Barbara Greer

by Stephen Birmingham

  Far, then, from her native Bavaria—farther still than Bavaria in distances measured by the wandering heart—Barbara Woodcock and Woody deWinter laid Fraulein Ungewitter’s effigy to rest. Here, where black snakes sometimes slithered and, in early spring, where tiny polliwogs no bigger than Fraulein’s shoebuttons darted on the sandy brook bottom; where once the children had set free the goldfish to find their way to the sea and where innumerable toy boats had been christened and launched; where they had grown luxurious and fanciful gardens, created citadels and fortresses of mud and pebbled, lofty palladia that lifted their spires to the tallest reaches of the mind—here, in this wild and bosky place, they said farewell to Fraulein Ungewitter. And then in a transport, apparently of excitement—with a kind of furious longing that seemed to spring directly from the ritual they had just performed—they became more hushed and conspiratorial. They looked at each other. And in the quiet leaves; they undressed and lay down, kissing each other with—perhaps—a passion and a violence and (if it could be called that) a love which, for its unsuccess, was deeper and more meaningful than anything they would ever experience again.

  Years afterwards, it had become a private joke between them. ‘Remember,’ one of them would ask, ‘the day we buried Fraulein Ungewitter?’ And they would exchange a little secret smile, knowing that it is always the most vivid things in childhood that become the funniest jokes when you grow up.

  The farm.

  She had been married at the farm, a summer wedding in her mother’s garden. (‘Two Prominent Eastern Families Unite,’ the Burketown Eagle had said.) She had been at the farm, too, several years later when she had first met Barney Callahan.

  It had been one of her lonely summers. Carson had been away on his sales trip to South America. She had persuaded Flora, who ordinarily worked for her five days a week, to stay for a weekend with Dobie and Michael. She had arrived at the farm in the early twilight, and after changing her clothes, she had come downstairs and joined her mother on the terrace. She remembered John, her mother’s houseman, bringing them mint juleps in silver cups with silver straws. It had been exactly two summers ago. She remembered the terrace candles, lighted, and beyond their glow, fireflies performing hesitantly in the dusk.

  Her mother held her julep cup in her hand and smiled quietly at Barbara for a moment. Then she lifted the cup to her lips, sipped from the straw, and looked away. ‘There’s some news, darling,’ she said. ‘Peggy’s brought a young man down with her.’ She paused. ‘From Boston. She wants to marry him, or so she says. They’re down at the pool now, having a swim before dinner. His name is Barney Callahan. He seems perfectly nice. The auspices of course are absolutely wrong. They could not be worse. For one thing, he’s’ a Catholic, or was one until recently. Of course, with a name like Callahan! I know nothing about his family except that they’re poor Boston Irish. His father, Peggy says, runs a candy store or grocery store or some such thing. I’m fairly distressed about the whole thing, but what can I do? I discussed it at some length with your father this morning and we both agree that there is nothing to do except say absolutely nothing. You know how Peggy is. Anything we say will make her only more determined. She told me his history and expected me to be shocked. I was shocked, of course, but wise enough not to show it and that, of course, disappointed Peggy! She wanted a scene, a screaming scene. I refused to give her one. So now she’s being merely sullen. I’m hoping it will blow over. Let’s all hope it will blow over! So, Barbara, just don’t say anything to her—please. Just act perfectly, normally pleased about it and pray that it blows over. On the plus side, he has some education. He worked his way through Boston University peddling—I think Peggy said it was—milk.’ Mrs. Woodcock suddenly laughed. ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘my daughter marrying a milkman! However. Be that as it may. He was in the Army, in Korea, and now he’s finishing up at Harvard Business School on that G.I. Bill or whatever it is. I thought I ought to fill you in quickly on all this, Barbara, because you’ll be meeting him very soon, at dinner. In fact, here he comes now.’

  The young man came up the series of wide flagstone steps that led, between rhododendron bushes, from the pool, which was at the farthest end of the garden, to the terrace. He was very tall, very dark and slender. He wore swimming trunks and a white bathtowel hung around his neck. He came toward them.

  ‘Barney,’ Edith Woodcock said, ‘this is my other daughter, Peggy’s sister, Barbara Greer. Barbara, this is Barney Callahan.’

  He shook hands with her; his hand was wet and water dripped from his hair. ‘How do you do?’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Barney,’ Barbara said.

  Mrs Woodcock stood up, smoothing the front of her grey dress. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said. ‘I’m going to run in and get a sweater. It’s getting a little chilly this evening, but thank goodness the bugs seem to have left us.’ She turned and walked toward the house.

  Barney sat down in the iron chair Mrs. Woodcock had just left. He sat back, stretching his bare legs out in front of him. He put his elbows on the arms on the chair and brought his hands together, making a steeple of his fingers. ‘You live in Locustville, Pennsylvania, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  It was growing dark and it was hard to see his features distinctly. He was not looking at her, but straight ahead, through the steepled fingers, and his eyes seemed very dark and deeply set. They seemed, also, heavy-lidded, with a quality of sleepiness, of gazing dreamily at something in the middle distance, not the shadow of the horizon where the sun had set, nor at his hands, but at something somewhere between. His chin was dark and there was something curious and surprising in the sight of those dreaming eyes above the heavy beard.

  ‘Did you have a nice swim?’ she asked him.

  ‘Do you want to know a secret?’ he asked her.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  He looked at her and smiled; a rather shy and nervous smile. ‘I can’t swim a stroke. I pretended, though, just now. I doused myself in the shallow end and splashed around.’

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘Not a stroke.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘We’ll have to teach you! That’s all there is to it. Everybody in this family swims.’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Fine, I’ll be waiting for my first lesson.’

  Abruptly he stood up, turned and walked away from her, leaving her alone on the terrace. Puzzled, she watched him, walking somewhat gingerly on his bare feet across the hard stones of the terrace. He started back down the stone steps toward the pool. Little by little, as he went slowly down, the shadows and the heavy branches of the bordering shrubbery cut him off; the flash of white towel about his shoulders disappeared and he was gone as though the darkness and rhododendrons had swallowed him, enveloped him, shrouded him in layers of blackness like soft veils, one upon another, of sleep.

  3

  It was fifteen miles to the Locustville Airport. They drove in the chilly early morning light, Carson behind the wheel, Barbara beside him. His suitcase was on the back seat. After five years in the International Sales Division, which involved frequent trips like this one, Carson had got packing down to an exact science; even on the longest journeys he was never encumbered with more than one piece of luggage. As they drove, he went over a little list of last-minute instructions for her.

  ‘If a letter comes from Ted Sloane, from South America, open it and see what he says,’ he said. ‘It may be he’s planning to come up. I forgot to tell him I’d be away. Of course if he writes to the office, they’ll take care of it there, but if he writes to the house—and he may—call Clyde Adams and tell him whatever the letter says. Clyde will take care of entertaining him when he gets here. Oh, and Barb, you’d better call what’s-his-name, DeLuca, and have him come and clean out the oil burner. It should have been done last month, actually. Ask him if he thinks the chimney should be cleaned. My God, Harry Walsh had a fire in his chimney the other day and his house i
s the same age as ours! Don’t forget to send my mother some flowers or something on her birthday, July nineteenth. I’ll pick her up something wherever I am, but if the old girl doesn’t get something right on her birthday she’ll be on the phone saying nobody loves her any more. Let’s see, what else?’

  ‘I think I’ll have the rug cleaners come,’ Barbara said. ‘It’s only forty dollars and the rugs could use it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Fine. Go ahead.’ He frowned. ‘I keep thinking there’s something I’ve forgotten to tell you,’ he said.

  She moved closer to him and rested her head on his shoulders. ‘You haven’t asked me if I’m going to miss you?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Terribly of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry I blew up last night,’ he said, ‘at Nancy. But ye gods! I do think sometimes she’s on the verge of going off her rocker. But I didn’t know about—you know the abortion thing. That is too bad. So I understand why you asked her to spend the night.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t have. It ruined our evening.’

  ‘You couldn’t help it. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘Well, let’s not argue about whose fault it was.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s over and done with. Let’s forget it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s forget it and always remember the rules,’

  ‘I’ll try to be more tolerant of Nancy in the future,’ he said.

  ‘I had to keep reminding myself to be—well, tolerant of her last night,’ she said. ‘I know she was saying some pretty silly things.’

  ‘One o’clock in the pyjama factory, for God’s sake.’

  Barbara laughed softly. ‘Well, at least that was accurate,’ she said.

  They drove on in silence.

  Barbara said, ‘I keep remembering what a nice, bright girl she used to be.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I was thinking—while you’re away I might call Mother and ask her if I could bring Nancy up to the farm for a weekend. Who knows? Woody just may be the answer.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Carson said. ‘Not Woody.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t think that Woody’s her type. Or that she’s his.’

  ‘It’s funny, I always keep forgetting,’ Barbara said. ‘That you knew Woody before you knew me.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t think it might be worthwhile? Just to bring them together?’

  ‘Why get her hopes all up, and then—?’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then not have it work out I mean,’ he said.

  ‘You think Woody’s a confirmed bachelor then,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.

  After a moment she said, ‘Well, I might go up to the farm for a few days anyway. For a weekend, perhaps. You wouldn’t mind if I did that, would you?’

  ‘And take the kids?’

  ‘Either that or see whether Flora can stay …’

  ‘You really love that old place, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘What? The farm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course I love it … it’s home,’ she said. And then, ‘It gets so lonesome here when you’re away. I don’t know whether you realise.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I get lonesome, too. Being away.’

  They were approaching the airport now.

  ‘That must be your plane,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  He parked the car in the parking lot, removed the keys and handed them to her. He lifted his suitcase from the back seat, tossed his raincoat over his arm. They walked together toward the terminal, to the door that was marked DEPARTING PASSENGERS.

  For five years now she had seen Carson as a departing, or an arriving, passenger. And yet it was comforting to know, when he was away and his very existence seemed tenuous and uncertain, that somewhere, on some plane or train, he was a passenger. His travels were controlled, and safeguarded, by little slips of paper—tickets, baggage checks, itineraries, confirmations or reservations, passports, visas and memoranda. Because a passenger, whether arriving or departing, was at least an entity, a being. Carson’s ticket was checked now; his baggage weighed and tagged and they stood together in the terminal, in that suddenly embarrassed and uncertain pre-departure mood, talking, each not really listening to what the other was saying but waiting for the voice from the loudspeaker to signal that the passage was beginning.

  ‘I wish—and I always say this—that I was going with you!’ she said.

  ‘So do I. Some time.’

  ‘Yes. Some time.’

  ‘Give my love to the farm if you go. To your Mother, your Dad. Peggy, Barney, the whole family.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will,’ she said.

  ‘Well, then—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think I’ve thought of everything. I’ll cable when I arrive.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then—’

  And then the loudspeaker announcement came. Now loading at Gate Two. And they were hurrying, side by side, to the gate. At the gate he hurriedly kissed her and she said, ‘I love you! Write as often as you can!’

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘I will!’

  And other hurrying passengers pushed behind him and he released her and started across the stretch of asphalt toward the plane. He turned to wave and she waved to him and blew him a kiss from her fingertips. He went up the steps and was gone. She waited a while at the gate with a few other people until the ramp was rolled away, the door closed, the propellers started, and the plane began slowly to move away. Then she turned and walked back out of the terminal to where he had parked the car.

  When she got back to the house she found Nancy sitting, tailor-fashion on the green living room sofa, still wearing a borrowed pair of Barbara’s white pyjamas. She had a cigarette going, and in her hands she held a steaming cup of coffee from which she took little sips. ‘I wasn’t a very good baby-sitter, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I let Dobie and Michael climb all over me in bed, and when they got tired of doing that I gave them my purse to play with. They had a marvellous time painting each other with my lipstick.’

  Barbara sat down wearily in the chair opposite her.

  ‘Fortunately, your Flora showed up and took over,’ Nancy said.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ Barbara said. ‘I couldn’t seem to get to sleep last night.’

  Nancy put her coffee cup in its saucer. ‘It’s all my fault,’ she said. ‘I kept you up. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Did Carson get his plane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry I got him mad at me last night. Honestly, I didn’t mean to! I’m afraid I was a naughty little girl,’ she said, ‘but I’m paying for my sins this morning. I’m feeling—how did we use to say it?—a little leftover?’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Nancy.’

  ‘Poor Carson, I—’

  ‘He understood,’ Barbara said.

  Flora came into the room with an envelope in her hand.

  ‘I found this on the garbage can, Mrs. Greer,’ she said. ‘When I went out to empty the trash.’ She handed the envelope to Barbara.

  ‘On the garbage can?’ Barbara said.

  ‘Stuck there with a little piece of Scotch tape.’

  Barbara looked at the envelope. On the front, printed in pencil, were the words, ‘Mrs. C. Greer.’ She tore it open. The letter said:

  Mrs. Greer.

  All of us live in this neighbourhood and we should all be as good neighbours as possible. From where your garbage can is placed it is in full view of five houses. It is a disgrace. It is always overflowing and very untidily kept. Let u
s be better neighbours and keep neatness in mind for the sake of other property owners.

  The letter was unsigned. Barbara read it through again.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ Nancy asked.

  She handed the letter to Nancy.

  ‘Why, for heaven’s sake!’ Nancy exclaimed, reading it.

  Barbara turned to Flora. ‘Somebody doesn’t think we’ve been keeping our garbage can neat enough,’ she said. ‘How was it this morning?’

  ‘Well, there was a couple of tin cans around,’ Flora said.

  Barbara sighed. ‘Let’s try to keep it neater,’ she said. And then ‘I’m not blaming you, Flora. It’s probably Mr. Greer’s fault and mine as much as anybody’s.’

  Flora went back toward the kitchen and Nancy returned the letter to Barbara. ‘Is that typical around here?’ Nancy asked. ‘Anonymous notes and things?’

  ‘This is the first anonymous note,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Who could it be from? Do you have any idea?’

  ‘As it says, it could be from any one of five people. What difference does it make?’ She glanced at the letter again. Suddenly she was angry. She stood up. ‘How idiotic!’ she said. She seized the letter and tore it down the centre, then into smaller and smaller strips. She walked to the fireplace and tossed the bits of paper over the dead ashes. ‘Do you see why I hate this town?’ she asked. ‘Imagine! An anonymous letter—printed, to disguise the handwriting!’