Barbara Greer (45 page)

‘You'd better wait a minute before going down,' Barbara said. ‘They're very upset …'

‘They're
upset! How do you think
I
feel? Oh, my poor little girl—why did you have to get mixed up in it? It isn't fair. It just isn't fair.'

‘It was all my fault.'

Edith Woodcock's eyes brightened with anger. ‘No!' she said. ‘Don't you ever say that! Don't ever let me hear you say such a thing! Don't ever think it. It was
not
your fault. It was
his
! He had no business coming here to begin with. I saw, I knew, right from the beginning that the auspices were all wrong. He had no right to even look at either one of you. Cheap little milkman! I should have known this would happen, I should have thrown him out—'

‘Oh, Mother! Mother!'

‘Hush. Don't ever think it was your fault. The blame was all his.' She squeezed Barbara tight against her. ‘My beautiful little girl! He poisoned you! That's what he did—poisoned you. But thank God it's over and done with, thank God we're through with him!' They stood for a moment, swaying slightly, in the hall with Edith's arms bound around her in a violent grip. Then Edith released her. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I'm going down now, to see them. I shall try to be courteous.' She went toward the stairs and Barbara returned to her room. On her dressing table was the neat row of small, square O's that Peggy had fashioned with her bobby pins.

The study was filled with sunlight and the door was locked. Preston was writing in his journal.

This is no longer a biography of Father. That was a foolish venture. I can't remember now why I began it and perhaps that is just as well.

Perhaps I should write this as a diary.

Very well. Today, I am fifty-seven and one hundred and fourteen days old, keeping pace with the century, just a few weeks behind it. Today is sunny and warm, comfortable but not hot. Some of the fields look shaggy. It is probably time they got a second cutting for the summer, but I don't know. I have never been a farmer, though I live on a farm.

I have not had a drink since Saturday night, which I calculate to mean that I have not had a drink in slightly more than forty-one hours. I am not sure whether I feel any the better for this. Will I stop? I don't know. I am approaching the most difficult time of the day, late afternoon, when the habit begins clutching for me with its fingers. A drink has always helped me get through a crisis, and so in the present crisis I feel the need for one particularly strongly. A drink at this moment would be understandable, surely, as therapy. I think Dr. McDonald would agree.

But this is only rationalisation. Excuse-groping now, at this hour, as I feel the fingers. I used to make a number of excuses, such as thinking that a drink brought me closer to myself. But Edith says that I have spent too much time too close to myself. So this notion was malarkey. Or perhaps it wasn't, I do not know.

But at least I am sure of a few things—my age, and my general state of disrepair. And that the day is warm. And that the fields look shaggy.

It is interesting to speculate about what Father would have said about this last terrible business. But perhaps, if he were alive, it wouldn't have happened. He might have prevented it. It is equally interesting to speculate about what might have happened if I had done as Edith wanted—asked Billy to call Tom Daniels. Billy probably has more influence. But I couldn't ask him, for reasons that seem more than obvious to me. Tom Daniels is a sweet fellow. Called me this
A.M.
Terribly sorry, etc. Gage woman fired. Suggested I sue. He ought to know that there are some damages that cannot be recovered in a lawsuit, but he is a sweet fellow all the same, and I appreciate his calling. His voice was like something from the tomb.

This morning, when it first happened, I thought: This is the end, the final disintegration of Father's great dream. In three generations, we have struck mud. We have come all the way down. Poor Barbara. Sometimes I see so many of past events as a series of catastrophes, each small, but each one leading us one step further toward degradation. This is ironic, because most of the money's still there. Company is in trouble at the moment, but the personal money is still there. Trust account re-valued at $521,000; sales of West Hill properties, part of the trust, should bring increase next year, plus other odds and ends. Pay back some of money borrowed from Billy—future bright in that respect. There is no doubt that Billy saved my money by doing what he did with Mother's. Barbara and Peggy are the only heirs, after Edith. They will be rich women some day, ironically enough.

But my mind keeps changing. I am thinking now that what I first thought was wrong. This last thing, with Barbara, is not the final step toward any degradation of the family. The final step was taken years ago, by Father. This is just another part of the punishment. Like running the gamut, Barbara was merely unlucky enough to be standing next in line. Father committed the original sin in this family. Barbara, myself, the rest of us, are merely the victims of it, innocent victims. Like a curse, a mummy's curse. This is a very funny thought and if I were a humorist I might try to write a humorous story about a mummy's curse, with the family in it, but I am not much of a humorist, and won't try it. Not here, in any case.

Father's dream. That was the curse. See, I am mixed up in my metaphors already! But Barbara, anyway, is innocent. And that is so comforting to me. Some day when things are quieter for her I will try to explain it to her, though the explanation will take more strength and skill than I fear I possess. It is not ‘bad seed,' not like a disease, like syphilis, hæmophilia, passed from generation. It is more like a supernatural thing—a curse! Not physical thing, I mean, but the opposite of physical—the word that I want escapes me. I fall into hokum, like closet-skeletons, mummies and other trash. Anyways, I think I have an idea here, and that some day I could comfort Barbara with it.

Some day …

What we might have been …

Still, I am terrified of the future! In the future why do I keep seeing a great fire? I used to think I could save the family if there was a fire, get them out of the house, to safety. Now I see us all consumed in it! I am terrified mostly of myself. Am I truly an innocent victim, like Barbara? It seems like an easy excuse. I hope I am.

All diaries must be burned before a writer dies, but how to know? One of Shaw's plays, I think, said don't worry about the future. It is enough that there is a future, or something like this. Cold comfort, surely.

SCHEDULE FOR EVERY DAY

Before lunch, 1 Martini

Before dinner, 2 Martini

1 wine with dinner

1 brandy after dinner

Schedules always help.

No they don't. Burn this now.

At the farm, it was four o'clock. In London, it was nine. Carson snapped on the light and reached for the ringing phone by his bed. ‘Hello?' he said.

‘Mr. Carson Greer?'

‘Yes.'

‘One moment, please.'

There was a long delay and presently he heard a faraway man's voice saying, ‘Carson? Is that you?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Who's this?'

‘It's Woody—Woody deWinter.'

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Oh. Hi, Woody.'

‘Where
are
you?' Woody said. ‘The operator's been trying every hotel in London.'

‘I moved,' Carson said. ‘Where are
you
?'

‘I'm here—at the farm.'

‘I heard about Barney,' Carson said. ‘That's terrible news, Woody. How did it happen?'

‘Oh—you heard? How did you hear?'

‘Yesterday. I talked to Flora, the girl who works for us in Locustville. Flora said he'd been drowned—while he was in a boat. Is that it?'

‘Yes. Yes, that's about it. Canoe tipped. Carson?'

‘Yes, Woody?'

‘Carson—can you come home?'

‘For the funeral, you mean?'

‘No, not that. No, there's something else, Carson.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Carson, there's a reason why you should come home—as soon as you can.'

‘What reason? What's the matter, Woody?'

‘I can't tell you—except that you've got to come home and see Barbara.'

‘Where is she? Is she—'

‘She's here. She's perfectly—'

‘Let me speak to her.'

‘No, she doesn't know I'm calling you, Carson. That's the only thing. She didn't want me to call you, but—'

‘Is she sick?'

‘No. No, I told you she's perfectly well, Carson. She's fine. We're all fine. But you should come home, Carson, please take my word for it.'

‘Will you please tell me what the reason is?'

‘I can't. It's something that Barbara will tell you when you see her. All I can tell you is that it's important, terribly important that you come.'

Carson's voice was cross. ‘Look here, Woody, if something's the matter—if there's some kind of trouble—tell me what it is. I'm here on business. I just got here and I've got work to do. I can't come flying home for some damned silly reason of yours. Especially if you won't tell me what the reason is.'

‘I'm sorry,' Woody said. ‘I can't tell you anything except to come.'

‘Then I'm sorry, too.'

‘Carson—it's something that involves only you and Barbara. I shouldn't even be in on it, I suppose. But I swear to you, Carson, it's important for you to come home.'

‘Look,' Carson said, ‘hang up. I'm going to call Barbara back and find out what the trouble is.'

‘You can't do that,' Woody said.

‘Why the hell not?'

‘Because it's too important, Carson. It's too important for a phone call. You've got to see her in person.'

A cold wave of fear filled Carson's chest. ‘Look,' he whispered. ‘She's sick, isn't she? She's been hurt, or—'

‘Carson, believe me, she's fine. So are the children. Damn it, Carson, why are you so dense? Can't you imagine that there might be other reasons, other than health? I tell you it's urgent that you come home. She's going back to Locustville tomorrow, after the funeral. If you can get a plane tonight or early tomorrow morning, you could be there tomorrow tonight—'

‘Woody, you've got to tell me why.'

‘I can't.'

‘Does it have something to do with Barney's—death?'

‘It's worse, Carson. By that I mean it's harder to solve.'

‘If she's in trouble of some kind, tell me what it is.'

Woody's voice was faint. ‘Carson, I'm begging you. I'm imploring you.'

‘Tell me.'

‘You've got to believe—believe that I wouldn't ask you, if it weren't necessary.'

‘I won't unless you tell me.'

‘Carson,' Woody said, ‘listen to me, Carson, please. I owe you something—you know what I mean, from the old days, from Princeton …' Woody's faint voice wavered. ‘Remember? I remember. And I owe you something—a debt, for that. That's why I'm willing to—to demean myself, to beg you, Carson, to come home. It isn't easy to beg you, but it's my duty—my debt. Because you must come home. You see, I've got a little honour, Carson, a little honour. I can try to repay my debt to you by this—by telling you that you must come home. And don't forget, Carson, we both hurt each other. You hurt me, too—before. Maybe you owe me a little something, too. If you do—if you think you do—then you can repay a little debt to me by—well, by just
coming
, Carson. Will you come?'

Carson was silent a moment. Then he said, ‘She'll be in Locustville tomorrow?'

‘Yes. Go there.'

‘All right,' Carson said.

‘Thank you, Carson.'

There was a distant click as he hung up. Carson replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat for several minutes on the bed. Then he picked up the telephone again to call the airline.

Later that afternoon Barbara walked alone out across the terrace, down the series of garden steps to the pool. She was going no specific place, for no clear reason, merely for a walk.

When she got to the pool she saw that Woody was there, in the water, swimming face down with his face mask, fins and snorkel. He did this often, swimming slowly, looking down through the clear water. People often asked him what he expected to see or find. ‘Nothing,' Woody, said. In Woody's ocean, no bright fish flashed. There were no terrors in his deeps. Perhaps this was why he did it; the very absence of anything to see but blue and filtered water was, perhaps, consoling to him. From time to time he would descend, drop to the bottom, as if to inspect a tiny flaw or crack in the tile, or the operation of a drain. Then he would rise and blow air noisily from his snorkel and then continue, face down, swimming slowly.

She walked around the pool's perimeter and Woody, seeing her shadow, raised his head and looked up at her through his mask. He lifted one hand above the water and waved to her, a high salute. Then he went back to what he had been doing, swimming, slowly up and down. Barbara sat in a chair and watched him, listening to the harsh rhythm of his breathing through the snorkel.

After a while he raised his head again and swam to the edge of the pool where she was sitting. He pushed his face mask back and pulled the snorkel from his mouth. He looked at her, his elbows resting on the pool's coping. Then, expertly, he lifted himself out of the water and stood up beside her. In the course of the summer he had become darkly and evenly tanned, and his pale shock of yellow hair had been bleached almost pure white by the sun. He stood beside her now, looking down, his slim brown body looking almost frail, with the brief, triangular wisp of white silk that served him as bathing trunks looking not at all like a polite bow to convention, but more like an arrogant defiance of it. His blue eyes were deep and grave. Barbara lifted her head and looked at him. He stooped, bending his dripping head and shoulders over her, and kissed her.