“Why, yes,” Emmy said. “How on earth did you know?”
Thelma smiled again. “You see,” she said, “Bob and I have played together so much.”
Sherm, who had risen to pay a visit to the liquor tray, found tragedy there. “The brandy’s all gone,” he said. “Now, who could’ve done a thing like that? Oh, well, I’m the Spartan type. I’ll pig it with whisky.”
“Do you want to go next, dear heart?” Bob asked Emmy.
“No, you,” she said. “I want to put it off as long as possible. I’m frightened to death. Why, darling, you look frightened too . . . Look at Bob, he’s absolutely white!”
Bob regarded the two remaining slips of paper, hesitating between them.
“Take either one, my dear,” Thelma said, “they’re both just made for you.”
“Hey,” said Mr. Bain, “you mustn’t talk to him. You mustn’t have anything to do with him. It’s against the rules.”
“Ah, yes,” Thelma said. “This year’s rules.” She went over to the liquor tray and filled her glass.
Bob chose one of the slips and, at the command to go ahead, he opened it and read what was written on it. In the customary manner he immediately turned toward the other team, but he did not include the whole troupe in his glance. He looked only at Thelma. She smiled at him her slow smile that showed her beautiful teeth, but there was something different about it; there was something different about all of her. Her glow, her own peculiar glow, was gone; it was as if the radiance that came from within her had suddenly been quenched and, as is always so when a precious light goes out, the new darkness was cold and menacing.
Bob turned back to his team, lifted his fingers to signify a quotation, then dropped his arms. “I—I can’t—do it.”
A great complaint rose from his own ranks. “Oh, Bob, what do you mean, you can’t?” “Sure you can, go ahead,” and over them all, Emmy’s little voice calling, “Why, darling, you can do anything.”
“Sorry,” Bob said, “it’s too hard.”
“What’s so hard about it, Bob, ole boy, ole boy, ole boy?” Sherm said. “Look what I got. I had to do ‘Chi-klobba, Chi-blobba, Chi schmobba.’ Whatever you’ve got, you’re on velvet.”
“How many words?” Emmy said.
He held up ten fingers, then four.
“Look, I quit,” he said, and his voice shook. “It’s all right to play The Game decently, but this kind of stuff I’m damned if I’m going to stand for.”
The opposing side immediately went into action.
Mr. Bain rushed to Bob and snatched the paper from his hand and read the words on it. “Is this what all the excitement’s about? What’s the matter with you, Bob, anyway? It’s a quotation from Hamlet. Any school child knows it. It’s perfectly fair.”
“The hell it’s fair!” Bob said. “Nobody has to take this stuff.”
The company sat in silent discomfort. Slow and smooth and sweet, Thelma came and looked at the paper.
“Oh, that’s the one he got,” she said. “Listen,” she said to Bob’s teammates, “I ask you. It isn’t very nice to be called unfair, you know, particularly by someone who for years was your—particularly by an old friend. Here’s the quotation. It’s where they break the news that poor little Ophelia’s dead. ‘Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears.’ ” She turned to Emmy, “Now will you tell me why your husband should get so upset about that?”
“Well, it’s awfully long,” Emmy said, “and it’s hard and—you know.”
She looked pleadingly at Thelma, the tall still woman, the woman of peculiar radiance, the woman who had been so kind to her, the woman she liked best—and she saw a stranger. A stranger who stood outside her house, looked through the window and saw something she herself did not have and hated Emmy for having it.
“Oh, come on,” Mrs. McDermott said. “If he doesn’t want to do it, he doesn’t want to do it. I never thought it was so good anyway. Remember, I told you, Thelma. All right, Bob, you’re out. Let’s finish up the game. Come on, Mr. B, it’s your turn.”
The teams settled down again. Bob, still shaken after his outburst, sat down beside Emmy. She patted his wrist and kept her hand there.
Mr. Bain opened his paper and read on it, “. . . weary, stale, flat and unprofitable.” (It had turned out to be quite a night for Hamlet, as are many nights on which The Game is played.)
Mr. Bain performed “weary” according to his own ideas, with no results from his audience; the same was true of his rendition of “stale,” so he let that go for a time and sought an easy role in “flat.” He drew his hands across each other parallel to the floor.
“ ‘Smooth’?”
“ ‘Level’?”
“ ‘Flat’?”
Mr. Bain indicated their correctness and went back to another try at the word “weary.” He laid his cheek on his folded hands like a tired child.
“ ‘Tired’?” they said. “ ‘Tired’?”
“ ‘Sandman’?”
“ ‘Sleep’?”
“Let’s see, he did ‘flat’ before,” Thelma said. Perhaps it was the influence of Hamlet that made her speak as if in soliloquy. “But what kind of ‘flat’ was he trying to show? Was it just flat ‘flat’? . . . Or was it the other kind? . . . A place? . . . Two rooms, perhaps . . . Sanctuary? . . . Where two people might meet sometimes when they could steal away—a secret haven—through the years . . .”
The Game was much quieter than it had been at first. Possibly Bob’s conduct had had a dampening effect on the company. Bob’s side sat silent.
Thelma’s words came across the room to them as her voice went dreamily on. “And if that’s ‘sleep’ he’s doing now . . . ‘sleep’ . . . then I don’t think he means just flat ‘flat’ . . . I think he means a secret place. . . .”
Slowly little Mrs. Lineham took her hand from her husband’s wrist.
Mr. Bain canceled further speculations by returning to his second word. He pantomimed slicing bread, went graphically on to spread a slice with butter, began to munch it, spat it out with every manifestation of distaste.
“I think that’s bread he’s eating,” Thelma said, “and something’s the matter with it. Maybe it’s stale. Hateful word. Love gone stale. It is ‘stale,’ isn’t it?”
“Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mrs. McDermott said. “That’s out of Hamlet too. ‘Weary, stale, flat’—and something else. It’s one of those gloomy numbers.”
“Oh, I know,” Thelma said. “The last word is ‘unprofitable.’ ‘Weary, stale, flat and unprofitable.’ ”
“As the girl said to the sailor,” Sherm said. He rose and pigged it with a little more whisky.
“Go on, Emmy,” Mrs. McDermott said. “It’s your turn.”
“You don’t have to do it, Emmy,” Bob said, “if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll do it,” Emmy said.
She took the last paper. Mr. McDermott, in sudden recollection, whispered to Thelma, “Oh, that’s the one you did. What is it? You didn’t tell us.”
“It’s something from Henry V,” Thelma said.
“Oh, I saw the movie. Laurence Olivier,” Mrs. McDermott said.
Emmy opened the paper and looked at it and stood helplessly before her team. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I just don’t know how to do it. I don’t even know what it means.”
They sought to reassure her by telling her, “Of course, you can do it. Go ahead, just try. We’re all with you, Emmy,” and so on.
Hopelessly she looked again at the paper. “ ‘Give dreadful note of preparation.’ From Henry V by William Shakespeare,” she read.
“I can’t,” she told her audience pitiably. “I just don’t know.”
“Come on,” they said. “What is it? Is it a song, a book, is it a person, what? Oh, it’s a quotation . . . How many words? . . . Five. What’s the first word? Go on. You can do it.”
Emmy went through small uncertain motions of taking invisible objec
ts from an invisible container presenting them to her team.
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s handing out something.”
“Is she giving us something?”
“ ‘Give,’ ” Bob said. “You’re giving, aren’t you, dear heart?”
“Why, the little girl is going great guns,” Sherm said.
“Okay. ‘Give,’ ” Mr. McDermott said. “Next word.”
“Second word?”
“Two syllables.”
“First syllable.”
“You’re doing ‘scared.’ You’re ‘frightened.’ ”
“Is it something you dread? . . . Oh, the first syllable is ‘dread.’ ”
“Is the word ‘dreaded’?”
“Is it ‘dreadful’?”
“Second word is ‘dreadful.’ Why, the girl’s a whizz!”
“Come on, third word.”
“One syllable?”
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s scratching the palm of her hand,” Sherm said. “Something itches. Mosquitoes. DDT.”
“Oh, Sherm, get out of the way.”
“Come on, Emmy. Do it again.”
“Are you writing? Is that what you’re doing on your hand?”
“Writing a book? A book? A novel?”
“A letter?”
“Feelthy postcard,” said Sherm.
“Is it a letter you’re writing?”
“No. It can’t be a ‘letter,’ it’s only one syllable.”
“ ‘Note’! It’s ‘note.’ ”
“Okay. ‘Give dreadful note . . .’ ”
Emmy stood with her knuckles pressed to her temple, trying desperately to plan out her next move. “ ‘Give dreadful note,’ ” she murmured. “ ‘Give . . . dreadful . . . note.’ ”
(The players are not supposed to speak, but no one stopped her; she was so little and a bride besides.)
“ ‘Dreadful note,’ ” she said. She looked at Bob pleadingly, as if he could send her telepathic aid. “ ‘Dreadful note’!” she said. “ ‘Give—dreadful—note——’ Bob. Bob! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you feel well?”
“No, darling, I just . . . Hot in here. I’ll . . . get a drink.”
“Come on, Emmy, forget the bridegroom for a minute!”
“He’s all right. Do the fourth word. Oh, you’re going to do the fifth.”
“How many syllables? Oh, you’re going to do the whole word?”
“What’s she doing now?”
“You’re folding something. Is that what you’re doing? Folding clothes?”
“You’re putting them in a drawer?”
“You’re putting them in a bag. You’re packing. Is that the word? Is it ‘packing’?”
“Oh, it’s nowhere’s near it,” Emmy said. “I wish I knew how to do it.”
Thelma drained her glass. “I’ll tell her how to do it,” she said. “Let me coach her. I have to stay out anyway to balance Bob. Come here, dear, I’ll whisper to you.”
“No,” Bob said, “let her alone. Let her do it her own way.”
“Oh, but I need help so, Bobby,” Emmy said, and she went to receive Thelma’s instructions.
“Oh,” she said in a moment, “Do you really think that’s how?”
“It’s the only way,” Thelma said.
“Well, thanks ever so much,” Emmy said. She began to act again.
“You’re taking off your clothes. Is it ‘strip’? ‘Strip-tease’?”
“No, she’s putting something on. She’s tying her head in something.”
“Getting ready to go somewhere?”
“You’re putting your toe in something. Something cold. Is it water? Are you putting your foot in cold water . . . Yes, she’s shivering.”
Mrs. McDermott gasped, “Thelma, make her stop. Make her.”
Thelma paid no attention to her. The other side went on guessing.
“Are you getting ready for a swim?”
There was a sound of breaking glass. At first it was accepted that Sherm had been at his late evening activities, but when the company looked, they found Bob had set his glass down so hard he’d smashed it.
“Yes, she’s getting ready for a swim,” Bob said roughly. “That’s right, isn’t it, Thelma?”
“Well, what’s the word?” Sherm said.
“ ‘Preparation,’ ” Thelma said.
“What kind of talk is that?” Sherm said. “ ‘Give dreadful note of preparation.’ What the hell does it mean?”
“Why, anybody would know what it means the way she did it,” Thelma said. “She did it beautifully. She did ‘note’ like a written note. It really means ‘note’ like sound—she did it better. I suppose the word ‘preparation’ put written note in her mind. You know, someone preparing to do something. Someone writing a note to show that they intended to do something, that it didn’t just happen. Or maybe it was the word ‘dreadful’ that did it. A dreadful note. A note that mustn’t be seen. A last note, that this person, whoever it was, left to show that she—that they—had found out something, something that had been going on for years, something they’d never dreamed of—and just couldn’t bear. And then ‘preparation.’ Wasn’t she cute getting ready to go into the water? Why, you could just see the whole story.”
Wildly Emmy turned to Bob. “What’s she talking about?” she said. “What’s she talking about? Who is the someone she’s talking about? Who went into the cold water? Who was the someone who found out something and wrote a dreadful note to tell what they were going to do, to show that there aren’t any accidents? She said you knew there weren’t any accidents. Bob, what is she talking about? What’s she saying?”
“Everything but Alice’s name,” Bob said. There was not a sound as he walked out of the room.
Thelma, dissipating awkwardness as the early sun dissipates gray mists, came over to Emmy, warm and gracious.
“Pay no attention to him,” Thelma said. “He’s just overwrought. Naturally, he’s nervous. His first party in his new house. Don’t worry about him.” She put her arm around Emmy. But Emmy wrenched herself away as if the cool pale flesh sullied her shoulders.
“Don’t you touch me!” she said between her teeth. “Don’t you come near me again, ever, ever, ever!”
Sherm, with his nearly empty glass tilted in his hand, pulled himself up to his full height and weight. He stood over Emmy. “Now wait just a minute, kiddy,” he said. “You’re a good girl, and I like you, but you can’t talk to Thelma that way. Anybody who doesn’t want her around can go take a jump in the lake!”
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. McDermott said. “Oh, my God!”
Cosmopolitan, December 1948
I Live on Your Visits
The boy came into the hotel room and immediately it seemed even smaller.
“Hey, it’s cool in here,” he said. This was not meant as a comment on the temperature. “Cool,” for reasons possibly known in some department of Heaven, was a term then in use among many of those of his age to express approbation.
It was indeed cool in the room, after the hard gray rain in the streets. It was warm, and it was so bright. The many-watted electric bulbs his mother insisted upon were undimmed by the thin frilled shades she had set on the hotel lamps, and there were shiny things everywhere: sheets of mirror along the walls; a square of mirror backing the mirror-plated knob on the door that led to the bedroom; cigarette boxes made of tiny bits of mirror and matchboxes slipped into little mirror jackets placed all about; and, on consoles and desk and table, photographs of himself at two and a half and five and seven and nine framed in broad mirror bands. Whenever his mother settled in a new domicile, and she removed often, those photographs were the first things out of the luggage. The boy hated them. He had had to pass his fifteenth birthday before his body had caught up with his head; there was that head, in those pre sentments of his former selves, that pale, enormous blob. Once he had asked his mother to put the pictures somewhere else—preferably some sma
ll, dark place that could be locked. But he had had the bad fortune to make his request on one of the occasions when she was given to weeping suddenly and long. So the photographs stood out on parade, with their frames twinkling away.
There were twinklings, too, from the silver top of the fat crystal cocktail shaker, but the liquid low within the crystal was pale and dull. There was no shine, either, to the glass his mother held. It was cloudy from the clutch of her hand, and on the inside there were oily dribbles of what it had contained.
His mother shut the door by which she had admitted him, and followed him into the room. She looked at him with her head tilted to the side.
“Well, aren’t you going to kiss me?” she said in a charming, wheedling voice, the voice of a little, little girl. “Aren’t you, you beautiful big ox, you?”
“Sure,” he said. He bent down toward her, but she stepped suddenly away. A sharp change came over her. She drew herself tall, with her shoulders back and her head flung high. Her upper lip lifted over her teeth, and her gaze came cold beneath lowered lids. So does one who has refused the white handkerchief regard the firing squad.
“Of course,” she said in a deep, iced voice that gave each word its full due, “if you do not wish to kiss me, let it be recognized that there is no need for you to do so. I had not meant to overstep. I apologize. Je vous demande pardon. I had no desire to force you. I have never forced you. There is none to say I have.”
“Ah, Mom,” he said. He went to her, bent again, and this time kissed her cheek.
There was no change in her, save in the slow, somehow offended lifting of her eyelids. The brows arched as if they drew the lids up with them. “Thank you,” she said. “That was gracious of you. I value graciousness. I rank it high. Mille grazie.”
“Ah, Mom,” he said.
For the past week, up at his school, he had hoped—and coming down in the train he had hoped so hard that it became prayer—that his mother would not be what he thought of only as “like that.” His prayer had gone unanswered. He knew by the two voices, by the head first tilted then held high, by the eyelids lowered in disdain then raised in outrage, by the little lisped words and then the elegant enunciation and the lofty diction. He knew.
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