by Alice Adams
Further sadness for Amanda: after four days she and that couple, whose name she still does not know, are no closer to speaking or even nodding terms than they were on her arrival. They have never even seen her, Amanda believes.
That afternoon, after their siesta, Amanda goes up to the hotel desk to mail some postcards. Rounding a corner, she is confronted with a trailing vine, a cloud of peach-pink bougainvillea; she sees it against the soft blue midafternoon sky—she has never seen that particular color before.
Reaching the desk, she is surprised to find Lisa standing there, in a skirt and blouse, black pumps. Lisa looking older than usual, and tired. The change in her is so marked that Amanda assumes she is leaving for good, and she cries out, “Oh, Lisa, you’re not going away?”—as though everything, lacking Lisa, would fall apart.
Lisa smiles, but her blue eyes remain worried. “I only go to Mexico City,” she says. “Probably I return tomorrow. I go each other week.”
“Oh. Well.”
Several other people, Americans, come up to the desk just then, followed by two Mexican boys who carry the American luggage—unfortunately they are not the Chicago group, Amanda notes. The airport bus arrives, and they all get in, including Lisa.
Feeling abandoned, Amanda buys her stamps, and she sends off the cards to her friends; on all the cards she has written, “This is paradise!”
From the plane, on which Lisa and some of the former guests are flying to Mexico City, they can see, as it gains altitude, the whole great horseshoe cove: the white curve of beach, abrupt green jungle at the edge of the sand and even the clearing where the hotel is. Then the plane veers and heads directly inland, up over the huge sharp jungle-green mountains that are sometimes briefly, darkly shadowed with clouds.
Lisa is simply going to Mexico City on hotel business, but the prospect always unbalances her a little. Never married, a childless but strongly maternal Polish woman (nationality being her common bond with Carlotta Farquhar), she loves her work, finds it deeply satisfying.
She is genuinely concerned about the well-being of all the guests, and especially that of the Farquhars: she grew up on the romantic legend of Carlotta, who left the stage so relatively young. And she has worked it out that despite appearances the Farquhars do not have a great deal of money. She daringly hopes, on this trip, to persuade the owner of the hotel to give them a special rate, as long-term guests. In the meantime, she reminds herself to do their errands: a scientific magazine, in German, for Mr. Farquhar; for her a French cosmetic.
The next night, which is Amanda’s and Richard’s fifth, they decide to return to the bar for after-dinner drinks; once there, they are dismayed to find the Chicago people, who obviously have had the same impulse. But, feeling that they have not much choice, there being not much else to do, really, at nine-thirty, Amanda and Richard sit down anyway.
Early in the afternoon Richard spent a long time on the phone with his wife, or so Amanda believes; he only said that he had to go up to the desk. Unable to read, she lay waiting for him, all that time not doing anything—not knowing, wondering, what they could be saying to each other. For all she knew Richard could be telling his wife that he is bored at his “sales conference” and can’t wait to see her again. It is harrowing to her, Amanda, not to know, and she feels that it is forbidden to ask; she would sound suspicious. When at last he came back to the room Richard looked cross, but that could have meant anything at all. At dinner he was pleasantly noncommittal: his usual self. But Amanda still feels anxious, vaguely apprehensive.
At the bar she is seated next to a woman whom she had not seen in that group: a surprisingly pleasant-looking woman, with short gray hair and a pretty dress. Amanda wonders why she has not noticed her before.
Natalie Barnes.
The two women exchange faint smiles of mutual approval.
Although the night is as clear and dazzlingly starred as all the nights have been, there are also, tonight, a few small drifting gray-white clouds, mysterious rags. Tattered ghosts.
Natalie, who will be at the resort with that group for another five days, has hitherto felt that since they invited her along, in spite of her widowed status, she was in some sense their guest. But just now, perhaps fortified by dinner, and some wine, she recognizes the untruth, even the unfairness of this theory: she is not their guest; she pays her own way. And she further thinks, Luther does not have to leave a cigar burning in the ashtray, constantly. Bracing herself, and trying for a pleasant voice, she says, “Luther, couldn’t you please put those damn things out when you’re not smoking them?”
They all stare at her; as a group they are not self-critical, but usually supportive, all the way. However, they are also dedicated to going along with each other’s whims, all whims, and so Luther says, “Well, Nat, of course, I’ll put it right out. Why didn’t you tell me before, if they bothered you?” Everyone stares reproachfully at formerly good old Nat, who was so brave when Herbert died.
Turning away from them all, for a moment, Natalie finds the dark girl with the very handsome husband (or lover?), who is smiling and saying, or, rather, whispering: “Terrific. That smell has been driving me crazy.”
Natalie whispers back, “I didn’t sound too mean?”
“Heavens no.”
Richard joins in, smiling charmingly. “Amanda has a thing about cigars.”
Still whispering, Natalie admits, “Actually, so do I.”
“Well: we were just going to have another drink. May I get you one?”
Natalie argues, and then accepts, and they introduce each other: Natalie, Amanda and Richard. The darkness and the loose, informal arrangement of the chairs at that bar make such regroupings easy. As Natalie glances back for a moment at her former companions, she even sees smiles of approval on several of their faces: good old Nat is out there making new friends; all right.
At some distance from everyone else, as usual, the Farquhars are seated, she in something long and pale and supple, dimly shining, he in an open white shirt, a dark ascot knotted at his throat. Their postures, as always, are perfectly erect. Her head moves slowly on her long and slender neck as she turns toward her husband.
“Do you think she could have been a dancer?” whispers Natalie to Amanda.
Richard answers, “That’s a really good guess. I’ll bet you’re right.”
Amanda suggests, “Or maybe an actress?”
“But what was he?” asks Natalie. She is thinking of Herbert, who was in business, but not on the scale that he originally intended.
“He could have been an actor,” offers Richard, who has often heard that remark made of himself. On the whole, though, he is glad not to be an actor; he likes the challenge of investments, at which he is very good. And most actors burn out young, their looks gone.
“Somehow I don’t think he was an actor,” Amanda muses. “He looks more like an elder statesman. Or some Nobel Prize-winning scientist.”
Just at that moment, though, Mrs. Farquhar is seen and heard, by those three observing her so closely, to cry out, in evident pain. With both hands she grasps her side, at her waist, and she says something short and urgent to her husband. They both stand up, she with what is obviously great difficulty; they leave the bar, presumably going toward their room.
Amanda feels cold waves of panic in her veins, in the warm tropical night—and so irrationally: she doesn’t even know those people. “What can we do?” she asks of Richard and Natalie, and she hears a quaver in her own voice.
Richard, who thrives on emergencies (it is daily life that bores him), stands up. “I’ll go down and ask,” he says, and he is gone before the wisdom of his course can be questioned.
“Do you think it could be an appendix?” Amanda asks Natalie; she has somehow assumed that Natalie, being older than herself, would have more medical information.
Natalie does not, actually, but she makes a guess. “It looked a little high for an appendix, where she was clutching. But I don’t know.”
; Richard, apparently, has done the right thing: within minutes he is back at the bar, with an errand. “I’m going up to the desk to get Lisa and phone for a doctor.”
Amanda cries out, “But Lisa’s in Mexico City.”
“She’s back.” And, over his shoulder as he hurries off, “Their name is Farquhar.” And he is gone.
In a helpless way Natalie and Amanda turn to each other.
And just then, behind Natalie, the other Chicago people begin to get up, making sounds of departure. Luther, without his cigar, is the one who says, “Well, good night, Nat,” with only the slightest querulousness in his voice. “See you in the morning,” says someone else.
She turns to say, “Yes, see you then.”
And they are gone.
“At their age, almost any pain must be frightening” is the first thing that Amanda finds to say. It is understood that she refers to the Farquhars.
“Or maybe not? They must have had a lot of pains by now.” As she says this, Natalie is rather surprised by what sounds like wisdom.
In a fairly short time Richard reappears, with Lisa—Lisa once again in her old pants and shirt; comfortable, competent Lisa, who says to Amanda, “The doctor comes. You could wait here? She knows where is the bar but not the room of the Farquhars. You could show her the way?”
“Oh, of course.”
Lisa sighs vastly, and to all three of them she says, “Oh, how bad that she should be sick now. I come back from Mexico City with some good news,” and she sighs again. “She come soon. The doctor. She is a friend to me.”
And then she and Richard are gone, in the direction of the Farquhars’ room, as well as of Richard’s and Amanda’s.
“A woman doctor?” Natalie asks Amanda.
“I guess. But how will we know her, or she us?” Amanda says.
She, the doctor, is immediately recognizable: a brisk young woman with a classic black doctor’s satchel, who hurries down the steps toward Amanda and Natalie. She smiles, in a shy, quick way. “It is you who will direct me to the lady not feeling well?”
“Yes, it’s this way.” And the three women, Amanda leading the doctor and Natalie, make their way down from the bar, down the series of dimly lit steps, past all the soft shapes of flowers, the colors now blotted out in the general dark. They reach the row of rooms, and go on to the room at the end, where Richard stands just outside the opened door.
As they arrive, through the door in one bright instant Amanda sees: two single beds, on one of which Mrs. Farquhar is stretched, immobile, her head back, chin raised, as on a bier. And beside her, bent toward her, is her husband. Lisa stands beside him.
Richard gestures the doctor inside, at which Lisa comes out, and the door is closed.
The four of them stand there, in the flowery darkness, Amanda and Richard, Lisa, Natalie.
“It is perhaps not something terrible,” Lisa tells them all. “She kept saying she only wanted a shot. She said she could sleep off the pain.”
Richard: “She looked awfully white.”
“She’s always white,” Natalie tells him. And in a subdued way she laughs. “I only wish I knew her brand of sun block.”
“I can tell you. I just bring it from Mexico,” Lisa tells her, and she names the French cream.
“Well, thank you,” Natalie murmurs, in surprise. And then, a few minutes later, she says, “Well, I think I’ll go on up. After all, I don’t really know them,” and she says good night, and she leaves.
As though it would insure her safety, they all watch her as she walks slowly up the barely lit stairs.
Turning to Lisa, Amanda repeats what she had earlier said to Natalie, but as a question: “At their age almost any pain is frightening, isn’t it?”
Clearly thinking of something else, or possibly a little frightened herself, Lisa is slightly brusque. “At any age—no pain is good.” And then, “You two should go in. There is no need for you also to wait. I know them a long time.”
Dismissed, Amanda and Richard go into their room next door, from which they can hear nothing. Nevertheless they continue to address each other in whispers.
“Another drink? Some brandy?”
“Oh, thanks. I could use some.”
“Here. It’s a little full.”
Later they hear the subdued sounds of the doctor coming out of the room adjacent, some murmurs of conversation, the door softly closed. Nothing more.
Later still they undress, and wash; they get into bed and make love. They are comforting to each other.
But, lying there in the hot unmoving night, Amanda is terrified. The beautiful, old and almost totally unknown Mrs. Farquhar could die, and that possibility is intolerable to Amanda.
In the morning, Carlotta Farquhar is perfectly well; the shot administered by the young doctor put her out for about nine hours, as she, Carlotta, knew that it would. Sitting out on the porch, propped against a small pillow, she breathes deeply, feeling only slightly sluggish from the morphine. Needing air.
Travis has made the tea; they always travel with a small kit. He hands her the cup, and he says, “Drink up. You look half asleep.”
Carlotta smiles. “But, darling, I am.” And then she says, “How kind of Señor Blumenthal. Our new rate.”
“Oh yes, that.” He frowns, just slightly embarrassed. And then he lowers his voice as he says to her, “The young couple next door, they were most kind, do you know? He went up to get Lisa, and to phone. They showed such concern, when they don’t even know us. Don’t you think—suppose we invite them for a drink?”
“Oh, darling, absolutely yes. We’ll speak to them after breakfast. Or I’ll write a note.”
But just then Carlotta, who has been looking out to the early morning sea, and the bright pale sky, when she has not been turned to Travis, leans suddenly forward: there on the yellow bush at the edge of their terrace is the largest, the loveliest white butterfly that she has ever seen. She gasps with pleasure. There is nothing in her mind but the butterfly, on its flower.
Truth or Consequences
This morning, when I read in a gossip column that a man named Carstairs Jones had married a famous former movie star, I was startled, thunderstruck, for I knew that he must certainly be the person whom I knew as a child, one extraordinary spring, as “Car Jones.” He was a dangerous and disreputable boy, one of what were then called the “truck children,” with whom I had a most curious, brief and frightening connection. Still, I noted that in a way I was pleased at such good fortune; I was “happy for him,” so to speak, perhaps as a result of sheer distance, so many years. And before I could imagine Car as he might be now, Carstairs Jones, in Hollywood clothes, I suddenly saw, with the most terrific accuracy and bright sharpness of detail, the schoolyard of all those years ago, hard and bare, neglected. And I relived the fatal day, on the middle level of that schoolyard, when we were playing truth or consequences, and I said that I would rather kiss Car Jones than be eaten alive by ants.
Our school building then was three stories high, a formidable brick square. In front a lawn had been attempted, some years back; graveled walks led up to the broad, forbidding entranceway, and behind the school were the playing fields, the playground. This area was on three levels: on the upper level, nearest the school, were the huge polished steel frames for the creaking swings, the big green splintery wooden seesaws, the rickety slides—all for the youngest children. On the middle level older girls played hopscotch, various games, or jumped rope—or just talked and giggled. And out on the lowest level, the field, the boys practiced football, or baseball, in the spring.
To one side of the school was a parking space, usually filled with the bulging yellow trucks that brought children from out in the country in to town: truck children, country children. Sometimes they would go back to the trucks at lunchtime to eat their sandwiches, whatever; almost always there were several overgrown children, spilling out from the trucks. Or Car Jones, expelled from some class, for some new acts of rebelliousness. That area
was always littered with trash, wrappings from sandwiches, orange peel, Coke bottles.
Beyond the parking space was an empty lot, overgrown with weeds, in the midst of which stood an abandoned trellis, perhaps once the support of wisteria; now wild honeysuckle almost covered it over.
The town was called Hilton, the seat of a distinguished university, in the middle South. My widowed mother, Charlotte Ames, had moved there the previous fall (with me, Emily, her only child). I am still not sure why she chose Hilton; she never much liked it there, nor did she really like the brother-in-law, a professor, into whose proximity the move had placed us.
An interesting thing about Hilton, at that time, was that there were three, and only three, distinct social classes. (Negroes could possibly make four, but they were so separate, even from the poorest whites, as not to seem part of the social system at all; they were in effect invisible.) At the scale’s top were professors and their families. Next were the townspeople, storekeepers, bankers, doctors and dentists, none of whom had the prestige nor the money they were later to acquire. Country people were the bottom group, families living out on the farms that surrounded the town, people who sent their children in to school on the yellow trucks.
The professors’ children of course had a terrific advantage, academically, coming from houses full of books, from parental respect for learning; many of those kids read precociously and had large vocabularies. It was not so hard on most of the town children; many of their families shared qualities with the faculty people; they too had a lot of books around. But the truck children had a hard and very unfair time of it. Not only were many of their parents near-illiterates, but often the children were kept at home to help with chores, and sometimes, particularly during the coldest, wettest months of winter, weather prevented the trucks’ passage over the slithery red clay roads of that countryside, that era. A child could miss out on a whole new skill, like long division, and fail tests, and be kept back. Consequently many of the truck children were overage, oversized for the grades they were in.