Deep Water (29 page)

       Cameron went down with a hollow, bubbling sound into the greenish-black water, and out of the corner of his left eye, as Vic watched the place where Cameron had sunk—though after two seconds there was nothing but swirling bubbles to see—Vic was aware of a pale step of limestone about three feet under the water, its side flush with one side of the rock on which he stood. It looked like the long, severe line of a tomb. God knew what kind of gigantic steps had been cut below the water. The place where he had rolled Cameron off was about forty feet deep, Vic remembered hearing someone say once when he had stood here with Melinda and Trixie. But directly below, he saw as soon as the water stilled, was another step—a still ghastlier morgue slab—perhaps fifteen or twenty feet down. He could not see anything resting on it, and he hoped Cameron had glided off.

       Roger was barking gaily. He slid his forefeet to the edge of the stone, stuck his muzzle into the water, then drew back again, shaking his head and wagging his tail. He looked at Vic, grinning as much as a boxer could grin, and wagging his stub of a tail as if to say, "Well done!"

       Vic stooped and washed his hands in the water. Then he walked back to where Cameron had lain, saw blood on the rocks, and started to scuff over them with his shoe, dragging little jagged pebbles and limestone dust over the spots until at least they could not have been seen from the top of the cliff. But it seemed to him hat to go on about his business was more important than to cover up his trail at this particular time, so he whistled to Roger and they set off up the path again.

       Back at his car, Vic wiped his shoes carefully of dust, took a look at them for scratches and blood, and then checked the sides of his car. His car had been through many overgrown lanes, including this one, however, in the summer months of fullest foliage, and the fenders and sides had many scratches, if anyone cared to examine the car for scratches. There was no new deep scratch from this trip today.

       "Hop in, Roger!" Vic said, and Roger, who loved cars, hopped obediently into the front seat and stood up looking out of the open side window. Vic drove back slowly through the narrow road, honking providently at the sharpest corner in case another car had been approaching, but there was no car, and he would not have been in the least alarmed if there had been, he thought. It probably would have been someone he knew or had a nodding acquaintance with, and they would have offered politely to back out of each other's way, and Vic would have ended by backing, and he would have smiled and passed the time of day and gone on.

        Vic drove to Ballinger, to the square, vine-covered high school building where a half dozen school buses stood parked at the side of the gravel driveway. Parents were still arriving in cars and on foot, but they were hurrying as if they were late. It was five minutes to twelve. Vic parked behind one of the buses and went into the side entrance of the building, where the other parents were going, producing the white card that Trixie had given him nearly a week ago. Admit two, said the card.

       "Hi, there, Vic!"

       Vic turned around and saw Charles Peterson and his wife. "Hello! Is Janey singing?"

       "No. She's got the whooping cough," Charles said. "We're here to see a couple of her friends who're in it and make her a report."

       "Janey's sick because she can't sing today," Katherine Peterson said. "I certainly hope Trixie doesn't come down with the whooping cough. She spent two afternoons with Janey in the last five days."

       "Trixie's had it," Vic said."Have you tried Adamson's Elixir? It tastes like raspberry syrup and Janey'll love it."

       "No, we haven't," Charles Peterson said.

       "Comes in an old-fashioned bottle. You can get it at the little drugstore on Church Street. The main drugstore won't have it. We had to ration it out to Trix or she'd have drunk the whole bottle at once. And it really helps the whooping cough."

       "Adamson's Elixir. We'll remember that," Charles said.

       Vic waved to them, and moved a little away, so that he could seat himself somewhere alone in the auditorium. He greeted two or three more mothers of friends of Trixie's whom he knew very slightly, but he managed to sit next to people whom he did not know. He preferred to be alone while he listened to the chorus that Trixie was in, but it was not because of what he had just done at the quarry, he thought. He would always have preferred to he alone at such a thing. The auditorium had elongated paneled windows on either side, a balcony above, and a huge stage that dwarfed the massed figures of the children, none of whom was more than ten years old. He listened appreciatively to a chorus singing the lullaby from 'Hansel and Gretel', and then to a rollicking campfire song whose words were about marshmallows, woods and trees, sunsets and midnight swims. Then a sweet, melodic lullaby of Schubert, and then the Highland School singing Saint-Saëns's "The Swan."

       'Over the wa—ter the—snow—white swan'…

       They were little boys and little girls together, and though the boys seemed shriller, the girls were louder and more enthusiastic. They glided smoothly into the repeated chorus which he had heard Trixie humming around the house for weeks. And then, as the final lines dwindled away, symbolizing the disappearing swan, it seemed to Vic that he could hear Trixie's voice alone from the crowded stage. Trixie was in the first row, standing every now and then on tiptoe, her face with its open mouth upturned.

       'The swan—like mist has gone—with the light—the light' —

       It seemed to him that she was singing in joyous celebration of Cameron's disappearance, instead of the swan's. As well she might, he, thought.

Chapter 22

When Vic came home that day from his office Melinda was on the telephone in her room. She hung up almost as soon he had closed the door, and came into the living room with a frowning, irritated expression on her face.

       "Hello," Vic said to her. "How're you today?"

       "Fine," Melinda said. She had a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other.

       Trixie came out of her room. "Hi, Daddy! Did you hear me?" "I certainly did! You were fine. I could hear you over everybody else!" He swung her up into the air.

       "But we didn't win first prize!" she yelled, kicking and giggling. Vic dodged her sturdy little brown shoes and set her down. "You won second. What's the matter with that?"

       "It isn't first!"

       "You have a point. Well, I thought you were fine. It sounded beautiful."

       "I'm pretty glad it's over," Trixie, said, closing her eyes and languidly wiping her forehead, a gesture she had learned from her mother.

       "Why?"

       "I'm pretty sick of that song."

       "I'll bet you are."

       Melinda sighed heavily, impatient as usual with their conversation. "Trixie, 'why' don't you go into your room?"

       Trixie looked at her, feigning more affront than she really felt, Vic thought, then went skipping off down the hall to her room. It was always a surprise to Vic that Trixie obeyed Melinda, and it was always a reassurance that Trixie's extroverted psyche was practically indestructible.

       "Well, I got Brian off at eleven," Vic said. He reached into t inside pocket of his jacket and brought out Brian's poem. "I le asked me to give you this. It's a poem he wrote last night."

       Melinda took it with a sour, absent expression, frowned at ii for a moment, then dropped it on the cocktail table. She strolled toward a window with her glass in her hand. She had on high heels, a narrow black skirt, a fresh white cotton blouse, and she looked as if she had dressed to go out to meet someone, though she had rolled the sleeves of the blouse up part way, untidily, in some moment of impatience.

       "Did you have your car greased yet?" Vic asked.

       "No."

       "Would you like me to take it tomorrow? It should've been done about ten days ago."

       "No, I don't want you to take it."

       "Well—did you start the divorce proceedings today?" Vic asked.

       She waited a long while, then said, "No, I did not."

       "Is Cameron coming over tonight?"

       "He might."

       Vic nodded, though there was no one to see him, because Melinda's back was turned. "At what time? For dinner?" "I don't happen to know!"

       The telephone rang and Melinda dashed for it in her room. "Hello? Who? ... Oh ... No, he's not, but I'm expecting to hear from him. Shall I have him call you? ... I see ... Yes ... Well, I wish I knew, too. He was supposed to call me this afternoon ... Listen! If you do hear from him, please have him call 'me'. Will you? ... Thanks. Good-bye, Mr. Ferris."

       Melinda came back into the living room, got her glass from the windowsill, and took it into the kitchen to refill it. Vic sat down with the evening paper. He could have used a drink, but it was a small point of discipline to him this evening to forgo a drink. Melinda came back with her fresh drink and sat down on the sofa. Ten minutes or so passed in silence. Vic had made up his mind not to say anything more about Cameron, or to say anything about the telephone call from Ferris, or about any other telephone call that might come.

       And then the telephone rang again, and Melinda ran into her bedroom. "Hello?" she said hopefully. "Oh, hi… 'No', have you heard? ... Oh ... 'Gosh'!" she exploded with such surprise that Vic tensed the least bit. "That's funny ... That's not like him at all... I know, Don, and I'm terribly sorry, but I've been waiting for 'him'. I called June earlier, you know, around six ... No, nothing, I didn't do a damned thing all day—except wait ... Yes," with a sigh.

       Vic could imagine the conversation. Don had probably asked Melinda and Cameron for cocktails, a celebratory cocktail hour after they had started the divorce papers. The last "Yes" would be in answer to the question whether Vic was here. Vic had heard the same "Yes" many times before.

       "I'm sorry, Don ... Give Ralph my regards ..."

       There would be a little cloud over the enemy camp tonight. When Melinda came in, Vic broke his resolution, and asked, "Did Cameron run out?"

       "He probably had to work late somewhere."

       "He's probably run out," Vic said.

       "On 'what'?"

       "On you."

       "My eye, he has."

       "It's a great strain on a man. You don't seem to realize it. I don't think Cameron can take it."

       "What's a strain?"

       "What Cameron was trying to do. He's probably used one of those tickets to Mexico City," Vic said, and saw Melinda stop her pacing and look at him, and he could read in her face as easily as if it were printed there that she was thinking it remotely possible that he had done that. Then she said:

       "Since you seem to be interested, he left his car in Wesley unlocked with the window open and papers and stuff on the seat. So I doubt if he's gone to Mexico."

       "Oh. Well, I'm not very interested. I just think he's run out and I doubt very much if you'll hear from him again."

       Roger came and sat down at Vic's feet, smiling up at him as they had a very funny private joke. Vic reached down and scratched his head.

       "Roger been fed?" he asked.

       "I don't happen to know."

       "You been fed, Roger?" he asked, then got up and went down the hall and knocked on Trixie's door.

       "Come in?"

       Trixie was propped up comfortable against her pillows, reading a book.

       "Did you feed Roger?"

       "Uh-huh. At five o'clock."

       "Uh-huh. Thank you. You didn't give him too much again, did you?"

       "He wasn't sick," Trixie said coolly, arching her eyebrows. "Well, that's fine. And how about you? Aren't you getting hungry?"

       "I want to eat with you and Mommie!" she said, beginning to frown, already protesting the possibility that she might have to eat earlier and alone.

       "Well, I'm not sure Mommie's going to eat here. She might be having dinner with Tony somewhere."

       "Good. Then we'll eat together."

       Vic smiled. "All right. Do you want to come in and help me fix dinner?"

       He and Trixie fixed dinner for three, and set the table for three, though Melinda refused to sit down with them. Melinda had not done any marketing, so Vic had opened one of the cans of whole chicken that had been sitting on the shelf for a forgotten length of time. He had also opened a bottle of Niersteiner Domthal from the back of the liquor closet and poured some for Trixie and himself into stemmed glasses over a couple of ice cubes. He had made mashed sweet potatoes topped with toasted marshmallows, because Trixie loved them. Vic and Trixie had a long discussion about wines, how they were made and why they were different colors, and Trixie got tipsy enough to insist on classifying root beer as a wine, really her favorite, she said, so Vic let her call it a wine without correcting her.

       "What're you doing, getting the child drunk?" Melinda asked, passing by them with her fourth or fifth drink.

       "Oh, a glass and a half," Vic said. "She'll sleep better. You should consider it a blessing."

       Melinda disappeared into the living room, but Vic could feel her frustration building up in the atmosphere of the house. He would not have been surprised to hear the crash of a hurled lamp, or the splashing sound of a magazine flung against the wall, or sin ply the sound of the front door being wrenched open, followed by the cool draft that would sweep through the house when she left the door open to stroll out on the lawn, or perhaps to get into her car to go God knew where. Then Trixie got the giggles and nearly choked trying to tell him about a boy in school who could carry his books in the seat of his pants.

       Vic heard Melinda making a telephone call, and at that particular moment Vic wanted a cigarette, so he went into the living room to get it, and heard enough of what Melinda was saying to know that she was calling Cameron's hotel in Wesley to ask if they had received any message from him. They hadn't. Vic went back to serve Trixie her favorite dessert—plain sugared whipped cream, which Vic had whipped with his own hands, spiraled into a little bowl and crowned with a maraschino cherry.