Heart Troubles (3 page)

“If you put him on, I'll hang up,” he said.

But his mother had left the phone, and he did not hang up. Instead, he looked at the girl on the bed. His expression was embarrassed, somewhat imploring. She did not seem to see him, but lay, dry-eyed, holding her cigarette loose in one hand, with blue smoke trailing upward toward the ceiling.

Then his father's voice boomed halfway across the Caribbean. “Ted?” he said cheerfully. “How are you, boy?”

His voice filled the room and the girl turned toward the phone and listened with interest, her face grave and thoughtful.

“Fine, Dad.”

“Good, good. Good to hear your voice, Son! I guess you talked to your mother.”

He held the receiver an inch or so away from his ear. “We've got a good connection, haven't we?” he said.

“Yes. Well, you know your mother. She told the operator here not to bother placing the call unless she could promise us a good connection. How've you been?”

“Fine.”

There was an awkward, suspended silence.

“Well, well,” his father said. “How is everything?”

“Fine.”

“You got those papers, didn't you? Those papers from the lawyer?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Don't lose 'em, Ted. You know—all she needs to do is sign on the dotted line.”

“Yes.”

“And you tell her, Ted, that this agency
guarantees
—I mean they guarantee and triple guarantee to place that kid in a good home. She can rest absolutely assured that, no matter what, that baby will be placed in a good home. They guarantee it.”

The young man said nothing.

“So you see,” his father said, “there's nothing to worry about. You can tell her that. What's more, I talked to her old man and he agrees with me. Oh, I won't say it didn't take a little, ah, persuasion on my part to
get
him to agree. But he agreed.”

The girl reacted to this by shutting her eyes and immediately opening them again.

“Say, he's a funny duck, don't you think? Her old man? You knew him, of course. Sure, you must have. But don't you think he's a funny duck? Well, I guess he was pretty upset, like we all were. He had some pretty plain and fancy things to say about you, as I guess you can imagine.” His father laughed.

“I can imagine.”

“Well, it'll all be over sooner than you can say Jack Robinson, and, like I always say, we live and learn, right?”

“Right.”

“You've had your lesson. You had a good scare. And don't say I never warned you, Ted. But all that's water over the dam. In every sense of the word. Did your mother tell you she talked to Dean Willis?”

“Yes.”

“Well, say, that's pretty good, huh? Back in school for the fall semester? Don't you think so?” There was a silence. The young man used it to fish another cigarette out of his pack and, struggling to hold phone, cigarette, and match book, finally got it lighted. During this, the girl on the other bed reached over and put her cigarette out in the ashtray with a series of slow taps. Then she sat up and brushed a lock of silky brown hair out of her eyes. She put her bare feet over the side of the bed and leaned over, searching for her shoes.

“Well, Son,” his father said, “no hard feelings. I mean live and let live, okay? I mean you've learned your lesson. And you know darned good and well you couldn't go back to college trundling some teen-aged wife and kid. I mean it's out of the question and your own common sense should tell you that.” He paused. “Just as long as she signs that paper, see? And the sooner the better. You asked her to, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say? Look, if she's stalling around—look, I mean, see here, Ted, let me talk to her. Put her on the phone, will you? Let me talk some sense into her.”

The girl found her shoes. They were white, made of canvas. She tied the laces carefully, then stood up. From the other bed, her husband turned and watched her.

“Ted? You hear me? Put her on the phone.”

“No,” he said. “No. Never mind that. I'll have her sign the paper. Don't worry.”

“Well, all right, Son, if you think you can handle her,” his father's voice said. “You do that and you'll be all right. Now here's your mother again. She wants to say good night. Good night, Son.”

“Good night.”

His mother's voice came on again, almost immediately. “Teddy,” she said, “I'm afraid we've kept you talking way too long. Will you be late for dinner? I hope not. I want you to watch your meals. You remember what I told you about eating fresh vegetables in the tropics, though, won't you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Good. Well, Teddy, good night now. Go down and have a nice dinner. And keep us posted, you know. Not just postcards, but letters. Or call. Call and reverse the charges.”

“Yes, Mother.” He watched as the girl crossed the room to the French doors and stood, looking out into the night. She stood for several seconds, looking out, then opened one half of the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. From the open door a warm tropical breeze blew into the room, stirring the smoke in the air. He watched her go to one of the two chaise longues—placed there for sunbathing—and sit down. Then, suddenly, the breeze drew the French door shut with a bang.

“What was that noise?” his mother asked.

“Carol just went out. The door shut.”

“Oh, well, good. We can have a little last-minute privacy, then, can't we? Well, Teddy, I just want you to tell her—to be absolutely firm. To tell her that she
must
sign those papers and no two ways about it. You see, dear, what
really
worries Daddy—shall I tell you? What really worries Daddy is that she'll get the idea she can hold us up—for money. You know, use those papers as a threat, like blackmail.”

He rested his cigarette on the edge of the night stand and reached up, and held the receiver now with two hands. He sat forward.

“Do you understand?”

“Mother,” he said slowly, “listen to me for a minute.”

“What?” she asked.

“Just listen. That's all. Listen! I've been listening to you for the past half hour and now you can damn well listen to me!”

“Teddy!”

“And stop calling me Teddy!”

“Teddy—”

“Stop it. Do you hear me? I'm not a baby, do you understand? Listen, I'm going to tell you just exactly what I've been thinking the whole time you've been talking, both of you!”

“Now see here, young man—”

“Quiet. Listen to me. I'm not a baby. Get that through your head. And Carol's not some cheap gold-digger, either. Look—maybe I hadn't decided, maybe I didn't know what I was going to do—up until now. But talking to you and Daddy—talking to you and
Father—
has sure helped me decide!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Shut up.”

“Teddy!”

He stood up, holding the phone. “Listen here,” he said. “Do you realize why we got in this mess? Do you? Do you know that for the whole four years we've gone together, Carol and I, you've never—not once—done anything? Not even so much as acknowledged her? You refused to get to know her, to meet her folks, to have her to dinner! You weren't even nice to her, you weren't even kind! And when I tried to tell you things you never listened. You just said I'd grow out of it or something. Oh, I know maybe I didn't want to marry her—not so soon, anyway. But now I am married to her. And—look—I'm not going to be shoved around, see—any more! And we're going to have that baby—and keep it—and stay married—and—”

“What about college? What about that?”

“I don't care about college. I don't care. If they take me back, they'll take me back as a married man, with a baby. Do you understand? If they won't take me back that way, they won't take me back at all.”

There was only the briefest pause; then his mother said, “Who do you think will pay your bills, my dear? Not Daddy. You can be sure of that.”

“All right; if he won't then I won't go back to college at all.”

“How will you earn a living? How will you get a job?”

“I'll—I'll drive a truck!”

A tremor came into her voice now. “Teddy, you're insane. You're absolutely insane. Haven't you brought enough disgrace on us? Don't you see—”

“Quiet. Just be quiet. You see—there's one thing you don't seem to get, Mother, and that's that I'm in love wih Carol. Do you hear? Oh, I know I was scared at first, when I found out. Who wouldn't be? We made a mistake. So we're going to pay for it. But the right way. Not your way.
The right way!
”

The silence now on the other end of the wire was longer. Then his mother said in an even voice, “What if we cut off the money right now? Right this minute?”

“Go ahead!”

“I'm going to put your father back on the wire!”

“No, you're not,” he said, “because this time I will hang up. You see? I'm going to hang up. Good-bye.” He held the receiver for a moment in his hand, then replaced it on the hook. Not with a slam, but squarely.

He stood there, looking at it, half expecting something to happen, for it to come alive. Then he picked up his cigarette from the edge of the night stand, put it to his lips, inhaled, and blew out a sharp stream of smoke. He stared at the telephone a few moments longer. His expression changed rapidly, running the gamut from anger to something akin to fear, to triumph. Although his twentieth birthday was still two months off, he looked, for these moments, both older and younger. He turned on his heel. “Carol!” he called, and strode toward the door. “Carol!”

She still sat on the chaise, on the now-quite-dark terrace. As he stepped out and walked toward her, she looked up at him. On the chaise in front of her he saw a pale sheaf of papers, stapled together.

“I signed the adoption papers,” she said simply.

He sat down beside her.

“I signed them,” she said. “Not because of what your parents said. But I sat here thinking and I thought, what business do we have bringing a child into the world? You and I? Two weaklings …”

He lifted the sheaf of papers from the chaise; she seemed suddenly to guess his intent and tried to grab them back. For a brief moment they struggled. “We don't always have to be weaklings, do we?” he asked. “Do we? Do we?” Then as he began to tear them, bits of paper flew about the terrace in the breeze. They clung to each other. Suddenly they both began to laugh, even though they were both already crying.

“DO YOU BELIEVE IN CHANGE?”

It was a Sunday afternoon late in August. The California sun had been blazing with such fierceness all day that the temperature there in the Central Valley had been well over a hundred since noon—the same still, dry heat that characterized Valley weather from June to October. As the two of them sat in the parked car, tall young men in dungarees walked by with lazy strides, turning now and then to watch the girls in the park, who wandered carelessly in damp cotton dresses, scuffing the sand under the swings by the tennis courts. As a convertible passed slowly, the boys turned and the girls in the car gave them provocative looks; then the car speeded up and turned the corner. The pace of the day had slowed, too, to a tempo of carelessness and ease as the sun stretched long, reflective fingers through the shroud of leaves that hung over the street. A leaf fell and caught in the vent of his car. The first leaf of autumn, Mark thought.

“Do you have to use that?” she asked. “Do you have to use that cigarette holder?”

He held it self-consciously. “I quit smoking for a long time,” he explained. “Then I started up again two or three weeks ago.”

She didn't answer him or seem interested any more. Instead, she put her arm on the frame of the car window and looked across the park. The tennis balls fell from the rackets with a slow
pop … pop.
“It's getting late,” she said.

He watched her—her slim, tanned legs below her white shorts, her bare feet placed firmly on the floor of the car. “I had forgotten how short you are,” he said.

“I've done my hair differently,” she said.

“I like it,” he said. “It's very attractive.”

“It's very short.”

The leaf trapped in the open vent fluttered, then another leaf fell and rested for a moment on the hood. “I'd like to make these Sunday visits a regular thing,” he said softly. “That is, if you have no objection.”

She seemed to think about this. “I have no objection,” she said finally. “Only I—let's see—I may be busy on
some
Sundays.”

“That's all right,” he said. “I don't mean that it has to be like clockwork, like a rigid schedule or anything. Just on Sundays when it's convenient for you.”

“I'd like to have some notice of when you're coming,” she said, “some notice in advance.”

“That's why I thought we could make it more or less a standing date,” he said. “So there won't be a lot of bother and fuss ahead of time. You could drop me a line.…”

“I'm a little confused,” she said. “I don't really understand why these visits should begin now. After all, it's been over a year. Billy is nearly six months old, and you evidently haven't felt it was necessary to pay a visit before this. And theoretically, I suppose, you could have.”

“I've been down before,” he said. “You know that.”

“Once,” she said, “when it was hardly convenient.”

“Is that the only time you know about?”

“I know about the time when I was in the hospital, trying to hang on to the baby, and you came at ten o'clock at night and woke up my mother and created a scene on our front steps.”

He knew he had to watch his words carefully. “Actually,” he said, “I came down here four other times. Didn't they tell you?”