Deep Water

by Patricia Highsmith

"I don't think so, Stephen."

  "Good night, then. See you tomorrow".

  "Good night," Vic said. Then he turned to Horace. "By the way, Xenophon's back from the bindery! Would you like to see one of them?"

  "I would, Vic—but I think what we're talking about is more important, don't you?"

  "Go ahead, Horace."

  "Well—I got the impression Cameron's thinking of taking Melinda away and she acts as if she's quite willing to go."

  "Taking her away?" Vic asked with astonishment, some of which was genuine.

  "His next job is in Mexico, and he has two airplane tickets to Mexico City—or so he said, and I don't think he was drunk—except with his own power. But Melinda was talking about going to the ends of the earth with him. Why don't you tell him where to head off, Vic?"

  "It's news to me. I hadn't heard any of that."

  "Well, you should have. You're partly to blame, Vic. What real effort have you made to get back with Melinda on any kind of basis after the De Lisle affair?"

  Vic's mind teetered on the two meanings of the word "affair" before he could shape his answer. "I have tried," he said simply.

  "As far as I know, you're still living in your own part of the house." Horace said, hiding his embarrassment in an aggressive tone. "You're young, Vic. Thirty-six, aren't you? Melinda's still younger. What sort of marriage 'do' you expect to have with her? You'll wake up some morning and find her gone!"

  "I don't care to manage her," Vic said. "I never did. She's a free human being."

  Horace looked at him, puzzling. "You're just giving up? Because I think you may lose to Cameron."

  Vic was silent for several seconds. He was not thinking of what to answer. Partly he was feeling his embarrassment at the conversation, tasting it on his tongue, partly he was panicky lest Horace alter his opinion of him in any way, lower his estimation of him.

  "All right, Horace. I'll have a little talk with her about Mr. Cameron."

  "I think it'll take more than talking. Either you change your whole attitude—or else."

  Vic smiled. "Aren't you exaggerating?"

  "I don't think so, Vic." Horace lighted a cigarette. "Vic, why're you so damned aloof? What's the purpose?"

  "I'm not aloof. Will you go for a drink at the local?" He started gathering the few things he wanted to take home.

  "Your whole attitude's wrong, Vic. If it ever had a chance of being right—and maybe it did once—it's wrong now."

  "Those are the strongest words I've ever heard you use, Horace."

  "I mean them."

  Vic looked at Horace, feeling a little off balance. "Shall 'we' go for that drink?"

  Horace shook his head. "I'll be going. I didn't mean to blow my top, but I think I'm really glad I did. Maybe you'll take this one seriously—Cameron, I mean. Good night, Vic." Horace went out and closed the door.

  A strange sensation, like fear, came over Vic as soon as he was alone. He finished gathering his papers, went out, and locked the door behind him. Horace's car was just disappearing down the lane. Vic got into his own car. A cool tingle went up his spine into the back of his neck. Then he swallowed and relaxed his hands on the wheel. He knew what the trouble was. He had not allowed himself really to think about Cameron, except to think that Cameron would be gone in another couple of weeks. He had not allowed himself to put his brain to the problem that Cameron created. And Horace had pointed that out. It was as if Horace had pointed a finger at a fire burning right at his feet, a fire he had chosen to ignore. (On the other hand, he considered he had a right to ignore it if he wanted to. If a fire were at his feet, the only person who would be hurt would be himself. What had upset him most, lie thought, was that Horace had forced him for a moment into a conformist's attitude, a conformist's vision of things.) But perhaps Horace was right in saying that he hadn't realized some important facts. He hadn't, for instance, admitted to himself that Melinda might really like Cameron, that Cameron might be Melinda's type precisely. That bluntness, that primitiveness, that really outdid her own! And that pachydermal naiveté! Cameron was the kind who would "take her away," wait for a divorce, and then marry her properly. And he was, indeed, Melinda's type precisely. It was an overwhelming revelation to him.

  Trixie was alone in the house when Vic got home. The boxer puppy came loping to greet him, jumping into the air and wriggling at the same time in a movement that always reminded Vic of a leaping trout.

  "Was your mother here when you got home?" he asked. "Nope. I guess she's out with Tony," Trixie said, and went on reading the comic page in the evening paper.

  Vic fixed himself a drink. As he carried it to his armchair, he noticed the new blue-and-white box of Nelson Thirty-three pipe tobacco on the little table beside the chair. It must have come today, and Melinda had unwrapped it and put it there. She must have ordered it about two weeks ago, Vic thought, must have ordered it on one of the days that she had spent with Tony.

  Chapter 20

  Brian Ryder arrived by train in Wesley the following Saturday. He was a pleasant, intense young man with the energy of a young Tarzan and the physique that went with it. The first thing lie wanted to do was walk around the town, even before he and Vic had an opportunity to discuss his poems. The walk took him nearly two hours in the afternoon, and he returned with damp hair, his face shining. He had found Bear Lake and taken a dip in it. The temperature was about forty degrees. Bear Lake was nearly eight miles away. Vic asked him how he had made it so fast.

  "Oh, I took a jog along the road, going there," he replied. "I like to run. And on the way back I caught a ride with a fellow. He said he knew you."

  "Oh? Who?" Vic asked.

  "His name was Peterson."

  "Oh, yes."

  "He seems to think a lot of you."

  Vic made no reply. Melinda was sitting on the sofa in the living room, pasting photographs in her album. She had not said anything to Brian after Vic had introduced them, but she kept staring at him with overt curiosity that reminded Vic of the way Trixie always stared at a new man whom Melinda had brought home. Now Brian looked at her in his naïve, direct way, as if he expected her to contribute something to the conversation or simply to show a little friendliness before he and Vic went off to work, but she said nothing and she didn't smile, even when Brian caught her eyes.

  "Shall we go into my room and talk?" Vic asked. "I've got your manuscript in there."

  That evening, Melinda brought Cameron home for dinner. Cameron said with a guffaw:

  "I'd have taken your wife out to dinner, Vic, but she insisted on coming home to you."

  The unbelievable crassness of it left Vic speechless. Brian had heard him. From then on Vic noticed that Brian spent quite a lot of the evening simply watching Cameron and Melinda with a serious, speculative expression on his face. And they put on quite a show. Cameron kept going in and out of the kitchen, helping Melinda put things on the table as if he lived there. Their conversation with each other was about what they had done that afternoon and about building materials and the price of cement. Vic attempted to talk to Brian about poets and poetry, but their voices were no match for Cameron's. Vic kept a little smile on his face to hide his irritation from Brian. He was not sure that he succeeded. Brian was a very observant young man.

  After dinner Cameron said, "Well, Vic, Melinda tells me you two've got a little talking to do, so—I thought I'd take her out maybe for a little dance at the Barmaid."

  "That sounds nice," Vic said pleasantly. "I think they've got draft beer there, haven't they?"

  "They sure have!" Cameron replied, patting his solid, well-fed belly. For all he ate and drank, he was not fat. He had the hard, hip-less bulk of a gorilla.

  Brian looked Melinda up and down appreciatively when she came out of her room in high-heeled, low-cut pumps and a short bright red jacket over her dress. She had taken more pains than usual with her face, and her blond hair was neatly brushed.

  "Expect me when you see me," she said gaily as she went
out the door.

  The gorilla followed her, grinning expansively.

  Vic plunged into conversation with Brian so that Brian would not have the chance to ask him any questions, but in the young man's face Vic could see his mind hanging on to the questions tenaciously Brian would not forget to ask them later. Vic reproached himself for not having had a talk with Melinda days ago. Horace had been right. He should have said 'something' to her. But would it really have done any good? Had it done any good when he spoke to her about De Lisle?

  "Your wife's a 'very' attractive woman," Brian said slowly in a lull in their conversation.

  "Do you think so?" Vic asked, smiling. And then he suddenly remembered Brian's surprised "Do you sleep here?" on seeing his room beyond the garage, like the thoughtless, brutal question of a child. It had pained Vic unreasonably. He could not get it out of his mind.

  They sat up talking of books and poets until past midnight, when Brian politely suggested that Vic might be wanting to go to bed. Vic knew that Brian wanted to get at the anthology of German metaphysical poets that Vic had taken down from a shelf for him, so Vic excused himself. But in his own room, Vic stayed up reading until Melinda came home at two o'clock. Brian's light was still on. Vic hoped that Brian wouldn't see her drunk. Vic had no idea whether she was drunk or not. He turned out his own light at about two-thirty. Shortly afterwards, very faintly, he heard Melinda's slow, happy, drunken laugh through his partly opened window. He wondered what Brian had found to talk to her about.

  The next morning Melinda said, "I think your little friend is terribly cute."

  "He's a terribly good poet," Vic said.

  Brian was away on his morning walk. He would probably come back with bird feathers, as he had yesterday. This morning, when Vic had looked into his room, he had found the bed made and a blue feather, a pebble, a mushroom, and a dried leaf laid out in a neat horizontal row in the middle of the writing table, as if' Brian had sat there pondering them.

  "He said he thought you were very attractive, too," Vic said, though he did not know why he bothered repeating it to her. Melinda's opinion of herself was high enough.

  "Since we're exchanging messages, you can tell him I think he's the most attractive young man I've seen since I left high school."

  Vic suppressed a comment that sprang to his mind. "You're seeing Tony this afternoon?"

  "No, I thought I might see Brian."

  "Brian's busy."

  "Not all the afternoon. He asked me to go for a row on Bear Lake."

  "Oh, I see."

  "But Tony's coming over this evening. We're going to play some records. I bought five new records yesterday in Wesley"

  "I don't want him here tonight," Vic said quietly.

  "Oh?" Her eyebrows went up. "And why not?"

  "Because I want to talk to Brian, and I don't want the music coming in the window, even if I talk to him in my room." "I see. And where do you want us to go?"

  "I don't care where you go." He lit a cigarette and stared down at the folded 'Times' on the cocktail table.

  "And what're you going to do if I bring him here, anyway?" "I'm going to ask him to leave."

  "Isn't this as much my house as yours?"

  There were so many replies to this that he could make none of them. He drew on his cigarette.

  "Well?" she said, slurring her eyes up at him.

  Useless to point out that because of Brian she might behave better. Useless. It was all useless.

  "I told you, I'll ask him to leave if you bring him. He'll leave all right."

  "If you do, I'll divorce you." Vic smiled a little. "You don't think I mean it, do you? I will, though. I think I'm ready to take you up on your alimony offer. Remember?"

  "I remember."

  "Well—anytime." She was standing up now, her hands on her hips, her long body relaxed and her head lowered as it always was when she fought, like the head of an animal in combat.

  "And what brought this on?" Vic asked, knowing very well what had brought it on. He felt the cool terror again along his spine. Melinda was not answering him. "Mr. Cameron?"

  "I think he's a lot nicer than you are. We get along fine."

  "There's more to life than getting along," Vic said quickly.

  "It helps!"

  They stared at each other.

  "You believe me, don't you?" Melinda said. "All right, Vic, I want the divorce. You asked me if I wanted it a couple of months ago. Remember?"

  "I remember."

  "Well, does the offer still hold?"

  "I never go back on my word."

  "Shall I start the proceedings?"

  "That's customary. You can accuse me of adultery."

  She took a cigarette from the cocktail table and lighted it with an air of nonchalance. Then she turned and walked into her own room. A moment later she was back again. "How much alimony?"

  "I said a generous allowance. It'll be generous."

  "How much?"

  He forced himself to think. "Fifteen thousand a year? You won't have to support Trix on it." He could see her calculating. Fifteen thousand a year would mean he couldn't print so many books a year, that he'd have to let Stephen go, or dock his salary, which Stephen would probably agree to. For a whim of hers, Stephen and his family would have to go on short rations.

  "That sounds all right," she said finally.

  "And Cameron isn't exactly a pauper."

  "He's a wonderful, 'real' man," she replied, as if he had called him something derogatory. "Well, I suppose we're settled. I'll start whatever I have to do on Monday." With a nod of conclusion, she went back into her room.

  Brian came in a few minutes later, and he and Vic went into Vic's room to continue their selection of sixty poems from the hundred and twenty of Brian's manuscript. Brian had categorized them into three piles, his favorites, second favorites, and the remainder. They were mostly on nature, with metaphysical and ethical overtones, or themes, which gave them a flavor like that of Horace's odes and epodes—though Brian had said, rather apologetically, that he had never cared for Horace and couldn't remember a single poem of his. Brian preferred Catullus. There were some passionate love poems, more or less ecstatic and unphysical love poems but as exquisite as Donne's. His poems about the city, New York, were not so sure as the others, but Vic persuaded him to include one or two in the book for variety's sake. Brian was very persuasive that morning, in a kind of ecstatic good spirits himself, and Vic more than once had the feeling Brian wasn't listening to what he said. But when Vic suggested a jacket color of red-brown, Brian woke up and disagreed. He wanted pale blue, a specific pale blue. He had a small piece of a bird's eggshell he had found that morning that was precisely the color he wanted. Colors were very important to him, he said. Vic put the shell fragment carefully away in his desk drawer. Then Vic described the ornamental colophons that he had thought of for the end of certain of the poems—a feather, grass blades, a spider's web, a basket worm's cocoon, and this Brian enthusiastically approved of. Vic had experimented in offset printing of all these objects and had got splendid results.

  Brian stood up restlessly and asked, "Is Melinda here?" "I think she's in her room," Vic said.

  "I told her we'd go for a row this afternoon."

  They weren't quite finished choosing the poems, but Vic saw that Brian's mind was no longer on it. There would be time after the row and before dinner, he supposed. "Go ahead," Vic said, feeling weak suddenly.

  Brian went.

  Cameron arrived at seven o'clock that evening and installed himself in the living room with the smiling joviality of a man who expects a good dinner. Brian was helping Melinda in the kitchen. She was preparing a small suckling-pig, which Vic vaguely remembered that she had said Brian had insisted on buying when he saw it in a butcher's shop in Wesley that afternoon. The whole afternoon had been vague to Vic. He did not know how the hours had passed, could not remember what he had done, except that at some point he had used a hammer for something and had struc
k his left thumb, which throbbed now when he pressed it against his forefinger. He found himself talking to Cameron, who never shut up, without thinking about anything he was saying. He forced himself to concentrate for a moment on what Cameron was saying and heard "—never was much in the kitchen myself. You know, you've either got a knack for it or you haven't!" Vic shut it off again like a radio program he did not want to listen to. Something about Brian's being in the kitchen disturbed him. Why wasn't Brian in the living room, talking to him about things that they were interested in? Cameron would have had to shut up. Then he remembered that he had laid down an ultimatum this morning in regard to Cameron's coming tonight, and that Melinda had promised to start divorce proceedings on Monday morning, tomorrow, and that Cameron was here tonight, anyway, looking especially complacent. Had Melinda already told him about the divorce proceedings?

  Cameron heaved himself up from the sofa and announced that he was going to take a look in the kitchen.

  In a few minutes he came out again, grinning. "Say, Vic, how about me getting two or three dozen of your snails? I know a plain butter-and-garlic sauce that you can't beat anywhere! A child could make it and it tastes as good as New Orleans!" He slammed his palms together and rubbed them. "Do you want to get 'em or shall I? Melinda said I ought to ask you first."

  "The snails are not for eating," Vic said.

  Cameron's face fell a little. "Oh. Well—what the hell are they for?" he asked, laughing. "Melinda said—"

  "I don't use them for anything. They are useless," Vic said, spitting the words out with a particular bitterness.

  Melinda came out of the kitchen. "What's the matter with having a few snails? Brian wants some and Tony says he can fix them. Let's have a real gala dinner!" She made a sweep with the cooking spoon, turned around almost into Cameron's arms and patted his cheek.

  Vic glanced at Brian, who had followed Melinda out of the kitchen. "I just told Tony the snails aren't for eating," Vic said.

  "Go out and get some, Tony," Melinda said. She was on the way to being drunk.

  Tony made a start and stopped, staring at Vic.