A Garden Of Earthly Delights Part 24

"Clara, no."

Swan stared at his plate. The mess of broken eggs and congealing grease. He and the Revere boys squirmed in embarra.s.sment when Revere and Clara spoke like this, in a quick intimate exchange as if they were alone. Clara, calling that old man honey honey! You could hear the tremor in Revere's voice; you could see the sick helpless love in the man's face. And Clara, exasperated, laughing in her edgy brittle way, fluffing out her hair with her hands like a willful child.

Revere said quietly, "Clara, n.o.body likes funerals."

Mandy had arrived, to clean up in the kitchen. A short heavy woman older than Revere; prim and prune-faced, Swan thought. Always her suety gray eyes were trailing onto Clara, disliking her. And when Clara spoke to Mandy, the older woman stiffened and never met her eye. Mandy behaved as if Revere was G.o.d, with exaggerated solicitude and deference; of the boys, she favored Robert because he was the youngest. Swan was invisible to her, she seemed scarcely aware of him. Now she busied herself at the sink, while casting a sidelong look at Clara who was wiping her eyes with a napkin. Swan would have liked to shout at the old woman You're ugly! You're old! You were never like my mother! You're ugly! You're old! You were never like my mother!

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The five-hour drive to Hamilton, near Lake Ontario.

Swan would remember not wanting it to end. For there was Death waiting, amid strangers Revere called my family. my family.

Yet Revere drove well, steadily and with concentration. He was an excellent driver, Swan thought. Behind the wheel of his stately new Packard sedan, silvery-green with a chrome-edged hood and fend-ers like arched wings. White sidewalls. A low sonorous horn, Revere demonstrated for them as they drove along the highway. Clara spoke repeatedly of what a good driver Revere was. She seemed excited, anxious. Lighting cigarettes and exhaling smoke out the partly opened window. From time to time Revere pa.s.sed hitchhikers along the road-most were adult men, shabbily dressed, but a few were boys no older than Jonathan. "I wouldn't give dirty old b.u.ms like that a ride," Clark said righteously. "They'd smell up the car." wouldn't give dirty old b.u.ms like that a ride," Clark said righteously. "They'd smell up the car."

Revere said, "They're out of work, Clark. They're homeless. They don't have your advantages, son. 'Judge not lest ye be judged.' "

Swan was seated in the front between Revere and Clara; Clark, Jonathan, and Robert were in the backseat. Yet Swan, Jonathan and Robert shivered with unconscious pleasure that Clark, the eldest, had been rebuked. Only Clara protested, "Oh, he's right! I wouldn't give them a ride, either."

Revere said, bemused, "Of course not, dear. I hope not."

They talked of b.u.ms-"vagabonds," Revere called them-for a while. Swan felt his mother stiffen; she seemed twitchy, restless. In the backseat, Jonathan was saying to Clark, "Could be, you'll be a b.u.m yourself someday. Then what?" and Clark muttered, "I'm not going to be any b.u.m!" and Jonathan said, "None of them ever thought they'd be, either."

By the time they reached Hamilton they were groggy from the drive. Clara had several times nodded off, her head lolling against Swan's; at a signal from Revere, he'd removed her cigarette from her fingers, and gave it to Revere to toss out the window. "Your mother is tired," Revere said to Swan, gently, "she didn't sleep very well last night." This intimate fact, so bluntly stated, made Swan blush. Yet he felt singled out for a confidence that excluded his brothers in the backseat, out of earshot.

Hamilton was a real city, as Clark had predicted, not a mill town like Tintern. There was so much to see, entering it, that Swan didn't know where to look. Revere pointed out to him something he'd never seen before-a "railroad bridge." Here, the Eden River had widened and appeared to be faster-moving, a steely grayish hue approaching Lake Ontario-"One of the 'Great Lakes,' Steven. Look at the map." But when Swan studied the map, he became confused and lost a sense of where they were. For the map was paper-flat, and nothing like the world. Swan was staring through the rain-washed railings of a bridge and down into a sudden valley at railroad tracks-so many! Then they were above the river that was moss-gray, a l.u.s.terless no-color, swiftly flowing through channels that seemed to have been formed from raised outcroppings of rock. Revere pointed out a dam-"It holds the water back, for electrical power." Swan wondered if he was meant to understand this. He stared at the ragged-looking frothy rapids. Everything here was rushing, impatient. There was more traffic, streams of traffic, cars and trucks pressing forward, impatient. Yet Revere continued to drive with his usual composure, pointing out landmarks to Swan- a tall spire that was the Cathedral of St. Peter, another bridge in the distance, factory smokestacks rimmed with flame. There was an eagerness in his voice that suggested pride, as if in some way he owned these things.

"Is that your factory, darling? That one?" Clara spoke naively, as a girl might speak. Revere smiled, saying, "There's no factory that's 'mine,' Clara. I've told you that my family has invested in Hamilton Steel. But we are only investors." Swan was sitting forward in his seat, staring. It was a confused, jumbled scene made up of patches of open s.p.a.ce and enormous tin-colored "oil drums" as Revere called them and ugly buildings behind wire fences with smokestacks silhouetted against the gloomy sky. Halos of light glowed about the tops of these smokestacks. "Are they are on fire?" Swan asked.

Clara laughed lightly. "You can see them burning, silly! Sure they are."

But Revere said, reprovingly, "The smokestacks are not on fire. They appear to be burning, but it's a combustion caused by fuels. It's self-consuming-the smokestacks won't burn."

Swan felt the importance of being told this fact by the man who was his father; he knew that Clara was the silly one, Clara had been rebuked, and that his brothers in the backseat would be smiling, in secret. He did not look at her.

After a while they came to a large intersection, and turned onto a strange wide road with a divider in its center in which gra.s.s and shrubs grew. Immediately it seemed to Swan that the air was clearer, the sky less mottled with cloud. Revere said, "This is Lake-sh.o.r.e Boulevard, Steven. Lake Ontario is just ahead." Swan was staring hard, not wanting to miss the lake. In the backseat the boys were talking excitedly. Clark said, " 'Ontario'-it's the biggest lake in the U.S." Jon said, sneering, "Is not." Clark said, "What is, then?" Jon said, "Lake Superior, stupid." Clark said, annoyed, "There's Hudson Bay, in Canada. That's That's big." Jon said, "That's a 'bay,' not a 'lake.' " Robert intervened, "What's the difference?" big." Jon said, "That's a 'bay,' not a 'lake.' " Robert intervened, "What's the difference?"

They were pa.s.sing blocks of stores. Small shops with glittering gla.s.s. A jewelry store-a "furrier's"-women's clothing stores. Clara said, "Oh! Look at that dress. So pretty." There was a faint furtive pleading in her voice, that embarra.s.sed Swan. For Revere was sure to say, a little later, that Clara could buy that dress if she wanted it-and it would come as a surprise to her, because she would have forgotten. So much came to Clara like that, as surprises.

Now they were in a residential neighborhood where the houses were as large as Revere's farmhouse. And some were larger. No driveways were quite so long as Revere's driveway in the Eden Valley, but the lush beautiful lawns went far back from the boulevard, and there were shrubs of a kind, ornamental and elaborately pruned, Swan had never seen before even in photographs. He thought how strange it was, they were traveling through all these sights to get to a funeral, to a dead man.

There at last was the lake: so big you couldn't see any horizon. Nor could you see, to the left or to the right, any edge. Revere said approvingly, "Big as an inland sea, Steven. Imagine how it looked to the first explorers." Swan saw that the boulevard here was made of brick, washed clean the way nothing could be clean out in the country; and all the houses had been built to face the water, on little hills. The facades of the houses were blank and impa.s.sive as the faces of strangers. Clara nudged Swan, saying, with a kind of gloating triumph, "See, Swan! How d'you like 'Lakesh.o.r.e Boulevard'?"

"Please call him by his proper name," Revere said.

" 'Steven.' " Clara spoke quickly, with childlike obedience; but nudged Swan to indicate that this was a joke. In a formal voice she said, "Steven, how d'you like where your father's people live?"

Swan murmured a vague embarra.s.sed reply.

They turned onto one of the bricked drives leading up from the roadway. Swan was staring at a large foursquare house made of nickel-colored stone. There was a tall flagpole in the front lawn and at its top an American flag-rippling red and white stripes-blew in the wind like a living thing. A flag, for just a private house. There was a steep roof on the stone house made of some heavy-looking material-slate. There were more windows than Swan could count, somewhere beyond twelve. And tall wide chimneys. And columns at the front of the house that made it look like a public building, not somebody's home. Clara seemed frightened suddenly. She took out her compact and dabbed powder on her face, muttering to herself. "Oh, G.o.d. I look like h.e.l.l." She clamped her hat-a small black cloche with a dusky veil with black dots, that Clara complained made everything look like it had pimples-on her head, groping with nervous fingers. Her nails were carefully polished a deep peach-pink, and filed; Swan had seen her that morning, bent over her task with a small bottle and brush.

"These people, these 'Reveres.' They hate my guts."

Several times Clara had told Swan these enigmatic words. Hate my guts. Hate my guts. But why? And why But why? And why guts guts?

A middle-aged man, old as Revere, hurried down the front steps of the nickel-colored mansion. He came to Revere, who'd rolled down the car window; the men gripped hands, for a moment wordless. Then the man told Revere he should park in back, so many cars would soon be arriving. Swan noted how well dressed this man was: a dark suit, tightly b.u.t.toned; a white shirt with a curiously stiff collar; a necktie that looked as if it were made of gunmetal. Revere drove the Packard to the rear of the house, slowly. He seemed distracted. Swan saw that the house had three full floors, unlike the farmhouse. He saw a garden with people standing in it, in odd postures, that turned out to be statues, gray and startling. Autumn flowers, zinnias and asters and marigolds, were blooming, but there was a left-behind look to the garden, as if something had happened to make it irrelevant. Swan whispered to Clara, so no one could hear, he wished he could stay outside-he could wait in the garden.

Clara ignored him. He saw that her face was bright, taut, tense, and that she was smiling her special smile, stretching her lipsticked lips across her teeth without revealing her teeth. Swan knew that Clara hated her teeth that were discolored and slightly uneven, whitetrash teeth she called them, shamed.

They entered the house through a side door. Into a vestibule, and into a hallway that smelled not unlike Revere's house in the Eden Valley: furniture polish, and something dank and musty like mold. It was a rich person's smell, Swan supposed. They were taken into a "parlor" with furniture even heavier and more old-fashioned than Revere's; there was a table so ma.s.sive, so intricately and senselessly carved, you would think it deserved to be stared at, yet no one took the slightest notice. On this table were tall vases of flowers, mostly white lilies that gave off a sweet-sickish odor.

"Oh, calla lilies. That's what those are?"

Clara spoke tentatively, adjusting her hat. The black-dotted veil gave her a moribund look, as if she were a very old woman peering out at the world with half-blind eyes.

Clara tried to grasp his hand but he shoved her hand away.

"Steven. Come."

It was Revere speaking, quietly. No one would shove away Curt Revere's hand.

Swan was being led forward blindly. Behind him he heard, or believed he heard, Jonathan mimicking his father's voice. Steven, come! Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Steven, come! Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The other boys giggled. The other boys giggled.

Now they were in a larger room, that might have been another parlor. Here there was a great shining piano, its keyboard shut. More flowers, and that sweet-sickly odor mingled with the more pungent odor of tobacco smoke. At the windows were curtains flimsy as ghosts. A woman in a dark shimmering dress hurried to embrace Revere; the two were nearly of a height, and might have been brother and sister, except they were so old, Swan thought, confused. Could you be brother and sister, and so old? The woman had gray hair caught back in a tight coil, and her skin looked tight, too. Elaborately, she came to embrace Clara. "Claire. My dear. I mean-Clara. So very good to see you, dear. On this sorrowful occasion." Swan had a sudden terrible impulse to laugh; if he laughed, his brothers would admire him. But he stood unresisting as the woman with the tight-coiled hair frowned over him. "Oh. Is this- Steven?" With jerky movements, she bent to embrace him; Swan neither resisted nor allowed himself to be embraced. Clara poked him meaning he should say h.e.l.lo, should say something, but Swan stood mute. This woman was-who? Someone's great-aunt? Revere's aunt? And not his sister after all? Swan made an effort to listen, initially. But there were too many people arriving, and all of them strangers. Some resembled Curt Revere, and others did not. Many were his age, and even older. Though there were younger people, too-a surprise to Swan. He had come to believe that all Reveres were old, except for his brothers.

"My wife, Clara-"

"My son, Steven-"

Once introduced, Swan was then ignored. His brothers, too, though older, and known to these people, were mostly ignored. Swan overheard a white-haired man say to Revere, gripping his arm at the elbow with startling intimacy, "Curt. He spoke of you often. At the end." Swan was shocked to see Revere's face crease suddenly, as if he were holding back tears.

He glanced around, hoping to catch Jonathan's eye.

If they exchanged a glance, it would be a wink. A man Revere's age, almost crying!

But Jonathan, frowning, was staring at the floor. Shuffling slowly along beside Clark who was licking his lips nervously. Like a steer on its hind legs, Clara said of her eldest stepson, but fondly. And there was Robert, dazed-looking, glancing about as if for help. Looking for his mother Looking for his mother Swan thought. Swan thought.

Swan felt a stab of satisfaction: he had Clara, and his stepbrothers had no mother.

They were at the front of the second parlor, which was like a hall, where chairs were set up. A wake. Swan had been told: We are going to a wake. He hadn't wanted to ask what it meant: wake. wake. It was strange, because death was It was strange, because death was sleep sleep and not and not wake. wake. But he hadn't wanted to ask because he was always asking the wrong questions. And now he was the youngest child in this room, and he'd confused the gleaming mahogany piano with the gleaming black coffin, cylindrical-shaped, at the front of the room. Robert was whimpering to Clara, "Do we have to look, Clara? Do we?" Clara said, "Honey, no. I don't think so," but Revere overheard and said sternly, "Quiet. Follow me. All of you." But he hadn't wanted to ask because he was always asking the wrong questions. And now he was the youngest child in this room, and he'd confused the gleaming mahogany piano with the gleaming black coffin, cylindrical-shaped, at the front of the room. Robert was whimpering to Clara, "Do we have to look, Clara? Do we?" Clara said, "Honey, no. I don't think so," but Revere overheard and said sternly, "Quiet. Follow me. All of you."

Swan's heart was beating hard. Yet he was not afraid. For he knew-he told himself-that the dead man inside the coffin could not hurt him him, could not touch him. him. It was a fact that It was a fact that deadness deadness could not hurt you the way could not hurt you the way livingness livingness sometimes could. Clara was often saying she'd had brothers, G.o.dd.a.m.ned brats they'd been always pulling her hair, pinching and poking her, hurting her, so she wanted Swan to tell her if his brothers hurt him; but of course Swan never did. Swan never would. That was sometimes could. Clara was often saying she'd had brothers, G.o.dd.a.m.ned brats they'd been always pulling her hair, pinching and poking her, hurting her, so she wanted Swan to tell her if his brothers hurt him; but of course Swan never did. Swan never would. That was tattling tattling, you were a tattletale tattletale if you did such things though possibly it was if you did such things though possibly it was tattletail tattletail, meaning you had a tail like a rat's. Swan was more fearful of Jonathan than of any dead man yet still his heart was beating so it almost hurt, and he hated how Clara kept touching her hair, her hat, her ridiculous black stippled veil so you could see that she was nervous, too. Swan was embarra.s.sed that his mother was different from the other women in the room: even the younger women. Her hair was too pale, and too beautiful. Her face had a kind of glow and wasn't sallow and tired-looking like the others' faces. Seeing Clara, Curt Revere's young wife, you wanted to look nowhere else. She was trying to walk stiffly like the others, yet still her hips moved, her shoulders and arms moved in a way to draw the eye to her. Her shapely legs were encased in silky dark stockings, and she wore high-heeled black patent leather shoes.

"Yes, Clara. The boy should see. He's of age."

"Of age? G.o.dd.a.m.n he's seven. seven." "Seven is the age of reason. Calm yourself, Clara."

This exchange was in an undertone. No one overheard except Swan.

There'd been indecision, and therefore hope, but now Swan's left hand was gripped, hard. By Clara. She was all but dragging him forward. She had the tight-jawed look of a woman hiking up a steep incline, d.a.m.ned if she would be daunted. A kind of sick excitement stirred in Swan, in his bowels, the way you felt sometimes when you were about to be sick but didn't yet realize what it meant, that sensation.

He would think, afterward: Because a stranger had died, and was in a gleaming black box at a wake wake, in a stone mansion on Lakesh.o.r.e Boulevard, Hamilton, New York, and that stranger was related to Curt Revere who was Swan's father, Swan had had to be brought here, and had to look upon deadness. deadness. Not the many miles of countryside between Lakesh.o.r.e Boulevard and REVERE FARM in the Eden Valley had been enough to protect Swan, once it was decided. And so he was in this high-ceilinged room banked with flowers that smelled of death. Not the many miles of countryside between Lakesh.o.r.e Boulevard and REVERE FARM in the Eden Valley had been enough to protect Swan, once it was decided. And so he was in this high-ceilinged room banked with flowers that smelled of death.

Swan found himself staring at an elderly man, a stranger, with pale parchment skin, and tightly pursed lips, who was lying on his back inside the gleaming cylindrical box, his eyes closed. Yet how waxy his eyelids looked. How waxy his face, though his cheeks were dabbed with rouge like a woman's cheeks. If you were dead, Swan thought, you lay on your back and everyone else had to stand, and file past to stare at you.

Clara nudged Swan. Whispered for him to shut his eyes, to pray.

Pray?

At home, Clara laughed at "pray"-"prayer." But Swan knew he could not laugh here. He was staring at the elderly man, who resembled Curt Revere. Soft white hairs on his head, a thin, sunken face, and though his mouth was meant to suggest a smile yet there was something ironic and bitter about it. Swan shut his eyes tight and hid his face with his hands in the "prayer" gesture he knew, and could mimic like a monkey.

"Son." Revere's hand was gentle on his shoulders.

Swan glanced upward, and in that instant he had a glimpse of his other father: the man with the pale blond hair, the man with the blurred smile and easy laughter.

The vacant blue sky, beyond that man's head. The blue of his eyes. The smell of the outdoors. The wind. What had that man said to him? He'd called him "Swan." He knew him: "Swan." He'd said something about "death"-dying, and the dead-but Swan could not remember.

Why did dead dead mean more in a man, than in a squirrel, a dog, a chicken? At the farm, chickens were killed by hand: their heads torn off in a sharp twisting motion, no more fuss than if you were shucking corn. Why was a man different? Was a man different? mean more in a man, than in a squirrel, a dog, a chicken? At the farm, chickens were killed by hand: their heads torn off in a sharp twisting motion, no more fuss than if you were shucking corn. Why was a man different? Was a man different? A rich man is different A rich man is different Swan thought. Swan thought.

"Steven, come away now." Revere spoke gently.

"Oh, Swan! Come away."

Clara was pulling him beside her. Almost, Clara was hugging him against her side, clumsily. He wanted to shove away from her, for he was no baby, he was seven years old which is the age of reason the age of reason and he didn't need his d.a.m.n mother. Sidelong he watched her, and the others. They were all going to die like the elderly man in the gleaming black box: but they didn't know it. Or didn't believe it. The way a chicken, in the instant before human hands reached out to grab it, and twisted its head from its neck, would not believe it was going to die. and he didn't need his d.a.m.n mother. Sidelong he watched her, and the others. They were all going to die like the elderly man in the gleaming black box: but they didn't know it. Or didn't believe it. The way a chicken, in the instant before human hands reached out to grab it, and twisted its head from its neck, would not believe it was going to die.

Swan eased free of Clara's clutching hands, and walked away. As if he knew where he was going, in this strange place. But no one stopped him. There was something sweet and rotted on his tongue, he could not spit it out with everyone watching.

He found a bathroom, that smelled strongly of toilet cleanser. Then he found a room with shelves of books. He pulled out several tall heavy books with Encyclopaedia Britannica Encyclopaedia Britannica stamped in gilt letters on their spines. He was turning pages, looking at pictures, trying to read in the dim lighting, of a faraway place called Egypt, that was in Africa. Someday, he thought, he would go there: he would never return here. stamped in gilt letters on their spines. He was turning pages, looking at pictures, trying to read in the dim lighting, of a faraway place called Egypt, that was in Africa. Someday, he thought, he would go there: he would never return here.

3.

At dawn of that day when Clara had her miscarriage-she had been about three months pregnant-she woke to see her husband dressing in the dark. He stood off to one side, dressing stealthily, and she lay very still, as if he were an intruder who had not yet noticed her. Her eyes were vague and gritty with sleep, her hair lay tangled over the pillow, and her heavy inert peace contrasted with Revere's quick movements. She saw as he turned to pick something up that his chest had grown heavy; his waist was thick. She could hear his breathing. The air was a little chilly-it was September and beginning to get cold at night-and the window behind him glared silently with light, everything slowed down as in a dream and having that strange elasticity of a dream, so that it could belong to any time.

She remembered him without those lard-pale ridges of fat: a younger man undressing before her, trembling with excitement for her.

She thought of Lowry, his face pa.s.sing in and out of her mind as it always did, not upsetting her and not even blotting out Revere's kindly, hardened face, the look of precise concentration he was giving now to b.u.t.toning his shirt. The pregnancy with Lowry's baby had been uncertain, she hadn't known exactly what was going to happen; but this time everything was certain. There was nothing for her to worry about or even think about, except that she wanted a girl. So she looked at Revere in the half-dark and thought that he was a good man and that she did love him, she loved him somehow.

"Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?" Clara said.

He glanced around, startled like a thief. "Did I wake you up?" he said.

"I don't know, it's all right." Clara stretched her arms and yawned. "When are you coming back, I can't remember...."

"Tuesday."

She remembered then that he'd told her this.

"Are you going to miss me, darling?" Clara asked.

He'd been b.u.t.toning his shirt. She saw how his fingers hesitated- he had thick, strong fingers. He was not a man who worked very much with his hands for he hired "farmhands" for this purpose; and yet, he was strong, he bore a taciturn authority Clara a.s.sociated with maleness. It occurred to her that Revere's fingers and everything that was his belonged to her, who had nothing of her own; and had belonged to her for ten years now. Never did she see the tall black letters on the barn REVERE FARM without feeling a stab of elation, pride.

b.i.t.c.hes don't love n.o.body Carleton had accused her. Drunk, and his face contorted. Carleton had accused her. Drunk, and his face contorted. Run off. Dirty filthy b.i.t.c.h like all of them. Run off. Dirty filthy b.i.t.c.h like all of them.

She'd proven him wrong. Her drunk-father. Whitetrash Carleton Walpole left behind in, where was it. Migrant workers' camp in G.o.dforsaken Florida.

Revere was looking at her tenderly. In that way, Clara recalled, he'd looked at the instant photo of Clara as a girl, preening seductively for the camera. "Clara, dear, I wish you'd come with me." He sat on the edge of the bed, careful to retain most of his weight on his feet. "I thought you liked train rides...."

He stroked her hair. Clara liked to be touched; lazily she closed her eyes. One of the farm dogs was barking in the near distance. "Your relatives don't like me, Curt. I try, but I can't talk to them...." It wasn't true, exactly: Clara knew better than to try. She saw their eyes on her, judging. They hate my guts They hate my guts she dared not tell Revere who would defend them, hurt. "They're so different from you. And that time I went to buy that pretty dress, with the lace collar ..." she dared not tell Revere who would defend them, hurt. "They're so different from you. And that time I went to buy that pretty dress, with the lace collar ..."

"Clara, haven't you forgotten that yet?"

Revere's flashes of anger came vertically upon Clara, out of nowhere, never addressed to her exactly (for he loved his young blond wife, he adored his Clara) but to att.i.tudes of hers he considered unworthy of a Revere wife. She understood that she had power over this man's anger as long ago she'd had power over Carleton Walpole's anger but that it was not a power she could control: it was like lightning, that could be swift and lethal.

"In the city I could go to a-a museum, maybe?-but not alone. I'd be so lonely by myself. And you're busy. And anyway ... there are the boys here." Clara didn't want to say There is Swan There is Swan for of course Swan was not her only son now. "And I want to work in my garden, it makes me happy...." One of Revere's farmhands helped Clara with the garden, a kitchen garden it was called, where she'd planted tomatoes, pole beans, fast-growing cuc.u.mbers, zucchini, acorn squash; but also zinnias, marigolds, petunias, and hollyhocks, her favorite flower. At Revere's great-aunt's house in Hamilton Clara had seen what a formal garden was, such precision, symmetry, the way colors were repeated and related, but her garden was nothing like that. Clara's garden was one that Pearl would have liked, Clara thought. Just to walk around in it, maybe to sit in it, in a chair. Sit, and dream. Where it wasn't just kneeling and stooping and picking desperate to fill baskets for a few pennies each. And you the owner of the garden, with a farmhand to help for of course Swan was not her only son now. "And I want to work in my garden, it makes me happy...." One of Revere's farmhands helped Clara with the garden, a kitchen garden it was called, where she'd planted tomatoes, pole beans, fast-growing cuc.u.mbers, zucchini, acorn squash; but also zinnias, marigolds, petunias, and hollyhocks, her favorite flower. At Revere's great-aunt's house in Hamilton Clara had seen what a formal garden was, such precision, symmetry, the way colors were repeated and related, but her garden was nothing like that. Clara's garden was one that Pearl would have liked, Clara thought. Just to walk around in it, maybe to sit in it, in a chair. Sit, and dream. Where it wasn't just kneeling and stooping and picking desperate to fill baskets for a few pennies each. And you the owner of the garden, with a farmhand to help you. you.

"My garden," Clara said. "You like the flowers I bring in, don't you? The zinnias ..."

Revere seemed scarcely to be listening to Clara. He leaned over her and pressed his face against the side of her face, and her hair that wasn't yet combed out. She felt his warm breath; it was a little stale yet from sleep and she wanted to move away, but did not. His hand had dropped onto her stomach, familiar and heavy. Warm, comforting. Clara put her own hand over his and smiled at him thinking he would be leaving in a minute, in just another minute.

She loved him. He was her husband, he adored her. He was a good father to her son. He was a good man, she knew. Decent, fair-minded, if sometimes impatient with others who didn't live up to his standards. He was a well-to-do man: "rich." Yet he wasn't arrogant, bossy. Not to her, anyway.

Yet it was easier to love Curt Revere when other people were around, and seeing him. Through others' eyes, Clara could admire him. A large man, not tall, but wiry, solid, walking with little grace or a sense of what grace might be; he got most of what he wanted, without exactly demanding it. His torso, even part of his back, was covered with matted graying-dark hair, and on his thick arms and the backs of his hands were softer, finer hairs. Aging, these hairs were turning lighter, like a kind of metal. Clara recalled from the migrant camps those older men, whose muscled bodies were softening, turning to fat; how their bodies must have astonished them, betraying them; and Revere was of that maleness. maleness. His face was already creased and leathery, his eyesight weakening; often he was short of breath. When at last his muscles did turn to fat he would look sad, puffy, discarded. Clara could think of this with a remote, impersonal regret, the way one mourns over the death of former presidents and generals, men of public life who reveal their private degeneration all at once and die at that moment-up until then they require no sympathy. She could hold him in her arms and look past him, as if looking from the present time into a vortex of no time at all-the Clara who had always been at the center of herself, whether she was nine or eighteen or twenty-eight, as she was now. Whatever else happened, that Clara never changed. His face was already creased and leathery, his eyesight weakening; often he was short of breath. When at last his muscles did turn to fat he would look sad, puffy, discarded. Clara could think of this with a remote, impersonal regret, the way one mourns over the death of former presidents and generals, men of public life who reveal their private degeneration all at once and die at that moment-up until then they require no sympathy. She could hold him in her arms and look past him, as if looking from the present time into a vortex of no time at all-the Clara who had always been at the center of herself, whether she was nine or eighteen or twenty-eight, as she was now. Whatever else happened, that Clara never changed.

"Are you warm enough? How do you feel?" he said. He kissed her throat. She turned her face so that he could kiss her mouth, not because she wanted him to but because it had to be done. His other wife must have been dog-sick with pregnancies, she thought, the way he fussed over her; he did not seem to believe in her strength, which she took for granted. Nothing bothered her. If she had cramps occasionally it was nothing to keep her in bed, she liked to be up and doing something, anxious not to miss whatever was going on. She hated to be sick and idle, mooning around a sickroom-she had never been sick a day in her life, she told people. She would be healthy until the day she died. But most of all she liked to know what was going on, even if she could not always understand it. Now that Revere had these new interests there was much happening, but it was a man's business-complexities of partnerships she liked to be told about even if she could not grasp their meaning. She could understand money, however, and Revere had enough of that. She believed vaguely that he had much more money than he had had in the old days when he had pursued her, but it was difficult to tell, and certainly it would be difficult to make it clear to people in the neighborhood: what could you buy, past a certain point? She had magazines that showed enormous startling houses and her own house would imitate these (she was having a back porch added) but it took time, time; she had good clothes but nowhere to wear them, and what did people in the country know about these things? All they could understand was something flashy, like her car; Clark's little foreign car, which had cost more money than Clara's, probably was lost on them and looked like a toy. They knew nothing, what could you do with such people?

"When I'm away I miss you very much. I'm afraid you might not be here when I get back," Revere said. Anything lured out of him by her softness or by their intimacy was something he would regret later; he was not that kind of man. Judd was a talker, but not Revere. So she felt uncomfortable when he confessed these things, not because they meant anything in particular to her but because she had no real interest in the private side of this public man's life. She touched his arm, the clean stiff material of the shirt Mandy had fussed over, and felt his warmth inside, a warmth that was alive and pleading but nothing she could respond to as a woman. She loved him about as much as she loved Clark and Robert-she did really like them-and a little further behind was Jonathan, who seemed to resist her but who had such fine eyes, who was almost as smart as her own son. What she felt for Revere was confused on one side with his boys and this house, and on the other side with the man whose name was so well known and who could never be a private, intimate human being, but only a person committed eternally to fulfilling his name.

When she opened her eyes he was still leaning over her, staring hard, and something in his face discomforted her. "You're too serious, don't worry about me," she said. She lifted herself up on one elbow and seemed by this to be getting free of him. He moved aside. "We're going to have a little girl and she'll be as healthy as I am. Don't worry, all right? Now, you don't want to be late."

"I have enough time."

She did not like his talk but she didn't like his silence either. "Well, what do you want?" she said. The weight of his love was sometimes burdensome. She did not like having to walk about inside the circle of his infatuation for her, which was nothing she could understand or admire. To Clara, a man's love was no sign of his strength but rather of his weakness, something you wanted from him but then had to feel a little sorry about taking. "I'm not mad about the other night, that hunting business," she said. "If that's what you mean."

"I hope you aren't still angry...."

"You're right, it's good for Swan to go hunting. Fine. That's fine. I agree." She brushed her hair back and in that instant wanted almost to cry out for something-for escape, for someone to help her. But the impulse subsided at once. She was at home here, warm beneath the covers, safe and protected by Revere and his world. He might seem to be a stranger at times but he was at least a stranger she could handle. "I asked him why he didn't want that gun-that's a real nice gun you bought him-and he told me something, but it didn't make sense. He likes dogs and cats and things, you know, and he doesn't want to shoot rabbits either. He doesn't like the loud noise, he said."

"He has never tried to go hunting," Revere said quietly.

They were tugging over something. Clara felt this, understood it perfectly, and knew enough to give in. "Well, I told him what you said and he said he'd go with Robert, he likes Robert. Robert's nice to him sometimes," she said, wondering a moment later why she had said that "sometimes," which didn't sound good. "He said he'd go today if it was nice. Him and Robert-he and Robert, they get along real well together if they're alone." She paused. All these jagged edges had been covered many times in the last few years, many times. She could run over them smoothly without really drawing his attention to them. "He'd tell you, but he's afraid."

"Afraid of his father?"