by May Sarton
I stop crying. I am pleased that my hunch proved to be good. I am back in my life again in some strange way. “Thanks, Joe, thanks for calling.”
“Andrew says to tell you he’ll be along in a half-hour and has his sleeping bag with him.”
But when I put the receiver down I know I do not want anyone overnight. I have to think things out. I have to be prepared for family and friends to advise me to move the store away, that it is impossible to remain here. For the first time I begin to face what is involved. Can I stay on? Is there some way to put an end to the threats? Am I crazy to insist on a staying power I am beginning to feel slide away? What makes me so determined to stay? But as I ask myself these questions the answers well up, the nucleus of friends the store has brought me and brought together: Nan, Marian Tuckerworth, Martha, Sue Bagley, and dear Fanny and Ruth who take over on Saturdays. Their faces surround me in my bed like guardian angels. Already in a few months the store has come to represent something in the neighborhood. Of course I have to stay!
So by the time Andrew comes by my mood has changed, so fast do things happen in the psyche. “How was it over there?” I ask him, sitting up in bed. “Just sit on the bed and we’ll talk, then I must really get some sleep.”
“I intend to spend the night,” he says, patting my feet under the covers.
“No one will do anything tonight. Whoever it is has had her fun. Andrew, I want to be alone.”
“You sound very much in command,” he grants, and continues, “I liked Joe a lot, and Eddie too, but Joe is someone you can lean on. He talked about you in a very admiring and wise way. And I’m sure you know you can call him at any time. That is a comfort to me. I don’t want to leave you, Harriet. I’m going to be anxious about you. Can’t I stay? I can sleep downstairs in the store and you won’t even know I’m here.”
“All right. Who am I to turn down a dear brother and his concern? The fact is that without Patapouf it has ceased to feel like home here. She has taken Vicky with her. Oh, it’s so strange and awful!”
“I envy those two men,” says Andrew, “and I envied you and Vicky. You are right, Harriet. At this point I need to be in touch with some exemplary lives. I hope I can help with Eddie.”
There is a moment’s silence between us, then Andrew looks up and asks me whether it is all right for him to use the phone downstairs. He wants to call Fred.
“As long as I don’t have to bother with telling it all. Go ahead and call Angelica too. You’ll find her number in the small phone book on my desk. Ask her, will you, if I can bury Patapouf’s ashes in her garden. I’d be sure to cry if I talked to her.”
“Of course. I’ll go right down,” says Andrew. He looks at me, hesitating for an instant, before coming over to hug me hard. It is a singular blessing to be hugged as I slip down in the bed and close my eyes. All I need now is to be allowed to forget.
As soon as I’m alone, however, I am wide awake. Sleep is as far as heaven. Vicky used to say, “Don’t meet things head on. Confrontation doesn’t help. Meet them sideways.” And she was right, but how am I to meet sideways a murderous old woman who has shot my dog? And what is she thinking of doing next? Is she alone or is someone else, a son perhaps, also engaged in this sinister game? I am exasperated, and I see why. It is significant in an odd way to be threatened and attacked because of the kinds of books I offer for sale and even because I am a lesbian and have said so openly, but there is no significance and no point in becoming a martyr to simple madness!
So what can we do? This whole dreary business has gone on long enough and it is clear to me that the police will never try to solve this case. They are not interested, partly because I am a woman, partly because I am new in the neighborhood, and no doubt they think I feel superior. Did someone yesterday suggest a private detective? I must call Jonathan and see what he thinks. I suppose private detectives are wildly expensive, and if the detective does unearth the culprit, what then? My head is whirling and I feel rather sick. I keep listening for Patapouf’s deep breathing, then realize that I’ll never hear that again. It is an interminable night, but I must have finally gone to sleep because I am startled by Andrew’s gentle knock on the door and see that it is after eight.
“Oh, sorry, did I wake you?”
I pull on my wrapper before opening the door but I must look disheveled. “I guess I finally went to sleep. What an awful night.”
“Let me make us a cup of coffee and then I’ll be off to work.”
We sit at the table and I find some coffee cake in the fridge and pour glasses of orange juice; all this in a daze.
“Fred will be over later on. He is convinced that we must get a private detective on to this and not delay.”
“That is exactly what I decided in the night. I have not been kept from what I planned to do here, but too much energy gets wasted in anxiety.” I sound businesslike and balanced, I am glad to hear. “Fred did not talk about my moving the store, did he?”
“Well,” Andrew grins at me, “he did at first but I told him you would never be forced out, and that was that.”
“Thanks, Andrew.”
“Angelica Lamb, on the other hand, was rather violent on the subject. She can’t understand why you stick it out, but of course,” Andrew says, his tone changing to a gentle one, “she will be happy to have Patapouf’s ashes buried in her garden, wherever you choose. She wants to take you out to lunch today.”
“I don’t want this day,” I say, “not in any shape or form. It’s a getting-used-to-loss day and that is all.” I realize suddenly that Joan doesn’t even know about Patapouf and she will be here shortly. “Oh Andrew, thanks for everything.”
When he is gone I get dressed. Everything today seems an immense effort. When shall I ever be able to resume a normal life? That is what I long for, quiet days of talk about books with customers, people I know now as friends dropping by.
21
I have never seen Joan angry but now, when I tell her about Patapouf, her face flushes and she is so angry that she can’t say anything. Then she slams the telephone book on the floor and curses. Then she comes over to my desk and hugs me hard.
“Harriet, I’ve had enough of this. We are going to get whoever it is. Why aren’t the police here now if they didn’t come last night?” she asks, picking up the phone.
But I beg her not to make the call. “Fred and Jonathan are coming over. They’ll be here any minute, but thanks anyway. What a support you are, Joan! Your anger,” and I stop to take it in. “The strange thing is that I have not felt anger this time, just woe. I feel like a sandbag with all the sand poured out, useless and beyond anger.”
“It’s the shock,” Joan assures me.
I can’t bring myself to tell her that it is grief, that it is Vicky. I do not feel anger in myself, but anger in Vicky. I feel she is furious with me, that all I have done is a bitter mistake. I feel tears splash down on my hands and rub them off.
“Do cry,” Joan says, “it’s all right.”
Fortunately I have time to blow my nose and pull myself together as Jonathan and Fred push open the door. Fred kisses me on the cheek. I suggest that we all four sit down around the table and offer them coffee.
“No thanks,” says Jonathan.
There is a slight pause while Fred exchanges a look with Jonathan. “Harriet, Jonathan agrees with me that the time has come to clear this whole dirty mess up and get hold of the goons, as you call them.”
“All right, but how are we to do that? The police washed their hands of the whole business weeks ago.” My tone is testy but I can’t help it. I resent needing help. Is it always men who deal with violence?
Jonathan coughs his nervous cough. “It may be time to call in a private investigator.”
“Won’t it be frightfully expensive? We’re operating on a wing and a prayer already, as you well know.”
“The alternative appears to be that you leave this area and find a more tolerant neighborhood,” says Jonathan.
&n
bsp; “I won’t run away.” I turn to Fred. “You know I can’t do that. I can’t let all the people down who come to the store and find a refuge here. I can’t break down what I have been slowly building up.”
“Very well. Then what about getting a sleuth in on it? Andrew told me someone had seen an old woman running across the street just after the shot, and she had a rifle. So there is at least a clue.”
“Are there any women private detectives? I would prefer a woman.”
“I’ll see what we can turn up,” Jonathan says agreeably. Though he usually manages to irritate me, he means well, I have to admit.
“I can’t help wondering what this madwoman is feeling now. Is she gloating? Or filled with remorse? And is she afraid?”
“You have a vivid imagination, Harriet.”
“No, I really don’t, but this is such a strange and horrible thing. I want to get to the root of it. I want to know what goes on in that woman’s psyche.”
“You’re so like Vicky when you say that,” Fred says, quite amused apparently, “tough and resilient.”
“Maybe I am at moments but I am never sure of myself, and Vicky always was, or seemed to be. Oh, if she were only here she would fight for me!” The words spring out but I see at once it is a mistake. Here are two men who have come to help me and fight for me and all I do is wail for Vicky. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, “that was a childish remark.”
“It’s natural enough,” Fred says, reaching over to take my hand and hold it for a moment in a strong clasp.
“If everything stands still now until we get hold of a detective, maybe I had better catch up with my desk. I guess I need to be alone and resume my life here as best I can.” It is not perhaps what I ought to have said, but it is at least the truth. “Thank you for coming so promptly. I am a lucky woman to have your help.”
It is agreed that I shall have an interview with a detective, if found, by tomorrow morning. Life is proceeding as it does in small rushes, eddies, and a slow inexorable coursing onward through the human landscape.
I sit down at my desk after they have gone filled with a sense of relief. What helps is the usual, to take up the routine bills and pay them and ponder a way to reduce the deficit. Some kind of reception or party around the Thanksgiving weekend might be a good idea. I forget everything for a half-hour and no one comes into the store. It feels like a reprieve. In one way it is a very different atmosphere from the great gathering after the Globe interview with its air of triumph and congratulation, as if I had won a battle—and I suppose in a way I had. That seems now eons ago. My education was just beginning.
What has happened to Patapouf, so innocent and loving, is by comparison a secret. No one can be expected to imagine that her death has brought Vicky’s death back in a new way. No one can imagine how desolate I am, how hard it seems to behave in a normal way, how almost impossible to keep going, to appear to be in control.
“I guess I’m not as independent as I thought I was,” I say to Joan. “Andrew was a real help, staying the night.”
“I think you are amazing,” Joan says. “You are so strong.”
“Not at the moment, dear Joan. I’m in a muddle about everything.”
“Very British of you.” Joan often makes me laugh when no one else can and her remark sets me off.
“They muddle through, one is told. I just sit in the middle of the muddle helplessly laughing.”
The kaleidoscope of the morning takes another turn and settles into another pattern as the door is pushed open by Nan. She comes right over to me sitting at my desk and says, “It isn’t true is it?” as she looks under it to be sure Patapouf is not there snoozing as usual. “It can’t be true that Patapouf is dead!”
“They shot her on our evening walk, shot her in that waste place down the street. She went fast. I held her in my arms. Blood everywhere.” This I say quite calmly. I am telling it, not reliving it.
But I can see that Nan is very upset. Trying not to cry, she says fiercely but with a break in her voice, “Those criminals have to be stopped. What about the police? Oh, Harriet, it’s so cruel, so unfair. What sort of world is this anyway?”
“The lawyer who runs my affairs,” I tell her, “and my older brother decided the police were hopeless. They think a private detective is the only hope. If they can find one, I am to interview him or her tomorrow. I hope it will be a woman.”
“Why a woman? What difference does that make?”
“Well, someone who was there saw an old woman run away, holding a rifle.”
“Oh.”
“I have an idea in this case a woman might get further, be able to penetrate the community better … I don’t know.”
“You are so brave,” Nan says.
“No. I’m numb right now. I can assure you I wasn’t brave yesterday.”
“But today you are brave,” Nan insists. “Come and sit down at the table. I feel quite weak in the knees.”
Sitting at the table makes for intimacy, and that feels good, but it also brings back all the inner turmoil of the last twenty-four hours.
“What is happening, Nan, is very strange. The death of Patapouf—or rather the life of Patapouf before she died—was keeping me alive and keeping mourning away. Now it is almost as though Vicky were the one who was shot in the field. I can’t talk about it,” I say, blowing my nose on a Kleenex.
There is a silence. Nan always knows when not to push. “You have not had time to mourn,” she says quietly. “I am going to leave you in peace but could you come over and have supper with us? We’ve talked about it for so long. Perhaps this is the time.” But as she sees me hesitate she says, “Maybe tomorrow.”
I think about the children, the expected response to their interests, about meeting Nan’s husband. For a second I think I simply cannot do it. I want to creep into a corner alone. What comes out is, “I feel so old, Nan.”
“Anyone would, after what you have been through these past months. But the children, of course, are totally innocent about age. Somehow or other I have noticed that children take you as being their own age. That is a genius you have.”
“Really?” It is an encouraging thought, true or not. “All right, I’ll come tomorrow. It’s a help to know I can be my childish self.” That childish self is warmed by Nan’s hug before she leaves.
“Come about six-thirty when we can have a drink and the children are fed. I’ll call Phil and tell him to be home early. He will be so pleased to meet you at last. You have become a legend in our family.”
I am sitting here thinking that life is like a tapestry that is always being woven with new patterns and colors, and it never stops, nor can we hold it back. So it is no surprise when the phone rings and it is Angelica, who weaves herself in and out of the pattern, and has done so for years. “I’m coming to take you out for lunch,” she announces without preliminary.
“All right, but it has to be early as I have to be back at the store by half-past one.”
“Two,” I hear Joan’s voice. “Take your time.”
“I’ll be there at noon.” She has sounded quite calm but her voice breaks as she says, “I still don’t believe … the dear dog …”
“Please, Angelica, I can’t talk now,” and I hang up rather rudely. At the moment I do not want to hear her grief, which I know is real. I want to get on with my work … with my life. I am clinging to it desperately as to a raft in a rough ocean. “I am not drowning,” I hear myself say aloud.
“No, you appear to be staying afloat,” Joan says and laughs.
“Good God, am I talking aloud now? What am I coming to?” I get up and walk up and down for a minute, suddenly very glad Joan is there and we can talk. “Joan, what I need is to think about the store. That is my lifesaver.”
“What’s your idea of a compelling undertaking?”
“I have two ideas about windows. One is that we really must do one on AIDS.”
“Yes, but I suggest we keep it on hold for a while. Let things di
e down a bit.”
“Maybe. The other is self-indulgent but I want to do it: a kind of memorial window for Patapouf, books about what animals do for people.”
“That,” Joan says in her most definite tone, “is a splendid idea. It has occurred to you, no doubt, that the murder of an old dog will move a lot more people than that piece in the Globe did.”
“No.” I am shocked by the very idea which seems implicit in Joan’s remark. “I am not about to exploit Patapouf’s death for publicity purposes!”
“Don’t be cross, Harriet. I was not thinking of a newspaper story, God forbid, but that people who were on the other side may well come over to your side when this gets out around the neighborhood.”
Perhaps she is right and, if so, it will be very interesting to see. In an instant we have an inkling, for the door is pushed open by a rather seedy old man carrying a copy of the Chronicle. He peers at Joan and then at me and decides evidently that I am the woman he is after, for he raps the paper with his hand and asks, “Are you the woman whose dog was shot yesterday?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Those punks should be shot at dawn. It’s a dirty thing to do. I came to apologize for this neighborhood, which is running downhill so fast it’s amazing anyone stays here, and quite beyond me, if I may say so, that you chose to open a bookstore here and expose yourself as you are doing.”
“Sit down, won’t you?” The man has penetrating, dark eyes under tufted eyebrows and has not smiled since he came in. I like this man.
“Oh, I can’t stay. I just wanted you to know someone is on your side.”
“You say ‘punks’ but someone saw who shot Patapouf, and she says it was a woman with a rifle. I don’t suppose you have any idea who that might be?”
“No, I don’t. God knows there are enough crazies around here.” He does not want to get involved and is anxious now to leave.
“I appreciate your coming very much. My name, as I expect you know, is Harriet Hatfield.”