The Puzzleheaded Girl

by Christina Stead

  Afterwards the wife said, “You want to pay rent, do you?”

  “I can’t pay much rent. Aren’t there people who would give me a bed, just a bed? I could clean the house for them. I do it at home. Sometimes I have to do it over again in the middle of the night.”

  “Why?”

  “He makes me get up. He says it isn’t clean enough. So I could easily do two hours a day.”

  “That wouldn’t be necessary, I think.”

  As Miss Lawrence was going, she hesitated, holding her purse tight and standing upright, looking expectantly at Mrs. Zero. “Is there anything you want?” The girl shook her head. “Are you going back to the office now?” “Yes.” “Have you any money?” She did not answer. “You can’t walk down to the office. It would take too long. I’ll give you your fare.” The girl smiled, held out her hand saying, “Thank you for the coffee. You’ve been very kind,” and went towards the stairs. “Wait for the elevator.” She did so. When the car reached their floor, Miss Lawrence said, “Could I see you again?” “Yes, if you like. Come to dinner some night.” “Thank you very much. You are really very kind.” Holding her empty purse tightly, she passed out of sight. Myra thought about the episode for some time, and when her husband came home she kept the surprise for a while. She was flattered.

  “Miss Lawrence came to see me.”

  “Who is that?”

  “From your office.”

  He thought for a moment and asked, “What for?”

  “I am not sure. She said she had the afternoon off to see me. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Maria Magna wants her to go. Perhaps she gave her time off to look for a job.”

  “Well, she needs a room and she thought I might know of one.”

  “Why you?”

  “I don’t know.” They came to no conclusion. “I asked her to dinner.”

  “Why?”

  “She asked to see me again, and so I asked her. Don’t ask me why.”

  “I don’t want this,” he said casually.

  “No date was mentioned. She may not think of it for months,” said Myra.

  The next evening, about half past six, Miss Lawrence came to the door, looking exactly as before, said good evening and remarked, “I know I’m not late, because Mr. Zero was still in the office when I left.”

  Myra Zero was in a hurry. “What have you come for?”

  “You asked me to dinner yesterday.”

  “I’m getting the children to bed. Come in. Go and sit where you were yesterday and I’ll be in when I can.”

  When she came back, the girl was sitting in the same chair as before, with her legs stretched out and her eyes closed. As soon as Myra entered, she began to talk trustfully, “I saw my brother and told him you were helping me.”

  Myra watched her husband when he entered. He was a discreet man. He said, “Oh, it was for tonight, then?” and offered her a drink. “Oh, thank you. I don’t drink,” she said timidly. She refused a cigarette in the same way, and when he said, “You don’t play cards either?” she replied, “I don’t know what they are. Do you mean—” she hesitated.

  “So your family is religious. But you go dancing?” “Oh, no,” she exclaimed with horror. “Do you think dancing is wrong?” asked Myra. “It’s such a stupid waste of time.” “Then what do you think people should do?” Myra asked, for she and Tom loved dancing and had once won a prize. “I don’t know what others should do,” said the girl. They had a light meal and the girl soon left, saying she had to be in by nine. “Are you walking home?” “Yes.” “Why? Is it for health reasons?” said Zero sarcastically. But Myra went to the door and gave her a dollar. “You can pay me back when you’ve found a room and have the money. It’s our secret.” The girl was astounded. “Secret?” She examined the dollar bill. “I mustn’t spend it?” She looked at Myra while she explained, a new and astonished understanding on her face. “Or you can have it, keep it.” “Oh, no, I’ll pay it back.”

  “I hope this is not going to become a habit,” said Myra. “She makes me giddy. She doesn’t understand the simplest conventions.”

  “She’s just a young goose. I’ll tell Miss Magna to teach her the elements. But better would be to lose her. It’s Gus who’s mothering her.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “She’s very immature. But her father keeps her a prisoner.”

  “Myra, that’s not our affair.”

  “Oh, you’re right. But she’s touching.”

  Debrett was a married bachelor. After work he walked the streets, went to a political club, a friend’s house, or chess café on Second Avenue, to talk politics and have a cup of coffee. He never drank anything else and ate little. He did not play chess, but there was talk there and a man could sit there the whole evening for only one or two cups of coffee and need not buy a sandwich. A middle-aged woman living on the ground floor of his apartment building, lent him her daily help for half an hour a day to tidy his apartment. It was never untidy. Debrett was only at home in the evening at times prearranged with a New Jersey friend, born to the name of Goldentopf, recently changed to Seymour. Seymour was a tall, thin, fair North German type who thought he looked English. He was still living at home with his father, a wholesale butcher who made money; but he despised him, his brothers and sisters, the State of New Jersey and also the United States. “There are natural aristocrats and natural butchers,” he said. He kept his gramophone and a large collection of records at Debrett’s in New York and often went there to hear new music, and to conduct orchestral records with a baton. He greatly admired Beatrice Debrett and Debrett admired Seymour. Seymour’s evenings excepted, Debrett did not return to his apartment till eleven o’clock, or after. There, he would walk up and down working out financial and political problems till very late and then fall into bed. For the newborn child, they had moved out to a street high-banked and bristling with new apartment houses, near the Grand Concourse, in the Bronx. He had to leave his home at half past seven to get to his working place at nine; and an evening appointment brought him home after his wife was in bed. She was an early sleeper, early riser. He ate out, or got himself a bit of bread and cheese when he returned. Now that his wife was away, he telephoned her every day at her Morristown home; or sent daily letters from the office, a husband’s love letters, consoling and pleading. If he called at a friend’s house, he would take some coffee, talk for several hours, and afterwards, he might walk many blocks uptown, thinking and talking excitedly to himself under his breath.

  He did not like to have his letters to his wife typed by these earthy girls in the office, and so he dictated them to Miss Lawrence, to whom he could explain everything. Through these letters and talks she knew of his great love for his wife and it seemed to Debrett that they could all be friends. He wondered about her life; she must be lonely. Sometimes he gave her a long look, but there was no response in her eyes. “She is certainly not interested in anyone here. She must be thinking of her talks in the Village with her artist friends.” He walked around the Village, too, now, looking in at windows of studios and coffee shops, thinking he might see her; just to add a faint human interest to his evening.

  One evening, reaching his street in the Bronx at eleven thirty, he was surprised to see the lights on in his fifth-floor apartment. He thought that his wife had returned. In the elevator he had a glad and disturbed face; had his letters brought her home too soon? He had hinted at his loneliness recently. Was it right, when she came home only to his late hours and the distance from the centre? She did not make friends easily; she disliked the district. She was the kind of woman who trusted only women; and even those were friends from high-school days, mostly women who had not married. She found comfort in them and their courageous struggle.

  When he opened the door, Miss Lawrence walked out of the living-room into the small, square hall. “What are you doing here?” he called out. “What is wrong?” “I thought your wife was coming and I wanted to see her.�
�� “But she isn’t coming tonight. How will you get home now?” “I thought she was coming tonight,” she said sadly. “It doesn’t matter: good night,” and she held out her hand. He detained her. “How did you get in?” “A man was here and let me in.” “What man?” “I don’t know. He was playing records; I sat in the other room.” “Have you had anything to eat since you left the office?” “No.” He was hungry himself and asked her to eat something with him. She refused. “Have you money for the subway?” She began to walk towards the stairs without answering, her head lowered in thought. At the turn of the staircase, she waved her hand. He ran after her. “Where are you going? Come back. You can’t walk home.” “I could stay here,” she said, raising innocent eyes to him. “With me?” “Yes.” “My dear girl—you must take a taxi home.” She took the money indifferently. When he got in again, he telephoned Seymour, a dry, unforgiving and ribald bachelor, at the moment sour with disapproval. “I never thought you would do that to Beatie, Gus. It’s unworthy of you both. A typist—a typist today is like a servant girl in your father’s time. I’d watch my step, if I were you. You would forfeit my entire respect.” It was hard to explain to a stick like Seymour. Gus explained a little and then said he was tired. “Has she gone?” Seymour persisted. “I must get to bed, Alec. I’m tired out. She came to see Beatrice. She’s a very strange girl. I don’t understand her myself, but I think she needs help.” At this, Seymour laughed drily, told a dirty joke; Debrett laughed and said good-bye.

  “In any case,” said Seymour, “Beatrice will be home in a day or two, perhaps tomorrow. I telephoned her from your place, while the girl was there and told her she ought to be here.” “Perhaps she should, but that’s up to her. I don’t want her made anxious when she’s recovering. She’s not very happy and this has been her chance to recover.” “If I thought you weren’t good to her, I’d have a very low opinion of you,” said the bachelor. “I do my best, but happiness is a mystery. One can’t manufacture happiness for another human being, especially a sensitive lonely soul like Beatrice.”

  At the office the next day, he sent for the girl. “What time did you get home last night?” “I don’t know. The door was locked. I slept on the landing until early this morning, when a neighbour took me in, and I got washed.” “That is terrible, terrible.” She said nothing; looked around. “What did you want to see my wife about?” “Just something private.” She seemed as on other days; and he wondered what other nights she had spent on the landing, at a neighbour’s. When he reached his street that night about eleven, again he saw his lights on. He walked about anxiously for some minutes, then went upstairs. His wife was sitting in an armchair in the living room wearing a handsome blue dressing gown. She was beautiful, but to him, unlike herself.

  “Augustus!” she checked herself; “I have been sitting here, waiting for you for hours.” “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” he cried gladly, rushed over, hugged her. “Did you miss me?” she said, with her usual coolness; but she laughed a trifle and made advances, unlike her and which chilled him. “You know I can’t live without you.” “Lonely is as lonely does,” she said, with pathetic wit. She had no sense of humour. “I’d better go to the kitchen and get a bite; I haven’t eaten yet.” “I made something for you.” “Did you, Beatrice? That was very kind. You are tired. I know this is late for you. But I’m glad you stayed up.” He was very glad.

  The next day he sent for Miss Lawrence for some letters. “But no more for my wife,” he said laughing. “Do you know why? You were remarkably close to the truth. She came home last night unexpectedly. You must go and see her in a few days, when she’s a bit more settled. You’ll like her. Women like her; she’s very good and understanding.”

  And one evening the following week, when he got home at ten, his wife was again waiting for him. Presently she said, “Your secretary was here.” “Who?” “Miss Lawrence, your secretary.” “She was here? I remember—she asked for time off. She said she had an appointment.” “And of course what Miss Lawrence wants, she gets,” she said pertly. “She’s been wanting to talk to you for over a week.” “Over a week! You told her to come and see me. Or she seemed to think you did.” “Let’s not have a misunderstanding over the poor girl.” “Let’s go to the kitchen and you have your sandwich.” “Oh, is there a sandwich? Thank you.”

  While eating, he searched her face hungrily. “Well, Beatrice, why don’t you say what you have to say? What was the problem? I’m interested.” She rose. “Frankly, I don’t know. I don’t know why this insistence. I gather she was here before. Because I know Seymour let her in. Oh, I grant that she wasn’t expected. I credit you with that.”

  He said, “We don’t have to spar with each other.” “Still, out of all the women in New York she chose me.” “You’re wrong there: she’s been to see Myra and Good’s wife.” They were standing in the sitting room. “You haven’t asked about David.” “How is he?” “I think he’s better off here than at mother’s.” “Perhaps he is. But are you? You have all the work to do here. You can rest there.” “Oh, you know how her vulgarity horrifies me: she’s a noisy dictator. She has her slaves and maids and her truckling friends and even boy friends. Essentially, I married you to get away from it; and you keep suggesting I should go back. Why?” “Well, Beatie, so you’re glad to be home?” “Yes, I am. It’s lonely and miserable and isolated here and I never see you; but I’m not surrounded by drinking, card-playing barbarians screaming like hyenas at dirty jokes, all night.” He sat in thought for a moment and then began to read a political weekly which had come by the morning post. He cheered up and presently said, “There’s an excellent article here on Brazil.”

  Much later, she told him about the girl. “She walked in as if expected, said she had been waiting for me to come home and she wanted to talk to me. I was unprepared and didn’t know what to expect. I was frightened, I think.” She laughed a little. “Why frightened? Did you think she was going to attack you?” “Attack me?” She thought it over. “No. Why should she? Is she paranoiac?” “She’s perfectly normal.” “Is she? Well, who is? She began to talk and I gathered she was in trouble, but she couldn’t come out with it; she was roundabout, hesitant, repressed. She seemed to want to appear too ladylike to say anything definite. At last, I realized that they were overcrowded at home, that she had no money and that she needed clothes.” “Did you give her some?” he asked. “You have very few clothes yourself.”

  “No, not yet. At any rate, I was obliged to ask her to dinner. I just hinted and she took me up on it. She’s coming to dinner on Tuesday night.” She laughed. “I expect you will be able to make it by eight that night.” “Tuesday? Yes, of course I will. I should like you to become friends.”

  After a silence, she burst out, “Oh, this is intolerable. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the problems, the uncertainties. It suffocates me. If only I could die, tonight, and not have to go through with it.”

  “What is the trouble, my dear? You know I love you and never loved anyone else and that I live for you and I couldn’t live without you.”

  “I don’t want it, I don’t want it, I don’t want it.”

  “I don’t understand, I don’t understand.”

  “It’s the intolerable anguish of living, the intolerable doubt about everything.”

  “Surely you don’t mean Miss Lawrence?”

  “Oh, no, of course not,” she said scornfully. “You don’t suppose I suspect you?”

  “There is no reason to.”

  When he got home at seven that Tuesday evening, his wife took him into the bedroom and said, “I thought you’d come together. She’s been here while I’ve been putting the baby to bed and I’ve not had time to prepare anything: just sitting there. She won’t take a drink—”

  “She’s a teetotaler,” said Debrett proudly.

  “—and she has no conversation.”

  “You should have talked to her about art—she considers that the only subject fit for a hu
man being.”

  “What do I know of art?”

  “Well, she seems to think you’re a kindred spirit,” he said, with pleasure.

  “You go and entertain her; she’s probably used to you. I have nothing for dinner. I felt too unhappy to go out and shop.”

  But though the girl behaved with ladylike gravity, then and throughout the meal, she never once looked at Debrett, turning her head always to Beatrice, hanging on her words, smiling and bending her head to her plate, glancing critically at the pictures or curtains, or even at the table service. She smiled at the wife’s few jokes and, when Beatrice got to her feet, Miss Lawrence jumped up and helped her silently. The meal did not take long. Beatrice had opened a can of salmon and had made some salad. Miss Lawrence had never eaten salmon; instead she ate a boiled egg with relish.

  “Do you like boiled eggs?” asked Beatrice.

  “I haven’t had a boiled egg for years, since mother was there; but I like them.”

  “What do you like to eat?” said Beatrice with curiosity.

  “We have vegetables—oatmeal, cheese,” she said, musing as if she had never considered it.

  “Are you vegetarians, also?” Beatrice said with a smile.

  The girl looked at her, puzzled.

  “No meat or fish, I mean.”

  “No.”

  “You have many principles, haven’t you?” said Debrett.

  She looked at his wife, questioning.

  “But you eat dessert?” said Beatrice. “Milk puddings, I suppose? I’m afraid I only have ice cream.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, delighted, “I’ve never had ice cream.”

  She left immediately after the plates were cleared. When she was going, Beatrice offered her some clothes she had set aside. The girl went through them carefully, selected a blouse, left the other things lying there, said good-bye suddenly and left, with the blouse in her hand.

  Beatrice herself spoke as if she were musing all the time and her words were the product of serious thought; it had always attracted him. But Beatrice objected to the girl’s slow-spokenness: “Why does she pull each word off her teeth as if it were taffy?”