The Protégé

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Then a blow had fallen on Marguerite Moffat. Gerard had done her the discourtesy to die. He had left her alone to struggle to learn to live at all there for a while. (I’ve learned, she thought grimly.)

  Now she must remember Tommy’s flying visit—oh, not for his grandfather’s funeral, but during the summer between his freshman and sophomore years. He had been well behaved and persuasive. He had convinced her (she might not have been thinking very clearly at that time) that the funds carefully designated by her husband’s will for Tommy’s higher education need not be doled out year by year but could be turned over to him in toto, then and there.

  He had seemed resolved to be responsible; to do this would challenge him to be responsible, wouldn’t it? She had agreed, and so it was done.

  But before the fall semester was half over, Tommy Moffat had eloped with Alexandra Terry—he at the age of twenty; she, away from home for the first time in her life, aged sixteen. His letter—Mrs. Moffat still had it somewhere—had argued that life was the thing, not lore, and the two of them could lick the world anyhow, just as they were. There was nothing that she could do about this. So she had done nothing.

  A year later, on one rainy morning, here came a battered old car, and here came Tommy Moffat and his seventeen-year-old very pregnant wife, whom Mrs. Moffat then met for the first time.

  And here came, when the fluster of surprise and the welcoming of travelers was over, the appeal.

  It did seem that Tommy had tried very hard in several jobs, in several fields, to find the way that he should go to be husband and father, responsible citizen and success. But for one reason and another, nothing had really worked out, and in the meantime, the college money had gone. Well, yes, all of it, well, there were two of them, and Tommy had wanted darling Zan to be comfortable, naturally.

  Mrs. Moffat remembered his face, the sly, the shrewd, the charming face, as he told her the rest of it. The fact was he had taken a sum of money out of the till of his latest employer. He’d been going to put it back, but the fact was right now the cops seemed to be after him, and Tommy didn’t want to go to jail, and he was sure Gran wouldn’t want him to go to jail either, so they had come to beg her to give him the money (it was gone, of course) so that he could give it back to his employer and thus escape very much and perhaps any punishment. Zan, poor little Zan, swallowed up in Tommy’s philosophy, loving and torn and bound she’d be loyal to the dream, and swollen with child and shivering with terror and strain, had begged Mrs. Moffat to save them because he’d never do it again. He’d promised.

  Mrs. Moffat skipped very fast over the next part. She had said No. She had said, Certainly not. She had said that if Tommy were a thief, he must take the consequences. She had said she took no stock in his promises. He himself had destroyed his credit. But—oh, how righteously, she had declaimed this part of it—she would in all human compassion see to it that this poor, cold, and bedraggled darling of his was taken care of. When had Alexandra last seen a decent doctor? How soon was the baby predicted? Mrs. Moffat would put her to bed immediately.

  As for the authorities (the cops), Mrs. Moffat would not go so far as to summon them. But if they were to arrive, Mrs. Moffat would let them in and tell them honestly all that she knew.

  So a terrible day, the rain continuing, the doctor coming, and Zan with a fever, and Polly running up and down the stairs, and Mrs. Moffat in a turmoil, and Tommy very quiet. A shadow in the house. Subdued. Saying nothing.

  The next morning he had gone off to buy Zan a toothbrush—so he had said.

  He had never come back.

  In seven years, now—and a little more—Tommy had not been heard from.

  It had taken three more days for Mrs. Moffat to discover how he had forged a withdrawal slip and taken away with him the bulk of her savings account.

  Without a word. Without a word.

  So Mrs. Moffat had been left, aged sixty-seven, with the hysterical, shattered, almost mortally wounded, outraged seventeen-year-old mother-to-be.

  Had fed her and sheltered and dosed her and had waited in grim patience until the baby had been born dead, and that part of it was over. Then waited out more time, helpless to be anything but patient. Patient by default, she’d been. What else could she have done but wait for the screaming fits to lose some energy, suffering the accusations, “hard, cold, mean, evil,” until they, too, began to die away? Waiting, saying very little. What could she have said? Tommy had done what he had done, stolen, and stolen again, and run away. Without a word, without a word for his beloved—and no query, even in the mail—nothing … nothing. No interest taken in the birth or death of his own child.

  Zan at last had begun to pull herself together.

  When Zan had one day written to her own people—something she had not been able to do heretofore—she had said to her husband’s grandmother that she appreciated what had been given her here, but she was okay now. She would go home. She would be all right—probably.

  Mrs. Moffat had seen in those sullen eyes that this girl was beginning to try to cast out of her crippled spirit all those accusations and the blame she had been forced to put somewhere handy.

  And from her own spirit Mrs. Moffat had tried to cast out her more or less hidden anger at such a little fool but had let her go, not without relief at that time.

  But time changes, behind you. It is not true to say that the past can never change.

  Tommy had not been a whole person, not ever. To ask him to be responsible was to ask the impossible. He was not now as cruel as he used to be in the story. Mrs. Moffat had made judgments that did not now seem to have been her own; she’d stood outside the character in the story who’d worn her name.

  Mrs. Moffat really should have called the authorities, should have put before them Tommy’s record, should have brought in those who had treated Tommy, should have told all the truth she knew. And not in panic run to righteous compromise. Or taken on that mad and maddening girl, to be martyred, stubborn, not understanding why she needed punishment.

  Now, looking back, that hard, furious contempt for an Alexandra Terry who (formerly) had thrown her life away and wrecked it forever, just to lie in Tommy Moffat’s arms, had been a blindness. Mrs. Moffat could see that her own Zan—so strong and bright and independent—had been there all the time, and by luck—by luck—had not been let to die. Ah, well, the color of old sorrows could change as well as fade.

  Zan put out her lamp, looked out the window for a moment, at the low roof of the one-story portion of the house, at the blot of the great tree that interrupted the patterns of the stars. She couldn’t see the wing of the garage they called the cottage, where there was a man who had once known Tommy Moffat.

  She crept into bed and (as she always must, at least once, when she came here) began to live through the whole thing again.

  Oh, that heaven! That heavenly hell-bent recklessness. The knowing—the knowing—the knowing that this was all … This was ALL! And nothing else could possibly matter but their bodies together! She cringed and squirmed between the cold sheets. All right, that was gone. All right.

  And then the pell-mell quality of the downhill race. She couldn’t have stopped it. No one could have stopped it. Tommy was hell-bent. That was a good word for him.

  She remembered the long flight across the continent in the old car, the fever and strain. Then, in the cold rain, this house, and how even then she had thought it was old, and the old woman, sexless and unfeeling—and all the hot drinks and the hot-water bottles and the blankets and the pillows had counted for nothing because there was still only one thing that really mattered. And oh, if they came and took Tommy … All right. That was over.

  So—the next morning, waking alone in the big bed in the other bedroom, the other front one (Zan never went in there) and Tommy’s grandmother coming with a tray, asking how she felt, and Zan sure she couldn’t care, but answering the question with pleading softness. Oh, save us yet?

  Skip to the night. Heart in h
er mouth. Where? Dark again, and he hadn’t come. He had gone to hide then, from the cops? He would send for her. There would be some secret way that he would send the word.

  Waiting. Oh, damn the baby! Once she got the baby out of her and was herself, then he would send for them.

  Travail and the news that the baby was not going to have to be reared. So she had shaken off that crushed and cheated feeling. But this meant when he sent for her, she would be light of foot to go.

  Shaken it off? Zan skipped on.

  So sometimes she had eaten what his grandmother said she ought to eat, seeking strength. But sometimes she had felt so lost and so cruelly deprived that she must scream.

  But slowly, slowly, at first in short flashes and then in longer stretches of time, she had been able to get it plain. Tommy was gone. Tommy would be free; so he had abandoned her. He would never send. He did not have the persistence; he would not pick up his obligations or act to undo what once was done.

  Okay, Zan told herself, now you’ve been through that again. So shut up and go to sleep.

  Zan turned over and thought to herself that Mrs. Moffat was only up to her old tricks, after all. She could well remember (when she dared try) herself, aged seventeen, all in pieces, frantic, perhaps insane, half in her grave, and how by persistent, obstinate, steady, unconquerable, and perfectly routine nonintrusive kindness, she had been coaxed or led the way to life. Now, if Gran was trying such old tricks on this strange young man with the weird beard, wasn’t Zan the last person—

  A thought came and struck her with such force that she sat up in bed, heart racing, pain pounding in her head. What was hidden under that beard? Scars, from some kind of surgery? Had that man been somehow smashed and patched up, and was his memory in patches, too? Was that man Tommy Moffat?

  Oh, no, no! Not Tommy’s bones. Tommy’s hair, all of it, everywhere, had been black. Oh, God, she knew that very well. Oh, God! Zan settled back, bathed in sweat now, to wait out the shock.

  Tommy is dead, she thought grimly. I’ve seen to that.

  Then crept the old longing for the redemption she once feared and sometimes prayed for. What if he had died, some sudden way, before he could send for her? Suppose this. Simon knew?

  “So what?” the man said stormily. “I’m telling you now. And that’s more than the old bitch has done, or darling Zan either. She’s my wife. Established and prosperous, eh? I’d like to know what the hell she ever did with the kid! That’s what I’d like to know. Listen, Al. The people who live in the Warrens’ house. Find out how much longer they’ll be away.”

  “Why?” said the red-bearded boy.

  “Because something’s coming out of this. Don’t ask me what. I’ve got a feeling—I’ve got to find out about—oh—statutes—yah.”

  He walked the short length of the room, limping badly. He had a full black beard now. It was unkempt. His right eye was excited. His left eye looked, in the flesh, as if it were part of a knot in a tree over which the bark was growing in rolls that might soon meet and close.

  He was dirty, and he stank, and he said, “Wouldn’t my seven-year-old kid be tickled to death to meet old Dad? I wonder what my darling Zan would say to that?”

  The red-bearded boy said nothing, but the black-bearded man changed tone at once. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve got to eat. I don’t think she would refuse me a little allowance. She can afford it, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess so,” muttered the boy.

  Chapter 7

  When Mrs. Moffat came down the next morning, Simon was already at work on the back border, where he was proposing to set some bright hibiscus once the soil was ready. Zan, up almost as early as he, on New York time, was prowling the downstairs rooms, peering at old pieces of furniture, assessing their condition and period, testing the state of her professional knowledge. (Zan did this every time she came.) And all day Mrs. Moffat’s two young guests seemed to be going their ways within their separate interests, one outdoors, one indoors, not interested in each other particularly.

  Still, Mrs. Moffat could sense a turbulence. Perhaps it’s Zan, she thought. The girl had the gift and the habit of energy. She was accustomed to running very fast, all day, every day. Zan was not one to surrender, relax where she was, sit and absorb. The pace in this house was much too slow for her. (And should be, her grandmother thought.)

  Simon took his lunch apart in his working clothes, and when he came for Mrs. Moffat so that they could walk their rounds for that day, Zan was buried in contemplation of some ormolu in the parlor and declined to join them.

  Mrs. Moffat was just as glad.

  This separation could not last, of course. So, Mrs. Moffat having warned Zan, thought now that she might warn Simon. She said to him, “Zan comes from the world; she thrives in the thick of it, so she brings a kind of turbulence. Whenever she comes, I must always learn again how very much out of the world I am. I must say,” she added, “I wind up feeling darned glad of it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Excuse me, Mrs. Moffat, but is she Mrs. Terry?”

  Mrs. Moffat’s heart jumped. (Well, she wouldn’t lie.) “No, she’s really Mrs. Moffat. She was Tommy’s wife.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said in a minute, with more curiosity than shock.

  “Because we don’t speak of old, unhappy things,” she said sternly. “And it really doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Weren’t there any children?”

  She looked at his face. His eyes were squinted up as if to keep secrets.

  “The baby never lived,” she said. She thought, Did its father care enough to mention it? She discovered that she did not care in the least anymore whether Tommy Moffat had ever mentioned the baby. What bothered her was a certain turbulence present here in her garden.

  But Simon, peering into the greenery, said cheerfully, “Aren’t the neighbors ever coming home?”—changing the subject and the mood, sounding much happier.

  “Not till Labor Day,” said Mrs. Moffat absently. Thinking to herself how disjointed were the bits and pieces of information one received. Why should the death of Zan’s baby, seven years ago, make Simon happier? Something must be missing.

  When she came indoors, Mrs. Moffat had a very strong intuition that Zan had only just now rustled away from a window. Ah, well—curiosity was only natural.

  While Mrs. Moffat was resting, Zan slipped outdoors to say hello to her grandmother’s hired gardener. Ben Guest was in a dour mood. He kept darting dour glances at the far figure of Simon.

  “I see you have some help around here,” said Zan gaily.

  Ben burst into passionate speech. “He don’t know what he’s doing, and she don’t either. Too much upkeep, she’s going to find out. And I can’t put even a foot in the cottage. ‘No more,’ she says.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s got her wrapped around his pinky, and who does he think he is—red-headed ape! Darn kid!”

  Zan, as soon as she could, went indoors, somewhat dismayed.

  Toward evening, when Simon joined them on the porch where Polly was setting the glass-topped summery table, all three settled in their chairs, and it should have been, Mrs. Moffat thought, as the day was sifting down to dark, and all its dust behind it, a time for placid reflections. But Zan began to worry and push at the question of the car.

  “Is there any day when I could have it, Gran, and not discommode you?” asked Zan, her pretty legs twined together tensely, her face animated, her attractive mouth moving in fascinating ways. “I’m going to have to run around seeing people, and that’s the only way to get around in these parts, isn’t that so? I can rent a car, of course.”

  Mrs. Moffat said reluctantly, “I suppose we could plan.” She didn’t want to plan; she didn’t want to decide just what errands must be done at just what hour. But she roused herself.

  Zan said, “I don’t mean tomorrow. I’ll have to get on the horn tomorrow and poke up my contacts. Maybe I could squash all my appointments into say
a couple of days. But I’ll have to run around looking at locations, too.”

  Mrs. Moffat sighed. “Why don’t you make your arrangements, Zan, and let me know?”

  Zan was wearing sandals. Mrs. Moffat saw her bare toes convulse.

  “You’re getting it backward, Gran,” she said. “I thought I was just asking you to let me know. Wasn’t I, Simon?”

  Simon was looking at her out of his eye corners. “I couldn’t say,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Moffat brought her mind to the problem and said, “Now tomorrow, I must go for my checkup to Dr. Sebastian. What could we combine? If I drop you at the nursery, Simon, could you just as well—”

  “No, no,” Zan broke in. “If you’re going to the doctor’s, Gran, you are not driving yourself. I’ll take you, and drop Simon wherever he needs to be dropped and pick him up afterward.” She turned abruptly to Simon. “A pity you can’t drive. You could have been useful all this while, couldn’t you?” She flashed him a big and obviously phony smile.

  Simon said, slumberously, “I can drive. Mrs. Moffat enjoys to do what she can do.”

  “I see,” Zan said, eyes wide. “Of course, if she were to get used to a chauffeur, she’d be awfully out of practice by the time you went away, wouldn’t she?”

  He seemed not to have heard this. “Don’t you feel well, ma’am?”

  “I hope,” said Mrs. Moffat haughtily, “that I have sense enough to know when I don’t feel well enough to go to the doctor.”

  Zan looked at her and let out a whoop of laughter.

  But Simon had turned his head away and was looking at the trees.

  “You may drive me tomorrow, Zan,” said Mrs. Moffat as benignly as she could manage, “but I think, after that, you must just take the car whenever you need it. Simon and Polly and I can make do with the intervals. We are flexible.”

  “We don’t have to run around particularly,” said Simon lazily.