SWEETHEART, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed-
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.
Wlliam Butler Yeats. "O Do Not Love Too Long" is reprinted from In the Seven Woods. W.B. Yeats. New York: Macmillan, 1903.
When I finish speaking, Rochelle stares at me as if I've lost my mind. It didn't begin promisingly, this conversation that was really more of a monologue, and so far I am unconvinced as to my success. She remembers to shut her mouth, which had been gaping open just slightly, and shakes herself a little, almost imperceptibly. She picks up her lemon water and takes a careful sip, gazing in vacant interest at the clock.
I've gotten her to sit down on one of the diner stools, a compromise which took five minutes to solidify. I had to show her the bottle of disinfectant I used on the clean rag to kill any germs that happened to be lingering on the stool of the perfectly clean diner, and then I had to wait while she made sure, from every angle, that the disinfectant had been sufficiently dried so as not to stain or damage her clothing. Jay, watching, almost exploded. I am almost certain that this will be the last time she is welcome in the Main Gate.
As she wipes down the ring of water left by her sweaty glass, my patience wears thin. "Well? Say something."
She looks at me hopelessly, then shrugs helplessly. "What do you want me to say, Anne?"
I put the rag down and shrug, too, leaning back against the service counter. I cross my arms in front of my chest, determined to face this head-on. "We can start by what you think about what I just told you."
"Well, what you just told me makes me think things you don't want to hear," she says, her voice rising just slightly, so that she's snapping at me in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. I wait, unblinking. She stares me down for a moment, then sighs again and relents. "I think you're being hasty. That's what I think."
I wait. I swallow what I want to say and I wait for her to finish.
She continues. "I think this is not what your mother would want for you. I think this is the best way to alienate your entire family, and it's the best way for them to feel allowed to make bad decisions. You moving out of their house for good is the first step toward total ruination for them. That's what I think."
I nod for a second, then take a moment to process what she said. My response, when I give it, is short. "Thank you for being honest with me." I pick up the rag and start wiping down the counter.
"You're not upset, are you?" Rochelle says, leaning across the counter carefully to place a hand on my arm.
"No, I'm not," I respond, and I'm surprised to find that it's the truth. Not so very long ago I would have been so distraught to have her disagree with me, I probably would have cancelled my lease on the spot. I marvel at how much I needed her then. How much I don't want to need anyone now.
And they say people can't change.
Do I count as an old dog, do you think? Or am I still in the age range to learn new tricks?
"I'm not angry," I add, standing up straight, her hand still on my arm. "I just have to do what I have to do. And I'd like for you to respect that. If you could."
She regards me levelly. "This has nothing to do with him, does it?" She knows about Ahmir. I told her this morning.
"No. It doesn't. Even if you don't believe me. This has to do with me, and what I need. This is all about me, okay?"
"Okay," she says, as if she's just humoring me, and doesn't really believe I'm telling the truth. She has a knowing look on her face, the kind I have come to have no patience for. "When are you going to tell your father?" She asks next, picking up her water glass again.
I fix her with a grin. "Actually, you were the practice run."
Adam and Nadya's apartment is full of people. I had to knock on the door three times to be heard at all above the noise, and upon being let in had to push my way past stacks of suitcases and shopping bags and a row of shoes.
It's Harry who answers the door, and I'm pleased to see that he's sans brace now. He's walking with a cane, but his limp is much less pronounced than before. When he sees it's me, a large, unexpected smile crosses his face, and he opens his free arm for a hug.
"Anne! Good to see you!" I return his hug warmly, then gesture down at the leg. "Your knee's better?"
He smiles his reckless smile, and shrugs, moving out of the way to let me in the crowded hallway. "After the accident, there wasn't a lot of cause for me to play tour guide. Plus Nikki threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn't take the doctor seriously."
"Kinky." His laugh is a burst of surprise, and he stares at me for a moment, wide-eyed before breaking out in a full-belly roar. I stop to watch him, a bemused smile on my face. "You say things like that?" he asks when he's calmed down enough to speak.
I grin back at him, and shrug mysteriously. "How do you know I don't say them all the time?"
He shakes his head. "I really don't. You're enigmatic at best, Anne Elliot," he claps his hand on my shoulder, and shakes it playfully. "It's good to have you back. And it's nice to see your arm's not in a sling."
I'm interrupted from whatever I'm going to say next by a body hurtling at me from the living room. "Anne! Anne!" I can't tell who it is, and if Harry doesn't mouth "Louisa" to me, it would have taken me significantly longer to find out. I hug her back, as she seems reluctant to let me go.
"Hey, buddy." She pulls back from me finally, and I look her in the face for the first time. She's thinner, and there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before, a sort of sadness. Also missing, rather blatantly, are the bright colors and latest fashions she used to wear. Now she sticks to neutral basics. But she's walking, and she's talking , and that in and of itself is pretty amazing. "You look great." It's the truth.
She's looking at me in much the way I just regarded her. The wonder on her face is heartening, if a little insulting. "So do you. You look amazing!"
"Anne? Is that you?" Mrs Musgrove calls from the next room. I'm ushered into the crowded living room, which, while large, is still straining to host all the people located within it. Mr and Mrs Musgrove are sitting on the couch at one end of the room, while Mary and Charles take up two armchairs. Ben is standing by the windows, Adam and Nadya are on the loveseat, Hen is walking in from the kitchen, and Ahmir and Charlie are playing on the floor. Ahmir catches my eye for a moment, and I smile at him, which he returns hesitantly.
"Anne!" Hen puts down the glasses of water she was carrying and comes over to hug me enthusiastically. Ben is right behind her, and he picks me up and twirls me for good measure. I'm so taken aback all I can do is laugh, if a little awkwardly, when I'm back on my feet.
"Hello, everyone! How are you all?"
I greet them each by turn. I'm nervous for Charles and Mary's response to my being here, but I don't need to be. Mary hugs me inattentively and regales me with stories of her woes in the past months. I can't expect much more from her, and it's good to know I'm not out of their lives for good. Charlie interrupts his game of memory with Ahmir to give me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, and Adam winks at me from across the room.
It's all noise and bustle here, and I like it. I realize that besides Elliot and my coworkers, I haven't really been spending much time with people my own age. It's nice to be surrounded by the warm, by the familiar. I missed it. And it should be said that I bask in it because I'm dreading this evening, what the dinner conversation will bring.
Sometime within the first hour that I'm there, Louisa sits down next to me from where I'm unabashedly watching Ahmir chant "Trot trot to Boston" at my nephew, and leans toward me, speaking quietly.
"Anne, can I talk to you for a second?" she sounds upset, and I turn to face her, frowning concernedly.
"Are you okay?"
"Oh, I'm fine. It's just that I have something I need to say to you, and it really shouldn't have taken me this long to say it, and I'm sorry that it has." I raise my eyebrows, smiling at this long explanation.
"Okay. Shoot."
"I am so sorry for how I treated you those last couple of weeks. Even if some of it was unintentional, not all of it was, and you didn't deserve that. I'm so ashamed of myself, I just wanted to apologize to you officially. Formally, you know. You and Hen took the worst of it, and I couldn't stand it if it ruined our friendship forever. You don't have to forgive me, but I did want you to hear it." She finishes her speech, her hands in her lap, and watches me for a second until I nod, for lack of anything else to do. She makes to stand up, but I stop her. "Of course I forgive you. Thank you." She smiles at me, the traces of tears in her eyes, which I admit I've never seen before, and hugs me again. She gets up to find a tissue, and I turn back to Ahmir, only to find him watching me, a small smile hovering around his mouth. For a moment, I can't do anything but stare, and then I start to smile back, when my phone rings.
I jump and dig it out of my pocket. The name ELLIOT blares across the screen, and I mutter a curse under my breath. I look up at Ahmir, and I see that he knows who it is. He focuses his attention on Charlie, and I stand up and walk to the hallway to answer the phone.
"Anne, my darling, my joy, my angel cake, how's it going?" I roll my eyes, even though he can't see.
"Great," I deadpan. He laughs.
"Fabulous. Listen, I wanted to tell you first, since I wasn't sure if your family would clue you in in time, but there's a benefit concert on Friday night for local music programs, and—"
"Yeah, I know, my dad told me yesterday."
"Oh," the wind has been quite literally put out of his sails for a moment, but he rallies triumphantly. "Well, I got you a ticket, too. Just in case of, you know, a terrible ticket emergency or something. It's in your name at the box office, so you can do what you want with it. Scalp it, see how much you get." He sounds every bit as bright and cheery as he does at every other instance, and I find myself perversely wanting to know if anything actually bothers him. Not that I want my absence to bother him, but still.
That's not what I'm talking about, here.
I hang up with him, and turn to go back into the living room. Charlie crashes into my knees before I make it through the door. He holds up a pair of memory cards for my inspection (a walrus and an elephant), and I exclaim the appropriate amount of wonder at them.
Ahmir steps in behind him, and leans against the door jamb, hands in his pockets. "Fun plans?" He asks it nonchalantly, but I look at him levelly. They say honesty is the best policy.
"I'm going to a concert on Friday night, a benefit thing. Black tie optional. I have an extra ticket, and if you want to come, it's yours."
"I don't have a tux."
"I hear you can rent one these days." My amusement at his misdirection is only slightly outstripped by my frustration at his inability to give me a straight answer. Isn't it obvious, how I feel? "Do you want to come?"
"I wouldn't be bothering you?"
I frown. "No, why would you bother me?"
"Who else is going?"
I hesitate. Honesty. "My father, my sister Elizabeth, Hope Shepherd, and a couple other people. Elliot included. You met him the other day."
"Yes, I did."
"So, do you want to come?"
He stops for a second, opens and closes his mouth. Then his face becomes unexpressive, and he says, "Can I let you know?"
My annoyance surges, as does my disappointment. He is the one person in the world for whom I would like an invitation from me to be irresistible. The fact that it seems he can resist me is embarrassingly upsetting.
I'm not a temptress, but I would like to be tempting. To him, at least.
"Okay, well I'll tell the box office it's reserved for you, and if you wind up being able to come, the more the merrier." I make to step back into the living room, but he puts out a hand to stop me.
"What time is it on Friday?" His voice his low, his eyes locked on mine.
"Eight. The Palladium."
"I'll do everything I can to be there."
It's still not a promise. But it's better than nothing. I go back and join the others, and Ahmir does the same seconds later, hoisting Charlie up onto his shoulders and running him around like an airplane.
I stay for an hour or so more before I finally get up the courage to go home. This really can't wait any longer, and I'm a coward for having put it off for so long. Rochelle's censure comes back to me, and I am momentarily unsure of how I'm going to present the idea to my family. I had thought I had laid it out in such a way that it was impervious to criticism. Well, we saw how that went. But I am moving out. And I am going to tell them.
Once again, I think of the fact that only a few years ago, I might have changed my plans to please Rochelle, and I'm struck by the waste of it. Rochelle is my oldest friend. She has been a mother to me, or as close as I'm going to get, for years and years. Wanting her approval is normal. Listening to her advice, and making decisions with any of her reservations in mind is normal. Needing her to sign off on my life plans, being unable to make decisions without her, that is not.
I was so young, once. How is it that you can be young and feel old at the same time?
A word to the wise: Dinner is not the best time for important conversations. They should be held in the living room, where you can sit face-to-face and there's room for someone to stomp up and down while deliberating. There is also, in general, no large, long dinner table to bang one's fist on.
Which is what my father is doing at this moment, to punctuate the words, "traitorous ingrate," which I have to admit is a rather marvelous combination, one which I would not have given him credit for.
I wait until he's done pounding on the table, though when he's done with that particular activity, he leans forward to try and stare me down. I admit it, I am slightly cowed by this unusual show of real physical anger. He used to say that anger was the "ugly emotion," because he gets red and puffy around the face and neck.
He's red and puffy around the face and neck.
"I'm almost twenty-six, Dad. I should be out on my own."
"Your sister is twenty-nine!" he points out, while also pointing at Elizabeth, who is taking in this conversation with unusual attention. She frowns when he says her age, but she does nothing to interrupt the proceedings.
I would be captivated, too, if it weren't my life.
"It's just what I need to do," I say patiently. There's no point in getting angry. I put down my fork, determined not to fiddle with my peas when discussing my future. "It's for me, Dad. It has nothing to do with you."
Which, as it turns out, was exactly the wrong thing to say. My father is not mean-spirited, in general. He doesn't mean to hurt when he finds fault with things. In fact, for all he is shallow and self-centered, he is very honest about what he thinks and what he feels. His elitism has no malice; it just is. He prefers people with power, or people who are famous, or people who are pretty, which are essentially all the same thing, and he doesn't find you to fall into that category, he'll tell you so to your face before he talks about you behind your back. But if there's one thing that he can't stand, it's to feel overlooked or ignored.
And that is essentially what I just did.
For while it is the truth—or at least almost the truth, because my moving out of my father's house has a lot to do with the fact that I'm living with my father— for some people, it's better not to tell the truth. I should have said something about how it would help them, all three of them, in the future if I don't live in the same apartment.
I wait for my father to calm down. It takes a while. He does like to shout on occasion. And the fist-banging-on-the-table is apparently a new favorite of his. It is dramatic. Hope is sitting next to me, and I can tell she's drinking all this in. After all, I've been the biggest impediment—no matter how inconsequential my protests have been—to her plans with my father. If I leave, that makes things much easier. Like they were before I came here.
Because I am an impediment to their way of life. They want to live the way they want to live, and my objections only do so much to stem the tide. Getting them to this apartment might be seen as my biggest triumph, but it really didn't involve any sacrifice on their part, because it put them in a place where they get to be almost the center of attention at all times.
I could be like my mother, I suppose. The way Rochelle is always telling me I should be. I could be like my mother, and stay here with my family and fight everyday for them to be smarter, more practical, more pragmatic. More serious. I could stay, and pay tribute to my mother's memory that way.
Except I don't want to. Despite what Rochelle says, I'll never know what my mother would have wanted for me. She died when I was too young to understand her fully, and even as I grow up I find that my understanding is inhibited by my memories and by what other people have told me about her. I have no way of knowing who she really was and what she really wanted. I know that she loved me, and I know that I loved her. And I know that she worked herself to death trying to keep the family together and in line. And I know that I will miss her every day.
But recreating my mother does her no honor. Living my life according to what she wanted for me, or what Rochelle wants for me, or what my father, or Mary, or Ahmir, or Elliot, or anyone else wants for or from me would be a colossal mistake, and would be insulting to the love my mother had for me. Would disgrace any honest love anyone else has for me. I need to choose for myself.
Which is essentially what I just told my father. But I wait. And he calms down. Slightly. I did spring it on him rather suddenly—the job, which sent him into a near-apoplectic fit, and the apartment, which was just the cherry on the fit-sundae. Surprises can be nasty things sometimes.
In stories, the heroine (usually a princess in disguise or on the run, or otherwise a very virtuous scullery maid) is patient, and through her quietness and good deeds, everything she wanted to change about her life is changed in the end. She's also usually aided by a prince, a woodcutter, a shepherd, or a wandering king disguised as some kind of adventurer. That is not my story.
My favorite story, even when I was growing up, was called Brave Margaret, about an Irish woman who is shipwrecked on an island, and is captured by a witch. She is shipwrecked in the first place because the ship she was in, with, of course, her one true love (a king disguised as an adventurer) is attacked by a sea monster. To save the lives of the crew, Margaret attempts to sacrifice herself, and gets into a small row boat, and rows out to sea, her love's shouts in her ears, and does battle with the monster, wins, but is tossed ashore by the waves. In the end it is she, and not her king, who saves the day.
That is my favorite story. But it is not my story.
All the heroines of fairy stories manage to change the things they don't like. They win because of their virtues, be they strength and courage or patience and compassion. In the end, no one is unhappy.
But there are some things I can't change. I can't change my father, who just wants to be adored. I can't change Elizabeth, who wants to be admired without having to admire. I can't change Hope, who wants whatever it is she wants from my father. I won't have any effect on Rochelle. Not really. They are as unmalleable as the past, as unflinching as stone. They will go where they will go. There's no point holding back a river. You can only stop it for so long. Only change it so much.
So I can't expect miracles, here. I can't work wonders. And I find that I don't want them gone from my life completely. No matter how shallow, no matter how dysfunctional, they are my family. And, in their own selfish way, they do love me.
So I wait. And when he runs out of breath, I say, very calmly. "I'm sorry. I understand. What I meant to say was this…" And I start again.
It's never too late.
The deal we strike is simple, and it costs me very little. I go to their functions, and I smile for their friends. For now, it's every function. In a few months, they'll stop demanding so much of me. That's the good thing about them being so predictable.
My move is almost immediate, and there's not much for me to take. Most of the furniture I have is too small or purple and sparkly, so trips to consignment shops and thrift stores are in order. My apartment languishes, mostly unfurnished, until I find things that aren't so big they eat up all space but aren't too small to be sat on, either.
I move in Tuesday, and by the time Friday rolls around, I am sore and tired, but exhilarated. I also have to wash my hair several times to get the paint out and be presentable for the benefit concert.
I take an unusual amount of care in my appearance. There's not much that can be done with hair as short as mine, but I pin it back with a silver clip. My dress is floor-length, dark blue, and one-shouldered. It doesn't sparkle. I don't like sparkles. It took me hours to find a dress that I liked, rather than one that worked. It took me three times as long to learn how not to trip over myself in the dress and heels.
I don't usually dress up.
The Palladium was built the year before my mother died, and was built with the taxpayers' money. The fact that only a select few can afford the cost of the tickets to anything housed on one of the Palladium's several stages doesn't seem to be an issue much discussed among the black-tie-optional set. The mere existence of the Palladium enhances the quality of life in Bath. So they say. The main stage is enormous—capable of housing over eight thousand people—and as such is too large for this kind of exclusive gathering. The crowd of filthy-rich philanthropic do-gooders, and my family, is socializing and sipping champagne in the marble-tiled lesser foyer outside an auditorium called The Lower Room.
I am not sipping champagne. I actually like champagne, but at this moment I am preoccupied with scanning the crowd, waiting to see Ahmir. Or waiting to not see Ahmir. At the moment, the latter option is prevailing. My family, likewise, is waiting for Margaret Dalrymple and her daughter, who somehow were capable of buying Rochelle a ticket, but unable to get Mary and Charles tickets as well. Mary is probably sitting on the couch with an icepack to her head at this very moment.
The room is enormous, and to distract myself, I crane my neck and look up, up, all the way up to the ceiling, far above our heads. From here, I can make out the geometric paneling, in all black, that reflects sound. It's said to be the most acoustically perfect building west of the Mississippi. The all-black ceiling and the dark marble give it a sense of perpetual night, a sense of urgency and secrecy that is usually missing from concert halls at night. It must be hell for the people who work here, where the sun never shines and the lights never illuminate.
The acoustics are good. From twenty yards away, I hear Elizabeth say his name to my father. I whip around, looking toward the door, and there he is, making a straight line to me. He is one of only a few men who took the "optional" part seriously—rather than a tuxedo, he is wearing an impeccable suit, charcoal gray, with a solid burgundy tie. His shoes are polished to a shine, and he's wearing a large silver watch on his right wrist. It's a watch I gave him for his birthday once, a long time ago. He still has it.
I can't help the smile that pulls at my lips—I'm too happy to see him. He smiles back at me as he strolls up, taking it all in as if it were just another day. As if he does this all the time. And maybe he does.
"You managed to come?" I asked, somewhat stupidly.
He shrugs casually. "I was free tonight, thought I might as well."
"Do you know what the concert's for?"
"Concert?" He frowns down at me, apparently confused. "This isn't a lecture on sports leadership?"
I shake my head at him, smiling. He grins back mischievously. Then he looks down at his shoes, and back up at me.
"We've barely spoken since I took you to the airport. I was worried you'd be in shock from the accident, especially since you dealt with it so well at the time. You didn't have time to be upset yourself."
I'm somewhat startled at the change in conversation. Never mind the fact that we've spoken more in the past week than we ever did in Lyme.
"I'm okay," I reassure him. "I was okay. And besides, Louisa's fine, my arm's fine. No harm done." That is a misstatement, but not really an untruth. Funny how that happens. "And," I continue as he opens his mouth to contradict me, "it had some effects we didn't foresee."
His mouth quirks up ruefully, and he nods. "Right. Louisa and Ben."
He's silent for a second, and so am I. "Do you not approve?" I ask after it's been a bit too long.
He blinks. "No, no, no. I do approve. It's just—"he pauses, looking around for the right words. "You didn't know Harry's sister, Phoebe, did you?"
"No."
"You would have loved her. Louisa is nice, and smart, and friendly, but Phoebe was something fantastically special. And Ben was really in love with her. I'm just wondering how he can go from loving Phoebe to loving Louisa so quickly. A man doesn't recover from that kind of love. He shouldn't," he raises his eyes to mine firmly, and takes a small breath. "He doesn't."
Without realizing it, we've inched toward each other, until we're standing so close only a few inches separates the toes of our shoes. When I think to remember breathing, I find that I'm breathing deeply and often, as if I'm trying to disguise the fact that I've just run a mile. I have so much to tell him, and the timing is perfect, and all I have to do is open my mouth and say—
"Anne! Anne! Margaret Dalrymple is here!" Elizabeth is pulling my arm by the bicep, and I am nearly pulled off my feet. I take one last look at Ahmir, his mouth open mid-word, as I am directed toward the middle of the foyer to greet Margaret Dalrymple's party. Which seems to include Elliot. He hugs me, then bows playfully over my hand. I can't think how this looks to Ahmir.
We're ushered into the auditorium quickly after, before I get a chance to talk to Ahmir one more time. The ticket Elliot bought for me is, unsurprisingly, for a seat next to him. My offer for a trade goes either unheard or ignored, so Elliot effectively forms a barrier between Ahmir, who is on the isle, and me. I try, but I don't catch his eye again.
The concert begins. I have to admit that I don't remember much of it, even as it happens, although the audience response is as wildly enthusiastic as a roomful of WASPs and their allowed exceptions can possibly be.
Elliot is in fine form. He takes my hand several times, and seems unperturbed each time I extricate myself from his grasp. He leans in to whisper a comment or two, or to consult with me on the program. I try to distance myself, but it's hard to do when your chair is nailed to the floor. After what seems like an interminable first half, the lights go down and then back up, signaling intermission. I lean forward, ready to talk over Elliot if I have to, only to have Elliot lean forward, too, touching my face softly with his hands and catching my lips in a quick kiss.
I pull back, startled, only to see Ahmir stand up swiftly and walk up the aisle. I make to follow him, but Elliot catches my hand. "Anne, there's something I need to tell you. It's important."
I look from him to the door and back, and I find that politeness can go to hell. I slip my hand out of his, and say "I'm sorry, Elliot. I don't want to hear it."
And then I'm off and running after Ahmir, going as fast as I can in my fragile silver heels, which is in no way fast enough to catch up to a world-class soccer player if he's determined to run. But as I get to the door, I see that he's only halfway across the foyer.
"Ahmir!" I say, running after him, my heels clacking on the floor. Thanks to the architecture, he can't possibly pretend he doesn't hear me. My voice radiates of the ceiling and the walls. He stops, and turns around, and I see the muscle working in his cheek. I want to rush into an explanation, a denial, anything, but something in his eyes scares me. It's a kind of wild despair, and I see his jaw working from where I am, a good twelve feet away.
"Yes?" he says, his voice flat. He could be talking to a complete stranger.
"Are you leaving?"
"Clearly."
"Well," I fumble, licking my lips, "what about the second half? There are some beautiful songs in the second half. Aren't those worth staying for?"
"No," he snaps, "there's nothing here worth my staying for." And he turns on his heels and pushes open the door, not waiting for the usher to do it for him. In two seconds, he's gone from sight, and the crowd from the auditorium begins to flood into the foyer once again, talking animatedly.
He's jealous of Elliot. It shouldn't gratify me, but it does.
I may still have a chance with him.