She began to feel better, her depression dissolving itself in the warmth of the tea. After all, there was nothing the Fern sisters had told her about Rhoda that she had not already known, and for a much longer time. The child’s singleness of purpose, her evasiveness, her innocent plausibility when trapped, her incessant lying, were things which had long since ceased to surprise either herself or Kenneth, and when she considered the factors of the affair in quietness, those things, really, were all the Fern sisters had intimated.
The charges they had brought, if one could call such vague dissatisfactions charges, were susceptible of more than one interpretation. She had little doubt that Rhoda had worried the Daigle boy, or that she had tried to take the medal from him in the woods, even though the child had denied these things with such earnestness. But Claude Daigle, as anyone could see, was the born victim of others—the one who, in a sense, went about the world to invite his own destruction. Rhoda’s violence with him was unusual for her, greatly out of character. She would never have tried such an approach on a child with more courage and self-reliance, one who would cheerfully turn and slap her down.
She was not trying to justify her child, for she could not condone the things the child had done; she was only saying to herself that matters were not so bad as she had feared. Rhoda was her child, and she loved her. It was her duty to protect the child, to make every allowance for her, to give her the benefit of every doubt. She washed her cup and put it away. She would make the best of the matter. She would trust in the future. She would hope that everything turned out all right in time.
Then, returning to her living-room, she telephoned Monica to tell her she’d decided to take her advice and put Rhoda in public school next season. Mrs. Breedlove’s cheerful voice came through the receiver, approving the decision; then, lowering her voice, she explained that Mildred Trellis and Edith Marcusson were in her apartment at the moment. They had called to discuss a clinic for the treatment of alcoholics which she was trying to establish. She had known Mrs. Trellis and Mrs. Marcusson all her life; they were charming girls of excellent families; but what was more important for her present purpose, they were stinking with money. The trouble was, Emory had come home earlier than she had expected, bringing with him that Reginald Tasker, and they were interfering with her plans. They’d been in town drinking, and Emory, at least, was high. It wasn’t that they were acting common or using objectionable words; this wouldn’t bother her friends in the slightest, for they were both well-read ladies; they were simply sitting together over by the ferns, making silly comments behind their hands; and at regular intervals, Emory would get the sherry decanter and fill the glasses of her visitors. She giggled and wondered if Christine would come up and divert the attention of the boys until she could put the squeeze on her wealthy friends.
“Put on your new high-heel pumps with the little leather bows in front, and see that the seams of your stockings are straight. Emory admires you to distraction. He says you’ve got the best legs in town.”
The men met her at the door, took her into the kitchen, and fixed her a drink. “Why is it,” asked Reggie, “that real pretty girls like Christine never go around talking about their unconscious minds?”
Emory kissed her loudly on the cheek and said, “This one’s got it, hasn’t she, boy? This one’s really stacked.”
In the living-room, Monica was saying, “I’m so tired of novels about sensitive boys and their first sex experiences. You know how it is, Edith; they slink home in disgust, feeling degraded and guilty. Sometimes they flip their lids, sometimes they jump out of windows, they’re all so delicately adjusted and refined.”
Mrs. Marcusson took a swallow of sherry and said solemnly, “Sex is a wholesome and normal experience.”
One of Reginald’s long, pale eyes was set a little lower than its mate, like the migrating eye of a flounder at the beginning of its journey. He patted Christine’s shoulder and said, “Is everything under that black satin dress really you?”
Christine took her drink and said, “I get it from the upholsterer. He comes in twice a week and fluffs me out.” She laughed and pulled away, thinking: Rhoda probably did follow the boy down the beach. Maybe he ran out on the wharf to get away from her, and she followed him. Maybe he backed away from her and fell among the pilings. I don’t know whether this happened or not. But anyway it’s the worst thing I have to face—
“Now, the sort of book I’d like to read,” continued Mrs. Breedlove, “is one about a boy who hasn’t a smidgen of delicacy in him.” She took a sip from her glass, giggled, and went on. “My little boy is an ordinary, nasty little boy who’s going to be an ordinary, nasty little man when he’s grown. He works in a grocery store after school, I think; and he saves his nickels and dimes until he’s got enough for his first visit to the town whore, who’s old and fat, and hasn’t had a bath all over since Armistice Day.”
Mrs. Trellis laughed shrilly; then, as though realizing how loud her voice sounded in the room, she composed herself, sat up in her chair, and said, “If you’ll write it, I’ll buy a thousand copies.”
Christine thought: But if the boy backed off into the water, and Rhoda was there, why didn’t she call out to the guard who saw her on the wharf? Why did she run away? Why did she leave the boy to die? She turned her head and shuddered inwardly. “But I won’t keep going over this,” she said to herself. “It’s strange and terrible. I won’t think about it again.”
“My nasty, average little boy,” said Mrs. Breedlove, “came out of the place smirking and rolling his eyes. He whistled and swaggered from side to side. He’s wondering if he can talk his old man into letting him quit school and take a full time job at the bag factory. That way, he can make more money, and pay more visits to the greasy old whore who’s just taken his virginity. My boy’s going to be such a dear, normal boy!”
Emory stuck his head out and said, “If you girls are going to talk dirty, Reggie and I’ll have to leave the room.”
The girls went into whirlwinds of laughter, and Monica, catching his eye, shouted for him to open another bottle of the good sherry as her guests wanted another sip before they got down to business; then, turning to Mrs. Marcusson, she said, “I want to apologize for Emory’s condition, my dear. Emory’s drunk.” Emory dropped an ice cube, kicked it under the stove, and said, “Well, look who’s talking!”
While he got out the sherry, Christine and Reginald came into the living-room and sat down. Christine said she’d been thinking about the conversation they’d had the last time she’d seen him. He’d told a story then of a woman who’d poisoned her niece for insurance. What she wanted to know now was when did such people start their careers? Did children ever commit murders, or was she correct in assuming that only grown people did such dreadful things?
Reginald thought that this was not the best time for a discussion of such serious matters; but if she was really interested, why not telephone him, or drop by his apartment for lunch some day? However, he would say now, in spite of all the giggling and confusion, that children quite often committed murders, and clever ones, too, at times. Some murderers, particularly the distinguished ones who were going to make great names for themselves, usually started in childhood; they showed their genius early, just as outstanding poets, mathematicians, and musicians did.
He paused, and in the silence Monica said distinctly, “I’ve often wondered why I married Norman Breedlove. Lately, I’ve come to the conclusion that it was his name that attracted me.” She glanced at her brother and continued. “Now, my first association to Norman is ‘normal’; after all, there’s only the difference of a consonant. ‘Normal’ is such a reassuring word. It’s the word the worried people of my generation were looking for.”
Mrs. Trellis wagged her finger and said, “Where’s the sherry? What have you done with the sherry, Emory?”
Mrs. Marcusson, who looked more like a dowdy old farm woman in town to sell her vegetables than a woman of wealth, tilted her battered
old hat with the back of her hand, and said, “I wonder what young people talk about these days? When we were young, at least we had sex and social betterment to occupy our minds. I’ve got a feeling that young people now don’t talk about anything except television and canasta.”
Monica waited tolerantly until her guest had finished, and then went on. “Now, ‘breed’ is associated in my mind with increase, and ‘love’ is associated with love, naturally. So the combination Norman Breedlove brings to mind one who would not only be well adjusted and normal, but one of constantly increasing affection, too. The thing is so simple in retrospect, although it never occurred to me at all at the time.”
Emory said, “I thought you married Norman Breedlove because he was the only man that asked you to.”
Before she could answer, he laughed and said, “Now I bet Christine with those big gray eyes and yellow hair had to beat the boys off with an umbrella.”
Christine said, “You couldn’t be more wrong. I was never popular. I was too earnest and literal for the boys.”
Mrs. Trellis began to laugh, and Mrs. Marcusson joined in the merriment. Mrs. Trellis said, “This has been such a stimulating afternoon, Monica. Now, just relax and sit back and quit worrying about how much you’re going to get out of Edith and me. You’re going to get plenty. Edith and I talked the matter over on our way here. You’re not going to get as much as you figured on, maybe—but you’re going to get quite a bit.”
Emory said in a voice audible to all, “Those three old bags are as drunk as owls. They got away with a quart and a half of sherry.” The three rose and stared at him coldly. Monica steadied herself, put on her glasses, and said, “Let’s go into the library, girls, where we can be by ourselves. We have pens and paper and blank checks on every bank in town.” They put their arms about one another’s waists and walked away, but as they passed through the big, old-fashioned folding doors, they turned their heads at the same moment, looked back, and screamed with laughter.
Christine put down the drink she had hardly touched, thinking: But suppose she followed him to the end of the wharf, and Claude, rather than let her take the medal, threw it into the bay. Suppose she picked up a stick or something and hit with it, knocking him into the water, stunning him and leaving him to die there. Suppose—
She lowered her head and gripped the arms of her chair, for already despair and guilt were nibbling like mice at her mind. She got up and said she must go back to her apartment. It was almost five o’clock, and Rhoda should be returning from the playground soon. She called out to Monica that she was leaving, and Mrs. Breedlove, abandoning her friends in the library, came back into the living-room at once.
“Aren’t you afraid, a pretty little thing like you, to live on the first floor without a man to protect you?” asked Reggie.
“It isn’t really the first floor,” said Monica. “Those front stairs rise quite a bit, if you’ll notice. And underneath there’s an enormous basement that’s mostly aboveground. Christine’s window is about ten feet from the ground, really.”
“I’m not at all afraid,” said Christine. “Kenneth bought a pistol for me, and I know how to use it, incidentally.” She smiled and said, “I was surprised that anyone can have a pistol here, if he wants it. In New York, having a pistol is one of the worst things you can possibly do.”
“You have to have a permit,” said Emory. “That is, everybody but the crook that shoots you has to have one. Now, we’re more civilized in this state; we believe in giving the victim a chance, too.”
Mrs. Penmark came into her apartment and stood there idly. She kept repeating under her breath, as though her denials were a charm to save her, “Everything is all right. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I’m making a lot out of nothing at all, as I usually do. I’m being quite silly.” It was getting dark in the rooms that faced the east, and she turned on the light, thinking: My mother used to laugh and say I could make a mountain out of a molehill without half trying. I remember once in a hotel in London, my mother was talking with some people she knew and she put her arms around my skinny shoulders—my mother was always such an affectionate, gentle woman—and said, “Christine bothers about the strangest things!”… I don’t remember what she was referring to now, but I did know at the time, of course.
She went about her house, performing the usual automatic tasks of late afternoon, and then, standing still in her living-room, she shook her head stubbornly and thought: There’s no reason to think Rhoda had anything to do with the death of the little Daigle boy. There’s no real evidence against her at all. I don’t know why I’m behaving so strangely. You’d think I was trying to build up a damaging case against my own child out of nothing but my own silliness.…
Suddenly she sat down, as though too weak to stand any more, and rested her head on the arm of her chair, for she knew then that the thing she had determined never to remember again—that affair with its mysterious overtones which she’d never brought herself to face honestly—had entered her mind once more, despite all her resistances. Oh, no! It was not alone the unexplained death of the little boy that had so greatly disrupted the attitude of poised serenity which she had with such difficulty established for herself; it was really the unexplained death of the boy added to another most peculiar death, a death also unexplained, which, too, had involved her daughter—the only person to witness it. Either instance, taken alone, could probably be dismissed as one of those unfortunate but unavoidable accidents that happen everywhere, to everyone; but taken together, with the similarities of their mysteries combined, the effect was more compelling, more difficult to explain away with casual reasoning.…
The first death had taken place in Baltimore more than a year ago, when Rhoda was just seven. At that time, there had been living in the same apartment house with them a Mrs. Clara Post, a very old woman, and her widowed daughter, Edna. The old lady had become inordinately attached to Rhoda (It was strange, Mrs. Penmark thought, how greatly Rhoda was admired by older people, when children her own age could not abide her.) and when she came home from school in the afternoon, she often went up to visit her ancient friend. The old lady was in her middle eighties, and a little childish, and she took delight in showing her possessions to the child. The one thing she valued most of all her trinkets was a crystal ball filled with transparent fluid, a little ball in which fragments of opals floated, glistened, and changed with a movement of the wrist, into bright and varying patterns. There was a small gold ring sunk in the top of the crystal, like a miniature hitching post, and through it the old lady had run a black ribbon in order that she might wear her opal pendant about her neck.
Often she said that when she could not sleep, she loved to look at the changing ball and watch the varied pictures the floating opals made for her pleasure. Her daughter Edna often shook her head and said, when talking to the neighbors, “Mamma thinks she can see her childhood in the opals. I don’t discourage her. I humor her as much as I can. She hasn’t got much to enjoy these days.”
Rhoda had also admired the floating opal ball, and when she and the old lady were together, Mrs. Post would sometimes pick it up from the table beside her chair and say, “Now, isn’t that quite pretty, my dear? I’ll wager you’d like to have it for your own.”
Rhoda said eagerly that she would, and Mrs. Post laughed mildly and said, “It’s going to be yours some day, my love. I’m going to leave it to you in my will when I die—that much I solemnly promise. Edna, you heard me say it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Mamma, I heard you.”
Then, cackling in triumph, the old lady added, “But don’t go and get your hopes high, honey, because I haven’t any idea whatever of dying real soon. We come from a long-lived family, don’t we, Edna?”
“Yes, Mamma, we certainly do. But you’re going to live longer than any of them, I always think.”
The old lady smiled with pleasure, and said, “My dear father lived to be ninety-three, and he wouldn’t have died that young if
a tree hadn’t blown down on him.”
“I know it,” said Rhoda. “You told me.”
“Mamma even beat Papa’s record,” said the old lady. “Mamma died at ninety-seven, and many claim she’d be alive today if she hadn’t got her feet wet that cold night when she went over to visit the Pendletons and then came down with the pneumonia.”
And then one afternoon, when Edna was shopping at the supermarket, and the old lady and Rhoda were alone together, Mrs. Post somehow fell down the spiral back stairs and broke her neck. When Edna returned, Rhoda met her at the door to tell her the news. She had an innocent, plausible explanation of the accident. The old lady had heard a kitten mewing like it was lost on the back stairs landing. She had insisted on going outside to see about it, the child following her. Then somehow she had miscalculated distance, missed her step, and had fallen the five flights to the little cement courtyard below. Rhoda pointed out where the body was laying, and Mrs. Penmark joined her neighbors beside the body in time to hear her daughter repeat her story of the accident.
The Bad Seed Page 8