William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice (51 page)

Yes, he could recall part of the moment, at that. He remembered at first his patronizing tone. He remembered saying something about Jews, how he liked them, something about a warm quality they had which Gentiles really didn’t possess. He remembered Harry’s eyebrows going up at this, remembered thinking
What the hell am I trying to convince him about?
But he also remembered that he couldn’t stop talking about Jews, that he felt compelled to go on making Harry think he was a grand guy. Idiotically, gratuitously. And Harry remaining polite, intently receptive all along. He remembered saying, “Virginia has a lot to learn, but we like Jews down here as well as anyone else.” Wanting to bite his tongue off at that, but compelled to go on and on laboring the subject more drunkenly each moment, a man tied to a runaway cannon.

And through all this, he later recalled, he had known that this wasn’t what he wanted to talk about at all. He recalled standing there, watching Peyton from time to time out of the corner of his eye, watching her through the drunken mists of his own rising fever; she faded, sank back from his sight, wavered, as if he were regarding her as a double image thrown back through the waters of an aquarium. And he remembered then that she was irretrievable, lost forever, that he had no claims on her anymore. That she not only had rejected him, crushed him utterly, but that now she was owned by someone else. Him. Harry. The gentle, quiet, understanding Jew who stood before him, shifting his weight patiently from foot to foot, his shrewd, almond eyes seeming to understand Loftis’ every gesture. And he recalled how his heart had been suddenly wrung with pain when he thought of this boy, and then thought of this boy and Peyton together. So then he had been about to say something, to reach out and tell this boy that he must take care of Peyton and love her always, for she was the dearest thing on earth. And it had been this precise instant that he saw Helen march across the room, ignoring the guests who got in her way, and walk up to Peyton and the old doctor and whisper something in to Peyton’s ear.

So then he knew it. It was a final moment, signifying everything. A whisper, no more, but a whisper of doom—brutal, unequivocal, in logic indivisible. How did he know? It needed no explanation. He knew it as well as his name, the fingers on his hand, the fact of breathing. He knew what this gesture spelled so well that it seemed to exist quite outside of time: he felt (and this was one of the few events of the day which later lingered clearly in his memory) that he could have predicted this scene—doctor and Peyton and the bending, whispering Helen—ten years ago, or twenty, it made no matter. It was just a gesture as inevitable as death. But he must have been paralyzed, for later, when he tried to remember what he had done at that moment, or had attempted to do, he recalled that he had been able to do nothing at all. Had he had a gun he felt he might have shot Helen then, watched her fall slain and bleeding among the guests and the shattered glasses and the crumpled pink napkins. Yet this was not really true, he realized, for, since he had not even made a word or motion in her direction, how could he have pulled the trigger of a gun? So he watched them in silence. Part silence, that is. Because, frightened to his soul, he couldn’t tolerate it quietly. He had to turn sideways to Harry and say thickly, incoherently: “There’ve been too many nuts around here, son. You gotta take care of her and love her because no one’s ever loved her right.” He grabbed him by the arm, saying something like: “Harry, be good to her! For Christ’s sake try to understand her——” But the last scene had begun. He turned and watched them leave the room together, Peyton weaving behind Helen past the glass-littered tables and the chairs and the bewildered guests, as compliant and submissive as Mary’s little lamb. He saw them go upstairs.

Then Harry, too, was gone—somewhere, Loftis didn’t know. Once he thought he saw him talking to the Cuthberts, or perhaps it was the Houstons; he was unable to remember how Harry had broken away from him, or why. As for himself, time and motion slowed down to the most creaking rattletrap pace, and from then on he seemed to be borne along through the festive rooms like something drunken and frightened and old. He kept up appearances, smiled, cheered the departing guests on their way with a chuckle and a hand pat and an occasional big hoorah, but all the time he was thinking, wondering,
What will they do to each other
?

At one point he met Cherry Pye, who had a fat rosy face and crumbs of hors d’oeuvres on his lips, which Loftis wanted desperately to wipe off.

“Betcha Poppy’s gonna have a hot time inna old town tonight!” he mumbled through a mouthful of something, waving his glass.

“Yessiree!” Loftis said loudly.

“Yessiree
Bob!
”

“Drink ’er down, Cherry Pye, drink ’er down!”

“Drink ’er down, Poppy Loftis, drink ’er down!”

They embraced, singing, clinking glasses, and Monk Yourtee and Polly Pearson trotted up, joining them in a song.

Across the room six guests lingered to shamble gluttonously around the serving table. These were the eaters; the drinkers, most of them younger, gathered in clusters about the walls to talk, to make quartets of their own, and Loftis, singing in a quavering tenor—for the song was pitched too high—heard the high, hoarse soprano of Dora Appleton and suddenly broke away. “Come back, Milt!” shouted Cherry Pye.

He teetered across the room, warily, conscious of his grin, spilling champagne. Now in the embrace of new music, new friends, he put his arm about Dora, who, having been kissing publicly, had lipstick smeared on her face; together with Campbell, the strange, pale boy with eyes like violets and huge, transparent ears, they made a trio. Loftis had one hand on Dora’s breast while they sang: “ ‘I’m the reluctant dragon.’ ”

“What a sweet voice, ol’ handsome!” Dora yelled. Campbell simpered prettily, but it was Loftis she had shouted to, and he tickled her in the ribs.

“Such a cute girl,” he said.

“Ol’ handsome.”

“Sweetie-pie. Give Poppy a kiss, too.” Her face drifted toward him. In despair he kissed her, the rouged, smeary mask, and felt her tongue touching his, with the sweet taste of whisky. Blushing, aching with fever, he moved away. Darkness fell across the lawn. At the door he shook hands with Dr. Holcomb, who had his coat and scarf on; he heard—thought he heard—the doctor say, “Take care of her, Milton,” while the old eyes watered gravely, and he wondered,
Take care of whom?
But the doctor had gone: the door shut to behind him, there was a swirl of chill air in the foyer, and Loftis, his glass fallen from nerveless fingers, looked down to survey the splinters and the whisky creeping across the rug.

His heart gave way. He sank weakly down onto a chair. There was no doubt about it, no doubt at all. He had to do something. Here alone he could hear the diminishing noise of the reception, weary laughter, weary songs: “ ‘I adore you, ba-by mine …’ ” they sang, and the winds of evening which rustled outside seemed to sweep the notes along like withered leaves. Two girls passed snickering down the hall. In the darkness they didn’t notice him; one stepped on his toe. Through the window the moon shone bright as a flashlight, and the evening seemed filled with a blue and shifting dust. On the water there were leaves and floating gulls, the wrinkled shadow of a breeze. Yes, there was no doubt about it; this was the time for decision. And he thought: So maybe all my life I’ve been wrong. Maybe I did cause all this. Then Helen was right. I killed with kindness the only thing I ever cared for, really. Maybe we’re all just too highstrung, like Father said. They should have never put the idea of love in the mind of an animal. …

He was seized with a violent fury. “No,” he said aloud, staggering to his feet, “no, goddamit!” He tramped through the spilled whisky, weaving toward the stairs. A blaze of light met him at the living room, shrill, weary voices, still singing, and then Edward, quite as drunk himself, who put a hand on his arm; Loftis went on. “Where ya goin’, ol’ buddy byddyroe? Le’s have a smile from the old daddy himself! And a big,
big
han’shake——” And he threw his arm about Loftis’ shoulder. “Y’ know,” he went on, “s’ good thing I came to Peyton’s nuptials. T’
see
all zeze people. Y’ know if we were on a desert island you ’n I an’ zeze people, why, you an’ I’d be president and vice-president respectively. On accounta——”

“You just go straight to hell, Edward,” Loftis muttered, shoving him away. He plodded on upstairs. In the hallway it was dark and silent. The sounds from below came up muted and indistinct. For a moment he stood at the head of the stairs with his nose in the air, sniffing, reconnoitering. He couldn’t see a thing but in the darkness shapes and shadows reeled indiscriminately, and he had to steady himself against the wall. He felt his heart pounding, and a cold dread. He pulled himself together some and moved down the hall on precarious tiptoe, trying to avoid knocking things over. Finally from Helen’s room he heard voices. A voice, rather: Helen’s. He stole near the door. It was closed but not locked, and a thin wedge of light fell onto the hallway floor. He heard Peyton say, “Words, words, words—why don’t you get to the point?” Later he was unable to recollect, because of the fog in his mind, just what came next, but it went something like this:

Helen’s voice, unemotional, polite, but direct: “That’s what I’m trying to tell
you,
my dear. No, I didn’t expect you not to drink some. Do you think I’m a member of the W.C.T.V.? Certainly not. But my dear girl, it’s this other thing that matters to me. Really, Peyton, after all we’ve done to plan this affair for you, do you think——”

Peyton’s voice cut in angrily: “Do I think what? What? Will you please explain?”

“This business with your father. Do you really think you have any right to treat him like you have? After all he’s done for you? I saw what happened just now. Really, Peyton, you needn’t pretend that it didn’t happen or no one saw it. Because I saw it. I
saw
it, I tell you.”

“What?”

“Just this.” Her tone grew short and harsh. “Just this. Lashing out at him like that. In front of everybody. I wasn’t the only one who saw it. Chess Hegerty saw it, and the Braunsteins. Everybody. After all I’ve planned. After everything I’ve tried—not tried but
had
to forget about you, in order to make this whole affair come off right. I said to myself, ‘Well, I’ll forget everything that she’s done.’ For the sake of morality, for the sake of Christian principles. For the sake of everything decent I’ll overlook the things you’ve done——”

“What things?”

“Never mind. I said I’d overlook them for the sake of everything decent. So you could be married properly, in your own home. The home you forsook easily, too. That was the irony. Anyway, for all these decent things, for their sake, I said I’d make this wedding a success. If it killed me. For your father’s sake, too. Now see what you’ve done. Everyone knows you hate me. That doesn’t matter. But for them to know you hate him, too! After all these years of your faking and your flattery and your seductions——”

There was a sudden thump, a creak of springs, as if someone had fallen abruptly back upon a bed. There was laughter, too, Peyton’s, tense and somewhat hysterical but also muffled, the laughter of someone lying horizontal: “Oh, God, really. If that isn’t the limit. Poor Helen, you’ve really suffered, haven’t you? Poor Helen. You’re a sad case, you know, and I really shouldn’t be talking like this. I really should be silent and forbearing, charitable, really, but I just can’t. You’re such a wretched case I can’t even feel pity——”

“You shut up. You respect your elders. Your parents who——”

“You can’t even suffer properly,” Peyton broke in, her voice solemn now; “you’re like all the rest of the sad neurotics everywhere who huddle over their misery and take their vile, mean little hatreds out on anybody they envy. You know, I suspect you’ve always hated me for one thing or another, but lately I’ve become a symbol to you you couldn’t stand. Do you think I’m stupid or something, that I haven’t got you figured out? You hate men, you’ve hated Daddy for years, and the sad thing is that he hasn’t known it. And the terrible thing is that you hate yourself so much that you just don’t hate men or Daddy but you hate everything, animal, vegetable and mineral. Especially you hate me. Because I’ve become that symbol. I
know
I’m not perfect but I’m free and young and if I’m not happy I at least know that someday I
can
be happy if I work at it long enough. I’m free. If I’d hung around in Port Warwick and married some simpleminded little boy who worked in the shipyard and lived in a little bungalow somewhere and came to see you and Daddy every Sunday, you’d be perfectly content. You’d have your claws in me then. I’d be obeying your precious code of Christian morality, which is phony anyway. But it’s not that way. I’m free and you can’t stand it——”

“You hate——”

Peyton’s feet hit the floor; Loftis could hear them, the snapping, outraged heels. “I know what you’re going to say! You’re going to say I hate Port Warwick, Daddy, everything. Well, it’s not true! I don’t hate anything that you haven’t forced me to hate and, damn you, you’ve forced me to hate you——”

Helen’s voice rose on a high, hysterical wail. “You
tell
me these things and you don’t know … you don’t
know,
” she cried wildly, “and you come here and make a mockery—with your—airs … and after all your sleeping around … you don’t know … and your filthy little Jew …”

Loftis moved toward the door, but it was too late. The moment of silence which lasted between Helen’s final word and what came next seemed to possess at once brevity and infinite length; this silence, so brief and so timeless, had, in its sense of awfulness, all the quality of a loud noise. Then Loftis heard it, a scuffling sound and a single, agonized moan, but he was still too late; he threw open the door. Peyton rushed sobbing past him into the hallway, down the stairs. He reached out for her, but she had gone like air, and he stood wobbling in the doorway, watching Helen. With her hands at her face she was moaning, but through her fingers ran trickles of blood and he looked at these, with a sort of remote and objective fascination, and paid no attention to her moans. He never remembered how long he stood there—perhaps half a minute, perhaps more—but when, sensing his presence, she removed her hands and looked at him, her lips moving soundlessly and her cheeks so dead and white beneath the raw, deep slits gouged out by Peyton’s fingernails, he only said—making a bad job of it because of his perverse, whisky-thick tongue: “God help you, you monshter.”