The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  Why, the man must be insane! His eyes were absolutely mad! He was leaning over the desk at her, and his brows were one slash of black. Miss Baumer was frightened. She grasped her gloves and purse and moved to the edge of her chair, as if gathering herself for flight.

  “Where did you live in Waterford?” Edward asked. All his faculties were concentrated on the girl; he forgot even where he was.

  “I think it was Sherwood Street. I only lived there a little while.” The color suddenly went from the girl’s cheeks and mouth, and she was absolutely white. “Oh, I see. You’ve found out something about me. David must have written, and so you investigated.” Her voice curved out loud and clear with scorn. “Don’t worry, Mr. Enger. I’m not serious about David—yet. But when I am, you won’t matter at all!”

  “You can’t—want—Dave,” said Edward, and he stood up, and his air of wrath terrified her. His big body, his massive shoulders, bulked over her like a rock.

  But she spoke as clearly as before. “Because I was brought up in the orphan asylum here? Because I don’t know who my parents were? Mr. Enger, the Baumers adopted me when I was fifteen. They left me everything they had; they educated me. I’m a decent person.” She caught her breath. “And I’m going to write David, tonight, that I’ll marry him just as soon as he wants!”

  She looked at him with cold blue defiance, though her lips trembled. Then she was again astonished. He was approaching her. Now he was standing beside her. He was a very queer ashen color, but he was smiling.

  “Margaret—in the P’s,” he said, and his voice was low and shaken, and marveling.

  Her mouth opened on a little gasp. He was bending over her. His stiff arm was supported by the hand he had placed on the desk and she saw the tight fist. “I just remembered,” he was saying. “I remember where and when we saw each other. Just one time. Try and remember.” His voice had fallen even lower, and it was desperately pleading, and even the startled girl recognized there was no threat in it. “We had a small delicatessen store. My father and I. It was a hot day. I can see and feel and smell it right now, just as if it was yesterday. You came in; you were just a little girl. The Baumers weren’t good people; they’d taken you from the asylum to work for them. You hadn’t had any dinner. I made a ham sandwich for you and gave you a glass of milk—”

  “I don’t remember,” the girl faltered.

  Edward did not seem to hear her. He gently took one of her hands, though she shrank again. “I remember your hands that day. They were all cut and bruised. You said you weren’t afraid of work; you used to wash all the floors in the orphanage. You said you didn’t want charity, as you chewed the sandwich. You were hungry. I never forgot you, though I thought I did. I didn’t know who I was looking for, since then. I was looking for you, all these years.”

  She was afraid to pull away her hand. Her fingers were rigid in his. She blinked her gilt eyelashes and moistened her lips. She was more frightened than ever. She repeated, “I don’t remember.”

  “You were only ten,” he said. “Margaret, in the P’s.”

  The rigidity went out of her fingers. She looked at him as if hypnotized. Something was forming before her: a small shop, the glitter of glass counters, a little rotund man, a tall and lanky boy giving her something to eat, the sputter of gaslight. Faint, far off, distant, almost a dream. That was just before the Baumers had taken her to Albany, because she had satisfied them that she could work. There was the sweet taste of bread and ham and milk in her mouth, and the pungent odor of garlic and vinegar in her nostrils, and the dingy, dismal past was all about her, including the clamor of the orphan asylum, the endless floors to be scoured, the harsh smell of soapsuds and dirty water in pails, the ugly feel of a scrubbrush against her fingers.

  Tears ran around the edges of her eyelids. She smiled unsteadily. “Why, yes,” she said. “I do remember now. You were awfully good to a little girl.” Her eyes widened. “And you had a tree! And there was the tree they cut down at the orphanage! Eddie!”

  They did not see Mr. Erhlich in the doorway, gaping at them, stupefied. Mr. Erhlich was in confusion. He had left this room in haste, because of the huge hostility in it, the baffling hostility, and here they were now, smiling at each other and holding hands and the girl had just cried, “Eddie!”

  “You said I was an Eddie,” Edward was saying.

  “It was a long time ago,” said the girl. “I never thought of it after we left here. I didn’t want to remember anything about Waterford.” Her voice was stammering. “When we lived in Albany, near Albany on a farm, the Baumers were nicer to me. I worked awfully hard. Mr. Baumer was nicer than—Anyway, they adopted me years later. They left me a lot of money—” Her hand clung to Edward’s involuntarily, and she was looking up into his eyes like a child. “I must have remembered a little, though. When I met David, I—I liked him. He seemed to remind me of somebody, somebody who—I know, now, it was you. You were the first person who had ever been kind to me—”

  A pool of pure light shone under her chin, the reflection of the sun. But, to Edward, it seemed like a thing belonging to her alone, an emanation of her, just as the full blueness of her eyes were hers, shining on him behind a mist of tears. He could not look away from her. He stroked her hand and she leaned a little toward him.

  “I never forgot, I never forgot,” he said, and he was young again and buoyant and full of joy. “I’ve looked for you in every woman I’ve seen.” Quite simply he raised his free hand and touched her cheek, and it was the hand of a loving husband whose wife had returned from a long journey.

  Well, thought Mr. Erhlich. Well. This is very curious, very.

  He was quite dumfounded when Edward put his hand under Margaret’s elbow and she rose with implicit obedience and sweetness and walked out with him. They passed Mr. Erhlich as if he were not there. They were looking only at each other.

  CHAPTER VI

  “But what shall I do about David?” asked Margaret, troubled. “How can we keep from hurting him?”

  She set David’s last letter to her on the stiffly white and glimmering tablecloth in the dining room of the Whitney House. Edward and she had been sitting there having lunch for over two hours, Edward completely forgetting, for the first time, that he had a board meeting which had already been in session for half an hour without his presence. Most of the midday diners had gone, and with them their long and inquisitive stares at the engrossed man and young woman who occupied this table in a far corner. The spring sun filled the big dining room, melted brownly on its paneled walls, sifted on its thick crimson rug, sparkled on its silver and chandeliers, and enameled the edges of chairs and plates.

  It had been understood from the moment that Edward and Margaret had left the bank together that they were not only in love but loved each other, had always loved each other, and that they would be married very soon. It had been understood without declarations, questions, or doubts. It was love at its most tranquil yet most sensual; it was embedded in them like their own hearts; it was a fact that neither questioned nor hesitated over; it was not a marvel or a miracle. It had existed from all time. If Margaret’s face suddenly shone with radiance and shyness, it was not because of discovery but of fulfillment and consummated happiness. From the moment she had finally recognized Edward he had become as familiar to her as her own face, and she knew him as she knew herself. She did not speak shyly, as to a loved stranger, but with confidence and trust, as to one known all her life, from whom she had been briefly parted.

  And so it was with Edward. He had wondered, a little contemptuously, at the precipitousness of Padraig’s marriage to Maggie McNulty. Now he understood. Love had its own instant recognition, its own decisions, its own mysterious acceptances. It did not need years for growth; that was only affection. Love was never astonished at itself.

  Never before in all his life had Edward spoken to another in absolute faith that he would be understood, that he had no need for explanations or wariness, that he need not withdraw be
fore some imminent incomprehension. Margaret knew exactly what he meant when he spoke, and he knew exactly what she meant by a glance, a smile, or a word. He was released from a confinement of spirit which had always been with him from his first consciousness of his self. He now possessed a freedom he had not known existed. His mother, Maria, had made only one comment when she had learned of Padraig’s marriage: “And so he is free.” He had thought it a ridiculous remark; marriage was bondage, not liberty. Now he saw that to love was to have freedom in its most mystic sense, and that a man who did not love was a prisoner.

  They had talked with each other for two hours, and they did not remember of what they talked. The communication had been perfect, serene and content. Edward felt an enormous sense of well-being, buoyancy, and health. He had not known that he was lonely. Now he understood that he had always been lonely, and waiting, and deprived, until today. Sometimes he would touch Margaret’s hand across the table, and she would smile at him with simple delight, and he would think, I knew all the time that she was somewhere. Why, I prayed for her a long time.

  It was when Margaret had extended David’s letter to Edward that the first discord appeared. But it was not a discord between him and Margaret. It was an intrusion and a problem that both must settle. Edward frowned at the letter and hesitated. “You’re sure you want me to read this, Margaret?”

  “That is why I’m giving it to you,” she answered, surprised. “You have to know everything. I met him in New York before I left for Europe. It was at a party given me by a friend, the lawyer who manages my—parents’—estate. David had been invited to play. There were a lot of people there. He played beautifully.”

  She sighed. “I thought, and still think, that David is one of the most interesting and handsome men I’ve ever met.” She looked up and twinkled at Edward. “Outside of you, of course, you shaggy brute. Stop glowering. And I think David is extremely sensitive. And unhappy.”

  Edward settled back in his chair. His face had hardened. “Unhappy? Why should he be unhappy? I’ve worked for him all the days of my life; he’s never been denied anything. He’s had the best money can buy in the way of teachers and clothing. He has what he wants.”

  Margaret’s gilt brows drew together in anxious sympathy. “I don’t know if that’s what he wants, Ed. I think he wants something else.”

  Edward, for the first time in over two hours, felt the old hot constriction in his throat and chest. “Then why didn’t he say so, for God’s sake? I would have worked just as hard to give him what he wanted—if he had wanted something else.”

  You believe that, my darling, thought Margaret, sadly, with the wisdom of love. But it is not true. I can see it in your face.

  “He was the musical genius of the family,” Edward went on, in a tight voice. “I bought his first piano. I gave up all my youth for him and the others. I suppose he never mentioned that to you?”

  “Yes,” said Margaret, with deepening sadness. “He told me all about it. Ed, David has a strong—affection for you—and pity.”

  “Pity?” exclaimed Edward, with strong violence and humiliation. “For what?” He had darkly flushed. “Because I’m a success and have made his success possible?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Margaret, in a low tone. “David didn’t quite explain it, himself. Perhaps he couldn’t. Please don’t be angry with him, Ed. Perhaps I was wrong; he wasn’t pitying himself, and he wasn’t insulting you with his compassion for you. I got the idea, somehow, that he felt that you had been deprived in some way. And he was sorry.”

  “He was always a fragile soul,” said Edward contemptuously.

  He had forgotten, for two hours, that David was in love with Margaret and that David wanted to marry her. Now he remembered, and he was betrayed again.

  He added, “What do you think he wanted, if he wanted something else besides the thing he said he always wanted, as long as I remember?” His light eyes jumped with inner rage.

  “He didn’t say,” replied Margaret. “Perhaps I just imagined it. I only know that he seemed unhappy and that he didn’t mingle much with the people. We began to talk together; he looked familiar to me in a way, and, as I said before, it was because of my memory of you. I—I was drawn to him. He’s very silent, isn’t he? I did most of the talking. After that night, I met him in other places. He always sent me notices of his concerts, and I went, of course. I liked him very much,” she added with simplicity.

  Edward said nothing. He did not look at Margaret; he stared at the silver knife in his hand. He did not know that he was holding it by the handle and that he was making small stabbing motions with it. But Margaret saw and understood, and she was alarmed. Her new and total peace ripped apart.

  “I never loved David,” she said quickly. “I was fond of him, yes. And I’ve been terribly lonely all my life. When I knew that David was beginning to love me, I was grateful; no one ever did before. I asked him for time. And that’s why I want you to read his letter, Ed dear. After all, he is your brother.”

  The taste of hatred was like a corrosion in Edward’s mouth. Again, watching him, Margaret was afraid, and again she shrank. Then Edward pushed away David’s letter with the point of his knife, and it was so quick and so violent a movement that it was like a deadly attack. “I don’t want to read it,” he said.

  “Have I said something to offend you?” she asked, in consternation. “I didn’t mean it. I gave you the letter and you didn’t mind reading it, and then all of a sudden you’ve turned like this.”

  Edward looked at her and saw her distress. “Never mind,” he said, trying to smile. How to explain to this girl that he felt like a cuckolded husband or a husband whose wife had been grossly insulted? “I just think that reading Dave’s letter to you would be an invasion of his privacy.”

  She was relieved. His smile was not reassuring, but his words were. “You’re probably right,” she said. “It was bad taste on my part to give you the letter. I just thought that we shouldn’t have any secrets between us. You see, David knew I was coming to Waterford to sell the last property here of my parents. He asked me to get in touch with his family; he wanted me to know them all. Including you,” and she smiled gently. “Particularly you. He sends you all his regards.” She watched Edward and hesitated. The unhealthy flush on his broad and heavy face alarmed her. “He mentions he’s going to play in Carnegie Hall in a week. He’s arriving here tomorrow for a visit. He wanted me to tell you that. I had already told him that you wanted my two acres next to your house, and he said, ‘Then you’ll see old Ed right away, by himself. And that’s very good. He’s different when he’s with the family.’ You see, dear, he wanted me to like you.”

  Edward threw the knife from him. “He didn’t tell you, of course, that it’s costing me a fortune to have him play at Carnegie Hall, at a benefit performance for a charity to which I’m contributing? And that it costs me a fortune in supplementary fees wherever he appears—because his agent can’t get him important engagements? And that he and his agent couldn’t survive on what he really gets?”

  Margaret was stunned. “No, he didn’t tell me,” she stammered. What was wrong with Edward? What had she said to him to give him that murderous expression, and to light up his pale eyes with such fury? Then the mysterious intuition of love explained it all to her. She leaned toward him and said with quiet sternness, “Ed, does he himself know?”

  He did not answer. But she understood. That anger, that exaggerated emotion, rose from bitter disappointment and mortification. She meditated. She remembered David’s performances with sudden clarity. He had played so perfectly, so brilliantly. But with no warmth, no real power, no color. It had troubled her. She had concluded that she really did not understand music very well.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, mournfully. “So terribly sorry.”

  “For Dave?” His voice was loaded with affront.

  “For both of you. But, perhaps, a little more for David. I think he knows his—limitations.”


  “He hasn’t any! I’ve talked with his teachers. It’s his own deliberate doing that he’s a perfect mechanic. It’s his way of frustrating me. Just as the others do. Weaklings! That’s the only way, they think, of revenging themselves on me.”

  “Revenge for what?” Her words were gentle but insistent, and her blue eyes fixed themselves on him.

  “For giving them what they’ve always wanted, for them having been dependent on me.”

  Then she, too, was angered, but not at Edward. He had given all his life to his brothers and sister. She had learned that from David himself. And in return they had given him ingratitude and frustration and contempt. Her compassion for David vanished in the fierce loyalty of love. Again she saw Edward’s shabbiness, and she erroneously concluded that he felt he could afford nothing for himself. The frayed edges of his cuffs, the limp condition of his old tie, stung her heart with grief. He had given of himself, and all his work, and had received nothing from anyone. Margaret’s hand reached out quickly, and her eyes filled with tears as she grasped his tense hand.

  “Never mind, dear,” she said. “Never mind. You have me now. And we’ll never be lonely again, will we?”

  He had deceived her, and he knew it, but in what way he had deceived he was not quite sure. At any rate, he had revenged himself on David. He took her hand and forgot everyone else but Margaret, and when he smiled it was a smile of rich exaltation again.

  “Do you realize, Margaret, that we’re going to be married and we haven’t even kissed each other yet?”

  It had been agreed between them that Margaret would tell David the next night that she could not marry him, but that she would not speak to him of Edward. Margaret had had doubts about this; it seemed like an unnecessary falseness to her.

  “It’s not falseness or deception,” Edward had said before they had parted. He spoke reasonably and with an air of fairness, though there was something about his smile which disturbed Margaret. “Just think about it a minute, darling. He comes to you for a definite answer, and you blurt out you’re going to marry his brother. When did you meet his brother? Oh, just yesterday. Dave’s not a complete fool. You wouldn’t be able to blame him for not understanding. So we’ll wait a month or so and then be quietly married. Perhaps in Albany, perhaps in New York.”