The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  “Estelle, relax, we’re not going anywhere. From my standpoint, I can’t see that The Three Sirens would offer anything different than the rest of Polynesia. It’s just that—well, first of all, it’s fun to be with old Maud, and it’s good to be associated with her—secondly, you’ve got to admit, sounds like a real odd place, those customs—I’d have the camera—might give me a picture book that, for a change, would sell.”

  “We’re doing all right. We don’t need it. I’m sick of being either a nomad or a botanical widow. For one summer let’s be a family in a home in a place where we belong.”

  “Look, I’m worn out, too. I love it here as much as you do. I was only speculating. I have no intention of budging an inch out of here.”

  “Good, Sam.” She bent over and kissed him. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “Just until Mary—”

  “I gave her permission until midnight. What are you—Grover Whalen to welcome her? She has a key and she knows the way. Get some sleep, you need it.”

  “Okay. Soon as you’re through with the bathroom.”

  After Estelle had gone up the hallway to the bedroom, Sam Karpowicz took Maud’s letter and leisurely reread it. Aside from the war, he had visited the South Seas only once, for a short time, collecting specimens on the Fijis, the year after Maud had been there. He had collected a wonderful assortment of wild yams, several of a species unknown to him, but after painstakingly measuring them, learning their names and histories, he had done something wrong in their preservation, and they had all deteriorated on the way home. It would be valuable to have another set again, that is, if they grew on The Three Sirens. Also, there was the possibility of the picture book to supplement, even profit by, the bestseller that Maud would inevitably write. It was tempting, but Sam knew that it was not enough. Estelle was right. The family must come first, allow its own roots to grow and flourish. It would be a good summer in Albuquerque, he decided, and he did not mind; in fact, he was glad. Neatly, he folded Maud’s letter and returned it to its envelope. He turned down the lamps, leaving one on, and the front porch light on as well, for Mary.

  The bedroom was already darkened when he reached it. By squinting, he could make out the mound that was Estelle in her bed. He felt his way to the bathroom, closed the door, turned up the shaving light, and prepared for the night. When he was done, he was surprised that it was already ten minutes after midnight. He pulled his faded blue robe over his pajamas, having decided to say good night to Mary.

  Crossing to her bedroom, he could see that her door was open. When he reached it, he could also see that the bed was still made. Disappointed, he trudged to the cramped study, relighted the student lamp on the desk, and parted the Venetian blinds. Outside, Girard Drive was empty and desolate. This was unlike Mary, and Sam turned away troubled. He considered another cigar, but he had already brushed his teeth and so he vetoed the cigar. He sat down at his desk, puttered restlessly, leafing through some botanical journals.

  After a while, he heard the approaching sound of an automobile. The mantel clock told him it was twelve thirty-four. Quickly, he jumped up, turned off the student lamp, and opened the Venetian blinds. He could make out Neal Schaffer’s Studebaker compact. It came past the house, made a U-turn, and drew up at the curb directly ahead. The engine died. Sam released the blinds as if they had burned him. A concerned parent, yes, but a spy, never.

  Slowly, his heron legs carried his tall, concave person to bed. He jerked off the robe, and crawled between the covers. He lay on his back, and thought of Mary, and of her infancy, and allowed his mind to revolve to Maud, and back to the field trip that he had made with her, and then back to the war and after, and suddenly, he was back to Mary, and still wide awake. He had been listening all the while and had not heard her enter. And then, as if to chastize him, he heard the metallic rattle of the key, the squeak of the hinges, the contact of wood against wood as the door closed. He felt his face smile in the darkness. He waited to hear her footsteps go from the living room to her bedroom.

  He waited for the automatic tread, and did not hear it. More awake than ever, he listened harder. Still, no sound of footsteps. Strange. He contained himself, and turned on his left side, and pretended to try to sleep, but his eardrums waited. Silence. This was unusual, and he was nervous now. At least five minutes had passed since her entrance, he was positive. He could stand the mystery no longer. Throwing off his blanket, he stuck his feet into his slippers, pulled on his robe, and went into the hallway.

  Again, he went to her room. It was not occupied. He went to the living room. It was quiet, and appeared empty, and then he saw her in his chair. She had kicked off her high-heeled pumps—which he could never get used to—and she sat straight in the chair, unaware of him, staring blankly ahead.

  Curiouser and curiouser, he thought, and he came around to confront her. “Mary—”

  She lifted her head, and her narrow peach face was so lovely and fresh, so young, that he could see it had been marred about the eyes, as if she had been crying. “Hi, Dad,” she said in a low voice. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “I heard you come in,” he said, carefully. “When I didn’t hear you go to bed, I got worried. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “This is not like you. What were you doing here, alone, like this? It’s late.”

  “Thinking a little. I don’t know what.”

  “You’re sure nothing happened tonight? Did you have a good time?”

  “Sorta. The same as always.”

  “Did young Schaffer bring you home?”

  “He sure did—” She came alive, and pushed herself forward in the chair, readying to rise.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh—nothing, Dad, please—”

  “Well, if you don’t want to tell me—”

  “There’s nothing to tell you, really. He was just unpleasant.”

  “Unpleasant. Does that mean fresh?”

  “It means unpleasant. A little kissing is one thing, but when they think they own you—”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Or maybe I do.”

  She stood up all at once. “Please, Pa—” Sam knew she only used Pa when she was exasperated with him, when he was being an ice cube, which in her parlance was very square, indeed. “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill,” she was saying. “It’s embarrassing.”

  He was not sure what else he should say. He was nudged by the necessity of preserving parental authority and the father image, and yet she was maturing, and deserved some privacy. As she retrieved her purse, he watched her, brown hair groomed, beautiful dark eyes set in an unblemished sweet face, new red going-out dress clinging to a slender body that revealed nearing womanhood only in the surprisingly protruding and firm bosom. What was there to say to this half-child, half-woman, who did not want to be embarrassed? “Well, if you ever want to talk—” Sam said lamely, and quit.

  She had her purse and her shoes, and she said, “I’m going to bed, Dad.”

  She had put one foot before the other, and started to walk past him, when she seemed to stumble—one knee collapsing like a broken joint under her—and she started to go down, fighting for balance. He was beside her in a stride, catching her in time, and helping her upright. As he did so, her face brushed his, and the smell on her breath was unmistakable.

  She tried to go on, murmuring thanks, but he blocked her path. He had kicked indecision out of the room. He knew what was right and he knew what was wrong.

  “You’ve been drinking, Mary.”

  Beneath the quiet disapproval, Mary’s poise melted away. The transformation was instantaneous. She was no longer twenty-six but sixteen—or maybe six. She tried to brazen it out for only a second, averted her eyes, and stood there, his young child, with her Oedipal guilt. “Yes,” she admitted, almost indistinctly.

  “But you’ve never—” he said. “I thought we had an understanding abou
t that. What’s got into you? How many did you have?”

  “Two or three, I can’t remember. I’m sorry. I had to.”

  “You had to? That’s something new. Who twisted your arm?”

  “I can’t explain it, Dad, but I had to do something to be there. You can’t be a squeep, spoil everything. Anyway, I figured it’s better than the other thing—”

  Sam felt the constriction in his bony chest. “What other thing?”

  “You know,” she said, one hand working her purse handle. “They all want you to do it. If you don’t, you don’t belong. Everybody does it.”

  “Does it? Does what?” he demanded relentlessly. “Are you referring to sexual intercourse?”

  “Yes.”

  He could hardly hear her. “And everybody does it?” he persisted.

  “Yes. Almost.”

  “Almost, you say. You mean some girls don’t.”

  “Well, yes, but they won’t be around long.”

  “Your friends—this Leona—does she do it?”

  “It’s not fair, Dad, I can’t—”

  “Then she does,” he said. “And that was the unpleasantness with the Schaffer boy. That’s what he wanted you to do out there?”

  Her eyes were downcast. She said nothing. And seeing her thus, this fair and innocent part of him, he had no more stomach for playing stern judge. His heart went out to her, with pity and love, and he wanted only to care for her, protect her, banish all unpleasantness from her pure white kingdom.

  He took her by the elbow. His voice was gentle. “Come, Mary, let’s sit down in the kitchen and have some milk—no, better make it tea—let’s have some tea and crackers.” When she was six and eight and ten, and wandering awake with heavy-lidded eyes and tangled curls and rumpled pajamas, carrying a felt pony, he had often brought her to the kitchen to join him in milk and crackers, and tell her a good-night fable, and lead her back to the youth bed.

  He went into the kitchen, turned on the light, set the tea kettle on the burner, and got out the crackers. She sat at the dinette table, woozily following his every move. He readied the cups with their tea bags and sugar lumps, and poured the hot water over the bags.

  At last, he was seated across from her, watching from over the rim of his cup as she nibbled at a cracker and sipped her tea. They had not exchanged a word since the living room.

  “Mary—” he said.

  Her eyes met his, and waited.

  “—you drank because you wanted to be part of the crowd, to be doing something, since you wouldn’t do the other. Isn’t that so?”

  “I suppose,” said Mary.

  “But the other is still expected?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why don’t you leave that crowd, join up with some other kids who have better values?”

  “Dad, these are my friends. I grew up with them. You can’t go around shopping for friends every time something annoys you. I like all of them—they’re the best kids—it’s been fun up to now—and still would be—if not for this.”

  Sam hesitated a moment, and then he said, “Do your girl friends ever discuss with you what they’re doing?”

  “Oh, sure, all the time.”

  “Are they—do they feel—well, troubled or guilty? What I mean to say is, are they bothered by this activity or do they find it fun?”

  “Fun? Of course not. What can be fun about a dirty thing like that—I mean, a thing like that being forced on you? I think most of the girls don’t care one way or the other. They don’t think it’s fun and they don’t think it’s wrong or worry about it. They think it’s just one of those boring things you put up with to keep the fellows happy.”

  “Why is it so important to keep the fellows happy, as you put it?

  If this is a bore, unpleasant, why not say no and keep yourself happy?”

  “Pa—you don’t understand. It’s one of those things you put up with to make yourself ultimately happier. I mean, then you belong to the group and you can have real fun, all the dates you want, and lots of laughs, and going driving and to movies.”

  “But first you pay the admission price.”

  “Well, if you want to put it that way. Most of the girls think it’s a pretty low price for all the rest. I mean, as long as your girl friends are doing it, what can be so—?”

  “Mary,” he interrupted, “why didn’t you do it tonight? I assume it was proposed?”

  “Yes, he tried to—to talk me into it.”

  Sam winced. His little trundle-bundle girl in baggy pink pajamas. “But you didn’t go for it. Why?”

  “I—I was scared.”

  “Of what? Your mother and myself—?”

  “Oh no. I mean, that wouldn’t be the main thing. After all, I wouldn’t have had to tell you.” She sipped her tea absently, her shiny brow furrowed. “I can’t say exactly—”

  “Were you scared of becoming pregnant? Or maybe catching a venereal disease?”

  “Please, Pa. Most of the girls don’t even think of such things. Anyway, I heard the fellows use contraceptives.”

  Again, Sam winced. It was as if Gainsborough’s Blue Boy had uttered a four-letter word. He stared with incredulity at his little Blue Girl.

  Mary was deep in thought. “I guess I was scared because I’d never done such a thing. It was one of the mysteries. I mean talking and doing are two different things.”

  “They certainly are.”

  “I think all the girls my age are curious, but I don’t think we want to go all the way. I mean, the idea doesn’t arouse us. I kept thinking, at the party, later in the car, when I kept pulling his hands away, that it would be horrible, it would soil me, I would never be the same again.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Mary.”

  “I—I can’t explain.”

  “We’ve always been—well, fairly open-minded about sexual matters—sensible—so you can’t be repelled by that part of it.”

  “No. It’s something else.”

  “Could it be that the coldness of the approach—the sort of barter involved—the sort of saying that if you want to be with them and have friends and kicks, you’ve got to pay rent—?”

  “I don’t know, Dad, I really don’t.”

  Sam nodded, took her cup and saucer, and his own, and stood up and carried them to the sink. He went back to her slowly. “What’s next, Mary?”

  “Next?”

  “Are you going to see Neal Schaffer again?”

  “Of course, I am!” She came to her feet. “I like him.”

  “Despite his busy hands and propositions?”

  “I shouldn’t have told you. Somehow you make it sound even nastier. Neal’s no different from the others in the gang. He’s a normal American boy. His family—”

  “How do you intend to handle him next time? What if he won’t take no. What if the gang threatens to drop you?”

  Mary bit her lower lip. “They won’t, I mean not really. I’ll manage. I’ve always managed up to now. I can find ways to stall him and the others. I think they like me well enough to—” She stopped abruptly.

  “Like you enough to what?” Sam demanded. “To wait until you finally give in?”

  “No! To respect my wishes. They know I’m not a complete squeep. I don’t mind a kiss now and then and—well, you know, having a little fun.”

  “And now they know you’ll drink.”

  “Dad, you make it sound like I’m going to become a falling-down alcoholic. I’m not. Tonight was—well, it was an exception—and I won’t disappoint you—”

  She had taken up her purse and shoes again, and was starting for the hallway.

  “Mary, I just want to say this. Perhaps you’re too old for lectures. And I accept the fact that you are an individual with a mind of your own. But you’re still very young. Things that seem important to you this minute will seem far less important in a few years, when really important things come up for decisions. I can only say this and hope you are impressed. I cannot hold your hand
when you go out with your friends. You’re a decent, intelligent girl, and you are respected by everyone, and Mother and I are proud of you. I’d hate you to behave in a way that would disappoint us, and, in the end, take my word, disappoint you in yourself.”

  “You take everything too seriously, Dad.” She went to him, on tiptoes kissed his cheek, and smiled up at him. “I feel much better now. You can trust me. Good night.”

  After she had gone to bed, Sam Karpowicz lingered in the kitchen, leaning against a cupboard, arms folded across his robe, examining the whole problem of his sixteen-year-old daughter and her fast crowd. He knew that there was no running from her present environment. If he took her to Phoenix or Miami or Memphis or Pittsburgh or Dallas or St. Paul, she would gravitate to the same friends, the same fast crowd with different faces. It was the condition of adolescent society today, not all of it, but much of it, and Sam hated it (accepting some of the blame for its existence) and hated his daughter growing up in it.

  He could see the near future, and he could see it plainly. What he dreaded was the crucial summer ahead. In the next few months, the gang would still be absorbed with schoolwork and finals and intramural activities, and they would not see each other so much or have complete leisure on their hands. With summer and the school vacation, that would change. The gang would be on the loose, and Mary with it, daily, nightly. She might, as she intended, fend off the Neal Schaffers the next few months. But summer was the prime time for love. Neal would grow impatient and annoyed with being stopped at her lips, at her bosom, with having his hands removed from under Mary’s skirt. He would insist upon consummation, and if refused, take his arousal and his social offerings elsewhere. Mary would be left out. The mark of the leper would be upon her. Was she strong enough to face this? Sam doubted it, he honestly doubted it. Who, after all, could withstand the threat of ostracism or deliberately embrace loneliness?

  And the drinking. Another danger. Then, suddenly, Sam pushed himself from the cupboard, as it came to him why she may have drunk. At first he had thought she had done it to prove that, despite an affection for virginity, she was still a good sport. Now he saw her drinking in another light, with a different motivation. She had wanted to belong. And she had been afraid of intercourse. And so, probably at someone’s suggestion—Leona? Neal?—she had drunk twice to shed her inhibitions and make capitulation possible. Tonight, she had not succeeded in overcoming her fears. But another time, not two drinks but four or five …