The Bird’s Nest (10 page)

(On May
12
, Beth, or R
2
, in office consultation): Wright (after preliminary trance-inducing introduction of name and place identification) My dear, I want to talk about your mother.

B. (smiling wistfully) She was a lovely lady.

W. Much like yourself?

B. Yes. Very lovely and very happy and very sweet to everyone.

W. Do you remember her death?

B. (reluctantly) Not very well. She died that day.

W. Where were you when she died?

B. I was thinking of her.

W. But where?

B. Inside. Hidden.

W. As you usually are?

B. Except when I am with you.

W. I hope we can change that someday, my dear. But you must help me.

B. I will do anything you ask me to.

W. Splendid. I am most anxious, right now, to learn all I can about your mother's death.

B. She was very kind to everyone, even Aunt Morgen.

W. You lived with your aunt at the time?

B. Oh, yes, we have lived with
her
for years, ever since my dear father died.

W. And your father died when?

B. When I was two years old, or about that. I don't remember him very well.

W. Were you with your mother when she died?

B. I? I was never allowed to be with her. I am always kept hidden.

W. Compose yourself, Beth dear. We can talk of something else if this disturbs you.

B. No, I am eager to help in any way I can; I don't want you to think badly of me.

W. I assure you, I never shall. Can you tell me, then, precisely what you did after your mother's death?

B. (perplexed) We had lunch. And Aunt Morgen said not to worry.

W. Not to worry? You mean, not to grieve?

B. Not to worry. We had lunch and Aunt Morgen said not to worry, Aunt Morgen said not to cry over spilled milk, Aunt Morgen cried. It was disgusting.

W. (amused) You will not allow your aunt her grief?

B. She cried over spilled milk.

W. (laughing outright) Beth, this is cynicism.

B. Indeed not; I do not think evil of anyone.

A man who has just spoken, however inconclusively, with Beth, does not turn hastily to a conversation with Betsy. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the information which Elizabeth and Beth found themselves unable to give must be mined from Betsy, and so, resolutely, I denied the appeal of Beth's pretty face and dismissed her for Betsy; I made an effort to keep my countenance when Beth's turned head disclosed that grinning face, even though she could not, of course, see me, and I forced my voice to remain even and controlled.

(May
12
, Betsy, or R
3
, in office consultation): W. Good afternoon, Betsy. I hope I find you in excellent health.

By. (jeering) The others won't help, so you come and ask
me.

W. I hoped you might tell me—

By. I know. I was listening. (contemptuously) What do you think
they
can tell you?

W. —about your mother.

By.
My
mother? Do you think I claim that poor dead thing as
my
mother? Perhaps (impudently) I have a mother of my own, question-asker.

W. (Indeed if you had, you demon, I thought, she's a fiend in damnation): Miss R.'s mother, then.

By. As you are her father? (raucous laughter)

W. Miss R.'s mother, who died some years ago. Elizabeth's mother.

By. I know whose mother you mean, old man. The one she—(here she shut her lips, and grinned mysteriously, and put her finger to her mouth in a childlike gesture of secrecy)—Talking about Lizzie when her back is turned, my dear! For shame!

W. Betsy, I would like you to trust me. Believe me, I am only a person who wants to do whatever I can to ensure that you and Elizabeth and Beth will live together peaceably and happily; would you not like to be one person again?

By. I was never one person with her, I have always been her prisoner, and you wouldn't help me if you could. You may want to help Beth, and maybe even Lizzie, but you have no place for me in your pretty little world.

W. Indeed, I am truly sorry to see anyone so bitter as to refuse help when it is so badly needed.

By. I have told you hundreds of times that the best way to help me is to let me open my eyes. (gestures of wringing hands, and bringing them up to her eyes.)—May I?—(wheedlingly)—May I open them, dear Doctor Wright? And I will tell you everything you want to know, about Lizzie and about Lizzie's mother and about old Auntie and I will even put in a good word for you with Beth if I may only have my eyes open— (This was said in a tone of such mockery that I was gravely concerned; I had suddenly the notion that Betsy was teasing me, and might perhaps open her eyes this minute if she chose, and I was genuinely frightened at the thought.)

W. I insist that you keep your eyes closed. Do you realize, young lady, that if I find that you are of no use to me in my investigations, I will surely send you away and never let you come again? (I would have liked to, certainly, and perhaps even then I still could have.)

By. (apprehensive) You will not send me away.

W. I may; it was I who brought you here in the first place.

By. I can come by myself.

W. (not choosing to press
this
point) We shall see. (carelessly) Perhaps you are fond of sweets? (I had thought of this earlier; it occurred to me that a creature so childish might be fairly treated on childish terms; I had as alternatives a doll, and some tawdry jewelry.) Shall I put a candy in your hand?

By. (eagerly) Do you have candy right here?

W. (placing in her outstretched hand a piece of candy which she consumed greedily.) I am glad you begin to find me more friendly. No one would give you candy who did not wish you well.

By. (with satisfaction) If you poisoned me, then Lizzie and Beth would die.

W. I have no intention of poisoning you. I should like to have us friends, you and I.

By. I will be friends with you, old well-wisher. But I want more candy, and I want to open my eyes.

W. I assure you, you will never open your eyes with my permission. But can we not talk together as friends, Betsy?

By. (craftily) You have not given me any more candy yet.

W. (craftier still) When you tell me about your mother.

By. (unexpectedly gentle) Elizabeth's mother? She was always nice. She danced around the kitchen one day when she had a new dress and she said “Nonsense” to Morgen and she curled her hair. I liked to watch her.

W. Where were you?

By. A prisoner, always a prisoner, inside with Beth, only no one knew I was there.

W. Were you ever free? Outside, I mean?

By. (nodding, dreamy) Sometimes, when Lizzie is sleeping or when she turns her head away for a minute, I can get out, but only for a small time, and then she puts me back. (recollecting herself suddenly) But I am not going to tell you, you are not friendly to me.

W. Ridiculous; you know now that we are friends. Were you inside when Elizabeth's mother died?

By. Surely, and I made her scream even louder, and beat on the door.

W. Why did she beat on the door?

By. Why, to get out, Doctor Wrong.

W. To get out of what?

By. To get out of her room, Doctor Wrong.

W. What in heaven's name was Elizabeth doing shut in her room while her mother was dying?

By. Now, see, Doctor Wrong, I did not say that her mother was dying, although she surely was, and yet it was not in heaven's name—(laughs wildly)—and as for what Lizzie was doing in her room, why, she was beating on the door.

W. Will you explain it to me?

By. Now certainly not, Doctor Wrong; we all went together to seek a bird's nest; do you remember the man who was wondrous wise and jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes . . . may I open my eyes
now?

W. No.

By. —put her in a pumpkin shell, and there she kept her very well. And so Lizzie's mother died, and it was a good thing, too. She wouldn't have cared for our Lizzie now.

W. Did Elizabeth change after her mother died?

By. (tormenting) I only said that to tease you, eye-closer. I can tell you wonderful stories about your dear. Ask Lizzie about the box of letters in her closet. Ask Beth about Aunt Morgen. (laughing wildly again) Ask Aunt Morgen about Lizzie's mother.

W. That will do, please. I am going to send you away now.

By. (suddenly sober) Please, may I stay a minute longer? I have decided to tell you why Aunt Morgen locked Lizzie in her room.

W. Very well. But no more nonsense.

By. First, you promised me more candy.

W. One more, only. We should not care to make Elizabeth sick.

By. (carelessly) She is always sick, anyway. I never thought of a stomachache, though.

W. Do you make her head ache?

By. Why would I tell you that? (impudently) If I told you everything I know, then you would be as wise as I am.

W. Then tell me why Elizabeth was locked in her room.

By. (emphatically) Because she frightened her mother and Aunt Morgen said they all went together to find a bird's nest.

W. I beg your pardon?

By. May I open my eyes
now?

W. How did she frighten her mother?

By. She put her in a pumpkin shell. Silly silly silly silly. . . .

I dismissed her, more distressed than I can say by the odd, hinted stories she brought me, although far less inclined to credit them than to see Betsy herself as a wicked and mischievous creature, bent on making trouble, and with what fearful designs in that black heart I could not begin to imagine. When Elizabeth awakened, seeing me disturbed, she asked with some anxiety whether she had been talking foolishly while asleep, and I bade her leave me, reassuring her with the not-entire falsehood that I was not well. The next morning—a Tuesday—when I reached my office, there was on my desk a message, put there by Miss Hartley, who had taken it by phone from Miss R.'s aunt, to the effect that Miss R. had a touch of the influenza and so would not be able to keep her appointments for at least the rest of the week, and very possibly the week following. I noted on my appointment book my intention of dropping in upon Miss R. and her aunt within the next day or so, ostensibly to make a polite inquiry after Miss R.'s health, actually to determine if her recovery might not be hastened by a brief treatment from myself; I was of course aware that in such a case the attending physician would be Doctor Ryan, and had no doubt of securing a half hour or so alone with my patient.

I do not, as I believe I have before indicated, see many patients these days, and so found myself relieved by Miss R.'s illness of my greatest concern; I feel myself greatly favored by fortune in that, in the prime of life, I am, although a widower, luckily enough circumstanced to be able to avoid the pushing and scrambling which accompanies the work of many medical men, in their efforts to make a living in a field where the emphasis is upon conformity rather than upon genius (how often have I sighed over the cynicism of the old saw that a good doctor buries his mistakes!) and which is overcrowded at the mediocre level, and unfortunately not crowded at all at the top. Thackeray tells me that any stupid hand can draw a hunchback, and write Pope underneath; calumny, I know, succeeds to misunderstanding in the hearts of the best-intentioned. No one who desired my services was deprived of them, although many who needed my services were discouraged from visiting me; had I been more a crusader, I suspect, I might have had my waiting room filled from morning till night, but it has never been my way to seek out quarrels, and push an issue to a disagreement; I have been content to sit back and, knowing full well my own worth, made no effort to force it upon others. This, I submit meekly, is not modesty, a virtue with which I am not abnormally endowed (and
you,
sir?), but earnest common sense.

Thus, although Miss R. was much upon my mind during the next day or so, so was Thackeray, and the old gentleman and I spent many an amiable hour together with the office door closed and Miss Hartley outside, no doubt supposing that I was busied upon some abstruse problem of research or else—Miss Hartley is a rare humorist—napping.

On Wednesday morning I telephoned Miss R.'s residence and spoke, as I was told, to her aunt, a Miss Jones. Our conversation was brief and matter-of-fact; I identified myself and inquired after Miss R.'s health, Miss Jones told me that Miss R. felt most unwell, was running a high temperature and had been, her aunt said, delirious upon waking in the middle of the night. I was concerned, and inquired after Ryan's treatment, fearing that he regarded this illness more lightly than he should, but Miss Jones reassured me, telling me that Ryan appeared at Miss R.'s bedside twice a day, etc., and I was forced to ring off, after expressing my hopes for a swift return of Miss R.'s health. It seemed most unlikely that a personal visit from myself would be of any value at the moment, nor, indeed, could I reasonably contemplate hypnosis, with its possible unsettling effect upon Miss R. in her present condition. As a result, then, I spared a moment to wonder wryly what conceivable form Miss R.'s delirium might take which could be more frightening than what I had already met here in my office, and to hope that my next word of her might be more encouraging; I then resigned myself to hearing no further news of her for a few days and returned, with complacency, to Thackeray.

It was, then, not until Thursday evening that the blow fell. I had spent a quiet evening at home and retired and was, indeed, asleep, when the telephone at my bedside rang and, having for the last few years become unaccustomed to middle-of-the-night emergency calls, I was at first startled and then frightened and angry when I heard Miss Jones' voice, controlled but showing agitation nevertheless, asking me most urgently to hurry to her house. “My niece,” she said, in that strained voice which so often accompanies terror under iron control, “insists upon seeing you at once; she has been calling your name for over an hour.”