Legacy of Silence

by Belva Plain

  “Oh, yes, that it is.”

  “I was wondering, Mrs. Dodge, whether you would be willing to watch her some nights? They have concerts on the campus, you know, and there was a movie—” She faltered. Actually, Tom had complained very mildly, it was true, that they were missing some worthwhile events, and surely people needed to get out together now and then.

  “I’m afraid not, dear. We’re not young people, and I’m pretty tired by nightfall. Mr. Dodge likes me to sit with him while we watch TV.”

  The next day, on her way to the library, Eve saw Tom approaching from the opposite direction. The campus was so huge that a chance encounter was rare. How haphazard was the world! Things—leaves birds, people—all whirl and collide at random. So it had happened that on a day, in a moment, he had seen her sitting under a tree. If he had been walking on the other side of the lawn, what then?

  But here he came; he had a calm, easy stride, and his face was tilted upward, as if to feel the sunshine. His mouth had its familiar touch of humor.

  “Well, well,” he said. “A good thing I took that picture of you, or I might forget what you look like. It’s been a long time since Sunday.”

  “I haven’t changed. It’s only Wednesday.”

  “Only? Have you asked Mrs. Dodge?”

  “She can’t do it.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’m sorry, too, very, but what can I do?”

  He threw his palms up.

  “Look, Tom. You go by yourself. Jazz concerts like this one don’t come here every day. You go. I don’t mind.”

  “Great fun, going alone.”

  “No, but even married couples have to do it sometimes. I remember my mother going to things without Dad, and him without her.”

  “Speaking of married couples, I’ll bet you can’t guess what I just heard. There’s a rumor about us. Some bright guy said Jane is our kid that we’ve kept hidden.”

  “Is that ever stupid! But I suppose wherever we go with her, there’ll always be some idiot who’ll think something.”

  Did she imagine that the flicker of humor on Tom’s mouth had died away?

  “I want you to hear that music tomorrow night,” she said brightly. “Honestly. It’s no big deal. Go and tell me about it. If there’s a record, buy one.”

  “All right. All right, I will.”

  They stood looking at each other. There were unspoken words between them.

  “I can’t even phone you,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “It’s absurd that there’s no phone in your room.” Tom looked at his watch. “I’m due in Room 309 in five minutes.”

  She nodded. “See you Friday. My last class is out at four.”

  “I’ll pick you up here, and then we’ll get Jane.”

  He walked away. She watched him reach the corner of the building, stop, and come back.

  “I can’t imagine living without you,” he said almost roughly, turned around, and this time did not come back.

  In the library, Eve sat with an unopened text before her. Wherever we go with her, she had said. The careless phrase, repeated, was suddenly not so careless. For where, indeed, were they going? And, clearly, she saw that to have traveled across the continent without any definite plan had been foolish and irresponsible. She had simply assumed that because Tom was here, everything would be simple. And now it was not.

  Distraught, she had fled her home, and in bliss she had arrived here into his arms. They had made love, but no decisions. Tom had, as yet, said nothing about any plans. It worried her that they were not yet married. Admit, Eve, that you would never have done, without marriage, what you are doing if you had been nearer to home. Imagine if Dad had known! Imagine if Lore were to know! She is like her mother, they would say, making the same mistake.

  Yes, she must speak seriously. On Saturday night at the beach house while Jane slept, she would ask Tom what they were going to do. There were only a few weeks left of the summer session. It was time.

  But shouldn’t it be the man who does the asking? Logical or not, a woman wanted to be sought.

  ON Saturday they went out on a fishing boat. Tom owned quality gear; deep sea fishing was one of his enthusiasms, and Eve had made trips with him before. She took no pleasure from dragging out of the water a pathetic, live creature struggling for its life, but she was no pious overseer of other people’s tastes, and she went along. Her eyes were always turned away toward the outer rim, where the sky met the ocean. Tom knew her feelings. They understood each other’s feelings.

  Today, however, he had not quite understood. “You’ll be out for hours,” she had explained, “and I don’t see how Jane can fit in. I’ve never seen anyone bring a child along.”

  “Well, maybe other people have a place to leave the child.”

  Had she imagined again that his answer had been unnecessarily short? Anyway, here they were, Eve and Jane, alone in the cabin.

  At first Jane had been fascinated by the embarcation,the ropes, the engine room, and the people climbing onboard with their cameras, slickers, and baskets of lunch. The men and the women—very few women—had spoken the usual pleasantries to her, no doubt wondering why she had been brought on this outing.

  “Look at her, isn’t she adorable in the poke bonnet?”

  “It’s the only thing I could find to keep the sun off her face,” Eve explained.

  “Cute. Looks like my granddaughter,” one man said.

  “I’ll bet you’ll catch the biggest fish in the ocean today, little lady.”

  The pleasantries over, the boat had sputtered into motion and lurched its way out to sea, gathering speed and climbing the waves, dropping like a plunger elevator and climbing again. Now the windows were washed with spray, so there was nothing at all to see.

  “I want to go outside,” Jane said.

  On deck, the wind was powerful enough to carry a light person overboard and to stop a heavy person’s breath. Eve clutched Jane’s hand.

  “Great, isn’t it?” Tom called from an eagle’s eyrie above them.

  She did not think it was great. She thought that a storm was coming up. “Too rough,” she called back, but the wind must have carried her words away, for he did not reply.

  “I want to go in,” Jane said. “It’s too cold.”

  No doubt it was far too cold for her. Eve should have let Tom go alone. But he had already gone alone to the concert this week.

  Tom called again. “What? Going inside?”

  “It’s cold.”

  “You’re losing all the benefit of the day.”

  “Can’t help it. Anyway, the wind’s so high I can hardly hear you.”

  “I’d like to bottle this pure air and take it home.”

  Didn’t he know that she would happily have faced the weather on top with him, but that she had Jane to consider? Smiling, she waved to him, calling, “See you below,” and went below.

  “Let’s read,” she said. “I’ve brought three Babar books. Which one shall we start with?”

  They were charming books; even in translation, the writing was original and vivid. There was a cozy pleasure in reading aloud with Jane’s head resting so comfortably against her, and a surprising pleasure in the child’s bright attention.

  “I think Babar is very nice to the old lady.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because he’s an elephant, and he could squash her if he sat on her, but he doesn’t.”

  She is so little, so alone, and too innocent to know how alone she is, except for me and for Lore. But really, for me.

  The boat rocked and pitched. From side to side it flung a package, probably a lunch that someone had left under a seat. Up and down it seesawed, flashing now and then a forward glimpse of the tilting horizon.

  “I’m hot,” Jane said.

  “But you were too cold just a little while ago, and it’s not even warm in here.”

  “I need to take off my jacket.”

  She was sweatin
g. When she began to cry, “My tummy hurts, my tummy hurts,” Eve knew.

  “Lie down on the bench,” she commanded, “and close your eyes.”

  Once, years ago, on a sailboat on the lake at home, she had been miserably sick. Afterward, the family joked about seasickness and the death wish. But it wasn’t laughable when you were having it.

  The copilot, hearing the cries, stepped down from the front to offer advice. “A chicken sandwich is a big help. I keep a few handy. How about it, kid? A nice chicken sandwich?”

  “No!” roared Jane.

  “Really, a chicken sandwich will taste good. Better eat.”

  An instant later, Jane’s stomach emptied itself, as the contents of the morning’s breakfast erupted onto her jacket, Eve’s sweater, and the well-scrubbed floor.

  “Oh, dear,” Eve wailed, concerned about Jane and embarrassed about the floor. “Leave it, please. If you’ll get me a pail or something, I’ll clean it up in a minute. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The kid can’t help it. Just take care of her and never mind the floor.”

  Now Jane wailed, “I’m sick. I want my daddy. I want Lore.”

  “I’m here. Don’t cry, honey. I know you feel awful, but you’ll be better if you lie down and stay quiet.”

  “I hate this boat. I want to get off.”

  “How much farther are we going?” Eve asked.

  “Just up and down along the shore, north and south. Rambling around, looking for fish. A couple of folks upstairs have been hauling in some good ones.”

  “What I really meant was, how much longer do we stay out?”

  “Supposed to dock around two. That’s the time you paid for.”

  It was only half-past ten and she supposed, or rather hoped, that there would be no more vomiting. There was nothing to do but endure.

  Half an hour later, after Jane had finally lain down to sleep, Tom came upon Eve curled over her knees and trembling with cold. Having nothing to do but read, she had been occupying herself with a mental translation of Babar, first into German and then back into its original French.

  “What’s going on here?” he cried. And after she told him, “We shouldn’t have brought her.”

  “I know that,” Eve said simply, as the boat climbed a dark green mountain and slid like a terrifying avalanche down the other side.

  Jane woke up, mumbling, “I want Lore. I do. I do.”

  “I thought she was so attached to you,” Tom said.

  “She is. But I’ve only been with her during vacations. She’s been with Lore every day of her life.”

  “I want to go home. I hate this boat,” Jane shrieked.

  Tom shook his head. “She hates too many things,” he said.

  “Tom, you can’t expect her to be sunny all the time. Nobody else is. And she’s been under a lot of stress. And—” Eve stopped. They were talking about Jane as if she weren’t there hearing, and possibly understanding, what they were saying.

  “It’s a raw day, starting to rain.” And shaking himself as he spoke, Tom scattered drops from his jacket.

  “Does that mean we go back?”

  “Not unless everybody wants to, or a real storm comes up.”

  “What if we ask them to let us go back?” Eve asked.

  “Eve, these people have paid for five expensive hours. I can’t ask them.”

  “I would pay for the lost time.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Let Jane go to sleep again. Put on my jacket and come up with me.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous. You can’t stand outside in this weather without a jacket. Take it.”

  “No, you take it.”

  Why were they having this absurd argument? But she knew quite well why.…

  Tom left a troubled stillness behind him. His jacket lay where he had flung it. Jane had stopped her plaints to stare up at Eve as though she were making a study of her face.

  “Tom’s angry,” Jane said.

  She did not answer, thinking: Well, if he isn’t angry exactly, he’s certainly stubborn. But then, so am I. Her arms were almost blue with cold, yet she refused to wear his jacket. If he wanted to prove something—prove what?—she did, too.

  She got up, went forward, and handing the jacket to the obliging copilot, asked him whether he would please go up and give it to Tom. “He forgot it,” she said.

  After that she lay down, holding Jane close for warmth. They were still lying there, Jane asleep and Eve too cold and agitated for sleep, when people came stamping down into the cabin, lamenting the storm. A heavy rain was falling, and the boat was turning homeward.

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a day,” Tom said, “especially for you.”

  “I haven’t said so,” she answered stiffly.

  “You don’t need to, with that glum expression. I see you can be as stubborn as I can.”

  “Every bit as much.”

  So they went home, took hot showers, and still barely speaking, ate the sandwiches that were to have been their jolly lunch on the boat. In midafternoon when the rain stopped, Eve and Jane went to the beach on a hunt for shells, while Tom got out his easel.

  He had been working for the last two weekends on a seascape. The subject was a difficult one: Surf advanced in strong, level parallels toward a rocky promontory and broke up into a dazzle of spray; it all happened in twilight. He chooses difficulties, Eve thought now. That’s something I’m just learning about him. This morning’s weather, the Guatemala jungle, and now this that it would take a Turner to do well, are each a challenge. What is he trying to prove? she wondered with some impatience.

  He was still working at the easel when she returned with Jane. And knowing that he wanted to be undisturbed, surely a reasonable request, she went inside to let Jane help her make some cupcakes for their dinner.

  “We’ll have a party,” Jane said. “Cupcakes are for a party, and I’ll wear my party dress.”

  The dress had been brought along for the weekend because Eve had thought they might go out to dinner. Tom had mentioned “the best seafood restaurant within fifty miles,” but then he had said nothing more about going. Well, why not wear her party dress?

  Eve’s thoughts were making her heart beat faster. They must speak. This chilly sulk could not be allowed to go on.

  She was waiting for him when, after Jane had gone to bed, he brought his painting indoors. “We need to talk,” she said. “What have we been doing since ten o’clock this morning? We’ve wasted almost twelve hours of our lives being nasty.”

  She had not meant to give way, and did keep her voice firm, but her eyes teared.

  “I could cry myself,” he said unexpectedly, “cry with shame. All afternoon while I was working at this thing, I’ve been wanting to say something to you, but I saw how you were, and I didn’t know how to start. A paltry excuse, I know.” He put his arms around her. “I apologize. Okay? Let’s forget the whole stupid business.”

  They would forget it, of course. It was their first fight, if you could even call it a fight. And she was about to say, “We need to straighten out our plans and be definite,” when he spoke first.

  “I guess I’ve been cranky because I’m not used to having a child around. I know it’s nobody’s fault, and I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t in the best humor, either,” Eve admitted.

  “She’s a cute little kid when she behaves herself.”

  “I think she’s starting to feel secure. She’s been much better lately.”

  “Okay. Shall we call it a day?”

  This was probably not the best moment, after all, in which to get down to business. “A day,” she said.

  “I was really talking about bed.”

  She laughed. “At this hour?”

  “Why not? At any hour. You and I, at any hour, Eve.”

  THE body, the two bodies, so marvelously fitting, blended, becoming one, soared, returned into the soft night, and floated away to rest. Only much later as she fell toward sleep did
Eve recall that somewhere there had been a worry, a lurking, vague thing, dark in a corner. But she could not think of what it was.…

  She was jolted awake into daylight. From the outer room came voices, a man’s rumble and a child’s frenzy. She jumped out of bed, caught a robe, and ran.

  They were standing in front of Tom’s painting, Tom towering over the crying child. Then she saw what had happened. In the forefront of the picture where he had labored to create an iridescent spray, a large red blob had been superimposed. The paint was still wet.

  “It’s a boat,” Jane cried. “I only wanted to make it pretty.”

  Tom looked at Eve, at the ruin, and back at Eve. Apparently, he had run out of words. There are times when you have suffered such a beastly assault that you do run out of words. Yet for some implausible reason, Eve felt an impulse to laugh.

  Still, she spoke severely. “Jane, you’ve spoiled Tom’s picture.”

  “I didn’t spoil it, Eve! I fixed it. There was no boat, and it needed a boat.” The foot stamped, and the tears poured.

  Oh, damn. Bright Sunday morning, and here we are again.

  “The picture doesn’t belong to you, Jane. How would you like it if somebody marked up your new Babar book?”

  “That’s different, Eve!”

  “No, it isn’t. People’s things belong to them, and we don’t touch other people’s things. You do know that.”

  “Words, words,” Tom said. “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “What else would you have me do?”

  “I know what I’d do.”

  “I can imagine. And what would that sort of thing accomplish? Come here, Jane. Let me wipe your nose. Then tell Tom you’re very, very sorry, and you’ll never do anything like that anymore.”

  “No. He’s mean. He’s very, very mean.”

  “Tom’s never mean. His feelings are hurt because you spoiled his work. Please say you’re sorry, and he’ll feel better.”

  “Not necessarily,” Tom muttered. “A nuisance, that’s what.”

  “I’m not a nuisance,” Jane roared.

  “I know you didn’t bargain for this,” Eve said, “but what can I do?”

  “You can make some other arrangements for her.”