Fairbairn, Ann

by Five Smooth Stones

  "Can't you say anything, David? Not anything? For an awful minute I thought you weren't going to let me in—"

  Words came finally, halting and inane. "I—well, I guess I was surprised."

  "You shouldn't have been. You should have known." She smiled, and he plunged his hands into the pockets of his robe to keep them from her shoulders, her waist, her face, from anything that was Sara.

  "How—how was Paris?"

  "Pooh! Paris." She turned away, into the circle of light, slipping her coat off, then faced him again, handing it to him. After a moment she said, "Don't just hold it, Stoopid. Do something with it!"

  He fitted it across the back of a straight chair, taking a long time, and when he looked at her again she had walked to the desk and was touching his books, his yellow legal pad, his pencils, fingering each object lightly, then going on to the table, then across the room and into the small bedroom beyond and the bath and out again to gas plate and refrigerator.

  "You wonder," she said. "You lie awake at night and wonder where someone you love is sleeping, and waking up, and reading, and missing you. And when you get there—it's like coming home."

  She crossed to the big chair and sat in it, cross-legged. "Was this where you were when I knocked?"

  "Yes. Almost asleep. Sara, why did you leave Paris? You came back early in September. I had a letter from Tom. I—" He stopped. He had started to tell her that he wanted to call her one day, the day he had met Bradford Willis. But he couldn't tell her that, couldn't let his guard down that far. Instead he finished the sentence by saying, "I always thought Paris was a sort of Mecca for young artists."

  "Not for this one. Not right now. Next spring, perhaps. Paris, London, and then maybe I can exhibit."

  "But—but why Boston?"

  "Because you're here. And the Boston Art Museum. And some of the best instructors anywhere."

  "In that order of importance?" Words were coming more easily now; he no longer felt short-winded and as though he were choking.

  "Of course." She grasped her ankles and rocked gently back and forth, like a child. "I got here late this afternoon. I called Sudsy's house, and his mother said he was having dinner with you. She gave me your address. So I waited until I thought you'd be home, and walked over from Copley Square. Like—like a homing pigeon."

  "You shouldn't have. I mean, it's not a very good neighborhood."

  "I didn't even think about it. I came back from Paris because—because—well, anyhow I was coming here as fast as I could, as soon as I knew you'd be here for classes. And then the first of September my sister in Rio had twins. They hadn't had a baby for seven years and then they have twins. Isn't that marvelous! Think of it, David—two babies at once! It's super!"

  He was glad that his laugh sounded natural, at least to himself. "Could be. It would scare hell out of me." He began to relax. "How about coffee? Beer?"

  "Coffee. If it's made."

  "I can make instant coffee. Or plug in the percolator. It's all set up for morning."

  "That's good."

  "What—" He cast an almost frightened glance back at her over his shoulder as he walked toward the back of the room. What had she meant, "That's good"?

  While he put water on and measured coffee, she said: "When we got the cable from Rio my father decided to go down there. He was positively psycho about having twin grandsons. So we took off—just like that. And then three days after we got there my brother-in-law had word from the home office that he would be recalled and promoted all at once. So I stayed to help. I just got back last week."

  "And came to Boston."

  "Of course."

  He handed her the coffee without saying anything. She looked up at him as she took it and said, "David. Your eyes are shining. They're shining like—gosh, like streetlights or something. Aren't you going to say it, David? I mean, really say it and not just look it?"

  He spoke almost crossly. "Say what?"

  "That you're happy? That you're happy to see me? Because you are, David. You know you are."

  He sat in the occasional chair, rays from the lamp on the table beamed away from him and illuminating Sara, making her a glowing idol sitting cross-legged in his chair.

  "Yes," he said almost inaudibly. "Yes, of course I'm happy. I—I'm so damned glad to see you I guess I haven't got good sense. But—I wish you hadn't. It was rough, but it was easier too—the way things were. Because nothing's changed. Nothing ever will."

  "David! You're—you're stupid and dense and hardheaded and stubborn and—and blind. And you're wrong, and I love the hell out of you, David."

  When he didn't answer she leaned forward, her face no longer in the light. She had spoken, in spite of the words, softly, slowly, in quiet measure, not tumbling her thoughts out, sounding like someone else, not like Sara Kent at all. It will be all right, thought David; it will be all right if she stays in that chair. If she just doesn't get out of that chair and come over here and touch me, I can make it. But she did not move, just said softly, "David."

  He fussed intently at an almost invisible hangnail on one thumb, not looking up. "Maybe I am all those things you called me. But I'm not blind."

  "Perhaps not to everything. Only to what's good."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "David, can't you see! Oh, my darling, can't you see? There's a great good, I mean good when two people love each other! It's just us, Sara and David, male and female, and we love each other and it's good because it doesn't mean hurt to anyone else. It's wrong, wrong, wrong to turn our backs on it—just because there'll be trouble and—and talk, and nastiness and stuff. Isn't it for me to decide? Whether I can take it or not? Whether I love you that much or not? Isn't it? What do you want, David? Perfection? It doesn't exist." When he didn't answer, she gave an exasperated sigh. "David Champlin, you're the only person in the world who can make me grit my teeth, I mean literally grit my teeth. Suppose I'd married that—that drip I told you about? Suppose I had? That would have been real trouble. That would have been awful—"

  "Why? Is he in jail or something?"

  "No!" The word exploded. "No, he's not in jail. He's in San Francisco with a scraggly red beard and sandals, living in some kook artist colony—"

  David swallowed hard, trying to hold back a laugh, then gave way to it. "I'm supposed to be flattered?"

  "David. Please. We can't quarrel. Not now—"

  "Sara, I don't want to quarrel. Not now or at any time. A spat with you leaves real honest-to-God wounds. Only—"

  "Only what?"

  "Only, I guess, that I wish you wouldn't put me on a spot. Perhaps everything I think is right is wrong—and vice versa. I don't know. I just don't know. But I think it's right, at least for

  now, and I can't see how I can ever think differently. Not in the world we live in, anyhow. And, well, it's just damned tough, that's all."

  Slowly she unfolded her legs and lowered her feet to the floor. When she stood and reached for the coffee cup on the table there was a fine tremor in her hand. She drank deeply, then said quietly: "All right, David. I wasn't going to leave tonight. Not if I had to sleep in a chair or on the floor or standing up, I wasn't going to leave. A lot of people would think I didn't have any pride. But you know better. All that long time at Pengard when I first knew you and was in love with you and didn't think you knew I existed I never made a move. It wasn't till I knew, really knew that I said anything. And I had to be the one to say it because you'd have let them boil you in oil before you'd have opened your stubborn mouth. Then all this summer in Paris and then in Rio I kept thinking of you getting further and further away, getting to be just a damned memory, someone to reminisce about. And I thought of the years and years—and—and I made up my mind that if I was ever with you again I wasn't going to leave." Now she put the cup that she had been cradling in her hands back in its saucer, carefully, slowly, precisely. "But now I will, David. Now I will leave. You've won. Damn it, you've won again—with your blasted righteousn
ess and damned noble self-sacrificing stupidity—"

  "Sara!" He was on his feet, anger flaring.

  "Don't touch me, David. Get my coat. Just get my coat."

  He stood looking down at her, realizing at last what he had known subconsciously since he had seen her standing at his door: not that she wasn't going to leave, but that this moment would come when he would not have the strength to let her leave.

  He crossed the few steps between them and threw an arm around her shoulders, turning her around, holding her close.

  "David. I said don't touch me, David. Don't touch me. And for God's sake, don't comfort me!"

  His arms slid lower on the body until one was at her waist, the other under the small rounded hips, and he lifted her clear of the floor so that her face was close. He cradled her head with one hand—"Sara—Sara—little love—"

  When his mouth left hers at last, he said, "That wasn't comfort, little love. That wasn't comfort—"

  "No—oh, God, no, it wasn't.... David... put me down.... I feel so—so small and—and inadequate—"

  His face was buried in her throat between the soft edge of the dark hair and the smooth curve of her shoulder, and he was half laughing, his words indistinct.

  "Inadequate!...Sara. Smallest... You're as inadequate as—as an earthquake.... Stop wiggling, little Sara... I'll let you down... in a minute... just a minute...."

  CHAPTER 41

  When Sara came into the bedroom the next morning carrying percolator and mugs for coffee David was sitting up, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes on the door.

  "Don't do that to me, Smallest," he said softly. "Don't ever do that—"

  "Do what?" She put the tray on the table beside the bed.

  "Sneak out of bed and not tell me. Nudge me, honey; say 'Hey dear, I'm getting up for two minutes—' I woke up and you were gone—"

  "Idiot! Couldn't you hear me banging around out there? Couldn't you smell the coffee?" Mug in hand, she perched at the end of the bed, back against the footboard. She had done what she could to adapt David's robe to her small frame, without noticeable success.

  "For a split second I couldn't. The longest split second of my life. Smallest, what are you doing way off there?" He leaned forward quickly, a long arm reaching for her, but she evaded his hand.

  "You have to get up," she said. "You have to, David. Classes. You-just-have-to-get-up."

  "I do?"

  "You know you do. Please, David. That's something I don't ever—I mean ever—want to do. You know, hold you back—"

  He grinned. "How come you've got the strength to be so stubborn? After last night. Me, I haven't. I'm going to class.

  Only, don't you think we could hold hands, that's all, just hold hands while we drink our coffee?"

  "David—" She moved closer, slipped a hand into his. "I don't trust you. And I don't trust me. And David—in case you forget—I love you."

  "I won't forget—" With his free hand he took her coffee mug away from her, put it on the table, then drew her into his arms. "Damn it to hell," he murmured. "Damn it all. Why've we both got to have good sense—"

  After they had dressed and eaten breakfast and were finishing their final cup of coffee at the card table, she said, "Should we leave together?"

  "Why don't you leave about nine thirty? Both the Perreiras —my landlords—work on Friday. There won't be anyone upstairs."

  "I'll do the dishes." She made a face at him across the table. "And they won't all get back in the right places and maybe there'll be egg on a spoon, but I'll do my best."

  "Rinse 'em and stack 'em, sweet. We'll do them tonight."

  "I forgot! We're invited to dinner at the Sutherlands'. When I called there last evening Mrs. Sutherland asked me to tell you."

  "And you said 'yes'?" His face was serious and unsmiling.

  "No, David. Don't look like a trod-upon male. I said I'd ask you and let her know. I'm not all that bad, making decisions for you even about a dinner date."

  He stood up and walked over to her and lifted her from her chair, picking her up and holding her against his shoulder as he would a child, "Only about more important things, baby—"

  "David! Put me down and get going!"

  He let her slide to the floor, bending to kiss her quickly. "I'm gone, Smallest. I'll call you at the hotel at five thirty. Right?"

  "Right—"

  ***

  For the next few days David reveled in his own defeat, fighting off the knowledge of an inevitable reckoning, crowding it into the background of his thoughts, letting his love for Sara possess him, trying not to recognize the sadness in it. Yet something within him waited, something that was only completely quiet when Sara was in his arms. He would watch her walk across the room and feel that his body must be

  shaking visibly with the force of his love and desire, and then, unbidden, there would come a cold foreboding, a voice of dread that seemed to say, "This isn't your life; this is a detour, a side-road trip to happiness—the main road is back there, waiting for you—" And only Sara's small, warm, immensely vital body, only its responses, could still the voice.

  It was after one of these episodes that Sara, lying spent and quiet in his arms, said: "You frighten me, David. Sometimes you frighten me."

  He tightened his hold gently. "I'm sorry, little love. I'm sorry. I think it's because sometimes I'm frightened myself—"

  "Of what?"

  "Us, Sara—"

  "Ah, David, please—not now. Let's not talk about it now —let's sleep now, David—let's sleep now—"

  "All right, little love, all right—"

  ***

  On the sixth evening after Sara's appearance at David's door, his landlord telephoned. David had just come in from walking part of the way to Copley Square with Sara. "I'm going home early," she had said. "So you can have one whole long evening for studying. And missing me. Can't let you get too used to me—" He had said "Stoopid!" but she had stuck to her word. It was not quite eight o'clock when Perreira called, his voice sounding nervous and worried, and David wondered if he had been drinking.

  "You got a minute?" he asked.

  David cast a desperate look at the books on bis desk. "Yeah, but only a minute. Why?"

  "The old lady wants to see you."

  David put the receiver down slowly. What in hell! After he and Sara had finished eating, he had found the usual after-dinner lack of hot water. He filled the teakettle now and put it on the gas plate for the dishes. Besides, it would give him an excuse to break away from upstairs—"Got something on the stove—" He felt uneasy. Was Perreira's "old lady" going to bawl him out because she'd heard a woman's voice in his apartment? He reviewed what he knew of Lessie Perreira and what he had surmised after some uncomplicated adding of two-and-two following a few slips of her tongue when she'd had a beer or so too many.

  If his estimate of her age was right, based on these slips, she could quite easily have participated in the World War I hegira from Storyville. She knew a hell of a lot about that particular era of New Orleans history and that particular area as it had been in those days. And, she had told him, the best friend of her youth had been a blues singer with whom David was well acquainted and whom Gramp had known for donkey's years. The blues singer was a pious individual now, attending Mass daily, refusing to sing in any but the most respectable places, preferring to display her talents, whenever possible, at college jazz concerts, where she was much in demand. Of her, Gramp had once said: "Lawd, Lawd! Who's she think she's fooling! She ain't fooling no one. Been a spo'tin' woman most all her life. First time she married she married a gambler, and the next time she married a pimp. Still got him. I ain't faultin' her for what she's been, but she sure as hell ain't got no call to put on all them airs, treating the rest of us like we wuz a bunch of gin-soaked sinners."

  And she'd been Lessie Perreira's good friend, or so Lessie Perreira claimed. Lessie had never struck him as being too damned righteous. She'd taken up with Joe Perreira and moved away—an
d whether they were married or not David didn't suppose anyone knew or cared—but she could and would still tell a salty story in the language it was meant to be told in. He remembered now the telephone invitations he'd had, when he first moved in, to come up and have a beer, always on the nights Joe played pool. He shivered reminiscently, remembering his revulsion when he realized what she intended "a beer" to mean.

  Joe Perreira opened the door for him and led him into the kitchen at the rear. Mrs. Perreira was scrubbing the drain-board as though her intention was its annihilation. When he entered she put the scrub brush in the sink and turned on him, hands on fat hips. "Listen here, Mr. Champlin."

  David recoiled inwardly from the "Mr. Champlin." He'd thought it might be a rent raise; but this was no rent raise.

  "I don' know what you-all think you're getting away with down there, but I'm standing here telling you you ain't getting away with anything. We ain't renting no apartments to no dicty young student to carry on in like you been carrying on down there. And don't say you don't know what I'm talking about because you know damned well."

  He did. It was a woman coming to his apartment. Lessie Perreira must spend more time snooping out the front window than he'd thought. The Goddamned old hypocrite!

  "I'm not stupid, Mrs. Perreira. But I didn't think when I rented that apartment that I was going into holy orders, entering a monastery."

  "And you wasn't. Women's one thing. A man's a man, and you young and hot-blooded. But white women's something else. And don't tell me that's some blue-vein Negro you been laying up with down there because it ain't. She's whiter'n a fish's belly. And that I ain't standing for—"

  He heard her out, through a long tirade, until, short of breath, she turned to her husband. "Joe, you tell—"

  But Perreira was having no part of it. He backed away until he was leaning against the sill of the rear window, and said: "You leave me out of this. I got nothin' to do with this. I ain't seen nothin—"

  "I'll be gone within two hours." David wished now he'd shut her up after her opening attack. The sound of her words was hanging in the air like poison gas. As he started out, Joe skittered nervously around the side of the room, keeping the kitchen table between himself and his wife, and followed David to the front door. "Look," he said. "Don't rush off. Your rent's all paid up to the first. Always did say Ma sees red when she sees white—"