Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  Lionel tried to stroll easily on the way to Jason’s office, and he forced himself to smile when he knocked on the door and then entered. He had expected an angry greeting, but he felt a sharp consternation when he saw Jason in the flesh. There was something like hatred in his flashing eyes. Jason saw that Lionel, as usual, was beautifully and stylishly dressed in a light blue Palm Beach suit, bought in New York. His white shirt and cuffs glistened. His red hair was perfectly groomed, his manner insouciant and casual. “Hello,” he said.

  “Sit down,” said Jason, and Lionel sat, and now his fear increased. He saw the clenched fists on the big desk, and the white clenched lips, the distended nostrils, the fierceness in the eyes that looked at him as at a hated stranger.

  “If it’s about last night …” Lionel began.

  Jason struck his desk with his fist. “It is.” He hardly parted his lips. “Why did you give Patricia whiskey last night, and make her drunk?”

  Lionel was astounded, and Jason saw it. He did not know that Lionel had expected an attack because of Chauncey Schofield.

  “But that’s what she always drinks, mixed with sherry!” Lionel blurted.

  “What?”

  “She drinks that everywhere, for God’s sake, Jason! Didn’t you know? I thought you gave it to her yourself, for Christ’s sake!”

  Jason stared at him in a silence that seemed to charge the air. All at once Jason knew that Lionel was speaking the truth. Lionel never lied to him; he never had. Lionel might be devious and avoid answering directly, or evade any question he did not want to answer. But he never lied to Jason. To others, yes. But not to his friend.

  Jason slowly swiveled in his chair, and his profile was set. “What do you mean, ‘everywhere’?”

  “It’s common talk, Jason, I swear to you. I heard it from Joan first, of course, and then from others. Patricia’s been drinking that mixture for years. I swear to God she has. And everyone thought you knew.”

  Jason was silent. He did not turn back to Lionel. He stared at the wall. Then he said slowly, “I didn’t know. And neither does her father.”

  Lionel was so relieved that he felt faint. “Think for a minute, Jason. What would I have to gain doing something like that?”

  “You never liked Patricia.” Jason’s voice was abstracted, for he was thinking.

  “No, I never did. I never pretended to, friend. I was shocked when you married her. You want the truth, don’t you? I knew you … liked her and wanted to marry her, but I had the idea … the idea that she was against it, and I was glad. I’m sorry, Jason. I really am. But, good God, I wouldn’t do anything to Patricia so as to hurt you. And I don’t believe you think I would, either. And if you did, did you ask yourself why?”

  “I’ve thought a million things,” said Jason, and put his head in his hands. “I believe you, Lionel. But you should have told me.”

  “I thought you knew, and so did Joan! Why should I have embarrassed you?”

  Jason did not speak.

  Lionel went on, “Again, it’s common knowledge. I don’t know when it started, except it was long ago. She goes to lunches with her friends … and she always drinks whiskey with sherry. I don’t know how it began. Do you mean Patricia doesn’t know, either?”

  “She doesn’t. I accused her last night, and she almost went out of her mind. She hit me, and screamed. I believe her. She doesn’t know. But why … What does she … do when she … drinks with others?”

  Lionel examined a cuff. “She prattles, I heard. About her family. Other people find it amusing.”

  Jason’s averted cheek twitched. “Do you know what she prattles about?”

  Lionel hesitated. Jason turned suddenly to him, and his voice was frightening. “Tell me, if you know.”

  “I don’t know, personally. Only what I’ve heard. Jason, do you want the truth or some nice lies?”

  “The truth.”

  “Well.” Lionel sincerely hesitated. “You know she dislikes Sebastian, don’t you?”

  “No. I … did … not.” The words came painfully, slowly. “I knew their natures weren’t … compatible. Patricia thinks he’s too … quiet, and she distrusts quiet people. It’s only her way. She thinks Sebastian is mischievous, too. I think she … misunderstands him. The kid loves his mother. But Patricia can be … impatient with people she doesn’t understand. Dislike her own child? No. I can’t believe that.”

  Lionel said nothing. He thought of his little son being abused and mistreated by “that damned fool of a woman.” The thought had always angered him. Now he felt a surge of hatred for Patricia, a longing to take his son from her and her ugly house. But he swallowed quickly and controlled himself. “Well, Jason, that is the impression she gives other people—that she can’t stand the poor kid. Perhaps she doesn’t really mean it—I don’t know. But she talks always of the twins. She really loves them, especially Nick. I prefer Nicole, myself,” and he smiled honestly.

  But Jason hardly heard. He said, “Does she … prattle about me?” When Lionel did not answer, Jason again fixed him with those unrecognizable eyes, which demanded an answer, and a truthful one.

  “Yes. To tell the truth.” Lionel was actually coloring. “Not as much as she does Sebastian. She feels that you don’t … well, understand her. She is always complaining of not having a house of her own, and she thinks you are partly to blame. She thinks you don’t appreciate what she calls ‘the finer things of life.’ She says she is … stifling. Her own words. But, you know how women babble—”

  “No, I don’t.” Jason wondered why he did not feel much pain at this news of his wife’s betrayal. “Does she talk about her father, too?”

  “Yes. Quite often. She links you with him, as frustrating her, or some damn thing. But mostly she babbles gossip she has heard, or imagined. And talks of clothes and jewelry and fashion and actresses and actors she has seen or read about. Just chatter.”

  “And people find it amusing, I suppose.”

  “Well, you know how people are. And a lot are envious, too.”

  Jason nodded as if his head had become too heavy to be held upright. “Anything else?” When Lionel did not answer, the hard fierce stare returned again. “Tell me.”

  “Oh, goddammit, Jason! She tells everyone that she doesn’t … that she sleeps alone. That you are … gross or something.” Lionel’s color deepened. “I wish to God you hadn’t forced me to tell you!”

  Jason’s chin fell on his chest.

  Lionel’s voice had become accusing. “You made me tell you. I didn’t want to. It’s a hell of a thing for a husband to hear, especially one who loves his wife.”

  Jason’s gaze did not waver as it rose again to Lionel’s face. “But I don’t love Patricia,” Jason said. “I’m only sorry for her now. She’s the mother of my three children. There’s that. I suppose I still feel some affection for her, but that’s about all. I found that out last night.” He added, “And I found out that she never cared about me, either.”

  Lionel felt another jolt of fear. “Did she … want … someone else?”

  “I don’t know. If she did, I never knew. And now I don’t care. In a way, it’s a relief to me.”

  He suddenly realized that he was confiding in Lionel as he always had, and was ashamed of himself. He turned back to his desk and gazed down on it. “I wonder who started it, and why. The whiskey with sherry.”

  “God only knows. Maybe it started out as a joke. But she seemed to like it.”

  “I detest women who drink whiskey. I think they’re contemptible.”

  “Do you, now,” said Lionel, and felt some anger. “Joan drinks whiskey, openly, and you know it. Your sister, my wife. Do you think women different from men? I don’t like your insinuation that there’s something wrong with a woman who prefers whiskey to wine.” He went on, “There’s something straitlaced about you, Jason. These are new days.”

  “I’ve been reminded of that, several times.” His thoughts were so confused, he found himself saying,
“I never asked, never knew. Why did Molly marry Dugan?”

  “There’s no secret about it! A woman knows she needs a home and a husband. Molly knew that there was nothing else for her here but marriage. She may look and act like an old maid—we never did get along—but she’s a woman, after all. And Dugan, she reasoned, would be able to do things for our mother which we couldn’t do, at that time. And she liked him, I suppose. He’s a good catch for Molly, though what he saw in her, I don’t know.” Lionel smiled. “He could have married anybody. Perhaps she has hidden charms no one else ever saw. She’s a homely girl.”

  “No,” said Jason. “Molly’s beautiful.”

  Lionel thought nothing would astonish him after what he had already heard, but he was astonished again. “Molly? Beautiful? When did you find that out? It isn’t visible to anyone else.” Lionel laughed a little. Then, all at once, his foxlike eyes became yellow slits, watching.

  “Well,” said Jason, “I think I always thought she was very goodlooking. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Well. Thanks for telling me about Patricia, Lionel.”

  Lionel stood up. Then Jason said, “You’ll regret lending Schofield that money, friend. I’m sorry to have to say it.”

  Lionel gave him a whimsical salute. “Thanks for your concern. But I have a feeling it will return to me a dozen times over.”

  And that was all that was said of Chauncy Schofield. After Lionel left, Jason sat all alone in a turmoil of thought.

  He felt unbearably and incurably betrayed, rejected, and lonely beyond words. His pain increased. He had no one he could truly confide in, who would console him or cheer him, or who gave a damn about him.

  Molly.

  21

  It was, to Jason, astonishingly curious that that evening he went into Patricia’s quarters without his usual trepidation and hope for a smile or a word of conjugal kindness. The hope, he realized now, was never fulfilled and never would be. He could not understand his feeling of relief on this realization, his feeling of sudden freedom. He was like a man who had never known liberty and was all at once precipitated into it. It was confusing, but exhilarating too.

  It was also curious to him that Patricia had not only consented to marry him but had urged him into that marriage. Why? Had it been because of the genial pressure of her father, and his own urgency? He no longer believed that Patricia’s nature was vulnerable and delicate, so she had not succumbed out of exhaustion or persuasion. There was a wiry strength, he had discovered, in his wife, an obstinacy which would not yield, or, if yielding, remained obdurate and sullen. There had to be some hidden reason why she had consented to marry him, and Jason began to wonder what it was. Had her father bribed her? She had a large inheritance of her own, but Patricia was always susceptible to money.

  He was no longer deceived that she had a fragile appetite, for now he remembered the ruins of the huge breakfasts he had overlooked until now. He had loved her for what he had believed to be her daintiness, refinement, and fragility, all the feminine virtues he found enchanting. In the last twenty-four hours he had had a revelation: Patricia possessed none of these characteristics, and this astounded him. But it had set him free of an almost lifelong slavery.

  So he went with resolution and calm into her quarters. She was sitting at her dressing-table mirror, staring thoughtfully at her image and rearranging her hair with a concentration he found faintly ludicrous. Her reflection was no longer exquisite to him. It was plain, and touched with a certain selfish grossness. What did she see there? What I once saw, he thought, with mingled pity and bitter amusement.

  She turned to him abruptly, and frowned. But he was no longer disturbed at this expression. He said quietly, “I want to talk to you, Patricia, and please don’t interrupt until I am finished.” He sat down, but not too near her. He had not given her his usual pleading kiss. Patricia began to speak in her customary irritable fashion, and then she paused, staring. Jason had changed. He was looking at her with only remote interest, and she was startled. Patricia might not be too intelligent, but she was acute. She liked power. All at once she realized that Jason had escaped her.

  He said, as she half-faced him on her stool, “I believe you, that you did not think that you were drinking whiskey last night.”

  “You ought to be ashamed,” she said. “You know how I hate spirits, and only drink wine. Yet you accused me—”

  Jason lifted his hand with authority, and startled again, she subsided, but with umbrage.

  “For a long time, Patricia, you have been given whiskey mixed with sherry, everywhere you go.”

  She gasped, affronted and incredulous. “How preposterous! Don’t you think I’d have known?”

  “Of course you couldn’t have known. Sherry can hide any adulteration. You had only two or three small glasses of sherry before dinner last night, and one or two glasses of wine during dinner. Not enough to put you in that … condition. You were drunk. Do you hear me? You were drunk!”

  “A lie, a lie, a filthy lie!” she cried, and her long face turned a furious red. “You think anyone who laughs or jokes is drunk! If someone smiles, you think he is drunk! You and your grim face, like a stone!”

  “Quiet, Patricia. Hear me out.”

  She struck her dressing table with a clenched hand. “It’s your ugly, crippled sister who told you that lie, that disgusting cripple! She’s always hated me, because I’m sound! How Lionel could have married her …”

  Jason said, as if she had not spoken, “It was Lionel who told me about the whiskey in the sherry this morning. He said it was common knowledge. He thought I knew. But I didn’t. He thought that was what you wanted, and so he gave it to you.”

  A strange look came over her face. “Lionel?” she said, and the name was a caress, something Jason missed, though he was aware of the sudden quiet which had come to Patricia. She was almost smiling.

  “Yes, Lionel. We had a talk this morning. I accused him of tricking you last night. You know how mischievous he is. But he’s never lied to me on important things. He’s my friend. He said everyone knew about your sherry and whiskey. Some enemy, years ago, began it, to hurt you.”

  “Lionel said that?” Her voice was soft and trembling.

  “Yes.”

  “He thought it was done to hurt me? And that he gave it to me because he thought I wanted it?”

  “Yes.”

  Patricia’s eyes filled with tears. The softness of her expression, her faint smile, made her almost pretty. Jason was puzzled. He had expected any reaction but this. His wife seemed to be not only touched but also happy. “How kind of him,” she murmured, “to want to help me.”

  “I suppose so,” said Jason, still puzzled.

  Patricia’s head had dropped. She was deep in reflection. Her love had tried to protect her; her love had given her only what he thought she desired. So he had not forgotten those Sundays in the glade. He would never forget, as she would never forget. But why hadn’t he behaved like the romantic heroes she had read about in the novels—remaining celibate out of grief? Patricia’s lips trembled with emotion. Her small breast rose and fell rapidly. She was both sorrowful and unbearably happy.

  Jason waited. He had never seen such an expression on Patricia’s face before, gently tender, exalted. Then she changed again and faced him with hard coldness. “Your sister drinks whiskey, and no one accuses her of being drunk!”

  “Joan is used to whiskey, ever since she was a child. Da would give it to her when she had a toothache or stomachache, in hot water with lemon juice and sugar. You aren’t used to it, Patricia. And whiskey can be lethal for the Irish, more so than for any other race. Your father drinks it, because he is used to it, and so am I. But we’re careful. We know just how far to go, though we’re tempted, often, to exceed that. We know how vulnerable we are. You are especially vulnerable. You’ll never get used to it, Patricia. Well. You must now be on your guard with your ‘friends.’ You have enemies, as everyone else has, and they look for soft spots where
they can hurt you. People aren’t good, no matter what the priests say. No, they are not good. They’d prefer to hurt than to help.”

  “I have no enemies!” she shouted. “I have only friends! You are the one who has enemies! No one likes you or loves you, as they do me!”

  Jason sighed. How silly she was. He said, “There is such a thing as envy, Patricia, and it’s cruel. You are probably envied.”

  This pleased her. Her fast breath slowed. Jason saw his advantage. “Yes, you are envied, dear, for your position and … style. So, be careful after this, won’t you?”

  Her pleasure increased. She actually gave him a friendly smile. In a meek voice he had never heard before, she said, “Well, thank you, Jason. I will be careful. But why anyone should envy me …”

  He stood up. “They do, dear. Envy is a common human sin. And so, be careful.”

  He touched her shoulder but did not kiss her. He went out, somewhat reassured. Patricia did not even see him go. Lionel. He had wanted to protect her. He never forgot. Lionel, Lionel. She thought of writing him a loving note in gratitude. But her native caution advised against this. She would remember, however, to whisper her thanks to him the next time they met, and to press his dear hand tightly.

  She felt an urgent thirst for sherry. She looked forward to it. It did not occur to her that it was not sherry she now so ardently desired; she only knew she must have a glass almost immediately. Humming, smiling at her image in the mirror, she continued her toilet. Natural color touched her cheeks and lips. Her chronic depression lifted. She was a girl again, waiting for the meetings in the glade, in enchanted sunlight and summer warmth.

  She often ate dinner alone, for her father and husband frequently dined at the Inn-Tavern or Ipswich House, with guests. She drank her two glasses of sherry alone in the library, musing happily, and thinking. Then she looked at her glass. What insipid cheap sherry her father served! It was bland and tasteless. She wondered. She looked at the bottle. Her favorite Bristol cream. She suspected Patrick of filling the original bottle with thrifty substitutes. Scowling, she went to the wine cabinet in the dining room and looked for a sealed bottle. She furtively opened one and drank from it without a glass. Bland. Strange she hadn’t noticed it before. She drank some wine, a large glass of it. It warmed her. But still she was unsatisfied, and it came to her that when she had dinner at home she had experienced this dissatisfaction before, this mysterious craving.