The Carpetbaggers (28 page)

I exploded and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her violently. "What about me? Why do you think I went into this? Not for Nevada. For you! Did you ever stop to think that when I came rushing up here to see you, that maybe I needed you?"

She stared into my eyes angrily.

"You’ll never need anybody, Jonas, only yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn't have left your wife down there all by herself. If you had any feelings at all, even pity, you'd have gone down there, or had her come up here."

"You leave my wife out of this!"

She turned to pull away and the front of her dress tore down to her waist. I stared at her. Her breasts rose and fell and I could feel the fever climb up in me. "Rina!" I crushed my mouth down on hers. "Rina, please."

Her mouth moved for a moment as she struggled to get away from me, then she was pressing herself closer and closer, her arms around my neck. That's the way we were when the door behind me opened. "Get outa here!" I said hoarsely, without bothering to turn around.

"Not this time, Jonas!"

I gave Rina a shove toward the bedroom, then turned around slowly to face my father-in-law and another man. Behind them was Monica, standing in the doorway. I stared at her. She had a belly way out to here.

The hollow echo of triumph was in Amos Winthrop's voice as he spoke. "Ten grand was too much to give me to send her away before." He chuckled quietly. "How much do you think it'll cost you to get rid of her now?"

As I stared at Monica, I began to curse myself silently. No wonder Amos Winthrop could laugh. I'd known Monica for less than a month before we got married. Even to my untrained eyes, she was at least five months' pregnant. That meant she was two months gone when she married me.

I cursed myself again. There's no fool like a young fool — my old man always used to say. And, as usual, my father was right.

That wasn't my cake she was baking in her oven.

CAREFULLY RINA CLOSED THE MAGAZINE, turning down the corner of the page that she had been reading, and let it drop on the white sheet that covered her.

"Did you want something, dear?" Ilene's voice came from the deep armchair near the bed.

Rina turned to look at her. Ilene's face was thinned by concern. "No," Rina said. "What time is it?"

Ilene looked down at her watch. "Three o'clock."

"Oh," Rina said. "What time did the doctor say he'd come?"

"Four," Ilene answered. "There's nothing I can get for you?"

Rina shook her head. "No, thanks. I'm fine." She picked up the magazine again, riffled through the pages, then threw it back on the coverlet. "I wish to hell they'd let me out of here!"

Ilene was out of the chair now. She looked down at Rina from the side of the bed. "Don't fret," she said quickly. "You'll be out soon enough. Then you'll wish you were still here. I heard that the studio's just waiting for you to get out so they can put you to work in
Madame Pompadour
."

Rina sighed. "Not that old chestnut again. Every time they get stuck for a picture, they take that one down off the shelf and dust it off. Then they make a big announcement and as soon as they get all the trade stories and publicity they can, back it goes on the shelf."

"Not this time," Ilene said earnestly. "I spoke to Bernie Norman in New York yesterday. He has a new writer on it and said the script was shaping up great. He says it's got social significance now."

Rina smiled. "Social significance? Who's writing it — Eugene O'Neill?"

Ilene stared at her. "You knew all the time."

Rina shook her head. "No, I didn't. It was just a wild guess. Has Bernie really got O'Neill?"

Ilene nodded. "He expects to have a copy of the script sent over to you as soon as O'Neill is finished."

Despite herself, Rina was impressed. Maybe this time, Bernie really meant it. She felt a surge of excitement flow into her. O'Neill was a writer, not an ordinary Hollywood hack. He could make something of the story. Then the excitement drained out of her, leaving her even more weary than before. Social significance. Everything that was done these days bore the tag. Ever since Roosevelt took office.

"What time is it?"

"Ten after three," Ilene answered.

Rina leaned back against the pillow. "Why don't you go out and get a cup of coffee?"

Ilene smiled. "I’m all right."

"You've been here all day."

"I want to be here," Ilene answered.

"You go." Rina closed her eyes. "I think I'll take a little nap before the doctor comes."

Ilene stood there for a moment, until she heard the soft, shallow breath of rest. Then gently she straightened the covers and looked into Rina's face. The large eyes were closed, the cheeks thin and drawn tightly across the high cheekbones. There was a faintly blue pallor beneath the California tan. She reached down and brushed the white-blond hair back from Rina's forehead, then quickly kissed the tired mouth and left the room.

The nurse seated in the outer room looked up. "I’m going down for a cup of coffee," Ilene said. "She's sleeping."

The nurse smiled with professional assurance. "Don't worry, Miss Gaillard," she said. "Sleep is the best thing for her."

Ilene nodded and went out into the corridor. She felt the tightness in her chest, the mist that constantly had pressed against her eyes these last few weeks. She came out of the elevator and started for the coffee shop.

Still lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear the doctor until her hand was on the door. "Miss Gaillard?" For a moment, she had no voice. She could only nod dumbly. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," she said.

He smiled and held the door open for her. They went inside to a corner table. The doctor waved his hand and two cups of coffee appeared before them. "How about a bun?" he asked. "You look as if you could use a little food." He laughed in his professional manner. "There's no sense in having another patient just now."

"No, thank you," she said. "The coffee will do fine."

The doctor put down his coffee cup. "Good coffee."

She nodded. "Rina is sleeping." She said the first thing that came into her mind.

"Good." The doctor nodded, looking at her. His dark eyes shone brightly through the bifocals. "Does Miss Marlowe have any relatives out here?"

"No," Ilene answered quickly. Then the implication hit her. She stared at him. "You mean . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"I don't mean anything," the doctor said. "It's just that in cases like this, we like to know the names of the next of kin in case something does happen."

"Rina has no relatives that I know of."

The doctor looked at her curiously. "What about her husband?"

"Who?" Ilene's voice was puzzled.

"Isn't she married to Nevada Smith?" the doctor asked.

"She was," Ilene answered. "But they were divorced three years ago. She's been married since then to Claude Dunbar, the director."

"That ended in divorce, too?"

"No," Ilene answered tersely. Her lips tightened. "He committed suicide, after they'd been married a little over a year."

"Oh," the doctor said. "I’m sorry. I guess I haven't had much time these last few years to keep up with things."

"If there's anything special that needs to be done, I guess I’m the one who could do it," she said. "I'm her closest friend. She gave me power of attorney."

The doctor stared at her silently. She could read what was in his mind behind those shining bifocals. She drew her head up proudly. What did it matter what he thought? What did it matter what anyone thought now?

"Did you get the results from the blood tests?"

The doctor nodded.

She tried to keep her voice from shaking. "Is it leukemia?"

"No," he said. He could see the hope spring up in her eyes. Quickly he spoke to avoid the pain of disappointment. "It was what we thought. Encephalitis." He noted her puzzled expression. "Sometimes it's called sleeping sickness."

The hope in Ilene refused to die. "Then she has a chance?"

"A very small one," the doctor said, still watching her carefully. "But if she lives, there's no telling what she'll be like."

"What do you mean?" Ilene asked harshly.

"Encephalitis is a virus that settles in the brain," he explained slowly. "For the next four or five days, as the virus builds up in intensity, she will be subject to extraordinary high fevers. During these fevers, the virus will attack the brain. It is only after the fever breaks that we'll be able to tell how much damage she has sustained."

"You mean her mind will be gone?" Ilene's eyes were large with horror.

"I don't know," the doctor said. "The damage can take many forms. Her mind; perhaps she'll be paralyzed or partly so; she may know her own name, she may not. The residual effects are similar to a stroke. It depends on what part of the brain has been damaged."

The sick fear came up inside her. Quickly she caught her breath against it, her face paling. "Breathe deeply and sip a little water," the doctor said.

She did as he commanded and the color flooded back into her face. "Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?"

"We're doing everything we can. We know so little about the disease; how it's transmitted. In its more common form, in tropical countries, it's supposed to be carried by insects and transmitted by their bite. But many cases, in the United States and elsewhere, just appear, with no apparent causation at all."

"We just got back from Africa three months ago," Ilene said. "We made a picture there."

"I know," the doctor said. "Miss Marlowe told me about it. That was what first made me suspicious."

"But no one else is sick," Ilene said. "And we were all out there for three months, living exactly the same way, in the same places."

The doctor shrugged. "As I said, we aren't really sure what causes it."

Ilene stared at him. A note of bewilderment crept into her voice. "Why couldn't it be me?" she asked. "She has so much to live for."

The doctor reached across the table and patted her hand. With that one warm gesture, she no longer resented him, as she did most men. "How many times in my life have I heard that question? And I'm no closer to the answer now than when I first began to practice."

She looked at him gratefully. "Do you think we should say anything to her?"

His dark eyes grew large behind his glasses. "What purpose would it serve?" he asked. "Let her have her dreams."

* * *

Rina heard the dim voices outside the door. She was tired, weary and tired, and everything was a soft, blurred haze. Vaguely she wondered if the dream would come again. The thin edges of it poked at her mind. Good. It was coming.

Softly, comfortably now, she let herself slip down into it. Further and further she felt herself dropping into the dream. She smiled unconsciously and turned her face against the pillow. Now she was surrounded by her dream. The dream of death she had dreamed ever since she was a little girl.

IT WAS COOL IN THE YARD BENEATH THE SHADE of the giant old apple trees. Rina sat in the grass and arranged the dolls around the small wooden plank that served as a table.

"Now, Susie," she said to the little dark-haired doll. "You must not gulp your food."

The black eyes of the doll stared unwinkingly back at her.

"Oh, Susie!" she said in imaginary concern. "You spilled it all over your dress! Now I'll have to change you again."

She picked up the doll and undressed it quickly. She washed the clothes in an imaginary tub, then ironed them. "Now you stay clean," she exclaimed in pretended anger.

She turned to the other doll. "Are you enjoying your breakfast, Mary?" She smiled. "Eat it all up. It'll make you big and strong."

Occasionally, she would glance toward the big house. She was happy to be left alone. It wasn't very often that she was. Usually, one or the other of the servants would be calling her to come back in. Then her mother would scold her and tell her that she was not to play in the yard, that she must stay near the kitchen door at the far side of the house.

But she didn't like it there. It was hot and there was no grass, only dirt. Besides, it was near the stables and the smell of the horses. She didn't understand why her mother always made such a fuss. Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe never said anything when they found her there. Once, Mr. Marlowe even had picked her up and swung her high over his head, tickling her with his mustache until she almost burst with hysterical laughter.

But when she'd come inside, her mother had been angry and had spanked her bottom and made her go up to their room and stay there all afternoon. That was the worst punishment of all. She loved to be in the kitchen while her mother cooked the dinner. Everything smelled so good. Everybody always said her mother was the best cook the Marlowes had ever had.

She heard footsteps and looked up. Ronald Marlowe threw himself to the ground beside her. She looked down again and finished feeding Susie, then said in a matter-of-fact voice, "Would you like some dinner, Laddie?"

He sniffed disdainfully from the superiority of his lofty eight years. "I don't see anything to eat."

She turned toward him. "You're not looking," she said. She forced a doll's plate into his hand, "Eat it. It's very good for you."

Reluctantly he pretended to eat. After a moment, he was bored and got to his feet. "I’m hungry," he said. "I’m going in and get some real food."

"You won't get any," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because my mommy's still sick and nobody cooked."

"I'll get something," he said confidently.

She watched him walk away and turned back to her dolls. It was turning dusk when Molly, the upstairs maid, came out looking for her. The girl's face was red from crying. "Come, macushla," she said, sweeping Rina up in her arms. "It's your mither that wants to set eyes on ye again."

Peters, the coachman, was there, as was Mary, the downstairs maid, and Annie, the scullery helper. They were standing around her mother's bed and they made way for her as she came over. There was also a man in a black suit, holding a cross in his hand.