‘As they got older, we gave them everything they wanted. Tennis lessons. Dancing lessons. Riding lessons. Swimming lessons. Had their own horses. They had the pool here, they had music lessons—everything.’
He laughed softly. ‘I remember—Peggy wanted to take wrestling lessons once. She was only ten. Terrific tomboy. Regular little—and she wanted to take wrestling lessons! I didn’t say no. I showed her a picture of a wrestler in the paper, said maybe I’d get that fellow to teach her how to wrestle. Well, I guess Peggy thought he looked too brawny for her to tackle. Yes. Anyway … yes. I tried to give them everything. But when something happens, like tonight, I don’t know. Were we right? I don’t know. I don’t understand it, Nancy, really I don’t.’
His voice rose. ‘What does Peggy want? Is it money? Look—Billy Woodcock’s worked things out the way he has because—well, because he’s had to! But he hasn’t taken Peggy’s and Barbara’s inheritance away from them. There’s a trust. When I die, it will go to them—all of it. They won’t be millionaires, but they won’t be in the poorhouse, either! Peggy and Barbara have always had plenty! Plenty! If Peggy needs more money, there are ways and means to get it! That’s what I don’t understand, Nancy, that’s what I simply don’t understand …’
His voice fell again. ‘Did you see her tonight, Nancy? did you see her? See what she did? Hit me—slapped my face—my own daughter. As though I—somehow—I don’t know. And then, down on the floor—the things she said. She’s a grown woman, Nancy! She’s a grown woman. How can a grown woman act like that, unless she’s terribly unhappy?’
‘I know,’ she heard Nancy say softly. ‘I know.’
‘Up in her room. Won’t come down. Says she’s never coming down again. Why? What have I done wrong? Do you know, Nancy? Do you?’
‘No …’
‘What she said … the way she said it. That hurt most. More than slapping. More hurting. I couldn’t believe—couldn’t believe. Barbara, too,’ he said.
‘What about Barbara?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’re Barbara’s friend. Best friend. Maybe you know. Sometimes I look at her and wonder—is she happy? If she’s not happy, how can it be? Tried so hard—nothing but happiness. And now Barbara. Sometimes I look at her and think: How can it be? If she’s unhappy too, how can it be?’
She sat very still in the little wet chair in the darkness, her hands in her lap, hearing him say, ‘How can it be?’ with a kind of childish wonder in his voice.
Then suddenly she felt something touch her arm. She turned sharply in terror—then saw Barney, his white shirt, dark face, standing above her. He knelt quickly beside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked for you everywhere—all over the house—in the garden—’
‘Ssh!’ she said.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t listen to that. I heard it, too. It’s only a ghost talking, the ghost of Harlow J. Lerner. It’s this way every night. He haunts us.’
‘I’m going to him.’
‘No, don’t. It won’t do any good. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘Oh, Barney, I can’t bear it!’
‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Quiet, darling. You’ve seen enough, haven’t you? Heard enough, tonight, in this house, to know what I mean? You know why we’ve both got to escape, don’t you?’
With a foretaste of experience, of knowing the new thing before it happened—the final stepping-across of the frontier to the unsampled continent, from the old self to the new—she said, ‘Yes, but how?’
‘Where will you meet me?’
‘In the guesthouse,’ she said. ‘Later. You know, the road through the woods …’
‘I’ll be there,’ he said.
He rose quickly and was gone.
For a while she sat there, still listening to the voices from the library.
‘Poor Mr. Woodcock … poor Mr. Woodcock,’ she heard Nancy say. And then, ‘Shall we fix ourselves another tiny drink?’
There was a heavy silence. Then he said, ‘No … got to get to bed. Time. Another day. Win the world … another day, another dollar …’
Nancy said, ‘Barbara said she’d be down in a minute—’
Barbara stood up then and walked across the terrace toward the house.
As she came into the library, Nancy waved her glass gaily. ‘Here she comes!’ she cried.
Preston sat hunched in his chair, staring straight ahead. ‘Get to bed … must get to bed …’ he said.
‘I think that’s a good idea for all of us,’ Barbara said brightly. ‘Come,’ she said. She went to him, lifted his arm, and seeing his other hand struggle and reach for the arm of the chair, grasping for it to push himself upward, she helped lift him, feeling, for a moment, almost his full weight beneath her. ‘Come, Daddy dear … come, Daddy,’ she whispered.
18
Alone, Nancy Rafferty lay on the library sofa—her feet in their yellow slippers up on the fat velvet cushions, her head back. Next to her, on the coffee table, her glass stood, and with one hand, she blindly reached for it. She found it and attempted, without lifting her head, to drink from it. But that was impossible from this position, and so for a while she contented herself with resting it moistly on her bosom; then she moved it, placing its damp coldness on her forehead. She closed her eyes. After a while she turned on her side, and that way she could sip it easily. Also on the table was a low bowl of talisman roses. With one hand she fondled the flowers, then snapped off one bloom and dropped it, with a little laugh, into her glass where it floated prettily with the green wedge of lime that the glass already contained. She admired for a long time this bit of artistry. Then she heard footsteps in the hall and called softly, ‘Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?’ Barney appeared in the door. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Come join me.’
‘What are you doing up?’ he asked her.
‘Having a party.’ She giggled. ‘All by myself. Looking for someone to party with—but no one will. Come sit with me.’ She straightened up, put her feet on the floor and patted the section of sofa next to her. ‘Waiting, waiting,’ she said. She lifted her glass and drank the little that remained, then set the glass down deliberately on the coffee table. ‘I’m a little tight. Will you forgive me?’
He came into the room but did not sit down next to her. He sat in one of the chairs opposite her and smiled. ‘How long have you been waiting?’ he asked.
‘Hours. Months. Years. It seems like that, anyway. I’ve been sitting here wrapped in thought.’ She waved at the bowl of roses. ‘I’m poor butterfly—by the blossoms waiting. For love to come to me by and by. But the love I thought was coming—hasn’t come.’
‘Who is that?’
She laughed. ‘Mr. Right,’ she said. ‘Oh, I wasn’t stood up—not that. He didn’t know I’d be here. But I was hoping. A girl can hope, can’t she, that suddenly, somehow, the impossible, wonderful thing will happen? That Mr. Magnificent—Prince Charming—whatever you want to call him—will come swooping down on his milk white charger, and scoop her up, and lift her lips to his! Ah, me … well, the trouble with me is, the impossible hasn’t happened yet. All my hope has been’—she lifted the skirt of her yellow dress—‘shredded! Like this dress. Look at what happened to my dress! But perhaps that’s what hope is made of—silk chiffon!’ She laughed again. ‘Am I deep?’ she asked him.
‘Very,’ he said. ‘Very deep.’
‘Ha! Well, now I’ll tell you the ghastly secret. The Mr. Right I was waiting for—hoping for—wasn’t even someone I was sure was Mr. Right. It was only Woody.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he said.
‘Ah, I see,’ she repeated. ‘Why, whenever I mention Woody’s name, do people say, “Ah, I see”? What’s wrong? Is Woody gay, Barney? Is that it?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said.
‘Hmmm. Well, I suppose I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry. I’m tight. In vino whatchamacalit. Veritas. However,’ she said, ‘let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you. How abo
ut you?’
‘Am I gay, do you mean?’
‘No, no! You—your life. Your dreams, your hopes, your aspirations—that sort of thing.’
‘I’m not very interesting,’ he said.
‘Oh, but you are! You are! What about tonight, for instance? What did you think about that little scene tonight, before dinner?’
‘I’m afraid I must apologise for Peggy.’
‘Oh, don’t be an ass!’ she said. ‘I mean, what did you think?’
‘I’m sorry that—’
‘To me,’ she interrupted, ‘to me, it was totally, utterly fascinating. I mean, really it was. Of course it was ghastly—family feuds always are. And I was embarrassed a little to be in on it. But I thought—how fascinating! An argument about money among the rich!’
‘Yes, I suppose it was,’ he said.
‘No, but seriously,’ she said. ‘To me, there is something fascinating about rich people. They look different, they talk differently. They even have a different smell—have you ever noticed that? The special smell very rich people have?’
‘No, I can’t say that I have,’ hesaid.
‘I ask you,’ she said, ‘because I understand you’re not rich. And neither am I. I’ve always been poor—poor as a tiny, little, itty-bitty, little—’ She brought two fingertips close together and squinted through the tiny crack, ‘churchmouse. Poor as poor butterfly. Are you a conniver, Barney?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’
She looked at him, surprised. ‘You don’t? A conniver. After money. I ask, because in a way I’m one. In vino veritas, you see. Yes, I’ll make no bones about it. Long ago, I decided—for my friends I wanted only rich people. Nice rich people. When I was in school, I spotted Barbara—by the way she looked and talked and smelled. And I thought: I want that girl for my friend!’
‘I see,’ he said.
‘I wonder,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you do see. Because what I mean is that in some ways I think you and I are very much alike.’
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘In what ways?’
‘Ways,’ she said. ‘Ways and ways. I mean it. We’re both looking for something that will give our lives a little meaning. I am—and so are you. We’re looking for doorways that will open to it—to the thing we want.’ She lifted her hand in a wide gesture. ‘Doorways,’ she whispered. ‘One of them is money. Or could be …’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It could be. One of the doorways. But then—something happens like tonight. And you see what happens to them—rich people.’
‘What happens to rich people?’
‘Nothing much, I suppose. If they’re like Barbara, they marry other nice people like Carson Greer and have children. Nothing special. That’s the trouble. If they’re like Barbara, they surrender to it. If they’re like Peggy, they don’t. But they still don’t get anywhere!’
‘Perhaps Barbara hasn’t surrendered,’ he said.
‘Oh, she has, she has. She surrendered long, long ago.’ Suddenly she pushed herself along the sofa, closer to his chair. ‘But we were talking about you!’ she said brightly. ‘I want to talk about you! Why are you so quiet? Why don’t you say more? Why don’t you voice your thoughts?’
‘My thoughts aren’t worth much, I’m afraid.’
She reached out and placed one hand gently on his knee. ‘Oh, but they are, darling boy, they are! Everyone’s thoughts are worth—a great deal.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I’m a little tight. But when I’m tight, I’m more perceptive. More ar-ti-cu-late! Really. Do you want to know what I’ve perceived about you tonight?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘for one thing, that you and I are more alike than you’ll admit—’
‘And what else?’
‘And—well, I wonder. Are you in love with Barbara?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because I want to know. Are you in love with her? Or—’
‘Or what?’
‘Or is she just a doorway? Ah, poor Barney!’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you do love her—oh, it will be a mess. A mess.’ She laughed. ‘But then, life is a mess anyway, isn’t it?’
‘Not all of it,’ he said slowly. ‘Not quite all.’
‘Oh, Barbara is lucky. She’s always been lucky,’ she sighed. ‘So, perhaps—’
‘In some ways, I don’t think she’s been so lucky,’ he said.
‘You don’t? Oh, I do. Don’t forget, I’ve known her a long time. She’s very lucky. Not like you and me. Look at us! There are so many doorways, so many choices. Which one was right? Marriage? A job? Money … religion … love … service to something? Is it power and prestige? We try them all, looking for the right door! But the trouble is—’ she paused thoughtfully. ‘The trouble is, we’re constitutionally unable. We’re better equipped to stand outside doors. We’re doormen! We don’t have the needling power—the power to needle our poor souls, and drive our selves! That’s what we lack. So we expect, we hope. We dream of things, expect that someone will ask us in. The thing we don’t realise is that some of those doors need to be—to be blasted open! With dynamite! And forced open, forced until the doorknobs are bloody! And we don’t have the dynamite or the blood or the—oh, God!’ she said. ‘I don’t know! Don’t listen to me! I’m talking like a fool!’ She sobbed suddenly and leaned forward, pressing her face in her hands. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘Constitutionally unable. So I get drunk.’ She lifted her head and brushed the tears quickly away with the back of her wrist. ‘But you see, Barbara is different—she’s never had to needle herself because everything’s come to her. That’s what I mean when I say she’s lucky.’
She reached for her empty glass and stared at it, at the rose and the wedge of lime that floated among the remaining ice cubes. ‘So many doors,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve tried them all—timidly, I admit. Pushed them open a tiny way—just enough to peek inside. But when opening them the rest of the way took strength and courage and muscle, I let them close again. I tried them, one by one. I don’t have many choices left, but this,’ she said smiling at the glass, ‘is my current one. And it’s empty. Barney, would it be too much to ask you to fix me another drink?’
‘I don’t think you should have another,’ he said.
‘You’re right. I shouldn’t. But tonight I’ve decided to drink myself into a stupor. You don’t understand, do you? But Mr. Woodcock does … he does. He knows there are times when the only answer is complete stupefaction. Drinking is a special kind of door. Will you fix me another or not?’ she asked.
‘I think you’d better go to bed,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll fix it myself,’ she said. She stood up and carried her glass toward the little bar. ‘It’s a kind of suicide, isn’t it? Drinking. I’ve heard that,’ she said to him as, with silver tongs, she dropped fresh ice cubes on top of the rose. ‘And so, I’ve heard, is immorality! Well, all I can say is, I’ve been immoral, and I’m still alive—or partly. Only part of me is dead from that—my poor, dear uterus! Don’t cringe,’ she said, turning to him. ‘It’s true.’ She returned to the heavy decanter of gin and lifted the glass stopper. ‘A partial hysterectomy, doctor? No, a total one, I’m afraid. You’re the victim of a dirty knife, my dear. An infection. Whoever performed that operation—don’t tell me who did it, I don’t want to know!—used a dirty knife. Ah, well. It was a dirty operation—for such a little thing, a baby.’ She poured gin in her glass and set the decanter down. ‘I was unlucky, with that, too. Oh, you men! What you put us through, I wonder if you realise?’ She begun pouring quinine water into her glass. ‘All the devices, all the little things, all the dreadful little traps and poisons supposed to halt the sperm in its flight—I had them all. They lined my shelves! But I was unlucky. One chance out of ten thousand, but that was me—that one unlucky chance. I couldn’t believe it. I thought—look at Barbara! How did she manage? T
hen I thought, of course. Barbara has always been lucky—’ She turned to him, smiling, the drink in her hand.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked softly.
She lifted her glass. ‘Forgive me. In vino, you know. Forget it. Tell me—why do you love her, Barney?’
He looked at her evenly and calmly, but his voice was full of quiet anger. ‘It’s because she’s not like—like the people you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘She’s not like you. She’s got the courage and the strength and the blood. And she also happens to have another quality you lack—decency. And cleanliness, and goodness and morality!’
‘Oh, Barney!’ Nancy said.
‘What?’
‘Oh, you are like me! Like I was. You do believe in pure things, don’t you? Pure love, pure money, pure God—but don’t you see? Nothing is that way!’
‘It can be.’
‘You don’t mean that, do you? Those words? That’s all they are—words. What you think about Barbara. Nobody’s that way! Why—why, it’s wonderful to think it, but so, so naive, Barney dear! So innocent and childlike. Do you really have that much faith in her?’
‘Of course I do,’ he said.
‘Oh, Barney, forgive me. I love her, too, but you’re making me laugh! She’s my dearest friend, but I don’t harbour such illusions about Barbara! People just aren’t that way. No one is! Oh, some people have those qualiies some of the time—but always? Oh, my dear boy, I don’t know how old you are but you talk like a schoolboy! Love Barbara if you want to—I don’t disapprove of that. After all, everyone has always loved Barbara. But love her with your eyes open! She’s hardly a paragon, Barney. Hardly!’
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