Crowned Heads

by Thomas Tryon

  “Have you recently seen or heard from him?” Nellie asked.

  “Let me think.” She struck a thoughtful pose, then sprang out with, “Yes, to be sure, I heard from him just two weeks ago. A small financial matter …”

  “Financial?”

  Madame employed her hands in a European gesture of laissez faire. “With Bobby things are always financial, are they not? You know….” She gave Nellie a broad wink. “I was only helping him out of a jam, anyways.”

  Nellie cleaved to the word. “A jam?”

  “It is nothing new. Bobby is always in some sort of jam…. But why do you look so worried, if I may ask? If it is that you have not heard from him, oh, my dear, let me assure you there is nothing to fear, nothing whatever. He often disappears—pfft.” She made him disappear again. “That is his way, Bobby’s. A part of his charm, I think, for who is there one wants to see constantly? Fish and guests, you know, they all stink after three days.”

  “Madame, I beg you, it is no joking matter. Do you know of the tragedy that has happened to him? …”

  Madame, it appeared, did not. Nellie related as quickly as she could the details: the planned arrival of the child, the surprise party, Robin’s return from the airport, the fatal call to Galway….

  “The child was killed in a bomb explosion, you see.”

  “Ah, this is surely a tragedy,” Madame Potekka agreed dolorously, though she seemed bewildered by the account. “But what child is this?”

  “Little Bobby. Bobbitt, they call him. Robin’s son.”

  Madame’s eyes widened over the rim of her fan. “Oh, dear, oh, dear … I see.” She fanned herself rapidly and blew out her cheeks. “I agree, this is no joking matter. You must tell me all, then.”

  “You have met him, little Bobbitt?”

  “I have … heard of him from time to time.” She waited while Nellie brought out the facts she had discovered during Robin’s tempestuous scene after the phone call, and the terrifying period he had spent out on the ledge. Madame listened without interrupting while Nellie elaborated on Kitty’s injury and the funeral arrangements. Then she pressed Nellie’s hand with a reassuring gesture. “My dear, my dear Miss Nellie,” she began quietly, “I must tell you something. You will not believe me when I say it, you will think me cruel and heartless, but if Bobby has told you the little boy is dead, then it is better so.”

  “Better?” Nellie snatched her hand away as if it had been burned, and straightened herself against the chair back. “How can you talk that way? How could he be better off dead?”

  Potekka heaved a sigh and resumed fanning. “I can only repeat what I said: the child is better off dead. That is to say, Bobby is better off having him dead.”

  “Was he some sort of monster?”

  Potekka nodded slowly. “In a way. In any case, it is no problem for the child, you see.”

  Nellie was aghast. “Do you understand that he was blown up in an explosion? The IRA … ?”

  “Yes, yes, the IRA. Of course it would be the IRA, or the Mafia, or an abduction by Turkish Janissaries.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nellie cried in alarm.

  Madame Potekka held a quick, silent consultation with herself, tapping the fan against her lips, then, with a helpless shrug, said, “My dear Miss Nellie, I hope you will not mistake what I am going to say to you, but I say it for our friend, Robin. We are agreed between us, I think, that we both love him. Then I say to you that we must go on loving him, no matter what. I say to you that if he admits the child is dead, then he is better off, by far. He is better off, I am better off, even you are better off. Anyone who knows him is better off.” She peered across her fan to see what effect her words were having. “I tell you also this,” she added, “the child was not killed.”

  “Not?” Nellie drew back in surprise. “You mean he’s alive?”

  “I mean he never existed.” She tapped her temple. “Have you not found in your experience with Bobby that he is an imaginative young man? Full of fancies, dreams, enchantments? The child is merely one of them.”

  “You mean there isn’t any Bobbitt?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “You said—”

  “I said Bobby had no son. As for Bobbitt, yes, there is one of those. You know him as Robin. He is the only Bobbitt there is. The child is something he made up. A fiction. And if he now tells you the child—this Bobbitt—is dead, why, then, I say to you our Robin is better off. And therefore, if you are truly his friend, so you will be also. As we are agreed, our Bobby is a charming fellow. He is nice to have around, he is gay and witty, and fun. He sings, he tells amusing stories, he dances, does tricks; but a trained monkey can do some of those things. I know no one I enjoy being with more, but I say to myself I must always have some salt with me, and I must take him with a grain of it. You see, he is—” Again she tapped her temple.

  “Please stop doing that.” Already distraught, Nellie was becoming angry. “Is he crazy?”

  “How shall I say what I mean? What is crazy? Perhaps I am crazy, perhaps you are crazy, perhaps we all are crazy—and he is sane. He is not crazy; he certainly is not dangerous, not even to himself, I think. But it is his imagination, you see. That is what happened to him out there, in Hollywood. Anyone can remember what it is like to be a child, but how many people remember or ever knew what it is like to have been Bobby Ransome? It is not easy, I should think, to be that famous, and to be a child as well. You are way up there”—pointing her cigarette at the ceiling—“then suddenly one day, pfft, you are not, you are down there”—pointing at the floor. “He was a very big somebody, then one day he was a nobody again. That is the way it happens out there. It is enough to break the heart or turn you bitter. But not Bobby; he has no bitterness. He is kind and loving and generous. But I will tell you what happens to him. They tried to keep him a child, so he has stayed a child, here”—touching her head again—“and here”—touching her breast. “Sometimes that is not such a bad thing, but in Bobby’s case I am not so sure. He lived in a make-believe world for so long, and he has clung to that make-believe. He will not give it up. For everybody he was Bobbitt, then for nobody was he Bobbitt any longer, if you see what I mean. So he made up another Bobbitt, for himself. You are not a stupid person, Miss Nellie, obviously, yet he has fooled you. He has fooled so many, for so long. He has dragged those borrowed snapshots with him to every cocktail and dinner party from here to the North Pole. He dines out on the little fellow, and his great romance with this Kitty Kelly. He has not seen her in years but in his mind they are the world’s greatest tragic lovers since Romeo and Juliet. The little fellow, he is a source of amusement, of wonder, and of income. ‘I’m a little short,’ Bobby will say, ‘and it’s the little tyke’s birthday. Can you lend me fifty till next week?’ You lend him, next week comes, he has forgotten the money. He has borrowed from you, has he not? Yes, I see he has. Me, too. You are sick, I loaned him money for your recovery.”

  “I, Madame, am not sick. I have not even had a cold.”

  “So much more your good fortune, I’m sure. But you see how it works: a little concern, a little sorrow, a little tear, a lot of dollars. He is a borrowing institution, our Bobby. So. And your grandchildren—”

  “They are my great-grandchildren.”

  “Excuse it, please, great-grandchildren—they come to visit, and you all have a good time, he told me so, but in consequence he pretends that Bobbitt—his made-up Bobbitt—should pay such a visit. Then he finds you are really truly believing, he is frightened, he can go no further without producing the child, so he kills it off. And you may believe me, when he did that he believed it, absolutely; that death was as real to him as if he had seen it happen before his eyes. This make-believe world he creates for himself, it is not an unhappy one, because then he could not live there, but in it there is always tragedy, just as in a real world, our world. He is very clever, our Bobby; he gives himself both—it is the artist in him.”

  S
he stopped to light a second cigarette, then wafted the smoke away with her fan and made another helpless gesture. “But I do not think it will last. He will resurrect the child, somewhere, sometime, at another dinner party. He cannot resist it. Of course you have heard the stories about the mother, the father?”

  “I have heard a good deal of Lady Ransome and Lord Ransome. I do not think they can be a healthy influence on him.”

  “My dear, my dear.” She gave a piercing shriek of laughter. “Do you also believe that pigs fly or that the moon is made from green cheese? There is no Lady Ransome, nor no Lord Ransome. There is no castle in Galway, none of it. Oh, I know, he talks of nothing else: Lady Farquahar, the Earl of Kerry, and all those fancy New York names—Chessy and Mica and Gerry Stutz. He knows none of them. He reads about them, sees their pictures in the papers, that is all. I will tell you who Lady Ransome is. Her name is Ethel, and she lives where she has always lived; in Galway, true, but in a little house. Her husband was a hatter. Yes, a maker of hats. He truly is”—again she tapped her temple—“not all there. The mother looks after him, since he cannot do it himself. Something in the acids they dip the felt in affected his brain. A long time ago.”

  “But the pictures; Robin has so many photographs….”

  “The Lady Ransome he shows you is a French woman, the Vicomtesse de Choiseul; he liked her looks and style, and he made her his—how shall I call it?—his surrogate mother. He collects stationery from hotel lobbies. He even had some printed up, engraved, very expensive; he writes many letters to many people on it. He mails them to friends in Europe and has them returned, postmarked, in a second envelope. A hobby, do you see? Has he invited you to the Galway Ball? Yes, I thought he would. Great fun, if it were possible. All I can tell you, though, is that you will not be there.”

  “And”—Nellie hardly dared ask it—“his show, Sweepstake: what of that?”

  Sweepstake also got wafted away by Madame’s fan. “It is another … fiction. A little something he has concocted, a little dream, perhaps. He has written a song or two, that is all. Lovely songs, but nothing more. He could do it, you see, if he wanted, but he does not. He merely pretends he is doing it. All those calls and lunches with producers, the money people. He likes to imagine he is in the heart of all that Broadway hustle and bustle. To tell you the truth, he would be terrified. It is not for him.”

  “What is for him?”

  “Who can say? His way is not our way, but who is to say which is better? Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps he is—” Again she touched her head, but Nellie missed the gesture. Eyes lowered to her lap, she tugged nervously at the corners of her handkerchief.

  “Where is he now?” Nellie asked in a low voice.

  “I cannot tell you,” said Madame Potekka.

  Nellie looked up suddenly. “Cannot—or will not? Are you protecting him?”

  “Bobby needs a good deal of protection, for as I have said, he is still a child. But I cannot tell you, for I do not know where he is. He is a will-o’-the-wisp. I have never known where he stays. He told me once the only place to live was New York, it is the capital of the world. He laughed and said he was the worm in the Big Apple. Who knows—perhaps he has finally found the apple rotten and has gone back to Europe.”

  “Would his friends know?”

  “Perhaps. Except he has few friends. And I think I can see from your look that he may no longer count you among them.”

  Nellie drew herself up primly. “He has done bad things, wicked things.”

  “Bad? Wicked? What sort?”

  “He has upset people’s lives, he has let them make plans he had no intention of seeing through, he has borrowed money under false pretenses, and as you say, with no intention of paying it back. I and my friends are not as well fixed as you—”

  “I? I?” Madame Potekka was shocked. “You think I can afford it? You see how I live here. But when you love someone you do not think of yourself, you think of them. Of course, with Bobby a dollar bill always has wings on it, so quickly it flies away.” She gave Nellie a swift, shrewd look. “But does he spend this money on himself or on you, heh? Ah, yes, I can see, a little present here, one there, a little trifle to surprise you, to bring you pleasure. The violets, for example. He told me he must have it, I thought he wanted it for himself, so I ‘sold’ it to him, knowing of course I would never see a penny of the money.”

  “You must let me pay you for the painting,” Nellie insisted. “Tell me how much; I will send you a check.”

  “Not a bit of it, dear Miss Nellie. It is my pleasure, since it is Bobby’s. He gives it to you because it pleased you. I am glad, he is glad, you are glad. That is Bobby. He makes everyone glad, even though”—she burst into a mounting roulade of laughter—“he goes about it as a nimble-fingered fellow opens a safe. But he does not crack it or blow it open; he does it oh, so gently.”

  Nellie shook her head with indignation. “Something must be done. It is too much.”

  Madame made a helpless gesture. “What must be done? And why, my dear?”

  “He cannot be allowed to go on, he must make amends, he must pay back what he owes. Cheating people is not right.”

  “Well, I am glad finally in my long life to meet someone who knows what is right.” Madame Potekka rose abruptly. “I have spent my time trying to find out what is wrong; now I see it was wasted time. How kind of you to point out the error of my ways.”

  Perfunctory if not angry goodbyes were said. Going down in the elevator, Nellie told herself: She is wrong. He is wrong. He must be made to see the truth, what is real, what is actual; he cannot go on living in this dream world. Wrong, everything was irretrievably wrong. By the time she reached the street she had shredded her handkerchief, her face working with indignation. The tatters she used to wipe her tears.

  Robin, oh, Robin.

  She was dying with shame and humiliation. Something in her cried out, the shouting voice of betrayal, but she stifled it. Liar, it said. Cheat. Monster. And after each of these, an echo: Bobbitt.

  Out in the air again, she walked as if in a dream, past shop-windows whose contents she never saw, past faces she never noticed. She walked until her feet were tired and then she walked some more. She did not want to go home. She felt defenseless and in need of armor, so she seized on what came most readily to hand, the armor of anger. In her mind’s eye she saw a tall, thin youth, with blond curly hair, who loved sitting on a mushroom, telling stories to children.

  Why, Bobbitt, you grew up!

  He hadn’t, of course, merely older and taller.

  She went back over it all, step by step, day by day, realizing how she had been duped. The child, she kept repeating to herself, Bobby, Bobbitt, whom she’d believed in so completely, was only a fiction, didn’t exist. None of it existed; Robin was a sham, a fake, a hoaxer. Nothing was “really truly true.” She thought of the deceitful lengths he had gone to, making up stories to borrow money from her for Madame Potekka, and from Potekka for her. He was no better than a con artist, and a clever one at that. Then, with a dreadful pang, she remembered the Belles. He’d borrowed from them, too, she was sure of it, each in turn, and Heaven knew on what pretext.

  She pleaded fatigue that evening and did not appear at Naomi’s for The Belle Telephone Hour, nor did she on the next. She couldn’t bear facing them; what was she to tell them, how could she explain? The passports, the plans, the clothes, the money spent; they were practically on their way to Ireland. She felt so ashamed to have been taken in, for them all to have been taken in. Oh, she thought, if she could just get her hands on Robin.

  The opportunity presented itself next morning. The buzzer rang, she went to the door, and there he was. Out of the blue, thin air—Bobbitt style—looking just the same, fit as a fiddle, his smile a yard wide. He kissed her and came in and sat. “Well,” she said, “how’ve you been?”

  Well, he said, he was all right. When had he got back from Ireland? she asked. “Oh,” he answered, “only last night. Sad, it
was all very sad.” “Yes,” she said. “Sad; terribly sad.” “Are you all right?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” she said, “quite all right.” Had she missed him? Well, she told him, he had been very much on her mind. He was glad, he said. “And Kitty?” Kitty was coming along fine; the chauffeur as well. She supposed he must miss Bobbitt dreadfully. “Oh, yes,” he said, “dreadfully.” But he had talked with his mother—“Lady Ransome, you mean?” she broke in. Yes—he nodded—Lady Ransome, and they had decided that in spite of the tragedy they wanted to go ahead with the plans they had made. “Oh,” said Nellie, “do you think that would be quite right, with the poor child scarcely cold in his grave?” “Life must go on,” he said. “Yes,” she agreed. “And so?” And so they must all come to Galway for the races. Rose wanted it so. Well, Nellie said, perhaps it was best. Certainly the Galway Race was not to be sniffed at. And the gala, of course; they’d got their long dresses. “Then all will be going forward as planned?” she asked. “Yes,” he said, “exactly to the letter.” Ah, yes, she said, of course; always to the letter. Or ought she to say letters; he’d written her so many. “Well”—he laughed—“the gift o’ gab in longhand.” Oh, she said, that was a good one; he was a caution. Terribly sorry about the selling of the Ballymore; family heirloom and all that. Yes, sad. “What’s wrong?” he asked, having noticed, probably, how pale she was, how she had to grip the arms of her chair to keep her hands from trembling.

  “How is it possible,” she asked finally, “that the Ballymore emerald was just sold to the Rothschilds when it has been in the British Museum for thirty-five years?”

  He stared, stammered, began a faltering explanation. She impatiently waved away his attempt, and began speaking, and once having begun, found she could not stop. She had never spoken so angrily to anyone in her life; but then she had never been so angry. To see him sitting there, smiling a yard wide, in his Bobbitt innocence … Bobbitt indeed; she would Bobbitt him. She had been Missy Priss in too many pictures not to know how to act like Missy Priss with her starch, and starch was what he got from her. She had no trouble at all finding words to tell him what she thought of young men who went about preying on helpless women; who were cold and heartless and selfish, liars, cheats, pusillanimous good-for-nothings, and there was one thing more, she added, showing him to the door, she never never never wanted to see him again, that was what he could rest assured of, and as, wordless and defenseless, he went out, she gave the door a good slam. Then she opened it again and called after him, “That for you, Mr. Bobbitt!” and slammed it again.