The Three Roads

by Ross Macdonald

  Paula came to the door before the woman reached it, and greeted her on the steps. They shook hands formally. The woman held herself a little shyly, as she always did. As always, Bret felt vaguely sorry for her. When the two women went into the house, it was not Paula but the other woman whom he followed with his eyes. Yet he had no idea who she could be.

  In the back seat of the cab in the gathering darkness he wrestled with the dread that his memory was leaving him again. His head throbbed where the bottle had struck him. Perhaps his brain had been physically injured, his memory centers knocked out for good. The thought that had oppressed him throughout his convalescence came back and weighed on him heavily. The mind was tethered to the body like a sinful spirit cursed to spend a lifetime in a beast, absolutely dependent on such perishable stuff as human flesh.

  chapter 18

  In spite of her rather unfortunate experiences with Professor Taylor, her first husband, and a bookish man if ever there was one, Mrs. Swanscutt had never ceased to be a lover of books. Anything between two covers, she freely admitted to her customers, was simply fascinating to her. It was this passion of hers for the printed word that had originally given her the idea of opening a lending library. It was a sort of literary thing to do, and it was a ladylike occupation. With her fine taste in books and her subtle tact in handling people, she hoped it would be profitable. God knew that after Frank was unjustly fired and they lost their house, they needed the money.

  She didn’t make a mint of money from the library, but to the secret surprise of a woman who had never before quite succeeded in anything, she made enough for the two of them to live on. When the war came, her business increased still further, and she became quite prosperous. Of course money wasn’t worth as much as it used to be, but Frank had to admit that his scatterbrained little wife was making more money every week than he himself ever had. But he wasn’t the sort of man to sit in his tent and sulk about it; he was too much of a man for that. Since he couldn’t very well go out and take another regular job—his asthma was still troubling him awfully, no matter what they said about the California climate—he came into the shop nearly every day to help her with her work. He was especially good at keeping the books in strict alphabetical order according to authors’ names, and at counting the money.

  In spite of all his illnesses and disappointments, the poor dear always kept himself beautifully well groomed too, and Mrs. Swanscutt was proud to have him in the shop. She knew that many of her female customers took real pleasure in being advised in their choice of books by such a distinguished appearing man. A lesser woman might have been jealous on occasion, but not she, not she. In every word Frank said to her, in every look that passed between them, it was so beautifully evident that he loved her as ardently now as he had in the beginning. She still felt, after twenty-five years, that her world had been well lost for love. Good name, husband, and son—she had given them all up for Frank Swanscutt, and he had not failed her, he had not been unworthy of the sacrifice.

  Still, she sometimes permitted herself to wish, in no complaining spirit, that Frank could manage to come in more regularly, and perhaps a little earlier in the afternoon. After the noontime flurry, business became very quiet during the first half of the afternoon, and Mrs. Swanscutt was suffering increasingly from boredom. Six days a week for five years she had sat flanked by books from nine in the morning till six in the evening. Until recently she had tried to keep up with all the best sellers in order to have an informed opinion, but the last few months she had to admit that something was happening to her feeling for books. Sometimes she had to literally force herself to open up the front of a new book and read the first sentence on the first page. More and more she tended to rely on the publisher’s blurbs and the thumbnail reviews in the Retail Bookseller. She was like a person with a sweet tooth who has taken a position in a confectionery shop and ruined her stomach.

  It was really funny the lengths she’d go to avoid reading a book. There were no clients in the shop, and there probably wouldn’t be until later in the afternoon, so she could afford to admit it to herself for once. This particular Tuesday afternoon she had cleaned her drawer, counted her change, manicured her left hand (Frank would do her right one in the evening), cut several hundred bookmarks out of that pretty blue paper, made out filing cards for the six new books that had come in that morning, and phoned Mrs. Wionowski to tell her that Forever Amber was now to be had if Mrs. Wionowski happened to be coming by that day. Just when she had run out of things to do, and was beginning to be afraid that she might be forced by sheer boredom to take a look at one of the six new books, the afternoon paper came and saved her for another hour.

  She went through the paper from front to back and read everything in it: the front-page stories, the murders on the third page, the movie advertisements, the sports page, the comics, the local news, the society pages, the editorial page, the women’s page, the deaths and divorces, and the business and finance section. Then she started in on the classified ads. This was really her favorite part of the paper, and she naturally saved it to the last.

  There was real drama in the classified ads, so much more actual and satisfying than fiction, and such infinite variety. So many homeless people looking for a house. A young couple that simply had to have a refrigerator on account of the baby. Doctors that specialized in diseases of men or diseases of women. Private detectives who would go anywhere and find out anything for a moderate fee. Most interesting of all were the personals, those cryptic fragments of life that could lead you off into romantic daydreams for minutes at a time. “Edie come home, Mother gladly forgives you” (what had Edie done?). “Jack and Sim, the deal is still on if you contact me before Thursday. Charlie.” (A bank robbery? the black market? who could tell?)

  The last personal in the column rudely thrust Mrs. Swanscutt out of her daydream and set her heart beating madly. “Bret Taylor,” it said, “call me at Gladstone 37416. P.W.”

  It’s fate, that’s what it is, Mrs. Swanscutt thought. Here I’ve been reading these things all these years, eavesdropping on other people’s lives, and now fate has beckoned me into the inner circle.

  Then the habitual dullness of her life reasserted itself and told her this couldn’t be happening to her. It couldn’t be her Bret; such things simply didn’t happen. Not to her. Yet Bret Taylor wasn’t a common name; she’d never have chosen it if it had been. Well, there was one way to find out. She could phone that number, if she dared.

  After a period of nervous hesitation, she dialed Gladstone 37416 with an unsteady forefinger.

  A woman answered: “This is Miss West’s residence.”

  “Hello,” Mrs. Swanscutt said excitedly. “Did you—are you the party who placed an advertisement in the personals column? I mean—”

  “One moment, please,” the woman said. “I’ll call Miss West to the phone.”

  Servants, Mrs. Swanscutt noted. Bret must be on friendly terms with some very good people, if it is Bret. But of course it’s quite impossible that it is—

  “Yes?” said another woman, younger than the first. “This is Paula West.”

  Paula West, P.W. She was right so far. “Did you advertise in the personals for a Bret Taylor?”

  “Who is speaking, please?” The voice was careful and brisk. Quite a good voice, she thought. A lady’s voice.

  “My name is Theodora Swanscutt.” She laughed nervously. “It used to be Taylor. Bret Taylor is my son.”

  “You must be mistaken, Mrs. Swanscutt. Bret’s mother died a long time ago. It must be another Bret Taylor. As a matter of fact, I’ve contacted him, so it’s all right.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Swanscutt said dully. “Well, I’m certainly glad you found him. I was naturally misled by the similarity in names. I’m sorry to have troubled you—”

  “Just a minute,” Paula said. “I’m afraid I’m being terribly abrupt. But would you mind telling me your husband’s name?”

  “Why, no. Franklin. Franklin L. Swa
nscutt.”

  “No. I mean your first husband. Your son’s father.”

  “George,” said Mrs. Swanscutt. The young woman was being brusque to the point of rudeness, but after all she had asked for it and she’d go through with it. “George Watt Taylor. He was a philosophy professor,” she added, not without pride.

  “Then you’re not mistaken. That was his father’s name. But I can’t understand it. Bret said his mother was dead.”

  “Dead? Of course I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years. Tell me, is he there now? Could I speak to him?”

  “No, I’m afraid he’s not. But I’d love to have you come and see me. I’m his fiancée. Can you come for tea?”

  Mrs. Swanscutt said she could, and Paula told her how to find the house. Then Mrs. Swanscutt threw caution to the winds and closed the shop for the rest of the afternoon. She didn’t even call Frank to tell him she was leaving, and though she hardly admitted it to herself, there was a certain satisfaction in not telling him. Just let him come to the shop and find her gone, just let him wonder! She felt quite careless and gay in a way she hadn’t felt for years.

  Paula waited in a state of uncertainty and fear, as one might wait to keep an appointment with a ghost. The dead past was springing to life in unexpected forms. The banished years were coming home from exile to roost under her eaves like homing birds. Bewilderment and excitement turned her head, but a deeper emotion dragged at the bottom of her consciousness: terror. Bret had told her that his mother was dead, not only since his crack-up, but long before when they first met. Evidently he had been harboring a delusion for years. His insanity—for the first time she permitted herself to think of his illness as insanity—went far back, to their first weeks together. And how much further would it go? Ever since the night of Lorraine’s death she had comforted herself with the belief that his mental condition was a temporary illness, an effect of shock that would wear off as its cause receded in time. But now she was uncertain.

  Mrs. Swanscutt’s telephone call had crystallized the fear that had been growing in her mind, that Bret was permanently insane, in spite of all her efforts lost beyond redemption. She was afraid, afraid for him and beginning to be afraid for herself. Two Daiquiris and six cigarettes did nothing to anaesthetize her fear. She had done all the wrong things, made all the wrong decisions, and that was the surest guarantee that she’d go on doing and making them right up to the final smash, whatever that would be. Her knowledge that she deserved whatever punishment she was going to get only deepened her fear. Every time she moved she made a misstep. Every time the telephone rang it suggested a new and dreadful possibility.

  Her mind went round like a demented squirrel in a cage and gave her no peace. She went to the kitchen ostensibly to talk to Mrs. Roberts about dinner, actually to hear the sound of a human voice. Her housekeeper spoke calmly and cheerfully about the standing rib roast she had managed to get hold of, and whether she should go to the trouble of making Yorkshire pudding, but Paula could hardly listen to her.

  “Do what you like. As a matter of fact, I’m not hungry. You might as well save the roast.”

  “But it’s in the oven,” Mrs. Roberts said firmly. “If I take it out now, it’ll dry out.”

  “So what? Let it dry out!”

  “You’ve got to get some food in your stomach, Miss West. I don’t like the way you been eating lately. You may think you’re feeling jittery, but going without your regular meals just makes you feel jitterier.”

  “Yes, I know. Go ahead and cook the roast. I’ve got a friend coming in for tea, by the way. I don’t know just when, but she should be here soon. I’ll let you know when to make it.”

  “It’s a little late for tea, isn’t it?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Afternoon tea was a habit she’d picked up from the English writers in the studio. It was a convenience rather than a ritual, something to do with the mouth and hands when cocktails were inappropriate or doubtful.

  “Okay, Miss West.”

  Paula fled from under her friendly critical eyes, back to her living room. She tried to read a trade magazine, but that was a laugh. She couldn’t bear to listen to a record. She couldn’t even look at her Modigliani on the wall. Damn doll face! El Greco was more in her line at the moment, but she wasn’t in the El Greco bracket yet, and probably never would be. If she got out of this with a whole skin and her nervous system all in one piece, she’d be having more luck than she deserved. “Funny,” she thought, “a little while ago I was trying to talk Bret out of thinking about justice, and now I’m thinking that way myself.” But the only alternative to justice was blind chance, something you couldn’t face for long, not if you loved someone. So she was the girl who not so long ago had thought she could tear down the patterns of chance and rebuild them to suit her better. Now chance (or was it justice?) had taken the play away from her. If there was no Hays Office in the real world, there were no scenarists either—no human ones at least.

  She heard the faltering engine as the car turned the corner and came down the street, and she was at the front door before the woman got out. A yellow taxi she had noticed when she glanced out of the window an hour or so earlier was still parked across the street near the corner. It occurred to her for a panicky moment that someone was watching her house, but she rejected the notion. She couldn’t see anyone in the cab but the driver sleeping behind the wheel, and he was probably just snatching a couple of hours’ rest after a hard day.

  She stepped out onto the porch to meet Mrs. Swanscutt, who was climbing the steps a little uncertainly. There was something of the ghost about her, and something of the bird. Of ill omen? No, rather a timid bird listening for signs of danger; a hesitant, unwanted ghost looking for a house to haunt, with no assurance that she would ever find one. But that really wasn’t fair. There was something appealing about her, in spite of her nervousness and thinness and the dating of her clothes. She must have been nearly fifty—she’d have to be, of course, if she was Bret’s mother—but there was still a beauty of feature discernible in her sallow face. Paula looked into it for traces of Bret, and saw the same high-arched nose and blue eyes. There was none of his strength there, but there was a kind of vague charm hiding beneath the surface, almost as if it were afraid to show itself. There were lines around the mouth and eyes which showed that she had acquired the habit of suffering.

  Paula liked her and felt sorry for her. She held out her hand and received the pressure of long thin fingers. “I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Swanscutt.”

  “It was so nice of you to ask me over.” She flung a bright birdlike glance upward at the house, as if to praise and glory in its size. “Coincidence certainly does have a long arm, doesn’t it?”

  She gave Paula a similar look of admiration, which was a little absurd but not unpleasant. One dressed for those looks from other women.

  Mrs. Swanscutt herself was not well dressed, though the gray suit she was wearing had probably been smart enough when she bought it six or seven years ago, and she knew how to wear clothes. Time had flattened her chest and thinned her legs, but her bones were good, and she carried herself like a lady—a lady in adversity.

  “Please come in.” Paula led her into the living-room. “I’m sorry Bret isn’t here. I know how eager you must be to see him.”

  “Oh, I am. Are you expecting him today? Where does he live?”

  “No, I’m not expecting him. He’s in the Navy, you see—stationed in San Diego.”

  “In the Navy?” Mrs. Swanscutt said brightly. “I’m so glad to hear that—he’s doing his bit.”

  “He’s had quite a distinguished career in the Navy.” Paula couldn’t refuse that to the woman, though a funny kind of grief was gathering in her own throat. “Wait a minute. I have his picture.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  Paula ran upstairs for her framed photograph of Bret. He’d had it taken when he was first commissioned as an ensign, and he’d aged a lot since then, but it was the only
one she had. Tears came to her eyes for some reason when she faced the young, smiling face on her dressing table. She wiped them away and went back downstairs to the living-room.

  “That’s my Bret,” said Mrs. Swanscutt. “My, he’s handsome, isn’t he? You didn’t tell me he was an officer.”

  “Yes, he was an ensign then. He’s a full lieutenant now.” In order not to postpone the inevitable she added: “He’d be in line for lieutenant commander if it weren’t for his illness.”

  “His illness? Is he ill?”

  “He’s recovering, but he was seriously ill for a time. His ship was bombed last April, and he had an attack—” Her mind scrambled for the right word. All she could think of was “the screaming meemies,” and that was what she had herself. She found it at last: “An attack of battle exhaustion.”

  “Why that’s dreadful! The poor boy! But you say he’s getting better?”

  “Yes. Much better.” I hope. I hope.

  “Do you think he’ll be glad to see me?” Mrs. Swanscutt said shyly. “Does he ever speak of me?”

  “No, never.” She was tired of handling people with kid gloves. Let them face the truth for a change, as she had had to face it. Irony and grief had already destroyed her sympathy with this woman, this sentimental mother who had forgotten her son for twenty-five years and now walked out of the past to claim her maternal rights. “Bret told me you were dead.”

  “That’s strange. He couldn’t have believed that. His father knew I was alive. He was a stern man, but surely he wouldn’t tell his son that his mother was dead. It wouldn’t be natural!”

  It would be a relief to think it wasn’t Bret’s mind that was at fault, that he had been deceived by his father. But this idea, like a lamp turned on in the corner of a room, lit up one area while it cast the rest into deeper darkness. Dr. Klifter had told her over the phone that Bret had been deeply impressed by his mother’s death. Yet his mother had not died. Could he have confused his mother with his wife? Stranger things had happened in case histories she had read.