Heart Troubles

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  BETWEEN THE MAPLES

  Mr. Fiedler sat on his piazza in a pair of heavy brown slacks and red canvas sandals with cork soles, and drank a Scotch-and-soda as the sun went down. He looked out across the parched lawn that had been burned to a crisp brown by the summer drought and the sea air, and waited for Dolores. It was hard to tell just when Dolores would appear, or from where—whether it would be from the path through the thick hedge along the lane, or up the gravel driveway and through the house, or through the oak grove and across the back lawn—carrying her riding boots in her hand, if it was especially warm, and walking barefoot, or in slippers, swinging her crop in her hand. But when Dolores came she would say something like, “I saw you sitting here, between the maples,” and Mr. Fiedler would say, “They’re red oaks, not maples, dear,” and she would laugh. And then there would be such a silence, such a hush, and under the lantern light, or in the sun, if any sun remained—whichever it happened to be—Mr. Fiedler would look at Dolores’ slim legs and small breasts, the legs so much slimmer in her whipcord jodhpurs, the breasts so much smaller under the flannel shirt she sometimes wore, and smile.

  “Bring out the portable radio, Martha, please,” Mr. Fiedler said when the maid appeared at the door. “I want to get the six-o’clock news.”

  Martha pouted. “I’m busy,” she said. “You could get it yourself if you’d walk two steps.”

  Mr. Fiedler was very cool. “What are you here for, Martha?” he asked. And he added, “Let’s not have any temper tonight, lamb chop.”

  “Lamb chop yourself!” Martha said.

  “Martha?” he said sweetly. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the disposition of a steel file?” And then, as an added touch of malice, he said, “And has it ever been suggested that you might retire from your profession? You may be getting a bit old to be the perfect house servant.”

  Martha gave him a long, straight look, “D’you think maybe that was why I was hired?” she asked him. She turned and went into the house.

  Mr. Fiedler was a tall, thin man with a longish face and close-cropped gray hair that was stiff and yellowed from the sun, and a small—very small and carefully clipped—mustache. His tan, which he had worked so industriously on all summer, had begun to fade and, in the mirror that morning as he shaved, he had wondered if his still-handsome face was beginning to look a little pale. (His increasing pallor was one of the things he dreaded most about the winters here.) Reaching now, with his fingers, he tried to rub color into his thin cheeks. The thumb and forefinger of his right hand were bandaged with fresh adhesive tape from where, this afternoon, he had hammered himself trying, without success, to repair his collapsing dock.

  As he sat, to the east of him he could see the black rockiness of the Maine seacoast, shiny as a lizard’s back, and the beach, which was nothing but a bank of small quartz pebbles and shattered conch shells; and behind him, his house with its broad, scattered-stone terrace and the row of butter tubs, painted spanking white, filled with house azalea and geraniums and blue lobelia. In the distance now, Mr. Fiedler could hear the sound of footsteps on the driveway, that peculiarly summery sound of feet on loose gravel. Dolores? In the silence that followed he could almost hear the buzzing of the big cow flies as they struck against the wire mesh of the screen door. (And Phyllophaga, he thought with a little shudder—June beetles—and the insects he hated most—batting against the bulb of the porch light, and falling scorched and smashed on the steps, their great, milky bodies …) Shifting uneasily in his chair and tapping his foot impatiently on the stone, he wrenched his thoughts back to the person whose footsteps might now be moving quickly toward him.

  “Hello, there!”

  Mr. Fiedler shaded his eyes. Dolores was standing in the yard. “Never mind the radio, Martha!” Mr. Fiedler shouted. “I have a caller.”

  Just as always before, Dolores had her jodhpurs on. She was in stocking feet, carrying her boots and her hat in her hands. She pushed a damp lock of hair from her face and began talking rapidly. “I saw you through the maples!” she said.

  “Oh, God!” said Mr. Fiedler, laughing. “They’re red oaks, not maples, my love!”

  She smiled at him. “Quercus borealis,” she said. “See? I was teasing you. Do I get an A?”

  Dolores dropped her boots on the stone. “I’ve never been so exhausted in my life! Freddie had me doing jumps till my fanny was black and blue. Then Saucer took the bit and gave me a terrific spin! I can’t tell you how scared I was. I pulled and pulled and Saucer kept right on galloping!” She laughed. “It wasn’t hard for Freddie to see that I’m still no good with horses.”

  Mr. Fiedler laughed. “Sit down, dear.” He motioned to one of the metal chairs.

  “Oh, your fingers! What happened to them?”

  He wagged the bandaged fingers at her. “Bashed them with a hammer, trying to fix the dock,” he said. “I’m going to have to call a man to do it. I’ve decided that I may be an artisan with life but not with a carpenter’s tools.”

  “Just like me,” she said. “I’m no good at anything.”

  “How many times have I told you not to underrate yourself? Can I get you a drink?”

  “Oh, no, thanks,” said Dolores. “You should know the answer to that question by now.”

  “Not even a Coke?”

  “No, thanks. Whew!” Dolores sat down and stretched her stockinged feet into a patch of remaining sunlight. “My socks are full of holes. Look at them. Mother says I wear out a dozen pairs of socks a week. I’m going to have to order a gross of them before I go back to college.” Bending down, she began to pull off the socks.

  Mr. Fiedler took another sip from his glass. “I’m glad you dropped in,” he said. “I was just beginning to get lonely.”

  “Oh, you’ve been so nice to let me come!” Dolores said. There was a small embarrassed silence, and she laughed nervously. “I feel I’ve almost made this my second home. I’m awfully grateful.”

  Mr. Fiedler looked at her intently. “When are you going back?”

  “The fifteenth.” She looked at the ground. “So this is—sort of to say good-by. And thank you for everything.”

  “But the fifteenth is a week away!”

  “I know, but—well, I have to pack and everything.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “That’s sweet of you. I’ll always think of—well, of this, when I think of Maine.”

  “You can’t get used to it, can you?”

  “Maine? Oh, yes. At least I’m beginning to. But after all—it’s such a little town, this place. Five hundred people! I mean, there just can’t be more than one or two intelligent people in a town of only five hundred people. Let’s see,” she said, counting the people off on her fingertips, “in addition to Mother and Father—who probably shouldn’t count anyway—there’s just been you and Freddy. That’s all.”

  “Sometimes one or two are enough.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong—I’m beginning to love it. I’m beginning to love the hackmatacks, and the tamaracks, and I can tell poison ivy from arbutus and woodbine from coreopsis! I’ve learned so much this summer. You’ve taught me so much …”

  “Botany is just a hobby with me, pet,” Mr. Fiedler said with a little smile. “I’m afraid I’ve bored you with it.”

  “Bored? Do you think I’d have kept dropping over and dropping over if I’d been bored? I’ve been fascinated—ever since I first came short-cutting home through your oak grove and said, ‘What pretty maple trees!’”

  “I thought you were a dryad,” he said. “I could give you a course in Maine wildlife, too. Which reminds me, we’ve never had our bird walk.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m sorry. Next summer, maybe.” She was holding the white socks in a little ball in her hand. Reaching down, she stuffed the ball inside one of the boots. “You’ve opened whole new horizons for me this summer,” she said. “You really have.”

  “I’d like to teach you more.” Mr. Fiedler said. He leaned forward i
n his chair. “Poetry, for instance.” Smiling at her, he said in a soft voice:

  “Ce n’est plus une ardeur dans mes veines cachée:

  C’est Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée …”

  “What is that?” she asked him.

  “Racine.”

  “Freddie writes poetry, did you know that? He writes sonnets. He told me that today.”

  Mr. Fiedler stirred in his chair and crossed his long legs. He looked down at Dolores’ bare feet. Her toenails were lacquered a pale pink. “Love in bloom,” he said.

  “Oh, nonsense!”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Fiedler looked up and studied carefully the expression on the girl’s face. There were delicate lines he noticed, particularly about the mouth and eyes, squint lines from the sun like fine wrinkles in brown tissue paper. “I’m having a cold lobster tonight,” he said. “Would you join me for supper?”

  “No, I couldn’t. Mother expects me back for dinner at seven.”

  “I’m not going to accept that excuse much longer.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to while Mother’s Mother. Thanks, anyway.”

  Martha came to the door. “Do you want anything for the young lady?” she asked.

  “Please just have a Coke,” said Mr. Fiedler. “It would make me feel so much better.”

  “All right.”

  “And another Scotch for me, Martha.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Martha had gone back into the house, Mr. Fiedler crinkled his nose confidentially and said, “Do you think she’s a spy? Do you think she’s spying on me? She’s always poking about and sticking her nose in on me whenever I have a caller. I think Louise—”

  “Hush, hush,” said Dolores. “I’m sure she wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t she? You don’t know Louise.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dolores said. There was a silence, and then she said, “How is Mrs. Fiedler?”

  He waved his hand. “Same as ever, I’m afraid. She’s off seeing her doctor, as usual.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Her troubles are purely psychogenic, pet, as I’ve explained to you.”

  “I know. But I like her. She looks … very sweet.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? You’ve met Louise?”

  “Not really. But I saw her the other day, in the grocery store. I was buying some cheese-and-olive spread for Mother, and I saw her—I heard her give her name, you know. For the charge account.”

  “I see.”

  “I thought she had a very sweet face. A very dear face.”

  “Sweet with suffering, you mean?” he asked her.

  “No, not that. Not really. A brave face, I guess I mean.” Dolores raised herself in her chair and tucked her feet underneath her. With one hand, she rubbed her forearm. “I think I got some of that stuff today,” she said. “You know, poison oak or poison ivy.”

  “Let me see.” Mr. Fiedler got up from his chair and crossed the terrace to where Dolores sat. He took her hand and examined the arm closely, pulling up the sleeve of the green jacket. “It looks like a good case of nettles,” he said. “Let me get you same witch hazel.”

  “Oh, don’t bother, please. It’ll go away in a minute, I’m sure.”

  “No bother at all.” Mr. Fiedler walked over to the door and into the house, Dolores stood up and went slowly to the edge of the terrace and looked out at the sea beyond the rocks and the juniper bushes, at the whitecaps breaking far out in the slanting sun and the tide sweeping in toward the land. She yawned and stretched herself, and unbuttoned the green riding jacket and slipped it off. Then she tucked the tails of her white blouse in around the waistband of her jodhpurs. She went back to her chair, sat down, and put one foot across one knee. Critically she examined the bare foot, rubbing the sole with her fingertips and brushing the sand from between her toes. “Whose are these huaraches?” she said when Mr. Fiedler came back out with the bottle of witch hazel in his hand.

  “Louise’s.”

  “May I borrow them? When the sun gets off this terrace, these stones are cold.”

  “Sure.” Mr. Fiedler picked them up from where they lay under a chair. “Here you are. Probably acres too big for you.” He handed them to Dolores. “Oh-oh, I forgot something. Have you got a Kleenex I can use as a swab?”

  “No,” Dolores said. “But I’m brave. Just put it on straight.”

  Mr. Fiedler emptied some of the clear liquid into his cupped palm and rubbed it gently, in smooth, bladelike strokes, up and down Dolores’ arm. “Feel better?” he asked.

  Martha, just then, coming out with two glasses in her hands, said, “Here’s your Scotch. And here’s your Coke, miss.”

  “I’m sure we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if you didn’t point it out to us, Martha,” said Mr. Fiedler.

  And then, when Martha had left, he said, “Here’s a toast to the summer crowd. I couldn’t live without ’em.” He drank deeply.

  Dolores sat, half turned in her chair, looking at the ocean. “It’s such a beautiful view from here,” she said.

  “I’m like Gertrude Stein,” Mr. Fiedler said. “I like a view, but I like to sit with my back to it.”

  “You’re the best-read person I’ve ever met,” she said. Suddenly she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! I forgot to bring back your book!”

  “Did you read it?”

  “Well, most of it. I thought it was—very interesting.”

  “You may not be ready for Baudelaire,” he said with a little smile. “I have another book for you—a very special book that I picked out for you in my library this morning.”

  “But how would I get it back to you? Well, I could mail it, I guess.”

  Mr. Fiedler hitched his chair over closer to her. “If you promise to come back next summer, I may let you keep it,” he said.

  About half an hour later Dolores was saying, “Freddie’s different because he’s funny. He’s the only boy I’ve met who could say funny things, things that I really wanted to laugh at, and he’s the only person that I’ve met who hasn’t wanted to take me seriously.”

  “Including me?” said Mr. Fiedler.

  Dolores looked up from where she lay, on her stomach on the terrace with her chin in her hands, her half-filled glass in front of her. “Of course not including you,” she said. “You’re different, too. You’re a friend, and—well, a special kind of friend.”

  He leaned toward her, his glass pressed between his hands. “Special? In what way?”

  “Well …” She drew a vague pattern on the stone with her index finger. “I don’t know.” She paused. “I guess it’s because you treat me like an equal. Like an adult. My parents have never thought of treating me like an adult. Why, you even offer me a drink—even though I don’t drink! And you offer me cigarettes. And besides, you’re very interesting to talk to.”

  “Perhaps I see the woman you’re capable of being.”

  “Yes. But you know, it’s funny,” she said. “And I don’t mean funny. But I wonder.”

  “What do you wonder?”

  “Well, it seems so unusual that a person like you—a great intellectual, really—should have given up jobs at some of the most famous girls’ schools in the country, even Burneyside—and come way up here to Maine to live, to this dinky town, miles from everywhere, and live year round.…”

  “What do you know about Burneyside?” he said.

  “Nothing—except that you taught there, didn’t you? And—”

  “Next thing,” he said, raising his glass to his lips, “you’re going to tell me you suspect I was dismissed from my job at Burneyside.”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” she said. “But—well, it does seem strange.”

  “I pursue my researches up here,” he said a little crossly. “In peace.”

  “I know, I know. But don’t you ever miss—”

  “Nev
er,” he said. He took a swallow of his drink.

  “Do you know something?” he said quickly. “A little bird has just whispered something in my ear. A little bird tells me that somebody has been talking to you about me, somebody in town, saying such things as—”

  “Oh, don’t be silly! I just meant—”

  “Saying that I live off a rich, sick wife? Hmm? Things like that? Am I right? Did my little bird tell me true, because this little town is notorious, my pet, for—”

  “No, no. I’ve never talked to anybody about you, except—”

  “Aha!” he said, leaning forward again. “Except whom?”

  “Well, except Freddie, of course.”

  “I see.”

  “But Freddie’s never said anything about you. You see, I think Freddie’s a rather special kind of person, too. I think you’d like him if you got to know him. He’s very witty. Do you know he’s the only person who can keep me laughing all the time? Not just because he says funny things, but the way he says them, you know, that’s so funny?” She put it as a question and then laughed. “I guess I don’t know what I mean,” she said, “but you understand. I like to talk things over with you. Today, when we were riding, he just suddenly reached over and grabbed my hand and said, ‘A person doesn’t need to have a memory to remember what you look like.’ I’d told him I was leaving on the fifteenth, you see. But wasn’t that—I mean, wasn’t that a sweet thing to say? And I didn’t know what to answer, so I just laughed. And then he started laughing, and I was honestly afraid I was going to laugh myself sick, I laughed so hard. And do you know what he said New York is? He said New York is a place where the farmers are Democrats instead of Republicans. I asked him if he’d ever been to New York, and that’s what he said. Don’t you think that’s funny?”

  “Ha-ha,” said Mr. Fiedler.

  “And it’s like that with everything—everything he says. Why, the other day—”

  “He’s never said anything about me?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Why should he?”

  “And your mother—or father?”

  “I don’t have to discuss everything with my parents, do I?” she said.