Jeanie said, "I'll help you tend bar. Dad." And the bus driver began to tell Mrs. Pyne the saga of their search.
It was curiously like a party, and a party of loosened tongues, at that, well past the polite preliminaries. Mr. .1 Gibson sat beside Rosenlary on a sofa and tried to remem- ; ber that he was a criminal. Somebody, somewhere, could be dead, or now dying, by his hand.
Young Jeanie seemed to have caught on to the wide-open atmosphere. Holding the tray, she said to the Gibsons, "I'm sorry I got so mad, but Dad should have trusted me. My goodness, most of the time he leans on me too much."
"He's so fond of you, dear," said Rosemary, "and of your grandmother, too."
"He's absolutely tied to Grandma's apron strings," said , Jeanie impatiently. "I wish Re'd get married." |
"Z)o you?" said Rosemary sharply.
"Of course, we both do. Don't we, Grandma?"
"Wish Paul would marry?" Mrs. Pyne sighed. "We've J not been very successful matchmakers." j
"Look, I'm happy," said Paul, passing drinks.
Rosemary leaned forward and said deliberately, "But Mrs. Pyne, wouldn't Jeanie be terribly jealous of a stepmother? Isn't a teen-age daughter bound to be?"
I
"Subconsciously?" said Virginia, her clean-cut little mouth forming the word with distaste.
Mr. Gibson felt very queer. He kept his face a blank. He had a conviction that Lee Coffey, Theo Marsh, all of them, could see right through his skin.
"Here comes Ethel, hey?" said Lee. "Oh boy, this Ethel—';
"Jeanie," said Mrs. Pyne gently, "is truly fond of Paul."
"Honestly!" burst Jeanie. "How can she think that about me? She doesn't even know me. And I know the facts of life! I've been trying to marry Dad off for four years now. Pretty consciously," she flared.
"Ethel though," said the bus driver comfortably, "she knows better. Hey, Rosemary?" He winked.
"I don't think she knows much about teen-agers," said Jeanie. "We're a pretty bright bunch."
"Quite so," said Mrs. Boatright. "One should make a practice of listening to young people. Go on, my dear."
"We've even heard of Oedipus," Jeanie rushed on— flashing Mrs. Boatright a look of fierce response. "We're not stupid. I ask you, what's going to happen to Dad when I go off? And I'm going, some day."
"And I," said Mrs. Pyne, nodding calmly.
"If he hasn't got somebody, he's going to be just lost," said Jeanie. "He's an awful comfort-loving man."
Paul said, "These women . . . they nag me . . ." He lifted his glass. His eyes were suddenly inscrutable.
Mr. Gibson sipped his own drink, in automatic imitation. It was cold and tasteless, and then suddenly delicious.
"Well, of course," said Rosemary wickedly, "Ethel has her own ideas about crippled old ladies, too, Mrs. Pyne."
Paul looked very angry.
Mrs. Pyne lifted her hand, as if to forestall his anger and she smiled. "Poor Ethel," she said. "Well, she must live as best she can and think what will comfort her, I suppose. Never married. No children. Such a limited experience of life."
Mr. Gibson murmured his astonishment. "Ethel? Limited?" He had never thought of this.
"I don't think she has many connections with real people," said Mrs. Pyne. "That is to say, individuals. Or how could she judge them in such lumps?"
"She doesn't look—can't see," said Theo Mzirsh.
"They're a wild and wonderful lot," said the bus driver, patting Virginia's hand, "if you take them one by one. And that's the way I like them." Virginia blushed and shushed him.
"Still," said Mr. Gibson, clearing his throat, "Ethel has had quite a successful business career. She has faced up to facts all her life." (His tongue felt loose. He was almost enjoying this party.) "Whereas I," he went on, "am the one who has had the limited existence. A little poetry. Some academic backwaters. Even in the war, I . . ."
"How can you read poetry and not notice the universe?" said Lee indignantly. "You know who is limited? Fella who reads nothing but the newspaper, watches nothing but his own p's and q's, plus TV in the evening, works for nothing but money, buys nothing with the money but a car or a steak, does what he thinks the neighbors do and don't notice the universe. Actually," he sank back and slipped his fingers on his glass, "I never met anybody like that, myself."
''You read about him in the newspaper," said Theo Marsh.
"What war, Mr. Gibson?" asked Virginia.
"Oh . . . both wars. I was too old for Korea . . ."
"Oh yes," said Rosemary with charming sarcasm. "He has had so little experience. Only two wars, you see. Then there was the depression, the years when he took care of his mother, when he paid for Ethel's education. And that was weak and drifting of him, wasn't it? The years he has taught . . . who counts those? Ethel doesn't. I don't see why not," she added in a low voice. "Or why, when a man has led a useful life for fifty-five years and is kind and generous and good . . . why Ethel seems to assume he is so naive and so . . ."
"Innocent?" supplied Mr. Gibson, his eyes crinkling. (He was having a lovely time.)
"Backwaters?" snapped Theo Marsh. "What d'ya mean? What does she think life is made of? Your name in the metropolitan newspapers? Cafe society?"
"No, no. Facts," said Mr. Gibson. "Mean-ness. People who run knives in your back. Egos and burglars . . ."
"Please." The painter stopped him with a loud groaning. "Why is everything loathsome and unpleasant called a fact? Thought fact was another name for truth. And evil truths may be . . . but truth does not equal evil. I'll tell you,
you can't paint a decent picture without the truth in it."
"Or write a decent poem, either," said the bus driver, "or teach a decent lesson. Or earn an honest penny. You know, I think he is innocent." He looked around belligerently.
"I think he's a dear," said Virginia warmly.
Mrs. Boatright was nodding judiciously. "Theo," said she, "I believe the Tuesday Club would listen to you on this subject . . ."
"For a hundred and fifty lousy bucks?" said Theo. "Bah! Those cheapskates!"
Mr. Gibson tried very hard not to be having so much fun. Here, beside Rosemary, in this clean and comfortable and charming room where the dainty gentlewoman in her wheel chair was their true hostess, where all these lively people spoke their minds . . . No, no—he must remember that he had to face the music.
Sometimes, however, he thought with a boom of pleasure that would not be denied, there is music. That's the funny thing! This group of people, the way they talked to him, the way they argued with him, contradicted him, tried to buck him up, liked him and worried for him, and fought with him against fate, and gave him of their own faiths . . . this touched him and made music in his heart. He thought no man had ever had so delightful an experience as he had had this day of his suicide.
But such pleasure was only stolen. He must go. He must face whatever would come, nor would it be music, altogether.
Chapter XX
HE STARTED TO RISE. "Wait a minute," said the bus driver. "Listen, kids . . ."
"Yes, Lee?" said Mrs. Boatright alertly. "We got our hair down, all of us. Hey? Let's not skim the surface here. Don't go, Gibson. Yet. I want to know the answer to one question that's been worrying me. Rosemary . . ."
"Yes, Lee?"
Mr. Gibson sat dowij. He trembled. This bus driver was a shrewd man, in his own way.
"Now, this Ethel, she decides your subconscious wants to get rid of him. That's right, isn't it? Tell me, what reason did she decide your subconscious had for this?"
Rosemary flushed.
"She'd figured out a reason?"
"Yes," said Rosemary. "Of course she had." Her fingers turned her glass. "These marriages never work, you know," said Rosemary almost dreamily. "Kenneth is twenty-three years older than I. Isn't that terrible! Ethel thinks that subconsciously . . ." she went on very quiet and yet defiant and brave, "I must wish I had a younger mate."
"Like who? Hey?" said the bus driver, his
eyes lively, his sandy lashes alert. The painter sat up. Mrs. Boatright looked suddenly very bland and supercalm.
"Like Paul," said Rosemary.
"Now we're getting to the bottom," said the bus driver with satisfaction.
"Aha!" said the painter.
"Oh now, look, Rosie," said Paul, crimson. "Now you know . . ."
"I thought I knew," said Rosemary, and smiled at him.
"If our hair is down," said Jeanie bluntly, "all right. I'll tell you something. She is too old —for Daddy."
Mr. Gibson felt a wave of shock ripple through him. Rosemary! Too old!
"He likes them rather plump, about five years older, and two inches shorter, than me," said Jeanie impudently, "as far as I can figure on the basis of experiments, so far."
"Now you . . . just be quiet, please," said Paul, much embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Rosie, but after all you are his wife. I certainly . . ."
"Don't be sorry," said Rosemary gently. Her face be came ver)' serene as she lifted it. "You've been kind, Paul You've tried to comfort me. You've told me not to worry But I am too old for you, of course. Just as you are . . forgive me, dear Paul . . . just a bit too dull for my taste You see, I like a seasoned man."
"Good for you," said Theo Marsh complacently. "Intelligent woman."
"Ethel just can't seem to believe," said Rosemary, calm
and sad, "anything so simple. The fact is, I married the man I love."
Mr. Gibson, looking at his glass, could see her fingers, slim and fair, upon her own.
"However," said Mr. Gibson out of a trance, able to speak quite coolly, although somewhat jerkily, "it is still possible that, as Ethel says, I am, for Rosemary, a father-image."
Rosemary looked at him with mild astonishment. "Not my father," she said calmly. "My father, since the day I was bom, was mean and didactic and unjust and petty and spoiled and childish. I don't like to sound disloyal, but that's the truth. Kenneth isn't anything like my father," she explained graciously to them all.
"It is a little ridiculous, though," said Mr. Gibson chattily. (This was the strangest party!) "I am fifty-five years old, you see. For me to be so deep in love, for the first time in my life, is quite . . . comical. Somehow. It makes everybody smile."
"Smile?" said Virginia. "But of course! It's nice! It's pleasant to see."
"I should have said . . . snicker," revised Mr. Gibson.
"Who," growled the bus driver, "does it make snicker?"
"Not at all," said the artist. "I was in love last winter. If anyone had snickered at me, I'd have spit in their eye." He would have. Everyone believed this.
"How come this Ethel put the Indian sign on the both of you?" asked the bus driver. "How come she shook you? Anybody can see you two are in love." He was a gentle ruthless man.
"I was a rabbit," said Rosemary. "I should have spit in her eye." She was sitting very straight. "I am to blame."
Mr. Gibson felt exhausted and also very peaceful. "I, too," he said. "But I am old, lame, unsure . . . and extremely stupid. I permitted her to upset me. My fault. My blame." He wanted to cry. He drank thirstily.
"Whereas, our Paul," said the painter, "is as handsome as the hero in a slick magazine. And as good as he is beautiful. No offense. No offense. Sex, I presume?" He crossed his yellow socks and tried to look innocent. "According to lethal Ethel?"
"Lethal Ethel, that's good" said the bus driver angrily. "That's apt, that is."
Virginia said, "Surely people know when they're in love . . ." and bit her lips.
Rosemary leaned back with a little smile gentle on her face. "Do you know something? There is a fact they never take account of—in a magazine story or the movies either . . . that I ever saw. Why is it you . . . want to be where someone is? Why?" She looked at Virginia. "It can't be just because he's good-looking. (Although Kenneth is, very.) It certainly can't be just because somebody is young. To me," she continued to the lamp beside the sofa, "the most important thing of all is how much fun you have together, and I don't mean sex. Although—" Rosemary gulped and went on. "Do you understand me? I mean—just enjoying each other's.company. We had such good times ... as I had never known. We laughed," said Rosemary. She leaned forward with sudden vehemence. "Why don't people talk about that as if it were attractive? It is. It's powerfully attractive. I think it's the most powerful attraction of all."
"The most permanent," said Mrs. Pyne, softly.
"Absolutely," said Mrs. Boatright. "Or the race could not endure. All beloved wives, for instance, are not size twelve." She rocked a little indignantly on her great haunches.
"Hm," said the artist, "my fourth wife now ... I had a most delightful companionship with that one, all around the clock. And although her ankles were not perfect, she is the one I mourn ... it's a fact." He looked mildly astonished.
"I . . . agree," breathed Virginia. The bus driver slid his eyes under his lashes.
Mr. Gibson, with joy shooting in his veins . . . and shame and sorrow, too, but with an iron resolve that the rest of this was his own private business however much he loved —Yes, he did!—all of them . . . took Rosemary's hand and got to his feet. He said with a simplicity that achieved privacy with one stroke, "Thank you all very much for everything you have done and said. But we must go now."
To Mrs. Pyne he said, "If you will pray for us—that the poison be found . . ."
"I will," she vowed.
Paul said shyly, nervously, "Sure hope it works out O.K."
Jeanie said, "Oh, we all hope so!"
Mrs. Boatright said, "The police may still find it. Mustn't underestimate the organization."
It
The painter said, "It could be on a dump heap, right now and you will never know . . . never hear , . . You realize?"
The nurse said, "Oh, please ... be happy." Her whole cool responsible little person was dissolving in sentimental tears.
The bus driver said earnestly, "Lots of good books been written in jail; I mean to say, 'Stone walls do not . . .' "
"I'll remember that, Lee," said Mr. Gibson affectionately. For this man was the one who had set the fashion, the one who had decreed, in the beginning, that there would be no candy. He offered none now, really.
Mr. Gibson slipped one arm around Rosemary's waist and guided her out of the house.
They left seven people.
"He's a darling," sobbed Virginia. "She's a dear. . . . Can't we save them? Think, everybody!"
Then the seven were silent in that room—silent and sad and still fighting.
Mr. Gibson and his wife, Rosemary, walked rather slowly and quite silently along the terrace to its end and down the steps and across the double driveway. It was a quarter of six o'clock. A sweet evening coming. They passed the shining garbage cans. Beyond the steps to the kitchen there grew a shrub, and Mr. Gibson pulled his wife gently to the far side of this friendly green mass where no window overlooked them.
He took her in his arms and she came close. He kissed her gently and then again, less so. Her head came upon his shoulder.
"You do remember the restaurant, Kenneth?"
"I do. I do."
"How we laughed! I thought after you were hurt, that you couldn't, didn't remember."
But remembered woe was far away. She only sighed.
"I remember the fog, too," he murmured. "We said it was beautiful."
"We didn't—altogether—mean the fog?"
"No." He kissed her, once more, most tenderly. "It's an old-fashioned plot, mouse. Isn't it? A misunderstanding. But then, I am an old-fashioned man."
"I love you so," said Rosemary. "No matter what— don't leave me."
"No matter what," he promised. He was a criminal. He
might leave her, although not "really." There was bitter. There was sweet.
In a few minutes, he turned her gently, and they began to go up the steps to the kitchen door.
Chapter XXI
ETHEL GffiSON returned to the cottage shortly after four o'clock that aftern
oon. She frowned to find the doors unlocked, the place wide open, and empty. Very careless of her brother! Still, he might be over at the Townsends', just across the driveways. Ethel did not feel in a mood to join him, if so. She had arranged her day in her mind and did not like to break her plan with idle and unexpected sociability.
She put off her summer suit-jacket and marched into the kitchen. What disarray! Really, order was essential in so small a house. Ethel did not like living in this cottage; an apartment would be so much less labor. She thought they would be moving elsewhere before very long. Now she compressed her lips. Lettuce limpening on the open counter. Bread not neatly in the bread box. Cocoa, tea, should be on the shelves. Cheese ought to be refrigerated. A green paper bag. Now what was this? A tiny bottle of olive oil. Imported! Much too expensive!
She shook her head and proceeded to clear the things away, properly washed the lettuce and put it in the crisping bin, the cheese in the icebox, threw the paper bag into the kitchen wastebasket, placed cans and bottles in the cupboard.
She stepped into the living room long enough to switch on the radio. Music was a habit with her. She paid no attention to it but felt its absence.
She then walked back to her (and Rosemary's) bedroom, drew off her business clothes and hung them, put on a cotton dress. Ethel then threw herself down upon the bed to relax. Music came distantly. When there were voices, she did not listen. She never listened to commercials. Her mind ran over the first day at this office. This job would serve. She already felt that she had some clues to the hid-
den springs of the boss's character. She foresaw an orderly, courageous, and useful life in this quiet town. Excellent for her health. She dozed.
She was wakened at a quarter after five by the telephone. The house was still empty.
"Yes?"
"This is the Townsend Laboratories calling," said a female voice. "Is Mr. Kenneth Gibson there?"
"No, he is not." Ethel was crisp.
"Where is he, do you know?"
"No, I do not. I daresay he will be here at dinner time."
"When?" The voice faded feebly.
A dram of poison Page 16