18

Alone, Nancy Rafferty lay on the library sofa—her feet in their yellow slippers up on the fat velvet cushions, her head back. Next to her, on the coffee table, her glass stood, and with one hand, she blindly reached for it. She found it and attempted, without lifting her head, to drink from it. But that was impossible from this position, and so for a while she contented herself with resting it moistly on her bosom; then she moved it, placing its damp coldness on her forehead. She closed her eyes. After a while she turned on her side, and that way she could sip it easily. Also on the table was a low bowl of talisman roses. With one hand she fondled the flowers, then snapped off one bloom and dropped it, with a little laugh, into her glass where it floated prettily with the green wedge of lime that the glass already contained. She admired for a long time this bit of artistry. Then she heard footsteps in the hall and called softly, ‘Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?’ Barney appeared in the door. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Come join me.’

‘What are you doing up?’ he asked her.

‘Having a party.’ She giggled. ‘All by myself. Looking for someone to party with—but no one will. Come sit with me.’ She straightened up, put her feet on the floor and patted the section of sofa next to her. ‘Waiting, waiting,’ she said. She lifted her glass and drank the little that remained, then set the glass down deliberately on the coffee table. ‘I’m a little tight. Will you forgive me?’

He came into the room but did not sit down next to her. He sat in one of the chairs opposite her and smiled. ‘How long have you been waiting?’ he asked.

‘Hours. Months. Years. It seems like that, anyway. I’ve been sitting here wrapped in thought.’ She waved at the bowl of roses. ‘I’m poor butterfly—by the blossoms waiting. For love to come to me by and by. But the love I thought was coming—hasn’t come.’

‘Who is that?’

She laughed. ‘Mr. Right,’ she said. ‘Oh, I wasn’t stood up—not that. He didn’t know I’d be here. But I was hoping. A girl can hope, can’t she, that suddenly, somehow, the impossible, wonderful thing will happen? That Mr. Magnificent—Prince Charming—whatever you want to call him—will come swooping down on his milk white charger, and scoop her up, and lift her lips to his! Ah, me … well, the trouble with me is, the impossible hasn’t happened yet. All my hope has been’—she lifted the skirt of her yellow dress—‘shredded! Like this dress. Look at what happened to my dress! But perhaps that’s what hope is made of—silk chiffon!’ She laughed again. ‘Am I deep?’ she asked him.

‘Very,’ he said. ‘Very deep.’

‘Ha! Well, now I’ll tell you the ghastly secret. The Mr. Right I was waiting for—hoping for—wasn’t even someone I was sure was Mr. Right. It was only Woody.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he said.

‘Ah, I see,’ she repeated. ‘Why, whenever I mention Woody’s name, do people say, “Ah, I see”? What’s wrong? Is Woody gay, Barney? Is that it?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said.

‘Hmmm. Well, I suppose I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry. I’m tight. In vino whatchamacalit. Veritas. However,’ she said, ‘let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you. How about you?’

‘Am I gay, do you mean?’

‘No, no! You—your life. Your dreams, your hopes, your aspirations—that sort of thing.’

‘I’m not very interesting,’ he said.

‘Oh, but you are! You are! What about tonight, for instance? What did you think about that little scene tonight, before dinner?’

‘I’m afraid I must apologise for Peggy.’

‘Oh, don’t be an ass!’ she said. ‘I mean, what did you think?’

‘I’m sorry that—’

‘To me,’ she interrupted, ‘to me, it was totally, utterly fascinating. I mean, really it was. Of course it was ghastly—family feuds always are. And I was embarrassed a little to be in on it. But I thought—how fascinating! An argument about money among the rich!’

‘Yes, I suppose it was,’ he said.

‘No, but seriously,’ she said. ‘To me, there is something fascinating about rich people. They look different, they talk differently. They even have a different smell—have you ever noticed that? The special smell very rich people have?’

‘No, I can’t say that I have,’ hesaid.

‘I ask you,’ she said, ‘because I understand you’re not rich. And neither am I. I’ve always been poor—poor as a tiny, little, itty-bitty, little—’ She brought two fingertips close together and squinted through the tiny crack, ‘churchmouse. Poor as poor butterfly. Are you a conniver, Barney?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘You don’t? A conniver. After money. I ask, because in a way I’m one. In vino veritas, you see. Yes, I’ll make no bones about it. Long ago, I decided—for my friends I wanted only rich people. Nice rich people. When I was in school, I spotted Barbara—by the way she looked and talked and smelled. And I thought: I want that girl for my friend!’

‘I see,’ he said.

‘I wonder,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you do see. Because what I mean is that in some ways I think you and I are very much alike.’

‘Really?’ he asked. ‘In what ways?’

‘Ways,’ she said. ‘Ways and ways. I mean it. We’re both looking for something that will give our lives a little meaning. I am—and so are you. We’re looking for doorways that will open to it—to the thing we want.’ She lifted her hand in a wide gesture. ‘Doorways,’ she whispered. ‘One of them is money. Or could be …’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It could be. One of the doorways. But then—something happens like tonight. And you see what happens to them—rich people.’

‘What happens to rich people?’

‘Nothing much, I suppose. If they’re like Barbara, they marry other nice people like Carson Greer and have children. Nothing special. That’s the trouble. If they’re like Barbara, they surrender to it. If they’re like Peggy, they don’t. But they still don’t get anywhere!’

‘Perhaps Barbara hasn’t surrendered,’ he said.

‘Oh, she has, she has. She surrendered long, long ago.’ Suddenly she pushed herself along the sofa, closer to his chair. ‘But we were talking about you!’ she said brightly. ‘I want to talk about you! Why are you so quiet? Why don’t you say more? Why don’t you voice your thoughts?’

‘My thoughts aren’t worth much, I’m afraid.’

She reached out and placed one hand gently on his knee. ‘Oh, but they are, darling boy, they are! Everyone’s thoughts are worth—a great deal.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I’m a little tight. But when I’m tight, I’m more perceptive. More ar-ti-cu-late! Really. Do you want to know what I’ve perceived about you tonight?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘for one thing, that you and I are more alike than you’ll admit—’

‘And what else?’

‘And—well, I wonder. Are you in love with Barbara?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because I want to know. Are you in love with her? Or—’

‘Or what?’

‘Or is she just a doorway? Ah, poor Barney!’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you do love her—oh, it will be a mess. A mess.’ She laughed. ‘But then, life is a mess anyway, isn’t it?’

‘Not all of it,’ he said slowly. ‘Not quite all.’

‘Oh, Barbara is lucky. She’s always been lucky,’ she sighed. ‘So, perhaps—’

‘In some ways, I don’t think she’s been so lucky,’ he said.

‘You don’t? Oh, I do. Don’t forget, I’ve known her a long time. She’s very lucky. Not like you and me. Look at us! There are so many doorways, so many choices. Which one was right? Marriage? A job? Money … religion … love … service to something? Is it power and prestige? We try them all, looking for the right door! But the trouble is—’ she paused thoughtfully. ‘The trouble is, we’re constitutionally unable. We’re better equipped to stand outside doors. We’re doormen! We don’t have the needling power—the power to needle our poor souls, and drive our selves! That’s what we lack. So we expect, we hope. We dream of things, expect that someone will ask us in. The thing we don’t realise is that some of those doors need to be—to be blasted open! With dynamite! And forced open, forced until the doorknobs are bloody! And we don’t have the dynamite or the blood or the—oh, God!’ she said. ‘I don’t know! Don’t listen to me! I’m talking like a fool!’ She sobbed suddenly and leaned forward, pressing her face in her hands. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘Constitutionally unable. So I get drunk.’ She lifted her head and brushed the tears quickly away with the back of her wrist. ‘But you see, Barbara is different—she’s never had to needle herself because everything’s come to her. That’s what I mean when I say she’s lucky.’

She reached for her empty glass and stared at it, at the rose and the wedge of lime that floated among the remaining ice cubes. ‘So many doors,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve tried them all—timidly, I admit. Pushed them open a tiny way—just enough to peek inside. But when opening them the rest of the way took strength and courage and muscle, I let them close again. I tried them, one by one. I don’t have many choices left, but this,’ she said smiling at the glass, ‘is my current one. And it’s empty. Barney, would it be too much to ask you to fix me another drink?’

‘I don’t think you should have another,’ he said.

‘You’re right. I shouldn’t. But tonight I’ve decided to drink myself into a stupor. You don’t understand, do you? But Mr. Woodcock does … he does. He knows there are times when the only answer is complete stupefaction. Drinking is a special kind of door. Will you fix me another or not?’ she asked.

‘I think you’d better go to bed,’ he said.

‘Then I’ll fix it myself,’ she said. She stood up and carried her glass toward the little bar. ‘It’s a kind of suicide, isn’t it? Drinking. I’ve heard that,’ she said to him as, with silver tongs, she dropped fresh ice cubes on top of the rose. ‘And so, I’ve heard, is immorality! Well, all I can say is, I’ve been immoral, and I’m still alive—or partly. Only part of me is dead from that—my poor, dear uterus! Don’t cringe,’ she said, turning to him. ‘It’s true.’ She returned to the heavy decanter of gin and lifted the glass stopper. ‘A partial hysterectomy, doctor? No, a total one, I’m afraid. You’re the victim of a dirty knife, my dear. An infection. Whoever performed that operation—don’t tell me who did it, I don’t want to know!—used a dirty knife. Ah, well. It was a dirty operation—for such a little thing, a baby.’ She poured gin in her glass and set the decanter down. ‘I was unlucky, with that, too. Oh, you men! What you put us through, I wonder if you realise?’ She begun pouring quinine water into her glass. ‘All the devices, all the little things, all the dreadful little traps and poisons supposed to halt the sperm in its flight—I had them all. They lined my shelves! But I was unlucky. One chance out of ten thousand, but that was me—that one unlucky chance. I couldn’t believe it. I thought—look at Barbara! How did she manage? Then I thought, of course. Barbara has always been lucky—’ She turned to him, smiling, the drink in her hand.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked softly.

She lifted her glass. ‘Forgive me. In vino, you know. Forget it. Tell me—why do you love her, Barney?’

He looked at her evenly and calmly, but his voice was full of quiet anger. ‘It’s because she’s not like—like the people you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘She’s not like you. She’s got the courage and the strength and the blood. And she also happens to have another quality you lack—decency. And cleanliness, and goodness and morality!’

‘Oh, Barney!’ Nancy said.

‘What?’

‘Oh, you are like me! Like I was. You do believe in pure things, don’t you? Pure love, pure money, pure God—but don’t you see? Nothing is that way!’

‘It can be.’

‘You don’t mean that, do you? Those words? That’s all they are—words. What you think about Barbara. Nobody’s that way! Why—why, it’s wonderful to think it, but so, so naive, Barney dear! So innocent and child-like. Do you really have that much faith in her?’

‘Of course I do,’ he said.

‘Oh, Barney, forgive me. I love her, too, but you’re making me laugh! She’s my dearest friend, but I don’t harbour such illusions about Barbara! People just aren’t that way. No one is! Oh, some people have those qualiies some of the time—but always? Oh, my dear boy, I don’t know how old you are but you talk like a schoolboy! Love Barbara if you want to—I don’t disapprove of that. After all, everyone has always loved Barbara. But love her with your eyes open! She’s hardly a paragon, Barney. Hardly!’

He stood up. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to listen to this.’

‘Listen. You’re a babe in the wood. I’ve known Barbara for years. We spent that year in Hawaii together. Did she ever tell you about that year in Hawaii?’

‘Certainly,’ he said.

‘About—everything? Schuyler Osata, for instance?’

‘Who is he?’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You see? Well, take Schuyler Osata—take him for just one example.’

‘Who is Schuyler Osata?’

‘A good question! Who was he? Who knew? He was just a boy—Schuyler Osata, the bronze boy! Barbara found him—on the beach. He came from Lanikai. He was born on the little island of Manana which does not, incidentally, mean “tomorrow.” That’s all we knew about him. A boy from Lanikai, born on Manana, a beach boy. Barbara brought him home, as proudly as a little girl who’s found a beautiful sea shell. He was eighteen. Schuyler Osata. He was Mr. Magnificent. A primitive, a true primitive. He rode sea turtles from the reefs, across the combers! I don’t think he could even read or write. But, my dear, there are certain fields of endeavour where the three R’s are definitely not necessary! At these fields of endeavour he excelled …’

She suddenly turned her back to him, holding her glass with two hands, in front of her, and walked a few steps away.

‘I said to Barbara—I know he’s yours. You found him. But, please, let me play with him! Barbara is generous. She was brought up to share her toys. And Mr. Osata was generous, too, in bestowing his—shall we say—favours? And so we took turns, Barbara and I, in our apartment in Honolulu, on the hill. He loved us both—he said. But I knew differently. One day, by mistake, I came in when I shouldn’t have—during Barbara’s turn. It’s a failing of mine … barging in when I’m not wanted. Like with the two of you, this afternoon. I saw—oh, only enough! Only enough to know that it was different. He loved Barbara best. They all did. But he was kind to me, too, that year. I suppose I was—just a change of pace!’ And then, making no sound, she began to cry.

He stared at her, saying nothing, for a moment. Then he turned away.

She lifted her head. ‘And when she told me about you—’

He turned again and looked at her. ‘She told you about me?’ he said.

‘Yes, oh yes. A long time ago, one time in Locustville when Carson was away. And we were talking, reminiscing, and she said—oh, just mentioned that you and she—’ She began to laugh. ‘Oh, I’ve forgotten all of it. It sort of slipped out, one night in Locustville, and she mentioned that once—in her room, here at the farm I think it was—you and she, just before you and Peggy were married—’ She stopped abruptly, then slowly turned to him. There was a little smile on her face. ‘We always shared everything, Miss Woodcock and I.’

He stood very still, looking at her.

‘But she deceived us, you and me. She deceived us both,’ she whispered. ‘So perhaps we can comfort each other.’

He came toward her.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

With one hand he reached for the drink she held—the glass that floated whimsically a lime and a rose blossom—and she said a little laughing, ‘No!’ But he seized the drink and set it down on the table. As she playfully reached for it again he grabbed her arm and turned her roughly toward him, pinning her arm back, bending her backward. She looked up at him. He pulled her, bent her body backward across the velvet cushions. Her knees bent and, with both hands now, he forced her down. She closed her eyes as she let herself fall into the sofa’s depths. He pressed himself hard against her and she whispered, ‘Close the door!’ And then, ‘No—never mind. They’re all asleep …’ He covered her mouth with his.

‘There,’ she breathed. ‘There! Now you’re acting like a big boy!’