Lie Down in Darkness (45 page)

But at this moment, when he suddenly sees Helen, white with fury, throw a coat over her shoulders and go out onto the porch with Carey Carr, he knows that explanations are years too late. If he himself could love too much, only Helen could love so little.

Carey felt benevolent after three glasses of sherry, and he wasn’t prepared for Helen,
or
her hysteria. He had been standing in a doorway talking to Dr. DeWitt Lonergan and his wife. Both of them were parishioners of his. He was rather fond of the doctor, who had a naive way of thinking Carey liked off-color stories, which in fact he did as long as they stayed reasonably clean, but Bernice, who had big hips and wide-spaced teeth like the wife of Bath, and a mannered, nervous laugh, he found gross and somehow unwholesome, and he usually discovered, to his embarrassment, that he ignored completely what she had to say. She also had the habit of sprinkling her chatter with “You know’s?” and “See what I mean’s?” which, since politeness compelled him to make a reply, made his abstracted air all the more difficult, because he rarely knew what she meant at all.

And he was watching Peyton, with a dim, unaccountable feeling of sadness; he sensed something wrong, but he didn’t know what. It had been the same at the ceremony. Watching her—yes, God knows she was beautiful—he had been troubled by the identical thought: sad, that’s what she is. When she spoke the vows her lips parted not like all the brides he’d ever seen—exposing their clean, scrubbed teeth in a little eager puff of rapture—but rather with a kind of wry and somber resignation. It had been a brief shadow of a mood, just a flicker, but enough for him to tell: her “I will” had seemed less an avowal than a confession, like the tired words of some sad, errant nun. Not any of her put-on gaiety could disguise this, not even now when, from behind Bernice Lonergan’s hefty shoulder, he saw Peyton turn from the navy uniform, wheel about and fill her glass, in a frenzy.

“I mean what with war and all I think people are more and more getting back to religion, see what I mean, Carey?” Awkwardly he looked up to meet Bernice’s uncomplicated gaze. “I mean,” she went on, “there’s such a real need——” But at this point, just when he had about decided to go talk to Peyton, to calm her, Helen came up and grabbed him by the arm. “Can I see you?”

She excused herself to the Lonergans and, taking a route through the hall so they’d not be seen by the guests, led him outside. In silence he followed her across the lawn, all the way down to the seawall. It was chilly and he began to protest but at the edge of the seawall she turned and faced him, clutching his hand.

“Did you see it?” she said. Her voice was a hiss, like gas escaping from a bottle of soda.

“What, Helen?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Her.
What she did.”

“I—I don’t know——” He was appalled by her look, and a little frightened. Popeyed, trembling, she seemed so distraught as to be on the verge of some striking biological change, and her skin, in this fading light, was as colorless as the whites of her eyes. He shivered, drew his hand away. A dim sound of music floated across the slope, and crazy laughter.

“Didn’t you see it?” she said again.

“No, Helen,” he said sharply, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And besides——”

“The way she’s acting. Toward him. Didn’t you see? Carey, you must be blind. You——” She took his hand again.

“Helen——” he put in sternly.

She went on, bearing down on his fingers. “She’s behaving like the little tramp she is! Already she’s drunk. Already! She’d been drinking before the ceremony, I could smell it on her breath! Now this. Didn’t you see the way she acted toward him? Didn’t——”

“Toward
who,
Helen?
Who?”

“Him. Milton.
Don’t you see what she’s doing to him? Oh, I can’t stand this! Let it go on——” She drew her coat tight around her shoulders, and ran one white, bony hand through her hair. “After all I’ve planned and worked and sacrificed. Just for her and for him. Knowing how much she means to him, and how much he loves her! All this time I’ve been ready to forget that he’s spoiled her rotten. That hasn’t mattered one bit to me. I was willing to forget that as long as I knew it made him happy. To have her home again, I mean. It’s pathetic, that’s what it is, Carey. I mean, that he should love her so, when it’s obvious she despises him. Hates him. Not just me. But him. After all we’ve——”

Less sherry in him and he might have reacted with considerably more intelligence, but all he could do was turn away, shocked and despairing, his eyes on a piece of driftwood bobbing below, his mouth opening and closing, struggling vainly for words. “Helen …”

“You mustn’t look like that, Carey,” she said, more calmly. “It’s the truth I’m telling you. I’ve been willing to overlook that terrible fact all my life. That he’s ruined her, spoiled her half to death. I’ve been willing to overlook that because I’ve loved him. With all his weaknesses and all his faults I’ve loved him more than you could ever imagine a woman loving a man. I was willing to overlook that woman and his drinking and everything. I was willing even to overlook the way he spoiled Peyton. And now, look. Look at what’s happened!”

He threw his arms into the air, a vast stage gesture brought on by drink, and entirely inadequate. “What
has
happened, Helen?” He turned to face her. “What on earth
has
happened? What are you driving at? By heaven, I haven’t seen anything! Yes, Peyton looks utterly wretched. But maybe something’s wrong besides Peyton. Maybe——”

“There’s nothing wrong with anybody except Peyton. Oh, the cruelty, the shame of having a child like that. And I’ve
loved
her, Carey, I’ve loved her! We’ve had our misunderstandings and all that sort of thing, but even when I knew she hated me the most I loved her. Loved her as only a mother can love someone. Only a mother——”

He took her by the arms. “Calm down now, understand, Helen? Listen to me. You’ve got to get hold of yourself. What are you driving at? Just what has Peyton done?”

“She’s persecuting him, that’s what she’s doing. You can see it in her eyes. I planned this wedding just for her. And for him. Milton.”

“How about for yourself? Don’t you do anything for yourself?”

“I … I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, so you see a look in her eyes, hear a word, and you figure she’s persecuting him. Just what do you mean by that? What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Don’t smother me!’ in the most vicious, ugly way. She said—and she was drunk, too, when she said it—she said——”

“Wait a minute, Helen. What difference does it make what she said, or the way she looked, or how much she’s had to drink? Just really what difference does it make? Good heavens, a girl comes home on her wedding day, to a house where relations, to put it mildly, have been strained. She’s excited, she gets a little tight, her father is jolly and tight, too, and maybe a little bit too affectionate, and so she snaps at him. And you say she’s persecuting him. Well, by heaven, I think you’re dead wrong, and furthermore I think—— By heaven, Helen, what’s wrong with you? How can you talk about Peyton like this?”

It was getting dark and cold. Some of the guests were leaving. At the top of the slope car doors slammed; there were farewells, the sound of wheels on gravel. Lights went on in the house. Helen drew near Carey, touching his hand again, lightly, tentatively.
How can you talk about Peyton like this?
That was too simple. How could she make Carey understand? He was such a sweet, stuffy, funny man, with his airs and his graveness and his suffering dark eyes. Although less than ten years separated them, she felt, close and alone as now, a strange, sweet pang: she wanted to mother him or something, fondle him, feel the rough, coarse fabric of his suit beneath her fingers. Such a dear, funny, stuffy man: how could she make him understand about Peyton and her troubles, her own misery and such things? Funny man. He’d ask her to come back to church or something. Now, when it was too late. Didn’t he know she had found her God? Didn’t he know that the devil had been slain, that Milton was her Prince of Light, come back all virtuous after befouling himself; once smeared with the sluttish filth of an evil woman, he had finally been won over: her own lure had recaptured him. He had been contrite, penitent, crushed with guilt. She, Helen, had raised him up, re-formed him in the image of decency, exalted him. Didn’t Carey realize these things? Dear, honest, funny man.

A shiver ran up her backbone as she approached him, caught his blunt, honest fingers in her own. He was such a gentle, incorruptible type; perhaps, after all, she had been too violent in her attack. Perhaps softer, subtler words would win him over. And she found herself saying, “Carey, you must think terrible things about me. Don’t you, Carey? But listen, honestly I’ve never been bitter toward anyone in my life without reason. You think it’s unnatural of me to talk about Peyton like this, don’t you—?”

She heard his voice, honest, gentle, incorruptible. He disengaged his fingers and thrust his hands in his pockets. “I think, Helen,” he said, “that we’d better go in now. If you really want an answer, I think you’re a very sick woman. I don’t know whether it’s proper to call a spade a spade in such a case, but you asked me. There’s something wrong with you beyond curing, beyond anything I can do, anyway.”

He was not looking at her. He was gazing straight out at the bay, blinking solemnly, his prissy mouth set in a small, grim line. And it suddenly occurred to her: how unfortunate. To have a funny, prim mouth like that, with such a fine mind, really a fine, noble mind to go with it: a mind that needed a big, wide man’s mouth and a firm, manly jaw, too. But she felt the faint chill again and pulled the coat tightly about her, wondering. What had he said? She tried to remember. Oh, yes.

Sick.

“Carey,” she chided him, “what a funny thing to say. Sick. Why, I’ve never felt better in my life.”

He turned toward her. “Helen, I think we’d better go in,” he said in a curt, sharp voice. “I have no intention of standing here listening to you revile Peyton. On her wedding day. Peyton has——”

Peyton. Carey’s words floated off into the dusk. On some naval ship, anchored in the channel, a klaxon groaned, and a knot of sailors on the deck—she could see them, far out, as tiny as pins—scattered away like a broken cluster of pearls. Three ducks settled on the water, and the wind, in a sudden gust from the beach, brought a ripe, raw smell of sewage. She lifted a finger to her brow, in an attitude of deep thought, thinking: What is he trying to tell me about my sickness? “Furthermore,” he was saying now, “I think there’s something unutterably smug about your attitude toward Milton. I’m only saying this because I know you well enough, so be calm, Helen dear. That you should impute to yourself these strange, divine powers of healing is not only sinful in the abstract, but false and unjust, too. I should think you’d have a little more common humility. If I’m any judge of the situation, it’s Milton who’s accomplished the miracle, not you. What makes you think … as for Peyton …”

What was he trying to tell her? She stood listening to him, her eyes cocked, her mouth turned up in a bright, receptive smile. Yet she was really only half-listening to him: his words, angry, indignant, seemed to make not the slightest impression, and she felt suddenly that it was unfair, most
completely
unfair for him to be lecturing
her,
when it was she who had begun all this in the first place. And her mind sought back a few moments. She struggled to remember something, and memory fumbled through her brain like old yellowed fingers in a littered drawer:
I
must
make him believe me.
Peyton. Now he was talking of Peyton, saying, “From just the little I can gather, Helen, Peyton’s had a pretty rough time of it. You asked my opinion and now you’re getting it. In the first place, you’ll have to admit that you never got on with her at all. Or she with you. You told me all that three or four years ago. In the second place, why should I (though don’t get me wrong, Helen, I’m not attacking you) why should I have to accept your statement that she’s just a little tramp? If as you say she’s making a fool out of herself today, why do I have to believe that she’s doing it because she’s bad at heart? And even if that’s true surely you can manage it without making a scene. So she
is
getting a little drunk. So she is! So, by heaven …”

Ah, she’d found it. This. Stupid Carey. Did he really believe for one instant it was the drinking, the vicious words to Milton, that mattered? How could he be so dull and stupid? Couldn’t he see the deeper things she was getting at, trying to tell him? He was an angry man, all right. Listen to him, look at that plump, outraged face. All right, let him talk. She’d have her triumph. She’d always—though a whole array of ministers, doctors, men
(men!
she thought) protest her stubbornness, her wrongness—cherish the suffering of her life. What did they know of a woman’s suffering? They should have kept their poor, inept men’s fingers on
her
pulse all these years. How shocked they would be, what sober, pompous male mutterings would be heard, could they just feel the course of her pounding, angry blood. “How sick she is!” they’d say, and “ah” and “ahem” in their nasty male way, leaning over her bed with their coarse, male, armpit smells. “How sick she is!” they’d say. “Feel this pulse, Reverend, Doctor!” And she’d be repelled, but would delicately, graciously submit to their proddings, if only to see the light in their eyes—the wild, frightened light—when they darted swift glances at each other, saying, “The world has never seen a pulse like this. Has never seen such a sick woman. Feel, Reverend, Doctor, feel the pulse of the angriest woman on earth! How she must have suffered!” And she’d lie there drugged by the quieting nembutal, compliant, submissive, but with a sure, glad triumph swelling at her heart. For this would be an acknowledgment of a woman’s fury, and (of course they’d realize it) the defeat of men in general. Milton might be there, too—poor Milton, whom she had loved, poor, blind, dumb Milton who had realized the error of his ways. Who had come back to her, as she had always known he would, literally on his knees, dragging his heels, remorseful, in tears. Milton she would excuse, of course. Milton had yielded to her. Milton had said, “I quit,” had admitted she had been right all along.