Experiment in Springtime

by Margaret Millar

  Except Charles. The words brought Charles’s face to Martha’s mind. Charles was not smiling or sarcastic. He looked lost and helpless, and his eyes were strained as if he were trying hard to make out what everyone else saw very distinctly.

  “I can’t help it,” she said. “I went out to tell him, to ask him for a divorce, and then I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. He depends on me so much.”

  “You may just think that because you depend on him so much.”

  “Me depend on Charles?”

  “Yes, I think you do. You may go prancing off across the lawn, thumbing your nose at the world for love, but you wouldn’t be so blithe about it if Charley wasn’t in the background, Charley and everything he stands for. You’re far too realistic to deny that.” She paused, frowning. “I wish Charley would push you around a little bit,” she said seriously. “I feel you’re the kind of woman who gets along best when a great many demands are made on you. Great demands, I mean, like having to go out and work all day and coming home at night to a husband who’s capable of slapping you around and a houseful of wet babies and dirt.”

  “You’re making quite a few unpleasant remarks about me today.”

  “That wasn’t unpleasant. I consider it a compliment.”

  “Thanks. If you’re finished, I’ll go now.”

  “I won’t ask you where.”

  “You don’t have to, I’ll tell you. I’m going over to see Steve.”

  “Give him my regards,” her mother said blandly. “In spite of what I’ve said about him, I’ve always been fond of Steve. I hoped for quite a while that he’d marry you. Is he going to, this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I should offer my congratulations, but I think it would be safer to reserve them.”

  She departed abruptly, without waiting for a reply.

  Martha thought, I should follow her and defend Steve. I should say something in his favor. But for the life of her, she couldn’t think of anything to say in his favor. She felt only the old, implacable resentment: he walked out on me, he jilted me.

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub full force. The roar drowned out for a moment the echo of her mother’s words.

  She undressed quickly and got into the tub. The little waves reminded her of Charles and how blue and cold his skin had looked when he came out of the lake. She saw her own skin, pink with health and the heat of the water, and she thought, he shouldn’t go swimming until he’s better. I should have made him promise.

  She crossed the lawn, pursued by the eyes of the windows and the melancholy tongue of the piano.

  When she reached the apartment she walked in without knocking. Steve was making his bed. He finished tucking in the corners before he turned and came over to her.

  “Well?” He put his hands on her shoulders, as if ready to shake her. “What did he say?”

  “I—I didn’t ask him. He was in swimming.”

  “I see. He must be a hell of a strong swimmer. You’ve been away six hours.”

  “I mean, at first he was swimming. He shouldn’t have been, he’s not well enough, so I had to stop him.”

  “And then?”

  She swallowed. “Then we had some lunch and I came home.”

  “Very jolly. Did the lunch give him hives?”

  “Charles can’t help getting hives,” she said curtly. “It’s nothing to laugh about.”

  He dropped his hands as suddenly as if she’d slapped them away. “You sound like a mother protecting her young. Don’t you think Charles is old enough to have graduated from the growing-boy class?”

  “Let’s not quarrel . . . Steve, kiss me, will you?”

  “I don’t want to quarrel and I don’t want to kiss you, either. I just want to know where I’m at. What’s come over you since last night?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Remember how you acted last night? You were happy, contented, you didn’t care what anyone thought, you even felt respectable, you said. The happy adulterer. Well”—he eyed her grimly—“you don’t look so goddamn happy to me. Has anybody been talking to you?”

  “My mother. She knows about us.”

  “And she doesn’t approve, of course.”

  “No.”

  “Naturally. I haven’t got as much money as Charles. I can’t give her or the kid or you any security. All I can offer is a little excitement and I’m afraid she’s a shade too old for the kind of excitement I can provide.”

  “She believes,” Martha said cautiously, “that even if I divorce Charles, you won’t marry me, you’ll be tired of me by that time.”

  “And you believe it, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The fact is,” he said after a deliberate pause, “that I’m pretty tired of you already. I have to think about you too much. That makes me tired. Which reminds me, do you mind if I finish making my bed?”

  He went back to the bed, threw on another blanket and began tucking it in at the sides.

  “You haven’t enough of the tart in you,” he said as he worked. “You can go to bed with a tart and then forget all about her. You can turn over and go to sleep, providing you’ve got a padlock on your wallet.”

  He finished the bed and pushed it back into the closet. She noticed that he had cleaned the whole room; the chairs had been dusted and the ashtrays washed and he had polished his shoes. He had even tried to press his own pants—the new crease didn’t quite coincide with the old one, and through the open door of the kitchen she could see the ironing board that he’d forgotten to fold away.

  “Steve,” she said. “Steve, I wish—I wish . . .”

  “Let’s get out of here. I need a drink.” He buttoned his coat and ran his hand over his hair to smooth it. “Coming?”

  She hesitated. “Where can we go?”

  “We have a couple of hundred bars to choose from. We can go to one, or we can go to them all, if you like.”

  He opened the door for her but she continued to stand there.

  “Come on,” he said, “and I’ll show you some real tarts so you’ll understand the difference.”

  She touched his coat sleeve timidly, as if she were about to make an appeal. But she didn’t make it; he had moved away from her with a trace of impatience and was halfway down the steps before she caught up with him.

  “Aren’t you forgetting your manners?”

  “Look,” he said. “Let’s just pretend for once that you’re not the great lady you really are, you’re just an ordinary girl. And I’m an ordinary guy, see?—and we’re going out together. We haven’t much money, so we walk up to Jane Street to catch a bus. You’re sure riding a bus won’t be too much for your delicate constitution?”

  “You don’t have to be so sarcastic. I’ve ridden on lots of buses with you before.”

  “B.C. Before Charles. By the way, you don’t have to be afraid any of Charley’s friends will see you. They don’t ride buses, except maybe once a year, to keep in touch with the common man.”

  “I’m sick of talking about Charles,” she cried. “And I’m sick of talking about buses!”

  He wagged his finger at her. “Tut, tut. If you’re going to lose your temper, we’ll talk about trains.”

  She began to walk down the driveway toward the road with swift angry strides. He kept up with her effortlessly.

  “I adore trains,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  She tossed her head in reply.

  “When I was a boy—and a charming little chap I was, too—I used to call them choo-choos. Pretty damn original of me, eh?”

  They reached the road and she turned left without slackening her pace. He stood still and talked to her retreating back.

  “Matter of fact, H. L. Mencken gives me credit for the word. Choo-choo, an
onomatopoetic disyllable coined by little Steve Ferris, aged one year, three months and six days. Incidentally, you’re going in the wrong direction.”

  She stopped and came slowly back to where he was standing.

  “You make me furious,” she said. “You . . .”

  “I hope to God so.” He looked at her somberly. “Any reaction is better than no reaction.”

  19

  When they got on the bus at Jane Street, he took her hand and held it. She tried to withdraw it, but he whis­pered, “Ordinary people always hold hands on buses. It’s a rule.”

  An old lady in the opposite seat eyed them with deep suspicion, as if all whispering was about herself and to her disadvantage. At the same time her face had a scared, intent aspect.

  “She’s frightened,” Martha said. “Perhaps she’s not used to being alone in a city.”

  Steve laughed. “My bet is, she’s heading for a movie and she’s trying to sneak away without her grandchildren.”

  Clutching her purse, the old lady got up and changed to a seat at the front of the bus.

  “See?” Steve said. “Look at the death-grip she’s got on her purse. That’s her Humphrey Bogart money in there, her ticket to the past. For two hours she’s going to look like Lauren Bacall. Her withered breasts will ripen again like grapefruit, her false teeth will miraculously start growing onto her gums, and the varicose veins will drop off her legs like dead blue worms.”

  His gaze shifted from the old woman to Martha, and he was surprised by their similarity of expression. Martha was afraid, too, not of being alone in a city, but of being seen out with him. Or perhaps simply of growing old.

  He thought of Beatrice and her continual references to her age, as if the monotony of repetition would obscure the fact. Martha was four or five years younger than Bea­trice, and maybe she’d talk the same way when she was Beatrice’s age. Maybe, too, by that time, he

  and Martha would be married and have a child or two. They’d sit around the house every night, not doing much talking because Martha wasn’t much of a talker, she seemed to have a contempt for words as if she thought they didn’t solve anything, they merely created new problems—and not doing much love-making, either, because Martha would be used to him by then, and when he made a pass at her she’d have a backache or a cold, or she’d be too tired.

  “What are you frowning about?” she asked.

  “Time,” he said with a false grin. “He’s waving that damn scythe of his at me. But watch me duck.”

  “Sometimes I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

  “You wouldn’t like it if you did, my darling.”

  They got off the bus at the corner of Madison and College. The five o’clock rush was on. A stream of cars moved north, in rhythmic jerks like a typewriter ribbon. Shoppers plunged headlong out of the dress shops and department stores, as if afraid the doors might close on them and leave them locked there for the weekend. Even those who were not eager to get home hurried there any­way because they were used to hurrying.

  He felt, as he usually did when he saw a lot of people on a city street, a profound excitement. He wanted to watch them all at once, follow them all home and have supper with them and listen to their talk and their troubles, solve their problems, go to bed with the best-looking daughter, and run like hell for home.

  “It’s wonderful,” he said, the excitement audible in his voice. “I haven’t been going out enough. Come on, let’s get drunk! Come on, Martha!”

  He grabbed her hand and began steering her expertly through the crowd. She dragged like a stone. She said he was going too fast, they were attracting attention, the streets were dirty, she had dirt in her shoe, and people were bumping into her.

  He headed for the nearest bar, and they went inside.

  There were a great many people in here, too, and they were just as noisy as those in the street, but the noise was different, and the people themselves seemed to be invisible, subtly divided from the street people by rows of bottles containing the pickled ghosts of Carrie Nation and General Booth. The lights were sparse and lurid, for reasons of economy and glamour. They had the added effect of flinging a veil of intrigue across the room, so that the most ordinary talk seemed like secrets spoken aloud. To the untutored eye, the most commonplace men could have passed for financiers or pimps, and the women for duchesses or dykes. But Steve sorted them out immediately—he’d seen them all before in different bars, different countries and different lighting.

  There were the two men talking business. Nervous, tense, they drank Scotch or Bourbon, preparing to relax for the weekend, but reluctant to depart from a world made intelligible by neat mathematical boundaries. Beside them was the inevitable lady who waited. Her eyes made direct trips from the drink in front of her to the door, seeing nothing between. She may have been waiting for a man, a girl, or a bolt of lightning, but whatever it was, he, or it, never came. Eventually she would toss off her drink and set her course straight for the door, as if neither the gloom nor the interfering bodies bothered her because she was guided by radar.

  Beside her a very young man was drinking beer and staring cynically at the sign behind the bar: “It is illegal to sell alcoholic beverages to a minor. A minor is a person under twenty-one years of age.” Three women, half-submerged in parcels and paper bags, drank Manhattans and discussed clothes. At the end of the bar a group of sailors stood watching everyone in the place with a specu­lative air, as if they might be looking for a fight or a pick-up.

  They spied Martha, measured Steve, and finally one of them gave a very soft wolf-whistle.

  Steve stopped dead.

  “Go and sit down,” he told Martha. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She didn’t understand. “What?”

  “I said, go and sit down.”

  “But what about you?”

  The sailors had their ears pricked up. Steve stood with his body bent forward a little, like a boxer balancing on the balls of his feet.

  The sailor whistled again, twice, much louder this time. He paused a moment, and then, using the same two notes to start, he began “The Cuckoo Waltz.” His friends joined in. One of them picked up an empty beer bottle and used it as a baton. Or as a threat.

  Steve turned and took Martha’s arm. “Come on.”

  They found a table near the door.

  “You look quite fierce,” she said, puzzled.

  “I’m not fierce enough to take on five,” he said. “Not in a joint that serves beer in bottles.”

  She frowned. “Well, why shouldn’t they serve beer in bottles?”

  “If you’d ever been hit over the head with one, you’d know.”

  “Have you?”

  “Once.”

  “Honestly?”

  She was impressed, there was no doubt of it. He felt amazement and a little anger. He had done so much to impress her and most of the time he had failed. Yet here she was, wide-eyed because he’d once been hit on the head with a beer bottle.

  “Did you have to have stitches?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” If she liked it that much, she might as well have it good, so he added, “Eighteen stitches. I lost three quarts of blood, seventy-proof. It wasn’t wasted, though. The doctor thought it’d be a shame to waste blood with that much alcohol in it, so he passed it on to a couple of drunken werewolves.”

  He hoped she’d laugh, but she didn’t. He felt tired of trying to amuse her and never succeeding. He wondered if perhaps she was just as tired of his trying to be funny.

  He asked her if she was.

  “Not exactly,” she replied.

  “Not exactly. Thank you, my dear, thank you for the clever evasion.”

  “You don’t like me today, do you? You keep picking on me.”

  “Oh, yes, I like you. I love you, I even respect you. But, it just struck me we have ve
ry little in common. We share nothing but a bed.”

  “Oh?” She sat up, stiffly. “Then perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t ask Charles for a divorce, isn’t it?”

  The waiter came up.

  “Three double Scotches,” Steve said. He added to the empty seat across the table, “You will have a drink with us, won’t you, Charley, old boy?” He turned back to the waiter who was eyeing the empty seat cautiously. “Charley says he doesn’t mind if he does.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Steve shook his finger at him. “And don’t stare at him. It embarrasses him. He likes to be treated like an ordinary person. Don’t you, Charley?”

  Martha was smiling painfully at the waiter. “He always talks like this. He’s being funny.”

  “He’s a card, all right,” the waiter said and departed.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Martha said in a miserable voice. “People will think you’re drunk.”

  “People are going to be right.”

  The waiter came back with the drinks. He put one in front of Martha and one in front of Steve. He couldn’t decide what to do with the last one, so he stood holding it uncertainly in his hand.

  “I must say you’re behaving badly,” Steve said. “My friend Charley doesn’t care to be slighted in this unseemly fashion. Put it down. No, on second thought, give it to me. Sometimes I taste Charley’s drinks because he has such a delicate constitution.”

  “A dollar ninety-five,” said the waiter.

  Steve sipped the Scotch. “Charley, old boy, I’m afraid I have bad news. It’s too strong for you.” He tossed the drink off and reached for his wallet. “Two more.”

  The waiter was grinning. “I bet you hurt his feelings.”

  “Charley knows I act only in his best interests,” Steve said piously. He was already pretty bored with the Charley game but he kept it up for a while to annoy Martha. She was horribly embarrassed. She kept looking around to see if anyone was watching them, and she didn’t say a word to him, as if, by maintaining silence, she might convince people she wasn’t with him, that he’d sat down beside her by accident.