The Incredible Charlie Carewe

by Mary Astor

  One of Carewe’s “shoulds” often backfired. He felt that having one of the real solid fortunes in the country should always make him feel grateful. Wars and depressions might affect it, denting it or ballooning it at the periphery, but never coming near the point of affecting his or his family’s needs. But often he felt the lack of the incentive that his associates found, that galvanized them into effort; the striving for financial security. He was afraid of being tempted by laziness. In a world where “achievement” was synonymous with the amassing of money, property, influence, it was his sometimes difficult task to discard the semantics of his colleagues and look further, deeper within himself. He was rewarded with the sense of the human need to grow, the sense that growing in itself was life and that work was part of growth. But often he felt “left out” and apologetic when, on the golf course or over the usual nineteenth-hole drinks, there would be jubilant talk of the rise in the stock market, of Briggs’s success with a new bank merger, or the sound of pride in Anderson’s voice describing his wife’s pleasure in a new mink coat. He was often the target for good-natured envy and not so good-natured jealousy. And there would be a little-boy resentment at not having been allowed to “do it all by himself.” Then, at home in the citadel of his study, with the walls of books around him, the warmth of the snapping logs in the fireplace, with the fragrance of fine tobacco in his nostrils, he would look at the texture of the deep wine-colored carpeting, the lights on the fine woods and the leather of the furnishings, and the gratitude would come back, but with an uneasy feeling of unworthiness. Perhaps, alone, he never would have had all of this. Perhaps, alone and striving, he never would have been able to offer enough to possess his beloved Beatrice with her laughter like little bells, with the soft hands that seemed at home only when touching porcelain and silver, or nesting in filmy fabrics. And Virginia and Charles and Elsie, rushing to meet him in a tornado of “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” bowling him off balance with their bodies in a tangle of legs and arms. Perhaps he would just have been a duffer, as he was at golf. He, Walter Carewe, probably could never have made the grade without them.

  Virginia was feeling gloomy and tense and older than her thirteen years as she waited for Charlie at their usual rendezvous on the beach. The tide had receded from the flat, round, table-sized rock, leaving three crescent-shaped pools of water in the center of its flat surface. In their shallow depths were bits of seaweed, pebbles, and sea anemone. Virginia poked a long brown toe to feel the soft tentacles of the anemone reach and curl about it, and to watch countless tiny fish flash away from the disturbance in a wink of an eye movement.

  The children had named the area “Berry Pie.” On three sides of the stone were black walls of rock that supported the Point. From the beach they had decided that the serrated edges of the table made it resemble a giant pie in an oven; upon its surface the crescent pools were like the bubbling air holes that Cook made with the tip of her spoon. It was protected from the wind—a place to lie after a dip and dry out, and the walls had innumerable cuts and shelves where they could “keep things.”

  Virginia wrung out the tail of her long black hair, braided it into a thick hunk, and secured it on top of her head with a bone barrette. Her stomach felt queasy as when she had swallowed too much sea water. Just the fact that Charlie was getting a talk from Dad in his study was not the only irritant in her mood. There was an unanswered question in her mind. For the first time in her life she felt on the wrong side of the fence. She felt that she had gone over to the enemy and that she had thrown in with the heretofore mysterious, hostile world of grownups. She and Charlie had been a unit, within their family unit. Dad and Mum were a unit. Elsie was another unit, like a small soft bud attached to the Mum and Dad unit. There was the also adult servant unit. The real world was the unit which contained herself and her brother. They swam and ran and played games, and had secret codes and words. No one could understand, when at the dinner table they would catch each other’s eye and be overcome with the giggles. Nor would they have been able to explain what particular word or sound or gesture had set it off. They understood, and something that would not have struck them funny alone was material for hysteria if they could share it.

  To insure proper behavior in church they were usually separated by either one or both of their parents. Even so they had a difficult time maintaining their poise if a fly hovered over Mr. Ewing’s bald pate during the long sermon, or if they discovered a hat with too long a feather that trembled in the breeze, or with a shape which was incongruous to them. Their funny bones were sensitive. The serious face of their father, with an ever so slightly raised eyebrow, or their mother’s gently pursed lips, were usually sufficient to relax them back into boredom.

  On one particular morning Virginia completely lost her sense of humor. It happened in a fraction of a moment. Just before one of the ushers reached them to pass the plate, Charlie had been looking at her, expressionlessly; as he caught her glance he dropped his eyes to his fist, opening and closing it too quickly for her to see. The children always made their own contributions of a coin from their weekly allowance, and the plate passed swiftly from Elsie’s dime, to Dad’s crisp bill, her own quarter, passing Mum, and Charlie dropped an unfolded bill. As the plate slid back, she saw that it was one of Elsie’s play-money five-dollar bills. Her father had also seen it, and quickly snatched it from the shallow basket, looking sharply at Charlie and slipping the paper into his coat pocket.

  Virginia felt her heart throbbing in her throat in embarrassment. Always, she had understood Charlie’s and her own motives for foolishness, realizing the fact of their foolishness. It was the irresistible love of nonsense, like singsong words, or tearing up and down and falling over the sandy beach. Even nonsense that would make someone in the adult units angry was highly permissible, even though justly punishable. But this particular act suddenly and inexplicably transferred her into the adult unit. She reflected the quick astonishment on her father’s face. She looked at Charlie in a quick question, but he was unconcernedly scratching his nose.

  There were a few bubbles in the pool on Berry Pie, where Virginia stirred her toes among the pebbles. There was one big bubble, and as a smaller one neared it, it snapped into and was made part of the larger bubble. She watched the process over and over, dreamily wondering why it seemed to have some connection with the sense of loss, an undefined feeling of disloyalty. She felt as though she had left her brother without saying good-by to him, and yet there was a conflicting feeling of having herself been betrayed. She was not used to these pressures and they were making her feel physically sick. She could not define them, and she wanted to be rid of them at all costs.

  The sun dried her skin, sand had caked on her thin brown arms, and she brushed it off, irritably. She had decided to go back into the sea for another swim, when she saw Charlie loping toward her from the house. He had changed into his black knitted trunks, and hailing her with a “Hi! Come on, you!” tore full speed into the surf. Her feelings, her thoughts, and her queasiness disappeared in an instant, and she flashed after him, hitting the comb of the breaker into which he had disappeared. They pounded through the water barking like a couple of seals, then as she drew alongside of him they matched their strokes in a steady rhythm till they reached the anchored raft. Puffing and dripping and grunting, they clambered onto the hot dry surface, where they stretched out flat on their bellies with noises of mock exhaustion.

  “Hey, you know sumpin’,” Charlie said, still breathing hard, “Lela promised Yorkshire with the roast beef tonight; I asked her, and she said it was too hot for such heavy stuff, and then I asked her again, and she said maybe——”

  “Charlie——” Virginia stopped the flood. “What did Dad say—please!”

  “Oh, nothin’!”

  “What do you mean, nothin’! You were in there an hour, seemed like.”

  “Nothin’, I tell you. He asked me why I put the fiver in, and I said I was getting too old to put just sissy coins in the p
late.”

  Virginia opened and closed her mouth with “Buts——”

  “Buh! Buh! Buh!” Charlie imitated. “You sound like you’re blowing bubbles,” and he rolled on his back in a spasm of giggles.

  “Listen to me, Charlie.” Virginia folded her arms and tightened her lips, and the fledgling body in the grown-up posture sent Charlie off into another gale. Virginia screamed, “You’re too old for sissy coins, but you’re not too old for Elsie’s play-money. You’re nutty!” Rolling off the platform, she beat the water in savage strokes, heading back for the beach.

  The tide was beginning to finger the edges of Berry Pie as Virginia grabbed a towel from a rocky peg and started rubbing her soaking hair, muttering to herself, “I won’t speak to him for three whole days.” In the past, this magic formula had always worked whenever they were “mad” at each other. It was a nice peak of righteous indignation, from which either of them could graciously descend, usually in a matter of hours. The ceremony of absolvement was simple, because the punitive silence would interfere with some more important activity. “You sorry?” “Sure.” “Okay, let’s go!”

  “Being a girl” or “being a boy” also had been convenient tags for the furtherance of peaceful relationship. When they went into high gear over the search for bird nests, they were equally agile in climbing the trees in Mercer’s woods, but while Virginia was content just to take a peek at a pair of blue eggs while the parents fluttered and scolded about them, Charlie had to remove them from the nest, “to take home.” For a time Virginia would plead with him not to, but when he persisted she decided this was just something that boys in general had to do. She had the wisdom to say nothing, but would have something else to do the next time he suggested a nest hunt. And Charlie, who could not bear to do anything alone, would find that he wasn’t interested in “some ole bird’s nest” either. It was a fine whip that Virginia held—Charlie’s need for an audience, a companion; but loving him, she used it kindly, feeling that she had enough advantage in the fact that she was “so much older” and therefore he had to be treated with understanding.

  Charlie body-surfed on the last wave in, and scrambled to his feet, the black curls plastered on his forehead giving him the look of a small faun. He grinned as he approached her, dripping, and snatched the towel from her.

  “What’re you looking so glum for?” he said.

  Virginia was sitting on her spare haunches, gazing blackly at the horizon. “I don’t know.” She lifted her shoulders. “I just feel glum.”

  “What about, for cryin’ out loud? You hungry?”

  “You won’t be serious.”

  “What’s to be serious about? Go on, tell me. What.”

  “Well—why did you swipe Elsie’s play-money?” That was a starter anyway, although Virginia felt it had nothing to do with the way she felt.

  “I didn’t swipe it,” said Charlie indignantly. “She hardly ever plays with it any more anyway.”

  Virginia made her point. “That’s what I mean. She’s outgrown it too! She has an allowance now. Real money. Who wants play paper money when they can have real money?”

  Charlie said, “I don’t like money that jingles. That’s what’s kid stuff. Nothing would have happened if Dad hadn’t fished it out of the plate. Mr. Hinkle was real impressed—didn’t you see how he kind of smiled?”

  Virginia’s little brown fist itched to do some pummeling. That Charlie should have such a blind spot seemed to be too extraordinary to be possible. She felt as though he were insisting that two plus two equaled five. Her own pride was somehow involved too. She was eager to grow up, she felt the process was something of an exciting challenge, and she wanted Charlie to grow up with her. Charlie’s insistence on being grown up seemed a headlong thing, containing danger. It was like taking a hurdle on a jumping horse. At riding classes Charlie always rushed his horse over the barrier, as though he wanted to be there, while she found a quiet excitement in feeling the nice sense of control, first in herself, and then in a communication with the animal, steady, poised, alert. And when the lift came and the wind rushed past her ears the fence seemed simply not to exist. It had been a problem to be faced, interpreted and valued—and disposed of. She had granted Charlie’s more vigorous approach as “boy-ness.” She felt his joy as he crowed and shouted when he was successful and went over without a “tick”—and she wriggled uncomfortably when he knocked the poles down, and then beat the horse with his crop, cussing him for a “darn fool lazy animal.” Finally, “boy-ness” and difference in age were not enough to excuse his unpleasant aggressiveness. Because in another boy in the class she found the same quality she herself had. And there was no “girl-ness” in Jeff Shelley.

  Of course, Jeff didn’t have her brother’s charm, his easy grin, and his clear candid brown eyes. Nor was he really any “fun.” But when it was Jeff’s turn at the field, and the class quiet and watching at the fence, observing him, she would find an agreement, an understanding of his behavior, that completely eluded her in her brother. Jeff was tall and bony and blond, and when his name was called his face would flush slightly, and with a little duck of his head and a tight little smile he would trot his jumper to the starting point. From then on any sign of embarrassment left him. He would walk his horse to the barrier, patting her neck, seeing that she got a good look at it, then back to the starting point again. Virginia felt as though she were looking at someone who was completely alone, completely relaxed. She watched his lips move, as he asked the mare to be steady, steady. Then for a split motionless moment she could see the pale bony hands, curled firmly around the reins, a flicker in the white eyelashes, the pale yellow hair, and without a perceptible movement, simply as though he and the horse had decided it was time to go, they swung the arc, the scenery seemed to move behind them, and her heart would lift at the sound of his “Hup!” The horse lifted and cleared as though it was nothing at all.

  “Roaring,” “golden,” “fabulous” were some of the adjectives that would be applied to the twenties in later years. But the world of F. Scott Fitzgerald, of Edna St. Vincent Millay, the Charleston, and the worshipers at the shrines of Garbo, Clara Bow, John Gilbert, the new freedoms of the younger generation, was a world apart from families like the Carewes. The children were too young to be swept into the raccoon-coat, flask-carrying set that roared through the countryside in a Lancia or a Stutz. And their elders felt that it was simply an exaggerated mood of carnival gaiety that could not happen to “their kind.” They regretted it, they shook their heads over the capers, and said, as all generations have classically remarked, “It wasn’t like that when I was young.” Unacceptable social behavior quite simply didn’t exist, in their protected world of family tradition, education at fine schools, money, solid homes. The modern term “neurotic” could have been applied only to people on their own level, such as, for example, an unfortunate man who had never recovered from being “shell-shocked” in the war, or a bereaved wife who hadn’t yet “got over” her husband’s death, or Cousin Elizabeth, who was, after all, getting on in years. Otherwise he or she was simply the victim of poor ancestry or a “weak” character which could have been corrected by proper discipline.

  “Virgie’s just getting a little sensitive, that’s all, Walter dear. Girls do, you know, at her age—it’s only natural.” Beatrice dimpled her wisdom smilingly into the mirror at her husband.

  “It’s more than that, Bea.” Walter, already in bed, a cigarette between his lips, folded his arms behind his head. “She beat me good at chess tonight; sharp as a tack, that kid. Getting so I can’t be careless any more when I play with her.” He chuckled with affection, then, raising himself on one elbow, doused the cigarette in a glass tray beside him.

  “Well, it’s been a long time since you’ve been quite so hard on Charlie, about a little thing, as you were tonight.” Bea smoothed cream into her soft chin.

  “Look, I know a boy of twelve isn’t supposed to have perfect table manners—but belching, for God
’s sakes——”

  “Walter dear,” murmured Bea, automatically.

  “——out loud, not only once but three times. Even Elsie was shocked. I had to send him upstairs. The kids left that kind of stuff with their nursery days and Miss Hale.”

  “Now, Walter dearest, you’ve just forgotten, that’s all. When you were his age, didn’t you think it a great accomplishment when you learned to belch automatically?”

  “Sure—but we practiced in private—had contests. I know all that. But I’d’ve got my bottom tanned if I had done it at the table. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. It isn’t what we were talking about. It’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. At least up till now. But Virgie did.”

  “Another hot day tomorrow,” sighed Bea as she slipped between the sheets of her bed and snapped off the table lamp. There was a period of silence. Sleep was closing in.

  “Virgie did what, darling?” Bea said, as if just hearing Walter’s remark.

  Virgie had said, “Why doesn’t Charlie——well, change?”

  Walter said, “It was your knight that did the trick. That was a great move. Right out of the book . . . What did you say?” Together they were replacing the ivory chessmen on the board. Only a moment before Virginia had gleefully announced, “That’s check—and ’mate, Dad!” Winning had made her feel expansive and warmly confident; temporarily she was on a mental level with Walter; the difference in years, the father-daughter relationship evaporated, and they were, wonderfully, friends.

  Walter lighted his pipe, puffing, tamping gently—settling back in the twin wing chair opposite his daughter. She had touched a nerve. She was asking a question that had been in his own mind, suppressed and disregarded.

  “What are you talking about, honey?” he said guardedly.