When She Was Good (17 page)

Perspiring away under the brand-new peasant blouse that she had purchased for the party, she told him … Develop a logical mind … self-discipline … increase her general fund of knowledge … learn more about the world we live in … learn more about herself …

It was difficult to tell when to stop (exactly as it had been in the scholarship application), but when Mr. Bassart finally said, during a paragraph break, “Those are all good goals,” she believed she had won approval enough for the time being, and shut up.

And—she later realized—he had asked not a single question about her background He did not appear to be any more interested in the subject than Julian Sowerby; men like that judged you not on family history, but on the kind of person you were. Only Mrs. Bassart (who seemed to have fallen instantly under her sister’s influence) and Irene Sowerby seemed to hold against her things she wasn’t even responsible for. The others, to their credit, weren’t interested in gossip and ancient history—Roy included.

Since the beginning of summer Roy had taken to picking her up at the house after dinner each night. She was always ready when he arrived, giving him little encouragement, she
hoped, to linger and make conversation. On the one occasion when he seemed to be trying to draw her into revealing something, she answered so sharply that he had never brought up the subject again. It was after his first meeting with her family, all of whom were gathered in the living room after dinner. The young man arrived, was quickly introduced and led by Lucy straight back out the door.

Driving over to the movie, Roy said, “Wow, your mother’s a real looker, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“You know who she reminds me of?”

“No.”

“Jennifer Jones.” No answer. “Listen, did you see
Song of Bernadette?
”

She had, with Kitty Egan, three times; but her conversion was her own business too. It hadn’t even taken place.

“Of course, your mother’s older than Jennifer Jones …” Roy said. “And your grandfather is Mr. Carroll from the post office. Now, I didn’t even know that. Ellie never mentioned it.”

“He’s retired,” she said. Why on earth had she given in when he said it was time he was introduced to her “folks”?

They were crossing the Winnisaw Bridge. “Well, your father seems like a nice guy.”

“I don’t talk about him, Roy! I never want to talk about him!”

“Gee, sure, okay,” he said, raising one hand over his chest. “Just making conversation.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Well, okay, I won’t.”

“That subject does not interest me
at all
.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, smiling, “you’re the boss,” and after a silent minute during which she contemplated asking him to pull the car over to the side so that she could get out, he switched on the radio and began to sing.

From then on, neither Bassart nor Sowerby asked any question about her home life. Ellie couldn’t have cared less,
and so it was only in the company of Irene Sowerby, or Roy’s mother, that Lucy became unduly conscious of what ordinarily she was able, after all these years of practice, to drive clear out of her mind. Of late she hardly ever had cause (outside the house) to think of herself as the kid who had done this or the kid whose father had done that. ‘To the many people she met socially at the Sowerbys’ for the first time on that Saturday night—among them, the principal, Mr. Brunn and his wife—she was, very simply, Roy Bassart’s girl. “So,” said Mr. Brunn, “this is the young lady I hear is keeping our old alum in line these days.”

“Oh, it’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Brunn, who’s keeping who in line,” said Roy.

“And are you off to school in September, dear?” asked Mrs. Brunn. Dear. Just like Mrs. Sowerby.

“Yes,” said Lucy. “Fort Kean College for Women.”

“They’ve got themselves quite a little setup down there,” said Mr. Brunn. “Very nice. Very nice.”

“Lucy graduated twenty-ninth in the senior class this year, Mr. Brunn, before she tells you herself.”

“Oh, I recognized Lucy—I knew she was up there. Good luck to you, Lucy. Keep up our reputation. We’ve sent them some fine girls down there and I’m sure you’re going to turn out to be no exception.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brunn. I’ll try my best.”

“Well, that’ll do it, I’m sure. See you, Roy; see you, Lucy.”

So, later that night, up in Passion Paradise, what could she do? It wasn’t till Sunday that she was to tell him that she’d had enough, and it was still only Saturday night. And when she told him, what would happen? “I’m not going to be able to see you again. Ever.” “
What?
”
“But it’s not love-it’s just sex.” “It’s
what?
” “Sex!” “Not to me … Look, is that what it is to you? Because to me … Oh,
no,
” he’d weep, “this is terrible …” And then—she just knew it—he wouldn’t go to Fort Kean at all. If she broke off with him now, he would give up Britannia, give up all his plans, probably in the end give up photography too, despite what she had said to his father in his defense. And then he
would
be right back in his swamp of ideas … But that was his affair, not hers … Or was it? He was so good to her, so kind to her, sweeter to her than anybody had ever been before in her life, and day in and day out too. How could she turn around now and be so heartless and cruel? Especially when it was only a matter of a few more weeks. It might even mean his whole career. Because he depended on her—he listened to her—he loved her.
Roy loves me
.

At least that’s what he said.

“I love you, Angel,” he said at the door. He kissed her nose. “You made a real hit tonight.”

“On who?”

“Mr. Brunn, for one. Everybody.” He kissed her yet again. “Me,” he said. “Look, sleep tight.” From the bottom of the steps he whispered, “
Au revoir
.”

She was very, very confused. Ten months ago she was still in the band, marching behind Leola Krapp, and now she was going steady! Going all the way practically every night!

She circled six days in July, and ten in August, and then on September first she took her crayon and circled four times around the day after Labor Day. She had started out to circle Labor Day itself, until she remembered that she and Roy and Ellie and Joe Whetstone were to go off canoeing on the river, an event that had been planned by Roy weeks before. If only everything weren’t planned so far in advance! If only he didn’t need her so, depend on her so, love her so!
But did he?

When they arrived on Labor Day morning at the Sowerbys’, Roy’s Aunt Irene came outside to say that Ellie had been sick in the night and was still sleeping. She suggested that the three young people had better go off by themselves
for the day. But even as she spoke, a very sad and wan-looking Ellie appeared in the upstairs hall window, wearing her bathrobe. She waved. “Hi.”

“Ellie,” said Mrs. Sowerby, “I suggested to the others that they’d better go off without you today, dear.”

“Oh, no.”

“Eleanor, if you’re not well, you surely cannot go canoeing.”

“Your mother’s right,” said Joe.

“But I want to go,” Ellie called down in a weak voice.

“It wouldn’t be safe, El,” said Joe. “Really.”

“Joe is right, Eleanor,” said Mrs. Sowerby.

“But I
planned
to go,” said Ellie, and suddenly she drew down the shade, as though she was about: to weep.

It was decided that the three young people should come inside while Ellie washed and dressed and had a little breakfast of tea and toast; then if she really did seem to have recovered, perhaps the youngsters could go ahead with their plans. Ellie’s troubles had begun the previous evening while Mrs. Sowerby had been away at an informal meeting of the officers of The Quilt Society. In Mrs. Sowerby’s absence, Ellie and her father had sat around the TV set, eating three pounds of cherries, followed by a quart of vanilla fudge ice cream, topped off with half a chocolate nut cake left over from dinner.

Julian Sowerby, feeling fine, claimed Ellie’s upset stomach had nothing to do with a little dish of ice cream and a piece of cake; Ellie simply had the heebie-jeebies about going away to school in two weeks. Roy said that maybe Ellie had inherited her father’s good looks (everyone laughed, Julian loudest of all) but that perhaps she hadn’t been so fortunate as to inherit his cast-iron stomach.

“That’s probably true, Mr. Sowerby” was Joe’s comment. Joe assured Mrs. Sowerby that if she let Ellie come along, he would be sure to see that she didn’t touch anything sweet. Mrs. Bassart had prepared an immense picnic basket for them, but Roy said that he and Joe would take care of Ellie’s portion without too much trouble.

In a few minutes Ellie came down the stairs in white shorts,
white polo shirt and white sandals. Her tan—nurtured daily on the back lawn and down by the landing—looked dazzling, as did her hair, which over the summer had taken on a coppery sheen. But this morning her face looked small and worn, and her “Hullo” was hardly audible as she went off to the kitchen to try to put a little food into her long, shapely body … Her body. Her long and shapely body! Lucy’s understanding of Ellie’s condition was instantaneous.
My God, it’s happened. To Ellie Sowerby
.

Julian Sowerby drove off with his clubs to the Winnisaw Golf Club, and the young people consented to forgo the canoeing and take Mrs. Sowerby’s advice and find a nice shady spot up at the picnic grounds to have their outing. But even hidden away under a tree the temperature rose steadily; about one o’clock Ellie began to feel woozy, and so they drove back to the Sowerbys’ in Roy’s car. The house was very quiet. The shades were drawn in the front bedroom, where apparently Mrs. Sowerby was taking a nap; and the family car was still gone, a fact that caused Ellie some consternation. Apparently she had expected to find her father already home.

“Do you want me to wake your mother, El?” asked Joe.

“No, no. I’m all right.”

Joe and Roy decided to go out to the backyard and listen to the Sox double-header on the Sowerby portable. Ellie asked Lucy to come up with her to her room. Once there she locked the door, threw herself onto her bed, and beneath the white organdy canopy, began to cry.

Lucy watched her friend weeping her heart out. On the lawn below she saw the person responsible pick up a croquet mallet and begin to knock a ball around through the wickets. In two days Joe was to report for freshman football practice at the University of Alabama. Partly it was Ellie’s recollection of life in the South during the early years of the war that seemed to have influenced Joe to accept the Alabama scholarship. Joe was to leave for school the very next day—but would he still go? Or would Ellie now go with him?

Roy had organized the day’s outing, and had his mother
prepare the lunch as his own farewell party to Joe Whetstone, whom he had come to consider his closest buddy. Lucy herself had always thought of Joe as one big blah. Sure, he was a great athlete, she supposed, and you had to admit he was handsome and rugged-looking, if you liked that type, but he had not a single opinion of his own on any subject. Whatever you said, Joe agreed with. There were times when she felt like reciting the Declaration of Independence just to watch his head go up and down and to hear him say, after every famous sentence, “You bet, that sure is true, that sure does make a lot of sense, boy, that’s just what my Mom says …” The temptation to reveal him for the imbecile that he was came over her most strongly when Roy was purposely acting for Joe’s benefit, telling some funny story about what had happened to him up in the Aleutians, or discussing some college football team he and Joe called “The Crimson Tide” and which normally he didn’t seem to be interested in at all. But she had never given in to the temptation; she hadn’t even told Ellie her real opinion of Joe Whetstone. And now it was too late. Now Joe had gotten Ellie into trouble, the worst kind of trouble there could possibly be for a girl. And Joe didn’t even appear to know it.

Roy called to Joe. “Appling’s up. Two on. No score.”

“
Go
, Luke,” said Joe, knocking the wooden ball clear through a wicket at the other end of the lawn. “Hey, Joe the Arm,” he said.

“Oh, boy,” Roy said sourly, “swing and a miss. Strike one.”

“Come
on
, Lukey babe,” said Joe, posing with his mallet like a batter all coiled up to swing. “Hey,” said Joe, “Stan the Man,” and he changed his batting stance and swung at an imaginary ball. “Gooing, going—”

“Foul!” said Roy.

“Shucks,” said Joe, “pulled it too hard.”

“Shhh,” said Roy, looking quickly up at the house as Joe fell to the lawn laughing.

… What about college now? What about the Sowerbys? What about Ellie’s future, if she had to marry Joe Whetstone? And what if he already knew and didn’t care? Maybe he
wanted to marry Ellie, but she was crying because she didn’t want to marry him!

“I have—I have to tell somebody,” Ellie said, turning to Lucy and clutching the pillow to her chest.

“What?” said Lucy softly. “Tell what, Ellie?”

Ellie pushed her head back into the pillow and again began to weep. She had done a stupid thing. A terrible, stupid thing. Her whole life would never be the same.

“… Why? What is it?”

She had listened in on someone else’s telephone conversation. “And it’s not the first time, either,” said Ellie, sobbing.

Then she’s not pregnant
.

Down below Roy said, “Base hit!”

“Go, Sox,” said Joe. “Pour it on, baby.”

“And the run scores!” cried Roy. “And another! Two nothing!”

Petulantly Lucy said, “What do you mean? Ellie, I can’t understand you.”

“I listened in on someone else’s telephone conversation … and it was awful.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, Lucy, I don’t want my mother to know. Never!”

“Know
what?
”

“Is the door locked?” asked Ellie.

“You locked it,” said Lucy impatiently.

“Then … Sit over here. On the bed. I don’t want to shout. Oh, I don’t know what to do. This is so awful … I’ve been trying to tell you for so long. I needed somebody’s advice that I could talk it over with … But I just couldn’t. And I shouldn’t. Oh, but I just have to—but, Lucy, you have to promise me. You can’t repeat it to anyone. Not even Roy.
Especially
not Roy.”