The Ultimate Egoist (30 page)

She got her train, hardly knowing what she was doing, and hours later, when it was time to change trains, she went into a hotel and wrote the first letter to him …

“When I crossed the river,” the letter said, “The first thing I saw was a flag. And it made me think of things—

“The flag stands for something great, something solid and mighty and invincible—something greater than my love for you. It is the only thing I can think of that is worthy of comparison, and worthy of being a reminder.”

She was quoting him directly, and as his heartfelt, colorful words flowed from her pen, she was conscious of being a part of a great power, that was Rad, and Rad’s love, and the flag she had just seen, and the flag that Rad had pointed to when he said those words.

Two days later she arrived back at the city; and the first thing she
did was to burst impulsively in on her employer and thank him for the late vacation she had had that year. Then—back to the job; back to the weary hours of typing and interviewing and the million and one things that make up the life of a private secretary. It was the same as last year, and the year before, with but one difference—the knowledge that Rad had loved her, that he was thinking constantly of her. How did she know?

The day she had arrived—and she had been travelling for more than forty-eight hours—there were two airmail special delivery letters for her. One was dated on Thanksgiving Day—he had begun writing it five minutes after she left—and the other was dated the day after. And each and every day after that, there had been a letter from him. And they were letters, not notes. Eight, nine closely written pages. Each of them was a bit of him—his strength, his ruggedness, and the infinite tenderness that only a strong man can extend. There was a laugh on every page, and a little ache of desire, too. And he told her about himself; each letter was an engrossing chapter in a suave autobiography. Ah, he was a
man!

Peggy answered them, too, all of them. In one of them she said, “Rad, you must be careful, or you’ll overreach yourself. Remember, you must write me until next Thanksgiving. You are setting yourself a task of three hundred and sixty-five letters to me. I love them, darling, but you only ‘contracted’ for fifty-two!”

And in answer he said, “My contract was with you, not with myself, oh light o’ my life. Fifty-two or three hundred and sixty-five—what does it matter? Thanksgiving is Thanksgiving; and oh! am I going to be thankful when it comes!”

That’s what he wrote; and more than anything else in the world it was a picture of him, and of the strong clean way he thought and acted. Sometimes Peggy hated herself for putting him off, and sometimes she was afraid of the power of the man, and sometimes there was no room for anything in her crowded heart but blind worship of him.

She kept all of his letters, and numbered them too. When she had ten of them, she felt that she had known him all her life: and when she had thirty, he seemed more than someone she knew; he was a part of her. When the letters drew into the upper forties, she caught herself wishing that he had written only once a week, because if he had, then the forty-sixth and forty-eighth and fiftieth letters would be near—oh, so near—to the time when he would be at her side again. She began pretending about it, looking forward to that fifty-second letter. If he
had
written only once a week, now, that letter would bring him … she tried to think of what it would be like. She would get up, on the morning she got the Thanksgiving Day letter, and she would dress hurriedly, because it would be her wedding day—oh yes! In his own words, there would be no nonsense!—and she would open the door and slip out, and there at the top of the stairs would be Rad, his arms hungry for her, his eyes bright in his dark face.

The more she thought of this little game of make-believe, the more real it became to her, until she found herself looking forward to that letter as if it would really be that way. Try it, anyone. Live with a vivid expectation, and see how real it will become. And how hard it hits when it doesn’t come as expected …

The fifty-first letter said:

“Peggy, I want you to think hard for the next couple of days about your name, and your title of Miss. You know, you won’t have them forever! Not if I can help it. I can help it, can’t I?”

And a little farther on:

“Peggy, I have a surprise for you. I hadn’t meant to tell you anything about it, but I must; I’m bursting with it. Oh, I love you—I’m going to prove it to you. And so—I have a surprise! And that, adorable child, is all I’m going to tell you!”

Now what on earth was the man hinting at?

The fifty-second day dawned cold and clear, the clean brisk sort of day that was Rad Walsh if he were weather. Peggy woke very, very early, which was silly, because today was a holiday, and she didn’t have to work. She lay there half asleep for a moment, feeling that she should remember something and not knowing quite what it was. When it dawned on her, the force of remembrance bounced her right up out of bed to the middle of the floor. She dressed hurriedly, because this was going to be her wedding day. Her mirror told her blatantly that she was being very silly, and she told it crossly, “Why shouldn’t I pretend?”

She should feel sad, she realized, but somehow she couldn’t. Today—she ran over to the window—today, nothing could go wrong. Today was a day for people to be happy—happy and thankful …

A light knock sounded. And that would be his letter, first thing in the morning, by special delivery. She laughed for joy, flung the door open—and stood there, aghast.

“Rad!” she screamed, and would have fallen if his strong arms had not swept her close to him. They stood there in the doorway for a long time; and then she lifted her face twice to him; once for a kiss, and once to ask questions. Thus things were done in their order of importance!

“Rad, Rad, you darling! You promised to wait a year; you know you did! Oh, I’m glad you didn’t, but …”

“Now, wait a minute,” he said laughingly. “I said—but here … Read for yourself. I’m the mailman—here’s the fifty-second letter.”

Shaking, she took it from him, tore it open. It was short and very much to the point. It said,

“I promised you to write
regularly
, fifty-two letters, and then it would be Thanksgiving again. I saw you last on Thanksgiving Day, in Canada. And in Canada it falls on the first Monday in October.
And you live in the States, where it’s the last Thursday in November. There are exactly fifty-two days between them …”

“Kiss me, Peggy. I’ve got the license.”

Peggy kissed him. And then she married him. And when they came out of the little church around the corner, a parade was passing. Rad leaned down and whispered to her. “Look, Peggy, a band. It’s for us!”

And then came the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack; Peggy and Rad stopped, and Rad took off his hat. When they had passed, Peggy said breathlessly,

“Did you see them, Rad? Side by side, like us. Strong, and solid, and mighty and invincible, like us … I’m thankful, Rad, that they are just a little greater than our love could ever be …”

B
IANCA
’
S MOTHER WAS
leading her when Ran saw her first. Bianca was squat and small, with dank hair and rotten teeth. Her mouth was crooked and it drooled. Either she was blind or she just didn’t care about bumping into things. It didn’t really matter because Bianca was an imbecile. Her hands …

They were lovely hands, graceful hands, hands as soft and smooth and white as snowflakes, hands whose color was lightly tinged with pink like the glow of Mars on snow. They lay on the counter side by side, looking at Ran. They lay there half closed and crouching, each pulsing with a movement like the panting of a field creature, and they looked. Not watched. Later, they watched him. Now they looked. They did, because Ran felt their united gaze, and his heart beat strongly.

Bianca’s mother demanded cheese stridently. Ran brought it to her in his own time while she berated him. She was a bitter woman, as any woman has a right to be who is wife of no man and mother to a monster. Ran gave her the cheese and took her money and never noticed that it was not enough, because of Bianca’s hands. When Bianca’s mother tried to take one of the hands, it scuttled away from the unwanted touch. It did not lift from the counter, but ran on its fingertips to the edge and leaped into a fold of Bianca’s dress. The mother took the unresisting elbow and led Bianca out.

Ran stayed there at the counter unmoving, thinking of Bianca’s hands. Ran was strong and bronze and not very clever. He had never been taught about beauty and strangeness, but he did not need that teaching. His shoulders were wide and his arms were heavy and thick, but he had great soft eyes and thick lashes. They curtained his eyes now. He was seeing Bianca’s hands again dreamily. He found it hard to breathe …

Harding came back. Harding owned the store. He was a large man whose features barely kept his cheeks apart. He said, “Sweep up, Ran. We’re closing early today.” Then he went behind the counter, squeezing past Ran.

Ran got the broom and swept slowly.

“A woman bought cheese,” he said suddenly. “A poor woman, with very old clothes. She was leading a girl. I can’t remember what the girl looked like, except—who was she?”

“I saw them go out,” said Harding. “The woman is Bianca’s mother, and the girl is Bianca. I don’t know their other name. They don’t talk to people much. I wish they wouldn’t come in here. Hurry up, Ran.”

Ran did what was necessary and put away his broom. Before he left he asked, “Where do they live, Bianca and her mother?”

“On the other side. A house on no road, away from people. Good night, Ran.”

Ran went from the shop directly over to the other side, not waiting for his supper. He found the house easily, for it was indeed away from the road, and stood rudely by itself. The townspeople had cauterized the house by wrapping it in empty fields.

Harshly, “What do you want?” Bianca’s mother asked as she opened the door.

“May I come in?”

“What do you want?”

“May I come in?” he asked again. She made as if to slam the door, and then stood aside. “Come.”

Ran went in and stood still. Bianca’s mother crossed the room and sat under an old lamp, in the shadow. Ran sat opposite her, on a three-legged stool. Bianca was not in the room.

The woman tried to speak, but embarrassment clutched at her voice. She withdrew into her bitterness, saying nothing. She kept peeping at Ran, who sat quietly with his arms folded and the uncertain light in his eyes. He knew she would speak soon, and he could wait.

“Ah, well …” She was silent after that, for a time, but now she had forgiven him his intrusion. Then, “It’s a great while since anyone
came to see me; a great while … it was different before. I was a pretty girl—”

She bit her words off and her face popped out of the shadows, shrivelled and sagging as she leaned forward. Ran saw that she was beaten and cowed and did not want to be laughed at.

“Yes,” he said gently. She sighed and leaned back so that her face disappeared again. She said nothing for a moment, sitting looking at Ran, liking him.

“We were happy, the two of us,” she mused, “until Bianca came. He didn’t like her, poor thing, he didn’t, no more than I do now. He went away. I stayed by her because I was her mother. I’d go away myself, I would, but people know me, and I haven’t a penny—not a penny … They’d bring me back to her, they would, to care for her. It doesn’t matter much now, though, because people don’t want me any more than they want her, they don’t …”

Ran shifted his feet uneasily, because the woman was crying. “Have you room for me here?” he asked.

Her head crept out into the light. Ran said swiftly, “I’ll give you money each week, and I’ll bring my own bed and things.” He was afraid she would refuse.

She merged with the shadows again. “If you like,” she said, trembling at her good fortune. “Though why you’d want to … still, I guess if I had a little something to cook up nice, and a good reason for it, I could make someone real cosy here. But—
why?
” She rose. Ran crossed the room and pushed her back into the chair. He stood over her, tall.

“I never want you to ask me that,” he said, speaking very slowly. “Hear?”

She swallowed and nodded. “I’ll come back tomorrow with the bed and things,” he said.

He left her there under the lamp, blinking out of the dimness, folded round and about with her misery and her wonder.

People talked about it. People said, “Ran has moved to the house of Bianca’s mother.” “It must be because—” “Ah,” said some, “Ran was always a strange boy. It must be because—” “Oh,
no!
” cried
others, appalled. “Ran is such a good boy. He wouldn’t—”

Harding was told. He frightened the busy little woman who told him. He said, “Ran is very quiet, but he is honest and he does his work. As long as he comes here in the morning and earns his wage, he can do what he wants, where he wants, and it is not my business to stop him.” He said this so very sharply that the little woman dared not say anything more.

Ran was very happy, living there. Saying little, he began to learn about Bianca’s hands.

He watched Bianca being fed. Her hands would not feed her, the lovely aristocrats. Beautiful parasites they were, taking their animal life from the heavy squat body that carried them, and giving nothing in return. They would lie one on each side of her plate, pulsing, while Bianca’s mother put food into the disinterested drooling mouth. They were shy, those hands, of Ran’s bewitched gaze. Caught out there naked in the light and open of the table-top, they would creep to the edge and drop out of sight—all but four rosy fingertips clutching the cloth.