“Finally,” Patsy said, a little nervously.
“I hear from Joe Percy that the two of you are separated. I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it.”
“I don’t.” She bent over and opened a lipstick but then closed it again without using it and sat down. The room had affected her as it affected Eleanor. It was too bright—not a room to stay in more than five minutes. And yet she didn’t feel like going back amid the guests.
“I wish I’d brought my brandy,” Eleanor said. “If we unscrewed a few light bulbs it wouldn’t be so bad in here.”
“I saw Joe a month or so ago,” Patsy said.
“Yes, he mentioned that when he mentioned Jim. I suppose I may have played a minor part in your troubles, and if so I apologize.”
“Forget it,” Patsy said. “Everybody played a minor part in our troubles. I’m sure we insisted on everyone participating.”
“The sad thing is that Jim is very nice,” Eleanor said. “He doesn’t really dislike anyone. What am I doing? Of all things to say. I’m really not very alert this time of night.”
“No, it’s true,” Patsy said. “Did Joe tell you about his love problem?”
“Yes. He told me. I wouldn’t worry too much about Joe. His real love is dead; it’s why he’s such an invaluable sympathizer. I made him come and hold my hand for a week, when Sonny was killed. Sooner or later I imagine he’ll help the young lady rescue a sister or get over the death of a lover or not feel so bad because her husband’s the way he is. He likes women so much he can cheer anyone up, if he’s given a chance.”
Just then Mrs. Caldwell looked in, obviously a little worried by their disappearance. “Anything the matter?” she asked, concern in her face.
“Oh, no, Beth,” Eleanor said, smiling. “We were just sitting here talking about our friends.”
“You’re welcome to our upstairs den,” Mrs. Caldwell whispered, but Eleanor shook her head.
“No, I’m worn out. I’d like to get back to the hotel.” She stood up and straightened her dress.
“I wish I could go with you,” Mrs. Caldwell said. “Grady’s drunk and letting the niggers have it. We had a scene with him five years ago and I think we’re going to have another one tonight.”
She went out and Eleanor turned to the mirror and looked at her hair but did nothing with it. In the bright light Patsy saw how much her face had changed. It was not heavier—if anything she had lost flesh in the face. It was as if she no longer cared to carry her beauty and was letting it leave her as it would. Some remained, some had fallen away. Eleanor seemed almost indifferent. Unhappiness showed in her eyes and in the set of her mouth; there was no longer any pride in her expression. Boredom, sorrow, disappointment, were things she was no longer attempting to conceal. She took her purse and they left the powder room and said but little more. “I wish you could come and see my son,” Patsy said, but Eleanor did not look interested. She was leaving in the morning, she said.
Several of the party were saying their goodbyes when they came out, and when Patsy said she must leave too, Beth Caldwell arranged for one of the young couples to drive her home. It turned out that Eleanor had an escort, not one of the three pursuers but a short gentle-looking lawyer with a large curved nose. His name was Taylor, and Patsy learned later that he was a widower. They all stepped out into the broad driveway together and Eleanor and Patsy said goodbye as Mr. Taylor was helping Eleanor on with her light spring coat. Though he seemed very nice, Eleanor appeared to be slightly intolerant of him, and when he was slipping her coat on she stepped away and shrugged it on herself; she straightened her collar and swung her head so that her hair hung free. She gave Patsy an odd quick smile as she turned to go, a smile half friendly and half bitter. Then she turned and put her hands in her coat pocket with an authority of movement that, for a moment, brought all her presence back.
An ambulance was screaming up Fannin Street toward the hospital, the wheeaaaw, wheeaaaw of its siren becoming louder and louder as it drew near. While still remote, it was almost a pleasant sound, but it soon became louder and rawer and, for a few brief seconds, was much too loud. Nothing cut the sound: not the wall around Shadyside, not the great trees, not the massive houses. For a moment the sound overwhelmed the pleasantries of farewell, and, despite themselves, the people standing in front of the huge ivied house all looked toward it. Two chauffeurs who had got out of two limousines looked toward it too. None of them could see the spinning red light on top of the ambulance but they all knew when it came opposite them. Then the full reverberation of the sound struck them all and quickly began to diminish.
Eleanor turned and said a final word to her hosts and then turned again and began to walk away, Mr. Taylor with her. The hotel where she was staying was just outside the wall, scarcely two blocks away. Patsy got in with one of the nice young couples. They only had a station wagon, and they steered carefully past the two long black cars parked at the head of the driveway. As they turned into the street they passed Eleanor and Mr. Taylor. He was talking, she was walking silently. Patsy was by the window and the window was down, but she didn’t wave. Eleanor was looking across the long lawn, and the polite tones of Mr. Taylor’s voice, which Patsy heard for a second, seemed more remote from her than they were from Patsy, more remote from her even than they were from the two silent chauffeurs beside the two limousines. Eleanor was inscrutable; she was not to be reached. There loomed beyond the small polite man at her side that other figure, that man who had known her far away from the trees of Houston, in the rougher, rawer country where the two of them had had their life and been, in their strange way, a royal couple.
Her final glimpse of Eleanor made Patsy pensive. To see Eleanor was to remember Sonny. She wondered if she would ever have a man so distinctly hers that she would remind people of him. She doubted it, and it made her sad.
She was not very responsive to the dozens of questions that Miri and Eric asked her about the fancy party she had been to. Later, in bed, she was wide awake. It occurred to her that Jim had been a fool to back away from Eleanor and run away with Clara. But, as Eleanor had said, he was always nice, and he didn’t dislike anyone. She thought about him for a moment, but he wouldn’t stay on her mind. It was just a quick judgment she passed on him and then forgot. The future and the past were on her mind and she would have been glad of a sleeping pill.
Downstairs, Eric and Miri were talking about her—about what was wrong with her, about what she would do, about Hank, whom Miri had not seen and whom Eric had not known. They went on to talk about marriage, how stupidly most people went into it, how foolish they were about it, how simple it would be to have a good marriage if one were only sensible. They speculated about it far into the night, now passionately, now soberly, stopping from time to time to neck. Patsy, could she have heard, would have gone to sleep amused.
20
IT HAD BEEN DECIDED that Davey should have a dog. They were all at the park on a fine sunny afternoon in late April discussing it—Patsy and Davey, Miri and Eric, and Emma and Tom and Teddy. Tommy no longer liked being called Tommy; he felt that Tom was more adult. Everyone complied with his wish in the matter except Teddy, whose modus vivendi was to comply with as little as possible, at least where his brother was concerned. But, for the moment, names were not at issue. Ostensibly they were all waiting for Flap, who was in a seminar; but none of them were in any hurry for Flap to appear. It was a fine spring day, clear and breezy and unsmogged—a perfect day to sit in the park and talk about dogs.
Patsy was wearing an old sweatshirt that had once been Jim’s and blue jeans and sneakers and was perched atop the jungle gym looking down at Davey, who was holding the bottom rail of the jungle gym and looking up at her occasionally. He was used to her being up there when they were at the park and was not disgruntled. A small brown and black mongrel was sniffing Davey’s pants leg, and enough other dogs were around to lend point to the discussion. A large Doberman ran by from time to time, and Felicity, the unloved bor
der collie, was sitting nearby, her leash tied to a swing pole, wishing someone would come and pet her. The boys were playing in the sand-pile and Emma and Eric and Miri sat at one of the concrete tables being dogmatic about dogs.
Everyone had very firm opinions on the matter except Patsy, who would have to foot the bill, and Davey, whose dog it would actually be. Davey would have liked any reasonable dog, and Patsy was afraid she would too. The longer she contemplated dogs and their infinite variety the less specific she felt. In regard to dogs she was handicapped by an almost total open-mindedness.
Her friends had no such problem. Each of them knew exactly what kind of dog would be best. Even Tom had an opinion. He favored bulldogs, as being effective against burglars.
Emma, the sentimentalist, favored cockers, because she had had one as a child and had loved it and remembered it vividly. “You can’t go wrong with cockers,” she remarked several times. She wore a new green maternity dress and was showing her pregnancy. She sat filing her nails.
“Oh, hush about cockers,” Patsy said, remembering that they were the one kind of dog she didn’t much like. “They fawn,” she said. “Every one I ever knew fawned.”
Emma shrugged and tried to tidy her untidy blond hair. “So?” she said. “Don’t be harsh and intolerant. They’re very friendly and they need a lot of love. I fawn too. It’s the only way I can get any attention in this world.”
“Boo hoo,” Patsy said. “You and your self-pity.”
Actually she and Emma were on great terms, though they carped at each other constantly about self-pity. The only thing they really pitied themselves about was that they would soon lose each other as companions. In three months the Hortons would be gone to Iowa.
“I still think you should get him an Afghan,” Eric said. “I’ve always wanted one.”
“But you’re hardly Davey,” Patsy said. She remembered the beautiful Afghan that had been at the motel in Phoenix. It made her see Eric’s point. She too would like an Afghan. It would be the perfect dog for her. She saw herself a woman of mystery, going walking at night in the mist with her beautiful dog. She would walk around on foggy nights and become a legend. Undergraduates would whisper when they caught a glimpse of her, and her Afghan would go everywhere she went.
But she was hardly Davey, either. The dog was for him, and he didn’t give her time to be a woman of mystery, anyway. “Davey’s too young for an Afghan,” she said. “They’re supposed to be very sensitive. A kid would drive one crazy.”
Eric did not seem to doubt it. “Scotties?” he said.
“Too much hair,” Miri said. “It’s too hot for hairy dogs in this town. It wouldn’t be able to go outside all summer. Just get him a plain sensible terrier. Any kind of terrier.”
Miri had come to feel that she was much more sensible than any of them. Sensible had become her favorite word. Pregnancy and Eric and general good health had made her a little smug. Patsy, remembering the shape Miri had been in only six weeks before, was sometimes amused at her pretentions to sense, and sometimes a little annoyed by her quiet smugness. But in regard to dogs she was forced to admit that Miri was probably right. In view of the climate of Houston, a short-haired dog was indicated.
Eric stood up and stretched. “Let’s all go get a milkshake,” he said. “Flap won’t be out for thirty minutes yet.”
Patsy and Emma were silent, not interested. The park was too nice. It was almost four o’clock and soon the park would be full of mothers and young children. Emma was pregnant, Patsy not hungry. They shook their heads. Miri looked up at Eric. She was feeling lazy, but he clearly wanted to go, so she stood up, obedient for the moment. “Want us to take the boys?” she asked Emma.
“Sure, if they want to go.”
The boys did. But Teddy’s sneakers were untied, and so full of sand they could barely be tied. He had not mastered his knots, and he sat on a bench while Emma tied them. Miri and Eric were holding hands, waiting. Emma brushed some of the sand out of Teddy’s brown hair and entrusted Tommy with thirty-one cents. “That’s for two two-dip cones,” she said.
They departed, Eric and Miri walking slowly, the boys running ahead across the green park. Patsy from her perch and Emma from her table watched them run. They were never quite sure the boys would stop when they got to the street. They did though. It was always a relief. Patsy was tired of sitting on the cross bar of the jungle gym and climbed down. It was necessary, anyway. Davey had not been asked to go to the drugstore but had decided to go on his own and was proceeding past the sand-pile, far in the rear of Eric and Miri. Patsy was about to run after him when he tripped and fell. He didn’t rise, apparently because he realized the hopelessness of overtaking the party. Emma had opened a book of Updike stories. Being pregnant always made her feel like reading short stories.
“Ever try eating pickles?” Patsy asked as she walked by.
Emma was engrossed and didn’t answer. She only had to read two sentences of any story to become engrossed. Patsy skirted the sand pile and went on to where Davey was. He was still lying on his stomach but had raised his head. He had grass on his lip. Patsy sat down by him and he put a hand on her knee. She dragged him into her lap and rocked him back and forth in her arms for a bit. Then she brushed the grass off his lip. “Well, they just abandoned you, old chum,” she said. “How could anybody abandon a big boy like you?”
Davey was not interested in her motherly mouthings. He wiggled out of her lap and got up, using her shoulder for support. Behind them, on a court, some boys were playing basketball. Davey was watching them and Patsy turned so she could watch them too. They were in their early teens, very energetic but not very good. They played with much yelling, and were quick to reproach one another for any error or inexpertness. Davey was fascinated. From time to time the boys stopped to catch their breath and get their hair out of their eyes. All but one or two had long hair that swung wildly as they played.
Davey turned loose of Patsy’s shoulder and walked toward the court to get a closer look. “Not too close,” she said, but he was as engrossed in the basketball as Emma was in the short stories and paid her no mind. Patsy had become used to being ignored at will, even by her own son, and she got off the grass and followed in case she had to rush in and keep him from being trampled.
As it happened, there was no danger. He got to the court just as the boys were taking a breather. They were talking about cars. The basketball had been temporarily abandoned and Davey walked over and took possession of it. The boys glanced at him but didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t lift it, but it seemed to give him just as much satisfaction just to bend over and encircle it with his arms. He pushed it, followed it, and bent over it again, grunting a little, full of self-confidence and self-importance and delighted to be playing ball. From time to time he looked at Patsy to make sure she was noticing.
Then the boys all stood up. Davey looked at them cheerfully, equal to equals, as if he expected some new phase of the game to begin. But the boys took the ball as if he didn’t exist and began to dribble it and throw it to one another.
Patsy walked onto the court to lead Davey out of the way. “Come on, before you get brained,” she said. She reached down and got his hand; but Davey was in a state of shock. He had realized that the boys didn’t mean for him to play with them. For a few minutes while he was playing with the ball he had had the illusion that he and they were the same. He had felt himself a big boy. Then they took the ball and he realized it was not so—realized it in a way that he never had before. His mother and his aunt and his maid treated him like a big boy and it was a terrible disappointment to find out that real boys didn’t. He tried to pull away from Patsy. She didn’t have a good grip on his hand and had to ease him down to the concrete for a minute, for fear he would slip free and really fall. He was crushed; his face took on a look of complete disappointment. His lower lip came out and he began to cry. Patsy was embarrassed, for at the first wail the boys all looked at them with slight disgust. She stooped t
o pick him up, but when she did, his first dawning disappointment turned to indignation and then wild rage at the unfair state of things. He was a little boy, but he was a little boy in all his fury, and she picked up a wiggling, kicking, screaming bundle.
Emma, halfway across the park, looked up from Updike at the sound of Davey’s wails. Patsy had picked him up by the arms but in doing so had not calculated on his being quite so mad. He was kicking her thighs and hips with all his might and she had to set him down again briefly; he was by then incoherent and utterly unsoothable. She tucked him under one arm, held on grimly, and carried him shrieking and kicking across the park. A few of the mothers looked around, but it was not an uncommon sight. Patsy was half amused and half sad about it all—sad because Davey had had such an awful disappointed look on his face when he realized he did not yet have a place in the world of big people.
She sat down at the concrete table across from Emma and tried to soothe him. But he was having a fit, and his fit took a while to wear off. “What’s the matter with him?” Emma asked. Patsy shook her head. She was trying to hang on to him and he was growing red in the face from trying to squirm out of her lap. Finally she let him up. He sat down in the dirt and the deafening wails diminished and became the intermittent jerky sobs of a small boy whose fit had almost run its course.
“He’s crying because he’s not big enough to play basketball,” she said. “They let him hold the ball a minute and it gave him delusions of grandeur. Poor thing. It’s no fun finding out you’re little and helpless. Do you suppose I’ve spoiled him by treating him like he was older than he is?”
She looked to see what Emma thought, for when it came to matters pertaining to the well-being of children Emma was the person she put the most trust in. But Emma wasn’t listening. She hadn’t heard the question. Her own question had been a purely rhetorical response to Davey’s wails. Emma had looked up from her book and was staring across the park, but it was not the park that she was seeing. Her eyes were vacant. They did not take in the mothers and the children, the slides and playground horses, the streets and the green spring grass. Her eyes were fixed on some country of her own, and her mouth was set in a strange way. Patsy, who knew her friend’s looks, knew that Emma was about to cry. Unlike herself, Emma did not cry easily. She fought herself, and her face became swollen with pain before she cried. At one time the sight of Emma about to cry had panicked Patsy. She would always try desperately to keep her from actually crying. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? Tell me,” she would say, and Emma would say, “Nothing, nothing, I’m all right,” and then cry, anyway. But Patsy had learned. She looked discreetly away and waited, straightening Davey’s hair with her fingertips. In a minute or two she heard the strange sniffing sounds that Emma made when she was crying. Emma was oddly ashamed of tears. They seemed to her immoral, and if she failed to gulp them back she wiped each one away the minute it touched her cheek. When Patsy looked up she was wiping them away, but for once she was weeping faster than she could wipe. Patsy reached in her baby bag and handed her friend a Kleenex.
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