“All right. Let Daddy finish this cup of coffee. He’ll shave and take a bath and take you both out.”
“One cup of coffee,” Joan said.
Her sister repeated this.
He gulped down his coffee. He went to take his bath.
He heard his daughters outside the bathroom, gaily talking.
“Mommy,” Joan was saying, “Mommy, I want my pretty new blue ribbon for my walk with my Daddy.”
Arthur was both charmed and guilty. God, he told himself, he could never risk breaking up the family, not with two such girls as these. He asked himself whether Joan would understand it if he had affairs now and then. Would she be forgiving? He wished that he could tell her. He knew that he dared not. If he could, it would all be so simple.
7
It was such a joy, taking the girls out. Why should Helene now and then complain about taking care of them? But then, come to think of it, Helene didn’t complain very much. And yes, it was and would have to be different if you took them out, watched them and cared for them all of the time. But women got more out of motherhood than a man did out of fatherhood.
It was sunny out. It seemed as if the air was shining. And the Sunday morning spirit, pervading the street, the air, the walk and the appearance of people, relaxed him. Before the kids had come, he and Helene had used to lie in bed on Sunday mornings. It used to be one of their best times for love-making. It seemed, come to think of it, that love-making was not the same since the kids had come. Was this true, also, for Helene? Did she feel it?
The girls walked on either side of him, clinging to his hand, and when one of them talked, the other interrupted. He was faced with a barrage of questions and bids for attention from both of them.
There had been the dispute as to which side each of them would take, and he finally had settled it with Joan walking on the outside and Patsy on the inside. Then, they both talked at once. Joan was prim and well-behaved, and looked down on her sister. As she talked, she was trying to tell her Daddy that she was older than her sister, smarter, and that he should know this.
“Daddy, Daddy, talk to me. Talk to me,” Patsy said.
“I’ll talk to both of you,” he answered.
“Me, me,” Patsy said demandingly.
“She’s always that way, she’s selfish,” Joan said.
“That’s no way to speak of your younger sister, is it, Joan?”
“Yes,” Joan answered.
“Why is it?”
“Because it is. I don’t like her.”
“I don’t like her,” Patsy said.
“She plays with my dolls when I’m at school.” Joan said.
“I’m going to school too. I’m going to school,” Patsy said.
They walked over to Fifth Avenue, and strolled along the sunny street. The girls talked, and looked in windows, giggled, ran ahead of him, came back and took his hands, walked lady-like at his side for a while, and then kept renewing their competition for their father’s attention.
And Arthur, while paying some attention to them, also kept thinking of Annabelle. He would like to meet her strolling along Fifth Avenue, so that she could see his two girls. But that would not be so good. Somehow he sensed, or believed that he sensed, that she would not care for children. And it was best not to have her thinking of him as a father.
“Daddy, why do people go to church?” one of the girls asked.
“Because they believe in God,” her father said, his oldest daughter’s question interrupting the train of his thoughts.
“Why don’t you go?”
“Because Mommy and I believe differently.”
They were passing by on the opposite side from St. Patrick’s and, as Arthur looked across the street, he saw a crowd emerging from it.
“I think it’s funny,” Joan said.
“What is it?”
“God is.”
“Why is God funny, Joan?”
“Because you’re funny.”
She giggled. Patsy giggled in imitation of her. The two girls broke away from his hands and giggled.
Arthur for a moment was troubled. He didn’t like his oldest daughter’s telling him that he was funny. He feared that if she thought he was funny, then perhaps he was. Children often saw with such wonderful clarity.
Then he dismissed the thought from his mind.
They walked on, until the girls got tired and, when they did, he took them home in a cab, and read them stories. The morning passed easily. Arthur, looking at the girls on the floor, and then at Helene, as she entered the room, asked himself why he couldn’t he happy with this. He was. But if he was why did he want more? And why would he think of doing things, having love affairs that would risk this?
He felt that he had better not have anything to do with Annabelle. His resolution seemed firm. But in five minutes, he found himself thinking of her, and getting impatient for tomorrow.
8
Arthur and Annabelle sat at the same table in the same restaurant. They were having a cocktail before lunch. But now, Annabelle looked different to him. She wasn’t saying much, and he found that he had little to say to her. As they drank, they fell into telling one another of how they had been friends in the old days.
“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said.
She had, by the way she had spoken, seemed to him to tell him that the time had come and that she was willing. But this caused him to become tense and fearful. He thought of his home. After all, wasn’t this philandering out of place? He was afraid of himself, afraid that he wouldn’t stop, and somehow, he now believed that he should.
“Did you have a good weekend?” she asked him.
“Yes. I spent it with my family. I took my two girls out for a walk. I do that every Sunday...”
As he spoke, he noticed her face. She wasn’t interested in what he was saying.
“And you?”
“What about me?” Annabelle asked.
“Did you have a good weekend?”
“Yes,” she said unconvincingly. “I went to see friends in Connecticut.”
“Did you meet any charming males?”
“None like you, darling.”
She had had another kissing scene, and she had refused at the last moment. She had come back to town early this morning, feeling guilty and somewhat disgusted with herself. She thought of Harry. He might be broken up, and might even leave her if he knew what she did, and what she wanted to do. And she had become convinced that she would not be such a howling success in New York. Still, if she attracted and was seduced by Arthur, after all, he was a person of importance and experience, here!
They were served their food.
As they ate, their conversation was lackadaisical. They didn’t have anything to talk about. Every so often, she gazed at him, invitingly, and he stared at her, uncertain.
After eating, they left. Standing outside of the restaurant, they shyly looked at one another.
“When can you come to my hotel?” she asked him.
He took her arm, and told her:
“Isn’t it better not to? We’re both married. Do you really want me to come to the hotel with you?”
She looked at him, angry for a moment. Her gaze of anger made him uneasy. But then she smiled.
“No, I don’t.”
“We’ll remain friends.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
He kissed her goodbye, and they parted. He walked back to his office, proud of himself for having had self-control.
9
Annabelle gazed out of the window of the Twentieth Century. The Hudson was beautiful in the waning day. It seemed as romantic as anything might be in Europe. The sun was gleaming on the quiet water and, across the river, the scenery was hazy and hilly.