Kate Christensen - The Great Man

She was therefore nervous and excited about Henry’s visit today. The first time he had come, about two weeks before, she hadn’t realized how oddly satisfying it would be to talk to him.

This morning, she’d made up her face and despaired at how fleshy and drooping it had become. She had never been much of a beauty, but she’d always had what Oscar had called “a beguiling softness” about her. He had always made her feel attractive — it was one of the many things she had dearly loved about him — but it had been a long time since she’d thought much about how she looked. The last time Henry had come, she had worn her usual comfortable elastic-waist pants and a white button-down shirt that had been Oscar’s. Today, she had put on a pale turquoise silk pantsuit, which by some miracle was a little loose on her now, her pearl necklace, and low-heeled pumps; yesterday, she had had her short faded red hair colored its original auburn and styled in a new way, springier, curlier.

She’d ordered in Oscar’s favorite delicatessen food from Zabar’s so Henry could experience firsthand the sort of lunch that Oscar had liked: smoked whitefish salad, potato salad, sliced chicken breast, and smoked Gouda, along with grainy mustard, sour dill pickles, and rye bread that was crusty outside and soft inside. It was easier than trying to make something from scratch. Abigail had never been much of a cook, but she knew good food when she ate it. Early in her and Oscar’s marriage, she had hired a West Indian woman, Maribelle, who had lived in the little maid’s room off the kitchen for more than forty years. She had been a great cook, which, naturally, had caused Abigail to get increasingly fatter as the years went on. Five years ago, Maribelle had died, very shortly after Oscar. Abigail had to admit, but only privately, to herself, that she missed her housekeeper more than she missed her husband. Maribelle had been her faithful and constant companion, and he had not.

One day, Oscar had asked Maribelle out of the blue to take all her clothes off and pose for him right then, in the living room, and she’d done it. He had never before painted at home; he worked in his studio on the Bowery and often stayed there several nights in a row, or so he said — of course, he was probably at Teddy’s. He’d covered all the furniture in drop cloths for a couple of days. Standing there unselfconsciously, Maribelle had started to sing while he painted, old torch songs, so he’d painted her as a nightclub singer, with her head thrown back, eyes half closed, mouth open in song. It had been festive, but Abigail couldn’t remember now why she had found it so exciting and entertaining to have her maid standing there singing naked in her living room while her husband wielded his paintbrush with his usual predatory jabs. What an odd life it had turned out to be, living in a cloister with a son who was totally imprisoned in his own mind and body, a husband who went wherever and fucked whomever he wanted, and a black maid as her best friend. Abigail had planned as a girl to get a graduate degree in literature, become a professor, never get married or have children. Anyway…

Should she have bought some wine? She would have bet anything Teddy had served him wine. She felt a flare-up of jealousy like a tongue of flame in a defunct oil field. Henry and Teddy had probably gotten tipsy together while they talked about Abigail’s husband. They had probably liked each other. Teddy had always been beautiful. Was she warm? Abigail had never had an impression of warmth from Teddy, but why would she have?

It was so odd, looking back at it all. This woman knew Abigail’s husband as well as Abigail did, but very differently; had given birth to Oscar’s twin daughters. Abigail and Oscar had never once talked directly about any of this, but of course Abigail knew everything. She wasn’t stupid. And of course she minded, but she and Oscar had always been more friends than lovers; she couldn’t meet his needs that way. She had always preferred to sleep alone. She was taken up with Ethan’s needs, because she refused to send him away to an institution, although everyone assured her it would be the best thing for everyone. He was her only child. Yes, she had always been horribly jealous of her husband’s mistress, but it was unfair of her to mind. Abigail’s main feeling about Teddy, besides this natural and uncontrollable jealousy, had been curiosity. She remembered seeing Teddy at Oscar’s openings, knowing who she was and knowing Teddy knew who she was, but both of them, naturally, pretending ignorance. At least they hadn’t had to stare at each other on gallery walls, because Oscar hadn’t painted any portraits of either of them, but they’d had to look together at other women he’d painted and, more often than not, slept with.

Whatever and whoever she was besides, Teddy had been the antithesis of Abigail for Oscar. That had been the whole point of her role in his life, as far as Abigail was concerned: an overflow valve to catch all of Oscar’s excess appetite and energy their marriage failed to absorb and feed. She could see no other reason for his dual life than the fundamental but entirely natural incompatibility with his wife that underlay their otherwise-good union; and so egotistically, and admitted only to Maribelle, Abigail had always viewed her husband’s need for his mistress as the waste product of their marriage. She hoped that nothing she might learn, either inadvertently or directly, in the course of this biography Henry was writing would contradict this necessary belief.

Abigail opened her apartment door as Henry came down the hallway. She let him in right away. “Let’s sit in the kitchen,” she said before he could apologize for being late. “I’ve got Oscar’s favorite lunch, and he always wanted to eat lunch in the kitchen. He said it was haimish. ”

Henry followed her into the narrow, somewhat cramped kitchen, at the very end of which was a breakfast nook, whose table was set and laden with food.

“He spoke Yiddish, then,” he said.

“Well, but you have to understand, he spoke it ironically. He always made fun of American Jews of our generation who tried to sound echt, as he called it, again ironically.”

Abigail fluttered over to the fridge, aware of the three bottles of beer in there left over from a visit from Maxine months before. Maxine had brought a six-pack of Mexican beer and drunk two herself, while Abigail had sipped carefully at about one-eighth of one and poured the rest down the sink later.

“Would you like a beer?” Abigail asked Henry, trying to sound as if she said this every day.

“Sure,” he said with enthusiasm as he slid into the kitchen nook and sat next to Ethan, who was humming to himself in a tone so low, it was almost like Mongolian throat singing, and who seemed not to notice Henry’s presence at all. Henry got out his notebook and, there being not one inch on the table that wasn’t covered with food or dishes, tucked it under his thigh and put his pen behind his ear. He took a swig of the bottle of Tecate Abigail handed him.

Ethan stopped humming and rocking. Without looking directly at Henry, he sent a gentle, fluttering hand over to touch Henry’s shoulder.

“He’s saying hello,” said Abigail. “Help yourself to lunch; it’s from Zabar’s.”

“Do you keep kosher?” asked Henry.

“Well, I’m Conservative,” said Abigail, “so no, not strictly, but Itry.”

“Do you take care of this place all by yourself?” he asked her.

“Oh God no,” she said. “A girl cleans it once a week. I use the word clean very loosely. Since Maribelle died, it’s been a big problem. No one seems to know how to dust moldings or get behind couches. Maxine told me to hire a Filipina, but they all seem to be taken, or else I just don’t know how to find one.”