by Belva Plain
Loud shrieks, as glee turned into rage, had brought both parents running. A small lake was forming on the floor while the boys wrestled in the tub.
“He got soap in my eyes!”
“He punched me!”
By the time the slippery, protesting pair had been lifted out and pacified, by the time the floor had been mopped and order restored, both Lewis and she had been almost as wet as the boys. And how had it ended? They had all gone out for ice cream, as sweetly and happily as you please.
If only today’s troubles could be so easily tidied away!
Cynthia. All these tragic divorces, instead of putting some effort into marriage.
“It wasn’t all champagne and roses for us, was it, Lewis? And then those kids Ellen and Mark. Were they supposed to fall in love to please their parents? We didn’t. You didn’t have a bean when we were married, and I know my parents weren’t delighted about it, either, but they never said so.”
When Annette’s voice ceased, the room was too quiet. The dogs in their baskets slept deeply, without twitching in dreams of the hunt. The sleep of the old, she thought. They’re old like me. I hope they won’t outlive me, for who will take care of them? I wish I knew how long I have, so I could make plans. People do live into their nineties these days, though. Still, you can’t count on it. It seems as if you can’t count on anything, although I suppose it’s age that makes me take that point of view. Age that makes me want to lecture to the young. And yet, I’m afraid of them. What kind of a mess are we going to have here tomorrow?
It was then, as she sat down in front of the telephone, that she knew she must ask for help. To do otherwise was nothing but foolhardy.
Marian Lester lived halfway between the Byrne house and the high school, where she taught. Only in her late forties and looking ten years younger, she was an unusual person to be a friend of Annette Byrne. But Annette had been active in community affairs, even on the board of education for many years after her grandchildren, let alone her children, were grown. And so they had had a long acquaintanceship. Then suddenly a friendship had begun.
One Saturday morning Annette had been surprised to see Marian in the group of kindergarten children who were having their nature walk through Byrnes’ woods.
“Don’t tell me you’re tired of teaching teenagers,” she said.
“No way. But I’m on the board of our local wildlife committee, and they ran short of helpers for this morning’s outing. So here I am, filling in. It’s rather fun for a change.”
Marian looked wistful, Annette thought. She had been a widow for several years and lived alone, her children being adults and far away. The little town was hardly overfull of desirable single men, and anyway schoolteachers had scant time to go out searching. Such a pretty woman too! It was a waste.…
On impulse Annette suggested dinner.
“That is, if you have nothing better to do one night this week,” she said, with tact. “I know an old lady isn’t the most exciting company.”
Marian smiled. “That depends on who she is. And you don’t have to specify midweek. I’m not often busy on weekends either.”
“Then what about tonight?”
“I’d love it, thank you.”
They had a very pleasant evening, the first of many. They were both bookworms, music lovers, and nature lovers. They were passionate about causes. Like all women who are mothers, they had their own stories to relate.
Annette had the advantage of means that had enabled her to travel the world, yet she seldom talked about the things she had seen.
“I always say that the worst bores are people with travel tales about their hotel bargains and sick stomachs.”
“You never bore me. I want to hear about the Ganges. Do you really see floating bodies? Did they serve fermented mare’s milk in Mongolia? No, you never bore me.”
There was an unusual serenity about Marian. At least, it seemed outwardly to be so. What was within, of course, one could not know. The thoughtful, listening expression and calm voice, even the smooth curve of the dark hair from the center parting to the ears, were all soothing to hear and look at. It seemed to Annette that Marian must never have had any of both Cynthia’s and Ellen’s busyness—inherited, most probably, from me, she would think with a grin.
So they admired each other, and exchanged the small favors that friends do. Marian knitted a handsome sweater for Annette, while Annette gave books and a matinee in the city. And they confided things, as friends do.
Therefore Marian knew all about the tangled quarrels in Annette’s extended family. Therefore Annette was now at the telephone.
“I need your help, you see. I want to have things straightened out. It’s ridiculous for these people to waste life like this.” And then, as a doubt rose, she asked, “Tell me the truth. Am I wrong, Marian? Am I sticking my nose into other people’s business?”
“Well, of course you are, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. Some of the best things in the world happen because people stick their noses in.”
“So you’ll come? You can sit comfortably in the snuggery—that’s my little office where I pay bills and read mail—you can read there. Then if you hear any loud argument, and I’m sure you will, come out and be a buffer.”
“I’ll be there early. It sounds interesting.”
Hearing the smile in Marian’s voice, Annette felt her dread recede. At least she would have an ally.
“Go to sleep, Annette, and think of something nice for tomorrow, the way you always do.”
Promptly at ten o’clock Gene’s tires crunched over the gravel drive. From his earliest years when he had first learned to tell time, he had always been either right on the dot or else five minutes early. His reliability had been a family byword ever since his childhood. Perhaps, Annette thought, this time will be different and I shall be able to reach that strong sense of what is required and right.
Coffee and his favorite cinnamon rolls were set on a tray in the sunroom, where he liked to sit on a wicker garden chair among flowering plants.
“You’ve had the chairs painted,” he observed the minute he walked in.
“I thought white would be a nice change. Do you like it?”
“Very nice. You’ve never lost your touch with African violets, I see. It looks like summer in here.”
“The light’s good. That’s all you need, no particular skill.”
“You’d never think it was twenty-five degrees above outside.”
“I got a feel of it when I let the dogs out.”
“Old Roscoe keeps going, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s in fine shape for his age. Look at him. He loves the sun.”
Gene looked at the dog, who was bathing in a pool of heat beside Annette’s chair. He looked at his mother, who was also in fine shape for her age, slender and beautifully groomed, from polished shoes and pale blue country woolens to wavy white hair. Then he looked at the tray with its two cups and two plates. So she was not expecting anyone to join them, he reasoned, and was relieved of his earlier vision of doctors or lawyers come to discuss alarming news.
“I’ve been rummaging around in the attic,” she said. “It’s amazing how things accumulate almost before you know it. And I found some surprises. You know, I thought we’d given your trains away years ago, but here they are, in perfect condition, each piece wrapped in tissue paper. Your father must have done it. There’s a huge layout—do you remember?—bridges, tunnels, a river, villages, and trees. It will be a real treasure for Freddie in a couple of years.”
“It certainly will be,” Gene agreed, although where they would put the huge layout in that place where they were living was surely a puzzle.
He wondered about this conversation, too, and why he had been invited just today. Invited? Was not summoned perhaps a better word? For the letter, when he thought about it, was in a way rather strange. Again, why just today? And be prepared, if possible, to stay overnight? It would have seemed more natural if she had
said, I’d love to have a visit from you soon. How about next week or the week after?
On the other hand, there was probably nothing to it at all except a normal desire, very normal at her age, to be with her son very soon.
“And how’s Lucy? I haven’t seen her since Labor Day weekend, and I miss her.”
“She’s an absolute joy. I took her to see the Nutcracker last week. The place was packed with children, but even so, I saw people looking at her and making comments. She had on a black velvet dress that Ellen said you gave her, and with that blond hair and all her chatter—”
Annette laughed. “You’re nothing but a proud grandfather.”
“I’ll admit that. But she really does attract attention. She’s the image of Ellen, don’t you think? And Ellen looks a lot like you.”
“Undeserved credit. Ellen looks just like her mother.”
Susan. Sometimes he went for days in quiet acceptance of his loss, and sometimes the very mention of her name, a face, or a fraction of song were enough to send a thrust of pain through his chest.
And he could not help but say, “I miss her terribly.”
“I know. It comes at moments, doesn’t it? Like a jab in the heart.”
Neither one of them spoke. She was gazing into the space above his head. She’s remembering my father, Gene thought, and felt her sadness.
“Yes, yes,” she said, “you look back and back.… It’s like looking in a telescope, seeing things recede, the front lawn, the meadow, the hill, the mountain, and beyond that, each smaller and smaller the farther out you can see. As in one’s life … things that happened long ago get smaller and smaller too.”
He became alert. Annette was not given to philosophical platitudes. But since she was evidently not finished, he listened politely.
“There’s another thing about time, another aspect. It’s unfortunate, really quite sad, that more often the good things, when you’re looking back through the years, seem to melt into a vague, rosy blur. It’s the bad things that stand out like black stains. Have you noticed? I had a bad argument with my sister once, and even though we made it up, when she died, I remembered it. I didn’t want to remember it, but there it was. And I was so thankful that we had made up.”
So that was it, the old business again. He reached over to pour a second cup of coffee and was trying to think of an inoffensive way to keep his mother from continuing the painful subject, when Roscoe jumped up and barked. From the front hall sounded the spaniels’ hysterical yapping. Then there were voices.
“Jenny, how are you?”
Oh, my God, that was Lewis!
“Jenny, you look wonderful. You never get old.”
That was Daisy, dear sister-in-law with the phony English accent.
“I’ll hang up your coats. Go on in. Your mother’s in the sunroom.”
That was Jenny, undoubtedly in on this business and bursting with curiosity.
There were three of them, including Cynthia, at the doorway looking in. Gene half rose from his chair and sank back. There was a total shocked silence; even Annette, who had risen all the way, seemed for an instant unable to move.
You’ve gone too far, he thought instantly. Now that you’ve done it, you don’t know how to handle it. Poor Mother. And pity surged in his chest.
Of course it was clear now why she had been so definite about ten o’clock. She had wanted to make sure that the cars might not pass each other on the narrow country road and have a reason to turn back.
Annette collected herself admirably. As if this were any ordinary arrival, she greeted, kissed, offered chairs, and suggested fresh coffee. But still no one moved.
Lewis spoke first. “What is this, Mother? Is this your idea of a joke? It’s a very bad one, if that’s what it’s meant to be.”
“Not at all. Plainly and simply, I wanted to see my sons together.” Her heart was trembling, but her voice was steady.
“With all respect,” said Daisy, “this was a very bad idea. Lewis and I have come all the way from Washington. We’ve been worried. Frankly, we thought you were ill.”
“Does a person have to be ill to deserve a visit from you?”
“Of course not. But you have made a dreadful mistake.”
“Let the men speak for themselves, please.”
There they were, the brothers, not looking at each other, not saying anything, just standing there ready to flee. They were handsome men, much alike in their dignity, their dark hair slightly silvered at the temples, as if they were playing the role of distinguished citizens in an advertisement for an investment bank. Their heavy eyebrows, straight and thick, and their rather sensitive, expressive lips were like their father’s. Handsome men, but still not as handsome as their father, Annette thought loyally. He would have a few thoughts for them if he were here. If they think I’m going to let them leave this room, they have another think coming.…
“A dreadful mistake,” repeated Daisy. “I’m sorry to say so, Mother. It hurts me.”
Annette was angry. Daisy was making her more angry, with her frosty courtesy. A long time ago she had spent a year at an English boarding school and had never gotten over it, in her kilts with the safety pins and her make-believe accent. You tried to like her and mostly you did like her well enough, but there had been times when you didn’t, and this was one of them.
“And I’m sorry you feel that way, Daisy. But I am their mother, and I want peace between them.”
Then Lewis spoke up again. “It’s too late.”
“Nothing’s ever too late while you’re still alive.”
“Water over the dam, Mother.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She was surprising herself by being able to talk straight and stand straight, while her heart was performing so madly.
“Ridiculous?” Gene repeated. “I don’t know how you can say that.” The last time he had seen Lewis, they were leaving the courthouse with their lawyers. They were not speaking then and would certainly not speak now. At any rate, he thought, not after what I’ve been through. “When people testify against each other in a courtroom, it is hardly a laughing matter.”
“You’re right, Gene. I withdraw the word. Tragic is the right one.”
“Oh, please,” said Cynthia, addressing nobody in particular.
She was pitiful. Gene wanted to catch his niece’s eye to show, although she already must know it, that this feud with her father had nothing to do with her. But she was looking down; her face was shadowed, and terribly thin. Her fashionable suit—so unlike Ellen’s conservative choices—seemed only to emphasize the change in her. He had seldom seen her since her unspeakable tragedy and then only on those few occasions when they happened to be visiting Ellen at the same time. He supposed that her visits to Ellen were rare because they were too painful. Freddie was almost as old as those twins were when—
“Come, Cynthia,” Daisy commanded. “You don’t need this on top of everything else.”
When they left, Annette stood barring the door. “Now I ask you two to listen to me. You owe me that much. Please sit down.”
“Out of love for you, I will sit,” said Lewis. “I don’t want to upset you any more than you already are, but—please, Mother, this is very painful, very unfair. Surely you can’t have forgotten what I’ve been through! Between lawyers and newspaper reporters, I’ve had more than a fair share of misery. I’ve been pilloried. Must I go over it all again this morning?”
“You’re missing the whole point,” Annette replied softly. “What I’m asking you both to do is to put all that away. It was a—a disease. Yes, a time of sickness and suffering. Would you want, if you had been sick in the hospital, to keep reliving those weeks for the rest of your life? Wouldn’t you rather try to forget about them?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. That’s exactly why Daisy and I moved to Washington, where I’m working on something very worthwhile, I hope, for the general good. So I am already putting it all behind me.”
“Y
ou can’t have put it all behind you while you’re still estranged from your brother.”
“Oh, but I can! That’s been my cure. Are you asking me to forgive and forget what he did to me?” Sharp, sarcastic lawyers had shamed him, portraying him as a culprit, a careless incompetent who had not bothered to investigate a serious complaint, indifferent to the possibility of the terrible consequences that had indeed occurred and would torment his dreams forever. Indifferent? Hardly. But Gene had not helped. “Am I supposed to forget the guilt he heaped on my head? It haunts me. I didn’t deserve to be torn to shreds by lawyers and reporters.”
“The newspapers came to me, too, after you sent them.”
Lewis’s voice rose hoarsely. “I sent them? That’s idiotic.”
From his chair, which was as far from Lewis’s chair as was possible, Gene retorted, “It’s very simple. You didn’t like it when I told the truth about your refusal to check on Sprague after what Victor had reported. Very simple.”
“You could have toned down your remarks instead of making me look like a deliberate criminal.”
What could I have toned down? Gene thought. Victor had laid the facts out on the table, and I was under oath. I should have followed up on Sprague myself right at the beginning. But I always deferred to Lewis because he was the elder who’d been in the business three years before I was.
Fresh anger flared, and Gene cried out, “You expected me to lie for you, did you? Oh, it was only a little matter of truth—”
“And honor,” Lewis finished for him. Honor, from the man who had put his own daughter through hell when she dropped the man he wanted for her and made another choice.
It was all so ugly. And so terrible, coming to a head here in their mother’s house. They might as well be thrusting a knife into her.
“Those poor innocents who died,” Gene said. “And all you think of is yourself, how you suffered—”
“You make me sick. You’re like all these high-sounding talkers whose hearts bleed easy tears for the world, while at home, with your own daughter, you—”
Gene lurched forward in the chair. “Damn you! What has Ellen got to do with all this? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave her out of it, understand?”
