"Plain, Belva - Harvest" - читать интересную книгу автора (Plain Belva)

Her daily list, only half checked off, lay on the seat. Market. Shoe repair. Underwear and socks for Jimmy and Steve. See Mrs. Mills about Laura's Brownie scout meeting. Make haircut appointment. Kindergarten parents' day with Philip. Call about Steve's Bar Mitzvah date. Lunch at club with Papa and Mama.
She looked at her watch, ran a comb through her hair, and turned the key in the ignition. Papa was almost a fanatic about tardiness, and since that was one of the very few things that ever made him angry, he deserved to be humored. Thought of her father was sudden comfort; in him lay security. Understanding quite well that there was something juvenile about these feelings, as when a child is consoled by a kiss on his bump or scratch, she felt it nevertheless. So then, she ought to be glad now about this rare event, a meeting in the middle of the busy workweek, and ordinarily she would have been very glad. But at this moment she felt only like running home, like hiding, like being alone.
Now in late September the day was as hot and weary-looking as midsummer, distinguished from it only because the trees were dusty. A smoky haze lay over the street. The center of town was busy with autumn shoppers moving through the Georgian brick stores where, behind quaint bow windows, were displayed in turn the Irish tweeds, Italian shoes, Scottish cashmere sweaters, French tableware, records, books, and gourmet foods that befitted an urbane life within commuting distance of New York.
Before the war the town had still borne the mark of the country village it had once been. In the fifteen years since the war it had tripled in size and prosperity, a fact which seemed to gratify most people, but not Iris. She would have liked it to stay as it had been. In all things she was most at home with smallness and simplicity.
People aren't satisfied anymore, she thought. The country is restless and greedy. Everybody wants better things than his
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neighbor has. Theo said it was understandable after what they'd all been through, the long Depression, followed by the war. Theo again. Always her thoughts must return to him.

Driving now through the gates of the country club, which they had only recently joined, she reflected that if it had been left to her, they would not have done it. This club was far too expensive, with its large bond and dues. Also, it was too manicured, formal, lavish, snobbish—too everything. But Theo was expert at tennis, he loved his competitive games, the heated-all-year pool, the lawns, the grand view—he loved it all.

The lobby was deserted. Those who were not still on the golf course at this hour were already at lunch on the terrace, from which came a murmur of voices.

The smart young woman in charge of the dining room came over. "Mr. and Mrs. Friedman are already here. They're on the terrace, Mrs. Stern."

This is a talent, too, Iris thought as she followed. Imagine caring enough to remember all those names! Of course, she has to; it's part of her job. But still, she must really like to be at the center of crowds; as for me, I can't imagine it—

Her parents were at a table under an orange umbrella. She kissed them both, apologizing, "I'm sorry I'm late. I didn't think of looking out here for you."

"That's all right, darling," Papa said. "Only two minutes. You're forgiven. Your mother's entertained herself watching birds."

A variegated congregation of sparrows, blue jays, mourning doves, cardinals, and pigeons was bustling around a shallow feeder.

"Look!" Anna cried. "There's a flock of ducks on the way south. Isn't it a miracle that they know when it's time to leave?"

Her face, raised toward the sky, was young and eager. Her russet hair, which was barely streaked with a few strands of gray, was piled high in soft, thick waves. In spite of the sultry weather she looked cool. Her cotton dress was plaided in lime-



green, black, and white; she wore thinly strapped black sandals and little jewelry, just a gold choker and the diamond on her finger. Iris, in her pink sundress and white shoes left over from last summer, felt suddenly dowdy.
"What are you having?" Anna asked. "The last time we had lunch together the lobster salad was wonderful."
"That sounds good. I'll join you," Joseph agreed.
His wife touched his hand. "You! At home you're so observant you won't have it in the house. But outside it's all right, is it?"
Her touch was affectionate and her tone amused. She has an aura, Iris thought. A sparkle? No, that's too bright, it's more like a glow, a light that spreads from her, the light of pleasure, as if she found the world delicious.
"So what's new?" asked Papa.
"Nothing special. Nothing's changed," Iris replied.
"Then that's good. When nothing's new it means things must be all right." He reached into his breast pocket, out of which protruded three black cigars, took one, clipped off the end, lit it, and drew on it, sending a small, curly puff of aromatic smoke into the air. An expression of pure enjoyment crossed his shrewd, kindly face, an expression that Iris's memory always summoned when she thought of her father.
He settled back in the chair. "Ah, you're a lucky young woman to have a husband like Theo." He chuckled. "The answer to a parent's prayer, he is."
Iris made no answer. What had brought that up? Nothing, no doubt, but Papa's satisfaction and pride in his son-in-law. From where Papa sat, indeed Theo was an answered prayer, sober and gentle, an attentive parent, a worker after Papa's own heart. A good man; a good husband and father had to be a worker.
What would Papa say if he knew of the ways she suffered? Although maybe suffered was too strong a word? Just say "troubled," then; the ways Theo "troubled" her. And yet it felt like
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suffering. It was a matter of degree, after all . . . A small, swift jab above her temples presaged a headache.
But Papa must never know. It would be cruel to tell him, to say nothing of its being pointless and self-defeating. The admiration between the two men was genuine and equal. What was to be gained by destroying it?
Theo admired his self-educated, self-made father-in-law. "Your parents, yes, they gave me the first feeling of home that I had on this continent," he liked to say. Then his poignant memory of the Holocaust, of his lost parents, of his lost first wife and baby boy, would darken his face. "Yes, in their house, for the first time, I began to feel whole again."
"A lucky young woman," Papa repeated now. "Not that you don't deserve it. Our good daughter. You make us very happy, Iris."
It was funny about Papa. He didn't often get sentimental. Something must have inspired his mood, probably their wedding anniversary, which was coming up this week. It was the kind of time when he always said, "I count my blessings." They were no idle words either. In a very literal sense he did count them, for he was truly in his heart a religious man.
"And your children make us so happy. Beautiful, beautiful children! You should have some more."