Evil Friendship

by Packer, Vin

  “Make your call,” he answered. He disappeared around the corner, presumably on his way back to the high-back chair and the decanter by its side.

  “He’s too drunk,” said Mary Drew.

  “I don’t care, it’s fun.”

  “What shall we do now?”

  “Let’s sit in his den.” “Let’s,” said Mary Drew.

  They took off their coats, and threw them across the red leather sofa. Martha stretched out on the sofa, smoothing down her navy wool shirt and her white cashmere sweater. She ran a comb through her long black hair, propping herself up on her elbows, while Mary Drew inspected the books in the wall-to-wall cases.

  “Latin-American Legal Philosophy, by Luis Siches,” she said. “Horridly dull man, I’d say. Britain’s Way to Social Security, by Francois Lafitte.”

  “Terrible!” Martha agreed.

  “Social Security in the British Commonwealth, by Ronald Mendelsohn,” said Mary Drew. “Textbook of Jurisprudence, by G. W. Paton.”

  “Don’t look at any more, it’s nauseating,” said Martha.

  “It’s father a nice room though, Moly. I like the wooden beams above.”

  “Oh, he has a fortune. His damned son was shot down in the war, I’ve heard. That’s why he’s all to pieces this way.”

  Mary Drew knelt on the white rug before the couch. “What would it be like to go to war and say goodbye to someone you loved very dearly.” “Awful, I would imagine.”

  “I suppose you’d spend the whole last evening just loving.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to tear away,” Martha said.

  “It’d be awful, wouldn’t it, Moly?”

  “Rotten.”

  “Do you want to pretend?”

  Martha tucked the comb back under her sweater at her skirt waist and lay back with her hands under her head. “Yes. Let’s say that I’m a beautiful woman who loves this man, but has never told him so in just so many words. Now he’s off to war. He’s a pilot, and he’s in his uniform, and he’s come to my apartment to say farewell. Let’s say he walks in, and I’m here, just as I am, like so. He comes in, and I say, ‘Well, Roger, I expect you’ve come to say goodbye. Is that it?’ ”

  Mary Drew said, “What if the drunk walks in while we’re pretending?”

  “He’s too boozy to know…. Ready?”

  Mary Drew stood up. She took her long brown wool coat from the couch and slipped it over her shoulders. “All right,” she said, “Here goes.”

  Martha said, “Well, Roger, I expect you’ve come to say goodbye. Is that it?”

  Mary Drew walked over to the couch, looking down at Martha. “You’re beautiful, Laura. Beautiful!”

  “And you look very handsome in your uniform, Roger.”

  “Is this all we can say to one another, Laura? I may never see you again.”

  “Take off your coat,” Martha said, closing her eyes and pushing back her long black hair. “We have some time yet, don’t we?”

  “Only a moment. The squadron’s waiting, Laura. I have to join them.”

  Mary Drew knelt down on the rug, with the coat about her shoulders. She leaned forward, her mouth within an inch of Martha’s.

  “I love you,” she said. “I’ve loved you from the very moment we met. But I won’t kiss you. I’m so close my lips are almost on yours, but I won’t kiss you.”

  Martha’s eyes opened. The two girls looked very deeply into one another’s eyes for a very long time. Then slowly, Martha raised her hands, brought them to Mary Drew’s head. “I love you,” she said, “You know that.”

  Then hungrily they fed on each other’s lips. “I love you,” Mary Drew kept murmuring. Martha held her harder. “Keep telling me. Keep saying it.”

  “I do love you. I do.”

  Martha reached for the other girl’s hand, guiding it to her sweater. “Love me, will you? Not just kisses. Not any more.”

  Mary Drew’s hand smoothed across the cashmere, then down to the bare skin where the sweater met the skirt.

  “Don’t stop,” Martha said. “Oh my God, the way I feel.”

  Suddenly there was a noise, and Mary Drew withdrew, stumbling to her feet. “He’s outside!”

  Martha scrambled to the opposite end of the couch and picked up the phone. “I’ll act like I’m phoning.”

  Mary Drew opened the door. There was no one in the hallway. She went on toward the living room, peering around the corner. There were socks and garters lying on the floor by the shoes, but Craig was nowhere in the room. Neither was the decanter.

  There was a light to the left, where the staircase was.

  Mary Drew stood still, listening.

  When Martha came in the room, she said, “He’s gone upstairs.”

  “Can you hear him?”

  “A moment ago I did.”

  “Let’s be sure,” Martha said. She called weakly, “Mr. Craig?” But there was no sound. Then she said, “I’ll slip my shoes off and have a look. You stay here. If he should be on this floor and show up, tell him I went in search of the bathroom.”

  While she was gone, Mary Drew sank onto a davenport in the corner. She sighed, and then held her head with her hands. There was a large clock ticking and the wind outside was beginning to rise. She sighed again, sat up, and saw the time. It was seven forty-five. She clasped her hands together, rubbing them and twisting them against one another.

  “Guess what?” Martha said when she returned.” He’s up there, sprawled across his bed.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Oh, Druid, unconscious!”

  “What shall we do?”

  “Why, stay, of course,” Martha smiled. “What could be more fun! Do you care if this night never, never ends?”

  Mary Drew laughed. “Oh, Moly, we are mad I We’re stark raving mad, Moly!”

  “Let’s go back to our den, though. I like it there!”

  They both sat on the leather couch now, kicking their shoes off with their legs pulled up under them. Martha combed her hair again, and Mary Drew watched, unable to take her eyes from the girl. But Martha did not return the glance. Instead she looked off at the books, a vague smile playing at her lips.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it, pretending that?”

  “Yes,” Mary Drew said without much enthusiasm. Her fingers traced the leather near where Martha’s skirt was spread.

  “I like to pretend, don’t you, Druid?”

  “Umm hmm.”

  “What’s the matter? You don’t sound keen on it.”

  “I take it very seriously. Perhaps I should be an actress instead of a writer.”

  Martha said, “Shall we pretend something different? He’ll sleep for hours, you know. I know from Roddy when he passes out. We ‘re safe, and oh, it is fun, Druid!”

  Mary Drew thought a moment, touching the hem of the skirt very lightly. Martha was putting her comb back at her skirt top, brushing the skirt off, and picking the lint from it.

  Then Mary Drew said, “All right, let’s pretend. You’re Gretchen, I’m Raynor. We’ve been reunited at the castle, and we’ve had our kisses. Now we’re sitting, much as we are right now, and we’re having a chat.”

  “Good! I’m ready!”

  “I’m perfectly serious now,” Mary Drew said. “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I’ve always understood.”

  “You know that everything I’ve said to you has been true.”

  “And I can say the same,” Martha said. Mary Drew turned and faced her. “I want to break this off.”

  “You what?” Martha’s face had an incredulous expression.

  “I’m not play-acting,” said Mary Drew, “I want to be released from this.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “I’ve met someone — someone who literally fascinates me. I met her today.”

  Martha stared at Mary Drew. “Are you perfectly serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not pretending you’re Raynor and I’m Gretchen?” “No.”

>   “What you say is supposed to be true. It’s supposed to be part of your manuscript.”

  “It is,” Mary Drew said, “and there you have it. Oh, I would have said it earlier, but it didn’t seem the right time. Now, I feel it is.”

  Martha smiled. “Ah, I know. I know.” She leaned over and put her hands on Mary Drew’s face. “I know yon better,” she said, trying to kiss the girl. But Mary. Drew wouldn’t allow this.

  “What wit?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Say it again, then. Say it while my hands are on yours, this way. Now say it.”

  “I don’t love you,” Mary Drew said. “I’m bored with you.”

  Martha’s hand whipped across the other girl’s face.

  “Say it again!” she shouted.

  “I’m bored with you,” said Mary Drew.

  Again Martha slapped her. There was no mercy behind the blows. Mary Drew caught her wrist, twisted it back, while Martha struggled to be free. The motion catapulted them to the floor. The pair fought, kicking and scratching one another like wildcats, wrestling one another with brutal determination, until Martha was able to pin Mary Drew under her. Then with a free hand she began to slap Mary Drew’s face, over and over, until tears came to the other girl’s eyes and started streaming down her cheeks. Martha stopped slapping her then and sat back a moment. There were two long scratches across Mary Drew’s face, which began to bleed. Martha touched one with her finger, looked at the blood, then wiped it across her own white cashmere sweater. When she leaned forward this time, it was to undo the buttons on Mary Drew’s blouse.

  Then both girls began to sob. They lay there that way for a long time, crying and holding onto one another, Mary Drew with her blouse loose, untouched there, save for the warm cashmere pressed against her bare skin.

  Martha sobbed, “Oh, Raynor, Raynor, I love you!”

  Finally Mary Drew said, “Would you like a child, Gretchen.”

  She sat up, and very slowly she began to undress Martha.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I am a duly qualified and registered medical practitioner. I hold the degrees of Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery at the University of Crowningham, and of Psychiatry at Kings Fellow. I have private practice at Eastbourne, and am visiting psychiatric physician to Weerdale Hospital, as well as lecturer at Melrose College in Weerdale. I saw Mary Drew Edlin for the first time on January 20th, 1956, at (the request of the deceased, Louisa Edlin.

  — Dr. Rose Mannerheim, testifying at the Edlin-Kent trial

  JANUARY 20, 1956

  Dr. Mannerheim had a fierce head cold that afternoon in January; she wished she could postpone the interview with the Edlin girl. She had read Mrs. Edlin’s initial letter concerning the girl’s problems with considerable interest, and the follow-up phone calls from Mrs. Edlin had also suggested a more interesting patient than most Dr. Mannerheim was exposed to in the course of a normal day. Still, she was not looking forward to it when the appointment came about. It was a dreary day, too — the dark, cloudy sort.

  The girl entered Dr. Mannerheim’s office with a sullen expression and slumped into the leather chair opposite her desk, with her hands sunk into the side pockets of her polo coat.

  Dr. Mannerheim said, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with your coat off?”

  “I hardly expect I’ll be here long enough to notice.”

  “Do you want to tell me why you think your mother asked you to come here today?”

  The girl shrugged. “She’s afraid I’m crazy, I imagine. You treat crazy people, don’t you?”

  “If that’s so,” said the doctor, regretting the untimeliness of the appointment more than ever now, “what do you imagine led her to believe that you were crazy?”

  “I have a very close friend. At Chillam, we’ve been accused of having a significant relationship.”

  The label was an absurd incongruity; nevertheless the doctor asked, “And do you think there’s anything about your relationship with the girl that should bring on accusations of any kind?”

  “They might accuse us of being brighter than the average Chillamite,” the girl answered. “More imaginative, I should say.”

  The doctor said, “Mary Drew, your mother tells me that the day the head of your school made this accusation, you were out past midnight. That you returned home without your coat.”

  The girl’s puckish face answered with a wry smile. She moved her hands in the pocket of her coat. “Well, I’ve retrieved it, as you can see.”

  “A Mr. Craig found it on his grounds, is that right?”

  “If he wants to say he found it on his grounds, he may. But I left it in his den.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Mannerheim. “You simply left it in his den and came home without it?”

  “I told mother that. She doesn’t believe me.”

  “And what were you doing in Mr. Craig’s den that evening?”

  “We were working on problems that have come up in our novel writing.”

  “You and the Kent girl and Mr. Craig?”

  “Mr. Craig was upstairs drunk.”

  “And you were downstairs unbeknownst to him?”

  “Oh, no. He let us in, all right. Then he went off to bed. At one point, when Martha and I were discussing a most serious aspect of my novel, he woke up. He startled us, and we ran out of his house. We didn’t even stop for our coats.”

  “I see,” the doctor said. “He just — startled you. Is that it?”

  “Yes. We’d been talking for a long time about whether Raynor and Gretchen — those are my two characters — about whether or not they should have offspring. We’d been so absorbed in our discussion that we’d forgotten all about our being there. When he appeared in the doorway, he shocked us. We made a run for it.” She twisted a leather button on her coat with her fingers, “but of course he’s claiming we weren’t even there. That he simply found our coats on his grounds. That’s what he said when he called and spoke to my mother the next day. In a most innocent tone. Said his caretaker found the coats, and since they had name tags inside, he’d known whom to call. And my mother believed the drunk.”

  Dr. Mannerheim leaned forward and studied the girl’s face closely. “Mary Drew,” she said, “why did you and Martha go there in the first place. Did you know Mr. Craig?”

  The girl answered, “Know him? Who’d care to? He’s a terrible person, and everyone in Weerdale knows it! No,” and she became more serious in her expression and tone, “we went there because we saw lights, and because we hadn’t any other place to go. We knew we’d catch it at home, once Miss Pierce-Morgan reported our significant relationship,” she slurred the words out in an ironical voice, “and so we simply mooched around until we could find somewhere we could talk about our novel-writing.”

  For awhile then, the girl discussed her novel, as well as the Kent girl’s. Dr. Mannerheim had no doubts as to her imaginativeness, but considerable doubt as to her ability to tell the truth. Still, little could be ascertained from one interview.

  When she brought up the question that had bothered the girl’s father the most, the girl’s face stayed blank.

  Again the doctor asked, “And this man whom you were supposed to have had relations with — who would he be?”

  “I can’t see that it matters,” said Mary Drew. “I’m not pregnant, am I?”

  “Did you have relations with a man?”

  “Of course. Didn’t I say I had? I admitted that.”

  “I see,” said the doctor. “But you’re not, apparently, very fond of him?”

  “Never was!”

  “Nor of any man?”

  “Only Raynor and L.L.,” the girl answered.

  Dr. Mannerheim sighed. “The characters in your novels, is that it?”

  “Martha and I see eye-to-eye on everything,” Mary Drew answered. “She’s my best friend. I haven’t any others.”

  “And you don’t want any others?”

  “I can’t think of any reason why
I should.”

  “I think you’d benefit a great deal if you made other friends,” the doctor said, “you and Martha both. I think — ”

  “Oh, stop it!” the girl said. “I know what you think — what every other damned fool thinks, too. But none of you will succeed in separating us, if that’s what you’re up to. Miss Pierce-Morgan won’t either, for all her stupid rules. I say: try to separate us!” She stood and eyed the doctor with a smirk breaking at her lips, “I suppose everyone’s against us. But it doesn’t much matter.”

  “I’m not against you,” said Dr. Mannerheim.

  “Are you going to give me that business now about ‘I’m your friend’? I’ve seen it often enough in the movies. The kindly doctor reaching out his hand to soothe the nut.” She laughed. “Well, sorry, good doctor, but I know what’s what!”

  “And what is what, Mary Drew?”

  “You’re all out to get us, but you won’t! We have some sense, you know…. Now I’ll toddle along, if you don’t mind, doctor. I said I wouldn’t stay long.”

  The girl started toward the door.

  The doctor said, “Goodbye then, if you’re going.”

  With her back to the doctor, the girl answered, “Do you have any doubts of that?”

  She slammed the door after her in such a way that the doctor’s head throbbed. Reaching for a tissue, Dr. Mannerheim sat back and blew her nose, mulling over the matter.

  Of course, it was difficult — quite difficult to come to any decision, with such flimsy facts available, but there was one thing she was rather convinced of. She tore a sheet of paper from the pad on her desk, sat forward and began to write:

  “A very unsatisfactory consultation. I could not make contact with Edlin girl. Possibility she has slight paranoid tendencies. Nothing conclusive, however, save for my opinion this is a homosexual attachment between the two girls. Uncertain if it has any physical manifestations. Cannot see how anything can be done about it at present, but think it very poor mistake to impede the friendship at this point. Recommend to parents they do not follow through on their threats to separate them.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN