Famous last words…
After dinner Mary declared her intention of going to bed, and Mrs. Willard went up with her as usual. I wondered whether she would lock Mary’s door when she left her.
Ran and I took our coffee into the parlor. We hadn’t been there long before Will came in. He greeted me pleasantly, but the casual charm of the morning had evaporated. This was a professional visit.
It was a warm evening. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie discarded and his sandy hair rumpled, Will could have auditioned for one of those TV medical shows —the young doctor, exhausted by his selfless services to mankind.
By that type of stereotype Ran didn’t come off so well. He had a cup of coffee beside him on the table, but he hadn’t drunk much of it, and the after-dinner brandy he was gulping down was his third. Sprawled in his chair, balancing the fat balloon glass between his fingers, he was the image of the idle rich man; the dark smudges under his eyes might have been mistaken for marks of dissipation rather than worry and lack of sleep.
The silence lengthened. I had decided that for once I would try to keep my mouth shut. It wasn’t easy; there were so many things I wanted to ask. Finally Ran cleared his throat.
“Have a good day?” he asked politely.
“Lousy,” Will said briefly. “I’m going home and hit the sack. I just stopped by to pick up that book you promised me.”
“Is that why you stopped by?” I asked.
“Apparently I need a polite social excuse,” Will said. He looked directly at Ran. “You were supposed to call me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ran mumbled. “I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to report your wife’s condition to her doctor? Or am I her doctor? I get the feeling that I’m not exactly the most popular medical man in town around here.”
“If you’re blaming me—” I began hotly.
“Drop it, Jo.” Ran got up and went to the bar. He reached for the brandy bottle. “Anybody join me?”
I shook my head.
“No, thanks,” Will said. “You don’t need it either, Ran.”
“Now you drop it.” Ran turned holding his glass. His face relaxed a little as he met his friend’s steady eyes. “Sorry, Will. You know I have every confidence in you. I’m just not very efficient these days. What did you want to know?”
For a minute I thought Will was going to get up and walk out. Something stopped him—compassion, friendship, professional ethics—maybe just plain curiosity. I don’t know.
“Primarily whether those sleeping tablets I prescribed are doing any good. Is she sleeping?”
Ran looked at me.
“Not—not too well,” he said reluctantly.
“Did she wake again last night?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure she took the pills?”
“Oh, yes.”
Will glanced at me. He saw my look of bewilderment, but naturally he misinterpreted its meaning.
“This is the behavior pattern I find so confusing,” he explained. “She’s fairly normal during the day; the lethargy and withdrawal are not uncommon, I could understand that. What really throws me are these midnight escapades of hers. Do you know, Jo, that she keeps trying to run away, to get out of the house? Ran assures me that there is no sensible reason—no trouble between them— that could account for it. Even if he’s overly optimistic about that, the pattern itself doesn’t make sense. Why should she only do this at night? I tell you, Mary is hiding something and it’s not the typical defense mechanism of a neurotic.”
The description agreed, damningly, with my own observations. But that wasn’t what kept me dumb; it was Ran’s silence. Why hadn’t he told his old buddy and medical adviser about Mary’s delusion? It was the key that unlocked the whole pattern of her behavior, the explanation that made her trouble explicable—and also much more dangerous than Will could possibly realize.
Again Will misinterpreted my silence. I was beginning to feel sorry for him, and the feeling increased as he went on talking—to me, not to Ran, as if he really cared what I thought about him.
“Jo, when I shot my big mouth off yesterday, you were rightto get mad at me. I was expressing hostility toward Mary because I hated to admit my own inadequacy. Back in med school I knew I’d never make a psychiatrist, though the subject interested me enormously. I’m too— unimaginative, maybe; too ready to dismiss neurosis as weakness. At least I know my inability, and it’s high time you faced it too.” He turned to Ran. “I’m out of my depth, Ran. And Mary is no better. You’ve got to find someone else.”
Ran drew a long breath.
“God, I’m relieved to hear you say that! Not that I agree with your appraisal of yourself… To tell the truth, I did something the other day and I’ve been feeling guilty about it ever since.”
“What?”
“We agreed that Mary should see a psychiatrist. She won’t go to one. So—I arranged to have the mountain come to Mohammed.”
“That’s why you went to Boston,” Will said.
“Right.”
“You’ll never get away with it, Ran. What are you planning to do, introduce him as an old friend who just happened to be passing through this—this crossroads of the north? Mary will be suspicious of any strange man you bring here.”
“Ah,” Ran said triumphantly. “That’s where the trick comes in. It isn’t a man. It’s a woman.”
“Ingenious,” Will said, after a moment. “Also a little ingenuous, Ran. You don’t ask people—male or female— to drop in when your wife isn’t well. And not even Freud could make a snap diagnosis after an hour’s chat over cocktails.”
“You haven’t heard the whole scheme.” Ran went back to the bar. My subconscious was counting; this was his fifth brandy. The only effect it had, however, was to make him look more relaxed and confident. He was smiling as he crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside me, and he leaned forward, arguing in his old persuasive way.
“The doctor—her name is Anne Wood, incidentally— is going to be a house guest. Now, wait. Naturally I wouldn’t invite a stranger to stay when Mary was sick. But if your sister happened to want to visit you—your hardworking sister, who hasn’t taken a vacation in years—I’d have to offer her a room, wouldn’t I? That shack of yours can’t accommodate visitors.”
He leaned back, grinning triumphantly.
My first reaction was one of admiration. Mary didn’t know Will that well; he might have a dozen relatives she hadn’t heard about. I looked anxiously at Will, wondering what objections he would raise next.
“Anne Wood,” he said thoughtfully.
“You know her?”
“Read a couple of her articles.”
“Is she that well known? What did you think of her work?”
“She’s quite well known. I gather that her methods are regarded as somewhat—well—flamboyant by the conservatives in the profession; but that isn’t necessarily…”
He hesitated; and I realized that Ran had put him into a position where he couldn’t say anything too critical without sounding jealous. He went on, “No, I’m sure she’s sound. Popular, too. May I ask how you persuaded a busy, successful doctor to take a weekend off?”
“Doctors do take weekends off, I believe.”
Ran’s voice was cold. He always resented any implication that it was money, rather than natural ability, that got him what he wanted. And in this case, obviously, it was the cash that had turned the trick. He had probably offered the woman a sum that she couldn’t refuse.
“Most doctors do,” Will admitted. He grinned. “I’m just jealous because I can’t. Sorry, Ran. I think it was a brilliant idea and I hope to God it works. When is she coming?”
“This weekend.”
“Well, I guess we can muddle through till then.” Will stood up. “Excuse me, people, but I’m bushed. Maybe that’s why I haven’t made much sense this evening.”
He was drooping visibly as he went out the door; his broad shoulders s
agged. I told myself to forget the old maternal instinct; but when I turned to Ran my face wasn’t as friendly as usual.
“Why the cold and fishy stare?” he asked. “You were the one who bawled me out for not making Mary see a head-shrinker.”
“Oh, I think Dr. Wood is a great idea. It might even help. Why didn’t you tell Will about the crying?”
“What’s the point? Will’s right, and I’m glad he has the integrity and the sense to realize it. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him he can’t help us.”
“You can’t judge his ability if you don’t give him the data to work with,” I said.
Ran’s eyes narrowed. He reached out to put his glass down on the table. His hand was unsteady, and I saw then that he was a good deal drunker than I had realized.
“Well, well,” he said. His voice was just the least bit slurred. “Could it be that little sister is falling for old William? No—wait—Jo, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Don’t you get mad at me, Jo. I couldn’t stand it if you turned on me too…”
He reached out for me. Even then, with his arms around me and his lips on my cheek, I felt nothing except the exasperated pity you feel for the unexpected weakness of someone you love. He had held me in his arms before. I’m not trying to excuse myself. But whatever I had wanted from him—it wasn’t this, not under these circumstances. I moved my head and my lips brushed his; and then I did try to push him away, my hands hard against his chest. By then it was too late. His unstable weight bore me back down onto the couch.
So it had happened at last—the embrace, so often imagined and guiltily desired during adolescence—and it was nothing, not even passion, because I knew what had brought it on. I couldn’t even resent what he was doing. He was no more aware of intent than an animal is when it turns blindly into the nearest shelter. And I knew that when he realized what he had done, he would be sick with guilt. And all the while out of the corner of my wide-open eyes I was horribly conscious of the open door. If Mary came down, or Mrs. Willard…
I might have known it would be Will. He called out as he opened the front door, “Ran? I forgot that book—”
I began to wriggle, ineffectually and frantically. The movement, or the voice, roused Ran. He raised his head, blinking dizzily. I turned my own head in time to meet the full impact of Will’s stare.
He stood transfixed in the doorway. It must have made quite a tableau, as he saw it; but he didn’t wait to appreciate the details. One stare—a look of the most complete contempt I have ever seen on a man’s face—and then he turned on his heel and walked out. I heard the front door close, very quietly.
Ran pushed himself up. He was shocked into sobriety and I found his expression just as painful, in a different way, as Will’s had been. I couldn’t stand it. I felt sorry for him, but I felt a lot sorrier for myself. I got up and ran out of the room, leaving Ran sitting there looking like Judas.
I could have used a sleeping pill myself that night. When you’re young there is nothing, but nothing, worse than humiliation. Torture, tragedy, terror—they may be more painful than embarrassment but at least they have a certain dignity. There is nothing romantic or tragic, or sophisticated, about being caught on the living room couch with your sister’s husband—especially when you are caught by a man whom you are beginning to find somewhat attractive.
It was irrational for me to feel guilty, but of course I did feel just that. The single drunken embrace, ironically, was innocent in itself, but behind it lay five years of a more basic guilt. Worst of all was the simple sordid fact that I had been caught. Will was not the kind of man to shrug off casual immorality even if there had been no complicating factors. And in view of Mary’s present mental state, an affair between her sister and her husband was worse than grubby; it was callous and cruel and potentially dangerous.
When I came downstairs next morning, the fine weather had broken at last. The air outside was cool and yet sultry, and gray clouds hung low. It wasn’t the best possible weather for a hike, but I wanted to get out of the house before Ran or Mary appeared. I couldn’t face either of them.
I took the path to the graveyard, not because I particularly wanted to go there, but because it was the only path I knew. The road led to town—too far to walk, in the time at my disposal—and, in the other direction, to Will’s house. I wasn’t awfully anxious to see him either.
The cemetery could hardly have looked more dismal. In the oddly clear gray light the stillness of the place held an air of expectancy. The hideous Gothic mausoleum was a unique creation; I had never seen anything quite so awful before.
It was an interesting structure, though. The workmanship was quite fine. The lancet windows were miniature replicas of medieval designs, but I couldn’t really consider them a happy thought. They had no glass, of course, only flat panels of stone behind the ornate tracery, but the suggestion of windows in that house of the dead was somehow unpleasant. I began to wonder about old Hezekiah; and then I began to notice other things. The door, for instance. Its heavy wooden panels were set deep in a carved arch which was adorned with sculptured figures, like the saints on a European cathedral. These were figures of Old Testament prophets and patriarchs. But there was a suggestion of something wrong, not so much in the figures themselves as in the details.
Jael, holding aloft the huge spike which she had driven into the head of Sisera—all right, that was perfectly in accord with the taste of the time. But surely the lady’s body was too visible through the folds of her robe, and too voluptuous for that of a Hebrew prophetess. The protuberances on the head of Moses were definitely horns; they came to sharp points. And there was a very peculiar face peering out over the shoulder of another bearded patriarch whose identity was uncertain.
Nor was the door itself lacking in suggestive details. Its ironbound panels were stained with decay, and the heavy padlock reminded me irresistibly of a horrible ghost story I had read as a child. “Count Magnus”—that was the name of it—the story of the traveler who finds the mausoleum with the three huge locks. Returning on successive days, he finds each day that another lock has mysteriously come open. On the third day he flees in terror; but behind him he hears the clang as the third and last lock falls open to the ground.
“Cut that out,” I said, addressing my inconvenient imagination. Then I was sorry I had spoken aloud. In the stillness the words came back at me from out of the trees.
Then, as I turned from the door, I saw her.
It was a woman, there was no doubt of that, even though a deep hood of the same black as her enveloping cloak shadowed her features. The cloak hung from shoulder to ground in unmoving folds; so still that the figure might have been a statue carved of dark granite.
My immediate reaction was fright, but not so much because of any quality of horror in the figure itself. The mood of the place, the suddenness of the apparition’s appearance, and its utter stillness would have struck even the boldest observer with a shock of surprise—and I’m not that bold. But gradually, as my breath wheezed back into my lungs and the first panic passed I became aware of another, more insidious fear.
She wasn’t inside the cemetery. I was glad of that. She stood just outside the fence, leaning slightly forward toward it. I thought she was about to move, to lift pale hands toward the heavy iron spikes, when suddenly, off in the woods, a bird let loose a flood of liquid notes.
The sound broke some sort of spell; my aching eyes blinked. And when I opened them, she was gone.
Gone, disappeared, vanished. Not even the flutter of a black hem showed that anyone had been there. But I thought I heard a sound, a rustling among the fallen leaves to the right of the path by which I had entered the clearing—as if someone—or something—was making its way toward the gate.
I ran in the opposite direction. Panic made me stumble and trip over obstructionsI should have been able to avoid. But the pain of bruised knees and a twisted ankle did not slow my flight. There was only one way I could go, since the path by which I
had entered was barred to me—along the other part of the path, which led to Will’s house.
I came plunging out of the trees to see the house and the blue station wagon, just starting off down the track.
I ran straight out in front of it. When the car stopped —Will’s reflexes were excellent—its hood was so close to me that I was able to collapse onto it. Will didn’t even swear as he jumped out of the car and grabbed me; he could tell there was something wrong.
He kept shaking me and asking questions. Finally I managed to say, “If you wouldn’t keep shaking me I could talk.”
His hands remained on my shoulders. I thought for a minute that he was going to pick me up and carry me; and the idea was so pleasant that I let myself lean on him. But by that time his professional eyes had inspected me and he had found no serious damage. He propped me up against the left fender of the car and stepped back.
Crying Child Page 7