Dram of Poison

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Like who? Hey?” said the bus driver, his eyes lively, his sandy lashes alert. The painter sat up. Mrs. Boatright looked suddenly very bland and supercalm.

  “Like Paul,” said Rosemary.

  “Now we’re getting to the bottom,” said the bus driver with satisfaction.

  “Aha!” said the painter.

  “Oh now, look, Rosie,” said Paul, crimson. “Now you know …”

  “I thought I knew,” said Rosemary, and smiled at him.

  “If our hair is down,” said Jeanie bluntly, “all right. I’ll tell you something. She is too old—for Daddy.”

  Mr. Gibson felt a wave of shock ripple through him. Rosemary! Too old!

  “He likes them rather plump, about five years older, and two inches shorter, than me,” said Jeanie impudently, “as far as I can figure on the basis of experiments, so far.”

  “Now you … just be quiet, please,” said Paul, much embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Rosie, but after all you are his wife. I certainly …”

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Rosemary gently. Her face became very serene as she lifted it. “You’ve been kind, Paul. You’ve tried to comfort me. You’ve told me not to worry. But I am too old for you, of course. Just as you are … forgive me, dear Paul … just a bit too dull for my taste. You see, I like a seasoned man.”

  “Good for you,” said Theo Marsh complacently. “Intelligent woman.”

  “Ethel just can’t seem to believe,” said Rosemary, calm and sad, “anything so simple. The fact is, I married the man I love.”

  Mr. Gibson, looking at his glass, could see her fingers, slim and fair, upon her own.

  “However,” said Mr. Gibson out of a trance, able to speak quite coolly, although somewhat jerkily, “it is still possible that, as Ethel says, I am, for Rosemary, a father-image.”

  Rosemary looked at him with mild astonishment. “Not my father,” she said calmly. “My father, since the day I was born, was mean and didactic and unjust and petty and spoiled and childish. I don’t like to sound disloyal, but that’s the truth. Kenneth isn’t anything like my father,” she explained graciously to them all.

  “It is a little ridiculous, though,” said Mr. Gibson chattily. (This was the strangest party!) “I am fifty-five years old, you see. For me to be so deep in love, for the first time in my life, is quite … comical. Somehow. It makes everybody smile.”

  “Smile?” said Virginia. “But of course! It’s nice! It’s pleasant to see.”

  “I should have said … snicker,” revised Mr. Gibson.

  “Who,” growled the bus driver, “does it make snicker?”

  “Not at all,” said the artist. “I was in love last winter. If anyone had snickered at me, I’d have spit in their eye.” He would have. Everyone believed this.

  “How come this Ethel put the Indian sign on the both of you?” asked the bus driver. “How come she shook you? Anybody can see you two are in love.” He was a gentle ruthless man.

  “I was a rabbit,” said Rosemary. “I should have spit in her eye.” She was sitting very straight. “I am to blame.”

  Mr. Gibson felt exhausted and also very peaceful. “I, too,” he said. “But I am old, lame, unsure … and extremely stupid. I permitted her to upset me. My fault. My blame.” He wanted to cry. He drank thirstily.

  “Whereas, our Paul,” said the painter, “is as handsome as the hero in a slick magazine. And as good as he is beautiful. No offense. No offense. Sex, I presume?” He crossed his yellow socks and tried to look innocent. “According to lethal Ethel?”

  “Lethal Ethel, that’s good,” said the bus driver angrily. “That’s apt, that is.”

  Virginia said, “Surely people know when they’re in love …” and bit her lips.

  Rosemary leaned back with a little smile gentle on her face. “Do you know something? There is a fact they never take account of—in a magazine story or the movies either … that I ever saw. Why is it you … want to be where someone is? Why?” She looked at Virginia. “It can’t be just because he’s good-looking. (Although Kenneth is, very.) It certainly can’t be just because somebody is young. To me,” she continued to the lamp beside the sofa, “the most important thing of all is how much fun you have together, and I don’t mean sex. Although—” Rosemary gulped and went on. “Do you understand me? I mean—just enjoying each other’s company. We had such good times … as I had never known. We laughed,” said Rosemary. She leaned forward with sudden vehemence. “Why don’t people talk about that as if it were attractive? It is. It’s powerfully attractive. I think it’s the most powerful attraction of all.”

  “The most permanent,” said Mrs. Pyne, softly.

  “Absolutely,” said Mrs. Boatright. “Or the race could not endure. All beloved wives, for instance, are not size twelve.” She rocked a little indignantly on her great haunches.

  “Hm,” said the artist, “my fourth wife now … I had a most delightful companionship with that one, all around the clock. And although her ankles were not perfect, she is the one I mourn … it’s a fact.” He looked mildly astonished.

  “I … agree,” breathed Virginia. The bus driver slid his eyes under his lashes.

  Mr. Gibson, with joy shooting in his veins … and shame and sorrow, too, but with an iron resolve that the rest of this was his own private business however much he loved—Yes, he did!—all of them … took Rosemary’s hand and got to his feet He said with a simplicity that achieved privacy with one stroke, “Thank you all very much for everything you have done and said. But we must go now.”

  To Mrs. Pyne he said, “If you will pray for us—that the poison be found …”

  “I will,” she vowed.

  Paul said shyly, nervously, “Sure hope it works out O.K.”

  Jeanie said, “Oh, we all hope so!”

  Mrs. Boatright said, “The police may still find it. Mustn’t underestimate the organization.”

  The painter said, “It could be on a dump heap, right now and you will never know … never hear … You realize?”

  The nurse said, “Oh, please … be happy.” Her whole cool responsible little person was dissolving in sentimental tears.

  The bus driver said earnestly, “Lots of good books been written in jail; I mean to say, ‘Stone walls do not …’”

  “I’ll remember that, Lee,” said Mr. Gibson affectionately. For this man was the one who had set the fashion, the one who had decreed, in the beginning, that there would be no candy. He offered none now, really.

  Mr. Gibson slipped one arm around Rosemary’s waist and guided her out of the house.

  They left seven people.

  “He’s a darling,” sobbed Virginia. “She’s a dear.… Can’t we save them? Think, everybody!”

  Then the seven were silent in that room—silent and sad and still fighting.

  Mr. Gibson and his wife, Rosemary, walked rather slowly and quite silently along the terrace to its end and down the steps and across the double driveway. It was a quarter of six o’clock. A sweet evening coming. They passed the shining garbage cans. Beyond the steps to the kitchen there grew a shrub, and Mr. Gibson pulled his wife gently to the far side of this friendly green mass where no window overlooked them.

  He took her in his arms and she came close. He kissed her gently and then again, less so. Her head came upon his shoulder.

  “You do remember the restaurant, Kenneth?”

  “I do. I do.”

  “How we laughed! I thought after you were hurt, that you couldn’t, didn’t remember.”

  But remembered woe was far away. She only sighed.

  “I remember the fog, too,” he murmured. “We said it was beautiful.”

  “We didn’t—altogether—mean the fog?”

  “No.” He kissed her, once more, most tenderly. “It’s an old-fashioned plot, mouse. Isn’t it? A misunderstanding. But then, I am an old-fashioned man.”

  “I love you so,” said Rosemary. “No matter what—don’t leave me.”

  “No mat
ter what,” he promised. He was a criminal. He might leave her, although not “really.” There was bitter. There was sweet.

  In a few minutes, he turned her gently, and they began to go up the steps to the kitchen door.

  Chapter XXI

  ETHEL GIBSON returned to the cottage shortly after four o’clock that afternoon. She frowned to find the doors unlocked, the place wide open, and empty. Very careless of her brother! Still, he might be over at the Townsends’, just across the driveways. Ethel did not feel in a mood to join him, if so. She had arranged her day in her mind and did not like to break her plan with idle and unexpected sociability.

  She put off her summer suit-jacket and marched into the kitchen. What disarray! Really, order was essential in so small a house. Ethel did not like living in this cottage; an apartment would be so much less labor. She thought they would be moving elsewhere before very long. Now she compressed her lips. Lettuce limpening on the open counter. Bread not neatly in the bread box. Cocoa, tea, should be on the shelves. Cheese ought to be refrigerated. A green paper bag. Now what was this? A tiny bottle of olive oil. Imported! Much too expensive!

  She shook her head and proceeded to clear the things away, properly washed the lettuce and put it in the crisping bin, the cheese in the icebox, threw the paper bag into the kitchen wastebasket, placed cans and bottles in the cupboard.

  She stepped into the living room long enough to switch on the radio. Music was a habit with her. She paid no attention to it but felt its absence.

  She then walked back to her (and Rosemary’s) bedroom, drew off her business clothes and hung them, put on a cotton dress. Ethel then threw herself down upon the bed to relax. Music came distantly. When there were voices, she did not listen. She never listened to commercials. Her mind ran over the first day at this office. This job would serve. She already felt that she had some clues to the hidden springs of the boss’s character. She foresaw an orderly, courageous, and useful life in this quiet town. Excellent for her health. She dozed.

  She was wakened at a quarter after five by the telephone. The house was still empty.

  “Yes?”

  “This is the Townsend Laboratories calling,” said a female voice. “Is Mr. Kenneth Gibson there?”

  “No, he is not.” Ethel was crisp.

  “Where is he, do you know?”

  “No, I do not. I daresay he will be here at dinner time.”

  “When?” The voice faded feebly.

  “At a quarter of six.”

  “Oh. Well, will you be sure to have him call this number?”

  Ethel took down the number.

  “It’s important,” said the voice, fading again as if in some mysterious agitation.

  “I’ll tell him,” said Ethel, soothingly.

  Ethel hung up. She was slightly annoyed.

  Inconsiderate! Consideration was the first rule in such a ménage as this. Rosemary should have returned, must soon. Where could Ken be? She couldn’t imagine. Yes, she could. Probably he was lost in a book at the branch library.

  Dinner at a quarter of six.

  She would start dinner.

  They knew the dinner hour.

  The radio still played. She felt a bit martyred in this mysterious loneliness and she turned it off, feeding a grievance.

  She went into the kitchen and began to prepare their dinner. It would be very simple. Ethel approved of a spaghetti dinner, inexpensive and nourishing and easy to put together—these packaged brands. She dumped the boughten sauce out into a pan. Thought better of this. One ought to doctor up a boughten sauce, she knew. Ethel chopped an onion fine and put it into the sauce. She was not a sensitive cook. She had eaten what restaurants put before her, for so many years. Food was food. It was either cheap or it was expensive. Still, she realized that she ought to have sautéed the onions. Perhaps in the olive oil? What did Ken mean it for, anyway? The bottle didn’t hold enough for a salad dressing. Ethel did not like it in a dressing, having made do with cheap vegetable oils for so long. Surely not for fruit! No, he must have fancied the taste of olive oil in the spaghetti sauce. Perhaps it was some fancy of Rosemary’s.

  She grimaced but took the bottle down and turned the cap. Oh, well … she dumped it into the saucepan. She hoped it would not taste too much. She washed out the bottle and set it upside down to drain. King Roberto stood on his head. Ethel filled a large pot with water for the pasta.

  She began to cut up fruit for salad. She doubted the lettuce would be crisp at all. Five thirty-four and nobody home yet.

  Ethel began to set the table in the dining alcove of the living room. From here she could see the driveways and she heard and saw Paul’s car come in and a great load of people begin to get hastily out of it Ethel averted her eyes. It was beneath her to spy on the neighbors. A party, she presumed. The word “party” meant something lightweight to her, timewasting, profitless chitchat. (Nobody ever asked Ethel to parties.)

  Now the table was set. The water at a boil. The sauce ready enough. She turned it low. She mixed the salad.

  When the clock said twenty of six, Ethel felt injured. She threw the pasta into the boiling water, and went into the living room and sat down with her back to the mantel to watch the clock on the opposite wall.

  She would knit for nine minutes.

  Then dinner would be ready. And they should remember and be considerate. She was always considerate.

  At eleven minutes of six she marched to the kitchen.

  She heard their feet.

  “Where on earth have you been?” said Ethel heartily. “I see you’re together …”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Gibson, “we are together.” He was a little surprised to see the same old Ethel, standing on both feet in her accustomed way, vigorous and sure of herself.

  “Dinner is exactly ready,” said Ethel. “Now, you just have time to wash. There is nothing for you to do, Rosemary. I’ve done it all. Now, get to the table while I drain this and mix in the sauce. Shoo!” said Ethel, indulgently.

  Meekly, they crossed the kitchen. But they kissed in the hall.

  “Doesn’t know …” said Mr. Gibson wonderingly.

  “No, she doesn’t seem to. They aren’t broadcasting your name …”

  “Well, we must tell—”

  “Yes …”

  “Not easy.”

  “No.” The sweet was so very sweet.

  “Everybody ready?” hallooed Ethel.

  Mr. Gibson let Rosemary go and he went into his own place. It already looked antique to him, a former way of life. Could he have books in a cell, he wondered? Alas, he couldn’t have Rosemary. Face reality. Face wicked folly. Face love. Face it, that you are beloved.

  He washed, musing, perceiving that Ethel was right. Or somewhat right. He had not seen clearly his own motives. He had rationalized. He had plastered a black philosophy in the mind over a quivering wound in the heart. Although it was not really that simple, either. Still, worms might have eaten him.… Well, he knew a little more now. He knew he had been too suggestible, too quick to abandon his own faiths. He ought to have trusted himself better.

  Ethel made us both doubt ourselves, he mused, gave us that terrible feeling that one cannot trust oneself, no use to try. Such doubt as this, in quantity, judiciously used, might be a tonic and a medicine. But oh, too much, swallowed blindly at a bad time, had shaken him to his foundations.

  It was dangerous stuff.

  He met Rosemary in the hall. Their hands touched. They went across the living room to the dining alcove.

  “Sit ye doon,” said Ethel with ponderous good will and forbearance. “You naughty children.” Her eyes were wise and speculating. She’d soon “know” where they had been.

  They sat them down. Ethel spooned portions of spaghetti from the steaming mass in the wooden bowl. “Confess,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

  “There was a little mixup,” said Mr. Gibson. He stared at the spaghetti, not feeling any appetite.

  Rosemary nervously
took up her fork. “We’ll tell you about it, as best we can,” she began. Dear Rosemary, brave enough to try to help him tell.

  “I suppose you’ve had a talk?” said Ethel, giving them one of her looks. “Now, my dears, it is not my business and I do not pry. It is your privilege to have your little secrets—”

  Rosemary put the fork down abruptly.

  “Any decision that will affect me,” said Ethel kindly, “I’m sure you will tell me about.”

  “Yes,” said Rosemary steadily.

  Mr. Gibson saw, in Ethel’s eyes, himself, the lamb, the softhearted, the unworldly, the born bachelor, wifeless, living on into old age with his devoted spinster sister. Doomed to this. It was not true.

  “We are very much in love, Ethel,” he said quietly and firmly, “Rosemary and I.”

  Ethel’s eyeballs swiveled and a blank look came down. But her mouth twitched in tiny disbelief, and the veiled eyes wondered. She did not speak.

  But Rosemary spoke, “Just what was said—”

  “What …?”

  “Just what was said. That’s what is meant, Ethel.”

  “I’m so very glad,” said Ethel in a false-sounding flutter. “But don’t let dinner get cold …”

  She didn’t believe them. Her face remained blank but Mr. Gibson had an image of her thoughts, writhing and scrambling to detect some “real” meaning behind what he had said … until they writhed like … like a bowl of spaghetti. He couldn’t stomach the stuff. However, he had better eat her dinner or offend her. He turned his fork.

  Ethel’s fork thrust into her spaghetti.

  Suddenly, people were shouting. Startled, they all looked toward the window.

  Six people steamed off Paul’s porch and came roaring across the driveway.

  “Gibson! Hey! Hey!” the bus driver was shouting.

  Mr. Gibson skipped to the front door nimbly, limp and all. He was terribly, amazingly, glad to see them. Life throbbed in the house suddenly when in trooped Lee Coffey with Virginia on the end of his arm. Then Theo Marsh—flippety-flop—his seamed face beaming, and young Jeanie, ducking lithely under his waving limbs. And then Paul, holding the door for the looming up of Mrs. Boat-right, who came in like an ocean liner.