Mary McCarthy's Collected Memoirs: Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, How I Grew, and Intellectual Memoirs (24 page)

Back in Seattle, I found myself still serving out my sentence of childhood, which had three more years to run yet: I was eighteen, a freshman home from college, before I was able to sweep down the staircase, dressed in the height of fashion, and find a boy waiting, in uneasy conversation with my grandparents. Even then, my grandfather, as he raised his soft cheek for a kiss, would mortify me by the inevitable question: “Home by eleven?”

The trip to Montana left no outward scars. Indeed, it was educational, in that I could not bear the taste of whisky for years afterward; even now I cannot take it straight—I gag. And my ardor for dates was somewhat subdued, for the time being; more than a year passed before I began meeting boys on the sly, in the afternoons. I do not know whether my grandparents guessed that I had never been to Yellowstone. I think they must have, eventually, for they did not ask too many questions. In a gloomy way, I was happy to be home again. At home, at least I could be romantic, lying on the sofa in the evenings, reading and dreaming, and looking out across our terraces to where the moon made a path on the lake, a path that beckoned to suicide, as I wrote in a school composition. Across the room, my grandparents played double solitaire, and when my grandmother lost she would send me upstairs to fetch her petit-point handbag out of the drawer that contained her handkerchiefs, her pearl opera glasses, and her pearl-handled revolver. The phone seldom rang, and I was almost glad of it, because if it were a boy, I would have to make some excuse to explain why I could not go out that night or any other night he proposed. At home, nothing ever happened, but it was an atmosphere in which one could think that the unknown, the improbable, might occur in the depths of the familiar, like the treasures I could find in my grandmother’s bureau drawer.

And in fact this proved to be true. Two summers later, when I was going to drama school, I first beheld what we then called my Dream Man (an actor whom I later married), at, of all places, a Bar Association pageant on the Magna Charta that my grandfather had made me go to, sulky and protesting. As for the Bent girls, I do not know what has become of them. The last time I saw Ruth Bent was when I was a junior at Vassar and she telephoned me from a small town in the Hudson River Valley to ask me to come and see her. She was twenty-one then and a widow, very well to do; she was running a chocolate factory which her husband, who had been killed in a plane crash, had left her. I had the sense that she had fulfilled her destiny: she still looked about forty, a poised, competent executive, with a furrow between her brows. And she was not a bit wild any more.

Except for the name of the town and the names of the people, this story is completely true. The only point that worries me is the business of Ruth’s changing the tickets; I know she did it, but it seems odd to me that the Pullman conductor let her. Possibly he issued her a voucher and she got a refund later, at the company offices in Seattle.

Technically, this ought to precede “The Figures in the Clock,” since it happened a year and a half before Miss Gowrie’s play. But I have placed it here because in “Yellowstone Park” I seem older. This may have been because I was not in school. Also, in Medicine Springs, I was having to live up to a role that “grew me up” overnight. Once I was out of that curious wonderland where all the men were married, I shrank back to my normal age. There is another explanation too. In my first years at the Seminary, I finally achieved my wish of making friends with older girls; except for Betty Bent, all my intimates were juniors and seniors. Their talk was mostly of men, dances, and fraternity pins, one of them, a girl of eighteen, was engaged. When they graduated, all this changed; my friends, now, were my own classmates, who, if anything, were rather young for their age. The fact that there were no beauties among them may account for this. Their inter
e
sts were sports, studies, and eating. Most of them had never been out with a boy, and many of them did not even smoke. As it turned out, being with my contemporaries was more fun than I had expected; it was less of a strain, for one thing. I did not have to pretend to greater experience than I had. We were busy too, as seniors, running the school; two of us were studying for college boards. This absorbed most of our energies and drew us closer to our teachers.

The reader has heard a great deal of my grandfather and very little of my grandmother. One reason for this is that she was living while most of these memoirs were being written. Sooner or later, however, I knew I was going to have to touch on her, or the story would not be complete. Even when she was dead, I felt a certain reluctance toward doing this, as toward touching a sensitive nerve. It meant probing, too, into the past, into my earliest, dimmest memories, and into the family past behind that. The sense of a mystery back of the story I had already told traced itself more and more to the figure of my grandmother, who had appeared only as a name, a sob, a lacy handkerchief, a pair of opera glasses, a pearl-handled revolver. The McCarthy family, great talkers and romancers, revealed their secrets readily enough, even if some of their revelations were dubious as fact. As a man, my grandfather Preston was an open book. His history was a matter of public record, for the most part, and if it contained hidden chapters, those chapters occurred, precisely, I found, at the point where his history met or merged with my grandmother’s.

They met, one story has it, at a military ball, he was in gala uniform, and they fell in love at first sight. But this cannot be right, because, so far as I know, my grandfather was never in the army, nor does “love at first sight” jibe with my grandmother’s account of their courtship. “Their relations opposed the marriage.” Possibly so, but I never heard this from any member of the family; on this subject, the principals were silent. As a man, my grandfather was an open book; as a husband, he is an enigma. My grandmother is the key, in her character too may lie the key to that strange favoritism shown to me and the cold reserve with which my brothers were treated.

All I know of her is told in the following, final chapter. She and my grandfather had three children. Both of her sons are living, and neither have had any issue. After them, the Preston name will be extinct.

Ask Me No Questions

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING STRANGE
, abnormal, about my bringing-up; only now that my grandmother is dead am I prepared to face this fact. When she died, she had not divulged her age; none of her children knew it, and whatever figure they found in her papers has remained a secret to me. She was well over eighty, certainly, and senile when she finally “passed away,” three years ago, in her tall Seattle house—under her gold taffeta puff, doubtless, with her rings on her fingers and her blue-figured diamond wrist watch on her puckered wrist. Probably she herself no longer knew how old she was; she was confused the last time I saw her, six years ago, when I flew west to be with her after she had broken her hip. Going over family photographs, which we spread out on her bed, she nodded and smiled eagerly, sitting up among her pillows like a macaw on its perch, in her plumage of black hair and rouge and eyebrow pencil and mascara. She recognized the faces—her husband with a mustache, her husband clean-shaven, her son in a World War I uniform, her nephews, her younger son in a sailor suit, my mother dressed as a Spanish dancer, my mother in a ball gown—but she was vague about the names. “My father,” she decided after studying an obituary photograph of Grandpa, clipped out of a newspaper. “Son,” “husband,” and “father” were all one to her. She knew who I was, right enough, and did not mix me up with my dead mother, but this was not very flattering, since it was usually the people she had loved that she could not keep apart, melting them into a single category—father-son-husband—like the Mystery of the Trinity. One relation whom she had quarreled with she picked out instantly, while I was still fumbling for the name. “That’s Gertrude!” she proclaimed victoriously. Then she made a face—the same face she made when the cook brought her something she did not like on her tray. I reminded her that she had made up with Gertrude years ago, but she shook her head. “Bad,” she said childishly. “Gertrude said bad things about me.”

“You,” she said one day, suddenly pointing. “You wrote bad things about me. Bad.” It was not true; I had never written about her at all. But when I told her so, she would not listen, nor would she say where she had derived her notion. This was exactly like her; she collected stray grudges like bits of colored ribbon and would never tell where they came from. Nobody had ever known, for instance, the exact cause of her falling-out with Gertrude. Now, sitting by her bed, I tried to coax her into a better frame of mind. She turned her head away on the pillow and shut her eyes; long, sharp lines ran down, like rivulets of discontent, from her nose to the corners of her mouth. A hopeless silence followed. It troubled me to see her like this; those deep, bitter lines were new to me, yet it must have taken years to indent them. I did not know whether to leave or stay, and I wished the nurse would come in. “You wrote about my husband,” she abruptly charged, opening her eyes and frowning over her high-bridged nose. This was a sign that she was far away; in her clear moments, she spoke of him to me as “Grandpa.” “Yes,” I agreed. “I wrote about Grandpa.”

It transpired that this had made her very angry, though she had never alluded to it in any of her letters. But why, precisely, she was angry, I could not find out from her. Certainly I had not said anything that she could call “bad” about Grandpa. It occurred to me that she was jealous because she had not been included in these writings; moreover, my grandfather had been shown with other women—a Mother Superior, a fictional aunt, myself. When she accused me of putting her in, did she really mean that she felt left out? She was capable of such a contradiction even before her mind had clouded. Or did she suppose that
she
was the aunt—a disagreeable personage? Hopeless, hopeless, I repeated to myself. It had always been like this. You could never explain anything to her or make her see you loved her. She rebuffed explanations, as she rebuffed shows of affection; they intruded on her privacy, that closely guarded preserve—as sacrosanct as her bureau drawers or the safe with a combination lock in her closet—in which she clung to her own opinion. “Look, Grandma,” I began, but then I gave it up.

I was going to say that (a) I had not written about her in any shape or disguise, and (b) if I had not, it was not because I considered her unimportant but because I knew she would hate to have her likeness taken. For nearly forty years, she had refused to be photographed. The last picture made of her, a tinted photograph, stood on her chiffonier; it showed an imperious, handsome matron in a low-cut beaded evening dress and a gauzy scarf, with her hair in a pompadour and her young son at her knee. This remained her official image, and nothing would persuade her to let it be superseded. In the four-generations pictures made when my brothers and I were children—my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my mother, and the babies—my grandmother is absent. The last time I had come to visit her, with my own baby, I had begged her to let us take pictures of this new family group. But she would not allow it. In the snapshots I have of that summer, in 1939, just before the war, my grandmother again is absent; a shadow on the lawn, near the playpen, in one of them may indicate where she was standing. Yet I dared not draw these facts to her attention, for there was a story behind them, the story of her life—a story that was kept, like her age, a secret from those closest to her, though we all guessed at it and knew it in a general way, just as we all knew, in a general way, calculating from our own ages and from the laws of Nature, that she had to be over eighty.

Starting to tell that story now, to publish it, so to speak, abroad, I feel a distinct uneasiness, as though her shade were interposing to forbid me. If I believed in the afterlife, I would hold my peace. I should not like to account to her in whatever place we might meet—Limbo is where I can best imagine her, waiting for me at some stairhead with folded arms and cold cream on her face, as she used to wait in her pink quilted Japanese bathrobe or the green one with the dragons when I turned my key softly in the front door at two or three in the morning, with a lie, which I hoped not to need, trembling on my lips. She would never forgive me for what I am about to do, and if there is an afterlife, it is God who will have to listen to my explanations.

My first recollection of her is in her grey electric, her smartly gloved hands on the steering bar or tiller. How old I was, I am not sure, but it was before my family left Seattle when I was six. The grey box would glide up to the curb in front of our brick house on Twenty-fourth Avenue, and we would see her step out, wearing a dressy suit, braided or spangled, and a hat with a dotted veil that was pulled tight over her high-bridged nose, so that the black furry dots against her skin looked like beauty patches. On her feet, over her shoes, were curious cloth covers fastened with pearl buttons; my father said they were called “spats” and that some men wore them, too. She had come to see my mother, and smelled of perfume. The electric would be parked for a long time outside our house; one day, my brothers and I climbed in and got it started rolling. My mother spanked us with her tortoise-shell comb, but my father boasted of the exploit. “How did the little tykes do it?” he would say, laughing; we must all have been well under six.

Next, I think I see her in our bathroom, telling my mother that we must each have our own towel with our name above it, so that we would not keep catching colds from each other. When she left, that afternoon, there was a brand-new towel for each of us hanging folded on the towel rack, with our names written out on a little label pasted on the wall behind each towel: “Roy” and “Tess” for our parents, and “Mary,” “Kevin,” and “James Preston” for us; my little brother Sheridan was too young to have one. I was impressed by this arrangement, which seemed to me very stylish. But the very next day my father spoiled it by using one of our towels, and soon they were all scrambled up again and the labels fell off. This was the first (and, I think, the only) time I felt critical of my debonair father, for I knew the strange lady would be cross with him if she could see our bathroom now.