Barbara Greer (44 page)

Barbara put the lipstick on, then closed the tube and stood up. She followed Peggy to the door. In the hall, Peggy squeezed her arm. ‘You're a damn good sport!' Peggy said.

Barbara said, ‘Peggy—what are you going to do?'

Peggy stopped and turned to her with a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?' she asked. Her face cleared. ‘Oh, you mean now that he's dead, what will I do? Well, for one thing, I'm not going to be a widowy widow. And then—well, I suppose I'll marry again. Yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I'll do—marry again and then perhaps I'll astonish the world with the number of children I'll have!' She linked her arm in Barbara's and they went down the stairs.

Mr. and Mrs. Callahan sat side by side on the brown velvet sofa in the library. They both wore black and Barbara was startled to see how old they both looked. They sat somewhat stiffly, in almost identical poses, their hands folded in their laps, and they looked fragile and ill. Their faces were pale and blank.

‘I'd like to present my sister, Mrs. Greer,' Peggy said. ‘Barbara, these are Barney's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Callahan.'

Mr. Callahan quickly stood up and held out his hand, then withdrew it nervously. He extended his hand again, then, as Barbara held out her own. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Greer?' he said, and their hands met. His voice was soft and tremulous.

‘How do you do?' Barbara said. ‘I'm so—'

‘Yes … yes …' he said.

‘Do sit down,' Peggy said.

They all sat, and, for a moment, there was a painful silence. Then Mr. Callahan said softly, ‘We stopped by, on the way, to see him. He looks—they've done a beautiful job—he looks—just as though he's fast asleep.'

‘Yes,' Peggy said.

Mrs. Callahan reached for her handkerchief and touched her eyelids quickly and perfunctorily, though no tears showed there.

Outside, on the drive, a car drove up and stopped. Distantly, the front-door bell rang and distantly John's slippered feet moved across the house to answer it. In the library, they listened, waited, heard the front door open. They heard a few softly murmured words and they waited as though the caller might be bringing some portentous and long-awaited news. Then the door closed and John tiptoed past the library door bearing a long, slender, green cardboard box.

‘Flowers,' Mr. Callahan said, and his soft voice was full of awe. ‘More flowers! This is three bunches, now, that have come just since we've been sitting here. He must have had a lot of friends in this town, a lot of friends.'

Then there was another long silence. Barbara felt the afternoon passing slowly and sleepily somewhere beyond them all as they sat, with grave faces, in the sunny library where rainbow refractions of light streamed from the teardrop prisms of the sconces on the mantel and fell in gay little shifting patterns on the rug; they sat, bewildered, hunting for some single significance or symbol that would lift from absurdity the whole business of life. Sounds of toil, as they searched, seemed to fill the room. Words and sentences tumbled in her head and vapourised and she continued to sit absolutely still, inarticulate, numb and anchored to her chair. Peggy lighted a cigarette and waved out the match. Barney's mother slowly twisted the rings on her left hand.

John arrived with things on a tray. There was tea and there was sherry. No one wanted sherry. Peggy poured perfectly. Barbara held her cup and stirred it.

Barney's father was talking in a low, soft voice that was filled with a kind of spellbound wonder. He was talking to no one in particular and as he spoke his eyes travelled all around the room, stopping to rest on no one thing. ‘Yes …' he said. ‘Yes, he was a fine boy. He was in the Army. He never told me too much about the Army or who his buddies were. He didn't like to talk about it. He was in Korea thirteen months …' Then he turned to Peggy, eagerly. ‘He got a—they call it a Letter of Commendation! Did he ever tell you that? From his commanding officer—from a colonel! Did he ever tell you that?'

Peggy sipped her tea. ‘No, I don't believe so …' she said.

‘It was for helping establish a Supply Depot. And it said he—' He fumbled in his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. ‘I found it when I was looking through his things. It was there—right there with his discharge papers all along. But he never told us about it. It says—well, perhaps you'd like to read it yourself.' He unfolded the letter carefully, rose and handed it to Peggy.

Peggy read it. ‘Very—very wonderful,' she said at last. And then, ‘May I keep it, please?'

Barney's mother spoke for the first time. Her voice was expressionless. ‘That's what he brought it for,' she said.

‘Thank you so much.'

‘Reflects credit on the armed services as a whole!' Mr. Callahan said. ‘That's what it says. And from a colonel.'

‘So nice …'

‘Yes. Even then he was headed for success. They knew it then—even in the Army.'

Peggy cleared her throat. To Mrs. Callahan she said, ‘Will any of your other children be able to come down?'

Mr. Callahan answered for her. ‘No, just Mrs. Callahan and myself. That's all. The others live too far away.'

‘His brother—Jerry. Barney used to mention him so often. He was so fond—'

‘Yes, but Jerry's in the Army now, you know. He's in Germany. Yes, they were very close, he and Jerry. We had the Red Cross send Jerry the telegram yesterday. But Jerry won't be able to get home.'

‘That's too bad.'

‘Jerry's doing all right in the Army, too,' he said. ‘A corporal already—and only in six months. But he'll never be the soldier his brother was … no, no. No, he was the best soldier and—and a fine boy.' He stared at his untouched teacup. Mrs. Callahan gazed at Peggy, then at Barbara, her pale face composed and quiet.

‘Yes,' he went on. ‘He was headed for great things, for success. He could have been—anything he wanted to be. We always knew that, didn't we, Annie?' He turned anxiously to his wife for confirmation. She nodded. ‘I mean,' he said, ‘I mean even in school. Remember, Annie? Remember when he was—oh, when he was first starting school, in the first grade. He got the best marks! Gold stars the sisters put on his work—gold stars on everything! Spelling … arithmetic. He was the first one to learn to read, remember? He was the smartest one in his class. Oh, we knew even then that he was headed for success. He won that spelling bee, remember? And popular, too. Not snooty about being so smart. President of his class in the eighth grade, and a good little athlete. A good little football player, a good little tackle, but always too light for the team …'

‘He was too thin,' Mrs. Callahan said quietly.

‘Yes, but he ate like a horse, remember? When he was fourteen, fifteen—but he was all skin and bones, you're right. It all went to height. He was taller than me. Healthy, though—always healthy, like my own father, never sick. Oh, he had the usual things—measles, mumps, whooping cough—things like that. Things all kids get. But he was never really sick. And he was a good kid, too—obedient, willing to work. Always had some odd job or other—selling
Saturday Evening Posts
, peddling papers. He worked in my store two summers, running errands. He was always willing. Everybody always loved him because he was so willing and helpful and cooperative. I remember—when I was working in the store—before I got sick—people would call up for something, and they'd say, “Send little Bernard over with it, will you, Mr. Callahan? He's always so cheerful!” He picked up more darned tips than anybody!' He shook his head slowly back and forth, admiringly. ‘And he was smart about money. Never wasted it. He saved it, started his own savings account—all by himself. Came home one night with the little pass book and said, “I've put my money in the bank.” Just announced it, just like that. He was—oh, maybe eleven then.'

‘Nine,' Mrs. Callahan said. ‘Only nine.'

‘Yes, only nine. Yes, he was starred for success, bound to succeed.'

‘Yes …' Peggy said. ‘Yes.'

Remember, Annie?' he said. ‘Remember how he started that savings account, what he said?' He chuckled softly. ‘He went into the bank, big as life—nine years old—and said, “I want to see the manager.” Well, the manager came out, and Barney said—oh, very politely, he was always a polite kid—he said, “How much are your assets, sir?” And when the bank manager said so-and-so many million dollars, he said, “Well, that sounds pretty good. I'll start an account here,” and he made a deposit of seven dollars! Seven dollars!' He removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses and slowly polished them with a corner of his dark jacket. Then he replaced them. ‘Seven dollars!' he repeated. ‘But do you know how much money he had saved up in that bank by the time he started high school? Two hundred and fifty dollars! That shows you how he was.'

‘It's still there,' Mrs. Callahan said.

‘That's right. He worked his way through college—odd jobs, everything. And Harvard Business School, the same way. But he never touched that savings account. That money's still there—more, now, with the interest. I found the pass book with his things.' He reached in his jacket pocket again. ‘That balance is still there. It's yours,' he said, and he held out the small frayed and faded envelope to Peggy.

‘Oh, no—no, you keep it, please!' Peggy said.

‘No, it belongs to you.'

‘Oh, I can't—no, really—'

‘It's yours,' he repeated.

She took it and held it awkwardly in her hand, staring at it, a curious expression on her face.

Then Mrs. Callahan said, ‘Of course it probably doesn't seem like very much money to you.'

Peggy looked up quickly. ‘No, I meant—I meant perhaps Jerry could use it, or—'

‘No,' Barney's mother said. ‘It belongs to you. Morally—and legally.'

‘He always planned to send money home. I know he did,' Peggy said.

Mrs. Callahan's eyes grew wider. ‘Did he? What for? We never needed money.'

‘He was headed for success,' his father said quietly and proudly. ‘Like this …' He nodded about the room, at the books, at the tall windows, at the winking crystal drops on the mantel sconces. ‘A house like this, and a job like the one he had here, with you people. That was what he was always cut out for—right from the beginning.'

‘Mrs. Callahan said, ‘He must be buried in Holy Ground.'

‘I beg your pardon?' Peggy asked.

‘He must be buried in Holy Ground,' she said. ‘That's the only thing.'

‘You mean—'

‘Yes. That's the only think we ask, Mr. Callahan and I. That's why we came down here as quickly as we could, because it must be arranged. Bernard has not been a good Catholic, I know, for several years. He had a—a misunderstanding once that involved the Church. But that was all it was—a misunderstanding. That was why he was married out of the Church. He may have told you that he lost his faith, but that isn't true. He couldn't have. In his heart, in his soul, he still had his faith. I knew my son, you see. His faith could not have gone. It was there. He must be absolved. He must have a Catholic burial. That is all my husband and I ask of you people. My son must have that. You must not deny him that. It may be difficult—because of the last few years, but we must arrange it. I have tried, through our priest, at home. But he is opposed. So you must help us arrange it here, in this town. You must help us do whatever we can do. That's what we came for.'

‘I see,' Peggy said. And then, slowly, ‘Yes—I think we can arrange it.'

‘Good.'

‘We—our family—have always supported all the churches here in Burketown, and quite generously. We always make gifts to Saint Mary's, along with all the other churches. It was one of my grandfather's particular concerns, since—well, since our people at the mill are of all faiths. I'll call Father McGowan at Saint Mary's and see what can be done.'

‘Thank you,' Mrs. Callahan said, and the first glimmer of tenderness appeared in her pale eyes. ‘Thank you. You're very understanding, my dear.'

Barbara said, ‘Mrs. Callahan—I think you're making a mistake.'

‘
What?
' Mrs. Callahan asked sharply. ‘What did you say?'

‘I don't think you should do this,' Barbara said quietly. ‘Really I don't. He wouldn't have wanted it. I know he wouldn't have wanted it.'

Mrs. Callahan leaned forward. Her voice was shrill.
‘You!'
she screamed. ‘What have
you
got to do with my son? You're the one who killed him! You're the one who—'

‘Annie! Annie!' Mr. Callahan said.

‘She is! She killed him! Everybody's read about it! Murderess! She killed him!'

Barbara sat rigidly in her chair. Peggy stood up and walked to where Mrs. Callahan sat. In a low, even voice, she said, ‘How dare you speak to my sister that way?
How dare you?'

‘She did!' The teacup trembled in the older woman's hand as she set it down. Then she sobbed. She leaned sharply across the back of the sofa crying, ‘Oh, my little boy … oh … oh …' Her voice was childlike and despairing. ‘Oh, my angel son! She killed him. She killed him!'

Barbara stood up.

‘Quiet! Be quiet!' Peggy said harshly.

Slowly Barbara turned and walked out of the room. She heard Peggy saying, ‘That's a damned lie. Now be quiet. Stop this. If you'll just be quiet, I'll telephone Father McGowan …'

Barbara went up the stairs.

In the upstairs hall, she met her mother. Edith was tugging at the belt of her blue Shantung dress. ‘Darling, will you zip me up?' Edith said. She turned her back to Barbara. Barbara reached for the zipper. ‘Did you meet them?' Edith asked as Barbara raised the zipper and then fastened the two little hooks at the collar. ‘Were they too ghastly for words? Really, I don't know how much more of this I can bear!' She turned to Barbara again. Then she seized Barbara's elbows and drew her toward her. ‘Oh, isn't this hell! Isn't this utter, utter hell!' she said. There were tears in her eyes.