Daisy Waugh - Melting the Snow on Hester Street

He was drunk. Clearly. And a fool. Everybody knew it. Even so … Eleanor glanced nervously at Marion.

‘Such beautiful candelabra,’ Mary Pickford said smoothly, in her sweet, steely voice. ‘Tell me, Eleanor, did you pick them up in Europe?’

Eleanor turned to her gratefully. She was about to say yes, to tell Mary a touching story of how she’d discovered them – all eighteen of them – covered in dust in a little antique market on a side street in Roma —

‘Oh, they’re terrific little antiques!’ broke in Douglas. ‘They remind me of a funny incident a few years ago …’

Eleanor longed to lean across and apologize to Marion, but so long as the stupid shoyte continued to jabber at her, it seemed quite impossible.

‘… I had the candelabra in the one hand and there was I,’ he bellowed, ‘a hundred foot up on the rigging, the whole damn thing swaying. Next thing – WHOOSH! … The entire set’s up in flames and I’m thinking to myself – I kid you not – I AM GOING TO DIE! Right here, right now. And I’m dressed as Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest!’

Eleanor, not really listening, offered him only the wannest of smiles.

‘Imagine me, El!’ he cried stubbornly, determined to get a better response, ‘I’m a hundred foot in the air …’ He stood up, grasping the nearest candelabra as he rose, his infuriating, actorish laughter filling the air. He held the flames aloft, waving them this way and that –

‘… I’m holding onto that rigging for grim death! …’

Eleanor watched him. Felt the cold, wet fear crawling slowly over her skin. Felt her lungs tighten, making it hard for her to breath.

She saw only the tip of the candle, the flame, and the tip of the flag …

‘… Next thing, WHOOSH! …’ Douglas shouted.

She sat quite still as he and the light swayed this way and that, from side to side and back again, flickering flame against dainty, deadly silken flag. She opened her mouth to protest …

‘HA HA HA! Can you imagine it, El?’

But she couldn’t hear him any more.

‘There I am. A man in tights!’

Her lungs had filled …

‘In tights , I tell you!’ shouted Douglas, laughing and swaying. She couldn’t breathe …

‘A man in tights ! HA HA HA!’

There was a taste of smoke in her mouth, in her throat, and she could feel it … blackening her insides as it burned its path through her chest, scorching, melting, choking –

‘WHOOSH! WHOOSH! FIRE! HA HA!’

And then, somehow, Max was beside her, taking the candelabra from Dougie’s fist, placing it back on the table. ‘Eleanor,’ he said loud and clear, his strong hand on her shoulder … ‘Honey. I think it’s time we were on that dance floor, don’t you? They got the best Charleston playing … can you hear it? … It’s got my feet tip-tapping like nothing else …’

Eleanor smiled. Quickly, gratefully, feeling his touch, willing herself to recover. ‘I can hear it!’ she said, in the mellifluous voice she could use. ‘It’s too perfect! Let’s not sit a moment longer!’ But she was shaking. Max could feel it. He could feel her shoulder convulsing beneath his hand.

He bent across the table and kissed her. There and then. In front of everyone. Someone sighed, ‘ Awwww …’, possibly Marion. The kiss lasted a second or two longer than expected, giving Eleanor time to collect herself. Douglas Fairbanks, observing it disconsolately, leaned down to Mary Pickford and kissed her on the lips, too.

‘Mary, my darling wife, I adore you!’ he cried.

‘Oh, for crying out l-loud, Dougie!’ Marion said. ‘P-pipe down for once in your life, why dontcha?’

And then Max and Eleanor pulled apart, Eleanor smiling at her husband. She stood up. ‘I hesitate to imagine what you’ve been discussing at this end of the table,’ Max said to everyone, but looking only at his wife. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been talking nothing but Investment Trusts, down our end …’

‘Eleanor, darling, you can’t even imagine how dull we’ve been!’ drawled Gloria Swanson.

‘Humblest apologies, Gloria,’ Max flashed her a smile. ‘We’ll do better next year, I promise.’

‘Except of course, if we’re to believe Charlie Chaplin,’ Eleanor said, with her lovely light smile, her beautiful soft voice, flirtatious and humouring to everyone around, ‘we shall all be in the poorhouse next year, anyway. There won’t be any parties!’

There followed plenty of laughter, and the scraping of chairs: chairs which, had Douglas bothered to look at them closely, he might have noticed were as familiar as the terrific little antique candelabra, and the terrific banqueting table, too. Every scrap was due to be returned to the studio props department first thing in the morning.

‘No more dullness!’ declared Max, ‘or Gloria Swanson might go home in a sulk. And none of us wants that! It’s a party, for God’s sakes. Added to which – except for Charlie – we all made a fortune today!’

‘God Bless America!’ cried Douglas Fairbanks.

Max ignored him. ‘Let’s dance!’ he commanded. And for a brief, uplifting moment the brilliant director, handsome as the devil himself, and his dazzling movie-star wife, were united again; and they were happy. He squeezed her hand and led her across their nautically themed, Italianate terrace, through the sweet-smelling hallway decked in blue and white lilies, onto the centre of the dance floor … And though they hardly noticed it, alone in their fragile cocoon, the cream of America’s fame and beauty followed close behind …

Nobody talked about Investment Trusts for the rest of the evening. And they danced until five in the morning.

Too often, in a soured marriage, such uplifting moments do more harm than good, and only serve to make the thud of the landing more painful.

Max was gone by the time the maid came in with Eleanor’s tea the next day. It arrived on a tray at eleven thirty, with the usual glass of freshly squeezed lemon juice, unsweetened, the usual small pile of pre-selected mail; and a small, square, leather jewel box. She took a gulp of the juice. Shuddered. And opened the box.

Every year, on the morning after the party, he gave her something precious. This – a large ruby pendant in the shape of a heart – was larger and more precious than last year’s jewel; she imagined because of their recent successes on the stock market. And beautiful, too. No doubt about that. Max had excellent taste. She shuddered once again as the last of the juice went down, laid the ruby heart back in its box, set it aside. She could hardly bring herself to touch it. Why a heart, of all things? A heart – how absurd! She wondered – what did he give to Blanche? A ruby pendant in the shape of a goddamn putz ?

She laughed to herself, though she didn’t find it funny, and looked about for the accompanying envelope. There was always an envelope. She wished she could ignore it, simply not open it, because what could he say that would ever make it all right again? What could he say that wouldn’t hurt?

Darling,

Another wonderful night!

Enjoy your morning. You certainly earned it.

Your ever-loving,

Max

She put the letter down. Ever-loving . Indeed. Had he forgotten what it was all for? This night of nights? He never mentioned it. Never said a word … Gosh, her head was throbbing so – she must have drunk more than she realized.

She could hear the people downstairs, still clearing away the residue of the party. If she stayed up here long enough, as she fully intended, there’d be no evidence of the party at all by the time she went down there. The bunting, the flowers – the eighteen candelabra, the silver-threaded linen table cloth, the banqueting table, too – all of it borrowed, all of it gone. And she could forget about it until next year came round again. If it ever did.