phoebe followed her mother into another room, which was her dressing room. Closets lined the walls, and a mirrored vanity table was cluttered with tortoiseshell boxes, a silver hand mirror engraved with her mother's initials, crystal bottles with enameled stoppers and other accoutrements Phoebe could not identify. She longed to examine in detail everything on the table, but her mother was flinging open doors of the closets to reveal an array of dresses, shoes, and accessories arranged according to color in perfect order. Her mother examined the racks of clothes, contemplating the possibilities – taking out one dress after another while Phoebe breathlessly waited.

"How about this?" she finally said, holding up a dress of lavender silk printed with – hothouse orchids? Phoebe wasn't sure. The dress had a bare midriff and her mother was shaking it enticingly at Phoebe.

"Oh Mummy, that's so beautiful!"

"Bet it fits perfectly – try it on."

Phoebe hurried out of her traveling clothes and stood naked in front of the full-length mirrors while her mother slipped the dress over her head.

"How about that!" Her mother stood back as Phoebe stood enthralled.

"Is that me?" She kept laughing, hugging herself. "But I don't think I brought the right shoes?"

"Shoes? Shoes? We'll get to that later – it's the hair we have to deal with – Tulio will really have to do something about that —"

And so he had. Hours later Phoebe found all problems solved by Tulio who spiced up her hair with a rinse, styled over a "rat," swept into a lush roll and sprayed with scented lacquer. It looked just like the hair of a film star she had seen in a movie magazine. She was thrilled by the way it framed her face, pancaked and powdered by Tulio before green shadow had been administered – "to pop those hazel eyes," he enthused. Carried away by his creation, he had crested her eyebrows with black pencil, painstakingly gluing on false eyelashes. "Voila!" He exclaimed, pulling her to stand in front of him as they gazed into the mirror. "I wonder who that is?" he said proudly. Wondering herself, she couldn't stop smiling.

Soon after, holding a fluted glass of champagne, Phoebe, wearing the orchid dress, stood beside her mother outfitted in strapless bouffant ruby-red gauze, the shining hair bound by a mesh snood sprinkled with diamanté, skin glittering with silver, lips outlined in blazing-red lipstick, features no longer blurred, but brought into hard focus. Phoebe couldn't stop staring at her as she greeted each new arrival, saying, "This is my daughter, Phoebe," laughing as if relieved to have a presentable one. Guests were overflowing the house, spilling out into the gardens illuminated by Japanese lanterns hanging from trees, candlelit tables covered in billowing clouds of organdy, centered with wicker baskets filled with white peonies, the pool iridescent in the moonlight as candles in flower cups floated on the aquamarine water. Phoebe had never seen so many people energized by success together in one place at the same time; there were movie stars, directors, producers, the wives who looked vaguely familiar, but why? More than anything she wanted was to be part of it – to belong. Could she? Everyone was smiling, asking how long she was going to stay? Inviting her here and there. She had never in her life felt so important.

Next day the phone kept ringing, netting her into a new life. There were lunches at Romanoffs, Sunday buffets by swimming pools, days at Malibu on the beach, playing tennis. Drives to Palm Springs, a Spanish fiesta in Santa Barbara where she wore her mother's black mantilla. Yachting trips to Catalina, shopping on Rodeo Drive where Phoebe's mother told her to pick out dresses she fancied, Saturday night dancing at Mocambo or Ciros. All the fellows in town after her, until her mother, joking she was so sought after she better have her own phone, had promptly installed one in Phoebe's bedroom. The days slipped by. Aunt Emmy and New York faded and Pete, her dear Pete, seemed someone she had known long ago when they were both children. Soon it would be time to go back, to the ever-vigilant cold Aunt Emmy, whom she now perceived as a wicked witch waiting to take happiness away. Here she was allowed to go, see, do anything she wanted – there were no boundaries. That's what it meant to be grown-up, wasn't it? She didn't have to run decisions by her mother, preoccupied as she was by a new girlfriend. Heaven, but sometimes hell – adrift in a dark sea not knowing how to navigate, yearning for her mother's attention. Still – as time grew near to leave she begged not to have to go back.

"But of course, Catkin," her mother said. "Stay as long as you like."

"But Aunt Emmy – what about her?" Phoebe said, panic-stricken.

"Well, what about Aunt Emmy?" Her mother was annoyed. "You're a big girl now; what's she going to do – have someone kidnap you and return you?"

"But who's going to tell her?" Phoebe couldn't imagine she would have to be the one to do it.

"Leave it to me," her mother said briskly.

The way her mother presented it – it sounded so simple. And it was. She just stayed on and soon became intrigued with an actor a lot older – thirty-six, maybe older? He was British and dashing and worked from time to time in B-movies. Her mother wasn't particularly interested except to comment he was a bit of a bounder, but she didn't question Phoebe's going out with him or any other of the men buzzing around her. On their first date he took her to Trader Vic's and ordered Navy Grogs. She had never tasted rum before and it gave her a feeling of confidence, so when he ordered seconds she didn't say no. After dinner he said, "Let's go to Santa Monica Pier, have a spin." When they got there, she found herself in a basket, suspended on a wheel whirling round and round, dizzy as she gripped his hand, closing her eyes and trying to block out the fact that she was kissing him instead of Pete. After that they drove to his house in the Valley and she sprawled on the bed, falling asleep, but he would have none of that as he unzipped his pants and pulled up her skirt.

"Hey, hey there, calm down. The neighbors will hear you – don't want to get me into trouble do you? San Quentin Quail – you know," he laughed, trying to jolly her out of it.

"And who the hell is Pete? No one ever cried for me like that. Here – take this," and he handed her a towel to stop the bleeding.

But Phoebe couldn't stop sobbing, and when morning came she found somehow he'd gotten her home, for there she was, naked under the canopy of the bed in her mother's house. The clothes she'd worn the night before in a pile on the floor. The phone ringing —

Later when Phoebe saw him at parties in a crowd she pretended she didn't know he was there. She soon started seeing others, but when they made love to her she didn't cry because it didn't matter anymore.

That summer the eyelet dress hung unworn in the back of the closet, but eventually Phoebe passed it along to the housekeeper who gave it to her daughter. All that had happened a long time ago, of course, but while thoughts of the actor were pushed from her mind – Pete for some reason stayed in it forever.

CHAPTER 3

MY LITTLE MOUSE

My little mouse he slipped away down the road one end of day ... down, down the road I watched him sway, slow, so slow, it seemed he waited for a hand from me. Try as I would not one could move, so faint was I from where I stood. Now faraway at end of day sometimes, I look and look. Where did he go? That little mouse I shook and shook who loved me so, and does he too turn back to look?

Although no longer together we still live in the same city my little mouse and I. And thirty blocks from where I live stands the building and the rooms we lived in together long ago. Now others claim them, and, although we knew it not at the time, the buildings and rooms we now separately inhabit – waited.

Opening my refrigerator I stare at the bottle of apple juice on the top shelf, and come aware of a stone-cold fact: in buildings and rooms in other cities (even perhaps across the street), others live, unaware, as we are, that someday we may be living in that very room because rooms wait for us – rooms where terrible things/joyous things will happen as they did long ago for me and my little mouse in the room thirty blocks away, where joy and misery drew us into a net that became a mesh of steel, blood circling, spreading as it sifted through, leaving as days led one into the other, sediments of gold and nuggets of dark pain. Passing through the planet we vacate rooms, moving on to rooms that wait to become a transient home.

Puzzling over this gives pause as I stand looking at the bottle of apple juice, asking why, for over a year as if treasuring a relic of holy water I have kept it on the top shelf inside my refrigerator? And what had possessed me calling my little mouse after years of silence asking to see him for there was something I urgently needed to tell him, yet jolted when the doorbell rang to find him actually materialize as if in answer to a wish – from a genie out of a bottle?

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Things We Fear Most"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Gloria Vanderbilt.
Excerpted by permission of Exile Editions Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

The Hour Between 11
The Eyelet Lace Dress 17
My Little Mouse 33
Murder 43
Interior Design 47
Hazel Kelly in Full Pursuit 57
The Woodbox 61
Lures 73
An Egg 81
Burne-Jones and Mickey Mouse 85
Green Dream 93
Later, Mary? 105
Cartoon Characters in Search of a Modus Vivendi 109
The Gold Dust Twins 119
My Darling from the Lions 131
The Things We Fear Most 137

Editorial Reviews

"These stories are like fairy tales, cruel and ineffable."  —Joyce Carol Oates, author, Sourland



"May be the steamiest book ever written by an octogenarian."  —New York Times on Obsession



"A remarkable tapestry of human passion—an interior world of highly charged erotic mysteries that teasingly suggest, but ever elude, decoding."  —Joyce Carol Oates, author, Sourland on Obsession

From the Publisher