Lucy Crown (18 page)

The process was long and more difficult than he had imagined it would be, because instead of reasoning out the problem, he kept imagining Lucy and Jeff together, the murmur of their voices, the low laughter in the darkened room, and the intolerable gestures of love. At those moments, alone in the empty house, he was tempted to write Lucy and tell her it was all over and that he never wanted to see her again. But he didn’t write the letter. Perhaps in a week or two, the letter would be written, but it would come as a result of severe reflection, not as a result of self-torment. He had given himself this time to regain control of himself; when the control was re-established, complete, he would act.

His jealousy, if that was what it was, hit him harder than it might have hit another man, who was accustomed to being jealous. The jealous man secretly believes in his own betrayal. He is in a state of siege and is convinced that somehow, somewhere, the wall will be breached, and makes his pessimistic adjustments beforehand to cope with his defeat. Oliver had never imagined that he might be betrayed and was unprepared for it and found himself, for the first few days, disarmed and overrun.

Curiously, he thought of what other men must have done in similar situations. After all, it was a common enough phenomenon. What were the lines of Leontes?

“There have been

Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now, And many a man there is, even at this present,

Now, while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm,

That little thinks she has been sluiced in ’s absence …”

He didn’t remember the rest of the speech, but he remembered it was apposite. He got up and took down a big volume of Shakespeare’s plays and opened it to
The Winter’s Tale
and thumbed through the pages until he found the passage.

“Should all despair,” Oliver read,

“That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind

Would hang themselves. Physic for ’t, there’s none;

It is a bawdy planet.”

Oliver closed the book and put it down and chuckled, briefly. Shakespeare, for once, made it simpler than it was.
A bawdy planet,
the poet said, poetically, and that was explanation enough for him. After fifteen years of marriage, Oliver thought, this didn’t explain Lucy to him. He tried to clarify for himself just what he
did
think of his wife. Reserved, devoted, moderate, he thought, anxious to please him and win his approval. Generally obedient, he thought, grinning sourly at the echo of the wedding ceremony, given only to the lesser sins of sentimentality, inefficiency, timidity.

Necessary to him.

Ten days’ reflection, he thought grimly, and it comes down to that. Necessary.

I accepted her too lightly, he thought, as one reflects upon a friend who has died and whose value, too late, is suddenly appreciated. I wasn’t careful enough.

He thought of what it would be like with just himself and Tony in the house. Tony, with his mother’s eyes, and the same delicate cheekbones, and so many of the same gestures, roughened a little by his maleness and made cruder and a little comic by his awkwardness and adolescence. Whatever else happens, Oliver thought, I couldn’t stand
that.

He tried to think of what it must be like now up at the lake, Tony and Lucy together day and night, confronting each other, after the rainy evening ten days ago. Oliver supposed that he should have taken Tony home with him, for Tony’s sake. If he hadn’t rushed around like a stabbed bull, perhaps he would have done so. Only it would have made coming to a proper decision that much harder. Well, he comforted himself, let him have a rough week or so—in the long run, we’ll all profit by my being allowed to figure this out, undisturbed.

Oliver got up to go to bed. He put out the light and went upstairs to the bedroom that he shared with Lucy. It was a big room with a bay window, looking out through the foliage of an oak tree at the quiet street below. Oliver made the bed each morning, turning it down so that it would be ready to sleep in at night. The room was neater than it ever was when Lucy was there, and it suddenly seemed artificial and unfamiliar to Oliver because of that.

Lucy had left her silver-backed toilet articles on the dressing table and the first morning that Oliver had done the housework, he had arranged all the things, the brushes, the combs and nail-files, the carved hand-mirror, in a severe geometric pattern on the glass surface. Now they seemed like articles put out for sale in the shop of a man without much imagination. Oliver went over to the table and lifted the mirror. It was heavy and the silver handle was cool and he remembered the hundreds of times he had watched Lucy, getting dressed to go out, holding the mirror up, her head twisted, to see the back of her head and make sure her hair was all right, and the small, soft indefinite movements with which she pushed strands of hair in place. He remembered the mixture of tenderness and irritated amusement with which he had regarded her, pleased with her beauty, annoyed because she was taking so much time and making them late for wherever they were going, accomplishing nothing, as far as he could tell, with the hesitant, undecided movements of her hand.

He threw the mirror down carelessly, changing the pattern on the table. Then he put out the lamp and sat for a long time in the dark on the edge of the old bed.

Reserved, devoted, moderate, he remembered. That’s what
I
thought. Shakespeare, no doubt, would have a different opinion. And what about her own opinion of herself? Lying next to him for so many years, plotting, resentful, mocking his estimate of her, cherishing other qualities, closing her eyes, turning secretly away from him in the same bed, the twisting, stubborn inhabitant of the bawdy planet.

If I were another kind of man, he thought wearily, sitting fully dressed on the side of the bed in the dark room, I wouldn’t stay here alone, suffering, like this. I would drink or I would find another woman or I would do both. Then, satiated and loose, I’d arrive, sidewise, and with less pain, at a decision. For a moment, he thought of getting into the car and driving to New York and registering in a hotel there. Women wouldn’t be hard to find in the city, and, in fact, there were one or two whom he knew who had made it plain that all he had to do was ask. But even as he turned it over in his head, he knew he wouldn’t call anyone. He doubted, even, that he could manage to take another woman. He was a passionate man; he knew he was much more avid than other men his age—but it had all been channeled into the one direction. This is a hell of a predicament, he thought, grinning malevolently to himself, for a uxorious man.

Necessary.

What a goddamn summer, he thought, and stood up and undressed in the dark and got into bed.

The next morning, there was a letter in the mail from Lucy. Oliver was just leaving the house when the postman came, and he stood at the door, in the warm, early sunshine, turning the envelope over in his hand, conscious of his neighbors setting out to work, saying good-bye to children, hurrying to catch trains and buses, moving through the greenness of trees and lawns, against a background of flowers, moving through the bright summer morning, the men already grayed over a little, Oliver thought, by the shadows of the offices and factories that were waiting for them.

Oliver didn’t open the letter immediately. He looked at the familiar inscription on the envelope—backhand, childish, not quite controlled, always a little hard to read. Where had he heard that that kind of handwriting, backhand, was evidence of repression, hypocrisy, self-consciousness? He didn’t remember it accurately. Perhaps it was another kind of handwriting and he’d mixed it up. Some day, he’d get one of those books and look it up.

He opened the envelope and read the letter. It was short and without apologies. All she said was that she was going to leave him, because she couldn’t bear living any longer in the same house with Tony and him. And when she signed it, she didn’t say, Love, or anything like that. Just Lucy.

There was no information about how Tony was, no inquiries about him or what he had decided, no hesitation or offers. It was like no letter she had ever sent before, and if it hadn’t been for the handwriting, it would have been hard to believe that Lucy had written it.

That afternoon, he called Sam Patterson and asked him to come to dinner that night. The good thing about Sam was that there never was any problem about seeing him alone. All Sam ever did was tell his wife he wasn’t going to be home to dinner, and that was the end of it. Maybe Sam had the secret, Oliver thought, maybe he was the man to ask about marriage.

They had dinner at a hotel, with a bottle of wine, and Oliver found himself enjoying it and eating a great deal, after the ten days of cooking for himself. They talked lightly all through dinner, in the kind of conversational shorthand that develops between friends who have known each other many years, and it was only when the dishes had been cleared away and the coffee set down before them that Oliver said, “Sam, the reason I asked you to have dinner with me is that I need advice. I’m in trouble and I have to make a decision and maybe you can help me …”

Then, sipping his coffee, not looking at Patterson, Oliver told him the whole story, the call from Tony, the arrival at the lake, Tony’s outburst, Lucy’s denial and accusation of Tony, Bunner’s confession, everything.

He spoke slowly and evenly, without emotion or shading, methodically presenting all the facts to Patterson, like a responsible witness making a deposition after an accident, like a doctor giving the symptoms of a puzzling case to a specialist who has been called in for consultation.

Patterson listened silently, showing nothing on his face, thinking, I don’t know another man who would make such a dry, accurate, well-organized report out of his life’s convulsion like this. He is making love, desire and betrayal sound like a paper to be read before an historical society on a minor treaty of the eighteenth century. At the same time, listening impassively, Patterson could not help feeling an unworthy twinge of jealousy. If she finally was going to choose somebody, he thought, why couldn’t she have chosen me?

And mixed with all this was a helpless flavor of satisfaction. Oliver, who before this had never asked help or advice from anyone. Oliver, the most self-sufficient and reticent of men, was coming to him for aid in his moment of pain and doubt. It made Patterson feel more important in Oliver’s company than he had ever felt before, and at the same time seemed to open some new gate of affection and compassion for his friend. Finally, he thought, no friendship is complete until your friend turns to you in despair.

Seated in the corner of the restaurant, their table removed from the other diners, Patterson listened carefully to the measured, fastidious voice of his friend. I must get all the facts straight, he thought, almost as if he were going into an operating room where the slightest haziness or misunderstanding might mean the difference between life and death; this is one time I must not say or do the wrong thing.

“… It never occurred to me,” Oliver was saying, “that anything like this could ever happen to us. It’s just unbelievable.”

Patterson smiled inwardly to himself, although no sign of it showed on his face. Friend, he thought, out of his different experience, it is never unbelievable.

“And the way it happened,” Oliver went on. “The damned commonplace way it happened. With the twenty-year-old tutor! It’s like a joke you hear at a smoker!”

I will warn Lucy, Patterson thought sardonically, to make it more original the next time. Pick a hunchback, or the governor of a Southern state, or a Negro drummer. Her husband has an aversion to the obvious.

“When women are ready to pick someone,” Patterson said, “they choose from the available material. Literary precedents have very little to do with it. At a moment like that, nobody thinks of herself as a character in an off-color joke.”

“What do you mean, ready to pick someone?” Oliver said harshly. “Did you ever think that Lucy was ready to pick someone?”

“No,” Patterson said honestly. “Not until now.”

“And now …”

Patterson shrugged. “Now, after it’s happened,” he said, “it’s not altogether surprising.”

“What do you mean by that?” There was hostility in Oliver’s voice.

“Adultery,” Patterson said mildly, “is the upper-middle-class American woman’s form of self-expression.”

For a moment, Oliver seemed angry. Then he laughed. “I see I came to the right man,” he said. “Okay, Philosopher. Continue.”

“All right,” Patterson said. “Try to look at it from her point of view for a few minutes. What have you done with her since your wedding day …?”

“I’ve done a hell of a lot,” Oliver broke in. “I’ve taken care of her every minute for fifteen years. Maybe it might sound crass, and I don’t suppose I’d ever say it to her, but she’s lived damned well and she’s never had to worry about anything and no matter how tough it was for me from time to time, I never said a word to her. Christ, she’s pretty nearly the only woman in the country who hardly even knew there was a Depression. To this day she can’t keep a checkbook straight or remember to pay the electric company on time. I’ll tell you what I did for her—I took full responsibility for her,” he said angrily, as though Patterson were Lucy’s representative and was arguing her case. “She’s thirty-five years old and she hasn’t the faintest notion of how tough it is to be alive in the twentieth century. For fifteen years she’s been living like a schoolgirl on a holiday. Don’t ask me what I’ve done for her. What’re you nodding about like that … ?”

“Exactly,” Patterson said. “Just what I said.”

“What do you mean, just what you said?” Oliver’s voice was beginning to rise.

“Now don’t get angry with
me,”
Patterson said good-humoredly. “
I
haven’t slept with any college boys.”

“That’s a damned poor joke,” said Oliver.

“Look,” said Patterson, “you’ve come to me for help, haven’t you?”