Sixteen

He had promised himself not to look at Pansy’s face.

Once, when she was about eighteen, he had come up to the house for a week-end and, walking into the living-room with his coffee cup on Sunday morning, he had found Pansy curled on a sofa, fast asleep. Her head was resting on a white satin evening purse, her hair had fallen across her flushed cheek, and her feet were tucked beneath the ballooning folds of her white taffeta ball gown. She had come in, very early in the morning, from a party, had got no farther than the green sofa, and had kicked off her silk pumps and gone to sleep there. He had stood there in the room, sipping his coffee, for several minutes watching her quiet and regular breathing. Then she had opened her eyes. She sat up abruptly.

“What are you doing?” she had asked him.

“Just watching you.”

“I think that’s mean,” she had said. “I think it’s mean to watch a person while she’s sleeping—just stand and stare!”

“I’m sorry, Pansy.”

“Well, I think it’s mean. What time is it?”

“After ten.”

“Oh, God!” she said, and rubbed her eyes. “I just meant to lie down for the shortest minute.”

“How was the party?”

“Oh, another deb was launched,” she said, and yawned. Then she lay down on the sofa again. “I’ll go upstairs in just one more minute,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Now don’t just stand and stare,” she said. And then, with her eyes still closed, she said sleepily, “You know, I always think that the most awful thing about being dead would be having all those people come to stare at you. Just to pass by and stare at you. I think that’s the most awful thing about it.”

He had remembered this, in the car on the way to the funeral, and so, when he entered the little chapel with Reba at his side, a few steps behind his mother and father, he carefully did not look in the direction where he knew she was and, instead, looked at the people who had gathered—the family and the close friends.

He saw Edrita, sitting with her mother and father and, when she saw him, her lips formed a small soundless word of greeting. Then she bowed her head.

They were ushered to their seats and, he was happy to see, the immediate family had been placed in a small alcove at one side, and his view of Pansy was blocked by a spray of spring flowers—white narcissi, daffodils, and pale-pink tulips.

His mother was in the seat beside him and, because she never missed anything, she whispered to him when they were seated, “What was Edrita smiling at you for? Have you been seeing more of her?”

But he said nothing, merely bowed his head, listening to the changeful pattern of the organ music and presently, beside him, she too bowed her head.

Then, in the vestibule afterwards, there were the solemn greetings—the soft perfumed kisses, the handshakes—from the old friends and those of the family who had not already appeared at the house. His mother now stayed close by his side, holding his arm, and suddenly, for an awkward moment, he realised that the two of them were totally alone in the moving crowd of people, and that no one else seemed to be coming forward to speak to them, and he thought: My God, what do we do now?

“It was a nice service,” he said to her.

“Yes,” she said. “But I wish the rector hadn’t felt he had to use those lines—‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ I’ve always found those lines terribly presumptuous. Besides, she wasn’t a little child. She was a grown woman.”

Then Clara Everett, Edrita’s mother, was coming towards her, holding out both gloved hands in a supplicant gesture towards her, saying, “Oh, my dear Alexandra! Oh, my dear. She was an exquisite child, an exquisite child. Such a loss—irreplaceable!”

“Irreplaceable,” his mother had said, and the two women had kissed.

Then, to Hugh, Clara Everett had said, “Hugh, dear. Your mother has only you now. Thank heaven she has you!” And Mrs. Everett had kissed his cheek, and said, “Yes, she’s at peace now!” And for a bewildering moment, Hugh was not sure what she meant, not sure why his mother should be at peace now. Then he realised that she meant Pansy.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Everett,” though she had not really said anything that called for gratitude.

He and his mother had separated now and he was moving, on his own, through the people who touched his arm, who reached for his hand, towards the door and the sunlight and the line of cars outside that would take them all to the cemetery. And near the door a woman’s voice had said, “Excuse me, Mr. Carey,” and he turned to face a woman he did not recognise. He reached for her hand with a spontaneous movement, even though her hand had not been outstretched to him. After all, in a moment like this, what else does one do but quickly and automatically reach for the touch of another human hand? Everywhere, all about the vestibule, hands reached for hands, lips felt for cheeks. For what other ways are there, but these few, for the living to comfort the living? He took the woman’s hand and said, “Yes?”

“Excuse me,” she said. “You don’t know me, but my name is Caroline Schiller. I just want to tell you—”

“Yes?” he said, holding her hand. “Yes?”

“I just want to tell you—” she said. “I just want to tell you how sorry I am—how sorry I am—your poor sister. I’m so awfully sorry.”

He nodded. She was a rather pretty woman with a soft face, and tears had formed tiny glittering trails across her cheeks. And he thought, as he held her hand, how odd it was that he should be standing here in this doorway holding the hand of his father’s mistress in a fierce, strong grip, and how odd it was—how very odd—that she should be the only one who was crying, and she was not even a member of the family.

“So sorry,” she said again.

He nodded again. “I understand,” he said, and released her hand.

“God bless you,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said.

And he continued on out the door to join his mother and father and Reba, who were already outside, waiting on the steps.

Then, after the little service at the cemetery, the four of them were back in the black limousine again, heading home.

His mother sat, leaning deep into the back seat, her face hidden by the veil. “I just wish he hadn’t used those ‘Suffer the little children’ lines,” she said again. “I’ve always hated them. He didn’t tell me he was going to use them. If he had, I wouldn’t have permitted it.”

“I think they were all right,” his father said. And then, “Poor little kid, poor little kid …”

“Yes, yes.”

They drove in silence for a little while. They were driving through an unattractive section of the town, an area of two- and three-family houses and low, dark brick apartment buildings. It was a part of the town in which, perhaps by common consent, every house kept its window-shades down tight all day long, and nearly every window looked blank and pale and vacant behind its eggshell shades or tipped slats of Venetian blinds. But outside the houses, to-day was a day of uncommon activity. Everywhere, with the promise of spring increasing each day as it had done for over a week, women were working in their gardens—raking wet leaves from under hedges, clipping the dead spars of rose bushes, clearing driveways of the drifted chaff of winter. As the little cortège passed, heads turned curiously from the yards.

Alexandra Carey said, “So brave. So brave and valiant and courageous.”

Hugh’s father patted her hand. “There, there,” he said.

“And so happy! Oh, why? Why, Allen?”

“There, there, Sandy.”

“So happy and strong, laughing all the time. So happy, so athletic, such a good little sport, so brave—”

And Hugh realised, with a little start, that she was not talking about Pansy at all, but Billy.

Austin Callender had come to the house to pay his respects. His face looked tireder than the last time, Hugh thought, but it was also calmer and more resigned. He asked for a glass of iced water, and they walked out on to the terrace.

Austin’s voice was low and quiet. “Hugh,” he said, “I don’t understand it and I never will. But it’s all over, and there’s nothing in the world that either of us can do, is there?”

“That’s right, Austin,” Hugh said. He put his hand on Austin’s shoulder. “You’re a good man,” he said. “You’re a good man, Austin.”

“Thanks. I don’t understand it. I never will. And I suppose there isn’t any point in even trying to understand a thing like this, is there?”

“Absolutely no point at all.”

“Yes,” Austin said. And then he added, “Hugh, may I tell you one thing—one thing that I’d like to believe as long as I live?”

“Please do,” Hugh said.

“There is one thing. There’s just one thing, Hugh, that it would please me to believe for as long as I live. I don’t care if it’s true—or not. After all, it’s something that we’ll never know. But it’s something I’d like to believe—about her.”

“What is it, Austin?”

“You won’t be—offended, will you, if I tell you?”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Well, naturally I want to believe that she loved me. It’s natural I should want to believe that. But then there’s something else—something else I’ll always believe.”

“What is that?”

“I’ll always believe,” he said softly, “that he didn’t—didn’t ever manage to touch her. You know what I mean. Maybe he did—whatever his name is—but I’ll always believe that he never, you know, succeeded in that. I like to believe that she went to her grave—pure. Shining and pure.”

“Yes,” Hugh said, looking at the fountain.

“Shining and pure,” Austin repeated. “After all, it’s not such an impossible thing to believe, is it? After all, she wasn’t a girl who would—give herself to just any man. And your mother got there so soon, practically immediately. The next day. And I’m sure—I’m just so sure that she got there in time, before there had been any—anything. And I’ve heard how—you know—on wedding nights sometimes, well, sometimes nothing happens. And I noticed, in the services to-day, how the minister always referred to her as Pryor Carey—not Pryor somebody else. I haven’t offended you, have I, Hugh? I just mean, whether it’s true or not is something we’ll never know, but still—still that’s what it pleases me to believe.”

The fountain’s thin icicle sprouted up, blossomed at the top, and fell apart in the sunlight, its pieces dropping in the pool. Hugh said nothing. There was nothing to say. There are times when the bridge between the dream and the reality cannot be crossed by mere words.

“Shining and pure,” Austin said. “Because that’s what she always was, wasn’t it? Shining and pure.”

And then they were both weeping—not for the same thing, of course, but they were both weeping.

“Let’s go in the house, Austin,” Hugh said.

“I’ll never marry anyone else.”

“Don’t say that,” Hugh said. “Pansy wouldn’t want that.”

“Still,” Austin said, “I never will. And when I make a promise to myself, Hugh, I always keep it. That’s the kind of man I am.”

“Let’s go back in the house.”

They went back in, across the black and white marble squares, to the living-room, where a few of the family still remained.

At the door to the living-room, Austin stopped, looking around the room, back at the hall, at the wide, heavy staircase. “This beautiful house, this wonderful family,” he said. “To think that they could have been mine—or partly mine.”

At three o’clock, after everyone had gone, there was a telephone call from New York for Hugh.

“Hugh?” his wife’s voice said. “Hugh, this is Anne.”

“Hallo, Anne,” he said.

“Hugh, I just heard about Pansy.”

“Yes.”

“Hugh, it’s awful. Just awful. I don’t know what to say. I’m just so sorry. I’m just sick about it, just absolutely sick.”

“Yes,” he said.

“So—so I just wanted you to know. I was dreadfully fond of Pansy, and, well, I think it’s all just too awful for words, I’m terribly sorry, and literally sick about it.”

“Well, thank you, Anne,” he said.

“I would have come to the funeral, Hugh. I really thought about it, and I would have come—except—well, except I thought that it might be awkward, under the circumstances.”

“Of course,” he said.

“So—so I just wanted to express my sympathy.”

“Thank you.”

“How are your mother and father?”

“They’re fine,” he said.

“Oh, good. Oh, they’re just—just such great people. And will you tell them, will you extend my sympathy to them? My really heartfelt sympathy?”

“I shall.”

“Oh, thank you, Hugh, the paper said—there was just a teeny little write-up in the Times—that it was an accident.”

“Yes,” he said. “Just an accident.”

“Oh, how awful. Just too awful for words. I know how much you loved Pansy, and I loved her, too.”

“I know,” he said.

“I really did. I really adored her. Well—”

There was a little silence on the phone.

Then she said, “You haven’t asked me how I am, Hugh,” she said.

“How are you, Anne?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m not supposed to call you. Daddy didn’t want me to call you. But—when I heard about Pansy—I felt I really should call you.”

“I’m glad you called, Anne,” he said.

“Hugh?” she said.

“What?”

“Hugh,” she said, “Joe Wallace has asked me to marry him.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Well, what do you think of that?”

“Well, are you going to?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “I just haven’t made up my mind.”

“Well, I hope the two of you will be very happy,” he said.

“Well, you don’t need to say a thing like that!” she said. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I told you I haven’t decided yet.”

“I should have said, if you do decide to marry him, I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

“Well!” she said. “There are certainly a lot of factors that incline me to say yes. After all, he’s been wild about me for years, he says, and he’s been a tower of strength—an absolute tower of strength to me during all I’m having to go through now.”

“Joe’s a good fellow,” he said with a little smile.

“He certainly is! And he certainly wouldn’t make me put up with the sort of thing I’ve had to put up with from you all these years!”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

“Yes! And he’s certainly sympathetic because he knows everything I’ve been through. He knows what I’ve had to put up with!”

“Joe’s a good fellow, and also very smart.”

“Just the same as always, aren’t you? Always sarcastic. You always have to try to make some funny crack.”

“I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic, really,” he said.

“Oh, when I think of what I’ve had to put up with all these years!” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

Then she said, “Hugh?”

“What is it, Anne?”

“Do you really think I should marry Joe?”

“I don’t think I can counsel you on that, Anne,” he said. “I’d say that was something for you to decide. You and Joe.”

“Well,” she said, “I practically have decided. My mind’s almost completely made up to accept him if he proposes.”

“But I thought you said he had proposed, Anne.”

“Well, he did. Not in so many words, of course, but he implied that that was what he’d like to do. After all, I should think you’d realise, Hugh, that Joe’s too much of a gentleman to make a formal proposal of marriage to me now. After all, I’m still married to you. Joe’s hardly the kind to make a formal proposal to a married woman.”

“Of course,” he said.

Then she said, “Hugh?”

“What?”

“Hugh, you don’t suppose—”

“Suppose what?”

“Do you think we might try it again? You and I? Do you think so? I mean, do you think we might give it one more try—for six months perhaps, or a year? I mean—oh, Hugh, a divorce is such a ghastly business. And suppose we’re making a mistake? Do you think we could be? So what would you say, Hugh, if I said that I was willing to try it again?”

“I’d say—” he began.

She interrupted him. “The old college try, as we used to say. Hugh, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you are.”

“I’d say no,” he said.

“Not a chance?”

“Not a chance in the world, Anne,” he said. “Not a chance in the god-damned world.”

“Oh,” she said in a flatter voice. “Well, I thought you’d take that attitude. I expected that. I didn’t expect any difference in you. I really knew you’d say that. In fact, that’s the real reason why I asked—see. I thought perhaps your sister’s death might have softened you, but I can see it hasn’t. You’re the same as ever—just as unkind and sarcastic and unpleasant, that same cruel tongue. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway because, as I said, I’ve practically definitely decided to marry Joe Wallace.”

“Well, good luck, Anne.”

“Thank you, though I don’t know why. That’s more sarcasm too, isn’t it? Well, will you give my best to your parents? Will you tell them how sorry I am about your sister? One thing I can say for you is that you always had nice parents, Hugh, though I’m afraid I can’t say the same for their son.”

“Thanks. Good-bye, Anne.”

“Good-bye.” There was a little click as she replaced her receiver gently, almost daintily.

In the front hall, his father was putting on his English bowler hat and coat.

“I’m going out for a little while, Hugh,” he said. “Tell your mother, will you?”

“I will.”

His father took an umbrella from the stand. “Paper says rain this afternoon,” he said.

“It looks pretty clear now, Dad.”

“Well, you never can tell about the weather,” his father said.

“No, you never can.”

His father examined the umbrella critically, as though he had just come across it in a shop and was thinking of buying it.

“By the way,” he said, “have you given any more thought to that offer from Walter Owens?”

“Yes, I have,” Hugh said.

“Have you decided anything?”

“Yes. I’m not going to take it, Dad.”

“Oh. That’s definite, is it?”

“Yes, that’s definite. Tell him thanks, but that it just wasn’t right for me.”

“Yes,” his father said. “Well, I sort of guessed that was going to be your answer. I could tell, from your reaction, that it didn’t appeal to you much.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“Hugh,” his father said, “there are a couple of little trusts that were set up for Pansy. They don’t amount to too much, but there are some funds there. Under the terms of those trusts, they go to you now.”

“I don’t need any more money, Dad.”

“Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s the way they’re set up. They go to you. You’ll have the life income from them. It won’t amount to much, but it will be something. And—well, I thought you’d like to know about it, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Hugh said.

“And Hugh—you know, I was thinking. About that young man. The one in Colorado.”

“Her husband, you mean?”

“Yes—her husband. I was wondering—do you think we ought to make some sort of gift to him?”

“I don’t think at this point he’d appreciate getting any money from the family,” Hugh said.

“Yes. Well, that’s what I thought, too. I just thought I’d sound you out on it.”

“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t take kindly to that at all.”

“Yes. You’re right. Well, I thought perhaps—if he ever gets to New York—I might take him to lunch at the University Club or something. Just to show him that we have no hard feelings.”

“Yes,” Hugh said.

His father stood silently for a minute or two. Then he turned to him and said, “Hugh—Hugh, I saw you after the services speaking to Caroline.”

“Yes, I spoke to her, Dad,” he said.

They stood there facing each other. Then his father looked down at the black and white marble squares between his feet. He tapped the tip of the umbrella lightly on the marble and the little tap-tap echoed in the empty hall. Then he looked back at his son. “Try not to blame me too much, Hugh,” he said.

“No, Dad, I don’t blame you too much.”

His father smiled faintly. They shook hands.