Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  He began to watch Patricia, however. Patrick said to his daughter on Saturday, “Looking forward to tomorrow to have dinner with me again, love, at the Inn-Tavern?”

  To his surprise, Patricia looked undecided, a new deceit of hers. Then she shook her head. “I think not, Dada, not tomorrow. I’ve had a headache the last day or two. I think I’ll stay home and rest.” Daniel looked on with amusement. He saw that she fluttered her short eyelashes demurely. “Take a tablet of that new aspirin,” said Patrick, worried. Patricia promised she would, and tried to appear fragile.

  Because of the “headache,” she was excused from attending Mass on Sunday, a rare thing. But Patrick, who stayed home for Sunday dinner, was cheered that his daughter had quite recovered at noon, when Mass was safely over. Daniel was always inwardly hilarious at Patricia’s enormous appetite, though Patrick insisted that she “ate like a bird.” After dinner, in the warm still afternoon, Patrick went up for a nap. Daniel said to his cousin, “Would you like to take a walk, Patty?” He was the only one who “vulgarized” her name.

  She said, with haste, “Oh, no thanks, Daniel. I think I’ll take a nap, like Dada.” There was an apprehensive glint in her eyes as she stared at him. But he said with kindness, “Well, so I will take a walk alone. I’d like to look at the hotel again, on the mountain, though God knows when it will ever be finished.” Patricia sighed deeply. She did not like or trust Daniel, but this time she gave him such a happy smile that he was touched. He wanted to say to her, “Take care, Patty old dear, take care.” But he refrained. Why weren’t girls, these modern days, informed about the result of indiscretions? This wasn’t the age of Lincoln, for Christ’s sake. It was the new twentieth century. The young ladies he frequented, some younger than Patricia, were well-informed indeed.

  Patricia carefully covered her light costume with her duster, put on a sailor hat with a red ribbon, and a heavy veil to protect her complexion, pulled on her best white kidskin gloves, and crept down the stairs, avoiding every step that might creak. She heard the snoring of her father and relaxed. She looked for Daniel and saw the smoke of his pipe in the garden. So, she was safe. No servants were around in the hot Sunday quiet.

  Her bicycle was in a shed behind the house. She wheeled it out. Once on the street, she mounted it and swiftly pedaled off. The streets were deserted. There was no sound but the dry rustling of trees and an occasional whining of a phonograph or the mechanical tinkling of a player piano. Sunday in Belleville was truly a torpid day of rest, religiously kept. No children skated, laughed or shouted, or played ball. Instead they rocked silently on porches, smoothing dolls or reading an improving book, or moved with prim sedateness in back gardens, or sat miserably on the curbs shuffling the dust in the gutters with their feet. Everyone hated Sundays, if he was young, and especially if it were summer. Local stores were tightly closed, shades drawn, awnings up, and passersby saw only languid reflections of themselves on glass. Patricia loathed Sundays. One could “call” on “at homes,” but she found these visits dull, sipping lukewarm tea and eating damp sandwiches and tasteless pastries, and talking about politics and scandals.

  The one other permissible Sunday activity was a picnic. Anyone who had a carriage or a buggy or other vehicle was out on the road looking for picnic spots, which Patricia found equally as depressing, with hordes of children, baskets of cold fried chicken, potato salad, greasy ham sandwiches, crumbly cake, milk, flies, bees, hornets, ants, and mosquitoes. Patricia, as she pedaled, did not escape the dust of the well-traveled road, and soon there was a yellowish deposit on her duster and on the beautiful white kid gloves. She kept shaking it off. She was hot under her veil, but the sun was burning, and no lady ever had sunburn, or, heaven forbid! did she ever acquire a parched, tanned complexion. Her eyes began to smart even in the shade of the white straw sailor hat. She was becoming too “rosy.” Carriages and buggies clomped past her and automobiles belched a stench of gasoline in her face. Patricia kept blinking her eyes free to search for the entrance to the glade. It seemed to elude her. What if there were picnickers there, too, with their screaming children, dogs, and baskets and tablecloths on the grass? She felt outrage that such a lovely place would be violated. Then, just as she was getting desperate, she saw the narrow opening between the trees and brush.

  She dismounted, looked about her at the traffic, then wheeled her bicycle through the breech, walking on tiptoe as if frightened of causing any noise. She found the glade, and murmured a sound of thanksgiving that no one was there. The trees thick, the grass tall, and the fragrance of the hot grass and wildflowers floated intoxicatingly on the air. Beyond, the green-and-purple mountains were painted against a sky too brilliant for the eye to endure. Patricia took off her duster, veiling, hat, and gloves and shook them. The disturbed dust made her sneeze. She was dismayed. She had earlier coated her nose and chin with rice powder, but had forgotten to bring the bag. Carefully she wiped her nose and wet eyes.

  Lionel was not here as yet. She consulted her watch. Half-past two. For a terrible instant she wondered if he had forgotten. Or had he another lady-friend? Her heart quailed, then lifted. He had no one like Patricia Eleanor Mulligan, so rich, so stylish, so desirable! She pushed the long pollen-filled harsh grass aside and tramped her feet on what remained, making a hollow.

  She sat gingerly and spread her white duck skirt about her to avoid creases, opened her purse, and brought out a little mirror. What she saw therein was an old human illusion: she saw beauty, not real reflection. She puffed up her pompadour, smoothed the long brown curl on her shoulder, assumed a posture of careful grace, and waited, her heart thudding against her spare chest. She heard the muffled rumble of traffic and distant voices; she heard the lethargic drone of insects, the subdued comments of birds too sluggish in the heat to go searching for food.

  Patricia, leaning back in her hollow, felt the pressure of her elbows on the flattened grass, the prickling of stiff twig-like stems. But she did not move. She kept her eyes on the break in the wild shrubbery. She looked at her watch again. Had the minute hand crept only ten minutes? It seemed an hour. Still, it was almost three o’clock, and she had learned from her father that the “Sunday lads” left the Inn-Tavern at one. What was keeping Lionel? He ought to have been here nearly forty-five minutes ago, waiting for her, not she for him.

  Lionel was making her wait. Let the little fool wonder if he was coming or had forgotten her. He had learned that a lover’s promptness received a woman’s disdain and made her condescending. But delay made her more eager with concealed relief when he finally arrived. He knew how to time such matters. Women were such imbeciles, except for Joan Garrity and, he admitted, his keen-eyed sister, Molly. Joan might love him passionately, as he loved her, but she was never carried away by her love. She was always there, her magnificent blue eyes seeing everything calmly and coolly even when her hand was warmest, her lips the sweetest. As for Molly, Lionel had never loved his sister, or even liked her, but he respected the steadfast bedrock of her spirit, her inability to deceive, her scornful awareness. He had a suspicion, however, that Molly was far more vulnerable than the crippled Joan, and in this he was correct. Molly, in spite of her inner strength, could be devastated by love, which Joan could not. Merely thinking of Joan made Lionel’s whole body throb, but almost with reverence. Joan was sheathed steel. But Molly could be bent under severe circumstances. Lionel, as yet, had never seen her bend, not even when her father—her favorite parent—had died a year ago. Lionel also suspected that under Molly’s intrepid exterior, her refusal to compromise on a matter of principle, was the gentlest heart, a heart Joan did not possess. So Lionel had more honest respect for Joan than he had for his sister. He could not imagine Joan melting mawkishly at the sight of a man—not even himself—but he had seen the golden lovelight in Molly’s eyes when she encountered Jason Garrity, the helpless drop of her capable hands, the sudden weak aspect of her compact body.

  On the few occasions this past week when he had seen Danie
l Dugan, he had also seen Molly, and with great alertness and conjecture he had observed that Daniel always greeted Molly in a special tone of voice, and then, as she passed him in the hall, looked long and intently after her. Lionel had carefully put away this most intriguing and possibly valuable piece of information.

  People were Lionel’s “business.” They were participants in a great game on which he could gamble. Only Jason Garrity had ever come close to Lionel in real friendship, and Joan was the only creature he had ever loved. Jason he could trust, and Joan was part of himself. He had known, even as a child, that villains had more in common and were more loyal to each other than were the virtuous. His father, who was rarely profound, had once said, “There are no quarrels in hell; only in heaven.” Lionel had wondered, briefly, what unspoken terror had inspired that remark. But he was not to know. His father was too silent a man, and he had never before or after made such a subtle remark. If anything had distinguished that dedicated workingman, it had been his stolid indifference to people, his belief that toil was all. He had left nearly all he had to his wife, some two thousand painfully saved dollars, one hundred dollars for his funeral, and fifty dollars for Masses for his soul. He had never known that his son had thousands of dollars in savings. He might have approved, but he would not have been interested, so long as the source was honest.

  These things ran through Lionel’s mind like a thin streak of mercury as he pedaled—not too fast—to his meeting with Patricia Mulligan. He never doubted that she was waiting for him. Then, as he neared the entrance to the glade, he went over his planned approach to her. Should he, or should he not, seduce her on this second lonely meeting? He would see. Lionel was seldom precipitous. He tempered all things by nuances. Forcing matters was often disastrous and defeating.

  Pedaling along easily, he was suddenly startled by the loud rasping horn as an automobile roared past him. The passengers looked back at him and grinned. With high good nature he yelled, “Get a horse!” They waved at him, and two women jiggled their parasols. No one was offended. Lionel was careful not to offend people.

  He found the entrance to the glade. He had picked out landmarks the Sunday he had met Patricia there, and so was not uncertain. Lionel had a very orderly mind. There were rare occasions when he could be reckless, but he always got away in time, and to his advantage, leaving others confused.

  He was careful to move as soundlessly as the fox he so resembled, stirring hardly a twig of the scrambled shrubbery and hardly bending the tall grass he crept through. He left his bicycle against a tree and slipped like a tawny shadow to the edge of the glade. There was Patricia in what the poor girl thought a most beguiling posture. She had practiced this sedulously at home, studying reflections in her large mirror. The padding artfully thrust up her tiny breasts. Her legs were extended but bent at the knee to show curves under the duck skirt. Lionel was highly amused, as usual, on encountering human pretensions. He never had compassion, no matter how innocent they were. He studied the unaware girl, and wanted to laugh. It still seemed unbelievable that he had seen passion in those unattractive eyes, on that meager mouth. The rice-powdered nose stuck out glaringly from the pallid complexion. Well, he had seen worse in the cheaper brothels, where starving girls waited hopefully for a dollar or two. Last Sunday, elegantly clothed, Patricia had seemed passable. In less lavish and bejeweled dress today, she seemed more like an ordinary girl than a fine young lady. Still, she was Patricia Mulligan.

  He stepped back a few paces, as silent as a drifting leaf, then began to whistle rollickingly. He reached the glade again. Patricia’s pale face had turned pink, her eyelids drooped alluringly, her cheeks gained color. She opened her eyes as if greatly startled, but kept her pose.

  “Hello,” said Lionel in a warm voice. He had a good tenor voice, very lilting, which he often used to advantage. He wore a neat summer suit of light linen, his best, and his straw hat was tilted over one merry eye. Patricia saw him in his Sunday finery from under her eyelids, and her heart pounded very heavily now. She murmured something which she hoped was nonchalant. Lionel advanced on her, removing his hat and revealing the blaze of his hair, which had been carefully combed into glistening waves. His new white shoes were immaculate with chalk.

  He sailed his hat on a bush, grinned to show his excellent white teeth, pulled up his trousers so as not to wrinkle them, and in one sinuous movement sat down, crossing his legs. “I didn’t expect you today, Miss Mulligan,” he said.

  Patricia did not know what to say. What did a girl say to her “lover”? She frantically tried to remember romantic phrases from some novels she had read, but she could not recall them.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” said Lionel. He looked about swiftly for a less open spot where “the dark deed,” as the nickelodeons called it, could be consummated. He saw one, some feet to the left of Patricia. He was quite clever in discovering such hidden spots. Would the girl be amenable? Or would she, at a strong overt gesture, get indignantly to her feet, slap his face, and run home to Dada to complain? He studied her closely. He would not be too aggressive. He would let her show him the way, all by her ignorant self, and he would follow very judiciously, alert to genuine resistance. For a moment or two he’ was bored; then he remembered this would be quite a conquest if he could manage it. Of course, the girl was a virgin, and virgins could be difficult in the clinch, and they always cried—or worse, they screamed. He listened intently to the distant traffic. It would continue for some time, and he could always keep one hand hovering over her mouth to muffle any shriek. Besides, he was too deft and experienced to really hurt her.

  He said, “I thought you were the most fascinating lady I had ever seen last Sunday, Miss Mulligan.” Then softly he added, “Patty?”

  Patricia’s breath became choked. “Thank you.” She had no coquetry, so it was with sincerity that she added, “And … today?”

  “Lovely, too. But different. You are always different, every time I see you.”

  Patricia’s face glowed quickly, as if light had flashed upon it. She smiled. When she smiled like this, which was rare, there was a certain shy sweetness on her face, and Lionel was pleased. She murmured, “Don’t call me Patty.” She thought of her cousin who called her that. Then she stammered, “Patsy … perhaps?”

  “Charming,” said Lionel, and shifted neatly on his buttocks to within a foot of her feet. “It suits you. Devilish.” He waited. Patricia’s face glowed. How well he understood her! No one else did. For a moment her eyes moistened with self-pity. Lionel imperceptibly moved a little closer. Finally he reached out, as with a timid uncertainty, and put his hand lightly on her ankle. She started like a young deer, began to move her foot, then let it remain. She trembled.

  “Forgive me,” he said in a very humble tone, though keeping his hand on her foot. “But you have the most delicate … ankles I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” she replied in a voice that was genuinely fragile and shaking. His fingers felt hot through her white silk stocking, and a long thrill ran disconcertingly up her leg. More tears came into her eyes, and her breast heaved. She could hardly bear these new sensations, yet longed for more.

  Lionel, the expert in seduction, let his hand reach a little higher, and he felt the girl’s increased trembling. But she did not recoil. He looked about him, as if absently. “It’s hot out here,” he said. “You must be uncomfortable … Patsy. Over there, there’s more shade, deeper, under those bushes and under that big tree.”

  Patricia’s instincts caused her to pause. A young lady never went into a secluded spot alone with a gentleman. Never. That was very compromising. Suddenly Patricia wanted to be compromised. The fingers were tightening on her calf, urgently, pleadingly. Then Lionel was on his feet, smiling down at her and holding out his hand. She hesitated for a long warning moment, then recklessly gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. She let him draw her, stumbling, through the high grass to the shadowy spot. Her whole body was suddenly shaking, and th
is was both frightening and importunate. Obsessed with sensation, she was vaguely surprised to find herself half-sprawling on thinner and gentler grass, the fronds of a willow drooping about her. Again, she was dimly afraid as she stared at Lionel. He was casually taking off his coat; he carefully laid it at a small distance. Then, laughing happily, he was sitting beside her. He took her hand and said, “This is nicer, isn’t it? And no one can see us.”

  There was a duskiness here, a smell of moss and toadstools, infinitely exciting, like musk, to the entranced Patricia. Lionel had opened her hand. He was slowly and enticingly stroking her palm with one finger, and watching her. More thrills ran up her arm, across her breast, down over her corseted belly, and then to what were referred to as private parts. Shameful, indecent! But how overpowering, how sweetly paralyzing, how tenderly voluptuous! Her eyes, stretched and distended, her mouth open and wet, her throbbing throat, confronted Lionel, and he was full of triumphant satisfaction. This was going to be easy. He had come prepared. But … how to prepare under her gaze? Well, that would be easy too; the girl knew nothing. That she was in love with him, most terribly in love, did not occur to him, or, if it did for an instant, he dismissed it as irrelevant. He wanted only to arouse her so he could take her with the least possible difficulty to himself.

  Watching her very closely, he slipped his fingers under the lace-covered wrist; he felt the wild throbbing of her pulse. Good. She was ready for more liberties. “What a stylish shirtwaist,” he said.

  “Silk,” she whispered. For the first time in her young life she felt heat in her underdeveloped breasts, a sharp rising against the satin of the camisole; and a frenzied desire for more intimate contact. Lionel was slowly unbuttoning the tiny crystal buttons of the shirtwaist. Patricia moved, distantly shocked; then her whole body became as defenseless as water, and profoundly flaccid. She could hear nothing but the roaring of her heart, compelling, demanding, surrendering.