A shooting star, p.45
A Shooting Star, page 45
Burke was a wincing pain in her mind, for though she admitted his imperfections and weaknesses—his ambition, his social climbing, his dancing attendance on rich neurotic women when he might have been out curing more legitimate and more painful ills, most of all his stiffness and touchiness and pride—the wreck of their marriage was her fault, not his. It had been a marriage better than many; it could have been better yet if she herself had tried to make it so, and given more and demanded less. It touched and saddened her to think how far his pride had actually bent. Three times—and the first time he found her barely cool from the arms of the lover, and the second time cold and apparently unrepentant over that vulgar pickup from Petaluma, and the third time insistently, boastfully pregnant. No wonder he had finally, in a strangling voice, said, “I can’t take any more of this!” and hung up. She remembered him as she had last seen him, up at Grulich’s, his eye twitching, his face tightened down on its bones, his whole expression aghast with incredulity and outrage. Like being bitten by a shark, he had said.
Oh, it had hurt him—and the flood of sad warmth that went through her at the thought made her acknowledge how much a part of her intention that had been. Pique, and pride, and anger, and finally unforgiveness, were the weapons she had used against him; and having forced him to concessions she had demanded more and still more, unconditional surrender. It was she, not he, who could have cured it more than once with a word, and who had not spoken.
And so her child, if she retained it, would have not even a pseudo-father. But then neither had she. Neither, for different reasons, had her mother; neither, to all intents and purposes, had her grandmother and the great-aunts. It seemed a Wolcott prerogative.
She wondered if there were some Emersonian compensation that filled her womb at the same time it destroyed the whole fabric of her life, and that was so mystical it made her grimace. Then she found herself wondering what night, of the many possible nights, this child had been conceived, and the memory was so ugly to her she gritted her teeth and shut her eyes. Everything that her mind found to deal with was ugly to her, and yet, with everything collapsing in hysteria and ruin, she had slept last night, and from the look of the light had slept late. Peace after frenzy? All passion spent? She supposed that when you jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge you should be content when you hit the water: that was the climax you bought and paid for. She remembered Jerry Mollar in Pasadena, who always sat on the floor at parties, on the theory that from there it was impossible to fall off. But having fallen, as she had, what now? Gutter out? Crawl away with arms and legs dragging, on some agonized journey toward help? Sit here and wait for rescue?
The remarkable thing, she discovered by degrees, was that she did not feel totally shattered, not even by the clear recollection of last night. She only felt sobered and awed, as a reckless driver may be cooled down by a narrow escape from death. She might almost have smiled at the memory of her theatrical destruction of her own image, the gravel in the swimming-pool face, the bullets in the mirror, if her self-contempt had been only a little less acute. And the business at Leonard’s house filled her with passionate shame. Insufferable. Her guilt crawled on her like a loathsome legged thing. And yet under the frantic consciousness of having polluted and disgraced herself there was a quiet, speculative little voice that asked, Did you mean any of it? Weren’t you just driving recklessly in some show-off tantrum? If Leonard hadn’t had sense, wouldn’t it maybe have turned out that that gun didn’t have any bullets in it either, you’d have somehow cheated on your own recklessness? Histrionic gestures, not despairing ones; bruises, not fractures. She wasn’t healthy, but she could crawl.
She held her watch under the bed lamp and forced her eyes to focus and saw that it was nearly one. He might still be home, getting the girls’ lunch. Call him now, get it said. She lifted the telephone over onto her stomach, and propped in bed, frowning with headache, dialed the MacDonalds’ number.
Louise answered, sounding younger on the telephone. Sabrina loved her little inquiring mew.
“Hello, ducky. How does it feel to have a baby brother?”
“How did you know? Who is this?”
“You mean you don’t recognize me?”
“Is it Sabrina?”
“It certainly is.”
“You sound funny.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s from staying up late waiting for your brother. Have you been to see him yet?”
“Daddy’s going to take us at three o’clock. His name’s Ian.”
“Ian? That’s pretty fancy.”
“It’s Scotch.”
“I guess it is. Did you and Dolly sleep late?”
“No. I woke up early to see if the baby was here, but they kept him at the hospital.”
“They always do, honey. What time did you get up?”
“About six, I think. Or five.”
“Poor Daddy. Couldn’t you have let him sleep?”
“We wanted to find out about the baby.”
“I suppose so. Is he there?”
“No, they kept him at the hospital.”
“I mean Daddy.”
“Yes.”
“May I speak to him?”
“I guess so. Are you coming over? Will you go with us to the hospital?”
“Maybe. But let me talk with Daddy now, will you?”
She kissed the mouthpiece and heard the alarming smack in return. The receiver clanked down, there was a crash that sent waves of pain pulsing along the wire between her temples. She held the telephone at arm’s length and waited, hitching the pillows behind her with the other hand. The deep breath she drew made her dizzy. Then the breathless little-girl voice said, “Here he is!” and Leonard, hoarse and croaking, said, “Hi.”
“Hello, Leonard. You sound the way I feel.”
“I was all right till that sheepsfoot roller went over me about 6 a.m.”
“If I’d had any sense I’d have brought them home with me last evening. Wouldn’t it help you to let them stay here while Bobbie’s in the hospital?”
Evidently he did not hear her. His voice, almost unrecognizable with a cold or a summer allergy, or perhaps simply with sleeplessness, croaked at her:
“In short, the well-known firm of Krupp
By shooting cannon at a pup
Could scarcely more have used him up.”
She had to laugh. “Still there with an apt quotation.”
“Semper fidelis,” Leonard said.
There was quite a long silence during which she could hear the girls jawing in the background. “I called to say I’m ashamed,” she said at last.
He let that rest a while, too, before he replied in his neutral croak, “No need to be.”
“Oh, yes! I’m ashamed to be calling like this, too. I hate people who call up the morning after a party and say delightedly, ‘Oh, was I just awful?’ I know I was awful. I was vile, I was out of my mind.”
“Forget it.”
“I wish I could. When I woke up a while ago I realized that for two or three months I’ve been deliberately acting as cheap and stupid as I know how. Why, do you suppose? I ought to have more sense than that. I ought to have more control of my emotions. Whatever could have been the matter with me?”
Still incorrigibly neutral, giving her nothing, he said, “Troubles, I suppose. It’s not so strange. If they’re better this morning, fine.”
“They’re no better. They’re just the way they were. But I think I might be able to look at them differently. I seem to have waked up clear-headed about myself. Last night seems to have done that for me, at least.”
“Good.”
“Leonard.” She waited for a word, an encouragement to go on, but heard only the voices of the children at a distance. “After I came home I thought about killing myself, Leonard. I had the gun in my hand.”
A long, a very long silence. She started to break it, to tell him about the fusilade through the mirror door, and stopped after one inarticulate “Uh … ,” realizing that she couldn’t tell that to him or to anyone, that showed her too plainly at the pitch of her hysterics, and she wanted him to know no more about those than he already knew. She hung on the receiver, fidgeting, until he said, “Oh, no, you wouldn’t want to do that.”
Leaning forward, hunching over the telephone drawing breath for a new rush of words, she drew back before the dry skepticism of his tone. Depressed, she said, “My God, I’m still at it, aren’t I, like a fifteen-year-old hashing and rehashing herself over the telephone. Am I really that kind of self-deceiving stereotype, Leonard? Do you suppose I have to have it both ways, and enjoy both the sin and the repentance?” She barked out a hoarse laugh. “You’d think it was bad enough already without me starting to drink for the hangover.”
“I expect the hangover is realer than the sin was.”
“The hangover is real, all right. My God, Leonard, I hope you—”
“Well, that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, damn you!” But his growl had loosened something, the way sound waves might loosen the tied-up joints of an arthritic. She combed her hair back with spread fingers and said, “I am ashamed, and that’s the last I’m going to say about it. How’s Bobbie? Have you seen her yet this morning?”
“She’s all right.”
She hesitated. “Did you tell her about last night?”
“Why should I? You see any reason to?”
She burst out, “I was crazy! I was out of my mind! I can’t imagine why I’d—” Every mucous membrane in her head was swollen tight. While she groped on the bedtable for a Kleenex she heard his neutral croak. “Sure.”
“I’d like to be your friend,” she said.
“That could probably be arranged.”
“I’d like to stay Bobbie’s friend too.”
“I expect you have.”
“You treat me better than I deserve,” she said. “Listen, will you let me do something?”
“What?”
“Let me come down tonight and fix dinner for you and the girls.”
Now the silence was as complete as if water covered them. A brief distant outburst from Louise, and more inundated quiet. Finally Leonard said, “Oh, we’ll make out.”
“But I’d love to. I promised Bobbie I would.”
In the distance Dolly began to cry, and Leonard spoke aside to her. When his voice came back it said, “I guess I think it’s better you don’t.”
“Ah, you’re punishing me!”
“No, I just think you hadn’t better.”
She was rubbing the Kleenex back and forth across her dry lips. “Ever?”
“I don’t know about that. Just for now.”
“Can I have something sent over?”
“Please don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
“Just please don’t, then.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“You’ve got every right to punish me,” she said. “I’ve earned it twenty times over.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, quit beating your breast!”
For a moment she was furious; then she accepted that too. “All right,” she said. “Live on spaghetti. When are you going down to see Bobbie again?”
“Around three, I guess.”
“Would I be in your way if I went down early, right after two?”
“Look,” he said, “would you mind not, just for a day or two?”
“Oh, you are angry,” she said, and then, stiffly, “All right, I deserve it.”
“For God’s sake,” Leonard said, “for once it hasn’t anything to do with you. I’m sorry to get—oh, forget it. But you ride it into the ground. Bobbie’s got her hands full, that’s all. She could do with a few days of quiet.”
“Something’s wrong!”
“Not with her. But the baby’s got a bad mouth and can’t nurse. Also the foot they thought they twisted getting him born is a club foot. They operated on him this morning.”
“Oh Leonard, you didn’t tell me!”
“I didn’t know till I went down today.”
“Oh, poor Bobbie!”
“She’s all right,” Leonard said. “She’s got what it takes. But she’s got her hands full, she’s a full-time comforting machine, and this nursing business is tough on them both. So I don’t want you going down there and confessing some fictitious sin and fouling her up.”
“I wish it was fictitious.”
“It was fictitious,” Leonard croaked. “You’re the phoniest maenad I ever saw. You’re a good deal better at self-flagellation. But give her a day or two, eh? And no God-damn repentance.” Click, he was gone.
Under his interdict there was nothing she could do for him and the girls, but flowers for Bobbie she could manage. She telephoned and ordered them, vastly. And books, though she had paid so little attention to anything all summer that she had no idea what was new or good or talked-about. Getting the bookseller’s suggestions for a random half dozen brought home to her how absolutely the summer had been blanked out. Turning her eyes obsessively inward she had isolated herself inside her own skin, she had spun in the minuscule nebula of her own gaseous emotions the way she had seen gnats hover in a cluster under oak trees; and holocausts could have happened, missiles could have wiped out San Francisco, men could have landed on the moon and found naked footprints in the ash by a crater—she would not have known; she would have been inside, absorbed, picking her navel, nursing her grudges, galvanized by the alternating current of unforgiveness and guilt, which are only the two directions of the same thing.
No God-damn repentance, Leonard said. Could she remember that lesson? No more mirror-staring, because, stare as she would, she would never bring out in the glass any face but the old one, never another and better—and that, she supposed, was what she hated most. The very fact that she was always watching herself was constant proof of her own depravity; she could see the hateful and demanding pride in that face the moment it came sidling around the mirror frame into view.
Stop it. Think of health, think of trees, think of the happy accident of mother’s park, think of Leonard’s decency and Bobbie’s warmth, think of trouble like this club-footed child, the pain, the expense, the anxiety, the successive operations. When she had been nursing a secret contempt for Burke because he did so little charity work and seemed so much less interested in cureless human pain than in the self-induced or boredom-induced ills of rich old women, had it ever occurred to her to do something herself? Outside the Junior League, whose charities she subscribed to and worked for with an indifference tinged by that same snobbish anti-snob contempt, what had she done? She made up her mind that the MacDonald baby would walk straight if she had to fly surgeons in from Vienna every second Thursday. She daydreamed a plan to borrow her mother’s twenty acres in Woodside and on them to create a summer camp with riding and swimming and hikes and health, and maybe Good Camper Medals too, for children on whom life had laid handicaps. She was still planning it when the light, tentative tap-tap-tap that had first awakened her sounded again on her door. She knew at once who it was. Lizardo. Poor devil, he had probably been in a sweating panic ever since he came home.
“Just a minute,” she said, and jumped out of bed—too quickly, for the room reeled and she had to put a hand against the wall. Tying the belt of her robe, she unlocked the door and opened it a few inches. Lizardo’s brown face was there a little below her own, his eyes liquid and doglike and asking, his mouth and throat working. In a hoarse whisper he said, “You okay?” Then his eyes widened at the crust of blood on her wrist and hand, so that she swept the cuff of the robe up to her elbow, exposing the scabbed scratch. “It’s nothing. A sliver of glass. You saw my note? It was last night, I was down having a drink and I got playing with the gun and it …”
Before his steady unhappy look she faltered. He did not believe her, he knew what she had been down there for. Yet she did not think it was hurt feelings at being lied to that tormented his wrinkles into a crying mask; it was dismay, a shattering and appalled and total dismay that she should even have thought of destroying herself. Maybe dismay too that she should have thought of doing it in his room; as he thought it over during the morning, before he could waken her and reassure himself, he must have had visions of what he might have found in his room. And yet it was a compliment, of a sort. Didn’t people always go where they felt safest to kill themselves? Maybe, too, there was a little dismay in poor Lizardo that his gun should have been involved, the gun that he kept loaded against shadows and dreams but had never intended should be fired.
Through the crack in the door she put her bloodied hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said, and found that she could smile. “It’s all right now—really it is. Don’t worry a bit. Does anybody else know? Has anybody said anything?”
He shook his head.
“Will you call a repair man? Get yourself a new mirror, or a new door? Plaster up those pits in the wall? And see that I get the bill, not Helen.”
The knot of anxiety was loosening in his forehead, he tilted his head doubtfully and stared at her with his brown devoted eyes and said, “You all right? You not hurt, or … sick?”
“I think I’m better than I’ve been all summer.”
“I belieb maybe,” Lizardo said, and now at last he smiled too. His smile kept pulling his lips wide and he kept straightening it back over his teeth and it kept pulling away again. They stood whispering and smiling in the doorway.
“Maybe it’ll teach both of us not to dramatize our lives,” Sabrina said. “Let’s just get it patched up and forget it, Lizardo.”
