Edith's Diary

by Patricia Highsmith

  The front porch light was on for Edith. She drove up the curving driveway between widely spaced poplars. There was a big car parked near the house. Probably Dr Phelps’, Edith thought.

  Bertha opened the front door as Edith’s car stopped. ‘Evening, Miss Edith!’ she said with a big smile that was almost as usual, but not quite.

  ‘How’re you, Bertha?’ Edith pressed her hand. ‘The doctor’s here?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, you’ll see.’ Bertha helped Edith hang her coat in the downstairs hall closet, then carried Edith’s little suitcase up. Bertha wore a heavy maroon-colored bathrobe, maybe against the chill, maybe because it was late.

  Melanie’s bedroom door was ajar, and Edith heard a gentle chuckle, a man’s. Bertha knocked gently and said:

  ‘Miss Edith’s here, ma’am – sir.’

  Edith went into the room. Her aunt lay under a plastic tent – an oxygen tent. The reading light was on near the bed, but turned away from the bed, Dr Phelps had been half sitting on the arm of a big chair, and he stood up. ‘Hello, Dr Phelps.’

  Dr Phelps was still smiling, a neat little man in his sixties with gray hair and spectacles. ‘Hello, Mrs Howland. We’ve been swapping stories, your aunt and I.’

  Melanie had turned her head to see Edith better. She was propped up a little, smiling, but the smile looked distorted. ‘Hello, Edie, dear,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Isn’t it a fine thing – to see me like this?’

  ‘How are you, darling?’ Edith said, and pressed her aunt’s hand through the plastic. The hand gave no response.

  ‘That’s the bad side – I’m afraid,’ said Melanie. ‘Cliffie with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re an angel to come.’

  ‘Now don’t you two sit up yacketing all night,’ Dr Phelps said. ‘I’m going home, I expect to be home – God willing – so you’ll know where to find me if there’s any need but – I’m not anticipating any need.’ He nodded and smiled, bright-eyed.

  That could mean anything. ‘I’ll see the doctor down and come back,’ Edith said.

  The doctor let her precede him down the stairs, though the stairs were wide enough for two. The brown stair-rail gleamed with polish. At the bottom it curved to make a flat, coiled newel. Edith could remember when she had had to touch the stair-rail to descend, one step at a time. Bertha had stayed upstairs in the hall, out of tact, Edith was sure. The doctor swung his muffler round his neck.

  ‘She didn’t want to go to the hospital,’ he said.

  ‘Well – how bad are things?’

  ‘I’m afraid – ’ the doctor whispered, ‘she won’t pull out of this one. I’m afraid that’s too much to expect. Her heart’s weakening, and there’s just nothing to be done about that, not at her age. But at least she’s not in pain and I want you to know that. – There’s a nurse coming tonight, probably by one a.m. Ellie Podnanski, a nice girl. It’s best to have a nurse here.’

  Edith felt light in the head, airless somehow. The doctor’s words seemed far away, as in a dream. Edith took a deep breath. ‘She’s going to die – soon, do you mean?’

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘It could be tonight. She’ll just – fade away in her sleep, you know. It’s the way she wants it. It isn’t a bad way, in her own house, with people she loves. I think another of her nieces is on the way.’

  Who, Edith wondered. The doctor was speaking respectfully, but Edith was aware that he must have said the same words many times before. These words, however, were about her dear aunt, her flesh and blood.

  ‘She’s had an injection for her heart. The oxygen arrangement isn’t perfect, but it helps. Don’t hesitate, Edith, to call me if you want to. I’ve known your aunt a long, long time.’ He patted Edith’s arm, and went out.

  Edith put her foot on the first step of the stairs, gripped the bevel of the rail. Then she started to climb the steps.

  Bertha stood in Melanie’s room, looking tense and a little frightened. Melanie seemed to be asleep. At least her eyes were closed.

  ‘Would you like something to eat, Miss Edith?’

  ‘No, not now,’ Edith said, though she knew it was after 11. ‘I’ll get something out of the kitchen later, if I feel like it.’

  ‘You’re looking a little pale. Bet you didn’t have supper.’

  Edith smiled. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘She’s sleeping now,’ said Bertha.

  When Bertha left, taking an empty glass and spoon with her, Edith went near the bed and made sure her aunt was breathing. A metal tank was looped over the bedpost. How long would the tank last? Edith raised the plastic and felt her aunt’s fingers, which seemed to her not warm enough, but an electric heater focused on the bed, and the room was quite warm. The right corner of Melanie’s mouth tipped downward now, unlike her. Edith forced herself to believe Melanie was still breathing, because she wanted her to be breathing.

  Then Edith sat down in a rocking chair with a high back, sat on a turquoise-colored cushion crocheted by Melanie years ago, and the next instant, it seemed, Bertha came in silently, bearing an amber glass on a tray.

  ‘Thought maybe you’d like this, Miss Edith. It’s made the way you like it.’

  Edith took it gratefully. A stiff scotch with one ice cube, now nearly melted. Edith didn’t like her drinks freezing cold. She lit a cigarette, found an ashtray, a blue-and-white faience souvenir that said ‘Florence’, then remembered that one shouldn’t smoke anywhere near an oxygen tent, and put the cigarette out. Edith looked at the leatherbound old books at the bottom of a long bookcase, at the top shelves filled with her great-aunt’s current favorites, newer books in jackets. The drink helped. She felt warmer, then tired, then hungry.

  She took the glass down with her, paused in the hall, then moved toward the big white door with the brass knob. She put on the light switch at once – to the left of the door – as if to protect herself from a darkness that might be hostile. This was ‘the library’, also the sitting room, where Melanie brought everyone for drinks before meals, for tea, just for sitting and talking. It was book-lined, but more important was the fireplace, the big low table everyone could reach from armchairs, the old piano that Melanie played sometimes. The carpet was getting threadbare. The room looked lived in. Edith went out quickly, unable to face it longer, because it was as much her aunt as her aunt herself.

  In the kitchen, Edith opened the refrigerator and her gaze at once focused on a huge ham, half cut away from the bone. She took the platter out and found a knife. Ham like the old days, baked in brown sugar, browned remnants of pineapple, soft sweet gravy below, an occasional clove. Edith cut slivers with an ancient kitchen knife. She found a half pan of cornbread, poured a glass of milk and banqueted, standing, for five minutes or so.

  She heard a car, looked at her watch, and saw it was almost one. Miss Podnanski. Edith went to let her in.

  ‘Evening. You’re Mrs Cobb’s niece?’ the blonde girl asked, smiling, removing her coat. She had blue eyes, and cheeks pink with health. She looked barely twenty.

  Edith showed the girl up to Melanie’s room. The nurse took Melanie’s pulse, still pleasantly smiling. She had a gentle voice. A human machine, Edith thought, and yet she was delighted that the girl was here, because she knew what to do, what had to be done. Miss Podnanski declined Edith’s offer to make coffee, or to bring a sandwich, because she had just eaten, she said.

  ‘You can sleep now,’ the nurse said.

  So Edith did. Without a bath, after washing only her face and brushing her teeth, Edith fell into the big bed in the room where she had always stayed at her great-aunt’s.

  She was awakened by a gentle knock, her name being called – by the nurse, of course. Edith got out of bed, and put a sweater on over her pajama top. She was wanted on the telephone. In the dawn light, she could just see in the hall. The nearest telephone was in Melanie’s room, where the nurse had answered. Edith saw by the clock that it was ten past 7.

  ‘Hello, Edith!’ said a woman’s voice
amid crackles. ‘This is Penny. I’m ringing from Ankara…’

  Another of Melanie’s nieces, Edith remembered, married to a Frenchman in diplomatic service. Edith answered sleepily but efficiently. Yes, Melanie had had a second stroke and the doctor had not much hope.

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow – late today your time, I think. My aunt has my address… We had a wire, you see…’

  When she hung up, Edith turned from the telephone and to her surprise Melanie was looking at her, had turned her head. ‘That was Penny,’ Edith said.

  ‘Oh. Penny. – Sit down, Edie.’ Those were the last words Edith could recognize.

  Aunt Melanie wanted to talk. The quiet, bursting-with-health nurse touched Melanie’s shoulder through the plastic, gently told her not to try to speak. Melanie’s lips moved a little, but no voice came. Her eyes were almost closed. It was the first time Edith had watched a death. She did not sit down. Neither did the nurse, and after a few moments, she turned to Edith and said, still gently:

  ‘It’s over now.’ And she nodded. Edith stood another moment, as if in a trance, while it seeped into her slowly that she and the strange nurse were the only two people in the room.

  Edith drove back to Pennsylvania that afternoon. She had done all she could at Aunt Melanie’s house, spoken with the doctor, the undertaker, the funeral home, sent a telegram to Penny, telephoned her mother to give her the news. Her own mother was not feeling well, she said, and Edith had felt a twinge of resentment that her mother had seemed more concerned about her own health than Melanie’s death. But her mother had a weak heart, so Edith supposed that was terrifying. Her mother wasn’t overweight and didn’t smoke, yet she had a bad heart. She was going to see the doctor tomorrow. Her mother had already suffered one stroke, maybe three years ago. Edith had even telephoned Cliffie. Cliffie had said merely, ‘Oh,’ at the news. Just as mechanically, Edith had asked about George. Had Cliffie given him something to eat? Cliffie replied in the affirmative, in a vague way, and Edith knew old George would be all right, nothing more certain, but she imagined the worst in regard to the bedpan, Cliffie pretending not to hear George’s requests, George trying to do things himself. Then as she drove on, Edith told herself to stop it. She was always imagining the worst – naturally, so she wouldn’t be surprised, and might even find things better.

  Such was not the case when she got home. First, to her alarm, Cliffie’s Volks was gone. He was not allowed to drive until June. The front door was not locked. Nelson came downstairs and gave Edith an affectionate ‘M-wah-h!’ and pressed himself against her legs, tail erect.

  ‘Cliffie?’ Edith called, thinking he might be in his room, having lent somebody his car, but there was no answer.

  Edith slipped out of boots and coat, and took her suitcase up the stairs, left it on the landing and walked toward George’s door, which was half open but showed no light. ‘George?’ she called. Then she noticed the smell.

  She knew, and without a pause plunged in. It was the carpets, the hall floor and their scatter rugs. Edith opened George’s window, and continued to work with a will, with bucket, sponges, liquid rug cleaner. George was asleep through it all, snoring gently, despite the bumps of the plastic bucket as Edith set it down again and again. Next came the bedsheets. No, first the bedpan, just for a moment’s relief, because it was so much easier to clean than what she had been cleaning. Even so, she had to leave it to soak in the bath-tub in five inches of water. Amazing! In not quite twenty-four hours! She had to awaken George in order to change the sheets, which she could now do in professional fashion, rolling the patient half way across the bed and so forth. It occurred to Edith that Cliffie had played an unmentionable prank – he probably had – and Edith was not going to mention it, because it would only give Cliffie satisfaction if she did. She could see his innocent, well-fed face, as he said, ‘But I didn’t!’

  ‘Tanky, Edit,’ George mumbled, toothless, and turned again to sleep.

  Edith glanced at the codeine bottles, realized she didn’t know what their level was supposed to be, and that she didn’t particularly care. She unpacked her case, went down to check the fridge and found it adequate for tonight’s dinner even if Cliffie returned, had a bath and put on blue corduroy slacks and a sweater, and started preparing dinner, activities which seemed a breeze compared to cleaning George’s room. She poured herself a drink, and rang up Frances Quickman to thank her.

  ‘Well, you sound quite cheerful, considering,’ Frances said.

  ‘Why not? What else can one do? I don’t suppose you know where Cliffie is? He wasn’t home when I got home, and his car is gone.’

  ‘His car! No, I’m afraid I don’t, Edie. And the two times I went in to feed Nelson, Cliffie wasn’t in.’

  Cliffie did come in a little after 8, when Edith was having her second drink and listening to Fauré’s Requiem on the record player. Because of the music, she had not heard Cliffie’s car, if he had come in the car. Cliffie was pink-eyed, carrying some tabloid-sized newspaper which he had twisted into a tight roll.

  ‘Well, hello!’ Edith said. ‘You’re driving the Volks?’

  ‘No, I lent it to someone. He drove it – drove me back.’

  Edith knew she would have to move the Volks to get her own car out of the driveway. Suddenly she was impatient with the music, because ‘In Paradisum’ was coming up, and while alone she might have liked it, with Cliffie it became a sacrilege. She switched the set off and said, ‘Aunt Melanie’s funeral is tomorrow morning. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep and start out early. Do you want to come?’

  Cliffie stared at her solemnly, almost focusing. ‘No.’

  Edith had expected it. ‘Thanks for your help with George.’

  ‘That shit-ass!’ Cliffie hurled the rolled newspaper at the sofa, whence Nelson leapt down, though it hadn’t come near him.

  Edith put the record away in its sleeve with deliberate care. Then she took the rest of her drink into the kitchen.

  She grilled two lamb chops, not wanting more than one herself. If Cliffie wanted to join her, he could, as usual. But he didn’t join her. Edith ate at the kitchen table, and before she was finished, the telephone rang. It was Brett, who said he had tried earlier to reach her. Edith told him why she had rung him from Delaware, not reaching him either, to tell him that Melanie had died. She had thought he might want to know, Edith said.

  ‘I can’t make it tomorrow, Edith. I’m awfully sorry about Melanie. But my God, she was getting on, wasn’t she?’

  Edith when she had hung up walked away from the telephone with a bitterness, a sourness, in her heart. Brett had sounded phony. The man she had loved, lived with, whose child she had borne, had sounded as phony as a stranger trying to say the right thing.

  She suddenly felt clear as ice in the head. She looked around her familiar hall and stairway, at the coathooks, with different eyes – or so it seemed. She detested it all, detested Cliffie, George, even the image of her own garden. She opened the front door and let the icy air surround her, enter her nostrils where it seemed to turn to crystal. She remembered her great-aunt’s face in repose, and deliberately erased from it the twist that the stroke had caused. Melanie’s spirit was still with her.

  21

  20/March/69. The sculpting goes on apace. Have begun a head of C. – not that he ever has time for posing. I have to work from photographs (as with Aunt M.) & quick sketches on the rare occasions when he or he & D. are here. J. is one year old almost, & C. manages to ride her on his back, if he holds one of her little hands. The great engineer, crawling around on his knees, falling on his face sometimes, laughing.

  In her diary, Brett’s little daughter had no place, had not been mentioned, and the thought of her in the Brunswick Corner living room no longer made Edith giggle. Cliffie and Debbie now had a pleasant house in the country near Princeton, a comfortable number of miles from Debbie’s parents, and Edith sometimes visited them there. Brett had vanished like a shadow that never was, never had been.
Just now Cliffie commuted once a week to New York, where he stayed overnight in the apartment he and Debbie maintained. For a period of two months, Cliffie was in conference with other engineers of his company, discussing current work in Kuwait where he had just come from, or he was at home in New Jersey working on an invention of his own which he did not talk about to anyone (outside of his company), even Debbie. Edith continued:

  I love being busy, love the sculpting. The Zylstras both admired Melanie. Must have her cast in the new bronze-like material which one can polish for a highlight here and there. Then she will adorn our living room forever.