He glanced at Monica, and winked.
As if inviting her to corroborate his remarks?—or to contradict?
Sheila listened, listened hard, baring her teeth in a small smile to show that she wasn’t taking Halleron’s words too seriously—she wasn’t hurt, or upset, or confused, or angry—that simply wasn’t Sheila Trask’s style.
In any case, Halleron said, more kindly, Sheila had interesting problems to solve.
“Yes,” Sheila said in a subdued voice, staring at the glass in her hand, “—I suppose you could say so.”
When Monica rose to leave Sheila said she should stay for dinner if she liked, but Sheila’s manner was distracted, her invitation not very convincing or persuasive. Saying good night, with Halleron in close attendance, Sheila made an impulsive, uncharacteristic gesture: she brushed Monica’s cheek with her cold lips in a hostess’s perfunctory farewell, and squeezed her fingers with the promise of telephoning soon.
Monica felt the imprint of that ghostly kiss, that cold improvised farewell, and wondered at its significance, all the way home.
Though perhaps it had no significance, apart from the fact that Halleron had been close by, observing.
9
No call came; but Sheila herself dropped by, uninvited, without giving Monica a warning, clearly high—alcohol, pills?—the strain of Halleron’s visit?—the following evening.
She brought a six-pack of beer, she seemed rudely unaware of Monica’s concern (for Monica had work to do: truly, Monica had a good deal of work to do), she sat on Monica’s sofa and talked, chattered, yawned, joked, complained wistfully and bitterly and with a wild despairing humor, for an hour—for an hour and a half—while Monica made an effort to calm her, to puzzle out what was wrong. This visit, impromptu and not entirely desired, reminded Monica uncomfortably of Sheila’s very first visit to the house—that surprise visit—it seemed so long ago, now—years ago—when Monica had been too confused to know whether she liked Sheila Trask, felt a powerful attraction to her, or was, in fact, repulsed by her. So brash!—so loud!—so self-absorbed, even as she expressed the most damning sort of judgment against herself, as if challenging Monica to agree.
Yes, she was drunk. And though Monica had no choice but to “like” her now—they had gone too far for that—she wished the woman gone for the evening—for the night. For the remainder of the year.
Sheila did not resemble a country squire’s wife now. Her hair was uncombed, she’d thrown on a dirty sweatshirt and manure-stained jeans, for, clearly, it little mattered in Monica’s house what she looked like; nor did it matter what sorts of wayward, bizarre, pointless things she said. No need for pretense, here. She spoke bitterly of enemies—detractors—hers and Morton’s—gallery owners who had cheated them—“friends” who were misleading Sheila even now—the world of art parasites—reviewers, critics, promoters, dealers, collectors, “art historians”—all parasites, yet highly regarded—richly rewarded—admired, pursued, sucked-up-to. God, how she detested them!—wished them all dead!
She finished one can of beer, opened another, tossed the ring-pull on Monica’s coffee table. Monica asked about Halleron—was he married, was he still working—but Sheila seemed scarcely to hear. She said: “But what am I speaking of except—mortality. Always and forever mortality. Nothing else engages me, nothing else terrifies me, but I can’t seem to translate it into work, my mind is racing, spinning, it’s going around in circles and I can’t get off, every syllable I utter is the sheerest self-pity and I’m not imagining it—my brushes are lousy. Fucking bloody lousy my very brushes, it’s no wonder I can’t work, have you ever heard anything more pathetic—?”
Of course the woman was funny, deftly funny, her facial mannerisms, her gesturings, her verbal timing—all very skillful indeed. But Monica refused to laugh. Monica stared at her, unsmiling, and said: “Sheila, please. Don’t. Don’t go on like that. If I can do anything to help, I will, but . . .”
Sheila regarded Monica with a look of affectionate contempt. Deliberately she sucked at her beer, wiped her mouth, rose to her feet with an air of precarious dignity. “‘But,’ says Mary Beth quietly, ‘But,’ says sweet little Mary Beth, meaning ‘Get out of my house,’ meaning ‘I can’t be the one to put you out of your misery, or to comfort you, you’ll have to hire a professional for that, my friend.’” She set down the beer can, snatched up her quilted jacket, prepared to leave. “I shouldn’t have come over. I’m simply presuming upon your good nature. Your too-good too-sweet blond nature. Good night!”
Monica followed Sheila into the kitchen, protesting. She didn’t want Sheila to leave, she said. Why didn’t Sheila stay for another drink, or for dinner . . . ? Why didn’t she tell Monica what was wrong . . . ?
“It’s the holiday season,” Sheila said cheerfully. “None of us is responsible for what she says or does. Or thinks.”
“But what is wrong, Sheila?” Monica asked. “Why can’t you work? Why are you so unhappy? You seem so changed—”
“I never change, I simply become more myself,” Sheila said, making a comical face, a little-boy face, as she zipped up her jacket, wound her mohair scarf around her neck. Her attention was drawn to her reflection—hers and Monica’s—in one of the kitchen windows; she pulled Monica more closely beside her, so that the two of them faced the window. “. . . One a death’s-head, the one so blond. It must be the genes, the cheekbones. The soul poking out through the skin. Or is the soul skin? Everything on the surface, everything in two precise dimensions, as it should be. Good night, and Merry Christmas!”
Monica, suddenly alarmed, stricken, followed Sheila out onto the porch. The wind blew raw stinging bits of snow into her face. She tried to take hold of Sheila—tried to grab her hand—but the woman’s thin strong fingers slipped through hers. Sheila said sharply: “I don’t care to be patronized, Monica. Above all I don’t care to be touched.”
Monica watched her drive away, thinking, frightened: I’ll never see her again. Something terrible is going to happen.
And again, and again: I should have forced her to stay. I should have embraced her. What did she mean, to put her out of her misery, to give comfort. . . .
10
The telephone rings but it is never Sheila.
Now, suddenly, it is never Sheila Trask: and Monica does not dare telephone her.
She receives an invitation to dinner from Brian Farley’s wife; an invitation to dinner from Jill Starkie (“On Christmas Eve, Monica, if you’re going to be alone”); Keith telephones with flattering frequency; there are even a few wrong numbers, just to rouse her, to send her pulses racing. She will fly out to Indiana after all—there is no reason not to go—she misses her family or in any case the idea of her family, a family, a home.
On December 24 she spends much of the day trying fruitlessly to get into contact with Sheila.
Dialing the number again and again, listening to the ringing at the other end, her mouth hard with resentment. She tastes something sour—sour and metallic—she stares at the featureless sky, a gray corrugated landscape. It is the winter solstice, such misery, but now the sky must yield to light, to warmth, to the new year, to life; or so the legends promise.
When at last Sheila Trask lifts the receiver Monica will say quietly: “I hate you, why don’t you die,” but, fortunately, Sheila Trask never lifts the receiver. Perhaps in fact she is already dead.
On Christmas morning Monica drives to Edgemont, as she had vowed she would not.
She notes that Sheila’s station wagon is parked in front of the carriage house, lightly dusted with a powdery film of snow. There are no other cars around.
She climbs the stairs to the studio—her footsteps loud, clattering—she wants Sheila to know that she is here—she is here—and she is damned angry.
She calls out: “Sheila?—it’s Monica. Let me in.”
She raps at the door. Tries the handle.
“Sheila? Are you there? I know you’re there—let me in.”
“Sheila? Please—it’s Monica.”
She tries the doorknob again.
She stands panting, head bent, listening, to the floorboards creaking a few yards away. Sheila? Sheila, listening intently to her? She can see the woman’s white, tense, cunning face . . . the sickly radiance of her soul . . . those dark eyes flashing with malice, with spite, triumph. . . . Monica hates her, yes, truly, Monica Jensen hates Sheila Trask, but they have gone too far for that, it is too late for that, she wishes her dead, yes, but she is faint with terror that perhaps the woman is dead and she has come too late to help.
“Sheila please,” she says softly, now leaning her head against the door, “—God damn you, please.”
She can sense that Sheila has come to stand close by; on the other side of the door. A foot away. Less than a foot away. On tiptoe, in stealth, in spite and triumph, Sheila, her nerves taut as Monica’s, her skin as burning, eyes narrowed. No she will not unlock the door. Yes she will—she must.
But no. Evidently it is to be no.
She presses her warm face against the door, close, very close, to Monica’s, her skin is a dull sickly white, Monica can feel the heat of her body, its secret trembling. Monica says softly: “Sheila—I know you’re there. I want you to unlock this door. Do you hear? I want proof that you’re all right. Then I’ll go away again—I promise. But I want proof, God damn you, that you’re all right—that you haven’t hurt yourself—you aren’t sick. Do you hear?”
She hears the woman’s breathing—ah, unmistakably!—quick, hard, hot, panting. An animal’s cunning, an animal’s panic. That rank fleshy smell.
When she turns the doorknob she can feel Sheila’s grip—Sheila’s resistance.
Monica drops her voice, says in a honeysweet drawl: “You, Sherrill Ann, I know you’re there, so come on. Sherrill Ann? Hon? This is Mary Beth—you know who this is.”
But the ploy is awkward, unconvincing; embarrassing.
Monica will henceforth hate Sheila all the more, for having brought her to such shame.
Her head is pounding, her eyes smart with tears. She is furious. She considers the panels of the old door—the solid oak door—and wonders what strength it would require, what anguish her fists would have to absorb, if she managed to smash it in.
She says, surprised at the calmness of her voice: “Sheila. Do you know the date?—Christmas? I only want proof that you’re all right, I just want to see you, and then I promise I’ll go away.”
But Sheila will not, will not reply.
And what humiliation, for Monica to be so exposed!—she, Monica, who has guarded herself so closely!
“Tell me to leave, then. Tell me to go to hell. As long as I know you’re all right, you aren’t sick . . . haven’t injured yourself. . . .”
She senses a movement behind the door, inches away. She hears Sheila draw breath to speak.
But there is no response.
Nothing.
So Monica says quietly: “I’ll leave. I think I can assume that you are all right—you can take care of yourself.” She pauses; steps back. “I won’t trouble you any longer, Sheila. Do you know, I’m sick to death of this, of you, of everything—I’m sorry we ever met—I don’t really know why we met. I never intrude where I’m not wanted so I’ll leave now, and please don’t contact me again.”
Her voice quavers with triumph, and with a delicious malice of her own. She knows she has won; and now it is a matter simply of leaving, descending the stairs with dignity, with grace, yet quickly enough, before she loses her advantage.
If I fall, if I hurt myself, she is to blame—she’ll regret it, Monica thinks. Her head aches violently and her cheeks are wet with tears though she hasn’t been aware of herself crying. But she reaches the bottom of the stairs without incident. And no one calls her back. And she can hear no sound at all except her breath—hoarse and raw—and the pounding of her blood.
Absurd, absurd, such pounding—!
“You’ll regret it,” she whispers.
III.
“Holiday”
1
Going home for a week would be a restful experience, Monica thought. A kind of convalescence, in secret.
A curative strategy, to go where no one knew her.
Of course she had to cancel several social engagements in Glenkill, and, for courtesy’s sake, she had to sound greatly aggrieved at doing so. She was aggrieved—these days, she carried grief into all the corners of her life—and it was no difficult matter to make people think that her regret had something to do with them.
In any case, she did not want to give offense.
She did not want to fail, here.
She was remembering, these past few weeks, why it had seemed so important to her—so crucial to her well-being, her very life—to be “liked” as an adolescent, to be “well-liked,” indeed to be “very well-liked.” It was all very American, all quite innocent, this early faith in popularity. A ring of smiling admiring faces was a powerful solace for private hurt, and even if one was liked for much that one was not, still the attention was gratifying. Monica recalled how, as a girl of fifteen, secretly unhappy—secretly miserable, in fact—she has been buoyed along by the fact that other girls in her class envied her.
Yet Keith Renwick’s interest in her felt oppressive; a sort of sham. She did not deserve it, she did not want it, yet it was gratifying, and probably harmless. He was a bachelor who had been, as he so fastidiously phrased it, “involved” with a woman for several years, so romance was, for him, as awkward as it was for Monica. (She had told him very little about her marriage and divorce—she was in the habit now of alluding to her past as merely typical, statistical, of no great personal significance.)
Love was a category of being, as was friendship. But the prefatory stage of a relationship was undefined—the prefatory stage of their relationship, at least. If she and Keith were sleeping together, Monica thought, she could say to herself, I have a lover, and it would appear to mean something. I have a lover now. I have a lover again. But they were not sleeping together and they were not in love and so far as Monica knew they were not friends.
“When you come back from Indiana, will you telephone me?” Keith asked; and Monica said, with that false warm enthusiasm that so characterized her these days, “Of course.”
Monica had already mailed Christmas presents home—she was guiltily punctual about such matters as holidays and anniversaries—but at the last minute she drove to Philadelphia to shop for more. A giddy little drunken little shopping spree. She had not done anything quite like this in a decade. Where does the money come from, she asked herself gaily, using her credit card, pulling bills out of her wallet—have I become suddenly wealthy? Her holiday had begun. At last. Perhaps she would regret it later, in January, when the bills came due, but that was later, that would be the “New Year.”
In Indiana, in Wrightsville, in the Jensens’ spacious old brick-and-stucco house on Arlington Boulevard, there was a good deal of hugging and kissing and exclamations of surprised delight. How pretty Monica was!—how good to see her again! The strain of confronting everyone after so long—nearly two years—was eased by the semihysteria of the holiday season. If Monica began crying suddenly no one took special notice; or, if so, her agitation was believed to have something to do with the holiday season and with the long rocky plane trip from Philadelphia.
Monica was to enjoy herself in Wrightsville, Monica was to relax, to look alertly about and to take her cues from other people. A time of suspension, a time of protracted innocence. In Wrightsville she had always been “Monica Jensen,” a daughter and a granddaughter, a sister, a niece, a cousin, long before she had become “Monica Bell” and disappeared somewhere in the Eas
t. This was the only place in the world where Monica had never not been “Monica Jensen,” which was comforting. Here, she was a young girl, still, newly confirmed in the Anglican faith. A daughter cherished by both her mother and her father. A very good student despite the fact that she was so extremely pretty, and often extremely careless about school. She took piano lessons each Saturday morning at ten o’clock from a plump perspiring woman of late middle age named Mrs. Martin who wore shiny dresses, ropes of pearls, and large button earrings, and who liked nothing better than to take Monica’s place on the piano stool and demonstrate, with zest, how her lesson should sound: “Now pay attention!—I will not repeat.” At school Monica had girl friends and boy friends, always a girl friend who was her “closest” friend and a boy friend who was her “steady,” though the identities of these girls and boys changed over fairly brief periods of time. Now, if she could recall a name she had no idea of its place in the sequence of years that constituted her school “life.”
Still, Wrightsville was the place of golden years, the place of small petty heart-stopping triumphs.
How pretty Monica is!—they said, eyeing her closely.
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