The flag-raising ceremony was the climax of the party but not the end of it, for the guests stayed on. Perhaps they were reluctant to leave our beautiful house and grounds; or perhaps they were waiting for something more to happen. I had always been aware that our household raised expectations, and that people speculated about us. When I was still quite small and biked over to the farm produce store for their homemade caramels, the old Mrs. Walters who was then in charge of it would keep me talking, trying to extract some information about “your folk up there in the house, your mom and dad,” though she knew perfectly well that Manton had moved out years ago. Before he did, in the brief time that he and Lindsay had been together, it was said that what went on at Propinquity outdid the most squalid area of the town, down on Fourth Street, where wives were calling nightly for the police as protection against their husbands, and sometimes for the ambulance as well. After Manton left, there was a lull for a while. The house was empty, and people used to look at it longingly, wanting for it to come alive again. They were only partly satisfied when Lindsay stayed for weekends with different lovers and finally moved in with Jean—none of this was unusual, and interest had begun to shift to some of the other big houses (weird weekend parties had started up in the Tyler house, now owned by the daughter of a Texas oilman). But when the Rawul and his group came in, we moved to center stage again, and our cleaning lady, Mrs. Pickles, with her inside information became sought after even by people who had never had much time for the Pickles family. With this party—at which not only the Rawul and his retinue were on display but also Lindsay and Jean and Manton and Barbara—we were reinstated as the principal family, leaving the Texas heiress just simply nowhere, where she belonged.
But if anyone was waiting for a fight to break out between Manton and Lindsay, they would have been disappointed. I think it was not until the ceremony was over that the two of them discovered they had been standing side by side; instead of turning their backs on each other as they might have done under normal circumstances, they exchanged some pleasant words and even walked away together. I saw Mrs. Pickles nudge Mrs. Walters of the farm produce store—this was the daughter-in-law, old Mrs. Walters having been put away in a home some years ago—to draw her attention to this handsome all-American couple strolling side by side toward the house, engaged in conversation. I watched them too; I wondered what they could have to say to each other so amiably. They veered sharply away—away from the house where Jean and Barbara still stood on the porch, watching them—and moved off together toward the orchard; but before disappearing in there, Manton turned around and called me, and when I joined them, he hooked one arm into mine and the other into Lindsay’s, and anyone watching was rewarded by the sight of this happy family group, father, mother, and daughter, strolling under the ripening apple trees of their own orchard.
“I’ve been telling Lindsay,” Manton said to me in the warm voice he had when at peace with himself and the world. “I think it’s wonderful: the whole thing. And you giving the house. I’m so proud.” He squeezed my arm, and maybe Lindsay’s too on the other side.
There had always been moments when I hated Manton, and this was one of them. They usually occurred when he was being pompous, smug, putting on an act—maybe I could only stand him, or I should say love him, when he was being himself: that is, frankly selfish like a child, but also bewildered and mixed up like a child. Through irritation with him, I announced a decision I hadn’t made: “I never said I was giving the house.”
“No, but you will,” he assured me, as calm, warm, and confident as the director of a bank.
“I haven’t decided,” I said. I had already disengaged my arm from his, and I wouldn’t look at him but down at my own foot digging around in the soil.
“Harriet’s being tiresome,” Lindsay announced. I saw Manton give her arm a warning squeeze, and he went on talking to me, with perfect understanding: “I think after today we can decide.”
“Who’s we?” I said.
“Baby, you know you asked me to come here. You did consult me, sweet one. And why shouldn’t you,” he said. “It’s what I’m there for: when truly needed. I like to think that.” He made his sincere eyes at me; I continued to be irritated and yet involved with him—it was true, I had gone to him, and not for the first time either, when perplexed or in trouble. Though I always wondered afterward why I had gone to him, the fact was he never turned me away but was ready to listen and give his—usually useless—advice. He was, as he said, there.
He went on: “I know it’s not easy. I know how you love Propinquity. But it would be a magnificent gesture—and my Lord, how many of us are in a position even once in our lives to make such a gesture? I envy you. Both of you,” he said, turning to Lindsay so she wouldn’t feel left out. “I wish I had something to contribute to such a cause.”
But Lindsay’s mood had changed. Probably it was the bit about always being there—literally of course it couldn’t have been less true—anyway, her back was up. The moment of accord between them was over. She said “If you really want to contribute, you could always sell some stock.”
He ignored this with dignity and went on talking to me: “I know my little girl. She doesn’t care about owning anything; about owning a house. She’d give it away tomorrow.”
“Yes but I might want to give it away tomorrow to an orphanage. Or I might just want to keep it.”
“Why?” Lindsay said.
“Because,” I said.
It was getting more and more back to normal. We weren’t talking about the house but about ourselves—our own shortcomings. It usually happened to me when I was alone with either or both of them—that their inadequacies, as persons and as parents, overwhelmed me.
“You want to keep it,” Lindsay said, having had time to work herself up. “How do you think I feel? Who’s spent more time here, you or I? All our vacations—if we weren’t by the ocean somewhere, we were always here, my whole childhood, dammit: That means something.”
“You were lucky,” I said.
“You mean my mother was lucky, that she married my father and not someone like your father—”
“I thought we were going to talk nicely today,” Manton put in, still dignified.
“Yes we would, if you hadn’t happened to come here bringing Baby Doll.”
“Well,” Manton exhaled. “Is that what’s bugging you? Barbara being here?”
“Nothing is, as you put it, bugging me. Until this moment I was feeling happy and wonderful. It’s not every day that someone like the Rawul comes into your life and makes you want to do something—give up your house, or whatever. I really want to do that, but you make out as if it’s just—‘oh one of Lindsay’s big acts.’ Dragging me down; dragging everything down, as usual.”
“But why bring in Barbara?” Manton insisted, stamping his foot.
She stamped hers right back at him: “I didn’t—you did! And she doesn’t even have the decency to try to make herself pleasant but sulks around in her nightclothes, fighting with you. In my house. Under my roof. Naturally, I want to give it away—are you surprised that I’d want to have something better going on in it than you and Barbara?”
“For heaven’s sake, what are you talking about, it’s the first time we’ve even been here.”
“And the last! And the last!”
“I’m sorry,” Manton said to me. “Your mother is hysterical.”
He wasn’t sorry but rather pleased with himself, for keeping his temper; he wasn’t always so successful at it. But I felt sorry for her—she hadn’t meant to be this way, she hadn’t even meant to say anything about Barbara when she had entered this orchard, still feeling noble from the flag-raising ceremony.
I said to Manton, “I don’t know why you always have to get into a fight with her.”
“I!” he cried at that and put both his hands on his chest in sincere indignation. All his calm and poise were blown away. “I get in a fight! My Lord, didn’t you hear me, I was congratu
lating her. I was giving her my respect and esteem, and next thing I hear she’s running down Barbara!”
Lindsay put her hands on her ears and cried “Don’t mention her name in my house!”
Manton moaned, his hands over his eyes as hers were over her ears, and swayed to and fro in his despair.
It was at that moment, unfortunately, that Michael appeared in search of me. He gave one look—of disgust—and told me with his eyes to come away. I must say, I was glad to do so. When we were out of the orchard, he said “Why do you always get yourself into these situations with those two?” I had to laugh because it was true, I did. Michael had never done so. That look of disgust he had given them was, I’m afraid, his characteristic response to our parents, singly or together.
He had no interest in what the row had been about but said: “What shall we do? No one seems to want to go home.”
They stood dotted around the lawns, as if waiting for the next event. But nothing further had been planned; it had been assumed that, after the flag-raising ceremony, everyone would leave. No one had done so. The full light of afternoon had faded, trees and house looked softer, melting away into their own shadows. Crishi was coming toward us—smiling, his white shirt fresh and gleaming: “We’ll have to organize some party games,” he said. I thought he was joking, but not at all. We went in the barn where we collected a pile of old seed bags for a sack race; and then into the house, where Crishi set Mrs. Schwamm to hard-boil eggs for an egg-and-spoon race—she thought it was the funniest thing she had ever heard; she laughed till she choked. All the guests laughed too, when invited to participate; but Crishi cajoled, teased, and gently bullied them; he was the first to get into a seed bag and hopped up and down to show them how, not a bit afraid of appearing ridiculous. Led by bold Mr. McKimberley from the bank, a few of the local people climbed into the seed bags, laughing at themselves, a bit shamefaced; and when he had got them going, loudly applauding their skill and daring, Crishi whispered to me, “We’d better get some drink into them.” Back in the house, I got out Grandmother’s silver punch bowl, and Michael and I and Crishi and Mrs. Schwamm emptied bottles into it, not much caring what they were, almost daring each other on as we poured bourbon on brandy on wine on orange juice on vodka. Mrs. Schwamm was shrieking “But they’ll all be blotto!” in her Austrian accent—“That’s the idea,” Crishi said—and she was still shrieking as she helped us carry bowl and glasses out.
Everyone had joined in the games. Manton and Lindsay had emerged from the orchard and were watching the Rani, flushed and full-bosomed, hopping eagerly between Mrs. Pickles and Mr. McKimberley, all three intent on winning. When Mrs. Pickles came in first, the Rawul, who sat smilingly watching from the sidelines, applauded her with his hands held high in the air, softly clapping and calling out “Bravo.” Mrs. Pickles, scarlet with exertion and pleasure, said she had always been good at games, didn’t know what it was but ask anyone, when there were games, everyone knew Cindy Pickles would be first. The Rani cried for a replay—“Revenge!” she cried—and when they ran again, she did come first, and Mrs. Pickles said it was her ankle, the old trouble, it had never been the same since she had twisted it cleaning up in our attic. We began handing out glasses and inviting everyone to come and dip into the bowl. The Rani, flushed, panting, laughing, still in her seed bag, put back her head and drained her goblet like a warrior queen, before looking around to see who was playing with her. Both Manton and Lindsay stood ready to go, and I saw that Jean and Barbara had joined the crowd. Only the Rawul sat apart, a benevolent spectator, while everyone else scrambled around and fell over and laughed and drank more punch. Evening was falling, a pink light shone in one area of sky, the moon was already faintly in another; the reflection of the opposite shore was etched into the lake, an underwater forest gleaming brighter than the land around it. Crishi decided it was time to change games—he wanted a three-legged race, and Manton knew where there were a whole lot of old neckties, up in the attic, we could use for it. Crishi chose me as his partner and bound my leg to his with a frayed fraternity necktie that had probably belonged to Lindsay’s father. The Rani, though protesting that she was just getting expert in hopping, climbed out of her seed bag and looked around for a partner. Manton and Lindsay came forward, but she chose someone from the town; and now everyone was running around finding partners and race after race was run. But it always happened that Crishi and I came in first—we were unbeatable, an irresistible team.
I was getting tired—not physically but in the sense of bored; besides, I couldn’t see Michael, who took no part in the fun. I asked Crishi, “Where’s Michael?” but he didn’t hear me, not even when I said it the second and third time. He didn’t look at me either, not once, although we were tied and running so closely together that we might as well have been one person. All his attention was fixed on the game; he seemed to be enjoying it. I began to say “Let me go,” and “Let me go please, Crishi,” but he still didn’t hear me; and when I looked into his face, I saw that his eyes, which refused to meet mine, were hard and cold, and so was the smile of enjoyment fixed on his face. Although desperate to get away, I found that, whenever it was our turn to run, I naturally followed Crishi as if my body obeyed him more than it did me; and how easily we won each time, our limbs in perfect accord—we could not help winning, we were just naturally swifter, fleeter than anyone else. But while physically I was doing so well, otherwise I was getting more and more upset—in fact, I was getting almost hysterical, shouting “Let me go!” as we ran, which made Crishi run faster, with me forced to follow him. Until finally, when we won again, he looked around at the others coming up behind us and taunted them—“What’s all this huffing and puffing” (he and I weren’t even out of breath) “I think it’s the smoking and drinking and all the other stuff. . . . Oh you want to go?” he said to me, as if he had only just heard me. By this time I was yelling in his ear and hitting his arm with my fist, and to make it look like part of the fun we were having, he laughed out loud and bent down to untie my leg from his; and the moment he did that, I sprang away from him and fled—past the Rawul, who applauded me in the same way he had done Mrs. Pickles, softly clapping his hands held high in the air and calling out a smiling “Bravo.” I didn’t stop running till I was in the house and was, I felt, safe.
Safe from what and safe from whom? I didn’t ask till I was inside, where it was cool, silent, with lamps lit in the hall and on the upper landings. Only then did it strike me how stupid it was to be feeling and to be fleeing that way; and only then did I notice that there were tears coming out of my eyes. I hate tears—my own, that is—I truly hate and despise them, and so does Michael; I dashed them away impatiently with the back of my hand before going into his room. There he was lying on his bed, reading a book, and I was so over-whelmed with gladness to see him, and to be with him, that I could say nothing but stood with my back to the door, still holding the handle, and looking at him. He lowered his book—some ancient Oriental text, as usual—and said “It all seems to be going on fine.”
“Why aren’t you down there?”
“Oh you know.”
Of course I knew. Michael never joined in anything—he was a natural loner; whenever something was going on, pleasant or unpleasant, he disappeared and was to be found reading in his room. We had never managed to get through an entire family meal without someone saying “Harriet, go and find Michael,” and usually more than once, between soup and meat course, and then again before dessert.
So it was only natural that he should now ask “Have you been sent for me?”
“Oh no,” I said. “You can stay here; that’s all right.”
“Are you sure? No one wants me? Crishi’s not saying, ‘Now where the hell is that Michael?’” He tried unsuccessfully to imitate Crishi’s very distinctive accent, and smiled tenderly, as though he could hear Crishi talking.
“No. He’s not asking for you.”
“Maybe I should go down. I mean, with everyone working so
hard.”
It was the first time I had heard Michael have any qualms about not joining in. He even laid aside his book and got up to look out the window at what was going on. I joined him there, standing very close behind him as if for protection. But they had stopped playing games. It had turned almost dark outside—deep dusk—and from up here we could make out small shadowy figures moving around on the lower lawn; a dull silver light gleamed from the water and the sky, as from twin mirrors. Someone had taken the boat out on the lake and it floated there as a black speck on the silvered surface. And the two flags hoisted that day hung from the top of their poles, limp in the still air. Michael appeared to be looking at these flags and I at the figures below; usually we felt the same but not now, it seemed.
“Aren’t you glad we’ve got this house?” he said.
“But you’re giving it away.”
“That’s what I mean: glad to have it to give.” His face was raised toward the sky; he gave first a sigh—of satisfaction—next a laugh, also of satisfaction.
I saw that some of the figures were beginning to straggle toward the house. I wished they wouldn’t; I wanted to stay alone with Michael. I put my hand on his shoulder; this was as far as we ever got touching one another, but it was very intimate between us. Michael didn’t like anyone touching him, unless it was lovers, I presume.
“Where are you going this summer, Michael?”
Three Continents Page 6
