Daybreak (15 page)

As if he could have read her fear, Bud continued, “I have an idea there may be a little trouble up on that street one of these days.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Who knows? All I know is, there’s a pack of folks who don’t take this kind of thing lying down.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his face, and it was this that brought Laura close to fury.

“Yes,” she said, snapping the words out, “yes, a pack of folks like you and—and to my sorrow, our Tom.”

Bud’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me? Tom? What have we ever done?”

“You haven’t ‘done’ anything and I’m not saying you ever will, except to egg on with your words the people
who do. That makes you almost, or just as, guilty as they are.”

“I can’t help it that you’re a bleeding heart, Laura. Let any lazy black come to your door with his hand out, or any Jew with a piece of the Wailing Wall in his pocket—”

She put up her hand as if to control, to bring to a stop, the rush of his words. “I’d rather have a bleeding heart than a frozen one, or perhaps no heart at all.”

“Of course, of course. I’m not against sympathy, for God’s sake. Look at all the charity I give. Look at my checkbook if you want to know.”

Bud’s smile, showing his splendid teeth, was meant to be ingratiating, a peace-smile. He had a strong dislike of argumentation and would always try to end a discussion like this one as promptly as possible. But she was not about to let him end it.

“I can’t do anything about you, I know that. Your mold was set long ago in the house where you grew up. But I’m damned if I’m going to sit by without a struggle, letting you teach evil—evil, Bud! to Tom. There’s a terrible change in him, a hardness, a coldness, that doesn’t fit him. And pretty soon it will be happening to Timmy also.” An angry sob stopped her.

“You’d better lower your voice unless you want your aunts to hear.”

“I can’t talk to you. I’m only banging my head at a stone wall. Damn you, Bud!”

“Ah, come on, Laura, let’s cut this out. You exaggerate everything. It’s one of your few faults. Tom’s a model son. He’s got some ideas you don’t approve of, and so have I, but we’re pretty good people, both of us, and we’ll all turn out right in the end. Come on up to bed. I’m tired.”

“You go, I’m not.”

“Not tired or not going to bed?”

“Both.”

“I can promise you something nice if you’ll come to bed.”

“ ‘Nice,’ ” she said. “You disgust me.”

He laughed and tousled her hair. “Okay, I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow you’ll be over this nonsense and I won’t disgust you.”

She waited until she could be sure he was asleep; right now, she knew, he was naked and virile, waiting for her. If every room in the house had not been taken, she would have slept somewhere else.

As it was, she waited in the eerie quiet until the clock struck two and then, exhausted, crept onto the farthest edge of the wide bed, the “marriage bed.” And she thought of how slippery the road was once you began to slide downhill. She could even have managed to bear with Bud’s opinions, could have closed her ears for the sake of all that was good in him and in their marriage, if it had not been for Tom.

He was her last thought now, and was her first in the morning when, after a few hours of restless sleep, she awoke.

Tom.

6

T
wo days later, Betty Lee had something to tell Laura. “Do you know that big brick house on Fairview Road, the one with the fancy iron fence around it?”

“Yes, it belonged to the Blairs. They were friends of my great-grandfather’s, I’m told. Or their grandfather was, I mean.”

“Well, they’ve sold it.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“You won’t guess who bought it.”

A glint of pleasure in the tone and the eyes brought painful recollections to Laura: her flight from the terrifying riot, Lou Foster’s premonitions of trouble, and last Sunday’s confrontation with Bud.

“I know that, too, a black family. That’s nice, Betty Lee. Really nice.”

“Isn’t that something? They’ve got to have a big pile of money to buy a mansion like that. A sure-enough big pile.”

The house was not, in Laura’s view, a mansion, but with its pediments, its broken arch above the door and its balanced wings, it was a handsome specimen of
Georgian architecture. And it was half as large again as this house. Betty Lee was rightly impressed.

“My brother-in-law drives a van for Gage Movers. He’s bringing their stuff from Cincinnati. They’ll be moving in this week.”

On Thursday morning Laura inquired of Betty Lee whether the people had moved into the Blair house.

“They got in yesterday. My brother-in-law said they had so much furniture, it took till past eleven last night to finish up. They had to hoist a big piano through the bay window at the back.” Betty Lee was full of information. “He’s in the computer business, a big executive with Searle, Wash told me. They’ve got a girl eight years old and two younger ones. Wash says you ought to see the house inside. It’s got those stairs that go up in a circle. I always did admire stairs like those.”

This move onto one of the finest streets in the city would be the subject of speculation for weeks to come among Betty Lee’s people, Laura knew. And why not? It was a triumph, an example, a living proof that dreams can come true.

“What is the family’s name?” she asked.

“Edgewood.” Betty Lee laughed. “I’ve got cousins named Edgewood, but no relation to them. Don’t I wish!”

Laura was thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, “Betty Lee, will you get out the picnic basket and dust it? I’m going to carry some dinner over to the Edgewoods. It must be a mess to move—I wouldn’t know, would I?—and I think they’ll be glad not to have to make dinner.”

“If that isn’t just like you! It’s not as if you were next door to them, either. Those are the people who should do the welcoming.” Betty Lee lowered her eyes, and
her enthusiasm ebbed. “I wonder whether they will. I don’t think so, do you?”

“No,” said Laura. “I don’t think so.”

They’ll get the message. Look right through them as if they weren’t there
.

She roused herself. “There’s another cold chicken in the refrigerator. Will you dice it for me while I get some lettuce and tomatoes from the garden? I’ll make some chicken salad, there’s a corn pudding in the freezer, I bought fresh rolls yesterday, and it’ll only take a few minutes to make some quick cupcakes. That should do it.”

“You’ve always had a heart of gold.”

It was early afternoon when she drove up before the Blair—no, the Edgewood—house and carried her basket to the door. A dark young woman, obviously in a hurry, with a broom in one hand answered her ring.

“I’m Laura Rice. I’m a neighbor, and I’ve brought a little supper so you won’t have to cook tonight.”

“Oh, how good of you! I don’t know what to say. How good of you. And you’re a neighbor? Which house is yours?”

“I’m not on this street. I’m on West Oak. It’s not far, not more than half a mile.”

“Half a mile? And you came all this way? Oh, here I am letting you stand there in the hot sun.”

Laura moved inside where cartons and barrels, still unpacked, stood at random in the hall.

“I’ve been trying to sweep up after the movers first. They leave all these scraps, torn paper and rope. Then we’ll tackle the rest. It’s so good of you to do this. Mrs. Rice, you said? I’m Pauline. Pauline Edgewood.” The woman was flustered, as if she had not expected any attention from the neighbors.

“Shall we put these things in the kitchen?” asked Laura. “There’s chicken salad that needs the refrigerator. These are cocoa cupcakes in the foil. I’m told it was my grandmother’s recipe.”

“No mixes in those days. You took so much trouble—”

“Not at all. Baking relaxes me. This is a lovely house, with the marble fireplace and the high ceilings.”

The rear windows looked out on a driveway and a lawn. A baby sat in a playpen on the lawn, a little boy pedaled a tricycle on the driveway, and the eldest child, a girl of eight, swung on a gym set.

Laura remarked, “The children are at home already, I see.”

“Yes, we love the house because of the yard. They’ll make good use of it.”

“Somebody mentioned that you’re a teacher.”

“I was, and I want to get back to it when the baby’s older. It’s hard to do everything at once, though, house and baby and job.”

Across the hall, Laura, seeing a piano, asked who played it.

“Well, I suppose I do, very badly. We really bought it for Cynthia. She loves it, and we think, we hope, she has some talent.”

“I teach piano.”

“Really? One of the first things I planned to do here, I told my husband, is to find a teacher for Cynthia. May I ask—I mean—would you consider taking a child that young?”

“That depends. I’m at a stage,” Laura explained with candor, “when I select. I really don’t like to struggle with children whose parents are forcing them to play, who hate it and won’t practice.”

Mrs. Edgewood smiled. This time she spoke with fine assurance. “If you will hear Cynthia play, I think you’ll know that won’t happen to her.”

“I’ll be happy to hear her.”

“I can bring her anytime unless you want to take a few minutes now.”

This woman is charming, Laura thought. She has a quiet elegance.

“I’d like to hear her now,” she said.

The child, a sprightly little girl with great black eyes and hair done in cornrows, was called in; when she was introduced, she gave her hand and sat down promptly at the piano when asked.

“I’ll play a waltz, or shall I play a march?”

With equal seriousness, Laura considered. “A waltz. It fits a happy day like this one.”

The child played neatly a tinkling version of “The Blue Danube.”

“That’s good,” Laura told her when she was finished. “How long have you been taking lessons?”

“Not quite two years,” said the mother.

“Then I’ll change that to very, very good.”

“Do you think you might consider Cynthia as a pupil?”

“If Cynthia wants to come to me, yes, I can.”

The black eyes considered Laura. “I think you’re very pretty,” said Cynthia, “so I’d like to come.”

The two women hid their amusement. Then Laura said, “You haven’t asked me about my qualifications. I have a master’s degree in music education.”

“That’s all right. I had a feeling about you regardless of that,” said Pauline.

So the brief visit ended. Laura, on the short drive
homeward, had a feeling too, a feeling of warmth for having given, and for having, in a larger way, received. But she did not plan to mention this afternoon to anyone. It was easier that way.

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