A Reckoning

by May Sarton

  “If only I could see her just once not in a noble role!” Daphne said, holding her head in her hands.

  “Well, Jo,” Laura said quickly. “She was anything but noble in that role.”

  “You mean about Alicia?”

  “I think Sybille behaved really badly there, ruthlessly, and I think she did it because she couldn’t face the same thing in herself. There was a powerful undertow from the subconscious. Passionate love for a woman! That terrified her, so much that she acted ignobly for once—does that make you feel any better?” Laura asked with a smile.

  Daphne didn’t answer. She was looking into the fire. The log she had put on was blazing now. But after a long moment, she stretched out her arms and yawned, then she got up and walked up and down, stopping for a moment to look out to sea again. “It’s clouding over.”

  Laura waited. She felt that they were close to some ease, some opening out of the tight place where Sybille had loomed like a beautiful, malignant goddess. It was so terribly important that they do so, that she waited almost holding her breath for what Daphne would finally come to see and to utter—if anything.

  “I have learned something in these last years, something I wish I had learned long ago.”

  “What is that? Dear beautiful Daff, what is that?”

  “I’ve learned to like women. Mamma didn’t like women, did she? I now have two or three real women friends. It’s a tremendous blessing, Laura. It’s opened up a whole new world for me. Do you suppose Jo has any real friends?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—maybe.”

  “Women have so much to give one another, and to learn from one another. I’ve never been active in the women’s movement, but I have to admit that the whole idea of a sisterhood has come about, and is beginning to happen, women helping one another, women being able to talk to one another, not as rivals. That seems quite new.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that. What I see at my job is people, especially women, being less afraid to be honest with one another and with themselves.”

  “It’s a far more open world than when we were young, L. At this stage in my life I am more nourished by women friends than even by David. For, let’s face it, with David I have really been for years a kind of psychiatric nurse, an ego-builder … it’s exhausting.”

  “The balances are delicate, so delicate. In a way Papa played a feminine role in their marriage, didn’t he? He was the admiring, consoling one, the fervent audience for Sybille’s performances.”

  “He was a romantic, at least about women.” Daphne looked across at Laura and suddenly laughed. “It’s been awfully good to talk, Laura.”

  “I wanted this so much,” Laura murmured. “To be here in this house where we were happiest, the house of childhood, to come to some kind of reckoning that could include Mamma without resentment and without guilt.”

  “We haven’t quite made it,” Daphne said. “But I have to admit that that when we walked in I felt as prickly as a porcupine. I didn’t want to think about childhood. I didn’t want to remember.”

  “And now?”

  “Oh, I suppose I’m a little closer to accepting Sybille, as you call her, to imagine at least that had I not been her daughter, I might have liked her. Who knows?”

  “Just one more thing before we go. Why did Uncle Root commit suicide?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Daphne asked, astonished. “Ma always said it had been a noble act. He was terribly in debt, and after his death his wife and children got life insurance.”

  “All I remember was the awful strain of nobody weeping, and how you and Jo and I went down into the cellar and howled with rage because it all seemed so inhuman and crazy. He was such a lovable man! Do you remember that summer when he taught us to ride and Pa hired polo ponies for us?”

  “That was the summer when we used to sneak out and slide down haystacks in the salt marsh—strictly forbidden of course.” Laura had gotten up now, and while they talked, Daphne scattered the logs and packed up the thermoses. Then she stood there for a moment, thinking. “Uncle Root threatened to shoot Mamma if she went on the stage—and he meant it. There was something awfully queer about all that.”

  “Well, you said it, Daff. Family life was soap opera when we were young.”

  All the way back in the car they were silent. Laura dozed.

  Chapter XII

  Lying in bed next morning, her breakfast tray pushed aside, and Mrs. O’Brien due in an hour, Laura realized that it was a blessing that Daphne had insisted on staying till afternoon, for then she could tell Mary O’Brien what to do, show her where things were, get her settled in. After an uncomfortable night, coughing, unable to find a position where she could breathe easily, Laura realized that all that would have been beyond her strength. Never mind, she thought, we got to Maine—we did it. And Daphne did seem to understand that for the present Laura needed to be alone in her own house, and as free as she could be, and had agreed to go back to New York at least for the present. She had also persuaded Laura that Daisy and Ben and Jo, too, must be told and that she, Daphne, would see to it.

  It’s all getting organized, Laura thought—in her moment of exhilaration on Marlboro Street, when she had first imagined some great new adventure opening out, the adventure of dying, she had not envisioned that. It was going to be little bits and pieces, after all. There wasn’t any way, since a life nearing its end is so much a part of the human web, of abstracting herself from others completely. She felt agitated and restless because so many things were to happen today—Mrs. O’Brien first of all, Ann to walk Grindle, and finally Aunt Minna at four to read to her. Could it be that a routine might give her the space, the sense of living in eternal time that she had nearly lost in the last days? For the moment, Laura sank back onto her pillows and closed her eyes.

  Downstairs she could hear Daphne talking to Grindle in her special voice for animals, and Grindle barking, immediately responsive to such attentions. Lovely not to worry—Daphne would let him out and Sasha in.

  Laura must have slept, for she was suddenly aware of voices downstairs and looked at her watch. Just after eleven. Mary O’Brien must have arrived. In a moment Daphne was there in the room, sitting on the bed, taking her hand. “Do you feel like seeing Mrs. O’Brien? She’s downstairs making a custard. She’s all unpacked and settled in.”

  “Mmmm, custard sounds good.” Laura pushed herself up on the pillows. “But I really must get dressed. It’s awfully late.”

  “Why not have a little talk with her and then get dressed?”

  “All right. I do feel a little tired.”

  “If I were you, I’d stay in bed all day. After all, we had quite an expedition yesterday.”

  But this was the siren’s song. Laura felt she must not allow herself to lapse into invalidism until that was necessary.

  “We’ll see. Do send Mrs. O’Brien up.” And she whispered, “Don’t you think she’s all right?”

  Daphne nodded enthusiastically. “Great”, she whispered.

  Then she took the tray and disappeared. While Laura waited for Mrs. O’Brien, she had the strange perception that this woman whom she hardly knew was to be her nearest companion on the journey, Charon, and knew far more about where they were bound than she did—if not the destination, at least the hazards and pains of the journey would be familiar to her. Whereas for Laura it was all unknown.

  Not the children, not Daphne, but Mary O’Brien and Aunt Minna would be her rod and her staff from now on. So when Mary O’Brien appeared at the door, enveloped in a large white apron, Laura felt a real tremor, not fear, but the unknown coming closer, the unknown that she must learn to befriend.

  “Sit down,” she said. “My sister told me you were all settled in—I must have dozed off after breakfast. I’m tired because we took a long ride yesterday to our old summer house in Maine.”

  “Yes, your sister said you did.” Mary O’Brien smiled. When she smiled, her rather severe face, with deep lines around the mouth, was q
uite beautiful. “So it’s a good idea to take a long rest today.”

  “I don’t know,” Laura answered. “I have the feeling that I must do all I can while it’s possible.” Then she gave Mary O’Brien a testing look. “I don’t want to coddle myself—and I don’t want to be coddled.”

  “You are to do what you want, Mrs. Spelman. I’m here to help you do just that, so,” she said without smiling, “I think we understand each other.”

  “Thanks,” Laura said.

  “A cheese souffle and salad for lunch?” Mary O’Brien asked. “I looked around and that was about all I could find. Miss Hornaday said she would show me the way to the market, and we could get in some things this afternoon.”

  “That’s perfect. Give me my purse, will you be so kind? It’s on the dresser. Let me give you twenty-five dollars, and you can use it as you need it. I don’t expect it to go far these days!” Again Laura hesitated, but she might as well get it over, and she added, “I don’t have much appetite, Mrs. O’Brien. You mustn’t be hurt if I can’t always eat a meal.”

  “We’ll find things you can eat. Now don’t you worry about that.” Then she laughed a rather shy laugh. “The last place I was at, such a sweet old lady, all she wanted was custard and, of all things, boiled onions, sometimes a little meat if I chopped it finely.” Mary O’Brien got up. “Now you just take it easy and don’t worry about anything.”

  “I’m going to get up for lunch,” Laura said.

  “Very well.” And Mrs. O’Brien withdrew. For such a tall woman her feet were light on the stairs. There was something soothing about her quietness, and Laura blessed the good fortune that seemed to have brought a benign presence into the house.

  They had their lunch served on trays by the fire, feeling a little like schoolgirls having a special treat. After lunch, as Daphne smoked a cigarette with her coffee and the time of her departure drew near, the mood changed.

  “You know,” Daphne said, sitting now at one end of the sofa where Laura was lying with Sasha beside her, “I feel a lot better than when I came. You’ve done something rather strange and wonderful.”

  “In what way?”

  “I feel that my life isn’t a total waste, somehow—what you said about growing more human, that that is what it’s all about.”

  “Darling, that’s pretty obvious.” Looking at her sister’s lined face, where so much conflict and pain had written its legend, Laura was moved nearly to tears. That was one thing that she couldn’t control, tears. She felt the strong clasp of Daphne’s hand and for a second held it.

  “I never have believed in myself, but you made me understand a little more about Mamma, too. Maybe it’s all linked. Don’t cry, darling.”

  “I’m not,” Laura said, blowing her nose. Then she laughed. “Of course I am! It’s ridiculous how much I cry—but about the good things—it’s goodness that makes me cry, you see. You haven’t had a fair deal, Daff.”

  “Oh, I expect I have.” And there was that lift of her chin, the poise of the throat that brought back memories of the beauty she had been. “I must go and throw things into my bag, L.”

  “Yes, it’s time,” said Laura, glancing at her watch. “Did you call a taxi?”

  “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

  Mrs. O’Brien came in to get the trays then. “Now don’t you move. I’ll be back for the other one.”

  “It was a delicious lunch. I ate every bit of mine.”

  “It’s a pity your sister has to go.”

  “She’ll come back if I need her. You see, I really want to be alone. I know it must seem queer.”

  “Takes courage to face things alone, but I guess I might feel like you. Family is just too close sometimes.”

  “A very old aunt of mine, Miss Hornaday, is coming for tea, and to read to me. She’ll come every day. I think regular visits like that may be a help. It’s just … I dread anything emotional. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, my daughter-in-law will come every afternoon to walk Grindle. I’m afraid I can’t do that anymore.”

  “Walk the dog?” Mrs. O’Brien looked dismayed. “Why, I’d be glad to do that—good for me to get out.”

  “Would you really?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is Grindle anyway?”

  “He’s in the kitchen. He’s a friendly little dog, isn’t he?”

  “Friendly and rather greedy, too. Don’t you spoil him!”

  Then the doorbell rang, and Daphne ran down the stairs with her little suitcase and called out, “Just a minute—I’ll be right out.”

  Laura was standing beside her as she closed the door.

  “Daff, thank you for coming, for taking me to Maine—for everything.”

  “A pleasure, dear,” Daff said lightly, and then she was gone.

  Long farewells were not in the family tradition, but Laura stopped halfway up the stairs, wishing she had taken Daff in her arms for a good hard hug. Was that kind of closeness something she could no longer afford?

  “Is there anything you need, Mrs. Spelman?” Mrs. O’Brien asked, standing at the foot of the stairs.

  “No, just a long rest. When Ann Spelman comes for Grindle, tell her I’m tired, will you? It’s just marvelous that I have a shield.”

  “Very well. Now you lie down and have a sleep.”

  But lying on her bed, Laura realized that this visit, dear as it had been, had left her now strangely defenseless. Once her solitude was impinged upon, she lost ground. Or rather the deep current on which she had floated until Daphne came was closed off. Instead of floating she felt imprisoned in a sick body. She could almost feel the cancer, this mysterious thing inside her that could not be eradicated, that must be allowed to take over little by little. “How can I do it?” she breathed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “How can I accept this?” and then she remembered—what an angel memory can be!—their father’s old friend Owen Paine, who had been crippled by arthritis and in the last years lived in a wheelchair. He used to say, “Sister Pain is very near and dear to me.” At the time it had seemed just a little precious, a little literary perhaps—now she began to understand. I must try to think of everything on that plane, of death as a friend, coming closer, a mysterious friend to whom I am more intimately connected than with any human being. The real connection? Was it perhaps simply death itself? And if so whatever was going on in her body was only part of something else, like a rising tide, like the slow murmur of waves that could be perceived as relentless or as inevitable. As she dozed and dreamed these things, peace flowed in.

  It is poor old Daff who still has to carry the burden of living, not I. Not I.

  “That rest did you good,” Mrs. O’Brien observed when Laura went down at four to find the tea tray there and the fire burning brightly.

  “You’ve done everything, you wonderful woman,” Laura sighed her pleasure.

  “No trouble. I’ll bring the teapot in when your aunt arrives.”

  “Did Ann come? I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  “She came, and Grindle had a good walk. And she brought that cake.”

  “Dear thing.”

  “I hope it’s all right,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “I told her I would walk Grindle, and she didn’t need to come after today. I think she wants to look in on you Mrs. Spelman, and she didn’t like it.”

  You can’t keep people out, a voice inside her reminded Laura. Life was going to keep on impinging and breaking the current, and it was this that Laura did not know how to deal with. Now, Aunt Minna—she would call Ann later and explain—for the doorbell was ringing impatiently.

  “Here I am, dear,” said Aunt Minna, a green bag of books swinging from one arm.

  “Come in, come in. Mrs. O’Brien will hang up your coat.”

  Aunt Minna had on a ruffly blouse and a blue tweed suit, and her eyes looked fiercely bright. Her presence itself was an electric charge as she obviously sized Mrs. O’Brien up and meanwhile talked a blue streak, out of shyness, Laura imagined. It
occurred to her that this was the first time in years that she had seen Aunt Minna outside her own house. So, while they drank their tea, she learned that there was a leak in Aunt Minna’s roof, that she had had a call from an old colleague, and that she had brought three books to choose from: a Trollope, Pride and Prejudice, and Dag Hammarskjöld’s posthumously published Markings.

  “Ah,” Aunt Minna triumphed when Laura chose Hammerskjöld. “I knew you’d choose that one. I’m dying to read it again myself.”

  “I’m really quite well,” Laura smiled. “I really don’t have to be read to.” Seeing Aunt Minna’s dismay, she added quickly, “But if we can get into a routine, I have an idea it may be a godsend later on when I’m going downhill.”

  “Downhill? I would prefer to regard it as climbing, you know, some very high mountain with a name like X-5 so you will sometimes get very tired and be out of breath.” The answer shot back, and Laura laughed.

  “Very well. Let’s start up X-5 with Hammarskjöld.”

  Chapter XIII

  “I feel you’re keeping us at bay, Laura.” Ann’s voice on the telephone the next morning had a tinge of asperity. “You know we want to help in any way we can.”

  “Dear Ann, the cake was wonderful. Aunt Minna ate three pieces.” Laura knew she couldn’t leave it at that. “Mrs. O’Brien really wants to walk Grindle, and I can understand that she needs to get out of the house.”

  “Oh, yes, I see.” But it was clear that Ann did not see. “So Aunt Minna was there?” (Aunt Minna was allowed in and I was not, was clearly what was meant.)

  But how could Laura explain, possibly, to this dear, young, vulnerable daughter-in-law, that Aunt Minna was welcome partly at least because she was so old, and with her Laura could be a little child being read to. More, that Aunt Minna could be considered an intimate in a way none of Laura’s children was. How to explain anything at all, for that matter?

  “I’m not going to try to explain everything I do, Ann. I’m feeling my way. Aunt Minna will come every other day for a while and read aloud to me. That is why she was there. She loves doing it—and honestly I just can’t have you interrupting your life every day to walk my dog!” The silence at the other end of the line was eloquent. “Ann, you’ve got to understand!” Laura was so angry suddenly that she blurted out more than she had meant to, or even knew she felt. “This is the first time ever that I can live my own life without thinking of other people. I mean to do just that.”