Don't Rely on Gemini (4 page)

“Like it?” Margaret asked. It was eight-twenty
P.M.

She was fastening a gold pin to her yellow cotton dress. The face of the pin bore the figure of a female carrying an ear of corn.

Neal Dana said, “It's very attractive … Margaret, you're going to be late for your class.”

Usually Margaret left the house on the dot of eight. Her Italian class at the New School in Manhattan began at nine-thirty. The day before, Neal had told Penny to come at nine.

Margaret combed her hair before the Constitution mirror in their bedroom. “Do you know what the pin means, Neal?”

“No. You really are going to be late.”

“It's the virgin for Virgo, my sun sign.”

“Very attractive.” He checked the time on the clock-radio with his wristwatch. Eight-twenty-one.

Margaret said, “There've been a lot of famous Virgos. Greta Garbo's one, Sophia Loren's one, Arthur Godfrey, Leonard Bernstein, Tolstoy was one, Theodore Dreiser—“

Neal interrupted her. “Wouldn't every sign have its share of famous people?”

“Neal, what's the matter with you tonight?” She put down her comb and turned to look at him. “You're so impatient.”

“Something's the matter with you, if you ask me. You're never late for class, Margaret. Tonight you're just unconcerned … I don't know. It isn't like you.”

She smiled. “No, I suppose it isn't. Virgos are usually fairly consistent. But you know, Neal, Virgo is ruled by Mercury, too, as Gemini is, so I have my ‘mercurial' moments.”

Neal said, “I'll turn on the outside lights for you,” and started from the room.

“Wait a minute, Neal.”

“Honey, it's almost
eight-thirty.”
He forced a pained little smile.

“Never mind the time. May I ask you something?”

She waited for him to respond. It was a mannerism Neal had catalogued in his study of everyday behavior: that of people introducing their remarks with “May I ask you something?” Most people who had this habit were afraid of being aggressive, or
were
aggressive and fearful of showing it. It was a repetition of an adolescent situation: children were often not permitted to ask questions or assert themselves. They needed permission and encouragement.

In Margaret's case it sprang from her wish to camouflage her aggressive nature. It was almost patronizing, for both Margaret and Neal knew that neither hell nor high water could keep her from posing the question she had in mind.

Neal said, “What do you want to know?”

Eight-twenty-five.
Jesus!

“Stop worrying about the time. You keep looking at your watch.”

“What do you want to ask me?”

“Why you have such a block against astrology,” she said.

“It's not particular to astrology. I have the same reaction to phrenology, numerology, palmistry, fortune-telling by tea leaves, and all the various arts of divination.”

“Dear, astrology isn't in the same category.” “All right, Margaret. It isn't.”

“It
isn't.
Neal, President Franklin D. Roosevelt was interested in astrology. Did you know that?”

“No. He was probably interested in a lot of things I'm not interested in.”

Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed.

Sat down!
At eight-twenty-six!

“You see, FDR was well aware of this pattern made by the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn every twenty years,” said Margaret, “which seems to coincide with the death of American presidents every twenty years.”

“Oh,
Margaret.”

“Neal, don't scoff.
Please.”
She folded her arms across her breasts and regarded him with that didactic expression, which usually preceded a stretch of sermonizing.

“You don't have to convince
me,”
Neal put in. “There's probably something to it.”

He realized the futility of any attempt to keep her from continuing.

Let her get it over with.

He also folded his arms, in such a way that he could see his watch, and waited for her to have her say.

“William Henry Harrison was elected in 1840,” said she, “and died in office. In 1860 there was Lincoln. In 1880 there was Garfield. In 1900 there was McKinley; 1920, Harding; 1940, Roosevelt. And then Kennedy in 1960 … Neal, don't you find it an extraordinary coincidence?”

“Yes, yes, I admit that it is,” he said.

“They
all
died in office.”

“So they did. I wasn't aware of it.”

What was
wrong
with Margaret tonight? She was finished dressing, was ready to go—why didn't she go?

She said, “Harrison, Lincoln, McKinley and Roosevelt were all Aquarians. Garfield and Harding were Scorpians. And Kennedy was a Gemini.”

Neal said nothing; he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Margaret said, “Doesn't any of it interest you, dear?” “Not really. I'm sorry.”

Then she said, “I'm not going to my Italian class tonight, Neal.” “You're
not?”

“Darling, don't look so shocked.”

Eight-thirty! If he phoned Penny now, right now, he could probably catch her before she left the house. But phone her from where?

He said, “How come?” His voice gave no indication of the panic loosed inside him. “That's my little surprise.” “What is?”

“The reason I'm not going to my Italian class.” She smiled at him coyly.

He had no time to fathom a possible reason for her missing school; he had to get out of there, immediately, get to a phone. Margaret said, “I want you to promise me something, Neal.” “What?”

“That you'll be nice about my surprise … that you'll try to appreciate the fact I mean well.”

A nervous burst of laughter broke from him. “I'll not only appreciate it, whatever it is, I'll get us something to celebrate it. How about that, Margaret? Just for tonight don't worry about wasting calories. Let me run into Piermont and get some champagne for us!”

“Now, Neal-”

“I mean it, darling! We never really celebrated my afternoon at Doubleday! And we haven't had champagne in a hell of a long time! Remember how we used to love to kill a few bottles of Piper in the evening? It'd be just the thing!”

He could drive down to the bottom of the hill, park the car, explain to the Nickersons there was something wrong with his phone, call Penny and tell her not to come. Then on to Piermont for the champagne.

“Maybe champagne will put you in a better mood for my surprise,” said Margaret.

“Of course it will! It'll put us both in a good mood!”

“But let's call for a delivery, Neal.”

“I need cigarettes, too … and I'd like to pick up something to go with the champagne. Maybe some good caviar, honey. Would you like that?”

She laughed. “All right. I haven't seen you this excited in a long time! … Neal?”

“What?”

“Don't drive too fast, darling.”

• • •

What had ever made him ask Penny to come to the house in the first place? He supposed the reason was because he had so often envisioned her there with him. It was such a romantic house, wasn't it? From almost every window there was a view of the Hudson, and the green lights of the Tappan Zee bridge, the silhouettes of pines and evergreens, and the fireflies flickering in the darkness. The quiet, too, and the scent from the woods of foliage and dew wetting the earth. All the things he used to love to observe with Margaret, that they didn't notice together any more.

And the truth was he always thought of it as his house. He had been the one to find it and fall in love with it. Margaret had disliked the isolation. He had built the swimming pool and the upper porch to make Margaret happier there. When he had put the beams in the living-room ceiling he had gone to great trouble to find old wood which would match the original lumber: he had sweat out innumerable Saturday afternoons at auctions of old houses.

“Why?” Margaret wanted to know. “Will we always live here?”

“I'd like to.”

“Not after the baby comes. It's too small.”

The only good thing about their never having a baby was that they didn't need the “extra room.” Margaret usually got her way, but about selling the house, Neal was adamant: not unless they had to.

Once Penny had said, “I'd love to see where you live. I'd like to be able to picture you in your surroundings, nights when I miss you so, Neal.”

She had finally persuaded him. He'd never try it again, though.

He promised himself that as he rounded the curve of the drive and looked for a spot where he could park at the bottom of the hill.

After he called Penny, he would call Margaret, too, on some pretense. Did she have enough cigarettes? How about some fresh strawberries to put in the champagne glasses? Flimsy excuses, it was true, but there was no time to scheme, and he could not chance Minnie Nickerson's mentioning to Margaret that he had stopped by to telephone. It couldn't come as news to Margaret; she would suspect something immediately.

For the same reason, it was better not to say his phone was out of order. The strawberries were perfect! If she wanted strawberries, he'd have to go into Nyack. Anyone would appreciate his reluctance to drive all the way back up the hill just to learn if he should go to Piermont or Nyack. Minnie was a scatterbrain anyway, one of those vague animal-lovers who seldom concerned herself with the complexities of people. She was a half-deaf old maid with a bedridden mother to care for, and no friends. She minded her own business. Neal had always been grateful that she was the nearest neighbor.

He parked the car on the road near her house.

Eight-thirty-five!

If Penny had left, he would simply have to wait for her car, and invent some excuse explaining the delay to Margaret.

He cut across Minnie Nickerson's lawn, the wet grass soaking the cuffs of his trousers.

Then he heard the Doberman's angry barking, saw the dog heading for him, and saw the tree he would have to climb to keep from being torn apart.

• • •

Nine-two.

He crouched on the tree limb and watched helplessly while Penny drove the Ford Falcon up the hill.

“Minnie! Mrs. Nickerson!” His anguished cries were futile, as they had been when he had tried to make Penny hear him while she approached the turn. Every time he opened his mouth, the Doberman opened hers. He was treed like a cat.

Margaret would know everything the minute she saw Penny. Even if he were able to dream up some sort of reason for Penny's arrival at the house, on the very night Margaret had her class, there was no way he could predict what words the two of them would exchange.

He was trapped.

The funny thing was, it was Margaret he was most worried about now. As controlled, as consistent and steady as she was, there had been that period three years ago when she had gone to pieces. There had been no infidelity involved, but she had seemed obsessed with the idea Neal didn't want her, that he would like a divorce. It was understandable. The doctor had just told Margaret she should abandon the idea of having children.

“I'm not good for anything,” was the remark she made most often during that time.

Then she had gone to Bucks County to stay with her mother. It had taken Neal six months to talk her into returning.

Remember those six months?

They were the most wretched months of his life. My God how he had missed Margaret!

What kind of convenient amnesia had overtaken him that he could forget that?

He sat there in the tree, suddenly unable to remember Penny Bissel's face.

Then he saw Minnie Nickerson's porch light turn on.

“Kendal? Kendal?” she called.

The dog gave a whine and danced nervously around the tree.

“Kendal! Come on, girl! Come!”

The dog barked, moved away from the tree, then came back.

Minnie Nickerson clapped her hands. “Hurry, Kendal! Hurry!”

Now the dog began to lope across the lawn. He stopped once, looked back at the tree, and then obediently continued toward her mistress.

Neal Dana slid down the tree trunk. When his feet touched ground, he ran.

• • •

Margaret's voice, shrill, from the upstairs landing.

“… stupid! Deceiving yourself this way, humiliating yourself this way, without any semblance of character or integrity; cheap, CHEAP!”

“Shut up! You shut up!” Penny was up there with her.

As Neal crossed the living room, running, shouting Margaret's name, he heard her scream, “No, I won't shut up! Face what you are—cheap, CHE—“

Then the lightning crack of flesh being slapped, followed by the thunderous sound of someone falling backward, down the stairs.

It was Margaret's body that bounced and rolled toward Neal, Margaret's head that hit the marble-topped bench on the landing, and her blood on Neal Dana's hands, soaking into his shirt as he gathered her to him.