“That's all right,” said Selena. “Why don't you go home and lie down for a while. It's almost time to close anyway, and I could manage alone until six.”
“Of course not,” said Constance. “I'll straighten out in a few minutes, I—” she broke off at the sound of the front door opening.
Tomas Makris seemed to fill the entire front of the shop. His shoulders, covered now by a trench coat against the temperament of the May afternoon, gave him a look of strength and power that left Constance terror stricken. Foolishly, she was reminded of the simile of the bull in a china shop, but it did not amuse her in that moment. She could imagine only too clearly the smashing havoc of such a situation.
“I'd like some socks,” said Makris, who had contrived this prospective purchase as an excuse to see Constance MacKenzie again.
He had at first hoped to meet her on the street, but when he had glimpsed her twice, only to have her either cross the street or enter a building to avoid him, he had decided to face her in a place where she would not be able to avoid talking to him.
“Socks,” he repeated, when Constance did not speak. “Solid colors, if you have them. Size twelve and a half.”
“Selena!” said Constance sharply. “Selena, wait on this gentleman, please,” and, without looking at Makris again, she fled to the small room at the back of the shop.
Makris stood still, looking after her, and his dark eyes narrowed in speculation.
“I wonder why she is frightened?” he asked himself. “And she is frightened.”
“May I help you, sir?” asked Selena.
Going on the assumption that anything is possible, thought Makris, who had not even heard Selena, perhaps she has an extrasensory perception that lets her know what I'm thinking. Maybe she is the exception to the rule that all women love to know that a man finds them physically attractive. But if that's the case, why isn't she disgusted, repulsed, anything except frightened?
“Was it something in socks, sir?” asked Selena.
“Yes,” said Makris absently and walked out of the shop.
Selena went to the front window and watched the tall, broad figure that moved away on Elm Street. She felt a sympathy for Mr. Makris. He wasn't the first man in town who had hoped, at some time or another, to find his way to Constance MacKenzie's bedroom. It seemed to Selena that all men regarded divorcees or widows as fair game, and Constance had had her share of advances made and remarks passed. It had been more noticeable lately, because of the steady stream of new customers that came into the shop since Constance had put in men's wear. Even Leslie Harrington had come in more than once, although everyone in town knew that he bought all his clothes in New York. What had seemed to discourage the men more than anything else was the fact that Constance seemed unaware that a man might be trying to make up to her, and it had amused Selena to see most of the town's male population struggle for an opening gambit with the town's most beautiful woman. Mrs. MacKenzie had never seemed to realize that men were human, mused Selena, but here she was, the first time Mr. Makris looked at her, not only realizing it but letting it frighten her.
“Did he buy anything?” asked Constance.
“No,” said Selena, turning to her. “I guess he didn't see anything he wanted.”
Now that Allison was no longer friendly with Selena, Constance had developed a deep affection for the stepdaughter of Lucas Cross. She found her intelligent and a good worker, but it was with a feeling of shock that Constance sometimes found herself discussing adult questions with a child who could answer her in kind.
“What do you think of him?” she asked Selena.
“I think he's the handsomest man I ever saw,” said Selena. “Handsomer than Doc Swain must have been when he was young, and even handsomer than anyone in the movies.”
Do you think he finds me attractive?
For one lightheaded moment the question quivered on the tip of Constance's tongue, and she almost asked it aloud while Selena waited expectantly.
Why should it matter to me whether he does or not? Constance demanded of herself.
“I'm going to get my dress this week,” said Selena to cover the awkward pause. “I have the rest of the money saved so that I can get it on Friday, in time for the dance.”
“Take it today, if you like,” said Constance. “I told you weeks ago, Selena, that you didn't have to wait until you had the money. You could have taken the dress home any time.”
“I'd rather not,” said Selena. “I wouldn't want to owe money on it, and besides, I don't have a place to keep it at home.”
She went to the closet where Constance kept garments on which deposits had been made and looked at the white dress which hung there, carefully marked. “Selena Cross,” said the tag. “Balance due: $5.95.”
“You'll be the prettiest girl at the dance,” said Constance, smiling. “And you'll be the only one there wearing white. All the other girls will be in colors.”
“I just hope Ted will think I'm the prettiest girl there,” said Selena and laughed. “I've never been to a dance before. It's a nice feeling to have everything new to go somewhere you've never been before. Then everything is brand new, the feeling, and your clothes, and yourself, almost.”
“How old do you think he is?” asked Constance.
“Thirty-five,” said Selena. “Leslie Harrington told Ted's mother.”
♦ 24 ♦
Selena, who had been kneeling on the floor in front of her cot, sat back on her heels. There was a sickness in her stomach that brought perspiration out on her face and turned her weak, and she balanced her body by placing her hands on the floor.
“It's gone,” she said.
“What, Selena?” asked her brother. “What's gone?”
Selena waited until the sick feeling subsided a little, then she stood up.
“My money,” she said. “It's gone, Joey. Someone took it.”
“Naw,” protested Joey. “Naw it ain't, Selena. You just didn't look good.”
Selena ripped the thin mattress from the cot and threw it halfway across the shack.
“There!” she demanded. “Do you see it anywhere?”
There was not a trace of Selena's white money envelope anywhere in the bed, nor did it fall out of the torn blanket that she and Joey shook out. The envelope had contained ten dollars in single bills and represented ten afternoons of work at the Thrifty Corner.
“It's gone,” repeated Selena. “Pa took it.”
Although her voice was low, it held such a terrible sound that Joey was afraid of his sister for the first time in his life.
“Pa wouldn't steal,” protested Joey. “He might get drunk and fight and hit, but Pa wouldn't steal.”
As if she had not heard, Selena said, “And the dance is tomorrow night and I'll have to stay home.”
In a box under her cot, carefully packed in tissue paper, were the things she had bought, piecemeal, to wear with the new white dress; a pair of silk stockings, a pair of black suède shoes, and a set of white underwear.
“The only dress I ever wanted,” she said, “and Pa took the money. I was going to have my hair washed at Abbie's Beauty Salon with the rest of the money, and buy a bottle of perfume down at Prescott's. And Pa stole my money.”
“Stop saying that!” cried Joey. “Pa wouldn't take it. You just hid it somewhere, and now you forgot where. We'll find it. Remember the time Paul was missing money, and he thought Pa took it? He found it the next day where he hid it in his good pants.”
For a short moment Selena was cheered, for it was true that her stepbrother Paul had once unjustly accused his father of stealing. There had been a terrible fight that night, and the next day, after Paul had found his money, he had left Peyton Place and gone north to work. The only trouble was that Selena had seen her white envelope on the morning of this same day. She had taken it out from under the mattress, counted the money in it and returned it to its hiding place.
“He took it,” said Nellie Cross. “Your Pa took i
t. I seen him do it.”
Nellie was sitting on the edge of the sagging double bed, staring at her toes where they came through the holes in the tips of her house slippers. Selena and Joey were startled when Nellie spoke, for in recent months their mother had developed a talent for erasing herself from most situations. She seemed able to blend herself into the background, so that for long periods of time her children and her husband would forget that she was in the same room with them.
“He took it this mornin’,” said Nellie. “I seen him. He took it from under Selena's bed. I seen him, the sonofabitch.”
Selena's fists clenched in frustration. “Why didn't you stop him?” she demanded, knowing that her question was unreasonable. “You could have told him it was mine.”
Nellie spoke as if she had not heard her daughter. “Sonsofbitches,” she said. “All of ’em.”
The door of the shack swung open then, and Lucas Cross stood there smiling and swaying a little.
“Who's a sonofabitch?” he asked.
“You are,” said Selena without a moment's hesitation. “Not just a plain, ordinary sonofabitch, but a dumb sonofabitch. You didn't learn anything about drinking from being in the hospital and seeing bugs all over the place until everybody in the town thought you were crazy. It didn't mean anything to you to see Kenny Stearns almost bleed to death, so that even Doc Swain was scared he wouldn't live. You still hang around with that dumb Kenny and get drunk all the time, and now you've gone to stealing money. Give me what's left of it, Pa.”
Lucas looked down at her outstretched hand.
“What're you talkin’ about, honey?” he asked innocently.
“You know what I'm talkin’ about, Pa. The envelope you stole from under my bed. I want it back.”
“Watch out what you say to your pa, Selena. Lucas Cross never stole from nobody yet. The last person said that to me was your brother Paul, and I give him a helluva lickin’ for it. Be careful.”
“Where's the envelope that was under my mattress then? The one with the ten one-dollar bills in it?”
“You mean this one?” asked Lucas. He held up the envelope which was grimy now, and well creased.
The girl snatched at it anxiously, but Lucas laughed and raised it over his head.
“Give it to me,” she said.
“Well, now, hold on a minute,” said Lucas in a maddening drawl. “Just you hold on a minute, honey. Seems to me a gal oughta start payin’ board if she's workin’. ‘Tain't right, Selena, for you to hold out on your pa like you been doin’.”
“It's mine,” said Selena. “I worked for it, and I earned it. Give it to me.”
Lucas moved away from the door and sat down on a chair next to the kitchen table.
“Since your brother went, things ain't been too easy for me,” said Lucas in an exaggerated whine. “Seems to me you could help your pa out, a big girl like you.”
“You had plenty of money after you got done working the woods this last time,” said Selena. “You shouldn't have spent it all for drink. You're not going to drink up my money, Pa. I worked every afternoon after school for that money, and I want it back.”
“It's a shame to spend good money to get yourself prettied up for Ted Carter,” said Lucas. “A waste of money, if you ask me. Them Carters. Trash, they are. Always were. She's no better than a whore, and him, he's been pimpin’ for her for twenty years.”
“The Carters have nothing to do with my money,” cried Selena. She rushed at her father and attempted to tear the white envelope from his hand, but he moved back quickly in his chair, and Selena almost fell. Lucas laughed.
“Seems to me,” he said, “that a gal big enough to talk to her pa like that, a gal big enough to go out dancin’ with the son of a whore and a pimp, oughta be big enough to take what she wants from her pa, easy as takin’ candy from a baby. If she went about it right.”
For a long moment Selena looked at her father. Only for a second did her eyes ask for pity; then they held only realization. Lucas smiled his grotesque smile, and when his forehead moved, the girl noticed the shine of sweat on it.
“From what I understand,” he said, “you don't mind rasslin’ with Ted Carter, when he's tryin’ to get what he wants. I just turned the tables on you, honey. Now you gotta rassle me to get what you want.”
Without taking her eyes from her father's, Selena spoke to her brother.
“Go on outside, Joey,” she said.
The child stared at his sister. “But it's dark out,” he protested. “And cold.”
“Go on outside, Joey. Go on outside and stay there ’til I call for you.”
She did not speak again until the door closed behind her little brother and then she said: “I'm not going anywhere near you, Pa. Just give me my money.”
“Come on over here and get it,” said Lucas hoarsely. “You just come on over here and try to take it away from me.”
Nellie Cross stared at her toes through the holes in her slippers. “Sonsofbitches,” she said softly. “Sonsofbitches, all of ’em.”
Although Nellie spoke softly, Lucas started as if he had just realized that she was in the room. He looked first at his wife and then at Selena, and Selena's eyes were filled with hatred.
“Here,” he said, after another glance at Nellie. “Take your goddamn money.”
He tossed the creased envelope toward Selena and it fell on the floor at her feet.
“Sonsofbitches,” repeated Nellie. “All of ’em. Booze and wimmin. Wimmin and booze.”
♦ 25 ♦
Rodney Harrington, wearing a white jacket and with his curly black hair well slicked down with water, sat on the edge of a chair in the MacKenzie living room. Constance had left him there while she went upstairs to see if Allison was ready, and now Rodney sat and stared morosely at the braided rug on the floor.
What, he asked himself, ever prompted him to ask Allison MacKenzie to the biggest dance of the year? Especially to this dance, the very first that he was being allowed to attend. There was Betty Anderson, all eager and hot after him, just waiting for him to ask her to the dance, and he had gone and asked Allison MacKenzie. Ask a nice girl, his father had ordered, and look where Rodney had wound up. On the edge of a chair in the MacKenzie living room, waiting for skinny Allison. He could have had a good time with Betty, damn it all.
Rodney felt himself reddening and looked surreptitiously around the empty room. He did not like to think of the afternoon that he had spent in the woods at Road's End with Betty Anderson, unless he was sure that he was by himself. When he was alone, he could not keep from thinking of it.
That Betty! thought Rodney, letting memory take him. Boy, she was really something. Nothing kiddish about her or what she had shown him that afternoon. She didn't talk like a kid, either, or look like one. By God, she was something, whether her father was a mill hand or not, she was still something!
Rodney closed his eyes and felt his breath coming fast with the memory of Betty Anderson.
No, he shook himself, not here. I'll wait until tonight when I get home.
He looked around the MacKenzie living room and once again his thoughts began to lacerate him.
He could have had a swell time at the dance with Betty, and here he was, waiting for Allison. And if that wasn't bad enough, Betty was mad at him for not asking her. You couldn't blame Betty for that, after all, when a girl shared a secret with you, she had a right to expect you to ask her to the biggest dance of the year. He just hoped she'd be at the dance. Maybe he'd get a chance to talk to her and find out if she was still mad. Damn it, he could have talked his father out of putting his foot down about Betty if he had really tried. And there was skinny Allison, always making cow eyes at him, and his father had said to ask a nice girl.
Fool! said Rodney Harrington to himself. Damn fool!
He could hear a stirring on the stairs in the hall, now, so he supposed that Allison was finally coming down. He just hoped she looked decent and wouldn't make those cow eyes at him at
the dance, where some of the boys might see. He couldn't afford to have Betty overhear anyone teasing him about Allison or any other girl.
“Here's Allison, Rodney,” said Constance.
Rodney stood up. “Hi, Allison.”
“Hi.”
“Well, my father's outside in the car.”
“All right.”
“You got a coat or something?”
“I have this. It's an evening coat.”
“Well, let's go.”
“I'm ready.”
“Good night, Mrs. MacKenzie.”
“Good night, Mother.”
“Good night–” Constance caught herself just in time. She had almost said “Children.” “Good night, Allison,” she said. “Good night, Rodney. Have a nice time.”
As soon as they were out the door, Constance sank wearily into a chair. It had been a difficult week, with Allison alternating between moments of unbearable impatience and hours of demoralizing panic. When she awakened on the day of the dance with an angry red pimple on her chin, she wept and demanded that Constance telephone Rodney immediately to tell him that Allison was ill and would not be able to go out that evening. Constance lit a cigarette and looked at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
“Well, Allison,” she said aloud, “here we are. Alone at last.”
Your bastard daughter is all bathed, curled, perfumed, manicured and dressed, and here we are, Allison, you and I alone, waiting for her to return from her first formal engagement.
It frightened Constance when she thought in that fashion, with bitterness and self-pity, and it shocked her to realize that lately her bitterness was not only for the position in which Allison MacKenzie had placed her fourteen years before. In recent weeks she had been actively resenting the idea of being left alone to cope with a growing girl, and in her angry reasoning the blame for this fell entirely on the shoulders of her dead lover. Allison's crime, and in Constance's eyes it was a crime, was that he had claimed to love her. That being the case, his first thoughts should have been for her protection, coming ahead of his desire to lead her to bed but, as Constance put it to herself, he had not thought of protection until too late, and Constance had ended up by allowing Allison MacKenzie to become a habit with her. She knew that she had not loved him, for if she had, the relationship between them could never have been what it was. Love, to Constance, was synonymous with marriage, and marriage was something based on a community of tastes and interests, together with a similarity of background and viewpoint. All these were blended together by an emotion called “love,” and sex did not enter into it at all. Therefore, reasoned Constance, she had certainly not loved Allison MacKenzie. Constance's eyes went again to the photograph on the mantelpiece, and she wondered where, eventually, she would find the words to explain the way of things to the daughter of Allison MacKenzie. The ringing of the doorbell cut across her mind, breaking sharply into her thoughts. Constance sighed again, more deeply than before, and rubbed the back of her neck where it ached. Allison, she supposed, had forgotten a handkerchief in her excitement.
Peyton Place Page 18
