Whispers Page 7

  “They’ll be here in a minute. Turn the oven on low to warm up the hors d’oeuvres. Half an hour for drinks. I’ll toss the salad. It goes on the blue plates—no, not those, take the other ones.”

  “They’re having a good time,” Eudora said much later. The swinging door opened and closed on genial laughter as she went in and out. “I never did see people clean plates like this.”

  “Good. Now carry the cake in so they can see it first. Then you can bring it back, and I’ll slice it.”

  “You sure are some cook, Mrs. Ferguson. I’m old enough to be your mother, and I never even heard of the things you fix.”

  “Well, I’d never seen some of your good Jamaican dishes, either, until I knew you.”

  Although she had been standing on her feet all day, Lynn suddenly received a charge of energy. What had begun as a lark, an adventure, had become a test, and she had passed it. She had been paid for her skill, and she felt happy. So, when the door opened and Tom said his guests were demanding to see the cook, she was quite ready to go with him.

  “Just do let me fix my face first. I’m all flushed from the stove.”

  “Yes, it’s awful to be flushed like a rose,” he retorted, pulling her with him.

  In a moment she appraised the group: they were sophisticated, successful, bright New Yorkers, the kind who wear their diamonds with their blue jeans when they want to. They marry and divorce with equal ease when they want to. Good natured and accepting, it takes a lot to shock them. Robert would despise their type. All this went through her head.

  They were most kind, heaping praise on Lynn. “What a talent.… You could work for Le Cirque or La Grenouille.… I ruined my diet tonight.… Absolutely marvelous.”

  The evening rose to a peak. Warmed by the food and wine, the group left the table in a high, restless mood. Tom turned on the record player, the men pushed back the scatter rugs, and dancing began.

  He held his hands out to Lynn. “Come, join the party.”

  “It’s rock and roll. I’m awful at it,” she protested.

  “Then it’s time you learned,” he answered, and pulled her out onto the floor.

  At first she felt foolish. If Emily, who danced like a dervish, could see her mother, she’d die laughing. The best Lynn could do was to watch the others’ dizzy twists and gyrations and try to imitate them.

  Then after a while, the drumming, primitive, blood-pounding beat began to speak to her. Quite unexpectedly, she caught the beat.

  “Why, you’ve got it!” Tom cried. “You’ve got it!”

  This whirling, which should have been exhausting, was instead exhilarating. When Lynn became aware that Eudora was standing at the door to signal her departure, it surprised her to find that it was already almost eleven o’clock. She would have guessed the time to be no later than nine. Pressing some bills into Eudora’s hand, she whispered, “You remembered to leave the crystal?”

  “Oh, I hate to leave you with it, Mrs. Ferguson, but I’d hate to be responsible for it too.”

  “That’s all right, Eudora. I’ll wash it fast and start right home.”

  Back in the kitchen with the apron on again, Lynn was rinsing the goblets when Tom, with eyes alight and in a merry mood, came looking for her.

  “Hey! What are you doing in here?”

  “Eudora was afraid to touch your Baccarat. She knows what it costs.”

  “Oh, leave it. We’re all going to dance outdoors. It’s a perfect night.”

  “I can’t. Really. I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. I insist. For ten minutes. Come on.”

  The outdoor lanterns gave the effect of moonglow, barely glimmering toward the edge of darkness, where the hemlock grove fenced the little clearing on which the terrace lay. It had rained during the day, and the smell of damp grass was tart.

  One of the men complained, “Age is creeping up, Tom, because I’m beat. How about some slow golden oldies for a change?”

  “No problem. I’ve got all the tunes your parents danced to. Now, this is really nice,” he said as his arm brought Lynn close. “When you come down to it, the old way is better.”

  Unlike Robert, he was not much taller than she, so that their faces almost touched. Their feet moved in skillful unison to the swing of the sentimental music.

  “You have a sweet mouth,” Tom said suddenly, “and sweet eyes.”

  An uneasy feeling stiffened Lynn, and he felt it at once.

  “You didn’t like me to say that, did you?”

  “I didn’t expect it.”

  “Why not? If a compliment is sincere, it should be spoken and accepted.”

  “Well, then, thank you.”

  “You still look uncomfortable. You’re thinking I’m just a smooth talker. But you are really someone special, I have to tell you. Refreshing. Different.”

  She could feel his breath on her neck. The hand on the small of her back pressed her so close to him that she could feel his heartbeat. And the dreamy charm of the night changed into nervous misgiving.

  “It’s after eleven,” she cried. “I have to go right away. Please—”

  “So there you are!”

  The harsh voice rang as Robert came from around the corner of the house into the light. Just then the music stopped, leaving the dancers stopped, too, arrested in motion, all turned toward the voice.

  “I telephoned, I got no answer, I came over and rang the doorbell and still got no answer.”

  “This is my husband,” Lynn said. “Tom Lawrence—but how stupid of me! Of course you know each other. I’m not thinking.” And she moistened her lips, to which there had suddenly come a curious, salty taste, like that of blood, as if blood had drained upward from her heart.

  “I’m so sorry. We’ve been out here, and the music’s drowned out all the bells. Come in and join us,” Tom said cordially. “Your wife made a marvelous dinner. You’ve got to sample some of the dessert. I hope there’s some left, Lynn?”

  “Thank you, but cake is hardly what I need. It’s going on twelve, and I’m not usually out at this hour rounding up my wife at a dance.”

  Crazy thoughts went through Lynn’s head: He looked sinister and black, a figure in mask and cape from an old melodrama, angry-dark, why can’t he smile, I’ll die of shame before these people. And in a shrill, gay tone not her own, she cried out, “What an idiot I am, I forgot to wear my watch, all these nice people made me come out of the kitchen and dance with them, I’ll just get my bowls and things—”

  “Yes, you do that,” Robert said. “You do just that. I’ll wait in front.” He turned about and walked, away through the shrubbery.

  Tom and the whole company, men and women both, went into the kitchen with Lynn. Rattling and prattling, she let them help gather her possessions, and load her car, while Robert sat stiffly at the wheel of his car, and the hot, awful shame went prickling along her spine.

  “You follow me home,” he said.

  Past quiet houses already at rest in the shadows of new-leaved trees, his car sped like a bullet aimed at the heart of the friendly countryside. She knew that he sped so because he was furious, and knowing it, her own anger grew. What right had he? Who did he think he was?

  “Damn!” she cried. That an evening, having begun so nicely, could end in such miserable confusion, with Tom Lawrence’s unwelcome attention and Robert’s nastiness!

  He had already driven his car into the garage and was waiting for her in the driveway when she arrived home. I want the first word, she thought, and I’m going to have it. Nevertheless, she spoke with quiet control.

  “You were unbelievably rude, Robert. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “Rude, you say? Rude? I went there as any other husband would, looking for his wife.”

  “You embarrassed me terribly. You know you did.”

  “I was concerned. Close to midnight, and no word from you.”

  “If you were so concerned, you could have telephoned.”

  “I did telephone, I
told you. Where’s your head? Didn’t you listen to me? And then I went over to find you, not in the kitchen doing this ridiculous dinner, and where were you? Dancing, if you please. Dancing.”

  “I had been dancing for a couple of minutes, and I was just leaving that very second when you came.”

  “You had been dancing much longer than a couple of minutes. And don’t try to deny it because I was there.”

  Caught in her lie, no, not a lie, a fib, an innocent fib, such an innocent business altogether in which to be embroiled, she lashed out.

  “You were standing there behind the trees snooping? It’s degrading. I should think you’d be ashamed, Robert. The way you just burst out of the dark, enough to scare the life out of people. Don’t you think they all knew you must have been spying? You were horrible. You wouldn’t have put on an act like that if any of them could be of use to you in your business. Otherwise, you don’t care what you say to people.”

  “That’s not true. But it is true that I don’t give a damn about a lot of pseudosophisticated phonies. I recognize the type at a glance. I wouldn’t trust one of them any farther than I can throw a grand piano, and that includes Lawrence.”

  “You’re so critical. You’re always carping. You don’t approve of anybody.”

  The headlights of her car, which she had forgotten to turn off, blazed up on Robert. And he seemed, as he stood there, as strong as the dark firs behind him.

  “Turn those lights off,” he snapped, “or you’ll have a dead battery.” And turning his back, he climbed the steps to the deck at the back of the house.

  She turned the lights off. She was too tired to put one foot ahead of the other, too tired to fight this war of words that she knew was far from over. But with a long sigh she followed him to the deck.

  “Pseudosophisticated phonies,” he repeated.

  “What is it, Robert?” she asked. “Tell me what it is that makes you despise people you don’t even know. What makes you so angry? Don’t you like yourself?” And saying so, she felt the faint sting of her own tears.

  “Please,” he said, “spare me your pop psychology, Mrs. Freud.”

  He took out his keys and unlocked the house door. Juliet came bounding, barking fiercely, but, seeing who was there, jumped up on Robert and wagged her tail instead. He thrust her away.

  “Not in the mood, Juliet. Down.” And abruptly returning to Lynn, he demanded, “I want an apology. There’ll be no sleep for either of us tonight until I get one.”

  How a handsome face can turn so ugly! she thought. In the half-dark his cheeks were faintly blue, and his eyes were sunk in their sockets.

  “An apology, Lynn.”

  “For what? For overstaying my time by an hour? For having a little fun? You could have come in and joined the party. Tom asked you to.”

  “Oh, of course, if Tom asks.”

  “What does that sarcastic tone mean, I’d like to know?”

  “It means that I don’t like the way he was looking at you, that’s what.”

  “The way he looked at me,” she scoffed. “I don’t know how he did because I wasn’t studying his expressions, I assure you. But if,” she cried indignantly, “if he or anyone should take it into his head to admire me a little, you’d have no right to object. Not you. You love it when women fawn on you. Don’t tell me you don’t, because I’ve seen it a thousand times.”

  “Now, you listen to me and don’t change the subject. But no, on the other hand now that you’ve brought up the subject, I’ll tell you this: I have never encouraged any woman. Never. Nor done anything in any way that I couldn’t do right in front of you. I’ll swear on the Bible.”

  “The Bible! All of a sudden the Bible. When were you last in church?”

  “Never mind. I believe. I have my moral standards. One mistake, one misstep down a slippery slope, and you can’t—”

  “What is this? Who’s made any missteps? What in heaven’s name are you talking about? I can’t figure you out.”

  “Damn it, if you’ll stop interrupting me, I’ll figure it out for you.”

  From the roof peak the mockingbird began a passionate crescendo, then a trill and a plaintive diminuendo. The sweetness of it went to Lynn’s heart and pierced it.

  “Let’s stop this,” she said, trembling. “I’ve had enough. There’s no sense in it. I’m going inside.”

  He clutched her sleeve. “No, you’re not. You’ll hear me first.”

  She pulled, and hearing the sleeve rip, the fine sleeve of a cherished dress, she was enraged.

  “Let go of me this minute, Robert.”

  “No.”

  As she wrenched it away, the sleeve tore off at the shoulder.

  A muffled cry came from his throat. And he raised a menacing hand. His arm shot out, grasping her shoulder, and she spun, fled, and fell headfirst off the deck into the hawthorn hedge. She heard her own terrible scream, heard the dog going wild, heard Robert’s outcry, thought, my face! and knew not to break the fall with her hands but to protect her eyes instead.

  “Oh, God,” Robert said.

  When he lifted her, she screamed. She was flayed, stripped, skinned on the backs of her hands, her legs, her cheeks.… She screamed.

  “I have to get you up,” he said, sounding as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. “If you can’t bear it, I’ll have to call an ambulance.”

  “No. No. We’ll try.… Try loosening one at a time. I’ll bear it.”

  Annie was out on a sleep-over at a friend’s house. And Emily must not be home yet, or she would have heard by now and come running. And she gave thanks that they were not seeing this, a happening that must seem both hideous and absurd, with the dog now leaping, now howling, as if it, too, were in pain, shattering the quiet of the night.

  Weeping and whimpering she lay and, while Robert brought a flashlight from the car and set to work on her torn arms and legs, tried not to scream. One by one the thorns were parted from her flesh. Only once or twice did she cry out loud.

  When finally he raised her and she stood wavering on the grass, they were both sweating and stained with bloody droplets. Wordless, they simply stared at one another. Then she stumbled up the shallow steps, moaning softly.

  “I’ve turned my ankle. I can hardly walk.”

  “I’ll carry you.”

  He picked her up and bore her as lightly as he would have borne a child. He laid her on the bed and took her clothes off.

  “Soap and water first,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll be very careful. Then antibiotic cream. That’ll do until you see a doctor in the morning.”

  “I’m not going to see any doctor. You don’t need a doctor for a sprained ankle or a thorn.”

  “You had eighteen thorns. I counted.”

  “All the same, I’m not going,” she insisted feebly, and was perfectly aware that this was masochism, that it was her intent to make him feel his guilt, guilt for the wounded hands clasped on her naked, wounded breast, for the ruined yellow dress that lay on the floor like dirty laundry, guilt for the whole horror of this night.

  “Well, suit yourself,” he said. “If you change your mind and don’t want to drive, call a taxi. I can’t take you. My desk in the office is piled with work, and work won’t wait just because it’s Saturday.”

  When she crept under the blanket, he was still standing looking down at her.

  “What do you want?” she whispered. “Anything you want to say?”

  He lowered his eyes and took a long breath. “Yes. I was angry. But I didn’t throw you into the hedge.”

  “You pushed me. You were going to hit me, you were inches from my face.”

  “I was not.”

  “You were, Robert.”

  “Are you a crystal gazer or something, who can foretell what a person’s going to do?”

  “You grabbed my shoulder and shoved me. And I saw your face. It was ugly with rage.”

  “In the first place, it was too dark for you to see whether my face
was ugly or not. This is garbage, Lynn.”

  All she wanted was to lie in the darkness and rest. “Why don’t you let me alone?” she cried. “Haven’t you any mercy? At least let me try to sleep if I can.”

  “I won’t bother you, Lynn.” He walked to the door. “I hope you can sleep. I doubt that I can. A miserable night. These miserable misunderstandings! Go downstairs, Juliet. Stop pestering.”

  “Leave the dog here. I want her.”

  Now darkness filled the room. The little sounds of the night were soft, a rustle in the oak near the window and the tinkle of Juliet’s tags. The dog came to the bed, reached up, and licked Lynn’s sore hand, as if comfort were intended; as always, then, comfort brought the most grateful tears. And Lynn lay still, letting them flow, feeling them cool and slippery on her cheeks. After a while the dog thumped down on the floor near the bed, the tears stopped, and she closed her eyes.

  Still no sleep came. Emily was not home yet. It must be very late, she thought. But it was too painful to turn over in the bed and look at the clock. From downstairs there drifted the pungent smell of pipe tobacco, and she knew that Robert was sitting in the corner of the sofa watching television or reading, or perhaps just sitting. No matter. She didn’t want to think of him at all. Not yet.

  After a time she heard the small thud of a car door being closed, followed by Emily’s feet creeping down the hall to her room. Where had the girl been so late? But she was home and safe.

  At last it seemed that blessed sleep might come. It had not yet come when Robert entered the room and got into bed, but she pretended that it had.

  In the morning, still feigning sleep, she waited until he had dressed and gone downstairs. Then she got up and limped painfully to the mirror, which confirmed what she had expected to see: a swollen face with small, reddened eyes sunk into bloated cheeks. The whole unsightly face was puffed, and there were dark droplets of dried blood on the long scratch. Merely to look like this was another undeserved punishment.

  She was standing there applying useless makeup and trying to decide whether the wearing of dark glasses would help or whether it would be better simply to brave things out, when Robert came in.