The Carpetbaggers (33 page)

"Nothing," he gasped, trying to choke back the tears. "Nothing."

She stroked his head gently. "Something is wrong," she said softly. "I know there is. You can tell me, Laddie. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’ll understand and try to help."

"There's nothing you can do," he cried. "Nothing anybody can do now!"

"Try me and see." He didn't speak, his eyes searching her face for something, she didn't know what. A curious dread came into her. "Has it— is it something to do with Rina?"

It was as if the muscles that held his face together all dissolved at once. "Yes, yes!" he cried. "She's going to have a baby! My baby, Mother," he added through tight lips. "I raped her, she's going to have my baby!"

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, Mother," he said, his face suddenly stony.

The tears sprang to her eyes and she covered her face with her hands. This couldn't happen to her children. Not her children. She had wanted everything for them, given them everything. After a moment, she regained control of herself. "I think we'd better turn back," she managed to say quietly.

"We are, Mother," he said. He looked down at his hands on the tiller. The words slipped from him now. "I don't know what got into me, Mother." He stared at her with agonized eyes, his voice strained and tense. "But growing up isn't what it's cracked up to be, it's not what it says in books. Growing up's such a crock of shit!"

He stopped in shock at his own language. "I'm sorry, Mother."

"It's all right, son."

They were silent for a moment and the waves slapped wildly against the hull of the boat. "You mustn't blame Rina, Mother," he said, raising his voice. "She's only a kid. Whatever happened was my fault."

She looked up at her son. A glimmer of intuition pierced the gray veil that seemed to have fallen in front of her eyes. "Rina's a very beautiful girl, Laddie," she said. "I think anyone would find it difficult not to love your sister."

Laddie met his mother's eyes. "I love her, Mother," he said quietly. "And she really isn't my sister."

Geraldine didn't speak.

"Is it terribly wrong to say that, Mother?" he asked. "I don't love her like a sister. I love her" — he searched for a word — "different."

Different, Geraldine thought. It was as good a word as any.

"Is it terribly wrong, Mother?" Laddie asked again.

She looked at her son, feeling a sorrow for him that she could not explain. "No, Laddie," she said quietly. "It’s just one of those things that can't be helped."

He took a deep breath, beginning to feel better. At least she understood, she hadn't condemned him. "What are we going to do, Mother?" he asked.

She looked into his eyes. "The first thing we have to do is let Rina know we understand. The poor child must be frightened out of her mind."

He reached forward and took his mother's hand, pressing it to his lips. "You're so good to us, Mother," he whispered, looking gratefully into her eyes.

They were the last words he ever spoke. For just at that moment, the squall came roaring in from the starboard side and capsized the boat.

* * *

Rina watched stolidly as the lobstermen brought the pitifully small bodies to the shore and laid them on the beach. She looked down at them. Laddie and Mother. A vague spinning began to roar inside her. A cramp suddenly seized her groin and she doubled over, sinking to her knees in the sand beside the still figures. She closed her eyes, weeping as a terrible moisture began to seep from her.

MARGARET BRADLEY LOOKED DOWN WEARILY AT the papers on her desk. They were covered with the hen-tracked hieroglyphics of the girls who trooped through her science classes. Abruptly she pushed them to one side and got to her feet. She walked over to the window and looked out restlessly. She was bored, tired of the never-ending, day-in, day-out routine.

Looking out into the gray dusk of evening, she wondered why Sally's letter hadn't arrived yet. It had been more than two weeks since she'd heard from her and usually letters came regularly twice a week. Could it be that Sally had found someone else? Another friend with whom she could share those
intime
whispered secrets?

There was a hesitant knock at the door and she turned toward it. "Yes?"

"A special-delivery letter for you, Miss Bradley." It was the quavering voice of Thomas, the porter.

Quickly she opened the door and took the letter. "Thank you very much, Thomas," she said, closing the door.

She leaned against it, looking down at the letter in her hand. She began to feel brighter. It was Sally's handwriting. She crossed to her desk and rapidly tore open the envelope.

Dear Peggy,

Yesterday I was married. . . .

The knock at the door was so low that at first she did not hear it. It came again, a little louder this time. She raised her head from the desk. "Who is it?" she called in her husky voice.

"Rina Marlowe, Miss Bradley. May I see you for a moment?"

Wearily the teacher got to her feet. "Just a moment," she called.

She walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her lipstick slightly smeared. She looked older than her twenty-six years. She turned on the tap and cleaned the make-up from her face with a washcloth. She stared at herself. For ten years, she and Sally had been inseparable. Now it was over.

She replaced the washcloth on the rack and walked out to the door. "Come in," she said, opening it.

Rina looked into the teacher's face. Miss Bradley looked as if she had been crying. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she said. "I can come back later if you like."

The teacher shook her head. "No, that's all right," she answered. She crossed to the small desk and sat down behind it. "What is it?"

Rina shut the door behind her slowly. "I was wondering if I could be excused from the dance Saturday night?"

Margaret Bradley stared at her. For a moment, she couldn't believe her ears. Missing the monthly dance was considered the ultimate punishment. The girls would do anything rather than lose that privilege. It was the only time boys were allowed within the confines of the school. "I don't understand," she said.

Rina looked down at the floor. "I just don't want to go, that's all."

It wasn't because the boys didn't like her. The teacher knew it was quite the opposite. The slim, blond sixteen-year-old standing before her was surrounded by boys at every dance. She came from a good family. The Marlowes were well known in Boston. Her father was a banker, a widower.

"That's a rather strange request," she said. "You must have a reason."

Rina still looked down at the floor. She didn't answer.

Margaret Bradley forced a smile to her lips. "Come now," she said in a friendly voice. "You can talk to me. I'm not that much older than you that I wouldn't understand."

Rina looked up at her and she was surprised by the deep revelation of fear in the girl's eyes. Then it was gone and she looked down at the floor again.

The teacher got up and walked around the desk. She took Rina's hand and led her to a seat. "You're afraid of something," she said gently.

"I can't stand them touching me," she whispered.

"Them?" Margaret Bradley asked, her voice puzzled. "Who?"

"Boys. They all want to touch me and my skin creeps." Rina looked up suddenly. "It would be all right if they just wanted to dance or to talk but they're always trying to get you alone someplace."

"What boys?" The teacher's voice was suddenly harsh. "We'll soon put a stop to their coming here."

Rina got up suddenly. "I’d better go," she said nervously. "I didn't think it would work, anyway."

She started for the door. "Wait a minute!" Margaret Bradley's voice was commanding. Rina turned and looked back at her. "Did any of them do more than— than just touch you?"

Rina shook her head.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Rina answered.

"I guess by now you know that boys are always like that."

Rina nodded.

"I felt the same way when I was your age."

"You did?" Rina asked. A note of relief came into her voice. "I thought I was the only one. None of the other girls feel the way I do."

'They’re fools!" The teacher's voice was full of a harsh anger, but she checked herself sharply. There was no sense in allowing her bitterness to expose her. "I was just going to make myself a cup of tea," she said. "Would you care to join me?"

Rina hesitated. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"It won't be any trouble at all," Margaret Bradley said. "Now, you just sit down and make yourself comfortable. I'll have the tea ready in a minute."

She went into the small kitchenette. To her surprise, she found herself humming as she turned on the burner beneath the teakettle.

* * *

"I think a summer in Europe between now and the time she goes to Smith in the fall would be of great benefit to her," Margaret Bradley said.

Harrison Marlowe leaned back in his chair and looked at the teacher across the white expanse of the dinner table, then at Rina, seated opposite her. What he saw inspired a kind of confidence in him. A plain, not unattractive young woman in her late twenties, he imagined. She wore simple, tailored clothes, almost mannish in their effect, that seemed to proclaim her profession. She had none of the foolish mannerisms that so many of the young women had today. There was nothing of the flapper about her. She was very serious and businesslike.

"Her mother and I often spoke about Rina going to Europe," he began tentatively.

"No girl is considered quite finished if she hasn't spent some time there," the teacher said assuredly.

Marlowe nodded slowly. It was a great responsibility bringing up a daughter. Somehow he had never realized it until several months ago, when he had come into the parlor and found Rina there.

She was wearing a dark-blue dress that somehow made her seem older than her years. Her white-blond hair shone in the semidimness.

"Hello, Father."

"Rina!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing home?"

"I got to thinking how awful it must be for you to come into this great big empty house and find yourself all alone," she said, "so I thought I'd take a few days off from school."

"But— but what about your studies?" he asked.

"I can make them up easily enough."

"But— "

"Aren't you glad to see me, Father?" she asked, interrupting.

"Of course I am," he said quickly.

"Then why don't you kiss me?" She turned her cheek toward him. He kissed her cheek. As he straightened up, she held him with her arm. "Now I'll kiss you."

She kissed him on the mouth and her lips were warm. Then she laughed suddenly. "Your mustache tickles!"

He smiled down at her. "You always said that," he said fondly. "Ever since you were a little girl."

"But I'm not a little girl any longer, am I, Father?"

He looked at her, beautiful, almost a woman in her dark-blue dress. "I guess not," he said.

She turned to the sideboard. "I thought you might like a drink before dinner."

The bottles of liquor were all ready for him. He walked over to the sideboard. She even had cracked ice in the bucket. "What's for dinner?" he asked.

"I had Molly make your favorite. Roast chicken,
rissolé
potatoes."

"Good," he said, reaching for a bottle of whisky. Her voice stopped his hand.

"Wouldn't you like a Martini? You haven't had one for a long time."

He hesitated a moment, then reached for the bottle of gin. It wasn't until he turned around that he realized there were two cocktails in his hand. Habit was a strange commander. He turned to put one of them back on the sideboard.

"May I, Father? I'm past sixteen. There are many girls at school whose parents allow them a cocktail at dinner."

He stared at her, then poured half of one drink back into the shaker. He gave her the half-filled glass. He raised his glass in a toast.

She smiled, sipping delicately at her glass. "This is delicious," she said, in exactly the same words and tone of voice he had so often heard his wife use.

He felt the hot, uncontrollable tears leap into his eyes and turned away swiftly so that she would not see. Her hand caught at his sleeve and he turned back to her. Her eyes were deep with sympathy. He let her draw him down slowly to the couch beside her.

And then, for a moment, he wasn't her father. He was just a lonely man weeping against the breast of his mother, his wife, his daughter. He felt her young, strong arms around his shoulders, her fingers lightly brushing his hair. He heard the rumble of her whispered voice within her chest. "Poor Daddy, poor Daddy."

As suddenly as it had come, the moment was gone and he was aware only of the firm, taut breasts against his cheek. Self-consciously he raised his head. "I guess I made a fool of myself," he said awkwardly.

"No, Father," she said quietly. "For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like a child any more. I felt grown up and needed."

He forced a tired smile to his lips. "There's time enough for you to grow up."

Later that night, after dinner, she came over and sat on the arm of his chair. "I'm not going back to school any more," she said. "I'm going to stay home and keep house for you."

He smiled. "You'd get bored with that quickly enough," he said. "You'd miss the excitement of school, of boy friends— "

"Boys!" she said scornfully. "I can do without them. They're a bunch of grubby little animals always mooning after you. I can't stand them."

"You can't, eh?" he said quizzically. "Just what kind of man would please your majesty?"

She looked down at him seriously. "I think an older man," she said. "Someone like you, maybe. Someone who makes me feel safe and secure and needed. Boys are always trying to get something from you, show that they're stronger, more important."

He laughed. "That's only because they're young."

"I know," she answered, still serious. "That's why they frighten me. They're only interested in what they want; they don't care about me." She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Your hair is so nice with that touch of gray in it." A note of regret came into her voice. "Too bad I can't marry you. I love you, Father."