by Passing
A feeling of uneasiness stole upon her at the inconceivable suspicion that she might have been wrong in her estimate of her husband’s character. But she squirmed away from it. Impossible! She couldn’t have been wrong. Everything proved that she had been right. More than right, if such a thing could be. And all, she assured herself, because she understood him so well, because she had, actually, a special talent for understanding him. It was, as she saw it, the one thing that had been the basis of the success which she had made of a marriage that had threatened to fail. She knew him as well as he knew himself, or better.
Then why worry? The thing, this discontent which had exploded into words, would surely die, flicker out, at last. True, she had in the past often been tempted to believe that it had died, only to become conscious, in some instinctive, subtle way, that she had been merely deceiving herself for a while and that it still lived. But it would die. Of that she was certain. She had only to direct and guide her man, to keep him going in the right direction.
She put on her coat and adjusted her hat.
Yes, it would die, as long ago she had made up her mind that it should. But in the meantime, while it was still living and still had the power to flare up and alarm her, it would have to be banked, smothered, and something offered in its stead. She would have to make some plan, some decision, at once. She frowned, for it annoyed her intensely. For, though temporary, it would be important and perhaps disturbing. Irene didn’t like changes, particularly changes that affected the smooth routine of her household. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Something would have to be done. And immediately.
She took up her purse and drawing on her gloves, ran down the steps and out through the door which Brian held open for her and stepped into the waiting car.
“You know,” she said, settling herself into the seat beside him, “I’m awfully glad to get this minute alone with you. It does seem that we’re always so busy—I do hate that—but what can we do? I’ve had something on my mind for ever so long, something that needs talking over and really serious consideration.”
The car’s engine rumbled as it moved out from the kerb and into the scant traffic of the street under Brian’s expert guidance.
She studied his profile.
They turned into Seventh Avenue. Then he said: “Well, let’s have it. No time like the present for the settling of weighty matters.”
“It’s about Junior. I wonder if he isn’t going too fast in school? We do forget that he’s not eleven yet. Surely it can’t be good for him to—well, if he is, I mean. Going too fast, you know. Of course, you know more about these things than I do. You’re better able to judge. That is, if you’ve noticed or thought about it at all.”
“I do wish, Irene, you wouldn’t be for ever fretting about those kids. They’re all right. Perfectly all right. Good, strong, healthy boys, especially Junior. Most especially Junior.”
“We-ll, I s’pose you’re right. You’re expected to know about things like that, and I’m sure you wouldn’t make a mistake about your own boy.” (Now, why had she said that?) “But that isn’t all. I’m terribly afraid he’s picked up some queer ideas about things— some things—from the older boys, you know.”
Her manner was consciously light. Apparently she was intent on the maze of traffic, but she was still watching Brian’s face closely. On it was a peculiar expression. Was it, could it possibly be, a mixture of scorn and distaste?
“Queer ideas?” he repeated. “D’you mean ideas about sex, Irene?”
“Ye-es. Not quite nice ones. Dreadful jokes, and things like that.”
“Oh, I see,” he threw at her. For a while there was silence between them. After a moment he demanded bluntly: “Well, what of it? If sex isn’t a joke, what is it? And what is a joke?”
“As you please, Brian. He’s your son, you know.” Her voice was clear, level, disapproving.
“Exactly! And you’re trying to make a mollycoddle out of him. Well, just let me tell you, I won’t have it. And you needn’t think I’m going to let you change him to some nice kindergarten kind of a school because he’s getting a little necessary education. I won’t! He’ll stay right where he is. The sooner and the more he learns about sex, the better for him. And most certainly if he learns that it’s a grand joke, the greatest in the world. It’ll keep him from lots of disappointments later on.”
Irene didn’t answer.
They reached the printing-shop. She got out, emphatically slamming the car’s door behind her. There was a piercing agony of misery in her heart. She hadn’t intended to behave like this, but her extreme resentment at his attitude, the sense of having been wilfully misunderstood and reproved, drove her to fury.
Inside the shop, she stilled the trembling of her lips and drove back her rising anger. Her business transacted, she came back to the car in a chastened mood. But against the armour of Brian’s stubborn silence she heard herself saying in a calm, metallic voice: “I don’t believe I’ll go back just now. I’ve remembered that I’ve got to do something about getting something decent to wear. I haven’t a rag that’s fit to be seen. I’ll take the bus downtown.”
Brian merely doffed his hat in that maddening polite way which so successfully curbed and yet revealed his temper.
“Good-bye,” she said bitingly. “Thanks for the lift,” and turned towards the avenue.
What, she wondered contritely, was she to do next? She was vexed with herself for having chosen, as it had turned out, so clumsy an opening for what she had intended to suggest: some European school for Junior next year, and Brian to take him over. If she had been able to present her plan, and he had accepted it, as she was sure that he would have done, with other more favourable opening methods, he would have had that to look forward to as a break in the easy monotony that seemed, for some reason she was wholly unable to grasp, so hateful to him.
She was even more vexed at her own explosion of anger. What could have got into her to give way to it in such a moment?
Gradually her mood passed. She drew back from the failure of her first attempt at substitution, not so much discouraged as disappointed and ashamed. It might be, she reflected, that, in addition to her ill-timed loss of temper, she had been too hasty in her eagerness to distract him, had rushed too closely on the heels of his outburst, and had thus aroused his suspicions and his obstinacy. She had but to wait. Another more appropriate time would come, tomorrow, next week, next month. It wasn’t now, as it had been once, that she was afraid that he would throw everything aside and rush off to that remote place of his heart’s desire. He wouldn’t, she knew. He was fond of her, loved her, in his slightly undemonstrative way.
And there were the boys.
It was only that she wanted him to be happy, resenting, however, his inability to be so with things as they were, and never acknowledging that though she did want him to be happy, it was only in her own way and by some plan of hers for him that she truly desired him to be so. Nor did she admit that all other plans, all other ways, she regarded as menaces, more or less indirect, to that security of place and substance which she insisted upon for her sons and in a lesser degree for herself.
TWO
Five days had gone by since Clare Kendry’s appealing letter. Irene Redfield had not replied to it. Nor had she had any other word from Clare.
She had not carried out her first intention of writing at once because on going back to the letter for Clare’s address, she had come upon something which, in the rigour of her determination to maintain unbroken between them the wall that Clare herself had raised, she had forgotten, or not fully noted. It was the fact that Clare had requested her to direct her answer to the post office’s general delivery.
That had angered Irene, and increased her disdain and contempt for the other.
Tearing the letter across, she had flung it into the scrapbasket. It wasn’t so much Clare’s carefulness and her desire for secrecy in their relations—Irene understood the need for that—as that Clare should have doubt
ed her discretion, implied that she might not be cautious in the wording of her reply and the choice of a posting-box. Having always had complete confidence in her own good judgment and tact, Irene couldn’t bear to have anyone seem to question them. Certainly not Clare Kendry.
In another, calmer moment she decided that it was, after all, better to answer nothing, to explain nothing, to refuse nothing; to dispose of the matter simply by not writing at all. Clare, of whom it couldn’t be said that she was stupid, would not mistake the implication of that silence. She might—and Irene was sure that she would—choose to ignore it and write again, but that didn’t matter. The whole thing would be very easy. The basket for all letters, silence for their answers.
Most likely she and Clare would never meet again. Well, she, for one, could endure that. Since childhood their lives had never really touched. Actually they were strangers. Strangers in their ways and means of living. Strangers in their desires and ambitions. Strangers even in their racial consciousness. Between them the barrier was just as high, just as broad, and just as firm as if in Clare did not run that strain of black blood. In truth, it was higher, broader, and firmer; because for her there were perils, not known, or imagined, by those others who had no such secrets to alarm or endanger them.
The day was getting on toward evening. It was past the middle of October. There had been a week of cold rain, drenching the rotting leaves which had fallen from the poor trees that lined the street on which the Redfields’ house was located, and sending a damp air of penetrating chill into the house, with a hint of cold days to come. In Irene’s room a low fire was burning. Outside, only a dull grey light was left of the day. Inside, lamps had already been lighted.
From the floor above there was the sound of young voices. Sometimes Junior’s serious and positive; again, Ted’s deceptively gracious one. Often there was laughter, or the noise of commotion, tussling, or toys being slammed down.
Junior, tall for his age, was almost incredibly like his father in feature and colouring; but his temperament was hers, practical and determined, rather than Brian’s. Ted, speculative and withdrawn, was, apparently, less positive in his ideas and desires. About him there was a deceiving air of candour that was, Irene knew, like his father’s show of reasonable acquiescence. If, for the time being, and with a charming appearance of artlessness, he submitted to the force of superior strength, or some other immovable condition or circumstance, it was because of his intense dislike of scenes and unpleasant argument. Brian over again.
Gradually Irene’s thought slipped away from Junior and Ted, to become wholly absorbed in their father.
The old fear, with strength increased, the fear for the future, had again laid its hand on her. And, try as she might, she could not shake it off. It was as if she had admitted to herself that against that easy surface of her husband’s concordance with her wishes, which had, since the war had given him back to her physically unimpaired, covered an increasing inclination to tear himself and his possessions loose from their proper setting, she was helpless.
The chagrin which she had felt at her first failure to subvert this latest manifestation of his discontent had receded, leaving in its wake an uneasy depression. Were all her efforts, all her labours, to make up to him that one loss, all her silent striving to prove to him that her way had been best, all her ministrations to him, all her outward sinking of self, to count for nothing in some unperceived sudden moment? And if so, what, then, would be the consequences to the boys? To her? To Brian himself? Endless searching had brought no answer to these questions. There was only an intense weariness from their shuttle-like procession in her brain.
The noise and commotion from above grew increasingly louder. Irene was about to go to the stairway and request the boys to be quieter in their play when she heard the doorbell ringing.
Now, who was that likely to be? She listened to Zulena’s heels, faintly tapping on their way to the door, then to the shifting sound of her feet on the steps, then to her light knock on the bedroom door.
“Yes. Come in,” Irene told her.
Zulena stood in the doorway. She said: “Someone to see you, Mrs. Redfield.” Her tone was discreetly regretful, as if to convey that she was reluctant to disturb her mistress at that hour, and for a stranger. “A Mrs. Bellew.”
Clare!
“Oh dear! Tell her, Zulena,” Irene began, “that I can’t—No. I’ll see her. Please bring her up here.”
She heard Zulena pass down the hall, down the stairs, then stood up, smoothing out the tumbled green and ivory draperies of her dress with light stroking pats. At the mirror she dusted a little powder on her nose and brushed out her hair.
She meant to tell Clare Kendry at once, and definitely, that it was of no use, her coming, that she couldn’t be responsible, that she’d talked it over with Brian, who had agreed with her that it was wiser, for Clare’s own sake, to refrain—
But that was as far as she got in her rehearsal. For Clare had come softly into the room without knocking, and before Irene could greet her, had dropped a kiss on her dark curls.
Looking at the woman before her, Irene Redfield had a sudden inexplicable onrush of affectionate feeling. Reaching out, she grasped Clare’s two hands in her own and cried with something like awe in her voice: “Dear God! But aren’t you lovely, Clare!”
Clare tossed that aside. Like the furs and small blue hat which she threw on the bed before seating herself slantwise in Irene’s favourite chair, with one foot curled under her.
“Didn’t you mean to answer my letter, ’Rene?” she asked gravely.
Irene looked away. She had that uncomfortable feeling that one has when one has not been wholly kind or wholly true.
Clare went on: “Every day I went to that nasty little post-office place. I’m sure they were all beginning to think that I’d been carrying on an illicit love-affair and that the man had thrown me over. Every morning the same answer: ‘Nothing for you.’ I got into an awful fright, thinking that something might have happened to your letter, or to mine. And half the nights I would lie awake looking out at the watery stars—hopeless things, the stars—worrying and wondering. But at last it soaked in, that you hadn’t written and didn’t intend to. And then—well, as soon as ever I’d seen Jack off for Florida, I came straight here. And now, ’Rene, please tell me quite frankly why you didn’t answer my letter.”
“Because, you see—” Irene broke off and kept Clare waiting while she lit a cigarette, blew out the match, and dropped it into a tray. She was trying to collect her arguments, for some sixth sense warned her that it was going to be harder than she thought to convince Clare Kendry of the folly of Harlem for her. Finally she proceeded: “I can’t help thinking that you ought not to come up here, ought not to run the risk of knowing Negroes.”
“You mean you don’t want me, ’Rene?”
Irene hadn’t supposed that anyone could look so hurt. She said, quite gently, “No, Clare, it’s not that. But even you must see that it’s terribly foolish, and not just the right thing.”
The tinkle of Clare’s laugh rang out, while she passed her hands over the bright sweep of her hair. “Oh, ’Rene!” she cried, “you’re priceless! And you haven’t changed a bit. The right thing!” Leaning forward, she looked curiously into Irene’s disapproving brown eyes. “You don’t, you really can’t mean exactly that! Nobody could. It’s simply unbelievable.”
Irene was on her feet before she realized that she had risen. “What I really mean,” she retorted, “is that it’s dangerous and that you ought not to run such silly risks. No one ought to. You least of all.”
Her voice was brittle. For into her mind had come a thought, strange and irrelevant, a suspicion, that had surprised and shocked her and driven her to her feet. It was that in spite of her determined selfishness the woman before her was yet capable of heights and depths of feeling that she, Irene Redfield, had never known. Indeed, never cared to know. The thought, the suspicion, was gone as quickly as it had c
ome.
Clare said: “Oh, me!”
Irene touched her arm caressingly, as if in contrition for that flashing thought. “Yes, Clare, you. It’s not safe. Not safe at all.”
“Safe!”
It seemed to Irene that Clare had snapped her teeth down on the word and then flung it from her. And for another flying second she had that suspicion of Clare’s ability for a quality of feeling that was to her strange, and even repugnant. She was aware, too, of a dim premonition of some impending disaster. It was as if Clare Kendry had said to her, for whom safety, security, were all-important: “Safe! Damn being safe!” and meant it.
With a gesture of impatience she sat down. In a voice of cool formality, she said: “Brian and I have talked the whole thing over carefully and decided that it isn’t wise. He says it’s always a dangerous business, this coming back. He’s seen more than one come to grief because of it. And, Clare, considering everything—Mr. Bellew’s attitude and all that—don’t you think you ought to be as careful as you can?”
Clare’s deep voice broke the small silence that had followed Irene’s speech. She said, speaking almost plaintively: “I ought to have known. It’s Jack. I don’t blame you for being angry, though I must say you behaved beautifully that day. But I did think you’d understand, ’Rene. It was that, partly, that has made me want to see other people. It just swooped down and changed everything. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have gone on to the end, never seeing any of you. But that did something to me, and I’ve been so lonely since! You can’t know. Not close to a single soul. Never anyone to really talk to.”
Irene pressed out her cigarette. While doing so, she saw again the vision of Clare Kendry staring disdainfully down at the face of her father, and thought that it would be like that that she would look at her husband if he lay dead before her.
