“Oh, I won’t get tired, Mrs. Foster, I never do.”
“Don’t wake the baby to give him his bottle. He’ll wake up about eleven or so. I guess that’s all. Well, goodbye, children. Be good now, won’t you?”
She hesitated for a moment, half-hoping the children would come over and kiss her goodbye. They made no move, so she waved goodbye to them from the doorway, very gaily, with her arm feeling heavy as lead.
Gordon was waiting in the car with the engine running (indicating, to Elaine, impatience). He looked tired (sulky), and he had taken off the hat which was too hot and heavy on his head (fussing about his costume).
“Did I keep you waiting?” Elaine asked, getting into the car awkwardly so she wouldn’t disarrange her mantilla or dirty the white lace skirt.
“No.”
“You must have gotten gas if you went for that long drive today. The gas tank’s nearly full.”
“That would be the first thing you’d notice, wouldn’t it?”
Elaine widened her eyes. “Well, my goodness, I wasn’t checking up on you. I always look to see how much gas we have.”
“O.K.”
“And if you’re mad because I kept you waiting all of two minutes, well, all I can say is, you might at least have stopped to say hello to Ruth. She’s very sensitive about lapses in good manners, you know that.”
“I didn’t know that. I hardly know her, so I couldn’t be expected to know she’s sensitive.”
“She’s got a very sensitive face.”
“Good.”
“You’re certainly in a mood tonight, Gordon. I hope you’re not going to sulk all evening the way you did at the Lamberts’ party.”
“I can’t remember sulking at the Lamberts’ party. I can’t even remember the Lamberts.”
“It was right after we were married. They’re moved away now.”
“Your memory has a long arm, hasn’t it, Elaine?”
“I never forget any unpleasant scenes, if that’s what you mean. Who does?”
“A lot of people.”
“I’m not one of these soft-headed women who forgets a quarrel just because it ends in a kiss. If a quarrel took place, then I’m justified in remembering it, surely. Anyway, people can’t help themselves from remembering things.”
“I guess not.”
All the way to the U-Club Gordon tried to recall the Lamberts and couldn’t.
He parked the car in the palm-lined driveway and locked the doors.
The club was an L-shaped structure made of adobe brick. Here, the more successful men of the community—the professional men, lawyers, doctors, real-estate agents, retired army and navy officers—found a sanctuary from their wives and families. They lunched and dined, played poker and billiards and gin rummy, secure in the knowledge that no female trespasser could get past the front door. About once a month a special entertainment was held in the form of mildly dirty movies. No one, not even the head waiter in the dining room who ran the projection machine, knew where these movies came from, or who owned or rented them. This uncertainty gave rise to considerable speculation, especially among the members who were embarrassed and disgusted by the movies and were afraid the members of the Don Cabrillo Club would find out about them and act even more insufferably superior. Suspicion settled on various members, and there was a great deal of dissension and hard feeling in the club. Mr. Westervelt, who sold insurance, was one of the chief suspects because he liked to look at women’s legs. He subsequently resigned, refused to pay his outstanding bill, and threatened to sue everybody in the club for slander, including the bus boys. Dr. Lavery, who took Westervelt’s place as chief suspect because he’d had three wives, was made of sterner stuff. He wrote a scathing letter to the newspaper, and only the fact that the publisher of the paper was a loyal member of the U-Club prevented the scandal from becoming public.
No one member was entirely free from suspicion except Judge of the Superior Court, old Anton Bowridge. A childless widower, Bowridge led a dull life. Nearly every day he sat on the judge’s bench amid the somber beauty of the Superior Court. The high windows were heavily draped against the sun. The chandeliers that hung threateningly from the ceiling gave just enough light to accentuate the gloom, the twilight of guilt. No one in the court ever felt like a free man, least of all Bowridge.
The judge’s bench was a masterpiece of design. It looked comfortable, and yet it was just uncomfortable enough to prevent one from going to sleep. Sometimes he sat upright, sometimes he held his head in both hands, or rested his chin in his right hand, then his left hand; he crossed his legs and leaned way over on the right, or the left. But always the chair prodded him sternly in the vertebrae, the eyes of the chandelier accused him of inattention, and conscience lurked in the rigid drapes of the closed windows.
Bowridge had no interest in watching the movies himself. He had spent most of his life in courtrooms and there was nothing that he hadn’t seen or heard. His interest lay in watching the people who watched the movies—Johnston kept opening and closing his eyes, repelled, fascinated; poor old Coolidge often had sneezing fits, and the young architect with the buck teeth (McTavish? MacGregor? McSomething) cleared his throat, ahem! Afterwards they were all embarrassed, they smiled sheepishly at each other, some of them left in a hurry and others stayed around to discuss the question of where the movies came from. They asked Judge Bowridge if it wasn’t illegal to make or possess these movies and Bowridge ruled that it was, but that they were not, however, to accuse any one member of being the guilty party unless they were convinced, beyond a reasonable doubt and to a moral certainty, that such was the case.
Watching the watchers not only amused Bowridge, they restored to him some faith, not in the essential goodness of most people, but in their essential harmlessness. The poor fellows, they felt so guilty at watching the movies it was impossible to imagine them committing a felony. They were really quite simple, harmless fellows who would never crack a safe, take a potshot at their wives, embezzle or commit mayhem. Simple assault, perhaps (no deadly weapon, no intent to kill), or manslaughter involving a motor accident—but none of them, he was convinced, would ever repeat the crime. Their sins were little, their fears great, their lives short, and always in store for them was the Superior-Superior Court with God on the bench (looking a little like Bowridge except that He had a beard), God on the hard bench with an aching back, a little weary and bored, given to inattention, leaning His chin on His right hand, then His left hand, and wondering why someone didn’t push aside the drapes and open the windows and turn off the infernal lights of the chandelier.
The Little Sinners was Bowridge’s private name for his fellow members of the U-Club. He never missed any of their parties, mainly because they gave him an opportunity to see the wives and so fill in a number of blank spaces about their husbands.
Bowridge entered the club on the heels of Elaine and Gordon. (This young man Foster, now, had a lot of blank spaces. He didn’t attend the special movies, he didn’t play poker or bridge after dinner. When he came to lunch he left immediately afterwards. A shy duck.)
“Hello, Mrs. Foster,” Bowridge said. “Hello, Gordon.”
“Why, Judge Bowridge,” Elaine said. “You didn’t dress up!”
“I prefer to stay on the sidelines watching the beautiful señoritas.”
“That’s no excuse. Honestly, I think you’re mean. Don’t you, Gordon? Don’t you think he’s mean?”
“The fact is,” Bowridge explained dryly, “when no one forces me at the point of a gun to dress up, I don’t dress up. What caliber weapon did you employ, Mrs. Foster?”
“None at all, so there,” Elaine said. “Gordon, wait here a minute while I fix my hair. Excuse me, will you, Judge?”
“Certainly.”
They both watched her as she went down t
he hall toward the powder room.
“We’re early,” Bowridge said.
“I guess we are.”
“The others, I presume, are judiciously getting pie-eyed before they start. The punch they serve at these affairs is highly suspect. Come and try some.”
“Thanks, I’ll wait for Elaine.”
“She’ll be able to find you.”
“Well—”
“Come along, come along.” Bowridge walked ponderously ahead, with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were thinking great and solemn thoughts. “As a matter of fact, I have a little surprise for you.”
“For me?”
“Well, not strictly for you. You happened to come along at the correct psychological moment and so we will share the surprise. Look.”
The judge removed from his hip pocket a pint bottle without a label.
“Gin,” Gordon said.
“You’re absolutely wrong. Compared to this stuff, gin is mother’s milk.”
“Alcohol.”
“Correct, one hundred percent pure grain alcohol. A medical friend of mine gave it to me for my birthday. Most unusual gift, I consider. His instructions were to mix it with grapefruit juice and the resulting potion is termed a Graveyard Special, I believe. I suggest that we try some—very, very cautiously, mind you—in a glass of punch. Or—” He squinted up his face in such a jovial frown that one of the waiters, who had just received a ticket for overtime parking, scurried back into the kitchen for sanctuary. “Or we might—and I grant that this suggestion has a faint touch of the macabre—we might simply pour the whole bottle into the punch, thus sharing it with the common herd. What do you think, Gordon?”
Gordon smiled helplessly.
“Both are tempting, I must admit,” Bowridge said. “But on the whole I think we’d better keep it to ourselves rather than dissipate its energy, as it were. Of course if we had two bottles there’d be no question involved. We could keep one and put the other one in the punch, eh? But the one we would put in the punch is the one we haven’t got, so, come along, come along.”
Gordon came along, trailing Bowridge like a spaniel. The ballroom, ex-dining room, was swathed in red and yellow bunting, and a few couples were dancing to the Latin American music of Miguel Escalante. Escalante himself was handling the maracas, tossing them in the air, rolling his eyes, swaying his hips.
“I like bouncy music,” Bowridge said, approaching the nearest punch bowl. “Here we are. Now, let me see. What proportions would you suggest, Gordon?”
“I don’t know.”
“We wouldn’t want to become intoxicated. On the other hand we wouldn’t want to be niggardly with ourselves. Mean to say you have no experience in these matters, Gordon?”
“None.”
“Nor I. It will have to be guesswork, I fear.” He poured some alcohol into Gordon’s glass of punch.
“Whoa,” Gordon said.
“Pleasant flavor.”
“Very nice.” Now that the drink was in his hands Gordon realized how badly he’d needed it. If he could have three, just three drinks, as a sort of buffer between him and Elaine—
“You’re a quiet fellow,” Bowridge said. “Something on your mind?”
“No.”
“No guilty conscience?”
Gordon shrugged his shoulders.
“By the way,” Bowridge said, “how did she get you to put on that costume?”
“I put it on voluntarily.”
“Ha, to avoid argument.”
“It’s getting hot in here. I wonder whether Elaine—”
“Have another drink and relax, Gordon. That’s what I’m going to do, relax. Relax like a damn little kitten.”
Gordon was beginning to understand that Bowridge’s relaxation had started several hours ago.
“All right, I’ll have another,” Gordon said.
“Fine, fine.” Bowridge ladled out two more glasses of punch. When he added the alcohol he had to narrow his eyes to the merest slits to make them focus.
“There’s your wife,” Bowridge said.
Gordon saw Elaine standing in the doorway haughtily glancing over the couples on the dance floor. She’s self-conscious, Gordon thought, she always looks like that when she’s self-conscious. He turned his back on her and deliberately finished his drink.
“Well. There you are, Gordon,” Elaine said pleasantly. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought you were going to wait for me in the hall.”
“I was.”
“It isn’t as if I kept you waiting very long.”
“I persuaded him to run away,” Bowridge said.
Elaine laughed. “You’re a bad influence on my husband, Judge Bowridge!”
“I hope not.”
“And just for that, I’m going to persuade him to run away from you! Come and dance, Gordon. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Judge? We haven’t danced together for ages.”
Gordon steered her out into the middle of the floor. She felt very light and soft in his arms. She was nearly as tall as he was and their cheeks brushed as they danced. Her skin was scented, some sweet, innocent, nostalgic scent that penetrated to Gordon’s heart: If only we could start over, if we could forget the million sour words and acid looks—Elaine had closed her eyes, the lids had closed softly over the sharp ironies in her eyes, the unspoken reproaches. I wish she would never open her eyes again. I wish—
“Why on earth are you staring at me, Gordon?”
“Was I staring? Sorry.”
“Your face looks funny. What have you and that old goat been drinking? And that’s the second time you’ve stumbled.”
“Sorry,” Gordon said again. “I was thinking about you. I was thinking it would be nice if you kept your eyes closed all the time.”
“My eyes closed? What a silly thing. Now you listen to me, Gordon. How many drinks did you have with that old goat?”
“Two.”
“Two drinks,” Elaine said contemptuously. “You should know by this time you can’t hold your liquor. Two drinks, and already your face looks funny and you’re starting to talk silly.”
“I don’t think it was silly. I was pretending, it was a game, you see. As long as you keep your eyes closed I can pretend that you love me and we have some sort of chance of going on together.”
“I do love you,” Elaine said. “I’ve always loved you. As for going on together, we haven’t much choice, have we? We’re not the kind of people who do foolish things on the spur of the moment. We have a sense of responsibility.” She turned her face away from his in a gesture of impatience and withdrawal. “Oh, let’s sit down. What’s the use of dancing, what’s the use of coming to a party at all if we’ve got to talk about things like this.”
The dining room was half-filled by this time. Elaine paused to greet two of her bridge-club friends, reminding Gordon by pressing his hand that he wasn’t to forget to ask them to dance. Gordon returned to the punch bowl, while Elaine explained to her friends that Gordon was keeping an eye on Judge Bowridge for the evening, he and Gordon were such pals, and you know how Bowridge gets sometimes, stiff, my dear, positively stiff. I know he lost his wife, but still!
Bowridge had sat down on a bench behind the punch bowl. He had taken his spectacles out of his pocket and was cleaning them with a handkerchief.
“Ha,” he said, breathing air on the lenses. “Ha, ha. Didn’t think you’d be back, Gordon.”
“Here I am.”
“Sit down. Do you feel anything?”
“No.”
“Nor I. A little in the eyes, perhaps. My eyes are my weakest part. Those damn lights in the courtroom, not enough of them. Have to peer and peer to distinguish the defendant from the prosecution.” He pinched his s
pectacles on the bridge of his nose and glanced around the room. “In my opinion this straight alcohol is vastly overrated, unless we’re diluting it too much. Do you think that could be it?”
“Possibly.”
“Then let us mend our ways.” The judge rose. He walked steadily and ponderously, without a tremor. Gordon saw Elaine dancing with Dr. Lavery. She was talking very gaily, shaking her head and laughing, but he knew very well that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. She was watching Bowridge too, as he ladled the punch and spiked it with alcohol from the bottle. Gordon felt like a little boy who is aware that he is doing wrong but keeps on doing it because he knows he won’t be openly reprimanded or punished in front of strangers. There’d be only the sweet steely smile, the secret pinch on the arm, the whispered wait-till-I-get-you-home, Junior!
And, like the small boy who knew he was doing wrong, Gordon pretended he was not afraid. His face smiled, while the fear pressed on his chest, stifling his breathing. Wait-till-I-get-you-home, Gordon! He knew now that he had always been afraid of her. This was no new fear that had sprung up because of Ruby, because he had finally given Elaine a weapon. It was an old growth, its multiple roots buried twenty feet under the ground, crossing and re-crossing each other, a maze of roots and at the core, Gordon’s personal minotaur.
“Wake up, Gordon,” Bowridge said.
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Pardon?”
“I—wasn’t—asleep.”
“I didn’t say you were. You were dreaming. Sometimes I dream too, and I can look very alert when I’m dreaming but this takes practice.” The judge sat down on the bench and handed Gordon his glass. “In court, sometimes I dream, and sometimes I worry, about fifty-fifty. I worry about people, I try to clarify issues. I boil them down in a crucible, I boil and boil, and when I’ve finished there isn’t a thing left in the crucible, not an ash, not a drop of liquid. I also worry about my cough. Have you ever heard my cough?”
“No.”
“It sounds like this—chmm—there. Very dry. It could be anything. What do you suppose it is, Gordon?”
Wives and Lovers Page 16
