Evil Friendship

by Packer, Vin

  — from the diary of Martha Kent, September 1955

  SEPTEMBER, 1955

  The Kent house in Weerdale was an old three-storied Tudor place with too many drafts, and a lawn filled with oaks, chestnuts and slender birches. It had a rambling, almost dilapidated, look and an incredibly well-kept garden. William Kent had named it “John-a-dreams.” He had bought it in 1950, when he moved to Weerdale to accept a position at Melrose College For Women.

  Martha used to occupy the room on the third floor and called it “The Crow’s Nest.” But it had been converted into an apartment for Roddy, who lived with them now.

  That morning after making her diary entry, Martha reread the part about the Druid’s egg in the encyclopedia, so she could tell Mary Drew about it when she arrived at school.

  “This wonderful egg was hatched by the joint labor of several serpents, and was lifted into the air by their hissing. The person who caught it had to ride off at full speed, to avoid being stung to death; but the possessor was sure to succeed in every contest, and to be courted by those in power.”

  “Superb!” Martha smiled, shut her diary and locked it with the tiny gold kev she wore on a chain around her neck. She thought: dear Druid, dear Mary Drew — and then Roddy shouted from the staircase below:

  “O.K. Duchess, get a move on!”

  Even though she loved America and all the Americans she had never met, she detested Rodney Sawyer. He was a leech! He had come for a visit a year ago, and he was still there. Worse luck, it appeared he’d be there forever. “A brilliant boy!” her father had said. “The most promising student I had abroad!”

  “No,” Roddy would protest, flinging his arm around Dr. Kent’s shoulders in a wretched display of affection, “you were the brilliant one. You made me spark, Doctor!”

  “Martha darling, Rodney’s waiting for you,” Mrs. Kent called from the next room. “Don’t keep him waiting now.”

  Martha answered. “I’m not so particular as you, where he’s concerned,” gathering her blazer from the chair, “or perhaps I’m more particular. I don’t know which.”

  Again Roddy shouted: “Get a leg on! It’s quarter to eight, Martha!”

  Martha placed her diary under the cushion of the lounge chair by the window seat and put on her blazer. As she walked out into the hall, she found her mother there in her dressing gown, with her long hair still to her shoulders and not yet done up into the bun. Her mother was thirty-six. Martha had inherited her beauty, but to Martha, her mother was not beautiful, because no one over twenty could be. Except for movie stars. They had no age. Men didn’t either, up to about forty. Then they were old. Martha’s father was very old. Ancient. He was fifty-two.

  Martha’s mother had been performing the morning ritual of combing her hair. It was soft, long black hair like Martha’s, but there were streaks of gray through it. Martha was never able to fathom why her mother did not dye the gray out. It seemed perverse on the part of her mother to think that it was attractive.

  Her mother said, “Suppose you explain that last remark.”

  “Which one? That I’m not particular about Roddy? Well, I’m not. He can float face down in a river for all I care.”

  “Are you very proud of the way you express yourself, Martha?” “Sometimes.”

  “I’m quite disappointed,” her mother said. “I thought you had a bit more sensitivity.”

  “I’m your daughter. That may explain why I haven’t.”

  “You’re not leaving until you apologize to me, Martha.”

  “I’ll keep Roddy waiting. That’s a catastrophe, isn’t it?”

  “Roddy has tried to be your friend, Martha. You won’t let him. You shut him out. Why?”

  “Because I’m father’s daughter too, mother dear. And I know what’s what. And don’t think I don’t.”

  From beneath them, Roddy’s voice: “Martha! Hustle the bustle, kid!”

  Helen Kent looked at her daughter for a moment, and Martha met the glance directly. Then Mrs. Kent slapped the silver-bordered comb to her side and sighed.

  She said, “Don’t be tardy!”

  “Goodbye, mother.”

  Momentarily, Mrs. Kent looked over the railing, down at Martha as she skipped past Roddy without even a nod; and at Roddy as he stood watching her for a second, before he straightened himself, stubbed out his cigarette in the tray on the table and followed. Roddy — too tall and skinny, with his arms dangling, wrists jumping beyond his shirt cuffs; the ungovernable lock of white-blond hair falling across his forehead; brown eyes boyish, too much so for thirty-four. She was often aware she looked older than he did when they were together, and it was painful, because she was.

  Did people — at the Milk Bar, or the drugstore, or any number of a hundred places where they went together in Weerdale, the beach, the butcher’s, to the campus to meet William — did people guess? And if they did, did they think: What’s he doing with her, a young chap like that? Or didn’t they wonder at all? How did others see Roddy? As she did? Not really handsome but good-looking certainly — somehow vaguely exciting when you saw him laughing across a room, or walking in that long fast gait down a street with his hair blowing in the wind and his coat collar turned up, and the bright, gaily colored scarf flying. How Roddy loved his scarves! Did people see him that way? Or, with the spectacles of love removed, was Roddy dull, average, the American who was a writer of some kind. Roddy as shiftless — playing darts at the local pub until closing time every evening. Roddy, childish. How did he look to others?

  William Kent saw Roddy the way he saw everyone else — as a Shakespearian character, whatever character he might remind William of at the time.

  Last night, after supper, Roddy had said, “Well, what will I be up to tonight?” Martha had answered, “Why not ring up some girl, Roddy?” William, stuffing his pipe at the mantle, had turned and chuckled, “Ah, Benedick, no snares like that.” He grinned at Roddy.

  Roddy grinned back. “Tonight I’m Benedick, hmm?”

  “Every night, my dear fellow. Benedick, the mirthful young lord of Padua.” William had nodded his head with satisfaction, rubbing his gold Claridge key, strung across his vest, nodding with his eyes shut, the way he did just before he was about to give a quotation: “ ‘He hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him!’ ”

  Then William had chuckled more, scratched a match on his shoe, and lit his pipe, still enjoying the comparison of Roddy to Benedick.

  And Martha? She had said cryptically: “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  It couldn’t, it mustn’t continue, Mrs. Kent decided. As though she were steeling herself to some inevitable moment, she squared her shoulders, took the comb resolutely in the other hand, and walked down the long hallway to the end room. She knocked on the door.

  “Good morning, my dear.”

  William looked up at her over his eyeglasses, which had slipped forward on his nose. He was an immense man, not fat, but heavy-set and tall. Fifteen years ago, he had been a striking man, with every girl in Helen’s class, including Helen, swooning over him. Now? He was all his fifty-two years. And regrettably enough, Helen realized, he was the same man. Gentleman and scholar. Trite but accurate words.

  “William,” she began, “I — ”

  “Yes?”

  In a moment, another tune, “I wondered if you wanted more tea?”

  “Thank you, my dear. No, no, I’ve had more than my quota. It’s odd, Helen, very odd …” He took his eyeglasses off and swung about in his chair to face her.

  “What is?”

  “The things that are so obvious, that we don’t seem to grasp until we’re too old to do very much about them.”

  “Yes,” Helen Kent said. Perhaps at last even William knew. Was it possible?

  He said, “Youth is really a dreadful incapacity. We’re not possessed of all our faculties when we’re young. It seems unfair that when we have strength, courage, imagination — all those powers w
e lose year by year — that we should lack understanding. Do you believe that, Helen?”

  “Yes, William. I think I know what you’re speaking of.”

  He smiled at her … sadly? … “Ah yes, you, dear Helen, always know my heart — and my mind. I’ve been grateful for that, and fortunate. Grateful and fortunate.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes with his large fingers. “Yes — things that are so obvious, we are too impetuous and ignorant to see.”

  “What made you decide this, William?” She settled herself on the large leather footstool beside his desk. If it could be this easy, this calm, with only delicate pain, pain the mind can resolve.

  “I’ve thought it a long time. Perhaps only in the past few weeks have I actually believed it. It’s so obvious, that I don’t want to form it into a thought. I think how silly, that it’s a cliche, and then I disregard it. Helen, I’ve thought and thought about it this morning …” He nod ded to himself, looking down at his desk. “You used to tease me about reading and rereading Shakespeare, but do you know every year I’ve learned something new from what I’ve read in these plays?” He touched the backbone of the leather-bound book before him on the desk. “Antony and Cleopatra, for example … Antony, so captivated by the fascinating Egyptian that he repudiated his wife and went to live in a strange country.” William Kent shut his eyes, leaning back in his chair: “Cleopatra, woman unparalleled, and Antony, ‘the noble ruin of her magic.’ ”

  William Kent sighed and sat forward.

  “Helen,” he said, “I’ve made a mistake.”

  Helen Kent was prepared for this moment. She said simply, “No, William. You haven’t.”

  “Ah, yes I have. Helen, for years and years I’ve neglected the minor characters. Yes, I have. I’ve concentrated on the Antonys, the Hamlets, the Richards, the Macbeths. But Helen,” he rose now, “in all of Shakespeare show me a man more brave than Scarus — right here in Antony and Cleopatra, jabbing his finger on the leather-bound book atop his desk, “Scarus who, when Antony said, ‘Thou bleed’st!’ replied, ‘I had a wound here that was like a T, but now ‘tis made an H.’!”

  The comb dropped to the floor from Helen Kent’s hands.

  “I’ve been a silly fool for years, Helen!” William Kent bellowed. “I’ve neglected the Scaruses of this world!”

  • • •

  Coming up the walk that morning at Chillam, Martha Kent was pleased with the way she had conducted herself in the car on the way. She had Roddy squirming. He had tried and tried to make up to her, and she had not answered him once. Again, he had asked her if he could help her with the book she was writing.

  “You’ll have to admit, I’ve had a little more experience than you at that,” he had said, “and good constructive criticism never hurt anyone.”

  That was typical of his infinite capacity for platitudes.

  He had even said, “You know, I might show you some of my stuff too.” Something he had never offered to do before. And she had always been curious about his “stuff” because he locked the door to “The Crow’s Nest” so she couldn’t snoop. But she did not give him the satisfaction of an answer, nor did she wave at him as she got out of the car.

  Inside the door, someone pulled at her sleeve. Turning, brightening because she thought it was Mary Drew waiting there, she faced Evelyn Rush. For two weeks, Rush had pretended to ignore her, ever since the episode outside the gymnasium. But Martha could tell how Rush felt; could sense the emotion behind her casual bumping against her in the hall during rush between classes; or the fleeting glimpse of Rush’s eyes at assembly or in the dining hall. She felt like laughing in Rush’s face, for of all things, she seemed almost shy at that moment, almost self-conscious.

  “Listen, wait a minute,” she said.

  Haughtily, Martha stared at Rush’s fingers on her sleeve until she dropped her hand to her side. Rush wore the same trench coat in the same silly fashion, over her shoulder, like a detective in a movie.

  Rush said, “President Eisenhower’s had a heart attack. It came over the radio. Did you know?”

  “Did he croak then?” Martha answered.

  “Not yet.”

  “Pity.”

  Rush shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Look, what is it with you?” Rush cocked an eyebrow, her lips tipping in that same put-on grin of charm.

  “I might ask the same of you.”

  “Well, are you — do you — ” Rush fumbled for words while Martha waited. Rush said: “What is it between you and Mary Drew?”

  “You’re like a child, Rush,” Martha Kent answered.

  For some unfathomable reason this seemed to please Rush immensely. She actually blushed, looked down at her oxfords and stuck her hand in her blazer pocket. She said, “You’ve known I didn’t mean it — snubbing you, haven’t you?”

  “I’m not a fool.”

  “I know you’re not,” Rush said, looking up and into Martha Kent’s eyes. “That’s why I like you.”

  “I have to go to class,” said Martha.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  That was like Rush, Martha decided, to think anyone would find it hard to accept the fact Rush had a crush on her. She began to fumble with both hands in the pocket of her trench coat now, saying: “Wait. I have something. Here,” struggling with a box. “Here, Martha. I have this for you.”

  “What is it?” Martha Kent looked nonchalantly at the box.

  “It’s something for you,” Rush repeated, and she plunged it into Martha Kent’s hands in a desperate motion, then took off down the hall in that fast, soldier’s pace of hers.

  • • •

  After noon meal, before fifth bell, Martha met Mary Drew at the Victoria statue on the ground of Chillam, behind it, on the stone steps.

  “I like it,” were the first words Mary Drew said, and without asking, Martha knew what she meant.

  “And the egg, lifted by the serpent’s hissing?”

  “Oh dear, Martha, yes! Superb!”

  “Exactly the word I thought this morning! Uncanny! The exact word, Druid!”

  “Well, why not — it is superb! You must call me Druid often. I have the egg — and yon, too. We two, succeeding in every contest, courted by those in power! Oh, I love my new name, and our egg … and — even Chillam, today!” Martha sat on the steps hugging her legs while Mary Drew stood at the bottom step, smiling up at her. “Loved your notes!”

  “Loved yours,” Martha said. “But Miss Buddy almost found the one in the library, the one inside Gibbon.”

  “That would have been the decline and fall of our empire!”

  “Not now that we own the Druid’s egg,” Martha laughed. They both laughed.

  Then Martha said, “Are you curious about the surprise?”

  “You know it.”

  “First, this — read this.” She passed a note to Mary Drew, the note which Rush had enclosed in the box she had given Martha that morning.

  “Read it aloud,” Martha said.

  Mary Drew Edlin said, “You knew I would.” She unfolded it. “Oh, it’s a poem … Well, here goes:

  ‘One surrenders some of oneself

  To wear a ring

  Where the whole world may remark,

  For the meaning of a ring persists.

  Lapis lazuli, a stone chipped from rock,

  By a slant-eyed, stoop-shouldered,

  Yellow-skinned young man.

  He splintered it from stone; azure,

  Wear it remembering not his dust-grimed

  forehead, But the dust of the shattered heart of the giver.’ ”

  Mary Drew looked up at Martha when she finished.

  “Who wrote it?”

  “Not I!” Martha giggled.

  “I should hope not. It doesn’t rhyme!”

  “You know who wrote it, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mary Drew said, “I don’t know why Beth Dragmore didn’t die of boredom. She should be glad to be rid of her.”

  Martha
held out her hand, “And here’s the ring. Big enough for an ostrich’s leg!”

  “Oh,” Mary Drew laughed. “It is huge!”

  “Let’s sting it to death with Druid’s egg, and give it back charred and ruined!”

  Mary Drew said, looking up at the statue, “Or ring it on Victoria’s nose.”

  “Or present it to Beth Dragmore, with the poem and all, as though Rush had sent it to her.”

  Mary Drew said: “No, I have it. Let’s return it.”

  “Too simple.”

  “Wait; return it minus the stone … I quite like the stone. It’s pretty. Simple to pry it loose.”

  “Druid, you’re horribly wonderful!”

  “I’ve thought of a name for you too,” Mary Drew Edlin said, “I’m going to call you Moly. Do you know what you are?”

  Martha flung her hands in the air: “Oh, this is great fun, Druid! What am I?”

  “You’re an herb!”

  “An herb!” Martha shook with laughter.

  “Yes. Your roots are black, but your flower is white. Now, do you know?”

  “The herb given to Ulysses. Eight?”

  “Oh, right! It kept him from turning into a swine, remember?”

  “And I’m your Moly? Oh, Druid, you are just priceless!”

  “No,” Mary Drew Edlin said, “We are … And now, let’s free this stone!”

  Martha Kent scampered down the steps to the bottom, where both girls squatted then to pry loose the very blue stone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Q. And you had no cause for anxiety that day?

  A. No. As a matter of fact, I had every reason to feel peace of mind. It was all going so well.

  — Crown Prosecutor cross-examining Henry Edlin at the Edlin-Kent trial

  JUNE 8, 1956

  It was not quite true that Mary Drew Edlin’s father had had complete peace of mind, that day in June of 1956. Something began nagging at his normally easygoing disposition just before he had gone into lunch, while he was in the garden talking with his wife.