Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin Page B

chatted with Martha until Lincoln could see how nervous Polly was.
    â€œOkay, Dottie,” he said. “Let’s go run the rest of your errands and leave Martha to her handcrafted salad.”
    â€œShe knows,” Polly said when they got outside.
    â€œOf course she does,” Lincoln said. “But you can always say that I’m your little brother’s pal. And besides, what would it matter if she did know?”
    They were walking slowly toward the tobacconist’s. Polly suddenly stopped. She looked exhausted and grim.
    â€œCome on, Dot,” Lincoln said softly. “You’ll be all right.”
    â€œI don’t know if I will,” she said and pressed her face against Lincoln’s shoulder. “Oh, Lincoln, I wish I knew.”
    That evening, as Polly left the office, it began to snow. There was not a taxi in sight and the bus, as it inched its way up the avenue, was packed. Polly had her briefcase, her handbag, and two large shopping bags containing the ten baguettes, the cheeses, salted almonds, a box of cigars, a large box of her family’s favorite chocolate, two bottles of champagne, and a bottle of brandy. It was almost certain that one of the shopping bags would split. She had not worn boots or taken a scarf. As she got off the bus, one of the packages began to disintegrate and it was necessary to hold it in her arms. Snow blew into her eyes. She felt that juggling this many things was beyond her—she, who had juggled babies and prams and strollers and packages at the same time. She felt like throwing herself and everything else into the street.
    Polly had had her adolescent swivets, her bouts of nerves, her small heartaches. She had read, good student of literature, novels in which great unhappiness and emotional tragedy unfolded. She knew these states of feeling existed. She had sat on the deck of an ocean liner going to France on her honeymoon and read Anna Karenina . Heroines in literature fell from grace little by little. Small mistakes were emblematic of terrible flaws. Suddenly the truth was revealed: these flaws were chasms, magnified and compounded. The heroine was then exiled from optimism, cheer, security, and the safety of the right thing. Did nice people ever feel this miserable? Lincoln said they did, but Polly did not really know many people outside her family; and no one in her family, she was sure, had ever felt the way she felt, or if they had, they had triumphed over it in secret. Her distress frightened her. It was not because she had fallen in love with Lincoln. It was what allowing herself to fall in love revealed: that everything was wrong.
    Once at home, she flung her packages on the kitchen table. Both split, spilling out the contents. Pete and Dee-Dee came to the door and gave her a desultory kiss. They knew she was going out for the evening, and she was therefore of limited use to them.
    Concita Croft, the housekeeper who came in on Polly’s three workdays, had put the children’s dinner in the oven.
    â€œHi, Polly,” Concita said. “You look tired.”
    â€œI am tired,” said Polly. “Did Nancy Jewell call?” Nancy Jewell was a sixteen-year-old girl who lived in the building and often baby-sat.
    â€œShe’ll be here at seven,” Concita said.
    â€œI’m going to make a cup of tea,” said Polly. “Do you want one, too?”
    â€œOkay,” Concita said. “Mr. D. called. He says he’ll meet you at your parents’, but he might be a little late. And the housepainter called. He said to call if you had the time.”
    â€œThe housepainter?” said Polly. She looked at the number and went to the telephone. She dialed, hung up, and dialed again. Lincoln almost never called her at night, and never if he knew Henry was in town.
    â€œIt’s only me, Dottie,” Lincoln said when he picked up. “Your housepainter.”
    â€œYes,” said Polly.
    â€œI just