Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“Oh, well enough, I think. Celia was devoted to her husband. And Dan loved her, in his own way. He never really appreciated what he had, though. Didn’t really see much difference between Celia and that noisy peroxide blonde he married after she died, with her fake Matisse prints, you know, what’s-her-name.”

“Marcia.”

“That’s right. You’ve met her?”

“I interviewed her.”

“Well, then you know.” Garrett grinned confidentially.

“You didn’t care for Marcia Zimmern?”

“Christ, no!” The brandy was beginning to loosen his tongue. “Did you?”

“Not very much,” Polly admitted, similarly affected.

“I couldn’t stand the woman. And of course it was far worse for Laura. She never got over her father’s marrying someone like that less than a year after Celia died. Never forgave him, really.”

And why should she? Polly thought. “Tell me, though. In what way was Celia Zimmern unlike her husband?”

“In every way. They were completely different types. For one thing, I don’t think Celia gave a damn for either pleasure or power. Couldn’t focus on them; that wasn’t where her interests lay.” Garrett considered, rotating his glass. “What mattered to her was her family, Laura and Dan. And after that art, books, music, nature.”

“Mm.”

“I’m sure it was from Celia that Laura got her sensitivity to the natural world. And her love of paintings — Celia started taking her to galleries and museums almost as soon as she could walk. Her shyness, too; but in Laura it was exaggerated, into an almost pathological fear of unfamiliar people and situations.”

“Pathological?” Polly frowned.

“Well, yes. I think it was. It was almost impossible, for instance, to persuade Laura to meet people in the art world who could help her. I kept explaining that once someone came to know her and like her, they’d be more apt to look at her paintings seriously. She’d always say, ‘What if they get to know me and hate me?’ ”

“I see,” said Polly, though to her this seemed a sensible question.

“I just couldn’t convince her, no matter how important the occasion.” Garrett shook his head. “Shy and stubborn: it was an exhausting combination. The stubbornness she got from her father, along with his energy; her mother was always gentle and yielding. And Laura had his looks, of course. Celia was pretty too — beautiful, but in a much more subtle way. You didn’t notice at first how lovely she was. Some people never realized it.”

“I know, I’ve seen pictures,” said Polly, not wanting to be classed with these ignorant people.

“She was a wonderful woman.” Garrett sighed. “Y’know, I was out there with Laura one day, the spring after we were married, and Celia was showing me around the garden. She was a very gifted gardener. Not professionally, of course, like Abigail: the place was always untidy, in process, and she didn’t go in for nursery plants, except for roses.”

“Roses,” Polly repeated.

“Yes; Celia had wonderful old roses. Some varieties I’ve never seen before or since. But mainly she liked wildflowers. She used to go out into the woods and fields with a basket and dig up clumps of weeds. Her beds were full of trillium and wild hyacinth and narcissus and different sorts of long grasses.”

“Mm.”

“Well, you know, I looked at her, that damp spring day, as she knelt there with the trowel in her hand, transplanting a clump of white violets, and the idea came to me that it was Celia I should have married, not Laura. She was only six or seven years older than me — if she’d been a few years younger she would have been perfect. She had a first-rate mind, but she wasn’t pushy or argumentative like most educated women.”

“Really,” said Polly, wondering if this classic antifeminist statement was being taped. “So you think Celia would have suited you better than her daughter.”

“In many ways, yes. For one thing, she was a genuine intellectual. She could talk intelligently about anything: art, aesthetics, psychology, philosophy, literature ... Compared to her, Laura was only a beautiful, willful child.” Garrett shook his head slowly. “But of course one always falls most passionately in love with children — or with the child in the other person. Isn’t that so?”

“I guess it can happen,” said Polly, who had never had this experience. She dropped her hand over the arm of the sofa to make sure her bag was open and the tape recorder exposed. “And did you ever tell Celia Zimmern how you felt about her?”

“No; how could I? But I think she knew. I’m sure she could sense that there was a sympathy between us. There’s a kind of vibration one feels sometimes in the presence of a really sensitive woman. I’ve experienced it often. In Paris, just after the war ...

Before Polly could head him off, Garrett sailed into another sea of anecdote, this time romantic rather than professional in nature. Now, however, he didn’t drop names, but rather held them just out of reach (“A very beautiful woman, and a gifted poetess — you’ve read her work, I’m sure, she’s in all the anthologies...,” etc.). As he reminisced, leaning back easily into the flowered cushions, with his fire-sparked brandy glass in one hand and the other arm resting along the top of the sofa, the creases in his face were softened by the rosy light and his blunt, handsome features warmed and enlivened. For the first time he strongly resembled his old photographs.

“You’ve had a lot of experiences,” Polly said when Garrett paused to refill their glasses, hoping to change the subject. “But I wanted to ask —”

“Yes, it’s been a fascinating life,” he interrupted. “I’ve thought sometimes of writing my memoirs. I certainly have enough material. My publisher’s suggested it, too.” He gave a sigh. “But I don’t know. It means so damned much work, going through all my old letters and papers, writing to people I’ve lost track of completely, getting all the names and dates and places right.”

He sighed again, then grinned at Polly, his pale blue eyes sparkling. “Of course, if I could find an assistant — a collaborator, I should say. Somebody who knew the art world, and had a gift for research. That might help get me started, don’t you think?”

“Sure, why not?”

“It would have to be someone young and energetic, of course. Someone like you —” Garrett leaned over and put his strong knobbed hand on Polly’s, patting it in a fatherly manner. “I think we could work together, y’know? Believe there’s a sympathy between us already. A natural understanding.”

“Thank you,” Polly said, smiling nervously; more than ever, she felt herself to be in bad faith.

“So how about it?” Garrett asked. “Like to help me?”

“It’d be an interesting project,” she temporized, wondering if he could be serious. “But when I finish my book next year I’ve got to go back to work, or I’ll starve.” She gave an awkward light laugh and eased her hand from under Garrett’s.

“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her; his hand now rested on Polly’s tan cord slacks. “If I agreed to take on the project I’d get a fairly decent advance from my publisher. And I don’t see why we couldn’t manage a nice little grant for you.” He gave her thigh a friendly squeeze. “I say ‘little,’ but it’d be a good deal more than you earn now, I can assure you.

“The Museum would never hold my job for me that long,” Polly said, moving her leg away, but unobtrusively. It was late at night, and Garrett was half-addled; she didn’t feel all that sober herself.

“Sure they would; I’d see to it. You know your boss is a good friend of mine.” He grinned again, then stooped to poke up the fire, stirring smoke into the room. “Think about it, all right?”