Eden Burning (38 page)

The arrogance of the man! Having identified himself—and Kate, too, yes, she too—with the scum who had literally
brought his house down about his head, to dare to speak of “confusion” in
his
mind! To dare!

“I’ve told you I have nothing to say to you. You’re lucky I’m managing to keep my temper at all. I advise you to leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Francis.”

“Yes. Well. You had better go. You’re not welcome here.”

For long minutes he sat watching the dust that had spurted as Patrick gunned his car. He sat there until the dust had settled. His eyes moved across the drive to the fields where his sleek white Brahmans had gone into their afternoon rest. Far down on the left there gleamed a sliver of beach and an angle of glitter where the sun struck the sea. Behind the house the hill rose in tiers, green on green, bananas and palms and varied groves, on upward to the Morne’s peak wrapped now in cotton cloud. His kingdom, his benevolent small kingdom! Let storms roar outside, let the social rats race and the politicians moil; here, in this kingdom, peace and a reasonable plenty would continue, if he had anything to do with it.

And unconsciously he stretched out his right arm, flexing the muscles. He looked down again at the sleeping baby. No one, no one, by God, should disturb her peace!

“Scum! Wretched scum!” he cried, so loud that the baby’s eyelids trembled.

And contritely, tenderly, he bent to adjust by a hairbreadth the soft, white coverlet.

Within three or four months Megan turned into a pretty child with remarkably fine dark blue eyes. They were both, Francis and Marjorie, a little bit crazy about her. But then, as everyone kindly remarked, it was only natural: they had waited so long and known so much disappointment before she finally came.

Francis kept saying that she had the family nose. He took a certain pleasure in that. Apparently it was a dominant characteristic; you couldn’t breed it out. However, it was an attractive feature, giving a kind of pride to an adult face.

Marjorie ordered Megan’s dresses from France, via Da Cunha’s. From an expensive store in New York, via its catalog, came a marvelous pinto rocking horse the size of a small pony, a swing apparatus for the lawn, a dollhouse, and enough books to occupy the child to the age of ten. Yes, they were a little bit crazy and they knew it and they delighted in it.

   She was almost two years old before they knew quite positively, or were forced to accept as a fact, that Megan was retarded.

Of course they resisted the knowledge as long as they could. An undesirable visitor knocks at the door and you do not open it; but when the knocking persists and the undesirable
will not
go away, the moment arrives when at last you open the door. So it happened to Marjorie and Francis.

At six months the baby didn’t roll over. At nine months she didn’t sit up or attempt to crawl, or say “mama” or laugh aloud. At one year she didn’t even try to stand.

A woman at the club, one day when all the babies were playing in the wading pool, remarked quite seriously in Marjorie’s hearing, “I can’t imagine why they don’t do something about that child. Look at her! She’s just lying there like a vegetable!”

Megan was reclining in her stroller, content to do nothing. Her fair hair curled in the afternoon heat, which had flushed her face quite charmingly pink.

Alarmed and angry Marjorie reported to Francis what she had overheard.

“Some children are slower than others,” he said. “It doesn’t mean a thing. Haven’t you read that Einstein didn’t talk till he was three?” But with the thought of his sister Margaret, a terrible fear slid like cold slime down his back. And at the same time he knew that the fear had come quivering more than once during the last few months, had quivered and been put away.

“Maggie’s had seven children and she’d certainly have noticed if there were anything wrong, wouldn’t she?” Maggie was an upstairs maid who sometimes took care of Megan.

“I should think so. And certainly the doctor would have said something.” He tried to reassure himself.

But certainly the doctor had said nothing, at least until they questioned him.

“I have had my thoughts about the baby,” he admitted. “I’ve had them for quite a while.”

Furiously, Francis attacked. “What do you mean? What thoughts? And why the secrecy?”

“To begin with, one wants to be sure. Children don’t all mature according to textbook schedules. I didn’t want to alarm you until it was necessary.” An old man, and tired, he leaned back abruptly so that his chair squeaked into the waiting silence. “As a matter of fact, I don’t want to
alarm
you at all, but I did intend to mention it at the next visit.”

“It? It?” demanded Francis.

“A degree of retardation. What degree, I don’t know.”

Marjorie made a sound between a gasp and a cry. And Francis, flung back to the memory of Margaret, could not look at his wife.

“There’s nothing actually to be done, anyway,” the doctor said kindly, “except to watch developments. And to be patient and loving, which I know you are.”

They knew then, that evil day, they knew. Yet they struggled to reject the knowledge. By the time they reached the gates of home they had made a hopeful decision.

“He’s too old,” Marjorie said, having wiped her first tears away. “He probably hasn’t learned a new fact since he left medical school. We’ll have to take Megan to someone at home.”

“Home” was Boston and Baltimore and Philadelphia and New York. With each repetition of the story they lost a year of their youth.

“Don’t tell them about your sister,” Marjorie said. “It might prejudice their thinking. Let them evaluate Megan without prior judgments.”

It was the first time she had spoken of his sister. That would be according to her code of good sportsmanship and courage: having married him with her eyes open, it would fit her ill to accuse him now. He looked at her with a certain awe. Sportsmanship! This was, after all, no tennis match! And he thought his guilt must be visible to the world, an affliction spread like leprous sores from head to foot.

“The IQ, as we all know,” the experts told them, “is certainly not the perfect measurement. Yet some measuring stick is needed. So we say that roughly between fifty and seventy-five gives us mild retardation. Such people we call educable. They can learn to do simple, repetitive tasks and support themselves. Between thirty-five and fifty we call trainable, that is, they can care for themselves physically and—”

Marjorie interrupted once. “I’ve always read that most of the retarded come from homes where they’re unwanted in the first place. Nobody reads to them or talks to them, there’s no
stimulation.” She finished bitterly, “You couldn’t possibly apply that to us.”

“All true. However, there are many other genetically determined factors. Disorders of protein metabolism, chromosomal abnormalities—Not simple.”

“So what do we do now, Doctor?”

“Take her home. Be gentle and encouraging. You’ll need to spend time, teaching as much as she can accept. Later you’ll see how far she can progress in school or whether she can go to a conventional school at all. It’s too early to tell.”

In the end, then, they learned no more from the authorities than the old man had told them in Covetown.

Before going back they paid a last visit to Francis’ mother, who lived alone now with Margaret. His sister Louise was there with her two toddlers, both of whom, Francis noted, were active and well.

“I’m glad you came,” Margaret said, with her gentle, foolish smile. She had grown strong and fat. Her stockings sagged and her nose was running. Francis wiped it.

Teresa was ashamed. “It’s hard to watch every little thing,” she murmured, almost defensively.

“Of course it is.”

When Teresa had left the room for a moment, Louise said, “Margaret takes up her whole day. It’s almost more than she can handle.” Margaret had gone into the kitchen. “At the cake box again! The doctor says she shouldn’t eat so much, or she’ll be monstrous in a few years. But if you don’t let her, she cries and screams worse than my babies do. The older she gets, the worse her temper gets. I don’t know how Mother stands it.”

Marjorie was staring somberly at the wall and Francis had no answer.

“Of course, a home is really the solution, but Mother won’t hear a word of it. Mothers don’t give up their children, she says. She has such a
conscience
about it! You know how she is.”

“Yes,” Francis said, “I know how she is.”

They left Teresa’s house with their future clear in their understanding at last. All the way back to St. Felice, a menace rode with them through the summer sky, muting their voices and breaking their hearts, while it darkened the sunny head of the child on their laps.

   One must never subordinate one’s life to another’s. That had been given on good authority and they both knew it. Nevertheless, they did it, for theory is one thing and practice is another. Emotion, of course, is still another.

It was a saving grace that they should both be of one mind. They had no need, even, to put their determination into words.

“How is she?” he would ask on coming into the house.

Or else he would have no need to ask, for Marjorie would be waiting in the hall.

“She picked up her cup by herself today.”

And he would hasten to watch Megan repeat the achievement.

They did not bicker nearly as much as they had before. It was as if they had no more energy for it, or rather as if these things which had irritated them once were without importance now.

He was so bitterly sorry for Marjorie! It was his fault. Because of Margaret he ought to have taken thought; if she had married someone else, she would not have known this grief! And he felt more stricken because she did not blame him.

But sometimes he felt a curious
flatness,
as if there were nothing left to feel. It was as if he were a plow beast, stubbornly, with patient acceptance, pulling a load. Megan was the load. The sustenance he must provide for her was the load. The load was just something waiting when he rose in the morning to be put aside again when, tiredly, he went to bed.

The plow beast wore blinders. The events of the world beyond his toil were of no interest to him. When he read the papers with their news of endless conflict, both on the little island and the world abroad, he was not touched. He had had enough of all that, enough and too much. It was a relief not to care, not to feel passionate anger about anything or with anyone.

A relief not to feel passionate love, either, with all its honeyed anguish and suspense! You could, after all, live very well without it. You could simply take sex whenever you were hungry for it, just as you simply ate your meals without ado; one didn’t need ravenous anticipation to take one’s nourishment at table. So it was in bed. The child woke often in the night, crying for attention, and Marjorie had moved into the room down the hall to be closer to her. But he could go to Marjorie whenever he needed to, which was less often than he would have thought possible.

For some reason, then, he remembered the Indian summers he had known in the north; there’d been such fragrance in the air, such tranquil skies and shimmering trees. But it had been a time of withering, for all that.

It had not yet occurred to him that he was too young for Indian summer.

“We’ve asked for full and final independence now,” said Nicholas Mebane, coming to the end of his remarks, “and when I return from the constitutional conference in London I shall have it in my hand. Or rather,” he smiled, correcting himself, “we shall have it in our hands.”

There was a burst of clapping, followed by a buzz of many conversations. Patrick looked around the office, which was now much expanded. The banner still hung on the wall of Nicholas’s handsome room, but now across the hall lay a row of smaller rooms from which the rapid clack of typewriters was heard. Everything bore the mark and promise of prosperity. Union leaders, old and young, were all here this morning except for Clarence, who had not roused himself from peaceful retirement to come along. There were three white businessmen, as well as the leaders of the black community, doctors, lawyers, and civil servants, representing the wealth and education of the race.

There sat young Franklin Parrish, just returned from London with a Gray’s Inn law degree; his black, vivid face, on which was drawn, Patrick thought, a slight, possible trace of the Indian, was both keen and open. Surely a young man one would choose for one’s daughter!

“The structure is ready for transfer,” Nicholas was saying. “We have to admit we’ve learned a good deal from the British. The art of government is no small art.”

Kate Tarbox stood and spoke earnestly. “I should like to say something. We are very small and I hope independence won’t cause an inward turning. We need to look out on the world. We have all these links now, air service and radio.
The Caribbean has been having its own small renaissance in music and writing and art. We’ve had exchange students and joint research in tropical agriculture. None of these things must be allowed to die when we become independent.” With slight self-consciousness and a pretty flush, she sat down.