Jeana brought the pitcher and. mercifully, asked no questions. Carol unwrapped it and set it on the mantel over the fireplace, stood back to look at it. And then, unbidden, the thought came: That woman had a fireplace. But somehow the idea was not quite as shattering as it once might have been.
Donny had passed the swimming lest and he was permitted to swim to the big float. She stood and watched him churn his way out, struggle up over the edge of the float, and then stand proudly and wave back at her. The way he stood, the way he carried himself were so much like Mel.
On the way back to the lake Jeana asked the usual question. Carol said quietly. “I think things are better, Jeana.”
“That’s better than the big brave smile I usually get, hon.”
“Was I that transparent?”
“You were being the brave little woman. It didn’t fit.”
Carol smiled. “Jeana, I’m taking advantage of you, but can I ask you to do me a big favor?”
“I’m just a beast of burden. Good old Jeana. What is it, kid?”
“Mel’s birthday is a week from Friday. August sixteenth. I don’t want to go into town yet, but I do want to give him something special.”
“And you want me to buy it.”
“Would you? You could bring it out next Wednesday. I want to get this out of my own money. Arrange it at the travel bureau. They must have some kind of gift certificate. If they don’t, they can write a letter. Presenting Mr. Mel Dennis with two round-trip air tickets to Bermuda.”
Jeana whistled softly. “You’re really going overboard, aren’t you?”
“Maybe it’s corny, but we honeymooned there. Have them fix it so we can take the trip whenever Mel can get away from the office.”
Jeana reached over and patted Carol’s knee. “Kid, I think things are going to be okay.”
“On his birthday we’ll both drive over to see Donny. Get something for Donny to give him too. Use your own judgment on that. A good pipe, maybe.”
The day before Mel’s birthday, Carol opened the envelope from the travel bureau half a dozen times. Finally she put it on the mantel, using the blue pitcher as a paperweight.
After she washed her lunch dishes, she walked the two miles into the village for the mail. Some of the sickness seemed to be leaving her. She felt trim and young and in love. It was something you could get over, if you were an adult.
There was mail. A letter from her aunt in Cleveland. A letter for Mr. Melvin Dennis. A squarish envelope. A birthday card, she thought, taking it out of the box. As she walked out of the post office, she saw the Syracuse date stamp. She stopped in the doorway, her mouth suddenly dry. A woman bumped into her and mumbled an apology. Carol moved slowly out into the sunshine. The handwriting was rounded, feminine. It tilted backward. She could detect in that writing a sensuality and a fearful determination.
She had never seen that woman’s handwriting, yet she knew at once that it was from her. A birthday card sent, with sublime insolence, to the lake where that poor little wife of Mel’s would be certain to see it and take note.
As she walked back toward the cottage, sick at heart, it seemed a vast betrayal that Mel should have told her his birthday. It was another evidence of treachery. There was no return address. The envelope was a pale gray-blue. The address was written in green ink.
Back at the house she went straight to the mantel and took a perverse satisfaction in placing the card on top of her gift to him, weighing them both down with the little blue pitcher. She paced through the small cottage restlessly. It had been such a desperate struggle and now, in an instant, she was back where she had been in March. She had to start all over again, and she doubted that she had the strength.
At a later time than usual, she began preparations for dinner. She worked with casual, unthinking efficiency, and she felt dead inside. It was easy to say that Mel could not help it if she sent him a card. But the card was physical and tangible. As tangible as and much more immediate than the blue pitcher.
She thought of steaming open the envelope and resealing it. It would be more satisfying, however, if she did not know in advance what tender little birthday sentiment was enclosed. Her gift to him now seemed silly, pointless, a gesture with no meaning. He could jolly well use the tickets and take that woman to Bermuda.
A little after six-thirty she heard Mel’s car pull up behind the cottage, heard the slam of the car door, heard his whistle.
As he came into the kitchen, the screen flapping shut behind him. Carol knew she could not give him both envelopes at once. She ran to the mantel and. in her haste to grab the larger envelope and get it out of sight, the blue pitcher slipped, fell to the hearth and shattered. She stared down at the pieces and could not speak or cry out.
Mel came to her and said, “Hi, darling. Break something? Say, that was the antique pitcher, wasn’t it? Didn’t know you had it up here. That’s a shame.”
He turned her, his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were warm. “How are you, honey?”
“Dandy,” she said, barely moving her lips.
She saw the warmth fade from his eyes in a way that had become too familiar since March. He dropped his hands from her shoulders and started to turn away.
“This came for you,” she said, holding out the gray-blue envelope.
He took it casually, pried it open, while her breath caught in her throat. The envelope contained a letter. He glanced at it, then handed it to her, saying. “Your department, I guess.”
For a moment she could not read the message. Her eyes didn’t seem to focus properly. “Dear Mr. Dennis: I have arranged to have the new porch furniture delivered to the cottage on Wednesday of next week. If it isn’t convenient for you or Mrs. Dennis to be there that day, please leave the keys with—”
She had forgot completely that the owner of the cottage lived in Syracuse. She turned blindly toward the bedroom. From far away Mel’s voice said, “Is something wrong?”
Carol went into the bedroom and shut the door. She lay across the bed, and the room slowly darkened as daylight faded.
Mel tapped on the door. “You all right?”
“I’m all right,” she said. After that he left her alone. It was easy to say, “I was mistaken. It wasn’t from her, so everything is all right.” But there was the more important truth that even such a little misunderstanding could destroy all the hard-won confidence, the new emotional security. She knew that she would have to face the fact that all rebuilding was being done on a tragically slender base. Perhaps in time security would become rooted more solidly. There was nothing else to hope for.
She turned on the lights, repaired her make-up and went out into the living room. Mel was standing at the mantel. He turned and gave her a surprisingly young grin and backed away from the mantel.
“Take a look, baby.”
There on the mantel was the little blue cream pitcher, miraculously whole again. She stared at it, then looked over at the table, at the newspaper spread under the lamp, at the tube of glass cement.
“You fixed it!”
“Hey, don’t go too close. If you stand right here and squinch your eyes a little, it looks just as good as new.”
She stood beside him and found his hand and held it tightly. If you stood back, and if you squinched your eyes a little, you’d never know that it had been shattered, never know that it had been fragments spread at your feet.
Carol gave him the other envelope. “This came for you too, darling.” As she hurried toward the kitchen she heard him tear open the envelope. She stood in the dark kitchen for a moment, her eyes brimming, waiting for his exclamation, waiting for him to come to her.