Barbara Greer (7 page)

‘One o'clock in the pyjama factory, for God's sake.'

Barbara laughed softly. ‘Well, at least that was accurate,' she said.

They drove on in silence.

Barbara said, ‘I keep remembering what a nice, bright girl she used to be.'

‘Yes,' he said.

‘I was thinking—while you're away I might call Mother and ask her if I could bring Nancy up to the farm for a weekend. Who knows? Woody just may be the answer.'

‘I don't think so,' Carson said. ‘Not Woody.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just don't think that Woody's her type. Or that she's his.'

‘It's funny, I always keep forgetting,' Barbara said. ‘That you knew Woody before you knew me.'

‘Uh-huh,' he said.

‘You don't think it might be worthwhile? Just to bring them together?'

‘Why get her hopes all up, and then—?'

‘And then what?'

‘And then not have it work out I mean,' he said.

‘You think Woody's a confirmed bachelor then,' she said.

‘I'm afraid so,' he said.

After a moment she said, ‘Well, I might go up to the farm for a few days anyway. For a weekend, perhaps. You wouldn't mind if I did that, would you?'

‘And take the kids?'

‘Either that or see whether Flora can stay …'

‘You really love that old place, don't you?' he asked.

‘What? The farm?'

‘Yes.'

‘Of course I love it … it's home,' she said. And then, ‘It gets so lonesome here when you're away. I don't know whether you realise.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘I get lonesome, too. Being away.'

They were approaching the airport now.

‘That must be your plane,' Barbara said.

‘Yes,' he said.

He parked the car in the parking lot, removed the keys and handed them to her. He lifted his suitcase from the back seat, tossed his raincoat over his arm. They walked together toward the terminal, to the door that was marked
DEPARTING PASSENGERS
.

For five years now she had seen Carson as a departing, or an arriving, passenger. And yet it was comforting to know, when he was away and his very existence seemed tenuous and uncertain, that somewhere, on some plane or train, he was a passenger. His travels were controlled, and safeguarded, by little slips of paper—tickets, baggage checks, itineraries, confirmations or reservations, passports, visas and memoranda. Because a passenger, whether arriving or departing, was at least an entity, a being. Carson's ticket was checked now; his baggage weighed and tagged and they stood together in the terminal, in that suddenly embarrassed and uncertain pre-departure mood, talking, each not really listening to what the other was saying but waiting for the voice from the loudspeaker to signal that the passage was beginning.

‘I wish—and I always say this—that I was going with you!' she said.

‘So do I. Some time.'

‘Yes. Some time.'

‘Give my love to the farm if you go. To your Mother, your Dad. Peggy, Barney, the whole family.'

‘Yes, yes, I will,' she said.

‘Well, then—'

‘Yes.'

‘I think I've thought of everything. I'll cable when I arrive.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, then—'

And then the loudspeaker announcement came. Now loading at Gate Two. And they were hurrying, side by side, to the gate. At the gate he hurriedly kissed her and she said, ‘I love you! Write as often as you can!'

‘I will,' he said, ‘I will!'

And other hurrying passengers pushed behind him and he released her and started across the stretch of asphalt toward the plane. He turned to wave and she waved to him and blew him a kiss from her fingertips. He went up the steps and was gone. She waited a while at the gate with a few other people until the ramp was rolled away, the door closed, the propellers started, and the plane began slowly to move away. Then she turned and walked back out of the terminal to where he had parked the car.

When she got back to the house she found Nancy sitting, tailor-fashion on the green living room sofa, still wearing a borrowed pair of Barbara's white pyjamas. She had a cigarette going, and in her hands she held a steaming cup of coffee from which she took little sips. ‘I wasn't a very good baby-sitter, I'm afraid,' she said. ‘I let Dobie and Michael climb all over me in bed, and when they got tired of doing that I gave them my purse to play with. They had a marvellous time painting each other with my lipstick.'

Barbara sat down wearily in the chair opposite her.

‘Fortunately, your Flora showed up and took over,' Nancy said.

‘I'm exhausted,' Barbara said. ‘I couldn't seem to get to sleep last night.'

Nancy put her coffee cup in its saucer. ‘It's all my fault,' she said. ‘I kept you up. I'm sorry.'

‘Oh, that's all right,' Barbara said.

‘Did Carson get his plane?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry I got him mad at me last night. Honestly, I didn't mean to! I'm afraid I was a naughty little girl,' she said, ‘but I'm paying for my sins this morning. I'm feeling—how did we use to say it?—a little leftover?'

‘That's too bad.'

‘I'm sorry, I really am.'

‘Don't worry about it, Nancy.'

‘Poor Carson, I—'

‘He understood,' Barbara said.

Flora came into the room with an envelope in her hand.

‘I found this on the garbage can, Mrs. Greer,' she said. ‘When I went out to empty the trash.' She handed the envelope to Barbara.

‘On the garbage can?' Barbara said.

‘Stuck there with a little piece of Scotch tape.'

Barbara looked at the envelope. On the front, printed in pencil, were the words, ‘Mrs. C. Greer.' She tore it open. The letter said:

Mrs. Greer.

All of us live in this neighbourhood and we should all be as good neighbours as possible. From where your garbage can is placed it is in full view of five houses. It is a disgrace. It is always overflowing and very untidily kept. Let us be better neighbours and keep neatness in mind for the sake of other property owners.

The letter was unsigned. Barbara read it through again.

‘Well, what
is
it?' Nancy asked.

She handed the letter to Nancy.

‘Why, for heaven's sake!' Nancy exclaimed, reading it.

Barbara turned to Flora. ‘Somebody doesn't think we've been keeping our garbage can neat enough,' she said. ‘How was it this morning?'

‘Well, there was a couple of tin cans around,' Flora said.

Barbara sighed. ‘Let's try to keep it neater,' she said. And then ‘I'm not blaming you, Flora. It's probably Mr. Greer's fault and mine as much as anybody's.'

Flora went back toward the kitchen and Nancy returned the letter to Barbara. ‘Is that typical around here?' Nancy asked. ‘Anonymous notes and things?'

‘This is the first anonymous note,' Barbara said.

‘Who could it be from? Do you have any idea?'

‘As it says, it could be from any one of five people. What difference does it make?' She glanced at the letter again. Suddenly she was angry. She stood up. ‘How idiotic!' she said. She seized the letter and tore it down the centre, then into smaller and smaller strips. She walked to the fireplace and tossed the bits of paper over the dead ashes. ‘Do you see why I hate this town?' she asked. ‘Imagine! An anonymous letter—
printed
, to disguise the handwriting!'

‘It's incredible!' Nancy said.

‘About a year ago, the Brysons, down the street, had a huge, horrible Collie named Lady. Everybody hated that dog—not only me. It used to come and yank Flora's sheets off the line and do its business all over our lawn. You couldn't go out the door without stepping into a pile of—well, anyway, somebody poisoned Lady. Helen Bryson
claimed
Lady was poisoned, anyway. Lady died, and Helen Bryson had the nerve to come over here and ask me if I'd done it! She said, “I won't be able to sleep nights until I know whether it was you who killed my Lady”!'

‘Incredible!' Nancy said again.

‘Oh, we have a lovely, lovely group of neighbours.'

‘How do you stand it, Barb?'

Barbara said nothing, She stood by the fireplace for a moment, gazing at the scraps of paper among the ashes. Then she returned to her chair. Dobie came running into the room. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a brace of pistols swung from his belt. ‘Can I go over to Jimmy's house?' he asked. ‘Can I, can I, can I?'

‘Did Jimmy's mummy say you could?' Barbara asked.

‘Yes,' he said, nodding solemnly, he turned suddenly and pointed at Nancy. ‘Aunt Nancy let us put her lipstick all over our faces, like Indians!' he said. ‘Flora made us wash it all off. It hurt.'

‘It's naughty to play with lipstick,' Barbara said.

‘Aunt Nancy let us!'

‘Well, run along to Jimmy's house,' she said.

He raced out of the room.

‘He's such a sweet little guy,' Nancy said. ‘I couldn't resist letting them play with the lipstick. I'm sorry.'

‘Wait till you have children of your own,' Barbara said. Then she bit her lip, remembering that Nancy could not have children of her own. ‘I mean—' she began.

Nancy laughed. ‘Well,' she said. She picked up her coffee cup, took a sip, and set it down again. She stood up. ‘Well, I've got to be going,' she said. ‘I've got a career to get back to—a wonderful, exciting career.' She walked toward the door. She stopped. ‘You know,' she said, ‘sometimes I don't think I want to be a nurse at all. Sometimes I think—I wonder what in the world I'm doing!' She went down the hall toward the guest room.

When she came out she was dressed as she had been the night before, her purse in her hand. ‘I made the bed,' she said.

Barbara stood up. ‘Thank you, Nancy.'

‘Thank
you
. Oh Barb, it was a wonderful evening. Thank you for letting me stay. I hope I wasn't too—you know, idiotic. You're so wonderful for my morale.'

They walked toward the front door. ‘Good-bye, Flora!' Nancy called toward the kitchen door. ‘And thank you.'

‘Good-bye, Miss Rafferty.'

‘She's a jewel,' she whispered to Barbara. ‘You're lucky to have her.'

At the front stairs they said good-bye.

‘Come up again soon,' Barbara said. ‘You can boost
my
morale.'

‘I will,' Nancy said. ‘And if you should happen to—to see or talk to Woody … well, there would be nothing to lose, would there?'

Barbara smiled. ‘I'll see what I can do,' she said.

Nancy went down the steps to the driveway where her car was parked. Barbara waved goodbye to her again and watched as Nancy started the car, backed out of the driveway, turned into Bayberry Lane and drove away.

Barbara went back into the house. Flora said, ‘Imagine that woman letting the boys paint themselves with her lipstick! What's she thinking of?'

‘She has no children of her own,' Barbara said.

‘I'm going to take Michael with me to the market, in the stroller,' Flora said. ‘We need a few things—butter, eggs, something for the boys' lunch …'

‘Do you want me to take you in the car?' Barbara asked.

‘Oh, it's a lovely day. Michael and me, we'll enjoy the walk,' Flora said. ‘Walking's good exercise. The best you can do. My father walked two miles every day and he lived to be eighty-eight.'

‘My grandfather lived to be eighty-eight, too,' Barbara said.

‘Quite a walker, was he?'

‘I don't think so,' Barbara said. ‘At least not that I can remember.'

After Flora left, she was all alone. In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it into the living room. She sat down on the sofa. Sun streamed through the window, lighting dust motes that swirled in the air. From the kitchen the dishwasher groaned and entered the final phase of its automatic cycle. Then the house was silent. Barbara kicked off her shoes and brought her feet up beneath her on the sofa. She sat nestled comfortably against the pillows, sipping her coffee. When she had finished, she put the cup down and reached for a cigarette from the glass box on the coffee table. The silver lighter, after several tries, appeared to be out of fluid and she fished for matches in the pocket of her skirt. She found a pack and lighted her cigarette. On the coffee table there was a copy of
House & Garden
; she picked it up.

She smoked and read, and for a long time there was no sound at all in the room except the slow turning of her pages; no movement except for the smoke that rose, floated, and hung in the air. She read an article on how to turn an old foundation into a sunken garden, and then an article called ‘Colour Magic,' during which she imagined her own bedroom in a deep Chinese red with pure white raw silk drapes and flounces about the bed, more Chinese red in a slipper chair and a tufted toss pillow. It would look, she concluded, hideous; when they moved, when they had the kind of house she ultimately wanted, there would be nothing like this in it, nothing that looked phony or decorator-ish. She would select each colour, each fabric, each piece of furniture with great care, but there would be no swags of raw silk, no lacquered chests, no Chinese red chairs or walls or pillows. Everything, she decided, would be very simple, very comfortable, very homey and warm. The square of sunlight from the window advanced across the room and a warm patch fell precisely where she would have asked it to—upon her stockinged feet. She moved into it until sunlight lay all along her leg. She heard, in the distance, a succession of automobile horns—a wedding, she decided. She let her magazine drop and closed her eyes. She dozed off.

She was wakened by the sound of the postman dropping letters into the slot beside the front door. She rubbed her eyes and stood up. She walked to the door without bothering to put on her shoes, picked up the letters that lay on the floor inside the door, and carried them back into the living room. She always looked forward to the morning mail, but today she could see at a glance that there was nothing of importance—nothing that was even worth opening; a letter from an insurance company, a seed catalogue, three bills from department stores, a free trial offer from a publisher of children's encyclopedias, a few business letters addressed to Carson. And looking through the letters she was reminded again of the letter Flora had found on the garbage can. How had it been put there? She pictured one of her neighbours—a woman, probably—tiptoeing stealthily across the back yards at night, ducking like a thief around the shadows of the low hedges that separated the houses. She went to the back window and looked out across the terrace. There were indeed five rooftops visible; she counted them. She felt angry and ashamed. She turned away from the window and went to the desk, the letters still in her hand. She placed the bills in the cubbyhole where they belonged and tossed the rest of the mail in a drawer. She thought: I've got to get away from here for a few days! I simply do. She picked up the telephone and dialled.