“No, darling. Look; it’s true that the air was cleared a little. I — well, I admit that you were partly right last night. So when Vivien called I thought it might not be a bad idea to meet her. She designated the ledge — she was rather looped, by the way.”
“Don’t I know.”
“I came down and told her that I was definitely not interested in her and that what she was getting so damned serious about was never anything more than a casual thing to me. But she insists she wants to leave Scott and marry me.”
I stopped and he had to pause and turn back. I asked as sarcastically as possible, “How do you feel about it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you know the answer to that. I want no part of her. I told her so last night.”
“And she won’t accept it?”
“That’s right. She even threatened to jump off the cliff. You know, she’s capable of doing just that.”
“You are involved.”
He nodded, his lips pressed together, a thoughtful light in his eyes. “Vivien is unpredictable. I don’t know what in the devil to do about her. Have you any suggestion?”
I looked away, realizing that I had been staring at him. It was exactly as if a stranger were asking my advice concerning some minor extramarital involvement. But it was not a stranger; it was my husband. I told that to myself over and over again — that it was Jeffrey — and was finally able to regain my perspective. But I was not able to face him.
I mumbled, “Vivien is the kind who can light the fuse and the devil with the consequences.”
“I know. Well, you think about it.”
And with that he dropped the subject.
I was a playwright, I had written of many similar situations, but I would never have written that kind of dialogue or dreamed of asking an actor to interpret an adulterous husband in that manner. At the very least, there should have been some feeling of guilt; there was not even that. And my position in the matter was not even considered, except possibly as a helpful friend.
His blithe attitude staggered me. He defied reason and logic and conventional human relations with a smile and a shrug. And even though I may have been willing to forgive, as I had suggested the night before, there was no possible reason for him to assume that he already had my forgiveness.
That was when I first began to wonder about the condition of his mind.
The balance of that day was like riding an unusually fast merry-go-round. Jeffrey’s talk with John in Salinas, whatever the nature of the discussion may have been, had evidently not come off too well. Jeffrey was moody and restless. He could not sit still for any length of time and he could not stay long in any one place. I had a definite feeling that some compulsion was driving him, forcing him to see as many people as possible and to drink as much as possible.
I had seen so little of him that I went along without a protest. We did a lot of traveling in just a few hours. We had lunch and cocktails at the Lodge, more cocktails at Whitney’s in Carmel, and then switched to taller drinks in private homes. I watered mine, or I wouldn’t have been able to get through the day.
Jeffrey was trying to introduce me to all his friends in one day. That was impossible. He had friends everywhere. Most of them were the play-group set and Bohemians of the art colony. Without exception, they dropped everything and cried with joy when Jeffrey put in an appearance. A few I had met the evening before, but the others were all strange. Many of them tagged along with us and we invaded private homes and Carmel Valley ranches en masse. It was quite an experience, wearing and tiring and yet stimulating, too. It was amazing how well Jeffrey was liked.
At a palomino ranch a few miles up Carmel Valley I was given liberal doses of insight regarding Jeffrey’s character from a redheaded girl who hinted, frankly and with pride, that she had “known” my husband rather well. She beamed with joy as she told me that Jeffrey was “out of this world” and “the nicest character anyone would ever care to meet.”
“What I mean,” she said, “he’s so damned honest about everything. Like with women — before he married you, of course.”
“Of course.”
“He never handed out a line, and if a woman got interested she always knew exactly where she stood. It was impossible to have a misunderstanding with him. See what I mean?”
Vaguely, I thought.
In the bar of the Robles del Rio lodge, high on a ridge overlooking the sunny valley, I was told by an elderly rancher who had known the twins all their lives, “There’s no harm in Jeffrey. He’s like a child playing with its toys.
Why, I remember when they were little shavers, he was the one always laughing.”
I glanced at him across the bar. He was not laughing then. He was holding a drink in his hand and staring thoughtfully into space. He felt me watching him and turned to smile, but it was an oddly tired smile.
On Fishermen’s Wharf, in Monterey Bay, where we had beer and shrimp cocktails, one of the artists in the group informed me, “Jeff is the true Bohemian. He lives from day to day and enjoys every minute of it. There’s nothing grasping or greedy about him. He enjoys what he can buy with his great wealth, but money is truly secondary. He’d be just as happy without it. When he was flying for the Navy during the war — ”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard of that.”
“Sure. Excellent pilot. But what I was saying, during the war he lived on his lieutenant’s pay and nothing else and had the time of his life. He almost stayed in the Navy, he liked the close comradeship of the men so well, but he hated military restrictions. He’s gregarious.”
I heard also that Jeffrey was kind, considerate, openhanded, an easy touch, and a better than good critic of the arts, and that all animals liked him. Horses followed him about like dogs. I agreed with all of it; that was the man I had fallen in love with. But what had happened to him?
We had dinner at the Casa Munras in Monterey, virtually taking over the place, then went to someone’s private home high up in the pines behind Pebble Beach. There were about twenty guests in the house and we brought in more than that number. Two poker games were in progress, a couple was playing ping-pong in the patio, and I could hear the click of ivory in the billiard room and the smaller cubes rolling against a wall. It looked as if it was going to be a large evening and I anticipated enjoying myself, mostly because I believed Sam would arrive the next day.
I was having fun, until Scott and Vivien came in. They seemed prepared to enjoy themselves, too, until Scott glanced across the room and saw Jeffrey. The character of the party then underwent a subtle change, for the worse. Men, I thought, were odd creatures. If only men had been present, Scott and Jeffrey would have been drinking together, but Vivien’s presence altered that.
It was surprising and embarrassing to notice that some of the people present were aware of the affair between Vivien and Jeffrey. Sly smiles were the rule and quick puzzled glances directed toward Scott and me. I felt ill, but Scott was feeling it, too. The big man’s face was pale and red in turn. I could see that he wanted to follow his own simple inclinations and roar out like a bull, but he was afraid. He looked, and probably was, lost.
Vivien apparently had not been drinking and was completely at ease. She floated among the guests like a scented cloud, oblivious of the smiles and the whispering. I watched her closely and could see that although she was going about it in a circular manner, she would soon wind up at Jeffrey’s side.
He anticipated that and created an opportunity to get me alone for a moment. He was nervous and his eyes were like those of a hunted animal. He whispered in my ear, “This has all the appearances of winding up in a brawl.”
“You can thank yourself for that But I don’t think so. Scott seems to be controlling himself well.”
“It isn’t Scott who worries me. He’s so stupid you can always keep a step or two ahead of him. It’s Vivien. I think she’d like to precipitate matters by creating a scene.”
“Oh, now—”
“You don’t know her.
She’ll do anything, after last night. She knows, now, that I’d like to brush her off.”
I appraised him, wondering who was right and who was wrong about the character of Jeffrey Hamlyne. He was a frightened man and there was nothing gallant or even small-boyish about him. His phrasing, too, his desire to brush her off, was rather disgusting. I had difficulty restraining myself from brushing him off.
But I wanted to hurt him, too, and asked, “Do you think she’ll get you into a battle with Scott?”
“Probably.”
“He’s a powerful man. I wouldn’t care to see anyone tangle with him.”
Jeffrey whispered, “If once he gets his hands on a man — ” Then he simply had to look away from my eyes. He was no more afraid of Scott than I was. I really believe that inwardly he was laughing about it. But he wanted me to think he was frightened. He said, with simulated desperation, “Look, Carol. If I walked out of here I’d be laughed out of Pebble Beach. I have to stay. But I think I know what’s going to happen.”
“So?”
“You’ll have to help prevent it. Keep Vivien away from me.”
I smiled and shook my head. “She’s too clever. She’d leave me holding the sack.”
“Then how about keeping Scott interested? Just for an hour or so, and then we can pull out.”
I shook my head and walked away. I had to get away from him. He had been laughing at me and I couldn’t understand why.
I saw Scott involved in a crap game and trying not to notice that Vivien had finally wound up at Jeffrey’s side. I got in the game with Scott and backed his play. He welcomed me with a broad smile and a look of relief.
But Jeffrey had underestimated Scott. He was not bright, but he was not stupid, either. He found an excuse to get out of the dice game and led me out to the patio. We walked beyond the ping-pong players and crossed the lawn to stand near the edge of a swimming pool. Fog was sweeping in from the ocean and we could barely see the lights of the house from the pool. I was cold and wanted to be back inside, but Scott had something on his mind, so I said nothing about it.
He lit a cigarette for himself, after I had refused one, and puffed quietly for a moment. Then he said, seemingly apropos of nothing, “One thing an artist has to learn well is to concentrate on pattern. Introduce something foreign and the whole composition is wrong. But when something fits, it belongs to that pattern like the key piece in a jigsaw puzzle.”
He paused and I said nothing, which was what was expected of me. He turned some thought over in his mind, then said, “Take the eternal triangle, for example. My belief is contrary to most. I don’t think it’s difficult to know when the pattern is right or wrong. People may think they’re right, when pursuing a wrong direction, but no effort on their part can make the key piece of one puzzle fit into another. They use all sorts of pressure and still they fail and, in the end, they damage the pattern.” He glanced down at me then and said, “Know what I mean?”
I nodded dumbly. He was trying to tell me (in case I knew or suspected what was going on) that there was nothing to worry about. The affair was a wrong pattern and so it would die of its wrongness. He expected that to happen and so he was going to do nothing to cause it to happen. He had faith in Vivien. He could have been right, but his faith was in the wrong person.
But I realized also that he was not aware of the possibility that Vivien might be maneuvering to create a scene. If it happened he would plunge in like a bull. I wondered what she could hope to gain by such tactics. The worst or the best that could happen would be a local scandal, unless, of course, Vivien had some hold on Jeffrey that I did not know about.
Scott had said all he intended saying on the subject and began talking about matters of no consequence. I could see no reason why I should stand in the cold fog listening to him, so I took his arm and returned with him to the house. He looked quickly about the brightly lighted room and located Jeffrey and Vivien at once. They were seated in a corner by themselves. His face flushed, but he looked away as if he had not seen them and concentrated on entertaining me.
We were standing by a table where the drinks were mixed. Scott was turned partly away from the corner where Jeffrey and Vivien were talking, but I was facing them. I saw Vivien coolly turn her head and look in our direction and then plunge into some heated argument with Jeffrey. He half rose from his seat, as if anxious to get away, but she grasped his arm and pulled him back down. I could not hear her argument, but she was being decidedly animated about it. I thought, I guess this is it, and had a wild desire to run.
Others in the room noticed the argument taking place and heads turned in their direction. Vivien suddenly got to her feet, creating the excellent impression of just being deeply insulted. Jeffrey was staring up at her, not quite as amazed as he should have been. Vivien drew back her arm and I could see a slap on its way that would sound like a thunderclap in the room. Scott was still not facing them and unaware of what was taking place.
I made a split-second decision and acted almost before the decision had been made. I did not care if Vivien did get away with her ridiculous piece of trickery, but I was not going to let Jeffrey get away with it. The fact that he wanted her to make a scene did not make sense, but he did want it and she was playing right into his hands. I dropped the glass I was holding and then, as if trying to grab it, knocked a pitcher of Martinis from the table. It all made a very satisfying crash.
I did not know, at the time, if Vivien’s slap had been completed, but neither did anyone else. The crash of the glass and pitcher caused everyone to jump and turn about and attention was diverted. While the hostess was assuring me that everything was quite all right, Vivien stared at me from across the room, balancing the coincidence in her mind. She smiled lightly and nodded. We understood each other and she graduated from simply resenting me to the status of a bitter and implacable enemy.
As soon as the party was again back on an even keel I asked Scott to drive me home. I no longer cared what happened. All that I looked forward to was Sam’s arrival. I began to doubt that I had ever been in love with Jeffrey. It did not seem possible.
Chapter Seven
AFTER I HAD GONE TO BED I left the light on in the dressing room. A dim shaft of light crossed the bedroom carpet, but not enough to reflect on the walls or disturb me. I knew I was being childish, but I was thinking of the conversation with Ann and could almost feel the massive weight of Lynecrest on my shoulders, pressing down on me.
I lay in bed wide awake and tried not to think of Jeffrey, but that was impossible. I let my mind drift and thought of what he had been like in New York and of what he was like at home. The two were contradictory. He had a horribly shabby attitude toward women and an unbalanced temper and an ego that allowed but one viewpoint, his own. His gay nature, so called, was strictly artificial and forced.
Yet how could I think that about him and everyone else be so wrong, especially people who had known him most of his life? Of course, it could be that he had changed since the showdown with John and that I was appraising him with a better perspective, whereas others could not see the change because, for years, they knew him to be otherwise. I thought that if I were writing a play I would be satisfied with that observation and so would the audience. But in reality it was not enough.
I rolled over on my side and tried to think it through, wondering why it was not satisfactory. First, I considered, basic character could be altered, but not so much and not so fast and not without occasional reversions. Besides, as Scott had expressed it, something foreign had been introduced in the pattern. Assuming that Jeffrey was a playboy (as John claimed), then why should he be so perturbed over John’s exercising all managerial responsibility of their affairs? It would seem that he would welcome such an arrangement and not have to be forced into it. Even the Jeffrey I had married — and I had never considered him a playboy — had little liking for business. So the placement of responsibility could certainly not upset him, or cause any alteration of his character. In
fact — my eyes were wide open then — I should imagine that John had been given Jeffrey’s power of attorney years ago.
I rolled to my other side, more than a little irritated at my inability to think clearly. Then I realized that if I wanted to put John wholly in the wrong, the pattern was a bit more intelligible. It could be, as I had been told, that Jeffrey was wild about John. Then if John had had a terrible row with him and had broken off relations with his brother and, further, had been wrong about it, Jeffrey could have been spiritually wounded. His character could conceivably alter under those conditions. It was obvious that John had little good to say about Jeffrey and Jeffrey had little bad to say about John.
But still I could accept that idea only in part. Not because of logic. I simply felt that it was not the correct pattern.
Meanwhile, the discovery of that mysterious poetry was nagging away in the back of my mind. I was positive that John could not have been the author, but there was something frustrating about my definiteness. The more I thought of it, the more wide awake I became. Maybe the clue would be in John’s rooms. What was to prevent me from looking in his apartment? Brannen had said that he was not at home, but had called from King City and might arrive later.
I got out of bed feeling criminally guilty about the whole matter, but nevertheless tiptoed into the hall. I walked down the long dark hall by the empty guest rooms and paused by the edge of light flooding the staircase well. I peeked around the corner. No one was in sight. I ran across the lighted landing and into the semidarkness of the hall in the other wing. My heart had quickened its beat and was pounding in my ears.
I went on my toes to John’s door and, to be on the safe side, rapped lightly with my knuckles. Then I turned the knob and stepped into the dark room. I closed the door behind me and flicked on the light switch. Then I opened my mouth to scream and was unable to make a sound.
Jeffrey was on the other side of the room facing me, seated in a deep leather chair.
Marriage Bed Page 10