The Early Stories of Truman Capote (8 page)

“Of course, it did give me rather a turn; he fell an enormous distance from over the bridge railing to the river: made scarcely a splash. And there was absolutely no one in sight.” Mrs. Martin Rittenhouse paused to sigh and stir her tea. “I was wearing a blue dress when it happened. Such a lovely dress—matched my eyes. Poor Martin was very fond of it.”

“But I understand drowning is pleasant,” said Mrs. Green.

“Oh, yes indeed: an extremely pleasant method of—of departure. Yes, I think if the poor man could have chosen his own way out, I'm certain he would have preferred—water. But, harsh as it may sound, I can't pretend I wasn't considerably cheered to be rid of him.”

“So?”

“Drank, among other things,” confided Mrs. Rittenhouse grimly. “He was also somewhat over-affectionate, inclined to—dally. And prevaricate.”

“Lie, you mean?”

“Among other things.”

It was a narrow, high-ceilinged room in which the two ladies talked: a comfortable setting, but without any special distinction. Faded green draperies were drawn against a winter afternoon; a fire, purring drowsily in a stone fireplace, reflected yellow pools in the eyes of a cat, limply curled beside the hearth; a cluster of bells, wound round the throat of the cat, pealed icily whenever he stirred.

“I've never liked men named Martin,” said Mrs. Green.

Mrs. Rittenhouse, the visitor, nodded. She was perched stiffly in a fragile-looking chair, persistently churning her tea with a lemon slice. She wore a deep purple dress, and a black, shovel-shaped hat over curly, wig-like grey hair. Her face was thin, but constructed along stern lines, as though modeled by rigorous discipline: a face which seemed content with a single, stricken expression.

“Nor men named Harry,” added Mrs. Green, whose husband's name was precisely that. Mrs. Green and her two hundred odd pounds (concealed in a flesh-colored negligee) luxuriously consumed the major portion of a three-seat couch. Her face was huge and hearty, and her eyebrows, plucked nearly naked, were penciled in such an absurd manner that she looked as if someone had startled her in the midst of a shamefully private act. She was filing her nails.

Now between these two women was a connection difficult to define: not friendship, but something more. Perhaps Mrs. Rittenhouse came closest to putting a finger on it when once she said, “We are kindred spirits.”

“This all happened in Italy?”

“France,” corrected Mrs. Rittenhouse. “Marseille, to be exact. Marvelous city—subtle—all lights and shadows. While Martin fell, I could hear him screaming: quite sinister. Yes, Marseille was exciting. He couldn't swim a stroke, poor man.”

Mrs. Green hid the fingernail file between the couch cushions. “Personally, I feel no pity,” she said. “Had it been I—well, he might have had a little help getting over that rail.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, her expression brightening slightly.

“Of course. I've never liked the sound of him. Remember what you told me about the incident in Venice? Aside from that, he manufactured sausage or something, didn't he?”

Mrs. Rittenhouse made a sour bud of her lips. “He was the sausage king. At least, that is what he always claimed. But I shouldn't complain: the company sold for a fabulous sum, although it's beyond me why anyone would want to eat a sausage.”

“And look at you!” trumpeted Mrs. Green, waving a well-nourished hand. “Look at you—a free woman. Free to buy and do whatever you please. While I—” she laced her fingers together and solemnly shook her head. “Another cup of tea?”

“Thank you. One lump, please.”

Sparks whirred as a log crumpled in the fire. An ormolu clock, set atop the mantel, tolled the time with musical shafts of sound that played on the quiet: five.

Presently, Mrs. Rittenhouse, in a voice sad with memory, said, “I gave the blue dress to a chambermaid at our hotel: there was a tear in the collar where he clutched at me before he fell. And then I went to Paris and lived in a beautiful apartment till Spring. It was a lovely Spring: the children in the park were so neat and quiet; I sat all day feeding crumbs to the pigeons. Parisians are neurotic.”

“Was the funeral expensive? Martin's, I mean?”

Mrs. Rittenhouse chuckled gently and, leaning forward, whispered, “I had him cremated. Isn't that priceless? Oh, yes—just wrapped the ashes in a shoebox and sent them to Egypt. Why there, I don't know. Except that he loathed Egypt. I loved it, myself. Marvelous country, but he never wanted to go. That's why it's priceless. However, there is this one thing I find extremely reassuring: I wrote a return address on the package and
it never came back
. Somehow I feel he must have reached his proper resting place, after all.”

Mrs. Green slapped her thigh and bellowed, “The Sausage King among the Pharaohs!” And Mrs. Rittenhouse enjoyed the jest as much as her natural inscrutability would permit.

“But Egypt,” sighed Mrs. Green, brushing tears of laughter from her eyes. “I always say to myself—‘Hilda, you were intended for a life of travel—India, the Orient, Hawaii.' That's what I always say to myself.” And then, with some disgust, she added, “But you've never met Harry, have you? Oh, my God! Hopelessly dull. Hopelessly bourgeois. Hopelessly!”

“I know the breed,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse acidly. “Call themselves the backbone of the nation. Ha, not even nuisance value. My dear, it comes down to this: If they haven't money—get rid of them. If they have—who could make better use of it than oneself?”

“How right you are!”

“Well, it's pathetic and useless to waste yourself on that sort of man. Or any man.”

“Precisely,” was Mrs. Green's comment. She shifted position, her huge body quivering under the negligee, and dimpled her beefy cheek with a thoughtful finger. “I've often considered divorcing Harry,” she said. “But that's very, very expensive. Then, too, we've been married nineteen years (and engaged five before that) and if I were to even suggest such a thing, I'm positive the shock would just about—”

“Kill him,” ended Mrs. Rittenhouse, quickly lowering her eyes to the tea-cup. A flush of color kindled her cheeks and her lips pursed and unpursed with alarming rapidity. After a little, she said, “I've been thinking of a trip to Mexico. There's a charming place on the coast called Acapulco. A great many artists live there: they paint the sea by moonlight—”

“Mexico. Me-hi-co,” said Mrs. Green. “The name sings. Ac-a-pul-co, Me-hi-co.” She slammed her palm on the couch's arm. “God, what I wouldn't give to go with you.”

“Why not?”

“Why not! Oh, I can just hear Harry saying, ‘Sure, how much will you need?' Oh, I can just hear it!” She pounded the couch-arm again. “Naturally, if I had money of my own—well, I haven't, so that's that.”

Mrs. Rittenhouse turned a speculative eye towards the ceiling; when she spoke her lips barely moved. “But Henry does, doesn't he?”

“A little—his insurance—eight thousand or so in the bank—that's all,” replied Mrs. Green, and there was nothing casual in her tone.

“It would be ideal,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, pressing a thin, crepey hand on the other woman's knee. “Ideal. Just us two. We will rent a little stone house in the mountains overlooking the sea. And in the patio (for we shall have a patio) there will be fruit trees and jasmine, and on certain evenings we shall string Japanese lanterns and have parties for all the artists—”

“Lovely!”

“—and employ a guitarist to serenade. It shall all be one splendid succession of sunsets and starlight and enchanting walks by the sea.”

For a long time their eyes exchanged a curious, searching gaze; and the mysterious understanding between them flowered into a mutual smile, which, in Mrs. Green's case, developed to a giggle. “That's silly,” she said. “I could never do a thing like that. I would be afraid of getting caught.”

“From Paris I went to London,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, withdrawing her hand and tilting her head at a severe angle; yet her disappointment could not be disguised. “A depressing place: dreadfully hot in the summer. A friend of mine introduced me to the Prime Minister. He was—”

“Poison?”

“—a charming person.”

The bells tinkled as the cat stretched and bathed his paws. Shadow-like, he paraded across the room, his tail arched in the air like a feathered wand; to and fro he stroked his sides against his mistress's stupendous leg. She lifted him, held him to her bosom, and planted a noisy kiss on his nose; “Mummy's angel.”

“Germs,” declared Mrs. Rittenhouse.

The cat arranged himself languidly and fixed an impertinent stare upon Mrs. Rittenhouse. “I've heard of untraceable poisons, but it's all vague and story-bookish,” said Mrs. Green.

“Never poison. Too dangerous, too easily detected.”

“But let us
suppose
that we were going to—to rid ourselves of someone. How would you begin?”

Mrs. Rittenhouse closed her eyes and traced her finger round the rim of the tea-cup. Several words stuttered on her lips, but she said nothing.

“Pistol?”

“No. Definitely no. Firearms involve all sorts of whatnot. At any rate, I don't believe insurance companies recognize suicide—that is what it would have to appear to be. No, accidents are best.”

“But the Good Lord would have to take credit for that.”

“Not necessarily.”

Mrs. Green, plucking at a stray wisp of hair, said, “Oh, stop teasing and talking riddles: what's the answer?”

“I'm afraid there is no consistently true one,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse. “It depends as much upon the setting as the situation. Now, if this were a foreign country it would be simpler. The Marseille police, for instance, took very casual interest in Martin's accident: their investigation was most unthorough.”

A look of mild surprise illumined Mrs. Green's face. “I see,” she said slowly. “But then, this is
not
Marseille.” And presently volunteered, “Harry swims like a fish: he won a cup at Yale.”

“However,” continued Mrs. Rittenhouse, “it is by no means impossible. Let me tell you of a statement I read recently in the
Tribune
: ‘Each year a larger percentage of deaths are caused by people falling in their bathtub than by all other accidents combined.' ” She paused and eyed Mrs. Green intently. “I find that quite provocative, don't you?”

“I'm not sure whether I follow—”

A brittle smile toyed with the corners of Mrs. Rittenhouse's mouth; her hands moved together, the tips of her fingers delicately meeting and forming a crisp, blue-veined steeple. “Well,” she began, “let us suppose that upon the evening the—tragedy—is scheduled, something apparently goes wrong with, say, a bathroom faucet. What does one do?”

“What
does
one do?” echoed Mrs. Green, frowning.

“This: call to him and ask if he would mind stepping in there a moment. You point to the faucet and then, as he bends to investigate, strike the base of his head—
right back here,
see?
—with something good and heavy. Simplicity itself.”

But Mrs. Green's frown persisted. “Honestly, I don't see where that is any accident.”

“If you're determined to be so literal!”

“But I don't see—”

“Hush,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, “and listen. Now, this is what one would do next: undress him, fill the tub brim full, drop in a cake of soap and submerge—the corpse.” Her smile returned and curved to a wider crescent. “What is the obvious conclusion?”

Mrs. Green's interest was complete, and her eyes were very wide. “What?” she breathed.

“He slipped on the soap, hit his head—and drowned.”

The clock tuned six; the notes shimmered away in silence. The fire had gradually sifted to a slumbering bed of coals, and a chill seemed settled on the room like a net spun of ice. The cat's bells shattered the mood as Mrs. Green dropped him plumply to the floor, rose and walked to the window. She parted the draperies and looked out; the sky was drained of color; it was starting to rain: the first drops beaded the glass, distorting an eerie reflection of Mrs. Rittenhouse to which Mrs. Green addressed her next remark:

“Poor man.”

Miss Carter had been explaining the eccentricities of Algebra for almost twenty minutes now. Sally looked disgustedly up at the snail-like hands of the schoolroom clock, only twenty-five more minutes and then freedom—sweet, precious freedom.

She looked at the piece of yellow paper in front of her for the hundredth time. Empty. Ah, well! Sally glanced around her, staring with contempt at the hard working mathematical students. “Humnph,” she thought, “as if they're goin' to make a success in life just by addin' up a lot of figures, an' X's that don't make any sense anyway. Humnph, wait'll they get out in the world.”

Exactly what getting out in the world or life was, she wasn't sure; however, her elders had led her to believe it was some horrible ordeal that she was going to have to undergo at some definite, future date.

“Uh, oh,” she moaned, “here comes Robot.” She called Miss Carter “Robot,” because that was what Miss Carter reminded her of, a perfect machine, accurate, well oiled and as cold and shiny as steel. Hurriedly she scribbled a mass of illegible numbers over the yellow paper. “At least,” Sally thought, “that'll make her think I'm working.”

Miss Carter sailed past her without even a look. Sally breathed a deep sigh of relief. Robot!

Her seat was right next to the window. The room was on the third floor of the High School and from where she sat she could see a beautiful view. She turned to gaze outside. Her eyes became dilated, and glassy and unseeing—

“This year it makes us very happy to present the Academy Award for the finest portrayal of the year to Miss Sally Lamb for her unparalleled performance in
Desire.
Miss Lamb, you will please accept Oscar on behalf of myself and my associates.”

A beautiful, striking woman reaches out and gathers the gold statuette in her arms.

“Thank you,” she says in a deep, rich voice. “I suppose when something wonderful like this happens to anyone they're supposed to make a speech, but I'm just too grateful to say anything.”

And then she sits down with the applause ringing in her ears. Bravo for Miss Lamb. Hurray. Clap, clap, clap, clap. Champagne. Did you really like me? Autograph? But certainly— What did you say your first name was, dear boy—John? Oh, French, Jean— All right— “To Jean, a dear friend, Sally Lamb.” Autograph, please, Miss Lamb, autograph, autograph—Star, money, fame, beautiful, glamorous—Clark Gable—

“Are you listening, Sally?” Miss Carter sounded very angry. Sally jumped around, startled. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, then, if you're paying such undivided attention perhaps you can explain this last problem I put on the board.” Miss Carter's gaze swept the class superciliously.

Sally stared helplessly at the board. She could feel Robot's cold eyes on her and the giggling brats. She could have choked them all until their tongues hung out. Damn them. Oh, well, she was licked, the numbers, the squares, the crazy X's, Greek!

“Just as I thought,” the Robot announced triumphantly. “Yes, just as I thought! You've been off in space again. I would like to know what goes on in that head of yours—certainly it has nothing to do with your school work. For a girl who's so—so, stupid, it looks like you could at least favor us with your attention. It's not just you, Sally, but you disrupt the whole class.”

Sally hung her head and drew crazy little designs all over the paper. She knew her face was cerise, but she wasn't going to be like these other stupid morons who giggled and carried on every time the teacher bawled them out—even old Robot.

GOSSIP COLUMN:

What number one debutante of the season whose initials are Sally Lamb was seen romancing at the Stork Club with millionaire playboy Stevie Swift?

“Oh, Marie, Marie,” called the beautiful young girl lying on the huge silken bed. “Bring me the new
Life
magazine.”

“Yes, Miss Lamb,” answered the prim French maid.

“Hurry, please,” called the impatient heiress. “I want to see if that photographer did me justice; my picture's on the cover this week, you know. Oh, and while you're about it bring me an Alka-Seltzer—dastardly head-ache, too much champagne I guess.”

RADIO:

Rich girl makes Debut Tonight. The long awaited Social Event of the Season brings forth Sally Lamb to Society in a brilliant Ten thousand dollar Ball. Nice work if you can get it! Flash, flash—

“Will you please pass your papers to the front of the room, hurry it up, please!” Miss Carter rapped her fingers impatiently against her desk.

Sally shoved her illegible paper over the shoulder of the pink faced boy that sat in front of her. Children. Humnph. She pulled her big Scottish plaid handbook over to her, delved around inside, and came up with a compact, lipstick, comb, and Kleenex.

She gazed at herself in the powder-dusty mirror as she smeared the lipstick on her pretty shaped lips. Raspberry.

The tall, slinky woman stood admiring her image in front of a huge gilt mirror at one of the more spectacular residences in Germany. She patted a stray hair back into her elaborate silver coiffure.

A dark, handsome gentleman bent over and kissed her bare shoulder. She smiled faintly.

“Ah, Lupé, how lovely you look tonight. You are so beautiful, Lupé. Your skin, so white, your eyes—Ach…you can't imagine what they make me feel.”

“Umm,” purred the Lady, “that, General, is where you are mistaken.” She reached over to a marble table and picked up two wine glasses, slipped three pills into one, and handed it to the General.

“Lupé, I must see you more often. We will dine together every night when I return from the front.”

“Ohhh, does my little baby have to go up there where all the fighting is?” Her raspberry lips were close to his. How clever you are, Sally, she thought.

“Lupé knows I have to carry the army maneuver plans up to the front, doesn't Lupé?”

“Do you have the plans with you?” queried the charming fifth columnist.

“Why, yes, but of course.” She could see that he was passing out, his eyes were getting glassy and he looked very drunk. By the time the Mata Hari had finished her 1928 vintage, the General was stretched out at her feet.

She stooped down and began searching his coat. Suddenly she heard boot steps outside—her heart jumped—

The bell went off with a loud clang. The students rushed helter-skelter for the door way. Sally put her make-up articles back in her handbag, gathered up her books, and prepared to depart.

“Just a minute, Sally Lamb,” Miss Carter called her back. Robot again. “Come back here a minute—I want to talk to you.”

By the time she reached the desk Miss Carter had finished filling out a form and handed it to her.

“That is a detention hall slip, you will go to detention hall this afternoon until it is over. I have told you numerously that I do not want you primping yourself in class. Do you want us to all get your germs?”

Sally blushed. She resented any reference to her anatomy or pertaining there of.

“And another thing, young lady, you didn't hand in your homework…Well, as I've told you, it's up to you whether you want to do your work or not…It's certainly not any skin off my back—”

Sally wondered vaguely whether she had any skin on her back—or was it tin?

“—you know, of course, that you're failing this subject. It's a mystery to me how anyone could so completely waste their time—I do not understand it—not at all. I think it would be better if you dropped this course, because, to be quite candid, I don't believe that you are mentally capable of doing the work. I—I—wait a minute—where do you think—”

Sally had thrown her books down on the desk and run out of the room. She knew she was going to cry and she didn't want to—not in front of Robot.

Damn her anyhow! What does she know about life. She doesn't know anything but a lot of numbers—Damn her anyway!

She worked her way on down the crowded halls.

The torpedo had hit about a half an hour ago and the ship was sinking fast. This was a chance! Sally Lamb, America's foremost newspaper woman, right here on the spot. She had gotten her camera out of her water logged cabin. And here she was, snapping pictures of the refugees climbing into the lifeboats and of her fellow sufferers struggling in the raging sea.

“Hey, Miss,” called one of the sailors. “Yuh, better take this lifeboat, I think it's the last one.”

“No thanks,” she called over the howling wind and the roaring water. “I'm gonna stay right here until I get the whole story.”

Suddenly Sally laughed. Miss Carter and the X's and the numbers seemed far, far away. She was very happy here, with the wind blowing in her hair and Death around the corner.