Later that afternoon, Grace left in her limousine, and Sandra took the train into the city. Carolyn was alone with the children. Outside the windows of the Dream House, the sun set over the inlet and the muddy beach. Now that Grace and Sandra were gone, there was nothing to distract Carolyn from her absent husband, the children that didn’t listen, the baby that cried too loudly and for too long. Carolyn was at land’s end, on the edge of the woods. There were days she didn’t know if she could get up in the morning to feed the children breakfast. Other days, she couldn’t stop, with so much energy she didn’t sleep at night; she just kept going, her mind refusing to shut down. She knew now that all the elements—people, places, things, the movement of the planets overhead—were connected. She alone could understand this. She heard noises everywhere, and she knew what they meant. The creakings and knockings in the house’s tall wooden walls. The rustling of the swallows under the eaves, like voices whispering; the fox that came up to the window and stared inside at her, its eyes flashing. They were sending her messages. She had to stay alert. It was up to her to listen.
Carolyn knew that something was wrong. She wasn’t herself. She made an appointment to see a psychiatrist in Manhattan, a Dr. Green. Soon she was driving into the city each week for the sessions. She didn’t tell Malcolm; she knew he would only disapprove. Eventually, Malcolm discovered the check stubs. He confronted Carolyn. He was furious. Why was she wasting his money on city doctors? When she explained she had been seeing a psychiatrist, Malcolm demanded she switch to a doctor of his choosing, and he made it a condition of him paying for further treatment. But Carolyn kept going to Dr. Green, until Malcolm found the check stubs again and put a stop to the visits once and for all.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING YEAR, Princess Grace telephoned my mother at the house on Long Island. She was coming to New York at the end of April, bringing her children with her to visit America for the first time. They would be in the city for only a few days before traveling on to Philadelphia; Prince Rainier would be joining them there. Grace wanted to make a date to take her old friend and her goddaughter Jill to the ballet. Grace would bring Princess Caroline along—now four years old.
They agreed on a date to meet and that they would go to see the New York City Ballet at City Center. It would be just like old times. My mother bought Jill a new party dress and tied a big bow in her hair for the occasion. Jill was ten. I was barely two years old; that day I stayed at home with our babysitter and Robin.
As Carolyn waited in the lobby of City Center with Jill, she was reminded of all the times she had come here with Grace in their Barbizon days, lured here by the beauty of the dancers and Balanchine’s choreography. At eighteen and nineteen years old, things were so easy between them. The currents of their lives ran in the same direction, flowing only forward, out through the revolving doors of the Barbizon and into the world. They were women with a shared past now; there were secrets between them. Carolyn was thirty-two; Grace was thirty-one. Carolyn had her three children, Grace her two. They would never again be those young girls, in love with the city, with the ballet, with the beautiful unknown future. The currents of their lives no longer ran in the same direction, and Carolyn knew she wasn’t going to be able to fall back into the flow.
The princess arrived, holding little Caroline’s hand. Grace hugged her friend, hugged Jill, who had grown so tall since the last time they had seen each other. Grace was radiant, warm, but controlled. Carolyn was so impressed by the way Grace handed Caroline, still only four years old, the money to buy her own program, and by the way the little princess counted out the change using the unfamiliar American coins. The two mothers and their daughters entered the theater, taking their seats in the orchestra, a few seats back from the stage. At this point, the entire house began to applaud, and Grace turned around and waved regally. Carolyn wondered how it must feel: to be so completely admired.
The ballet was Swan Lake, and in Balanchine’s version, the story was distilled into a single act. Tchaikovsky’s sweet, sad music began to play. As the curtain came up, the stage was dimly lit, a glittering lake in the background. Hunters carrying crossbows appeared, but as the music continued to build, the hunters exited the stage, leaving Prince Siegfried alone to watch the Swan Queen, Odette, arrive onstage. Together the Prince and Queen danced, Siegfried lifting her high into the air. Toward the end of the scene, Von Rothbart, the cruel sorcerer who cast the swan spell on Odette, appeared in his cape and mask—and Odette ran away.
Next, the swans floated in, wearing their white tutus, forming a dramatic long diagonal line across the stage, then peeling off, one after the other, as Siegfried passed them. They danced with each other and with the hunters, in a constantly changing spectacle of pattern and movement. Odette danced alone and with her lover. Siegfried danced alone and with Odette. The swans returned, in groups and in their full numbers. Finally, Von Rothbart appeared again, commanding the swans to leave. Odette went with them, beating her arms like sorrowful wings. Siegfried and the hunters were left alone, heads bowed. The curtain fell. In the space of one act, Balanchine had told the story of doomed love, from beginning all the way to bitter end.
As far as I can tell, the trip to the
