The Mortgaged Heart (29 page)

"We could live on almost nothing—and live well. I would do all the work—manual work is what pays nowadays—raise everything we eat. We'll have our own hogs and a cow and chickens." After a pause he added, "There won't even be a liquor bill. I will make cider and applejack. Have a press and all."

"I'm tired," Marian said, and she touched her fingers to her forehead.

"There will be no more New York parties and in the evening we'll read the Bible all the way through. I've never read the Bible all the way through, have you?"

"No," she said, "but you don't have to have an apple farm to read the Bible."

"Maybe I have to have the apple farm to read the Bible and to write well too."

"Well, tant pis." The French phrase infuriated him; for a year before they were married she had taught French in high school and occasionally when she was peeved or disappointed with him she used a French phrase that often he did not understand.

He felt a gathering tension between them that he wanted at all cost to wear through. He sat on the bed, hunched and miserable, gazing at the prints on the bedroom wall. "You see, something so screwy has happened to my sights. When I was young I was sure I was going to be a great writer. And then the years passed—I settled on being a fine minor writer. Can you feel the dying fall of this?"

"No, I'm exhausted," she said after a while. "I have been thinking of the Bible too, this last year. One of the first commandments is
Thou
shalt have no other gods before me!
But you and other people like you have made a god of this—illusion. You disregard all other responsibilities—family, finances and even self-respect. You disregard anything that might interfere with your strange god. The golden calf was nothing to this."

"And after settling to be a minor writer I had to lower my sights still further. I wrote scripts for television and tried to become a competent hack. But I failed even to carry that through. Can you understand the horror? I've even become mean-hearted, jealous—I was never that way before. I was a pretty good person when I was happy. The last and final thing is to give up and get a job writing advertising. Can you understand the horror?"

"I've often thought that might be a solution. Anything, darling, to restore your self-respect."

"Yes," he said. "But I'd rather get a job in a morgue or fry hot dogs."

Her eyes were apprehensive. "It's late. Get to bed."

"At the apple farm I would work so hard—laboring work as well as writing. And it would be peaceful and—safe. Why can't we do it, Baby-love?"

She was cutting a hangnail and did not even look at him.

"Maybe I could borrow from your Aunt Rose—in a strictly legal, banking way. With business mortgages on the farm and the crops. And I would dedicate the first book to her."

"Borrow from—not my Aunt Rose!" Marian put the scissors on the table. "I'm going to sleep."

"Why don't you believe in me—and the apple farm? Why don't you want it? It would be so peaceful and—safe. We would be alone and far away—why don't you want it?"

Her black eyes were wide open and he saw in them an expression he had seen only once before. "Because," she said deliberately, "I wouldn't be alone and far away with you on that crazy apple farm for anything—without doctors, friends and help." The apprehension had quickened to fright and her eyes glowed with fear. Her hands picked at the sheet.

Ken's voice was shocked. "Baby, you're not afraid of me! Why, I wouldn't touch your smallest eyelash. I don't even want the wind to blow on you—I couldn't hurt—"

Marian settled her pillow and, turning her back, lay down. "All right. Good night."

For a while he sat dazed, then he knelt on the floor beside Marian's bed and his hand rested gently on her buttocks. The dull pulse of desire was prompted by the touch. "Come! I'll take off my clothes. Let's cozy." He waited, but she did not move or answer.

"Come, Baby-love."

"No," she said. But his love was rising and he did not notice her words—his hand trembled and the fingernails were dingy against the white blanket. "No more," she said. "Not ever."

"Please, love. Then afterward we can be at peace and can sleep. Darling, darling, you're all I have. You're the gold in my life!"

Marian pushed his hand away and sat up abruptly. The fear was replaced by a flash of anger, and the blue vein was prominent on her temple. "Gold in your life—" Her voice intended irony but somehow failed. "In any case—I'm your bread and butter."

The insult of the words reached him slowly, then anger leaped as sudden as a flame, "I—I—"

"You think you're the only one who has been disappointed. I married a writer who I thought would become a great writer. I was glad to support you—I thought it would pay off. So I worked at an office while you could sit there—lowering your sights. God, what has happened to us?"

"I—I—" But rage would not yet let him speak.

"Maybe you could have been helped. If you had gone to the doctor when that block started. We've both known for a long time you are—sick."

Again he saw the expression he had seen before—it was the look that was the only thing he remembered in that awful blackout—the black eyes brilliant with fear and the prominent temple vein. He caught, reflected the same expression, so that their eyes were fixed for a time, blazing with terror.

Unable to stand this, Ken picked up the scissors from the bedside table and held them above his head, his eyes fixed on her temple vein. "Sick!" he said at last. "You mean—crazy. I'll teach you to be afraid that I am crazy. I'll teach you to talk about bread and butter. I'll teach you to think I'm crazy!"

Marian's eyes sparkled with alarm and she tried weakly to move. The vein writhed in her temple. "Don't you move." Then with a great effort he opened his hand and the scissors fell on the carpeted floor. "Sorry," he said. "Excuse me." After a dazed look around the room he saw the typewriter and went to it quickly.

"I'll take the typewriter in the living room. I didn't finish my quota today—you have to be disciplined about things like that."

He sat at the typewriter in the living room, alternating X and R for the sound. After some lines of this he paused and said in an empty voice: "This story is sitting up on its hind legs at last." Then he began to write:
The lazy brown fox jumped over the cunning dog.
He wrote this a number of times, then leaned back in his chair.

"Dearest Pie," he said urgently. "You know how I love you. You're the only woman I ever thought about. You're my life. Don't you understand, my dearest Pie?"

She didn't answer and the apartment was silent except for the rumble of the radiator pipes.

"Forgive me," he said. "I'm so sorry I picked up the scissors. You know I wouldn't even pinch you too hard. Tell me you forgive me. Please, please tell me."

Still there was no answer.

"I'm going to be a good husband. I'll even get a job in an advertising office. I'll be a Sunday poet—writing only on weekends and holidays. I will, my darling, I will!" he said desperately. "Although I'd much rather fry hot dogs in the morgue."

Was it the snow that made the rooms so silent? He was conscious of his own heart beating and he wrote:

Why am I so afraid

Why am I so afraid

Why am I so afraid???

He got up and in the kitchen opened the icebox door. "Hon, I'm going to fix you something good to eat. What's that dark thing in the saucer in the corner? Why, it's the liver from last Sunday's dinner—you're crazy about chicken liver or would you rather have something piping hot like soup? Which, Hon?"

There was no sound.

"I bet you haven't even eaten a bite of supper. You must be exhausted—with those awful parties and drinking and walking—without a living bite. I have to take care of you. We'll eat and afterward we can cozy."

He stood still, listening. Then, with the grease-jelled chicken liver in his hands, he tiptoed to the bedroom. The room and bath were both empty. Carefully he placed the chicken liver on the white bureau scarf. Then he stood in the doorway, his foot raised to walk and left suspended for some moments. Afterward he opened closets, even the broom closet in the kitchen, looked behind furniture and peered under the bed. Marian was nowhere at all. Finally he realized that the leopard coat and her purse were gone. He was panting when he sat down to telephone.

"Hey, Doctor. Ken Harris speaking. My wife has disappeared. Just walked out while I was writing at the typewriter. Is she with you? Did she phone?" He made squares and wavy lines on the pad. "Hell yes, we quarreled! I picked up the scissors—no, I did not touch her! I wouldn't hurt her little fingernail. No, she's not hurt—how did you get that idea?" Ken listened. "I just want to tell you this. I know you have hypnotized my wife—poisoned her mind against me. If anything happens between my wife and me I'm going to kill you. I'll go up to your nosy Park Avenue office and kill you dead."

Alone in the empty, silent rooms, he felt an undefinable fear that reminded him of his ghost-haunted babyhood. He sat on the bed, his shoes still on, cradling his knees with both arms. A line of poetry came to him. "My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?" He sobbed and bit his trousered knee.

After a while he called the places he thought she might be, accused friends of interfering with their marriage or of hiding Marian... When he called Mabel Goodley he had forgotten the episode of the early evening and he said he wanted to come around to see her. When she said it was three o'clock and she had to get up in the morning he asked what friends were for if not for times like this. And he accused her of hiding Marian, of interfering with their marriage and of being in cahoots with the evil psychiatrist....

At the end of the night it stopped snowing. The early dawn was pearl gray and the day would be fair and very cold. At sunrise Ken put on his overcoat and went downstairs. At that hour there was no one on the street. The sun dappled the fresh snow with gold, and shadows were cold lavender. His senses searched the frozen radiance of the morning and he was thinking he should have written about such a day—that was what he had really meant to write.

A hunched and haggard figure with luminous, lost eyes, Ken plodded slowly toward the subway. He thought of the wheels of the train and the gritty wind, the roar. He wondered if it was true that in the final moment of death the brain blazes with all the images of the past—the apple trees, the loves, the cadence of lost voices—all fused and vivid in the dying brain. He walked very slowly, his eyes fixed on his solitary footsteps and the blank snow ahead.

A mounted policeman was passing along the curb near him. The horse's breath showed in the still, cold air and his eyes were purple, liquid.

"Hey, Officer. I have something to report. My wife picked up the scissors at me—aiming for that little blue vein. Then she left the apartment. My wife is very sick—crazy. She ought to be helped before something awful happens. She didn't eat a bite of supper—not even the little chicken liver."

Ken plodded on laboriously, and the officer watched him as he went away. Ken's destination was as uncontrollable as the unseen wind and Ken thought only of his footsteps and the unmarked way ahead.

[
Mademoiselle,
September 1956]

F
ASHION MAGAZINES
in America have long been a home for some of the finest writing from this country and abroad. Certainly
Harper's Bazaar, Vogue
and
Mademoiselle
are outstanding examples of this contribution to both readers and writers, which in turn has enhanced the reputations of the magazines.
Harper's Bazaar
published some of Carson's finest fiction:
The Ballad of the Sad Café;
"A Tree, a Rock, a Cloud"; and
Reflections in a Golden Eye.
Since all of these are now among her readily available work, they are not included in this volume.
Vogue
published articles by Carson and
Mademoiselle
published stories, articles and poems. Most of Carson's nonfiction is gathered together in this section. What is omitted are those pieces that are either similar in content to the ones chosen or that simply don't hold up as well as the bulk of her writing.

The articles have been arranged loosely by subject. There was hardly a family we knew that was not involved in some way with World War II. The servicemen were our contemporaries: Reeves (Carson's husband) volunteered for the Rangers, our brother Lamar for the Navy and our cousins and in-laws and friends were in the service. Carson's commitment involved in part, as it did for most of us, a very personal concern.

There are as many articles on Christmas (three are included here) as there are on World War II and one of them written during the war years. Christmas was Carson's favorite holiday and fall and winter her favorite times of the year. Often her work evokes a longing for the cold and snow as seen in Frankie Addams' dreams of Winter Hill, or she summons the autumn with her descriptions of a "hunting dawn,"
the making of cane syrup, or slaughtering day after the first frost. Mother's fruitcakes were baked before Thanksgiving and were so famous that the time our house burned down when we were children, the only thing that our brother thought was valuable enough to save were a few freshly baked fruitcakes soaking in good bourbon and wrapped in linen napkins and not to be cut until Christmas. When Carson suffered her massive brain hemorrhage at the end of the summer of 1967, she had completed most of her Christmas shopping which she conducted by phone, through the mail or with the good services of her friends.

It is fitting that the very last writing of Carson's was a brief piece on Christmas for
McCall's.
It was published after she died. In this, she tells of reading "The Dead" to her young hospital roommate. Mother always read this story aloud to us at Christmastime. No doubt it was Carson who introduced Mother to James Joyce's work and "The Dead" became a family favorite.