Tell Me the Truth About Love

  To Harriet Wasserman with love and appreciation

  Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.

  - W. H. Auden

  A headline, “Smithson Family Feud,” in the Santa Fe New Mexican one May morning several years ago, led to the changing of my entire life. At the time I did not foresee any changes, even small ones. I had been Mrs. Osgood Decatur Smithson IV for eighteen years, and, as my mother would have put it, I was well-fixed. Whenever I felt depressed, as I often did, I tried hard to remind myself that I lived in a beautiful part of the world, surrounded by chili fields and peace and quiet, and that I really had no problems except an oppressive mother-in-law; into each life some rain must fall.

  On that landmark morning, Oz left for his bank directly after breakfast, as usual. He had a routine that never varied: up at seven, push-ups, shower, dressing; bran cereal, wheat germ, skim milk, coffee, and a handful of vitamin pills; yesterday’s Wall Street Journal propped against the fern on the breakfast table. At twenty to eight he was out the door, so that he would arrive at his bank in Santa Fe close to an hour before its doors were opened.

  I usually puttered around the kitchen, still in my bathrobe, until he said, “I’m leaving, Alex.” Then I said, “‘Bye, Oz.” A kiss was not part of this procedure, and I was glad about that. I had seen other husbands and wives go through a kiss-goodbye ritual, and it didn’t necessarily mean love; nor did Oz’s inert “I’m leaving” mean nonlove. I believed he loved me, and I considered him a nice man.

  That morning, as soon as he had driven away, I wandered down the drive to the mailbox in order to pick up the morning paper. We lived in the country outside Santa Fe, where you look at mountains in almost every direction. That day, the highest peaks still had snow on them, but here in the valley it was full spring. The early morning air was drenched with sunlight, and every little pebble in the road had an important ink-black shadow. A bull snake crossed in front of me, leaving an elegant curved track in the dust. When I first came to live in New Mexico, snakes made me scream. Now I had learned to admire their grace and their purposeful glide. They seemed to know where they were going, and that was a quality I envied.

  Back at the house, I poured a second cup of coffee and returned to bed with it and the paper. No one knew that I liked to do this. “Idle, lazy, decadent” I often told myself, but then I’d say, “Why not?” I have no children, no job, and no demands on me other than picking up the cleaning woman once a week and shopping and cooking and tidying. In behalf of tidying, I always made up Oz’s twin bed before returning into my own. There, I glanced at the headlines and then browsed through the death notices, the police blotter, and Ann Landers.

  On that particular morning I had intended to read a canto of The Divine Comedy, getting ready for the advanced Italian class I was taking.

  “Why Italian?” Oz had asked when I first started studying it.

  “Because I loved it when I was a little girl. When Daddy was in the Consulate in Florence.”

  My Foreign Service childhood was of no interest to Oz, He had been to Europe once, on a family tour, and did not care to go again.

  “But Italian is of no use to you now. Why not learn something useful?”

  Given the difference in our personalities, there was no way to explain to him that I loved reading about Hell in a beautiful and subtle language.

  So I said, “Why do you like to hunt?”

  After a moment’s thought, he said, “It can be exciting, and it makes me feel independent. It’s nice to do something you know how to do.”

  “Then you know what Italian does for me,” I said, and that ended the discussion.

  In the middle of the journey of our life

  I found myself in a dark wood

  And at a loss to find the path ahead . . .

  Dante went on to say that he was frightened, and that he had no idea how he had come to such a place. When I first read these lines, I felt certain that, difficult though I found it, I must go on with La Divina Commedia. I knew what Dante was talking about.

  But on that May morning, I never did read my Dante assignment, or Ann Landers, either. I had only just noticed, in the morning newspaper, the startling headline “Smithson Family Feud,” when the telephone rang and I heard the gravelly, constant-smoker voice of my mother-in-law, Lydia Smithson.

  Dispensing with amenities such as “Good morning,” she demanded, “Have you seen the paper?”

  “I’ve only just opened it.”

  “You’re in for a nasty surprise, Alexandra. The photographer and the reporter came to see me two days ago. I must say, I think it’s shocking that the reporter woman couldn’t get the facts straight, because I was very clear. She’s written that I was a debutante in 1928. Anybody could tell you I was still a schoolgirl at Farmington in 1928. And the photograph is terrible of both Deck and me. Makes us look a hundred. It’s good of the Gilbert Stuart, though.”

  While listening to this, which made no sense to me, I glanced through the lead paragraph of the article. It said that David Smithson, younger son of Mr. and Mrs. Osgood Decatur Smithson III, was suing to obtain guardianship of his parents on the grounds that they were habitual drunkards and of unsound mind; and also, because they were attempting to bequeath their property, the Gallegos Ranch, with its Spanish-Colonial adobe houses, to a religious organization called Glorious Light rather than to their two sons.

  “Deck and I only found out last week what David is trying to do,” Lydia went on. “It was such a shock to me that I went to bed. Can you imagine David doing such a dreadful thing? To us?”

  I thought, but didn’t say, that yes, I could imagine it. David - handsome, clever, energetic David - had always been Lydia’s favorite child, but of recent years their relationship had been bumpy. Her buoyant expectations that he would become a tycoon, or a senator, or some other kind of very important man, had gradually given way to disappointment. He was a cattle rancher, and not a very successful one at that.

  “Alex, I suppose,” Lydia went on nastily, “that you and Oz have known all along about what David was plotting.”

  “The first I knew of it was five minutes ago,” I said. “I didn’t know, either, that you had made this new will.”

  “Turn to page nine. That’s where the photograph of us is, and our side of the story, although I am totally amazed they left out so much of what I took the trouble to tell them. It seems that the reporter woman telephoned Oz and he declined comment, wouldn’t you know, he avoids a confrontation whenever he can. Then she called David and he slandered me.”

  I put the receiver down for a moment while I turned to page nine. “I need time to read all this,” I said to Lydia. “It’s three full columns.”

  “After you’ve read them, I’ll tell you what they should have said. I’ve just called Oz at the bank and he promised to come home this morning. I want you both over here for lunch.”

  “What time?” I asked, without enthusiasm.

  “Early. Can you make it by eleven-thirty? We’ll all be needing a little drinkie-poo.”

  Lydia had developed a frivolous social manner to the point where she seemed to be made of it. In the midst of a major family upheaval, she could speak of drinkie-poos.

  “We’ll come over as soon as we can,” I said, trying to sound very calm, although I was trembling.

  As soon as I had hung up, the phone rang again and the caller was a casual friend of mine, who had read the morning paper and was obviously after the inside story. I said that if she had read the paper she knew more than I did.

  “Well, you must feel terrible about losing your house,” she sa
id.

  The question was like an alarm bell in my head. Lose my house?

  “I’ll call you back later,” I said, “after I’m sure what this is all about.”

  After that, I decided not to answer any more calls - the phone rang all morning - and I sat down to read the article carefully.

  Yes, it was true. David was trying legally to obtain guardianship of his parents and to have the court set aside their new will, which left the Gallegos Ranch to Glorious Light. In fact, Decatur and Lydia Smithson had already given the Glorious Light people a deed, and David was asking the court to declare it void because of his parents’ incompetency. David was also accusing Glorious Light of having exerted undue influence, which they had denied, declaring, “The Smithsons’ offer came as a total surprise. We are willing to return the deed if they wish it, but Mrs. Smithson has urged us to defend the suit.”

  In response to an invitation from Mrs. Smithson, the newspaper had sent a reporter to talk to her. “Among the many problems on her mind” (the reporter had written) “is the fear that if the property is left to one or both of her sons, they will sell it to developers.” She was quoted as saying, “Neither of our boys has enough money to live here and keep the place up, and they would squabble over what to do with it. They might not be able to resist the temptation to sell it, and then this beautiful old hacienda would become a bingo hall and these exquisite, empty six hundred acres would be a subdivision. The whole Santa Fe charm thing that we have tried all these years to preserve would be down the drain.”

  When I had finished reading all this, I went through the motions of getting dressed while I thought and thought about it. The new will seemed bizarre indeed, and David’s legal action even more so. But clearly, both will and lawsuit were realities, and so was the distinct danger that Oz and I would have to move from this snug old adobe, where we had lived for eighteen years, or nearly half my life. Before that, I had moved often and far, since my father was a Foreign Service Officer. I grew up feeling deprived of a real home, and now the threat of losing this one stirred very old emotions.

  It was after eleven o’clock that morning before I heard Oz’s car in the driveway. Meanwhile, my rising anger had been fueled by a new thought: Why wasn’t I told? How can so much go on right under my nose and nobody bothers to tell me?

  I knew, of course, that Lydia didn’t consider me a full-fledged Smithson, but only a sort of concubine; that was because she hadn’t picked me out herself as she had picked out David’s wife, Bishy, the daughter of an old school friend in Brookline, Mass. The four parents had connived to throw the two together and bring about a marriage that could not have been more cunningly planned if they had all been Hapsburgs.

  Old Decatur had always liked me, and in earlier years he had sometimes confided in me, but now he was too far gone in drink. As for David, we had hardly had a conversation in years, and Bishy had always made it clear that she didn’t like me much. But Oz! Why had he said nothing? 1 went to the door to meet him.

  “Oz, what is all this?” I rather sharply demanded.

  He got out of his car slowly and came toward me, wearing what I call his sea-captain’s face. We have a portrait of a nautical Smithson ancestor who looks very much like Oz. The captain’s face, like Oz’s, is bony and long, and his expression is wary, as if he has seen a pirate ship on the horizon. When I see Oz with his ancestor’s expression, I invariably feel like cheering him up, soothing him, and convincing him that the pirates aren’t there.

  “I suppose you’re mad at me, Alex,” he said. “I know I should have told you. It must have been hard on you, reading all this in the newspaper.”

  “Yes, it was, but never mind now, Oz. Just tell me your version.”

  “My version is that it’s a mess. Pure and simple, I never dreamed David would do this.”

  “But did you know he was thinking about it?”

  “Well, he called me a while back and asked if I’d go with him to see a lawyer. He wanted us to try for joint custody of Mother and Dad. I said no.”

  Oz edged past me into the house and sat down in his big chair. With a heavy sigh, he said, “I really didn’t think he’d do this alone. Honest! Never dreamed it.”

  It crossed my mind that he had never dreamed it because he is not the type to dream, or imagine, or even consider possibilities. All his life he has been surprised by the devious ways of human beings. He is brilliant with figures, and he makes a fine and conscientious third vice-president of his bank, but he will never be its president because of this failure to anticipate shenanigans and foibles. He would be sure to make bad loans.

  But I knew he couldn’t help it. I knew that there was no use in scolding or lecturing him, any more than one would scold a tree for dropping its leaves in autumn. It was his nature and I had learned to live with it. Oz and I never experienced fireworks of joy, but no black abysses either. Our hours together were punctuated by the sound of rustling newspapers, spoons in the soup, and voices on the television. Oz is fifty now, and has more or less always been fifty. He believes in his own generation and that of his parents, and in his placid career as a vice-president of his admirably solvent bank. And these things keep him feeling that he knows what’s right.

  I said, “What about the will? Surely there’s still something in it for you, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, some stocks and bonds, but I’m afraid Dad has run through most of them. His only really important possession is the ranch.”

  There was a short silence, while I took in the implications of all this. I had been looking forward to a lot of money one day, after Lydia and Decatur had been called heavenward. In idle moments I had daydreamed about renting a villa in Italy or a flat in London; or going to New York every winter, in order to take courses and see plays.

  “My God, Oz,” I said, and sank down on the sofa. The newspaper was open to the photograph, and I looked at it again, feeling that I might see two monsters pictured there. Instead, I was struck by how poised and calm both Lydia and Deck appeared. Lydia was wearing her best country-lady clothes: cashmere and tweed and an heirloom brooch of pearls and amethysts, Deck, in his English jacket with leather elbows, leaned back in his chair, jauntily balancing a highball on his knee. It was true that they appeared old, even ancient; but the kind of ancient that comes from a lifetime of self-assurance and of having things their way. I was reminded of Egyptian Pharaohs, getting as much or more attention after becoming mummies than most living people. I had the feeling that Lydia and Deck’s new will was a pharaonic device for continuing to run things even from beyond the grave. And never mind what the rest of us might want or feel.

  “Oz, the whole story is outrageous,” I said. “And how did these Glorious Light people get involved? I never heard of them.”

  “Mother was taken in by some girl who came around asking for contributions,” he said. “She says the girl was so sweet and sincere and conservatively dressed. Then it turned out that she was related to the Berry family in Hartford and the Berrys are some sort of cousins of ours. Also, she promised never to poison the prairie dogs. So when she asked for a contribution-”

  “-Lydia contributed the Gallegos Ranch!”

  “Right. David thinks she was probably drunk. He says she and Dad are never sober these days.”

  “That’s not true. They’re sober in the mornings. But how would David know, anyway? He hasn’t been to see them in ages.

  “Mrs. Martinez told him.”

  Mrs. Martinez was housekeeper for the elder Smithsons. I wondered why she hadn’t confided in Oz, but then I realized that she probably preferred David. Most people did.

  Oz went on, “Mother told me she doesn’t trust David, or me either, not to sell this place to developers. She imagines a fake adobe suburb here, and about six malls. The cottonwoods will be cut down, along with every piñon tree. And the pond will be drained and the ducks won’t stop here anymore. So that’s why they changed the will.”

  “And disinherited their heirs,”
I said, my voice trembling. “I don’t know, Oz - maybe David is right. This doesn’t seem rational.”

  But Oz looked disapproving. “He’s wrong, Alex. Dead wrong to drag our parents through the courts. Bishy agrees. I told him the only right way to handle this is to talk them out of it. That’s what I intend to do, but he doesn’t want to bother. He never comes here, I guess because he doesn’t want to see them. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  “He’s acting like a son-of-a-bitch, that’s what’s wrong with him,” I burst out.

  Oz looked surprised by my sudden vehemence. “Maybe you could talk him out of it,” he said. “You and he used to be pretty good friends.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him,” I said. “No, Oz, it’s up to you. You talk to your mother, and Deck will go along, I’m sure. Come on, they’ll be waiting for us.”

  We walked across the acre of lawn that lies between the house we lived in and Oz’s parents’, known as the main house. In New Mexico, a lawn is a luxury, requiring constant attention and watering, but Lydia had always insisted on having one. For her it is a sign of civilization, and she would as soon go without clothes as without a lawn.

  We let ourselves in at the handsome carved front door, which is worn and weathered and entering its third century. The brass doorknocker, in the shape of a pineapple, was brought from Lydia’s girlhood home in Providence, Rhode Island. It, too, is old, with about two hundred years of polishing on it. I have sometimes idly wondered how much that doorknocker can be polished before it fades like an old star and disappears altogether. Now, as Oz and I walked into the house, it occurred to me that it was the Smithsons who were disappearing. The knocker would long outlast them.

  Lydia has a passion for handsome antiques. It is second only to her passion for endangered species. Human beings come in third. This house is a treasure trove of Spanish-Colonial objects, which Lydia “picked up” during the Depression from poor and hungry families in the Santa Fe area. Besides the New Mexican things, she and Deck also own several museum-quality heirlooms from both their families, now damaged by the New Mexican climate, which is too dry for them. There is a Newport highboy and a wing chair with mahogany feet carved to look like a lion’s. These two pieces had seen Lydia come and they would see her go; and when she goes, they will be shipped back East again as bequests to the Rhode Island School of Design.