‘Mind what I say.’
‘Mind your grandmother.’
She lurched toward the door, but Martin caught her by the arm. ‘I don’t want the children to see you in this condition. Be reasonable.’
‘Condition!’ Emily jerked her arm. Her voice rose angrily. ‘Why, because I drink a couple of sherries in the afternoon you’re trying to make me out a drunkard. Condition! Why, I don’t even touch whiskey. As well you know. I don’t swill liquor at bars. And that’s more than you can say. I don’t even have a cocktail at dinnertime. I only sometimes have a glass of sherry. What, I ask you, is the disgrace of that? Condition!’
Martin sought words to calm his wife. ‘We’ll have a quiet supper by ourselves up here. That’s a good girl.’ Emily sat on the side of the bed and he opened the door for a quick departure.
‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
As he busied himself with the dinner downstairs he was lost in the familiar question as to how this problem had come upon his home. He himself had always enjoyed a good drink. When they were still living in Alabama they had served long drinks or cocktails as a matter of course. For years they had drunk one or two—possibly three drinks before dinner, and at bedtime a long nightcap. Evenings before holidays they might get a buzz on, might even become a little tight. But alcohol had never seemed a problem to him, only a bothersome expense that with the increase in the family they could scarcely afford. It was only after his company had transferred him to New York that Martin was aware that certainly his wife was drinking too much. She was tippling, he noticed, during the day.
The problem acknowledged, he tried to analyze the source. The change from Alabama to New York had somehow disturbed her; accustomed to the idle warmth of a small Southern town, the matrix of the family and cousinship and childhood friends, she had failed to accommodate herself to the stricter, lonelier mores of the North. The duties of motherhood and housekeeping were onerous to her. Homesick for Paris City, she had made no friends in the suburban town. She read only magazines and murder books. Her interior life was insufficient without the artifice of alcohol.
The revelations of incontinence insidiously undermined his previous conceptions of his wife. There were times of unexplainable malevolence, times when the alcoholic fuse caused an explosion of unseemly anger. He encountered a latent coarseness in Emily, inconsistent with her natural simplicity. She lied about drinking and deceived him with unsuspected stratagems.
Then there was an accident. Coming home from work one evening about a year ago, he was greeted with screams from the children’s room. He found Emily holding the baby, wet and naked from her bath. The baby had been dropped, her frail, frail skull striking the table edge, so that a thread of blood was soaking into the gossamer hair. Emily was sobbing and intoxicated. As Martin cradled the hurt child, so infinitely precious at that moment, he had an affrighted vision of the future.
The next day Marianne was all right. Emily vowed that never again would she touch liquor, and for a few weeks she was sober, cold and downcast. Then gradually she began—not whiskey or gin—but quantities of beer, or sherry, or outlandish liqueurs; once he had come across a hatbox of empty crème de menthe bottles. Martin found a dependable maid who managed the household competently. Virgie was also from Alabama and Martin had never dared tell Emily the wage scale customary in New York. Emily’s drinking was entirely secret now, done before he reached the house. Usually the effects were almost imperceptible—a looseness of movement or the heavy-lidded eyes. The times of irresponsibilities, such as the cayenne-pepper toast were rare, and Martin could dismiss his worries when Virgie was at the house. But, nevertheless, anxiety was always latent, a threat of undefined disaster that underlaid his days.
‘Marianne!’ Martin called, for even the recollection of that time brought the need for reassurance. The baby girl, no longer hurt, but no less precious to her father, came into the kitchen with her brother. Martin went on with the preparations for the meal. He opened a can of soup and put two chops in the frying pan. Then he sat down by the table and took his Marianne on his knees for a pony ride. Andy watched them, his fingers wobbling the tooth that had been loose all that week.
‘Andy-the-candyman!’ Martin said. ‘Is that old critter still in your mouth? Come closer, let Daddy have a look.’
‘I got a string to pull it with.’ The child brought from his pocket a tangled thread. ‘Virgie said to tie it to the tooth and tie the other end to the doorknob and shut the door real suddenly.’
Martin took out a clean handerchief and felt the loose tooth carefully. ‘That tooth is coming out of my Andy’s mouth tonight. Otherwise I’m awfully afraid we’ll have a tooth tree in the family.’
‘A what?’
‘A tooth tree,’ Martin said. ‘You’ll bite into something and swallow that tooth. And the tooth will take root in poor Andy’s stomach and grow into a tooth tree with sharp little teeth instead of leaves.’
‘Shoo, Daddy,’ Andy said. But he held the tooth firmly between his grimy little thumb and forefinger. ‘There ain’t any tree like that. I never seen one.’
‘There isn’t any tree like that and I never saw one.’
Martin tensed suddenly. Emily was coming down the stairs. He listened to her fumbling footsteps, his arm embracing the little boy with dread. When Emily came into the room he saw from her movements and her sullen face that she had again been at the sherry bottle. She began to yank open drawers and set the table.
‘Condition!’ she said in a furry voice. ‘You talk to me like that. Don’t think I’ll forget. I remember every dirty lie you say to me. Don’t you think for a minute that I forget.’
‘Emily!’ he begged. ‘The children——’
‘The children—yes! Don’t think I don’t see through your dirty plots and schemes. Down here trying to turn my own children against me. Don’t think I don’t see and understand.’
‘Emily! I beg you—please go upstairs.’
‘So you can turn my children—my very own children——’ Two large tears coursed rapidly down her cheeks. ‘Trying to turn my little boy, my Andy, against his own mother.’
With drunken impulsiveness Emily knelt on the floor before the startled child. Her hands on his shoulders balanced her. ‘Listen, my Andy—you wouldn’t listen to any lies your father tells you? You wouldn’t believe what he says? Listen, Andy, what was your father telling you before I came downstairs?’ Uncertain, the child sought his father’s face. ‘Tell me. Mama wants to know.’
‘About the tooth tree.’
‘What?’
The child repeated the words and she echoed them with unbelieving terror. ‘The tooth tree!’ She swayed and renewed her grasp on the child’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. But listen, Andy, Mama is all right, isn’t she?’ The tears were spilling down her face and Andy drew back from her, for he was afraid. Grasping the table edge, Emily stood up.
‘See! You have turned my child against me.’
Marianne began to cry, and Martin took her in his arms.
‘That’s all right, you can take your child. You have always shown partiality from the very first. I don’t mind, but at least you can leave me my little boy.’
Andy edged close to his father and touched his leg. ‘Daddy,’ he wailed.
Martin took the children to the foot of the stairs. ‘Andy, you take up Marianne and Daddy will follow you in a minute.’
‘But Mama?’ the child asked, whispering.
‘Mama will be all right. Don’t worry.’
Emily was sobbing at the kitchen table, her face buried in the crook of her arm. Martin poured a cup of soup and set it before her. Her rasping sobs unnerved him; the vehemence of her emotion, irrespective of the source, touched in him a strain of tenderness. Unwillingly he laid his hand on her dark hair. ‘Sit up and drink the soup.’ Her face as she looked up at him was chastened and imploring. The boy’s withdrawal or the touch of Martin’s hand had turned the tenor of her mood.
; ‘Ma-Martin,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so ashamed.’
‘Drink the soup.’
Obeying him, she drank between gasping breaths. After a second cup she allowed him to lead her up to their room. She was docile now and more restrained. He laid her nightgown on the bed and was about to leave the room when a fresh round of grief, the alcoholic tumult, came again.
‘He turned away. My Andy looked at me and turned away.’
Impatience and fatigue hardened his voice, but he spoke warily. ‘You forget that Andy is still a little child—he can’t comprehend the meaning of such scenes.’
‘Did I make a scene? Oh, Martin, did I make a scene before the children?’
Her horrified face touched and amused him against his will. ‘Forget it. Put on your nightgown and go to sleep.’
‘My child turned away from me. Andy looked at his mother and turned away. The children——’
She was caught in the rhythmic sorrow of alcohol. Martin withdrew from the room saying: ‘For God’s sake go to sleep. The children will forget by tomorrow.’
As he said this he wondered if it was true. Would the scene glide so easily from memory—or would it root in the unconscious to fester in the after-years? Martin did not know, and the last alternative sickened him. He thought of Emily, foresaw the morning-after humiliation: the shards of memory, the lucidities that glared from the obliterating darkness of shame. She would call the New York office twice—possibly three or four times. Martin anticipated his own embarrassment, wondering if the others at the office could possibly suspect. He felt that his secretary had divined the trouble long ago and that she pitied him. He suffered a moment of rebellion against his fate; he hated his wife.
Once in the children’s room he closed the door and felt secure for the first time that evening. Marianne fell down on the floor, picked herself up and calling: ‘Daddy, watch me,’ fell again, got up, and continued the falling-calling routine. Andy sat in the child’s low chair, wobbling the tooth. Martin ran the water in the tub, washed his own hands in the lavatory, and called the boy into the bathroom.
‘Let’s have another look at that tooth.’ Martin sat on the toilet, holding Andy between his knees. The child’s mouth gaped and Martin grasped the tooth. A wobble, a quick twist and the nacreous milk tooth was free. Andy’s face was for the first moment split between terror, astonishment, and delight. He mouthed a swallow of water and spat into the lavatory.
‘Look, Daddy! It’s blood. Marianne!’
Martin loved to bathe his children, loved inexpressibly the tender, naked bodies as they stood in the water so exposed. It was not fair of Emily to say that he showed partiality. As Martin soaped the delicate boy-body of his son he felt that further love would be impossible. Yet he admitted the difference in the quality of his emotions for the two children. His love for his daughter was graver, touched with a strain of melancholy, a gentleness that was akin to pain. His pet names for the little boy were the absurdities of daily inspiration—he called the little girl always Marianne, and his voice as he spoke it was a caress. Martin patted dry the fat baby stomach and the sweet little genital fold. The washed child faces were radiant as flower petals, equally loved.
‘I’m putting the tooth under my pillow. I’m supposed to get a quarter.’
‘What for?’
‘You know, Daddy. Johnny got a quarter for his tooth.’
‘Who puts the quarter there?’ asked Martin. ‘I used to think the fairies left it in the night. It was a dime in my day, though.’
‘That’s what they say in kindergarden.’
‘Who does put it there?’
‘Your parents,’ Andy said. ‘You!’
Martin was pinning the cover on Marianne’s bed. His daughter was already asleep. Scarcely breathing, Martin bent over and kissed her forehead, kissed again the tiny hand that lay palm-upward, flung in slumber beside her head.
‘Good night, Andy-man.’
The answer was only a drowsy murmur. After a minute Martin took out his change and slid a quarter underneath the pillow. He left a night light in the room.
As Martin prowled about the kitchen making a late meal, it occurred to him that the children had not once mentioned their mother or the scene that must have seemed to them incomprehensible. Absorbed in the instant—the tooth, the bath, the quarter—the fluid passage of child-time had borne these weightless episodes like leaves in the swift current of a shallow stream while the adult enigma was beached and forgotten on the shore. Martin thanked the Lord for that.
But his own anger, repressed and lurking, arose again. His youth was being frittered by a drunkard’s waste, his very manhood subtly undermined. And the children, once the immunity of incomprehension passed—what would it be like in a year or so? With his elbows on the table he ate his food brutishly, untasting. There was no hiding the truth—soon there would be gossip in the office and in the town; his wife was a dissolute woman. Dissolute. And he and his children were bound to a future of degradation and slow ruin.
Martin pushed away from the table and stalked into the living room. He followed the lines of a book with his eyes but his mind conjured miserable images: he saw his children drowned in the river, his wife a disgrace on the public street. By bedtime the dull, hard anger was like a weight upon his chest and his feet dragged as he climbed the stairs.
The room was dark except for the shafting light from the half-opened bathroom door. Martin undressed quietly. Little by little, mysteriously, there came in him a change. His wife was asleep, her peaceful respiration sounding gently in the room. Her high-heeled shoes with the carelessly dropped stockings made to him a mute appeal. Her underclothes were flung in disorder on the chair. Martin picked up the girdle and the soft, silk brassière and stood for a moment with them in his hands. For the first time that evening he looked at his wife. His eyes rested on the sweet forehead, the arch of the fine brow. The brow had descended to Marianne, and the tilt at the end of the delicate nose. In his son he could trace the high cheekbones and pointed chin. Her body was full-bosomed, slender and undulant. As Martin watched the tranquil slumber of his wife the ghost of the old anger vanished. All thoughts of blame or blemish were distant from him now. Martin put out the bathroom light and raised the window. Careful not to awaken Emily he slid into the bed. By moonlight he watched his wife for the last time. His hand sought the adjacent flesh and sorrow paralleled desire in the immense complexity of love.
The Haunted Boy
HUGH LOOKED for his mother at the corner, but she was not in the yard. Sometimes she would be out fooling with the border of spring flowers—the candytuft, the sweet William, the lobelias (she had taught him the names)—but today the green front lawn with the borders of many-colored flowers was empty under the frail sunshine of the mid-April afternoon. Hugh raced up the sidewalk, and John followed him. They finished the front steps with two bounds, and the door slammed after them.
‘Mamma!’ Hugh called.
It was then, in the unanswering silence as they stood in the empty, wax-floored hall, that Hugh felt there was something wrong. There was no fire in the grate of the sitting room, and since he was used to the flicker of firelight during the cold months, the room on this first warm day seemed strangely naked and cheerless. Hugh shivered. He was glad John was there. The sun shone on a red piece in the flowered rug. Red-bright, red-dark, red-dead—Hugh sickened with a sudden chill remembrance of ‘the other time.’ The red darkened to a dizzy black.
‘What’s the matter, Brown?’ John asked. ‘You look so white.’
Hugh shook himself and put his hand to his forehead. ‘Nothing. Let’s go back to the kitchen.’
‘I can’t stay but just a minute,’ John said. ‘I’m obligated to sell those tickets. I have to eat and run.’
The kitchen, with the fresh checked towels and clean pans, was now the best room in the house. And on the enameled table there was a lemon pie that she had made. Assured by the everyday kitchen and the pie, Hugh stepped back into the hall
and raised his face again to call upstairs.
‘Mother! Oh, Mamma!’
Again there was no answer.
‘My mother made this pie,’ he said. Quickly, he found a knife and cut into the pie—to dispel the gathering sense of dread.
‘Think you ought to cut it, Brown?’
‘Sure thing, Laney.’
They called each other by their last names this spring, unless they happened to forget. To Hugh it seemed sporty and grown and somehow grand. Hugh liked John better than any other boy at school. John was two years older than Hugh, and compared to him the other boys seemed like a silly crowd of punks. John was the best student in the sophomore class, brainy but not the least bit a teacher’s pet, and he was the best athlete too. Hugh was a freshman and didn’t have so many friends that first year of high school—he had somehow cut himself off, because he was so afraid.
‘Mamma always has me something nice for after school.’ Hugh put a big piece of pie on a saucer for John—for Laney.
‘This pie is certainly super.’
‘The crust is made of crunched-up graham crackers instead of regular pie dough,’ Hugh said, ‘because pie dough is a lot of trouble. We think this graham-cracker pastry is just as good. Naturally, my mother can make regular pie dough if she wants to.’
Hugh could not keep still; he walked up and down the kitchen, eating the pie wedge he carried on the palm of his hand. His brown hair was mussed with nervous rakings, and his gentle gold-brown eyes were haunted with pained perplexity. John, who remained seated at the table, sensed Hugh’s uneasiness and wrapped one gangling leg around the other.
‘I’m really obligated to sell those Glee Club tickets.’
‘Don’t go. You have the whole afternoon.’ He was afraid of the empty house. He needed John, he needed someone; most of all he needed to hear his mother’s voice and know she was in the house with him. ‘Maybe Mamma is taking a bath,’ he said. ‘I’ll holler again.’
The answer to his third call too was silence.
Carson McCullers Page 18
