Deep Water

by Patricia Highsmith

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

  "Look—I didn't say I 'wanted' the snails," Brian began awkwardly, not quite addressing either Melinda or Vic. "I mean, 'I' didn't say that."

  "They ought to taste good, they're so well fed. Steak and carrots and Boston lettuce. Go out and get some, Tony!" And then Melinda nearly fell in the swinging door as she pushed it to go back into the kitchen.

  Tony was staring at him like a stupid animal, like a dog that wasn't quite sure of the signal, his thick body poised to move. "How about it, Vic? You won't even miss three dozen."

  Vic had clenched his hands into fists and he knew that Brian had noticed his hands, and still he kept them clenched. "You can't eat snails right away, you know," he said in a suddenly light, almost smiling tone. "You have to starve them for two days so that they're clean. Mine have all been eating. I suppose you know that."

  "Oh," Cameron said, shifting his weight back evenly on his big feet. "Well, that's too bad."

  "Yes, it is," said Vic. He glanced at Brian.

  Brian was watching him tensely, his hands behind him against the sideboard of the glass cabinet, his blue shirt pulled taut across his strong, rounded chest. He had a wary, surprised look in his eyes that Vic had not seen before.

  Vic looked at Cameron, smiling. "I'm sorry. Maybe next time I can remember to take a few snails out for you and keep them a couple of days without food."

  "Fine," Cameron said uncertainly. He rubbed his hands again, smiled, and flexed his shoulders. And then he fled into the kitchen.

  Brian smiled. "I certainly didn't mean to start anything about the snails. It was Melinda's idea. I said it was all right with me if you were in the habit of eating them. I could tell they were pets of yours."

  Vic paid him the compliment of saying nothing in reply, took his arm, and drew him toward the living room. But they had not even sat down when Melinda called "Brian!" from the kitchen.

  They had never had such a meal, even at any Christmas. Melinda had apparently tried to cook everything in the kitchen— three kinds of vegetables, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, three kinds of dessert standing on the sideboard, two dozen rolls, besides the suckling-pig in the center of the table, precariously laid on two shallow cookie sheets and a big pie pan between so that there would be no dripping on the tablecloth, though there was some dripping at either end because the pie pan made the cookie sheets slant downward. Vic found the smiling pig very disturbing and the abundance of food rather disgusting, though their two guests and Trixie, who had come back from somewhere at seven-thirty, seemed to take it as a big indoor picnic and enjoyed themselves noisily. At the table Vic realized what it was about Brian that made him uncomfortable: Brian was displaying some of the forwardness of Cameron toward Melinda. Vic knew that Brian thought her attractive, but the way he smiled at her, the way he helped her take her apron off, suggested that, consciously or unconsciously, he had taken his 'cue' from Cameron that Melinda was fair game for anybody and so meant to enjoy a part of her himself Vic realized that Brian would also have had to take his cue from his own tolerance of Cameron, and Vic, very definitely, felt that he had lost face with Brian Ryder. He imagined, from the snail altercation onward that Sunday evening, that Brian treated him with less respect.

  The evening petered out miserably. Melinda got too drunk to want to go out with Cameron, who invited her out, and she sat on the sofa more or less mumbling jokes, mumbling the inanities of a drunk, which Brian listened to—out of politeness or curiosity, Vic didn't know—forcing a laugh out of himself now and then. Cameron sat spraddle-kneed in Vic's armchair, leaning forward with a beer can in his hand, in some fog of simple-minded beatitude that evidently made him immune to boredom or to the sensations of plain fatigue that might have inspired him to say good night. There were long silences. For the first time in months, Vic had about five strong drinks. The sordidness of the scene affected him as much as any mental pain he had ever borne, yet he could not bring himself to call Brian away with him to his room, which would have looked like a total rout for him. Vic had made a torturous effort to talk to Cameron about building stone, about water tables, about his next assignment in Mexico, but Cameron's slightly bloodshot pale-blue eyes had been drawn again and again to Melinda on the sofa, and for once his voice had kept shutting off.

  Cameron stayed until two-twenty in the morning. Brian, who had been in a half-recumbent position in the other corner of the sofa from Melinda, daydreaming or pondering or savoring or whatever poets did, hauled himself up just after Cameron stood up, and bade him a surprisingly cordial good night.

  Looking at his watch, Brian said that he hadn't realized it was so late and that he should have said good night earlier. "We have a few more things to talk about before I catch my train at eleven,

  haven't we, Mr. Van Allen?"

  "I think we have—a few."

  "Then I'll let my morning walk go by tomorrow so we'll have some time." He bowed, a little shyly. "Good night, Melinda. That was an unforgettable banquet. You're very kind to go to all that trouble. Thank you."

  "Your idea:' Melinda said. "Your little piggy-wiggy."

  Brian laughed. "Good night, sir:' he said to Vic, and went off to his room.

  The "sir" and the "Mr. Van Allen" and the "Melinda" went around in Vic's head stupidly for a few seconds. Then he said, "A delightful evening."

  "Wasn't it? You should have liked it. It was quiet."

  "Yes. What happened to the new records?"

  A glimmer of recollection came to her glazed eyes. "I forgot them. Damn it." She started to get up.

  Vic let her walk half across the room before he could bring himself to try to stop her, taking her lightly by one arm above the elbow. "Wait till tomorrow Brian won't be able to sleep." "L'go of me!" she said irritably.

  He let her go. She stood swaying in the middle of the floor, looking at him challengingly.

  "I was surprised not to hear anything from Cameron tonight," Vic said. "Don't you think he ought to make me a statement of his intentions?"

  "I asked him not to."

  "Oh." He lit a cigarette.

  "Everything is settled, everything is fine. And 'I'm' fine." "You're drunk."

  "Tony doesn't mind if I'm drunk. Tony understands why I get drunk. He understands 'me'."

  "Tony's just a wonderfully understanding man."

  "Yes," she said positively. "And we're going to be very, very happy together."

  "Congratulations."

  "And Tony already has two tickets for—" She paused to think "Mexico City! His next job is down there."

  "Oh. And you're going with him."

  "That's all you can say. 'Oh.' " She spun on her heel, as she often did when she was happily drunk, and she lost her balance, but Vic caught her. He immediately let her go.

  "I can't tell you what a pleasure the evening was for me, too," he said, making a little bow as Brian had done. "Good night." "Good night," she said, imitating him.

  Chapter 21

  By ten-thirty the next morning Vic and Brian and Trixie and the puppy were on the road to Wesley in Vic's car to meet Brian's eleven o'clock train. Trixie's school was competing in a glee club contest of Massachusetts grade schools, and she hadn't to be at school until a quarter to eleven to board a bus that was taking the Highland School glee club to Ballinger. Trixie was part of a glee club of fifty that was going to render "The Swan" in the competition. Vic had had time that morning to listen to her practice once more—though she had got impatient midway and stopped. Her voice was shrill and accurate, though a little wavery on the high notes. Vic dropped her off at the school gates, and promised to be in Ballinger by twelve sharp to hear her chorus.

  "Isn't Melinda going?" Brian asked.

  "No. I don't think so," Vic said. Melinda hadn't the least interest in Trixie's glee club. She had been sleeping this morning when they left the house, so Brian had not had an opportunity to say good-bye to her.

  "She's a 'most remarkable' woma
n," Brian said, pronouncing the words slowly and firmly, "but I don't think she knows her own mind."

  "No?"

  "No. It's a pity. She's got such vitality."

  Vic had no reply. He did not know precisely what Brian was thinking in regard to Melinda and he really didn't care. He felt extremely nervous and irritable that morning, felt the kind of nervousness that comes from a fear of being late for something, and he kept looking at his watch as if they were going to arrive in Wesley in plenty of time.

  "I've 'certainly' had a good time up here," Brian said. "And I want to thank you for taking such trouble about the—the format. There's not another publisher in the world who'd take the trouble you would about it."

  "I enjoy it," Vic said.

  At the station, they had five minutes or so before Brian's train arrived. Brian pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  "I wrote a poem last night," he said. "I wrote it all at once in about five minutes, so it's probably not one of my best, but I'd like you to see it." He held it out abruptly to Vic.

  Vic read:

  'What has been done cannot be undone.

  The ultimate effort made before the ultimatum was given,

  The positive and overflowing gesture made,

  And the love lost like a flower floating

  Down the stream, just beyond, just too fast

  For the hand to recapture.

  I cannot make the stream turn back,

  For there I am, too, floating,

  Just behind the fleeing flower'.

  Vic smiled. "For five minutes, I don't think it's bad at all." He handed it back to Brian.

  "Oh, you can keep that. I have another copy. I thought you might show it to Melinda."

  Vic nodded. "All right." He had known Brian was going to say that. He had known from the first line that the poem had been inspired by Melinda, and that the poet's objectivity to his own work had allowed Brian not only to show the poem to him but to ask him to deliver it.

  In the remaining minutes they walked slowly up and down the platform, Vic keeping an eye on Brian's small suitcase for him, because Brian was not watching it at all. Brian stretched himself tall as he walked, his hands in his pockets and his eyes looking into the distance everywhere with the eager, planless, undoubting optimism of youth, just as he had looked when he had arrived in Little Wesley, Vic remembered. Vic wondered if he had given much of a thought to what Cameron might mean in his and Melinda's life, or whether his meeting with Melinda had been sufficient unto itself—like one of those brief infatuations Goethe had so often had with chambermaids and barmaids and people's cooks, which had always struck Vic as 'infra dignitatem' and somehow ludicrous, though they had netted Goethe a poem or even two. Biology was really the major miracle of existence. That this dedicated young man with a heart like a clean pane of glass had, at any rate for a few hours, fallen under the spell of Melinda. How glad he was that Brian was not staying up here! So glad, that he began to smile.

  The tram was coming in.

  Brian whipped his hand out of his pocket suddenly. "I'd like to give you this."

  "What?" Vic said, not really seeing anything in the boy's bony fist.

  "It's something that belonged to my father. I've got three pairs of them. I value them very much, but I intended—if I liked you—to give you a pair. I hope you'll take them. I do like you, and you're the first person to publish—to publish my first book." He stopped as if he were choked off. His fist was still extended.

  Vic put out his hand, and Brian dropped something wrapped in wrinkled tissue paper into it. Vic opened it and saw two bloodstone cufflinks set in gold.

  "My father always encouraged me to write poetry," Brian said. "I didn't tell you much about him. He died of tuberculosis of the throat. That's why he took so much trouble to make me like the out-of-doors." Brian glanced at the train that was stopping. "You will take them, won't you?"

  Vic started to protest, but he knew Brian would be displeased. "Yes, I'll take them. Thank you, Brian. I feel very honored."

  Brian smiled and nodded, not knowing what to say now. He climbed the train steps with his suitcase, and stopped to wave back at Vic, wordless, as if they were miles apart.

  "I'll send you the galleys the day they're done!" Vic called. He put the cufflinks into his jacket pocket and walked back to his car, starting to wonder if Melinda was up yet, to wonder if she had an appointment to meet Cameron in Ballinger, or wherever she was going to start the divorce business. Melinda would not actually go into a lawyer's office with Cameron, but she would probably have him wait outside for her. Vic knew her well. She would wake up with a hangover today, full of nervous, remorseful, destructive energy, and she would start the thing rolling. Vic could imagine the face of the lawyer to whom she would speak, in Ballinger or wherever. It would be somewhere near—she might even do it in Wesley after a bolstering visit to the Wilsons'—and the lawyer would undoubtedly know of Victor Van Allen. Little Wesley's number one cuckold. Vic lifted his head and began to hum. For some reason, he hummed "My Old Kentucky Home."

  Driving through the main part of Wesley, he looked around for Don Wilson, and for June Wilson. He saw Cameron. Cameron was coming out of a cigar store, yelling back and smiling at somebody and stuffing something into a trousers pocket. Vic saw him when he was about half a block in front of him on the right side of the street, and not really knowing what he was about, Vic stopped his car in the middle of the block at just the place where Cameron was about to cross the street.

  "Hello, there!" Vic called cheerfully. "Need a lift?"

  "Well! Hi!" Cameron grinned. "No, my car's right across the street."

  Vic glanced over. Melinda was not in the car.

  "If you've got a few minutes—get in and let's have a little chat," Vic said.

  Cameron's smile collapsed suddenly, and then as if he thought he ought to pull himself together and face it like a man, he gave the belt of his trousers a hitch and smiled and said, "Sure." He opened the car door and got in.

  "Fine day, isn't it?" Vic said genially, moving the car off. "Fine, fine."

  "How's the work going?"

  "Oh, great. Mr. Ferris isn't too pleased with the speed, but—" Cameron laughed, and laid his big hands on his knees. "I suppose you're used to that from clients."

  The conversation went on like that for several more exchanges. It was the kind of conversation that Cameron enjoyed, the only kind, Vic supposed. Vic had decided not to mention Melinda, not even in the most casual way. He had decided to take Mr. Cameron to the quarry. It had come into his mind all at once, lust after he had said, "If you've got a few minutes—" There was lots of time, lots of time still to be in Ballinger for Trixie's performance with the chorus. Vic was suddenly calm and collected.

  They talked of the growth of Wesley in the last few years. The dull aspect of this conversation was that it hadn't particularly grown in the last few years.

  "Where're we going?" Cameron asked.

  "I thought we might drive out to that quarry I was telling you about last night. The old East Lyme quarry—which is not a pun. It'll only take about two minutes from here."

  "Oh, yeah. The one you said they abandoned?"

  "Yes. The owner died, and nobody else came along before all the machinery rusted. It's quite something to see. An enterprising man could still do something with it if he could put up the money to buy it. There's nothing wrong with the rock there." Vic had never heard himself sound calmer.

  Vic turned off the East Lyme road into a dirt road, and then at a certain place, invisible until one was upon it, he turned into a rutty, single-lane road so nearly overgrown with young trees and hushes that he could hear them brush the sides of his car as they I moved through.

  "This is one place you don't want to meet somebody else head on," Vic said, and Cameron laughed as if it were terribly funny. "That was a great evening last night," Vic went on. "You've got to come again soon."

  "You're the damnedest hospitable people I ev
er met," Cameron said, shaking his head and laughing with boorish self-consciousness.

  "Here we are," Vic said."You've got to get out to see it properly."

  Vic had stopped the car in a small area between the edge of the woods and the abyss of the quarry. They got out, and Roger hopped out with them. The quarry spread before them and below them, an impressive excavation of some quarter of a mile in length and somewhat half that in depth. At the very bottom of it lay a lake of water, shallower on their left where fragments of rock had slid down the nearly white rock cliff into the water, but deep to their right where the neat excavations of the engineers had removed the limestone in right-angled blocks, like giant steps, and where the water lapped only a few feet over some blocks and became black with depth just beyond. Here and there on the perimeter of the quarry stood stiff, rusted cranes at various angles as if the work men had simply stopped one day at quitting time and not come back.

  "Sa-a-ay!" Cameron said, putting his hands on his hips and surveying it. "That's pretty colossal! I had no idea it was this big."

  "Yep," Vic said, moving off toward the right a little, and closer to the edge. The puppy followed him. "Plenty of stone left, don't you think?"

  "Sure looks like it!" Cameron was going closer to the edge himself now.

  The place where they were standing was where Vic and Melinda and Trixie had come in the past to picnic, and Vic told Cameron so, but he did not add that they had stopped coming because it was too nerve-racking to keep watching to see that Trixie did not go too near the edge.

  "It's a good place for swimming, too, down there," Vic said "You can get down to the water by a little path." He strolled away from the edge.

  "Say, I bet Ferris would've liked this color," Cameron said "He's complaining because the stone we've got's too white."

  Vic picked up a jagged, off-white rock about the size of his head as if to examine it. Then he drew his arm back and threw it, aiming at Cameron's head, just as Cameron turned toward him.

  Cameron had time to duck a fraction, and the rock glanced off the top of his head, but it staggered him back a little, nearer the Cameron glowered at him like a bewildered bull, and Vic—in what seemed to take him a whole minute—picked up another rock twice the size of the other, and running with it a step or two, launched it at Cameron. It caught Cameron in the thighs, and there was a quick flail of arms, a bellowing half scream, half roar, whose pitch changed as Cameron dropped downward. Vic went to a lie edge, in time to see Cameron bounce off the steep slope very near the bottom of the cliff and roll noiselessly onto the stone flat. There was no sound then, except for the dwindling trickle of little stones that were following Cameron's path downward. Then the puppy gave an excited yip, and turning, Vic saw Roger with his forelegs down and his rear end up, ready to play with him.