Ethel despised the Semon girl, who, it was rumored, was the daughter of a French Count and a Corsican heiress. She loathed everything about her—her looks, her popularity, the smallest detail of her person and mannerisms. And Ethel did not know exactly why—it was not altogether because she was jealous, though that was a great deal of it; it was not because she thought Louise laughed at her secretly or because she acted as if Ethel never existed—it was something else. Ethel suspected something about Louise that no one else would ever have dreamed of—and she meant to find out if she was right. Louise might not be so wonderful then. Maybe she hadn’t found anything in her room this afternoon, not even a letter—nothing. But Ethel smiled across the dining room to the table where Louise sat gaily laughing and talking, the center of attention—for Ethel had a little interview planned with Miss Burke for that night!
II
The grandfather clock was chiming eight in the reception salon of Miss Burke’s quarters where Ethel stood nervously waiting. The lights were dim, and the corners of the room were in darkness—the whole atmosphere was cold and Victorian. Ethel waited at the window—watching the first snowfall of the year, the white mantling of the naked trees and the dusty, silver cloaking of the earth. “I must write a poem about this sometime—‘The First Snowfall’ by Ethel Pendleton.” She smiled wanly and sat down on a dark tapestried chair.
The door at the other end of the room opened and Mildred Barnett emerged from Miss Burke’s private sitting room.
“Goodnight, Miss Burke, and thank you ever so much for your help.”
Ethel moved away from the shadows and crossed the salon quickly. She paused at the door of Miss Burke’s sitting room and took a deep breath; she knew just what she was going to say—after all, Miss Burke should know what she suspected; it was all for the good of the school, nothing else. But Ethel knew she was lying even to herself. She knocked softly and waited until she heard Miss Burke’s high voice.
“Come in, please.”
Miss Burke was seated in front of her fireplace, drinking a small China demi-tasse of coffee. There was no other light in the room and Ethel thought, as she sat down on the soft cushion at Miss Burke’s feet, that it was strangely like a scene of peace and contentment on a holiday card.
“How nice of you to drop in on me, Ethel, my dear. Is there something that I may do for you?”
Ethel almost wanted to laugh—it was so funny, so ironic. In fifteen minutes this elderly, composed woman would be quite shaken.
“Miss Burke, something has come to my notice, which, I believe, warrants your immediate attention.” She had chosen her language carefully and accented the words precisely in the manner that Miss Burke so heartily felt was correct and genteel. “It is in connection with Louise Semon. You see, a friend of my family’s, a physician, called on me recently here at school and—”
Miss Burke put down her demi-tasse and listened to Ethel’s story in shocked amazement. Her stately face flushed. Once during the recitation she exclaimed, “But, Ethel, this can not be true—I made all the arrangements through a person of obvious integrity—a Mr. Nicoll—surely he would know we could never allow such a thing—such a dreadful thing!”
“I know it is true,” Ethel exclaimed, petulant at this disbelief; “I swear it! Call this Mr. Nicoll tomorrow, ask him—tell him the situation is intolerable and jeopardizing the standing of your school—if I am right. I know that I am. No—do not rely on Mr. Nicoll alone. Surely there are authorities—?”
And Miss Burke nodded. She was becoming more convinced and more shocked every minute. There was only the sound of Ethel’s voice and the soft purr of the fire—and the gentle presence of falling snow, whispering at the window pane.
III
There was one pale light burning in the corridor when Ethel reached her room. The signal for lights out had been given a good hour before. She would have to undress in the dark. The instant she entered her room she knew something was wrong. She knew she was not alone.
In a frightened whisper, she said, “Who’s here?” In sudden terror she thought, “It’s Louise. Somehow she’s found out—she knows—and she’s come here.”
Then, above the beating of her own heart, she heard the soft rustle of silk and a hand clutched her arm tightly.
“It is I—Mildred.”
“Mildred Barnett?”
“Yes, I came here to stop what you’re doing!”
Ethel attempted to laugh, but it stopped somewhere and she coughed instead. “I haven’t the slightest—not even the foggiest notion what you’re talking about. Stop what?” But she felt the falseness in her voice and she was frightened.
Mildred shook her. “You know what I mean! You saw Miss Burke tonight—I listened. Perhaps it’s not the most honorable thing, but I’m glad I did if I can help Louise out of that lie you told tonight.”
Ethel tried to push her accuser’s arm away. “Stop it! you’re hurting me!”
“You did lie—didn’t you?” Mildred’s voice was hoarse with fury.
“No—no—it was the truth—I swear it. Miss Burke’s going to find out if it isn’t the truth; then you’ll see. You won’t think little Miss Semon is so wonderful then!”
Mildred released her grip on Ethel. “Listen, it wouldn’t make one particle of difference to me whether it was true or not—you aren’t even in a class with that girl.” She paused for a moment and chose her words carefully. “Take my advice—go to Miss Burke and tell her you were lying—or I’m not responsible for your health, Ethel Pendleton. You’re playing with dynamite!”
With that as a farewell, she opened the door and slammed it with a bang.
Ethel stood shivering in the terrible darkness. It wasn’t because of Louise—she didn’t care about that—it was the others. Mildred would tell them probably, and that was why she suddenly knew she was going to cry.
IV
Miss Burke lay on the sofa of her sitting room, her head propped up by a huge pink silk pillow. Her hands were pushed tightly against her eyes, trying to drive away the dull ache which gnawed at her fraught nerves.
Miss Burke thought, with a shudder, of what would have happened if Ethel had told the other students instead of her, and they in turn had told their parents. Yes, Ethel should be congratulated.
When Ethel entered the headmistress’s private kingdom, the clock in the reception salon was chiming five. The feeble winter sun had disappeared, and the gray January dusk filtered weakly through the heavily draped windows. She could see that Miss Burke was in an emotionally disturbed state.
“Good afternoon, dear.” Miss Burke’s voice was tired and strained.
“You wished to see me?” Ethel sought to keep herself, in appearance, as innocent as possible.
Miss Burke gestured with annoyance.
“Let us come to the point at once. You were correct. I called Mr. Nicoll and demanded a full report of the girl’s parents. Her mother was an American negress, a mulatto to be exact, from the West. She was a sensational dancer in Paris and married a wealthy and titled Frenchman, Alexis Semon. So Louise is, as you suspected, a person of color. Quadroon, I believe, is the technical term. Most unfortunate. But naturally the situation is intolerable, as I explained to Mr. Nicoll. I told him she would receive immediate dismissal. He is calling for her tonight. Naturally, I had an interview with Louise and explained the situation to her as kindly as possible—oh, but why go into that?”
She looked at Ethel as if she were seeking sympathy—but all she saw was a young girl’s face, whose thin lips were stretched in a sardonic smile of triumph. Miss Burke knew with sudden realization how she had played into this jealous girl’s hands. Abruptly she said, “Will you please leave me.”
When Ethel had gone, Miss Burke lay there on the sofa remembering, with horrible clarity, all the things Louise had said in her defense. What difference did it make? She did not look colored. She was as clever and as charming as any of the other girls—better educated than most. She was so happy he
re; was not America a democracy?
Miss Burke tried to soothe herself with the thought that what she had done had to be done—after all, hers was a fashionable institution. She had been tricked into accepting the girl. But something else kept telling her that she was wrong and that Louise was right!
V
It was nine o’clock and Ethel lay on her bed staring at the ceiling—trying not to think of anything or hear anything. She wanted to fall asleep and forget.
Suddenly there was a soft knock on the door. Then the door opened and Louise Semon was standing there.
Ethel shut her eyes tightly—she hadn’t counted on this.
“What do you want?” She talked up to the ceiling and did not turn her head.
The beautiful girl stood by the bed and looked down directly into Ethel’s face. Ethel could feel those dark eyes on her and she knew they were swollen from tears.
“I came to ask you why you did this to me. Do you dislike me so?”
“I hate you.”
“Why?” Louise was earnest in asking.
“I don’t know—please go; leave me alone!”
She could hear Louise opening the door. “Ethel, you are a strange girl. I am afraid I do not understand—” And the door was closed.
A few minutes later Ethel heard a car in the driveway. She went to the window and looked out. A black limousine was turning through the stone gates, out of the school grounds. When she turned around, Ethel was looking into the face of Mildred Barnett.
Mildred said simply, “Well, Ethel, you’ve won and you’ve lost, all at the same time. I told you you were playing with dynamite. Yes, Ethel, of a certain type you’ve given a rather brilliant performance—shall I applaud?”
This Is for Jamie
Almost every morning, except Sundays, Miss Julie took Teddy to play in the park. Teddy loved these daily trips. He would take along his bike or some plaything and amuse himself while Miss Julie, glad to be rid of him, gossiped with the other nurses and flirted with the officers. Teddy liked the park best in the morning when the sun was warm and the water spurted out of the fountains in a crystal spray.
“It looks just like gold, doesn’t it, Miss Julie?” he would ask the white-garbed, carefully made-up nurse.
“I wish it were!” Miss Julie would grumble.
The night before the day Teddy met Jamie’s mother it had rained, and in the morning the park was fresh and green. Although it was toward the end of September, it seemed more like a spring morning. Teddy ran along the paved paths of the park with a wild exuberance. He was an Indian, a detective, a robber-baron, a fairy-tale Prince, he was an angel, he was going to escape from the thieves through the bush—and most of all he was happy and he had two whole hours to himself.
He was playing with his cowboy rope when he saw her. She came along the path and sat down on one of the vacant benches. It was the dog she had with her that first attracted his attention. He loved dogs, he was crazy to have one, but Papa had said no, because he didn’t want to have to housebreak a puppy and if you got a full-grown dog it wouldn’t be the same. The woman’s dog was just what he had always wanted. It was a wire haired terrier, hardly more than a puppy.
He walked slowly up, a little embarrassed, and patted the dog on the head.
“That’s a fella,” “Atta Boy.” That’s what they said in the movies and the adventure stories Miss Julie read him.
The woman looked up. Teddy thought she was about as old as his mother, but his mother didn’t have such pretty hair. This was like gold and it was wavy and soft looking.
“He’s an awfully nice dog. I wish I had one like him.”
The woman smiled, and it was then that he thought she was very pretty. “He’s not mine,” she said. “He’s my little boy’s.” Her voice was nice, too.
Immediately Teddy’s eyes lit up. “Have you got a little boy like me?”
“Oh, he’s a little bit older than you. He’s nine.”
Eagerly Teddy exclaimed, “I’m eight, or almost.” He looked younger. He was small for his age and very dark. He was not a handsome child, but he had a friendly face and a disarming manner.
“What’s your little boy’s name?”
“Jamie—Jamie.” She seemed happy, saying the name.
Teddy got up on the bench beside her. The dog was still in a playful mood and continued to jump on Teddy and scratch his legs.
“Sit down, Frisky,” the woman commanded.
“Is that his name?” Teddy asked. “That’s an awful cute name. He’s such a nice dog. I wish I had a dog, and I could bring him to the park every day and we could play, and then at night he could sit in my room and I could talk to him instead of to Miss Julie, cause Frisky wouldn’t care what I talked about—would’ja?”
The woman laughed a deep, somehow sad laugh. “I guess maybe that’s the reason Jamie’s so crazy about Frisky.”
Teddy cuddled the dog up against his leg.
“Does Jamie run with him in the park, and play Indians and things?”
The woman stopped smiling. She turned her gaze away toward the reservoir. For a moment he thought she was angry with him.
“No,” she answered, “no, he doesn’t run with Frisky. He just plays with him on the floor, he can’t go outside. That’s the reason I take Frisky for walks. Jamie’s never been in the park—he’s sick.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Teddy’s face flushed. Suddenly he saw Miss Julie coming up the path and he knew she would be angry if she saw him talking to a stranger.
“I hope I see you again,” he said, “tell Jamie hello for me. I’ve got to go now, but maybe you’ll be here tomorrow, huh?”
The woman smiled; he thought again how nice and pretty she was. He rushed down the path toward Miss Julie, who was feeding crumbs to the pigeons. He looked back and called, “Goodbye, Frisky,” The woman’s wavy hair shone in the sun.
II
That night he kept thinking of the woman and of the little boy, Jamie. He must be very sick if he couldn’t go outside. And, while Teddy lay in bed, he saw Frisky over and over. He hoped that the woman would be there the next day.
In the morning Miss Julie awakened him with a shake and a sharp command. “Come on, you lazy bones! Get out of that bed this minute or you won’t go to the park.”
Immediately he jumped out of bed and ran to the window. It was clear and cool and with the fresh smell of early morning. It would be beautiful in the park today!
“Yippee, yippee,” he yelled and ran wildly into the bathroom.
“Now what do you suppose has got into that child?” Miss Julie said, looking after the flashing Teddy in utter bewilderment.
When they reached the park, Teddy slipped away from Miss Julie while she stood talking with two other nursemaids. The long curving pathways of the park were almost deserted. He felt completely free and alone. He dodged through some underbrush and came out by the reservoir and there, just ahead of him, he saw the woman and the dog.
She looked up when the dog started to bark at Teddy.
“Hello, Teddy,” she greeted him warmly.
He was pleased that she remembered him. How kind she was! “Hello, hello, Frisky.” He sat down on the bench and the dog jumped on him, licking his hand and nudging against his ribs.
“Ouch,” Teddy squealed. “That tickles.”
“I’ve been waiting for you almost ten minutes,” the woman said.
“Waiting for me?” he said, startled and sick with joy.
“Yes,” she laughed. “I have to get back to Jamie sometime before the day’s over.”
“Yes,” Teddy said hurriedly, happily. “Yes, you do, don’t you? I’ll bet he misses Frisky while he’s out here in the park. I know I’d never let him out of my sight if he was mine.”
“But Jamie isn’t as lucky as you,” she said. “He can’t run and play.”
Teddy fondled the dog; he pressed its cold nose to his warm cheek. He had heard that if their noses were cold, dogs were healthy.
“What’s Jamie sick with?”
“Oh,” she answered vaguely, “something like a cough, a bad cough.”
“Then he can’t be very sick,” Teddy said brightly. “I’ve had plenty of coughs, and I’ve never stayed in bed more than two or three days.”
She smiled a little. They sat in silence. Teddy cuddled the dog in his lap and wished he could jump up and run with him across the great green lawns marked “KEEP OFF THE GRASS.”
Presently she got up and gathered the dog’s leash in her hand. “I must go now,” she said.
“You aren’t leaving, are you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I’ll have to. I promised Jamie I’d be right back. I was just supposed to go down to the cigar store and get him some comic magazines. He’ll be calling the police if I don’t hurry up!”
“Oh,” he said eagerly, “I have lots of comic magazines at home. I’ll bring some tomorrow for Jamie!”
“Good,” the woman said. “I’ll tell him. He loves magazines.” She started off down the path.
“I’ll meet you here tomorrow and I’ll bring the magazines. I’ll bring lots of them!” he called after her.
“All right,” she called back, “tomorrow.” And as he stood watching her disappear he thought how wonderful it must be to have a mother like that and a dog like Frisky. Oh, Jamie was really such a lucky boy, he thought. Then he heard Miss Julie’s sharp voice calling him.
“Teddy, Oh—yoo-hoo! Teddy come here this instant. Miss Julie’s been looking everywhere for you. You are a naughty boy and Miss Julie’s angry with you.”
The Early Stories of Truman Capote Page 6
