Keeping Secrets

by Suzanne Morris

  There was little Woody would allow me to do for him. His cleaning lady now came in every day but Sunday, and would for the next few weeks. He seemed fine enough within a few days, though he was less talkative and I found many awkward silences when we had tea together—something that seldom used to happen. He didn’t seem inclined to play the Victrola in the background, to bridge the conversation gaps, and I never stayed long with him. I mentioned once that, in a month or so, season tickets for the Philharmonic would be on sale, but he didn’t seem particularly interested so I decided to drop the matter until the time arrived, and perhaps if I could persuade him to begin going again it might do him good. I didn’t want to demean his grief by behaving as though it did not exist, yet neither did I want to let him slide into a state of depression. It was very hard walking the fine line between.

  One thing Johnny’s death had done for me was to bring into sharp focus a very high regard for human life that had been seasoning since the day we first learned of a group of poor Mexicans being executed over possession of the Plan de Pacifica Reforma. It seemed too shabby a consolation to mention to Woody, but it led me to become involved more in the human effort afoot to make the soldiers feel as though they were not just so many numbers. I helped gather reading material, pajamas, and cotton socks and towels for the Red Cross, and went again with Lyla’s ladies’ club to distribute food to the arriving soldiers.

  Lyla herself had left for the hills and wasn’t expected back until the end of August. It was in fact a little earlier that she returned. She appeared at my door one morning, eyes red and puffy, her hair untidy as if she’d slept with it in a knot the night before and come to visit direct from the bed, stopping only long enough to put on a dress.

  “I’m going to have another baby,” she said as I offered her a chair. She sat forward, one hand gripping the chair arm, the other draped across her abdomen.

  “I gather that doesn’t please you.”

  “Another kid!” she scowled at me. “I’ve already been through this three times.” She paused, then noticing I didn’t reply—there was hardly anything I could say—continued, “I won’t be able to wear any of the frocks I’ve ordered for next season … oh, what a lousy thing to happen.”

  “But there’ll be other seasons—”

  “That’s what Arnold says.” She leaned back and stared at the rotating ceiling fan. “It’s all right for him, of course, he’s not the one who loses his figure. While I’m moving about like a German Zeppelin ready to drop a bomb, he cuts around playing Romeo, pinching his secretary’s bottom—oh, excuse me, I feel one coming on.” She shot up and made for the bathroom, with one hand over her mouth. In another moment I heard the door slam and the flush of the water closet. She was so comical, I could hardly keep from laughing out loud. When I knocked on the door and offered help she said softly, “It’s all right. I’ll be out in a minute. Confound it all!”

  When she came back I had some tea poured for her. She sat down and sighed heavily. “I just bought this wonderful motor coat with military braid and double buttons down the front.”

  “Surely you can wear that.”

  “No, it’ll be too tight—you haven’t seen how big I get—then, by the time I can wear it again the war will be over and the military look will be out.”

  Impatient now, I said, “You worry too much about clothes, Lyla. Just think about having a healthy baby, another one to love.”

  “Sure, that’s easy for you to say. I told Arnold no more,” she said, then narrowed her eyes. “I told him never to touch me again. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life having kids.”

  “Lyla, I don’t really think that’s—”

  “I can’t stand him anyway; all he wants from me is a good tussle in bed. Let him hire a whore.” She paused, then, ignoring my stunned silence, continued, “I’ve lived in this neighborhood all my life, and it’s absolutely stifling. Arnold was picked for me before I was fifteen years old, even before I made my formal debut at the Casino Club. Would my father dream of giving me a say-so? Hah! A woman doesn’t have a chance in this world. Those suffragettes are just kidding themselves.…”

  I sat quietly, figuring she needed to get it all out of her system, although she was becoming less amusing by the moment. I had not known her to be so caustic or vindictive.

  Finally she said, “I envy you.”

  “Me?”

  “Married to a rich, good-looking man who stays away enough so you don’t get tired of him. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

  I picked up a spoon and stirred my tea.

  She continued, “And no kids. How do you manage that? Don’t tell me you’ve kicked Emory Cabot out of bed. What’s your secret, love?”

  I never thought I’d be embarrassed by a conversation, not after all I had listened to in my lifetime, yet I found myself looking down, avoiding her eyes. “It’s a private matter. I’d have several children if I could.”

  She was thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess I’d better go before I have another retching spell. Oh, this is appalling. I’d give my inheritance if Arnold would join the Army.”

  I watched through the window as she went down the walk, back toward home, thinking what a spoiled little tart she was, and what a nerve she had barging in and cluttering my parlor with her vituperative tongue. But I continued to think of her throughout the day, going over the things she said, soon realizing she was a pathetic figure whose options for living her own life were no better than mine. But before that day it had never occurred to me that money and good schools, travel and opulence could be limiting factors.

  In the evening Emory returned, and what I had seen of Lyla’s frustrations of the morning seemed mild in comparison with his. He was among the first passengers to return on the newly reactivated through train from Laredo, but the way he was blowing off steam I wondered he needed a train at all. He nearly had me dizzy, watching him pace up and down the sitting room. Barrista had virtually backed out altogether.

  “He believes he can get a post on Carranza’s cabinet as Minister of Education and Agrarian Reform, and advise him on improving the programs Carranza has in mind. Then, in a few years, maybe he’ll be in the position to run for President himself.”

  “But what about the Plan?”

  “He wants it killed, doesn’t want his name attached to it. If his connection with it becomes known, he’ll be thrown in jail as a revolutionary.”

  I sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to digest the news. Then I said, “What will you do now?”

  “Sit around and wait, like all the other miners, to see what Carranza is going to do to us next.”

  “Does Barrista realize the extent of your investments down there?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Well, does he expect you to repay all the money borrowed from Tetzel to finance his revolution?”

  “No. He has insisted upon helping. He’s a man of honor. I hate his guts right now, but I’ve got to hand him that.

  “I’m going to see Tetzel,” he said, putting on his hat.

  Emory was surprisingly calm when he returned. The German banker had suggested he quit pressuring Barrista and give him time to come around. He also offered to extend the notes, as long as Emory could keep producing the copper.

  “Can you?” I asked.

  “I think we can dig out enough to meet his demands, but until things are settled in the north long enough to get the repairs done and the new machinery in there, it won’t be enough to turn a profit for me. And if Carranza gets too horsey, I could lose it all, then Tetzel might not prove so patient.” He paused, then said, “You know, all my life there is one thing I’ve been careful to avoid—being in the position of depending upon someone else to call the shots. It’s a hell of a note to see that is exactly where I’ve got myself.”

  “Well you could hardly start a Mexican revolution by yourself.”

  “Yes. That was the ultimate gamble. It could well prove to be the final o
ne.”

  The note of despondency in his voice was much more unsettling to me than his earlier angry mood. He had been depressed before, but not to this extent, and try as I might I was powerless to bring him out of the doldrums over the next few weeks. He stayed at home more, coming in early from the office and seldom going out at night, but whereas I would have welcomed this at one time, now I dreaded seeing him come into the door. He went straight for the liquor cabinet, and drank steadily until I finally coaxed him up to bed, or he passed out in a chair.

  Sometimes I’d wile away the long evenings by sitting outside with Nathan, who was all for staying out of Emory’s way. Sometimes I would drink with Emory, hoping to get him into a conversation that would take his mind off his troubles. Yet there seemed to be nothing we could talk about that did not wind up in an argument. I couldn’t be the understanding wife all the time, and the mounting tensions took their toll on me after a while. If I mentioned Woody, he’d get on to the damnable British blacklist recently established, and we’d soon be squabbling about some academic theory on the war in Europe over which neither of us had any power. If not, we’d fight over his constant riding of Nathan. Dinnertime at our house had become a battlefield itself, during which he would pick on Nathan about a paper at the office he couldn’t find, accusing him of losing it, or jump on him about his failure to pick up a tax break that would have saved money, or, even more cruelly, would taunt him about his impending military status.

  I knew he was churning inside like a wild animal, newly captured and locked in a cage, but I didn’t have the key to open the gate and was tired of having his anger vented on me. I was coming to know that when one feels love as passionately as I had for Emory, there is but a thread separating it from hatred.

  What happened finally was inevitable, I suppose, and, like everything else going on during that period, formed a link in a chain of events that seemed deceivingly unconnected.

  22

  One night in September, after his usual consumption of nearly a whole whiskey fifth, he lay in bed pensively and said, “Dear old Fernando has proved a disappointment to everyone. Even his own daughter is furious with him. She told me so, coming back from Laredo.”

  I sat up and looked at him. “She rode back on the train with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “I see.”

  “I see,” he sneered.

  “You didn’t mention it before.”

  “You’re so touchy about Aegina, my dear, always afraid she might outdo you in bed.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “No it isn’t, Electra. You’ve been giving a lot of thought to that since you first met her father. I’ve been waiting for you to get up the courage to ask me. I could satisfy your curiosity—”

  “No, Emory, let’s not discuss—”

  “I’ll tell you how she is in bed. She’s pretty good … maybe not as good as you … but good.”

  I sat there like a stone.

  “Then again, there’s a lot to be said for the bloom of youth, not to mention—”

  “Shut up. You’re drunk. You’ve been drunk for weeks.”

  “I know it. Come down here,” he said, and pulled me by the hair.

  I yanked it free. “Leave me alone. I don’t want anything to do with you when you’re like this. Go to sleep.”

  He pulled me down and got next to my ear. “What’s the matter, dear, haven’t I paid enough for you?”

  “Go to hell.”

  He smirked, then got up, weaving. I could not believe this was happening. “Where are you going? You can’t even walk straight,” I said.

  He turned on me with a glare. “I’m going to find a woman I can afford.”

  Next thing he was pulling up his pants and reaching for his shoes, and I was doing just what I would not have expected. I was wondering what the neighbors would think if they saw him out in this condition. I decided to try diplomacy. I reached up and barely touched his elbow, entreating him to stay home.

  He pulled his arm forward, then with piercing suddenness, wheeled around and struck my face with the back of his hand, grazing my temple with his big finger ring. The force of it knocked me across the bed, against the pillows. I lay there stunned and wide-eyed, my hand pressed against my bleeding temple.

  He turned to dressing, no more bothered than if he had swatted a fly. I couldn’t speak until he was ready and at the door, then I said, “I won’t be here when you get back. There isn’t a man alive who can get by with striking me.”

  He slammed the door and stomped down the stairs. In a moment I walked to the door, opened it, and looked down across the gallery to the foyer below. He was gone, and I found myself staring into the upturned face of Nathan.

  I closed the door again and went back to sit on the bed. I was shaking hard and unable to think. A glance in the mirror told me the cut was small, but I could already feel the rising underneath, and for several minutes I had to keep a cloth on it to stop the blood.

  I sat holding it impatiently. I must get dressed, put my things together, buy a train ticket … all of these things seemed insurmountable obstacles in front of me then. How could I buy a train ticket with no money? I sat there and shook, and tried to think of how I could get money quickly. Go to Lyla? No, I didn’t want her to know. Woody? No, I couldn’t. Nathan?

  He was knocking at the door. “Are you all right, Electra?”

  I tried to steady my voice. “Of course. Emory had to go out, that’s all.”

  He kept standing there. “Go back to bed, Nathan. Everything is fine.”

  He hesitated awhile longer, then at last I heard him walk softly down the stairs. I realized I couldn’t do anything until morning, yet I did not want to be there should Emory come back. My head was beginning to throb. Finally I decided to stay, but not undefended. I took a small lamp off the dresser and put the base underneath the covers. Made of hollowed brass, it was heavy enough to be useful, but light enough to lift. I brought a fresh, cool damp cloth from the bathroom and put it next to my temple before going back to bed. Then I looked across at the mirror again, and the sight of myself, lying like a wounded soldier braced for another enemy attack, made me start to laugh nervously, then to bite my lip and weep.

  I fell asleep, finally, and around sunup I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone downstairs. Nathan answered quickly. Had he lain awake? I couldn’t make out his words, but as soon as he hung up the phone he bounded up the stairs and knocked on my door. “It’s Cabot. He’s been in a wreck out on the South Loop, but he’s all right. The police phoned. Someone has to go out there and get him.”

  “Well, call for a taxi, Nathan. Thank God, he’s all right.”

  “Uh—you know the South Loop, out there by the asylum.”

  “Yes?”

  “I—uh—I could call a taxi for you. I’m sure he’d want you to come.”

  “Nathan, that’s absurd. Get going,” I demanded through the door.

  “Please, Electra, I really—”

  Oh, this is too much, I thought. The wound on my temple was now the size of a small bird’s egg. I raised my hand to it, then quickly took it down. The whole situation rivaled the plot of a cliff-hanger at a matinee. I didn’t know whether to pity Emory or murder him. “Nathan, was anyone with—I mean, anyone else hurt?”

  “The police said his car swerved off into a gully. They didn’t say any other autos were involved. Apparently he was lucky—the Cole Six was demolished.”

  “You’ve got to go, Nathan. I’m ill this morning.”

  “All right, but what do you think the police will ask me?”

  “How should I know, Nathan? You’re wasting time. Go on.”

  At times Nathan’s indecisiveness and cowardice were enough to drive me mad. It was no wonder he got on Emory’s nerves. He was fortunate Emory would put up with him.

  A couple of hours passed before the taxi carrying both of them arrived in front of our house. I’d kept cold compresses on my face most of that time, and
had gone about the regular daily task of cooking breakfast. Later, I would talk to Emory about leaving in a way that I could do so with some dignity. For now I would just have to tell Nathan I’d gotten out of bed and slipped from dizziness, thus the small gash and goose egg on my temple.

  I heard them chatting amiably as they came up the walk. Emory looked as though he were none the worse for wear, and the first words I heard him speak concerned ordering a new Overland—he’d been wanting one anyway, and the 1917 models were soon coming out. He was telling Nathan about the Model 85 Touring Sedan with the new hard top and lush gray upholstery when they came through the door. When he saw me, his voice fell silent. Nathan’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “I had a little accident myself this morning—” I began, and turned back to the stove.

  Through breakfast Emory did the most enviable job of idle chitchatting he had ever managed, while I went along with the game just pleasantly enough to signal him he might as well be prepared for a good raking over the coals. Soon Nathan dabbed at his mouth, threw down his napkin next to the plate of food he’d scarcely touched, and mumbled he needed to get down to the office. My little tale of the “accident” hadn’t fooled him any more than Emory.

  “See about that Overland, first thing,” he told him.

  When Nathan was gone, I said, “What did they do with the Cole Six?”

  “Towed it away to the junk heap.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “What you mean to ask is, ‘Was there anyone with me?’ No, I was alone.”

  “Well that’s a blessing anyway.”

  “Electra … did I do that?” he said, nodding at my temple.

  “You know damned well you did.”

  “Actually I can’t remember … much of anything. Were we fighting?”