Lie Down in Darkness (14 page)

Ah, that’s it, he repeated to himself: the wrong idea …

He stood there silently, hands in his pockets, watching her. No one said a word. Peyton clung to him, watching her, too, and Maudie, from her perch on the sofa, gazed down calmly at those hands flying over the buckles, straps and thongs. It was a fumbling performance; she was in too wild a state to do with skill an operation which by all rights, having been for so long a matter of habit, should have required no skill at all. Futilely she tried to press one of the overshoes against the metal brace; it wouldn’t go. Loftis, hesitant and afraid, made no move to help her. Or rather merely hesitant, no longer afraid, for he felt somehow, just for this instant, that he was taking part in a casual and unpleasant tableau which, like the tedious Sunday-school dramas he had performed in long ago, was unrehearsed and therefore a dismal nuisance because of the aimlessness, the uncertainty of the movements and the lines. There are these moments: when action is clearly indicated but impossible, and angry words, though desirable and urgent, just won’t come; a baffling thing—one can’t say these spiteful things and for unnamed reasons: maybe because on such occasions, in an atmosphere of hate and sorrow, there is still a guardian breath of love that hovers in the air.

Perhaps Loftis was too tight; maybe Dolly’s kiss, after all these years, had destroyed and erased something. Sober, he feared Helen; for what seemed ages he had lived with her not so much in a state of matrimony as in a state of gentle irritation, together like the negative poles of a magnet, gradually but firmly repelling each other. But now, quite drunk, consciously, arrogantly superior to the situation, he watched Helen fuss madly with the overshoes and the straps of the brace, muttering beneath her breath with fierce, obsessed whispers, and calmly awaited his lines.

The moment came. Peyton’s arm fell away from his. Helen arose and turned toward him with a smile while he, smiling too, drifted toward her and took her by the hand. “Now, dear,” he said, “come in here with me.” He led her into the golf museum with great dignity. As he closed the door he saw that the tableau had dissolved—all the waiting had been an illusion, past forever: there sat Maudie gazing out dumbly into space, Peyton beside her, sad and beautiful; even the assistant manager with his sly inquisitive eyes had turned back to ponder his stacks of nickels and dimes, and the music, which for a moment he hadn’t heard at all, filled the night with harmless echoes, as it had before.

“You wait there with Maudie, baby,” he called to Peyton, and closed the door behind Helen and himself.

He snapped the lights on. Beneath the self-satisfied photograph of a famous open champion she stood, her back to him, already lighting a cigarette. He sat down in a leather chair.

“Now listen——” he began.

She whirled to face him, outraged. “Now you listen, yourself——”

“Now, not so loud,” he said, “least we can do is be ladies and gentlemen.”

“All right,” she said finally. Almost miraculously, making him uneasy, the tiniest suggestion of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth, and she came over and sat down on the arm of his chair. There was, he thought, something still imposingly youthful about her in spite of everything—the complaints, the headaches, the moments of eerie and popeyed hysteria—and unaccountably he thought of her, just for an instant, riding a horse in Central Park years before. Where did all the rest of this come from? When?

“Well, now,” he said, “what’s the matter? What seems to be the trouble now?”

“Oh, Milton,” she said, looking down at him, again with the disarming echo of a smile, “what did you give that stuff to Peyton for? Honestly, Milton, sometimes I think you’ve lost your mind. Tell me,” she asked intently, “just why do you let her carry on like that?”

“For heaven’s sake—” he groaned—“for heaven’s sake, Helen, it wasn’t anything. Christamighty, I just let her have a little bit. It’s her birthday, for Christ’s sake. It was a joke, a joke. What’re you trying to make out of the girl, a nun or what?”

“Now don’t be silly——” she began again. Her tone, soft and illogically persuasive, made him restless: he knew it well, and although he could somehow adapt himself to her tempers, it was this sudden change of mood that he felt he could never cope with. Here was Woman, with a capital W, tricky and awful, inconstant as the weather. But, “It’s the principle of the thing,” she was saying. “Don’t you understand that? Don’t you understand these fundamental things about decency and propriety? Don’t you know that something like that, a little thing like that, as you say, can lead to worse things? You know——”

“My dear,” he interrupted gently, conscious—though unable to do anything about it—that what he was about to say was cruel and unjust, “if you had ever got beyond Miss Whozis’ finishing school you might have got another slant on morals and principles. Morals aren’t picayunish little——”

“Milton—” she made an agonized little cry—“why do you talk like that? How can you say a thing like that?” She got up quickly from the arm of the chair—brow, cheeks, even her neck all creased and lined and indignant. She might begin to weep, now, he guessed. “What kind of talk is that? Insults! Insults!” She turned away from him and let her shoulders droop in a posture of humiliation and outraged pride. “I love
my
God,” he heard her say in a small voice, irrelevantly.

“O.K.,” he said, rising. “I’m sorry for that. Forgive me.” He sighed. “Forgive me.”

She turned and said in chilling, ominous tones which from the very beginning, indicating an endless harangue, made him want to get out of there: “There are things that I can never forgive you for. There are a whole lot of things that no matter how long I lived with you I could never forgive you for. We’ve been building up to this. I love my God and you don’t, that’s one thing. You betrayed us when you stopped going to church; you betrayed not only me but the whole family. You betrayed Maudie and you betrayed Peyton who loves you so. I love
my
God,” she repeated, drawing herself up proudly, “and you,” she whispered, with a toss of her head, “you don’t have any God at all.”

“Listen, Helen——”

“Just a minute, Milton. I’m not finished. Let me tell you, too. Let me tell you. I know this. I know what sin is. I know what
sin
is,” she repeated, and the word
sin
was like the cold edge of a blade sunk deep somewhere in his body. “I do. I do. In knowing that I’ll always be superior to you.
Hah—”
a little blister of a laugh, frightening him—“indeed I do!”

“Now, Helen!” he began to shout.

“Shut up. Wait. Let me tell you. Don’t shout. Listen to me for a minute. Don’t you think I know? Don’t you think I know about you and Dolly? Don’t you think I’ve been able to smell the dirt you’ve been up to with her? Do you think I’m blind?” She stared at him and shook her head slowly from side to side, accusing, condemning. “Listen, Milton,” she said. In her anger she had backed into a display case, and now with a movement of her hips she happened to bump and dislodge two golf balls, precious mementoes, which tumbled to the carpet and rolled away. “Listen, Milton. I don’t care what you do at all. You’ve spoiled Peyton rotten. You’ve forgotten Maudie. You’ve forgotten her! You’ve destroyed love, you’ve destroyed everything. Listen—”she paused again, lifting her hand—“listen, if you do one thing to harm Maudie, one thing, listen, that will bring shame on that child I’ll——” She halted, peered for one terrible moment straight into his eyes as if, perhaps, to find there the ghost of a meaning for all this heartache and wretchedness, and then thrust her head into her hands, moaning, “Oh, my God, Maudie’s going to die.”

He wanted to comfort her a little, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. If it weren’t for that kiss, he thought, I’d be in the clear, in the right. Guiltless I could comfort her. She was so wrong. She was so wrong, yet right too. Their paths, diverging in the wood, had gone limitlessly astray, and nothing could bring them together again. Both of them had lost the way. She stood weeping alone. He couldn’t approach her. The kiss he had sealed upon Dolly’s lips had sealed up for him, also, the knowledge of guilt, and there didn’t seem to be any way of going back at all.

He followed her outside. She walked over to the couch and helped Maudie to her feet. Peyton, bending over, tried to help Maudie, too, but only seemed to get in the way, for Helen, shoving Peyton briskly aside, muttered, “Now don’t you bother. Don’t bother.” She began to lead Maudie toward the door. Peyton stood stiffly by the couch, her cheeks flushed, saying nothing.

Maudie turned at the door and waved back at them. “Good-by, Peyton dear. Good-by, Pappadaddy.”

Peyton waved and he, too, lifted his hand and watched them disappear, thinking: If only, if only … Thinking: If she knew what was true, if I knew what truth was too, we could love each other.

“Bunny, she wouldn’t even let me help Maudie.”

“She’s pretty upset, baby.”

She took his hand. “She didn’t say anything about taking me home. She just left.”

He smiled. “Yeah, baby. I talked her out of it.”

She straightened his tie. “Buy me a car,” she said, “for Sweet Briar.”

“You’re too young.”

“Come on, honey, buy me a car.” She pressed a big smear of lipstick on his neck.

“Gold digger,” he said. “What kind?”

“A Packard,” she said. “A big old sinful Packard convertible. Red-colored.”

“O.K.,” he replied. He turned toward the door, thinking that a breath of fresh air would clear his head. Outside, beyond the driveway, rain dripped desolately from the trees. “I’ll think it over,” he said. “Run along and dance.”

Now, as he listened to Chester La Farge’s gloomy discourse on war and the fate of the grocery business, it occurred to him simply and with the heady glow of discovery that in this world there was no way of telling right from wrong and, anyway, the hell with it. What had happened had happened and what might happen
would
happen and so he took a drink and let his knee rest against Dolly’s, safe in the all-inclusive logic of determinism. The feeling of shame had vanished and the business with Helen seemed not nearly so awful anymore.

My son, most people, whether they know it or not, his father had said, get on through life by a sophomoric fatalism. Only poets and thieves can exercise free will, and most of them die young.

The hell with that, too. He had suffered, he felt. He took a drink. Beneath La Farge’s unfaltering monologue came Dolly’s whisper, “How are you, darling?” and he again pressed his leg against hers and looked into her eyes with a wide gaze of bright humor and longing, as if to indicate the sudden entrance into his life of love and contentment, in place of that huge void which had served in the absence of both these things.

“You might like the President,” La Farge was saying, “but, by God, you don’t have to like his fambly.”

Loftis leaned back in his chair and laughed loudly. So did Dolly and Mrs. La Farge, all three of them in one hilarious accord, laughing, rocking against the flagstones like a trio of hobbyhorses.

La Farge exposed his teeth appreciatively and casually shot his cuffs. “Heh-heh, well——” he began, but far down the river a shipyard whistle made a long and soulless hooting.

“My heavens!” Mrs. La Farge arose. “It’s eleven o’clock. Chet, we’ve got to go!”

“All right, doll.”

“Charlie’s still swimming, I guess,” Mrs. La Farge said. “Would you be kind enough to see he gets a ride home, Milton?”

Loftis had got up. “Why, Alice,” he said expansively, “I’d be glad to.”

“Good night … night … night.”

All the parents went home, some with their children, some merely with light-hearted entreaties that Loftis not allow Jimmy or Betty to come home too late, and he and Dolly were alone. The Japanese lanterns flickered and died. Violet shadows covered the terrace, his bottle was empty; the moon, big as a gold doubloon, clipped off at one edge behind a wandering cloud, dropped an insouciant light over the river, the lawn and through the strands, airy as spider webs, of Dolly’s hair. They were silent. A whippoorwill called from the woods; they both slapped at mosquitoes.

“Well,” Loftis said finally, “you just never can tell, can you?”

Dolly looked downward. “What do you mean, Milton?” she said softly.

He took her hand. “Funny,” he said, “where you end up in this world.”

She looked up at him. “How?”

“Oh, nothing,” he chuckled softly, finishing his drink. “Sometimes I just wonder what we’re here for. Sometimes——” He said something about “the deep,” he said something about “the endless night,” and Dolly, sleepy, restless, wishing he would kiss her again, reflected that Pookie would never talk of the deep or the endless night. She knew he would kiss her again. Night enfolded them with the odor of pine and grass, the smell of sea, a vast low tide beyond the forest, where shells, rocks and sea things, sad as the universe, lay drowsing beneath the summer moon. They walked together through the empty ballroom to an electric water fountain where each of them had a drink. He bent over and kissed her brow, swaying. In the dark golf museum, shoving her down on a couch, he managed—it was odd, for she was saying, “Oh, sweet baby”—to remember “the deep … the endless night,” while the door again, easing to, cut off all light from the room, and from his faltering, only half-willing hands.

Charlie La Farge was just sixteen. He was of medium height, nice-looking, with the close-cropped hair that was the fashion among high-school boys that year. Through some happy accident of heredity he had escaped his father’s tediousness, while retaining a little of his mother’s jolly high spirits and humor. This did not make him anything special, but at least he was good-natured. It was his somewhat hybrid ambition at this stage of his life to be a lieutenant commander in charge of a submarine and to become a bandleader, combining the two so that the easy frivolity of bandleading would not contradict the other, austere side of his nature, which brooded often upon crash dives and the heroic terrors of depth bombs. He also gave women a great deal of thought, frequently to the exclusion of his ambitions, and sometimes his thoughts about women reached such a pitch that he knew his real and only desire was to lose his virginity. Breasts, legs, thighs and other things filled his mind with constant fleshy images, indistinct and maddening, the more so because he had no precise idea of what a girl felt like—although a fourteen-year-old first cousin named Isabel, from Durham, once let him rest one hand, lightly and on the outside of her dress, upon her disappointing little breast. On summer mornings he would awake in an ecstatic heat, half-frantic with the obscure and swollen dreams that lingered in tatters at the margin of his consciousness, and with a groan he would succumb to that private sin his father had vainly walloped him for at the age of twelve, watching the sycamores shake ever so gently, the sparrows that swerved in raucous, terrible haste against the sky.