Cloud Nine (10 page)

“Driving back in the early fall we saw the real show. The bushes still had their leaves, but in place of flowers there were bolls, bolls of real cotton, the softest, warmest things you ever saw, just like little bunnies. And they’re pure white, the same color as your shells. And wouldn’t that be a sight, Gramie, for the Dixie moon to shine on! In the Indian summer, with the shells shining like snow, the cotton bolls shining like silver, and all of it shining like Dixie. And wouldn’t that advertise it! And—”

“It’s in, it’s an inspiration!”

“And I thought it up? I’m the one?”

“You, beautiful you!”

“And I’m kind of a help to you?”

“You’re the best asset I have!”

We lay a long time, inhaling each other, dreaming of moonlight and cotton. And then: “Gramie, why did she do that?”

“Why did who do what?”

“Mrs. Sibert? Why did she put you in her will?”

“I thought I told you: She likes me, and she doesn’t have anyone else. And, I kick in with money.”

“What will she think about me?”

“She’ll love you, as everyone does.”

“Who’s everyone? Who do you know that loves me?”

“...I know no reason they wouldn’t.”

“She could have one, though.
She
could love you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. But maybe she is.”

“I’m getting dizzy. In what way would she be silly?”

“About you—I already said.”

“I can’t imagine such a thing.”

“I can, easy as pie.”

I
T WAS THE FIRST
time that subject came up, but wasn’t to be the last, as I found out Monday morning, when I called Mother, to find out if she still wanted to come to the wedding. I sent Sonya up to pack as soon as we finished breakfast, and walked on down to the drugstore to use the pay phone. I kept my hand on the hook, to hang up if Burl answered, but who came on was Mother, and I started off pretty peevish. “Okay,” I snapped, “I did tell you I meant to get married, and that ended the danger to Burl, but it does seem to me you were rushing things, to bring him back in the house so soon—you must like this rat better than you pretend.”

“I don’t like him at all.”

“Then what was he doing there Saturday when I called?”

“Putting his things in a trunk I let him take, and getting ready to leave. I gave him two hours, and went out—to the movies, actually.”

“You mean he’s gone?”

“I told you! I kicked him the hell out.”

“Well, hooray. I take back everything.”

“I’d rather not talk about it, though no doubt I will when I feel myself able.—Is something on your mind?”

“Do you still want to come to my wedding?”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute!”

“Mother, do you or don’t you?”

“Gramie, we have to talk about that—the situation has changed, here at home, since you left—especially with the Langs.”

“What are they up to
now?”

“They’re not up to anything—at last they’ve listened to reason. She of course, Mrs. Lang, regards you as a catch, and hates to give you up, but he had completely lost his nerve, and has finally come around to the simple, sensible way of winding the thing up, especially if you bear the expense.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“New York! He’s willing to take her there and have the operation done. And so, except for a few hundred dollars, you’ll be out from under.”

“You mean you engineered all this?”

“Gramie, I love you, I hope I don’t let you down.”

“But nobody
asked
you to.”

“Gramie, you’re in a mess. Can’t you—”

“I’m not. It’s all over. She aborted.”

“...She—what?”

“Had a miscarriage.”

“Oh, thank God! Thank the dear merciful God.”

“Yeah, we’ve been thanking Him too.”

“Now, life can go on.”

But she said it in a somewhat peculiar way, and I asked her: “What’s that supposed to mean? If anything?”

“You don’t have to marry this girl.”

“No, but I’m going to.”

“You’re
going
to?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Today.”

“But why?”

“I want to.”

“But don’t you know what it’s going to cost you?”

I supposed she was alluding to Sonya’s age, and the price an older man paid for getting mixed up with a girl, her simple girlish friends, and her simple girlish talk, so I decided to let her say it and then speak my piece about it. I said: “I’ll bite, what is it going to cost me?”

“Jane Sibert’s farm, is all.”

“...What does
she
have to do with it?”

“Gramie, she loves you, that’s what.”

“Are you being funny?”

“Gramie, stop playing games with me! Here you’ve been in this woman’s bed,
laying
her, if I have to use plain English, for ten years, and you pretend you don’t know how she feels? You think it was just biological with her? A little physical convenience? As it apparently has been to you?”

“I’ve been
whatting
her?”

“Gramie, I told you stop playing dumb!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You mean to say you haven’t been?”

“I mean to say that exactly.”

“Then wait a minute, give me a chance to readjust. Gramie, that was the whole idea—not admitted by her, of course, or by me. But you were fifteen years old, and it was time, high time, you stop playing with yourself like Shakespeare and found someone to play with. And she was there and she was cute and she was hot—she wanted you, bad. It’s why I let you go. Don’t tell me you blew it?”

“It never once entered my mind.”

“Oh my, you
are
in trouble.”

“Then if I am, she is. I keep her, don’t forget. If I don’t send her her checks, she doesn’t eat. So the situation is negotiable, as they say.”

“And I’m in trouble. I’ve said nothing to you, but I’ve been selling securities, to buck up my cash reserve, so I’ll have money to swing your dream when the time comes. It makes my blood run cold to think how close I am, as I sit here this very minute, to the brink. However, the dream can still be saved. I think you must see now, that you can’t throw it away, for the sake of this little snip—”

“Mother, I mean to marry her.”

“Oh for God’s sake, be your age!”

“I’m trying to be.”

“Okay then—if you love her, lay her. But—”

“I mean to marry her.”

“Gramie! No! Please!”

“For the last time: Do you want to come to my wedding?”

“...Have you talked with Jane about it?”

“How would I talk to her? She’d left on her trip, to be gone for a month, before the subject came up. I don’t know where she is, to call her, and she doesn’t know where I am, here at Ocean City, to call me. So of course I haven’t talked with her.”

“Couldn’t you hold off? Until you do?”

“And say what?”

“Find out how she feels.”

“You mean, ask her permission?”

“Gramie, she’s entitled to be heard.”

“Not on this—nobody is, but me and Sonya.”

“Well, thank you!”

“Not even beautiful you—get your mouth out.”

“Now I know where I get off.”

“Are you coming?”

She went into a long harangue, with tears, pleas, and jokes about Jane’s desires, saying everything all over, and when at last I told her to cool it, that my mind was made up, she moaned: “Then—if you’re set on doing this thing—of course I want to come. I thought her a very nice child, and I felt she was a musician. Over the phone I liked her—she was respectful, and I felt she had something. So it’s not personal. But Gramie: You’re talking about love, I’m talking about money—and there’s no reason you can’t have both. You can have that million dollars, and you can also have love, love by the dark of the moon, that Jane doesn’t know about. And once Sonya gets through her head what she eventually will come into, as Jane can’t live forever, you’ll be surprised at how sensible she’ll be. Will you talk it over with
her?
She’s entitled to be heard, you said!”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then all right, I’ll come to your wedding.”

She made it sound like good-bye in the deathhouse, but I played it straight, thanking her, and said we could meet at the Langs’ and all go in my car. Then she asked if it would help if she rode the Langs in her car to Rockville, so I could go there with Sonya, and not have to haul anyone else. I said it would, and that if she would call the Langs, I’d check with her later, as soon as I got home with Sonya.

“Then all right, Gramie. God bless.”

“And God bless you, Sweetie Pie.”

I walked back up the boardwalk again, but before going upstairs climbed down once more to the sand, and camped again on my dune. The beach was deserted at this hour, except for a girl some distance down, exercising a dog with a ball. It was me, the sand, and the sea, and I thought to myself, Why are you being so noble? I don’t think anyone’s ever quite sure why he does something important, but my coming back to this dune, to look at the sea and think, was certainly some kind of tip-off. Because once more I thought about God, who was certainly part of it, this decision I had come to. Until now, God and I weren’t exactly intimates. I often took Mother to church, and sometimes Jane went with us, to St. Andrews in College Park, and put something in the plate, as well as kicked in for all kinds of different charities but it was strictly a Sunday thing, and I’m not sure I ever prayed. But when I was with Sonya, God was part of it too, and I wasn’t sure He’d get the point, or play it funny at all, if I gave Him a ring just now, and said: “Hold everything, God—there’s been a switch in the plans, and I don’t want to get married now.” I thought He might be getting a bit sick of me. I thought, when you make up your mind on something, at least something as big as that, you’ve made it up for keeps or it’s not made up at all. I knew then it would stay made up.

When I got back to the suite, Sonya was charging around, dragging the bags to the door, her suitcase, my canvas zipper bag, the hatbox, and the various other boxes. She said: “Okay, you carry the bag, I’ll carry the rest.”

“Fine. Kiss me.”

“What did she say?”

“What did who say?”

“Your mother. Remember?”

“Oh! That she’s hauling your parents to Rockville.”

“What else?”

“That she likes you, that she thinks you’re a real musician, that though young, she felt you had something, when she talked to you over the phone.”

“What else?”

“Was I sure I knew what I was doing.”

“And what did you say to
that?”

“That I was.”

“And what did she say to
that?”

“I told you: She’s hauling your parents to Rockville.”

She kissed me, but gave me a squinty look.

F
OR THE REST OF
the morning, things went nice for us. We stopped in Salisbury, where I bought flowers, corsages for the ladies, boutonnieres for Mr. Lang and me, and while they were being done up, rings for Sonya, at a jewelry store a few steps from the florist. I got her a sapphire solitaire engagement ring that cost more than I want to say, and a platinum wedding ring, a chased band with our initials engraved inside, in such a way as to intertwine. All that they did while we waited, and took my check without even calling up about it.

Sonya was pleased as a child with a rattle, and held the sapphire up for the sunlight to catch it, all during the drive home. We arrived around twelve-thirty, running into no delay on the bridge, and left the flowers in the car while she went to change to her wedding dress. I followed with the bags, and unzipped her and started to peel her. However, she pushed me aside and sat down in the armchair, there in the master bedroom. “Gramie,” she said, “one thing a sixteen-year-old knows, better than other people, because she does it so often herself, is when someone is lying. And you’ve been lying to me, ever since you came back from that call, the one put in to your mother. So I ask you, I ask you once more: What did she say?”

“Sonya, I’ve told you.”

“Call me a cab.”

“...Cab? What for?”

“Go home.”

“I thought we were getting married.”

“We were. Now I’m not.”

I sat down on the bed and tried to think. Pretty soon I said, “She asked about Jane Sibert.”

“In what way, asked about her?”

“Did I realize she likes me.”

“She loves you, is that what she meant?”

Then, one word at a time, jerky and quick, I gave her the whole bit, what Mother had said, what I had said, without holding anything back. She said: “What she thought is what we thought,
all
of us.”

“Who is we?”

“Us kids?”

“That I was sleeping with her?”

“Well? It’s what your mother thought too.”

“Seems that everyone thought it but me.”

“Are you sure you didn’t?”

“Who knows if I don’t.”

“You know if you’re telling the truth? Gramie, she’s not so old, and she had her mind on you, that we all could see. So you must have let her have it! You—”

“Well goddam it, I didn’t!”

“Okay, then you didn’t.”

She got up, went to the window, and stood looking out. Then she zipped up her dress, the one I’d been taking off. Then she sat down on the bed, picked up the phone, and ordered a cab. Then she unzipped my bag, and switched her nighties to her bag. I reached over, picked up the phone, and cancelled the cab order. She sat down with me, kissed me, and said: “Gramie, it cannot be, we’d just be doomed, we’d be doomed, right from the start. No girl is worth a million dollars.”

“You’re worth a hundred million.”

At that she started to cry, and buried her face on my shoulder. Then, between sobs: “No, I’m not—and not worth
this
million dollars—which is all hooked up with a dream—about shells and cotton and moonlight.”

“There’s just one thing.”

“...Yes, Gramie, what is it?”

“That kick in the tail—?”

“No, please, I couldn’t say no to
that!”

She ranted on, pleading with me, “not to make it so hard for me—so hard to keep my promise—didn’t I say, didn’t I say it, Gramie, that I wouldn’t be inny pest?” And then, whispering: “Gramie, there’s not inny need for us to get married. Because we could see each other. She wouldn’t have to know, Mrs. Sibert I’m talking about. We could meet, on the Q.T.—”