Edith's Diary

by Patricia Highsmith

  Sometimes Cliffie called him Dad, sometimes Brett. ‘No. I’ll try tomorrow morning. Shouldn’t you go to bed?’

  ‘No. I’ll help you clean some more – upstairs.’ Cliffie felt cheerful suddenly, but he added with his usual shrug, ‘Why not?’ as if it were as good a thing to be doing at 2 a.m. as anything else.

  Before another half hour had passed, Edith had sponged the chest of drawers and the bedtable with warm water and washing-up suds, and vacuumed the carpet and floor. George’s suitcases (two) had been packed with all his clothes except an ancient, limp raincoat which now lay folded on the hall floor beside the suitcases, ready to be thrown out. She and Cliffie moved the bed across the room, and now it stood at a different angle in a corner, with a window near its head and another left of its foot. Edith wanted the pictures rearranged too, but did not want to embark on that tonight.

  ‘Come on now, that’s enough,’ she said finally, smiling a little. She had enjoyed the physical effort. But even Nelson had grown tired of watching them and departed.

  ‘Do you know where they took him?’ Cliffie asked, dustrag in hand. He had been wiping out the bedtable drawer, and the wastebasket was again full of junk.

  Edith realized she didn’t, exactly. ‘A funeral home, of course. In Doylestown. Begins with a C. I’ll find out from Carstairs tomorrow.’

  *

  The same morning, Edith was up by 7, feeling not in the least tired, and with her first cup of coffee went to the telephone to try to get Brett before he took off for work.

  Carol answered.

  ‘Hello, this is Edith. I’m sorry to be phoning so early, but there’s something important I have to say to Brett.’

  ‘Brett’s not here just now. You see, I – Brett dropped me and the baby at the house just a few minutes ago and went on in the car to Long Island.’

  ‘Oh? Where in Long Island? Can I reach him?’

  ‘It’s an editors’ conference in Locust Valley, I think. International editors. I’d have to get the exact place – the phone number, I mean, from Brett’s secretary. Can I give him a message?’ Carol sounded most willing.

  ‘Yes, you can. It’s that his uncle George died last night – apparently in his sleep. I tried to reach Brett last night around one a.m.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness! – I’ll certainly try to reach him, Edith! We were at my parents’ last night.’

  Edith felt impatient, a bit silly, after they had hung up. But for God’s sake she was trying to do the right thing. She poured a second cup of coffee, and telephoned Carstairs. He told her that the Doylestown funeral home was called Crighton.

  ‘I hope to be in touch with Brett by noon or before. He’ll probably have his own ideas about how things should be done.’ But would he? She could also imagine Brett saying, ‘Doesn’t matter much now, does it?’ Edith added with more conviction, ‘Surely the funeral place knows what to do. I know Brett will want to come to the funeral, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Dr Carstairs.

  By 11 that morning, Edith had not heard from Brett. She had intended to go to the supermarket that morning, so she did, in Lambertville, where the supermarket was better than that of Brunswick Corner. She bought all the usuals, including toilet paper. What a relief, she thought, not to be concerned with extra Kleenexes, sleeping pills, laxatives, boxes of cotton. It made her feel healthier herself.

  Before she had unpacked the two cartons and the paper bags, the Crighton Funeral Home telephoned. They asked if she could come that afternoon to make a choice of casket?

  ‘And there are a few other details that should be attended to,’ said the gentle female voice.

  ‘Yes. I’m hoping my husband – How late are you open today?’

  ‘Oh, we’re open day and night, madam. There’s always someone here.’

  Brett rang at half past noon. ‘Yes, Carol told me,’ he said, interrupting Edith. ‘Look, I’m phoning at the start of the prelunch cocktails here, which is the only time I’ll have till – till at least five, the way things look. Conferences this afternoon —’

  ‘The funeral home told me they’re open day and night.’ Like death, Edith thought. She had spoken rather coolly. ‘So why don’t you come any time, Brett? The funeral home – wants the casket chosen, you know, things like that.’

  ‘Yes. At least I’ve got the car with me. What caused it, do you think?’

  ‘Well – after all, Brett, he was eighty-seven, wasn’t he?’

  By the time they had hung up, Brett had said he should get to Brunswick Corner by 7:30 p.m. with any luck, and they could go to the funeral home in Doylestown. They could go. She really didn’t care if Brett went by himself.

  Cliffie was still asleep, but surfaced at half past 1, by which time Edith had had a bite of lunch and was about to take off for the Thatchery. Cliffie poured his usual coffee, with nothing else, to wake up on. His shoulders looked broad and sturdy, if a bit round under a threadbare Chinese silk robe with worn out black satin lapels. Cliffie had dug the robe out from some recess in his closet, and was addicted to it lately.

  ‘Your father rang up,’ she said. ‘He’s coming around seven-thirty. We have to go to that funeral home in Doylestown, but you don’t have to come if you don’t feel like it.’

  By now Cliffie was munching stale cake, dropping crumbs on the table mat. ‘I don’t think I want to go. Gosh – corpses, I suppose! Corpses all over the place? I wonder what it smells like! But I can imagine – I’m sure!’

  He was nervous. Better today if he did have some drinks, Edith thought, a point about which she did not have to remind him. And she was not going to bother saying to him, as if she were instructing a child, that funeral homes displayed their corpses only to the nearest of kin, and then when the corpses were – She arrested her thoughts deliberately, yet with a feeling that today somehow signified great progress.

  ‘Loads of food, Cliffie. I went to the supermarket. I’m off now. You going to be in this evening when Brett comes?’

  ‘I dunno. I suppose so.’

  She felt he would be.

  Edith managed to tidy up her portion of the counters at the Thatchery, and to leave by 7:05. No one, today, had inquired how George was doing, though half the time one of the staff or customers did. She walked homeward, thinking that if Brett had arrived early, he probably wouldn’t have a key, and Cliffie might be out.

  Brett had not arrived. Edith looked up the Crighton Funeral Home to find out what street it was on. Then she washed her face, and got herself pulled together – a skirt with a white sweater, a scarf, and by then she heard Brett’s step on the porch, a knock. Edith went down the stairs. The door was not locked, and Brett was coming in. He looked pale, thinner, then Edith remembered he had had a long day plus the drive from New York.

  ‘Hello, Brett!’

  ‘Hello. Well – what news, eh? What news!’

  Edith tried to look calmer than she felt. Was Cliffie in? She hadn’t looked. ‘It had to come some time, Brett.’

  Brett said yes to the offer of a drink, and sat down at the right end of the sofa, his old favorite place. He wore a brown tweed suit that Edith had not seen before. ‘Died in his sleep,’ Brett said after his first sip.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know it till – Cliffie said he spoke with George around seven Sunday, and George didn’t want any dinner. We’d had a big late Sunday lunch – you know. So I didn’t know anything was wrong till around eleven.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘I couldn’t wake him up! So I rang the doctor. Carstairs was at a dinner in Flemington, so it was after midnight when he got here.’

  Brett frowned, and the dry skin of his face looked more wrinkled. ‘But what did Carstairs say he died of?’

  Edith heard a creak of floorboard in the hall, then Cliffie appeared in the doorway and walked in.

  ‘Hello, Dad!’ Cliffie half extended a hand and withdrew it, a gesture that suggested an awkward wave.

  ‘Hello, Cliffie. And how are you?’

>   ‘All right, thanks.’ Cliffie turned and went to the bar cart, hauled up the scotch and unscrewed its top.

  ‘I suppose it was a kind of heart failure,’ Edith said to Brett.

  ‘Cheers, Dad!’ Cliffie lifted his glass. He felt well, rested, dressed presentably, slightly oiled already but not too. His father looked older and smaller than Cliffie remembered. Cliffie was not afraid of him.

  Brett had squirmed with impatience at Cliffie’s toast. He blinked at Edith, and rubbed his eyes as if they hurt. ‘All these years. I know what a burden he was. A pain in the neck to you. I appreciate that fact.’

  Cliffie turned toward the bottles again to hide his smile from his father.

  ‘I’d like to hear from Carstairs,’ Brett went on, ‘just what the cause of death was.’

  ‘You can ask him,’ Edith said. ‘I must say Carstairs didn’t seem terribly surprised.’

  Brett finished his glass, uncrossed his legs and stood up. ‘I think I will try to get Carstairs. Now. Might be important. Have you got his number handy, Edith? I’ve forgotten it, if I ever knew it.’

  Carstairs’ number was on the well-worn top page of a writing pad by the telephone, and Edith pointed it out to Brett. Edith went back into the living room. Cliffie was reasonably sober, but wearing the ghastly blue plaid jacket. He was in good spirits, beaming with confidence. Edith avoided looking at him, though she felt him watching her.

  Brett had succeeded in getting Carstairs.

  ‘Oh… You’re sure of that?… Oh… No, she didn’t… I see.’ Long, long pause now. ‘Yes. I understand. But shouldn’t there be an autopsy then?… No – but you didn’t order an autopsy?’

  Edith took a cigarette and moved closer to the garden window, where she could hear less well, and she tried not to hear. She turned and said to Cliffie, ‘You still don’t want to come with us?’

  ‘No.’ Surrounded by beard, Cliffie’s well-shaped, rosy lips smiled, and his eyes were full of amusement. He swirled his glass and drank.

  Brett came back and gave an exasperated sigh familiar to Edith. ‘Carstairs didn’t even order an autopsy. Says he thinks George might’ve given himself an overdose. What do you think? Doesn’t sound like George – after all these years.’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Edith said it flatly, and in an honest tone – she realized. She wasn’t making an effort.

  ‘Carstairs says there were some bottles practically empty right by his – on the bedside table there.’

  ‘I know. But quite frankly I wasn’t keeping track of how much was in the bottles.’

  ‘But who was dosing him? Was he dosing himself?’

  ‘No, sometimes I did. I’d ask him if he’d had his vitamins or whatever. The stuff was there on his bedside table. He took his sleeping pills himself – according to need.’ Did Brett think she was running a hospital? Edith detested talking about it. She really preferred Cliffie’s what-the-hell smirk – so close to her on her left now. ‘Sometimes I’d offer him his pills or that codeine syrup, and he’d say he’d already taken it.’

  ‘I think, if it’s not too late – For the sake of the insurance I – What’s the name of that funeral home?’

  Edith went to the directory, looked it up and pointed out to Brett the Crighton Funeral Home entry. Brett whipped out his glasses, then dialed. Edith went back into the living room.

  ‘F’gosh sake,’ Cliffie murmured, still standing near the bar cart. ‘An old guy like that. Whether he took an overdose —’ Cliffie was whispering.

  ‘I agree!’ Edith said.

  Cliffie smiled.

  Brett’s voice rose from the hall. ‘Because I’m not even sure that’s legal under the circumstances. I would think also a coroner – Oh, the doctor’s job!’

  Edith heard him spluttering, trying to wind up in a civil manner, then he banged the telephone down.

  Brett came in, saying, ‘Idiots have already – He’s already embalmed. Let’s go, Edith.’

  23

  It was after 11 p.m. before Edith and Brett returned to the house. They had had dinner at the Cartwheel Inn, a roadside bar and restaurant. Cliffie was out, as Edith had expected. Brett wanted to talk with him. Brett had ordered a cremation, which he said was in accordance with George’s wishes. He had asked to see George, but the attendant – a young footballer-type with crewcut, wearing a clean white smock – had told Brett that the (what had he called it?) was not yet ready for viewing, but would be by tomorrow at 9 a.m. Brett had signed several papers, and Edith had waited on a polished wooden bench in the marble lobby, almost out of hearing of all this. Brett had sat with the young man at a desk in a far corner.

  Brett was staying the night.

  ‘You look exhausted, you shouldn’t drive back,’ Edith had said, meaning it, because even after eating dinner, Brett was gray in the face.

  Now here they were, and Edith wondered where he should sleep? The guestroom, of course. Its bed was made up. Edith found some pajamas in Cliffie’s room, clean but unironed because she didn’t bother any more, since Cliffie didn’t care. Brett liked to sleep in pajamas. Brett telephoned Carol. Then he came upstairs where Edith was turning down the bed in the guestroom.

  ‘I’ve got to leave before seven tomorrow,’ Brett said. ‘I’d like to talk with Cliffie.’ This for the second time. ‘You think he’s going to stay out all night? Or – I’ll wake him up early. What else?’ Brett looked asleep on his feet.

  ‘I really don’t know what he’s doing.’ Edith walked toward the door, having put the bedside lamp on for Brett.

  ‘Can I see George’s room?’ Brett was already going in, flicking on the main light to the left of the door. ‘So! Already – changed around.’

  Edith said nothing. She could have said, ‘I felt like it,’ or ‘After all, it was depressing,’ but she felt like saying nothing.

  Brett was walking about in the room, hands in his trousers pockets. ‘And all those – medicines?’

  ‘I think I threw them all out. Who wants codeine in the house?’

  Brett nodded briefly, absently. ‘You don’t think maybe Cliffie gave him an overdose. Didn’t you say —’

  ‘Cliffie paid hardly any attention to George, I assure you, Brett. Never helped me – frankly.’

  ‘Didn’t you say Cliffie found out around seven that George didn’t want any dinner?’

  ‘Yes. True.’ Edith went into her workroom to get a cigarette. There was usually an opened pack on her table, and one was there now.

  ‘M-waa-ow,’ Nelson said, puzzled. He lay on the curved bench seat, near the radiator.

  ‘Oh! Sculpting,’ Brett said, coming in. ‘Gosh! – And there’s Cliffie looking like – a Roman emperor. Better!’ – Brett guffawed, as if her portrait were a rich joke, a caricature.

  Edith felt resentment, even fury rise through her body to her face, her eyes, and deliberately she smiled, though Brett was not looking at her, but at Melanie’s head now, then at the abstracts, to which he gave merely a glance. He still smiled, stupidly, Edith thought. ‘Well. New pastime, eh? Very interesting, Edie. Not bad, really.’ He strolled out again.

  Edith hated that he had set foot in her room. ‘Have a bath, if you like. You know where the towels are. What time shall I wake you tomorrow?’

  ‘Best six-thirty. Can’t you give me the alarm? I can grab some Nescafé when I wake up.’

  She gave him the clock from the bedroom, knowing she would wake at the unaccustomed creaks in the house in the morning. And Carol was his new pastime. Edith was aware that the last thing she wanted in the world now was to be in bed with Brett.

  That night she lay a long while without sleeping, though she tried to relax, to gain energy for tomorrow. She knew Cliffie would not come home. A couple of times he had stayed the night at the house of one of the boys who worked in the Chop House, a boy whose name Edith had forgotten, because it didn’t matter. She thought of the things she would never say to Brett, such as, ‘So what if George took the overdose himself? So what
if Cliffie gave it to him? At George’s age – so what? If people have to die, and they do, isn’t going to sleep the easiest way? What about me all these thirteen years?’ Then anger, combined with shame of her petulance, made her grow tense and turn over in bed, muscles rigid again, and again she deliberately relaxed, breathed deeply. She was going to protect Cliffie, and Cliffie knew it. That was strange. Even the doctor, however, old Carstairs, was on their side. Edith laughed – but not loudly, and her door was shut, anyway.

  The sound of a car door slamming, then the false start of an engine awakened Edith, because it had sounded close, right in the driveway. Brett, she thought. Taking off? Not hurrying, she pushed her feet into slippers, and walked to her workroom (the guestroom door was open), and saw Brett’s car pulling away from the curb. That was a fine thing! Strange she hadn’t heard him go down the stairs, but Brett could be very quiet when he wanted to be.