What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (6 page)

During these sessions, Blanche, chubby and tanned in her sagging blue-and-white-striped bathing suit, was permitted to attend, but only as one of the spectators. Her designated place was at the side of the porch, far to the right and close behind her father’s chair from which he provided Jane’s musical accompaniment on a magnificent five-string banjo. It was firmly understood that Jane’s work period was to be regarded always with respect and solemn sobriety; Blanche was suffered to remain and watch only on the strict admonition that she was to be absolutely silent. It was also understood that any interference would result in instantaneous banishment.

For some time little Blanche had begun to find it increasingly difficult to stand by the terms of this agreement. Watching Jane perform her songs and dances before the rapt stares of her
porchside audience, she felt within herself a burgeoning desire to share at least a ray of Jane’s bright spotlight. It had come into her bright young head that, if she just wanted to, she could sing and dance every bit as good as dumb old Jane—and probably a whole lot better. All you had to do was jump around a lot and wave your hands and make faces. And anyone could do that. The hand of temptation, at first, merely beckoned and then, when Blanche still resisted, it took her by the scruff of the neck and thrust her helplessly forward.

The ring of the banjo loud in her ears, Blanche darted out suddenly from behind her father’s chair and joined Jane, forthwith, in the dance. Jumping violently up and down, she shook her head and waved her arms in an idiot frenzy of excitement. And then, breaking into a kind of mad jig, she suddenly embellished her performance with a series of cries that sounded, approximately, like Indian war whoops.

It was a performance that demanded—and got—the instantaneous and complete attention of all concerned, and though the banjo music came to an abrupt stop, Blanche’s dance did not. Spurred on to new heights by a roar of laughter from the onlookers, she lolled her tongue out of her mouth and shook her head so hard from side to side that for a moment it seemed in peril of flying loose from her neck. And then, in the next instant, retribution befell her; a hand struck her stingingly across the face, and another caught at her hair and pulled it so hard that she was thrown to the floor. Jane’s voice shrilled close to her ear.

“Go away! You go away, you—go away,
go away!
”

Then a larger, harder hand, her father’s, was around her arm, jerking her dizzily to her feet.

“What do you think you’re trying to do?” her father roared. “What’s got into you?”

Blanche looked up dazedly into his flushed and furious face, and for a moment she was assailed by a terrible feeling of sickness. At the same time she was aware of Jane standing close beside
her, arms akimbo, breathing heavily with exertion and righteous indignation.

“You can’t dance, you dirty little fatty! Who ever said you could!”

And then her father led her swiftly across the porch and down the steps to the sand. “Now you just run along, Missy,” he said coldly, “and don’t come back until you’re ready to behave yourself and leave poor Janie alone.”

Blanche had stumbled away, around the corner of the house, out of sight of the tittering onlookers. At the rear of the house, she had taken shelter beneath the wooden steps leading down from the back porch, and there in their shade, hugging herself tight, she had wept.

Nearly two hours later her mother found her and taking her hand, led her out along the dusk-dimmed beach. Out of sight of the cottage they stopped. Her mother, sitting down on a rock that jutted up out of the sand, drew her close.

“You mustn’t mind, sweetheart,” her mother told her. “You must try to find some way not to. Your daddy didn’t really mean it, not the way it seemed, he didn’t. It’s just that he has to give Jane a lot of special attention that he doesn’t give to you—or even to me—because of her work. We owe such a lot to Jane, you know, all of us. If it weren’t for her we wouldn’t have all the nice things we have. You wouldn’t have all your nice, pretty clothes. We wouldn’t be able to come here and live by the ocean in the summer. We’d miss—oh, so many nice things. Janie works very hard for us—and for you, too, dear.” Her mother lifted her chin gently with the tip of her finger and gazed deeply for a moment into her eyes. “But you’re the lucky one, sweetheart, you really and truly are, if you only knew it. You’ll see one day. And when you do, you must remember to be kinder to Jane and your father than they are to you now. Do you understand at all?”

Not really understanding but anxious to please her mother, Blanche nodded. “Uh-huh,” she murmured. I—I guess so.…”

“I wish you did, my love; oh, I wish you really did.”

In all the long years since, Blanche had not thought about that moment on the beach until now, and she wondered why it should suddenly have come into her mind with such clarity. Thinking back, she could even remember that her mother had been wearing a dress of pale blue voile, decorated with delicate ivory-colored embroidery. Shaking her head with sad astonishment, Blanche freed herself of this reverie and looked around toward the door. She listened closely, but there was still no sound to indicate that Jane was up yet and about.

Turning back to the window, she strained up again out of her chair. This time, thrusting herself sharply forward, she reached out, grasped the grillwork and pulled herself up until she was almost in a standing position. Peering down into the garden, she frowned with disappointment; it was still deserted.

She felt a small flutter of anxiety; perhaps something had happened. Maybe Mrs. Bates had been taken ill during the night and was confined indoors. Or she might have been called away by some emergency. It was beginning to be so late now.…

Her gaze flew out suddenly to the house at the end of the garden as one of the French doors swung open, and Mrs. Bates, as if making her appearance at just that moment deliberately to point out to Blanche the foolishness of her overwrought conjecture, emerged placidly onto the lawn. Dressed as always in her smock and straw hat she paused, glanced down the length of the garden with evident satisfaction and then crossed to the faucet to turn it on. Blanche, pulling herself closer to the grillwork, reached eagerly into her pocket for the note.

But then, thinking that she had perhaps heard a sound from somewhere out in the hallway, she pulled her hand quickly away again. She looked around toward the door and finding it still closed turned back to the garden and Mrs. Bates. For a long moment she was perfectly still, her actions suspended in indecision. If she dropped the note out the window now, Mrs. Bates
was still far enough away that she might not notice. But if she waited to drop it, and Jane came into the room before she’d had the chance.… Then the sound came again from the hallway, more certainly this time, and her decision was made for her; letting go of the grillwork, she shoved herself back and dropped down into her chair.

She had only just managed to get her chair away from the window and turned around when the door opened and Jane shuffled into view.

Jane was wearing her usual morning costume, an old wrapper of quilted and badly soiled white satin. Her dyed hair was in the same state of wild disarray as it had been when she had first awakened and gotten out of bed, and on her feet she wore the red patent-leather sandals. Evidently she had been up and moving quietly about the house for some time, for as she entered, Blanche saw that she was carrying another covered tray. She paused for a moment just inside the door and glanced hastily about the room with eyes still so puffed with sleep they were barely more than slits. Blanche slipped her hand down to her pocket and held it protectively over the note to Mrs. Bates.

Jane put the breakfast tray down on the desk and with no sign of any special interest took up the one from the evening before and moved back toward the door. Just as she was starting from the room, however, she paused, looked back at the tray she had just left and then down at the one she was carrying.

Blanche could not tell whether Jane’s glance had moved in her direction or not; there had simply been a quick stirring of the slitted eyelids and no more. And then, as if in a mood of sudden decision, Jane crossed back to the tray on the desk, reached out to the cloth and pulled it aside. As she did so Blanche quickly averted her eyes.

She remained quite still, even after Jane’s footsteps had faded away through the hallway and down the stairs. But then, knowing that she would have to sooner or later, she made herself turn and look in the direction of the desk.

For a moment she could only stare. She had been so certain that she was to be confronted with a sight of sickening repugnance that it was several moments before her mind adjusted to the fact that what she was staring at was only her usual breakfast, a poached egg, orange juice, buttered toast and tea.

From below stairs came the familiar sounds of Jane going about the business of getting her own breakfast just as usual.

Just as usual
. The phrase leapt out at her from the bulk of her thoughts, presenting itself before her in sharp definition.
Just as usual,
Jane had brought her breakfast which,
just as usual,
was the same breakfast she had every day. And now,
just as usual,
Jane was downstairs fixing her own breakfast. In the face of so much “usualness,” the terror of the afternoon and night before seemed suddenly to pale. With a lagging glance toward the door, she reached into her pocket and took from it the note she had written in the dark, haunted reaches of the night:

… forced to ask your help… a very serious matter… need desperately to reach my doctor… as quickly as possible… a matter of life and death… Please… please… please…

Her eyes skimmed the note, then turned back to the open window. After the sight of poor Jane, poor futile-looking Jane, in her dirty wrapper, with her messy hair and her swollen eyes, the note seemed wildly melodramatic. But still… With an air of resolution she wheeled herself back to the window, boosted herself up out of the chair and reached for the grillwork.

Down below Mrs. Bates had nearly reached the flower beds beneath the window. She approached them from the left, taking great care to give ample water to the hedge that fronted along the street. Blanche drew the note forward to the grille and waited. She had thought it out carefully; unless Mrs. Bates actually saw the note falling she might assume it was only a scrap of paper which had blown into the yard during the night and overlook it. She would have to wait, then, until the woman was fully turned in her direction. Holding herself upright, Blanche tried, as she
waited, to project herself into Mrs. Bates’s mind; she tried to imagine the woman’s first reaction when she saw the note fluttering down from the window, what she would think when she picked it up and read it.

Naturally she would be surprised. But then—after that first moment of surprise—would she think it was some sort of joke? Oh, no, no, she couldn’t do that! Not with a note that said someone needed a doctor. But would she be willing to take the responsibility of calling the doctor as the note asked? She might be one of those women too shy or too cautious to take a hand in the affairs of their neighbors. Actually Blanche knew nothing of Mrs. Bates; she had no clue at all to the sort of person she might be. Craning forward, she studied the figure down below more closely. Suppose she was the kind of woman who liked always to be at the center of the excitement, who might try to interfere personally instead of calling Dr. Shelby. Or—suppose she was a notoriety seeker and called the newspapers!

The newspapers! Blanche drew back from the window as if from a threatened blow. Suppose her note did find its way to the newspapers and they printed it? Suddenly she saw it quite clearly, photographed and reproduced in the evening papers—along with a résumé, no doubt, of her career, ending with the accident which had ended that career. They might even uncover some of the information about the accident that the studio had managed to suppress, a few small details.…

She let go of the grille and eased herself down into her chair. She saw now that her plan with the note held dangers she had not considered; there could so easily be ugly consequences, consequences that she didn’t dare risk. But if she threw away this chance, there wouldn’t be another until Mrs. Stitt came on Friday.…

And then she remembered; Mrs. Stitt had altered her plans for the week; she had said she would be back on Monday morning. Tomorrow! The awful weight of her anxiety fell suddenly away. How foolish to have forgotten; in her fright it had simply slipped
her mind. But now that she had remembered it was all so simple; when Mrs. Stitt came tomorrow, she would promptly send her out to call Dr. Shelby from the nearest phone booth, and when he came… What an absolute fool she had been to let herself get into such a state over nothing. Folding the note quickly, almost embarrassedly, she shoved it back into her pocket.

Certainly, Mrs. Stitt had informed Jane, too, of her plans. So Jane could hardly be plotting anything so very sinister, knowing that the woman would be coming into the house the very next morning. Recalling her morbid fancies about Jane’s plans to starve and frighten her to death, Blanche felt a faint flush of chagrin. What a state she had been in! Since Jane had uncovered the breakfast tray to show her there was nothing wrong with it, it was evident that that hideous nonsense was at an end.

At the thought of breakfast, Blanche looked back toward the desk, and at the sight of the food, she was suddenly famished. In a mood of happy relief, she turned her chair and started forward.

As the day passed quietly and without incident, Blanche’s newly found optimism seemed justified. Jane spent most of her time downstairs. Promptly at one she appeared with Blanche’s lunch, uncovered the tray as she had at breakfast time, so that she could see that it contained only a fruit salad in gelatin and a few crackers.

After lunch Blanche read a bit and then, to make up for the sleep she had lost during the night, napped. Shortly after four she awoke, greatly rested, and wheeled her chair to the window to see that Mrs. Bates, in accordance with her accustomed schedule, had returned to her garden. Blanche’s hand sought the note in her pocket, but left it there undisturbed.