by John Waters
Vesta waited then for Belinda to return. Her long absence caused her frayed nerves to worsen.
“You was gone forever!” she greeted Frau Storeholder when she reappeared.
She was not carrying the boy’s overcoat but instead was lugging an unwieldy package.
She almost dropped the cumbersome object on the floor but managed instead to deposit it on a long seldom-used end table.
“What on earth have you brought from upstairs,” Vesta wondered, and her temper flared.
“The boy’s overcoat, dear Vesta, is all rags and tatters from the moths.”
“But where on earth did you lay hands on this package?”
“I found it near his coat. There’s writing on the outside as you can see. It’s from . . .”
“Yes, from Peter Driscoll,” Vesta whined.
Peter Driscoll was Rory’s father, though nobody was sure he was actually Vesta Hawley’s legal husband. At least there was no record of their having been to the altar.
“But what do you suppose is in the package, Vesta?”
“Marbles, I think,” she replied bitterly.
“Marbles!”
“It all comes back to me now. When this package arrived nearly ten years ago, and I haven’t thought of it again until today, let me tell you, I only half opened it. And I have never looked into it since. But I thought then it must be marbles. When Rory was a little boy of five or so, he and his . . . Dad” (here Vesta choked on the last word), “they played marbles together on the big carpet. As I say, I peeked into the package when it was delivered, and as I was ill I barely saw Rory in the next few days that followed to inform him there was a package upstairs from his Dad. He had begun even then to keep himself away from me.”
“You mean Rory never found out what his Dad had sent him for a present?”
“That’s right,” Vesta sighed.
Vesta’s complete indifference may have given Frau Storeholder the goad to undo the long-forgotten birthday present. Her old heavy-veined hands removed the heavy paper and excelsior which contained the father’s gift. She felt a kind of fear nonetheless, exploring the package’s interior. Perhaps, she wondered, maybe it was not something like marbles, but—who knows—explosives! But of course explosives was hardly a possibility.
Before uncovering the gift itself Frau Storeholder could not refrain from saying: “And you never looked all the way inside, Vesta, all these years.”
“I told you, I peeked, Belinda. And I decided then it contained marbles. But I hated Pete Driscoll so much I didn’t want to see what he had given my boy for his birthday. He ruined both of our lives, after all. And so I forgot in time there had ever been a birthday present for Rory! Go ahead, blame me.
“Open the confounded thing up then! What are you waiting for? Can’t you see how the very mention of the name Peter Driscoll has brought on a sick headache. But wait a minute. I’m going out to the kitchen and take some of those drops Dr. Cooke prescribed.”
Frau Storeholder went on attempting to extricate the birthday present from all the heavy wrapping paper and excelsior.
When the contents were finally exposed, Frau Storeholder at first drew back and gave a kind of stifled moan as if a nest of serpents had been uncovered.
Vesta had closed her eyes, waiting.
Frau Storeholder then drew out from the wrapping paper row after row of its shining contents.
The objects she displayed to a silent Vesta Hawley appeared to be a collection of gems, jewels, precious stones—whatever they were. Indeed their blazing red beauty caused her to gasp, and finally cry out.
“They’re not marbles, Vesta,” Frau Storeholder spoke in a lofty stern manner such as Vesta had never heard come from her before.
Vesta moved cautiously toward the shining red objects as if they might indeed be dangerous.
“Rubies?” she wondered.
“Rubies?” Frau Storeholder repeated wonderingly.
“Precious rubies, I do believe,” Vesta gasped, and tears overflowed her eyes. “What else can look like that, I ask you!”
“But see how many there are of them, Vesta. Just come closer please. Row after row of the same stones or gems or whatever they are.”
“I can’t believe that’s what they are, Frau Storeholder. Precious stones. Oh God in Heaven, what does this mean. Rubies all these years up there in that old attic. Let me sit down before I fall down. God in Heaven!”
“Rubies,” Frau Storeholder muttered in awe.
JEFF CALDWELL OPERATED the local livery barn. His Dad had run the barn for many years, supplying carriage-drawn horses for the quality to travel short distances in.
Today, receiving a call from Vesta Hawley for a conveyance, Jeff decided to use his old Willys-Knight car. He cogitated long and deep however, wondering what on earth Vesta Hawley wanted a conveyance for, she who never set foot outside her mansion.
Arriving at the Hawley address, Jeff was met by Frau Storeholder at the entrance, holding a large package wrapped in pieces of old quilt.
“Let me give you a hand,” Jeff took the package from her, and after eyeing it wonderingly, tipped his cap and asked: “Miss Hawley ain’t going too?”
“I’m the passenger today, Jeff,” Frau Storeholder had brightened a little at the sight of the young liveryman who had a face that betokened both health and kindness.
Still eyeing the package, Jeff wondered: “And where are we off to, Frau Storeholder?”
She hesitated only a moment.
“Moe’s Villa.”
Jeff almost lost his grasp of the package on hearing the name of the destination.
Frau Storeholder grinned at his surprise. Had she told him she was going to the disorderly house some five miles from the village limits, he could hardly have shown more shock.
They rode in silence, but after a while Frau Storeholder noticed Jeff was having trouble in not breaking out into, yes, a horselaugh.
Whether by reason of guilt or perhaps a usually hidden generosity, Vesta Hawley had provided Frau Storeholder with a tip of several silver dollars for Jeff Caldwell.
He jumped out after receiving the gratuity and, carrying the package, he proceeded with his fare up the twenty-eight steps leading to the front door of the Villa.
He had to ring a score of times before Moses Swearingen himself appeared in a kind of business suit and wearing a fedora hat.
“Jeff, I’ll be damned!” he greeted the liveryman, and then he caught sight of Frau Storeholder.
Mumbling a good day to her, Moses grumbled and bowed in the direction of Frau Storeholder.
Inside they all sat down in the front parlour. Jeff had not bothered to remove his cap and was catching his breath perhaps at his horror that he had conveyed a respectable lady to the Villa.
“When do you want Jeff to call for you,” Moses now inquired almost bashfully of Frau Storeholder.
Moses was as a matter of fact more bewildered and uneasy even than Jeff Caldwell over Frau Storeholder’s visit, and he kept eyeing the bulky package weighted down in pieces of ragged quilt with increasing curiosity.
“Ah, but you mean I am to remain, Moses?” Frau Storeholder acted surprised that she had more to do here than merely deposit the package from Peter Driscoll.
“Of course you’re to remain,” Moses sounded almost hurt.
And Moses now to the astonishment of Jeff Caldwell smiled, a smile Jeff had never seen cross the face of the proprietor of the Villa.
“In about a half an hour then?” Jeff said rising.
“Make it an hour, Jeff,” Moses told the liveryman, who touching his cap to Moses and again to Frau Storeholder made such a rapid retreat one had the feeling he had disappeared before their eyes until they heard the slamming of the outside doors.
Moses Swearingen now moved his lips awkwardly, but without being able to frame what he was thinking in words.
Finally, crossing and re-crossing his long legs, he got out: “Frau Storeholder, this is such a rare occasion, I
can only wonder how I am privileged to have you for company.”
Frau Storeholder’s own lips now moved also without her being able to reply to his compliment, until the ensuing silence forced her to say, “The pleasure is all mine, Moses.” She smiled comfortably now, for after all she had known him since he was hardly more than a boy.
Moses went on staring fixedly now at the package. Seeing Moses’ wonder, she exclaimed, “You see, Moses, Miss Hawley and I were looking for Rory’s winter coat in answer to your message. The coat, well, is in tatters. But we came across this package meanwhile.”
Both Moses and Frau Storeholder now stared in unison at the object in question.
“It seems,” she continued, still gazing at the package as if it acted as a kind of prompter, “the package I’ve brought today was a gift sent ten years ago from Peter Driscoll for his son Rory.”
Moses’s features moved uncomfortably at the mention of Peter Driscoll.
“Miss Hawley, on first receiving the package sent as I say so long ago, told me she only peeked inside at the time. She thought it was marbles.”
“Marbles,” Moses raised his voice, and instead of crossing or uncrossing his legs now, he put both his feet down on the carpet with a thud.
“Because you see, Moses, when Rory was a very small boy his Dad and he used to play marbles together on the big carpet in the living room.”
Looking up from her recital, Frau Storeholder saw Moses wiping his face with a broad blue polka-dot handkerchief. He was sweating profusely.
“But what was our wonder,” she went on doggedly, “when we opened the package up, and it was not marbles at all. It was something else.”
“Something else,” Moses repeated her last words in a kind of hoarse whisper.
“At any rate, I have brought the gift for the boy it was originally destined for.”
She then drew out from her wraps a thick envelope.
“This letter,” she pointed at it as if it might contradict her, “it is from Peter Driscoll to his son and was inside the package. I have glanced at the letter,” she said guiltily. “I had to know if it might throw light on the package’s contents.”
Moses Swearingen nodded solemnly.
“My hands, Moses, are not quite up to opening the package. If you would be so kind. . . .”
He gave her an almost accusing look and then left the room to return presently, carrying some heavy shears and a hunting knife.
He grimly, almost angrily, tore open the package.
After nearly reducing the entire package to shreds, he halted just as Vesta and Frau Storeholder had halted the day they had looked inside.
Very slowly Moses began lifting one row after another of what appeared to be, if not precious jewels, certainly gems of some kind.
“And Miss Hawley called them marbles!” he shouted. He laughed. “Did you ever hear gems like these called marbles, Frau Storeholder? I am surprised indeed. These marbles are rubies, or I’ll eat my hat!”
He held his right hand now to his eyes as if the sight of the gems had hurt his vision.
Having gazed at the jewels for as long as the sight of such a spectacle could be endured, Moses Swearingen rose unsteadily and began pacing around the room in an agitated manner.
Frau Storeholder looked after him concernedly. She felt puzzled, even sorry for him somehow. It was obvious the sight of what is called rubies was highly disturbing to him—why, of course, she had no way of knowing.
“And then what about the letter Peter Driscoll wrote to his son,” he now turned to face her. “Am I not to know the contents of it also?” he wondered, and he motioned with his hand to the gems now exposed to anybody’s inspection after their long absence from the sun.
“Oh, the letter,” Frau Storeholder exclaimed, and after a flurry she handed him the document.
Before beginning the reading, however, Moses Swearingen gave another long look at the gems as if they required some kind of say-so for him to proceed.
He read aloud, and as he did so Frau Storeholder closed her eyes.
My dear boy [Moses’ voice boomed out], I have had you on my heart and mind ever since I left you with your mother. I did not leave you willingly, always remember that. Not at all. There was no way your mother and I could see eye to eye. And there was no way I could earn a living in Gilboa, especially owing to the great expense of keeping up so large, so oversized a place as Vesta’s. So I have been travelling not only through this country but in foreign lands to boot, hoping against hope I could mend my fortunes and come back to see you someday. In place of my coming home, I am sending this special gift for you. Be sure to keep good care of yourself. My own health is not of the best, and I do not know in fact when or if I will be better. Remember, dear boy, how much I care for you and miss you more than I have words to tell you. These little red gems are only a small token of how much I care for you.
Your loving father, ever
Peter Driscoll
Moses Swearingen handed back the letter to Frau Storeholder with the alacrity of someone relinquishing an object aflame.
He sat down and, following Frau Storeholder’s example, closed his eyes.
There was again a long silence during which one could catch the sound of a large green fly buzzing somewhere.
“He is dead, I take it.” Moses inquired, his eyes still closed.
“Peter Driscoll? Oh, a long time ago, Moses. Years and years.”
Moses nodded and a queer enigmatic smile broke over his mouth.
“I cannot say, Frau Storeholder, that I am happy to have such a possession as you have brought to me today. But I believe since Rory is the one who is entitled to be the owner, it belongs here for as long as he remains with me. Which I hope will be forever!”
He almost shouted these last words, and Frau Storeholder drew in her breath.
At that moment the front door bell rang, and Jeff Caldwell was seen staring at them through the frosted glass of the door.
“Must you go?” Moses wondered.
She nodded.
“There are a number of things I would like to ask you,” he explained. He looked over at the gift again as if it were the cause of everything that faced or would face him.
“But I suppose we can arrange for you to come here again,” he gave a faint smile.
“Just as you wish, Moses.”
She was gone then without another word, but Jeff Caldwell shook Moses’s hand and volunteered something about the change in the weather outside.
Moses sat down then. His eyes tried to avoid looking at the package of jewels. Finally he picked up the letter of Peter Driscoll and stared at the peculiar handwriting of its author.
Then his eye returned again to take in the gems.
A FEW HOURS after Frau Storeholder had taken her leave, Moses Swearingen was taken suddenly ill and retired to his bedroom without having spoken to Rory about the “rubies.” Seeing he was going to be sick, Moses had instructed one of his hired men to apprise Rory of the arrival of the package and the letter from Peter Driscoll.
Moses Swearingen’s illness was this: he had been in some kind of gunfight years ago when he was a fairly young man. The bullet of his assailant still lodged in his chest or, as Dr. Cooke said, near his breastbone. It was too dangerous to remove the bullet, yet every so often the pain was almost intolerable were it not for the morphine Dr. Cooke was always kind enough to supply.
Today, as if somehow the sight of the rubies had brought it on, Moses experienced the most fearful pain in his chest he could remember.
He was tossing and turning in his king-sized bed even after swallowing a heavy dose of morphine when Rory entered.
Rory had now been with Moses for some months—it seemed years—and the boy had changed. This was brought home to Moses when he thought he saw coming into his bedroom an unknown young man. He was about to cry out when he recognized Rory.
It was not impudence or ill-breeding, Moses recognized, but for some other reason that the bo
y came directly to his bedside and sat down on one of the heavy comforters. Moses’ broad chest was bare, and Rory stared incredulous at the wound.
Then the morphine began to take effect or was it, Moses wondered bitterly, the presence of Rory that quieted his agony.
He was loath to admit that every time he saw Rory he felt a kind of calming effect. This was now especially true.
“Did you inspect your Dad’s gift to you?” Moses managed to ask.
Rory gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“And you read his letter to you also?”
Rory mumbled a yes.
“You never told me you had a bullet lodged in your chest,” Rory spoke now no longer like the boy Moses had brought home but like a young man.
“Well, now you know,” Moses said, and attempted to rise, but the pain began again and he slumped down.
“May I have a look at where the bullet went in?” Rory inquired. He would never have dared say such a thing to the master of the Villa even a few days ago, but today the master was too much in pain to correct or even to notice his breach of behaviour.
Rory touched the place on his chest where the bullet had entered.
“What in the name of . . .” Moses began, then stopped. “I say, what did you do just then with your hand?”
“Just touched where the bullet is,” Rory replied.
“The pain has all left me,” Moses stared at his visitor. Then after a long pause: “Oh, it was Doc Cooke’s dope, I guess.”
Rory touched the sore place again, and more little threads of pain appeared to leave Moses’ chest.
“What do you do when you touch the place?” Moses wondered. “You must do something.”
Rory went then into one of what people called his absentminded “starts.” He said no more and indeed acted as if he had forgotten where he was.
“Well, what do you think of your present?”
“Oh, the gems,” Rory replied.
“And the letter, too, don’t forget.”
Rory became silent.
Just then the pain in his chest began again. Moses tossed and turned and groaned. His face was dripping with sweat.