The lights of a car came up Lyttle Street above the houseboat. They illuminated the trees on the far bank of the river. The car stopped; its motor was turned off, its lights extinguished. A car door slammed. The wooden clatter of feet hurried down the steps to the houseboats. A rapping sounded at the Corot’s door.
Inside the houseboat, a man screamed.
“They’ve come for us! Run! Hide!” The voice was Roger’s.
“Hush, darling,” Pepina said. “You’re having a nightmare. It’s only somebody at the door.”
“Storm troopers!” Roger screamed.
“We’re in East Comity,” Pepina said. “There are no storm troopers. Now be quiet while I answer the door.”
Bedsprings creaked. A light came on; feet pattered across the floor. Pepina opened the front door with one hand as she finished buttoning her housecoat with the other. Mrs. Gruntey stood on the porch, Lincoln a dark shadow behind her.
“The worst has happened,” Mrs. Gruntey said, and shouldered her way through the door.
Pepina stepped aside, one slender hand at her mouth, her eyes wide.
Lincoln followed, his visored hat held in his hand. “Juh bun shoo shiah yooi swei bin. It is in the book that rain follows its own convenience.”
“Lincoln is so comforting at times like this,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
“Now, perhaps, we can have a little action,” Lincoln said.
Roger appeared in the hallway, belting a cerise bathrobe around him. “What is it?”
“The worst has happened,” Pepina said. “I knew it. My premonition.”
Roger looked at Mrs. Gruntey, who was seating herself in a chair. She looked suddenly old and sad. He thought, She has found out that her play is a farce. She has come to tell us that Coleman knows all.
“We are the outcasts of East Comity,” Roger said.
Mrs. Gruntey nodded, looked up at Pepina. “It’s uncanny … your premonition. They were waiting on my front porch when I arrived home after the rehearsal.”
Pepina’s mind swayed back to Roger’s nightmare.
“Did they have guns?” she asked, leaning forward.
Roger nodded.
Mrs. Gruntey opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked at Lincoln. “Wau yeh-shur juh-mah shiahng,” he said. “My thought follows your thought.”
Mrs. Gruntey looked at Roger. Again he nodded. She looked at Pepina. “Guns?” she asked.
“The storm troo …” Pepina said. “Oh, goodness! What am I thinking of?”
“It was a deputation from the Anti-Vice League,” Mrs. Gruntey said, drawing down the corners of her mouth with each succeeding word.
Roger staggered, clutched at the door.
Pepina gasped. “That woman! Now I know where I saw her. She’s the one who made the college buy the expurgated edition of Spenser’s Faerie Queene.”
“Mrs. Ellis Trelawney, president of the Women’s Puritan League,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “Her husband is vice-chairman of the Anti-Vice League. They were both on my porch.” Her lips quivered.
“What did they say?” Pepina asked.
“They had an outline of my play. They said they got it from President Coleman. They said such nasty things: ‘illegitimacy, sin, children of the devil.’ Ohhhhh … they called it indecent.”
“I feel faint,” Pepina said. “Roger, get me some water.” She slumped onto the couch.
Roger slowly turned his head toward Pepina, looked down his nose at her. “With the cyanide?”
“Of course not,” Pepina said. She fanned at her face with one hand. “It’s so warm.”
Roger vanished into the kitchen, then reappeared in a moment with a glass of water, which he held to Pepina’s lips. He supported the back of her head with his hand. Pepina looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“It’s just water,” Roger said.
Pepina took several sips and relaxed on the couch.
Mrs. Gruntey stood up. Her mouth was drawn into a thin line. Her face was flushed.
“I have ordered President Coleman to meet me here.” She stamped her foot. “After all, I do have some influence in this community. We are going to produce my play.”
Roger looked forlornly at the glass of water in his hand. “It’s just water,” he said.
Lincoln, standing by the door, turned and opened it. “I hear somebody coming. Sounds like two people.”
Roger walked to the door, looked over Lincoln’s shoulder. Into the light of the open door came President Coleman, his thin ferret face grim. He was followed by a wide-bodied, wide-faced man with sagging jowls. They stomped onto the houseboat’s porch.
“Good evening,” Roger said.
The two paused. They did not answer.
“Won’t you come in?” Roger asked.
He stepped aside. Lincoln opened the door wider.
The two men entered the living room. Lincoln glanced around the room, said, “Excuse me.” He stepped through the door, closed it behind him. Mrs. Gruntey strode to the center of the room. She nodded to the wide-faced man beside President Coleman.
“Good evening, Mr. Trelawney. We meet again.”
“Hrrrrmmmph!” the man said.
From the darkness outside came an echoing rumble by Mr. Amonto.
Pepina stifled a laugh.
“What’s wrong with you?” Roger whispered.
Pepina indicated Mr. Trelawney with her eyes. “He sounds just like Mr. Amonto, our bullfrog,” she whispered.
Mr. Trelawney’s face crimsoned. “Hrrrrmmmmph! What are you two whispering about?”
Again Mr. Amonto echoed his “Hrrrrmmmmph!”
Pepina rolled over on the couch, no longer able to suppress the laughter. The motion dislodged the corner of her robe, revealing a long expanse of tan thigh. The two men in the middle of the room quickly averted their gaze.
“Well, President Coleman,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
President Coleman cleared his throat.
Pepina’s laughter subsided. She straightened her robe and sat up.
“Mr. Trelawney tells me I can’t put on my play,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
President Coleman raised a placating hand. “Perhaps with a few revisions.”
“The other day, when we had tea, you assured me you’d read my play and thought it was wonderful.”
President Coleman blushed. “Yes, yes. But perhaps I was a bit hasty. I was so concerned with the problems of the new gymnasium.”
“For which I kicked in twenty-eight thousand dollars,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “I’ve a notion to stop the check.”
“Just minor revisions,” President Coleman said, his voice pleading.
“Not so much as a word!” Mrs. Gruntey said.
Pepina clapped her hands.
Mr. Trelawney placed a hand on President Coleman’s arm.
“Clinton, I’m afraid you don’t know all of the facts. I’ve been saving something to show you just how depraved these people are.” He looked gloatingly at Mrs. Gruntey. “As for the deficiency in the gymnasium building fund … I’m sure the League could raise it easily.”
President Coleman looked from Mrs. Gruntey to Mr. Trelawney. “What have you been saving?”
Mr. Trelawney pointed at Roger and then at Pepina.
“These … defiers of the commandments—they’re not married. They’re living together in sin!”
Mrs. Gruntey raised a hand, started to speak, then hesitated.
President Coleman paled, swayed. “My French teacher, not … Oh, no!” He shook his head. “Ellis, are you sure?”
“As sure as sure! My wife overheard two students talking. They’ve known it for years. They’ve been hiding it from you.”
President Coleman put a hand to his chest. His face flushed, then became pale. “My heart! I must take my medicine.” He looked around him, eyes darting. “Where … where’s the bathroom?”
Mrs. Gruntey stepped forward, took his arm. “Be calm. The bathroom is right down here.” She led him across the ro
om, steered him into the hallway. “First door on your left. Will you be all right?”
Mr. Trelawney stepped between them. “I’ll help him. Here, Clinton, old man. Calm’s the word. Right down here.” They went down the hallway.
Mrs. Gruntey turned around, started back toward Roger and Pepina. Both were standing in the middle of the room. Suddenly, Mrs. Gruntey remembered the murals in Pepina’s bathroom. She stopped, put a hand to her mouth, started to turn back, then thought better of it. She looked at Roger.
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “C’est le guerre. Some use guns, some use knives, some use words, and some use copies of the walls of Pompeii.” Again he shrugged. “If they …”
He was interrupted by a bellow from the rear of the houseboat. President Coleman charged out of the hallway, his face crimson. He was followed by Mr. Trelawney, jowls jiggling as he walked. Roger, who had stepped to the hallway entrance at the first bellow, caught up the yellow paper lei from its hook beside the door. He looped it around President Coleman’s neck as the latter emerged.
“Must maintain tradition,” he said.
President Coleman glared at Roger, wrenched the lei from his neck and flung it to the floor.
“You!” He pointed a finger at Roger. “You’re fired. I’ll see that the board of trustees acts on it tomorrow.”
Mr. Trelawney, already at the door, opened it and stepped outside. “Come, Clinton. We’re not too soon shut of this sinkhole.” President Coleman thrust his head forward and strode through the door, slammed it after him.
The slam of the door was followed almost immediately by a splashing noise from outside. This was accompanied by howls and screams. Roger, Pepina, and Mrs. Gruntey wrenched open the door, dashed onto the porch. President Coleman and Mr. Trelawney were floundering in the water at the end of the houseboat.
“Good heavens!” Mrs. Gruntey screamed. “They’ll drown.”
“Not if they put their feet on the bottom,” Roger said. “It’s only about four feet deep there.”
Their attention was attracted by a motion on the boardwalk. In the shadows, they could make out Lincoln’s square form leaning against the rail. Lincoln waved at them.
“Somebody took away the plank that goes up to this boardwalk,” he said. “These gentlemen did not watch where they walked.” He paused. “Sheng yo yen shau cho loo chun chun choo yooi, oh yen ming kwahn ten. It was once said that the great unwashed pray much for rain, but a man’s life is in the care of heaven.”
“You!” President Coleman screamed, shaking spray at Lincoln.
“You there,” Lincoln said. He pointed to his left with his left hand. “If you will but walk over there between the houseboats, you will find the ladder meant for swimmers.”
“I’ll sue,” President Coleman shouted.
“I’ll sue,” Mr. Trelawney shouted.
The two men splashed to the ladder, clambered up to the boardwalk.
Behind them, they left the tumultuous sound of laughter.
When Roger could find his voice, he turned to Pepina. “Oh, that was …” he stopped; his face sobered. “I’ve been fired!” He shrugged. “Darling, have we hit the bottom of the roller coaster yet?”
Pepina shook her head negatively. “No. I still have the premonition. In fact, I feel very faint.”
Roger’s face blanched. “If it’s worse than this, there’s no hope for us.”
“You mustn’t …” Pepina began and stopped. “Ooooh,” she moaned, and collapsed into Roger’s arms.
Roger looked around wildly at Mrs. Gruntey. “I knew it!” He lowered Pepina to the floor. “Oh, Pepina, my darling. What’s wrong?”
There was no answer from the motionless Pepina.
Roger looked at Mrs. Gruntey. “The worst is here. She’s dead.”
Mrs. Gruntey squared her shoulders. “Take her inside. Put her on the couch.” She whirled toward Lincoln. “Lincoln, get a doctor! And put that fool plank back.”
Lincoln dropped the board in place, then dashed off toward the steps, pushing aside the dripping forms of Mr. Trelawney and President Coleman.
“We’ll sue,” they shouted after him.
Roger picked up Pepina’s limp form, took her inside, and stretched her on the couch. There was a look of deepest concern on his face.
“My dear,” he murmured, bending over her.
Mrs. Gruntey shouldered him aside, began rubbing Pepina’s wrists. “Get a damp cloth,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “Do you have any spirits of ammonia?”
“I don’t know,” Roger went into the kitchen, returned with a damp cloth.
Mrs. Gruntey applied the cloth to Pepina’s forehead. Pepina moaned. Immediately, Roger was at her side. “What is it, my darling?”
“Ooooooooh,” Pepina moaned.
Tears came to Roger’s eyes. Mrs. Gruntey sniffled.
“Can I get you anything?” Roger asked.
Pepina opened her eyes. “No gardenias. No flowers.”
She closed her eyes and became silent.
“Ooooooooh,” Roger said. He bowed his head.
Several minutes passed, broken only by the gentle rising and falling of Pepina’s breast. Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk. Roger leaped to his feet, dashed to the door and flung it open.
“Hurry!” he shouted. “She’s dying!”
The footsteps came faster. Lights popped on in the next houseboat. Into the light of Roger’s doorway came a small, fat man carrying a black bag. He was followed by Lincoln. The small man had his trousers pulled on over pajamas and was wearing shoes without stockings.
“I’m Doctor Steffens. Where’s the patient?”
“There.” Roger pointed toward the couch, averted his face.
The doctor walked over to the couch, gently eased Mrs. Gruntey aside, and bent over Pepina. He placed the black bag on the floor, opened it, and extracted a stethoscope. He put the stethoscope to his ears, began examining Pepina.
“Hmmmmmmm,” he said. “Hmmmmmmm.”
He rolled back an eyelid, looked at Pepina’s eye. Pepina opened both eyes.
“Ouch,” she said. “That hurts.”
“Dizzy spell?” the doctor asked.
Pepina nodded.
“How long have you been feeling these dizzy spells?”
“Several weeks now.” Her voice was faint.
The doctor leaned over and whispered in Pepina’s ear.
Pepina nodded.
He whispered another question.
Again she nodded.
“What is it?” Roger screamed.
The doctor stood up and smiled. He folded his stethoscope in one hand, looked at Roger out of the corners of his eyes.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised, but you’re going to be a father.”
Roger’s mouth made a small “O.” Without a sound, he toppled backward. Mrs. Gruntey caught him.
Pepina sat up.
“I suspected it, but I was afraid to tell him. I knew this would happen.”
O O O
One day passed. Sunset gilded the river. Mr. Amonto croaked a tired soliloquy from his lodgings in the reeds.
The cast of Rhythm of Life sprawled in random positions on the couch, chairs, and straw carpet of the Corots’ houseboat. In a new rocking chair by the kitchen door sat Pepina. Roger bent over her, attempting to tuck a blanket around her feet.
Pepina kicked at the blanket.
“Roger, will you take away that fool blanket? It’s the middle of summer.”
“But darling, you have to be careful.”
Carl, lounging in the corner by the record player, looked up from an album of records. “When’s the little illegitimate going to be born?”
Roger’s face darkened. He turned around. “The baby will be born in about six months. I will thank you to—”
The front door of the houseboat banged open, and Mrs. Gruntey entered. Lincoln followed, carrying a case of beer.
“There’s food up in the car,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “A couple of you youn
g men make yourselves useful.” She looked around at the long faces. “Let’s liven up this wake.”
The students by the door stood up, went outside.
Carl looked at Roger. “What’re you going to call the little illegitimate?” he persisted.
Mrs. Gruntey glanced at Carl. “Young man, you …” She paused, turning back to Roger. “Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Gruntey fumbled in her handbag and produced a yellow cablegram, handed it to Roger. Roger opened the paper. It crackled under his fingers. It was from Paris, addressed to Mrs. Gruntey.
He read:
“Roger Corot and Pepina Lawrence married at City Hall, Lausanne, Switzerland, August 29, 1938. Father gave away the bride. Eugene Dessereux, European director Ballet Russe, best man. Amelie Basat, daughter of Swiss president, maid of honor.”
The cablegram was signed: “Emile Vudon, Investigations Discrete.”
Roger handed the cablegram to Pepina. She read it and smiled. “I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. You forgot all of your dress shirts at Basel and had to wear one of Papa’s.” She giggled.
“The neck was too small.”
“What is this?” Carl asked.
Roger took the cablegram from Pepina, handed it Carl.
“The joke’s gone on long enough,” he said.
Carl read the cablegram. “Well, I’ll be a double-dyed dog.” He passed the cablegram along. Students clustered around, reading it.
“It was just a joke,” Roger said. “We hated to hurt your feelings. You all seemed so … so dependent upon us.”
Mrs. Gruntey suppressed a grin. “This calls for a celebration.”
Roger started to smile, then stopped. His shoulders sagged. “Sure. Big celebration. Pepina’s going to have a baby. I’ve been fired. Your play won’t go on. Trelawney and Coleman are going to sue me.” Roger curled his lip. “Sure. Big celebration.”
Mrs. Gruntey looked up at the ceiling. “About the play. You remember that old barn of a movie theater out on Center Street that went broke during the depression?”
Pepina showed signs of interest.
“The one where the East Comity Players put on their show last year?” Roger asked.
Mrs. Gruntey nodded.
“What about it?” Roger asked.
Frank Herbert Page 5