The Towers of Love (35 page)

She put the bottle back on the table beside her bed and, using both hands, she held the glass to her lips. She smiled coyly at him over the rim. “Well,” she said. “Well, let's see. Oh, I know. I remember. One thing I was trying to do is, was—I've been trying to write a letter. A simple little apology letter. I've been sitting here trying to write a simple little god-damned apology letter.” She waved towards the sheets of pink stationery that lay about the bed on top of the coverlet. “I've been trying to write a perfectly
simple
letter, but I can't get the god-damned phrasing right.”

“Who is this letter to?” he asked.

“Oh,” she lifted her hand vaguely. “I've been trying to write to some—to some god-damned commandant. But I can't even get the beginning of it right. I mean, how the hell do you begin a letter to a commandant? Do you say, ‘Dear Commandant'? Or, ‘My darling Commandant,' or, ‘Commandant, my angel'? And I've forgotten his stupid name. I mean, I don't know whether it should be, ‘My darling Commandant
Jones
,' or—hey,” she said. “You were in the Army, weren't you, baby? You ought to know.”

“I wouldn't write any more letters to commandants if I were you,” he said.

“Oh?” she said. “You wouldn't? Really?”

“Certainly not in the state you're in.”

“I'm in a state of shock, that's what I'm in. And he's in the state of Colorado. Ha! That's funny, isn't it? I'm in a state of shock, and he's in the state of Colorado. Well, maybe I won't write him any more letters.” She took another swallow of her drink and looked at him crookedly over the top of her glass again. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “By the way Reba tells me you're thinking of leaving.”

“That's right,” he said.

“Well, then,” she said. “Then get out. Get out. Get out and don't come back.”

“That's exactly what I'm going to do, Mother.”

“Good!” she said. “Good riddance.” She put her head back against the pillows and looked up at the ceiling. “Get out and don't come back,” she said. “Are you going to tell me
where
you're going? Or is that going to be your great, big secret? I mean, it might be nice if I knew
where
you were going. After all, I am your mother. But it doesn't matter. I don't care where you go. You can go to the moon for all I care. Only it might be nice if I knew where you were going, in case I wanted to send you a letter. To my
darling
son. To my
devoted
son. To my
precious
son. Address: Care of the moon. To my darling, son, address: The Moon. The Sea of Whatchamacallit—the Sea of Tranquillity, The Moon, U.S.A.”

“I'll let you know when I get there,” he said.

“Where do you think you're going to get to?” she said.

“Would you really like to know, Mother?”

“I'm curious, yes.”

“I'm going to California,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “That's nice. California. I've heard of California. California's as far as the moon, isn't it? Farther. Well, what are you going to do in California? Are you going to go into the movies? They're looking for a replacement for Clark Gable, aren't they? Or are you just going to be a—a gentleman of leisure?”

“Well, if you really want to know, I'm going to look for a job on a newspaper.”

“Oh, A
news
paper. I see. A newspaper.
Why?
”

“It's something I've always wanted to do.”

“Oh. It's something you've always wanted to
do
. Yes. Yes, I can see it now. Hugh Carey, ace reporter.
Chasing
after news stories! I can just see it. Hugh Carey,
running
after the masked bandit. Bang, bang! Running back to the paper with the hot
scoop
! Hugh Carey, star reporter, with his nose for news. Who'd hire you to work for a newspaper?”

“Well,” he said. “I think there are some people who would. But let me take care of that, Mother.”

“Yes,” she said. “I can imagine. I can imagine you taking care of that. Who'd ever hire you for a newspaper? Who'd ever hire you for anything? Well,” she said, sitting up again and waving at him with the glass, “let me know when you get there.”

“You seem to forget,” he said, “that I've spent nearly seven years at a very good job in New York.”

“Seven years,” she said. “Seven years at a very good job in New York.
What
very good job are you talking about, my sweet? Who hired you for
what
very good job in New York?”

“Joe Wallace hired me,” he said, “as you know damn' well.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Wait a
minute. Joe Wallace
hired you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, and neither do you.”

“That's right, baby,” she said. “That's right, baby, baby. Keep your little innocent illusions, baby.”

“I'm leaving, Mother.”

“That's right—leave. Leave and take your pretty little illusions with you. Ignorance is bliss, my baby.”

He stood facing her for a moment. Then he said, “You disgust me.”

“
I
disgust
you
? Is that what you said? Well, you disgust me!”

“Good-bye.”

“Wait a minute!” she said. “I disgust you, do I? Well, do you really think Joe Wallace hired you?”

“Of course he did.”

“Oh, wait just a minute, baby! Let me refresh your poor memory! Joe Wallace didn't hire you. The way I remember it, Joe Wallace loaned you a hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a five-year note to buy into his business.”

“That's right.”

“And where do you suppose Joe Wallace
got
a hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Where would Joe Wallace get money like that, baby mine? Baby mine, whom I disgust! Would you like to see my cancelled cheques? Would you? They're right in my second drawer—right over there. Go get my cancelled cheques. Where do you suppose Joe Wallace ever got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars? And where do you suppose Joe Wallace got the money to pay you a fancy salary—so that you could pay the loan back to him and still have some left over for yourself—so that Joe Wallace could gradually pay back the hundred and fifty thousand to me? Get my cancelled cheques!”

He stood, uncertainly, in the centre of the floor. A tall column of despair seemed to rise up and fill the room; it pressed against him and he couldn't move. “But I don't understand,” he said. “Why?”

“
Why
? Well, I should think it would be very clear to you
why
! I wanted my darling son to have a job! And I wanted my darling son to think that somebody else really
wanted
him to work for them—wanted him enough to lend him a hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Joe Wallace didn't
hire
you, my sweet. I stuffed you down Joe Wallace's reluctant throat. Do you want to see my cancelled cheques?”

He turned blindly away from her. “No!” he said.

“Get them! They're in my second drawer. Why do you think I made you come home? What do you think I thought when Joe told me that you'd been idiot enough to give the whole thing up? I was
stunned
! Stunned. I'm a little deeper into this, you see, than just a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. There's nearly another eighty thousand dollars that I've given outright to you, through Joe—to help pay your fancy salary. You owe me eighty thousand dollars, if you want to look at it that way.”

“You'll get it back,” he said.

“I don't want it. Take it to the moon. I don't give a damn. You'd never have been anything without me. See how far you get on your little rocket without me!
Newspaperman!
”

“We'll see,” he said.

“Yes. We'll see you when you come limping back! Who'd ever hire you? You
cripple
! Helpless, worthless cripple!”

He started for the door, across the room.

Behind him, she pushed aside her bedclothes and put her feet on the floor. “Wait!” she cried, half rising. “Wait a minute! I didn't mean that! Oh, God, I didn't mean that!” She held out her hand.

But he continued, without hesitating, towards the door.

She took two short steps after him, across the room. Her arms went up. Then her knees buckled and she fell forward on the floor. It was a graceless fall, and the whole room seemed to descend with her as she fell, the sound splitting the air into awkward, discordant pieces. Twisted about her, the marabou bed-jacket fell open. Her long fingers gripped the rug. “Oh, please!” she sobbed. “Please—I didn't mean it—oh, my love—oh, stop! Wait! Stop!”

But his hand was on the doorknob and he could not stop. It was too late now to stop. He opened the door and stepped quickly out into the hall.

Behind him, from where she lay, she had begun to scream: “Reba!
Reba!
”

He met Reba in the middle of the stairs. She took him by both arms. “You can't go now,” she said. “You can't leave her like this.”

“I'm sorry, Reba.”

“You can't. You can't. What did she say to you?”

“She said enough.”

“She didn't mean it. She's not herself. You know she doesn't mean anything she says when she's like this. You cannot leave her, Hugh. She loves you too much, you'll hurt her too much, she needs you too much.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You can't leave her like this! You saw her, you saw how she was. She needs you more desperately now than ever before. If you leave her now, Hugh, you'll kill her! She'll die!”

“I'm sorry … sorry.”

“Oh, Hugh!” she said, trying to encircle him with her arms and hold him on the stairs. “Oh, Hugh, don't you ever understand? Don't you ever understand anything? Don't you understand how she needs you, and how I need you, too? Don't you see what we are—she and I? Don't you understand what we always were—right from the beginning? The Chinless Charmers! Two beautiful princesses who lived in a castle? No! Two funny freaks that everybody laughed at! That's all we ever were and all we ever can be. Two funny freaks. We were never anything but that. There was never anything else for us but that. Papa knew it—he told us so. There was never any reality for us except each other. She's the only reality that I have, and you're the only reality that she has. And if you leave her, Hugh, she'll die, and then what will happen to me?”

“I'm sorry, Reba,” he said. And he pulled away from her.

“You're killing us both!”

He went quickly on down the stairs.

Outside, at the foot of the white stone steps, Edrita was waiting for him in her car. She was wearing her college-girl beaver coat, and her hands, in short brown gloves, were resting on top of the steering wheel in the attitude of a girl sitting in a sulky. Seeing him, she smiled. “Are you ready to go?” she asked him.

He walked around to her side of the car. She frowned at him. “Where's your suitcase?” she asked him. “Aren't you ready to go?”

“I'm ready to go,” he said. “But I'm not going with you, Edrita.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh.”

“I'm sorry, Edrita, but I can't go with you.”

“I see,” she said. “You're not going with me—ever?”

“No.”

“Are you going back to Anne?”

“No, I'm not going back to Anne.”

She looked at him. “Did you talk to your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I think I see,” she said. “She said something to you, didn't she, that made you change your mind? I knew it.”

“No, that's not really it,” he said.

“It must be!”

“No,” he said.

“Of course it is! It's always been that way! She said something.”

“You've never understood my mother, Edrita.”

“Haven't I? Oh God! Are you going to start telling me again what a
magnificent
woman she is? Are you?”

“No, I'm not going to starting telling you that.”

It was true, of course, that he wasn't. Still, it was hard to put into words to Edrita just what he did want to say. She had never understood his mother, and he was sure that she never would. She would never understand how, in a funny way, he saw now that his mother had been right. She had wanted him to reach upwards, for the stars and—so far, at least—he never had, and in that way he had always failed her. One might argue with her about what the stars consisted of, of course. But all this was too complicated, too difficult to explain to Edrita now. “I'm going away from here,” he said. “I have no idea now whether or not the thing I want to do will work. But I'm going, and I'm not coming back, and I can't go with you.”

“Then where are you going?” she asked. “If you're not going with me to see the azaleas, and if you're not going back to Anne—then where?”

“I'm going into the village to get a train to New York,” he said. “I'm going to pick up some things at the apartment and then—”

“And then somewhere else,” she said.

“Yes, and then somewhere else.”

She looked abruptly away from him. “Hot Springs didn't sound like fun, then.”

“Yes, it sounded like fun. But I know now—I've found out something now—that makes me realise that wherever I go and whatever I do next, I have to do on my own. Can you understand that, Edrita?”

For a minute or two she said nothing, still looking away from him. Then she said, “Is it really that? Or is it really because I'm a part of home? And now—now that you've finally decided to leave home, you don't want to take any little parts of home with you?”

“Yes,” he said. “You're part of home.”

“Yes,” she said. “I thought so.”

“Please try to understand.”

“I'm sitting here—trying. Do you love me, Hugh?”