Barbara Greer

by Stephen Birmingham

  ‘I’m sorry. Frankly, I forgot.’

  ‘How could you forget? Didn’t he say anything to you about being away?’

  Barbara sighed. ‘As I told you before, I saw him last night—he didn’t mention anything.’

  Nancy shrugged. ‘Well, I might as well make the best of it. I’ll put on my dress anyway. You can keep trying him, can’t you? From time to time, during the evening?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll keep trying,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Good. He’s bound to come back sometime, isn’t he?’ She picked up the dress, and holding it up in front of her, she walked toward the mirror. ‘Isn’t it the most dreamy dress, Barb? I had to have it. Ninety-five dollars—I could hardly afford it. But I thought after what I’ve been through, I deserve it.’ She swirled the chiffon skirts about her. ‘I think it’s going to be a good-luck dress,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the funniest feeling something wonderful will happen when I put it on!’

  Barbara stood up. ‘I’ll let you get dressed,’ she said. ‘See you downstairs.’ She went out of Nancy’s room and down the hall to her own.

  Downstairs, the evening ritual of cocktails was beginning—indoors, tonight, because the terrace and the garden chairs were damp with rain. In the second of the strung-together living rooms, fresh flowers had been placed in bowls—white peonies and deep blue spears of bearded iris. The windows on both sides of the room had been opened, letting the warm breeze from the garden drift into the room and billow the heavy curtains, and the breeze carried with it summer smells, wild sweet-pea and Nicotiana, along with the clean after-rain smell, and the sounds were early evening sounds, peepers from the lake just beginning, lacewings in the trees, and cicadas. Though it was still light outside, John had lighted a few lamps in the room; each created a warm pool of light about it, and in one of these pools, the little table had been placed next to Preston Woodcock’s armchair. Because Nancy was there, Edith Woodcock had put on a silver dinner dress and she moved in the room, arranging the iris and peonies in their vases. Then Preston came in, smelling of pine soap, wearing a wine-coloured velvet jacket, black trousers, and black patent leather slippers. He sat in his accustomed chair and John appeared with the cocktail things on a silver tray.

  Preston mixed Edith’s drink carefully, then handed it to John who placed it on a smaller tray, rested a napkin next to it, and carried it to Edith.

  ‘Thank you, John,’ Edith murmured pleasantly.

  Preston mixed his own drink from the little special pitcher. He raised his glass to Edith. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Here’s to another pleasant evening for all of us.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Edith said. And then, after tasting her drink, she said, ‘I’m really beginning to be concerned about where Peggy is. She’s been gone most of the afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll show up pretty soon,’ he said.

  Barney came into the room wearing a light suit.

  ‘Good evening, son,’ Preston said cheerfully.

  Barney bowed slightly. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Can I fix the usual for you?’ Preston asked.

  ‘Yes, please. The usual,’ Barney said.

  ‘Still no sign of Peggy?’ Edith asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  ‘Where in the world could she be?’ Edith said.

  Preston interrupted her, speaking to Barney. ‘We’re having a very lovely girl join us tonight, Barney,’ he said. ‘Did you know that? Barbara’s friend, Nancy Rafferty, is here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Barney said. ‘I met Miss Rafferty a little while ago.’

  ‘She’s a wonderful girl,’ Preston said. ‘Nancy’s always been a great favourite of ours.’ He looked up. ‘Well, speak of an angel!’ he said, standing up. Nancy, in floating yellow chiffon, stood at the door.

  ‘Mr. Woodcock!’ she cried. She ran, holding out her hands toward him, across the room. ‘You look wonderful, simply wonderful!’ He took her outstretched hands and drew her to him, bending and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be here again!’ she said. ‘It’s just as though I’d never been away. Everything is so lovely! You’re so sweet to let me come.’

  ‘What can I fix for you, Nancy?’ he asked her.

  ‘Oh—gin and tonic, I guess, please!’ she said gaily. She turned to everyone in the room. ‘So wonderful!’ she repeated.

  ‘And it’s wonderful to have you here,’ Preston said.

  She hovered over him as he mixed her drink. ‘Do you remember?’ she said. ‘That you were the absolutely first person who ever got liquor to pass my lips? Well, you were! Remember—the night Barbara and I were going to Cynthia Burns’s coming-out party, and I had the horrible hives and couldn’t go? I was desolated! And you came into my room and said. ‘What you need is a nice, stiff drink,’ and then—’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, yes, of course I remember …’

  She stepped away from him, turning to the others, and pointed dramatically at Preston. ‘So it was he who started me down the garden path to ruin!’

  Edith smiled. ‘What a pretty dress, Nancy!’ she said. ‘Is it silk?’

  Barbara stood in the doorway, watching them.

  Presently her father looked up and saw her. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Now we’re all here except for Peggy.’

  Barbara sat down in one of the small chairs. ‘A light Scotch for you?’ her father asked.

  ‘Yes, please, Daddy,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, this farm, this farm!’ Nancy was saying. ‘To me, it’s always seemed like one of the last, truly civilised places in the world. The last outpost of gracious living!’

  ‘Well, we do have fun here, don’t we?’ Edith said.

  When all of them had been served their drinks, Preston lifted his own glass once more and repeated the little toast. ‘Here’s to another pleasant evening for all of us,’ he said. He smiled first at Nancy, then at Barbara.

  It was the cocktail hour. Sitting in the little straight-backed chair and watching the familiar ritual, withdrawing herself, mentally, a little distance and observing it dispassionately, she thought that it possessed tonight a particular quality of artifice. All of them, she realised, had embarked together upon a little play; the lines came rapidly, unpunctuated by silences, as the actors one by one discarded reality and lifted pretty veils of illusion. For some reason, the pretensions seemed too elaborate. And as she watched, the performances seemed to grow more laboured and the lines that were uttered seemed to come breathlessly, as though they had all run a great distance to this stage and could only maintain their characterisations by taking great secret gulps of air. She herself felt choked. The consistency of the evening seemed fragile and at any moment, clearly, it might shatter.

  She felt fourteen. She was swept with the thought that she was a child-woman and that some essential element, some fibre, had been left out of her, depriving her of the possibility of human maturity. She was a little girl, shapable and powerless, ruled by abstract emotions and passions, governed by desires that were undefined. Hopelessly she saw herself even older, thickened and heavy, her hands veined, the flesh of her throat sagging, covered with a façade of age while still inside lurked the mind and spirit of an adolescent, a little girl who had run with her cousin Woody to the doll island, who had stripped off her sticky clothes with him, pretending.

  She looked at Barney, and as if it were a signal, he looked at her. She looked quickly away and said something to the others, words she forgot as soon as she spoke them, words that were merely an assurance to the others that she was participating in the little play.

  Her father put his glass on the table and crossed his dark-trousered knees. He was smiling. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a drink at twilight puts the chaos of the day in order. Sets things back in their place again.’

  ‘Well, I for one will have another!’ Nancy said.

  ‘What chaos?’ Edith asked. ‘What things have been out of place?’ She looked to the others for reass
urance. ‘It seems to me that it’s been a perfectly calm and ordinary day.’

  Nancy said, ‘Well, it hasn’t been a calm and ordinary day for me. I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Woodcock.’

  ‘Poor Nancy,’ Edith said. ‘Barbara told me about your job.’

  ‘Yes. Suddenly I’m faced with the horrible prospect of carving myself a new niche in the world.’

  Preston Woodcock raised his glass and smiled at her. ‘And niche-carving is easier, isn’t it, with one of these?’

  ‘I agree absolutely!’ Nancy said.

  Edith cleared her throat. ‘Where in the world is Peggy!’ she said. Her tone was peevish.

  ‘Woody’s disappeared, too, hasn’t he?’ Nancy said. She laughed lightly. ‘I wonder if they’re together?’

  Edith shook her head. ‘No. I talked to Woody after lunch. He said he was going—I’ve forgotten where he said he was going.’

  ‘Oh? You talked to Woody?’ Nancy said eagerly.

  ‘Yes. He—oh, he said something about going up to see a friend. In Lime Rock, I think. For a sports car rally, or something.’

  Nancy gave Barbara a brief, accusing look. ‘How far is Lime Rock?’ she asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. It’s not Woody I’m worried about. It’s Peggy.’

  Silence fell now, awkward and heavy. The cool breeze stirred the curtains; the sound of lacewings and cicadas filled the room again and the mood of the little group changed to one of waiting. New characters were needed to carry on the performance; they waited for them. Preston gazed at his glass. It was an ordinary cocktail glass and the liquid within it was transparent. His Martinis, Barbara knew, were made with very little ice, but the gin and vermouth of which they were composed were chilled ahead of time in the refrigerator. Next to the glass stood the little silver pitcher, frosted with chill, and watching her father, she suddenly knew that he too was waiting, not for a person, but for a certain period of time to pass. The liquid in his glass would soon be gone, and he was measuring the time that it would take to finish it, and he was also considering the time that must be allowed between emptying the glass and filling it again. The prospect of reaching for the pitcher, of making that specific move, seemed to absorb him completely. He seemed to be holding his breath, counting, suspensefully, agonising seconds of time. Watching him she felt, as she had felt before, powerless. Now he lifted the glass to his lips and when he removed it the glass was empty. He uncrossed his knees. Then there was the sound of footsteps in the hall. Everyone turned. Peggy walked into the room.

  ‘Hello, everybody,’ she said pleasantly. She was still wearing her white shorts and white cotton shirt with the tiny blue alligator embroidered on the pocket. She stood with her hands on her hips. Then she touched her shoulder. With one hand she pushed her short dark hair back. She smiled at them.

  ‘Oh, Peggy,’ Edith said. ‘Thank goodness. I was beginning to worry, dear.’

  ‘I’m safe and sound,’ Peggy said.

  ‘Peggy, you remember Nancy Rafferty?’

  ‘Sure,’ Peggy said. ‘Hi, Nancy.’

  She went to one of the chairs and sat on the edge of it, stretching her brown legs out in front of her, her sandalled toes sticking straight up. She leaned forward, clapped her hands on her bare knees. ‘Fix me a drink, Daddy,’ she said.

  ‘Did you get caught in the storm, dear?’

  ‘No, Mother, I was safely indoors.’

  ‘Where were you, dear?’

  ‘Give me a drink first,’ Peggy said. ‘I’ve had quite a day.’

  ‘Peggy—’ Barney began.

  She ignored him. When she had her drink she sipped it. ‘Ah!’ she said. Then she turned to her father. ‘Yes, I’ve had quite a day.’

  ‘Where have you been, Peggy?’

  With her red fingernail she stroked the side of her glass, etching a little pattern on its smooth side. She seemed to be smiling at her upturned toes; they waited, but she said nothing.

  Preston cleared his throat. ‘Peg,’ he said, ‘just before you came in Nancy was saying that I was the person who first introduced her to the pleasures of drink. And that reminds me of a story that my father used to tell me when I—’

  ‘Preston, dear,’ Edith said. ‘We want to hear where Peggy’s been.’

  ‘No, Daddy, go on—tell your story,’ Peggy said.

  Preston laughed softly. ‘Well, when I was a kid—fourteen or so I guess—my father used to tell me a little story. It seems there was this man who had a young son, like me, who was going off to school and college, and this man said, ‘Son, I’ll make a deal with you: If you’ll promise not to drink or smoke until you’re twenty one, I’ll give you a thousand dollars on your twenty-first birthday!’ Well, naturally, the son promised his father not to drink or smoke until he was twenty-one. He went off to school and then to college and, of course, pretty soon he started drinking and smoking and having a good time with the rest of the fellows. Had a fine old time, drinking, going to wild parties, all the rest. Well, pretty soon his twenty-first birthday rolled around. His father called him into the library and said, “Son, tomorrow you’ll be twenty-one. I wonder if you remember the promise you made me years ago when you promised not to smoke or drink till you were twenty-one.” Well, the son thought about this a minute—he remembered the promise all right—and he thought well, I guess perhaps I’d better tell the truth. So he said, “Dad, I cannot tell a lie. I haven’t kept that promise. I’ve drunk and I’ve smoked, and as a matter of fact, I’ve probably done too much of both.” Well, the father rose to his feet then and placed his hand on the son’s shoulder. With a tear in his voice, he said, “Son, I want to tell you I’m proud of you. You could have lied to me, but you didn’t. You told the truth. You were honest. Son, you’ve got the markings of a man. And I want to tell you this: Son, if I had a thousand dollars I’d give it to you!”’

  Everyone laughed.

  Preston said, ‘Now of course in my own case, with my father—’ He stopped suddenly and looked at his glass. It was a shy, puzzled look. ‘I mean—’ he began.

  ‘Yes, Daddy?’ Peggy said. ‘What about your own case?’

  ‘Well, I’ve kind of forgotten what my point was,’ he said. He lifted his glass to his lips and swallowed.

  After a moment, Edith said, ‘Now. Peggy. Do tell us. Where were you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had quite a day,’ Peggy said. ‘I’ve been investigating a crime.’

  Barney said, ‘Peggy—’

  She smiled at him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I know what I’m doing, Barn-Barn. This little crime concerns all of us, and I think I should tell all I know about it while the evidence is still clear in my mind.’ She looked straight at her father. ‘I’ve been down at the office, Daddy. Your office and Cousin Billy’s office. Down at the mill. Going through things.’

  Edith said quickly, ‘Well, darling, suppose you take it up with Daddy later! After all, whatever it is it can hardly concern our guest, Nancy—’

  ‘Nancy, you’ll have to forgive me,’ Peggy said. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t concern you, but it concerns everyone else in his room. And I’m going to get it off my chest.’

  ‘Peggy, please don’t,’ Barney said softly.

  ‘Shut up, Barn-Barn,’ she said.

  He stood up and walked to the window and stood there, looking out, his knuckles resting on the sill. In the attitude of his shoulders, the shape of his back, Barbara saw the same defiance, the haughtiness, that she had noticed watching him standing against the lip of the pool. Helplessness again swept through her and choked her.

  ‘It happens to be a crime,’ Peggy said, ‘that carries a prison sentence. It’s robbery. Grand larceny. And it’s been perpetrated against us.’

  ‘Peggy, dear, can’t it wait? Really, I think you should take it up with Daddy in private if it concerns the office,’ Edith said.

  ‘No, it can’t wait. You should be interested in this, too, Mother. We’ve been robbed, little by little, over a number of years, of a large s
um of money. And some of that money is money you ought to have an interest in.’

  ‘Peggy, what on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about our dear Cousin Billy. Our dear, loyal, devoted Cousin Billy who’s worked so damned hard for all of us, and whom we all love and respect, and who’s cheated and robbed us of damned near every red cent we own!’

  ‘Peggy!’ Edith cried.

  ‘It’s true. I’ve been at the office. Bill Adkins let me in. I had a lot of time there, undisturbed, checking and rechecking, looking over things. There were a number of things that Billy would have been smarter to have locked in a safe. But there they were, right in his desk and in the files. I guess he thought our dear Daddy was too dumb and too honest to snoop around! I looked through everything, and at first I was confused. I couldn’t understand. How come Billy owned so much stock, I wondered? There must be some mistake. I looked, and pretty soon I began to see a pattern—it began to be clearer, how he’s done it. It was simple, really—like taking candy from a baby. Little by little, he’s been taking Nana’s money! Getting her to give him money, then a little stock, then more money and more stock! He’s got all of her stock now, and he’s also got her house—every bit of property she owns. Nana! A poor, senile old lady—he’s robbed her of every last cent, and so now, very generously, he pays her taxes and her light bill! He’s robbed his own aunt, but she’s Daddy’s mother! That money and that stock were supposed to go to Daddy when she dies! That money is supposed to be ours. But Billy’s got it all, he’s got it all!’

  In the silence that followed, Preston did not move but stared at his glass. At last, he said, ‘Peggy, what is it you want? Is it money? Because if it is, I’ll try to work it out—to give you and Barney whatever you want, whatever you need—’

  Peggy rose to her feet and strode toward him. She stood, leaning over him. Her voice was shrill. ‘Don’t you see?’ she screamed. ‘Don’t you see what’s been done to you? You’ve been robbed! Your mother’s money! Your inheritance and mine—’

  ‘Do you want money?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Do you need money?’