Heart Troubles (21 page)

“Please be quiet,” Barbara said sharply. “I'm trying to think.”

“Oh, you'll love being divorced,” Dolly said. “Go to Mexico where I got mine, and—”

“Please,
please!
”

“Barb?” Dolly said. “What's the matter? Are you shocked about me? Are you going to scold me—just because there's a little legal action—”

“Maybe Jeff could help you out.”

“I don't need a lawyer
now.
I ran away! They can't do a thing to me here.”

“I hope not.”

“Besides, you're divorcing Jeff. Don't forget that.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, don't worry about little Dolly. She can take care of herself.” Suddenly, she stood up.

“I—I don't know. I feel feverish. I—I may have caught cold on the plane. And these drinks—they seem to be affecting me. I'm not used to—” For an instant she tottered. “I think I'll take this upstairs with me and lie down. I'm tired.” She put one foot quickly forward and caught her balance. “Do you mind, Barb? You can bring my things up later—”

Barbara stood up. “Of course I don't mind,” she said. “I'll show you where your room is.”

“Yes—I think I'd better.”

Together they went out into the hall. Dolly started up the stairs first, her drink shaking and sloshing a little in her hand. “Isn't it funny?” she said. “The way things work out?” In a far-off voice she said, “Yes, this lovely house. This extensive—I mean this
expensive
—everything—” She climbed the steps slowly, one by one, and at about the fifth step she started to fall, clutched at the banister for support, and then fell, haphazardly, awkwardly, face forward. The glass flew out of her hand onto the carpet and bounced, spilling crazily, down the steps. “Oh, oh, oh,” she said.

“Here,” Barbara said, reaching for her arm. “Here, love. Are you all right?” She pulled Dolly to her feet and, with her arm around her, continued up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Dolly stopped, hesitated, and caught her breath. “If I can just lie down,” she said.

“This way.”

Barbara led her sister down the hall and opened the door to the guest bedroom. The wallpaper there was new, patterned with huge floating butterflies, and the Venetian blinds were down, tilted to keep out the sun. “Here we are,” Barbara said. “Lie down and get some rest.”

“Your carpet? Did I ruin your beautiful carpet?”

“Never mind about that.” She led Dolly to the edge of the first twin bed and eased her onto it. Then she went to one of the windows, raised the blind, and turned and went over to the bed and sat on a corner of it. Dolly sat silently beside her, clutching her purse. “I shouldn't have given you those drinks,” Barbara said.

“Beer and whiskey, mighty risky. Isn't that what we used to say?”

“Something like that.”

All at once Dolly turned, and gripped her sister by the shoulders, pressing her head hard into the curve of Barbara's throat. “Oh, Barb!” she cried. “Something's happened. Something's gone. I'm all changed. Don't believe me! Don't believe anything I say! You think I don't drink? I'm a liar. I drink. All the time. Look—” She fumbled with the clasp on her purse. “See?” she said, pulling out a flask. “My vodka. Want some? I've got more.” She unscrewed the cap, and lifted the bottle to her lips. “Here's to us,” she said, and drank.

“Oh, my dear.” Barbara took the flask gently away from her, replaced the cap, and laid the flask on the bed between them.

“Look!” Dolly said. She was sobbing now. “Look at me. Look at what's happened to me. Maybe I was right to divorce Danny. But being married was something
certain
—the only certain thing I had. But then, afterward—oh, I just hope you're sure, awfully sure. I was only twenty-two, twenty-three! And ever since—things keep sliding, sliding away from me. Do you know what I'm like? Do you? I'm like the old woman. The old woman.”

“Love?”

“The old woman who bought a pig. Remember the story Mother used to tell us? About the old woman who bought a pig? And the pig wouldn't go? Remember?”

“What? What?”

“Remember? The old woman told a dog to bite the pig—to make it go? And the dog wouldn't, and then she told a stick to beat the dog? And she kept going, going backward, to the next thing, and the next thing, farther and farther from what she wanted. Finally she called to the butcher—‘Butcher, butcher, kill ox … ox won't drink water … water won't quench fire … fire won't burn stick … stick won't beat dog … dog won't bite pig.… That's me. That's
me!
I can't find anyone to punish!” She fell forward across the pillows.

Barbara stood up. “Lie here,” she said. “Just lie here. I know. I know.”

“I keep going from one thing to another, and I'm getting farther and farther away from anything that makes any sense. Just slide—in a circle, you come back to where you started. I can't—”

“Hush, hush.” Barbara stood up and rested her hand for a moment on Dolly's shoulder.

Then, softly, on tiptoe, she left the room, closed the door quietly behind her, and went down the stairs.

For a moment Dolly lay, her face buried in the satin bedspread, sobbing without sound. Then she sat up and looked around her. “No good, no good,” she said. The flask lay on the bed beside her, where Barbara had placed it, and she picked it up. “Water won't quench fire,” she said, and laughed. She unscrewed the cap again and quickly drank what remained, all at once. Then, with the empty flask still in her hand, she lay flat across the bed, on her back, and closed her eyes.

Downstairs Barbara wandered aimlessly through the rooms, doing little things, picking things up and setting them down again. In the living room she picked up the bottle and glasses and carried them into the kitchen and set the glasses in the sink. When she passed the stairs again she noticed the dark stain of whiskey on the carpet, and Dolly's glass on the floor. She returned to the kitchen, dampened a cloth, and went back to the foot of the stairs. For several minutes she worked on the stain, scrubbing it gently, fluffing up the damp nap of the carpet with her fingers. In the corner of the stairs, several ice cubes were dissolving into puddles; she picked these up, and then, after holding them a moment, cold and dripping, in her hand, she went into the living room and placed them carefully in the pot that held the plant. Then she made another trip to the kitchen and filled a pan with water, and went back to the plant again. She poured the water slowly, a little at a time, until the soil was soaked. Then she set the pan down. The house was silent, and the color had begun to drain from the day.

She wanted a cigarette; she went to the coffee table and picked up the polished box and held it for a moment in her hand, studying it. Then she lifted it quickly and pressed it to her cheek. The surface was smooth and cold; tears ran down. “Sterling,” she whispered. She set the box down again, unopened.

She tried to remember where she had last used the portable downstairs telephone; then she remembered and went into the study. She dialed a number, and when a man answered immediately—after the first ring—she forgot for a moment what it was that she was going to say to him, if she had ever known, and suddenly her voice was choked and she could only make indistinguishable sounds into the mouthpiece. At last she said, “Jeff, I just called you up to hear your voice …”

STORM

We are quite a cast of characters here, Linda thought dryly, quite a cast. She looked around at the group on the veranda: at Madame Foss, who owned the ramshackle old hotel which was called, almost too inappropriately, the Club Caprice, and who sat heavily in her wicker rocker, fanning her flushed and mottled face with a palm-leaf fan, her orange hair put up in rusty metal curlers; at Madras, who certainly must be part native—at least a mulatto, Linda thought—who called himself Madame Foss's husband (and perhaps he was), who wore old-fashioned steel-rimmed spectacles and drank Pointe-à-Pitre rum weakened with Coca-Cola, which he mixed himself, and carried about in miniature bottles that clinked in his trouser pockets; at Heaven Hill, the native maid, who was doing now a queer little shuffling dance step with an ancient dustcloth twisted between the toes of one bare foot. To these, she added herself: an American woman far from home whose husband was upstairs in their room where he had been for nearly a month with a fever that sometimes climbed as high as 104.

Heaven Hill moved across the rug, the dustcloth clenched between toes as prehensile as a monkey's, and dusted the nap and the bare thready places with the soles of her feet, singing “Umpah-umpah” under her breath.

“Does she have to do that?” Linda asked.

“Don't criticize,” said Madame Foss, fanning herself and rocking backward in her chair. Her pink hat, which she had hung on the back of the chair when she returned from lobstering, fell to the floor with a little flop and lay there unheeded. “Dripping wet!” Madame Foss said in her voice that had a curious Cockney lilt to it. “Dripping wet. Press-piration it is. My first husband, the captain, used to say, ‘Molly, you just
sweat.
' But I call it press-piration. Nobody knows how I suffer from it. Or cares.” She began twisting the rings on her fingers—huge, improbable creations of paste and colored glass that Madame Foss stoutly insisted were diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, gifts of the late captain—and Linda looked out at the shifting sea that lapped soundlessly against the sea wall. The air was breathlessly still. She'd be cooler if she didn't wear all that junk jewelry, Linda thought, but she said nothing.

The island had been having monsoon weather all summer, but without wind. All through July it never rained, and not a breeze blew. It was like no West Indian summer in anyone's memory, and everyone had blamed it on the atomic bombs. “It's those bombs,” they said, “it must be.” Whatever it was, the mercury stayed in the hundreds week after week, the temperature outdoors matching, almost degree, for degree, the heat in poor Harry's head. The barometer rose till it spilled green water over the spout, and the days fell away like sheets of paper. Even the young colored girls who sold rosettes of hibiscus and Judas flowers and orange pomanders and bunches of cha-cha leaves with the beans sticking out of them like long witch fingers during the tourist season—and who, for a long time after the season was over, had continued to try to sell their wares to Linda whenever she appeared on the street—even they had finally retreated from the heat into their thatched houses. The little donkey drivers from Basse-Terre came up the dusty path to the hotel with exceptional slowness, their legs splayed wide apart and dangling, singing mournfully about the heat. And everyone at the Club Caprice sat on the veranda trying not to move, day after day, waiting for the sun to go down a little, sometimes playing a little bridge or putting old calypso records on the wind-up victrola.

The natives insisted, too, that there was something wrong with the tides of Guadeloupe. With the ocean so still, huge sandbars had clogged the Rivière Salée, which divided the two main islands, and boat traffic between Basse-Terre and Grande Terre had ceased altogether. Harry's little French doctor made the trip on foot, across the mud. It was so hot that the date palms turned black at the tops, and the bougainvillea blossoms shriveled in the sun. I should go up and look in on him, Linda thought. But just the thought of stirring from the hammock exhausted her. She put her head in her hands.

“Cheer up! Cheer up!” said Madame Foss. “He's Libra, you know. I've read his stars. He'll be well within a three—three days, three weeks.”

“Three months, three years,” Linda said. “
Please.
Please let's not talk about that nonsense any more.”

“It's
not
nonsense! If you'd let me read you, I could help you, baby. But you won't. You're as stubborn as the captain was.”

Linda looked up at her. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day she said, “It's a simple question of money, Madame Foss, That's all there is to it.”

“Money isn't everything, baby,” Madame Foss said.

Oh, damn her! Linda thought. She was impossible. You couldn't argue with her. Money isn't everything. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Live and learn. These were the maxims with which Madame Foss settled everything. “I need at least two hundred dollars,” she said in a flat voice.

“Well, out of that you owe me a hundred and twenty rent,” Madame Foss said. “That won't leave you much.”

“How much did you get for selling his typewriter?” she asked. “Or don't I have a right to know?”

“We'll configurate that in when we settle the final bill,” Madame Foss said. “That won't leave you much.”

“I suppose I could treat that as an act of outright thievery, couldn't I?” Linda said: “You had no right to take that.”

“I considered that typewriter my legal possession,” Madame Foss said. “I took it and sold it and applied it against the rent.”

“Stole it, you mean. Anyway, it was rather foolish of you. You removed his whole means of livelihood.”

“He hasn't written anything in a long, long time, baby.”

“He's been
sick
for a long, long time!”

“Well, he can't write when he's sick, can he?”

Linda sighed. There, she thought, was another example of Madame Foss's impregnable logic. “I'm going to the Consulate,” she said.

“You can't get off this island without paying me,” Madame Foss said with a bright, sweet smile. “There's blacks on this island would do anything for me. All I need to do is say the word.” Then she said, “But don't worry, pet. Every cloud has its sunny side. He'll get better, he'll write something, I'll get my money, and we'll all be happy as clams at high tide.” She turned to Madras. “Won't we, Madras?”