A GOOD deal of the time, however, Henry was responsible for good moods, not bad ones. When things looked black, our intrepid research would usually produce some fascinating new item, and keep us going for another few days. The two greatest finds were Henry’s address and an article in a magazine about him, called “A Day with a Concert Pianist.” It had pictures of Henry practicing, shaving, having lunch, and drinking Black Velvets at Benny’s, his favorite bar. Val was in ecstasy. Since this was described as a fairly typical day in Henry’s life, we had the comforting feeling that if we suddenly needed him at any time, we could, by a little deduction, figure out where to find him.
“What good does that do?” Val asked, when I mentioned this. “What will we ever need him for?”
“You never can tell,” I said, and entered it in Revelation.
After lunch at my house on a Saturday shortly before Christmas, we decided to go and inspect Henry’s domicile. It was snowing hard, and we sat in the hall and pulled on galoshes and long wool socks. As we were just going out the door, Boothy came down the stairs, wearing a huge raccoon coat and a pair of black Cossack boots. She was carrying her camera.
“Wimpole’s studying her electronics, and I’m going to try and get some snow scenes. I’ll walk to the corner with you.” Our faces must have shown relief that she did not intend to accompany us the whole afternoon, for she added, “If we meet anybody you know, you can tell them I’m your drunken Aunt Erica, and you have to walk me around in the fresh air to sober me up.”
We laughed, and started down toward Lexington. We talked about this and that, and at the bus stop Boothy said:
“Where are you off to today, my chickadees? To try and pluck out locks of Henry’s beautiful red hair to sew into your union suits?”
Val’s face must have dropped at least four inches. She said absolutely nothing, just stared at Boothy.
“What’s the matter? You do wear union suits, don’t you?” Boothy asked.
“How do you know about Henry?” I burst out at last, as Val looked as though she might collapse into a snowdrift.
“Oh, is that it! Is it supposed to be a secret?”
“We haven’t told anyone,” Val said faintly, “not a soul. I don’t understand.”
“Come, now, Val, you’re smarter than that,” Boothy said. “That code is the most transparent thing I’ve ever heard, and you always have pictures of him falling out of your pants. Every time I mention him the two of you look as though you’re going to evaporate. It’s such an enchanting sight, I mention him all the time.” She laughed at our horror-stricken faces. “The only thing Wimpole and I can’t figure out is which of you is the star-crossed lover.”
We both sighed, and finally Val said, “It’s me. She’s just along for the ride.” She stood there with her mittened hands plunged into her pockets. “What I want to know is, how did you figure out our code?”
“Oh, it was terribly difficult. Henry Wong—Henry Orient. Terribly obscure. Avis Wimpleton Gilbert—Wimpole. Honestly, do you think adults are morons?”
“I guess they aren’t,” Val said. “Who else knows?”
“Well, nobody that I know of. But if you keep yakking about it at the present rate, everybody on this side of Central Park will know. Not that they’ll care, particularly.” She looked at her watch. “Speaking of the Park, I have to immortalize snowdrifts.”
“Please don’t mention it at tea, Boothy,” I said. Emma Hambler was coming for tea that afternoon, as she had come once or twice before.
“Mrs. Hambler probably knows already, unless Val develops an increasing degree of subtlety as she goes from here to Tenth Street. Don’t look so gloomy, you two. I was the same way about Valentino.”
“Who’s Valentino?” asked Val suspiciously.
This time it was Boothy who looked horror-stricken. “Do you mean to say you don’t know...” She rolled her eyes to the top of her glasses. “Oh, my God. I must frisk off after my lost youth. Who’s Valentino! Wait till I tell Wimpole!”
She strode off through the snow, her big furry coat flapping behind her, and Val and I stood looking at each other.
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag,” Val said. “We could have played innocent, but I was too flabbergasted to think of it.”
“Does it really matter?” I asked thoughtfully. “If they know?”
“Well, I suppose not,” Val said, as though it had never occurred to her. “They don’t seem to think it’s so peculiar, do they?”
“Not particularly.”
“They just seem to think it’s funny.”
“About a year ago, I was mad about Gregory Peck. They didn’t seem to think it was strange. They just sort of laughed understandingly.”
Val’s face fell again. “But look at Gregory Peck, and look at Henry.”
“But Boothy didn’t think it was peculiar! Anyway, it’s too late now. Do you really care if Emma finds out? Boothy’s probably right, you know. I suppose we are kind of unsubtle.”
“I wonder what Emma would think,” Val said thoughtfully.
I had the distinct feeling that nobody would take it very seriously, and wondered what we were worrying about. I said this to Val.
“I don’t know about that,” she replied. “Emma might look it up in Freud.”
“So what? She wouldn’t find it.” The bus stopped, and we got into it, dropping our nickels in the slot. “Stop worrying about it, Val. Other people have been in love.”
We rode in silence for a couple of blocks, then Val said in a low voice:
“I have a confession to make, Gilbert.”
“What?” I asked. “Have you done something terrible?”
“I’ve told Braintree.”
“You’ve...why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at me. “It’s done, and that’s that.”
“But why...”
“Honestly, Gilbert. Every other word you say is ‘why.’” She was staring out the window, chewing her lower lip. “Somebody has to explain this to me,” she muttered.
I didn’t answer. For some reason, I felt terribly hurt. Henry was none of Braintree’s business; he was Val’s and mine. Finally I said:
“What did she say?”
“Nothing,” Val replied. She glanced at me. “That’s right, she said nothing. I do the talking, not her.”
“Then what are you so worried about? She might have said she thought it was queer, or something.”
Val gave a short laugh. “Do you think she tells me I’m queer? That wouldn’t make me any less so.”
“I didn’t say that! I didn’t mean...”
With an odd sound, something like a sob, she reached over my head and pulled the buzzer. Then she got up and started toward the door. For a moment she hesitated, but I sat staring at my lap, and wouldn’t look at her. I’m always chasing after her, I told myself. I’m always telling her how normal and marvelous she is, and trying to pull her out of her moods. This time I won’t. Let her go shake it off by herself.
The door slammed closed, and I saw her running down the street through the snow, as though the Fates were after her.
I decided to go to Henry’s house anyway. If Val didn’t go there, she would be forced by curiosity to come to me later and ask about it, and—for a moment, anyway—I would have the upper hand. If she did come, we would meet on the hallowed ground and all would be well. For scarcely had she gone than I was looking forward to meeting her again. But then I remembered that she had told Braintree, and the irritation came back. She constantly described Braintree as an ogre, and now she had told her the great secret. What a hypocrite she was! Then it occurred to me that Braintree might have given an explanation after all, and that Val had lied to me. She didn’t want to tell, I thought, and that’s why she got off the bus. But didn’t she tell me everything? I’ll never understand her. Never, if I know her all my life.
Henry lived in a brownstone downtown. The street was desolate, and snow blew around in flurries. I reached the house and stood in front of it. There was a light on in one of the windows, and I imagined Henry sitting by his fire, dirty and unshaven, poring over a piece of music. It was bitterly cold and raw, and I wished I could join him. “Henry,” I might say, “I’m Marian Gilbert, and I’m aiding and abetting your romance with Val. May I sit by your fire?” He would probably say yes, and offer me a Black Velvet. I stared at the house for a while, trying to memorize what it looked like, and then grew bored, since Val wasn’t along to make it interesting. I felt duty-bound to stay for ten minutes anyway, then I walked back up the bleak cold street. What does it matter? I wondered. It isn’t a secret any longer.
Val wasn’t anywhere, so I got on the bus and went home. The house was warm and bright, and Wimpole was looking motherly and arranging petits fours on a plate.
“Go up and put something pretty on, for tea,” she said. “Where’s Val?”
“I don’t know. She got in a mood and left.”
“Oh.” She put the tea kettle on the stove. “Well, she’ll be along. She won’t wander around in the snow when she knows where to find tea and people who love her.”
“She’s a jerk,” I said, pulling off my galoshes, “and I’m mad at her.” The doorbell rang.
“It must be that nice Mrs. Hambler. Run on and change, and don’t be angry at Val. She’s a little waif.”
When I came down, Val still hadn’t come. Emma, Boothy, and Wimpole were sitting decorously around the teapot, just like three ordinary Norton mothers, who might be discussing what Val and I should wear to the junior Cotillion next week. But they were talking about Charles’s abstracts. Emma asked about Val, and I told what had happened.
“Well, she will come back; she always does. Actually, I am glad of it for a moment, because I want to ask you something. What is all this about Mr. Orient?”
Boothy looked as though she were trying hard not to laugh, and I felt like crying. Wimpole looked up and said ingenuously:
“Why, Val is in love with him, Mrs. Hambler. Didn’t you know?”
Boothy began to shake with laughter. “It’s been announced in Cholly Knickerbocker,” she gasped finally. “She’s the hit of the café set. All the debutantes have taken to wearing Norton gym tunics.”
“Oh, Boothy,” I stormed, “it isn’t funny. Honestly, can’t you ever do anything but make jokes?”
“Now, Marian, I think Mrs. Booth has the right spirit,” Emma said. “People always take Val much too seriously. Has she ever met Mr. Orient?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, I see. Is she very much in love with him?” Emma was looking a little bewildered.
“Yes,” I said. “She thinks about him all the time. And I help her out,” I went on, feeling a sudden eagerness to tell of what had been absorbing us for the last weeks. “We know everything about him, and where he lives, and what he does all day. For instance, if you’d like to know where he is every Monday at eleven-thirty P.M., I can tell you.”
“Where is he?” Wimpole asked.
“At Benny’s, on Fifty-fifth Street,” I said triumphantly. “Third table from the left, drinking Black Velvets.”
“That’s interesting,” Boothy said.
“Is that why she plays this Khatch...Khatch...”
“That’s right, Emma. Khatchaturian. Henry plays it.”
“All the time,” Emma said. “Always the loud pedal. The Bach was so soothing to hear around the house. But this!” She shook her head. “Now, Marian, I ask you something else. Does she tell Dr. Braintree of this?”
There was a silence.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happened today. She told me she’d told Braintree about it, then got upset and got off the bus and ran away.”
“Oh, poor child.” Wimpole shook her head. “Always so frightened.”
“It sounds like Dr. Braintree disapproved,” Emma said. “That can plunge her into these terrible moods.”
“But I thought she didn’t care about Dr. Braintree!”
Emma smiled. “She cares very much. Of course she pretends she doesn’t, to you.”
“It was so simple when I was in love with Valentino,” Boothy said musingly. “People just said ‘it’s a stage’ and let it go at that.”
“Well, it’s just a stage with Val, isn’t it?” I demanded. “You all don’t think it’s peculiar, do you?”
“Of course not, dear,” Wimpole said soothingly. “And I’m sure Dr. Braintree doesn’t either.”
Emma put her empty cup down on the table. “Of course Val is a rather exceptional child, and her life has not been normal. This I was led to understand when she came to us last summer, that Charles and I must watch her closely. You see, if Val falls in love with this musician, it is not quite the way it would be with any other child.”
“But that’s just it!” I said. “It should be the same way. That’s what makes Val so unhappy. Everybody thinks she’s peculiar.”
“Not peculiar, Marian. I should say—highly sensitive.”
“It’s true,” Wimpole said. “Val is extremely intelligent and talented. She might turn out to be a genius—her aptitudes seem to indicate it. She’s special. Special people should not be treated as average; it drags them down.”
“I’d like to hear what a public school board would say about that,” Boothy said, taking the last cookie.
“Well, Val goes to a progressive school. They cater to the exceptional child. Goodness, Marian, don’t scowl like that. It’s good that Val is the way she is, not bad.”
I had no answer. Sweeney jumped up on my lap, and I sat trying to tie her ears on top of her head. They talked about it for a while, and Emma told them some of the results of Val’s intelligence tests. Her I.Q. was one point below genius, and since a point or two leeway was allowed for the variables, you could really consider her as smart as Einstein. It was amazing, when you thought of it, that she would bother with the likes of me. Finally I heard Emma say:
“One reason I talk so much about this, Mrs. Gilbert, is because I have a cable today from Mr. and Mrs. Boyd. They are to arrive next week, and they always want to have a report on Val.”
I shoved Sweeney to the floor and started to say something; then I changed my mind.
“They are very busy people, the Boyds. Mr. Boyd has business all over the world. They know a great many people in all fields. Mrs. Boyd takes a great interest in charities and dresses beautifully. They are neglectful of Val, of course, but I am not sure if it is entirely their fault.”
“They sound very interesting,” Wimpole said. “I hope I can meet them. What sort of charities, Mrs. Hambler?”
“Mostly underprivileged children,” Emma said. “She is impressed by what she sees in India.” She gave a slight smile. “It does seem a little ironic, doesn’t it?”
From downstairs, the basement doorbell rang. We all looked at each other, then I said I would go.
“Now, be kind to her, dear,” Wimpole said. “Forget your little spat.”
I went downstairs and opened the door. Val was standing there, her nose red, her eyebrows frozen into small icy ridges. Her shoulders and the top of her head were dusted with snow. We stood and stared at each other for a moment, and finally Val said:
“For Pete’s sake, Gilbert, let me in. I’m half frozen.”
She stood in front of the radiator and shook herself like a furry dog, then began to peel off layers of clothing, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
“What have you been doing?” I asked. “Sitting in a snowdrift?”
“Oh, just wandering around. I felt like a walk.” She glanced at me. “I guess I was upset, or something. Nothing is private anymore.” She didn’t apologize. She never did, except when apologies were totally unnecessary, so that people would deny them profusely. “I’m starved,” she said. “Is there anything in the icebox?”
“There’s tea upstairs, but all the cookies are gone.”
She went into the kitchen and opened the icebox, and I trailed after her. We looked inside. There was some leftover bœuf Bourguignon, a carton of yoghurt, two ancient and gangrenous-looking lemons, a bottle of Tavel ’49, and a pot of bacon grease.
“Isn’t there anything to eat?” Val asked. “Emma always has apples and cold meat.”
“Well, Wimpole has bœuf Bourguignon,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”
She sat down on the floor and began picking at it. The gravy had congealed into a rectangular, reddish-brown crust, fitting neatly into its container, and Val picked out the cubes of meat. I sighed, wondering what we were doing there. The other Norton girls were probably...but there they were again, and I thought I had rid myself of them. They appeared when I least wanted them, like specters, their mothers hovering behind them with purses bulging with the addresses and phone numbers of Trinity boys.
“Val,” I said suddenly, “we aren’t peculiar, are we?”
Val said, “Oh, forget it!” and ate another piece of beef.
Through the thin walls, I could hear someone in the next house painfully picking out “Good King Wenceslas” on the piano.
“What do you want for Christmas?” I asked, conversationally.
She looked up at me slowly.
“Gilbert, is there something you’re trying not to tell me?”
I groaned and pulled at a piece of hair. Nothing could be secret anymore; all the doors had somehow been opened. Anything we thought, everybody else could guess.
“Emma said your parents are coming next week,” I said finally.
Val tried to look as though she had known all along, but I wasn’t deceived. She looked at me for a moment, then said:
“Whoop-de-doo. Just what the doctor ordered. Just when I’m starting to compensate for my lack of home life, it arrives in town.”
“Is that what Dr. Braintree said?” I asked.
She got up from the floor and shoved the remaining beef back in the icebox.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“But you haven’t even come yet. You have to go up to the living room.”
“Why?”
“Well, because you’re expected. Wimpole wants you to play.”
She laughed. “Another time. Look, Gilbert. Will you do me a favor? Tell Emma to come down and we’ll go out the back door. I just want to go home and sleep.”
“You tell her,” I said, disgusted. “Since when are you so shy? You were invited for tea, and you’re not supposed to sneak around in the kitchen.”
She hedged. “It’s just that I’m tired.”
“Oh, you and your damn moods,” I said, and went up the stairs, leaving her standing in the kitchen. In the living room, Emma was gathering up her things.
“What’s the matter with Val?” Boothy asked.
“She’s sulking,” I said. “She won’t come up. She wants to go home.”
Emma sighed, and tied a woolen scarf around her head. “That child is the death of me. We are invited to a nice tea, and she disgraces me. You must have told her about her parents, Marian. It is so sudden.” She turned to Wimpole. “I humor her just this once, Mrs. Gilbert, if you don’t mind. I hope you don’t think it foolish, but sometimes in such moods, she must be alone. It has been so nice today. I hope you can come to lunch sometime soon.”
“Why, we’d love to, Mrs. Hambler. I’m so interested to see your husband’s abstracts.”
“Certainly, you must see them.” She shook hands firmly with all of us and went down the stairs. We heard a murmur of voices, and then the door closed. The house stood empty and silent.
“That woman is pure gold,” Boothy said. “I don’t know why she puts up with all this stuff.”
“Oh, heavens,” Wimpole said, gathering up the tea things. “Val is just a child. We all seem to forget that.”
We went downstairs to prepare dinner, and I set the table, to blot out my dismal feeling of loneliness