“It was nihil humani—you know what that means,” she said to Claire.
“Nothing human,” Claire said.
“You keep quiet,” Bobby said. “Let her talk. Let her explain this wonderful philosophy.”
“It was a load of rubbish,” Madeleine said. “Nothing human ab me alienum puto—do I think alien to me—that’s what he used to preach at us: to accept everything that anyone did because we had the same thing in us potentially, every evil there could be. It took me years to find out that it was his private license to take whatever he could from people—their own thoughts and personalities, not to mention their money and whatever else they had, including of course sex.”
“Did he have sex with you?” Bobby demanded, and added at once, “I hope he had better taste.” Claire tried to admonish him, but he was suddenly in a good mood, laughing loudly at his own joke, which amused him so much that he repeated it—“I hope he did: have better taste than sleep with you.”
“I guess he did,” answered Madeleine, laughing with him, pleased to have put him for the moment in a better humor.
Claire and Madeleine began to snap at each other. Early next morning when Madeleine entered the kitchen, she found Claire feeding Katze. “What are you doing?” she yelled. “I’ve fed him already—do you want to kill him or what!”
“Well, to hell with you!” answered Claire, slamming down Katze’s saucer. “I thought I was doing you a favor, feeding your fat old cat.”
Madeleine controlled herself. She began to get breakfast for the two of them, cutting bread with a martyr’s air that made Claire say, “Don’t cut any for me. I only want some orange juice.”
“At least some toast.”
“I don’t want it! And such thick slices—I don’t know why you can’t—here let me—”
“No thank you,” Madeleine said. “I like thick slices, and since you don’t want any, I hope you’ll let me eat what I like, even if it is thick and coarse.” Claire groaned in exasperation, which made Madeleine continue: “But that’s me—I am thick and coarse, by your standards, I’m sure.”
Claire sat down in their breakfast nook. Madeleine slammed around the kitchen a while longer, but soon she was stealing glances at Claire sitting at the table with its checkered cloth and little vase of flowers that Madeleine had picked an hour earlier. Claire’s slight, small profile was outlined against the window and the blossoming tree and patch of pure pale sky that could be seen through it. Somewhere a woodchuck chucked through the calm, utterly peaceful morning air. Bobby slept upstairs; there was no sound in all the house. Madeleine sat in the chair opposite Claire; she buttered a toast for her and Claire ate it. They silently savored their moment together.
By the time Bobby got up, Madeleine was at work in the garden. She dug into a neglected patch of ground, treading down on the spade to force it into the stubborn earth. It was hard work, man’s work, and she kept having to stop to wipe the perspiration running into her eyes. Her blood pounded with the exertion, so that she hardly heard the sounds coming from the house—of hard rock music, and also she thought of voices raised in anger. Not wanting to hear them, she kept on digging, perspiring and panting with the physical labor. At last she was so exhausted that she flung aside her spade and lay face down as though burying herself in the earth. She heard and saw nothing but fell into a sleep as black and profound as a pit. When she woke, it was dark, and Claire was standing over her, calling her. Madeleine sat up with a start. “What’s the time?” she said.
“It’s nine o’clock. I called and called you to eat, you wouldn’t wake up.”
“Where’s Bobby?”
“Inside. Can’t you hear?”
His music blasted through the garden, drowning out all natural sounds. But not, for Madeleine, drowning out something in Claire’s voice—“He’s hit her again,” flashed through her mind. But she wanted to know nothing of it, and if there was any injury on Claire’s face, she didn’t want to see it. So she continued to sit on the ground, slumped over, not looking up at Claire standing there; she yawned widely to show how tired she still was.
“What’s the matter with you?” Claire said. “Did you take something? You were lying here like a corpse.”
“I was out to the world. You said you called me? I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Nothing? You didn’t hear anything?”
“Not a sound, I promise.”
Claire said nothing; she didn’t believe her. Madeleine still refused to look at her, but even if she had, she would have found it difficult to see Claire’s face, which she kept averted and in shadow.
Claire said, “He has these bad spells. Usually he’s fine—you’ve seen him yourself, how sweet he can be. But then there are these days, and then I don’t know what to do.”
“Never mind,” said Madeleine to the despair in Claire’s voice. “It’ll pass.”
“Oh yes, of course it’ll pass! But meanwhile I’m sorry that your weekend is spoiled . . . I’ll make it up to you, you’ll see—we’ll have our own nice times again, you and I. It’s only today—tonight—you won’t mind if I just go to bed? I might even take a pill to help me relax and get a really sound sleep.”
Madeleine agreed that this would be a good idea. They said goodnight in tender friendship. Claire went in, but Madeleine didn’t follow her. She wanted to stay outside, away from the house, and as far as possible away from the music. But after a while, surprisingly, the music ceased. The house was silent. Then all the lights went out except for one on the porch, and one up in Claire’s room. Then the latter too was extinguished. Except for that one dim little porch light, the house was in darkness. It was the grounds that were brightly lit, for there was a full moon pouring down light that was harsh and metallic, as though artificial. Still unwilling to go into the house, Madeleine wandered around. She flitted among trees that, floodlit, looked flat and unreal; she herself looked unreal, ghostlike in her long gown. It struck her that Bobby’s bad spells might be connected with the full phase of the moon, and she thought no wonder, for the bright white beams seemed to penetrate deep into her brain, breeding sick, unnatural thoughts. She was also ravenously hungry, having missed supper; with her big healthy body, she needed her three meals a day.
Claire had kept a casserole in the oven for her, and she had laid a place at the table with salad and bread and wine, and all Madeleine had to do was sit and eat. She did so, filling her plate and glass several times. But still something—hunger or restlessness—gnawed her. The unusual silence was eerie, and so was the moonlight flooding harshly through the windows. She went around the house to draw all the curtains. Downstairs, the only sound came from the grandfather clock keeping its steady time, but when she went to draw the curtains upstairs, this ticking could no longer be heard. Nothing could be heard. Where was Bobby? She stood outside his door; she even dared rap on it, and when there was no answer, she went in, to draw the curtains and keep the moonlight out. The room was empty and in the usual mess in which he lived. She went out again quickly, and now she stood outside Claire’s room. She put her ear against the door: not a sound. She was frightened. She thought of Claire lying on the bed, exposed to the influence of the moon pouring in on her; perhaps she had taken too many pills. But when Madeleine tried to go in, she found the door locked. She tried again, she rattled it; she rattled it more, she pounded on it; she called to Claire.
Claire opened the door. She said, “What are you doing? You’ll wake him.”
“Why is he with you?”
Claire shut the door, preventing Madeleine from seeing inside. They both stood against this closed door. Claire was wearing Bobby’s robe, which she appeared to have thrown over herself in a hurry, for she was still tying it. She led Madeleine away from the door, down the stairs. Madeleine, following, said again, “Why is he with you?” and again received no answer.
They sat in the living room, side by side on the hard-backed leather settee. With the curtains drawn, it was almost totally dark, a
nd neither made a move to turn on the light. Madeleine said gently, “He hit you again today, that’s why you’re not letting me see your face.”
“You can see it if you want, what’s it matter.” Claire got up to draw aside the curtain, but she had only just parted the heavy lined material when the moonlight struck inside—and it was Madeleine who covered her face, shouting, “No, don’t!” She couldn’t bear that harsh light coming in on her, stabbing into her brain.
Claire drew the curtain shut. She sat down again next to Madeleine, as before, with her hands folded in her lap, the same way as Madeleine; they might have been two middle-aged matrons on a social visit. Claire said, “I told you he has these bad days, but they don’t last. Tomorrow he’ll be all right.”
“How do you know?”
Claire shrugged. “Of course I know. I know everything there is to know about him, every little bit of him, better than anyone.”
“Better than a doctor?”
“A doctor is for sick people . . . Why won’t you let me open the curtain? Don’t you remember how nice it was, in the moonlight, with Katze?” She made her voice soft, flirtatious, recalling that happy time to Madeleine. When Madeleine didn’t respond, she said, “Where is Katze?”
“He must be hiding somewhere; he does that when he’s scared.”
“Stupid Katze, what’s he scared about?” Just then the grandfather clock struck the hour—one beat, one o’clock—and Madeleine gave a jump that made Claire laugh and tease: “Now you’re scared.” Madeleine didn’t deny it.
After a long pause, Claire gave a sigh in preparation for what she had to say. It took another pause before she started. “He’s not sick, that’s where everyone is wrong. Including you, Mad, though you’re so understanding in every other way. He’s different, not sick. He’s more charged than other people, that’s what it is—his brain is more charged, like with high voltage energy, and his body too—well, what do you expect!” she broke out. “He’s not neutered like your poor old Katze—he’s a healthy young man in the prime of his life! What should he do? You tell me—what should he do!”
“What did you let him do? . . . No, don’t touch me!” Madeleine cried out and snatched away her hand when Claire laid her own on top of it.
Claire withdrew her hand and repeated wryly, “‘Don’t touch me’ . . . Noli me tangere,” she translated. “There’s another bit of Latin for you from Miss Coffin days. And what was that tag your philosopher taught you—”
“I told you it was a load of shit,” Madeleine interrupted harshly. “He was a load of shit, so don’t remind me of him because all I want is to forget him.” She got up. “I’m going to bed. I want to at least try and get some sleep before that music from hell starts up again.”
“I’ll take him home tomorrow,” Claire promised. She kept sitting by herself on the settee, listening to Madeleine’s footsteps dragging up the stairs. Madeleine’s bedroom door closed, heavily.
But when Claire herself went upstairs, the door opened again and Madeleine came out. She barred Claire’s way—“What do you mean—you’ll take him home? He can go by himself and you can leave on Monday.” When Claire tried to pass, she added: “I’ll drive you, if you want.”
Claire didn’t answer but insisted on going past Madeleine to her own bedroom. Now it was Madeleine who listened to the door close. After a while she followed her. She knocked; when she tried the handle, it opened, but she did not go in. She called to Claire to come to the door and urged her: “You will stay, won’t you? Even if he goes.”
“Well, it’s up to him,” Claire said, shrugging. “Let’s see what he wants to do in the morning.”
Madeleine stood in the half-open door. Claire was still in Bobby’s robe that she had thrown on and tied securely around herself. Madeleine wanted to tear this robe off her and expose the body inside—was it naked? She wanted to beat and batter it.
But when she spoke, it was quietly: “Ask him to stay.” She paused, gathered her strength, went on: “Tell him we want him to stay. We both want him to stay.”
“All right, I’ll try . . . Why don’t you come in?” She opened the door wider, and when Madeleine hesitated, she said, “He’s asleep. He’s all right now. He’s fine.”
She encouraged Madeleine to enter and to approach the bed. Bobby was lying asleep in the middle of it. In the dimly shadowed darkness—for Claire too had drawn the curtains to keep the moonlight out—his naked torso appeared luminous, and so did the white sheet with which the rest of him was covered. His dark head lay sideways on the pillow; he had one hand lightly curled on his chest, which breathed up and down most peacefully.
“He’s certainly nice-looking,” admitted Madeleine. “Isn’t he?” proudly smiled Claire. The two of them were holding hands as they stood looking down at him, their attitudes almost reverent.
BROKEN PROMISES
“Reba’s more the intellectual type,” Donna would say, whenever her friends talked about their own daughters. It wasn’t strictly true, but how else to account for the fact that Reba had no visible boy friend and wore blue jeans and lumberjack shirts? If she was visiting when Donna had her friends in, Reba would sometimes open the door where they all were; and though they looked around at her and smiled and nodded so that their earrings swung and their coiffures swayed (some of them wore wigs), Reba didn’t join them but quickly shut the door again. Then Donna would have to apologize—“Reading some book, I guess, she’s always into them;” and her friends set their perfect pearly rows of teeth into a smile and complimented her, “Lovely girl,” and “You’re lucky.” Nevertheless, Donna realized that her friends really pitied her: although their own daughters may also have had problems, these were normal ones, like ex-spouses who didn’t pay child support or boy friends who wouldn’t marry them.
But unlike her daughter, Donna’s husband conformed to type, for Si had moved out of the apartment and in with his latest girl friend. Many of her friends were similarly situated, so they knew what it felt like and could be a comfort to each other. They always had plenty of good things to eat at their lunches, and each went to endless trouble when it was her turn: for what was there now except eating, and maybe keeping yourself nice with a new hair shade, or shopping for new clothes that only your friends of the same age and sex would even notice, let alone appreciate. All the same, there were frequent fallings-out among these friends, and then they wouldn’t be speaking for months or even years.
Reba could never keep up with these relationships. Once, when she had come to see her mother, Donna tried to get her to come to a show with her. Reba didn’t want to and suggested, “Why don’t you go with Celia or someone?”
“Celia!” Donna’s face grew turkey-red under her golden hair. “I don’t go to shows with snakes.”
Reba kept quiet. Her mother had high blood pressure and couldn’t be allowed to work herself up. Besides, Reba knew about best friends turning overnight into snakes—for some remark they had made behind Donna’s back, or preempting a favorite masseuse or upholsterer.
“Next you’ll be sending me with that Foxy,” Donna went on, referring to another friend fallen from grace. “Anyway, I want to go with you. Nothing wrong in that, I hope: wanting to be with your own daughter . . . All right, dear,” she sighed next, “I know when I’m not wanted. Same as with your father.”
Reba said, “I have to go.” She slung on the cloth pouch in which she carried her possessions. “See you next week, I guess.” She pecked near her mother’s cheek in her usual farewell, but this time Donna clung to her and said, “I can’t take it any more, Reba; really I can’t.”
“You have to,” Reba said. She spoke brusquely but stood perfectly still so her mother could hold on to her; and also if possible to give her some of her own strength and sturdiness. Donna was taller than Reba, but she was fat, soft, whereas Reba was muscular like a workman.
But after they parted, Reba took longer to recover than Donna. Driving her battered pick-up to the country where she l
ived, Reba couldn’t stop thinking of her mother left to grow old alone in her luxurious apartment. But Donna, walking around that apartment, still crying a bit and wiping her tears, called a friend in the hospital and heard all about her operation, then called another friend to report on that and make a lunch date, had a little snack from the icebox, called the storage people about her furs, finally sat down with Lina her housekeeper for a cup of coffee and a forbidden cigarette. Later Si called—he did this practically every day and often she wished he wouldn’t, but if he didn’t, she got tense and had to take pills.
“Reba’s been here,” she told him. “I’m worried about her.”
“Well, what do you think I am?”
This was their standard exchange about their daughter and led to Donna’s next retort, which was bitter: “She should have had a better example from her father.”
Si said, “You want to talk to me or not?”
“I didn’t call you, you called me.”
At the end of their conversation, Donna had to lie on the sofa for a while. Then she dialed Reba’s number in the country. There was no reply, though Reba must have reached home by now. Maybe she was in one of her moods where she didn’t pick up the phone, or she was wandering around in those goddamn woods she lived in. Donna let the phone ring and ring and was finally rewarded by Reba snatching it up and shouting “Hello!” in an angry voice.
Donna said straight off, “Your father’s driving me nuts again.” She pretended not to hear Reba’s groan.
“He doesn’t look right, Reba. A man his age with a suntan like that on him—it’s all done with lamps of course, but ever heard of skin cancer? And all that exercising at the spa, that’s not going to do his heart any good.”
“I hadn’t heard there’s anything wrong with his heart.”
“There isn’t, except it’s rotten to the core.”
By the time she had finished talking to her daughter, it was dusk outside and quite dark inside, which Donna hated. She went around turning on all the lamps and overhead lights so that everything was brilliantly lit, her white and gold furniture, her tulips and tiger lilies from René the florist, Si’s art collection on the walls. From her windows she could see the lights shining from unbroken rows of prime real estate, full of lawyers, developers, and psychiatrists. She imagined them all eating dinner inside their expensively decorated apartments, and that reminded her to call Reba again—“Do you have anything to eat up there? Well,” she defended herself against Reba’s angry shout, “you don’t usually, not anything I’d call food.”
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