Lie Down in Darkness (12 page)

“Yes.” She wished the woman would go away. She wished she herself might leave. The club, the noise, the music, as they always did, filled her with anxiety. What? Where? She was feeling a bit dizzy, very tired. Dr. Holcomb: he says I mustn’t strain myself like this. The word
thrombosis
made a resonant “gong,” like a threatful bell, in her mind. If I should get a thrombosis—Gong!

“That’s so nice,” Mrs. La Farge was saying. “I played on the hockey team at Hollins. The year we played Sweet Briar——”

Helen was nodding, smiling, saying “yes,” spacing these nods politely, and her eyes, she knew, were bright with interest. But she wasn’t listening.

What? Where?

It would soon be twilight. There would be the birthday dinner and, afterward, more dancing and maybe swimming. She felt sick; heat rose oppressively from the flooring—huge, moist, asthmatic. There were sailboats on the river. A luminous glow brightened the calm; the sailboats, motionless, seemed to rest on quicksilver. At this moment a shadow rushed down the grassy slope; offshore, the river took on a chill dusky hue as the cloud passed over. The sailboats tilted. Sails belled out like wings but then collapsed desolately, all at once. Afternoon light returned to the terrace, insistent and humid, with the promise of rain. Milton and Dolly were dancing again. And Melvin dancing now with Peyton. Taffeta and silk and marquisette swirled about her and eight notes of music exploded from a trumpet, splintering the air—
boogie me, mama—a
boy’s voice croaked and laughter, all young, all happy, settled around her in chill dwindling waves.

“We haven’t decided—” Mrs. La Farge’s breast heaved, shuddered; the sequins on her dress blinked like eyes—“decided … decided. Charlie’s so young yet … he’s such a steady, sober boy … V.P.I. most likely.”

Milton and Dolly. They are not deceiving me. Dr. Holcomb said emotional disturbances past forty can cause physical complications, the menopause, you see, makes severe demands, hormonic readjustment. Estro—

genic. That was the word.

Oh! it was a brutal thing. She lit a cigarette absently, forgetting Mrs. La Farge. “I’m sorry,” she said, smiling, offering her one from a case, but Mrs. La Farge said, “No, thank you, dear, I never touch the things. We’ve abstained for Charlie’s sake, both of us, Chet and I, because——”

Because——

Oh! it was a brutal thing. Because for six years it had been like this: Milton and that woman were having an affair. She knew. And did they expect her not to know? Just to be able to tell …

And what would she say? How?

“Mrs. La Farge, listen,” she might say, “I’ve not wanted to tell anyone because—because I have children, too, and you know—Listen, Mrs. La Farge, this has come to a head finally. Milton and Dolly Bonner. You might not have noticed. But I—it’s a matter of divorce. Yes, you mustn’t look so shocked, really. No, it’s come to a head.”

And then she might say—

“Oh, if you’d known the brutal things I’ve borne these years. Were you at the Lenharts’ party Christmas two years ago? Yes, you were, weren’t you? Yes, I saw, though you might not have. The way their hands met and the kisses, all in fun. It didn’t matter that it was all in fun. I saw.

“I think they’ve met, too, in other places. I haven’t any proof, but I’m sure …

“Were you at the Paiges’ dance last year? In the vestibule I saw them, making their dirty plans. I know, and their eyes shining and the way their hands met there …”

But I shall never tell.

Mrs. La Farge giggled. “Oh, there’s Chester. I’ll have to go dance.” She heaved herself up. “See you later, dear.” Helen was alone. The horizon was full of black clouds, distant grumblings. Twilight was coming on. She felt sick, alone; no one since that pimpled boy had asked her to dance.

A frantic vision appeared to her, mingled all of a sudden with the music, the laughter, the day that seemed to be perishing with a gray and vanquished light all over the lawn: in bed at home, enfolded by darkness, she awoke to the sound of his footsteps. He stood by her bed, as he always did, looking down at her: Helen, Helen, this stuff just can’t last—with his cool, facetious little laugh—I thought things were working out again.

I feel bad, she said, thinking: I saw, I saw them both then, yearning. The way their hands met there …

I feel bad.

And thinking: Oh I want to love him. I do. Again.

He left her without a sound. And as he left, in this familiar reverie, so real, yet somehow airy and strange, she collapsed back into bed, or rather into absolute darkness, knowing that by one word—Yes or Forgive or Love—she might have affirmed all, released all of the false and vengeful and troubling demons right up into the encompassing air of night, and everything would be right again. But she fell back into darkness, the door closed, sealing off the rectangle of light which had intruded for a moment into the room, her home, sealing off indeed all intrusions so that now, dreamful, drowsing, yearning desperately for sleep, she thought of the old Army days, the distant, shrouding sound of trumpets on a parade ground long ago, and her father’s uniform, consoling just to touch, while longing in an endless sort of drowsiness to be surrounded by those strong and constant arms.

She looked up.

Peyton hurried toward her in a rustle of blue silk, sixteen, smiling.

“Mother, Mother, don’t be a dope. Come on, dance.”

“What are you drinking?”

Blushing, Peyton looked downward. “Why, just punch, Mother.”

“Come with me.”

Peyton followed obediently and together they pushed through the crowd of boys and girls, through the smell of perfume, gay shouts of “Happy Birthday!” And in the powder room the colored girl, sensing something ominous, white folks’ trouble, left discreetly.

Helen turned. “Give me that glass.” She took a sip. Whisky. She wheeled about, poured it down a toilet.

“Your father gave that to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Peyton said meekly. “He said that for my birthday——” She was beautiful, she was young, and these two things together caused Helen the bitterest anguish.

“I won’t have it,” she said. “I’ve seen your father ruin himself with liquor and I won’t have it. Do you understand?”

Peyton looked at her. “Mother——” she began.

“Shut up. I won’t have it. Get your things. I’m going to take you home.”

For a moment Peyton was silent. Then she raised her eyes, gave her hair a wild, outraged toss. “I despise you!” she said, and was gone.

Flushed, trembling, Helen returned to the terrace. Milton smiled at her gaily. She turned away. A cloud scudded over the lawn, darkening the day like a shuttered room. Wind shook in the trees around the terrace, rustling the young girls’ hair, expiring with a tender sigh as the day returned in a rush of light: the shadow swept down the lawn, vaulted the swimming pool, vanished. Below, in a patch of sunlight, she saw a familiar figure.

Oh, Maudie dear.

Down the slope she hurried, holding her gown up. Maudie sat alone in a chair near the pool, eating an ice-cream cone, glittering braced leg outstretched before her as she gazed impassively out at the river and the approaching storm. Helen drew near her, bent down and looked into her face, saying, “Come on, dear. Come with me. We’re going home now.”

Restfully Maudie looked upward, still serene, eyes still tranquil and unmoved.

“Yes, Mamadear.”

“Come on now.”

“O.K., Mamadear.”

Helen took her hand. Over the river thunder broke with a crash, bathers fled from the pool, there were excited voices from the terrace as the first drops fell. The musicians scurried indoors, bearing aloft music stands and saxophones, and on the terrace Milton stood talking with Peyton.

She doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She just can’t.

When Peyton pushed haughtily out of the ladies’ room and into the lobby, Charlie La Farge was standing in wait for her.

“Peyton,” he said, “where ya going? Peyton! Hey, beautiful!” He whistled.

Peyton hustled past and through the ballroom without a word, making for the terrace where music, borne on the wind of the coming storm, still echoed in bright brassy gusts.

“Aw, Peyton. What’s wrong? Aw, beautiful!”

All the boys called her beautiful. She was beautiful. Her eyes were brown, always hugely attentive; like her mouth, they lent her face at once an air of thoughtfulness and of inquisitiveness. Her lips, which were just full enough, seemed always slightly parted in a questioning way, as if asking a softly tolerant “Why?” of all those young men who from the time she could remember had hovered about her, their vague, anonymous voices always busy like dozens of bees. Her hair was dark brown and generally cut short so that it closely framed her face, and by the time she had reached twelve she had lost track of the number of small boys who had asked her to marry them.

Now she took a short cut through the golf museum, the pride of the club—a spacious sunny room that opened on the terrace—where, neatly arranged in sparkling rows, were the mashies and niblicks and putters used by Bobby Jones and Tommy Armour in this or that tournament; and golf balls, too, like endless rows of pigeon eggs scarred and cut, with which people like Johnny Revolta won the Western Open way back in 1929. Peyton paid no attention to these; she brushed through the door and onto the terrace: a ribbon of green confetti snaked through space and fell quietly over her hair. Drops of rain like silver dollars began to spatter the flooring and Charlie La Farge, pursuing her, took her hand and said, “Come on, beautiful, let’s dance one before it really rains.”

She shook her head and withdrew her hand, looking around the terrace.

“Come on, sugar.” Wistful, imploring.

She didn’t answer. She walked up to her father who, glowing and smiling, was looking down into Dolly’s face. “That would make a man rich,” he was saying.

Peyton tugged at his arm. “Bunny,” she said. “Come here a minute. I’ve
got
to talk to you.”

Loftis and Dolly stopped dancing. “Why, what’s the matter, baby?”

“Come on, Bunny, I’ve just
got
to talk to you. Excuse me, Mrs. Bonner.”

Dolly’s eyebrows arched dubiously. “Why, honey——”

“Come
on
, Bunny!”

“Excuse me, Dolly,” Loftis said.

Peyton shrugged off a boy yearning to dance with her, and drew Loftis into the golf museum. It was dark here. There was a sporting smell in the place, of oiled leather, of tarnished trophies. She and Loftis sat down together on a sofa. Outside in the ballroom the musicians were setting up their stands, in order to proceed with the dance, and the boys and girls rushed in out of the rain.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

Peyton began to cry. She let her head fall in his lap. “Mother says I have to go home!”

Well, goddammit, he thought. He had brought his drink with him from the punch table, a drink which he had kept spiked all afternoon, and he took a large gulp and stroked her hair before saying uneasily, “Why, baby? Why’d she say she wanted to do that?”

“Because,” she said. “Because—because she said you’d given me a drink of whisky and I told her it was my birthday and you’d given me just one, and just a little … oh, Bunny!” She sat erect, clutching his arm, and the tears had disappeared as quickly as they had come. “It was a joke, wasn’t it, Bunny? Wasn’t it? Tell her so, Daddy!” she said angrily. “I can’t go home. That’s the worst thing I ever heard of!” She looked as if she might cry again, so he drew her toward him, feeling her arm against his leg.

“Well,” he said reflectively, “I shouldn’t have given you the drink. That was most likely my stupidest act of the week.” It
had
been stupid, he thought. Whisky, of all things, was the perfect bait for trouble. For twenty years it had been a sufficiently extreme dereliction in Helen’s eyes for even him to drink; now to allow her to think that he might be corrupting the morals of the young … oh, God.

Peyton drew away from him and put an arm on his shoulder. “Bunny,” she said, “tell her something. Tell her we didn’t mean anything. Tell her, will you?”

He took her hand. “O.K., baby. You won’t have to go home. We’ll see about that. Now smile.”

Peyton didn’t smile; she bent her head thoughtfully to one side so that her hair, in short brown waves, partly obscured her face. Then she said in a grave voice which, falling word by word upon his consciousness, made him stir inside with a grotesque and awful fear: “Bunny, I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s absolutely a terrible thing to say and I don’t know how to say it it’s so terrible. But she’s always done these things and I guess she means all right by it and all, but I can’t help it, Bunny, I just don’t love her.” She looked up at him, paused and shook her head. “Bunny,” she said again, “I just don’t think I love her.”

She arose and stood by the couch, her back to him. He got up unsteadily and turned her around and pulled her head down on his chest. “Honey,” he whispered, “you mustn’t say that kind of thing. Your mother … well, she’s always been—well, nervous and high-strung and—well, she doesn’t mean these things. She——”

“She doesn’t have to take me home.”

“No. We’ll see about that. No. But, honey——” He held her close. A damp, morose fog, part darkness, part alcohol, part his own bewilderment, drifted across his vision. He felt that he loved Peyton more than anything in the world. He kissed her. As for Helen, well, to hell with this kind of business. He held his whisky, again, up to Peyton’s lips.

“Now, honey,” he said, “don’t worry. You go back and have a good time and dance. You won’t have to go home.” Peyton drank deeply.

“O.K.” She looked at him. “Oh, Bunny, you’re such a darling.”

She gave him a kiss, which lingered lightly as a raindrop on his cheek, and unsteadily left the room. He watched her leave; the door, braked by air, eased to with a hiss, and he was alone in the room, with the golf balls and the trophies and the mauve, descending light. He sank back down on the couch again.

For minutes he sat there, gazing out of the window. The dancing, after eighteen holes of golf earlier in the day, had wearied him; he was drunker than he should be, he knew, with the rest of the evening still to go, but his glass was empty save for two lumps of ice. He thought wistfully of replenishment. Through the doors he heard music, the sound of thumping feet. He imagined that would be jitter-bugging. The window, which was open, let in a cooling blast of air, but also a lot of rain, so he pulled it down, and the woolly athletic smell of the museum fell limply around him. The opposite shore of the river was completely covered by a wall of rain, drooping summer clouds as white as milk; the slope below he seemed to view as if through a piece of green quartz: a murky golf course, deserted, dusty with scudding wind and rain; submarine willows down by the river, so sedate and feminine in the daylight, now filled with tremblings and shakings, lifting their branches like frantic women’s arms to the embrace of a rainy sky. An oyster boat moved soundlessly down the river near shore, and Loftis, groggy with warmth and too much whisky, must have dozed; just for an instant, though, because when he opened his eyes—or did he close his eyes at all?—the boat had moved but a few yards along the shore. Vaguely puzzled, anxious, gazing with heavy-lidded eyes at the river, he thought: What was that I dreamed? But drowsing off harmlessly once more, he saw fire, a pillar of smoke that hovered trembling on some remote horizon and grasslike shapes of windy rain, dissolving instantly into light. His eyes snapped open, it was nearly dark; the oyster boat had vanished beyond a curtain of tossing willows.