Barbara Greer (32 page)

‘It's a very simple reason. It's because, in this house, I'm as close to being with you as I can possibly be, without being with you. It's one of the advantages of being a family pet. I can go into your bedroom and I can open your closet doors and see a few dresses of yours that are hanging there, and your shoes, and I can open your dresser drawers and smell you inside there. I can go into the room that used to be your nursery, and see your toys and your old dolls and the books with your name scribbled inside them. I can look through the snapshot album on the piano and see your picture on most of the pages. I can see the photographs on your mother's dressing table. I can see the water-colour in the dining room …'

‘Please stop,' she said.

‘No,' he said. ‘No—you asked me why. It's because I can walk along the path to the lake where we walked, sit on the pier where we sat—touch things you touched, see things you saw. I can do all this and nobody knows what I'm really doing—that I'm making love to you, seducing you! So you see! You see what kind of man I am? I'm not a very good pet, am I?'

‘No,' she said. ‘No …'

‘Do you know where I was yesterday when you telephoned? I was all alone. I was in your room, doing what I always do there—touching your things. And when the phone rang, it was like a miracle! It was you. I'd been sitting there, remembering that night, the first time I met you on the terrace—the night you said you'd teach me how to swim. And the phone rang. And it was you.'

Still holding her hand, he lowered his face and rested his forehead on the arm of her chair. ‘I didn't use to be like this,' he said softly. ‘The thing is, I need you.'

She sat quietly now, unable to speak or think. At last she said, ‘Do you mean that really?'

‘Yes. You're the valuable thing. The only thing that will make me valuable.'

‘Such a strange thing,' she said. ‘Such a strange thing to say. I don't think anyone has ever said a thing like that to me before.'

‘It's true.'

Suddenly she bent and kissed his dark hair; immediately she felt awkward and ashamed that she had done it, but she had done it, and so she continued to hold him there, one hand seized in his, her face lowered to his head, a curious perching and suspended position which she tried to hold, thinking; It's true that no one has ever thought this of me, or loved me this much!

‘I don't deserve it, Barney!' she said. ‘I don't deserve to be thought of that way, don't you see? I'm not that pure and good, I'm—'

Then there was a sound and she looked up. Nancy Rafferty stood at the doorway in a dripping raincoat. ‘Yoo-hoo!' Nancy said. ‘Anybody home? Oh,
there
you are!'

Barney rose quickly to his feet. Nancy came into the room. ‘Lord, what a storm!' she said. ‘I had a ghastly time at the station, trying to get a taxi to bring me out here, but at last I did. Oh, God, it's wonderful to be here, Barb!' She turned to Barney. ‘And you,' she said. ‘You must be Barney.'

Barbara was standing now, too. ‘Barney,' she said, ‘this is my friend Nancy Rafferty. Nancy, this is Barney Callahan.'

‘I've heard so much about you!' Nancy said.

‘How do you do?' Barney said. And then, ‘Excuse me, please.' He turned and walked out of the room.

Nancy giggled and squeezed Barbara's hand. ‘Well!' she said. ‘I
do
apologise, Barb! I did
that
all wrong, didn't I? I should have coughed, or something, before barging in. It's a habit of mine, isn't it—barging in? Remember Schuyler? But he
is
attractive, isn't he?'

‘Are your bags in the hall?' Barbara asked.

‘Just one bag. I packed in an enormous hurry. But I had an hour between trains in New York so I dashed up to Saks and bought the most divine vamping dress. Let's go upstairs. I want to show it to you. If
this
doesn't wow Woody, darling, nothing will! Oh, Lord what a storm! I'm simply drenched,' she said. Together, with Nancy holding her arm, they started toward the hall.

Preston sat at his desk and Edith sat behind him, on the sofa, smoking her cigarette. ‘I think the rain is stopping,' she said.

He looked up absently. ‘Yes,' he said.

‘Won't you join us now, dear? The house is so quiet and lonely without you!'

‘Not quite yet,' he said.

She smiled rigidly at him. ‘Won't you tell me what you're doing?'

‘It's just a little project, Edith. For the moment, it's a sort of'—he hesitated—‘secret.'

‘I see,' she said. She stood up and walked to the window. The window faced the terrace, and, beyond it, the sloping lawn. ‘I was remembering just a while ago, the little picnics we used to have across the lake. Remember, dear? They were fun, weren't they?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘They were fun, Edith.'

She turned to him. ‘Am I disturbing your concentration, Preston?' she asked him.

He put down his pen and smiled at her. ‘No,' he said. He pushed his chair back and started to rise.

‘Where are you going?' she asked him.

He smiled again, picking up his empty glass. ‘Just going to freshen this a bit,' he said.

‘Preston,' she said, ‘you don't want any more to drink.'

He laughed softly. ‘What is it about a woman,' he said, ‘that makes her feel she knows exactly what a man wants and what he doesn't want?'

‘Preston, dear.'

‘Will you have one with me, Edith?'

‘Preston, that's not the point. You've had enough.'

‘And a woman is always sure she knows when a man has had enough.'

‘Sit down, dear,' Edith said pleasantly.

His face, which up till then had been composed and cheerful, seemed to fall, and he stood there, swaying just slightly, looking haggard and bewildered. He raised his empty glass. ‘I—' he began. Then he sat down. ‘I've only had two,' he said.

‘I want to talk to you,' she said.

‘What about?'

‘Something that's been preying on my mind.'

‘What is it?'

‘I think,' Edith said, ‘that when something preys on someone's mind, the person ought to speak about it, don't you? And not keep it—secret?'

‘Yes, that's right,' he said.

She lifted the fingers of her left hand and frowned at her rings. She let her hand fall quickly to her side. ‘Sometimes I think I tend to bottle things up in myself too much,' she said. ‘When something worries me, or troubles me, I tend to bottle it up, not say anything, not express it. This time—'

‘Yes, Edith?'

‘This time it worries me too much. It's worried me for too long.'

He said nothing.

‘If I tell you what it is, will you promise not to be angry with me?'

‘Yes,' he said.

‘Promise? Swear?'

‘I promise,' he said dully.

She drew in her breath and quickly said, ‘Preston, you're sick. Preston, you should see a doctor, a different doctor, a—'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘You're a drunkard, Preston. I know.'

‘I've only had two.'

‘You've had more than two.'

‘Now, don't call me a liar, Edith. I ought to know—'

‘
Please
,' she said. ‘Let's not have a scene.'

He sat with his hands resting loosely on his knees, looking down at the square of green carpet beneath his feet. ‘Now look,' he said after a moment. ‘This is pretty silly, isn't it? I mean, I—'

‘You've been drinking all day,' Edith said. ‘You're no longer sober, Preston.'

‘That's not true.'

‘It
is
true. I think we ought to talk about it. I think we ought to discuss it, bring it out in the open.'

‘Please leave me alone,' he said.

‘I think that's been part of the trouble, Preston. I've left you alone too much. Now it's gone too far. You can't be left alone.'

‘I'm not a child, Edith.'

‘No, darling,' she said. ‘Of course you're not. I've revised my whole thinking about this, actually. You know the way I was brought up. Liquor was never served in our house. If my father ever touched a drop of liquor in his life, I never knew about it. We used to see the drunks on the streets in Providence and I was always told that they were horrid, dirty, sinful old men. Now of course I don't think that any more. I've become—oh, really quite modern about it, all things considered. I enjoy an evening cocktail as much as anyone, dear, you know that. But this is different.'

‘Is it?'

‘Yes.' She came and perched on the edge of the sofa again, facing him. She clasped her hands together in her lap, in an attitude of supplication, and leaned forward earnestly. ‘This,' she said, ‘this thing with you is nothing to be ashamed of, Preston. It's a sickness, dear. It's like—well, it's like a disease, or a condition. I know this, Preston, because I asked Billy. Billy and I discussed it at some length. Billy says that a sickness, actually, is what it is. One of Billy's friends from Yale—that Stu Gates, remember?—went through the same sort of thing about two years ago, Billy said, the exact same thing. It was a sickness. And Billy says that the good thing about it being a sickness is that it can be cured, darling. But he says that the thing you must realise is that it
is
a sickness, and see a doctor. It isn't a sickness that requires hospitalisation or anything like that, but there are definite cures that medicine has worked out for cases like yours. I don't know what they are, but Billy assured me that in Stu Gates's case, it was simply incredible what happened to Stu. He's a changed man, now, literally, Billy says. And he'd been simply impossible before. And Billy says—'

He slammed the heel of his palm hard against the arm of his chair. ‘God damn it!' he said. ‘What the hell do I care about what Billy says? Shut up about what Billy says!'

‘Preston!' She sat back.

‘I mean it,' he said. ‘What do I care what Billy says?'

‘But Billy
knows
.'

‘What the hell does Billy know? And why the hell should you be talking to Billy about me?'

‘I've had to, darling. I've had to.'

‘What do you mean you've had to? What else have you and Billy talked about besides this?'

‘Lately, many things. More and more things, Preston. I didn't want to, Preston. But what else could I do? I had to seek advice from someone. I had to talk to someone.'

‘But why Billy?'

‘Despite what you say about him, Billy has a logical mind.'

‘Don't I have a logical mind?'

‘Not always. Not when you're the way you are sometimes. You can't see yourself the way you are sometimes. Billy has, though. And I have. So I finally spoke to him.'

‘And deserted me.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You've deserted me, too. Just the way Father did—deserted me for Billy.'

‘That's not true.'

‘It is. It is. Get out of here. Leave me alone.'

She stood up, smoothing the front of her dress. ‘If you won't listen to reason, there's nothing more to say.'

‘I'll listen to reason. I won't listen to Billy.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘But Billy knows. He knows you're a drunken man. You're an alcoholic man. Everyone knows it. Everyone in the family, everyone in town. It's hardly a secret, whether you know it or not. It's humiliating! “How is Mr. Woodcock feeling today?” they ask me—people in town, people I hardly know. People who wouldn't have dared speak to your father or mother on the street in this town now speak to me, accost me, feeling that they are privileged to speak to me because they've seen a bond of commonness in you! “How is he feeling?” they ask me. “Why, perfectly fine, thank you!” They smile at me. They think, who is she, so high and mighty? Who does she think she is? She's no better than Mrs. Pat O'Marra down on Railroad Street whose husband comes in reeling every night, too! “Perfectly fine, thank you,” I say, and they smile at me and say, “He was feeling no pain last night.” Where? Where was he last night? At the club. At what club? Oh, any one of a number of clubs—clubs that aren't really clubs at all, just taverns, dives and shacks—any place that has a bar. Places where you go after work, or where you go during work. Your secretary—at three o'clock in the afternoon, last week, when I called. “Mr. Woodcock is out of the office. I don't expect him back today.” “Where has he gone?” “Oh, I really couldn't say, Mrs. Woodcock.” And last Thursday morning, a policeman. Yes, Preston, a
policeman!
A policeman on the corner of Main and Elm in Burketown. Suddenly, last Thursday, he stopped me, blew his whistle! Pulled me over to the side of the street. “Mrs. Woodcock,” he said. “Yes? Yes?” I said. “Yes? What have I done, officer?” And he said, “I'm Patrolman Olin, Mrs. Woodcock. My father is Frank Olin who's a cutter at the mill.” I don't know this man, Olin! But he knows you and he knows me! And I said, “Yes, yes, what is it?” And he said, “It's about Mr. Woodcock, ma'am. I really don't think he ought to be driving a car, the way he is sometimes”.'

‘That's a lie,' he said quietly.

‘It's not a lie! Why should I lie? It's the truth. It's the truth! “The way he is sometimes!” Don't you think I knew what he meant, Patrolman Olin? The way you are most of the time, he should have said! Oh, I'm so sick and ashamed of it, so sick and ashamed of it! Ashamed of pretending there's nothing the matter with you when all along—all along—everybody—oh!' From where she kept it tucked, beneath the belt of her dress, she tugged at her handkerchief, withdrew it, dabbed at her eyes and nose. ‘I'll leave you alone now,' she said. She turned and went quickly out of the room.

He sat in his chair for a while, then stood up. He went to the cellarette and fixed his drink, carefully measuring it, just right, the way he wanted it. He swirled the liquid in the glass, admiring the pale glow. He carried his drink to the window and looked out. The rain had stopped and he looked out across the lawn, the trees, the acres of his domain. He lifted his glass and drank a toast to the acres so serene. Then, as if he had bidden it to, the sun came out instantly and brilliantly. In the immediate aftermath of the storm it etched every outline and detail of leaf and blade with such precision and sharpness that, for a moment, he felt almost overwhelmed, dizzied from the sudden clear beauty of it, and his chest filled with violent sunbursts of happiness. It was the way the grass lay, flattened by the rain, and the way the maple leaves hung limp and dripping, and the way all this green glittered as though God had sprinkled diamonds over everything.