Barbara Greer (21 page)

‘What papers, Nana?' Barbara said again.

‘Something your sister wanted,' Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘I'm sure she's found them, whatever they were.' And she shook her head slowly back and forth, advising Barbara to pursue the subject no further.

‘Ask Peggy to come to see me,' her grandmother said.

‘I will,' Barbara said.

‘She was just here on Friday,' Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘She comes to see you nearly twice a week.'

Barbara opened her purse. ‘I have some pictures of my little boys here, Nana,' she said. ‘Would you like to see them?'

‘Oh, I'd love to, dear,' her grandmother said.

Barbara held two snapshots up. ‘See? Haven't they got big?'

‘She can't see them,' Mrs. Zaretsky said.

‘I can see them perfectly,' her grandmother said. ‘They're beautiful children.'

‘They're your great-grandchildren,' Mrs. Zaretsky said.

‘Beautiful children,' Mrs. Woodcock said. Barbara put the pictures back in her purse.

Mrs Zaretsky put down her knitting. ‘Time for our medicine now,' she said briskly, and then, ‘Oooh! I'm so stiff from sitting.' Bending forward, her large hands pressing her thighs, she walked slowly out of the room.

Barbara sat quietly on the footstool and her grandmother nodded her head, up and down. ‘Beautiful children,' she said again.

‘Dobie and Michael,' Barbara said.

‘Yes. My husband's father was named Dobie. Such a handsome man.'

Mrs. Zaretsky returned with a small tray that held a bottle, a spoon and a glass of water.

‘What is this now?' Mrs. Woodcock asked.

‘This is the kind we like,' Mrs. Zaretsky said. She filled the spoon and held it toward the old lady. ‘Open wide,' she said. ‘Atta girl!' She popped the spoon inside. ‘Now here's a nice glass of water to take away the taste.'

Mrs. Woodcock took a swallow from the water glass, then smiled. ‘Why do you say it's the kind I like, Binky, when you know it's the kind I
don't
like?'

Mrs. Zaretsky, called Binky since the days before she was married and had worked in the hospital as Loretta Binks, drew back, pretending shock, ‘What do you
mean
?' she asked. ‘We like everything that's good for us, don't we?'

‘Not necessarily,' the old lady said.

Barbara stood up. ‘I really must go, Nana,' she said, giving her grandmother's powdery hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I've got to get back to the farm. But I'll drop by to see you again before I go.'

‘Thank you, dear,' her grandmother said. ‘It's always so nice to see you.' She lifted her face to be kissed and Barbara bent to kiss her.

‘Good-bye,' she said.

‘Bye-bye. Come again,' Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘We're always home.'

‘Good-bye, I will.' She blew her grandmother a kiss, turned and walked out into the hall to the front door.

She went down the front steps into the harsh sunlight that glittered on the concrete driveway. She opened the door of her car, got in, and reached in her purse for the keys. Then, in the rearview mirror, she saw another car turn into the driveway behind her. She turned and saw that it was Barney.

He got out of his car and walked up the driveway toward her. ‘Hello,' he said.

‘Hello, Barney,' she smiled. ‘What are you doing here?' He was dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt and tie.

‘I had to pick up a couple of things at the office,' he said. ‘I thought I'd drop by here on the way back—just to say hello to your grandmother.'

‘I've just spent about half an hour with her,' Barbara said.

‘How is she?'

‘Oh, just about the same. A little muddled. She got me mixed up with Peggy once, but otherwise she doesn't seem much different.'

Barney looked toward the house. ‘I come by to see her from time to time,' he said. ‘It's funny—I've always rather liked old people. Talking to her is very calming.'

Barbara laughed. ‘Calming? With old Binky Zaretsky interrupting all the time?'

‘Oh, I don't mind her.'

‘She's such a ghoul!'

He rested the palms of his hands on the side of her car and stared down at the driveway beneath his feet. ‘Well—' he said.

‘Are you going in to see her?' she asked.

‘I don't know. She may be tired now. Having just had a visitor.'

‘Yes—she may,' Barbara said and suddenly the strip of sunlight between them seemed oddly crowded, the air thick. He raised his eyes and looked at her, frowning; she looked at him, then away, toward the corner of the drive.

‘Did you—?' he began.

‘What?'

He cleared his throat. ‘Were you finally able to get to sleep last night?'

‘Oh, yes,' she said brightly. ‘Yes—I was asleep the minute my head touched the pillow!' she laughed, a little wildly, ‘Did you—get to sleep?'

‘Yes.' he said, ‘Finally.'

‘You scared me half to death,' she said. ‘Seeing you—like that—in the hall.'

‘I thought you were a ghost,' he said. ‘I thought you were the ghost of Harlow J. Lerner, come back to haunt us.'

She laughed.

‘What were you doing? Walking through the house with no lights on?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I was. I don't know why I was.'

He continued to stand, his hands on the door of her car, and she resisted looking at him, though she could feel his eyes on her. She looked straight ahead, her hands resting on the steering wheel. ‘Well,' she said finally, ‘I must get back.'

He stepped away from the car. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I suppose you have to.'

‘Yes,' she said.

He seemed to hesitate. ‘Do you have to get back right away?'

‘I think I should,' she said. ‘Why?'

‘I wondered—would you like to go for a drive?'

‘A drive?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well—what time is it?'

‘Around eleven,' he said. ‘Lunch isn't until one.'

‘Well—' she said.

‘It's a nice day.'

‘Yes, it is a nice day,' she said. And then, ‘All right.'

‘You will go?'

‘All right.'

‘My car's blocking yours,' he said. ‘Let's take mine.'

‘I guess I can leave mine here for a minute,' she said.

‘Sure,' he said.

She got out of the car and walked slowly ahead of him along the driveway to where his car was. She opened the door and got inside. He walked around the car and opened the other door and slid into the seat beside her.

‘I'm glad you don't have a car like Woody's,' she said. ‘That little thing of his is just too rakish for me!'

‘There's something to be said,' he said, ‘for a conservative model of the lower-priced three.'

She laughed.

He started the car and backed it out of the driveway.

‘Where shall we go?' she asked.

He didn't answer her, but at the corner of Prospect Avenue and High Street he turned left.

‘Do you remember when you first drove me around this town?' he asked her after a moment.

‘Oh yes,' she said.

‘That was a pleasant summer, wasn't it?'

‘It was,' she said.

They were driving through the West Hill section of Burketown now, a section of small, identical, boxlike houses that had been built immediately after the second World War. It was not Barbara's favourite part of town. Because it was a development, it reminded her of Sunrise Heights in Locustville. Along its winding streets, West Hill presented a panorama of brightly coloured rooftops—red, blue, white and green; its backyards were aflutter with clotheslines decked with brightly coloured wash; its front yards were a dotted pattern of sidewalks edged with round yews, square boxwoods, pyramidal spruces—foundation planting. Presently they were past West Hill, in the open country, heading toward the hilly woods that ringed the valley. Stone fences lined the road; here and there appeared a pasture, a farm house or barn. The road was narrower, and in the heat, the tarred surface seemed to swim ahead of the car in a shining haze. ‘Where are we going?' she asked.

‘I don't really know,' he said. ‘Just driving. Do you care?'

‘I guess not.' She put her head back on the seat. ‘Poor Nana,' she said.

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. I think one of the things that upset me the most was seeing her garden all gone to weeds. It used to be such a beautiful garden. Now somebody's planted sunflowers all over the place. Everything else is dead.'

‘Sometimes,' he said, ‘when things start dying it's just as well to let them die.'

She looked at him. ‘That's cheerful!' she said. ‘You sound like Mrs. Zaretsky. She's ready for Nana to die at any minute.'

‘Well,' he said, ‘It's true, isn't it? If she's going to die, she's going to die.'

‘What a gloomy mood you're in!'

‘Ah—' he said.

He slowed the car now, pulled it to one side of the road and stopped. ‘Have you ever been here before?'

She looked around. A short path led between two boulders at the road's edge to a ravine where, between large rocks, a brook ran down.

‘Why, yes!' she said. ‘I remember this place. We used to go swimming here! It was quite illegal, though. How did you discover it?'

‘Just driving around one day. It's still illegal.' He pointed to a
NO TRESPASSING
sign.

‘It was a very daring place to go when I was in school,' she said. ‘We used to come here at night.'

‘Let's look at the brook,' he said. ‘I don't think they'd mind if we trespassed just a little.'

‘All right.'

They got out of the car. They went down the path to a wide, flat rock that jutted out above the water. ‘We used to jump from here,' Barbara said. ‘That brook's terribly cold. It comes out of a spring somewhere.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘Have you been swimming here?'

‘Just once.'

‘When?'

‘At night one time,' he said.

‘How are your swimming lessons coming?'

He laughed shortly. ‘I haven't had any,' he said. ‘I didn't come here to swim. I just rolled up my trousers and went wading—just as far up as the spring.'

‘At
night
?'

‘It's very pretty here at night.' He sat down on the flat rock, made a pillow of his hands behind his head and lay back, crossing his feet. She stood above him. He looked oddly out of place, in a dark business suit and tie, stretched out there, squinting up at her against the sun. She sat down beside him.

He lifted one arm now and with one finger he delicately touched the thin ridge of her nose. ‘You've got a little sunburn,' he said. ‘You're peeling—right there.'

‘Yes.'

‘Your face always has a gleam,' he said. ‘A kind of brown gleam, a shimmer. You look—always very fresh.'

She turned her head away from him to discourage any further appraisal of it.

‘It was one of the first things I noticed about you—your gleam. The way a very little girl's face gleams. Those first few days, when I first came to the farm, everything seemed to have a gleam like that.' He smiled distantly. ‘Then I got to know it,' he said.

‘Barney,' she said, ‘tell me what's the matter.'

‘You know what's the matter.'

‘No. Tell me.'

‘Why do you think I brought you here?' he asked.

She smiled. ‘Do you realise, it's been at least fourteen years since I've been to this place? It makes me realise I'm not a little girl any more. So—so, I think we ought both to try to be more mature, more sensible.' She looked at him; he was staring straight up at the sky. ‘Do you have a cigarette?' she asked.

He reached in his pocket for cigarettes, found them, and offered the pack to her. He rolled over on his side and gave her a light. He tossed the match toward the water. ‘Yes,' he said finally, ‘You're absolutely right.'

‘So let's forget about that other—that crazy summer,' she said. ‘In fact, I—'

‘In fact what?'

‘Nothing.'

‘In fact you've forgotten?'

She said nothing.

‘Have you, Barbara?'

When she still did not answer, he turned on his stomach and lay with his face burried in his folded arms. He said something that she couldn't hear.

‘What?' she asked.

‘I said, so we'll just go on and let everything die around us.'

‘Let what die?'

‘Your marriage and mine.'

She laughed. ‘Nothing's dying. I'm very happy, really. And so are you. Or you ought to be.'

‘Everything is dying,' he said, his voice coming from far away in the cavern between his folded arms.

‘Oh, Barney!' she said gaily. ‘Don't be silly!'

‘Listen,' he said intensely, turning his head to look at her again, ‘Everyone used to shine—your mother, your father, Peggy—everybody—when I first came here, just as though they'd been freshly painted. In two years, the paint's chipped off.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘When I say things are dying, I mean it—literally. It's not just your grandmother and her flower garden, and it's not just Peggy and me. I was only half kidding about old Mr. Lerner's ghost. There is some kind of ghost haunting this whole family! The paper company is dying—did you know that? At best, I give it ten more years unless something radical is done. Your father's dying—committing suicide with drink! it's not that I understand it—I don't. And I don't know what to do about it, to stop it. Perhaps it can't be stopped. The only thing I know is that I was alive—or thought I was—when I first came here. But I don't seem to be any more. And you seemed alive, too, at first. Are you still? Or have we both caught the disease—?'