The Incredible Charlie Carewe (17 page)

“The night we decided on this apartment,” added Jeff, “we took it because of the view of the river, because we seem to be ‘water people.’ ” They were making conversation so that Zoë could recover her composure, but they were remembering a V-path of moonlight from the Point back home. And how in Europe they walked in the mist along the Thames, poked at bookstalls beside the Seine, and later, whenever troubles rose, one of them would say, “Let’s go find some water to look at.” They could project their worries, get them outside themselves, plunging them into the lazy flow of a river, or tossing them over a waterfall; staying close together, saying nothing, until their minds felt clarified, cleaned from emotional confusion, resting in reality once more.

There was a difficult silence for a while, and Virginia tried to help. “Where did you say Charlie was going tonight?”

Zoë’s tears had not stopped. “I said he was taking a client to dinner, because that’s what he said, but I know damn well it’s not true.”

“How?” inquired Virginia. “How do you know——”

“Because—well, because he likes to boast, for some reason, about who he’s hooked—he always goes into detail with me about his strategy, how big-shot Brown or Smith or whoever is no match for his cleverness, and so on and on. But when he just says, airily, ‘a client,’ I know—I just know, that’s all.” She picked up a table lighter and snapped it viciously at her cigarette. “Those crummy people he draws like flies—says he’s ‘helping’ them.”

“What people, Zoë?” asked Jeff, hoping to make her talk it out. Virginia knitted on, without expression.

Zoë took a deep breath and sat down squarely in a chair, forgetting, for once, to drape herself into her usual chic line.

“I don’t want to hurt you people, I doubt if I can, I envy you that Charlie’s actions no longer really concern you—you’re so safe——” The tears were about to spill again, but she recovered herself. “You know that Dad is thoroughly unimpressed by Charlie. We had an awful fight not long ago. He had no right—anyway, I made the mistake of crying on his shoulder one night, when I was feeling sorry for myself—like tonight; he took it upon himself to find out a few things about my guy—dreadful things, I don’t really care, because I know I could change everything. Apparently Charlie just gets—well, restless, sometimes, and goes off and gets drunk with some really dreadful characters—holes up in some miserable dump for a few days; once he got tossed into jail, but he waved enough money and indignation around so that it never got into the papers. Then he ‘comes back’ from an ‘out-of-town business trip’ blithe and gay as you please. And none the worse for wear.”

Jeff said in astonishment, “Zoë, why in hell do you bother with such a person! Don’t worry,” he assured her, “Virginia and I know the score, you can’t offend us, but what beats me——”

Zoë flashed at him like a mother defending a child, “Listen, he isn’t the first ‘scion of a noble family’ to sow a few oats.”

“He’s twenty-seven years old, Zoë—it’s a little late for oat-sowing:,

“And I’m twenty-eight. I could steady him. I know he loves me—he isn’t just a no-good guy, somebody you just dismiss as not being worth bothering about.”

“Well . . .” Jeff’s tone was lower, quiet. “Let’s have another drink and put a pin in it for tonight, what do you say?”

“You know, Jeff”—Virginia stuck her needles into her work, and got up to get the brandy—“I keep remembering, the day Charlie left for New York in such a big hurry—no, it was the night before—we were all together—and Gregg Nicholson was trying to explain that Charlie might be mentally ill in some way; I often wondered. I’ve met a few others, like Charlie, in a sense—having a peculiar type of personality——”

“Oh rot!” said Zoë. “Charlie is Charlie, and as for Gregg Nicholson, he bores me completely. I can’t see why Charlie lets him hang around. He’s thoroughly dull, thoroughly the pedagogue. He would find no welcome in our home, I can tell you that.”

“I wouldn’t pursue that area, if I were you, Virginia,” said Jeff to his wife, “you might find something that would make everybody unnecessarily miserable.”

“But, Jeff,” Virginia replied quickly, “you always face things, why not face this? If it’s true, we might save a lot of grief—and help Charlie.”

Jeff caught her eye and shook his head. “Or cause a lot of grief—to your mother and father, to Alma and Herb and Elsie—stop it, Virginia.”

“I’m sorry,” Virginia whispered, and Zoë burst into laughter.

“I can see Charlie submitting to a psychiatrist! He’d read up on a few books first and have the poor man so confused he’d think
he
was crazy! No”—she shook her head with its cap of gold—“I don’t buy that one, darlings; because if there’s anything the matter with Charlie, I know, I feel it in my bones, that the remedy is
me
, just plain
me
.”

It was high noon of the kind of day when the city seems to reach into the sky and pull the season down around itself like a radiant garment. There is a sweet mildness in the temperature, the flower shops bulge with color. And the horn tooting and the rush of cars seem to express exuberance rather than the usual hostile urgency.

There was full press coverage of the Appleby-Carewe nuptials. There was police protection, as the sidewalk was jammed for a look at glamor and wealth; hushed now, as the organ vibrated in low emotional wave lengths. The pageant was at the climax of its meticulous preparation, and jangled nerves were settling in satisfaction that nothing, so far, had gone wrong. No toe tripped on a rug, no delicate material snagged on anything. Not a candle sputtered, not a blossom but held its petals intact. There were still a few beaded upper lips of tension. Virginia released her hold on her father’s hand to touch her own lips gently with her handkerchief. On her other side Jeff, in his invalid chair, sat in the right aisle, holding an enchanted Alma on his knees. Virginia was trying to rid herself of the small resentment that Charlie had been obstinate about having Gregg as his best man instead of Jeff. “My oldest friend and revered teacher—besides, I need his help, and Jeff is hardly——” Also, Zoë had airily announced that she simply had to have Maude Olsen as her matron of honor—“She would be terribly hurt, poor darling—I’ve known her since we were in high school.” And, she might have added, had always been served by her with unquestioning devotion. Ever since the engagement had been announced, Zoë had ceased, paradoxically, to be one of the family. Any and all of Jeff’s and Virginia’s offers of assistance were graciously refused, because she didn’t want them to “bother.” “The real reason being,” Jeff had said one day, “that she’s embarrassed.”

Still holding the phone in her hand, Virginia said, “She practically hung up on me! Nobody’s in that much of a hurry. What’s she got to be embarrassed about? Hasn’t she won? Isn’t this her great hour of triumph?”

“She’s confided too much in us. Don’t you see, darling? She’s admitted to being a fool, she’s admitted that Charlie’s an unholy mess—and now she wants to forget that she ever said anything of the kind.”

Zoë had found a new word for Gregg’s “dullness.” He was “dependable” and therefore useful to her. “I think it’s wonderful that Charlie wants you to be his best man, Gregg dear.” And laughing, she had said, “I’m sure you’ll see to it that Charlie won’t take it into his head to run out on me at the last minute.” Her laughter meant that of course she was being funny, that such a thing could never happen, but Gregg knew that her fear was real. “He’ll be there, Zoë—don’t you worry. He’ll be there—for the wedding.” Gregg knew that he had an easy job. He knew that Charlie had a full set of antennae regarding other people’s responses to any given situation. Charlie was quite aware that people attached tremendous significance to things like “Love and Marriage,” “Right and Wrong.” Because he was never deeply involved he could anticipate emotions. He could repair a sensitive situation with what seemed like great tact, or he could add a word that would make it burst into flame. Getting attention and applause was sometimes a lot of bother, full of annoying details, but extremely satisfying.

Standing beside Charlie at the altar, Gregg watched Zoë’s approach, leaning on her handsome silver-haired father’s arm, looking like royally. His compassion for the beautiful girl was deep, but his onetime desire to protect people from Charlie had died down. It had been a losing game. He preferred to be the spectator. Last night he had made some jocular admonition to Charlie about being on time for the ceremony and Charlie had said, “Don’t be crazy, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s going to be a hell of a good show.”

As Zoë joined him, and the others stepped into their positions, there was a hushed moment. The organ began a soft tone poem of Grieg’s, the minister cleared his throat discreetly. “Dearly beloved,” he began. Charlie looked down at Zoë with a slight smile, and she caught his look briefly, her eyes shining. “Funny,” thought Charlie, “her eyes are blue; dark blue. Not brown, like Mavis’s.” He wondered for a moment if Mavis had seen any newspapers. Not possibly of course. She could barely read, and the only paper that ever appeared in that God-forsaken place was just a local sheet.
If
she had gone back to Clarke Falls. He wondered what had become of her. The little brown bird. Mavis. His wife.

It was the tiniest of portage stations, just inside the United States on the Canadian border. Hunters and their guides made the stop briefly, overnight. The falls reared up, ahead of the traveler, who would pause for the night, to rest, to get a good meal, to put in a few supplies and take off in the morning to where the river was again navigable, some ten miles upstream. There were a few weeks in early spring when the ice broke, and imprisoned logs began to groan and move and then spin over the falls like matchsticks. There were gangs to greet them, to shepherd them into order, and for a time there were voices shouting in strange dialects, the sound of a donkey engine, the rattle of chains, and the heavy sound of boots on the stone floor of the Inn. These were the thirsty men, the sundown drinkers of quarts of ale or tumblers of whisky, the men who cleaned out the larder and brought a flush to the face of the small plain girl who served them. She accepted ribald remarks in English and in French without comment, and the redness of her cheeks was caused as much from removing the hot meat pies from the oven in the kitchen as from the content of their remarks.

“They’ll be gone in a day or two, sir,” she had apologized to the young gentleman, who had made loud complaints about the “service around here.” “Then I’ll be able to take care of you.”

“Thanks, Mavis, I’m doing fine.” He relented a little. “Just save me a few of those beautiful fat strawberries, will you?”

She bobbed a curtsy as she closed the heavy door. It stuck a little, she pulled harder, and winced when it slammed. She pushed at the white kerchief which held her hair. It was damp at the forehead, and wearily she leaned against the planked wall for a moment.

It was new to her, the weariness. Usually she looked forward to the few hectic weeks of the spring run with some excitement. The preparation, the scrubbing and scouring, the anxiety of reporting to Grand-mère the state of supplies from the border station; Louis’s bad temper in the kitchen, whose cooking was hearty and unimaginative, but whose touchiness equaled that of a French chef; it made the slow blood of the winter months move again, and tumble it through the body like the logs speeding down the river.

The young gentleman had arrived about a week ago, with some hunting companions. They had gone on without him, because he had an ankle that was swollen to twice the size of its mate. For a few days he had seemed to be in a very bad temper. He had complained about everything, the poor man, and Mavis had stood quietly at the door while he growled and grumbled at his misfortune. About the lack of consideration of Joe and Mitch at leaving him in this “God-forsaken place——” Amazed at her own bravery, she had pointed out to him, “It’s a fine time of year, here in Clarke Falls—it’s spring—that big tree there, outside your window, any day now is covered with blossoms and they smell just beautiful. There’s good fishing in the little streams—when your ankle gets better, it would be easy to get to them.” Then she had turned crimson at her effrontery, muttering, “I’m sorry, sir, excuse me, please,” and had backed hurriedly toward the door.

But he wasn’t offended. He was smiling in the most friendly way. “You're nice, Mavis. It's me who should be excused. Come back and talk, when you're free. I’m lonesome, that’s all.”

When the loggers had left, the post settled down, back into its unfeverish activities. The stillness of the forest moved in closer as if to watch. And the falls, free of the rifle-cracking, tumbling, jarring cargo of logs, was able to hear its own voice again, to pick up its lost place in the chorus of sound. To furnish the proper, steady background for the wind and the rain and the choirs of birds who had returned home.

There had been no answer to Mavis’ knock. She went into the room and picked up a tray Mr. Charles had left on the table in front of the window. With a frown she wondered how he had managed the stairs. Through the branches of the big apple tree she could see him leaning on the cane that Grand-mère had loaned him. It was of no use to her, Mrs. Durand had said when Charlie protested. She only kept it in the corner in case her knee got bad; when it was cold mostly, she had said. He was at the edge of the kitchen garden, talking to Louis, who was working the black soil with his hoe.

For a long moment Mavis watched, secure in not being seen, able to look at Mr. Charles without having to endure the flush of modesty that overcame her in his presence. Other men looked at her, the loggers with their leering, their jokes, their eyes that were like hands. This had no effect, they could be shut out simply by not looking at them, by being busy filling mugs and wiping tables. There was Emile presiding over his domain of merchandise down by the river’s dock, where she went to buy thread and spices and Epsom salts for the compresses for Grand-mère. But Emile was looking for sympathy, his eyes were always saying, “Be kind to me,” for the voice of his wife was always just beneath the screaming point, even when she only said, “Good day.” And there was Louis, her cousin, whose eyes were like the red calf’s in the barn.