Too Much Too Soon

by Jacqueline Briskin

  “Curt, darling, I bless him.”

  “One of the reasons I love you is whenever I look into your eyes, I’m healed of my childhood.”

  “It’s over,” she said, hugging him fiercely.

  “Things like that are never over.” He switched on the light. “Honora, you must always remember that starving boy lives inside me. He’ll always go for the jugular. He’ll always prod me to grab and scratch for the kind of luxuries those rich bastards who ate in the Ringstrasse cafes had, he’ll do whatever he must to push ahead.”

  “You’re not ruthless.”

  “Face it, Honora, my dominant trait’s ambition. I intend to make it to the top.” He forced a smile. “Come on, all this talk of starving’s made me ravenous. Let’s scramble some eggs.”

  She watched the strong, well-knit body cross the room before she got out of bed.

  * * *

  Joscelyn lay immobile in the center of the big, soft bed, carefully simulating the deep, modulated breath of sleep. Her ears were alert, though, and her eyes staring into the governing darkness. She was a mess when either of her sisters went out at night; especially when Honora was absent a gamut of terrors prowled. Tonight, with Gideon away too, the flesh of her enforcedly still body was covered with goosebumps. Joscelyn was keenly intelligent, and certainly old enough to understand that her fears were irrational . . . yet, mightn’t that creak herald an intruder, couldn’t that shadow in the corner be a lurking kidnapper, wouldn’t an old house with this much paneling burst into instant conflagration?

  Mrs. Ekberg believed that Honora was out with a friend—Vi Knodler, that waitress at Stroud’s she still sometimes saw—but Joscelyn knew that Honora was spending the afternoon and evening with Curt and was with him now. Joscelyn accepted that her sister was sticky in love.

  Joscelyn’s prepubescent heart, too, had an icon shrine lit by smoky candles for Curt. He had it all: style, brains, a gorgeous convertible, an impervious, sarcastic smile. The thing she couldn’t understand was why Gideon, whom she admired, didn’t want Honora going out with this flower of manhood.

  The sound of a car grew louder, and Joscelyn, an outspoken agnostic, found her mind teeming with infantile prayers. Please, God, let it be Honora, I’ll be nice to everyone tomorrow if it’s her.

  A light blossomed behind her curtains, abruptly extinguishing when the motor was cut.

  Only when the side door opened and closed, and Honora’s light footsteps ran up the staircase, did she roll over and breathe normally.

  “Honora,” she called. “That you?”

  Honora came in, switching on a light. “You’re still up, Joss?”

  “I was asleep until you came in.”

  “I tried not to make a racket.” Honora came to press her night-cool cheek on Joscelyn’s forehead.

  Joscelyn inhaled the unique body fragrance that was dewy and sweet. There was a smell of soap, too, as if she’d recently showered. Another reason to envy both sisters: neither ever had the odor of smelly feet, as Joscelyn was positive she did. “I’ll never get back to sleep.”

  “If you were in my bed would it help?” Honora asked.

  Was that a trace of hesitancy in the soft voice? Joscelyn’s face burned. Was Honora remembering the first week they were in this house, when every morning this bed had an ignominiously sunken damp splotch? “Your snoring’s hardly the cure for insomnia.”

  “Do I snore?” Honora asked in a hurt little voice.

  Remorse flooded through Joscelyn. Her pride halted her from confessing her lie.

  “Sometimes, but not too very loud,” she said, adding aggrievedly, “Oh well, if you insist, I’ll give it a try in your room.”

  12

  It was an inviolable commitment for the four Sylvanders to spend Sunday together. Gideon had bought a luxurious wood-bodied Chrysler Town and Country (because it had been delivered on Crystal’s birthday, he referred to it with stilted jests as Crystal’s convertible) and enrolled the two older girls at Ace Driving School. In sporty magnificence, the top down, they would pick up their father. Langley had moved from Lombard Street to Stockton Street, a better class of flat, he said, but the exterior of the building was yet more shabby, and they never glimpsed his apartment. He was always waiting on the pavement for them.

  The weather had remained hot over the weekend. Honora had told her father they were bringing a picnic, but as they drove up Stockton, he was waiting on the shady side, his long, weedy body encased in his narrow, three-piece black pin-striped suit. His white flannels, made for him on Savile Row in his halcyon honeymoon days, had turned an uneven, sulfuric yellow, and he owned no American sport clothes. They drove across the bridge, winding up to a piny park in the Berkeley hills. The heat is more intense on the inland side of the Bay, yet Langley, ever the gentleman, did not shed his jacket. He mopped his brow while making the whimsical remarks that kept laughter bubbling at their redwood picnic table.

  The only awkward note of the afternoon rang when Langley raised a Dixie cup of Mrs. Wartobe’s lemonade. “Here’s to being in our own climate next summer,” he toasted.

  “I’m staying here, Daddy,” Honora said softly.

  “What’s that?” Langley peered in surprise at his pet, his steadfast English girl.

  Her creamy skin was flushed, and the faint sheen of sweat made her radiant. “I like California,” she murmured.

  “Face it, Daddy,” Crystal said, fanning her wide-brimmed straw hat in the hot, still, pine-odored air. “We’re Americans.”

  “It takes five years to get citizenship,” Joscelyn corrected, but didn’t refute her sisters’ main point.

  Langley drank his lemonade in silence. After a minute, he rose to his feet, mimicking an aged, crablike walk. “Girls, who am I?”

  By the time Honora guessed Lear, he had them laughing so hard she could hardly get out the name.

  * * *

  They dropped him off at six.

  When they drove up Clay Street they saw the Cadillac parked in the porte cochere with Juan hauling Gideon’s small suitcase from the trunk. Gideon, on the steps to the side entry with the larger valise, set down his briefcase to lift his arm in greeting.

  “The return of the native,” Crystal called flirtatiously from the Town and Country’s driver’s seat.

  “It’s swell to have you back, Gideon,” called Joscelyn, who never passed up a chance to use his first name.

  “Welcome home,” Honora cried warmly.

  “The-ere’s n-oooo pu-lace like ho-o-ome.” Gideon’s gravelly, toneless voice raised in song.

  It was so unlike him that Honora stared. The virile auburn sideburns were freshly barbered, his suit jacket was jauntily open, displaying a spritely red tie. Being in love herself, she speculated whether Gideon, too, had fallen into the tender trap. Though Matilda Talbott had died only a little over a half year ago, she had been an invalid a very long time. It would not be surprising if Gideon had found some sympathetic widow—his high standards of morality would prevent his wooing a divorcée. And with a little jolt, she accepted that though he was short-legged, bald, with strong, ugly features, he had vigorous presence—and more than enough wealth—to attract older women in their thirties and forties.

  The girls piled out of the convertible, leaving it for Juan to drive down to the garage, which had been the carriage house.

  Joscelyn took Gideon’s thick, reddish hand, and Honora picked up his attaché case.

  Crystal kissed near his cheek. “How was Oxnard?” she asked.

  “The refinery’s going well, but you can’t imagine how I missed you girls,” he said with a hearty, jocular laugh. “Now go get washed up. Curt’s coming to dinner.”

  Mrs. Ekberg was waiting in a dark corner of the immense hall. Coming forward, she nervously fingered her swirled gray French knot. “Mr. Talbott, may I have a word?”

  “After dinner.”

  “This is important,” Mrs. Ekberg twittered.

  “Have your charges been harassing you
?” he asked, winking at Crystal.

  Mrs. Ekberg’s narrow features contorted into beseeching desperation.

  “Come on in the office, then,” Gideon said, setting his valise on the parquet.

  The girls clattered upstairs. “What do you suppose Ekberg’s so het up about?” Crystal said.

  “You got home late Thursday night,” Joscelyn retorted.

  “Even she’s not idiotically prissy enough to let that get to her. Maybe the principal phoned that our Jossie’s being expelled after one week.”

  “Ha-ha,” Joscelyn said.

  Honora said nothing, but ran into her room.

  “That’s right,” Crystal called. “Go make yourself bee-oot-eous for Curt.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Wartobe, who took off Sundays, had left a cold supper that Juan served. Mrs. Ekberg was not at the table—she often excused herself from meals when her colitis was acting up. Gideon had plunged from his homecoming pleasure. Head hunched between his thick shoulders, he silently forked up cold cuts and potato salad, glaring at a big, lazy fly as it buzzed through the room.

  Though Honora normally reacted like mercury to the emotional temperature, she paid little attention to Gideon’s mood shift. Her efforts were expended on not gazing at Curt. He and Crystal were carrying on a meaningless banter, artificial notes ringing too loudly in the strained atmosphere. Joscelyn, always unnerved by anger, spilled her chocolate milk on the cutwork cloth. Mopping up created a welcome diversion. They were toying with Mrs. Wartobe’s meltingly rich devil’s food cake when Gideon got to his feet, dropping his napkin on the table. “Come into my office, Ivory,” he said, and stalked from the room.

  Honora’s tingle of anxiety came not so much from Gideon’s tone—he often was abrupt when it came to business matters—but by his use of the patronym he had bestowed. She glanced at Curt. He raised an eyebrow, indicating he was as mystified as she.

  “Another scintillating Sunday evening watching ‘Show of Shows,’” Crystal sighed.

  Honora paid no attention to Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca’s preenings on the ten-inch screen. Her attention was fixed on any sounds that might come from Gideon’s small office across the hall.

  Once, over the televised laughter, she heard Gideon’s raised voice. A web of her sympathy went out to Curt. How immeasurably difficult it must be for him to be dressed down by the man to whom he had given his most profound loyalty and affection. But what on earth was Gideon yelling about?

  Me, she thought. Gideon’s telling him to stay away from me.

  She could no longer bear the idiocies on the black and white screen. “I’m going upstairs,” she said laying two fingers to her brow. “A headache.”

  Crystal stopped chuckling. “Honora, didn’t I warn you this afternoon? We just aren’t used to this strong a sun.”

  Honora closed the music room door quietly and stood in the vast hall. She heard nothing except the faraway burbling of “Your Show of Shows,” then Gideon’s gravelly voice rose in a crescendo. She couldn’t make out the words, but the anger vibrated.

  She retreated to the staircase, sitting halfway up the bottom flight, where the last of the afternoon sun came through the stained-glass windows in dusty shafts of ruby, azure and amethyst light that stained her pale pink dress and white face in unearthly colors.

  After what seemed hours, Curt emerged. He halted, peering about as if he had blundered into some alien place.

  Getting to her feet, she called softly, “Curt?”

  He jerked. “Oh, Honora. I didn’t see you.”

  She crossed the hall, poised to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but his flat, expressionless eyes halted the consoling gesture.

  “What happened?” she whispered. “Curt, I heard Gideon shouting.”

  “He handed me my walking papers,” Curt said, his face contorting with misery.

  “I don’t understand. You mean he gave you the sack?”

  “If the translation is that I’m fired, yes.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Mrs. Ekberg saw us going into my place.”

  Honora flinched.

  “He called me a considerable number of names. I’ve never heard him use obscenities, but he sure as hell knows the whole vocabulary.”

  “I never meant to make trouble . . . between you . . . .” She bit her inner lip in an unsuccessful attempt to regain her composure. “Oh, Curt. It must have been torture for you. But he’ll get over it, he’ll come to his senses. He relies on you, he needs you. He likes you.”

  “Relied, needed. Liked. Past tense. Honora, he kept it up even after I told him if it’d cleanse us of our grievous fall into depravity, we’d fly to Reno tonight and get married.”

  The dark wood whirled around her, and she gripped his arm to keep from falling. “Married?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Honora, why the shocked look?”

  “But you never asked . . . mentioned.”

  “After telling you so many times how wild I am about you, I figured you also took marriage as a given.”

  The door of Gideon’s office opened and he stood gripping the jamb. The light shining behind him had the effect of making his short, thick body appear swollen with strength. “Why are you still here?” he barked.

  Curt said, “How can I let it end on a sour note like this? You’ve done everything for me.” His voice was low, pleading.

  Gideon took a tentative step toward Curt and for a few seconds stood with his hands at his sides, his fingers rubbing his trousers uncertainly. Then he noticed Honora. “Ivory, I want you out of this house immediately. And if your things are still at Talbott’s tomorrow morning I’ll have them shoved into a trash barrel.”

  “Please, Gideon,” Honora murmured shakily. “Don’t be angry with Curt. You’ve told us he’s your right hand.”

  “He doesn’t run Talbott’s, whatever line he might have given you.”

  “You’ve been wonderful to me,” Honora said. “And I’ve returned your generosity and trust despicably. But we’ll be married right away—”

  “Do you think you’re the first foolish girl to be taken in by his flashy car and flashy white smile and talk of marriage? Before you he was talking engagement to Imogene Burdetts.”

  “That’s absolute crap,” Curt said harshly. “There’s nothing serious between me and Imogene.”

  “She thinks there is.” Fixing his glittering little eyes on Honora, Gideon said, “It goes against my grain to allow you to stay under my roof with your innocent sisters. But I’ve told myself that you’re not to blame if I brought you into contact with a man with the moral decency of a sewer rat.” Gideon’s coarse features twisted in a tormented expression, and his forehead gleamed. “Seducing you under my own roof—exactly what I should’ve expected from a nameless nobody.”

  The thin lines around Curt’s mouth tautened. Without a word, he turned, his footsteps echoing across the beautifully inlaid parquet. He let himself out the front door.

  Honora wanted to weep for him. Her hands clenched as if to throttle Gideon’s thick neck—how unfair his attack was—yet she doggedly continued her attempts at reconciliation. “Gideon, I’m positive he didn’t make Imogene any promises,” she said. “And as for his seducing me, I was in love with him from the beginning. I chased after him, I threw myself at him. It’s my fault, not Curt’s.”

  Gideon’s jaw quivered and against her will Honora felt a dart of pity. “I’ve always wanted a son and sometimes I felt he was one. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake to care.” He blinked, as if recollecting her presence, and his voice rose vehemently. “I picked him out of a gutter in Vienna—I doubt he’s mentioned that—”

  “He’s told me everything, Gideon.” Honora spoke through a dry throat. “You mean so much to him, he reveres you.”

  “He was so thin you could see every bone. He didn’t even know his name, so I gave him one like any starving mongrel I’d take in. God knows what kind of criminals spawned him. And let me tell you,
Vienna had some pretty types running around between the wars, yes, there were some might pretty types.” Gideon’s voice had turned to gravel. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s diseased.”

  Honora’s body was shaking with fury. “You horrible, horrible man,” she cried, searching for answering insults. “You’re . . . you’re common!” The inadequacy of this response added to her rage. She rushed to the front door.

  “Go, you little tramp, I did my best with you. If you’ve got the bastard of a bastard in your belly that’s Sylvander’s problem, not mine.”

  She wrenched the heavy brass knob, hurling the door shut after her.

  * * *

  Joscelyn and Crystal both looked up as they heard the reverberating slam.

  “God, what was that?” Crystal said, fiddling with the knob—the picture was showing ghosts.

  “Either Curt leaving or a second San Francisco earthquake,” Joscelyn replied.

  The door opened and Gideon stood there, his sparse remnants of hair raised up as if he had been passing his hands over his scalp.

  “Turn that off,” he ordered.

  The low, gravelly timbre of his voice brought an automatic response to Crystal’s fingers. As the picture dwindled into a dot, Gideon walked across the music room and through to the main drawing room. Normally he strode briskly, master of all surrounding space. Now he moved to the black marble fireplace almost shufflingly, as if he had recently undergone surgery. He sank into a chair.