Deep Water (27 page)

       "It helps!"

       They stared at each other.

       "You believe me, don't you?" Melinda said. "All right, Vic, I want the divorce. You asked me if I wanted it a couple of months ago. Remember?"

       "I remember."

       "Well, does the offer still hold?"

       "I never go back on my word."

       "Shall I start the proceedings?"

       "That's customary. You can accuse me of adultery."

       She took a cigarette from the cocktail table and lighted it with an air of nonchalance. Then she turned and walked into her own room. A moment later she was back again. "How much alimony?"

       "I said a generous allowance. It'll be generous."

       "How much?"

       He forced himself to think. "Fifteen thousand a year? You won't have to support Trix on it." He could see her calculating. Fifteen thousand a year would mean he couldn't print so many books a year, that he'd have to let Stephen go, or dock his salary, which Stephen would probably agree to. For a whim of hers, Stephen and his family would have to go on short rations.

       "That sounds all right," she said finally.

       "And Cameron isn't exactly a pauper."

       "He's a wonderful, 'real' man," she replied, as if he had called him something derogatory. "Well, I suppose we're settled. I'll start whatever I have to do on Monday." With a nod of conclusion, she went back into her room.

       Brian came in a few minutes later, and he and Vic went into Vic's room to continue their selection of sixty poems from the hundred and twenty of Brian's manuscript. Brian had categorized them into three piles, his favorites, second favorites, and the remainder. They were mostly on nature, with metaphysical and ethical overtones, or themes, which gave them a flavor like that of Horace's odes and epodes—though Brian had said, rather apologetically, that he had never cared for Horace and couldn't remember a single poem of his. Brian preferred Catullus. There were some passionate love poems, more or less ecstatic and unphysical love poems but as exquisite as Donne's. His poems about the city, New York, were not so sure as the others, but Vic persuaded him to include one or two in the book for variety's sake. Brian was very persuasive that morning, in a kind of ecstatic good spirits himself, and Vic more than once had the feeling Brian wasn't listening to what he said. But when Vic suggested a jacket color of red-brown, Brian woke up and disagreed. He wanted pale blue, a specific pale blue. He had a small piece of a bird's eggshell he had found that morning that was precisely the color he wanted. Colors were very important to him, he said. Vic put the shell fragment carefully away in his desk drawer. Then Vic described the ornamental colophons that he had thought of for the end of certain of the poems—a feather, grass blades, a spider's web, a basket worm's cocoon, and this Brian enthusiastically approved of. Vic had experimented in offset printing of all these objects and had got splendid results.

       Brian stood up restlessly and asked, "Is Melinda here?" "I think she's in her room," Vic said.

       "I told her we'd go for a row this afternoon."

       They weren't quite finished choosing the poems, but Vic saw that Brian's mind was no longer on it. There would be time after the row and before dinner, he supposed. "Go ahead," Vic said, feeling weak suddenly.

       Brian went.

       Cameron arrived at seven o'clock that evening and installed himself in the living room with the smiling joviality of a man who expects a good dinner. Brian was helping Melinda in the kitchen. She was preparing a small suckling-pig, which Vic vaguely remembered that she had said Brian had insisted on buying when he saw it in a butcher's shop in Wesley that afternoon. The whole afternoon had been vague to Vic. He did not know how the hours had passed, could not remember what he had done, except that at some point he had used a hammer for something and had struck his left thumb, which throbbed now when he pressed it against his forefinger. He found himself talking to Cameron, who never shut up, without thinking about anything he was saying. He forced himself to concentrate for a moment on what Cameron was saying and heard "—never was much in the kitchen myself. You know, you've either got a knack for it or you haven't!" Vic shut it off again like a radio program he did not want to listen to. Something about Brian's being in the kitchen disturbed him. Why wasn't Brian in the living room, talking to him about things that they were interested in? Cameron would have had to shut up. Then he remembered that he had laid down an ultimatum this morning in regard to Cameron's coming tonight, and that Melinda had promised to start divorce proceedings on Monday morning, tomorrow, and that Cameron was here tonight, anyway, looking especially complacent. Had Melinda already told him about the divorce proceedings?

       Cameron heaved himself up from the sofa and announced that he was going to take a look in the kitchen.

       In a few minutes he came out again, grinning. "Say, Vic, how about me getting two or three dozen of your snails? I know a plain butter-and-garlic sauce that you can't beat anywhere! A child could make it and it tastes as good as New Orleans!" He slammed his palms together and rubbed them. "Do you want to get 'em or shall I? Melinda said I ought to ask you first."

       "The snails are not for eating," Vic said.

       Cameron's face fell a little. "Oh. Well—what the hell are they for?" he asked, laughing. "Melinda said—"

       "I don't use them for anything. They are useless," Vic said, spitting the words out with a particular bitterness.

       Melinda came out of the kitchen. "What's the matter with having a few snails? Brian wants some and Tony says he can fix them. Let's have a real gala dinner!" She made a sweep with the cooking spoon, turned around almost into Cameron's arms and patted his cheek.

       Vic glanced at Brian, who had followed Melinda out of the kitchen. "I just told Tony the snails aren't for eating," Vic said.

       "Go out and get some, Tony," Melinda said. She was on the way to being drunk.

       Tony made a start and stopped, staring at Vic.

       "The snails are not for eating," Vic said.

       "Look—I didn't say I 'wanted' the snails," Brian began awkwardly, not quite addressing either Melinda or Vic. "I mean, 'I' didn't say that."

       "They ought to taste good, they're so well fed. Steak and carrots and Boston lettuce. Go out and get some, Tony!" And then Melinda nearly fell in the swinging door as she pushed it to go back into the kitchen.

       Tony was staring at him like a stupid animal, like a dog that wasn't quite sure of the signal, his thick body poised to move. "How about it, Vic? You won't even miss three dozen."

       Vic had clenched his hands into fists and he knew that Brian had noticed his hands, and still he kept them clenched. "You can't eat snails right away, you know," he said in a suddenly light, almost smiling tone. "You have to starve them for two days so that they're clean. Mine have all been eating. I suppose you know that."

       "Oh," Cameron said, shifting his weight back evenly on his big feet. "Well, that's too bad."

       "Yes, it is," said Vic. He glanced at Brian.

       Brian was watching him tensely, his hands behind him against the sideboard of the glass cabinet, his blue shirt pulled taut across his strong, rounded chest. He had a wary, surprised look in his eyes that Vic had not seen before.

       Vic looked at Cameron, smiling. "I'm sorry. Maybe next time I can remember to take a few snails out for you and keep them a couple of days without food."

       "Fine," Cameron said uncertainly. He rubbed his hands again, smiled, and flexed his shoulders. And then he fled into the kitchen.

       Brian smiled. "I certainly didn't mean to start anything about the snails. It was Melinda's idea. I said it was all right with me if you were in the habit of eating them. I could tell they were pets of yours."

       Vic paid him the compliment of saying nothing in reply, took his arm, and drew him toward the living room. But they had not even sat down when Melinda called "Brian!" from the kitchen.

       They had never had such a meal, even at any Christmas. Melinda had apparently tried to cook everything in the kitchen— three kinds of vegetables, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, three kinds of dessert standing on the sideboard, two dozen rolls, besides the suckling-pig in the center of the table, precariously laid on two shallow cookie sheets and a big pie pan between so that there would be no dripping on the tablecloth, though there was some dripping at either end because the pie pan made the cookie sheets slant downward. Vic found the smiling pig very disturbing and the abundance of food rather disgusting, though their two guests and Trixie, who had come back from somewhere at seven-thirty, seemed to take it as a big indoor picnic and enjoyed themselves noisily. At the table Vic realized what it was about Brian that made him uncomfortable: Brian was displaying some of the forwardness of Cameron toward Melinda. Vic knew that Brian thought her attractive, but the way he smiled at her, the way he helped her take her apron off, suggested that, consciously or unconsciously, he had taken his 'cue' from Cameron that Melinda was fair game for anybody and so meant to enjoy a part of her himself Vic realized that Brian would also have had to take his cue from his own tolerance of Cameron, and Vic, very definitely, felt that he had lost face with Brian Ryder. He imagined, from the snail altercation onward that Sunday evening, that Brian treated him with less respect.

       The evening petered out miserably. Melinda got too drunk to want to go out with Cameron, who invited her out, and she sat on the sofa more or less mumbling jokes, mumbling the inanities of a drunk, which Brian listened to—out of politeness or curiosity, Vic didn't know—forcing a laugh out of himself now and then. Cameron sat spraddle-kneed in Vic's armchair, leaning forward with a beer can in his hand, in some fog of simple-minded beatitude that evidently made him immune to boredom or to the sensations of plain fatigue that might have inspired him to say good night. There were long silences. For the first time in months, Vic had about five strong drinks. The sordidness of the scene affected him as much as any mental pain he had ever borne, yet he could not bring himself to call Brian away with him to his room, which would have looked like a total rout for him. Vic had made a torturous effort to talk to Cameron about building stone, about water tables, about his next assignment in Mexico, but Cameron's slightly bloodshot pale-blue eyes had been drawn again and again to Melinda on the sofa, and for once his voice had kept shutting off.

       Cameron stayed until two-twenty in the morning. Brian, who had been in a half-recumbent position in the other corner of the sofa from Melinda, daydreaming or pondering or savoring or whatever poets did, hauled himself up just after Cameron stood up, and bade him a surprisingly cordial good night.

       Looking at his watch, Brian said that he hadn't realized it was so late and that he should have said good night earlier. "We have a few more things to talk about before I catch my train at eleven,

       haven't we, Mr. Van Allen?"

       "I think we have—a few."

       "Then I'll let my morning walk go by tomorrow so we'll have some time." He bowed, a little shyly. "Good night, Melinda. That was an unforgettable banquet. You're very kind to go to all that trouble. Thank you."

       "Your idea:' Melinda said. "Your little piggy-wiggy."

       Brian laughed. "Good night, sir:' he said to Vic, and went off to his room.

       The "sir" and the "Mr. Van Allen" and the "Melinda" went around in Vic's head stupidly for a few seconds. Then he said, "A delightful evening."

       "Wasn't it? You should have liked it. It was quiet."

       "Yes. What happened to the new records?"

       A glimmer of recollection came to her glazed eyes. "I forgot them. Damn it." She started to get up.

       Vic let her walk half across the room before he could bring himself to try to stop her, taking her lightly by one arm above the elbow. "Wait till tomorrow Brian won't be able to sleep." "L'go of me!" she said irritably.

       He let her go. She stood swaying in the middle of the floor, looking at him challengingly.

       "I was surprised not to hear anything from Cameron tonight," Vic said. "Don't you think he ought to make me a statement of his intentions?"

       "I asked him not to."

       "Oh." He lit a cigarette.

       "Everything is settled, everything is fine. And 'I'm' fine." "You're drunk."

       "Tony doesn't mind if I'm drunk. Tony understands why I get drunk. He understands 'me'."

       "Tony's just a wonderfully understanding man."

       "Yes," she said positively. "And we're going to be very, very happy together."

       "Congratulations."

       "And Tony already has two tickets for—" She paused to think "Mexico City! His next job is down there."

       "Oh. And you're going with him."

       "That's all you can say. 'Oh.' " She spun on her heel, as she often did when she was happily drunk, and she lost her balance, but Vic caught her. He immediately let her go.

       "I can't tell you what a pleasure the evening was for me, too," he said, making a little bow as Brian had done. "Good night." "Good night," she said, imitating him.

Chapter 21

By ten-thirty the next morning Vic and Brian and Trixie and the puppy were on the road to Wesley in Vic's car to meet Brian's eleven o'clock train. Trixie's school was competing in a glee club contest of Massachusetts grade schools, and she hadn't to be at school until a quarter to eleven to board a bus that was taking the Highland School glee club to Ballinger. Trixie was part of a glee club of fifty that was going to render "The Swan" in the competition. Vic had had time that morning to listen to her practice once more—though she had got impatient midway and stopped. Her voice was shrill and accurate, though a little wavery on the high notes. Vic dropped her off at the school gates, and promised to be in Ballinger by twelve sharp to hear her chorus.