Paula Fox - The Widow’s Children

Conversation began at once, although to Clara’s question about how long they would be in Africa, Desmond hesitated so long, she wondered if he knew what she was asking him.

“Why do they always do it?” Peter Rice asked, rubbing the fabric of the chair with one finger.

“Do what?” Laura asked.

“So pretentious, this fabric. Fake brocade, isn’t it? Why not be plain? Why not a plain, decent chair? Why is music played in elevators? And what music! And those revolting gold tassels on airline menus, and what are those designs stamped on your bedspreads? Coats of arms, no less! I mean– ”

“Peter,” Laura said. “Don’t waste your nerves on trivia. The world is wrecked, my dears. There’s no point at all in being sniffy about the corpse’s low taste in winding sheets.”

“I was only babbling,” Peter said defensively.

“Have you seen my mother recently?” Carlos asked Laura. He had been silent for some time, and now his voice was formal and chilled as though, during that time of silence, he had broken off his connections with everyone in the room. He was already turning away from his sister; his interest in her answer seemed negligible.

“My mother.” That is how each of her children referred to Alma. They shut each other out, Clara thought. She hoped the subject of Alma would not engage them for long. Her heart pressed up weakly against her ribs. She felt the imminence of an attack against her. But there was no defense except the confession that she could not bring herself to visit the old woman. She cast a furtive glance at Laura.

They were all staring at Laura. She had clasped her drink to her forehead frantically as though an ache there must be pressed away. Her eyes were closed. In the tension of her raised arms, the loosened curls tumbling forward, legs lifting toward her stomach, one shoe beginning to slip from a foot, she was like the personification of calamity.

Desmond cried out incoherently, Peter stood up, Carlos backed away toward the windows, and Clara, remembering a glass of whiskey hurled at her by Laura so many years before she could not recall the place, only the arc of the glass, crouched in her chair.

The legs came down, the foot found the fallen shoe and inserted itself, the drink was held out to be appraised by the now wide-open eyes, and Laura grinned at them like a rogue.

“Your mother?” she asked lightly of Carlos. “You rascal! I drove all the way up from the farm last week to see your mother, and you, you wretch, live fifteen minutes from the home and haven’t been for a month. Isn’t he a rascal, Peter? Her very favorite, too! Even – even Eugenio went! Although I heard he stayed just long enough to taunt her with the details of some dinner party he crashed into. You know, Peter, don’t you, how Eugenio treats my mother? When he used to stay at the apartment, months sometimes when he had no money, he’d tell her about his dinner parties. He can’t bear to touch anybody – I suppose you must have noticed that, Clara – he always stands at least ten feet away from other human bodies. Isn’t it funny he should be running a travel agency and sending people away all the time? But I started to say – that he used to torment Mamá about the meals he was served in grand houses, as though it was her fault she didn’t live in a grand house with servants to take care of him properly!”

Uncle Eugenio had once said to Clara, “My mother was so beautiful when she used to take care of herself.” And when Clara was older, though no less ill at ease in Eugenio’s presence, he confided to her that it was the childishness in his mother’s character, “fatal childishness,” he had said, that had brought the family so low. Did he, Clara wondered, hold his mother responsible too for the Spanish-American War which had dislodged the Maldonadas’ grip on their Cuban holdings? But he never spoke of such things, wars, depressions, the state of the world, seeming as unaware, Clara thought, as her mother and Carlos of the existences beyond the rain-blurred windows which impinged upon their own. Those two, like their brother, were interested in what was singular, aberrant. But was there anybody, she asked herself, who thought

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