Cool's Ridge

by Perrin, Ursula;

  “Listen,” Doug Treibler said, “juries these days have less and less patience with the insanity defense, I don’t know why. Maybe the defense has been overused and people are cynical. Or maybe the people who sit on juries have watched too much late-night TV, they think mental illness is what they see on the TV screen, all these made-for-TV horror movies about “serial killers.” Maybe they think what people used to think in the seventeenth century, that people with mental illness are possessed by devils and deserve to die. Christ, who knows what a jury’s going to think?”

  Or perhaps, I thought, it’s only a simple lack of compassion. Why not? Every day you open the newspapers to another horrible killing wantonly displayed on page three. “Loner Knifes Mother, Dad,” “Woman Sets Fire to Children, Self.” It gets old. What to do with these loonies running around? Nobody sees that the system has broken down, that indeed there is no system. In the United States these days, there are more people with mental illness in jails than in hospitals.

  I thought that if John went to jail he would die. He wasn’t a criminal, he was only sick with an illness that had simply happened to him, the way cancer happens, or diabetes happens. He wasn’t tough, he wasn’t strong, and I knew what might happen to him in jail.

  I think my father knew, too. He was at home now, recuperating, watching his diet, taking small daily walks, working out on an exercycle. Like a teenage kid he wore t-shirts, sneakers, jeans. He looked good! Tanned, rested, he was finally getting a chance to sit in the sun. But the old take-charge dragon slayer wasn’t retired or even merely resting, he’d just signed on to a different endeavor. He’d finally entered the fray on John’s behalf.

  Every morning he sat at his mahogany desk with its brass knobs, its green leather “desk set” (a Christmas gift from my mother), its antique glass paperweight (a birthday gift from my mother), the dark green tole lamp, the old-fashioned black telephone (a gift from Dolores), sipping his breakfast coffee and looking at the birds darting at the feeder just outside the window (a copy of Peterson’s lay in the center drawer). After a brief perusal of The Times he glanced at the list he’d made the night before. He checked the “perpetual clock” in its solid brass case and then started dialing.

  He called “Willy” Weems, a Princeton roommate, now a Professor of Forensic Medicine at Temple Medical School in Philadelphia. He called the State Senator from Union County who happened to be a longtime patient. He called his prep-school roommate, Bo Harvey. Bo had made a lot of money as a grain trader and he owned a large property in Sussex County, New Jersey. He was also a heavy donor to the state Republican party.

  He called the Governor’s Aunt Meg (a patient of his), and he called Herman Giesing, a medical school friend who taught surgery at N.Y.U. He called the Republican Senator from New Jersey and he called the Democratic Senator from New Jersey. He called people he hadn’t talked to in twenty years—people who had gone to school with his father (Andover, Harvard).

  So all the upper-middle-class accountrements started kicking in—the people he’d known at school, the people he’d grown up with, those who remembered him as a kind and conscientious physician, attorneys who remembered my mother (whatever they felt about her, that pain-in-the-ass liberal had colleagues all over the State of New Jersey). All over the Eastern Seaboard my father called people he knew and some people he didn’t know, but it was okay because he was somebody. He had a profession, he was well-respected, his family had been in New Jersey for a hundred and fifty years. We were broke now, we Stillwells. so we used what we had—our brains, our educations. We had no money left, and no power of the kind that money commands, but we still had those seldom-mentioned and absolutely inestimable resources of the upper-middle-class—we had the contacts. And God, did we need them.

  By mid-August, John was still in the hospital and I was leading less and less of a solitary existence, although still ensconced in my mother’s house. Every morning I talked to my father on the telephone. We spent the time honing our strategy and going over the battle orders. Sometimes I talked to Doug Treibler and then called my father to report in. Sometimes I talked to Dolores, sometimes I visited John, and every afternoon at five p.m. I sat on the patio sipping iced tea and listening to Neil and Louise. Neil and Louise lived next door in the Kensington Towers. I never got to see them, I only heard one or the other of their slurred voices falling out of a third floor window. “Looeeje? Looeeje? Whadaya doing, Looeeje?” or “Ne-yil, leave that alone, okay Ne-yil?”

  One afternoon, I sat on the patio with Neil and Louise and the day’s mail. It was odd but the more I allowed certain old habits and patterns to wriggle back into my nebulous but peaceful existence, the more I found myself thinking of Skip. The mail that day consisted of two fliers, The Smithsonian magazine, a telephone bill and a letter. I guess I’d hoped the letter might be from Skip but the return address read: “Friends of Magnolia Place.”

  “Dear Miss Stillwell,”

  (it said)

  “We are the Friends of Magnolia Place, a neighborhood association. As you know, this is a long-established neighborhood in the city of Comstock. Many of us have lived here for twenty years or more. We take pride in our unique homes, our gardens, our lawns.”

  (What is this? I thought. A pitch for money?)

  “But the nicest thing about Magnolia Place is its neighborliness. Some of us have grown up here and returned to raise our children. Some of us have grown old here. It is our concern for these two vulnerable groups among us that occasions this letter. Neighborhood safety is one of the qualities that many people look for when they decide to buy a new home in a certain neighborhood. It is a quality that we feel makes Magnolia Place eminently desirable, for children as well as for those entering upon The Golden Years.

  We are therefore quite anxious for you to sell your home (and to sell it well, at a good market price) to people who will be comfortable in this neighborhood.

  If we can be of any assistance in this matter, feel free to call upon Lou Dornberger at number 12, or Dorothy Hennepin at number 64.

  Very Truly Yours,

  Friends of Magnolia Place.”

  I didn’t think much about the letter, because I guess I didn’t get it, or didn’t want to get it, and so I threw it away and forgot about it until seven o’clock or so when I went out for a walk.

  It was a sweet-scented midsummer evening. I was thinking of nothing in particular but how, that day, I’d missed my mother a lot. I’d just finished rereading the journal she kept (Summer, 1938) and on my walk, the strange notion kept intruding that I’d go home and discuss it with her. Then I’d remember that she was permanently inaccessible. Anyway, I was distracted, but even absentminded as I was, it seemed to me that as I passed certain houses, a curtain would lift and then drop, or the heads barely visible behind some hydrangeas would snap around in my direction. All of this was more of a vague impression than a clear one, and anyway, I didn’t really care.

  For one thing, I didn’t like Magnolia Place. The house my parents had bought there was not “their” house nor “our” house, it was only a house. “Our” house, “the Stillwell house,” would always be the white clapboard colonial we’d had on Evergreen Drive, with its bulb gardens and swimming pool, and its cool, high-ceilinged rooms that were full of sunlight and shadow, drifts of music, piles of books, family pictures, family humor, family love.

  By the time I’d passed the Cozy-Little-Cottage end of Magnolia Place, it seemed to me that I was being followed. I could hear footsteps (not my own) which stopped whenever I stopped. I turned. A man and a woman stood on the sidewalk some thirty feet behind me. There was a moment of blundering awkwardness. They looked at me, they looked at each other.

  I turned, fully, to face them. She was short, with wispy straw-blond hair, and thick white legs in knee-length shorts. He was tall and balding, and wore a white short-sleeved shirt. I guessed, she’s a home-maker, he’s an accountant.

  Meanwhile, they came on slowly and steadily. Their expression
s were guarded. They reminded me of two dogs who have just been roundly kicked but are intent on slinking back to make one more lunge at a meaty bone.

  The man, who was very pale and whose face worked constantly, as if he were about to be ill, spoke first. He asked me if I were Liz.

  I said that I was. Liz Stillwell Loomis.

  And I lived, didn’t I, in the Archers’ old house? Number three?

  I said that I did.

  She said, through clenched teeth, “The Archers were wonderful people.”

  “Is that what you want to talk about?” I asked. “The Archers?”

  “No!” Her chin came forward. She had a pointed chin and a strange figure—small to the waist and enormous at the hips, as if she’d been made by a nearsighted God out of leftover parts.

  It came to me then that all of Magnolia Place was along these very lines. The houses, whenever they’d been built, seemed concocted instead of constructed, and the fierceness of the neighborhood pride, the vigilance it accorded house paint and hedge trim seemed overkill—a defensiveness that compensated for what was a narrow, crowded, homely, unaesthetic and plainly less desirable neighborhood. The values of this neighborhood were right up there with the neighborhood aesthetic—getting your money’s worth, and getting ahead in life (which meant earning more money) and minding everybody’s business, all up and down the street, so that (God forbid) your property values wouldn’t decline, the worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone.

  We came at last to the heart of the matter, which of course was my brother John. “How is he?” It seemed that the neighbors were “worried” about John. It was obvious that he “needed better care.” It was clear that he shouldn’t be left alone, at least not in this neighborhood. In a word, he was bad for real estate values, and they had already contacted the Comstock police. They hoped, they certainly hoped, I intended to sell the house quite soon, because there were children on the street and elderly people. I pulled a leaf from a nearby bush.

  The woman, whose property rights were offended by my nervous plucking, said reprovingly, “You shouldn’t do that, you know. That’s an expensive shrub.”

  During all of her harangue I’d said nothing, partially out of sheer amazement. At last, as the onslaught came to an end, I blinked and then yawned, and curtly said, “Good night.”

  She said, “You won’t discuss this?”

  It was getting dark. Lights were coming on all over Magnolia Place. I felt that the whole street was listening and watching, and I bravely said to this hidden ominous throng, “No I won’t. You see, I’m afraid you don’t understand about rights.”

  The man said vehemently, “Oh yes we do. We understand our rights.”

  I said, “I’m talking about my brother’s rights. Here’s something you ought to know: There are rights other than property rights.”

  I turned, walked up the street, and went into the awful green ranch house that, until a moment ago, I’d very much wanted to sell. I closed and then locked the door.

  It rained later that night and I had an attack of intense loneliness. I stood at the window watching the rain beat against the glass. I listened to the water pour through the drainpipes and I twisted my hands together. I picked up the telephone and called the Ridge.

  Shauna answered. I asked for Skip. She said coolly, “He’s not here.” I asked if I could leave a message. She said crossly, “But he’s away. Surely you must know.” And then she added, “How are you?”

  I said I was fine, getting along fine. I asked where Skip was. She said, “Don’t you know?” I said, “No.” There was a pause. I imagined her taking a drag of her cigarette. I always thought she smoked Salems because the turquoise box looked good with her hair.

  She said, “He’s in Maine with his folks. They’re visiting another family.”

  I was beginning to resent her. In my mind, Shauna’s carefully level voice had taken on the qualities of a large wooden obstacle. She said, “I’ll tell him you called.”

  I said hastily—I felt she was about to hang up—“if anyone’s heading down this way, could you ask them to bring my things?” My voice sounded weird to me, high and wobbly, with a note of childish pleading.

  She said stiffly that she’d relay the message to the group. She hung up before I thought to ask when Skip would be back.

  Away? I hung up feeling angry. Why hadn’t he told me he was going away? Of course I was the one who had left, so why shouldn’t he go to Maine with his family?

  I sighed and looked around. Place looked okay. Not gorgeous but neat. For all its aesthetic defects, until this evening’s walk the little house had seemed a safe place. No one much called me here, no one had bothered me. The only annoyances were “Neil” and “Louise.” Actually, with a couple of changes it might be okay. Whatever else it was, it was currently “home.”

  4.

  In September, Leonard came to visit me. It was raining that day, too, a soft sooty September rain which was more like fallout than precipitation. Framed by a living room window, the day looked sad and smudged, a charcoal sketch done by a careless artist.

  I was lying on the sofa reading through a catalogue when I heard a car pull up outside. I was perplexed because the car sounded more like a truck, and then, recalling that absolutely unique progression of rattles and clanks, I sat up thinking happily that Wayne and May had come to visit in their station wagon. I was pleased, really pleased, because for weeks, now, since the incident with “the neighbors,” I’d felt so alone.

  I peered out of the window, and then watched, terrified, as Leonard got out of the wagon. He came around to the sidewalk and stood there with his hands in his pants pockets, looking at the house, and then he ducked his head and began walking up the driveway.

  Immediately, I ran to the bathroom, shut and locked the door. Go away! Go away! I thought, and then looked at myself in the mirror. Why this terror? What was I doing? I opened the bathroom door and stuck my head out.

  He rattled the knob and called out, “Liz?”

  Silence. I had the feeling he would stand there all day, forever if necessary. I went to the door.

  “Hello,” he said and looked down at me, gravely. “Well? How are you?”

  “All right,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came down to see you. Can I come in? I brought your stuff. It’s in the car.”

  “Oh. Well thanks.” I stared straight ahead, at his shirt front. He wore a white dress shirt, starched but tieless, with the sleeves rolled up. I felt frightened again, more so than before, more than I’d been of being alone. Nevertheless, I stepped aside to let him in.

  We went into the living room, wandering toward it like two ships lost in dense fog. I tripped on an extension cord, he bumped a table with his hip. He looked around vaguely, not taking anything in. I said, “I’m sorry. It’s quite dusty.”

  He said, “Oh?” He sat down in an armchair, I sat across from him on the sofa. I had on a short dark flowered skirt and I sat primly with my knees together and my sandals as firmly planted as if I were at a job interview. I thought all at once of Eileen, my one-time roomie, and the night she’d gotten drunk watching TV, and how her pink robe had fallen away from her thighs to reveal the dark patch between her legs, and how Skip had grinned. I always thought Skip had slept with Eileen. I thought perhaps he’d marry her. She was so patently the right woman. But for reasons not totally clear to me, he hadn’t, he had married me. I wondered why? Had I worn him down? What was it he’d said about me once, jokingly? “She’s so persistent.”

  Leonard said abruptly, “Skip’s moved out.”

  I said, amazed, “Out of the house? But why?”

  He said, “I don’t know. At least I’m not sure. I think his law partners objected. He said once they thought his living in a commune was bad for the firm’s image.”

  “The house was his idea.”

  “That was last year.”

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “I
don’t know. How are things with John?”

  “He’s better … much better. I called Dr. Small. He said he thought John could do well on the right medication. He called Greystone and actually got to talk to John’s doctor there—what clout! Some days I wake up thinking there’s hope. Other days …”

  Leonard grunted. “And how’s the Knacker thing going?”

  “Not so good. We hired a detective to go up and talk to people, look around. But the detective couldn’t locate any witnesses.”

  Leonard shook his head. “They’ll stick together,” he said.

  “I thought someone might come forward out of sheer decency. It still could happen.”

  “Yes.”

  He sat with his hands knit together on his knees. He looked so calm. I wondered what this meant? Perhaps it meant that whatever he’d felt for me, or whatever I thought he had felt for me, had become mere indifference. Yes, that’s what it was. Indifference. He’d had a bad time with Alice. When you have a bad time with a wife someone else looks good. Then, when things get better, you’re indifferent.

  He frowned and unlinked his fingers and began lightly tapping them upon his knees. He had on his grey cotton pants. “And how are you?” he asked me again, and his hands stopped in midair, as if he’d paused playing the piano.

  “All right.”

  “Skip told us you two …” He moved his hands apart.

  “What?” I asked, rather sharply.

  He hesitated. “I’m sorry. I guess I wanted to clarify …”

  “What is it Skip said?”

  “That you were splitting up.”

  “Oh. That. Yes.”

  He gave me a blank look. “You don’t agree?”

  “With what?”

  “With the separation.”

  “No. I agree.”

  He nodded and sank back further into the chair. “You haven’t been in touch at all?”

  “No. Where’s he living?”