Herbert Rowbarge

by Natalie Babbitt

  So what could Ruby do? She wished above all things to do something, and knew from her constant reading that out there in the world there were women who were making big impressions. There were novelists, like Mary Roberts Rinehart; and that woman over in France, Marie Something-or-other, was even a scientist. And look at little Mary Pickford! Ruby wondered sadly how they managed it. But, of course, she said to herself, she’d never been clever. No reason to think she could be clever now.

  And she wasn’t athletic, either. Opal had taken up lawn tennis, and was talking of buying a bicycle. But Ruby felt clumsy rushing about on the grass, and as for cycling, one had to wear these new serge bloomers, and Ruby was sure she’d look ridiculous. She’d gotten a little fat now, since the birth of the twins. And anyway, all that exercise—well, one got so damp!

  So when she wasn’t mothering the twins—and the nurse was so possessive of them, so certain of knowing better than she did what was right for them, that Ruby didn’t have much mothering to do—she read sentimental novels by the dozens, and began a collection of things that were pink. Anything at all would do: a mussel shell, a ribbon, a rose made of wax, or a pebble from the roadside—all were brought lovingly home and tucked into a box she kept hidden in the attic. She never told Herbert or Opal about it; she knew they would laugh at her. But the box came to seem to contain all her girlhood dreams of romance, her girlhood notions of everything pure and feminine. It was as far from reality as it could possibly be-light-years from the heavy, wet gymnastics of lovemaking, light-years from her thickening face and figure that had never worn and never would wear gauze and dance on tiptoe in the moonlight. Ruby knew it. “But,” she told herself, “my soul is different,” and was thrilled by the thought, thrilled that she could even have conceived of it. She decided she could have been a poet if “things” had been otherwise—what “things” she never catalogued—and it gave her life a nicely tragic resonance.

  It was, of course, profoundly tragic, this life of Ruby’s—and profoundly commonplace. But how could she know how commonplace it was? Just as she kept her desolation to herself, so did countless others like her, each one assuming all the others were living, as the old tales have it, happily ever after. It was her own fault, she supposed, if she was dull and plain and could not keep her husband rapturous. Yet, having failed in this, she was completely cut adrift—no other goal had ever been suggested. Life was long. She sighed, sometimes, to think how long it was. But at the end, she vowed, she’d lie and breathe her last by candlelight, with roses on her bosom, claiming in death the sweet romance that life denied her.

  And then, in April of 1912, when the twins were only five years old, she died so suddenly that she was mercifully spared any knowledge of the dreary picture death made of her after all. She had just stepped round to Opal’s, down the road, on an evening dim with mist, to borrow the daily paper, for Herbert, as usual, was late in coming home with a copy of his own. But there had been a terrible accident somewhere out on the ocean—a ship full of glamorous people had rammed an iceberg and gone down—and she wanted to read the story. As she was hurrying back, there was, behind her, a sudden rush of horse and wheels, and a wagon leapt out of the mist. Alarmed, she stumbled, fell forward, and a wild hoof snapped her spine in two. She was found an hour later sprawled in the road, her skirts flung up, her bloomers splashed with mud. It was, at last, an unattractive death. Not in the least romantic.

  But history closed gently over Ruby. No one ever said to her daughters that she had been a fool. People hardly mentioned her at all. So Babe and Louisa grew up building fantasies around her, just as she had built her own around their father, and they always assumed that he had grieved for her.

  Herbert had not grieved for her. He wanted to, but he couldn’t, not even at the funeral. In fact, since the twins were too little to fully comprehend their loss, it seemed as if Dick was the only one to feel the death at all. As for Opal, she and Ruby had never much been friends—there was always something scratchy between them that kept them in a state of itch whenever they were together. And old man Nill, near death himself of cancer—a malady that shortly bore him off—was simply never told. Walter was only two; what was an aunt to him? Why, merely nothing. And Frank Festeen, who was thirteen now, well, Frank was sorry. But more for his father than for Mrs. Rowbarge. For he knew that her death recalled hard things for his father. Lollie was often brought into their conversations, and always with love and sorrow, but for Frank, that was as far as this new misfortune went. He had not known Mrs. Rowbarge very well. Not very well at all. He could not cry for her.

  But Dick was stricken. “Oh, Bertie, Bertie,” he said to Herbert, “it seems like you and I are just doomed, somehow. First no folks, and now no wives. Thank God we’ve got our children, Bertie. That’s a lot. We got to be thankful for that, anyway.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Herbert stiffly. “That’s certainly right.”

  They were walking away from the burial as they talked, far back from the rest of the party, and Dick’s eyes were red and wet. But Herbert’s, though he had the grace to be shamed by the fact, were dry.

  “Bertie,” said Dick, “I wish there was something I could do for you. I know it seemed sometimes like you didn’t care for Ruby, but that’s just your way. Why, she was a real nice person, and she loved you very much. I think that’s one of the things I liked the best about her was the way she loved you.”

  “Yes. Well.” It was all Herbert could think of to say.

  They walked along in silence past the gravestones for a little distance. And then Dick said, musingly, “You’ll feel better after a while, Bertie. It kind of goes away some, and you get so you feel better.”

  Herbert at last exploded. “For heaven’s sake, Dick, keep quiet, can’t you? You know perfectly well I don’t feel anything. Not anything. I’m sorry for that, but it’s the truth. Good grief, you know why I married Ruby, you were there! Don’t try to make something else out of it.”

  Dick stopped then, and turned to face him. “Bertie,” he said sadly, “you got no heart at all, do you? I’ve always loved you, and I always will. But I guess you can’t love anybody back, can you? Not me, or Ruby, or anybody. You got no heart in there”—tapping him mournfully on the chest—“you got no heart to give.”

  Herbert’s face went pale, for it seemed as if Dick’s tapping finger had pushed a closed door open. “Listen, Dick,” he said in a rush, the words tumbling out through the crack. “Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me. Oh, God, sometimes I think I’m going crazy. I tried to love Ruby, I really did, but I was lonely and she couldn’t … she never understood. Dick, you got to help me, you got to stand by me. Sometimes I get this terrible, horrible feeling that I’m only …” He paused, not knowing how to describe it.

  Dick peered at him, puzzled and concerned. “Only what, Bertie? I don’t see what you mean.”

  But, abruptly, the moment had passed, the door swung shut again. Herbert turned away. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “Never mind.”

  They took up their walk once more, among the weedy monuments, and at last Dick put his arm through Herbert’s. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Bertie,” he said soberly. “I’m sorry I said that about you not having any heart. Of course you got a heart. It’s just you’ve had a sad life, and so have I, and this is the saddest day of all. But we got our children and we got each other. Why, shoot, in some ways we’re luckier than a lot of other people.”

  But Herbert did not respond, so Dick dropped his arm and went along beside him thoughtfully toward home.

  Dick hoped after this that he and Herbert would be brothers again, more brothers than they’d been since the old days at the Home. But he was disappointed. Herbert could not bear to recall his outburst in the graveyard. For weeks he could not face Dick without embarrassment, and turned from his outstretched hand a hundred times. Finally Dick, deciding it was best to leave him to himself for a while, drew apart, spending his free time more and more with Fr
ank and Frank’s affairs. Of course he would stand by Bertie, and help him all he could—but sometimes he wondered, reluctantly, if he’d been right in what he’d said, after all. Maybe it was true that his beloved little brother had no heart.

  Tuesday, May 27, 1952

  Babe and Louisa drift peacefully on the warm brown water of Red Man Lake. They have rowed—with Louisa at the oars—past the park’s pavilion, where stacks of benches and tables, legs every which way, wait for arrangement; past the swimming place, where a dump truck has dropped its jaw to vomit a sliding hill of fresh, new sand—if sand is ever new —which workmen rake over the remnants of last year’s imitation beach to fashion this year’s imitation beach. They have rowed past cottages with patchy lawns fresh and still uncluttered, where here and there somebody mows or hammers, getting ready for the summer. And now they have come to a quiet place where two tiny islands hump together, sharing the shade of trees and a broad green dimpled skirt of lily pads.

  The ping of the hammers, the voices of the sand rakers, though half a mile behind them, echo thin and sharp across the water and make their isolation sweeter. Louisa has stowed the oars, and now the sisters—bare-legged, sandal-shod, in blue culottes and matching flowered shirts—sprawl blissfully and let the boat go where it will, with the result that it has wandered into the lily pads, which stroke its sides with little whispers, parting at the bow, closing at the stern, till the boat, embraced, settles to a stop.

  This is their favorite place of many on the lake, and it is nicest now, in May, before the reentry of mosquitoes, fishermen, and lovers. They came here when they were children, sometimes with a picnic to eat in the boat. They have brought a picnic today. Or, rather, Louisa has brought a picnic, having wrested from Fawn, in a burst of courage, leftover chicken from the night before, pretzels, brownies, and a thermos of lemonade.

  “So Fawn said how come we don’t have something better to do than lollygag around in a boat,” Louisa reports.

  “There isn’t anything better to do,” says Babe. “This is the best thing of all.”

  “That’s what I think,” says Louisa. “But I did feel kind of embarrassed. I mean, there she is, slaving away, and here we are, enjoying ourselves.”

  “You sound downright Communistic,” says Babe severely. “It’s not as if we never did anything. We’re entitled to some fun, aren’t we? And anyway, Fawn likes to slave.”

  “Do you think so?” says Louisa.

  “Of course,” says Babe. “Look what a big thing she makes of it. Why, we could do what she does in half the time with half the fuss.” She is not entirely certain of this, however, and so falls silent. They turn their faces up to the sun, eyes closed against the glare, and for a time neither says a word.

  At last Babe says, “How’s the Tunnel of Love? Is it finished?”

  Louisa rights her head and, rubbing her neck, says, “Almost, I guess. When Daddy came back yesterday, he was cross because he got pink paint on his shoe from the ticket booth, and they always do the ticket booth last. At least, they always used to.” She dips a hand into the water and adds, “It used to be so much fun, going down to look at new rides before they opened. Remember? Why, we haven’t done that since …”

  When she hesitates, Babe straightens up and frowns at her. “Since that time in the Fun House, you mean.”

  “Well, yes,” says Louisa. “I’m sorry, Babe. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

  “Now, listen,” says Babe. “That was a thousand years ago. Water over the dam. I wish you wouldn’t act as if I was covered with open sores about it. Suppose I had married Frank after that? What would you have done? And anyway, it wouldn’t have worked. I decided that, ages ago.”

  “Did you really, Babe?” asks Louisa earnestly.

  “I really did,” Babe assures her. “So it’s all right.”

  “I’m glad,” says Louisa simply.

  They sit for a while, staring off in different directions, and then Louisa says, “Daddy didn’t want you to marry Frank, anyway.”

  “No,” says Babe. “I’ve never seen him so mad, before or since. He was practically purple.”

  “I know,” says Louisa. “He scared me to death.”

  Babe says indignantly, “You’d have thought Frank and I were … well, what I mean is, all we were doing was kissing.”

  “I know,” says Louisa.

  “Oh, well,” says Babe with a sigh. “Water over the dam. How is he after yesterday, speaking of scaring people?”

  “He seems all right,” says Louisa. “He yelled at Fawn this morning when the coffee wasn’t ready, but she yelled right back. Walter was there for breakfast and they talked about christening the Tunnel of Love. Honestly—Walter! You know what he wanted Daddy to do? Break a bottle of champagne over the first boat. Like christening an ocean liner. But Daddy said he didn’t want broken glass all over the place for people to step on, and a mess on the boat seats. So they’re just going to cut a ribbon, and Daddy’ll take the first ride, same as always. Want to go down and watch?”

  “Sure,” says Babe. And then she says, softening, “Poor Daddy. It’s kind of touching to see him on one of his rides. He always gets that sweet, foolish look on his face, all serious and childlike both at once. I love to see him like that.”

  “Me, too,” says Louisa. “He’s always so nice when he’s at the park.”

  “Well,” says Babe with a shrug, “he loves it. It makes him happy.”

  Again they fall silent. Louisa leans out of the boat and, brow furrowed, measures the palm of her hand against the leathery, upturned palm of a lily pad. “Babe,” she says at last, “when we’re left alone …” Her voice trails off.

  Babe waits, watching her, thinking: That’s the way I look. Just like that.

  “When we’re left alone someday,” Louisa says again, the lily pad warm under her fingers, “what will we do?”

  “Well,” says Babe, “I suppose we’ll do what we want.”

  Louisa thinks this over and then says, “But what do we want?”

  “I suppose we only want to be together,” says Babe slowly. “I suppose if we were together—without Daddy, I mean—it wouldn’t much matter what we did. Because once we’re left alone, we won’t be … alone anymore.”

  Louisa gives the lily pad a final stroke and sits up to face her sister. “We’ve always done the very best we could for Daddy,” she says.

  “Yes. We have,” says Babe.

  “We’ve always loved him,” says Louisa.

  “Always,” says Babe. “But he—”

  “Don’t say it,” says Louisa quickly. “Please don’t say it, Babe. He’s needed us, anyway. He couldn’t have done without us. Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t know,” says Babe. “I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s had us, whether he needed us or not.” Louisa looks away, at this, and Babe adds, “I only meant we’ve been a family, you know. There when we do need each other.”

  “I guess so,” says Louisa.

  “Someday, when we’re … left alone,” says Babe, smiling now, “we’ll kick up our heels. Throw wild parties. Get Walter to bring over some of his friends, and all get drunk.”

  “Babe!” Louisa gasps. “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know,” says Babe. “I guess not.”

  “Anyway,” says Louisa, “it’s not going to happen tomorrow. Like you said, it could be twenty years from now.”

  “So what?” says Babe. “You can get drunk any time, even in a wheelchair.”

  Louisa looks shocked, but Babe is still smiling, and finally Louisa smiles, too.

  “The thing is,” says Babe, “we’ll be able to do anything we want. If I’d married Frank, I’d be all tied down to the greenhouse now, and carrying bedpans for poor old Mr. Festeen.”

  “And be all in a fuss about being a mother-in-law to little Tammie Hannengraff,” Louisa adds.

  “That’s right,” says Babe. “Good grief—imagine that! So you’d have to kick up your heels all a
lone.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” says Louisa. “I might’ve got married, too, you know. I might’ve married Tommy Oglesby, maybe, or even Dwight. Remember Dwight?”

  “Sure,” says Babe, “but you didn’t. And a good thing, too. No, it’s much better this way, just the two of us. Why, someday we’ll be really free!”

  They tilt their faces up to the sun again, eyes shut, heads full of vague but interesting visions. After a time, Louisa stretches out her legs and one foot bumps the picnic basket. “Hey,” she says, “want to eat our lunch now?”

  “Pretty soon,” says Babe. “We ought to work on our tans some more first.”

  “Well,” says Louisa, “whenever you’re ready.” And then she adds, dreamily, “Babe, the brownies have walnuts. And frosting.”

  “Oh, lovely,” says Babe, without opening her eyes. “That’s just lovely.”

  Summer 1925

  When, in April of 1918, Frank sailed off to France to fight the Germans, he was a red-cheeked, sturdy, gregarious child of nineteen, elated with his man’s gear and his man’s mission. Home again in December with a minor shoulder wound, he was still sturdy, but his cheeks were never red again in the way they’d been before, and he was no longer gregarious. He had seen things in the Argonne Forest that only his father could understand, and they sat out the long winter evenings in a silence that groaned with shared cognitions.

  The months of their separation had been terrible for Dick, so much so that at forty-six he looked already old. He had been sure Frank would die “over there,” and hated that foolish cock’s crow of a song that he must listen to everywhere he went. But Frank had come home, he was all right, and they found themselves gentle with each other in ways that had new reverberations. Frank was, now, suddenly aware of his father’s stump as the sign of something gained, not something missing, though what it was he had gained Frank couldn’t have put into words. But they shared it, just the same, and understood each other.