But how could she know the color of the word in his language? How was he to glimpse the meanings of it in her own? If even Sam Grainger couldn’t quite admit that divergence of language long ago (my own language far simpler then!) if not even Sam (where are you?) then how could poor Jim Doherty who had no wish to think for himself?
“What else did she say?” Hadn’t Jim heard the idiot question?
It seemed to her the question had been divided, an echo-voice asking of another with another name: Sam (where are you?) do you still love her (the name was Red-Top, remember?) or think of her at all? Meanwhile—“She said nothing else, Jim, nothing I heard.”
“Oh. I—look, I never told her—I mean—oh, I don’t know. I—” Edith held the receiver further away with its wiry babble of misery: “I tried to make her understand—that part, all in her head—she—”
“She fell in love with what she wanted you to be.”
“What? No, you’re wrong, she wasn’t in love with me.”
“That’s what I meant, Jim. She loved an image, not a man. Only, there was a—” (Edith, stop! Don’t say it!)—“a tangible male involved in it too, who happened to get her pregnant.”
“I—can’t go for that psychological stuff. She’s over eighteen. Well, I know, you can beat me over the head with the pregnancy if you want to, but since it wasn’t God’s will that it should live, what can I do?”
“What she said, perhaps.” She heard her own voice electric, hurting in her ears. “If she were still carrying it, what would you do? That would be wages of sin, I guess? The way it was God’s will you should try out a virgin for variety, or kicks? Or did you just feel that if an unconventional, unreligious girl wasn’t a whore she ought to be?”
“I shouldn’t have called. God forgive you.”
Edith set the instrument down. The trembling would presently stop. Overcharge of adrenalin, stupid physical need to slash again, with claws. She fumbled a cigarette from the box by the telephone. Anyway Jim would not call back. He’d rest on the dignity of his last word, which Father Bland would have approved.
Sam Grainger was in the world, somewhere. Married probably, with one of the symphonies, teaching. His myriad hours of violin and oboe practice, piano, harmony, counterpoint, all had been aiming at that. The violin for preference, oboe because good violinists are numerous. With affection that had never perished, Edith thought: What Sam wants, Sam earns and gets. She noticed she was thinking in the present tense. Fair enough: it would still be true. Sam Grainger would still be a man dedicated and absorbed, immune to discouragement, too big for distractions. He had not been too seriously distracted by an affair with a redheaded art student. So what has become of the old brownstone front, shabby-sacred rooms, thready hole in the rug, genially silly print of “The Storm”—Mrs. Cardle considered that one real nice for anyone that was artistic-like—and the bed that mysteriously didn’t squeak if you lay across it instead of lengthwise? What stills the music, and where are the green shadows of Arcadia?
The rooms would have accepted the whispering and secret laughter of a crowd of lovers in seven years, all giggling at sad, vague, moral Mrs. Cardle and that grayish lump of dough, her husband, whose thick delirium of hate for the antique coal furnace in the basement was very nearly a form of love. You saw the Cardles dealing with an ebb and flow of Boston lodgers world without end. But they could have been human and mortal; the brownstone could have yielded to a flat-faced office building. If it had not, though, the center flagstone of the rear yard would look the same in a sluice of rain, the crack in it like the junction of Ohio and Mississippi, seen by young eyes from the window of the third floor back.
One gray afternoon—Edith’s room dim, the curtains adequate—they had stood naked near that window to watch Mrs. Cardle trying to teach her old round-bellied bulldog to roll over and play dead. Behind closed eyes and seven years, Edith felt again Sam’s chin at her shoulder, shiver of held-in laughter at the dog’s patient refusal to understand and its resemblance to Mr. Cardle; Sam’s arm under her breasts moving, she turning then, clutching his black curls in mimic savagery, twisting free of him, racing him to the bed, caught with welcome violence and sudden entering thrust, violently held through a long course of love, an animal riot of pleasure carrying them together to the height, to the moment when the heart must break and die a little, the explosion of not-pain, the blindness and the quiet. And the quiet: summit of a hillside, also homely truth of two bodies in the aftermath of orgasm, each comic-serious detail of throbbing and subsiding organs felt, known, recorded in the mind’s continuing life history with acceptance, tenderness, satisfaction, relief, amusement, wonder. Kissing him slowly in the quiet, kissing the hard-tipped fingers of his left hand, fine bony rib cage and knotty shoulders, the lifetime red mark printed under his jawbone by the violin, his other love. And—“Time I should get back to work, Red-Top.”
Edith had been jealous, in a way, yet she had never knowingly desired to cut him down to size or usurp the government of his private world. And surely there had been cause to resent his indifference toward her own work, ambition, oriented dreaming. Not indifference: call it lack of awareness. As on that heartbreak evening when she had taken down Mrs. Cardle’s “Storm” and replaced it with a darktoned watercolor, a Nolan original and, in her judgment, good.
He never saw it.
When he slipped into her room he had not seemed much preoccupied with his own studies; he just looked at the watercolor and didn’t see it. Cheerful, until her darkening hopelessly unreasonable mood infected him. When the quarrel began, over something else, some damned side issue now blanked out of memory, he still didn’t see the picture.
That quarrel was patched up the next night, in bed. There were others. The essential trust of two-against-the-world was gone: in the darkness behind daily perception two strangers still winced and glared, astonished at the wounds. Drift then, from radiance to near-commonplace, above the organ-point of things unsaid.
In the summer after the school year, Sam had written, once; Edith had answered, twice. End of affair. Yielding to a long assault of cancer, Edith’s mother died that summer. An emptiness then, plus discouragement with art school that kept her from going back. Instead she had taken a commercial course in photography, her dazed but practical father approving and footing the bill. The following summer, a purposeful wandering in Amy the Model A (a cantankerously good little heap even now in 1959), remembering more clearly than any other conversation what her father had said before she left: “Look, Skinnay, you marry or work at something you like, or just loaf a while and raise hell, but don’t turn into a dutiful daughter taking care of the old man.” Shoving aside a heap of paper work brought home—the old man was a C.P.A. and a good one—and turning up to her the bald head, moon face, tenderly sarcastic eyes. “Don’t do that, or I will turn you over my knee, and your fanny, dearest, is not fat enough to sustain the impact. The old man takes care of himself.” A purposeful wandering, for that summer she had surely been looking for something more than a place that would do for a photographic studio; looking for maturity perhaps. Then Winchester, the investment paying off in adequate survival, plus a bit of freedom. No more letters to Sam: end of affair, diminuendo to an imperfect cadence dissonant with the organ-point, the only resolution silence.
What did we think we were doing? I was fighting to be a person? Or just to make Sam admit I must sometimes be person first, sweetheart second? A lot of the time I was just damn well fighting… Deep inside, very likely, the daughter of earth had been weighing consequences, a simpler Eve murmuring of home, nest, security, advantages of snaring a good man when there was one to be had.
My first, my only, which for a warmblooded redhead is absurd, gentlemen, no argument. What happens? Why this other drift that for some of us, many of us, extends from months into years of accepting dullness and the erosion of daily demands, waiting for the rainb
ow blaze that may never appear, the heart knowing all the time that there’s only one life and not much time to live it? Edith fidgeted, angry at the introspection itself, at the fatigue or laziness that held her in this armchair when some other part of her honestly wanted to get up and go to work. O wind-sweet valley of Arcadia—remember me?
She noticed the chill, and got up then with a flounce of irritation. Caught by Jim’s telephone call, she had not yet turned up the heat for the Burrow. Maybe she wouldn’t bother. Turn it up in the studio, leave the Burrow cool for bedtime. Get to work! Or try to.
Dust filmed the fireplace mantel. In a half-light beyond the bedroom doorway, yesterday’s panties gaped lewdly from the seat of a chair. She must have been seduced by some clever idea when she was on the point of tossing them in the laundry bag. At least she had made the bed. Too much alone, small Edith. She remembered with a wrench of pain that early last August Cal had just about agreed to give up her apartment and come share this one. August—Edith carried her coat into the bedroom, hung it properly, stuffed the offending panties away.
If Callista and Jim could have spoken each other’s languages? Proposition absurd. Callista groping out of the jungle of an ugly childhood, Jim living (till Ann died anyway) according to surface impulses and ready-made directives of social and religious authority—no, there could have been no conversation. What ailed her, going overboard for that bundle of bad luck? Call it chance. Swept away by need, nearness, charm of a prepossessing male; maybe unknowingly goaded in spite of herself by the dithering emphasis of American culture on sexual activity as the end, cure, meaning for everything: luv-luv-luv. And Jim no more “to blame” than she. As much an accident as falling downstairs.
A gust rattled the bedroom window and hummed across chimney-tops and died. Go away, my love!
Edith changed out of the green suit into a cherished dingy blue bathrobe. In the bureau mirror she glimpsed her own color and motion. Clear sky-blue eyes would hold that color a lifetime, though the irises would some day blur at the rims, the vision would not remain 20-20, lids would crinkle, brows turn sandy-gray, then white. Grooves in the forehead would deepen, and the brackets at nose and mouth. Red hair must whiten—quickly, one could hope, without streaks. That smoothness from small chin down a slim neck to the collar of Venus with no sag or wrinkle at thirty-one—well. Already crowding her luck a bit there; pretty Ann Doherty, for all her needless dieting, had been starting a tiny double chin at twenty-six. The bathrobe unbelted allowed a gleam of small breasts neat and high, jaunty and delicate, red-tipped like white peonies. Fun for somebody, going to waste—are you listening, bitch in the manger? Her finger tapped the unsmiling woman in the glass, and she was stricken by thought of another face, also far from the conventional norms of beauty.
They used a hood, didn’t they, electrodes concealed by an intolerable obscenity of black rubber?
No thought is finished until the thinker dies, then only blotted out, the death rattle a throat-clearing for what’s not to be said. Mother, the morphine not helping yet, certain she’d left something on the stove to boil over, couldn’t convince her. For thought is action. What’s this, Edith? Philosophy A, Radcliffe, Class of ’48 and all that?
All the same, she reflected, it is action, and the hell with Plato the Father of Half-Truths. So why wonder that an earlier self becomes a creature of mystery? Where was the cross thin woman who talked sharply to Jim Doherty a few minutes ago? You say: It was one I who thought and acted thus and so; now I am not what I was, but I inherit any continuing good and bad and all responsibility: if I don’t clean up after the person I left behind, nobody else will. That was the thorny passage, the truth too easily blurred.
Yet only a few, she thought, could endure the concept of mind-as-motion. By contrast, how apparently solid and comfortable are the absolutes, static symbols, devices of everyday talk to create the illusion of a stillness in time, so that we can draw breath and feel for a moment that we know who we are! In a ship you can stay below, avoid the portholes, ignore the long rise and fall as the vessel encounters a rolling of the sea, and pretend your cabin is a landside thing: fine woodwork, carpet, all that, and if now and then you do feel a throb of engines or tilting of the world, why, Captain God’s on the bridge and will see to everything. And yet it doesn’t take too much courage to go stand at the bow and discover the wind in your face: a child can do it; a grown-up can recognize the captain as skilled but humanly mortal.
Edith crossed the hall to the studio, where cool light on the drawing table waited like a reminder of courage. She took out Callista’s letter, carefully as though the pages were drawings, and the large light handwriting did have some of that quality, Callista’s hand refusing to waver at any disturbance of her thought:
Dear Edith:
It was good to be with you, though I was unpleasant, ridding myself of accumulated venom. I can’t safely talk in my worst way to anyone else—Cecil is too vulnerable. And I miscalculated, thought we had more time, was about to shut up and hear you (what I wanted above all) but then time up, opportunity gone.
Don’t try to cut the red tape for another visit after the trial opens. When I see you now I think too much, in spite of you, of what I may lose. The work, freedom, gaiety, good talk I never heard till I met you. I’d better keep my shell until this is over, I seem to need it. Stay away just because I do cherish you. Dear Edith, I’m sickened to remember how I talked this afternoon—but maybe it won’t end the way my present mood says it will. A mood is only part of a journey—you said that to me once, now I keep the words with me.
Cecil came to see me after you left—he looks ill, Edith. Does poor old Mrs. Wilks really do enough about looking after him? Look—I tried to tell him more about Mother and Herb, and the Saturday night uproar with Mother that I described to you. Give him more of that, will you? I made a botch of telling him, I suppose because I love him, my mind wouldn’t focus on my own mess. How does it happen (C. let it slip) that Herb is meeting so many of the incidental expenses when I said so damn plain it was to come out of my money from Father’s estate? Please try to find out, will you?
I can’t think straight any more tonight. I slop off into self-pity, lose track altogether. I don’t believe human beings are adequate for this kind of thing, Edith, I know I’m not anyway. You heard me whimper once, only once. Alone, I do a good deal of that, friend, I can’t help it—hermit crab’s a soft blob of nothing-much inside the borrowed shell. I’m no Latimer sticking his hand in the fire. Not even jailed for a Cause, just want to live. I don’t know what love is either, but now and then I wonder if anyone ever knew more about it than I do.
My love to you,
Callista.
II
Terence Mann stopped playing, tense with a dissonance of perplexity. A wrong time and mood for Chopin: his hands had been dull in the C-sharp Minor Impromptu. No music now, but an impulsive sorrow of December wind leaning against the building in the dark. “Callista never cried.”
To Maud Welsh, that had been “real unnatural.” Judge Mann did not find it so. Self-pity was not evident as a quality of Callista Blake.
He understood with almost amused distress that he liked the girl. That, plus old dislike for the representative of her accuser the State: how far can you go with such a bias before the judicial lid blows off?
He remembered doubtfully a talk with Joe Bass the evening before—anything more than a flurry of wishful thinking? Increase of humanitarianism in the last century and a half? Well, social history agreed, if you read it with some detachment from the immediate terrors of the decade. And the increase could hardly be ignored or dismissed except by someone bitterly in love with his own pessimism. Modern postwar pessimism, although a cult like any other, was persuasive, deceptively articulate. Something contagious in a comprehensive the-hell-with-it.
Social history made it clear that capital punishme
nt had dwindled in frequency from a common public entertainment to something almost rare. The states still practicing it gave evidence of official shame, or at least of a schizophrenic need to serve two contraries, to appease the recurrent vengefulness of their multitudes but also to hide the dirty thing, tacitly apologize, soften its most visible nastiness in the hope that conscience would shut up and sleep again. Such a condition would be preliminary to change. Like tuberculosis and venereal disease, capital punishment was on the way out but going out in the manner of things legal, with dreary and creeping slowness. Wasn’t that how he had reasoned two years ago, when his name was up in the election more or less unopposed? Or had he honestly faced it at all?
Hadn’t he simply regarded a judgeship as mostly useful work and $18,000 a year? And hadn’t he accepted, without enough examination, the doctrine that a judge is only an instrument of something greater than himself? An instrument of what something, greater than himself in what way? The questions projected themselves beyond the cloud-curtain of mysticism. But it seemed to Judge Mann that unless they could receive a daylight answer, the doctrine itself was solemn nonsense.
Imagining Society with a capital S to be greater than the individual—no answer there, only a more opaque mysticism. The mental construction “Society” is an achievement of the individual brain, an organ that had better not be too dazzled by products of its own authorship.
The issue of capital punishment had been bound to arise. I knew the laws. I knew that New Essex was no more free than any other state from crime and the balancing crime of punishment.
From an unseeing stare at the carpet, his head jerked up as if at the entrance of another. Balancing crime of punishment: he had been thinking in specific words, talking to a half-personalized projection of the self, and the words had power to startle him.
The Edgar Pangborn Megapack Page 44
