“Good afternoon. Well as can be expected, I think you’d say,” said Mrs. Palmer with an effort at cheerfulness. Already she was loosening the covers, preparatory to pushing them back entirely for her daily injection.
But Mrs. Blynn was standing with an absent smile in the center of the room, hands folded backward on her hips, surveying the walls, gazing out the window. Mrs. Blynn had once lived in this house with her husband, for six months when they were first married, and every day Mrs. Blynn said something about it. Mrs. Blynn’s husband had been the captain of a merchant ship, and had gone down with it ten years ago in a collision with a Swedish ship only fifty nautical miles from Eamington. Mrs. Blynn had never married again. Elsie said her house was filled with photographs of the captain in uniform and of his ship.
“Yes-s, it’s a wonderful little house,” said Mrs. Blynn, “even if the wind does come in a bit.” She looked at Mrs. Palmer with brighter eyes, as if she were about to say, “Well, now, a few more of these injections and you’ll be as fit as can be, won’t you?”
But in the next seconds, Mrs. Blynn’s expression changed. She groped in her black bag for the needle and the bottle of clear fluid that would do no good. Her mouth lost its smile and drooped, and deeper lines came at its corners. By the time she plunged the needle into Mrs. Palmer’s fleshless body, her bulging green-gray eyes were glassy, as if she saw nothing and did not need to see anything: this was her business, and she knew how to do it. Mrs. Palmer was an object, which paid a guinea a visit. The object was going to die. Mrs. Blynn became apathetic, as if even the cutting off of the guinea in three days or eight days mattered nothing to her, either.
Guineas as such mattered nothing to Mrs. Palmer, but in view of the fact she was soon quitting this world, she wished that Mrs. Blynn could show something so human as a desire to prolong the guineas. Mrs. Blynn’s eyes remained glassy, even when she glanced at the door to see if Elsie was coming in with her tea. Occasionally the floorboards in the hall cracked from the heat or the lack of it, and so they did when someone walked just outside the door.
The injection hurt today, but Mrs. Palmer did not flinch. It was really such a small thing, she smiled at the slightness of it. “A little sunshine today, wasn’t there?” Mrs. Palmer said.
“Was there?” Mrs. Blynn jerked the needle out.
“Around eleven this morning. I noticed it.” Weakly she gestured toward the window behind her.
“We can certainly use it,” Mrs. Blynn said, putting her equipment back in her bag. “Goodness, we can use that fire, too.” She had fastened her bag, and now she chafed her palms, huddling toward the grate.
Princy was stretched full length before the fire, looking like a rolled-up shag rug.
Mrs. Palmer tried to think of something pleasant to say about Mrs. Blynn’s husband, their time in this house, the town, anything. She could only think of how lonely Mrs. Blynn’s life must be since her husband died. They had had no children. According to Elsie, Mrs. Blynn had worshiped her husband, and took a pride in never having remarried. “Have you many patients this time of year?” Mrs. Palmer asked.
“Oh, yes. Like always,” Mrs. Blynn said, still facing the fire and rubbing her hands.
Who? Mrs. Palmer wondered. Tell me about them. She waited, breathing softly.
Elsie knocked once, by bumping a corner of the tray against the door.
“Come in, Elsie,” they both said, Mrs. Blynn a bit louder.
“Here we are,” said Elsie, setting the tray down on a hassock made by two massive olive-green pillows, one atop the other. Butter slid down the side of a scone, spread onto the plate, and began to congeal while Elsie poured the tea.
Elsie handed Mrs. Palmer a cup of tea with three lumps of sugar, but no scone, because Mrs. Blynn said they were too indigestible for her. Mrs. Palmer did not mind. She appreciated the sight of well-buttered scones, anyway, and of healthy people like Mrs. Blynn eating them. She was offered a ginger biscuit and declined it. Mrs. Blynn talked briefly to Elsie about her water pipes, about the reduced price of something at the butcher’s this week, while Elsie stood with folded arms, leaning against the edge of the door, letting in a frigid draft on Mrs. Palmer. Elsie was taking in all Mrs. Blynn’s information about prices. Now it was catsup at the health store. On sale this week.
“Call me if you’d like something,” Elsie said as usual, ducking out the door.
Mrs. Blynn was sunk in her scones, leaning over so the dripping butter would fall on the stone floor and not her skirt.
Mrs. Palmer shivered, and drew the covers up.
“Is your son coming?” Mrs. Blynn asked in a loud, clear voice, looking straight at Mrs. Palmer.
Mrs. Palmer did not know what Elsie had told Mrs. Blynn. She had told Elsie that he might come, that was all. “I haven’t heard yet. He’s probably waiting to tell me the exact time he’ll come—or to find out if he can or not. You know how it is in the Air Force.”
“Um-m,” said Mrs. Blynn through a scone, as if of course she knew, having had a husband who had been in service. “He’s your only son and heir, I take it.”
“My only one,” said Mrs. Palmer.
“Married?”
“Yes.” Then, anticipating the next question, “He has one child, a daughter, but she’s still very small.”
Mrs. Blynn’s eyes kept drifting to Mrs. Palmer’s bedtable, and suddenly Mrs. Palmer realized what she was looking at—her amethyst pin. Mrs. Palmer had worn it for a few days on her cardigan sweater, until she had felt so bad, the pin ceased to lift her spirits and became almost tawdry, and she had removed it.
“That’s a beautiful pin,” said Mrs. Blynn.
“Yes. My husband gave it to me years ago.”
Mrs. Blynn came over to look at it, but she did not touch it. The rectangular amethyst was set in small diamonds. She stood up, looking down at it with alert, bulging eyes. “I suppose you’ll pass it on to your son—or his wife.”
Mrs. Palmer flushed with embarrassment, or anger. She hadn’t thought to whom she would pass it on, particularly. “I suppose my son will get everything, as my heir.”
“I hope his wife appreciates it,” Mrs. Blynn said, turning on her heel with a smile, setting her cup down in its saucer.
Then Mrs. Palmer realized that for the last few days it was the pin Mrs. Blynn had been looking at when her eyes drifted over to the bedtable. When Mrs. Blynn had gone, Mrs. Palmer picked up the pin and held it in her palm protectively. Her jewel box was across the room. Elsie came in, and Mrs. Palmer said, “Elsie, would you mind handing me that blue box over there?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Elsie said, swerving from the tea tray to the box on the top of the bookshelf. “This the one?”
“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Palmer took it, opened the lid, and dropped the pin on her pearls. She had not much jewelry, perhaps ten or eleven pieces, but each piece meant a special occasion in her life, or a special period, and she loved them all. She looked at Elsie’s blunt, homely profile as she bent over the tray, arranging everything so that it could be carried out at once.
“That Missus Blynn,” said Elsie, shaking her head, not looking at Mrs. Palmer. “Asked me if I thought your son was coming. How was I to know? I said yes, I thought so.” Now she stood with the tray, looking at Mrs. Palmer, and she smiled awkwardly, as if she had said perhaps too much. “The trouble with Missus Blynn is she’s always nosing—if you’ll pardon me saying so. Asking questions, you know?”
Mrs. Palmer nodded, feeling too low just at that moment to make a comment. She had no comment anyway. Elsie, she thought, had passed back and forth by the amethyst pin for days and never mentioned it, never touched it, maybe never even noticed it. Mrs. Palmer suddenly realized how much more she liked Elsie than she liked Mrs. Blynn.
“The trouble with Missus Blynn—she means well, but . . .” Elsie fl
oundered and jiggled the tray in her effort to shrug. “It’s too bad. Everyone’s always saying it about her,” she finished, as if this summed it up, and started out the door. But she turned with the door open. “At tea, for instance. It’s always get this and get that for her, as if she were a grand lady or something. A day ahead she tells me. I don’t see why she don’t bring what she wants from the bakery now and then herself. If you know what I mean.”
Mrs. Palmer nodded. She supposed she knew. She knew. Mrs. Blynn was like a nursemaid she had for a time for Gregory. Like a divorcée she and her husband had known in London. She was like a lot of people.
Mrs. Palmer died two days later. It was a day when Mrs. Blynn came in and out, perhaps six times, perhaps eight. A telegram had arrived that morning from Gregory, saying he had at last wangled leave and would take off in a matter of hours, landing at a military field near Eamington. Mrs. Palmer did not know if she would see him again or not, she could not judge her strength that far. Mrs. Blynn took her temperature and felt her pulse frequently, then pivoted on one foot in the room, looking about as if she were alone and thinking her own thoughts. Her expression was blankly pleasant, her peaches-and-cream cheeks aglow with health.
“Your son’s due today,” Mrs. Blynn half said, half asked, on one of her visits.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Palmer.
It was then dusk, though it was only four in the afternoon.
That was the last clear exchange she had with anyone, for she sank into a kind of dream. She saw Mrs. Blynn staring at the blue box on the top of the bookshelf, staring at it even as she shook the thermometer down. Mrs. Palmer called for Elsie and had her bring the box to her. Mrs. Blynn was not in the room then.
“This is to go to my son when he comes,” Mrs. Palmer said. “All of it. Everything. You understand? It’s all written . . .” But even though it was all itemized, a single piece like the amethyst pin might be missing and Gregory would never do anything about it, maybe not even notice, maybe think she’d lost it somewhere in the last weeks and not reported it. Gregory was like that. Then Mrs. Palmer smiled at herself, and also reproached herself. You can’t take it with you. That was very true, and people who tried to were despicable and rather absurd. “Elsie, this is yours,” Mrs. Palmer said, and handed Elsie the amethyst pin.
“Oh, Missus Palmer! Oh, no, I couldn’t take that!” Elsie said, not taking it, and in fact retreating a step.
“You’ve been very good to me,” Mrs. Palmer said. She was very tired, and her arm dropped to the bed. “Very well,” she murmured, seeing it was really of no use.
Her son came at six that evening, sat with her on the edge of her bed, held her hand and kissed her forehead. But when she died, Mrs. Blynn was closest, bending over her with her great round, peaches-and-cream face and her green-gray eyes as expressionless as some fantastic reptile’s. Mrs. Blynn to the last continued to say crisp, efficient things to her like, “Breathe easily. That’s it,” and “Not chilly, are you? Good.” Somebody had mentioned a priest earlier, but this had been overruled by both Gregory and Mrs. Palmer. So it was Mrs. Blynn’s eyes she looked into as her life left her. Mrs. Blynn so authoritative, strong, efficient, one might have taken her for God Himself. Especially since when Mrs. Palmer looked toward her son, she couldn’t really see him, only a vague pale blue figure in the corner, tall and erect, with a dark spot at the top that was his hair. He was looking at her, but now she was too weak to call him. Anyway, Mrs. Blynn had shooed them all back. Elsie was also standing against the closed door, ready to run out for something, ready to take any order. Near her was the smaller figure of Liza, who occasionally whispered something and was shushed by her mother. In an instant, Mrs. Palmer saw her entire life—her carefree childhood and youth, her happy marriage, the blight of the death of her other son at the age of ten, the shock of her husband’s death eight years ago—but all in all a happy life, she supposed, though she could wish her own character had been better, purer, that she had never shown temper or selfishness, for instance. All that was past now, but what remained was a feeling that she had been imperfect, wrong, like Mrs. Blynn’s presence now, like Mrs. Blynn’s faint smile, wrong, wrong for the time and the occasion. Mrs. Blynn did not understand her. Mrs. Blynn did not know her. Mrs. Blynn, somehow, could not comprehend goodwill. Therein lay the flaw, and the flaw of life itself. Life is a long failure of understanding, Mrs. Palmer thought, a long, mistaken shutting of the heart.
Mrs. Palmer had the amethyst pin in her closed left hand. Hours ago, sometime in the afternoon, she had taken it with an idea of safekeeping, but now she realized the absurdity of that. She had also wanted to give it to Gregory directly, and had forgotten. Her closed hand lifted an inch or so, her lips moved, but no sound came. She wanted to give it to Mrs. Blynn: one positive and generous gesture she could still make to this essence of nonunderstanding, she thought, but now she had not the strength to make her want known—and that was like life, too, everything a little too late. Mrs. Palmer’s lids shut on the vision of Mrs. Blynn’s glassy, attentive eyes.
THE SECOND CIGARETTE
George Leister, a New York tax lawyer age fifty-one, went into his kitchen one Saturday morning and was mildly surprised to see a long, recently lighted cigarette burning in an ashtray. George glanced at the cigarette in his own hand, also recently lighted, and reproached himself for absentmindedness. He had even vowed to cut down to ten a day. He wasn’t doing better than fifteen. George put out the ashtray cigarette to save for a next smoke—he was counting—picked up the coffeepot and was about to refill his cup when he became aware of a figure standing in his kitchen doorway through which he had just walked. George jumped with shock, and some of the coffee splashed from the pot onto the floor.
The figure in the doorway was himself, as if a mirror were there, except that his effigy was smiling a little and George was not smiling.
“I smoke, too,” said the figure softly, and in an amused way.
Now George, trembling, turned sideways and poured his coffee as steadily as he could. It was an auditory hallucination as well as a visual one, he thought. Was he going mad? Why? He’d had a quiet evening at home last night—no crazy food, no extra drink. Frowning with fear, his jaw set, George faced the apparition again.
The figure looked back pleasantly. It wore the same dark red dressing gown, hair as much gray as brown, George saw (like his own, he admitted), creases in the cheeks from middle age. George had no brother, had never seen a cousin who so much resembled him. George could have taken two steps and touched him, but George didn’t want to. He noticed with disgust the slight yellowness of an eyetooth as the figure continued to smile at him. Disgusting! So this was the picture he presented to the world! Not even clean and healthy-looking!
“Not very proud of yourself, eh?” The figure picked up the stubbed-out cigarette, and lit it from the box of matches on the kitchen table. “Must be the fourth, this, even this morning. Are you counting honestly?”
George thought he had been. But now he had a clue. “If you’re my conscience,” George mumbled with a protective shrug, and at the same time his eyes slid away from the figure, “I’m not falling for that. Heard of it before. Visions.” At the same time, George’s morale was weakened, he realized, just because he had spoken out loud. Wasn’t that the same as talking to oneself? “Other self,” George sneered. “Load of baloney!”
“Not your other self. Your self,” replied the apparition, unperturbed.
The fleshly—even a bit overweight—figure in the doorway scared George all the way down his spine, but he determined to advance as if it didn’t exist and return to his newspaper in the living room. George did advance, cup in hand, as if the cup were a lance with which he might run the apparition through if it did not get out of his way.
The apparition stepped back rather smartly into the hall, out of George’s path.
George would have been more
comfortable if he had been able to walk through the figure, because that would have proven that it was imaginary. George seized the Times like a life raft, and immersed himself in the financial pages. Good solid stuff. dollar continues decline versus dm and yen. George read hungrily, concentrating.
He became aware of the figure in the dark red dressing gown strolling into the living room.
“No, not very proud of yourself.—Seen Liz lately?”
George glanced up with an air of annoyance, and was delighted to see that the figure appeared dimmer now, caught as it was in a beam of sunlight. Good! But George saw also the very real swing of the tassel of the dressing gown belt, as the figure came to a stop. “Liz doesn’t want to see me,” George said with conviction, in the same firm, polite tone he used in his office when he made an incontrovertible statement.
“Of course she does. She’d like to be on friendlier terms. She’s not the one annoyed, though she ought to be. It’s you—who’re ashamed of yourself.”
The old conscience game again. I should take a cold shower, George thought, and get rid of this thing.
“Doubt very much if you’ll get rid of me.”
Now George could see part of the bookshelves through the figure’s torso. That was encouraging.
“Because I’m you—not your other self,” the figure went on, and chuckled.
George recognized his own chuckle. He had, of course, recognized his own voice. I don’t even like myself, George thought suddenly. He hadn’t liked the chuckle, because it had sounded vaguely dishonest. But George didn’t think he was dishonest, not basically. There had to be minor dishonesties in everyone—otherwise the social and business worlds would hardly function. But if he had been asked to rate himself, George would have said he was as honest or more honest than the average fellow. Until that chuckle. What did other people really think of him?
Nothing That Meets the Eye Page 47