by Mary Astor
“Well—you can’t tell, Virginia—maybe he panicked.”
“You sound like Mum! Charlie never panicked—about anything.”
It was true of course, but Gregg refrained from agreeing.
“Charlie always knows what’s best for Charlie,” she went on. “He didn’t even try—Gregg——” She searched his face, still dry-eyed. “How can I learn to hate him? I’m so full of anger I could kill him—but I should despise him—why don’t I?”
“Virginia——” Gregg protested gently.
“Is it because he’s my brother? Tell me!”
“I don’t think you—being you—could hate anyone——”
“Maybe I’ll learn—and what good will it do——” Her face began to contort in the first signs of grief and Gregg said quickly:
“I think it would be a good idea now for you to take the sedative Hagedorn left—let’s just blot it all out for a while, what do you say?”
She sank back onto the pillows and dug her fists into her eyes like a child. “I’ve got an awful headache—I can’t seem to think straight.”
Gregg placed the two capsules in her hand and offered her the glassful of water he had poured. “Come on now, drink up.” She gulped the pills and the water dutifully, and lay back again with a sigh.
The room was quiet for a while. Gregg smoothed the hair from her damp forehead, stroking it gently till her eyelids stopped fluttering. The rain streaked down the windowpanes, and from the beach came a distant sound of voices shouting. Virginia opened her eyes wide and looked over at the window, her lips parted, listening. At the same time Beatrice came into the room with a blanket. Gregg took it from her hands, saying, “She’ll be all right till morning.” Together they spread the blanket over Virginia, who said, “Mum? You doing all right?”
“I’m fine, baby, you go to sleep like a good girl now, hear?”
Gregg blessed the woman in his mind, and wondered at the strength of those who seem weak. She hurried out, however, not trusting herself, saying flatly to Gregg, “We’ll have a nurse by morning—if you’ll just—I have to——”
He patted the thin shoulder as she went out the door. “Go easy on yourself—you’re not Gibraltar, you know!”
From the bed Virginia said, “Gregg?” and he was by her side. “Gregg?” she asked again.
“What, Virginia?”
“Where’s Charlie?”
“In his room, I think. Why?”
“Take him some oatmeal cookies—he’ll need them.” She chuckled and closed her eyes.
The morning was bright and fair and still. The house itself seemed to sleep the sleep of exhaustion. There was nothing more to be done for the moment, except to yield to the immediate needs for recovery from shock. Tragedy had swung a paralyzing blow, and before the problems arising out of it could be dealt with, there had to be recuperation from the tragedy itself.
In the kitchen the servants whispered and went through the motions of preparing food and cleaning up, conscientiously setting down each pan and kettle, each piece of silverware or bit of china with care and caution, to make as few sounds as possible. They felt that their own small offering was to be quiet and respect the multiplied nerve endings of the household.
The nurse arrived and was shown to Virginia’s room, where she still slept, white and motionless. The door to Walter’s and Beatrice’s room was closed. Charlie’s door stood open, but the curtains were drawn and Zoë was curled in the depths of the bed, alone; nor had she stirred when Charlie rose, grumbling, “Is everybody going to sleep all day!”
He had been served his breakfast on the terrace by himself, annoyed further at the solemn mask of the face of Doreen. He felt as though he would explode from the atmosphere around him, and Gregg saw him from his window on the third floor, striding down toward Berry Pie.
It would be a couple of hours before Gregg had to cope with the self-imposed job of seeing the press, answering phone calls and personal calls from friends of the family. All the details, the questions to be answered, were about to begin. It was a necessary part of the healing process, he supposed, like the white corpuscles racing to the emergency of a wound. But Charlie was like the bullet in the wound, and like the bullet had no knowledge, no feeling of having caused the wound. He must be removed, in some way, before the healing could commence. It went against Gregg’s make-up, his nature, to interfere to such a degree. It was more like him to keep in the background, to stay uninvolved. But it was more than just a desire for Charlie to get the hell out, get out from under the suffering eyes of Virginia and Walter and Beatrice—and Zoë. His very presence at the funeral, for instance, would be a galling malapropism. He could almost visualize him, behaving perfectly. Gently solicitous to Virginia, taking charge, his face properly molded into just the right degree of concern, a too-proud-to-show-one’s-feelings expression. He would show a humble gratitude to those who would say, “You mustn’t blame yourself, everybody knows you did all you could!”
Somehow he had to spare the family such a fiction. The burden of the loss of Jeff and Alma was enough. He might not be successful, Gregg thought, but at least he’d try some fancy irritation.
Walking down the steps of the veranda, he paused to light his pipe. A few sea gulls had begun to circle around Charlie in hopes of crumbs. Charlie was venting his annoyance by throwing small stones at them.
Gregg watched him a moment and thought, “Nice, filthy mood—good, maybe I can take advantage of it, go along with it, get him to go back to New York in his best high dudgeon,” and went down to join him.
“Oh, hi, Gregg.” Charlie glanced around, speaking somewhat suspiciously.
“Hi, Charlie—how do you feel?” said Gregg, determined to keep it, God help him, light.
“A-ach!” Charlie made a sound indicating a combination of disgust and resignation, sitting down onto the sand with his back against the rocks.
Gregg smoked awhile, looking out at the sea. Waiting. Waiting to listen.
“Anybody up yet?” asked Charlie.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, my God, it’s nearly ten-thirty! I didn’t think people slept so much in the country. Me, I like to get up and get going. I know you never thought very much of me, Gregg, but that’s one thing you could never say, that I was lazy. I was always at the office at nine-thirty right on the nose—at the latest. Now that I work at home, I still do the same thing; up and ready for those old phone calls; people expect it, you know.”
Gregg listened.
“Had a lot of bad luck, last few years, you know. Lot of deals went sour. Free as a bird as far as debts are concerned.”
“Really?” Gregg said mildly. “That’s good.”
“Oh sure. The money I had coming to me in ’43 was a lifesaver! Even got a little left.”
Gregg took his pipe out of his mouth to stare at Charlie. “What do you mean, a little? I should hardly think you would ever be poverty-stricken.”
“Oh, Gregg.” He shook his head, gravely. “I took a hell of a beating in the market, you know. And then terrible expenses I didn’t figure on. Zoë’s drinking—you haven’t any idea what doctors charge, especially when they think you’re rich.”
“Why do you suppose she drinks, Charlie?” Gregg said, without expecting the right answer. “Why do you suppose she’s let it get such a hold on her?”
“Damned if I know.” He gazed out at the horizon vacantly. “You don’t know anything about women, Gregg—they can be a hell of a burden. I’d’ve done fine, if she had pulled her own weight and not let me down all the time.”
“No consideration——” Gregg prodded.
“Absolutely none!” Charlie finally faced him, finding a possible ally, and Gregg shook his head sympathetically; he knew how important it was for Charlie to have people on “his side.” People were lumped into two categories, they were either for him or against him, and it was a safe assumption that he could be directed more easily if he felt approval. To this extent, Char
lie was quite human, Gregg thought, although he felt that a human being who was so dependent on approval was impoverished and he detested the “yessing” formulas outside the “fictitious benevolence” of politeness.
“You know what she told me last night?” Charlie asked.
“Who, Zoë?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Well, don’t say anything to the others, but she said when all this hullabaloo was over and we went back to New York, she was going to divorce me. She didn’t mean it of course.”
“Drinking, I suppose,” said Gregg around the stem of his pipe.
Charlie paused. “No. I’ll have to be fair and completely honest—she hadn’t had a drink—it’s odd, because she is so easily upset, you know.”
Gregg nodded. “Probably forgot herself in worrying about the others,” he said, and drew blood, for Charlie flared.
“She can go to hell, as far as I’m concerned! Did she give one single thought to me? Did she give a damn that I’m just barely, luckily alive? For that matter—and this is what really gripes me—has anyone in this entire goddam household even mentioned it?”
“Did you expect them to, Charlie?” Gregg kept his tone even, emotionless. “Don’t you agree with them that it was your fault?”
“My fault!” Charlie’s eyes widened, but Gregg had seen this expression before.
“You’re an excellent sailor, Charlie——”
“For God’s sake, do you think I dumped that boat deliberately? Why would I want to kill Jeff and Alma—I’m no murderer—is that what they think? How stupid can you get! If I’d wanted to kill them, I certainly wouldn’t have risked my own life, that’s for sure!”
“That’s for sure, Charlie!” Gregg chuckled and regained some lost ground.
“Well, then.” Charlie, misunderstanding, went on. “You see you’re wrong about them thinking that it was my fault.”
“I don’t think so, Charlie. You see, people are funny. They believe—of course I may be wrong—that you were pretty foolhardy to start with, trying to beat a squall.”
“So? I misjudged it. Anybody can misjudge the speed of a little breeze like that. I had plenty of distance for a while. And I did try to come about in time. It was just bad luck, that’s all.”
“Well, tell me this—I know a person is apt to get rattled sometimes, but——”
“I never get rattled.”
“Well, then, you must have seen the situation very clearly——”
“Certainly—Jeff didn’t have a chance—he couldn’t swim with those braces on—and he’d got fouled up in the mainsail.”
Gregg applied full pressure. “But you could have tried to free him, instead of letting a frantic fourteen-year-old attempt the job.”
Charlie stood up, furious. “For the love of God, is that what they expected of me? What was I to do? Argue with that hysterical chick? Be the big hero and get myself drowned maybe? Who do they think I am, Superman?”
“No, Charlie, they thought of you as a man. Idiots that they are, they believe that in times of danger men think of the danger to others as well as to themselves, isn’t that ridiculous?”
Charlie looked at Gregg uncertainly, not sure of the strange tone in Gregg’s voice, the amused glitter in his eyes. He said, “And who, may I ask, has given one single thought about my own danger? Does anyone even care that I’m alive? I’ve been going around that house getting nothing but the backs of people’s heads. ‘Poor Virginia’—‘poor Dad’—‘poor Mum’—and ‘poor Zoë’! That drunken bitch, she looks at me as if I were scum——”
Gregg matched his tone, and his form of speech. “Why don’t you blow, Charlie—the hell with ’em, let them wallow in their misery. You don’t have to take any crap from anybody!”
“You’re damn right I don’t!” He laughed arrogantly, comfortable now. “Hey, why don’t you and I pack up and get away—before noon maybe. You know something, I don’t think they’d even miss us!”
Gregg hesitated. “Oh, you go ahead, Charlie, and let me cover for you. Let me tell them something, like”—he pulled at his chin as though he were considering the best excuse—“well, the truth! That you were so damned hurt that they thought you hadn’t done everything you could, that you decided you’d better not stick around.”
Again Charlie’s eyes flickered uncertainly, because this did not appeal to him as “the truth” and so he said, “Why should I lie? It’s only you that’s saying this is what they think,” and suddenly, “Do you want to get rid of me, or something?”
Gregg cursed himself for rushing, and carefully bit back a defensive answer to the question. He said, “It’s okay with me if you want to hang around in this morbid atmosphere. Everybody down in the mouth, everybody ignoring you.”
“Well, what about you? Why do you want to stay—why don’t you go back with me?”
Gregg watched the man’s confusion; he was behaving like a cat in a strange house, looking for a place to escape, not trusting the figures and forms around him, uneasy and restless. “Let’s say”—Gregg laughed a little apologetically—“that I’m a kind of errand boy and I have some jobs to do,” and he thought, “Thank God.” Anything, anything to help the people who were so dear to him. Including this particular, tricky, distasteful job.
Charlie was comfortable again, now that he could feel that Gregg was beneath him, by his own term, “errand boy.” He smiled in joking contempt.
“You poor slob! That’s all you’ve ever been, isn’t it?”
It would have been a pleasure to hit him, hard. With firmness Gregg opened his fists, spreading his hands open till the fingers relaxed, and then dropping them by his side in a gesture of resignation. “I guess,” he said, “it might seem that way to you.”
When they reached the house Gregg excused himself, saying, in mock despair, “I’ve got work to do!”
Charlie chuckled appreciatively. “Have fun! And if I don’t see you before I go, call me up any time you’re in New York—we’ll have a drink or something.”
Gregg gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Right! And thanks a lot!” He did have work to do. Walter was first. He knocked at the study door. The answer was long in coming. “Yes, come in.”
It was shocking to see how the man had aged over the long night. He was past anything but a kind of tired sadness. His daughter’s loss, his sympathy and emotion for her, were acceptable, with the acceptance of any of life’s tragedies. But as far as his son was concerned—he had reached a stage of satiation. A joke heard too often is not funny, in time even shame subsides. He could no longer be either indignant or active, no longer could he blame himself. Charlie, his son, his beloved one, was a riddle that was not worth solving, and the effort spent in trying to solve the riddle had etched lines and daubed charcoal shadows beneath his eyes, and there was something about him that had died.
Gregg spoke gently to him. “Walter, I have to be brief. I’m sure you agree that it is better for all concerned if Charlie doesn’t stay around here. Not even for the funeral. I’ve had a talk with him, and he is going back to New York.”
“You talked to him?” said Walter, frowning.
“Yes.”
“Does he realize anything?”
Gregg shook his head. “No,” he said, and did not elaborate. “There is only one thing, Walter,” he continued. “I think he could be persuaded to stay very easily, even by a hospitable word, but I think, if he is not around, his absence, at least, will imply a degree of responsibility and remorse.”
Walter said, “Of course nobody else has any idea that he was responsible. We saw what happened, clearly and without question.” He gave a heavy sigh. “You’re right—it would be a nightmare for Virginia to attend the funeral—supported by her brother’s arm! Beatrice, of course—well, I’ll have a talk with her. By the way, I have an answer from Elsie to my wire—she and Herb are flying to Boston, and they’ll be here late tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’m going to loo
k in on Virginia, now—unless you——”
“No—I think I want to be alone—but I thank you, Gregg. The house is so full of emotion, it’s good that someone is around to do some thinking——”
Gregg tapped on Virginia’s door and the nurse admitted him. Virginia, sitting up with a pale yellow bed jacket around her shoulders, held out her hand to him. He took it between his palms and sat beside her.
“How do you feel, dear?”
“Oh, I’m all right, Gregg, truly I am.” Her smile was forced and there was no light in her eyes.
“I just feel so rotten physically that I can’t seem to—seem to—behave properly——” And as tears filled her eyes, she reached for some tissues almost angrily. “You see what I mean! Damn it, if I could just get hold of myself—I could . . .”
Gregg pressed her free hand. “Easy, old girl—nobody expects you to be anything but human—be good to yourself and rest as much as you can.”
“Gregg? Why hasn’t Charlie been in? Does he feel that I have no forgiveness?”
Gregg dropped his eyes miserably.
“It wouldn’t be—easy,” she went on, with a shortness of breath, “but it would be a good thing—for both of us—it would keep me from feeling so bitter—if he would just, well—say he was sorry—I mean——”
“Virginia——” Gregg took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Charlie is sorry—in his heart—I am sure. But give him time. He hates to admit to being responsible, he’s leaving—going back to New York; I think it’s because he can’t face you yet.”
“You are a dear—liar,” Virginia said, and leaning back on the pillow, she closed her eyes. Suddenly she jumped up straight again, her eyes wide in remembrance. “My God! Zoë!”
“What about her?”
“She mustn’t go back with him—tell her—Gregg, tell her I need her; anything; oh, lord, if I could shake myself out of this—my head is spinning.”
Alarmed, Gregg glanced at the nurse, who had been discreetly arranging some things on the big bureau, and who moved to the bed quickly.