Edith’s Diary (15 page)

Brett responded with a telephone call Friday evening. Frances Quickman happened to be with Edith, as Frances was returning a dozen or so glasses she had borrowed for a church bazaar.

‘Suppose I catch that ten-thirty bus out tomorrow morning?’ Brett said. ‘I can see it’s time I had a talk with the old boy.’

Edith agreed. She felt relieved. She was going to start work Monday at the Thatchery, a shop on Main Street. Six afternoons a week from 2 until 7 p.m. Edith was glad she would have something definite to tell Brett about a job.

Frances, then having a gin and tonic, looked at Edith as if she might have heard Brett’s name, so Edith said:

‘Brett. He’s coming tomorrow morning. Going to have a word with old George. We’re thinking he ought to go into a nursing home. Something nice, like Sunset Pines.’

Frances wasn’t nearly so intimate a friend as Gert, but Edith didn’t mind at all, just now, coming out with the truth to Frances about Brett and George. What was there to be ashamed of?

Frances said she had once visited someone at Sunset Pines, and thought it a pleasant and well-run place. ‘George must be quite a strain on you – sometimes.’

‘He’s Brett’s uncle after all,’ Edith said with a smile.

‘And how is Brett doing?’

Edith knew she really meant how were Brett and Carol doing. ‘I think very well – likes his job,’ Edith replied. ‘And I think he wants to marry the girl.’ Edith laughed a little. Best to come out with it. Via Gert, Edith supposed, everyone would sooner or later know that Brett and she were divorced, that it wasn’t a temporary separation.

‘You’re taking it awfully well,’ Frances said with fervor. ‘I’m not sure I could do the same. And your house and yard still looks so nice – And Cliffie?’

‘Oh, he’s —’ Edith had been about to say he was doing splendidly. But at what? Hydraulic engineering? Edith smiled at herself this time. ‘Cliffie’s just the same,’ Edith said with equal frankness. ‘Works sometimes at the Chop House as you may —’

‘We’ve
seen
him there, yes! He waited on our table one night. Did quite well!’ Frances laughed merrily.

‘Your table?’ Edith was startled. ‘He told me he was behind the bar. Well, he’d tell me a different story just to amuse himself. Then he works sometimes at the Stud Box – God, these names!’

‘Oh, sure! The nice gay boys’ place. Well, I must say I’ve bought Ben some awfully good things there, sweaters and sports jackets. Good quality. And they don’t mind taking things back if they don’t fit. But
I
never saw Cliffie there.’

‘I never know
when
he’s there,’ Edith said gaily. ‘He’s anything but regular – about anything.’ She realized she was happy, because she was going to see Brett tomorrow.

‘Tell Brett to come over and have a drink with us. Both of you, a pre-lunch drink. Think you can manage? I’ll be finished shopping by noon at least, so just walk in the door. Love to see Brett again.’

Edith said they probably would.

Brett came the next morning just after 12. Edith had not gone to the bus stop to meet him, because the walk to the house was short, and she had thought meeting him might look more anxious than friendly. She had done the shopping and intended to make steak au poivre that evening, hoping Brett could stay. Brett wore his old plaid woolen jacket that he called his hunting jacket, in which he had never gone hunting however.

‘So – how are you?’ Brett asked.

‘All right, I suppose. The Quickmans want us to come for a pre-lunch drink. But maybe you want to see George first.’

‘I do – frankly.’ Brett’s brows drew together. Edith thought there was more gray in his hair.

‘Why don’t you go up alone – surprise him? Well, it won’t surprise him, because I told him you were coming today. Meanwhile I’ll fix his lunch tray.’

‘I will. Where’s Cliffie?’

‘Out somewhere. I think he’ll be in for lunch because I asked him to be. Told him you’d be here.’

Brett started up the stairs. ‘Nelson! Hey, you’ve grown some more! Big boy! Don’t be afraid!’

Edith heard Brett’s laugh. Then she went into the kitchen to make an egg salad sandwich on toast for George, with a glass of milk. She put the finishing touches to their lunch table, wine glasses, one small red rose which was almost the last of summer, then she carried George’s tray up. To her surprise, Brett was just crossing the hall to come downstairs. He had a pained expression and he shook his head at Edith. Edith went on into George’s room with the tray.

George was lying back on his pillows, eyes shut, and one bony hand, a flat, rail-like wrist above it, exposed by the pushed back pajama sleeve, lay along the edge of the bed. He had covered his eyes with the back of his left hand, a frequent attitude.

‘Lunch, George! How’re you feeling?’ Edith didn’t care about George’s answer, if any, set the tray as firmly as possible over his thighs just above his knees, so he could raise up and eat, then went out to speak with Brett.

Brett was downstairs in the living room, smoking a cigarette. ‘Can’t do a goddam thing with him. He’s impenetrable.’

‘Well – now you see. You mean you talked about the rest home?’

‘I certainly did. I can imagine it’s quite nice, from what you wrote. He just stares at me and says he doesn’t want to go anywhere. How about getting someone in during the hours you’re away at work? And I’ll pay for it. That’s the least I can do. Matter of fact,
George
could afford it.’

Edith had thought of this. But who, these days? ‘I’m not sure I want just anybody prowling around my house five hours a day, Brett. Whom can you trust these days?’

‘Oh, listen —’

‘George has to have a bedpan a few times a week. If you think
that’s
any fun, Brett, if you think you’re going to get the average teen-aged babysitter to take care of that, you’re mistaken.’

‘Then we’ll get a nurse.’

‘That’ll cost a fortune.’ She laughed. ‘I can hear George balking at the price already!’

‘Too bad!’

‘Let’s have a drink at the Quickmans’ and we’ll talk about it later, all right?’

So they went next door to the Quickmans’, where Frances greeted them warmly. Ben came in from the garden, his hands too dirty just then for him to shake Brett’s hand, because he had been cleaning the power motor before putting it away for the winter.

‘Great to see you, Brett! How’s city life?’ Ben asked.

Edith had a bloody Mary. Then she heard Brett saying to the Quickmans that he had to catch a train around 5 p.m. at the latest to get back to New York.

‘My senior editor’s birthday,’ Brett said with a glance at Edith. ‘Dinner party, and I simply can’t miss it, much as I’d like to miss it.’

Edith felt a disappointment that she at once tried to conceal by a pleasant expression. After all, as far as the Quickmans were concerned, Brett might have told her earlier that he couldn’t stay the evening. Brett and the Quickmans talked local news, how was Stan the pharmacist, how was the Brandywine Inn doing under its new management. The conversation was rolling along, but because time was so short, Edith suggested that they go back to the house.

‘Cliffie’s due soon. I didn’t leave him a note about where we were,’ Edith said. She finished her second drink quickly, and thanked Frances and Ben.

It was 1.20 p.m. Cliffie was in the living room. He had made himself what looked like a scotch on the rocks.

‘Hi, Dad!’ Cliffie said.

‘Well, hello! Beard again. Or still,’ said Brett. ‘What’re you doing these days? Bartending? – which bar, this one?’ Brett laughed a little.

‘What d’y’mean? I work at the Chop House – off and on. I work,’ Cliffie said on a defensive note.

Edith went into the kitchen to serve the lunch – smoked salmon on toast, then a good camembert to follow, and fruit salad for dessert. Brett didn’t like a big meal at noon. Brett and Cliffie drifted in to offer help, and Edith handed Brett the white wine from the fridge to open.

‘You don’t look in prime physical condition – for your age,’ Brett remarked to Cliffie. ‘Plain they don’t work you very hard at these places.’ The cork popped, and Brett set the wine on a coaster on the table.

‘Why when
oy
was your age,’ Cliffie began facetiously. ‘What’s the matter with my muscles?’ He flexed an arm, and felt a bulky biceps through his sweater.

‘Is that muscle hanging around your stomach there?’

Brett was freer with Cliffie, but Edith sensed a detachment also. After all, Brett was leaving the scene in a couple of hours, wouldn’t see Cliffie for weeks or months. Cliffie didn’t care about going to New York, wasn’t even lured by porn films on 42nd Street.

With her first glass of wine, Edith felt a warm glow. She was aware that the time was racing away, and tried not to waste a minute, and at the same time not to appear hurried. ‘What do you say,’ she began, ‘if we bundle George into the car and show him Sunset Pines, Brett? Round trip would take hardly more than an hour.’

‘Just a pine at sun-
set
,’
Cliffie sang, a hand at his breast. ‘Cough-cough! I’m not long for this world!’

Edith and Brett ignored him smoothly, out of old habit.

Brett seemed to consider the idea for a moment, and suddenly Edith, feeling what she had drunk, exploded in laughter. ‘You know, I heard the most awful story – I forgot who from, Gert, I think. A couple took their mother-in-law to an old folks’ home on pretext of taking her to visit an old friend, and just dumped her and ran away. Isn’t that horrible!’ Edith was still laughing.

‘Ha-ha! Hah-
hee-ee
!’
Cliffie adored the story and nearly rolled off his chair. ‘I like that, I really do!’

Brett gave his son a preoccupied glance. He had smiled only slightly at the story.

Brett was miles away from the problem, Edith realized. He was going to say he hadn’t time to get George ready and go to Sunset Pines. He was going to leave in a couple of hours, go back to New York, to Carol, to party tonight, then to bed with Carol. The awful reality, the present, welled up in Edith again, the bedpans, the filthy handkerchiefs. She could have screamed at Brett suddenly, but she said only, ‘Honestly, I can’t go on like this.’

‘Nobody can!’ Cliffie contributed. ‘George is a
mess
. I’ve seen it!’

‘But
you
don’t do anything about it, do you?’ Edith put in. ‘No, that job’s for
me
.’

‘Edith,’ Brett said soothingly.

‘Me? Why I —’

‘Cliffie! That’s enough!’ Brett showed his teeth.

Cliffie was a bit drunk, and knew his parents knew it. ‘All right, I’ll push off.’ He got up and left the table, went into the living room, but not out of the house.

Finally Brett said, ‘I’ll try it again – with George.’

‘If we just put on his overcoat and muffler and shoes, we could
show
him this place, which isn’t —’

‘I haven’t got time today,’ Brett said.

Just then, Cliffie was entering George’s room, where George lay asleep. Cliffie smiled, then broke into a wild grin as he looked around at the customary disorder of medicine bottles, glass of water for his teeth – empty now, because he’d put the lowers in for lunch – soiled teaspoons on the napkin-covered bedtable, bedpan (clean just now) on the floor by the radiator, a couple of books on the bed. Christ, things hadn’t changed in years!

‘Customary disorder!’ Cliffie said aloud, confident that George wasn’t going to awaken. ‘But old boy, you’re headin’ for the laist round-up, yuh know? Gettin’ the boot, old fellow, and maybe today.’ Cliffie leaned closer and whispered, ‘Wake up! Before it’s too late!’

Then abruptly Cliffie was tired of the game, disgusted and somehow ashamed of the old guy in bed, the pain in the ass who took up a room in the house and crapped in the white, blue-trimmed bedpan, the crap which his mother had to poke down the john. ‘Christ!’ Cliffie whispered. ‘I hope the hell you fuck off today! Why not?
Why not
?’
Cliffie’s eyes bulged, and he spat the words out. He would have loved to give George a good solid kick in the ribs before departing, his right foot even raised itself a little from the floor, but Cliffie knew that would be going too far. Furthermore, he knew he’d better leave before his parents came up for Brett to say good-bye or some such muck, so Cliffie went out and down the stairs.

Cliffie turned right at the foot of the stairs into the hall which led back to his room, and almost at the same moment his parents came from the living room into the hall, talking, and started up the stairs. Cliffie followed them at a distance, and halfway up the stairs, stopped.

‘I knew he’d be asleep,’ Edith said.
‘George
–
Brett’s here!’

George came awake not in slight jerks as he usually did, but like a tired spirit hauling itself from another land.

‘Listen, George, I have to take off in about an hour,’ Brett said. ‘We’re talking again
–
still
–
about this residential apartment house
not far away
from here.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said George.

‘You’ve got to see the situation from Edith’s point of view,’ Brett said. ‘And mine too. It’s not as if we were trying to stick you into some awful place where there’s no privacy and we’ll never come to see you. You’ll have an
apartment
of your own with your own things around you, like these pictures.’ Brett gestured to an oil landscape and a rather good English sporting print, which years ago they had taken from George’s possessions in storage in New York, at George’s request. ‘The place costs about two hundred dollars a week, but you can afford it.’

‘A week, did you say. Two – I haven’t got that.’ George was on one elbow now, and looked as if he intended to rally all his strength to stand up against Brett’s challenge.

On the stairway, Cliffie doubled up with mirth which he had to repress completely. Nothing less than a strait-jacket and a couple of strong men-in-white would get old George out! They should send for Bellevue! Cliffie was imagining regaling Mel with this. He and Mel broke up over the same things. Now his father was talking about seeing George’s accountant in New York.