“Clinton,” she said, “first of all, you are not to be frightened. Some people have these powers, and it’s not dangerous at all. Not at all. As long as you use them properly. Now, you won’t be frightened, will you, if I tell you that you have these powers?”
At this point I felt like a scum. So I said, “No, I won’t be frightened.” What else could I say?
“Now listen. I have invited Echo O’Brien to come here for the Fourth. What do you think of that?”
“I’m very surprised. I can’t believe it.”
“And she does tinker with cars all the time! She has an enormous old Dodge that works good as new because she’s so clever with mechanical things. And she’ll arrive at our very door, in that very car, at noon tomorrow. I’d intended to surprise you.”
“How do you know she’s coming?”
“I heard from her.”
(I wondered what she did with the letter, because I certainly never got hold of it.)
“She phoned this morning and said it would be all right. Well, of course, I couldn’t have been happier, a daughter of Bernice’s, and devoted. The poor thing has a silent nature, but she’s pretty as can be and waits on her mother hand and foot. But of course, you probably know the whole story!”
“Oh, no!” I said. “I mean, it doesn’t happen too often, just now and then.”
I suppose when a person plans to die soon, he gets to where he does all kind of unscrupulous stunts, because nothing matters any more.
The following morning, the third of July, was a perfect summer morning, the kind that reminds a grown-up person of his long-ago summers of childhood, of days in which the blue of sky seemed almost within reach, songs of birds bore secret and promiseful meanings, the sun touched the air with a kind of warm sugariness, and the planet earth was one enormous ripe plum. On such a day everyone will find an excuse to go outdoors: lawn mowers clattered on Seminary Street, children played games on the sidewalks, there was much traipsing from house to house on dreamed-up missions; a sudden happy rash of tree pruning, porch sitting, and automobile washing brought forth people whom one had not seen outdoors since the previous fall.
Even Ralph Williams, an indoors person by nature, wandered outside after breakfast on the pretext of deciding whether or not the house needed a paint job. Annabel found old vases in the cellar and filled them with roses and delphinium; these she distributed throughout the house.
Altogether, on this day of the visitor from Toledo, there was in the world a beauty so keen and simple that it was akin to sadness. But while the beauty was remarked upon by nearly everyone you met, the sadness was a kind of secret that no one mentioned at all.
At noon, Clinton Williams stationed himself, pajama-clad, at the window of Berry-berry’s room, which looked out over the front lawn and street. From this vantage point, he awaited the arrival of Echo O’Brien.
At about ten minutes after the hour, in front of the house across the street, Clinton saw the porch swing come to a halt, and the man and woman seated there leaned forward and stared up the street. “Helen Mae!” the woman called over her shoulder. “Come here! Quick!” And immediately another woman came onto the porch and joined in the staring. Two doors up the street a gang of children called a recess in their game and stared at the same phenomenon. Now all of these people looked on with respect and awe as a magnificent old automobile rolled importantly into view and came to a smooth stop in front of the Williamses’ house. Polished to a flawless black, this stately car, high and proud and long, with its dignified fenders and long rubber-carpeted running boards, made other cars on the street seem frivolous with their weird balloon shapes and all-day-sucker colors. Eccentric only by reason of age and size, this strange car, with accents of silver glistening in the spokes of its wheels, its bumpers and headlights, gave an impression of overwhelming elegance.
The front door of the car opened and the driver stepped out.
Echo O’Brien was a slender brunette of exceptional height. She was dressed in champagne colors: shoes with spiked heels, a close-fitting silk suit, beautifully tailored, a picture hat with an extravagantly wide brim; and in her hand she carried a huge pocketbook. All of her jewels looked like topaz: enormous ear drops, a choker at the throat, a dinner ring, even the clasp of her pocketbook.
She stood there, one hand holding her hat on at the crown, and looked up. It seemed to Clinton she looked directly into his eyes, but Echo O’Brien gave no sign that she saw him at all. To him, the sight of her standing there in that soft wash of sunlight was so dazzling that only some major disturbance could have drawn his eyes from it.
Now Clinton heard the front screen door open and close; and he saw Annabel rush forward across the path to greet the visitor. His mother had herself been at some pains to make a good appearance, and Clinton was surprised to realize that she did not suffer at all by this contrast with a beautiful, younger woman. With her well-painted face, her chestnut hair, her moss-colored dress and big emerald ear buttons, Annabel looked a handsome, self-assured forty. She talked incessantly, not even pausing when she touched her cheek against Echo O’Brien’s. Clinton observed that the visitor did not once get her mouth opened. But she smiled and nodded, and her outsized eyes seemed to scoop up and take in everything that was said.
These eyes were to affect Clinton even more profoundly at close range. They focused on a talker so completely that they seemed to serve the function of ears as well. They opened and closed, changed size and shape, lights danced within them—all in a pure and subtle response to what was being said. You had the impression all your words counted for something and would be remembered forever. You could place your heart itself in these great blue-green depths and it would dwell there safely, sensitively cared for, immortal. The eyes of Echo O’Brien were eyes that cared.
Now Ralph Williams entered Clinton’s field of vision. From around the corner of the house, he approached the tall stranger with one arm outstretched, all gallantry and charm. The sight of her seemed to have recharged some inner battery that brought to his welcome a kind of high-voltage sincerity that demanded respect: even Annabel was silent for these extravagant civilities. He bowed, kissed the visitor’s hand and held it as he looked up into her eyes and spoke to her. Then Ralph took her luggage from the car (two leather bags, rather large, Clinton thought, considering the brevity of her visit) and, walking with unusual lightness of step, carried it into the house. Arm in arm, Annabel and Echo followed him.
Clinton instantly quitted his station and flew to his bedroom. He put on fresh pajamas, combed his hair, and climbed into bed. There was much talk on the first floor, but he could not make out the words. In his eagerness to hear Echo’s voice, Clinton was momentarily tempted to get dressed, go downstairs, and declare himself well. But two thoughts deterred him: Annabel would surely tell Echo that her presence had brought about the cure, and pass remarks about it all through the weekend. And he felt he had to do much more thinking on certain matters before he left the sanctuary of sickness.
All these considerations were soon interrupted by a procession on the stairs. Clinton was able to distinguish one of Annabel’s sentences: “You’ll sleep in Berry-berry’s room, it’s much comfier than the guest room and has the best mirror in the house”; and he heard clearly a protest of Ralph’s concerning the luggage: “What, heavy? These? Christ, no! What you got in them, cotton candy?” And as the noisy parade drew nearer, Clinton was able to discern a new voice as it spoke a sentence he would remember all of his life:
“Clinton’s the one I want to meet. Where’s Clint? He’s my guy.”
It is worth dwelling for a moment on the voice of Echo O’Brien. It was akin to her eyes. It might even be said that there was a twinship in the sound and in the look of her: one evoked a sense of the other. Her bigness of eye could be heard in the depth of her voice, a full octave lower than the average range of a woman; and the color was there, too, if you thought about it, a blue-green coolness, slightly rough, and infinitely lonesome.<
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Now she appeared at the door of Clinton’s room, flanked by Ralph and Annabel. Indeed she had won his parents so completely that they now seemed like trophies that decorated her arms. Leaving them behind for a moment, she came toward Clinton and leaned with both hands on the iron railing at the foot of his bed.
“Hi, Clint,” she said. “I’m the old maid from Toledo.”
And from that moment, Clinton Williams was in love with Echo O’Brien,
[Clinton’s Notebook]
July 3.
ECHO O’BRIEN FROM UP CLOSE.
Dark circles underneath her eyes make them look bigger. Also a considerable amount of paint. Her mouth is a good size to begin with, but she adds on a little the way women do with lipstick. Usually I’m not too crazy about this stunt, as it’s easy as hell to spot, but on Echo it’s quite fabulous as a matter of fact. Also her teeth stick out a tiny bit even when her mouth is shut. Actually she’s got all kinds of these really sensational flaws that nobody in their right mind would change even a speck. Her hair is short and dark brown, very straight and it glows and comes to a point over each ear, so that you can’t see anything of these ears except the very bottom of them. From the side, I’d say roughly her head looks like the top of a question mark, with the earring making the little dot at the bottom. All her eyebrows are plucked away and she’s got these long straight lines drawn on instead. Plus she seems to have a damn good figure, the kind you keep on thinking about after she’s left the room. Naturally, chances are she’s got falsies on, but even so they don’t look completely impossible.
She came upstairs alone just especially to talk me into eating dinner at the table. No doubt it was a put-up job, but Echo made it like I’d be doing her a big personal favor, so finally I broke down and thought to hell with it, I been sick long enough anyway.
Annabel was way off beam about Echo being a silent person. I guess a lot of people seem that way to Annabel, as she is mostly tuned in on herself. But the fact is, Echo is willing enough to talk; she just refuses to knock people down to make an opening, is all. You ask her something and she’ll answer. Like when Annabel was in the kitchen making the gravy, I said:
“How is it you happen to be called Echo?”
She said: “Well, Clinton, I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m kind of a parrot, you know what I mean? When I was a little girl, the way I’d learn to talk was I’d repeat whatever I heard my mother say, over and over again. See?”
“Doesn’t everybody learn to talk that way?”
“Well, now, that’s a very interesting thought. I believe you’re right. What do you think about that, Ralph?”
Echo turned her enormous eyes on Ralph. He said, “Hmmm,” and seemed to weigh the question very carefully. The way Echo looks at a person makes him feel like Oliver Wendell Holmes passing down a decision. Ralph said, “Imitation, yes. I believe that’s a very decisive factor in the learning process.”
“Wow,” Echo said. Then she turned to me. “Clinton, you got a wonderful papa.” She tapped her head twice. “What a head on him! We been downstairs workin’ a puzzle, and I want to tell you it was a pleasure just to watch.” She raised her voice so that Annabel could hear it in the kitchen: “Annabel, you mind me smokin’ cigarettes at the table?”
“Not at all!” Annabel exclaimed.
“You’re a real doll and I mean that,” Echo answered. Then she lit a long cigarette with a gold tip, and turned to Ralph. “What was that thing called, Ralph, the one with all the water in the street? The Grankin—Grankin Alla—something or other?”
Ralph passed down another decision: “The Grand Canal of Venice,”
Echo said, “That’s it! You know, it’s hard for a woman to remember a thing like that.” She threw back her head and let out a big cloud of smoke that hovered over her head like a halo. Then she turned to me. “Now what was it you ast me, honey?”
I thought for a minute. “Oh, you were tellin’ me about Ralph, and the puzzle.”
“Oh! Oh, yeah, and how smart he is. Which I admire. Well, there we sat, see?” She did a little pantomime of a jigsaw puzzle being put together very fast. “Phht, phht, phht, phht,” and then she snapped her fingers and said, “There it was, together! But you better look out, Ralph, because what I’m going to do is practice!” She laughed, and then Annabel came in with the gravy.
The point is that Echo O’Brien is not some kind of a big fantastic walking brain that stops everybody cold on television quizzes. That is just a completely nother department altogether. In fact with Echo, this Grand Canal kind of thing is fairly common. She makes tons of these really stupid mistakes. But the ridiculous thing is that on her it only adds, because it makes her all the more beautiful. Boy, this is a hell of a hard thing to describe. Now for instance if you committed a murder or fell in love or got in some other kind of trouble, Echo O’Brien would know just what to do. Whereas Einstein would probably be stumped because he’d be too busy worrying about where Venice is, and relativity, etc.
The second thing after her eyes that you notice about Echo O’Brien is this quivering kind of poise she’s got. She’s graceful as hell and when she moves it’s a very definite thing. But what strikes a person as really beautiful is this way she has of quivering underneath. You don’t actually see her quiver, the way a mere nervous person does. You just feel it. You know that inside she’s all alive. And quivering. It’s all tied up with the dark circles under her eyes and that deep rippling sound her voice has got in it. It’s like her body is just this very delicate shell that she keeps her heart in. I picture it that inside this shell it’s almost dark, like a little green shelter in the woods with a brook running through it, and on the edge of the brook, just sitting there lonesome and quivering, is Echo O’Brien’s heart. The way it makes me feel is this. I’d like to just come up beside her, walking very softly, and just be there with her.
Tomorrow she’s going to teach me how to drive her 1929 Dodge touring car.
July 4.
On a day like this I don’t really like to write things down, but when everything’s miserable and back to normal again, I’ll need all this stuff to help me remember how it all was.
When I got dressed, about nine o’clock, I looked at myself in the mirror and made a solemn vow not to write in this goddam book today. But here I am. When all this excitement dies down I’ll have to do something about my will power, some kind of discipline to build it up a little.
Because what happened was, I went bouncing down the stairs with all these good intentions about no eavesdropping or note-taking, etc., when I heard them in the kitchen, Annabel and Echo, and pretty soon there I was stopped dead on the landing with my hands cupped behind my ears, leaning over the railing.
Through the whole conversation, there was a lot of coffee-cup clinking and spoon rattling. I got the impression Annabel must have just finished one of her lectures on life with a liberal. Because here’s what Echo was saying:
“Tell the truth, Annabel, and you may hate me for it, but I’m the kind of damn fool would do anything for a man. If I loved him. Wouldn’t care if he was a Communist or a what. Is that terrible of me? Maybe so. But I’d go to Lapland and live in a fish barrel, or if he wanted me to I’d stand on Euclid Avenue passin’ out leaflets that said Abraham Lincoln was six different kinds of a bastard. Isn’t that awful?”
“Of course not, you’re as sweet as you can be,” Annabel said. “But I just don’t believe you mean that. Because if all women felt that way, why! we’d deserve to lose the vote!”
“I suppose we would,” Echo said. Then she chuckled, and added: “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that, Annabel. Aren’t I something?” You could just tell Echo wasn’t the type to get in a sweat over suffrage.
“Listen, Echo,” Annabel said, “why hasn’t a girl like you ever gotten married? I just know you’ve had oodles of chances!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say oodles. But I did go with this one fella for about five years, He was a sweet guy, but he got
to be a pretty heavy drinker there for a while.”
“There!” Annabel said. “And you wouldn’t stand for it, right?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. ‘Cause see, he must’ve figured he couldn’t marry me. He got hurt in the war, and it put him all out of commission, you know what I mean?”
There was a silence. I guess Annabel must have asked the next question in pantomime. Because Echo said, “That’s right, just—all out of commission.”
“Oh, what rotten luck! Why, that’s just a sin!” Annabel said.
“He never said one word about it, was always afraid to tell me I guess. And I wouldn’t have cared either. Oh, yes, I’d have cared,” Echo said, “but it wouldn’t’ve changed how I felt. I’d have married him like a shot. But it wasn’t till about a month after he was killed that I got friendly with his sister, and she let fly the whole story. I was so glad I could’ve hugged her. Matter of fact, I did. I just squeezed her and cried like a real nut. ‘Cause if it hadn’t been for what she told me, I’d have kept on thinking it was—something about me. You see?”
“Of course,” Annabel said. “It’s so much better to know.”
“That’s it, and you don’t feel nearly so miserable. Oh, Annabel, he was a tender thing, I mean it, a devil, but sweet.”
“Well, how did he . . . What happened to him finally?”
“You sure you want to hear about that?” Echo said. Annabel must have nodded her head, because Echo went on. “Well, don’t let it depress you or anything, honey, because it’s all water over the dam. I never think about it, never give it a thought, it’s all water over the dam, been four years in March, March twelfth. But what he did was asphyxiate himself, isn’t that something? Locked the garage door, turned on the motor and just sat there. Think how miserable the poor sweet devil must’ve— But shoot! I don’t believe in just thinking and thinking and thinking about something awful when it’s just water over the dam. Do you?”
Annabel said, “Do you know your mother has never mentioned so much as a word?”
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