My Sister's Hand in Mine

by Jane Bowles

  “Please eat, dearest,” said Peggy, “you’ll give me such great pleasure if you do.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” said Mrs. Copperfield fretfully. “Playing house?”

  Peggy laughed.

  “You know,” said Mrs. Copperfield, “my husband is coming here to join us. He’ll think we’re both stark raving mad to be eating lobster in the morning. He doesn’t understand such things.”

  “Well, let’s eat it up quickly, then,” said Peggy. She looked wistfully at Mrs. Copperfield. “I wish he wasn’t coming,” she said. “Couldn’t you telephone him and tell him not to come?”

  “No, my dear, that would be impossible. Besides, I don’t have any reason to tell him not to come. I am very anxious to see him.” Mrs. Copperfield could not resist being just a little bit sadistic with Peggy Gladys.

  “Of course you want to see him,” said Peggy, looking very shy and demure. “I’ll be quiet while he’s here, I’ll promise you.”

  “That’s just what I don’t want you to do. Please continue to prattle when he’s here.”

  “Of course, darling. Don’t be so nervous.”

  Mr. Copperfield arrived as they were eating their lobster. He was wearing a dark green suit and looking extremely well. He came over to them smiling pleasantly.

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Copperfield. “I’m very glad to see you. You look very well. This is Peggy Gladys; we’ve just met.”

  He shook hands with her and seemed very pleased. “What on earth are you eating?” he asked them.

  “Lobster,” they answered. He frowned. “But,” he said, “you’ll have indigestion, and you’re drinking beer too! Good God!” He sat down.

  “I don’t mean to interfere, of course,” said Mr. Copperfield, “but it’s very bad. Have you had breakfast?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Copperfield purposely. Peggy Gladys laughed. Mr. Copperfield raised his brows.

  “You must know,” he murmured. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He asked Peggy Gladys where she was from.

  “I’m from Panama,” she told him, “but I’m half Irish and half Javanese.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Copperfield. He kept smiling at her.

  “Pacifica’s asleep,” said Mrs. Copperfield suddenly.

  Mr. Copperfield frowned. “Really,” he said, “are you going back there?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “There isn’t any point in staying here much longer. I thought we’d pack. I’ve made arrangements in Panama. We can sail tomorrow. I have to phone them tonight. I’ve found out a lot about the various countries in Central America. It might be possible for us to stay on a kind of cattle ranch in Costa Rica. A man told me about it. It’s completely isolated. You have to get there on a river boat.”

  Peggy Gladys looked bored.

  Mrs. Copperfield put her head in her hands.

  “Imagine red and blue guacamayos flying over the cattle,” Mr. Copperfield laughed. “Latin Texas. It must be completely crazy.”

  “Red and blue guacamayos flying over the cattle,” Peggy Gladys repeated after him. “What are guacamayos?” she asked.

  “They’re tremendous red and blue birds, more or less like parrots,” said Mr. Copperfield. “As long as you are eating lobster I think I shall have ice cream with whipped cream on top.”

  “He’s nice,” said Peggy Gladys.

  “Listen,” said Mrs. Copperfield, “I feel sick. I don’t think I can sit through the ice cream.”

  “I won’t take long,” said Mr. Copperfield. He looked at her. “It must be the lobster.”

  “Maybe I’d better take her to my Hotel Granada,” said Peggy Gladys, jumping to her feet with alacrity. “She’ll be very comfortable there. Then you can come after you’ve eaten your ice cream.”

  “That seems sensible, don’t you think so, Frieda?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Copperfield vehemently, clutching at the chain she wore around her neck. “I think I’d better go right straight back to the Hotel de las Palmas. I must go. I must go immediately.…” She was so distraught that she rose from the table, forgetting her pocketbook and her scarf, and started to leave the restaurant.

  “But you’ve left everything behind you,” Mr. Copperfield called out after her.

  “I’ll take them,” exclaimed Peggy Gladys. “You eat your ice cream and come later.” She rushed after Mrs. Copperfield and together they ran down the suffocatingly hot street towards the Hotel de las Palmas.

  Mrs. Quill was standing in the doorway drinking something out of a bottle.

  “I’m on the cherry-pop wagon until dinner time,” she said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Quill, come up to my room with me!” said Mrs. Copperfield, putting her arms around Mrs. Quill and sighing deeply. “Mr. Copperfield is back.”

  “Why don’t you come upstairs with me?” said Peggy Gladys. “I promised your husband I’d take care of you.”

  Mrs. Copperfield wheeled round. “Please be quiet,” she shouted, looking fixedly at Peggy Gladys.

  “Now, now,” said Mrs. Quill, “don’t upset the little girl. We’ll have to be giving her a honey bun to quiet her. Of course it took more than a honey bun to quiet me at her age.”

  “I’m all right,” said Peggy Gladys. “Will you kindly take us to her room? She’s supposed to be flat on her back.”

  The young girl sat on the edge of Mrs. Copperfield’s bed with her hand on Mrs. Copperfield’s forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You look very badly. I wish you wouldn’t be so unhappy. Couldn’t you possibly not think about it now and think about it some other day? Sometimes if you let things rest … I’m not sixteen, I’m seventeen. I feel like a child. I can’t seem to say anything unless people think I’m very young. Maybe you don’t like the fact that I’m so fresh. You’re white and green. You don’t look pretty. You looked much prettier before. After your husband has been here I’ll take you for a ride in a carriage if you like. My mother’s dead,” she said softly.

  “Listen,” said Mrs. Copperfield. “If you don’t mind going away now … I’d like to be by myself. You can come back later.”

  “What time can I come back?”

  “I don’t know; come back later; can’t you see? I don’t know.”

  “All right,” said Peggy Gladys. “Maybe I should just go downstairs and talk to that fat woman, or drink. Then when you’re ready you can come down. I have nothing to do for three days. You really want me to go?”

  Mrs. Copperfield nodded.

  The girl left the room reluctantly.

  Mrs. Copperfield started to tremble after the girl had closed the door behind her. She trembled so violently that she shook the bed. She was suffering as much as she had ever suffered before, because she was going to do what she wanted to do. But it would not make her happy. She did not have the courage to stop from doing what she wanted to do. She knew that it would not make her happy, because only the dreams of crazy people come true. She thought that she was only interested in duplicating a dream, but in doing so she necessarily became the complete victim of a nightmare.

  Mr. Copperfield came very quietly into her room. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  “I’m all right,” she said.

  “Who was that young girl? She was very pretty—from a sculptural point of view.”

  “Her name is Peggy Gladys.”

  “She spoke very well, didn’t she? Or am I wrong?”

  “She spoke beautifully.”

  “Have you been having a nice time?”

  “I’ve had the most wonderful time in my whole life,” said Mrs. Copperfield, almost weeping.

  “I had a nice time too, exploring Panama City. But my room was so uncomfortable. There was too much noise. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why didn’t you take a nicer room in a better hotel?”

  “You know me. I hate to spend money. I never think it’s worth it. I guess I should have. I should have been drinki
ng too. I’d have had a better time. But I didn’t.”

  They were silent. Mr. Copperfield drummed on the bureau. “I guess we should be leaving tonight,” he said, “instead of staying on here. It’s terribly expensive here. There won’t be another boat for quite a few days.”

  Mrs. Copperfield did not answer.

  “Don’t you think I’m correct?”

  “I don’t want to go,” she said, twisting on the bed.

  “I don’t understand,” said Mr. Copperfield.

  “I can’t go. I want to stay here.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you can’t plan a trip that way. Perhaps you don’t intend to plan a trip.”

  “Oh, I’ll plan a trip,” said Mrs. Copperfield vaguely.

  “You will?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “It’s up to you,” said Mr. Copperfield. “I just think you’ll be missing a great deal by not seeing Central America. You’re certain to get bored here unless you start to drink. You probably will start to drink.”

  “Why don’t you go, and then come back when you’ve seen enough?” she suggested.

  “I won’t come back because I can’t look at you,” said Mr. Copperfield. “You’re a horror.” So saying, he took an empty pitcher from the bureau, threw it out of the window into the alley, and left the room.

  An hour later Mrs. Copperfield went downstairs into the bar. She was surprised and glad to see Pacifica there. Although Pacifica had powdered her face very heavily, she looked tired. She was sitting at a little table holding her pocketbook in her hands.

  “Pacifica,” said Mrs. Copperfield, “I didn’t know that you were awake. I was certain that you were asleep in your room. I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I could not close my eyes. I was sleeping for fifteen minutes and then after that I could not close my eyes. Someone came to see me.”

  Peggy Gladys walked over to Mrs. Copperfield. “Hello,” she said, running her fingers through Mrs. Copperfield’s hair. “Are you ready to take that ride yet?”

  “What ride?” asked Mrs. Copperfield.

  “The ride in the carriage with me.”

  “No, I’m not ready,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

  “When will you be?” asked Peggy Gladys.

  “I’m going to buy some stockings,” said Pacifica. “You want to come with me, Copperfield?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  “Your husband looked upset when he left the hotel,” said Peggy Gladys. “I hope you didn’t have a fight.”

  Mrs. Copperfield was walking out of the door with Pacifica. “Excuse us,” she called over her shoulder to Peggy Gladys. She was standing still and looking after them like a hurt animal!

  It was so hot out that even the most conservative women tourists, their faces and chests flame-red, were pulling off their hats and drying their foreheads with their handkerchiefs. Most of them, to escape the heat, were dropping into the little Hindu stores where, if the shop wasn’t too crowded, the salesman offered them a little chair so that they might view twenty or thirty kimonos without getting tired.

  “Qué calor!” said Pacifica.

  “To hell with stockings,” said Mrs. Copperfield, who thought she was about to faint. “Let’s get some beer.”

  “If you want, go and get yourself some beer. I must have stockings. I think bare legs on a woman is something terrible.”

  “No, I’ll come with you.” Mrs. Copperfield put her hand in Pacifica’s.

  “Ay!” cried Pacifica, releasing her hand. “We are both too wet, darling. Qué barbaridad!”

  The store into which Pacifica took Mrs. Copperfield was very tiny. It was even hotter in there than on the street.

  “You see you can buy many things here,” said Pacifica. “I come here because he knows me and I can get my stockings for very little money.”

  While Pacifica was buying her stockings Mrs. Copperfield looked at all the other little articles in the store. Pacifica took such a long time that Mrs. Copperfield grew more and more bored. She stood first on one foot and then on the other. Pacifica argued and argued. There were dark perspiration stains under her arms, and the wings of her nose were streaming.

  When it was all over and Mrs. Copperfield saw that the salesman was wrapping the package, she went over and paid the bill. The salesman wished her good luck and they left the store.

  There was a letter for her at home. Mrs. Quill gave it to her.

  “Mr. Copperfield left this for you,” she said. “I tried to urge him to stay and have a cup of tea or some beer, but he was in a hurry. He’s one handsome fellow.”

  Mrs. Copperfield took the letter and started towards the bar.

  “Hello, sweet,” said Peggy Gladys softly.

  Mrs. Copperfield could see that Peggy was very drunk. Her hair was hanging over her face and her eyes were dead.

  “Maybe you’re not ready yet … but I can wait a long time. I love to wait. I don’t mind being by myself.”

  “You’ll excuse me a minute if I read a letter which I just received from my husband,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

  She sat down and tore open the envelope.

  Dear Frieda [she read],

  I do not mean to be cruel but I shall write to you exactly what I consider to be your faults and I hope sincerely that what I have written will influence you. Like most people, you are not able to face more than one fear during your lifetime. You also spend your life fleeing from your first fear towards your first hope. Be careful that you do not, through your own wiliness, end up always in the same position in which you began. I do not advise you to spend your life surrounding yourself with those things which you term necessary to your existence, regardless of whether or not they are objectively interesting in themselves or even to your own particular intellect. I believe sincerely that only those men who reach the stage where it is possible for them to combat a second tragedy within themselves, and not the first over again, are worthy of being called mature. When you think someone is going ahead, make sure that he is not really standing still. In order to go ahead, you must leave things behind which most people are unwilling to do. Your first pain, you carry it with you like a lodestone in your breast because all tenderness will come from there. You must carry it with you through your whole life but you must not circle around it. You must give up the search for those symbols which only serve to hide its face from you. You will have the illusion that they are disparate and manifold but they are always the same. If you are only interested in a bearable life, perhaps this letter does not concern you. For God’s sake, a ship leaving port is still a wonderful thing to see.

  J.C.

  Mrs. Copperfield’s heart was beating very quickly. She crushed the letter in her hand and shook her head two or three times.

  “I’ll never bother you unless you ask me to bother you,” Peggy Gladys was saying. She did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular. Her eyes wandered from the ceiling to the walls. She was smiling to herself.

  “She is reading a letter from her husband,” she said, letting her arm fall down heavily on the bar. “I myself don’t want a husband—never—never—never.…”

  Mrs. Copperfield rose to her feet.

  “Pacifica,” she shouted, “Pacifica!”

  “Who is Pacifica?” asked Peggy Gladys. “I want to meet her. Is she as beautiful as you are? Tell her to come here.…”

  “Beautiful?” the bartender laughed. “Beautiful? Neither of them is beautiful. They’re both old hens. You’re beautiful even if you are blind drunk.”

  “Bring her in here, darling,” said Peggy Gladys, letting her head fall down on the bar.

  “Listen, your pal’s been out of the room two whole minutes already. She’s gone to look for Pacifica.”

  3

  It was several months later, and Miss Goering, Miss Gamelon, and Arnold had been living for nearly four weeks in the house which Miss Goering had chosen.

  This
was gloomier even than Miss Gamelon had expected it would be, since she hadn’t much imagination, and reality was often more frightening to her than her wildest dreams. She was now more incensed against Miss Goering than she had been before they had changed houses, and her disposition was so bad that scarcely an hour went by that she did not complain bitterly about her life, or threaten to leave altogether. Behind the house was a dirt bank and some bushes, and if one walked over the bank and followed a narrow path through some more bushes, one soon came to the woods. To the right of the house was a field that was filled with daisies in the summertime. This field might have been quite pleasant to look at had there not been lying right in the middle of it the rusted engine of an old car. There was very little place to sit out of doors, since the front porch had rotted away, so they had, all three of them, got into the habit of sitting close by the kitchen door, where the house protected them from the wind. Miss Gamelon had been suffering from the cold ever since she had arrived. In fact, there was no central heating in the house: only a few little oil stoves, and although it was still only early fall, on certain days it was already quite chilly.

  Arnold returned to his own home less and less frequently, and more and more often he took the little train and the ferry boat into the city from Miss Goering’s house and then returned again after his work was done to have his dinner and sleep on the island.

  Miss Goering never questioned his presence. He became more careless about his clothing, and three times in the last week he had neglected to go in to his office at all. Miss Gamelon had made a terrible fuss over this.

  One day Arnold was resting upstairs in one of the little bedrooms directly under the roof and she and Miss Goering were seated in front of the kitchen door warming themselves in the afternoon sun.

  “That slob upstairs,” said Miss Gamelon, “is eventually going to give up going to the office at all. He’s going to move in here completely and do nothing but eat and sleep. In another year he’s going to be as big as an elephant and you won’t be able to rid yourself of him. Thank the Lord I don’t expect to be here then.”

  “Do you really think that he will be so very, very fat in one year?” said Miss Goering.