by Conrad Aiken
—Andy, Mother had been crying.
—How do you know.
—She had shiny streaks in the corners of her eyes. And her eyes were red. That’s always the way you can tell.
Uncle David came out, humming, he had on his gray knickerbockers and a blue shirt opened at the neck. He looked down at us with his eyes almost shut.
—Well, kids, how does your symptoms seem to segashuate?
He laughed, and went to the corner of the porch and took down his rowlocks from the hooks, and his oars, and walked off toward the Point. In a minute Uncle Tom came out, and without saying anything went down the hill toward the playhouse. We saw him disappear under the trees by the door to the bicycle shed, and saw a match flare, and another, and then he came back, with the bicycle lamp making a little yellow fan of light on the grass, bobbing up and down.
I think, Andy and Susan, you’d both better go to bed. I know it’s a little early, but we might be going on a picnic tomorrow. And don’t bother your mother, she’s very tired.
—Oh, Uncle Tom, do you really think——
—I don’t promise—I just say we might.
—Where are you going, Uncle Tom?
—Down to the village. Now go along, and be as quiet as you can.
And it was after I was asleep, it was in a dream, that suddenly Susan was standing by my bed. I woke up with her hand on my mouth, and she was saying shhhhh.
—Andy, be quiet, listen.
—What.
—I think Father is downstairs.
—Are you sure.
—I think so. I thought I heard his voice.
I got out of bed, and we tiptoed to the head of the stairs. What time was it. Was it midnight. Had Molly and Margaret come back from the village, and were they in their room, listening. We stood outside their door, and for a while there wasn’t a sound, and then we heard Father’s voice. It sounded far away, as if he were standing by one of the outside doors, or on the porch.
—I think Doris and I had better discuss this alone.
The screen door squeaked and clacked. We listened, but heard nothing else. Susan was shivering in her nightgown.
—Andy, let me come in and sleep with you.
—No.
—Please, Andy.
—No.
—Oh, please, Andy.
———with Calumet K under my coat, to take back to the Library, because it was raining, though not raining very much, only a drizzle, and it might get wet. Should I say anything or not. Should I tell him I had heard him or not. All the pretending. Pretending we hadn’t heard anything, or seen anything. Pretending we didn’t know anything. Pretending, pretending, pretending. I was sick of pretending. First from Father, and then from Mother, and then from Susan. What was the use. My sneakers were wet with walking through the wet grass, they began to bubble. I felt the cold bubbles under the naked soles of my feet and swished them through the thick weeds and grass beside the path to fill them and refill them with cold water. They squelched and squnched as I walked. The spider webs in the long privet hedge were heavy and bright with rain. I shook them and the spiders came out. The telephone poles were wet, the sand in the ruts was dark, the cherry trees were dripping slowly, but the sky over the village was beginning to brighten, in a little while the sun would come out again. And I ought to get Tanglewood Tales, to read for school. And Ivanhoe. But I could wait another week. I could get The Sign of the Four. The Hound of the Baskervilles. The Black Arrow. The White Company.
When Father stepped out of the white-sanded gap in the road, I was surprised.
—And what has he got there under his jacket? Calumet K again?
—Yes. I like it.
—So do I. A good story. Have you tried Old St. Paul’s this summer?
—Oh, no, I forgot.
—Try it. But they may not have it. If they haven’t got it, I’ll send it to you.
He had his white raincoat on, but no hat, and his hair was standing up straight, and drops of rain sparkled on it. His hands were in his pockets. He took one of them out with an envelope in it.
—I’m sorry there was no picnic today. But we’ll have it soon, I’ll come down again soon, tell Susan and Porper I’ll be coming back. And when you go back from the Library, give this note to Mother.
—But Father, why can’t you stay——
—And tell her that I’m going up on the noon train. Will you?
—Yes, and I’ll give her the note.
—Be sure. It’s important.
—When you come back will you stay with us at Aunt Norah’s.
—I don’t think so. I’m afraid not. Not enough beds to go round, old fellow. Now run along——
—Can we take some more pictures.
—You bet we will. And now I must go and get ready. So long.
—So long, Dad.
He grinned and gave my white duck hat a tug so that it came down over my eyes, and then turned and went quickly toward the latticed porch of the Soule house. I walked along the path and then remembered the envelope in my hand. On it was written in Father’s small print: For Doris. Kindness of Andrew. It was a gray envelope, speckled, and I noticed that the flap was gummed only at the tip, it would be very easy to open. What was he writing to her like this, and why was he going back so quickly. Especially if, as Uncle Tom had said, he didn’t really need to for business. And why, after telling me not to say anything about his coming, had he gone to the house himself late at night. And why hadn’t Mother come to see him in the morning, or said anything about him.
The mail was already sorted when I got there, and there were no letters in Box 36, only the little slip of paper that said the box was ours for three months. I saw Smiley come out of the drugstore with a golden-brown cake of chewing tobacco in his hand, a little red tin label on it. He was cutting a piece off the corner with his knife. At the bridge I stopped to watch the tide go in through the opened sluice gates, carrying nests of green and brown eelgrass, powerful and slow and deep, eddying and clucking. Why was the letter important. What did it say—. At the Library I chose The White Company because it looked longer. I looked at St. Nicholas’ to see who had won the prizes for drawings and then started home. It had stopped raining, a pale beam of sunlight flashed on the wet golden rooster at the top of the flagpole, the railings of white wood along the lagoon were beginning to sparkle. The letter was in my raincoat pocket, I kept my hand on it, and my finger went under the flap of the envelope. Before I knew it, it was open. I blushed and took it out to look at it. It would be easy enough to stick it down again. Suppose Father should pass me on the road, going to the station. I turned to the right, along King Caesar’s Road, and walked faster. I passed the cottage with the rhododendrons, and Powder Point Hall, and when I got to the pine woods I went in to the left of the road and crawled into my pine-log cabin. It was gray inside and I sat on the pine needles. I must ask Gay if she would come down again. We might do it this afternoon, especially if it was raining. Perhaps she would come by herself, without Warren, which would be more exciting. Or with Susan. If I couldn’t persuade her, Susan might.
I unfolded the letter and began to read it, and then blushed and folded it and put it back, and then took it out again. It was wrong to read it. But I wanted to know what was going on. What was going on. Why all this secrecy. If anything was hidden from us, like this, and a chance came, like this, why not take it. Why not. “Pussy dear.” I had heard him call her that, and it had seemed silly. But typewritten, in a typewritten letter——
Drops of rain fell on the roof, dripped from the trees, each one a sound of threatened guilt. Who would come, no one could come, I was alone. I took out the letter again, listened, and began to read.
Pussy dear, am I mistaken in detecting a lurking trace of sympathy in thy note of apology when dealing with that evident leaning of D’s towards what thee calls the racy side of life? Does thee, as thee says he does, partake in that wistful eager-yearning to snatch, before it is too late, somethi
ng that perhaps solely because it is forbidden, possesses the fascination of a last untasted morsel, wanting to insure completeness in the rounding of our little life?… Remember, dear heart——
I got up so quickly that I bumped my head on the low roof of the cabin, then ducked and ran along the road until I was out of the belt of pine woods, and went into the field. The letter was in my pocket. It was not that I had heard any one coming. I broke a switch of wild cherry off a small tree in a broken-down stone wall, and with this began whisking the nests of tent caterpillars out of the trees along the lane, and whipping the leaves of bayberry bushes. Take that. And that. And that. And take that, you bastard. And don’t come again until you are asked. I walked slowly up the deep lane, whipping left and right, and wondered what the letter meant, and what the rest of it was. But I already knew. It was Uncle David. Did the racy side of life mean his drinking, his getting drunk, all those empty bottles, and his trying to get Mother drunk in the motorboat. Was that it. Or was it more than that. Should I read the rest of it. Would I have time. I could stop in the playhouse and read it, or I could read it here, but here I might meet somebody, and besides I was walking. And kept on walking. It was more—of course it was—than his trying to get her drunk, and I knew what it was.
I passed the playhouse, walking fast up the slope of humped grass, kicking at the grasshoppers which skirred away from me on heavy-rattling wings, passed the grass-mat targets, which had been set up for archery practice, and let myself into the house through the screen door. It was silent, empty, and when I hallooed there was no answer. Had they all gone bathing. I went back to the porch and saw that the rowlocks had gone, and the oars, and the life preserver. And when I went in again, and looked at the stairs, my bathing-suit and towel had been put on the banisters. I took them up in my hand and felt the dry sand in them. But all the while I was thinking——
In my bedroom I began to undress, slowly, pulled my shirt over my head, drew the necktie out and hung it over the mirror, looked at the ugly, dishonest shape of my mouth in the mirror, pulled it down with two fingers and stuck out my tongue and said “yaa!” at myself, then began flexing and unflexing my right arm to watch the muscle. But this was a pretense. The letter was in my pocket on the chair. To avoid it further, I took the flytrap to the window, opened the screen, broke the trap by pressing the sides together, and let the flies go. They went slowly, as if they were dying. Would I have time to copy out the letter. Would I. Before they got back from bathing. I could say that the mail had been late. Mother, I was just coming, I had only just had time to change into my bathing suit. And here is a note for you.
… Remember dear heart, all the wisdom of the generations coined into the many world-old legends and allegories hung about this very glitter and seductive charm—trite little maxims and proverbs sure enough, but not wearing the outward marks of the pain and wretchedness, shame and filth, with which their lessons were learned, over and over again by the forgotten ones who in their own day thrilled with the excitement of adventuring and daring, of proving for themselves and filling out their own little lives! Surely, plenty have already put out forever the steady flame of their purity to follow the scintillating sparkle of gilded sin. And if thee ever fails to realize those broader, common, human warnings—if they fail to appeal to thee as too remote and cold to be real, or to touch thy heart with their warning of terror, then thee must remember that this other half of thy very self has been sent already and at thine own bidding through all the sin needed by thee and me! Treasure thy portion of the blessed purity at all cost, dear! It has to light my way as well as thine—and thee can never know how priceless it is in my sight! Will thee not believe me, dear, when I tell thee this is not mere jealousy or selfish temper or proprietorship on my part, but a loving yearning to protect thy soul as thee would guard one of thy babies from some dreadful disease like diphtheria? What brings this to my mind is something in my talk with Tom last night, that suggested the possibility of thy winter’s loneliness, whether we decide that it should be without me, or without thy children, breeding a restlessness that might in some moment of reckless desperation cause thee to grasp at that treacherous glitter as a possible object of momentary interest and self-forgetfulness. Forgive me for entertaining for a moment such an idea, Pussy—but I must recognize it just long enough to tell thee that deep as my concern is for the needful reorganization of our home life and home relations, for the salvation of the children, I must, nevertheless, tell thee that rather than that thee should be exposed to even the remotest possibility of such a risk, I will gladly give up every consideration of them—throw up the whole plan—and act only for thy moral security. For in my heart and life, thee comes before everything else: and that one thing thy crown of purity, is to me so precious that even the moral loss of the three children would be a small sacrifice! So that if thee needed the protection of motherly contact to keep wholesome thine own life, I would gladly turn the little ones all over to thee and give up my struggles in their behalf. Will thee promise me as thee loves thy babies to call on me to make good this statement before thee finds thy need of them too great to be safely borne?… This matter has had to do with depressing me, lying in my heart all day, so that tired as I am I cannot go to bed tonight until I have written it for thy reading. Again I ask thy forgiveness for assuming such a possibility, but that flaw in D’s otherwise charming character, and thy persistent championing and apologizing for him, together with my rule of safety—to deem all things possible—forces it upon me. Could thee not send D away? Ask him to go? Need I ask thee to ask? It is because I so reverence thine own purity and so shrink into a veritable soul’s death at thought of any least soil upon it that I must speak. Does thee understand, dear heart?
THY JOHN.
2. A.M.
I copied it out on the yellow paper that I used for Latin, and folded the copy, and hid it in the wildflower book. 2 A.M. What had they been talking about all that time. And what did this mean about the children. The salvation of the children. I looked out of the window and saw Mother and Porper coming slowly across the field by the Walker house, Porper holding her hand. I stood and watched them. Mother had on a raincoat over her bathing suit. She was walking slowly, looking down at the ground without saying anything, and Porper was skipping on one leg. I would meet them at the porch, or by the tennis court and give her the letter and then go on, running, towards the Point, as if to be in time to join Susan and Uncle Tom——
———the timelessness, the spacelessness, but also the wonderful and ever-renewed sense of the nearness and brightness and largeness, the vividness of small things, the extraordinary intenseness of grass-blades and cloverleaves and acorns, the warmth of sand in the hand, the sound of leaves tapping against the wooden walls of the playhouse—the queer new sense of brilliant exposure to all this, each year as we came back to it, as if one had forgotten what it was to see a cloud driven with unchanging shape from west to east across the blue sky, or to try to stare at the sun until one saw purple and green blots, to lie in the warm uneven grass as if one were a part of it, the grasshoppers and crickets crawling and tickling on one’s bare legs or getting into one’s clothes and making spots of tobacco juice—to come back to this, to be once more surprised by this and reimmersed in this, as if one again became a part of the wind, the sun, the earth——
—Look, Susan, if you almost close your eyes, but not quite, like this, and look at the sun, you see—wait a minute, and I’ll tell you what I see——
—Oh, anybody can do that, I’ve done that millions of times, you only do it because you saw Gwendolyn doing it that day at the Long Beach.
—I don’t either. Don’t be such a nitwit. What day do you mean.
—You know perfectly well what day I mean.
—You mean that time when we went across the long bridge to see how many new planks had been put in after the winter.
—Of course, you silly.
—Well, I didn’t even know what she was doing. No
w it looks like a thick great jungle of hairy trees. All crisscross and savage and with a bright light coming through them. Gosh, isn’t it funny, how huge they look, and they’re only your eyelashes.
—That’s exactly what Gwendolyn said.
—Oh, shut up, will you. You try to spoil everything.
—It was the same day we went to look at the place where we had the clambake last year. You know as well as I do. And we met Gwendolyn on the beach, she was with Dorothy Peters, and Dorothy took off her clothes in the sand dunes and you said you’d seen her.
—I did not.
—Well, anyway, you said so.
—Have you tried looking through your fingers to see the red blood in them.
—And Gwendolyn was lying against the side of a dune with her eyes squeezed up, just like that, telling us what she saw. She said it was like a kaleidoscope.
—Kaleidoscope.
—Isn’t that what I said.
—I said kaleidoscope.
—So did I.
—You think so. That’s all you know.
—And you stood there looking down at Gwendolyn with that silly expression on your face——
—Will you shut up? Unless you can learn to talk a little sense once in a while.
—What else am I talking, I’d like to know.
—You’re talking nonsense, of course.
—But why you can get so excited about that stuck-up prig of a Gwendolyn, I’m sure I don’t know.
—Who said I was excited about her.
—Why any idiot could see it.
—Oh, could they.
—If you could have seen yourself——
—Shut up.
—Oh, I don’t care.
—Well, then, shut up.
—Nice manners older brothers seem to have.
—Will you shut up?
I closed my eyes, and felt the sun hot on my eyelids, and thought how queer it was that the redness I could see was nothing but my own blood. Susan knew too much. She was beginning to be a nuisance. What she said about my imitating Gwendolyn was perfectly true, the nitwit. But what did it matter. I was going to keep away from Gwendolyn for all the rest of the summer, and that would make everybody think there was nothing in it. Just the same, when I thought of the box of candy——