Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  She remained where she was, head throbbing, eyes still not able to focus. Mr. Bellamy—she would never, ever think of him as Wynn—had grabbed and imprisoned her in his meaty arms. Danced with her. Tried to kiss her. Tore her pajamas. And then, thank God, left. She touched the back of her head, where a lump was forming; there was a soft but menacing ringing in her ears. She began moving clumsily toward the bathroom and the tub. She wanted to wash his touch from her skin, the water as hot as she could bear. Then she vomited, a pale, foamy pool of liquid on the wooden floor.

  Forget the shower. She had to get to a doctor. Where? How? Across the lawn, Tom’s window was still dark but the light in Henryka’s window glowed. She was still up. And she knew how to drive. Eleanor’s own driving skills were too rusty to pull out now. She needed help. But would Henryka be the one to offer it?

  She went to the closet. Somewhere inside was her raincoat, and she pawed through the rack of clothes until her trembling hand seized it. She put it on, slid into her shoes, and picked up her purse. She was shaking, but a desperate energy propelled her through the dark, toward the house. When she got to the door, she stopped. There was a good chance Mr. Bellamy was inside. The shaking intensified. Her only hope was in that house too. She would have to take the risk.

  Once inside, she removed her shoes and found the stairs. A soft thudding noise made her freeze, and she waited, immobile, until she realized it was just the cat. Her chest released in a long exhale. She continued upstairs and down the hall until she reached Tom’s room, still empty. Here were the car keys nestled at the bottom of the trophy, just where Patricia had said they would be. Deep into her coat pocket they went. Then she climbed the staircase that led to the third floor—and to Henryka’s room.

  “Henryka,” she called softly. “Henryka, are you up? It’s me, Eleanor.” Henryka opened the door and gasped. No wonder—Eleanor could just imagine what she must have looked like. “I’m sorry if I scared you. But I saw your light. I need help. Please help me.”

  “What happen you?”

  “I don’t want to talk here. Won’t you let me in?”

  Henryka stepped back. She wore a faded robe and her hair was down around her shoulders; she was obviously getting ready for bed.

  “Henryka, I have to see a doctor. Now. Can you drive me?” She pulled the keys from her coat pocket and held them up.

  “It very late.”

  Eleanor could see that she was weighing the situation, trying to determine what had happened, where her allegiance belonged, what she should do. “Please, Henryka,” she begged. “My head hurts so much and there’s no one else I can ask.”

  All at once, Henryka’s expression softened. “You wait.” She stepped behind a fabric-covered folding screen. As she dressed, her head was still visible. “Sit down,” she instructed. Eleanor sank gratefully into a chair. Henryka stepped back out from behind the screen clad in a skirt and blouse. “Dr. Parker. He close by,” she said. “Give me keys. I take you.”

  As they drove along the dark, quiet road, Eleanor waited for Henryka to ask her what had happened to her but it was only when they had reached the doctor’s house that she spoke. “Mr. Wynn—he do this to you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Eleanor looked at her with astonishment. “How did you know?” Henryka didn’t offer anything more, but the answer was suddenly so clear. “It’s because he did it to you, isn’t it?”

  “Long time ago,” said Henryka. “At Christmas party. He drunk and follow me into kitchen.”

  “He was drunk when he showed up at the cottage tonight. He wanted me to have a drink with him. I said no.”

  Henryka nodded, as if familiar with the script.

  “Then he wanted to dance with me. To kiss me. But I wouldn’t, I didn’t . . .” Eleanor hadn’t cried when Mr. Bellamy was in the cottage and she hadn’t cried since. Now the tears let loose—a flood, a torrent.

  “It be all right.” Henryka leaned over and patted her back. “You see.”

  Eleanor’s tears slowed. “Did you tell Patricia? Threaten to leave?”

  “What I say?” Henryka asked. “Where I go?”

  Eleanor could easily fill in the blanks. She knew that Henryka had been widowed young and left with three girls to raise on her own. Her parents were still in Poland, and all this must have happened during the Depression, when jobs were scarce. So naturally she had stayed on at the Bellamys’. How far had it gone? Had it happened only that one time? Or had Mr. Bellamy made a habit of it? But when she looked at Henryka, stoic and even serene in the muted light of the dashboard, she realized that the older woman wasn’t going to tell her any more. And she wasn’t going to ask.

  Fourteen

  On Sunday, Patricia slept until noon, although she’d kept her vow and had nothing at all to drink the night before. It was the pill she had taken for her headache, she realized as she surfaced, reluctantly, from the insistent swirl of her dreams. It had never affected her like this before though; she felt like she was emerging from a state of dark enchantment.

  Downstairs, the house was eerily quiet. There was no sign of Wynn, Margaux, or even Henryka. Only Glow, curled up on the rug and fixing her with her green-gold gaze. Then the back door opened and Henryka stepped inside. In one hand, she held a bunch of phlox, taken from the cutting garden behind the house; in the other, a pair of shears.

  “Where is everyone?” Patricia asked.

  “Mr. Wynn at club,” Henryka said, averting her eyes. “Miss Margaux sleeping.”

  At this hour? That was strange. Patricia sank into a chair; the strange, befuddled feeling was still enveloping her. “How about Eleanor?” she asked. “Have you seen her yet today?”

  “No,” said Henryka. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding Patricia’s gaze. What was wrong with her?

  “Well, I guess she’s sleeping late too,” she said with forced cheer. “Is there any coffee on the stove? I’d love a cup.”

  “Of course.” Henryka filled a vase with water and placed the flowers in it before turning her attention to the coffee.

  “Have you baked anything?” Patricia asked. There were no enticing smells emanating from the oven, no pans or trays in evidence.

  “No,” Henryka said. “You want I should bake now?”

  “That’s all right, Henryka,” Patricia said, moving toward the door to go check on Margaux. “Just the coffee; we’ll eat when everyone is up.”

  Henryka nodded and finally let her gaze meet Patricia’s. In her cool green eyes, Patricia saw an unfamiliar expression she could not quite identify.

  Margaux was asleep, curled on her side, the covers peeled back, her bad leg exposed, snoring lightly. Patricia stood staring at the leg for a moment; she rarely saw it anymore since Margaux was so careful about keeping it covered. But now she could look all she wanted at the thin, malformed limb, its ankle as shrunken as a toddler’s. She forced herself to look elsewhere, at her daughter’s face. When had the girl ever slept so late? She closed the door quietly and went into the kitchen where the coffee waited. Then she picked up the black telephone and asked the operator to put her through to the club. Mr. Hennessy, the day manager, picked up on the first ring.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellamy,” he said once she identified herself. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my husband,” she said. “I’d like to speak to him, please.”

  “Mr. Bellamy hasn’t been here today,” said Mr. Hennessy. In the background, there were short bursts of laughter. The club on a Sunday afternoon in the summer was a lively place.

  “Are you sure?” Patricia asked. “Perhaps he’s gone sailing?”

  “I’m quite sure, Mrs. Bellamy,” Mr. Hennessy was saying. “All guests have to sign in. That’s the rule.”

  “I must have been mistaken then,” she said. “Thank you just the same, Mr. Hennessy.”

  If Wynn was not at the club, where was he? And why had he told Henryka that was where he was going? Glow, who had wandered into the k
itchen, wound herself around Patricia’s ankles. When Patricia reached down to stroke her fur, the animal unsheathed its claws to slash the back of Patricia’s hand. “Ouch!” She looked down at the bright red streaks; Glow twitched her tail and walked off. Patricia went to the sink to wash away the blood. The cat had never done that before. As Patricia dried her hand, Eleanor came in. “Good morning,” Patricia said. “Or rather, good afternoon.”

  Eleanor did not reply. Patricia thought she looked dreadful: gray smudges under her eyes, her skin pale and waxy. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. Maybe she had a hangover? But Tom had not returned last night and Patricia doubted she would drink alone.

  “I’m fine,” Eleanor said though it hardly seemed true. “I didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.”

  “And I slept too well. I had a headache last night and I took something for it. I forgot just how strong it was. I didn’t get up until noon. And now it’s like the whole house is under a spell. Margaux’s still asleep. Tom’s gone and who knows where Wynn is.”

  At the mention of Wynn’s name, a shudder of almost palpable revulsion seemed to pass over Eleanor’s face. Did she really dislike him that much?

  “Would you like me to check on her?” Eleanor offered. “Maybe I should wake her if she’s still asleep.”

  “Yes, why don’t you?” Patricia said. She went up to her room to get dressed and when she returned to the kitchen, Henryka was making French toast and Margaux was sitting at the table with Eleanor. “How are you this morning, darling?” she asked.

  “I slept and slept,” said Margaux. “I’ve never slept so late in my life.”

  “You certainly did. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

  “I’m fine, Mother. Truly.”

  After they were all seated, Patricia began to feel as if things were returning to normal. Margaux gobbled down three slices and drank two glasses of milk. Patricia allowed herself a second slice, or at least a few bites of one. Eleanor, however, had hardly touched the slice she had been served. “Aren’t you hungry?” Patricia asked.

  Eleanor jumped perceptibly, as if she’d been prodded. “Not really,” she said. “Do you think I could have a cup of tea?” she said to Henryka.

  Patricia’s sense that everything was all right quickly dissipated. The looks passing between those two; what could they mean? She got up from the table. “I’m going down to the club,” she said. This idea had just come to her. Even if Wynn was not there, perhaps someone might know where he was. Besides, she could not sit around this house all day. Everything felt decidedly off-kilter, verging on bizarre. She needed a change of scene, that was all. The keys to Tom’s car would be in his room; he had left with his friends and not returned for it. So Patricia would borrow his decrepit Oldsmobile—he could afford a better car; why did he drive that jalopy?—to see if she could find Wynn.

  The club, as she had anticipated, was bustling. There were several card games in progress and the dining room was full. The chaise longues out by the pool would all be taken. Through the open doors, she could see the sailboats bobbing merrily on the shining surface of the water. Inside, a nautical theme prevailed: anchors, coils of rope, and buoys were used as décor, and a series of pastel seascapes adorned the walls. Patricia spotted Dottie Talbot, who was seated alone at a table by a window, and headed over.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked Dottie when she sat down.

  “A martini. Won’t you have one with me?” Dottie motioned the waiter over and he brought Patricia a martini as well. It was cold, dry, and delicious. One martini easily led to another. Soon it was almost five o’clock. Dottie said she was going to have an early dinner at the club; would Patricia like to join her?

  “Where’s John tonight?” Patricia asked. The second drink had calmed her nerves and she felt better, almost, if not quite, herself.

  “Oh, I don’t know and I’m not sure I care,” said Dottie, lighting a cigarette. “Husbands can be such a bother sometimes, don’t you think?” Patricia said nothing and Dottie asked, “Speaking of husbands, where’s Wynn?”

  That’s what Patricia wanted to know. “I was hoping he was here.”

  “I haven’t seen him.” Dottie blew elegant smoke rings up into the air. “Who needs husbands anyway? We can have dinner alone.”

  Patricia hesitated. She had no desire to go home, but felt guilty leaving Margaux. “Let me call the house.” She stood and made her way a little unsteadily through the club and to the bank of telephone booths, just off the powder room.

  “How is everything?” she asked Henryka.

  “Everything be fine.”

  So why didn’t Patricia believe her? “Let me talk to Margaux.”

  Margaux said the same thing, and Patricia returned to the table, where a glass of wine awaited her. “I ordered for you,” Dottie said, raising her own glass. “Cheers.” They each drank another with dinner, and their conversation grew quite animated, if somewhat rambling. By the time Patricia drove home—very slowly, the car weaving back and forth across the nearly empty road—she had succeeded in distancing herself from the strange and troubling day.

  At the house, there was no sign of Margaux or Eleanor, though she had seen a light on in the guest cottage when she got out of the car, and another light on in Henryka’s window. She paused in front of Margaux’s door and knocked softly.

  “I’m still up,” Margaux called. “You can come in.”

  Her daughter was sitting up in bed, dark blond hair spread out across her white cotton nightgown. Seen this way, her daughter looked perfect—you would never know that anything was wrong. “What are you doing?” Patricia asked, trying to mask her sudden rush of emotion.

  “Just reading.” She held up her book—Great Expectations—for Patricia to see.

  “Fine choice,” Patricia said.

  “Eleanor suggested it,” Margaux said. She placed the open book down beside her.

  “Eleanor makes good suggestions,” Patricia said. “How is Eleanor today?” she asked. “She didn’t look well.”

  “She wasn’t.” Margaux gestured for her mother to sit down. “Do you know what she told me?”

  Patricia shook her head.

  “She’s homesick! I didn’t think grown-ups got homesick.”

  “Anyone can get homesick,” Patricia said. Was that really all that was wrong with Eleanor?

  “She wants to go home,” Margaux said. “I told her to ask you. You’ll let her, Mother, won’t you?”

  “Won’t you miss her?”

  “So much. But I don’t want her to be sad. She could go for a weekend and then come back to us.”

  “She certainly could,” Patricia said, smoothing the quilt that covered Margaux’s ruined leg. “And it’s very kind of you to consider her feelings.”

  “Then you say yes?”

  “I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow.” Patricia got up. “You’re probably not very sleepy.”

  “No, I’m not,” Margaux said.

  “Well, you can stay up and read until you’re tired.”

  Though she had had a lot to drink, Patricia wasn’t tired either, and after getting undressed, she sat up reading in bed. Wynn finally came in sometime around midnight. He looked a fright too, with his hair uncombed and his clothes all wrinkled. “Where were you?” She hadn’t meant to start out this way, but honestly, what did he mean by disappearing all day and then coming home in such a state?

  “I was out.”

  “I didn’t see you all day.”

  “I told Henryka: I was at the club and then later I met up with John Talbot.”

  “You may have been with John Talbot, but it wasn’t at the club. I called and Clarence Hennessy said you hadn’t been there. And then I stopped by myself, later. I would have seen you.”

  “What is all this about, anyway? Am I on trial?”

  “Should you be?”

  He glared at her.

  “You’ve been gone all day. Eleanor’s been acting strangely, and Margau
x slept past noon. I’m just wondering what’s going on.”

  “Margaux stays up too late. And no wonder, seeing how she’s continually stimulated by that so-called tutor you had to hire.”

  “What are you implying?” she said.

  “Just that she’s a little tramp, that’s all. Hardly the sort of person to set a good example for Margaux.”

  “A tramp?” But she knew where this was heading. Knew, and could do nothing about it because from all appearances, it was true.

  “Haven’t you seen the way she and Tom are mooning at each other? Or has she got you hoodwinked so completely that you’re oblivious to what’s going on right under your nose?” He removed his pants and laid them over a chair.

  “Nothing is going on under my nose.”

  “Oh Christ, Tricia, will you grow up? That brother of yours is canoodling with our daughter’s tutor. Everyone can see it but you.”

  “Tom is a hopeless flirt,” she said. Wynn was right of course. Dottie had seen it. Eleanor wasn’t even denying it. And then there was the lipstick smear on the pillowcase. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

  “Oh? Just wait and see what happens when he knocks her up. She’s angling to get money from you—that’s all they ever care about. Money.” He finished undressing and got into bed beside her.

  There was a silence, tense and angry. Patricia closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But Wynn moved closer, and nudged her nightgown up. She moved away and he moved with her; if this continued they would both fall off the bed. He continued his exploration until she put a hand on his wrist to stop him.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I just don’t feel like it.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said peevishly. “Isn’t it enough to say no?”

  “You always say no.” He rolled away from her. “Always.” His voice had lost its petulant edge and just sounded sad.

  She felt sorry for him then, but that did nothing to arouse her desire. Instead, she turned toward him and began to stroke his hair, almost as if he were her child, not her husband. His breathing slowed and became more regular; soon he was asleep.