The Girl Who Passed for Normal (9 page)

“Good God!” said Mary Emerson, and laughed. But she looked, Barbara saw, almost frightened.

*

Catherine, as seemed to be usual, had had her lunch at midday, and was sleeping while they were eating; or, at least, so Mary Emerson said. She might, Barbara thought, have been listening to them. This was in her mind when, putting down her coffee cup, she said with the friendliest smile she could manage, and in a voice slightly louder than normal, “I
suppose
— with your husband — you must have felt sort of resentful against Catherine.”

Mary Emerson shrugged her shoulders. “Not really, I don’t think. I guess I’m not always as nice to Catherine as I should be, but — oh, over the years a person gets tired, and thinks ‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’ Catherine isn’t going to change, and I can’t go around feeling sorry for someone all the time and talking in a soft voice. Oh, she irritates me, yes, but—” she smiled, suddenly, softly, “I don’t regret anything you know. Not for myself. And Catherine knows that. I guess she understands me, even if she doesn’t like me.” She drew
something with a finger on the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of her being responsible for my marriage breaking up. Catherine’s sickness and George’s reaction to it were
completely
separate things. I think if there was any connection it would probably be the other way around, and I’d hold George responsible for Catherine’s sickness. George’s
strangeness
only came out when he saw that Catherine was strange, too. As if she’d given him away … but I really never think about it. There’s no point, is there? You just have to do what has to be done and try to enjoy it. And I’ve had a lot to be thankful for, too.” She gazed at Barbara for a moment before smiling again, gently, and Barbara felt, briefly, that she could be fond of the woman; that there was something honest and basically kind about her. She would have liked to smile back. But she couldn’t; she didn’t trust herself. Mary Emerson could afford to put all the tenderness on earth into a smile; she was waving from a departing ship. She could say, too, that she had no regrets; she was leaving her regrets behind, for someone else to look after. Catherine was her regret, even if she did deny it. Barbara felt that she had to convince herself of this; she had to be hard.

She would have loved to go with Mary Emerson, and she couldn’t. She would have loved to relax, to be floated away, to wake up comfortable, protected, belonging — and without having to struggle in any way. But she had made her choice, and for a while she had to be hard. For if now she smiled back at Mary Emerson she might start crying, and then she’d be lost before she’d ever started. She’d go back to England, to her mother, and Catherine would be lost, too. And both of them might never have another chance of being saved.

“You don’t think it’s possible that Catherine was just very
very slow,” she said, “and that when your husband started going strange it affected her because she knew, or felt,
anyway
, that she was responsible, but couldn’t do anything about it? And so then she sort of took on herself your husband’s strangeness and when he died — it was like being cut into two.”

Mary Emerson shrugged. “My dear, I’ve heard so many explanations of Catherine’s condition that I could fill a book with them, and I’m sure they’re all quite true — but explaining doesn’t make very much difference. You just have to accept Catherine as she is and try not to be too subjective about her, or let your own feelings get in the way. That’s why it’s time for me to go. I’ve been with Catherine long enough. I have no feelings left at all as far as she’s concerned. That’s terrible, but it’s true. And the only wonderful thing is that we’ve found you.” She stood up. “It’s hair-washing time.” She looked at her watch. “Catherine should be awake now. Why don’t you go up and see her! She’ll be very offended if you don’t.”

Barbara nodded. “I’ll go up right away.”

*

In Catherine’s bedroom Barbara said, “Can I open the
curtains
?”

Catherine shook her head. “Please don’t. I like it like this.”

Barbara sat down on the edge of the girl’s bed. In the half-light she said, “I’ve been talking to your mother about your father. Do you remember him?”

“Yes,” Catherine replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “Did she tell you that she killed him?”

“No.”

“She did. She tried once and it didn’t work, and then my
father got so scared of her he went away, but she found him and shot him. She made it look like he shot himself, but he didn’t.” She laughed in the same tone as her speech, as if she were reading a script that she didn’t understand, “He fooled her though, because he changed his will when he was in the hospital after she tried to kill him the first time. Everyone thought that was suicide, too. But he fooled her. She thought she was going to get all his money.”

“How do you know all this?” Barbara asked.

“He told me. After she tried to kill him she took me to see him in the hospital. He sent her out of the room and told me that it was all her fault, that he hadn’t really tried to kill himself, but she’d done it, only I mustn’t tell anyone, because if I did she’d kill me. He said he hadn’t told anyone that she’d tried to kill him, otherwise she would have killed me then, and anyway he couldn’t prove that she’d done it but he knew. And then he told me that he was going to have to disappear because otherwise she’d try again, but that I wasn’t to worry because he’d look after me. I asked him if he’d take me with him but he said it was impossible because a man alone could disappear but a man with a child would be recognized and the police would tell her we’d been found and she’d come and kill us both, but he said I should love Luke as if Luke was my father and Luke would look after me when he was old enough, but until then he’d thought of a clever plan so mother wouldn’t be able to kill me or she’d have no money and he was going to make his will so that mother had to stay with me and look after me until I was twenty-one and then Luke would look after me.” She stopped her toneless monologue and sighed.

“Is that all true, Catherine?” Barbara said gently, and
Catherine said casually “Uh-huh.” She sat up in bed. “Sure it’s true.” She leaned forward and smiled. “It must be true, mustn’t it, because you know I’d never be able to make all that up.” She got out of bed. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Barbara sat on the edge of the bed and wondered who had told the truth, mother or daughter; and she wondered, if Catherine had made her story up, how she had done it. Perhaps she had put it together over a long period of time, adding one word a day, taken from here, taken from there, until she had created, after years perhaps, a complete and fairly plausible story. Or perhaps her father had told it to her. Perhaps he had told it to her when she’d been taken to see him in the hospital, and he was really the crazy one. Or perhaps he had told the truth, and Mary Emerson was the crazy one. It didn’t really matter very much, Barbara told herself. Soon Mary Emerson would be gone, and that would be an end of it. Her task wasn’t to find out the truth about the past, even if it could be found out. Her task was to keep Catherine happy, to teach her slowly, day by day, word by word, some language that was hers, with which she could take the world, very slowly, into herself, and make it hers. To enable her to become a flower, a tree, the sky, and
eventually
, other people. To drain all that was foreign from her, to enable her to face that total darkness within herself, and by facing it give it a tiny glimmer of light; for if she faced it she might be able to draw it out of herself and use it as love; love for a flower, a tree, the sky, and possibly other people. Yes. That was her task; to teach Catherine to love.

When Catherine came back to her bedroom, Barbara said, “You never talk about Luke. Did you like it when he was here?”

Catherine shook her head. “He was meant to come and look after me.”

And instead he had made a deal with his mother and become friendly with David. He had betrayed her. “Never mind,” Barbara said. “I’m going to look after you.”

Catherine got back into bed and said, “Yes.” Then she whispered eagerly, “Shall we kill mother?”

Barbara smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Catherine said petulantly.

“Because you can’t kill people.”

“She killed father and David.”

“You must forgive people, try to understand them. Try to realize they have their own reasons for doing things and that they’re not necessarily right — but if they’re wrong you shouldn’t follow their example, should you?”

Catherine dismissed this with the contempt that Barbara felt it deserved. “She deserves to die.”

“We all die whether we deserve to or not.”

Catherine made a little movement of irritation with her shoulders and said, “That’s a silly answer.”

“Why don’t you get up now?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

Barbara leaned over the bed and kissed Catherine on the forehead.

“I must go now. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Catherine nodded. She wasn’t, or she pretended not to be, interested.

Barbara went down the corridor from Catherine’s room and called toward Mary Emerson’s bedroom, “I’m off now.”

A muffled voice called back, “I’m in my bathroom.”

Barbara went into the bedroom and glanced at the large
bed. She wondered if David had ever slept there — or had they made love downstairs on the white fur rugs. Her lips made a small smile. She said to the half-open door of the bathroom, which was on the far side of the bed, “I’m just off now. Thank you for lunch.”

Mary Emerson came out into the bedroom with a towel around her head.

“It was lovely to see you, my dear. I’m afraid I can’t stop. I’ve just reached the critical stage here. Was Catherine happy to see you?”

Barbara nodded. “I asked her about her father,” she said thoughtfully.

Mary Emerson smiled. “Oh, I guess she told you how I killed him.”

Barbara smiled back. “Yes. She told me a very long and complicated story. She sounded as if she’d got it from the television.”

“Oh, no. Her father told it to her.”

Barbara wanted to ask if the story was true, but she nodded and said, “Ah.”

“You know,” Mary Emerson said, “I really feel sometimes that those tribes that destroy their female children at birth have the right idea.”

“That would put us out of the picture, wouldn’t it?”

Mary Emerson laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that. But then one can’t make rules about murder, can one? Just go by instinct. Instinct’s invariably right in the end, because there’s a perfectly good social or economic reason for one having that instinct.” She laughed again. “I can’t think that anyone would instinctively want to murder you or me, but I do wish,
sometimes
,
that my instinct had been to smother rather than mother Catherine.” She sighed. “Poor Catherine. Oh, well, I’ll see you Monday, my dear — if I don’t get on with this I’ll have a whole mess of cooked eggs in my hair.”

“Good-bye,” Barbara said, “and thank you again.”

She went down the stairs and called good-bye to Iva. As she went past the bird cage in the hall the myna bird screamed, and then laughed a deep Southern laugh.

She spent that evening alone, and all of Sunday.

On Sunday afternoon she realized that she had been back in Italy a week, and felt that she had, in that week, come a long way. The thought struck her when, sitting in the
apartment
listening to a concert on the radio, she remembered what the Emersons had told her the day before. Then she made up her own version, which, she believed, was not only
objective
but would fit the facts and provide a better explanation than any other version. It was not, she told herself, that she was trying unreasonably to be hard, nor was she trying to justify her decision to stay with Catherine. That had no need of justification, whatever Marcello might say — and anyway, she was beginning to think that Marcello wasn’t as
disinterested
as he liked to pretend.

She had had her doubts when he had agreed to see Mary Emerson, and then it had occurred to her that the strength she admired and envied in him might merely be strength of manner. He had convinced himself with his theories that he was glad David had left — but perhaps his gladness was
really relief that David had left her; relief that someone who had hurt him was now hurting someone else; relief that he could hide his past hurt in her present hurt. Perhaps — and she liked the idea — Marcello was jealous of her, and now regretted ever having been involved with these foreigners, and wished they were all off the scene, to leave his philosophizing unchallenged by their presence. But even if this were true, his strength of manner was such that she would probably never know his real feelings, unless later, when she was living with Catherine, he betrayed himself. That, Barbara thought, would be a fine revenge; if she could continually remind him of her presence, and by association remind him of David, if she could go on and on, phoning him, writing him letters, going to see him unexpectedly, never leaving him alone until he admitted that he hated her, that she disgusted him, that she always had; until he betrayed himself.

This was her version of the death of George Emerson.

Catherine and Luke are born, and, fairly naturally, Mary Emerson prefers the son to the daughter, and her husband the daughter to the son. However, George Emerson is slightly unstable mentally, and his affection for Catherine becomes obsessive. Mary Emerson realizes this and, because she loves her husband, starts to dislike her daughter. By the time Catherine is three her father’s obsession is bordering on insanity, and his marriage is virtually destroyed. Mary
Emerson
believes that the only way to save her husband’s sanity and their marriage is to get rid of Catherine in some way. So she tries to kill her — probably by smothering her. But by chance George Emerson discovers her and stops her, and though he saves his daughter’s life, Catherine has been deeply traumatized by this attack.

Now George Emerson knows he cannot take the children away from Mary, because the court would force him to give them back — and if he publicly accused his wife of trying to murder their daughter
he
would be thought mad, because he already has a medical history of mental instability, and she seems so very normal.

So he is obliged to stay with his murderous wife to protect his daughter. Meanwhile, after what has happened, Mary Emerson knows that her marriage is completely finished, so she must do two things — one, get hold of her husband’s money, and two, get rid of her husband. She must do these things before the children get too old, and her husband has a chance to tell them what she has done; she knows her
husband
will have made a will excluding her, but if she can get rid of him quickly, she will be able to contest it on the grounds of his being mentally unbalanced, or on the grounds that she has nothing with which to bring up the children; or she will be able to count on the goodwill of her children if everything has been left to them.

Then she discovers that her daughter has been traumatized to such an extent by the attack that she has lost her reason, or at least a part of it — and when she discovers this she knows she must act quickly, because her husband, who also is beginning to suspect that something is wrong with Catherine, will kill her if his suspicions are confirmed. So she stages a murder-suicide, which goes wrong, but afterward her husband is so terrified of this woman, this monster who passes for normal, that he has a complete breakdown and runs away. So Mary Emerson is safe unless he recovers, comes back, and tries to kill her. But that is too dangerous, and she can’t risk it. So she gets private detectives to find her
husband, and when they have done so, she either goes and shoots him herself, or pays someone else to do it.

Then she brings her children to Rome. Financially she is all right, and as for Catherine — what’s done is done, and there is no reason any more why Mary should kill her. She had tried to do so originally to save something, but what she tried to save is now lost forever. One must make the best of a bad, if comfortable, situation.

*

When Barbara had finished making this version up, and had considered both her motives for doing so, and its
implications
, she wanted to tell it to someone — and as there was only Marcello to tell it to, she phoned him. She thought, too, that the manner in which he took it would indicate to her whether she had any real chance of getting her revenge on him.

When she had finished speaking, Marcello said nothing. Barbara waited for a little while and then said, “Marcello, are you there?”

A very quiet, strange voice said, “Yes.”

Barbara said, “Well, I know it’s melodramatic and you probably think it’s very silly and trivial but —”

“Do you really believe it’s true?” Marcello almost
whispered
.

Barbara nodded. “Yes. Oh, I don’t know if all the facts are exactly right, but I can’t help thinking — you know, I heard all this from them yesterday, and I’ve been thinking about it, and their whole setup, ever since, and I do think that even if it isn’t exactly right, it is sort of poetically true, like myths are.”

“Have you told them definitely that you are going to go and stay with Catherine?”

“Yes. I told them Friday. Then I stayed to dinner, and Mrs. Emerson told me all the things about her money that she told you. She also said that she did like David very much.”

She hoped Marcello would take her up on this, but he was silent for a moment and then said, “Listen, Barbara, I know this is nothing to do with me, and that you’ve probably thought about it much more than I have. But, honestly, I would advise you to go back to England and forget Catherine. Let them get a nurse for her, take her back to America or something. Go back to England and get a job, and don’t get mixed up with these people.”

“Do you believe me then?”

“No. But I do think it could be sort of dangerous if you stay.”

Barbara laughed. “You think they’ll try to do something to me?”

Marcello ignored this. “I know you’ll laugh at me and think I’m stupid, but what I mean is it could be morally dangerous.”

“It’s very nice of you to worry about my morals, but the point of this whole thing is that Catherine is alone in the world and so am I, we’re very fond of each other, and I might be able to help her. My morals don’t really come into it. I’m just being practical.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Marcello said. “I meant it could be morally dangerous for Catherine.”

“You think I’m mad?” Barbara laughed, but felt herself flushing.

“No. I just think that if you stay together long enough
you might convince yourself, or even convince Catherine
herself
, that she’s normal. And her mother told me she never ever can be, and —”

“Would you
like
me to go back to England?”

“Yes, Barbara,” Marcello said wearily. “I’d like you to go back to England.”

She stared at the telephone and wondered if this was the admission she had been hoping for from Marcello. But though the words were right, the tone, somehow, was wrong.

“Can I come around and see you, Marcello? I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you now but I haven’t spoken to anybody all day, and —”

But Marcello interrupted her. “No, I’m sorry, Barbara. I’m working now, and then I have to go out.”

“Could I see you tomorrow then?” She felt thin, and old, and she wanted to touch Marcello, to put her hand over his mouth and stop all the rubbish he said. She wanted to kiss him and get him to admit that he hated her and that he not only had loved David, but loved him still; she wanted him to admit that while he believed theoretically in all his talk of morality, in practice he believed in stories such as she had told him of the Emersons. She wanted him to renounce his strength, admit to weakness, and acknowledge her existence. “Please,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Barbara,” Marcello said, “I’m going away tomorrow, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He didn’t even bother to try to sound truthful.

“Oh,” Barbara said. “Well, good-bye then. I’ll see you when you get back, I expect.” She felt her lips leaping on her face. She said “Good-bye” again quickly, and put the
phone down. She started crying. She went to her bed and lay down, and cried till she fell asleep.

*

She spent every morning and every evening alone,
thinking
of the time when she would be with Catherine. In the afternoon she danced and did exercises with Catherine and hardly spoke to her, unwilling to mention what was going to happen to them both in case she should complicate
anything
; she wanted everything simple. Simple and clean-cut. She didn’t want to hear about David, or about the past. She hardly saw Mary Emerson, and was happy not to. She felt that she had been prepared outwardly for her task in the week after her return from England — now it was time to prepare herself inwardly for a renunciation that might last a lifetime, to
prepare
herself for a relationship that would probably be deeper than any she had ever had; almost dangerously deep. She was to prepare herself as if before the taking of some very sacred vows, and she was sure it was for this that Mary
Emerson
seemed to avoid her — as if she didn’t want to distract her thoughts for an instant from the almost holy task ahead of her.

*

She wrote another letter to her mother.

She received a reply a week later.