Slowly, Slowly in the Wind

by Patricia Highsmith

  The doorbell rang, and at the same time Elinor heard the latch of the door being opened. Then Jane called:

  “Elinor?”

  “In the kitchen!”

  The doctor had dark hair and spectacles. He lifted Chris a little, felt for a pulse. “How long—how long was he . . .”

  “I don’t know. I was working upstairs. It was the pond in the garden.”

  The rest was confused to Elinor. She barely realized when the needle went into her own arm, though this was the most definite sensation she had for several minutes. Jane made tea. Elinor had a cup in front of her. When she looked at the sofa, Chris was not there.

  “Where is he?” Elinor asked.

  Jane gripped Elinor’s hand. She sat opposite Elinor. “The doctor took Chris to the hospital. Chris is in good hands, you can be sure of that. This doctor delivered Bill. He’s our doctor.”

  But from Jane’s tone, Elinor knew it was all useless, and that Jane knew this too. Elinor’s eyes drifted from Jane’s face. She noticed a book lying on the cane bottom of the chair beside her. Chris had chosen his dotted numbers book to give to Bill, a book that Chris rather liked. He wasn’t half through doing the drawings. Chris could count and he was doing quite well at reading too. I wasn’t doing so well at his age, I think, Cliff had said not long ago.

  Elinor began to weep.

  “That’s good. That’s good for you,” Jane said. “I’ll stay here with you. Pretty soon we’ll hear from the hospital. Maybe you want to lie down, Elinor?—I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  The sedative was taking effect. Elinor sat in a daze on the sofa, her head back against a pillow. The telephone rang and Jane took it. The hospital, Elinor supposed. She watched Jane’s face, and knew. Elinor nodded her head, trying to spare Jane any words, but Jane said:

  “They tried. I’m sure they did everything possible.”

  Jane said she would stay the night. She said she had arranged for Ed to pick up Bill at a house where she’d left him.

  In the morning, Weed-Killer came, and Jane asked Elinor if she still wanted the job done.

  “I thought you might’ve decided to move,” Jane said.

  Had she said that? Possibly. “But I do want it done.”

  The two Weed-Killer men got to work.

  Jane made another telephone call, then told Elinor that a friend of hers called Millie was coming over at noon. When Millie arrived, Jane prepared a lunch of bacon and eggs for the three of them. Millie had blonde curly hair, blue eyes, and was very cheerful and sympathetic.

  “I went by the doctor’s,” Millie said, “and his nurse gave me these pills for you. They’re slightly sedative. He thinks they’d be good for you. Two a day, one before lunch, one before bedtime. So have one now.”

  They hadn’t started lunch. Elinor took one. The workmen were just departing, and one man stuck his head in the door to say with a smile:

  “All finished, ma’am. You shouldn’t have any trouble any more.”

  During lunch, Elinor said, “I’ve got to see about the funeral.”

  “We’ll help you. Don’t think about it now,” Jane said. “Try to eat a little.”

  Elinor ate a little, then slept on the sofa in the kitchen. She hadn’t wanted to go up to her own bed. When she woke up, Millie was sitting in the wicker armchair, reading a book.

  “Feeling better? Want some tea?”

  “In a minute. You’re awfully kind. I do thank you very much.” She stood up. “I want to see the pond.” She saw Millie’s look of uneasiness. “They killed those vines today. I’d like to see what it looks like.”

  Millie went out with her. Elinor looked down at the pond and had the satisfaction of seeing that no vines lay on the surface, that some pieces of them had sunk like drowned things. Around the edge of the pond were stubs of vines already turning yellow and brownish, wilting. Before her eyes, one cropped tentacle curled sideways and down, as if in the throes of death. A primitive joy went through her, a sense of vengeance, of a wrong righted.

  “It’s a nasty pond,” Elinor said to Millie. “It killed a carp. Can you imagine? I’ve never heard of a carp being—”

  “I know. They must’ve been growing like blazes! But they’re certainly finished now.” Millie held out her hand for Elinor to take. “Don’t think about it now.”

  Millie wanted to go back to the house. Elinor did not take her hand, but she came with Millie. “I’m feeling better. You mustn’t give up all your time to me. It’s very nice of you, since you don’t even know me. But I’ve got to face my problems alone.”

  Millie made some polite reply.

  Elinor really was feeling better. She’d have to go through the funeral next, Chris’s funeral, but she sensed in herself a backbone, morale—whatever it was called. After the service for Chris—surely it would be simple—she’d invite her new neighbors, few as they might be, to her house for coffee or drinks or both. Food too. Elinor realized that her spirits had picked up because the pool was vanquished. She’d have it filled in with stones, with the agent’s and also the owner’s permission of course. Why should she retreat from the house? With stones showing just above the water, it would look every bit as pretty, maybe prettier, and it wouldn’t be dangerous for the next child who came to live here.

  The service for Chris was at a small local church. The preacher conducted a short, nondenominational ceremony. And afterwards, around noon, Elinor did have eight or ten people to the house for coffee, drinks and sandwiches. The strangers seemed to enjoy it. Elinor even heard a few laughs among the group which gladdened her heart. She hadn’t as yet, rung up any of her New York friends to tell them about Chris. Elinor realized that some people might think that “strange” of her, but she felt that it would only sadden her friends to tell them, that it would look like a plea for sympathy. Better the strangers here who knew no grief, because they didn’t know her or Chris.

  “You must be sure and get enough rest in the next days,” said a kindly, middle-aged woman whose husband stood solemnly beside her. “We all think you’ve been awfully brave . . .”

  Elinor gave Jane the dotted numbers book to take to Bill.

  That night Elinor did sleep more than twelve hours and awoke feeling better and calmer. Now she began to write the letters that she had to, to Cliff’s parents, to her own mother and father, and to three good friends in New York. She finished typing her article. The next morning, she walked to the post office and sent off her letters, and also her article to her agent in New York. She spent the rest of the day sorting out Chris’s clothing, his books and toys, and she washed some of his clothes with a view to passing them on to Jane for Bill, providing Jane wouldn’t think it unlucky. Elinor didn’t think Jane would think that. Jane telephoned in the afternoon to ask how she was.

  “Is anyone coming to see you? From New York? A friend, I mean?”

  Elinor explained that she’d written to a few people, but she wasn’t expecting anyone. “I’m really feeling all right, Jane. You mustn’t worry.”

  By evening, Elinor had a neat carton of clothing ready to offer Jane, two more cartons of books and one of toys. If the clothes didn’t fit Bill, then Jane might know a child they would fit. Elinor felt better for that. It was a lot better than collapsing in grief, she thought. Of course it was awful, a tragedy that didn’t happen every day—losing a husband and a child in hardly more than three months. But Elinor was not going to succumb to it. She’d stay out the six months in the house here, come to terms with her loss, and emerge strong, someone able to give something to other people, not merely take.

  She had two ideas for future articles. Which to do first? She decided to walk out into the garden, let her thoughts ramble. Maybe the radishes had come up? She’d have a look at the pond. Maybe it would be glassy smooth and clear. She must ask the Weed-Killer people when it would
be safe to put in another carp—or two carps.

  When she looked at the pond, she gave a short gasp. The vines had come back. They looked stronger than ever—not really longer, but more dense. Even as she watched, one tentacle, then a second actually moved, curved towards the land and seemed to grow an inch. That hadn’t been due to the wind. The vines were growing visibly. Another green shoot poked its head above the water’s surface. Elinor watched, fascinated, as if she beheld animate things, like snakes. Every inch or so along the vines a small green leaf sprouted, and Elinor was sure she could see some of these unfurling. The water looked clean, but she knew that was deceptive. The water was somehow poisonous. It had killed a carp. It had killed Chris. And she could still detect, she thought, the rather acid smell of the stuff the Weed-Killer men had put in.

  There must be such a thing as digging the roots out, Elinor thought, even if Weed-Killer’s stuff had failed. Elinor got the fork from the toolshed, and she took the clippers also. She thought of getting her rubber boots from the house, but was too eager to start to bother with them. She began by hacking all round the edge with the clippers. Some fresh vine ends cruised over the pond and jammed themselves amid other growing vines. The stems now seemed tough as plastic clotheslines, as if the herbicide had fortified them. Some had put down roots in the grass quite a distance from the pond. Elinor dropped the clippers and seized the fork. She had to dig deep to get at the roots, and when she finally pulled with her hands, the stems broke, leaving some roots still in the soil. Her right foot slipped, she went down on her left knee and struggled up again, both legs wet now. She was not going to be defeated.

  As she sank the fork in, she saw Cliff’s handsome, subtly smiling eyes in the photograph in the bedroom, Cliff with the blade of grass or hay between his lips, and he seemed to be nodding ever so slightly, approving. Her arms began to ache, her hands grew tired. She lost her right shoe in dragging her foot out of the water yet again, and she didn’t bother trying to recover it. Then she slipped again, and sat down, water up to her waist now. Tired, angry, she still worked with the fork, trying to prize roots loose, and the water churned with a muddy fury. She might even be doing the damned roots good, she thought. Aerating them or something. Were they invincible? Why should they be? The sun poured down, overheating her, bringing nourishment to the green, Elinor knew.

  Nature knows. That was Cliff’s voice in her ears. Cliff sounded happy and at ease.

  Elinor was half blinded by tears. Or was it sweat? Chun-nk went her fork. In a moment, when her arms gave out, she’d cross to the other side of the pond and attack that. She’d got some out. She’d make Weed-Killer come again, maybe pour kerosene on the pond and light it.

  She got up on cramped legs and stumbled around to the other side. The sun warmed her shoulders though her feet were cold. In those few seconds that she walked, her thoughts and her attitude changed, though she was not at once aware of this. It was neither victory nor defeat that she felt. She sank the fork in again, again slipped and recovered. Again roots slid between the tines of the fork, and were not removed. A tentacle thicker than most moved towards her and circled her right ankle. She kicked, and the vine tightened, and she fell forward.

  She went face down into the water, but the water seemed soft. She struggled a little, turned to breathe, and a vine tickled her neck. She saw Cliff nodding again, smiling his kindly, knowing, almost imperceptible smile. It was nature. It was Cliff. It was Chris. A vine crept around her arm—loose or attached to the earth she neither knew nor cared. She breathed in, and much of what she took in was water. All things come from water, Cliff had said once. Little Chris smiled at her with both corners of his mouth upturned. She saw him stooped by the pond, reaching for the dead carp which floated out of range of his twig. Then Chris lifted his face again and smiled.

  Something You

  Have to Live With

  Don’t forget to lock all the doors,” Stan said. “Someone might think because the car’s gone, nobody’s home.”

  “All the doors? You mean two. You haven’t asked me anything—aesthetic, such as how the place looks now.”

  Stan laughed. “I suppose the pictures are all hung and the books are in the shelves.”

  “Well, not quite, but your shirts and sweaters—and the kitchen. It looks—I’m happy, Stan. So is Cassie. She’s walking around the place purring. See you tomorrow morning then. Around eleven, you said?”

  “Around eleven. I’ll bring stuff for lunch, don’t worry.”

  “Love to your mom. I’m glad she’s better.”

  “Thanks, darling.” Stan hung up.

  Cassie, their ginger and white cat aged four, sat looking at Ginnie as if she had never seen a telephone before. Purring again. Dazed by all the space, Ginnie thought. Cassie began kneading the rug in an ecstasy of contentment, and Ginnie laughed.

  Ginnie and Stan Brixton had bought a house in Connecticut after six years of New York apartments. Their furniture had been here for a week while they wound things up in New York, and yesterday had been the final move of smaller things like silverware, some dishes, a few pictures, suitcases, kitchen items and the cat. Stan had taken their son Freddie this morning to spend the night in New Hope, Pennsylvania, where Stan’s mother lived. His mother had had a second heart attack and was recuperating at home. “Every time I see her, I think it may be the last. You don’t mind if I go, do you, Ginnie? It’ll keep Freddie out of the way while you’re fiddling around.” Ginnie hadn’t minded.

  Fiddling around was Stan’s term for organizing and even cleaning. Ginnie thought she had done a good job since Stan and Freddie had taken off this morning. The lovely French blue and white vase which reminded Ginnie of Monet’s paintings stood on the living room bookcase now, even bearing red roses from the garden. Ginnie had made headway in the kitchen, installing things the way she wanted them, the way they would remain. Cassie had her litter pan (“What a euphemism, litter ought to mean a bed,” Stan said) in the downstairs john corner. They now had an upstairs bathroom also. The house was on a hill with no other houses around it for nearly a mile, not that they owned all the land around, but the land around was farmland. When she and Stan had seen the place in June, sheep and goats had been grazing not far away. They had both fallen in love with the house.

  Stanley Brixton was a novelist and fiction critic, and Ginnie wrote articles and was now half through her second novel. Her first had been published but had had only modest success. You couldn’t expect a smash hit with a first novel, Stan said, unless the publicity was extraordinary. Water under the bridge. Ginnie was more interested in her novel-in-progress. They had a mortgage on the house, and with her and Stan’s freelance work they thought they could be independent of New York, at least independent of nine-to-five jobs. Stan had already published three books, adventure stories with a political slant. He was thirty-two and for three years had been overseas correspondent for a newspaper syndicate.

  Ginnie picked up a piece of heavy twine from the living room rug, and realized that her back hurt a little from the day’s exertions. She had thought of switching on the TV, but the news was just over, she saw from her watch, and it might be better to go straight to bed and get up earlyish in the morning.

  “Cassie?”

  Cassie replied with a courteous, sustained, “M-wah-h?”

  “Hungry?” Cassie knew the word. “No, you’ve had enough. Do you know you’re getting middle-aged spread? Come on. Going up to bed with me?” Ginnie went to the front door, which was already locked by its automatic lock, but she put the chain on also. Yawning, she turned out the downstairs lights and climbed the stairs. Cassie followed her.

  Ginnie had a quick bath, second of the day, pulled on a nightgown, brushed her teeth and got into bed. She at once realized she was too tired to pick up one of the English weeklies, political and Stan’s favorites, which she had dropped by the bed to look at. She put out the l
amp. Home. She and Stan had spent one night here last weekend during the big move. This was the first night she had been alone in the house, which still had no name. Something like White Elephant maybe, Stan had said. You think of something. Ginnie tried to think, an activity which made her instantly sleepier.

  She was awakened by a crunching sound, like that of car tires on gravel. She raised up a little in bed. Had she heard it? Their driveway hadn’t any gravel to speak of, just unpaved earth. But—

  Wasn’t that a click? From somewhere. Front, back? Or had it been a twig falling on the roof?

  She had locked the doors, hadn’t she?

  Ginnie suddenly realized that she had not locked the back door. For another minute, as Ginnie listened, everything was silent. What a bore to go downstairs again! But she thought she had better do it, so she could honestly tell Stan that she had. Ginnie found the lamp switch and got out of bed.

  By now she was thinking that any noise she had heard had been imaginary, something out of a dream. But Cassie followed her in a brisk, anxious way, Ginnie noticed.

  The glow from the staircase light enabled Ginnie to find her way to the kitchen, where she switched on the strong ceiling light. She went at once to the back door and turned the Yale bolt. Then she listened. All was silent. The big kitchen looked exactly the same with its half modern, half old-fashioned furnishings—electric stove, big white wooden cupboard with drawers below, shelves above, double sink, a huge new fridge.

  Ginnie went back upstairs, Cassie still following. Cassie was short for Cassandra, a name Stan had given her when she had been a kitten, because she had looked gloomy, unshakably pessimistic. Ginnie was drifting off to sleep again, when she heard a bump downstairs, as if someone had staggered slightly. She switched on the bedside lamp again, and a thrust of fear went through her when she saw Cassie rigidly crouched on the bed with her eyes fixed on the open bedroom door.