by Packer, Vin
He had been still discussing their costumes for the Masque Ball that coming Wednesday, saying that for heaven’s sake they would have to make an immediate decision; that he had thought pro and con, thought it through and through, and still believed — was absolutely convinced, as a matter of fact — that it would be a really novel idea if they went as Mrs. Miniver and Yankee Doodle Dandy. For one thing, he began to point out for maybe the hundredth and second time that month, the theme of the ball was the year 1942; and for another —
But Louisa Edlin interrupted him there.
She said, “Henry, I feel all right about it now.”
Henry said, “Of course you do! It may be tiresome — the fact that people are always telling you about your resemblance to Greer Garson, but Louisa, what could be easier? In 1942, Mrs. Miniver was — ”
“No, I don’t mean that,” his wife said.
He looked at her and realized that she had hardly been listening at all to what he’d been saying. This was an exasperating thing about Louisa. He always listened to her, didn’t he? To everything — every little trouble of Tony’s, every little detail of afternoon tea with the Garden Association, every little thing Mary Drew did or didn’t do — he always listened. But she didn’t. Not about any of his operations (“Oh, did you pull a molar?” she’d say), nor about the new drainage instrument, invaluable to root canal work, nor about the increase of trucks on his route home, and how he had found the new route — nor any of it! And now, she was not even remotely concerned about the fact they probably didn’t even have the devil’s chance of getting anything more than a scrubby honorable mention for their costumes next Wednesday.
“Well, what do you mean?” he said, feeling sorry for himself suddenly (but Louisa was beautiful — 42 now, still like a girl of 35), “What do you feel all right about?”
“Mary Drew.”
“Why not? She’s been behaving.” “No, I mean the whole thing, Henry. With Martha and all.”
Louisa Edlin sighed, crossed her arms at her bosom and looked off toward the geranium bed. Her hair was a soft, reddish shade, cut in a curling monk’s cap across her forehead; the light blue eyes, pensive, the slightly turned-up nose and smooth-cut other features of her face in profile, pretty, somehow bequeathing a sudden sense of overwhelming dignity and poise to the casual observer.
To Henry Edlin, who knew her better, it was a pitiful pose, a disheartening stance, because it spelled out something still unforgotten about the years so far in the past, when Louisa had wanted to be a great actress. He remembered how, during those beginning years in the forties when the American movie star who so resembled Louisa had become famous, poor Louisa — reminded of this resemblance at every turn — had fairly begun to believe she was this Greer Garson. Begun to pose, to turn to smile at a stranger who had suddenly noticed the resemblance, as though she expected applause; to speak of Greer as though Greer were a best friend, a sister, or actually herself…. And even Henry, who realized the hidden sadness behind these facts, was never keen enough to realize too that through the whole strange, half-mad, mixed-with-war period when Louisa was Greer, he was even more physically drawn to her than he had been when he married her, than he ever would be again.
• • •
“Don’t you see,” Louisa Edlin said, “even though Martha is leaving in August, I couldn’t in all honesty believe our problems would depart with her. Henry, the thing between them was very deep. Very deep!”
“And isn’t now?” Henry half-turned, looking back toward the house with its, open windows letting out the noise they made — his daughter and the Kent girl. To him, there was never any other way of describing the combined gigglings, screechings, whisperings, and croonings that came from the pair, than “the noise they made.” Henry Edlin was an average-sized, average-looking gentleman in his beginning forties, with a serious, patient disposition; sometimes inclined to be dull, as when he brooded over the fact that dentists were never granted the same respect as physicians; or over the fact that Louisa’s and his first child was born defective, that Mary Drew was a thorough enigma, and that Louisa really did prefer Tony, the child she had by her first husband — a scoundrel who was a drunk and a nobody.
“I know,” Louisa nodded her head, indicating she too was well aware of the sounds of them behind her — the same sounds that had grown to be deeply feared these last five months, like some black threat to cut across their serenity. “I know…. But today, Henry, they’ve been perfect. Martha has talked about nothing else but her trip to America, and how much she’s going to enjoy it. And Mary Drew has joined in with the spirit of things. I can’t explain it, but something’s changed. I — well, I sincerely feel that their relationship has changed.”
“High time!” Henry Edlin could never keep the disgust out of his voice when the “relationship” was spoken of.
“And asking me for this outing this afternoon. It’s such a good sign!”
“Then Martha’s to stay for lunch again?”
“Oh yes, I asked her. After all, the three of us are going on this little — outing. We’ll leave right after lunch.”
“I won’t pretend to enjoy my meal.” “This hasn’t all been Martha’s fault, you know.” “I don’t even care to discuss it, Louisa. You know I don’t like to discuss it.” “Henry, we can’t ignore it.”
He said, “If Martha Kent is leaving, I think we can. And she is leaving.”
“But Mary Drew has been involved in something that’s bound to have some serious psychological effects on her — ”
Henry Edlin rarely broke in on his wife’s conversations, but at such times he invariably did: “Louisa, you know my opinion of psychological this and psychological that! It’s a lot of foolish nonsense, if you’ll excuse my saying so! Just because these so-called physicians, these damned psychiatrists, stay a few years longer at a university, sitting on their behinds and thereby emerging M.D.’s, ready to tell the whole world about “relationships” and “psychological” and I don’t know what, don’t force me to listen to the jargon in my own home. Or hear all this psychological nonsense about Mary Drew. All Mary Drew needs is to be rid of that witch in there. The child is under some sort of absurd spell. I half the time think it’s because Mary Drew is flattered that a beautiful girl would choose her for a companion. It makes Mary Drew feel indebted to her, almost worshipping! … I don’t know,” he whirled abruptly, in a motion to leave and end the discussion, “and I don’t care!”
His wife caught his sleeve, touching it as though to calm him, stall him.
“We shan’t need the car.”
“Fine. Are you walking or what?” He looked up at her and couldn’t help smiling, never could help that after an outburst, when her eyes looked so forgiving.
She said, “I’m sorry. I just felt better about it.”
“I’m sorry too, Louisa. Busy morning and all.”
“We won’t walk,” his wife said. “The bus passes the park.”
“Oh?” He looked more than surprised. “Now, Henry — ”
“Well, I do take it that you mean Southwark Park?”
“Yes, Southwark.”
“I thought we’d agreed — ”
“It was a long time ago.”
He said, “It was Christmas. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”
It was Christmas night. He had gone to the telephone with the intention of breaking in on the conversation to ask Mary Drew to finish it. She had been talking with Martha Kent for what seemed like hours, while Tony, Louisa and himself had waited to open the gifts. Tony had arrived late for the holidays, and they had delayed the celebration; and Mary Drew seemed to have no concern that she was prolonging it even more. He had heard the words “Southwark Park,” and then the hideously embarrassing reference his daughter had made to the experience she had had there, with a man. How had she put it? “The blossom is plucked, Moly. Wasn’t that what you wanted!”
They had never known the man. She had lied and cried and d
enied, and in a sense, that had begun it all — the long months of dreary agony. That had started her going to the first doctor, the one who had confirmed the words Henry Edlin had heard his daughter say to Martha Kent. And then there were the other doctors; then the psychiatrist — the headshrinker — with her loathsome interpretations.
Louisa Edlin said, “I know we forbade her to go to Southwark.”
“Ever!” Henry Edlin said, “Ever again!”
“But after all. Henry, I’m going along. And it is in the past. It is forgotten. Forgiven too, I hope,” she looked at him with her eyes pleading. “I want things to go well, so badly. Martha suggested Southwark; they both did … I don’t think they’ve even remembered back to that day. Really, Henry.”
He sighed, shrugged, giving in again.
Then Louisa said, “Everything’s going so well here at home. I want it to. I want it to be smooth when Tony arrives next week.”
There you were — the world was Tony, Louisa’s world…. The world was Tony.
But for Henry Edlin, that afternoon of June 8th around four-thirty, the world was the Masque Ball once again, what costumes to wear; and a first fitting for porcelain caps on the left and right near incisors of a balding tailor.
“The theme of the ball is the year 1942,” he was saying, “and in America that year, two rather good films were made. You may remember ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’ but of course there’s no reason why you should.” The man nodded, his mouth stuffed full of Henry Edlin’s right hand, “Or ‘Mrs. Miniver,’ you may remember. My wife looks quite a lot like the film star who played the part. You may remember — ” and at that point, the slight tapping came on the window of the door between the room Henry Edlin was in with his patient and the room in which his receptionist sat.
“She’s new,” Henry Edlin explained to his patient. “Not terribly capable of understanding simple instructions. And when my nurse is on vacation, as she is now, the whole day is one shocking interruption after another. Any little telephone call — anything from someone asking for charity to a patient cancelling an appointment — knock, knock, knock.”
There were the three knocks again, slightly more persistent.
“Busy! Busy!” Henry Edlin called out. “She has no appreciation of my duties. Girl like that wouldn’t think of bursting in on a physician when he was operating, but however — ”
And the knocks once more — three more, loud.
“I beg your pardon,” Henry Edlin said to the tailor, “but I’m going to have to shout. I can’t take my hand from your mouth with the impression setting, so I’m going to have to shout through the door. Please pardon me!”
Then Henry Edlin shouted.
The girl outside did not know who to fear most — Dr. Edlin or this woman who was so insistent upon speaking to the doctor directly. An emergency, she claimed … well, didn’t they all.
The girl chose to fear her employer more.
“I know,” she said, “I know it’s an emergency, but — ” still slightly intimidated by the desperate and firm sound of the woman — “but you see, the doctor isn’t here. He’s gone out, he has. I’m telling you the truth. The doctor is not here.”
Then dutifully, the girl copied down the message the woman shouted into her ear:
Call Ruby Tullett, Tearon, Southwark Park. 4848.
CHAPTER SIX
Both girls swore to me they had never had a physical relationship together. The Kent girl said, “How could we? We’re both females!”
— Dr. Rose Mannerheim, testifying at the Edlin-Kent trial
CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1955
The halls at Chillam were hung with holly and mistletoe, branches of fir trees, and there was the smell of pine.
But in the gymnasium were the smell of chlorine and Miss Nicky’s face looking more wooden than a carved head.
Martha Kent, standing with her coat on before Miss Nicky’s desk, tried to sneak a glance at her wristwatch. She had an appointment with Mary Drew at five, in the woods just beyond Chillam. They were to have their secret Druid ceremony, the cutting of the mistletoe. Christmas was still a week away, but this was to be their Chillam Christmas celebration, their most mysterious ritual of all, just as it was getting dark.
“Do you want to know the time, Martha?” Miss Nicky snapped.
“Well, mam, I — ”
“Three-fifteen.”
“Thank you.”
Miss Nicky said, “Remove your wrap.”
Martha hated her at that moment more than at any other time. Chillam was tradition-bound at Christmas, and with the traditions came duties. Martha had just finished the stencils for the crib in the chapel, painstakingly lettering out JOY TO THE WORLD, PEACE ON EARTH, and A LITTLE CHILD IS BORN until her fingers were crooked and stained with India ink. And there was still the table of candy figurines to arrange in the main hall of Old House, before she flew off to meet Mary Drew. Now Miss Nicky had intercepted her in the main hall and forced her to come here to the gymnasium.
“You are not attending the Christmas party this evening, are you, Martha?”
“No, mam. It’s optional for day girls.”
“It doesn’t matter to me very much that you have no school spirit, Martha, but other things do matter.”
“Mam?”
“Did you know that sometimes I’m called ‘Hawk-eye’, Martha?”
Martha lied. “No, mam.” Everyone knew Miss Nicky was the most incredible snoop in Chillam or anywhere within a five-hundred-mile radius of Chillam.
“Well, I am. And for good reason.” She fixed Martha Kent with a hard look. “Hand them over,” she said.
Martha blushed. “Mam?”
“The candies, Martha. Place the Christmas candies on my desk!”
From her pocket Martha took the two sugar statues she had managed to slip from the large box in the main hall. She had planned to take them to the Druid ritual for her and Mary Drew to eat.
The two she had taken were statues of the Wise Men. There were others of the Holy Family, and at Chillam at Christmas time they were placed on a large table, around which everyone gathered for ceremony and singing.
Miss Nicky said, “If you had chosen to attend the party this evening, you would have been entitled to a candy. One! But you did not choose to attend, and you took two!”
“There were so many,” Martha said. “I — ” “Decided to steal.” Martha said nothing.
“Very well, then you will pay the penalty for this. I’ll see that your name is removed from Main Hall Duty, or it’s quite possible you’ll walk off with the Holy Family as well as the Wise Men. As for now, you may report to the ‘Points Off’ Senior for this month. Report now.”
“Yes, mam.” There would be more penalties, more study halls to attend during free periods, and all the other unpleasant tasks assigned to girls with low points. It would be up to the Senior in charge.
“Do you know to whom you are to report, Martha?”
“Yes, mam. Anna Swanson, isn’t it?”
“It would be, if it were not for the fact that Anna lives in Geneva. In order to allow her to spend the holidays with her family, she received permission to leave a week ahead of the others. I suppose day girls wouldn’t even be aware that Anna left last Wednesday.”
“I didn’t know, Miss Nicky.”
“Of course not. You and Mary Drew don’t know or care about anything that occurs at Chillam. Well,” passing over that remark quickly, Miss Nicky said, “Evelyn Rush is Senior in charge. You may go directly to her room at Old Main.”
“I see … Will she — be there? Everyone’s so … occupied.”
“Rush will be there. She’s making window decorations there.”
“Yes, mam.”
“And Merry Christmas, Martha,” Miss Nicky said as Martha, grabbed her coat and ran.
• • •
She could have been called back for running, called back and made to report even more points off to Rush, but she had begun to run so instinctiv
ely that she had not cared about the rule by the time she knew she was running; and Miss Nicky, perhaps pleased that she should speed to her doom, did not halt her.
Ever since Martha had returned the ring minus the blue stone to Rush, both she and Mary Drew had waited for Rush’s promised revenge. Apart from the bore they thought she was, both knew her certain uncanny cleverness, her patience, and her power among the Chillam girls. Those three things were her forte.
Now she was in Rush’s hands, and there was no way to tell Mary Drew. Because Mary Drew had been assigned to make the Christmas wreaths in the Craft House, where there were two faculty members, six other girls, and a No Admittance posted. It was another Chillam tradition that only those involved in making the wreaths were to see them before the unveiling at the Christmas party.
The halls in Old House were named after martyrs, and Rush lived along St. Stephen, who was stoned to death for blasphemy. So St. Stephen hall had been come to be called “Goddam,” and Evelyn lived at 7 Goddam.
When Martha arrived at “Goddam” she heard voices. The door was pulled to, but ajar, and Martha heard Beth Dragmore say, “… nothing ever has to you! Oh, you’re cruel, Rush.”
Rush said something Martha could not hear.
Then, Beth: “And how pompous you are about them all! All of them, trophies!”
“Why do you make a scene? Can’t your pride prevent it?” Rush’s voice.
“Pride!” Beth was screaming now, near hysteria. “What do you care — about anything, you damned — ” and there was the sound of flesh striking flesh, the quick whip-snap sound of a cracking slap. Then, a slow second of silence.
Rush’s voice broke the silence. “Get out.”
Martha anticipated more words, but before she could move back down “Goddam,” the door swung open, and Beth Dragmore, tears streaming down her face, one side of it red-burned where she held her hand to comfort the aching, spun into the hall. She faced Martha head-on, and in that instant of recognition, her eyes widened, she stopped short. Then she said, with weepy-sounding words, “Oh yes, Rush has your revenge planned too!” Her eyes sharpened then to two little brown needles and she hissed a single word, as though she were too full with emotion to frame it into a sentence. She said, “Hate!”
