The Bird’s Nest (29 page)

Elizabeth shook her head miserably. “If you'll let me, I'll have a sandwich or something.”

“Go ahead,” said Morgen. “Make me something, too.”

Elizabeth got up with eagerness. “I'll make you something nice,” she said. “I think I'd feel better if I ate something.”

Wearily Morgen took up the magazine she had been reading last night when the doctor came. “Don't knock yourself out,” she said, and then, with some remorse, “If you need any help, yell.”

“I'll be all right.” Elizabeth went busily away, and Morgen hesitated, and then refused herself more brandy. For a few minutes she half-listened, wondering if Elizabeth would be able to manage, and then she shrugged and told herself that Elizabeth had been capable of feeding herself for a long time now, and she gave only a fragment of her attention to the faint sounds from the kitchen, alert for a fall or a scream. After a while, when she heard returning footsteps, she set her magazine aside with pleasure, and turned to the doorway to watch her niece entering with a tray. “What you got?” Morgen inquired.

Betsy giggled, tilting the tray dangerously. “That
Elizabeth,
” she said. “You could starve to death before she got around the kitchen; I finally had to come and do it myself. Cheese sandwiches and milk.”

“Mustard?” said Morgen.

“She did most of it, though, really,” Betsy said. “It isn't fair to say she didn't. I poured the milk, anyway.”

She set the tray down on the coffee table which Morgen cleared for her, and drew up a chair on the other side. “You know,” Morgen said, taking a napkin, “this is the first food I've had since . . . oh, Jesus.” She sat, staring for a minute, and then began frantically brushing the bite of sandwich from her mouth, choking and making frightful sounds of disgust.

“What is it?” Betsy half-rose, backing away. “Robin?”

Morgen threw the sandwich across the room and emptied her mouth into the paper napkin. “Bitch,” she said, “bitch, nasty bitch.”

Betsy looked at her own sandwich. “What?” she said.

“Mud,” said Morgen, “sandwich full of mud.” She twisted her face and looked away. “I'm sick,” she said.

“Mine's all right,” Betsy said. “Eat it.” She held her sandwich out but Morgen pushed her hand away. “I'm sick,” she said, “go away.”

“What's wrong, Morgen dear? Has something upset you?”

“Get out of here,” Morgen said wildly, “get out of here before I throw something at you, you dirty filthy bitch.”

“Really,” said Bess, “I should think you'd make an effort to behave yourself; throwing food around and making horrible noises; it sounds perfectly—”

“Will you get out of here?” Morgen demanded, rising and lifting her hand, “you lying monster—”

Elizabeth began to cry. “You're always picking on me,” she said. “I didn't do anything.”

Morgen caught her breath and was silent; perhaps she was saying “morning-Morgen, morning-Morgen” over and over to herself, because after a few minutes she spoke gently. “Sorry,” she said. “I was upset. I don't mean to frighten you, kiddo. Come on, I'm going to see you safely in bed before I do another thing.” She rose, and Elizabeth followed her almost cheerfully. “I'll be glad to go to bed,” Elizabeth said, coming after her aunt to the stairs, “I'm tired and I haven't been sleeping well again. Maybe I could take a hot bath.”

“Good idea.” Morgen was remorseful, and brought a quality of unfamiliar enthusiasm to the prospect of a hot bath. “Just what you need to make you sleep, a hot bath and I'll give you a little blue pill.”

“All right.” Elizabeth went toward the door of her room, and Morgen, saying “I'll start your water,” went into the bathroom. She started the water in the tub and then, because she was truly sorry to have made Elizabeth cry, she got a jar of pine bath salts from her own dressing table; it had not yet been opened and Morgen had been promising it to herself as a particular luxury tonight, bath salts being a fanciness for which she ordinarily did not have time; now, however, it was no more than what was due to Elizabeth, and she poured a generous helping of pine bath salts into the tub. When Elizabeth came into the bathroom the air was already warm and rich with an odor only faintly reminiscent of outdoors and trees and growing things; Elizabeth bent over the tub to turn the water off and smiled gratefully.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Just what I needed.” She hesitated, standing beside the tub in her robe and slippers, and from the timid smile she turned on her aunt it seemed that she was almost going to speak with tenderness; at last, with an effort, she said, “Won't you . . . Aunt Morgen, won't you stay in here and talk to me while I bathe?”

Morgen, perceiving without effort Elizabeth's attempt at affection, and moved by it, said, touching her niece on the shoulder, “Sure, kiddo. I used to give you a bath all the time, you know.”

She sat uncomfortably on the bathroom stool and caught Elizabeth's robe from the floor and held it. “Warm enough?” she asked as Elizabeth got into the tub, and Elizabeth nodded and said “Fine, thanks.”

“You feeling any better?”

“I think so, Morgen,” and she stopped, soap in hand. “Did the doctor tell you about . . . about the others?” she asked.

“How do you know the doctor was here?” Morgen said.

Elizabeth stared. “I guess I heard you say so.”

“He made me mad. But yes, he told me.”

“Did he say I was going to be . . . well?”

“Depends on what you mean by well,” Morgen said cautiously.

“Like I was before.”

“Well,” said Morgen, “you weren't so well then.” She was wondering, now, what to say; she had a clear idea that in a spot like this the most reasonable, the most sensible, the most reassuring statements were invariably the most dangerous, and she very much did not want to frighten Elizabeth again; it came to her with an acute, almost physical pain, that the reason Elizabeth spoke so much more fluently and freely tonight might be that it was the first time in many months she had found tenderness in her aunt. “I want you
really
well,” she said awkwardly, and then found Elizabeth looking at her with eyes full of tears. “What'd I say
now?
” Morgen demanded.

“It's because. . .” Elizabeth faltered, and patted the water with her hand. “He said, the doctor, that when I was cured it would be that all of us, Betsy and Beth and all, were all back together. He said I was one of them. Not myself, just one more of them. He said he was going to put us all back together into one person.”

“So?” Should Elizabeth be speaking of this, concerning herself over it? Even haltingly, clumsily as she spoke, should she be allowed to continue? “Why not wait and see what happens?” Morgen suggested, inspired.

“Look.” Elizabeth turned and looked at her. “I'm just one of them, one
part.
I think and I feel and I talk and I walk and I look at things and I hear things and I eat and I take baths—”

“All right,” Morgen said. “Conceded that you do it all, what's wrong with it? I do too.”

“But I do it all with
my
mind.” Elizabeth spoke very slowly, feeling her way. “What he's going to have when he's through is a new Elizabeth Richmond, with
her
mind.
She
will think and eat and hear and walk and take baths. Not me. I'll maybe be a part of her, but
I
won't know it—
she
will.”

“I don't get it,” said Morgen.

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “when
she
does all the thinking and knowing, won't
I
be . . . dead?”

“Oh, now, look,” said Morgen, and then sat helplessly, facing the definition of annihilation. Finally she shook herself, and said with great briskness, “Now, look, kiddo,
I
don't know anything about these things, and neither do
you.
You just figure that everything's going to turn out for the best, that's all.”

“I guess so.” Laboriously, Elizabeth rose and stepped out of the tub and took the towel Morgen handed her. She turned the handle which let the water out of the tub, and began to dry herself. When she finally had her robe and slippers on again she spoke. “Anyway,” she said, “when you've got her you won't have someone sick all the time.”

“I won't think about it, and neither will you,” Morgen said, but she was speaking to Bess.

“What are you doing in here?” Bess demanded. “Watching me every minute?”

“I came in,” Morgen said, “to draw your bath for you.”

“Well, do it,” Bess said. “I don't mind.”

“Look,” Morgen said, “what makes you think I wouldn't drown you?”

“You couldn't get the money
that
way,” Bess said. She turned around and bent down to start the water in the tub, and said, “Mind if I use your bath salts?”

“Not at all,” Morgen said. “Help yourself.” She watched, speechless, while Bess put bath salts in the tub, and got in herself, handing Morgen her robe to hold. Bess scrubbed herself diligently and thoroughly, chattering all the time. “This
is
nice of you, Morgen,” she said. “There isn't really any reason why we can't be friends, you and me, you know, even if I
do
get the money. Maybe I sometimes say things I don't mean, but so do you, you know, and if I'm willing to make allowances for
you,
I guess you ought to do the same for me. Besides, I'm going to be wealthy, and the way I see it I'll have a position of great responsibility—the responsibility of wealth, you know—and I can't afford to hold grudges and hate people, even you. A person in my position has to keep the same distance from everyone—no enemies, and no friends, because of course if they pretend to be friends it's really only the money they're after. Because—”

“Indeed yes,” said Morgen earnestly. “And no one in your position can
ever
be
too
careful.”

“Of course not,” Bess agreed. “Morgen, I've been thinking that I'd like to get you something, pay you back, sort of, for taking care of me all these years. A nice pair of gloves, maybe, or some handkerchiefs. What would you like?”

“Well,” said Morgen thoughtfully, “I
have
been needing a new nail file. But whatever
you
say.”

Bess rose and stepped out of the tub. She waited for a minute until Morgen reached over and found her a dry towel, and then she began to dry herself. “Something to remember me by,” she said. “Because of course we won't be seeing much of each other when I get my money. I'll be too busy with charitable pursuits and shopping, and things.”

Morgen rose, taking a deep breath. “I've decided that I
will
drown you, after all,” she said. “Better than a new pair of gloves, even.”

As she had expected, Bess fled when Morgen approached, and Beth, untying the cord of the bathrobe which Bess had just tied, said happily, “Did you come to see me have my bath? How
nice,
Aunt Morgen dear.”

“Just came to start the water for you,” Morgen said straight-faced. “I thought you'd sleep better for a hot bath.”

“You darling.” Morgen successfully dodged as Beth tried to kiss her, and leaned past Beth to turn on the hot water tap. “Do not,” Morgen said, “forget your bath salts.”

“These for me? Morgen, how
lovely.
”

“Not at all,” Morgen said, going back to her stool. She watched in a kind of stupor as Beth filled the tub, got in, and deliberately soaped and scrubbed the same neck and feet and legs and arms and ears that Elizabeth and Bess had been scrubbing for the past forty minutes. “Bath feels good,” Beth said, flicking a bubble with her finger. “I'm glad I thought of it.”

“It's very relaxing at bedtime, a hot bath,” Morgen said.

“It's nice to have you sit here while I take my bath, the way you used to.”

“Oh,” said Morgen, “I've watched you take a lot of baths.”

“I don't get much chance to talk to you anymore,” Beth said, turning her wide, innocent eyes to her aunt. “I wish I
did,
Aunt Morgen. I wish we were more intimate, because I
do
think just the world of you, and
I
wish we could be . . . well . . .
pals.
”

“Pals,” said Aunt Morgen.

“I could take
such
good care of you, if you'd only let me. We could have real fun together.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Morgen. “Well, we must try to see a lot more of each other from now on.”

Beth turned to her, eyes tearful among the soap bubbles. “You
don't
really like me,” she said. “No one
ever
does. I don't have a single friend in all this whole wide world, because no one loves me, not even my own
aunt
.”

“I gave you my bath salts,” Aunt Morgen pointed out.

Beth sniffled, and then wiped the soap off her face with the back of her hand and stood up in the tub. “Don't want any bath,” she said. “I'm just too
miserable
to take a bath.”

“You weren't very dirty anyway,” Aunt Morgen said heartlessly.

By the time the water had gone out of the tub and Beth was dressed in her robe again she had recovered her usual silly self, and she was just saying, “But Auntie, we've got to get you some
clothes,
” when she vanished and Betsy, clean and scrubbed, turned and bowed ironically to her aunt.

“Well,” said Betsy, “everyone wash behind their ears?”

Morgen began, at last, to laugh. “Betsy, my girl,” she said, “come on downstairs and have a spot of brandy with Auntie.”

“Can't,” said Betsy. “Got to have my bath.”