—
OMEONE IN FACT LIKE Effie Callingham who had never lied to a living soul, who had never betrayed anyone, had committed no crime in her whole life save for the crime of one Great Renunciation Gesture, but like many renunciations she had not fully realized at the time how great and how final it would be.
Lying down on the black sateen couch, a guest towel soaked in cologne over her eyes as if this might relieve the ache that rippled through her whole body, Effie remembered saying it, saying the sentence, to Andy that day years ago. The scene unrolled itself again in the private projection room of her mind as if through seeing it so often she might learn where the mistake had been made, how else she could have acted. There they were, young hero, blond heroine, setting out in Andy’s launch. The old launch, Andy’s pride and extravagance, had been their refuge ever since their first meeting, a refuge from the Glaenzers, from Andy’s increasingly insistent public, and finally it had become a means of recapturing their own romance in crises, but after three years the tranquil shores once the background of their idyll had become tainted with their misunderstandings, their long patient talks, the patient, civilized talks that, if one only knew it, are the end of love.
This reel, labeled “The Last Week End,” viewed always through headaches, pointed out only one lesson, Effie decided now: She should never have tried to be modern, she should never have tried to be generous. Her instinctive horror of Andy’s infidelities should have expressed itself in natural ways—rage, or flight, rather than the philosophic, tolerant front utterly foreign to herself. When Marian appeared she had been no different than a dozen other little affairs he’d had, it hadn’t been necessary to step out so nobly. But then remember she was tired after three years of it, tired of entertaining her pretty rivals, tired of talking to husbands to distract them from Andy’s admiration of their wives, frightened of the subtle shift in their relationship from lovers to good sports, tired of the stiff smile on her face. Yes, something undoubtedly would have had to happen, Effie realized that now. But it need not have been separation. And she need never have brought things out in the open. She should not have mentioned knowing about his feeling for Marian. She should have been discreetly obtuse. She knew how he hated to feel guilty or selfish, and he hated to promise faithfulness when he had no such intention. So it was her fault. When they had their little weekend together she should have made it theirs and theirs alone, instead of allowing Marian’s name to come between them.
She remembered the fog as they slipped out of Cold Spring Harbor, the croaking of the foghorns far out, the tinkle of the bell buoys, and the tiny lights of the village trailing over the hill. They stood together at the wheel, wrapped in sweaters for the mist was chilly. Effie, sick with love for him and utter despair over his remoteness, slipped her fingers into his hand once and was stopped by his utter unconsciousness of her touch. Presently he turned and patted her shoulder and that too, Effie reflected, means the end of love.
Late that night they anchored somewhere near Port Jefferson for here was country they knew and by day they could row ashore in the dinghy and walk through woods and beachlands. Andy was soon asleep but Effie could not sleep for wondering about the other girl, if indeed he really loved her, and how she could bear it if it was true. A damp stinging wind blew through the portholes and kept the cabin’s screen door rattling on its hook, she could hear the gulls squalling over their fish, could smell the marshes. She sat up in her bunk, staring out at the few pale stars that pinned together the shawl of night. Just before dawn she watched clouds being torn by the wind, bits of gray blown furiously across the black, massed into monstrous grisly shapes and ripped again. A loon cried out from the pine-fringed shore, and the foghorns sounded steadily. She clung to these sounds and to the steady beat of the waves as all that was hers, for Andy asleep was the enemy, the stranger, her cry could never reach him though his face was so near. She drew deep breaths of the salty night air, each second of this night must be remembered, it was this night against years. She caught his hand and held her lips to it desperately, but even while she held it this moment was gone; there is no present in love, only past and future, so that kissing him she was far away lonely for him.
All the next morning they did not speak of Marian. In the dinghy they rowed out of the harbor toward Setauket and Conscience Bay. They drifted into a little cove where the sea floor changed to curiously tropical vegetation and glittered and bloomed with scarlet sponges. Horseshoe crabs trundled about carrying their ugly shells clumsily like great false heads in a Venetian carnival; these creatures paraded in a body awkwardly, a little ashamed of their ridiculous costumes; once masked they could think of nothing to do but attach themselves to fellow sufferers, crunching over pebbles and weeds, finding soothing anonymity in crowds. A few fishermen sat in their rowboats farther out and a sailboat flaunting orange sails fluttered back and forth across the horizon.
Andy and Effie carried the thermos and rye on to the stony beach by the lighthouse. They lay back on the Sunday newspapers, Effie in her blue bathing suit, beach hat pulled over her face, Andy in trunks, brown body sprawled straight out, arm thrown over his face. Effie’s eyes were fixed on the back of his hand, a strong large hand, fingers wide apart, spatulate. She touched it gently.
“Look,” she said, “the hair on your hand is turning red, darling.”
Andy suddenly chuckled.
“I know,” he said. “Marian swears it’s a toupee.”
So there was Marian. Neither said anything for a moment now that the name had been spoken. Then Effie said slowly:
“You are crazy about Marian, aren’t you?”
Andy did not move. The arm stayed over his eyes.
“I imagine so, Effie,” he said.
Effie pulled the hat down farther over her face, turned away from him, heard her voice saying it, “Why don’t you find out for certain? It might be the big thing in your life, you know.”
Andy still did not stir.
“Do you really mean it, Effie?”
“Certainly. Why don’t you go away with her for a while? See how you feel about each other.…”
Andy withdrew his hand from his eyes and regarded her curiously. She smiled reassuringly at him.
“I might at that,” he said thoughtfully and then suddenly reached over and squeezed her hand. “Effie, you know you are a swell person. I don’t deserve you.”
A swell person. Words to remember while he packed his bags the next week, words to dwell on when he wired weeks later that he and Marian had decided to stay abroad a year. Swell person. Words to hug for years and years, extracting some meager balm from the hollow praise, words to ponder as you lay, head swimming with pain, heart wrenched with dull loneliness. Yes, thought Effie, better to be selfish, wanton, evil, vain, better for your own happiness. Let somebody else be the swell person while you cling to your happiness. Marian had done that. There was even something a little brave, a little gallant, about fighting selfishly for your love. It did show a fiery metal that was more appealing to a man than the martyr spirit. But if you didn’t have that fire, if decency was stronger in you than passion, if the beloved’s happiness was to you the object of love … One did what one could, Effie thought. One did what was in one to do, and then waited. Waited for what? Her mind turned the pages of Dennis’s book … “waiting always for him to come back”—“the hunter will return, he will see the wise gentle wife she has become in his long absence.”
A twinge of real anger at Dennis came over her. He had no right to peep into her heart, there was no secret thought safe from him, even now his wicked lenses might be directed at her, cynically analyzing her reflections. There were no longer private shutters against the world, the dearest friend, spying, becomes a foe. But who was there left now to be her friend, who but Dennis, the enemy? They two, offender and victim, must stand alone against the world, must be seen together, must cling together, he to show there was no malice in his work, she to show she bore no grudge.
She got up and drenched her face in cold water, stared at herself in the mirror, surprised as always to find that the tired lines in her face were still there, unwilling to admit to herself that these lines were more than temporary. She was to dine at the Glaenzers’ tonight and she had promised Belle to come early in time to help with her letters. She suddenly put her face in her hands, sick at the thought of the Glaenzers, sick of the front she must always present to them, sick of her own face growing old in the mirror.
When the doorbell rang she thought it might be Dennis and she let it ring a long time while she made up her face, rouging heavily as though the bold color would transfuse courage into her blood. But it was a messenger boy with a note for her. She had a crazy conviction that this note would be from Andy, that the end of waiting might be here. She was so certain of it that she had an almost uncontrollable desire to tear up the message without reading it lest her instinct should disappoint her. You did not escape defeat so easily, though; it ran after you through your dreams, through fields and crowded streets, paging you. You could not escape by postponing it. Effie tore open the envelope.
My Dear Mrs. Callingham:
If you are any connection of the Mrs. Andrew Callingham now in our hospital under treatment for a cancerous condition we would appreciate your getting in touch with our patient. Her condition is grave and she is without friends in the city. You would be doing a service by calling on her or letting us know, if possible, what branch of the family to notify in case of a crisis.
Sincerely yours,
A. Waring
Secretary to Dr. Bulger, St. Ursula Hospital