Testimony and Demeanor

by John D. Casey

  After a minute she jangled her bracelets up to her elbow and held her empty glass up over the back of the sofa. Mr. Pelham glided in to pick it up.

  “Very, very weak,” she said. “I’m practically under sedation.”

  But I didn’t care if she talked like that from time to time as long as she could be free and easy.

  I asked her what all the people did for a living. The fat man was a professor of economics. Keller. Herr Doktor Keller, she called him. The lady with the silver streak had worked in advertising until she got a divorce and retired. (“That’s a switch,” I said, and realized I’d caught on a little slow. But Mrs. Morr laughed as though I’d made the joke.) The old lady had written some mystery stories. They all seemed to like her a lot. The other man besides Mr. Pelham and Mr. Keller owned a shipping line. Mrs. Morr hadn’t ever asked him what kind of ships.

  I asked her what she did.

  She said, “Well, last week I reassured all my friends. Next week I’ll get them to reassure me. The week after I don’t know what I’ll do. Perhaps you could suggest something.”

  “Don’t look at me,” I said, “I’m just an employee. Tote that barge. Lift that bale.” I realized I was trying to sound like her and missing by a lot. I sounded like someone at a fraternity rush.

  “I hear you work very hard,” she said.

  When she said that, which was such a set remark (although I was glad she didn’t say nothing), I realized that a lot of the rest of her remarks she made up on the spot under a certain kind of pressure. It made me think of answering questions in class at law school. Except she didn’t refer to a subject; she referred to herself. She let you know about her mood. More than that. She made her mood change and tried to get you to follow each change. She also made me wonder what she would say if I ever caught up with her and pinned her down about anything.

  Probably nothing. Feelings are feelings, not ideas, and she’d just keep on blowing bubbles.

  I had to wait till today (Tuesday) to see Mr. Pelham. He asked me if I’d had a good time. I said sure. He said, “I was intrigued. I wouldn’t have thought Ann Morr was your dish of tea. Connie Wentz”—the tan lady with the silver streak—“now there is a robust charm. She had a remarkable tan, don’t you think? Right after she was divorced, she bought a little yawl she keeps finding young men to sail for her while she suns herself. She loves being at sea. Very exuberant. Fogs, storms, sunny breezes. She was going to name her yawl the Alimony. It seemed to me needless provocation, and after our conversation she named it the Applecart.”

  Next Sunday. At Mrs. Morr’s apartment. Mr. Pelham asked me. When I got there, Mrs. Morr answered the door. She seemed surprised to see me. I was embarrassed, which she noticed. I said something like I should have waited to come with Mr. Pelham so she’d be able to place me.

  She said, “No, no, no. I certainly place you—certainly, after all your gallant attentions. It’s just that you’re an hour early.”

  I said I’d come back, then, and started to go. She took me by the arm and said, “No, don’t be the least embarrassed. I’m flattered you’re so on time.” She led me into the living room, chattering away. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Do sit down. I won’t be a minute. Actually several—you know, the preparational mysteries, getting my teeth out of the glass. God, I’d better be careful. Lawyers believe everything you say against yourself, isn’t that the rule? You don’t believe that, do you? What I’m really doing—You did believe it, didn’t you?”

  I said, “No, I didn’t. It was just that you were talking so fast.”

  She said, “I do do that.”

  I said, “You look very pretty.” Suddenly. Jesus.

  She said, “Oh, la, how flattering,” as though it were perfectly all right. But I think she must have been embarrassed too. Fortunately she left.

  When she got back it was a half hour later, so we only had a half hour to go. I’d been thinking of what to talk about. Either some more about ballet—that is, get her started again—or get her to say more about the people who were coming. That looked like a better bet (longer), but she didn’t do much with it. I asked her if there was some reason for them all to get together, some interest they all had.

  She said, “We’re all old, old friends, and we don’t expect very much, but for some reason each of us cares what happens to the others.” She said it earnestly, for her, as though it were a summation of a more detailed statement.

  I didn’t get it all, but it ended that line. So for some reason I started talking about having worked for two years in New York and how I’d tried to figure out what was wrong—not that I thought there was anything wrong, but that I’d suddenly felt cut off from my original plans, which were still all I had to go by. I said, “I thought that I shouldn’t get into problems that took away energy for no purpose. Energy always seemed to me the main problem. The question always was: how to keep it up. How to keep it efficient. So I kept away from anything static.”

  She said, “I imagine that’s a very exciting way to be.”

  I realized that I didn’t really have control of what I was talking about. But I said, “No. It’s gone on so long it’s not exciting. It—I mean trying to focus my energy—was the only way to begin. I know I’m not being specific.” She nodded. “It’s gone on for a long, long time now, because at first I thought it was the only way, and then I didn’t dare let up. And now I don’t dare stop any habit, because something might depend on it. But there are other ways. I’ve seen some of the other people at work. Some of them are duds, but some of them are up to the job, and they don’t need the control that I exercise. In fact, they don’t even seem to need energy. I’m not envious. I don’t mind doing what I have to do competitively. That’s not something I’d ever complain about. But I have the feeling that there is something else I could do. Something else I could know. I have the feeling sometimes that there are people who know me down to the ground and I don’t know the first thing about them.”

  She said, “Oh, lawyers in a bunch are terrifying. I used to have lunch near Wall Street once a month, and just the sight of all those dark suits marching out to lunch in phalanx … I was sure they’d all march over to me and—oh, I don’t know—cross-examine me.” She began to stroke her throat. “I could never even picture Charles”—Mr. Pelham—“holding his own somehow, even though he’s the smartest man I know. It seemed like such a militant concentration of grim energy.” She smiled. “Of course, you were speaking of your own grim energy, I know, but I think I can imagine what it would be like to live with nothing but that. Really, you know, Dickens’ blacking factory is nothing next to a modern career. I mean, I do understand you, don’t I? All you know are lawyers who are grim or who at least act grim with you, and that includes yourself—I suppose that is your point, that you are the grimmest of them all.”

  I nodded.

  We sat there awhile in silence, but she smiled off into the distance so I didn’t feel that I had to say anything.

  She said, “Well, there really is nothing … I mean, here I am, a wise old crone without a word of wisdom.”

  We sat some more. I pieced together that every time she refers to being old she is testing to see that no one takes her seriously. I also noticed that part of her attractiveness is her style—for example, I get the impression that her clothes are so much a part of her style that touching them would be like touching her. When the doorbell rang she let it ring three or four times without getting up, and when she did get up she looked back a couple of times. I got it—that is, the point she was making—but she can do these polite gestures better than anyone I’ve ever seen. Mr. Pelham arrived and then the whole gang, along with some others. I’m glad to see that they get in some fresh air.

  Mr. Pelham has finally given up talking about Connie Wentz. He started right in on Ann. Almost like the first day of questions.

  “Do you think Ann is intelligent?”

  I said that although she doesn’t solve any problems, s
he probably could if she’d been educated differently.

  “But there is an intelligence in her charm?”

  I said that she was able to suggest her feelings in a way that made other people share them, which meant that she must appreciate how other people felt in the first place. A form of intellection.

  “But there is a great deal that is unexpected in her feelings. There are some quite bizarre tastes that one could never share but that are nevertheless vastly appealing to hear about.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. But I said, “Some of your notions are pretty far-fetched too. From where I stand, you’re both apt to say some pretty strange things.”

  “But you would distinguish between our sensibilities? Between our minds?”

  I said, “Oh, you just proceed in the same way. There are substantive differences.”

  “Surely you remember the elementary lesson of Erie versus Tompkins,” he said. “Procedure and substance are inextricably intertwined.” He paused. “But isn’t it amazing how little we can actually say on a subject of mutual interest? The barrier of our common legal training.”

  II

  One of the things I have begun to think about is that although I get embarrassed I’m not shy.

  Actually, what I thought about this afternoon was that anytime I could just get up and go over to see her. She is just there. Of course not. She is there the way the clouds linger around the mountain peaks or whatever it was.

  I see the satisfaction that Mr. Pelham takes in thinking about himself. I thought today: I have discovered taste. Taste is a discernible pattern in voluntary noncareer decisions. I had bad (no) taste in women. I thought, while I was in college, that it was natural that girls were sullen. I could understand why they were sullen—I’m surprised I wasn’t more sullen myself. Except I had more anesthesia. The arrangements were enough to sullen up anyone. To wit—arrive by train at White River Junction. Enough to account for sullenness right there. Barely recognize me from previous unpleasant (and dark) arrangement. Dull afternoon shadowed over for her by thought of basic decision, which was: Would she submit? “Submit” is the word. Unspoken struggle. If she had more than three drinks, the unspoken rule was, that meant yes. If she went to my room without stating a formal objection, that meant yes. On my side it was necessary to express minimal formulae of traditional courtship. And the final burst of energy to overcome our indifference, which was our largest bond of sympathy. That was when I discovered that although I was easily embarrassed I wasn’t shy. Another way of stating the concept is: There was more social pressure preventing me from disengaging from the mechanism of the weekend than there was embarrassing personal pressure impeding its progress. I remember noting that there were cranks who rejected the process and who were miserable, and then, of course, there were a few who transcended it. I thought they might have transcended it by dint of repeating it over and over. In any case, they looked much happier on the railroad platform at White River Junction. They also drank a lot less.

  But even so, I never spent any time questioning that the function of the weekend was to make the solitude of the week a comparatively attractive alternative. Energy was still the key concept. For the most part I withheld energy from the weekend (except for rationed bursts to avoid inertia). Otherwise there seemed no way or reason to spend it. To be without energy at that time (1957–61) was considered an average, prudent, and reasonable way to behave.

  There is no point in regretting it—I wouldn’t have come as far as I have if I hadn’t lived that way. But now I welcome the chance to see Mrs. Morr act freely. To feel her extravagance. She is, as far as I know, without a goal, but she is capable of reaching one if she chooses. Therefore her actions are freer than anyone’s I’ve known. And until she has a goal, also more extravagant. She has had a marriage. She is accomplished. She is detached. I suppose I should be careful not to absorb any of her extravagance.

  For some reason she also suggests to me that there is no limit to energy, that there are sources of energy generated simply by spending. Of course, she may be just reflecting me back to myself. In that case, she is a vast consumer market and I can be the producer.

  This is baloney. Uncle.

  Mr. Pelham dropped in today. He hasn’t been in for a while. In fact, the last time I saw him was the third Sunday. He asked me if I’d had any new thoughts about Ann Morr. Before I could answer, he said, “It’s always seemed to me that attractive women who lived alone could be divided into two categories—those who turned into animals and those who turned into plants. Now, obviously Connie Wentz is something feline or serpentine, however clichéd that may seem. And Eleanor”—the mystery writer—“is a heron. But is it obvious that Ann is a plant? I mean, at first view one thinks of what? There is that initial post-Gibson-girl aura. When daisies replaced roses. What was that song? ‘A long-stemmed American Beauty rose.’ But I put it to you: Is it not possible that she is in fact not a flower but a butterfly camouflaged as one?”

  I interrupted to say that this sounded like one of the Sunday-afternoon games.

  He said, “Yes, it was, in fact. Ann was really quite pleased with her floral aspect. Someone said peony, someone hydrangea, and so forth. I said, ‘And now to reveal the worm in the bud.’ Surprisingly enough, it was Connie Wentz who rose to defend her. Connie said that I was the worm in the bud, if I wanted to know what I was. I imagine if you had been there you would have been the one to rise up in gallantry. I may say, one of the great pleasures of having you come round on Sundays is seeing the flowering of your gallantry toward Ann. A really unsuspected fineness—I hope you’re not offended if I say that. It gives me great pleasure. Of course, it gives her great pleasure too.”

  It’s funny they should both have said “gallant.” Just because she’s forty-nine doesn’t mean I’m gallant. I’m not doing a favor. I’m not putting on manners. I’m not doing anything I don’t want.

  Four Sundays have gone by. I asked Mrs. Morr to go to the theater. I hadn’t really thought what it would be like marching up to her door solo. But it didn’t bother me too much. In a way, I didn’t have to worry so much about guidelines for this case.

  She was wearing a dress that was low cut, not all around but with a narrow V that went down to the top of her stomach. I said, “Heads will turn at that.”

  She said, “I should hope so.” And then, “I once had a dressmaker, a very talented little man, who said to me, ‘My dear, when you pass forty, you either retreat or rally.’ ”

  I suppose I should have said she’d certainly rallied, but what was interesting was the feeling of her talking in her drawing room way and all the while it was just the two of us standing in the elevator. I was very conscious of the echo of her chatter and the fact of just the two of us standing in the elevator.

  But we had a pretty good time when she ran down a little and was just asking questions. And then she has a few essays too. Even when she’s not trying hard, though, she reminds me of a row of game booths at a county fair. Every place you look there’s something arranged. And every time you win a game you get a souvenir trinket.

  I dropped in on her and got to talk for a while. She ended up in an odd mood. She was playing music on the phonograph, and she suddenly started in talking in a different way.

  “I remember when I was eighteen—I’d just got out of boarding school and I was staying with my best friend, whose name was Sally. Sally had a sixteen-year-old brother who was terribly attractive, but of course two years at that stage was an unthinkable barrier to serious consideration, or what we took to be serious consideration. If we’d only known. But I played tennis with him and so forth until one night at supper Sally said to him, ‘Go on, tell her. If you don’t, I’ll tell her something worse.’ The poor boy was very embarrassed and wouldn’t tell. I don’t think I’ve seen that kind of paralyzing embarrassment for years now; maybe it’s no longer culturally possible. In any case, it finally came out that all it was was that he’d said to Sally that he though
t I looked like Ginger Rogers. I did, rather. I probably still do; I hope she’s aged gracefully. But I was flattered, and I remember feeling a glow of satisfaction and, oddly enough, a sense of power. It’s the feeling of power that I remember, because I think it molded me. I smiled at him—I wish I could remember his name—I smiled what I see now as an awful simper, and said, ‘Do you think Ginger Rogers is pretty?’ He was just too young to carry it off or slide away from it—I mean, he could have said, ‘As blonds go’ or ‘If you like bony shoulders,’ but he was pinned and could only say yes—although it took him, oh, a minute, which of course made it worse for him. I may have cooed him along by saying something like ‘I’ll be just finished if you don’t think she is,’ but the minute was mostly a thick silence. Until he said yes. And then somehow I was intrigued by his suffering, and also his vitality in a way—if you see what I mean—and I managed to end up on the terrace with him just before dark, just the two of us. I remember how green everything was, so it must have been still somewhat light, but it was dark enough so that I couldn’t see him actually blush. He was leaving to spend the summer in Maine the next day, and I said there must be someone who was going to miss him, being gone for so long—some special friend. He said no. And I said, ‘Well, I know someone who’s going to miss you.’ He said, ‘Who?’ I didn’t say anything, and I could feel him teetering on the brink of understanding. I knew he wasn’t slow—I knew I had made him a little dumb. I could feel it. And then I felt completely what he felt when he did understand. I felt his whole terrific crush on me become concentrated right there. In fact, it scared me a little. I knew all I had to do was touch him, even just on the arm, and he would—Actually, now I’m not sure what he would have done. I think at the time I thought he would fall on his knees and worship me, saying, ‘You’re beautiful and perfect,’ and that was more than I could manage. I mean his saying it—his thinking it was perfectly all right.” Ann laughed. “What stuck with me, though, wasn’t so much the contriving aspect of it finally. It was an appreciation of tenderness. Not sentimental tenderness. I mean tenderness in a way I can really only describe in terms of texture. Small white asparagus. And newness, like putting the first mark on the first page of a book of blank pages. I think that experience did much more to me than it did to him. I think he probably caught a fish, or won a sailboat race, and was able to counterweight it, but it turned me into an appreciator, it made me aware of how aloof you must be to really taste. Like Charles—it makes me wonder if Charles had an experience like that. It’s odd that he and I never get as rhapsodically recollective with each other as we do with other people. I’ve never told this to anyone. I haven’t thought of it while I’ve been with anyone is probably why. But what is curious is that I think the really molding experiences come much later than one is told they do. Not at three or four or in the womb or whenever, but right on the brink of being grown up. I’m really not that different now than I was then. I mean, of course I am. I’m … older.” She laughed again. “The sadder but wiser girl. No, neither one. But you’re sweet to listen.” She touched my cheek with her hand and then got up to change the record, which hadn’t shut itself off automatically.