Edith's Diary

by Patricia Highsmith

  She went into the guestroom, where he had tossed the covers back upon the bed, to see if he had left a note. He hadn’t. In the hall, Edith noticed that George’s two suitcases still stood by the wall outside his room, plus the English racehorse print, which Edith had wrapped, though Edith last evening had suggested that Brett take them, that a suit might be needed for the burial, but now Brett was talking of cremation.

  In sudden anger, Edith remembered Brett saying last night, ‘You’re getting strange, Edie. Maybe you should get out with people more.’ Edith had replied that she saw about a hundred a day at the Thatchery, talked with them, had to get along with them, and she also went to dinner parties often enough. She was also on good terms with the Bugle advertisers, from whom she often had to collect personally, but she hadn’t said that.

  It was hardly 7, but Edith didn’t want to go back to bed for an hour. She went downstairs, glanced into Cliffie’s room and saw that he wasn’t there, though she did peer at a mound of navy blue blanket on the unmade bed, which just might have covered a human figure. She threw out what was left of the old coffee, and started afresh. While she was doing this, she heard the front door close. Cliffie, she supposed.

  Then Brett appeared in the dining room. Edith was startled.

  ‘Morning. I moved my car. If Cliffie sees my car, he’ll never come in. I know my son. I want to talk to him this morning.’ Brett looked stiff with purpose.

  Edith said, ‘Coffee will be ready in about six minutes.’

  ‘Mind if I make a couple of phone calls?’

  Edith tried not to listen, which was easy, as she could barely hear the tones of his voice from where she was. Edith poured orange juice and made toast.

  Brett came back with a tense smile. ‘Carstairs says he can come over around ten-thirty. Sorry I’ll have to hang around, Edith, but it’s worth it – to me. I rang Carol and she’ll explain to my office.’

  Oh, good, Edith thought. They sat at the table.

  ‘Don’t forget to take George’s suitcases,’ Edith said. ‘Not to mention a few papers of his. They’re in a couple of boxes upstairs.’

  Edith had work to do too. She took a bath, put on comfortable clothes, and tackled the Bugle work on her table. There were five subscription reminder slips to send off (Edith kept a file, by month), and then for Letterbox, besides the usual gripes about the hooligan ‘outsiders’ invading the town on Saturdays and Sundays, thanks to the more frequent buses lately, old antiabortionist Mrs Charlton Riggs, Tinicum, was piping up again. Last evening at the restaurant Edith had chuckled, telling Brett what she intended to reply in an editorial, a brief one of about fifteen lines. ‘You sound like an extremist,’ Brett had said. Edith had retorted, ‘The only people who get anything done in the world are extremists.’ That from him, she thought. How he had changed! When she had stamped all the reminder envelopes, Edith put a piece of paper in the typewriter and wrote:

  The sanctity-of-life people put quantity above quality, and they have admitted this. They perhaps are the types who, when the Titanic sank, would have hauled everyone from the water into the too few lifeboats with the cry ‘Life is sacred!’ thereby sinking everybody. But we also live on a ship, Spaceship Earth, and are we going to sink that by overloading? Would the Save-the-Foetus people like to state what they would have done in the Titanic lifeboat situation – assuming they themselves were in a lifeboat, i.e. reasonably comfortable and lucky to survive?

  It needed polishing, but the idea was there. Edith laid it aside. Brett was stooped over the suitcases in the hall. Edith went out for a breath of fresh air, and to drop her letters at the post office.

  She looked around for Cliffie. Sometimes he was on foot, sometimes a friend dropped him in a car. He had not taken his Volks.

  ‘Oh, Edie!’ This was Peggy Ditson, a neighbor a bit younger than Edith, who years ago had done quite a bit of girl-Friday work for the Bugle. ‘I heard about George! I’m so sorry dear. Another sadness, but —’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘Gert Johnson called me last night. Frankly, Edie, it’s a blessing. Don’t you think?’ Peggy screwed her face up in an unaccustomed frown, and turned the corners of her mouth down in an effort to look concerned, serious. Peggy was the type who smiled perpetually, if she wasn’t laughing.

  Edith nodded. ‘He was getting on.’ She wondered how Gert had found out?

  ‘I suppose Brett – He was Brett’s uncle, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I’m in touch with Brett.’

  They parted.

  Cliffie came in shortly after Edith had got back. It was already after 10 a.m. Cliffie looked surprisingly well, not as if he had been up all night. Upstairs, Brett was making no noise with his activities, whatever they were. Edith wanted another cup of coffee, so she heated the pot and poured some for herself and Cliffie.

  ‘Where were you?’ Edith asked casually.

  ‘I was at the Johnsons’.’

  That surprised Edith. Gert wasn’t a chum of Cliffie’s, wasn’t anti-Cliffie either, just neutral. ‘Stayed the night there? How’d you get there?’

  ‘I saw Dinah – with a fellow in a car. They were going to her house.’

  Dinah was the Johnsons’ daughter. ‘I gather you told them about George.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Cliffie said, leaning back in his chair, throwing his chest out. He was eating a second piece of toast with marmalade.

  A clunk came from upstairs, a suitcase being set down.

  Cliffie started, and his smile went away.

  ‘Brett’s here.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now Cliffie grew tense, dropped his toast on the plate. ‘I didn’t see his car. What’s he doing?’

  Now there was a knock at the front door. Edith went and admitted Dr Carstairs.

  ‘Hello, Edith,’ Dr Carstairs said with his thin, dry smile. ‘Now what’s the trouble? I’ve got only about fifteen minutes. Appointments this morning.’

  ‘I think —’ Edith knew what the trouble was, Brett wanted a certificate regarding the cause of death. ‘Brett’s upstairs. I’ll call him. – Brett?’

  ‘Yes! Coming!’ He was already halfway down the stairs.

  Edith let them talk. She heard Brett say:

  ‘Just that I’d like to get some facts from you, doctor – no mincing of words, eh? You know me long enough not to, I hope.’ Brett was trying to be pleasant. ‘I’d like my son to be with us too.’ Brett called Cliffie.

  Cliffie was in his room and didn’t appear for a minute or two. Now he wore a sloppy turtle-neck sweater, spotted with what looked like flecks of white paint. Edith went with Cliffie into the living room via the dining room.

  ‘Well – at that age,’ Dr Carstairs was saying. ‘Hello, Cliffie. At that age you could say it’s heart failure, a failure of the general system.’

  ‘You spoke of empty medicine bottles. Maybe you’d like to sit down, doctor.’

  Carstairs did sit on the sofa. ‘Brett, I can’t say anything specific about those bottles.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t order an autopsy,’ Brett said.

  ‘I didn’t see any need for one. Edith didn’t ask for one.’

  ‘But the fact that you mentioned empty medicine bottles – last night, I —’

  Carstairs interrupted calmly, ‘I don’t happen to know if any were more empty than usual, because Edith always – Well, you know, things were going fine for George all these years with a certain amount of codeine plus an occasional morphine injection from me, which hadn’t been much increased, nothing like a cancer case, I can assure you. I have my records. – You didn’t order any extra codeine, did you, Edith?’ he asked, looking at her.

  ‘No.’ Edith was leaning on the back of the armchair. ‘I couldn’t order extra. Stan keeps your prescriptions, you know, and I just went when a bottle of something was getting low. The prescriptions were timed, Brett.’

  ‘Yes, but if he took all the stuff at once,’ Brett said to Edith. ‘How full were the bottles?’

/>   ‘Brett – I wasn’t keeping track of every bottle. I don’t know,’ Edith said.

  Brett turned to the doctor again. ‘I presume you wrote a certificate of death, doctor.’

  ‘Yes. General systematic failure, cardiovascular failure. – Frankly, Brett, if you’re thinking of an overdose, the old boy might well have given it to himself. It wouldn’t have taken much in his condition.’

  Here Cliffie chuckled slightly, but it sounded like a sudden exhalation or cough. He was enjoying the conversation, and Carstairs might as well have been his chum, from the way he was talking.

  Brett looked as if he could have hit Cliffie with pleasure. ‘I’m sure I have to say something to the insurance people,’ Brett said. ‘If you —’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s for me to say,’ said Carstairs, ‘and I’ve already sent it to the State authorities. They’ll send Edith a certified copy and she can send it on to you.’

  Brett took a breath, but Carstairs spoke first.

  ‘If you’re thinking that possibly – old George took an overdose either by mistake or on purpose – under the circumstances, at his age, that’s not going to be either here or there. It’s not like a young person’s suicide. I really have got to be getting along.’ Carstairs glanced at his wrist-watch, and slid to the edge of the sofa. ‘Unless there’s anything else —’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘There may be. We’ll see,’ Brett said. ‘Thank you for looking in this morning, doctor.’

  It was probably Gert phoning, Edith thought as she picked up the telephone. It was a long distance call, and a voice identified itself as that of Sarah Belleter – another grand-niece of Aunt Melanie and one of Edith’s remote cousins. She said she was at Melanie’s house and asked if Edith could come this week, maybe Wednesday, since the lawyers were making progress with the will, and there were a couple of things to discuss, and also Sarah would love to see her again. Sarah’s voice was pleasant and friendly.

  To Edith, just then, it was a lovely invitation, a welcoming to her side of the family. She had seen Sarah a few times and liked her: she was surprisingly dark of hair, with lovely brows and a voice that charmed and soothed. Sarah had been educated in England and Switzerland, and was married to a Swiss architect. ‘I’d be delighted to!’ Edith replied, then remembered her Thatchery afternoon which she ought not to renege on. ‘Is around nine p.m. Wednesday all right? I’ve got an afternoon job now.’

  ‘Oh, of course, Edith! You sound in fine form. I’m looking forward. Stay the night of course. Stay a couple of nights, if you can!’

  Edith went back into the living room, happier. Cliffie was standing against the breakfront, as before, but now his face was white. Cliffie was scared.

  ‘Yes. I know my son,’ Brett said to Edith.

  Edith’s heart beat faster. ‘And what’re you talking about now?’ she asked in a tone Aunt Melanie might have used.

  ‘I asked him if he possibly administered George’s medicines that afternoon, Sunday,’ Brett said.

  ‘I didn’t!’ Cliffie said stoutly, but with a tremor.

  ‘Look at him,’ Brett said, shaking his head. ‘Sounds the same as when he was ten years old – five! Denying something – like decorating the bedroom walls with your lipstick! Remember that one, Edith?’

  Edith did. ‘Until you can prove something, Brett – why don’t you let things alone?’

  ‘I wasn’t here!’ Brett said. ‘Where were you – that evening, Sunday?’

  ‘I told you – in my workroom. Nobody had a real supper that evening.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about supper. I’ve got to take off.’ Brett walked awkwardly bent forward, as Edith had seen him a thousand times when he was hurrying, though now he looked more bent, sillier. He went into the hall where his topcoat or raincoat hung on a hook.

  Edith smiled broadly, felt like laughing even. The audacity, the absurdity, the cruelty, even, of accusing someone – or the same as – of something that couldn’t be proven at all! Making someone miserable, just to get the petty satisfaction of —

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Brett barked, coming in, straightening his coat.

  ‘The idea of making Cliffie miserable like this! Why should you? What’ve you ever done? Done about —’

  ‘Done? What do you mean?’

  ‘You couldn’t even get George to that – what’s it called – Sunset Pines!’ The name sent Edith off into genuine laughter.

  Cliffie joined her with a manly guffaw. The color had returned to his face.

  ‘I know, I know. But I think that’s hardly relevant,’ said Brett. ‘Stop it, Edith, you’re hysterical! Cool it.’

  ‘Hah!’ That was Cliffie’s mocking laugh.

  ‘The service,’ Brett began, and hesitated. ‘The service – I’m sure short – is tomorrow at eleven. Starting at the home. Will you be there?’

  Edith hated it, as she had hated many an engagement in her life, but without pausing, she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you there.’ Brett touched her arm, then withdrew his hand almost at once. ‘I know, Edie, you’ve had a lot to put up with and I know years ago I should’ve forced him to go into that rest home.’

  Edith looked at him, not thinking about anything, simply wishing that he would leave.

  ‘Bye-bye, Edith, and thank you. Bye, Cliffie.’ Brett went out.

  ‘Good-bye,’ Cliffie said in a deep voice when the door had closed, and swung his body, arm extended, toward the scotch bottle.

  ‘Pour me one too,’ Edith said.

  Cliffie did, and shot some soda into it. ‘I’m not going tomorrow,’ he said as he handed the drink to his mother.

  24

  At half past 7 the evening of Wednesday, Edith set out in the car with an overnight bag, bound for Hollyhocks, Melanie’s house. It was glorious, driving, glorious to feel free, to be moving. She was tempted to put on speed, but prudently kept within the limit, a discipline she found easy. She looked forward to Hollyhocks – a bit stripped though it might be by now – to Sarah and her husband Peter, to a civilized meal with them, to a night of sleep in her old room, maybe. Cliffie hadn’t wanted to come, though Edith had said, ‘Come on, why not? We’ll ask Frances to feed Nelson,’ and Cliffie had wavered, had almost said yes, but finally said no. Even that was progress of a sort, Edith thought. Cliffie had showed a noticeable confidence in himself since George’s – removal. He had, for instance, offered to give Nelson his two meals a day, and this time Edith felt she could trust him to do it.

  Edith passed familiar landmarks, looked at them with kinder, happier eyes now, she felt. God, it was amazing! Just to have George out of the house, just to feel the house somehow hers again, that room hers again to do what she wished with. Terrible to feel that way about an old man just dead, perhaps, but after all, he’d been finally a most ungrateful character, hadn’t released a little extra of his money to buy her or the house, for instance, a present for the last many Christmases. And Edith would have bet her life that nothing special would come to her via George’s will – not that she gave a damn. Edith assumed that Brett would be chief if not sole heir. What would a nurse’s salary have been for all the meals, the time, the bedpan emptying?

  She had to burst out laughing, bent over the steering wheel for two seconds, then wiped her eyes clear of tears. God, it was funny! She opened the window and let the wind blow her hair.

  There was a moon that night, nearly full, and it had taken its place like something in a stage-set, it seemed to Edith, above and to the left of Melanie’s milky-white house as Edith went up the driveway. Lights were on inside, not on the porch, but as she stopped her car, the front door opened and Sarah came out.

  ‘Welcome, Edith!’ Sarah cried. ‘Cliffie with you?’

  ‘Hello, Sarah! No, Cliffie’s home – feeding the cat!’

  There was Bertha in the hall, hovering to take her overnight case. A minute or so later, Edith was seated in the most comfortable chair of the sitting room, nearest the
fire, with a heavy tumbler of scotch on the rocks. Peter Belleter, rosy-cheeked, with straight black hair, sat on a hassock, smiling, shy, but with a friendly manner. Edith asked about their two children, now in Zurich. The Belleters wanted to hear about the Bugle, about Cliffie, and since Brett was not mentioned, Edith assumed Melanie had told them about the divorce.

  Sarah’s dark brows drew together. She was sitting on the arm of the leather sofa, poised and graceful. ‘And wasn’t there – a relative of Brett’s, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You mean George,’ Edith said, glad Sarah had brought George up. ‘I’m sorry to say he died – just last Sunday.’