The Laughing Matter (16 page)

After she had washed her face the vomiting came again, and with it the fiercest loathing of her trouble that she had ever known. At the same time she was terrified of what needed to be done, which she herself now
wanted
done.

When she had first begun to suspect, she had sat in hot tubs of water by the hour, frantic with anxiety and hope, but nothing had happened. She had then gone to the garage and opened an old can of paint, and she had held her head over the paint, breathing in the fumes, but again nothing
had happened. She had then gone to a doctor in San Mateo, calling herself Mrs. Morgan. He had phoned two days later, asking her to come in again. By this time, though, she was sure. The doctor's telephone call several days later only confirmed what she knew.

“I'm afraid. I don't want it,” she told the doctor. “We can't afford it. Isn't there something I can take?”

The doctor laughed and said, “Mrs. Morgan, the way you feel now is perfectly natural. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

“I'm not well enough to have another,” she said. “I'm terribly afraid. Please let me have something.”

“You think about it,” the doctor said. “Talk it over with Mr. Morgan. Come on in with him and we'll go over the whole thing together. I'm sure I can convince both of you not to do anything that might be even more difficult than birth itself.”

She had believed a pill would do it, and in desperation she had gone back a week later, almost begging the doctor to prescribe such a pill.

“A new life wants to get born,” he said. “There are a number of things I could prescribe, but they might not work. Are you sure you want to try them? I'm not sure you should. Wouldn't you rather we talked it over with Mr. Morgan?”

“He's away,” she said. “He won't be back for two weeks. I'd rather he knew nothing about it.” She stopped suddenly, her face flushed, and she said, “We're in debt.”

The man understood instantly.

“My dear,” he said. He wrote a prescription and handed it to her. “I hope it works.”

And it hadn't.

When Evan was finally home from Nebraska he was famished for her. She told him she was in her time. He roared with laughter at his need and said, “How long do I have to wait?”

“Until Friday,” she said.

Friday they had arrived in Clovis and had gone to Dade's house. She had struggled all day, trying to decide what to do. Finally, she had decided to tell him.

She had told him.

And then, after he had gone mad, as she had known he would, in the midst of his hatred and contempt, in the midst of her own loneliness, terror, shame, and regret, she had needed him more than ever.

She had talked and talked, hoping desperately to reach a truth he could accept, even if reluctantly, but she was glad he had refused to recognize any such truth.

She remained frightened, although she was grateful that he had decided what was to be done.

She had argued because from the time she had seen the bouquet of red roses her son had found in Dade's house she had felt that
she
was dying. She neither wanted to die, nor to kill. She did not want the daily ordeal of love and survival to end, she did not want the lore and fun of herself and her husband to end. But when she had seen her son holding the bouquet and looking at it, as he looked at everything, his face grave with thought, his eyes piercing and sorrowful at once, she had seen herself and all of them dead. She had wept because she had known she would tell him. She could not be near him with this thing untold. All the other things could remain untold, but not this. And she knew her telling
would kill or madden him, or both, and that, whatever he finally did, whatever he finally decided must be done,
she
would surely perish. She
was
a stupid girl. She had always been a little sick, a little weak, a little mad, too, but with Evan these things had been put aside from her. He had carried her away from them, not even knowing that he had done so.

She went now to the silver bowl on the mantel over the fireplace and brought out the bouquet of four dried roses. She was staring at them when he came back into the house.

“They won't be ready to come home for a long time,” he said. “How about a walk in the vineyard?”

She turned to him, unable to stop herself from trying again.

“Evan?”

“Yes, Swan.”

“I don't want to be butchered. I
know
it will kill me.”

“Why do you keep thinking something is going to kill you?”

“I thought
you
would,” she said. “I almost
hoped
you would.”

“I'm a father,” he said. “I have two kids. I have to think about them. I have to think about them every minute. I have to think about their mother every minute. I cannot be angry for myself. I must be patient for my children. I could not kill you, Swan. I could not kill the mother of my children. Were you Swan alone, and I Evan alone, and Swan had betrayed Evan, Evan would
not
have been betrayed, for no woman can betray a man, no man can betray a woman, only children can be betrayed.” He stopped, then took her by the shoulders to look into her eyes. “I will not
betray mine, Swan. I have been mad. I am mad no longer. If you are frightened, Swan, I am frightened with you, but my purpose is to banish your fear, and my own. I will not impose my will, but I will seek to help you to impose your own upon yourself. Come for a walk in the vineyard. Thank God for a day in which Rex and Eva Nazarenus have lived as if living were not a sick and fearful treachery, an unpredictable and constant menace and danger. Laughter has been restored to them by this summer Sunday. They believe again in their father, and in their mother. If they cannot believe in these two, they can believe in nothing. Or they can believe in themselves alone, as lonely, vengeful, mistrusting things. Come for the walk in the vineyard, Swan. I am your husband and their father. You are my wife and their mother. If there were something better for us to be, I would urge you to be yours, and I mine. There is nothing better. Nothing better even
now
, Swan. Nothing better even with the ordeal still ahead for each of us, for these children must have you, Swan, and they must have me.”

He walked swiftly out of the house. She placed the bouquet back into the silver bowl, turned, and hurried after him. He was already in the vineyard when she reached the fig tree. She ran after him, thinking, If I ran, and tripped and fell, perhaps then it would end. She ran and prayed to fall, then fell, and cried out. He stopped, turned, but did not go to her. She got up, knowing the fall had done no good.

“We went to church,” Eva said to Fanny. “What did
you
do?”

“We went, too,” Fanny said.

They were playing the same game, hiding behind a pile of uprooted Emperor vine stumps. Each stump, if you looked at it carefully, resembled a small body with many arms.

“I sang,” Eva said. “Then I laughed, and Red got angry at me. He got angry because they never laugh in church. I didn't know. My mother laughed, too. Red got angry at her, too.”

“Which church did you go to?”

“The white one.”

“That's the Presbyterian,” Fanny said. “We go to the Methodist. We're Methodists.”

“We're Presbyterians,” Eva said. “Why are we Presbyterians? Why are you Methodists?”

“How should I know?” Fanny said. “We'll be out here all night because Fay's It, and she can never find anybody. What did the man say?”

“What man?”

“At the church.”

“Well,” Eva said, “he said, ‘God is love, God loves everybody, everybody must love everybody,' and then I fell asleep. What did your man say?”

“He said God is love a couple of weeks ago,” Fanny said, “but today he said some other stuff. I didn't listen.”

“Did you fall asleep, too?”

“No, I just got tired listening. I used to listen. I used to listen to every word. I used to
believe
every word, too.”

“I believe every word,” Eva said. “Don't you?”

“I should say not!” Fanny said. “God is love!”

“He
is,”
Eva said. “God is the Father, and my father is the one who loves.”

“Says who?” Fanny said.

“Says who?” Eva said. “What's that mean?”

“Who says your father is the one who loves?”

“I do,” Eva said. “Isn't your father the one? Isn't he the one who loves?”

“Loves
who?”

“You.”

“Oh, well,” Fanny said. “I guess he does. Sure he does. So what?”

“So what?” Eva said. “Isn't it nice?”

They heard stealthy footsteps, fell silent, and moved away from the footsteps. Fay was walking around the pile of vine stumps, but she was so slow. Fay went all the way around the pile of stumps, and then went somewhere else, thinking no one had been hiding there.

“Come on,” Fanny said. “She'll never find us, so let's go somewhere else and hide.”

“Let's go in the vineyard and eat grapes,” Eva said.

“Let's go to the watermelon patch and see if we can find one that's ripe,” Fanny said. “They've been harvested, the season's over, but maybe we can find one that's ripe.”

“All right,” Eva said. “I love watermelons.” They walked in silence, then Eva said, “I love my mother. I love my brother, but most of all I love my father.”

“Why?” Fanny said.

“He's the one,” Eva said. “He carries me. He talks to me. He tells me stories. He tells me things to make me laugh. He
looks
at me, and that's best of all. He looks at me and I
know
he loves me.”

“How do you know?”

“He
looks.”

They came to the watermelon patch, about a quarter of an acre beside an irrigation ditch. There were misshapen and sad-looking little melons on some of the vines.

“Is this one good?” Eva said.

“For hogs,” Fanny said. “That's a cull.”

“Isn't it a watermelon?”

“It's a cull watermelon. A cull is a watermelon that's no good from the beginning. It's lopsided and small, and inside nothing is red or sweet. It's pale and has no flavor at all,
almost. We'll find a good one, though. We had hundreds and hundreds of good ones when it was the season. There's always a few late ones.”

They wandered among the vines, Fanny kicking a cull now and then, breaking it, but not laughing. Eva watched and wondered why she didn't laugh when she did something so funny. Eva kicked one, but not the way Fanny did. It didn't even break. She didn't kick it again, but looked at it as if she had been rude and was sorry. Poor little cull.

“Here's one,” Fanny said. She bent over a melon that was quite big, long and well shaped. Fanny tapped it with her knuckles, then said, “It's ripe, too. We'll break it open and eat the heart.” She kicked the stem of the melon free of the vine, picked it up, and walked with it to the irrigation ditch. She held it about a foot above the grass and let it fall. It cracked. Fanny put her hand in the crack, split the melon open, and there it was for Eva to see, all red with rows of fine black seeds. “This is your half,” Fanny said, “and this is mine. Let's sit down and eat the heart.”

“All right,” Eva said, “and thank you very much, Fanny Walz.”

“Ah,” Fanny said, “you're so polite. Just eat the watermelon. In another couple of days it would have been rotten. We got to it just in time.” She dug her fingers into the heart of the melon and brought up a handful of the stuff with not one seed in it. “That's the way to do it,” she said. “It's the best way to eat a watermelon. The heart's the best part.” She gobbled up every bit she had in her hand. Eva dug in the way Fanny had and began to gobble up the heart of her half.

It was sweet and delicious, and where they were sitting
was nice, the water in the ditch moving slowly, the grass growing all around, the sun gone now, but the light of it still keeping the color of the grass green, the shapes of its stalks and leaves clear.

There was so much to eat that Eva's belly got full and tight before she was finished. Still she didn't want to stop. When she had eaten every bit of the heart and some of the rest of the watermelon, Fanny was standing, waiting, so Eva got up, and they began to walk back to the game.

“That Fay!” Fanny said. “She just can't play
any
game. We were right there behind the pile of vine stumps and just because we kept moving around it, she didn't have sense enough to know we were there. I'll bet she hasn't found
anybody
yet. If it had been
me
, I would have found everybody in two seconds, and I would have beat everybody back to the olive tree, too.”

“I know,” Eva said, for she was sure Fanny would have done exactly what she had said.

It was almost dark now. They came slowly to the olive tree, then went to Mrs. Blotch.

“Where's Fay?” Fanny said.

“Out somewhere looking for you, I guess,” Mrs. Blotch said.

“Where's Flora?”

“Out hiding, I guess.”

“Where's Red?” Eva said.

“Out hiding, too, I guess.”

“Fay can't find
anybody,”
Fanny said. “We found a ripe watermelon and ate the heart.”

“Yes,” Eva said.

When it was dark they saw Red and Flora walking slowly to the olive tree. After a moment they saw Fay, too. When they met at the olive tree, they looked at one another and didn't speak. This was so because the game had petered out, and it was night.

After church and Sunday dinner Warren Walz told his wife the truth about Friday night.

“I knew,” May Walz said.

“How did you know?”