Barbara Greer (3 page)

Nancy Rafferty came around from the terrace. She had put on the heart-shaped earrings again, had brushed her reddish-brown hair and put on fresh lipstick. She was not a tall girl, several inches shorter than Barbara, and in her light linen dress, standing at the top of the brick steps, she looked very slim and pretty. Though she was thirty, she looked, as she raised her arm and waved gaily, smiling, much the way she had looked at nineteen.

The two little boys—Dobie, who was four, and Michael, who was two and a half—appeared behind her and came running down the steps, still wearing their bibs from supper. Dobie cried, ‘Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-Daddy!' holding out his arms to be picked up.

‘Hi-de-ho!' Nancy called.

‘Hi, kids. Hi, Nancy,' Carson said cheerfully, and Barbara thought, yes, it's going to be a nice evening; I know it is.

2

By the time the children had been put to bed, it was nearly eight o'clock. Carson mixed cocktails in a silver pitcher—his ushers' gift—and Barbara arranged a plate of cheese and crackers which she placed on the glass-topped table on the terrace. The three of them sat in a semi-circle around the table in the lingering twilight, talking in low voices because, on other back-yard terraces all around them, voices of neighbours they could not see talked over other twilight cocktails.

Carson said, ‘See? Even in Locustville we've got gracious living.'

Barbara gave him a grateful smile. ‘Cool,' she said, pushing her dark hair back with her hands. ‘Isn't it wonderful to have it cool!'

‘It's worse in Philadelphia,' Nancy said. ‘You can't believe how hot it gets in Philadelphia.'

Carson filled their glasses a second time with the pale, crystal liquid from the pitcher and Nancy sat holding her cocktail glass in front of her, with both hands, like a little chalice. Her eyes shone. ‘Remember Hawaii, Barb?' she asked, pronouncing it with four syllables—‘Ha-wa--i-i.'

‘Oh, of course.'

‘Those two Navy lieutenants that used to take us out. Remember? What were their names? Lieutenant Boles and Lieutenant Harvey, wasn't it? Both named Charlie! Charlie and Charlie, the gold-dust twins we called them.' She laughed.

‘Yes,' Barbara said.

‘
My
Charlie always liked you best, though,' Nancy said. ‘Of course your Charlie liked you, too. But you were always true to Carson.' She flashed a smile at Carson. ‘She was, too, Carson,' she said. ‘She used to write to you every day. I'll never forget. Every single, solitary day she sat down and wrote to you. I was horribly jealous. I used to think: here's Barbara, who has two Charlies absolutely mad about her—and Carson, too! And I had nobody. Remember all the coffee we used to drink in the morning, Barb? Cup after cup after cup! We measured out our life in coffee spoons!'

Barbara smiled, remembering their year in Hawaii. It had been her idea, going there, to have some sort of a career before settling down to marriage with Carson. And it had seemed a good way to spend the time while Carson did his two-year stint in the Army, after college. She had applied for a job in the Pan American Airlines office in Honolulu and persuaded Nancy to apply for a job, too. ‘It was a wonderful year, wasn't it?' Barbara said.

‘Oh yes. Remember, Barb, I didn't want to go? I wanted to work in New York, live in Greenwich Village. Thank God you talked me into going to Hawaii instead. Remember Schuyler Osata?'

‘Yes, yes …'

‘What a wonderful boy. What a wonderful name—Schuyler Osata! he was—' she turned to Carson again. ‘He was part Japanese, part English, part Hawaiian and part something else. Beautiful, beautiful Polynesian eyes and he could swim like a fish. He used to swim out into the sea and ride on the backs of those big sea turtles. He did! He'd grab one of those enormous turtles by the flippers and let it carry him around. Oh, incredible! Schuyler was in love with Barbara, too—not me.'

‘Now,
that
isn't true,' Barbara said.

‘Oh yes, yes it was,' Nancy said. She sighed, put her head back, looking up at the darkening sky. ‘I don't know why it was. They all liked you, Barb, better than they liked me. Yes, I do know why it was,' she said and leaned forward again, taking a sip of her cocktail.

‘What do you mean?' Barbara asked.

‘It's true,' Nancy said, her eyes widening, looking first at Carson, then at Barbara. ‘You see, my real trouble is—was—that I was an only child. I never had any sisters or brothers. Brothers, particularly. That was why, in college, I used to be known as a tease.'

‘Oh, you weren't!' Barbara said.

‘Oh yes I was, I was,' Nancy insisted. ‘I was a tease. That was what they called me, wasn't it, Carson?' She gave Carson a searching, affectionate look as if to say: Tell me, Carson, how dreadful my reputation was in college; tell me, I'll understand. But Carson shook his head soberly back and forth. ‘Honestly, I never heard anybody say that, Nancy,' he said.

‘Well, I was. I got that reputation. It was because I didn't know. And my father, you know, died when I was five years old so I never knew anything about boys. It was because I wanted to find out—you know, what boys were
like
. That was why I used to neck so much and play feely-feely …'

Carson made a muffled, throat-clearing sound.

‘No, but seriously,' Nancy said quickly. ‘I
did
play a lot of feely-feely and neck a lot. I didn't know how hard it was for a boy, how difficult. I didn't know then what I know now—that sometimes it's almost impossible for a boy.'

‘What's impossible for a boy?' Carson asked.

‘Oh,
you
know, Carson! Heavens, you ought to know. How sometimes when a boy gets, you know, excited, it becomes almost impossible for him—not to. I mean it's really unfair of a girl to get a boy excited, to let him get himself so excited and then—then not let him. To draw the line and not let him go the limit. I mean, it's very painful—physically painful for a boy. Isn't it?'

Carson smiled. ‘That,' he said, ‘is a rumour that the male sex has done a good job of circulating—for obvious reasons.'

‘You mean it isn't true?'

‘How about another one of these?' Barbara said, offering Nancy the plate of cheese and crackers.

‘No thank you,' Nancy said quickly. And then, ‘No, but don't you see what I mean? I mean if I'd known then what I know now—about boys—I might not have made so many, well, mistakes. My God, I sometimes think that now I know too much about men! Working at the hospital and everything, I mean.'

Neither Carson nor Barbara said anything. Carson lifted his cocktail glass and stared, smiling slightly, into the shallow bowl. Barbara reached for a cigarette and lighted it. It was growing quite dark. ‘I think there's going to be a moon,' Barbara said.

After a moment Carson turned to Nancy. ‘Any prospects in Philadelphia?' he asked.

‘You mean
marital
prospects? Oh, goodness, I don't know. I have lots of dates, if that's what you mean. Doctors at the hospital; But doctors are—you know—kind of funny, don't you think?'

‘How do you mean?' Carson asked.

‘Oh, I don't mean doctors as a
breed
. I don't mean practising doctors. But young doctors, interns, that kind of doctor. They're always—well, none of them have any money, for one thing. They've all got a long time to go before they're practising and making any money. That makes them all rather cautious—about getting involved with a girl. They don't want to think about getting married—they're not ready. So they want—you know—what they can get from a girl, without marrying her.'

‘I see.'

‘Oh, it's not that bad. There's this one, this Jewish doctor …'

‘Who is he?'

‘His name is Klein, Sidney Klein. He's Jewish. He's asked me to marry him. But I don't know. He's very nice, but do you think I should marry someone who is Jewish?'

Carson smiled. ‘If you have to ask that, you shouldn't,' he said.

‘No, no, that's not what Nancy means,' Barbara said quickly. ‘She means—'

‘No, Carson's right,' Nancy said. ‘He's right. It's not the religious thing that bothers me. God knows I'm not religious! It's just that, well, I don't know if I want to be Mrs. Sidney Klein—married to a Jew. And he's not even a rich Jew!' She laughed. ‘He comes from the Bronx.'

There was another, longer silence.

‘How about another cocktail?' Carson asked

‘Oh, thanks,' Nancy said. ‘These are delicious, Carson. Wonderful Martinis. What proportions do you use?'

‘I think I'll put the peas on,' Barbara said. She stood up and went into the kitchen.

In the kitchen she put water in a pan, turned up one of the burners on the stove and unwrapped a package of frozen peas. The room was quite dark, lighted only by the flame from the stove; she turned on no lights. The screened door was open and from the terrace she could hear Nancy's voice, raised somewhat now in the exuberance of three Martinis. ‘You're right, Carson,' Nancy was saying. ‘I shouldn't marry Sidney feeling the way I do. You're absolutely right. But the trouble is when I get up here—like tonight, with you and Barbara—and when I see how happy you two are, then I think goodness me, I'm thirty years old. What's going to happen to me? I think I must marry
somebody
. Only I mustn't rush into it. I mean, after all, you and Barbara didn't rush into it. You'd known each other for years. You came from the same background. That's why
you're
happy, because you didn't rush into it. What I should do is marry somebody I grew up with, not somebody like Sidney
Klein
! But the trouble is, everybody I grew up with is already married! Oh, well …'

Barbara came out again and sat down. ‘Oh, there
is
a moon,' she said.

‘I love this house,' Nancy said. ‘It's just beautiful. This terrace is just beautiful. This is the life. You're so lucky, Barb.'

‘Oh, Locustville is only temporary,' Barbara said.

‘But you love the house, don't you, Barb?'

‘It's all right, I suppose. But some day we want a bigger house—and not ranch-style like this but colonial, with fireplaces, with a big dining room, and a big, sweeping staircase.'

‘I know just what you mean,' Nancy said. ‘You mean a place like your father's farm, don't you?'

‘Well, not
quite
as big as that,' Barbara said.

Nancy turned to Carson. ‘Don't you adore that place?' she asked. ‘The Woodcocks' farm? I remember, before I ever went there, Barbara used to talk about the farm and I thought—oh, you know, barns and cows and chickens and things. I never dreamed what it would be like. Such a beautiful old house and those beautiful gardens, and Mrs. Woodcock's beautiful things—such perfect taste. And the pool, and the lake, and the little guesthouse, and the boats on the lake—'

‘Daddy sold the boats,' Barbara said.

‘Did he? Why?'

‘No one used them any more.'

‘But the little guesthouse is still there, isn't it?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Oh, that place! So isolated, miles from anything. Even
I
could be happy on that farm!'

Barbara looked at Carson. It was hard now, in the dark, to see the expression on his face. ‘I think you'd have a little trouble getting Carson to move back to the farm,' she said.

‘I like the farm,' Carson said.

‘Your sister and her husband are living there, aren't they?' Nancy asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Well, goodness knows, the place is big enough for all of you—if you wanted to.'

‘If I wanted to work the the Woodcock Paper Company, you mean,' Carson said.

‘Which you probably don't want to do,' Nancy said.

‘Not particularly,' Carson said.

‘Though your sister's husband does, doesn't he, Barb? Doesn't Peggy's husband work for the paper company?'

‘Yes,' Barbara said.

‘Well,' Nancy said,
‘chacun à son gout!'

There was another short silence. Then Nancy spoke again. ‘Speaking of the farm and the Woodcocks,' she said, ‘there ought to be some Woodcock male that would be good for me. Don't you have any unmarried cousins or nephews or something, Barb? So that
I
could live at the farm?'

Barbara laughed. ‘Well, let's see,' she said. ‘There's my cousin Jeff. He might be a little young for you, though. He's twenty-two. He just graduated from Yale, and I think he's practically engaged already. Then there's Woody, of course—'

‘Perfect!' Nancy said. ‘Ideal! Oh, I'd adore to be Mrs. Woody deWinter—so much better than Mrs. Sidney Klein! And Woody's just about the handsomest thing I ever laid eyes on,' she smiled at Carson, ‘present company excepted! Woody's not engaged or anything, is he?'

‘No.'

Nancy leaned forward, holding her now empty cocktail glass, smiling. ‘You know, Barb, I'm only half-kidding about this. How can we arrange it—to get Woody for me. Why he'd be perfect. That's what I need for a husband—somebody who's exactly like Woody. Oh, I do think a girl ought to marry somebody who's got some money, too, don't you? And all the Woodcocks are rich as Croesus, aren't they? What is Woody—your first or second cousin?'

‘Second,' Barbara said. ‘His mother is Daddy's first cousin.'

‘No, but seriously,' Nancy said, ‘I mean it. Can you get me a date with Woody, Barb?'

Carson put down his glass on the table. ‘Is dinner nearly ready, Barb?' he asked.

‘Yes—almost. I've just got to—'

‘Well, I'm going to be a piggy and have another one of these,' Nancy said. ‘Is there a drop more in that extremely handsome pitcher?' She held out her glass.