Leave Her to Heaven

by Ben Ames Williams

  When they departed, he went with them to the waiting car, and Ellen from the open door above watched him hand Mrs. Berent into her place. He leaned in to kiss her wrinkled cheek, turned to grasp Ruth’s hand. ‘Good-bye,’ he said. ‘We’re mighty glad you came. See you soon.’ They drove away, and he climbed the steps to Ellen.

  ‘Ruth’s sweet, isn’t she?’ she said, watching him secretly.

  ‘They’re swell people,’ he agreed, his eyes on the departing car.

  ‘I always seem to quarrel with Mother, but no one can quarrel with Ruth.’

  He laughed. ‘Your mother has a sharp tongue, but it doesn’t mean anything!’

  ‘Ruth’s wonderful, always so good to her.’ She persisted, studying him with narrowed eyes. ’Her life will be pretty empty, when Mother dies.’

  ‘I think Ruth will always have a rich, full life,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She’s that kind of person.’

  Ellen, in sudden terror at his tone, desperate to please him and make him content with her, laughed and caught his hand. ‘Come, darling,’ she cried. ‘I feel like being gay this evening. Let’s have a celebration.’ She led him away upstairs, made merry love to him, said he must dress for dinner. ‘We’ll be festive,’ she insisted. ‘Just to humor me.’ She put on her most becoming gown, and went downstairs on his arm, and even though she would not share it she insisted that he have a cocktail, and herself mixed it for him; and at dinner she was very gay, and afterward at her suggestion they played piquet together till because he won every game she declared she would play no more, and turned on the radio and found dance music and made him dance with her. He caught the infection of her gaiety, and she thought she won him to a deeper fondness than he had felt since Danny died. It was late, well past midnight, when they went upstairs together, and when after she was abed he came to kiss her good night, wishing to be reassured, she asked:

  ‘Was it fun this evening, Richard?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Have you liked me?’

  ‘I’ve loved you,’ he told her gently.

  She brushed this assurance almost indifferently aside. ‘I know. I know you love me. But I want you to like me, too.’

  He bent to kiss her again. ‘Don’t you ever worry about that,’ he told her heartily. ‘Good night, Ellen!’ He turned away. ‘Sleep well,’ he called from the door.

  But she lay long awake, remembering that he had not answered her, trembling with recurrent waves of terror, feeling terribly alone.

  – III –

  After that day, Ellen’s solitary thoughts gnawed at another bone. Richard had loved Danny, and Danny was dead; but now Richard turned to Ruth — who called him Dick, as Danny had used to do — and who had always loved him! Thus thinking, as a flagellant courts the lash, she urged him to see as much of Ruth as possible, herself avoiding him. For weeks now she had had breakfast in bed, and she began to have her lunch from a tray in her room, refusing to join him at the table, till Harland in a rising concern insisted she must be ill and would have summoned Doctor Patron. But at her last visit to the doctor’s office she had suspected some unspoken question in his eyes, as though he were puzzled by what he saw, and she was unwilling to face him; so she consented to join Harland every day at lunch. Yet she still sent him away each afternoon, and she began to urge him to go out in the evening, to his club, or wherever he chose.

  ‘Go see Ruth,’ she suggested more than once, watching him jealously. ‘You like her, and I’m not good company for anyone, not even for you.’

  Because she insisted, he sometimes left her even after dinner; and she imagined him with Ruth, and not infrequently she was proved right in this suspicion, because he brought her messages from Ruth or from her mother.

  But one April evening when she asked where he had been he said that he had gone that afternoon to see Doctor Patron, and in a quick anger born of terror she demanded:

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I’ve been worried about you,’ he evaded. ‘You’re not looking well.’

  She thrust her hand out of his sight below the table, clenching her fist hard, forcing herself to smile, exclaiming: ‘Darling, don’t you know you must never tell a woman that? I feel half-sick already, just from hearing you say it!’ She was breathless with terror.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he admitted, ‘his nurse called up to ask why you hadn’t been to see him. You’re supposed to go every month, you know, but you haven’t done it.’

  She tried to speak lightly. ‘Oh, I can’t be bothered! He’s a regular old Miss Nancy, always giving me pills and things.’ She laughed carefully. ‘Don’t worry, darling! I’m just as anxious as you are to have our baby perfect, you know.’

  ‘It’s you I’m thinking about, not the baby.’

  ‘Liar!’ She smiled. ‘You know that’s not true!’

  ‘It is, Ellen,’ he insisted. ‘You see — the baby’s not very real to me yet; but you are! I see you every day, and you’re thin, and you look so tired and dragged.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, but her nerves were in jangling revolt and she wanted to scream.

  ‘He says exercise would be good for you. We might take a walk, on nice days.’

  ‘There haven’t been any nice days yet! Either it’s freezing cold, or it’s all mush underfoot!’ She laughed, fighting for self-control, hating him, hating his solicitude. ‘I shall see to it that we have our next baby in the fall.’

  ‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘But that’s the next one. This one is our job now, Ellen. You’ve got to take care of yourself.’

  She could endure no more. ‘I’m sleepy,’ she said, forcing a yawn. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll begin right now by going to bed.’

  He went upstairs with her. She had elected, since the turn of the year, to have a room of her own; and at her door she kissed him, said: ‘There, Richard. Good night!’

  ‘Let me help you undress.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake!’ she cried in a sharp exasperation, ’I can take care of myself!’

  ‘I’m worried about you.’

  Her voice rose in shrill hysteria. ‘Oh, let me alone! For God’s sake, let me alone!’ He stared at her in hurt bewilderment, and she went into her room, and banged the door hard in his face, shutting him out, standing with her hands braced against the door as though afraid he would force his way in to her. He said at last, humbly, through the heavy panels:

  ‘Good night, Ellen!’

  ‘Good night!’

  ‘I’ll stop on my way to bed, see you’re tucked in!’

  Her lips were red and bitten, but she controlled her voice. ‘All right, but don’t wake me up!’ she told him, and heard his reluctant footsteps move away.

  She crossed to her dressing table and sat down, looking at herself in the mirror in a long appraisal. What he had said was true. The smooth roundness of her cheeks was, gone, and her sleek hair was lifeless, and her eyes were shadowed. Her own thoughts during these months had clawed at her, till there were faint lines like scars at the corners of her mouth; but she told herself now — even though she knew it was not true — that it was her baby which thus ravaged her, draining her strength, tormenting her nerves, haunting her dreams. She hated it, and she was near hating Richard too; and at the realization her head dropped in her arms and she wept long and rackingly, pitying herself because life had thus betrayed her. It was to hold him that she was bearing him this child; yet now because to do so the beauty he had loved must pay a heavy price, he was turning against her, mocking her who was become in his eyes an ugly, swollen thing. She wept, alone and loveless in the bitter, heartless world, hating him, hating her mother and Ruth, hating herself.

  The baby in her stirred and she beat at it with her fists, crying through tight teeth:

  ‘Oh, I hate you, too, you little beast! I hate you, hate you! Oh, I wish you’d die!’

  Then, as though her own words had been a revelation, she sat for a long time, staring into her glass, her thoughts a turmoil. The b
aby had served its turn, averting Harland’s first reaction to Danny’s death; but now the baby which had helped her hold him was making her lose him. Yet if she were herself again, her beauty restored, she could surely win him back to her side.

  She looked intently down at her heavy body, remembering her own wish, wondering how she could make that wish come true.

  9

  RUTH had long since found that Mrs. Berent and Ellen — allowing for the difference in their ages — were frighteningly like each other, united by a sort of psychic understanding as a result of which the older woman often foresaw what Ellen would do, or interpreted what she had done, with astonishing accuracy. Remarks she made which at the time seemed to be simply ill-tempered explosions were as likely as not to prove in retrospect to have been shrewd prophecy. When Harland and Ellen were married, Mrs. Berent predicted disaster, but till the day of Danny’s death they were so obviously happy together that Ruth sometimes smilingly reminded the older woman how wrong she had been, and Mrs. Berent was, if not convinced, at least silenced. But the day Leick telephoned that Danny had been drowned, she said, not with her old violence but in a broken submission:

  ‘Ruth, Ellen had something to do with that! She always hated that young one.’

  Ruth, remembering how often the other had been right in such harsh guesses, felt an instant terror. ‘Mother! What a horrible thing to say!’ She fought down her own fears. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Ellen loved Danny for Dick’s sake — and for his own.’

  ‘Ellen never loved anyone but herself!’

  Ruth, an amiable ferocity in her tone, retorted: ‘She’s exactly like you! Now mind your tongue, or I’ll send you to bed!’ The older woman’s health that summer had begun to fail, and Ruth, in a concern she tried to hide, watched over her tenderly.

  She wished to make Mrs. Berent forget her suspicions, but the other clung to them stubbornly. After Harland and Ellen returned to Boston, Leick one day came to the house in Bar Harbor with some of Ellen’s things from Back of the Moon. Ruth, returning from an errand, found him with Mrs. Berent. He seemed glad to escape, and when he was gone the older woman said grimly:

  ‘He’s the biggest liar unhung, Ruth. I tried to get the truth out of him about Danny, but he just says the same thing over and over, like a parrot.’

  Ruth spoke almost in anger. ‘Mother, you’re acting like a spiteful child!’

  ‘Well, I’m not the only one,’ Mrs. Berent argued. ‘Leick says Russ Quinton went up there to Back of the Moon and asked a lot of questions, so he doesn’t believe that story either.’

  ‘Mr. Quinton’s a busybody, but there’s no excuse for you!’

  ‘I can think what I please!’

  ‘Then see to it you think the right things,’ Ruth warned her with tender severity. ‘Or you’ll make me out of patience with you.’ She heard her own words with a sudden sorrow, recognizing the fact that Mrs. Berent, who had once made every decision, now accepted her domination; and the realization filled Ruth with a wistful sadness, telling her more clearly than words that the other was aging, that behind the older woman’s sharp tongue there was now a quavering uncertainty which she sought to conceal.

  They too, a little later, returned to Boston, and winter settled down. One day Harland came to tea, and as he left he said to Ruth: ‘I’m worried about your mother.’

  ‘She’s not well,’ she assented. ‘She won’t let me call Doctor Saunders, but I’ve talked with him. He says it’s just that she’s getting old, says there’s nothing to do except keep her quiet, make her rest a lot, not let her get excited.’ She smiled a little. ‘That’s not as easy as it sounds. Mother enjoys getting excited.’

  He chuckled. ‘She’s a grand old dame!’

  ‘She’s scared,’ Ruth confessed, her eyes shadowed. ‘She knows — what’s happening to her, of course; and she scolds all the time just to keep her courage up.’

  ‘Don’t you need some help, taking care of her?’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ Ruth laughed. ‘She wouldn’t let anyone come near her but me. Mother and I always got along, you know.’ Her eyes filled. ‘Only sometimes I want to cry, it’s so pathetic when she lets me boss her around.’

  As winter drew toward spring she saw that he too had his anxieties, that he was concerned for Ellen; and she tried to reassure him, reminding him what a proud young father he would be, bidding him think of the happy hours he and Ellen and the baby would have together. Sometimes she succeeded, but one day in April she saw in him an accented concern, and asked for Ellen, and he confessed his fears.

  ‘I ought not to leave her alone,’ he said. ‘But she likes to be rid of me, says I make her nervous, says I’m always mooning around.’ He laughed uneasily, and added: ‘She sent me out after dinner last evening, and when I came home she wasn’t there! She came in just about the time I was ready to call the police, dripping with perspiration. She’d gone for a walk, Ruth; had tramped up and down the Esplanade for an hour, worn herself out.’

  Ruth hesitated, blaming Ellen but unwilling to let him see this. ‘I expect the exercise was good for her,’ she suggested.

  ‘I suppose it was.’

  ‘Is she all right today?’

  ‘Oh yes. I guess it didn’t do her any harm.’

  ‘These last few weeks before the baby comes seem like an interminable time to her, of course.’

  He nodded, grinned ruefully. ‘They seem like a long time to me, too,’ he agreed.

  – II –

  Ruth next day, thinking she might be helpful, went to see Ellen. For pretext, she turned first to the shopping district, and she arrived at the house on Chestnut Street with an armful of bundles. Harland was not there, but she found Ellen in the pantry painting one of the cupboards, while old Mrs. Huston who had cooked for Harland’s mother and still served him and Ellen now, looked on in severe disapproval.

  Ellen welcomed Ruth with a smile. ‘Hello there! Get another brush and take a hand!’

  ‘I thought it was about time I brought some baby presents,’ Ruth explained. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘Put them on the dining room table,’ Ellen directed. ‘I can’t touch anything now. I’m all daubed up with paint. This dark old pantry has always bothered me. Just thinking about it took my appetite. Enough white paint will make it look bright and clean.’

  ‘A painter would do a neater job,’ Ruth said smilingly. ‘You’ve as much paint on the floor — and in your hair — as on the shelves.’

  ‘I got tired of doing nothing all day.’

  ‘Isn’t that — painting, I mean — supposed to be bad for you?’ Ruth suggested, and Mrs. Huston said triumphantly:

  ‘There, ma’am, haven’t I been telling you so!’

  Ellen laughed at them both. ‘Old wives’ tales!’ she declared. ‘Besides, I’m almost done!’

  ‘You’ll be done altogether if you don’t stop it,’ Mrs. Huston cried.

  ‘Oh pooh!’ Ellen said laughingly: ‘Go open your packages, Ruth, and show things to me while I finish this shelf.’

  She was very gay, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, her hair in a pretty disorder; and Ruth, deciding her own doubts were absurd, obeyed, displaying a pair of little blankets, a satin quilt, a collection of small knitted things. Ellen, splashing paint along the shelves, the gifts heedlessly approved. She finished her task, and made Mrs. Huston — vocal in protest at this new recklessness — pour a trickle of turpentine over her hands while she washed them. When she and Ruth were alone, Ruth said laughingly:

  ‘Mrs. Huston’s like a hen with one chick over you, isn’t she?’

  Ellen smiled in agreement. ‘Richard says she’s always loved taking care of sick people,’ she explained. ‘If she had her way, she’d put me to bed and keep me there! I keep telling her I’m not sick, that having babies is perfectly healthy; but she’d make an invalid of me if she could.’

  ‘You certainly don’t look like an invalid!’

  ‘I’m not,’ Ellen assured her. ‘I’m wo
nderfully well. I took a long walk last night, and it was just what I needed. I feel better today than I have for months!’

  She had to see and to admire the presents all over again; and Ruth, watching her, listening to her quick, delighted laughter, decided that Richard’s concern, though probably natural enough, was reasonless. Kissing Ellen good-bye she said happily: ‘I’m so darned glad I came. You’re doing a grand job on this baby, Ellen. I know it’s been hard for you, all winter, but the end’s in sight now.’

  Ellen nodded gaily. ‘Yes, only a month more,’ she agreed. ‘Give Mother my love. Maybe Richard and I will walk up and see you this evening. Exercise seems to be good for me!’ She was so jolly and so affectionate that Ruth went home completely reassured.

  Harland and Ellen did appear that evening, and Mrs. Berent received them in her sitting room. Ellen’s happier humor had infected Harland, so they were all merry together. Even Mrs. Berent’s tongue lost its roughness, and when they were gone, she said:

  ‘Well there! Ellen was nicer tonight than I’ve ever seen her!’

  Ruth nodded. ‘She acted like someone with a lovely secret she wasn’t ready to tell. And of course Dick was happy too.’

  ‘She may settle down and make him a good wife after all,’ Mrs. Berent reflected. ‘I guess I’m getting old and soft, Ruth. I’ve almost hated Ellen, ever since she was a girl. You’re more like my own daughter than she is. But she was real sweet tonight.’ Then, in her old harsh tone she added: ‘If she ever makes Richard unhappy, she — well, I hope she gets what she deserves.’

  ‘Men are so helplessly dependent, in so many ways,’ Ruth reflected. ‘I suppose that’s why so many wives are tyrants.’ She laughed a little. ‘We women are natural bullies, aren’t we?’

  Mrs. Berent said in an unaccustomed, gentle tone: ‘You’d never bully a man, my deaf.’ She chuckled. ‘You’re too ready to let me bully you!’