Deep Water

by Patricia Highsmith

  The telephone rang. Vic went into the hall to get it.

  "Hello?" Vic said.

  "Hello, Vic. This is Evelyn. I hope I didn't wake you from a nap?"

  "Certainly not."

  "How's Melinda?"

  "Well—not so well. She's having a drink in her room." "I'm sorry, Vic—about last night."

  Vic didn't quite know what she meant. "We're all sorry."

  "Dr. Franklin called us. They're going to have a coroner's inquest tomorrow in Ballinger at two-thirty and we're all supposed to be there. I suppose somebody'll notify you, anyway. It's in the courthouse."

  "All right. Thanks, Evelyn. I'll remember."

  "Vic—have you had any phone calls—about this?"

  "No."

  "We have. I—Phil didn't think I should say anything to you, Vic, but I think it's better if you do know. One or two people well, let's say one—said that they thought it was just possible that you had something to do with Charley's drowning. I don't mean they said it outright, but they implied it. You can imagine what I said. But I thought I should tell you that I do think there's going to be some whispering, Vic. It's too bad a lot of people noticed Charley and Melinda acting—you know as if they had quite a crush on each other. But a lot did, Vic."

  "Yes, I know," Vic said a little wearily. "Who was it who talked to you?"

  "I don't think I should say. It isn't fair, and it really doesn't matter, you know that."

  "Was it Don Wilson?"

  A slight hesitation. "Yes. You know, we don't know him very well, and he certainly doesn't know you. It'd be bad enough from someone who knows you, but he has no right whatsoever."

  Vic had hoped it was Don Wilson. He had hoped that was all Don Wilson had to say. "Let's let it go. He's got a bad chip on his shoulder."

  "Yes. Something's wrong. I can't say that I like him. I never did. We had them to the party just to be friendly, you know" "Yes. Well, thank you for telling me, Evelyn. Is anybody else saying anything—"

  "No. Certainly not like that, but—" The soft, earnest voice stopped and Vic waited again, patiently. "As I said, Vic, several people commented on the way Melinda behaved with him, asked me if I thought anything had been going on. I told them no."

  Vic squeezed the telephone in embarrassment. He knew very well that Evelyn knew better.

  "You know, Melinda's always getting these enthusiasms for people. Especially a pianist. I can understand it."

  "Yes," Vic said, marveling at the human capacity for self deception. It had become so much a habit for their friends to ignore, to wink at Melinda's behavior they could almost believe now that there was nothing to wink at. "How is Phil?" Vic asked.

  "He's still pretty shaken up. It's the first accident we've ever had in our pool, you know. And such a horrible one. I think Phil feels somehow personally responsible. It wouldn't take anything to make him fill the pool in, but I think that's a little unreasonable."

  "Of course," Vic said. "Well, thank you very much for calling me, Evelyn. We should all feel a little better after the inquest tomorrow It'll help settle everything. We'll see each other at two-thirty in Ballinger, I suppose."

  "Yes. If there's anything we can do today to help you, Vic—I mean with Melinda, don't hesitate to call us."

  "Right, Evelyn. Thanks. Bye-bye."

  "Good-bye, Vic."

  He had said that about the inquest's helping to settle everything with an absolute, unthinking confidence in his own safety, he realized. His friends would be there—Phil Cowan and Horace Meller and their wives. He trusted their confidence in him. But for a moment he questioned himself about Horace: Horace had been unusually quiet after they had dragged Charley out of the pool, and also in the kitchen. Vic tried to recall his expression—intense, shocked, and at the last he had looked haggard, but Vic did not think he had seen any shadow of doubt in his face. No, he could rely on Horace. Melinda might accuse him in front of the coroner tomorrow, but Vic really didn't think she would. It took a kind of courage that he didn't think Melinda had. Underneath all her wildness she was rather a coward and a conformist. She would know that all their friends would turn against her if she accused him, and Vic did not think she would want that. She might fly into a tantrum, of course, and accuse him, but if she did, everybody would know it was a tantrum and know why. If anybody examined her character, that was about the end of Melinda. He did not think Melinda would want to subject herself to a scrutiny of her private life.

  Vic came back from the plant a little before one on Monday, in time for a quick lunch and the drive to Ballinger before two-thirty. Melinda had spent the morning out—probably with Mary or Evelyn, Vic thought—because he had called her from ten o'clock onward to tell her about the inquest at two-thirty. She refused to eat any lunch, but she did not take a drink until just before they left the house at two. For all her sleep, there were circles under her eyes, and her face looked pale and a little puffy—appropriate for the mourning mistress of a dead lover, Vic thought. She did not reply to anything he asked her or said to her, so Vic gave it up.

  The inquest took place in the red brick courthouse on the main square of Ballinger. There were several straight chairs and two desks in the room, at one of which sat a male secretary who took down in shorthand everything that was said. The coroner's name was Walsh. He was a handsome, serious man of about fifty, gray-haired and erect. Everybody was present and punctual, the Mellers, the Cowans, himself and Melinda, and Dr. Franklin, who sat with folded arms. There were first the factual circumstances to be narrated and confirmed, and then everyone was asked if in his or her opinion the death was caused by accidental circumstances.

  "Yes," Phil Cowan replied firmly.

  "Yes," Evelyn said.

  "I believe so," said Horace, as firmly as Phil.

  "I believe so," Mary echoed.

  "Yes," Vic said.

  Then it was Melinda's turn. She had been staring at the floor. She looked up frightenedly at the coroner. "I don't know."

  Coroner Walsh gave her a second look. "Do you believe anything or anyone other than accidental circumstances was responsible for Mr. De Lisle's death?"

  "I don't know," Melinda said expressionlessly.

  "Have you any reason for thinking that any person is responsible for Mr. De Lisle's death?" he asked.

  "I know that my husband didn't like him," Melinda said, her head bowed.

  Coroner Walsh frowned. "Do you mean that your husband had a quarrel with Mr. De Lisle?"

  Melinda hesitated.

  Vic saw Phil frown with annoyance and shift in his chair. Dr. Franklin looked merely sternly disapproving. Evelyn Cowan looked as if she wanted to get up and shake Melinda by the shoulders and give her a piece of her mind.

  "No, they hadn't quarreled," Melinda said. "But I think my husband didn't like him just because I liked him."

  "Did you see your husband," Coroner Walsh began patiently, "make any move at all against Mr. De Lisle?"

  Another hesitation. "No," Melinda said, still staring with a curious shyness at the floor, though her naturally loud, clear voice had made the "No" sound very positive.

  Now the coroner turned to Dr. Franklin. "Doctor, in your opinion was Mr. De Lisle's death due to accidental circumstances?"

  "I have no reason to think otherwise," Dr. Franklin replied.

  Dr. Franklin liked him, Vic knew They had become very well acquainted when Trixie was born. Dr. Franklin hadn't the time or the temperament to be very sociable, but he always had a smile and a few words for Vic when they encountered each other in town.

  "You noticed no marks on the body that might indicate a struggle of any kind," the coroner said rather than asked. An atmosphere of general disapproval of Melinda was thickening in the room.

  "There were very faint red marks around his shoulders," Dr. Franklin said in a somewhat weary tone, "but these could have been made in pulling him out of the pool. Or perhaps during the artificial respiration which Mr. Van Allen administered."

 
Coroner Walsh nodded deeply in confirmation. "I saw the marks. Your opinion seems to be the same as mine. And as far as I could discover there were no bruises on his head."

  "No," said Dr. Franklin.

  "And the contents of his stomach? Was there anything which might have caused cramp, any indication of cramp in your opinion?"

  "No, I can't say that there was. There was the smallest bit of food in the stomach, such as a small sandwich that might have been taken at a party. Nothing that should have caused cramp. But cramp is not always caused by food in the stomach."

  "Any alcohol?" said the coroner.

  "Not more than four-tenths of a millimeter of alcohol. That is, per one cubic centimeter of whole blood."

  "Nothing that should have given him any trouble," said the coroner.

  "Certainly not."

  "Yet it is your opinion that Mr. De Lisle's death was due to accidental circumstances?"

  "Yes," said Dr. Franklin. "That is my belief. The specific cause of death was drowning."

  "Could Mr. De Lisle swim?" the coroner asked the whole room.

  Nobody answered for a moment. Vic knew he couldn't swim well. Then Horace and Melinda simultaneously began:

  "From what I saw of him in the—"

  "He could certainly swim enough to keep his head above the water!" Melinda had found her tongue and her volume.

  "Mr. Meller," said the coroner.

  "From what I saw of him in the pool, he was not a good swimmer," Horace said cautiously. "This may or may not have any bearing on what happened, but I saw him clinging to the edge of the pool as if he were afraid to let go, and as Mr. Van Allen said before—confirmed by Mr. Cowan—Mr. De Lisle had said he found the water pretty cool." Horace gave Melinda a glance, not a kindly glance.

  "None of you heard any outcry?" the coroner asked for the second time.

  There was a chorus of "No."

  "Mrs. Van Allen?" the coroner asked.

  Melinda was twisting her white gloves in her lap, staring at the

  coroner: "No—but we couldn't have heard anything with all the noise we were making in the kitchen."

  "There wasn't so much noise," Phil said, frowning. "We'd turned the music off. I think we could have heard a shout if there'd been one."

  Melinda turned to Phil. "You don't hear a shout if somebody's pulled under the water suddenly and held there!"

  "'Melinda!'" Mary Meller said, horrified.

  Vic watched the next few seconds with a strange detachment. Melinda half standing up now, shouting her opinion at the coroner—and Vic felt a certain admiration for her courage and her honesty that he hadn't known she possessed as he saw her frowning profile, her clenched hands—Mary Meller rising and taking a few hesitant steps toward Melinda before Horace gently drew her back to her seat. Phil's long, handsome face scowling, and Dr. Franklin with folded arms, still maintaining his cool disdain of Melinda Van Allen that had begun, Vic knew, with her unreasoning demands and complaints of his treatment of her at the time of Trixie's birth. Melinda was repeating:

  "'Yes', I think my husband had something to do with it! I think he 'did' it!"

  Coroner Walsh's expression was a combination of annoyance and bewilderment. For a moment he seemed speechless. "Have you anything at all—any proof to substantiate your belief, Mrs. Van Allen?" His face had reddened.

  "Circumstantial evidence. My husband was alone in the pool with him, wasn't he? My husband is a better swimmer than Charley. He's also very strong in his hands!"

  Mary stood up, her small face looking even smaller and somehow concentrated in the pursed, tearful mouth, and started to leave the room.

  "I must ask you, Mrs. Meller," the coroner said, "not to leave—if you please. The law says all persons concerned must be present to the end of the inquest." He smiled and bowed her back to her seat.

  Horace had made no move to stop her. He looked as if he would have been glad to leave himself.

  The coroner turned back to Melinda. "You said your husband didn't like Mr. De Lisle because you liked him. Were you perhaps in love with Mr. De Lisle?"

  "No, but I was very fond of him."

  "And do you think your husband was jealous of Mr. De Lisle?"

  "Yes."

  Coroner Walsh turned to Vic. "Were you jealous of Mr. De Lisle?"

  "No, I was not," Vic said.

  Coroner Walsh turned to the Cowans and the Mellers and asked in a patiently reasoning tone, "Did any of you ever notice Anything in Mr. Van Allen's conduct that would lead you to believe that he was jealous of Mr. De Lisle?"

  "No," said Phil and Horace, practically in unison.

  "No," Evelyn said.

  "Certainly not," from Mary.

  "How many years have you known Mr. Van Allen, Mr. Cowan?"

  Phil looked at Evelyn. "About eight years?"

  "Nine or ten," Evelyn said. "We met the Van Aliens as soon as they moved here."

  "I see. And Mr. Meller?"

  "I think it's ten years," Horace said firmly.

  "Then you know him well, you consider?"

  "Very well," said Horace.

  "You would both vouch for his character?"

  "Absolutely," Phil put in before Horace could speak. "And so would anybody else who knows him."

  "I consider him my finest friend," Horace said.

  The coroner nodded, then looked at Melinda as if he might be going to ask her a question or ask a question about her, but Vic could see that he didn't want to prolong it; and didn't want to probe any further into Melinda's relationship to De Lisle either. There was a friendly warmth in the coroner's eyes as he looked at Vic. "Mr. Van Allen, I believe you're the owner of the Greenspur Press in Little Wesley, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Vic said.

  "A very fine press. I've heard of it," he said, smiling, as if it were a foregone conclusion that every literate person in that section of Massachusetts had heard of the Greenspur Press. "Have you anything more to add, Mrs. Van Allen?"

  "I've told you what I 'think," Melinda' said, spitting out the last word in her old style.

  "Since this is a court of law, we must have evidence," the coroner said, with a slight smile. "Unless anyone has evidence to offer that this death was not due to accidental circumstances, I hereby declare this inquest closed." He waited. Nobody spoke. "I declare this inquest closed with a verdict of death due to accidental circumstances." He smiled. "Thank you all for appearing here. Good afternoon."

  Phil got up and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Melinda walked to the door, holding a paper tissue to her nose. Down on the sidewalk, Dr. Franklin took his leave first, saying a solemn "Good afternoon" to all of them, hesitating a moment as he looked at Melinda, as if he were about to add something, but he said only "Good afternoon, Mrs. Van Allen," and walked away to his car.

  Melinda stood beside the car, still with the tissue to her nose, like a bereaved widow.

  "Keep your chin up, Vic," Phil said, patting his shoulder, and then he turned to go to his car as if to stop himself from saying more.

  Evelyn Cowan laid her hand on Vic's sleeve. "I'm sorry, Vic. Call us soon, will you? Tonight, if you want to. Bye-bye, Melinda!" Vic saw that Mary wanted to say something to Melinda and that Horace was trying to discourage her from it. Then Horace came over to Vic, smiling, his narrow head lifted as if to impart courage to Vic by his own attitude, to show by his smile that Vic was still his friend, his best friend.

  "I'm sure she's not going to keep on like this, Vic," Horace said in a low tone, just out of Melinda's hearing. "So don't let it throw you. We'll all stand by you—always."

  "Thanks, Horace," Vic said. Behind Horace he saw Mary's thin, sensitive lips working as she looked at Melinda. Then, as Horace took his wife's arm, she smiled at Vic and blew him a kiss as she walked away.

  Vic held the car door open for Melinda and she got in. Then Vic got in behind the wheel. It was his car, his antiquated Oldsmobile. Vic circled the main square—a necessity because of the traffic regulat
ions—then took the southbound street that led into the highway to Little Wesley.

  "I'm not going to come around," Melinda said, “so don't think I am."

  Vic sighed. "Honey, you can't go on weeping for somebody you hardly knew."

  "'You killed him!'" Melinda said vehemently. "The Mellers and the Cowans don't know you as well as I, do they?"

  Vic made no reply. What she said did not alarm him in the least—and he had felt no alarm during the inquest either, even at the question about the red marks on Charley's skin—but he was aware of a sense of annoyance with Melinda now, a sense of shame that was in itself reassuring because of its familiarity. Everybody knew why Melinda had accused him, why she had shed tears at the inquest, why she had grown hysterical at the Cowans' the night it had happened. The Cowans knew what her relationship with De Lisle had been. De Lisle had been just another sneaking paramour, but one who had happened to die right in their home. The Cowans and the Mellers must know, too, that he had had years of such scenes, years of tears over broken dates with cads and scoundrels, more tears when they went away, and that he had gone through it all uncomplaining, patient, behaving always as if nothing at all were happening—just as he had behaved at the inquest.

  For a few moments, as Melinda snuffled into a fresh tissue, Vic felt something in him hardening against her. She had got what she deserved, and she was powerless to do anything against him. If she went to the police again, who would believe her? How could she prove it? She could divorce him, that was all. But Vic did not think that she would. He might refuse to give her alimony—and he had ample grounds to refuse—and he could also win the child with ease, not that Melinda would probably care. He did not think she would relish the prospect of having no money, of going back to her parents' dreary, boring household in Queens.

  Melinda got out of the car when he stopped in front of the garage and went on into the house. Vic carried his herb boxes back into the garage. It was a quarter to four. He looked up at the sky and saw that there was going to be a slight rainfall around six.

  He went into the garage again and carried out, one by one, his three aquaria of land snails, each of which was covered with a framed piece of copper screen to admit rain and to prevent the snails from crawling out. The snails loved the rain. He bent over one aquarium, watching the snails he called Edgar and Hortense as they slowly approached each other, lifted their heads, kissed, and glided on. They would probably mate this afternoon, in the light rain that filtered through the screen. They mated about once every week, and they were genuinely in love, Vic thought, because Edgar had eyes for no other snail but Hortense and Hortense never responded to the attempt of another snail to kiss her. Three-quarters of the thousand-odd snails he had were their progeny. They were quite considerate of each other as to which had the burden of egg-laying—a twenty-four-hour procedure at least—and it was only Vic's opinion that Hortense laid more often than Edgar, which was why he had given her the feminine name. That was true love, Vic thought, even if they were only gastropoda. He remembered the sentence in one of Henri Fabre's books about snails crossing garden walls to find their mates, and though Vic had never verified it by his own experiment, he felt that it must be so.