Trouble With the Truth (9781476793498)

by Robinson, Edna

  Louise was in the other junior group and I’d not met her yet.

  “Sometimes Louise is a trifle shy about making new friends. She hasn’t moved around as much as you. I must get you girls together.”

  Dutifully, I did seek out Louise Loder the next noon. I asked her homeroom teacher to point her out to me in the cafeteria. She resembled her mother, in height and small features, but her hair was brown and her stance wholly opposite: shoulders held as though to guard her caved-in chest, buttocks shoved under so that the abdomen thrust outward. She was thin, especially thin-legged, but she walked as if she were made of iron from the hips down. She was wearing a tweed skirt, a fussy blouse, ankle socks, and low, dirty sneakers. I expected her voice to be hard to hear. Instead, it was quite loud and little nasal.

  “I’m Lucresse Briard,” I told her. “Your mother is a friend of my family’s.”

  “You mean Walter Briard?”

  “Yes. He’s my father.”

  “She’s his friend, all right.”

  In spite of her rather curt way of accepting my introduction, I felt that she didn’t object to me. Her way was just more direct than most girls’. I didn’t like or dislike her. Her directness was intriguing.

  After school, I saw her coming down the school steps and I walked home with her. We talked about our hair. She wished hers was as long as mine, but her mother said it wouldn’t look good. She shrugged and added, “My mother says she and I have the kind of looks that get better as we get older. She wasn’t so hot looking either when she was my age. I’ve seen pictures of her.”

  “I think your hair is pretty like that.”

  She shrugged again and laughed. “The truth is, she just believes in short hair. So who am I to argue? She likes to think she’s taking care of me.”

  I wanted her to talk some more, but I didn’t want to seem prying. “She does take care of you, doesn’t she?”

  “I guess so. She bought me this blouse yesterday, just as something extra, because she liked it.”

  I equated her mother with the several hundred salesladies who had been my clothing advisors, and I envied Louise. The salesladies had wanted me to look attractive for profit; her mother wanted her to look attractive to satisfy her own feelings.

  “I used to be very fat,” continued Louise, “and I couldn’t wear blouses like this. She put me on a diet—I nearly starved to death—and now I’m thin so she gets a big thrill out of buying me stuff like this. I’m still not supposed to eat ice cream and stuff like that.”

  I couldn’t understand why, though I believed she was lucky to have a mother who cared so much about her, I also felt that Louise was unfortunate. I just did. It was a warm, fall afternoon. “Oh, you’re skinny enough to eat ice cream now,” I said. “Come over to my house and have some with me. I’m sure your mother won’t mind. She’s coming for tea later.”

  Her mother was already there, and she embraced us both. Nothing could have made her happier than our meeting. At once I understood what she had meant when she said Louise was sometimes a trifle shy. Around her mother, Louise’s voice lost its nasal shrillness; in fact, she hardly spoke. And she smiled more.

  When Hubert brought in the tea, my father said he’d changed his mind and would prefer a scotch and soda. “Will you have one with me, Virginia?”

  “No, thank you.” She looked at him shrewdly. “You know, Walter, I’m afraid you’re going to think what I’m going to say is very silly.”

  “I often think the things you say are silly,” said my father good- humoredly. “But you go ahead and say them anyway.”

  I didn’t think Mrs. Loder could look happier than she had when Louise and I had arrived together, but she did now. She broke into a lilting laugh. “Walter, I’m serious. What I think is, you need a lift every day about this time. I think you ought to get in the habit of taking a short nap instead.”

  “Why, Virginia? I’m not tired.”

  “Some people who are used to feeling energetic don’t realize it when they’re tired,” she explained sweetly. “They think they need some tea or a drink, when actually they need rest.”

  “All right. You rest. I’ll have a drink,” said my father, grinning at her.

  She laughed again. “What a devilish sense of humor you do have! Remember, you’re sixteen years older than I am, I’m delighted to know. I promise you, if you’ll start taking a nap every afternoon, I’ll do the same in sixteen years. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy my tea.” She sipped some. “But do think about it, Walter. Won’t you?”

  As he took a mouthful of the highball Hubert had just delivered, his face went humorless, as if he were already thinking about it.

  I invited Louise to come with me to the kitchen to get some ice cream.

  “Darling, do make it a smallish portion,” her mother called after us.

  I fixed the portions and when Louise surveyed hers, I sensed that she was reluctant to return to the living room with it. “Why don’t we go out to the backyard instead?” I suggested, and I shoved open the screen door, which sounded its usual elongated scream.

  “What was that?” her mother called in alarm.

  “Just the screen door,” I called back. “We’re going outside.”

  “Oh. Have fun,” her mother sang.

  We sat on the patio just outside the kitchen. Louise’s spoon rat-a-tatted from her plate to her mouth and in seconds, her plate was empty.

  “This is the first time I’ve had this since before my father got sick,” she said. “I’ve lost fifteen pounds since he died—in three months—and only six the three before. He used to sneak me a piece of bread and butter every night.”

  “I bet you miss him.”

  “A lot more than the bread and butter. But I sure do miss that too.”

  Having cut through the woods instead of coming in from Winding Hill Road in front, Ben ambled into the yard and up to the patio. As I explained who Louise was, she retired into her earlier shyness.

  Ben could always eat anything, any time of day or night. “I think I’ll have some of that,” he said, and he swung open the screen door, eliciting the scream.

  “What is it, children?” Mrs. Loder caroled.

  “It’s Ben. Hello.” And he disappeared inside to say it more properly. A few minutes later, he returned with a laden plate.

  Seeing it, Louise, seemed to lose her shyness as she thrust out her empty one with pleading eyes. “Could I have some more? I’m not usually allowed to have any, I used to be so fat.”

  “Sure,” said Ben, winking. “You’re just about right now. Lucresse has always been too skinny.”

  “So have you,” I said.

  “Wait till I’ve had six months with the barbells.” He went for the screen door—which once again let loose a shriek.

  “Yes?” came Mrs. Loder’s voice.

  “Just getting…” Ben yelled and he quickly turned on a faucet to muffle the rest of his answer.

  Returning with Louise’s plate heaped, he said, “Your mother has very good ears.”

  Louise’s manner became direct again, more urgent than on our walk. “And she knows if I had a taste of this, I might ask for more. She puts two and two together fast.” Louise devoured the second helping of ice cream as fast as the first. “You know, I like you,” she said suddenly, seeming to direct this to both Ben and me. “So I’ve got to tell you something. My mother didn’t tell me this—like I’m going to tell you—right out in the open. But I know it’s so.”

  “What?” said Ben.

  “What she wants more than anything, what she’s always wanted, far back as I can remember— ”

  “For you to be thin?” I interrupted and Ben silenced me with a look.

  “Aside from that.” Louise showed no sign that I’d offended her. “She wants this house. She thinks it should be hers.”

  “You mean because her father had it built?” Ben said. “I can see how she might feel that way.”

  Louise’s lips pressed closed in a firm slit.
“She’d do anything to get it. And now she thinks she has a chance.”

  “But my father’s not selling it,” I said. “At least, he hasn’t said anything about selling it yet. It usually takes him a little longer than we’ve been here, and now he even seems to want to settle down.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Louise. “She doesn’t want to buy it. She doesn’t have the money. Otherwise, why do you think she didn’t and we’re in the Hunter dump? She just wants to have it—for nothing.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you think she hopes to get it—for nothing?”

  Louise’s eyes went as narrow as Ben’s. “It’s simple. She hopes to marry your father.”

  “Gosh!” I said, overcome by the sound of the truth I hadn’t surmised.

  Louise began to tremble. “If you tell her I said this, I’ll swear I didn’t, even if you don’t like me for it.”

  “We’re not going to tell her,” Ben said, almost comfortingly.

  Louise stopped shaking.

  We went inside. Louise was quiet again, smiling faintly. Ben’s manner was easy. Only my own face felt false until Louise and her mother left.

  My father observed my odd, blank look. “What is the matter with you, Lucresse?”

  I bet when Louise looked vapid, her mother didn’t ask her about it. Louise must look that way often—and Mrs. Loder didn’t know Louise as well as Louise knew Mrs. Loder.

  “I was wondering,” I began, “did you ever think of marrying?”

  “Lucresse!” snapped Ben.

  “It’s all right,” my father said with a chuckle. “Yes, Lucresse, a long time ago. Barbara Stanwyck. A lovely girl.”

  “I don’t mean that,” I said, ignoring his imitation of my imitation of Mrs. Loder’s “lovelies.” “I mean really. Somebody you knew. Like Felicity, for instance.”

  “No, I never thought of marrying Felicity.”

  The question in the muscles of my lips was, did he ever think of marrying Mrs. Loder, but another look from Ben shut me up. “I was just wondering,” I said. “Well, I have to go finish my English assignment.”

  “What is it this time?” my father asked, so easily dissuaded from the crucial subject.

  “I have to write a theme.”

  “Oh? About what?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t started it yet. The teacher said we can write about anything interesting. I wish she’d said the Empire State Building or something like that that you could look up stuff about. This way, I can’t even get started. I’ve never been anywhere interesting and don’t know anybody interesting and nothing interesting ever happens around here.”

  I went to my room where I fiddled about for a half hour, putting down my pencil here and there, and forgetting where I put it and having to search for it again. Finally, in bored desperation, I put it to my lined notebook paper and let it go where it would. It wrote a fantastic fairy tale about a beautiful, but conniving lady, who was attempting by all sorts of deceits and ruses to marry a good king who was quite taken with her, in order to do away with him and usurp his kingdom. The only one who knew of her plot was her slave girl, whom she thought she could trust because of the girl’s docile nature and dominated devotion. But the slave girl exposed the lady’s treachery to the king’s loyal courtiers, and they… That was as far as I got; I couldn’t think of a way they could rescue their king from his own weakness and foolhardiness.

  I told myself it was an addled childish story, not what the teacher meant by something interesting, and I tore it into small pieces. Then I borrowed my father’s timetable and wrote nine hundred words about the number of trains that stopped at Winding Hill every day and the variations in their speeds to the city. It included a harsh critique of the confounding nomenclature “local-express.” But the fantasy kept haunting me. I wanted to finish it, at least in my mind.

  Mrs. Loder was there the following Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons. She chatted with me while, during part of each visit—after tea, not a highball—my father went upstairs to take a nap. She was the essence of affability.

  “Lucresse, you and Louise should see each other more often. You complement each other so.”

  My translation: “She has a mother and you have a father.” Why must one girl have both? Answer: Because she wanted it so, for herself. Secondly, for Louise. Hardly at all, for me.

  “I like Louise very much, Mrs. Loder,” I said.

  “Ginny,” she corrected, with a soothing smile.

  In my mind, Mrs. Loder remained the Wicked Lady, an image reinforced the day after, when another letter came from Aunt Catherine. It ended, “…as always, I hope this finds you all in good health. But remember, Walter, in case anything happens, like what I told you when I was there, remember you can always count on me.”

  Ben shuddered and looked fixedly at my father. “You ought to answer her this time, and tell her once and for all, we don’t want to count on her. Will you, please?”

  The fact that my father didn’t deny the request outright quickly became more frightening than if he had. What he said was, “I’m going to think about that, Ben. Catherine might not be the best choice to look after you both, after all. Someone nearer—nearer to our way of thinking…”

  “You’re not still thinking of dying, are you?” I said, feeling a combination shaky and heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Who is the someone nearer you have in mind?” said Ben, his eyes narrowing perceptibly.

  “I’m not at all ready to say,” my father said, his jaws obstinate.

  “C’mon, Dad,” persisted Ben, “you can’t make an implication like that and clam up.”

  “I didn’t imply anything. You inferred.”

  It always upset me and put me at a disadvantage when he resorted to the difference in the meaning of words. It meant my cause was doomed. “All right,” I surrendered the point immediately, “both of us inferred. Even though I still think you implied. Who…whom?…who do you have in mind to count on who is nearer?”

  “What person?” Ben insisted.

  My father handed Aunt Catherine’s letter to me and made a helpless gesture. “You answer it, Lucresse. I’m not ready to tell her anything about this yet.”

  He dropped into his armchair. “You’re both right—I did make an implication. But try to understand this. I’m confused. I don’t know exactly what I do have in mind. I haven’t made up my mind. And there are so many things to consider.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “About choosing the right person to count on. Is she the right person for all of us? If so, would she think she was? Would she be willing to assume such a responsibility? What could I offer in return?” He was rambling, not caring if his dilemma was clear to us.

  Ben and I exchanged an anxious glance, and Ben nodded purposefully. Oh no! I shook my head to him, but he leveled his eyes at my father and said, “Are you talking about marrying Mrs. Virginia Welch Loder?”

  My father’s hands collapsed in his lap. His face was nervous, begging. Now he was at the disadvantage, a condition he’d rarely been in in my presence, and it was distressing to witness.

  “As I said, there are many things to consider…would she consider the idea? I’m not certain she would.”

  I breathed carefully and didn’t talk.

  “Haw!” Ben said, reminding me of a Wally Noonan I’d once known.

  Instantly, my father’s helplessness vanished. Popping upright, he glared angrily at Ben. “And just what do you mean by that?”

  Ben retreated. “Nothing. Not anything.”

  How cowardly, I thought. But no worse than I would have done, considering my father’s reaction.

  Ben recovered, making me retract my mental accusation. “I only meant that I’d bet she would marry you.”

  “You think she cares for me that much?” my father said.

  Ben took a deep breath, the kind of breath he’d been practicing with his speech teacher so that his voice could hit the
back of a theater, and I knew he was going to speak at this second, as my father would in the same circumstances, no matter what the consequences.

  “I don’t know how much she cares for you. I just think she wants to marry you. She wants to get back her father’s house.”

  There was a resounding silence. Then my father slowly stood up. “What you said is despicable.”

  “Unless it’s true.” Ben held his ground.

  “If it’s true, then she’s despicable, and I can’t judge anyone.”

  “We’ll see,” Ben said. “We’ll see.”

  I didn’t know how he meant we would see, but I did know two other things: my father was as angry as I’d ever seen him, and my original theme story—the fairy tale about the lady and the king—still had no ending.

  Simultaneously, Ben and I found reasons to attend to other matters. On the upstairs landing, we spoke in whispers. “Ben,” I said, “suppose Louise is wrong?”

  “Even if she was wrong, she was right. If she wanted to say that about her mother—your ‘Ginny’—then her mother probably deserves it.”

  “I only called her that once or twice.”

  “I only know one thing. She’s not the right one to ‘count on’ for me, or Dad. I don’t know about you.”

  “Most of the time I don’t like her, even though she’s nice.”

  “She’s not nice,” said Ben. “That’s what we have to show him. It’s like Iago and Othello.”

  Why did he always have to make everything about some play? “It’s like Daddy, and her, and us,” I corrected. “But you know, sometimes I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t know how Louise feels about her.”

  “That’s because Louise is afraid of her right now. But someday…”

  “Ben, what’ll happen if Daddy marries her?”

  “He can’t. She doesn’t want him.”

  “But he won’t be convinced. She wouldn’t admit that for anything. She wouldn’t admit the truth—she’s so pleasant.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ben. “I’ll get an idea.”

  A little later, he telephoned Louise and asked her to have a picnic lunch with him the next day, a Saturday. I nudged his elbow, wanting him to say I’d be along, but he brushed me away. Louise asked her mother, who sang out loud enough for me to overhear, “That would be lovely.” She even offered to supply the lunch. Ben thanked her and told Louise he’d bring a few odds and ends.