Matthew stared down at the open book. Helen, thy beauty is to me…He tried to straighten his desk but found it cluttered with unfamiliar objects—papers, pencils, notebooks—and he could not think where to put them. He turned again to the window and found, looking out, that all he saw was her face.
3
In reality, the girl had not said, “I love you.”
In reality, she had merely come in with her English book and asked him please to explain a poem which she did not understand. Her name was Alice Wandling. She was a senior, who sat in his history class each afternoon, next to the window where the sunlight fell on her hair. This had not gone unnoticed. She was also the girl chosen to represent Shawano High School in the elocution contest. For the last week or so, during study hall periods, Matthew had helped her with her dramatic reading. He realized, only as she walked into the office that afternoon, that he had enjoyed those sessions considerably—rather more than seemed warranted by having to listen over and over to “The Lost Word” by Henry Van Dyke.
He and she had, indeed, stood at the window together and admired the sunset. Then Alice (no doubt observing that the outdoor toilets made up part of the view) had turned away with an embarrassed smile.
“Our assignment for Monday,” she said, “is a poem by Alexander Poe. He’s my favorite author, but he’s so deep!”
So they had sat down and opened the book to “Alexander” Poe. Matthew talked of the beauties of literature, forgot himself, and talked on and on. He read “To Helen” aloud. Once the girl touched his arm. “Gee, Mr. Soames, you sure make it sound beautiful!” She went on to say what a splendid teacher she thought him and how young he looked to know so much.
Every ripple of her mature little body, the scent of her rose sachet, every soulful blue glance, were comfort and solace to him. The longer she sat, the more eloquent he became. He was having a wonderful time. Here at last was someone who listened, and he was so grateful he could have seized her in his arms. Not daring, however, he half hoped that she would relieve him of the affront by seizing him in hers.
He wondered briefly why she had come back to the building after everyone else had gone. It couldn’t be (could it?) that she had come deliberately, hoping to find him there? But that was nonsense. The girl only needed help with her lesson. But why from him? He wasn’t her English teacher. Why didn’t she go to Miss Coppidge? Because Miss Coppidge was stupid. God forgive him, but she was; the very tone of her voice befouled poetry. And besides, Miss Coppidge had long since gone home for the weekend. Then what was this girl doing here now, smelling like roses and smiling at him with her little red tongue between her teeth? Was it out-and-out unabashed dalliance?
Certainly not, he told himself firmly. It was rapt attention. Alice Blue-Eyes loved literature, that was all. (“Oh, Mr. Soames, I love the way you talk!”) She admired him for his mind.
Yet for all his reasoning and for all the girl’s decorum, she might as well have flung herself upon him and declared undying passion. By the time she thanked him and went away, forgetting her English book, he was in reality, for the moment at least, quite mad about her.
It was a habit he had, this falling in love with a schoolgirl; an affliction, like epilepsy, quiescent for long periods and cropping out unexpectedly, throwing him into fits. Wild palpitations, sweating palms, uncontrollable levity, and hallucinations of brilliance, personal comeliness, invincibility—in short, of grandeur. All of this was part of the forbidden, secret rapture of having a young girl look upon him day after day as if he were the rising sun, that he should shine upon her. It renewed him, filled him with excessive wild delight.
And it appalled him. This habit, disease, this aptitude of his, which was his secret joy, was also his anguish. It made him feel some sort of monster. With desperate honesty he tried to probe its depths, wondering even if it rose from the deep and hidden evil of incestuous desires. But for the life of him, he could not believe it was that! What resemblance did his daughters bear to the girls who took his heart—the lovely ripe knowing girls, clearly a different breed!
Whatever caused it, it troubled him enormously, for it made him betray not only Callie—that was bad enough!—but his other true love, learning. These seizures of the heart used up his thought, distracted him from his proper pursuits. He was almost glad when they were over. Then, like a convalescent, he read books. He read avidly, making up for lost time. He took correspondence courses or went off to summer school again. Lectures, research papers, long summer hours in the library (sweating, itching in his woolen trousers, his shirt peeling the varnish off the chair)—all these nursed him back to his senses and healed his soul.
He had found a line by Francis Bacon, which he wrote on a slip of paper in his best Palmer hand: “Seek ye first the good things of the mind and the rest will either be supplied or its loss will not be felt.” He kept it in his desk, and each time he came across it he was filled with reverence for that noble imperative. For he loved the good things of the mind. As he grew older he loved them more and more. And he thought they had cured him of his old, recurrent folly. Yet here he was—past forty, now, solid, established, a power in the community—steaming like an adolescent over a schoolgirl the age of his second daughter.
Matthew looked out on the darkening sky from the office window. “O Lord,” he said, “I’ve done it again.”
4
Carrying his lunchbox, he walked home across the pasture opposite the school. The path was always deserted by the time he reached it. He liked this walk under the open sky. It gave him a space of solitude between the pressures of school and home. Tonight he crossed slowly in the windy dusk, recalling the hour in the sunset office. He went over and over it, savoring each look, each word, trying to interpret every innuendo. The thought of Alice sang loud inside him, and he wondered how he could keep it quiet in the presence of his family. With a shudder he thought of all the ears and eyes and intrusive female voices waiting for him at the end of the street. He wished there were somewhere else he could go. But there stood the house, baited with supper, and he was trapped.
Saucepans steamed on the back of the stove. Mathy, looking under a lid, dropped it with a clatter and threw her arms around Matthew’s middle.
“Papa! At last you’re home! We’re starving to death. I’m weak—I can’t stand up! Oh! Oh!”
“Don’t do that,” Callie said. “Papa’s tired.”
“He’s been awfully busy all day,” said Leonie, who was ironing in a corner of the kitchen. “I had to rehearse the girls’ trio for him.”
“Take off your coat,” said Callie. “Here, baby, go hang it up for him. Sit down, Papa, and put your feet on the oven door. I know they’re cold. I made you some sassafras tea. Thought it’d taste good. Hand me a cup, baby.”
Leonie set a flatiron on the stove. “I ironed your good shirt, Papa. Doesn’t it look nice?”
They fluttered around him, plying him with hot tea, house slippers, and welcome.
“We better eat, soon as you warm up a little,” said Callie. “We’ll be late for church.”
“Church?” said Matthew.
“The special Easter service. Had you forgot?”
He had. Since Ed Inwood had bade him a happy one, Easter had slipped his mind.
“Well, come on, everybody,” said Callie. “Let’s set down.”
They bowed their heads while Matthew returned thanks. Callie looked up and ran her hand over her smooth forehead.
“Whew!” she said. “I’ve pretty near got a sick headache from waitin’ so long.”
There, she had said it! It was the little light blow he always knew was coming but never knew when to dodge. He caught it broadside and winced. She would fuss over him and be kind and good and make him feel mean as a horsethief. And then, when she had softened him up, she’d deal him the blow—some little sly thing to let him know that he had done wrong and that, although she excused it, she had not overlooked it.
“Why didn’t you go ahead wit
hout me?” he said peevishly.
“Mama made us wait,” said Mathy.
“Well, of course!” said Callie. “We don’t like to eat without Papa.” She turned to him. “Seems like we don’t never get to see you except at the table.”
She studied him for a moment, resting her elbow on the table with her chin on her hand. There was love written all over her pretty face, open and obvious as if the children weren’t sitting right there. Matthew looked away. It made him miserable.
5
While the Baptists climaxed their revival week with trumpets of doom and colored slides, the Methodists, who were smaller in number, went off by themselves to nurse their dignity and hold a quiet service. They sang a hymn, the minister led them in prayer, and then without any shouting, which he enjoyed as much as the next one, he read them the story of the Crucifixion according to the Gospel of St. Luke.
“ ‘Now the feast of unleavened bread drew nigh, which is called the Passover. And the chief priests and scribes sought how they might kill him…’ ”
Matthew sat with his family near the front of the church and tried very hard to listen. Christ and Alice competed for his attention.
The minister read on. “ ‘And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.’ ”
Yes, thought Matthew, reading himself a lecture, I would think you might have remembered, at that hour if no other, when He was dying for your sake.
“ ‘And truly the Son of man goeth, as it was determined: but woe unto that man by whom he is betrayed!’ ”
Matthew felt as damned as Judas. You are that man, he said; there’s no getting around it. You could not watch with Him one little hour. You had to be lusting after the flesh.
He flinched at the thought.
Yes, you were, he went on. You wanted to hold her in your arms. You wanted to kiss her. You thought of it, all right. Don’t tell me you didn’t.
And he thought about it again, deliberately, as if it were evidence in court, and found it so pleasurable that he was shocked at himself. With a great effort he turned his attention again to St. Luke.
“ ‘And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him.
“ ‘But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.’ ”
On his right hand sat Leonie, erect and attentive, her hands folded in her lap. Her face was smooth and guileless, a child’s face. She looked so much younger than her eighteen years. And she was pretty, when you caught her like this, unguarded.
With a jab of conscience he recalled how urgently she had begged to enter the elocution contest. “I’d like to represent the school just once before I graduate. Why can’t I, Papa? I can win—I know I can. When we gave our readings in assembly, a lot of the kids thought I did my reading better than Alice Wandling.” But of course he couldn’t allow it. Alice’s parents—someone—would be sure to cry foul.
And anyway, he thought, glancing at Leonie again, she was not blessed with much dramatic ability. She had a fine memory and a voice that carried, but that’s about as far as it went. He felt a kind of pity for her. He was sorry he did not like her better. She was a tiresome child and stubborn as a hedgeroot. But she worked hard and she meant well. She was a good girl. She had done nothing to deserve a father who was false and lecherous. Nor had that little one over there. Nor had their mother.
Forget that girl! he pleaded to himself. You’re an old fool and there’s none like ’em. Now behave yourself. I don’t want to hear any more about her.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his head bravely.
Besides, he added, she doesn’t care a thing about you.
The minister read to the end of the chapter. “And now,” he said, closing the Bible, “will you all rise, while Brother Soames leads us in prayer.”
Matthew rose to his feet and asked the Heavenly Father’s guidance and forgiveness. Inside he prayed fervently to mean what he was saying.
The service was over by a quarter till nine. Down the street the Baptists were still singing.
“May I go down there and wait for Genevieve?” said Leonie, whose best chum was a Baptist. “We can walk home together.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Mathy.
“Mercy no,” said Callie. “Both of you stay right here. There’s always boys hangin’ around outside the church.”
“Well, they’re not going to hurt me,” Leonie said. “They’re all too scared of Papa.”
“I don’t care. You come on now.”
The two girls tagged along behind Callie and Matthew. It was a restless night, full of wind and shadows. They looked up at the big clouds blowing across the sky.
“The sky is a custard!” cried Mathy and fell over backwards with glee.
“Oh, it is not,” said Leonie. “You’re silly. Get up before Papa sees you.”
Ahead of them, Callie tucked her hand under Matthew’s arm. “It don’t feel much like spring, does it?”
“Not much,” he said. “Oh, shoot!”
“What is it?”
“I left my papers up at the school building. I wanted to grade them tonight.”
“Can’t you do them tomorrow?”
“I’ve got to go down to the farm tomorrow and see about things. Meant to get those papers out of the way tonight. I’d better go up there and get them.”
“Oh,” said Callie in sympathy, “and you’re so tired, too.”
“I’d better do it. It won’t take but a few minutes.” He turned off at the corner.
“Where’s he going?” said Mathy. “Wait, Papa, I’ll go with you!”
“You come on with me,” said Callie. “He’s got to go up to the schoolhouse, he’ll be right back.”
Matthew took the shortcut through the pasture, following the familiar path easily in the dark. A blast of wind across that wide open space almost took his hat off. He pulled it down and bent his head. He was halfway across when there came the sound of running footsteps, and a figure pounded out of the darkness, coming toward him on the path. In its haste it was upon him before it could turn.
“Mr. Soames!”
Alice Wandling had run smack into him. She backed away and stood staring, her hair ribbon in her hands and her hands to her mouth. Her long hair hung loose, splayed on the wind. For a moment that was the only movement and the wind the only sound, seized as they were by the rigor of surprise. Alice recovered first. The hands came down from her mouth, still clutching the ribbon.
“It’s really you!” she said.
“What are you doing out here this time of night?”
Alice hesitated and hung her head. “I was looking for you,” she said in a low voice.
“For me!”
“Yes.” She looked up at him, moving closer.
“What did you want to see me about?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see you. I thought you might be up at the schoolhouse, like you are sometimes.”
“Alice, if there’s something you want to talk over—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I just wanted to see you!” she said again.
There was a moment of silence before she blurted out, “Because I’m crazy about you!”
The words burst like a rocket in his head and showered colored lights.
“Didn’t you know that?” she cried. “Did I have to tell you?”
The hair ribbon snapped in the wind and the scent of rose sachet drifted over him. He didn’t know that his hat had blown off.
“Please don’t scold me,” she said in a soft voice. “I can’t help it. You do like me, don’t you? Just a little?”
“Alice—dear girl—” He lifted his hand and brushed the hair back from her face. That was all; only his fingers against her cheek.
“You’re not mad at me?”
she said. “You’re not going to bawl me out?”
“No.”
“Oh, thank you!” she cried.
And then she put her arms around his neck and she kissed him quick and hard and it was real. He knew it was. He felt and smelled and tasted her. Not at the moment, but the moment after, when he stood weak-kneed as a new colt and heard her run away down the path.
He never did find his hat.
6
Then the spring came and the air turned warm and salvation was here and now on the earth. Flowers shot up overnight and green stripes ran down the garden. Jonquils and radishes overran the town. The yeasty fragrance of peach bloom streaked the air. In the pastures the cows fattened on new grass, and their cream rose thick and yellow on the milk. Wild greens came to the table, and lettuce, and long-headed mushrooms picked in the woods. Women hung quilts in the sunshine and lingered there, calling to each other across the garden plots to congratulate the weather. There was a humming all over town, and in the evening, a rustle of sound—light, furtive, exciting. It was laughter, it was screen doors slamming, it was light running footsteps, a greeting under the street lamp, and the little comic kissing sounds that birds make at dusk in the spring.
Matthew moved through the exquisite days with a special pride in them. He commended all gardens for their behavior, the very grass because it grew. He looked on the world and was well pleased, as if the spring were his own performance.
The thrill of the infatuation toned up his skin and brightened his eyes. His mind quickened. He taught classes well, did his work faster, was good-natured even at home (where he appeared only long enough to eat and sleep). Neither rampant mothers nor Ed Inwood disturbed him. Ed played pranks and hooky, and when he did bother to come to school he lolled on his spine, staring dreamily out of windows.
“I’m sorry, Prof,” he said one day when Matthew told him to sit up. “Guess I’m not hittin’ on all my cylinders. Maybe it’s spring fever—maybe I’m in love!”
The Moonflower Vine Page 15