Friends till the End

by Gloria Dank

  “Believe me,” he would say scornfully, “you couldn’t possibly understand.”

  Ruth and Sam were very proud of him. He came home occasionally for visits and sat around the dinner table thinking Large Thoughts about his work. Heather had watched Jonathan grow up, and she had always privately considered him a difficult child. He was spoiled by his parents and led to believe that the intellect was everything; that as long as you were smart, you didn’t have to be a good or kind or interesting person as well. Secretly she cherished a fondness for Marcia, the outcast, the rebel. Marcia who, when Melvin was born, imperturbably slung him on her back and carted him along on the road with her.

  “My daughter,” Ruth would confide in a nervous whisper, “is a—a hobo.”

  “Marcia is a lesson for you, Ruthie. Dealing with her is meant to teach you something.”

  Ruth didn’t know what that could be, except perhaps the true meaning of the word “frustration.”

  “Maybe,” she would say politely. “Maybe.”

  Inside she felt resentful. Heather didn’t know what she was talking about, with all this talk of karma and lessons. Heather had Little Harry and Charlie and Linus, three perfect children, none of whom had ever given her a day’s worry in her life.

  Aloud she said, “Sam can’t figure Marcia out.”

  “It’s a lesson,” Heather responded sagely.

  Occasionally Marcia would show up on her parents’ doorstep and expect to be fed and housed for as long as she wanted. Of course they always took her in and gave her her old bedroom back and made up the guest room for Melvin. Ruth was always secretly delighted to see her. She was their daughter, after all! And they were always happy to spend time with their grandson, who was now five years old and a tiny demolition machine. Melvin’s infrequent visits were trying times for the cat, which spent its time trying to elude Melvin’s grasping hands and slink away out of sight behind the furniture. Melvin also had a habit of biting people, which Marcia did not seem to consider a negative quality in her child.

  “He’s uninhibited,” she would explain vaguely while Melvin sank his teeth into his grandmother’s leg. “I’m raising him without restrictions.” She said the word fastidiously, as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “Melvin,” Ruth would say, trying to disentangle her grandson from her leg. “Melvin, darling—ow!—Melvin, now, don’t bite Grandma—”

  Sam, his grandfather, would object to this.

  “I’ll give him some restrictions,” he would growl. As mild-mannered as Sam was, the sight of his grandson hanging onto Ruth’s leg would send his blood pressure rocketing. He would stride forward and struggle to break Melvin’s leechlike hold. Once he even added a hearty wallop, which was the beginning of a fierce argument with Marcia.

  “I won’t have him hit,” she said furiously.

  “I won’t have him biting your mother,” Sam growled.

  “I’ve never spanked him, not once.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “You think he needs a spanking, don’t you?” Marcia said. “You think he needs to be spanked?”

  “Yes, I do!”

  “Well,” said Marcia, “you spanked me when I was little, and look how I turned out!”

  She was well aware what a disappointment she was in their eyes. This answer left her father momentarily fuddled. Marcia scooped up Melvin and vanished upstairs.

  Ruth recalled unhappily how, on their last visit, Marcia and Melvin had been home for about a week when one day Sam was standing at the window looking proudly out over the lawn. Sam and Ruth lived in a small white A-frame house in one of the less affluent sections of Ridgewood. Their house had existed for thirty years in a state of slow decay: the roof caving in, the black paint on the shutters peeling, the boiler breaking down. In the back, however, was a little patch of lawn which Sam was proud of and which he tended religiously. He would mow the grass every few weeks, use pesticide on it, and reseed it every summer. This day he was gazing out the window when he noticed that, at regular intervals, the grass had been dug up and clods of earth showed moist and brown against the lush green. He was horrified.

  “What is it?” he cried. “Are there moles in the lawn?”

  It turned out that there were no moles; there was, instead, Melvin. Melvin had spent the previous day digging up parts of the lawn with one of his grandmother’s treasured family sterling silver spoons. There had been a very large argument that time; an argument of great intensity and duration. Marcia had even threatened to pack up and leave. As it turned out, she had packed up and left a few days later—her departures were as abrupt as her arrivals—but by then things were amicable again.

  “Sam could never, ever hold a grudge against his family,” Ruth told Heather, thinking of Marcia’s visits.

  “Really?” Heather gave her an odd sideways glance. “How about someone outside his family?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, how about Walter, for instance? I heard—you’ll forgive me, Ruth, but I heard—that Walter has been trying to push Sam out of the business?”

  Ruth stared at her, astonished. How did … how did that get about … how did people find out so fast …?

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she said with dignity. She sipped her grain coffee and looked woodenly at her friend.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Ruth. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I really didn’t. It’s just … it’s just that we heard …”

  Ruth’s tiny reserves of dignity collapsed.

  “Oh, all right, if you have to know. I suppose Freda told you?”

  “Well, yes. She heard from Laura.”

  “Naturally.” Ruth sounded bitter. “Well, the truth is that Walter is trying to push Sam out. After all these years, Heather … after all the time Sam has spent in the company.…”

  “It’s terrible,” Heather said with a quick rush of sympathy. “Awful! But it’s just like Walter, now, isn’t it? He can’t stand having someone be next in line. You know that’s what it is, Ruth. He has to control everything himself.”

  “We’ve been so worried.” Tears filled Ruth’s mud-colored eyes. “What are we going to do? Sam can’t get another job … not at his age … we’ve never been rich, but at least he’s always had a steady income.…”

  “I’m so sorry, Ruthie. But it may not happen. With Laura gone—Walter has so many other things on his mind. He must realize that he needs Sam now.”

  “You don’t understand,” Ruth said. Tears ran down her face. “The worst thing isn’t the money. It’s what—it’s what it’s doing to Sam. He’s worked hard all his life … what it’s doing to his ego, Heather, it’s terrible. His self-confidence—well, it’s gone—completely gone.”

  “And Sam is the only business partner Walter’s ever been able to keep, and as a personal friend too. How long have they been together—twenty years? Twenty-five? It’s awful, Ruth, I know. I don’t blame you for being upset.”

  Ruth lapsed into incoherency. “Please, Heather. You mustn’t—you mustn’t—really, you mustn’t tell anyone, all right? It’s important. And especially—you know—you mustn’t breathe a word to the police. That man—Detective Voelker. You won’t tell him, will you? Sam and I have been frantic. It would look—it would look as if Sam were involved, somehow.”

  “Of course I won’t. Don’t be silly. Some more coffee?”

  Ruth sniffed and glanced down at her cup. “No, thanks.”

  “A little peppermint tea? It’s good for you, you know. Picks you right up.”

  “Oh, okay. Just a little.”

  The child’s voice from under the table made them both jump.

  “Mommy?”

  “Goodness, Linus! What is it?”

  “Can I have something to drink, too?”

  “How about some papaya juice?”

  Linus nodded eagerly. That was his favorite.

  “All right. One peppermint tea and one papaya juice, coming right up. Are you okay
, Ruthie?”

  “Yes,” Ruth said vaguely. “Listen, Heather. You’ll do what I said? You won’t tell?”

  “Of course I won’t,” said Heather. “Now stop worrying. I know Sam would never to anything to hurt Walter—however much the old bastard deserved it!”

  Once Snooky finally got up his nerve to phone her, Isabel Sloane accepted his dinner invitation eagerly.

  “I need to get out of the house,” she told him. “I’m sick of cooking and cleaning. Richard and Daddy can fend for themselves for once.”

  She hung up and went to her closet with pleasurable anticipation, looking for something to wear. The red silk … too fancy, maybe. How about this skirt and blouse combination? The color, a pale blue, set off her eyes. Yes, that would be nice.

  She was on her way downstairs, her mind full of plans for the next evening, when she heard a commotion in the living room. There was a loud crash.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” It was her father, and he was furious. His voice held the scathing note that always made her flinch instinctively away. “You clumsy, irresponsible—”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Richard’s voice was higher than usual, strained to the breaking point. “It was an accident! I didn’t see it!”

  “You idiot! It’s priceless! A sculpture Laura brought back from the Orient!”

  “It was an accident, Dad!”

  “Jackass! Get out of my sight! But clean it up first!”

  “No!” Richard was screaming now. “No, I won’t! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

  He ran out of the living room and up the stairs, brushing roughly past Isabel. His face was white and twitching. His door shut with a bang.

  Isabel sighed. It was always like this. Daddy was so difficult. But usually Richard was more understanding.…

  She went into the living room.

  “Daddy—” she said.

  She stopped at the threshold.

  Her father was leaning over some shattered pieces of china on the floor. One of the shards was in his hands, and he was crying. Sobbing quietly to himself, his thin body bent over ludicrously.

  Isabel went back into the kitchen.

  So he really did love her, she was thinking, as she got out the food for dinner. So he really did, after all …

  * * *

  Bernard, who loathed company, spent the first half of dinner glowering across the table at their attractive guest. Isabel looked at him coolly, seeming to sum him up in a glance, and then proceeded to ignore him.

  Maya, as Snooky had predicted, filled in the empty gaps in the conversation by telling stories about her brother as a child.

  “Once when we were kids, Snooky decided he was going to build a tree house in this big oak we had out back. Well, he built it all right, and the first time the wind blew it fell down. Just sort of collapsed.”

  “I was in it at the time.”

  “You were okay. We all had a really good laugh.” She smiled fondly. “Then there was the time he took the little rowboat out. It sank, of course. Hadn’t been mended or patched or whatever it’s called for years. We sent the dog in to rescue him.”

  “None of you could be bothered to do it.”

  “As I remember, the dog swam a lot better than you did.”

  “I was little. I hadn’t even taken lessons yet.”

  “Then there was the time he locked himself accidentally in the back bedroom. William and I told him that he’d never get out, so he climbed out the window, fell two stories and broke his leg.”

  “Gee, I’m enjoying myself,” Snooky said. “More wine, Isabel?”

  Isabel was not enjoying herself. She and Maya had taken a definite dislike to each other at first sight. That Bernard hated her went without saying. She did not yet know that Bernard hated everyone. She toyed unhappily with her fork and commented on how delicious the food was.

  “Thank you,” said Maya. “Want some more of anything?”

  No, said Isabel. No, thank you, she had had enough. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “When I was little,” she said, “my brother and I used to play a game on my parents called ‘Who can get into trouble first?’ It was almost always Richard, although sometimes I won. Richard was great at getting into trouble.” She paused reflectively. “But whoever got caught, the other one always stood by them. We’d lie ourselves blue in the face. It used to drive my parents crazy.”

  “You sound like you’re really close,” said Snooky.

  “Oh, yes, I guess we are.”

  “Richard’s lucky,” said Snooky, with a smirk at Maya. “Now, I never had a sister who would stand by me. Maya would rat on me every chance she’d get …”

  Later, over the dirty dishes and globules of food scattered across the kitchen, Maya said sharply to her husband, “Bernard, please stop looking at her that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Stop giving her the evil eye.”

  “Well, I don’t like her,” said Bernard with his usual honesty.

  “That’s not the point. You could at least be civil.”

  “Why? You don’t like her either, My.”

  Maya banged two pots together in fury. “So what? At least they’re just friends, whatever that means. What does that mean, Bernard? And where’s that dessert, for crying out loud?”

  * * *

  That night in bed Maya and Bernard had a conversation.

  This was not unusual for them; they often talked in bed. Bernard, so silent with others, was loquacious with Maya. He brought up subjects; he offered opinions. He had never been that way with anyone else. It was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her.

  “Bernard?”

  “Yes?”

  “About this girl Isabel.”

  “Mmmhmm?”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “I don’t like her either.”

  “Why is Snooky trying to get so friendly with her?”

  “God only knows why your brother does anything, Maya. I’ve certainly never been able to figure him out.”

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “Snooky is not only the perennial adolescent; he’s also the perennial younger brother. I’m sure that’s all he is to her.”

  “He’s liked her ever since college, Bernard. He told us so. But he doesn’t know her very well. There’s something—something very cold and calculating about her. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it either.”

  Silence.

  “Are you asleep?” she asked.

  “No. Are you asleep?”

  “No.”

  They lay together, staring up into darkness. Bernard rolled over and took her into his arms.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about this murder,” he said. “It’s been bothering me.”

  “Me, too. Bernard, do you think—do you think there’s going to be another one?”

  “I don’t know. It depends. If somebody was trying to murder Laura Sloane—well, then obviously they can stop. But if someone was after her and her husband, or just Sloane by himself, then—”

  “Then they’ll try again.”

  “Yes. Unless all the police activity has scared them off for a while.”

  “I have to say I really don’t like Snooky getting mixed up in this. He’s so pigeon-brained, it’s just like him. He has no danger instinct. He’s so naive.”

  They cuddled together comfortably. Maya said drowsily, “It’s this murder, isn’t it, Bernard? That’s why you haven’t been working on your book.”

  “I have too been working on my book,” he said coldly.

  “Really? What’s it called?”

  “It’s called Mrs. Woolly Goes to Afghanistan.”

  “I see.”

  “I plan to have her take a tour, get captured by the mountain people and made into a rug.”

  “Sounds educational.”

  “Yes. Look, Maya, if it’ll make you feel better, I can have a talk with your brother tomorrow. Let hi
m know how we feel.”

  “Oh, thank you, honey. You know Snooky hasn’t listened to me since he was six years old. He might listen to you. Do you know, I think he’s a little afraid of you.”

  Bernard was pleased by this. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, no, Bernard, you can be quite terrifying when you want to.”

  She gave him a loving hug. From the foot of the bed there came a low yelp, and the dog scrambled up onto the quilt. She wormed her way up to their faces and sniffed them over thoroughly. Then she snuggled down, her tongue lolling blissfully over the pillow.

  Bernard leaned over to kiss his wife. “Good night, honey.”

  “G’night, Bernard.”

  “Good night, Misty,” said Bernard, but the dog was already fast asleep, her stomach heaving in little whistling grunts.

  4

  The next day Bernard summoned Snooky into his study. Bernard and Maya had each chosen one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor as an office. Bernard’s was a small room with windows looking out over the back lawn; it was lined with bookshelves and dominated by a massive cherrywood desk that Maya had found in a dusty antique store in Vermont. The desk was nearly a century old and was battle-scarred, covered with graffiti etched into the wood by previous owners: T. and J. Hopstead, June 6, 1910; Billy Inching, 1951; even, on one of the lower right-hand drawers, a little heart with Emily and Harris scrawled on it, no date. Bernard loved his desk. He knew every scratch and scar on it. Now he motioned to Snooky to sit down and the two of them sat and stared at each other for a while over its vast, cluttered surface.

  “Well, this has been fun,” Snooky said at last, breaking the silence. “Is there any reason you invited me here, Bernard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dare I ask what it is?”