Daybreak

by Belva Plain

  “Tell me. If you had to make a choice, and you do have to, which it would be.”

  “Oh God Almighty, is this the pattern for the rest of my life?”

  “Let’s take one step at a time, Tom. That’s what I’m doing.” And she could not refrain from adding, “Seeing these people isn’t exactly painless for me, either, you know.”

  Then a shadow of resignation seemed to pass over Tom’s face, softening its rigid lines. “Okay. I’ll sit there if that’s what it’ll make it easier for you, Mom. But I will not, I cannot, talk to them. I’m warning you now. I’ll sit there despising them, and I won’t care whether they know it or not.”

  “They already know it,” Laura said.

  * * *

  Lunch at the Crawfield house had been elaborate, she remembered. While it was certainly not necessary to match it, for this was no competition, it was only right to take more pains than she usually would take for a couple of old friends who were dropping by to lunch. It was just as well, too, that she would have something to occupy her other than the conflicts that had been raging within her day and night.

  Betty Lee offered to come to work on Sunday. “You’re having special company, I can see that. You never ask me for anything, and I can surely give you a few hours of Sunday, what with all the trouble you’ve had.”

  With careful, tactful appreciation, Laura declined help. It was strange to think that Betty Lee, who had held Tom in her arms when he was three days old, still knew nothing of his dread secret. But even Timmy desperately wanted it to be kept from anyone.

  So she prepared in stages. On Friday a strawberry soufflé went into the freezer, on Saturday she put together the ingredients for Cajun baked chicken and Tom’s favorite corn pudding. All that remained for Sunday morning were the salad and hot biscuits. Of these preparations no notice was taken. No relieving breeze disturbed the thick funereal air that had filled the house since the night of Bud’s death—and indeed before Bud’s death. She moved with her tasks through hours that were almost soundless. Only the rain, which had been falling for two days, disturbed the silence.

  Tom clung to his room, reading and listening to his stereo. He was well enough acquainted with popular psychology to diagnosis his ailment; depression was anger turned inward. After grievous explosions, his nerves were worn thin, and anger now had no place to go but inward. Like a prisoner in a cell, looking out a barred window onto a dreary wall, he was trapped. Mom had caught him in a moment of weakness, just as a sudden surge of pity for her had risen. Now another terrible Sunday loomed.

  And then on Saturday Robbie telephoned.

  “Miracle of miracles!” he shouted. “How did you know I’ve had you and nothing but you in my mind all day? From the minute I opened my eyes, Robbie, I swear.”

  “How did I know? Guess what? You’ve been in my mind all day every day. I’ve been so sad for you. It’s a physical ache. I can feel it in my heart. It must be awful for you.”

  “It’s pretty bad.”

  “But I’m sure your dad would want you to get back to living as soon as possible.”

  “That’s true.” And he thought, I want to lie in your arms and tell you everything.

  Her voice picked up a cheerful tone. “Guess what? I finished a day early and here I am, back at old state U. I’ve got my new room, and it’s gorgeous. When are you coming? Today, maybe? Tomorrow?”

  Back at college? He had actually lost track of the date. Oh my God, Sunday—

  “Robbie, I want to, but let me see what develops here in the next couple of days. My mother—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Your poor mother. Well, honey, I’m here. Just give me a call when you know.”

  They talked. And the more they talked, the more powerful became the returning surge of Tom’s anger. He was to give up Robbie in exchange for a day of mental torture with those—those interlopers, unwanted, aggressive, persistent—there were no words.

  When he hung up, he lay back in the bed and pounded the pillows.

  The house was too quiet. Laura tried, as she was dressing on Sunday, not to look toward Bud’s closet where his clothes were still hanging. They would have to be sorted and given away. Eventually she would have to do it.

  Bud Rice, the man “not interested in politics”! And in a subtle way he had, all these years, been preparing Tom to fit into his mold. All of that going on, she thought, as termites gnaw away until the beam collapses. Oh, she was bitter.

  And yet, so complex are we all that she could not look at the clothing he had worn so proudly and so well, he who now lay, silenced forever, under the earth.

  By nine o’clock, the kitchen work was finished and the table had been set. When she went out to the cutting garden to get flowers for the centerpiece, the sun was merciless. The temperature was already at oven heat, and by noon they predicted it would reach one hundred.

  Timmy came out to the garden offering to help. Such a good kid, he was, a peacemaker in spite of his worries, torn between Tom and herself.

  “No,” she said kindly, “thanks, but it’s much too hot. You’re still coughing, and I don’t want you to start sweating. Go back in and have a cool drink. Is Tom up yet?”

  “I don’t know. His door’s closed.”

  By half-past ten, Tom had still not come downstairs. Laura’s heart began to pound. This undertaking was another terrible mistake. She should never have weakened and given in. Yet Ralph was right when he said that the Crawfields weren’t going to go away. If only Tom doesn’t make a nasty botch of it again as he did at their house! She had wanted to dig a hole in the floor and crawl into it.

  “Tom,” she called, knocking at his door.

  There was no answer, so she tried again, and when there was still none, she opened the door. Even before she read the large white sheet of paper that lay on the neatly made bed, she knew what would be on it.

  3 a.m., she read. Mom, I’m sneaking out. It’s easier for both of us. I’m going away for a couple of days. Don’t worry. I just can’t face those people. You know how I feel, or maybe you really don’t know. I love you, anyway.

  “I do know how you feel,” she said loudly. “But do you know by any chance how I feel? And what am I to say to ‘those people,’ as you call them? Coming from the other end of the state to see you and it’s left to me to explain? Explain what? How? This isn’t fair of you, Tom.”

  The photograph that had stood on the desk had been moved to the night table, where it would be the last thing he’d see at night and the first thing in the morning. That’s where he’s gone, she thought, to the girl.

  And as if it could tell her something about the person behind itself, she examined the face again. It was not beautiful, but it was piquant, and very small, enclosed as it was by swoops of dark hair. There was intelligence in the eyes, pert humor in the mouth, and a determined set to the chin. On the whole, nothing remarkable. Yet to him at nineteen, she was unique. She was the Only One. That’s how it is at nineteen. You remember, Laura, don’t you?

  A sudden thought shook her into action. Find an excuse, somebody’s not feeling well, call them off. And she ran to the telephone. But it rang and rang without answer, so they had already left. What on earth was she to tell them?

  “The truth,” she said aloud, surprised at her own hesitation. There was never anything else to say but the truth. Then perhaps they would see how hopeless their attempts were.

  Timmy was in the kitchen taking his medicine. And she asked him whether he had known that Tom was leaving.

  “No, Mom, I didn’t.” He paused and added, “I think of Tom all the time. I’m so sorry for him, and I’m so lucky not to be like him because I’m the son who really belongs here.”

  She did not correct Timmy’s choice of words, didn’t say that of course Tom belonged here, too, for his meaning was clear. She said only, “This is a dreadful mess today. I hope you will help me by being friendly. You must be the host.”

  “No problem, Mom. Those people don’t mean
anything to me one way or the other. They can’t touch my life. I can be the friendliest guy you ever saw. I might even like them.”

  When Timmy, who had been watching out, called, “Here they are,” Laura went to the door. With greater consideration than many people showed, rather than block the driveway, they had parked on the street. Very slowly, they walked up the path. They’re as nervous as I am, she thought, still undecided whether to give them the news the moment they entered the house, or whether to wait until they had been sitting for a while.

  The decision did not take long to make itself. Coming indoors out of the brilliant light, the three stood for a moment in the hall blinking, then, smiling, shook hands with Laura.

  “And this is Timmy,” she said.

  They shook Timmy’s hand. Their eyes looked beyond him into the depth of the house toward the stairs and came back to Laura.

  “We were all so sorry to hear of your trouble,” Margaret said.

  “Thank you.”

  Mechanical courtesies passed between them.

  “I hope you had no trouble finding the house.”

  “No, not at all. Your directions were perfect.”

  “I’d hoped we might eat on the back veranda. There’s a lovely view of the garden, but not today in this weather.”

  “Yes, the heat is fierce, isn’t it?”

  In the front parlor, the banjo clock on the wall struck one.

  “You couldn’t have timed it better,” said Laura.

  “The credit is Arthur’s. If it were up to me, we’d always be late,” Margaret replied.

  From Mrs. Edgewood’s roses, which were still fresh, a subtle fragrance floated between the two groups, Laura and Timmy on one side of the fireplace, the other three facing them. American Gothic, Laura thought, stiff as the figures in the famous painting. It is pathetic.

  “I love these old-time roses,” observed Margaret. “The hybrid teas may be more flashy, but they have no fragrance.”

  “These aren’t ours. Someone gave them to me,” Laura said desperately. It was at this moment that the decision made itself.

  “Tom isn’t here. He left in the middle of the night. I didn’t know until this morning. I tried right away to phone you, but you had already started.”

  “Left!” cried Margaret.

  “I’m sure he’s all right. There was a note. I think he probably went to see his girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend,” repeated Margaret.

  “Yes, he seems to have a girl at the university. I don’t know exactly. He never talks about things like that.”

  There was no comment. And Laura, still desperate, went on talking. “Of course, I know that boys—young men—never do tell their parents much, do they? I mean—” She stopped. What was the use? They looked stricken.

  Then Arthur spoke. “He must have said something.”

  “Nothing new. Just the usual about not wanting to see you. Until finally he said all right, he would. I never thought he would do anything like this. No, I never thought,” she finished.

  Margaret was biting her lip. Holly was turning her head from her father to her mother and back, questioning, asking without words what was to come next.

  A good question, thought Laura. These people were obviously too well-bred to get up and leave, although you could be sure that was what they would like to do. And she would hardly be so outspoken as to say, “I know you want to go, so please don’t be afraid of offending me. I’ll understand.”

  It was Timmy who broke through the frozen silence with a loud announcement: “I hope you’re all hungry for lunch, because I am.”

  Darling Timmy! She could have hugged him for his sensitivity and his funny, clumsy attempt at tact.

  “Are you? Can you survive for another three minutes while I run to the kitchen?”

  So now there was no choice but to sit down together and behave normally, that is, to resume mechanical courtesies and a stiff American Gothic pose, around a table this time, each with an organdy place mat and two Irish crystal goblets in front of him.

  “I do love an old house,” said Margaret, “the high ceilings, the woodwork, and so many fireplaces.”

  “Well, this is home, and I can’t imagine leaving it,” replied Laura, pouring wine out of Aunt Cecile’s Irish crystal decanter, “but still, on a day like this I wouldn’t object to a fully air-conditioned house.”

  And Holly remarked, “Oh, there is a wonderful breeze in this room. I don’t feel hot at all.”

  The girl was well-bred, helping the conversational ball to roll. That cerise linen was perfect on her. She had Tom’s paper-white skin. She must be careful not to look at her so much, because of course they would all know what comparison was being made. But then, they were making their own comparisons with their surreptitious glances toward Timmy.

  Peter, thought Laura. The name was always a stab, an electrical shock.

  “This corn pudding is delicious,” Margaret said. “I’ve never had one like it before.”

  “It’s from a handwritten recipe book, my grandmother’s recipe, or maybe even her mother’s, I’m not sure.”

  As if it mattered who had first made the pudding.

  On a branch at the window, a catbird sat and squawked. Forks touched porcelain, lightly. Someone broke open a biscuit; you could almost hear it crumble. Margaret opened her lips as if to speak and closed them, as if she had forgotten what she wanted to say. Arthur said nothing. Men never helped to keep the conversational ball rolling. If it was up to them, the ball would drop on the floor and lie there. The catbird squawked again. And suddenly Laura put her fork down.

  Without prior plan, she cried out, “Why don’t we all talk about what’s really in our minds?”

  Startled, as if she had said something surprising, all except Arthur turned toward her.

  “Yes,” he said, “I have been thinking that, too, and dreading it because our thoughts, our questions, have no answers and no future.”

  His wife chided him gently. “It’s not like you to be so pessimistic. You’re always the hopeful one who props me up.”

  “Good enough in its place. But there comes a time when you have to be a realist. The injustice that was done to us all remains a mystery. I personally think it must have been that nurse who disappeared in Hawaii. We can’t find her, but if we should, what good would it do us? What good now?”

  Timmy’s mouth hung open, as it was apt to do whenever his attention was completely caught. “Why would she want to do that?” he asked.

  “She wouldn’t want to,” Arthur explained. “It was a stupid, careless accident in a poorly run little private hospital that closed down not long afterward.”

  “I wasn’t born there,” said Timmy, reassuring himself.

  Laura smiled at him. “A thing like this is almost as rare as putting a man on the moon.”

  “Yes,” said Margaret, “I remember reading about a case that happened in France. It was ten years ago, I think. I remember being so shocked. It was in all the newspapers.”

  “It’s a miracle it hasn’t been in the papers here,” Arthur remarked. “I don’t understand it.”

  Laura said, “Our lawyer has influence. Since everything happened here in this city, you see … He knows everybody, the hospital board, the two papers.” After faltering a moment, she resumed, “And Bud knew everyone. He was determined to plug every possible leak. He thought it was all a lie, anyway.”

  Timmy insisted, “But it isn’t a lie, Mom, is it?”

  “No, dear, it isn’t.”

  “Well, so far, so good,” said Arthur. “But I wouldn’t count on keeping it quiet forever.”

  “Oh,” cried Holly, clapping her hands together so hard that her bangle bracelets clinked, “if it’s ever in the news, I’ll die. I swear I will.”

  “No, you won’t,” said her father. “You’ll put up with it like the woman you are.”

  Margaret soothed. “Anyhow, you’d probably be away at college when it happened. If it ever do
es.”

  “What the world thinks is of no importance,” Arthur said, almost angrily. “There’s only one person who’s important now, and that’s Tom. What’s to become of him.”

  “He’ll always be my brother!”

  The exclamation resounded; it was a cry of defiance, of pain and fear. The two mothers’ glances met in immediate comprehension.

  “Of course he will,” Margaret said heartily. And then, addressing Laura, she added, hesitating a little, “It’s bothered me that perhaps you might have some worry about our trying to influence Tom someday, to take him away from you. If you’ve ever had such a thought, dismiss it. It’s the last thing we would ever do, even if it were possible, which hardly seems likely. Tom is yours, not ours, and we wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

  “Thank you for being frank,” Laura said. “Yes, I’ve had some worried moments. But I won’t anymore—not about that, anyway.” She stood up. “Who would like iced coffee with dessert? Or hot coffee, or tea? I have them all.”

  “Let me help you,” Margaret offered.

  “No, no thanks, you sit still.”

  Once more, the tension passed, and conversation was moved to neutral ground, stiffer, and yet unquestionably safer. The dessert was praised. When Margaret expressed a wish to see the garden, they all went out into the broiling sun, beneath which petals curled and leaves drooped.

  Now, surely, they will want to go home, Laura said to herself. With this mission unaccomplished, why do they want to stay?

  “Why do you have this wire fence around your fishpond?” inquired Holly.

  She was being attentive to Timmy, which was rather sweet of her because she could hardly find an eleven-year-old boy that interesting. She is sorry for him, and for herself, Laura thought, because he reminds her of Peter.

  “It’s to keep the dog from drinking the water,” Timmy told her.

  “Oh yes, Tom—I mean, someone said you had a dog.”

  “Not anymore. He was killed with Dad.”

  “I’m sorry,” Holly said softly.

  A nice girl. A nice girl.

  The telephone was ringing in the kitchen. “Do answer, Timmy,” Laura said. “Whoever it is, say I’ll call back later.”