‘Well, here we are,’ he said. He stepped closer. ‘You won’t tell your ma,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Promise? Swear to God?’
‘Swear to God.’
‘Swear to God that if you tell your ma or your father or anyone the devil will come and throw a burning sword right through your stomach? Swear to God that if you ever tell a single, living creature …’
‘What are you going to do?’ She was suddenly wary, hearing the sound of her voice asking this uncertain question. She looked at him and his eyes were bright slits. A phrase, as they stood there facing each other, came to her head. It was a phrase—a term, an expression—that she and Woody had come across in a newspaper and had speculated about, wondering what it meant. The phrase was ‘statutory rape,’ and they knew, from the dictionary, what rape was, but what ‘statutory’ meant applied to it they couldn’t imagine, unless, as Woody had decided, it meant rape that was committed from a standing position. It flew into her head now, and she asked him, ‘Are you going to do statutory rape to me?’
He drew back, his shoulders hunched, his eyes suddenly wide and frightened. ‘What’re you talking about?’ he asked her. ‘What’re you talking about? Listen to me—I never—look here, I never said—’
She turned and ran. She ran out the door, down the steps, untied her horse and jumped on the horse’s back. She dug her bare heels into Blitzen’s soft sides and rode off under the trees. She had discovered that all men were cowards, too.
She did not tell her mother. But it was not because she had sworn to God or feared the devil’s sword. She had gone to the guesthouse for revenge against her mother; she felt that she had had her revenge now, for her mother punishing her, treating her like a child.
Her mother had punished her like a child because she had acted like a child. She had wanted to punish Peggy, too, for having the dollhouse. So, like a child, she had destroyed it. Like a child—but like a woman, too—she had gone to the guesthouse with Charlie; that way, she had punished them both. And of course later, when the broken dollhouse was discovered, she herself was punished again. What that punishment had been she couldn’t remember now, and it hadn’t mattered. Punishment, as it often seemed to her, was circular. It hadn’t mattered because it simply completed the circle.
But was that why tonight—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years later—she had suddenly thought of the guesthouse? She wondered whom she was punishing now. It had been all right then, long ago, with Charlie because she had been only a child, it had been only a part of growing up. But now she was thirty years old.
She stepped out of the dark shadows and walked slowly across the intervening space of grass, up the steps and unlocked the door. Immediately the remembered damp, closed, unused smell assailed her as she stood inside the doorway and groped for the light switch. Her hand found the switch and it was only then, all at once, that she remembered: she and Carson had come there, too! How queer to have forgotten! How queer to have forgotten that she and Carson had come there too, so many times!
At one o’clock, Peggy awoke. She turned on her side and saw the empty bed next to hers. She had fallen asleep in her clothes, in the white shorts and shirt, and after looking at the dark and empty room for several minutes, hearing no sounds in the house, she decided to get up and look for him.
She tiptoed down the hall and down the darkened stairs. She turned on no lights. Downstairs, the house was dark also. She went out the door and into the garden.
She found him standing beside the pool, looking at the water, a solitary figure against the shadows of the shrubbery.
‘Barney?’ she called softly.
He turned quickly.
‘It’s me—Peggy,’ she said. She came toward him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him.
‘I went for a walk,’ he said.
‘What are you going for a walk for? It’s after one o’clock …’
‘I couldn’t seem to sleep.’
‘Why don’t you try? Why don’t you come to bed?’
‘I wasn’t tired. I thought a walk would help.’
‘You’re always going for walks!’ she said. ‘You went for a walk last night, too.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Is something bothering you, Barn-Barn?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re always running off—trying to be alone.’
‘I’m sorry.’
They were both silent. Then she said, ‘Come for a walk with me.’
‘No thanks,’ he said.
‘Oh, please. Come on.’
‘No …’
‘Why not? Please.’
‘No, I’m tired, now. Let’s go in, Peggy.’
‘Please!’
He looked for a moment across the still water. Then he shrugged. ‘All right. Whatever you say …’
She linked her arm in his. ‘Where do you usually walk?’ she asked.
‘Just—anywhere,’ he said.
‘Let’s walk down to the lake.’
He hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘no—let’s walk out to the drive and back.’
‘The lake is so pretty at night,’ she said.
‘No—it’s too far to go.’
‘Oh, come on!’ she said roguishly. ‘What’s the matter? Scared of the dark?’
They started up the steps.
‘I’m sorry about tonight,’ she said. ‘Really, I shouldn’t have lost control like that.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said.
‘It isn’t all right. I hate to lose control. But I’ve been thinking—I was wrong to insist that we stay here, at the farm. It was my mistake. I thought at the time it would be easier—to work at close quarters. But it was wrong. Do you know what I’d like us to do? Let’s move out of here, Barney. Let’s get a little apartment in Burketown, or—what do you think, Barney?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t have lost control tonight! If we hadn’t been living here with them, it wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have made a scene like that. I hate to lose control, you know that.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I still can’t believe it, what Daddy said. If it’s true—if it’s really true—then it’s one hell of an awful blow. All our plans. If it’s true—well, I really don’t know what we will do …’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Can you imagine it? What sort of—idiocy—could have made him agree to it! I really think we should have him declared an incompetent! I can’t see any other course. He is an incompetent! Non compos, half the time, with drink! Everybody knows it. He should be put away.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you agree?’
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
When they reached the terrace, he stopped. ‘This is far enough,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back.’
‘Let’s go to the lake.’
‘I want to get to bed, Peggy.’
‘Oh, come on! Don’t be such a sissy. It’s just down the hill. It’ll be pretty—’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go any farther.’
‘Please!’
‘No.’
She looked up at him. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you want to go down there?’
‘I just don’t want to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m tired, I want—’
‘Barn-Barn,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter? You’re acting very funny. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then come on. I want to talk. I’ve got things I want to get off my chest.’
‘Let’s go upstairs and talk.’
‘I want to walk down to the lake,’ she said. ‘There’s some reason you don’t. What is it?’
He stood stiffly beside her, saying nothing. Then quietly he said, ‘All right. Let’s go.’
They walked across the terrace, her hand in his arm, toward the path that led past the clump of hemlocks to the curve o
f the hill. They went down the path. She kept hold of his arm, walking toward the sloping lawn, toward the water, saying, ‘What do you think? Think we could ever get him committed? You’re the business school graduate. Would that work?’
Then suddenly she gripped his arm and stopped him. ‘Barney!’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Look!’ she pointed. ‘There’s a light in the guesthouse—see it?’
He didn’t answer her.
‘Who in the world?’ she whispered. ‘Barney!’
He stood absolutely motionless beside her.
‘See it? There’s somebody there! Shall we call the police, or—’ She let go of his arm. ‘Or—no. No,’ she breathed, and she turned to him slowly. ‘Is it Barbara? Is it? Oh, of course! Of course!’ She drew back from him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Of course it is! Why didn’t I guess? Of course—the guesthouse—that’s where she always takes them!’
‘Who?’
‘Her men. And last night, too—of course, that’s where you’re going. You met her there last night, too, didn’t you? Oh, of course!’
He started quickly down the hill.
‘Stop!’ she commanded, and when he didn’t stop she ran after him and seized his arm again. ‘It is Barbara, isn’t it? It’s been going on all along …’
He walked rapidly and she stayed beside him, holding his arm, trying to stop him. ‘It is Barbara! It is! Tell me!’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Oh, God!’ she said. ‘I should have known! That damn bitch! That bitch!’
He kept walking, faster now, down the hill.
‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. Listen to me!’ But he continued, pulling her beside him. ‘Listen,’ she said savagely, ‘don’t be a fool! Don’t go to her! Don’t be taken in by her! Listen. I know her. She’s a rotten little bitch, a whore, she only wants you for one thing—listen to me—’
At the edge of the lake, he stopped. He looked across, then turned and stepped down to the sandy strip of beach. ‘Listen to me,’ she repeated. ‘Let me tell you what you’re doing, listen—’
He jerked his arm away from her, but she ran after him. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. ‘Wait. Listen to me—’
He walked to where the old canoe lay, the Bobby-Boo, its bottom-side up, on the bank. He lifted it and turned it, and the paddle inside it rattled against its thwarts. He began pulling it toward the water.
‘Are you going in that?’ she asked. ‘Listen to me, Barney—please—for a minute. Be sensible. Look, maybe you and I are through—I’m willing to admit that. But don’t do it for her! Don’t be such a fool, Barney. Don’t be more of a fool than you’ve already been!’
‘I’m sorry, Peggy,’ he said.
She stopped and stood still, watching him. He pulled the canoe across the sand. Then she said quietly, ‘That canoe is full of leaks. You’ll never make it.’
‘I’ll make it,’ he said.
‘You’re an idiot. It will sink twenty feet out.’
‘It will take me farther than that.’
‘Listen to me, Barney,’ she said. ‘What are you trying to accomplish?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said simply.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, her flat voice seeming to grow flatter. ‘What good will it do you? Going to her. Do you love her? What good will that do you? Do you think she’ll marry you? She won’t. She’s no fool. She has Carson and her children. They’ll always come first with her, no matter what she tells you. She’s really just not a very nice girl. It’s that simple. And if you go to her now you’ll lose both of us. And you’ll be throwing over a damn good deal, my dear. Because you can marry one Woodcock girl. But not two.’
In the darkness, he seemed to watch her thoughtfully, though his face was turned away. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. ‘It’s always the Woodcock girls, isn’t it? It never changes. Well, Peggy, you may be right.’
‘Then come back to the house.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He turned, seized the canoe and slid it into the water.
Peggy came two steps closer. She seemed to reach out for him, then lowered her hands. ‘Barney!’ she cried.
‘What?’
‘I thought you were a leader!’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not a leader. I’m one of the led. I always have been. I let you lead me to this place, don’t forget, to the farm. And I’ve let her lead me. I’m always being led.’ He stepped nimbly into the canoe, took the paddle and pushed off.
‘Stop!’ she commanded again. But he moved swiftly away, the shadows closing around him, and disappeared into the darkness. She could hear only the receding sound of his paddling.
She stood on the shore for several minutes, staring across the dark water. Far away, through the trees, was the little waiting light. Then she turned and started slowly up the path toward the house.
She was about halfway up the hill when she stopped and for several minutes more she stood very still, statue-like. She listened. She heard only night sounds, crickets and peepers from the marshy shore, and the faint, high sound of an airplane passing overhead, bound for New York.
She knew that the canoe would not make it across the lake. It could not. She had kicked her toe against it, many summers in the past; the bottom was like paper, full of wormholes and rot. From one shore to the other was more than five hundred yards, more than a quarter of a mile. The canoe would never make it, he could not swim, and the lake was deep. Very well.
She stood there. Her mind was filled with several images, which seemed to come all at once. In one, she heard herself screaming, running back to the house. In another, she saw water bubbling quickly through the bottom of the canoe, the lake rising swiftly about its sides, as he paddled. Then she saw Barney’s body, white, long, like a piece of sunken sculpture, at the bottom of the lake, in the brown weeds under the clean water. She saw him lifted, icewhite, dead, his face bloated and horrible and disgusting. She turned now and faced the lake. She stood and watched, and waited, and listened. Very well.
The little light still glimmered through the trees—far, very far, away. She smiled at it.
She would hear his cries. As the canoe foundered, as he thrashed helplessly in the water, he would cry out for her and she would hear him. She waited for a long time, waiting for the cries, hearing only the crickets and the peepers, waiting and thinking: I’ll decide then.
She waited, but there were no cries. Eventually—it was a little while later—she was struck with the thundering knowledge that he was dead, that he had sunk into the lake without uttering a single sound. And it was this, perhaps—the realisation of this final, intolerable cheat, this ultimate robbery of her life—that he had gone like a thief, depriving her of even the sound of his cries—that started her screaming. She screamed until her throat hurt. Running, stumbling, screaming and sobbing wildly, she started up the hill again, crying, ‘Help! Help!’
In the guesthouse, things were as she remembered them. But the ruffled chintz curtains were limp with age and a thin, even film of dust lay over everything. She wandered through the rooms. In the bedroom, on the table beside the bed, she picked up a copy of the Reader’s Digest. She turned its pages; they were brown and brittle, and she noticed that it was an issue dated February, 1946. She put it down. She opened the closet door. The closet was empty but, on the inside wall, someone—a child, evidently—had carefully written ‘Hello’ in red crayon. She studied this strangely silent greeting for a moment, then closed the door. She turned off the bedroom light.
In the little, musty kitchen, neat rows of cups hung from the glass cupboard doors. She opened the refrigerator. In it were ice trays, thick with frost, a small can of tomato juice and a bottle, three quarters empty, of prepared Martini cocktails, left from some house party long ago. She removed the bottle, forced loose one of the ice trays and, in a little round glass pitcher from the cupboard, she fixed drinks.
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p; She filled two glasses and carried them into the living room, where she placed them on the rustic cocktail table. She started to sip one, thinking it might give her courage, but then she put it down, knowing that it would do no good. Nothing would do any good. She sat back quickly and closed her eyes, her temples throbbing. She sat for a long time in the dirty, stale-smelling little room.
She opened her eyes and then she began to laugh, a little hysterically, at the absurd sight of two Martinis floating palely in the stemmed glasses on the dusty table, looking like two faded and foolish little flowers, and at the absurd sight of herself looking at them. She laughed until tears streamed down her face and then, wondering if she was truly going out of her mind, she stopped. She knew then that it was useless, that she would not and could not go through with it. And she felt suddenly much better, knowing this. She would go—run, just as she had run from Charlie Muir.
She stood up and started to go.
Then she heard distant sounds. She went quickly to the door and stepped outside. The sounds were cries and, far off, across the lake, where the house stood in shade behind the trees, she saw lights appear—first one light, then another, and presently the whole house was ablaze with lights, and there were more sounds, more cries. She grabbed her coat and ran down the steps, across the grass, down the road through the trees.
Everyone had gathered at the lake’s edge—her mother, her father, Emily and John, Peggy and Nancy. She ran toward them.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Everyone was shouting.
‘The canoe, in the canoe—’
‘The Bobby-Boo—’
‘Call the police—’
‘Oh, no—not the police!’
‘It’s got to be the police!’
‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘What happened?’
Barbara Greer Page 31
