Honeyville

by Waugh, Daisy

  I wandered aimlessly for a while, unable to make a decision. Mr Adamsson had suggested I inform the next of kin. I told him it would be better if he made the call himself. He didn’t like that. But I could not return to the McCulloch porch yet again, this time to inform them that their beloved Inez was not lying sick in a brothel, but dead in the city morgue.

  I don’t know for how long I walked the streets. It must have been an hour at least. It was dark when my feet led me to the cottage. The drapes were pulled shut, but I could see the glow of electric light through the glass on the front door.

  I knocked, and knocked again. Silence. Xavier wasn’t there. Even so, I didn’t want to leave. So I stood for a while and then, for the hell of it, I tried the door. Xavier rarely locked it. Sure enough there was a click, and the door opened wide – into the room I knew so well, and where I had spent all my happiest hours in Trinidad. With the drapes closed and the lamps lit, it was the only place in the world I could imagine being. The cottage beckoned me in.

  At first I simply sat on the soft leather couch; and then, for a while, I lay on it, as I used to. I closed my eyes and tried to will back the evenings we had spent, Inez and I; and then Xavier, Inez and I, taking turns on the rocking chair, spilling liquor onto our stomachs as we squabbled or talked or laughed. There were moments when I felt she was there, back in the room with me. I wept, and I fell asleep, and I woke, my body cold as ice and with her warm laughter in my ear.

  Xavier came back to the cottage some time after 2 a.m. He found me kneeling in the kitchen, hunched over the swordstick she had ordered from the spy shop in Philadelphia, and which she had given to her brother. I was struggling with the catch, trying to work out how the thing opened. I didn’t hear him come in – not until I felt his hand on my shoulder, and I heard the crack of his knees as he crouched to join me. Without a word, he took the swordstick from me and slid it open. The slim silver blade glinted under the electric light.

  ‘It’s rather beautiful,’ I said.

  He slid it shut again. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want it. And thank you, by the way.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The mortuary. I’m not good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sort of thing?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’

  He straightened up, so I followed suit. He had discovered me in his cottage, uninvited, rifling though his belongings. It was understandable if he wanted me to leave. I cast around for my coat and an expression of panic crossed his face. ‘You’re not leaving?’ he said. ‘Dora, you can’t leave!’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Why? Where else should you be?’

  ‘Nowhere else,’ I said. ‘But I’m not family. Your aunt and uncle probably need you.’

  ‘They have each other,’ he said. ‘We don’t.’

  ‘They do … I guess you’re right.’

  ‘I’ll see them again in the morning. Right now, I was hoping we could sink a couple of bottles of whiskey together. That’s all I want to do. Would you be in for that?’

  We exchanged the ghosts of smiles. I didn’t need to answer.

  It was a warm night, but simultaneously we looked across at the ash-filled grate. ‘I think we should light a fire,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I think so, yes. You do it, Xavier. I’ll fix us some drinks. There’s something I want to show you.’

  I waited until we were seated by the fire, each on our couch, the rocking chair empty in the corner between us. I pulled out the letter, and laid it on the ottoman. Xavier looked at it, spattered in her blood. He didn’t take his eyes off it, but nor did he move to take it. After a moment, I took pity and took it back.

  ‘It isn’t properly sealed,’ I said, holding it out towards him. ‘Look, Xavier. We could open it now, perfectly easily, and close it up again. Max would be none the wiser. Do you think we could do that?’ I longed for him to say ‘open it’, but even if he hadn’t, I don’t suppose I could have restrained myself for long. I had held back, waiting for Xavier’s permission. But as I held the envelope, my fingers on the seal, it popped open as if it had a will of its own; as if Inez wanted it. It’s what I told myself then. It’s what Xavier told himself, too. We read the letter and we put it away. In the circumstances, though our objections to Max and his journalistic ambitions were vindicated, the letter seemed trivial to the point of irrelevance.

  But it gave us a foe at least: a focus for our ire. Everything was Max’s fault! And for a while – maybe an hour or two – it bolstered us through the grief.

  We would help each other, so we said that night. Together, we would live through this. We talked about Inez, but never about her violent death. We drank two bottles of whiskey, and talked a lot and said nothing … until the fire died and the room grew chilly again. Xavier offered me his bed to sleep in. I accepted the offer and when I woke he was lying fully dressed, on top of the covers, beside me. I was never more comforted by a sight.

  We stayed indoors with the drapes drawn, while the sun beat down outside. Xavier shuffled off to make us coffee and he brought it through on a tray into his room, where I remained on his bed, and we lay side by side, like an old married couple, sipping coffee and staring at the wall.

  It’s how the day passed. We talked about my childhood in England, my father’s return there and my decision not to follow him. My regrets. His regrets. We talked about his parents’ death on the railroad, how he and Inez had travelled from Chicago together, and the kindness of his Aunt Philippa through it all. It troubled him that he couldn’t be the man she wanted him to be. We told each other many things that day which I don’t think either of us had told anyone before, but we didn’t talk about Inez.

  Hours passed as we lay on his bed. We had long since moved from coffee to whiskey again, and there was, for long stretches, a numb silence between us that I think we both found comforting. Our arms lay limp by our sides, close enough to feel the warmth from each other’s skin, and I found that comforting too. He took my hand.

  It was a trigger. It made me cry, which encouraged him, I think. He turned and kissed me.

  The bed springs creaked as he twisted his body towards me and his lips touched mine. I waited. It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t what he wanted. But people do the oddest things, in grief.

  I felt his discomfort. He leaned closer towards me. I felt his shame. I felt my pity. I gave him a moment to extricate himself, but it seemed, having begun, that he lacked the nerve to pull back. So, finally, I pushed him gently away.

  He rolled away from me at once. There was a long pause.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said at length. ‘That was the most ridiculous thing I think I have ever done. I am so sorry.’

  I laughed. ‘Forgive you? Whatever for?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I told him. ‘I’ve survived worse. And what’s a kiss, between friends, after all?’ I tried to take back his hand but he pulled it away.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to do it for ages,’ he said.

  ‘Do what?’ I asked, bemused now.

  ‘Kiss you,’ he said. He sounded angry. As if I were the stupid one.

  ‘Have you?’ I said. ‘Why?’

  There followed the longest silence yet. I watched the emotions churning in his handsome face and was struck more forcefully than ever by his similarity to his sister – and by the great differences. He was small and delicate, as she was. They had the same blond hair and grey eyes – and yet they could not have been more different. I thought all this, as the silence extended. He wanted to say something. He looked ready to burst with it, and I wanted to help him. On the other hand, he seemed angry. So I waited.

  When he spoke, it sounded stilted and tight. ‘You’ve become a good friend,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so. I consider you a friend.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  It was an odd response. Again, I waited.

  He sa
id: ‘It would make my Aunt Philippa so happy …’

  ‘What would make her happy?’ I asked. ‘Xavier, honey. You’re not making sense.’ Nor was he, but somewhere at the base of my neck, I could feel prickles of panic. In his clumsiness, his personal confusion, I hoped that he would not continue along the track I suspected he was laying out for us. I pulled myself up from the pillows and swung my legs to the ground. ‘I’m hungry,’ I announced. ‘Aren’t you? I don’t even remember when I last ate. I could make us eggs. Do you have any eggs? I could make us eggs on toast … Would you like that?’

  But the track was laid – it was laid long ago, I suspect. From the moment we first met, and liked each other, and I took him to fetch Inez from my home at Plum Street. He tugged me back onto the bed. ‘Wait! Dora. Please … I don’t know how to put this—’

  ‘Then don’t,’ I said, sitting up again.

  ‘If I could be a normal man …’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud!’

  ‘I’ve never even tried!’

  ‘Well, darling – you’re thirty-five years old. There’s probably a reason you’ve not got around to it. Come on,’ I nudged him and smiled. ‘Don’t do this. Please. You’re a fairy. Always were and always will be. You are never going to be a normal man. Who cares?’

  ‘A lot of people care. Actually. The Sheriff’s Department at Long Beach. My Aunt Philippa – or she would if she knew. Uncle Richard. Inez …’

  A beat, while we remembered.

  ‘Inez didn’t know,’ I said. ‘I asked her once.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ He was horrified.

  ‘Not directly. Of course not. Indirectly, I asked her something about the possibility of you one day settling down and she was …’ He looked pained; I patted him on the leg. ‘She hadn’t the faintest idea, Xavier. Honestly, I got the sense it had simply never crossed her mind. I imagine it’s the same with your Aunt Philippa.’

  ‘That’s the thing. Aunt Philippa was always so good to us, Dora. And now Inez is gone. And she has no children of her own. And she will be stuck with Uncle Richard and I swear he’s no solace to anyone. I owe her …’

  ‘It’s too bad for your Aunt Philippa,’ I said.

  He wasn’t listening. ‘I thought, with your experience, you might be able to help me … Couldn’t you? Teach me how … And then I could find a nice girl, and we could settle down and have children together. And she and I could … settle down and …’ He sighed. The despondency on his face as he envisaged it made me forget how much I disliked what he was suggesting and how hurtful I found it – and made me laugh instead.

  ‘I can’t help you, Xavier. You’re going to have to find another hooker to work miracles for you … Or maybe find another way to make your Aunt Philippa happy. Show her your movies. Invite her to California and show her the sunshine. Go visit her this afternoon. She needs you. And now – let me make some breakfast.’

  We shuffled off the bed and wandered together into the parlour. Neither of us had undressed the previous night, and we were still wearing our clothes of the day before. Mine, I imagined, with some part of Inez still on them. I had worn them to the mortuary. I had brushed against her body as it lay on the slab, and I felt there was some physical remnant of her death that still clung to me.

  ‘Xavier,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take a bath. Would you lend me a bathrobe?’

  He lent me the paisley silk affair I had so admired when he opened the door to me last week. It smelled of his cologne and, as I wrapped it round me, there was something comforting about it. More than comforting. I held the fabric to my nose and inhaled – the smell of Xavier. It made me happy.

  I had left him cooking the eggs. When I emerged from his bathroom, his robe around me, the cottage smelled like home: of wood smoke, from the fire last night, and buttered eggs, and grilling bread. I followed the smell into the kitchen, and watched while he worked. He looked older, grimmer, greyer, still in his clothes from yesterday.

  ‘Gosh I’m going to miss you when you leave,’ I said abruptly. ‘Trinidad will be unbearable without you and Inez.’

  He looked up from his cooking pan. ‘One egg or two? Or three? I’m having three … Pleasant bath?’

  ‘Very pleasant,’ I said. ‘Two, please. Xavier. I suppose you will leave, won’t you? Now that Inez is gone. When do you suppose you’ll leave?’

  ‘Soon,’ he said, turning back to his hob. ‘I have work to do in Hollywood. A bunch of projects. And I have debts.’ He shivered – a comically expressive shiver: like a dancer. ‘Horrible debts. Thanks to my brilliant lawyers. I need to get back to work … But you could come, Dora.’

  ‘I would love to come with you. But I have debts too, and I have no money.’

  ‘Ah!’ He tossed the eggs, arranged the toasted bread, the slices of ham. ‘I’d help you. I wish I could.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ I said.

  ‘It seems kind of ridiculous, Dora. You charge – what do you charge? Thirty dollars a turn?’

  ‘Fifty.’

  He chuckled. ‘It’s a lot of money. Even if Phoebe takes sixty or seventy per cent, how is it possiblethat you’re still broke?’

  ‘Because Phoebe takes it all.’ I sighed.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t. But she does. She racks up imaginary debts.’

  ‘Bring the whiskey,’ he said. ‘And a couple of glasses. And explain.’ He picked up our plates and I followed him to the parlour. We took our places, each to our favourite couch, and rested our plates on our laps.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘she takes more than everything. She takes it all, and then she presents us with more receipts for things she says we owe her for – doctors’ bills, cleaning bills, food, linen, drink, clothing, furniture … It doesn’t matter what. She thinks of something. And then we never have quite enough to pay. So she says: never mind, darling. You can pay me next month … And so it goes on. Each month, she calls us into her parlour, and she has a great pile of papers before her; and she smiles as if …’ I laughed, and I know it sounded bitter. ‘For a long time, Xavier, I used to believe her. She has the sweetest smile. I used to believe we were friends. And each month, when our little meetings came to an end, she would pat me on the back and thank me for my excellent work, as if Plum Street couldn’t survive without me. She would say to me, “Don’t you worry about the money. I’ll take care of it. That’s what I’m here for.”’

  ‘How long have you worked there?’ he asked me.

  ‘I don’t like thinking about it. Too long.’

  ‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ he said. He laid down his knife and fork. ‘But she’s robbing you. Work it out! How many clients do you see in a week? How many weeks in a year? Let’s say a hundred dollars a night, five nights a week? Six? Multiply that by fifty-two. And multiply that by – six years?’ He came up with a figure without a beat. ‘One hundred eighty-seven thousand, two hundred dollars.’

  I laughed. ‘Is that right? How did you do that? Actually it’s seven years, coming along eight. And we’re allowed a week off in the summer.’

  ‘What if you simply refuse to play along? What if you say: Phoebe, this is absurd! I don’t owe you this money. I never spent that kind of money in my life. If anything, you cocksucker, it’s you who owes me money … Goddammit,’ he broke off, ‘why must everyone in life turn out to be a charlatan?’

  Again, I laughed. ‘Well she runs a brothel,’ I said.

  ‘They’re charlatans in the movie business too,’ he muttered. ‘Every damned one of them.’

  ‘Profanities won’t help, Xavier.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be prim,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. And you didn’t answer the question. What could happen if you stood up to her?’

  ‘She could throw me out of the house. For a start.’

  ‘But you make her a lot of money. She won’t want to do that.’

  ‘She could send her heavies after me.’ I had cleaned my plate, but I was still hungry.
‘Trust me, Xavier, there are any number of things she could do, and none I would enjoy. Is there any more ham?’

  ‘No more ham,’ he said. ‘So, Dora … my friend.’ He considered me. ‘When you and Inez were plotting for you to set up as a singing instructress in town—?’

  ‘I was living on cloud cuckoo. Shall we talk about something else?’

  34

  ‘Something else’ presented itself at just that instant. Philippa McCulloch was at the door. And the next thing, before Xavier had time to collect himself, she had unlocked it herself, with her own set of keys, and walked right into the house. She stood at the threshold, unwelcome sunlight shining in behind her, a small, stout, wounded silhouette. She gazed at us. Poor, decent woman. It can’t have been an uplifting sight. I lay sprawled on one couch, wrapped in her nephew’s lilac paisley breakfast gown, an empty plate and a filled glass of whiskey on my belly; Xavier lay sprawled on the other, shirt undone and still crumpled from sleep, the bottle of whiskey nestled beside him; and between us the mess and remains of this morning’s breakfast and last night’s drinking.

  We both struggled to pull ourselves together, but the impression was made, the damage done.

  Xavier said: ‘Aunt Philippa!’ brushing toast crumbs off his bare chest. He stood to welcome her and his balance was just a little off. It occurred to me we were both probably quite drunk. ‘I didn’t realize you had keys. Maybe it’s better if you knock?’ He looked around him at the disarray, carefully avoiding my eye. ‘I might have prepared things a little better.’

  Mrs McCulloch moved into the room and the light from the door fell on her face. It was puffy with crying. Her hands were shaking. Her chest rose and fell, as if she were fighting for breath. She didn’t speak.

  ‘Although I agree,’ he added, looking around him again, somewhat helplessly, ‘it might have needed a little longer to get this place in order.’

  She glanced across, but didn’t acknowledge me. She perched herself at the end of the couch I had just vacated in her honour. ‘You’re drinking liquor,’ she said. ‘It’s early to be drinking liquor. I wish you’d come home last night, Xavier. I sat up for you. I thought you were coming back but you didn’t. I was worried about you, darling. But I see you were being looked after. Looked after,’ she muttered the words again. ‘So that’s good.’ It seemed hard to believe that she meant it. But at that point there was no disapproval, no bitterness in her voice.