The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  Maud’s discourse had somehow drained and weakened Claire. She had hung on each succeeding sentence as if it were a life raft. She wanted to be saved, to grasp something that would rescue Marc and herself, and she found it had slipped away. Yet she was impelled to speak of the thought that had surfaced first.

  “Maud, what would happen in a marriage here if—if the wife wanted children and the husband didn’t, or vice versa?”

  “I’m afraid you are imposing an alien Western problem on a culture where such a problem does not exist,” said Maud. She turned to Courtney. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re right,” said Courtney. He looked at Claire. “What your mother-in-law said of marriage and children in Polynesia applies to this island. Children are desired by all. It would be unthinkable that one mate would want a child and the other not. If it happened—why, I suppose the Marriage Hierarchy would intervene. The pair would be divorced promptly, and the one who wanted children would have no trouble finding someone of a like mind.”

  Claire felt stifled and unhappy. An old California thought darted at her, posed a question: if you are married to a child, how can you have one? And then a sub-question: how can a child properly mate to give you a child, and create his own rival? Damn men, she thought, all child-men of America.

  Maud and Courtney were speaking to one another, but Claire did not hear them. She saw them rise, to get a closer view of the native children at their construction play. She did not follow.

  She hoisted herself to an elbow, body still outstretched, reflecting on men, on Marc as a man. How incredible, she thought, that American men, men like Marc, think of themselves as manly. She wanted to cry out to them all, for they all had the face of Marc. She wanted to cry out: You men, you read your sport pages and hit a golf ball a mile and swear in the locker room or over the poker table and belt your whiskey without falling down and talk about girls you’ve laid and would like to lay, you great big men, you gamble and booze and kid waitresses and drive seventy miles an hour, and you think that’s masculine and that makes you a man. You fools, she thought, you child fools to think those false trappings are manhood and virility. What has real manliness got to do with strength or speed or stag habits? Do you want to know what manliness is, what real virility is—to know what it is with a mature woman, a woman who is your wife? Manliness is the giving of love as well as the taking of it, manliness is the offering of respect and the taking of responsibility, manliness is kindness, thoughtfulness, affection, friendship, reciprocated passion. Will you listen, all of you? Kindness needs no boudoir conquests. Thoughtfulness does not have hair on its chest. Friendship is not muscular. Passion requires no bawdy words. Virility is not a penis or a cigarette or a bottle of booze or a bluff at table stakes. Oh, all of you, when will you learn? Marc, oh Marc, when will you not be afraid to be truly tender and a man and to give me our child?

  Claire’s eyes had moistened, but her tears were inside. She must banish these inner soliloquies before she made a scene. She must stop thinking. How does anyone stop thinking? For one thing, you move, you don’t stand still. Especially when it is the day of your second wedding anniversary.

  She came to her feet like an old person trying in vain to show the last strengths of youth, and she walked hastily to Maud and Courtney. She flourished her wrist watch. “It’s nearly five,” she said. “The cook they’re sending will be over soon. I’d better be on hand.”

  “The cook?” said Maud vaguely.

  “Anniversary tonight,” said Claire with artificial gaity pitched high for Courtney. “Second wedding party, remember?”

  Maud hit her palm on her forehead. “I entirely forgot—”

  Claire confronted Courtney. “I hope you haven’t forgotten. I asked Paoti and his wife to bring you along. There’ll only be the six of us.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Courtney. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “Strictly the American food we have with us, but it won’t make you homesick,” said Claire, linking her arm in her mother-in-law’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  After they had passed through the nursery once more, and emerged into the village compound, they parted company with Courtney. For a moment, Claire’s gaze held on Courtney as he proceeded toward his quarters near the Sacred Hut in his ambling, loose-limbed walk. Then she and her mother-in-law started off in the opposite direction.

  “I found the last hour most enlightening,” Maud said.

  “I found it depressing,” Claire said.

  Claire was aware that Maud had glanced sharply at her. Usually, Claire perceived, Maud did not investigate the pain or disturbance of those around her, or, in fact, of anyone. It was as if she reserved her feelings for her work. Everything else was an indulgence that sapped energy. If Maud was concerned about Marc and Claire, she had apparently tried never to give a sign of it, lest she be drafted from noble peace into lowly battle. But now, Claire had deliberately tried to provoke her mother-in-law. If Maud refused to take note of it, her attitude would indicate disinterest in a close one, which would mar her kinship role. Claire waited, wondering how her mother-in-law would handle the obvious cue line thrown at her.

  “Depressing?” Maud repeated with reluctance. “In what way, Claire?” She made an effort to guide the complaint to an impersonal plateau. “Because their child-rearing system is so good or so bad?”

  Claire would not be misdirected. “Because there are children at all, and they like having them,” said Claire bitterly. “I have none. That’s depressing.”

  The faintest frown pinched Maud’s warm forehead. “Yes, I see, I see.” She stared at the ground as she walked. “You and Marc will work it out, I’m sure. Those things always work out.”

  Before Claire could challenge her mother-in-law’s statement, her hands-off policy, they were intercepted by Lisa Hackfeld. It irked Claire to see her mother-in-law’s exhalation of relief, her quick beaming and insincere pretense of interest in Lisa, whom she must have regarded as the Marines to the rescue.

  Resentfully, Claire listened to Lisa and Maud chattering, as they went along the compound. Lisa had lost at least a dozen pounds since coming to the Sirens, and while this created some sagging of the skin on her face and neck, it made her younger and more vital. The controlled and cultured accent Lisa had acquired somewhere between Omaha and Beverly Hills was forgotten in her bubbling enthusiasm. She was pure Midwest, and almost as energetic as she had been in that Midwest, as she spoke of her day’s triumph. She had been selected to lead one of the ceremonial dances that would start off the annual festival which was beginning at noon tomorrow. Maud treated the news with as much importance as if she were Victoria Regina listening to Disraeli report that India was now her bauble. Claire knew that her mother-in-law’s fervent interest, so feigned, was less an effort to butter up the sponsor’s wife than to cut herself free from a discomforting domestic quarrel.

  Going along the compound, Claire kept her eyes steadily on Maud’s features. Claire could now see some of the reasons why Marc had become Marc. Maud was the prototype. She had been above family, and the joys and heartaches of domesticity. How had she conceived Marc? But she had done so, perhaps as a social experiment, a field experience, a preparation for wider knowledge. She had borne Marc, and neatly filed him away with the rest of her work. She was an awesome, unfeeling machine. No heartbeat, only cogs and wheels turning, turning.

  Yet, Claire could not hate her mother-in-law. Before things had worsened, Maud had seemed a superior relative—friendly, interesting, unobtrusive, and famous enough to be a feather in the hat of a young bride. Maud had liked Claire for Claire’s brightness, prettiness, curiosity, respect, and Claire understood that she was liked and for this liked Maud even more. Maud was the perfect relative, Claire saw, as loner as your demands were intellectual and not emotional. It grieved Claire now, when she needed a human being to confide in, a close maternal being, that she had only a highly advertised machine. The anthropology machine nam
ed Maud, Claire thought, who understands all peoples but no person. How happy to be a Hayden on anniversary number two!

  Suddenly, a gesture of Maud’s, a fluttering of her hand to someone of! to the left, broke across Claire’s introspection. Beyond the stream, before Paoti’s hut, Claire could make out three people in a group. One was Rachel DeJong. Another was Hutia Wright. The third, a scrawny old native woman, was unknown to Claire. They had been engrossed in conversation, and it was Rachel DeJong who had waved, and who beckoned as she called out, “Can we see you for a moment, Maud?”

  Maud halted, and backed away from Lisa and Claire. “Rachel seems to need me,” she said. She added one more brief congratulation to Lisa, then half-turned to Claire. She forced a smile at Claire, impulsively, awkwardly, reaching out and touching her daughter-in-law’s arm. “I’m looking forward to tonight,” she said, and with that she pivoted and marched toward the nearest bridge.

  “What’s tonight?” asked Lisa.

  “A celebration,” said Claire, and she resumed walking, with Lisa a half-step behind.

  * * *

  Relieved to be free of her daughter-in-law, of whatever untidy mess Marc and Claire were making of their lives, of the time waste and energy waste her own intervention might mean, of worry about Marc and guilt about Marc, Maud Hayden was glad to be absorbed once more in a field problem. In practical discussions like this, she felt, you grew and gained, whereas arbitration of family squabbles only subtracted from you and reduced you.

  Maud stood solidly before Rachel DeJong, Hutia Wright, and the member of the Marriage Hierarchy named Nanu, an elderly widow with stringy hair, quick eyes, gummy smile, and infinite knowledge of matrimony. Maud listened to Rachel explain her reasons for giving up her study of Moreturi and his wife, Atetou. The imposing bamboo entry to the Paoti residence, which Maud faced, lent dignity to the conclave. However, its architecture diverted her attention, and she dismissed it from her vision to concentrate on Rachel’s earnest explanation.

  “—and so for all of those reasons, while I’m managing to make headway with the other two patients, I’m afraid I’m failing with Moreturi and his wife,” Rachel was explaining. “Their versions are so different, that it would take more time than I have to learn the truth. Moreover, there is such antagonism between them, that the case takes on an aspect of emergency. I really don’t feel I can make a sound judgment soon enough, and one should be made, either to find a means of helping their marriage survive or of granting Moreturi the divorce he has applied for. I’ve advised Hutia I am dropping the case, or rather, turning it back to the Marriage Hierarchy to make the final judgment. I’m sorry about this.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, too,” said Maud, “but I wouldn’t regard this as any serious failure. I’m sure you’ve gained some valuable insights into the lives of—”

  “Oh yes, I have,” said Rachel.

  Maud addressed herself to Hutia. “Then it is back in your hands. The loss of two weeks won’t disrupt your investigation?”

  Hutia Wright, who seemed a well-done native replica of Maud, albeit shorter, rounder, smoother of complexion, remained placid. “The Marriage Hierarchy has undertaken these matters since the time of the first Wright. We shall proceed with our investigation immediately. There must be one change. Since I am a parent of the one who had complained, and could be accused of blood prejudice, I will disqualify myself from the investigation.” She indicated the elderly woman beside her. “Nanu will lead this investigation. I would make one suggestion, Dr. Hayden. I think you should replace me on the Hierarchy for this single case. I value your judgment as highly as my own. Also, it will give you an opportunity, such as you might not have again, to observe precisely how our Hierarchy performs. You had spoken to my husband of the desire to participate, had you not?”

  “Indeed I have,” said Maud, enthusiastically. “This is a great honor. I accept your invitation. When does our work begin?”

  “Tonight,” said Hutia.

  “Tonight? Excellent. Then I’ll—” Abruptly, Maud stopped and snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot again. Hutia, I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t do it tonight. Why, you know the reason. We’re all having dinner together—my son’s wedding anniversary.”

  Hutia nodded. “Of course. But you will be available the rest of the week?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” said Maud. “About tonight though, I have another idea.” She turned toward Rachel DeJong. “Look, Rachel, why not be my substitute for tonight, spell me? I want us to be in on this investigation from the beginning. I need it for my paper, and you may touch on it in your own. The divorce mechanism here is one thing we know nothing about—”

  “Because it is difficult to explain,” Hutia interrupted. “We have always planned you would follow such a case in person. It will be clearer that way. There is no mystery, but words will not make it so clear as seeing the many steps.”

  “Yes, I understand, Hutia,” Maud said, and resumed rapidly with Rachel. “Please, Rachel, only for tonight.”

  Rachel hesitated. She had promised herself that she was through with Moreturi and his wife. Still, she owed Maud Hayden a debt for inviting her on this field trip. She could not deny so small a favor. One more participation, and she would be done with it. She gave her assent. “Very well, Maud, this once.” She looked at Hutia. “What am I expected to do?”

  “You will meet at nine o’clock this evening,” said Hutia, “in the Hierarchy hut. Nanu and one other she will select will await you. Shortly after, your investigation will begin.”

  Bewildered, Rachel’s eyes strayed to the old crone. “What is this investigation? What do we do?”

  Nanu’s upper lip massaged her upper gum. “You will see soon enough, young lady. It is best you see for yourself.”

  * * *

  Throughout dinner, in the hut that she shared with Harriet Bleaska, a persistent feeling of uneasiness oppressed Rachel DeJong. It was as if she must soon undertake an unpleasant task that promised no reward of pleasure or feeling of duty accomplished. It was, Rachel thought, like having to attend the funeral of one who had been a mere acquaintance, or having to do business with one who (you had heard) had spoken ill of you, or being backed into extending an invitation to out-of-town visitors who had once been schoolmates but whom you hardly knew, or agreeing to take a series of hypodermic shots that might or might not help. Or, worse, it was like being forced to become a member of a cabal, whose designs were mysterious, suspect, and indefinably threatening. For Rachel, the Marriage Hierarchy investigating group was such a cabal, and she wanted no part of it.

  The knowledge, or lack of knowledge, of what lay ahead in twenty minutes, fashioned her mood, which was thinly unhappy.

  Thus troubled, she continued to eat listlessly, knowing that she was being uncivil, or just barely civil, to Harriet, who had cooked the dinner, and to Orville Pence, who had invited himself over, grumpily insisting that he was tired of bachelor fare. Rachel hoped that the two of them did not misunderstand her despairing mood, since she liked the homely nurse enormously for her good humor and good heart, and she found Orville, despite his fussy ways, intellectually refreshing. Nevertheless, tonight Rachel could not abide company, and so despite their presence, she ate alone.

  She really had no appetite. It was the first time, on the island, that her roommate’s culinary talent did not interest her. Wearily, Rachel picked at the food in her bowl and made an effort to listen to Harriet’s praise of the infirmary and the native practitioner who supervised it. She could see that Orville, also listening with effort, was in an even worse mood than herself. His interruptions of Harriet, his sarcastic comments on the loose behavior of the villagers, were constant and vehement. It surprised Rachel that, being a guest, Orville could be so disagreeable to his hostess, and it surprised Rachel that his contentiousness did not get through to Harriet. Fleetingly, Rachel had the impression, once, twice, that Orville was spoiling for a fight with Harriet. Rachel speculated on the accuracy of her impres
sion. How could anyone on earth find anything on earth to fight with Harriet about?

  Suddenly, Rachel realized that it was ten minutes before nine, and that she must hurry to the meeting with the Hierarchy. She pushed aside her unfinished bowl, and started to rise. “Hate to eat and run, Harriet, but tonight I’m substituting for Maud on a project. I’ll barely be on time. The food was divine. I’ll take over the cooking next week.”

  She went to the small mirror she had hung beside the window, and combed her hair.

  “I’d better run, too,” Harriet said. “I’m expected at the infirmary.”

  Orville sniffed loudly. “I wanted to talk to you, Harriet.”

  “How sweet,” said Harriet, absently. “Any time, Orville, except tonight. I’ve got to change into my uniform. Would you be a dear and dispose of the debris? See you both tomorrow.” She ran into the back room.

  In the mirror, Rachel DeJong caught the reflection of Orville’s face. It was prim and pursed, yet welted with rage, as it glared at the door through which Harriet had disappeared. Inquisitively, Rachel turned around and studied Orville.

  “Anything wrong, Orville?”

  He hesitated. Then he said, “Nothing wrong. I was just thinking about nurses. They were regarded as nothing more than streetwalkers in Florence Nightingale’s time.”

  To Rachel, the remark would have seemed like an idle comment except for the venom with which it was spoken. “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Rachel.