The Late Clara Beame (13 page)

“Are you sure you feel all right, Laura?” Henry asked again, as they both entered the quiet living room.

“Yes, darling.” Laura looked about her with a satisfied sigh. “It’s wonderful to have the furnaces on again, and the lights.” The living room basked in mellow warmth; the fire crackled and threw up sheets of flame. Laura switched the tree lights on, and the tree came alive in shimmering color. Henry watched his wife closely. Her profile reflected nothing but youthful pleasure, and Henry frowned a little. He stirred up the fire unnecessarily. Laura went to the piano and began to play carols. Then the others came into the room, Alice, as always, dressed in blue, her golden hair tied back severely. She looked wan and preoccupied.

“Well, well,” David said. “Christmas proceeds as scheduled, come snow, darkness, alarms in the night, bullets and Borgia cups! What a wonderful spirit America has. Disaster to the right, disaster to the left, disaster fore and aft, and America beams at Christmas and pretends all is deliciously right in this worst of all possible worlds. How about some drinks?”

“Don’t be a bore,” Alice told him. “Martini for me.” She looked restlessly at Laura, who had stopped playing, and was smiling across the room at her guests. She seemed hardly more than a child, which always irritated Alice. “You make a nice picture over there,” she told her. “Aren’t you going to join us?”

Laura got up slowly, the folds of her rose velvet dress flowing about her. Henry caught her eye and winked encouragingly, and she reminded herself that this was her home. She was mistress here.

David made her a drink, and when she reached for the glass their fingers met. Laura stood still, as she felt a thrill from David’s touch.

“Are you feeling better?” John Carr had come to stand beside her. She started, and stared at him as though she had never seen him before. “What?” she murmured. “Oh, yes, thank you.” He was smiling at her charmingly, but when she looked into his eyes the old feeling that he was not strange to her at all returned.

“Isn’t the drink all right, Laura?” David asked.

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” She did not know why, but as she turned to him she felt the sting of tears along her eyelids. She bent her head and sipped at her glass. A sense of loss, of foreboding, rushed in on her. Henry and Alice were talking amiably and quietly together on the other side of the hearth, and Laura suddenly became conscious of a kind of intimacy between them, though Alice’s smile was coolly indifferent and Henry’s expression that of the genial host.

“Hope you didn’t buy me any ties for Christmas,” David said. “I have exactly ten ties, four dark blue, three dark green, and three dark gray. Don’t confuse me with anything else.”

Laura couldn’t look at him directly, still remembering the thrill of their touch. She had known it only once before, when she had been sixteen and had met David for the first time in two years. Where had it been? She had the confused memory of a restaurant in New York, or perhaps it was a shop. She said, staring down into her glass, “I didn’t get you ties, David. Our gift to you, well, you can open it yourself after dinner. We open our presents Christmas Eve.” She remembered now; she and Alice were in Schrafft’s. A summer day. She had shaken hands with David and had experienced that almost shocking reaction as he had taken her hand in his.

“Aren’t you going to toast Christmas Eve?” Henry suggested.

They all began to talk at once. They had more drinks. The ornaments on the tree sparkled and glittered. The storm raged on outside, unnoticed. Even Alice’s haggard face lightened under the influence of the cocktails. But Laura still felt alone, outside of this group, outside of this house, as though she had been banished or forgotten, and was not even a memory to these four gathered around her hearth, on Christmas Eve, with their glasses in their hands. By nature and early environment she was shy, and had never thrust herself into the center of things. She had always been content merely to watch and smile and enjoy the pleasure of others. But never before had she felt herself so forgotten, like someone long dead who had not, even in her lifetime, inspired interest or solicitude. She studied them all. If they would only notice her just at this moment, smile at her. But though David was standing near her, he was laughing with the others. “Notice me, please notice me,” she implored them in her mind. “I don’t know why, but I’m frightened. I feel terribly alone.”

Alice suddenly looked at her, almost as if she had heard. “Laura, are you sure you’re really well enough to be down here?”

Henry moved to her and touched her arm. “Laura?” She tried to smile, but her mouth quivered.

“Nothing, darling,” she told him. “But — ” She paused. “I always seem to remember Aunt Clara on Christmas Eve. I just can’t help it, but I have a feeling she’s right here with us.”

“Really?” John’s gray eyes were serious. “I always did believe that the dead aren’t very far away. Honestly,” he said, when the others laughed a little. “Besides, don’t our religions teach that? You pagans, you.” But his glance at Laura was kind and understanding, and she was overwhelmingly grateful. When he smiled like that, she could not believe he was a stranger.

“I’ve heard that ghosts walk on Christmas Eve,” David commented.

“You’re thinking of Halloween,” Alice told him. Her blue eyes were cold; “I’m sorry, but I can’t feel a thing about Aunt Clara. It doesn’t seem possible, but I can hardly remember how she looked, or much about her as a person, though she was a formidable old woman. But then, I rarely sat with her here in this room. I was always roaming around outside or investigating the rooms and attics.”

“She used to sit in this very chair,” Laura said, putting her hand on it with a curious sense of protection. “She was always sewing or embroidering or mending. She would say that no lady’s hands are idle, at least not American ladies’.”

“Old-fashioned as the devil,” David remarked. “I only saw her about half a dozen times, myself. She smelled of peppermint, mothballs, and old clothes. Are you offended, Laura?”

“Not exactly.” Laura’s voice was sad. “But how awful it is to die and not be remembered by anyone.”

Henry spoke sharply. “Now, Laura, let’s not be morbid again. This is Christmas Eve. And we have guests.”

Laura looked at him in confusion. He said to David, “I’ve thought of asking Laura’s doctor in New York to give her a tranquilizer to take when she’s depressed.”

David studied Laura as he spoke to Henry: “Everyone has a right to be depressed at times. Often depressed, Laura?”

She was still confused. Henry answered: “Too often. Come now, Laura, let’s be gay tonight, shall we?”

“Of course,” she murmured. She thought to herself: I suppose I have been morbid and depressed occasionally, since I lost the baby, and Henry’s been noticing it. I didn’t think it was that obvious, though. In fact, I haven’t spoken of the baby for weeks and weeks, perhaps months, until the other night. Sometimes I’ve even forgotten, too, for days. And my leg hardly bothers me any more.

“If I hadn’t thought it would lift your spirits, I would have insisted you stay in bed, Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve,” Henry told his wife with concern.

Laura’s sense of confusion deepened. Henry spoke again, to David: “She was very upset, about the accident and the baby, the night before you came. I was worried about her. You don’t have any tranquilizers with you, do you, Dave?”

Laura interrupted quickly. “I don’t need any.”

“Yes, you do, dear,” Henry contradicted her firmly. “I don’t want you to have another crying fit as you did the other night. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted. But what did he mean by ‘crying fit’? She had only cried a little, but had laughed again afterwards.

“Crying fits often, Laura?” David asked casually, refilling her glass.

She hesitated. To deny it would put Henry in a foolish light. She glanced at him: he seemed tense. “I suppose I’ve been pretty bad, sometimes.” Why were they all looking at her so oddly?

“I thought you were getting over it,” Henry said reproachfully. “And your memory, Laura. You’re always forgetting things lately.”

She was utterly bewildered now. There was silence in the room. “Have I?” she asked faintly.

Henry sighed. “All right, sweetheart, let’s forget this, too.” He appeared extremely disturbed as he went to the small bar and poured another drink. “One for me, too, Hank,” Alice said. He seemed not to hear; his hands moved slowly. She repeated her request, and he started. “Of course, of course.”

David and John looked at each other; John lifted his eyebrows. “Is that damn storm still prowling around outside?” he asked. “Does it go on forever?”

“If it weren’t for making us snowbound, I’d be enjoying it,” Laura told him, eager to forget the past few moments. “It gives me a very snug feeling.”

“I think Laura has a touch of the hermit in her,” Henry commented. “Too much so, sometimes. I’m sure it’s that that makes her depressed.”

But I’m rarely depressed, Laura thought. And I’m not a hermit. It’s just that I like New York and miss it sometimes, and the women around here now are so much older than I am, and they have children they talk about constantly. I do love my house, where I’ve always been happy, but I’d like to go to New York more often. We used to, until I had that accident. Henry protects me too much.

Again David refilled her glass. She drank absently. She promised herself that as soon as she could she would meet Henry in town more often. They would resume their visits to theatres and restaurants. He must miss them, too. That is why she had insisted he stay in town many evenings while she had been recovering. But though she had been really well since the first of November, Henry had not suggested that she meet him in the old way. Yes, she commented to herself, he pampers me too much. He doesn’t seem to realize that I’m quite normal again.

“Now what’s bothering you, dear?” Henry asked affectionately. “You remember what you promised me, don’t you?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment. “Promised? Oh, you mean about being festive tonight?”

“Yes. You are going to keep your promise, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Again she was confused. Had she really upset her husband so much? Tears came to her eyes and Henry noticed them at once. “There, there, darling.” He touched her cheek lovingly, and smiled down at her. “Are you feeling those drinks? You know you can’t take too many these days. We expect to listen to carols tonight, and I don’t want to have to carry you up to bed sound asleep.”

Now Laura found her confusion mixed with exasperation. Her cheeks turned bright pink. “Henry! You make me sound like an alcoholic!”

“Interesting,” Alice remarked languidly. “Is our Laura hitting the bottle these days?”

“I don’t think that’s fair, really,” Henry said. “You forget that Laura had a bad experience last summer. Darling, you don’t want the rest of that drink, do you? You’ve had three big ones so far.”

Laura looked about her, sick with humiliation. David and John Carr were studying the glasses in their hands, their expressions serious.

“I think I know when I’ve had enough to drink!” she retorted. Her face trembled, and she felt like crying. What was wrong with Henry? “You know I drink very little, Henry. Please, let’s change the subject.”

“I just don’t want you to be sick again.” Henry put his arm around her.

“I don’t intend to be,” she told him, and heard the edge of hysteria in her voice. Oh, what a fool she was making of herself, spoiling everything, for her husband, her guests, and herself. The wind thundered against the windows. Then Edith announced dinner. Laura turned quickly and stumbled, as Henry grasped her arm. “Take it easy,” he cautioned, as the others watched them closely.

When they were at the beautifully set table, with the crystal and silver sparkling in the candlelight, Laura felt ill again. She could not eat; she simply could not force herself. Her sense of isolation, of being completely alone, had returned. The others, sensing that she was upset, made light conversation around her. John Carr mentioned that he had not had the time to sit down with Henry to go over the partnership papers. Smilingly he confided to Alice: “Too many pretty women around. That’s the trouble.” “I’ll teach you to use snowshoes,” she promised. Suddenly she remembered what Henry had told her about John’s gun. It all seemed absurd now. David had been quite right. Surely he had hidden it for safety. A charming, easygoing young man like this could hardly be dangerous. She knew perfectly well that criminals often had honest eyes, and truly evil people the expressions of saints. But she had usually been able to detect liars and the truly evil, and there was none of this in John Carr. There was more than candor in his eyes. There was sincerity, and there was strength and kindness about his mouth. Not all the fraud in the world could put them there.

Then she thought of her dead husband, and her face was empty again.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Henry asked Laura anxiously. “You haven’t touched your dinner.”

Laura fumbled for her knife and fork, and tried to eat the excellent lamb chops, but the meat nauseated her. She was aware of Henry’s close attention, his encouraging smiles, which made her nervous. If only he would stop watching her! She dropped her fork in her lap and uttered an exasperated cry.

“No damage,” David said, brushing her skirt with his napkin.

“I’m always dropping things!” Laura apologized, gesturing with her hand and suddenly overturning her water glass. Henry was on his feet immediately, his face drawn with concern.

“It doesn’t
matter
!” she told him. “Please don’t bother about me!”

Edith came in with hot rolls. “Please bring a heavy towel, or something,” Laura told her. “I’ve spilled the water.”

Edith went out, sighing loudly. “That girl always makes a fuss over the slightest thing Laura does,” Henry said, annoyed. “She never makes allowances for — everything.”

“She’s really very good,” Laura put in. “And we couldn’t get anyone else to stay here, so far from everything. I don’t mind her tantrums.”

Edith returned with a towel and made elaborate work of sopping up the water. Conversation resumed. Laura knew she had offended Henry; he refused to look at her. She ought not to have lost her temper; she ought not to have been so nervous.

She wanted desperately to enter the conversation. Alice was describing the technique of using snowshoes to John Carr, and he was listening, his head bent to her. When she paused, Laura interrupted excitedly, “I wrote you that we’d have snow when you came, Alice, and I was right.”

Alice looked puzzled. “In your last letter: The one inviting me?”

“No, the first one I wrote you after Thanksgiving, when we did have a flurry. You remember I wrote that if we have snow at Thanksgiving we usually have a heavy snow at Christmas?”

Alice frowned. Laura felt a little thrust of exasperation again. “The letter you didn’t answer, Alice, the first one inviting you. Don’t you remember?”

“But I didn’t receive any letter from you after Thanksgiving, Laura, except the one you wrote about two weeks ago.”

“But I wrote you
two
letters!”

“I only received one,” Alice repeated.