Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  Mrs. Stumple nodded and smiled. "America," she repeated.

  "That's right," I said. "How do you do?"

  "Boom!" Mrs. Stumple replied, throwing her arms over her head. Then she started to laugh. Understated British humor, I guess.

  "Oh Lord," Kathy whispered.

  "Would anyone like something to drink?" Mrs. Cornwall asked.

  "Whiskey," Kathy said.

  Her mother gave her a look but said nothing.

  "Do you have any, uh, cider or apple juice?" I asked.

  "Why, yes I do, Walter. Why don't you two sit down, and I'll bring the drinks."

  I sat next to a plastic Christmas tree the color of Mrs. Stumple's hair.

  "I'm so sorry," Kathy murmured, sitting on the other side of the tree.

  I smiled. "Quit apologizing," I said. "I'm having a wonderful time."

  She shook her head. "Maybe I overestimated you, then."

  I kept smiling. How had she estimated me in the first place? I looked around the room. It was filled with knick-knacks and ugly plants. There wasn't a book in sight. But it was warm, and there were several photographs of Kathy on the mantel above the fake fireplace. It was a nice enough room.

  Mrs. Cornwall brought in the drinks. Sherry for herself and Mrs. Stumple. Kathy's whiskey looked as if it had been watered down. We drank a toast to the holiday.

  "How is your juice, Walter?" Mrs. Cornwall asked.

  "Just wonderful, Mrs. Cornwall." It was lousy.

  "Oh, good. May I ask: you don't drink alcohol?"

  "Never developed a taste for it."

  "I certainly approve."

  Kathy swallowed half her whiskey. Mrs. Cornwall ignored her. "Walter, isn't this a terrible business with Kathy's father?"

  "'E's an ass," Mrs. Stumple interjected.

  "It certainly is terrible. And I'd like to apologize for—"

  Mrs. Cornwall waved me silent. "Please. I understand. Kathy told me how helpful you've been."

  "It was the least I could do, considering my part in all this. Anyway, I thought perhaps we could talk about what happened. Maybe the three of us could come up with some explanation—maybe figure out where Professor Cornwall might be."

  "Well, of course, although I don't know—"

  "Could we do it later?" Kathy broke in. "I'd like to relax for a while before we start dredging up the past."

  "Why, of course, dear. Perhaps we can talk after dinner, Walter."

  "That would be fine," I said. The last thing I wanted was to have Kathy angry at me. The two of them clearly had their problems with each other, and I wasn't going to be in the middle if I could help it.

  Mrs. Cornwall politely changed the subject. "So tell me, Walter," she said, "how do you like England?"

  "I feel as if I've died and gone to heaven," I said.

  "But don't you miss the excitement in America—with the rebuilding and all?"

  "No, ma'am. I find hot baths exciting enough."

  Mrs. Cornwall smiled.

  "I never bathe," Mrs. Stumple said. Everyone ignored her.

  "I went to America once," Mrs. Cornwall said. "Just for a vacation—before the war, of course. It was so alive, so fascinating. It still seems hard to believe what happened."

  "You get used to it," I remarked.

  "You must have suffered a great deal, though."

  "Not as much as a lot of people."

  "Will you be going back?"

  "Maybe someday—just for a vacation."

  And we talked that way till dinner. I told just enough about my life to be polite. Kathy was sullen, and Mrs. Stumple pretended to be deaf until she had an opening to say something obnoxious. There was much to-ing and fro-ing to check on the progress of the meal. Whenever her mother was out of the room, Kathy whispered an apology. Whenever they were both out of the room, Mrs. Stumple and I smiled and nodded at each other.

  When everything was ready, we sat down in the small dining room. There were times when I would have fainted to see a table heaped high with turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and bread and vegetables. I was getting acclimated, though; this time it simply took my breath away for a quick moment.

  We bowed our heads while Mrs. Cornwall said grace. Then the serving dishes were passed round, and the meal began.

  "And what is the state of religion in America nowadays, Walter?" Mrs. Cornwall asked, resuming the interrogation. Across the table from me, Kathy stabbed at a piece of white meat.

  I thought about Jesus Christ and his little son. "Confusing," I said.

  "I would think many people would turn to God for solace."

  I thought of Linc. "I suppose, but a lot of people believe God has a lot to answer for."

  "Which group do you belong to—if I may ask?"

  I smiled. "I'm in the group that thank God they got out. Could I have some more bread, please? Everything is wonderful." Everything was lousy. Kathy was right: her mother couldn't cook. Still, I wasn't complaining.

  Mrs. Stumple wasn't complaining either: her skinny arm was a blur between plate and mouth. She was too busy eating to say anything at all, which was a blessing.

  Kathy picked at her food and drank a lot of wine.

  When the meal was over we all helped clean up except Mrs. Stumple, who was very tired from her exertions. Then Mrs. Cornwall poured everyone but me a brandy, and we returned to the living room to exchange gifts.

  "Oh, it's lovely," Mrs. Cornwall said when she opened the box from Kathy and saw the mauve blouse. "I must wear it to work this week." I looked at Kathy, and her expression said: She hates it. Shell never wear it.

  "Oh, how thoughtful," Kathy said, holding up the bathroom scale from her mother for everyone to admire.

  "I noticed you didn't have one when I visited your flat," Mrs. Cornwall explained. "And I thought, in your profession you have to watch your weight, and—"

  "Absolutely. Thank you so much." Kathy tried to look pleased, but she wasn't a good enough actress yet.

  "Um," I said, "I have these little presents for you." Mother and daughter looked delighted not to have to say anything more about blouse and scale. I got the presents out of my coat. "You have to understand that since my ex-employer disappeared, I've had something of a cashflow problem. But you're being so good to me, I thought, just a token—"

  Oh, you shouldn't have. Oh, you're too kind.

  I gave Kathy hers. She tried not to look puzzled. "It's a notebook," I explained. "The same kind Trigorin uses. You can jot down insights about your characters."

  Kathy smiled. "That's awfully thoughtful, Walter." I don't believe she was acting.

  "Who's Trigorin?" Mrs. Cornwall asked.

  "A friend of Kathy's," I said. I gave Mrs. Cornwall her present. It was just an envelope.

  She opened it and smiled. "It's a gift voucher to McDonald's," she said.

  "Kathy told me you were partial to America," I said. "This was the most American thing I could find."

  "That's so sweet."

  "I'm sorry I didn't know you were coming, Mrs. Stumple," I said, turning to her. "But perhaps you could go to McDonald's with Mrs. Cornwall."

  "I threw up in McDonald's once," Mrs. Stumple said.

  "Um."

  "I read somewhere they found ratshit in them 'amburgers."

  "So perhaps we could talk about Kathy's father now," I said to Mrs. Cornwall.

  She eyed Kathy quickly to see if there was an objection, but Kathy was silent, sipping her brandy. "All right," she said. "Where shall we begin?"

  "At the beginning, I suppose, if that's all right. How did you meet?"

  "I was a secretary in the Ministry of Science, you see, and he started coming there quite often. This was shortly after he arrived in England."

  "He was at the Ministry setting up the Bromford project?"

  "I imagine so, but it was all very secret, and he didn't talk about it with a secretary, of course."

  "But you met, and—"

  Mrs. Cornwall smiled. "I was a bit of a
flirt in those days, I must say. Especially with the Americans—I thought they were so glamorous and exciting. And tragic, too, what with all they had suffered. Robert responded to my flirting."

  "And you got married and moved to Bromford?"

  "Yes, to make a long story short. We lived there about ten years—Kathy was born there."

  "Did you know what his work involved at Bromford?"

  "Well, he was always rather vague about it—it was secret, of course, and I'm not very bright about such things. I knew it involved children, and he told me once it had something to do with studying genetic defects from radiation. But I never really learned any of the details—I wasn't all that interested, to tell you the truth. I had my own baby, and that was enough for me to worry about."

  "Did you know about the surrogate mothers?"

  Mrs. Cornwall shook her head. "Only at the end, when it came out in the papers."

  "Did your husband ever talk about cloning?"

  "No, I never heard that term until Kathy mentioned it on the phone yesterday. But it doesn't surprise me that he would—would clone himself, if he knew how to do it."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Mrs. Cornwall folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. "My husband was—is—a very self-centered man," she said. "Not vain, exactly, but—but—"

  "Solipsistic," I suggested. "As if he were the only person who really existed."

  "Yes, that's it. Sometimes he scarcely noticed that the rest of us were alive, I think. That was all right for a while. I had my baby, and a roof over my head. I had no reason to complain. But after Bromford, well, things became quite bad."

  "This was when he went to Oxford?"

  "Yes. His project was canceled, and there was nothing he could do about it; it was all political. I don't think Oxford particularly wanted him—the Ministry pressured them to take him on. But at any rate, he was desperately unhappy, and he started to drink. Whatever had kept things working at Bromford was gone now, and everyone's life became intolerable. And so I took Kathy and left. I've never regretted it. It was the right thing to do."

  We were all silent for a moment. Those last remarks had sounded sort of defensive. And I wondered if everything she said wasn't aimed at Kathy as well as me: Kathy, whom she had taken away from Oxford and her father to a dull life in a dull suburb. Who so obviously despised her mother. Kathy stared at her empty brandy snifter. Mrs. Stumple had fallen asleep.

  "Perhaps you'd like to see a couple of letters Robert wrote me after I left," Mrs. Cornwall said.

  "Sure," I replied. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She left the room and went upstairs. Kathy got up and poured herself some more brandy. "We don't have to keep talking about this," I said to her. "It doesn't sound like we're going to solve the case here."

  "No, it's all right," she said. "I've never heard of these letters before. I'm fascinated." She sat back down and drank more of her brandy.

  Mrs. Cornwall returned with the letters, which she handed to me. "He used to send me checks every month for Kathy. I must say he was very conscientious about that. At the beginning he would enclose a letter. I think he was drunk when he wrote them. I threw most of them away. These I saved."

  I took a look. They were badly typed on yellow paper. There was no date or salutation. "Read them aloud, Walter," Kathy said. I read.

  Here is the check for K. Do not waste it, as I am not made of money.

  I've been wondering a lot lately why I ever married you. I've decided it was a momentary weakness on my part, pure and simple. I was lonely and maybe a little afraid back then, I admit it. I thought maybe I needed the old-fashioned domestic life as an anchor while I carried on my researches. Obviously I was wrong.

  I have never "loved" you. Love is a strange word, and I have never understood it. How do you know when you are "in love"? Love is just another name for a momentary weakness. You weren't in love, either, you just wanted to get out of the Ministry, and you were scared because you were on your own, with your parents dying in the epidemic and all.

  All right, we have made our lives, and that's that. Your problem is, this is the only life you can make.

  Please do not call, as I have no wish to speak with you.

  Robert

  "I've got to go to the WC," Mrs. Stumple announced. We had awakened her.

  "Read the next one," Kathy said when Mrs. Stumple had left the room. I read.

  I deny that I have been a bad father. Granted, my research has given me less time to spend with Kathy than you've had, but that's unavoidable. My work has kept you both fed and sheltered at a time when a lot of people are starving. Enclosed is another check. How many bad fathers do this?

  Your real point, of course, is that I don't "love" her the way you love her, because I said I don't believe in the word. This is just sentimentalism. I don't see why an offspring generated out of lust and loneliness is entitled to any special consideration. Kathy shares half my genes, and that makes her important to me. What word you apply to that is your business. In any case, she has no reason to complain, and neither do you.

  I don't know why I have to spend so much time on these things. When I was at Bromford, everything was fine. Now, my life is dribbling away in teaching stupid seminars and writing angry letters to you. What's the point? You wouldn't understand, though. No one understands.

  Robert

  I looked up from the letter. Mrs. Cornwall was staring at her hands. Kathy was staring at her mother. I heard the muffled sound of a toilet flushing. I handed the letters back. "I'm not sure," I said carefully, "that these letters do much to explain what happened the other night. I think it's pretty likely that Winfield is in fact Professor Cornwall's clone. But I can't understand why Cornwall would deny it. Everything I know about him seems to suggest that he'd be overjoyed to find his clone—and these letters seem to bear that out. What do you think, Mrs. Cornwall?"

  "Oh, I don't know what to think, Walter. He was such a—What was that word?"

  "Solipsist."

  "Yes. He was such a solipsist that perhaps even a clone wouldn't matter to him. But I really never could understand him, you know, and your opinion is as good as mine, I'm sure."

  "Kathy?" I asked. "What do you think?"

  "I think it's time to go," she said. She stood up.

  "And you have no idea where he'd be now, Mrs. Cornwall?" I asked, eager to finish the interrogation.

  "I imagine that he's in some awful hotel somewhere, getting drunk and feeling sorry for himself. I'm sorry, Walter, but that's the kind of man he is."

  Kathy went to get our coats. "One final question," I said. "Winfield insists that someone tried to kill him back in Boston when he started tracking down your ex-husband. Does that seem likely to you? Would you know any reason why someone would want to keep Winfield from finding Professor Cornwall?"

  Mrs. Cornwall shook her head. "I haven't a clue, Walter. If he is Robert's clone, I wouldn't be surprised if he decided that people were out to get him. Robert certainly was like that—he saw a conspiracy in everything."

  "Yeah, that's sort of the conclusion I came to myself." I stood up. "I guess I've got to go. Thank you for a wonderful Christmas, Mrs. Cornwall."

  "Oh, we were very happy to have you." She stood up too. "Walter, are you going to keep looking into this? I mean, I'm not married to him anymore, but I don't think his house should be burned down and—"

  "I'll do what I can, Mrs. Cornwall."

  "Thank you. Now let me get you some leftovers before you rush off."

  Mrs. Cornwall bustled out into the kitchen. I went into the little entrance hall, where Kathy was waiting impatiently with our coats.

  Mrs. Stumple was standing on the stairs. "Can't wait to get 'ome, op between the sheets together, eh?" she cackled. "A little 'anky-panky, that's the idea."

  Kathy looked as if she were about to explode.

  "Here we are," Mrs. Cornwall said when she returned from the kitchen. She handed Kathy a brown paper bag. "It
was so nice to see you, Kathy. It's so convenient that the trains run on Christmas nowadays, and you can come. I only wish you'd come home more often."

  "I've been awfully busy lately," Kathy said, "what with classes and rehearsals and everything."

  "Of course. I understand. But if you have a chance—you could bring Walter too. We could all go to McDonald's together."

  "I'd like that," I said.

  "Ratshit," Mrs. Stumple called out.

  Kathy and her mother kissed the air around each other's cheeks, and we left the house.

  "Thank God that's over with," Kathy murmured as we walked away.

  But it wasn't. A minute later Mrs. Cornwall came running down the sidewalk, coatless in the cold. She held out a package to Kathy. "You forgot your scale," she gasped. "Happy Christmas."

  "Happy Christmas," Kathy managed to reply.

  Her mother attempted a smile, then turned and retreated to her home.

  Chapter 24

  The platform was deserted except for a couple necking at the far end. I tried not to look.

  "I'm sorry," Kathy said.

  "Quit apologizing," I replied. "I really had a wonderful time."

  "I didn't mean to get you into all this—all this family stuff."

  "That's okay. Believe me. I think your father is fascinating."

  "He's really not as... weird as my mother makes him out, you know."

  "Excuse me for saying so, Kathy, but those letters speak for themselves."

  "I know, but what I mean to say is, I think he's changed since then. I don't think he'd say the same things now."

  "What would he say?"

  "Well, I think the things he'd say would be... normal."

  The train pulled into the station. The necking couple, their arms around each other, got on the next car. Kathy and I had no difficulty finding an empty compartment. We sat next to each other, our arms almost touching.

  "Are your parents alive, Walter?" Kathy asked as the train pulled away.

  I shook my head. "In America, everyone's parents are dead, more or less."