The Protégé

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Zan seemed not to have heard this.

  Mrs. Moffat did the best she could to preen herself at table, arguing that this was delightful, two such hand-some young people and both her friends. But she was suffering a revival of an old uneasiness, that of the inexperienced hostess who has brought together friends of hers who are not yet friends to one another. This was described fairly well by the image of a chameleon on a swatch of plaid. She was one thing to Simon and another to Zan. Nonsense. Mrs. Moffat had gone past such foolishness, surely. She was the real thing in a grown-up, was she not? One who spoke and acted from her own core at all times.

  All very well for theory, but in practice one is many-sided, and how did one show two equally genuine but different sides at once?

  Zan chattered on about her work, her imminent transfer, the problems involved, and Mrs. Moffat couldn’t help hearing the overtones of her energy, her competitive drive, her worldly wisdom, her slightly cynical tolerance for her clients, and her caustic humor. Zan was sounding merely busy.

  Inevitably she turned the talk to Simon and began to worry and push for some definition of his ambition.

  “If you want to be a gardener, how do you get to be one?” she inquired. “Must you be apprenticed, or something? Are there schools?”

  Mrs. Moffat said, as far as she knew, you took your courage in your hands and simply announced that you were a gardener. Then, of course, you had to prove it. She thought that Simon was uneasy.

  “You ought to take up landscaping. There must be courses,” Zan went on. “It should be fascinating to design whole vistas, to arrange the scene to suit the eye, to take a piece of land and form the plantings in dimension.”

  Zan was using her hands to show her sense of power. Simon was giving her his owl stare. “Prestige, if you’re good enough to please the ‘in’ group,” she said as if she were promising sugar plums. “There’s serious money to be made.”

  “There is?” he drawled, startling Mrs. Moffat with a voice for Zan she’d never heard before.

  “Surely you wouldn’t mind?” drawled Zan.

  “I’ve been away,” he said. “I guess I forgot what we are all here for.”

  “You are not that ambitious?” said Zan kindly.

  “Well, it was more that I like being outdoors, you see.”

  Mrs. Moffat, who had long ago given up any belief that fame and fortune were plausible human goals, since in her opinion, they always covered for something else, said placatingly, “The two of you are not alike, Zan. You are busy climbing up the ladder. But Simon’s going the other way.”

  Simon met her eyes, and his were smiling. She had not said exactly what she meant, but he knew what she meant, just the same. She felt a wave of comfort.

  “Whatever that means.” Zan shrugged. She had no clue to Simon’s side of Mrs. Moffat. “Of course, money isn’t good for much,” she went on, “unless you figure to pay your board and room with it, and things like that.” She gave Simon another phony smile and spooned her desert.

  “Some people can learn a good deal,” said Mrs. Moffat, “given the peace to do it.”

  Zan flushed.

  Ah, well, when children are naughty, you must spank, in Mrs. Moffat’s philosophy.

  Simon was looking puzzled now.

  Mrs. Moffat sighed within and took over the table talk, balancing as best she could among her selves.

  When at last they left the table, Zan walked close to the screen to gaze out at the sunset’s reflection in the eastern sky.

  Simon stood politely waiting for Mrs. Moffat to seat herself, and just as the hostess did so, Zan whirled around suddenly. “Tell me, Simon, are you planning to be the local handyman in that beard?”

  It was as if she had turned up under his nose, she stood so close. “If that’s a disguise,” she went on saucily, “it’s pretty darned spectacular. As a matter of fact, it’s gorgeous.” Her right hand moved. “Is it soft?”

  He startled like a woodsy creature. “Get away.”

  “Sit down, Zan,” Mrs. Moffat said, “and stop being so naughty.”

  “Well, I’m sure I’m very sorry,” said Zan in tones of complete surprise at such an accusation. She skirted with elaborate avoidance Simon and his chair and folded herself into a leggy heap on the settee. Oh, she’d been naughty, and still was. The turbulence was made of sparks and arcings.

  Mrs. Moffat said sternly, “Sit down, Simon, do,” and then she launched into the long saga of a certain hummingbird who had used to live here. It lasted four minutes. The two of them waited it out. Then Simon begged to be, and was, excused.

  As soon as he had gone, Mrs. Moffat rose and went into the house.

  She knew that Zan was following; she wished she didn’t have to scold; she wished she didn’t have to talk at all.

  Zan said, “Oooo, I betcha I’m going to catch it.” She spoke with that air she had sometimes, half repentance and half mischief. “I shouldn’t have mentioned his precious beard.”

  “No, you should not have,” said Mrs. Moffat. As if that’s all you did, she thought.

  “But didn’t he have a strange reaction?”

  “Not at all,” said Mrs. Moffat, sitting down.

  “Gran,” said Zan earnestly, sitting down at her feet, “I do understand you, I do. You think he needs a little quiet kindness, and you are probably right. The only thing that bothers me, how come he’s got you so sold on the idea that nobody asks him any questions? If he can drive, why doesn’t he? If only sometimes? And if he has got something wrong with his memory, why can’t he just say so?”

  “Alexandra,” Mrs. Moffat said, “I thought I had suggested to you—”

  “I know you did,” wailed Zan. “But, Gran—luv … How much do you know about that man? Anything? Except that he was once the next-door child. And you won’t ask and you won’t let me ask,” Zan went on. “I can’t understand what he’s up to. Why does he hang on here, all this time?”

  “Perhaps he enjoys himself here,” said Mrs. Moffat loftily. “I have enjoyed having him—up to now.”

  “All right,” said Zan. “So you’ve gotten fond of him and he is just as sweet as he can be—to you. But one of these days when he asks you to make some investments, don’t sign the papers.”

  “Really, Zan. I have been dealing with financial matters quite a few years longer than you.”

  “Okay, but if you even suggest that there might be something wrong with his mind—”

  “I told you that I believe he has seen some trouble,” said Mrs. Moffat, “as who has not.”

  “Wouldn’t it make a little difference what kind of trouble?” said Zan coaxingly.

  “I don’t quite see why.” Mrs. Moffat was beginning to feel stubborn.

  “But, Gran, supposing he ran away, for instance, from some mental institution? You never know, these days.”

  Mrs. Moffat thought crossly, These days, these days, they are not the only days the world has seen or ever will see.

  “I daresay it seems insane these days,” she said, “that a young man rather enjoys being the guest of an old woman.”

  “All right, Gran,” said Zan softly in a moment. “I don’t want to get into a fight. But please be sensible a minute. Isn’t it true that you don’t know one darned thing about him? Where he’s been for how many years? What is on his mind, or the real reason that he—well, settles for puttering around your backyard at his age? Has it occurred to you that this is a pretty snug harbor and a pretty cute hiding place, for that matter?”

  “It has occurred to me,” said Mrs. Moffat stiffly.

  “Well?”

  “He doesn’t hide, Zan. He goes where he pleases.”

  “How do you know where he pleases to go? What if the law is after him? That’s what’s under the beard? He could have escaped from jail, for all you know.”

  “Why escaped?” said Mrs. Moffat. “He may have been in prison somewhere and been let out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mrs. M
offat didn’t answer. She had meant “Does no one ever get forgiven? Does no one ever outlive trouble? Didn’t you?”

  She didn’t speak.

  “Don’t you see?” Zan wheedled. “All I’m trying to say is that he just might be dangerous, and I don’t like—”

  “Can’t you let us be, Zan?” said Mrs. Moffat wearily.

  “But I can’t help wondering,” said Zan. “You are pretty much all alone, Gran—and you are more vulnerable than you probably realize. I’m sure that you do enjoy having him at your beck and call, so devoted and so polite and all. But it just can’t be.”

  “Can’t be what?”

  “It just can’t be that simple,” said Zan, “or that innocent.”

  Mrs. Moffat was good and mad now, and knew this very well. Detached from the anger, a part of her considered whether or not to give way to it. She compromised.

  “Dear me,” she said, in a voice that betrayed no anger, “since I am nearly finished, I supposed I ought to cherish my wrinkled hide unto the bitter end.”

  “Oh, Gran!”

  But Mrs. Moffat went on without mercy. “The only desirable way to die, for instance, is to do it as slowly, as draggingly, as boringly as possible. But why is that, I wonder? Why is it that I, being seventy-four years old, may not run the risk of having any fun? Any fun, anymore?”

  Zan buried her head in her arms. “Don’t—”

  “You fancy that Simon Warren is going to hurt me somehow? Is that inevitable? Do you know, Zan, it sounds too simple to me.”

  “Won’t you be hurt already,” said Zan in a muffled voice, “when he goes away?”

  “Not as much as you think,” said her grandmother. “I am better prepared for partings and departings than you imagine. I appreciate your concern. I understand that you mean well—”

  “You sure know how to hurt a guy,” said Zan, raising her head. “I was only trying to use good sense.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Moffat. “Ah, well, if Simon is gone in the morning, as he very well may be, without even saying good-bye, that will have been the consequence of your … good sense, do you say?”

  “All right, I was mad at you,” said Zan. “Or jealous. Or something stupid. Or as annoyed as hell with him, sitting there like a big old ginger cat and lapping up the cream. Besides, I didn’t like the way you put me out. What did you mean—going the other way? I couldn’t make any sense of that. What is the other way? Down the ladder?”

  “I could try to tell you,” said Mrs. Moffat, “if I weren’t so tired.” She began to struggle out of her chair, and Zan rose quickly and hooked her young arm under Mrs. Moffat’s.

  “Don’t do that,” said the old lady crossly. “It doesn’t help. Simon never does that.”

  “No, he doesn’t, does he?” murmured Zan, stepping away. “He keeps his paws to himself, I’ll say that for him.”

  Mrs. Moffat was on her feet. “You may hand me my cane,” she said sternly. “This kind of turbulence tires me very much, Alexandra. Too much. I didn’t mean going down the ladder,” she went on to her own surprise. “But I can’t explain to you a world with no ladder in it, can I? So I’ll forgive you, and go to bed with my book, and to sleep when I feel like it, and I’ll wake when I wake. And if I were as wise as I sometimes seem to sound, I would now shut my mouth and say no more.”

  Zan kissed her.

  Toiling up the stairs, Mrs. Moffat tried to feel resigned. Zan will drive him away, she thought. Perhaps that’s best.

  Zan listened anxiously to the old lady’s progress. Mrs. Moffat did not like to be helped, enjoyed to do what she was able. Zan had known that for years. Ah, she was a dear and a darling, this old lady, but damned exasperating. Involved now where she must be misreading the signs, flattered and eagerly mistaken … so easily fooled by a young man, with the power of that one.

  She went to turn off the downstairs lights, all but one in the sitting room. She stepped out onto the wide porch into the night air. It was early. They had dined just before sundown. Simon had left them very soon thereafter. Zan and her grandmother had argued as the dark came swiftly down. It was not really bedtime yet.

  Zan went to the screen door and opened it without making a sound. She stepped outside and coaxed the door to settle behind her in the same furtive way. Polly had finished in the kitchen; she must be in her room. No one could see. Zan walked on the grass, avoiding the gravel path until she had to take the narrow one that led through a leafy tunnel to the cottage door.

  There was light in the cottage window. But no light fell where Zan stood at the door, in deep dark, listening. There was no sound. Yet the crunch of her feet must have been loud. The whole night held its breath. Zan had a strong sense of fate. She was doomed to do what she was now about to do. She tapped. Simon’s voice said at once, “Who is it?”

  “Alexandra Terry. May I please talk to you for a minute?”

  Silence. Then the window to her left went black. The door opened, and he stepped from darkness out into darkness. He wasn’t going to let her in.

  “I’ve upset Gran,” she said quickly, “so I’ve come to apologize to you and ask you not—”

  “About this beard,” he said in no gentle voice. “Sure it’s a disguise.” He sagged against the cottage wall. “What do you want?” he snarled. “See, probably after I beat her up and take all her money, then I’ll shave. And you’ll never catch me.”

  Zan said coldly, “Do you mind not being silly? The point is, because I was rude, she’s afraid you’ll vanish without saying good-bye. That would break her heart, so please—”

  “It wouldn’t dent yours any,” he barked. “I’ll go when she says to go, and she knows it. So don’t you fret your little head about me not saying good-bye.”

  “Are you sure she ever will say to go?” breathed Zan. “As long as you mind your manners with her, haven’t you got it made?”

  “What do you want?” he said roughly. “You’re so damned sure I’m going to break her heart, or else her neck, you can’t wait to boot me out of here. What do you want, Mrs. Moffat?”

  “Since you ask,” said Zan, bracing, “I want to know just when you last saw Tommy Moffat.”

  “You’d break her heart. Oh, you’d do it in a minute,” he cried in a rush, as if anger had carried him over her question and kept him from hearing it. “Get away,” he growled. “Get away.”

  “Oh, listen, listen,” cried Zan, casting off the hostility that she knew very well to be a kind of sex play anyhow. “You can’t blame me for wanting to know what you’re up to. I only want to understand—” She reached to touch him.

  He jumped away in the dark; she knew it. Then the dark was singing with a thousand messages, pulse to pulse, across the little distance.

  “Some people can’t have what they want,” he said harshly. “Ever hear of bad luck like that?”

  “What’s the matter?” said Zan quietly. She was remembering that he hadn’t even shaken hands. He never touched her grandmother to help her on their rounds. “Are you untouchable or something?”

  “Why do you ask questions?” he said in bitter fury, “when you couldn’t take the answers? Stick to your decorating, city girl. What do you know about the world?”

  Still he loomed in the dark. She couldn’t breathe.

  He said, “Do you have to make trouble?” His breath rasped. He broke all invisible links and bonds and ran. He had not opened the cottage door. He was gone on the path, loose in the dark. She’d never catch him.

  Zan waited until the silence seemed to have sealed over the shock of the encounter. Then she trudged slowly the way back to the safe house.

  Safe? She wondered. Within the walls, inside the charming sitting room, where all her grandmother’s things soaked in bygone graces, the raw anguish, the throb of desperate trouble in that man seemed outrageous.

  I can’t let Gran keep him here, Zan thought. I just can’t. She’ll never boot him out, so I’ll have to do it, somehow. Oh, he’s dangerous.

 
She thought there must be some terrible split within the man, as if he had been riven by lightning; the torn halves would crash like thunder if ever they came together.

  For herself, she was not afraid. Zan recognized a temptation toward excitement. (She couldn’t afford it, of course.) But the dear old lady, so innocently kind, so long shut away from worldly peril—evil passions … so fragile now …

  She made her brain begin to analyze the problem. Zan must protect her.

  DEAR SMITTY:

  How are you?

  The hand put down the pencil and picked up the can of beer. The hand put down the can and picked up the pencil and blacked out the three words, so savagely as to tear the paper.

  You know what they did … [The pencil scurried.] You know how they wiped me out like chalk from a blackboard? Well, it’s as if she’s got the chalk in her hand and she’s making a picture, and it isn’t me or it isn’t you—but it’s what she should have had for a grandson—and I’m sorry if it’s not true. I wish good things could be true. They can’t even be half-true, now that your wife’s here.

  Busy, busy, busy, busy …

  The pencil began to make great loops and scribbles all over the writing.

  DEAR SMITTY:

  The baby didn’t live. Listen, we can try and get hold of a car, make a down payment of a few bucks and sign away three or four years. So who cares? We can start south, just the same, and take our chances. I can’t stay here much longer. Only buy the medicine. Will you please buy the medicine?

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Wednesday, Mrs. Moffat was relieved to see Simon grubbing away in the borders as usual, and to find Zan taking up the position of disinterested separation again.

  Zan, chattering away about everything else but Simon, drove her to the doctor’s and to market. Since Simon (taking up the position of disinterested separation, too?) had said, “There isn’t any hurry about the shrubs, is there, ma’am?” and watched her lips, as if he were lip reading, as well as listening, when she said, “Well, of course not.”

  Disinterested separation between one’s guests, however, is not the most comfortable position in the world for the hostess, and when Zan had gone off on her dinner date, Mrs. Moffat felt herself letting down from tension.