Return to Peyton Place

by Grace Metalious

  A woman named Agnes Carlisle lived in the room next door to Betty's, and during the time that Betty had lived there, she and Agnes had become good friends. Agnes was a retired schoolteacher, who struggled every month to make ends meet on her pension and was only too glad to look after Roddy every evening for the small sum that Betty could pay.

  “He's so good, he won't be any trouble,” said Agnes cheerfully. “And even if he were, I wouldn't mind. He's such a beautiful baby.”

  Betty almost laughed out loud at the sight of the gray, stern-looking woman bending over the bed talking baby talk to Roddy.

  “He looks just like his father,” said Betty.

  The years passed quickly. When Roddy was three, the Italians opened a new restaurant in another part of town and Betty was made manager of the old place. She earned a decent wage now and often thought of moving from her dark, dingy room. But Roddy was as fond of Agnes Carlisle as she was of him, and Agnes was teaching Roddy to read and write so that he'd be ahead of the other children when he started school.

  “With our school system the way it is today,” said Agnes, “the only child who has a chance is the one who gets outside help. I'll see that Roddy gets that.”

  So Betty stayed where she was. She dated a variety of men but, as she told Agnes, she wasn't about to get married.

  “I like my life the way it is,” she said. “Uncomplicated. I've got Roddy and my job and no entanglements. I'm going to keep it that way.”

  Agnes was the only person in New York who knew that Betty had never been married. Betty never discussed the subject with the men who took her out except when they got serious. Then she would tell them that she had been married and didn't want to make the same mistake again.

  It was on the Fourth of July that Agnes saw the advertisement in the personal column of a tabloid newspaper. She, Betty and Roddy had returned from an afternoon in the park and Betty was making iced coffee.

  “This is a funny one,” said Agnes.

  “What?” asked Betty, leaning over Agnes’ shoulder.

  “This,” said Agnes pointing out the advertisement.

  “Read it to me,” said Betty. “I forgot to put an ice cube in Roddy's milk and as soon as he realizes it he'll start yelling.”

  “Betty, where are you?” said Agnes.

  “What?” asked Betty, turning around, surprised.

  “That's what it says here in the paper,” replied Agnes. “Betty, where are you? Please contact me as soon as you see this. Urgent. Leslie Harrington, Box 213, Peyton Place Times.”

  Betty sat down on a hassock at Agnes’ feet. “Well, I'll be damned,” she said softly.

  “It's meant for you, isn't it?” Agnes asked.

  “Yes,” said Betty.

  “Is it—” She hesitated and glanced at Roddy who was looking solemnly from Agnes to his mother. She lowered her voice. “Is it Roddy's g-r-a-n-d-f-a-t-h-e-r?” she asked, spelling out the last word.

  “Roddy what?” asked Roddy, and then he glanced down at his glass. “Eye-cube! Eye-cube!” he yelled.

  Betty took an ice cube from her glass of iced coffee and put it into his glass.

  “Yes,” she said to Agnes.

  “Are you going to write to him?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” asked Agnes. “You told me that he had plenty of money. It's about time he did somebody for R-o-d-d-y.”

  “Roddy!” cried Roddy triumphantly.

  Agnes groaned. “Why did I have to teach him to spell,” she said.

  “I don't know as I want anything from him,” said Betty.

  “Don't be a fool,” said Agnes. “If he wants to do something for the child, let him. Are you going to be stuck in a hovel like this all your life? And Roddy too? Take what you can get. Don't wind up like me.”

  Betty looked at Agnes for a long time. She saw herself, grown old, living alone in her dark room. Living on pennies and in fear.

  “I'm not going to write,” she said. “I'll see how serious he is about wanting to get in touch with me. I'll telephone him. Collect.”

  She put in the call, smiling gleefully at the thought of Leslie's discomfiture at hearing from her through a nosy, Peyton Place telephone operator.

  “What do you want, Leslie?” she asked, as soon as she heard his voice.

  Leslie hesitated for only a moment. “I want you to come home,” he said.

  “Isn't this a little out of character for you, Leslie?”

  “I've been trying to find you for years,” said Leslie.

  “Why?” ask Betty coldly. “There was a time when you couldn't wait to get rid of me.”

  “Betty,” said Leslie, and she was almost shocked at the note of pleading in his voice. “Tell me about the baby.”

  “Well, he's hardly a baby,” replied Betty. “He's going on five.”

  “A boy,” said Leslie, and for a long minute the phone was silent except for his breathing. “A boy. What's his name?”

  “Rodney Harrington, Junior,” said Betty, and waited for Leslie to protest.

  “That's wonderful, Betty,” said Leslie, and Betty was so surprised that she took the receiver away from her ear and looked down into the mouthpiece as if she wanted to see Leslie's face. “Please, Betty,” he was saying. “Say you'll come.”

  “I'll have to think it over,” said Betty.

  “I'll send you a check for the fare,” Leslie offered.

  “You're damned right you will,” said Betty with a humorless little laugh.

  “I'll put it in the mail right now,” he said. “Just give me your address.”

  “Nothing doing,” said Betty. “The last thing I want is to find you camped on my doorstep. I told you I'd think it over and I will. I'll call you at the end of the week.”

  “At least give me your telephone number,” said Leslie.

  “No,” said Betty, and hung up abruptly.

  The following week was one of hell for Betty. All her life she had hated indecision, and her days were not made any easier by Agnes’ almost constant nagging.

  “Stop thinking of yourself,” said Agnes. “Think of Roddy.”

  And: “Do you want to spend the rest of your life working in a greasy restaurant?”

  And: “I'm not going to be around forever, you know. Who'll look after Roddy then?”

  And: “Roddy's one of the most intelligent children I've ever known. Are you going to cheat him out of the advantages he should have?”

  And: “What if you should get sick? What would happen to Roddy then?”

  “For Christ's sake,” yelled Betty, “will you kindly shut up for a minute? I can't think!”

  “There's nothing to think about,” said Agnes decisively. “Call the old man. Pack your things. And go.”

  In the end, Betty telephoned Leslie Harrington.

  “I can take a week off from my job,” she said. “We can come for a visit, but only for five days. We'll have to spend the other two traveling.”

  “Now will you give me your address so that I can mail you a check?” asked Leslie.

  “No,” said Betty. “I've thought it over, and I don't think I want to be beholden to you for a damned thing. The only reason I'm going to see you at all is that you're Roddy's grandfather. Every child should have a chance to meet his grandfather. And that's the only reason, believe me.”

  “Wire me what train you're taking,” said Leslie.

  “Yes, I will.”

  The car turned into the wide, graveled driveway in front of the Harrington house.

  “Here we are,” said Leslie. “Roddy's asleep.”

  Yes, thought Betty. Here we are, indeed.

  11

  AUGUST HAD BEEN more than half gone when Selena had become aware of an almost imperceptible change in Tim Randlett. He began to question her about her past, and if she didn't answer him he sulked.

  “Listen,” he said, “I want you to be my wife. Husbands and wives don't have secrets from one another. If they
do it's no kind of marriage.”

  Selena barely heard his last two sentences.

  “What did you say?” she asked in almost unbelieving joy.

  “I said that I want you to be my wife and—”

  She put restraining fingers across his lips.

  “Don't say anything else,” she said. “Just say that again.”

  Tim laughed and took her in his arms.

  “Darling,” he said, “will you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  “Yes,” said Selena, “yes, yes, yes. When?”

  “In the fall,” replied Tim. “After I'm finished here. We'll go to New York and find an apartment and then we'll go to Tiffany's and I'll buy you the biggest diamond in the store with a wedding band to match.”

  “I love you,” said Selena softly. “I'll bet that no one else in the world loves anyone the way I love you.”

  “You'd lose,” said Tim. “Because I love you that way.”

  Selena believed him in spite of the way he could, on occasion, look at her with a coldness that chilled her with fear.

  “Tell me about this Ted Carter,” he demanded.

  “There's nothing to tell,” replied Selena. “We were friends all through school and then one day we weren't friends any more. That's all.”

  “You're lying, Selena,” he said.

  She turned to him in disbelief. “I am not,” she cried.

  “Did you ever sleep with him?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” she demanded angrily.

  “Don't raise your voice, Selena. And why are you so angry if your conscience is clear?”

  “I'm angry because you've not only doubted my word, but because you could even think such a thing about Ted and me.”

  “Well,” said Tim with a sarcasm that hurt her more than any raised voice could have done, “let's face it, darling. I wasn't the first. Not by a long shot.”

  “You're behaving like a child,” said Selena and turned her back to him.

  Tim Randlett often behaved like a child. When he was not acting a part, either on or off stage, he reverted to the actions of the spoiled, petulant darling he had once been in Hollywood, and the worst facet of this was that he didn't believe that he was acting childish at all but that he was asserting himself and standing up for his rights. When the few people who had seen him this way accused him of immaturity, Tim either lost his temper completely or exerted himself to correct what he was convinced was a mistaken impression.

  “I'm not being childish, darling,” he said to Selena. “It's just that I love you so, and I want to know every single thing about you.”

  “Then couldn't you wait until I'm ready to tell you?” she asked.

  “Of course, darling,” said Tim. “There's no hurry. We have the rest of our lives to talk and find out about each other.”

  After every such argument, things went well between them for a short time, but then, invariably, Tim would begin again, and what hurt Selena most of all was that he usually chose a time immediately after they had finished making love.

  “What did you and Carter do during all the years you were such dear, good friends?” he asked.

  “Just what most other kids do,” she replied, and prayed silently that he would stop the slightly twisted smile from appearing on the mouth she had just kissed.

  “We went to school, and to dances and talked about getting married someday. Just kid stuff.”

  “Didn't you ever neck?”

  “Yes,” said Selena.

  “Ah. Now the truth begins to emerge. Was he good at it?”

  “Tim,” she asked quietly, “what does it do for you to hear about such things? Do you get a big bang out of thinking of me kissing someone else?”

  “Just answer my question,” he ordered.

  “I don't know,” she said. “Ted was the only boy I ever kissed while I was growing up so I really have no basis for comparison.”

  “Do you mean to say that in a town like Peyton Place kids don't play kissing games?” he demanded, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

  “Of course they do,” she replied wearily.

  “And you, of course, being so pure and virginal, refused to participate in these games. Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

  Selena jumped up from the bed and pulled a robe around her.

  “For God's sake, Tim,” she cried, “will you cut it out. You're just like a goddamned peeping Tom.”

  “Well, did you or didn't you?”

  “Did I or didn't I what?”

  “Join in the kissing games.”

  “Of course I did. Every kid does.”

  “Then you lied to me about Carter being the only boy you ever kissed.”

  “For God's sake,” Selena shouted, “how can I remember every boy who was at every party I ever went to.”

  “If you'd lie about kissing, Heaven only knows what else you'd lie about.”

  “You're sick!” Selena yelled.

  “Don't shout, darling,” he said with maddening patience. “And I'm not the one who's sick. People who lie to others and to themselves are the sick ones.”

  “I don't lie,” said Selena evenly. “I never have and I'm not about to start now.”

  She began to dress, keeping her head averted so that he wouldn't see the tears that she couldn't keep from rolling down her cheeks.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I'm getting dressed,” she replied. “I'm going home.”

  He was at her side at once. He turned her around to face him and kissed the tears away from her face.

  “Darling,” he said contritely, “I am an absolute heel. I didn't mean to make you cry. Please forgive me.”

  “Forget it,” said Selena. “I just want to go home.”

  His arms went around her, holding her tightly against him.

  “Don't say that,” he said and his voice was harsh with fear. “Don't ever say that. If I lost you I couldn't bear it.”

  “I have to go,” said Selena wearily. “I can't take any more arguing, or sarcasm, or your terrible accusations. I'm all punched out, Tim. I just can't stand it any more.”

  “Please,” he begged, and now tears rolled down his cheeks. “Please, darling. Forgive me just this once more. I'll never do it again.”

  And then, unknowing and uncaring, Selena gave him one last hostage. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed against his cheek.

  “You don't even have to ask me,” she said. “Of course, I forgive you. I could never leave you and we both know it. The idea of living without you is something I can't even begin to imagine. I'll never, never leave you.”

  And again it was better for a while, but now Selena found herself waiting for the quarrels to come. She was constantly tense, watching for the signs that would warn her of the approaching storm. At night she often lay awake, wondering why Tim's constant probing and prying affected her as it did, but the only conclusion she could come to was that she had never been a dweller in the past and that not being so was the only way she had managed to survive at all. She knew, too, that there had been times when she could not remain in complete control of her thinking and then she would have terrible nightmares about her mother, Nellie, in which she saw her mother hanging, dead, a corpse with a black face and congested eyes that moved on the end of a silken cord with every breath Selena drew. At other times she dreamed of running while a gigantic all-powerful Lucas chased her and then she would scream in her sleep until Joey came into her room and shook her awake.

  “Time,” Matthew Swain had said. “It may be a cliché, but it's true that it heals all wounds.”

  It happened the way the doctor had said it would. As the years passed, Selena's bad dreams recurred less and less frequently until at last they ceased altogether and the only time she gave in to fear was once every year on the day of the first snow. Until she had fallen in love with Tim Randlett. Now the nightmares were back, the fear, the sleepless nights. For Selena knew that soon now, Tim
would get around to asking her about Lucas and Nellie and the trial and that she would have to dredge up the buried ugliness and show it to him in detail.

  I won't think about it, she told herself as she tossed in her bed. I won't talk about it, and if Tim wants to get ugly about it, I'll leave him.

  But she knew she would not leave him, no matter what he asked of her, and the sleepless nights grew longer and Selena gagged at the sight of food, and her brother Joey said, “What's the matter Selena?” and she had no answer for him.

  I'll be calm, she thought. I won't let myself become upset about anything. Tim loves me. He's not cruel.

  And that much was true. Tim Randlett did love her, in his fashion, and he was not a cruel man. It was just that now he fancied himself in the role of psychiatrist and had convinced himself that the dark secrets which festered in Selena's mind were like a poison that coursed through her body and that would end up by destroying her and, therefore, him. He saw himself as a great healer and believed that the feeling of accomplishment he got from fitting one small piece of information after another into the puzzle of Selena's background was the joy of a scientist on the brink of discovery, and he never admitted to himself that there was something unlovely and perverse in his excitement.

  “I only want what's good for you,” he told her.

  And Selena believed him because there was nothing else she could do.

  They were on the couch in the living room of his cottage one sunny afternoon at the end of August, he sitting up and Selena lying down with her head in his lap. He stroked her hair gently away from her forehead, and Selena had the wonderful floating feeling she always had after they had made love and were quiet and close together. She was on the very edge of sleep when he spoke.

  “Tell me about Lucas,” he said.

  For a moment, Selena was absolutely still; calmness filled her the way it sometimes will when someone has been terribly shocked and thinks, Now the worst has happened, whatever comes after this can't help but be better. But then her heart began to pound and she began to tremble.

  “Stop it, Tim,” she cried. “I don't want to talk about Lucas or anything connected with him.”