Galatea

  “Is He so easy fooled?”

  “I tell you I’ve been living a lie.”

  “And so far as reasons go, on this, there aren’t any bad ones. Some are better than others, that’s all that can be said. Listen, it’s getting late. Shove off, and make with the mumbling.”

  “ ... If I do.”

  “If? You better, do you hear me?”

  She tied a scarf over her head, dropped the robe from her knees, and got out. She had put on a light tan coat, and stopped to button it. Then, her head bowed, she walked quite slow to a break in the hedge, went through, and headed for the church. She was gone some little time. A guy came out, and two or three women went in. Then here she came back, but the way her head was still bent didn’t mean peace of mind. She got in, pulled the robe over her knees, leaned her head on the door, but so the scarf hid her face. I waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, asked her: “You pray?”

  “ ... I didn’t go in.”

  “Why not?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  She looked at the trees, and went on: “I went up to the door, then wanted to wait or something. Lloyd Dennis, my uncle, came out, passed, and didn’t know me. I realized, then, how different I must look, and a funny feeling came over me. Then those ladies came up, half peeped, and went in, and didn’t know me either, though I know them, from way-back. It was like that dream you have, where you’re floating downstairs, and everyone is there, staring into the coffin, and it’s you, so beautiful and all, at your own funeral. I wanted to go in, and couldn’t. I walked to the edge of the bluff, so nobody else would see me, and tried to make myself go in and kneel—and that’s all. I thought: if I could just come down here, where it’s part of me and all—I would get straightened out. I’m not. I’m in—worse shape—than ever.”

  She started to cry, and I pulled ahead. I swung left past the statehouse, hit No. 5 again, and started back where we came from. After we passed the inlet, and were in open country again, I said: “Listen, you can’t kid a pal. There’s more to this, a whole lot more, than fine points connected with reasons. If that was all, you could start over, and I imagine God would be satisfied. Now, out with it: what’s this really about?”

  “I couldn’t make myself tell you. Duke, some things are so black you dare not take them to church. You can’t have them in your heart when you kneel in there. To make with the mumbling, that’s sweet, to hear you say it, to know how you feel about it. But it’s not enough, to mumble. It won’t cleanse your heart. That has to come first—then all the rest follows. Duke, for the first time since I’ve owned that place up there, since by a crazy accident it was left to me—I’ve known Booth to be there. In me has been evil.”

  It seemed, for some minutes, the most beautiful wish of my life, that I might perhaps hold her close, tell her to open her heart, so I could make the evil go away—whatever it was. I took it to be some hangover of the rows she’d had with Val. But then, all of a sudden, she said: “How far would you go for a friend?”

  “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

  “I know how far you went.”

  She said that day by the tree I could have saved myself and left her there to be killed, with nobody the wiser, and that instead I had saved her first and only then myself. She said: “I can’t do less, and won’t.”

  There was something terrible about it, and for some minutes my heart just sang. But then here it came creeping in, that same fear I had had, of prison, and the spot I was in. She could mean, I realized, that something was in the wind, that the cops had something in mind, or Val had, or somebody. I said: “Are you talking about me? My release? Or—some kind of trial I may have to face?”

  “You are released. Aren’t you?”

  “Not to be told, anyhow.”

  “I don’t understand you, Duke. I know nothing about your release, beyond what Val tried to tell me, over the phone that night, when I cut him off. I’ve never discussed it since, with him or anybody. Why? Has something come up?”

  “Nothing’s come up, that I know of. And nothing’s been settled either. I just thought—from what you said just now—you could have heard something. I’m sorry I brought the thing up. Let’s skip it.”

  “You want to leave? That’s it?”

  “I’d like to know where I’m at.”

  “Then—please—ask Val.”

  We sounded like a hired man making his squawk and the boss’s wife not liking it. Of what had been between us, or I supposed there had been, there wasn’t even a trace. I drove on, sick with fear, trembling from her hold on me, and furious that so long as things held like they were, I couldn’t hold my head up.

  CHAPTER XI

  THAT NIGHT, AT DINNER, instead of eating her fruit, she cut herself some pie, wrapped it in a doily, and said she’d have it later, while Val all but danced, and I went to bed sicker than ever. Next day, and for several days, she let me eat alone, humming little tunes as she served my food, and saying nothing at all, except maybe what beautiful weather. And then one day in the field, while I was sorting the pumpkins to be wired as counter displays in the restaurants at Halloween, I heard the slam of a car door, and when I looked, there was Bill. I managed to come out with the usual hello, where-you-been, and long-time-no-see, but he didn’t hear me, and didn’t see my hand. He popped out with it quick, like on purpose to catch my guard down and watch the look in my eyes: “What cooks with Holly?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  It came out without my knowing it would, and sounded mean, but he sounded meaner still. He said: “Cut out the goddam stalling.”

  “What does she say about it?”

  “Nothing, but you will, Duke. She’s in the house right now, not answering the bell, pretending she’s not there. But her car’s there, so she is. It’s gone on now three months. She calls every day, she talks to Mom, to Marge, to me, to everyone. But she doesn’t come and she doesn’t ask anyone here. Something’s up. What is it?”

  I took a crate off the trailer, put it down for him to sit on, climbed on the tractor seat, and by then had my face fixed up, and had also had time to think. I said: “Listen, I love you chum, but this is her business, not mine.”

  “You playing around with her?”

  “I—what?”

  “You heard me, I think.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say.”

  “Nicer yet to do.”

  “What makes you think I am?”

  “She never mentions you. Talks all kind of stuff, never a word about you. Don’t that hit you funny?”

  “Not even slightly amusing.”

  “Might interest Val, though.”

  “Not unless somebody tipped him.”

  “Duke, that bassid’s no friend of mine, but between scum that washed dishes and a right guy that did time, I still string with the bedbug. You just as well know it.”

  “I was detained one night.”

  “Jail’s jail.”

  It was a jolt to the belt, as I’d liked him, and it didn’t help much to see he still liked me and hated to say such stuff. Kind of a pall came down, so you could hear the birds. Then: “Duke, something goes on, and knowing what it could be, I got to make you talk.”

  “What could it be, then?”

  “Hollis Valenty.”

  “I never heard of Hollis Valenty.”

  “You sure? You sure that scum hasn’t been bragging on Hollis Valenty? You telling me the truth?”

  I got down from the tractor seat, gave him a little cuff, just with the flat of my hand, but enough to remind him who he was talking to. I said: “Spit it out: who is Hollis Valenty?”

  “A dream. What Vally lives for.”

  And then: “Hollis Valenty’s a nit, a little bedbug he wants. That’s to be named, boy or girl, Hollis Valenty. After that, she can die tomorrow, for all that’s he gives a hoot. What does he care? He’s got this child, mingling his name and hers. He—”

  He didn’t finish, as my lunch came
up, and he held my head to steady me. When he saw my Thermos in the trailer, he unscrewed it and poured me some water. Soon as I’d rinsed my mouth, I said: “It’s not Hollis Valenty. That I know of.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “She lost weight.”

  “You mean she’s sick?”

  “I mean she’s not.”

  I tried to leave it at that, but my face wouldn’t fix any more, and I burst out: “Permit me to change that a little. She wasn’t due to be sick, she was well on the road to health, with the help of a diet I gave her, that she wanted kept quiet for some reason—until she backslid, like the gutless slug that she is, as I knew she would all that time. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy, doing my labor, in lieu of the jail I never served in, but that you were kind enough to mention just now—so how’d you like to get out?”

  “I take the jail part back.”

  “I told you, shove off.”

  “I was hell-bent to smoke you out.”

  “You’ll be bent worse than that if you stand there chattering much longer.”

  “At least we know it’s not you.”

  He had a funny look as he got in his car, but I went back to my pumpkins, loading them on the trailer. Then she was there, in the outfit she’d worn on the trip, blowing a little and wanting to know what he’d come for. I paid no attention and went on with my work. She asked what had made me sick, and by that time I was loaded, ready to haul to the cottage, where I’d clean, cut, and wire. I started the tractor and pulled up to the patio, sounding like the field artillery. She walked along behind, and when I stopped she said: “You better come in and sit down. You’re white as a sheet.”

  She took hold of me and led me into the living-room and sat me down in my usual place on the love seat. She went and got some buttermilk, said: “I’ve been putting this on my salad to vary the monotony. If you can drink it, it should settle your stomach.”

  I drank it and she brought me another. Then she sat beside me and asked once more what made me sick. Then: “That lunch I gave you, every bit of that food, was all right, I would bet on it.”

  “Wasn’t the food. Was the talk.”

  “Something he said?”

  “Hollis Valenty.”

  “So he brought that up?”

  “He knew it had to be something that was making you hide. He thought that could be it. With Marge, he figured it out.”

  “And that made you sick?”

  “Not really, just a little.”

  She suddenly seemed quite friendly and told me sip my buttermilk a little bit at a time, as it would stay down better that way. Then: “What did you tell him it was?”

  “Just a weak stab at a good idea, that lasted until you backslid. On account of you being ‘a gutless slug’ were my exact words, I think, if they matter at all.”

  “Something I wanted to show you.”

  She went out toward her bedroom, while I sat and sipped and sulked. She was going some minutes, but when she came back she had on the same maroon snakeskin shoes, but slacks and a different sweater. The sweater was blue, and hugged her in a way that made me feel faint all over again. The slacks were gray, and fit her like skin on a doe, so you could see the muscles and the set of her strength. She said: “I fell for these slacks and the little sweater to go with them, one day last week, when I slipped off to the city. But I was still too big to get into them. Now, though, I’ve lost still more weight, they slip on just like a glove.”

  I said they were fine, and she came close, so I could see. All of a sudden, I could smell it, the package she had in her hand, which had to be the same old piece of pie, in the same old paper doily, that she’d taken to eat that night. She went into the kitchen with it, and I heard the clink of the garbage can. She came back and said: “You were so busy being spiteful, in the pumpkin patch just now, you didn’t notice how I got there. Or even ask, that I heard.”

  “Well, how did you?”

  “I ran.”

  She ran down again, held my glass to my mouth for a little sip, put it down, wiped my lips with her handkerchief, and said: “For some time now, I’ve walked good as anybody. Today, when Bill left, and I had to know what he wanted—I ran. I forgot myself and ran. I was halfway out there when I realized what I was doing. I felt like a calf. A little calf. Running around her mother. In the pasture kicking her heels up.”

  “I was busy, I didn’t see it.”

  “Me, you mean.”

  “I was behind with my work.”

  “What comes next after running?”

  “That’s about it, I would say.”

  “Oh no, Duke, there’s more!”

  “I’ll bite. What is it?”

  “Next in order is dancing.”

  “All right, dance.”

  “If someone taught me how.”

  “Don’t you know how?”

  “How would I know? Who would have danced with me? Who’d dance with a hogshead of tobacco?”

  That stabbed my heart, because while I had known all the big reasons for her to start a new life, I kept forgetting there were little, childish ones too, that maybe meant a lot to her. I said: “I’ll teach you.”

  “When you feel better, Duke.”

  “I feel O.K. now.”

  She went over to the radio, fiddled with it, found an FM station playing dance music. I gave her the general idea, put my arm around her, and said: “The two main things are: follow your partner’s lead, and keep time to the music. Don’t think of your feet. They’ll pick up the step, give them half a chance.”

  We danced some little time, and it really was childish, the kick it seemed to give her. After she got the hang of it, so she relaxed nice to my lead and eased off from trying to concentrate, we could take it slower, and let it come dreamy. In between, while the announcer made with his chatter, we kept right on with our swaying, so when the music started again, we took up where we left off. Little by little, my face was deep in her hair, where it was fluffed by the little red ribbon, and my cheek began touching hers. She didn’t pull away, but let her mouth come edging around toward mine. Then I could feel lips, like soft, shy little flowers. Then, through my heart, crept a tiny, yellow thread.

  I pulled away.

  I stopped dancing.

  I said: “Got work to do.”

  I left her crying and went.

  Supper, after the flurry of good feeling we’d had, was right back in the grit, with her saying nothing, he nothing, and me less, if possible. Soon as I finished, I took the Scotch tape, wires, and bulbs he’d brought out from town, and took them out to the cottage. I got a garbage can, sat on the cottage porch, and began my cleaning and cutting. I scooped out pulp and seeds, then cut the face in each one. I made triangle eyes, triangle nose, and overlapping triangle grin. There were twenty-four to be done in all, two apiece for the smaller places and seven pairs for the Ladyship, and when I was done out front, I took them all to the bedroom, where a baseboard plug was handy, for the electrical work, and tests. It took until well after twelve, but in the middle of it, around nine I would say, there he was in the door, I supposed to see how it went. He said the work looked fine, but instead of pinning medals all over his chest, on how that’s all it took, a little imagination, to decorate a restaurant nice, he sat on my bed, very low. Then: “Duke, has anyone been out here?”

  “Why, Mr. Val, all kinds of people come. Homer, every day. The oil man, to fill the tank. The meter man, to take readings. They’ve all been out, I guess. If that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “You ever hear of Sol Lippert?”

  “Not that I know of, no.”

  “He’s a racketeer, Duke. He sells liquor, and keeps calling me up. It’s business, or could be. He says he wants my account. And yet—and yet—I can’t shake off a feeling he’s checking on my whereabouts. Has he been out here?”

  “I haven’t seen such a guy.”

  “Something’s going on.”

  And then, after snapping
his fingers some minutes: “Duke, if he comes, I want to know.”

  “Sir, on what doesn’t concern me—”

  “Duke!”

  “Yes, sir. O.K.”

  That night was even blacker than the one in jail. I hated myself for discussing her, or anything that might mean her, with him, behind her back. I hated the yellow thread that had wriggled through my heart. Most of all, I hated the way I’d refused her soft little flower and ground it under my heel. At last, dog-tired, I slept, but not for long, it turned out. Along toward morning I woke, dreaming about Wilkes Booth. Mixed in with the dream was a bell, the same tiny cat’s bell I’d heard that first night. I got up, put on a robe, and went out to check on my can, that the lid was on tight, with the handle pulled up. I went back, got in bed again, and tried to go back to sleep, but once more I felt evil outside, as well as inside me, and didn’t know why.

  CHAPTER XII

  IN THE MORNING, VAL SAID a power crew was coming, to fix stuff on the road, and that I should stand by to help. He had little to say as I put him in the car, and just stared at the sky, his eyes squinched up small. That wasn’t so good, as I’d have been a fool not to know that one day he had to wake up to what this was, but the job suited me fine. She hadn’t showed for breakfast, and if I could skip the hams, I needn’t see her at all, could even have lunch in Clinton while I tried to think things out. Around nine came the truck, and the job was to clear a cable fouled on a tree, a big oak that Val liked and meant to save if he could. Resetting a pole would do it, so while the boys tightened a guy, I worked the clamp, topside. It took less than an hour, but in the middle of it, what do I see but her? She was all dressed in a suit, a brown one I hadn’t seen, with the same maroon shoes, and a hat and bag to match. From my pole I watched her come out, go back and unstable her car, close the garage, and go rolling off to the city without one look in my direction.

  As to what went through my heart, I’m not sure that I know, or even if anything did, as by that time my heart had had about all it was able to take. But I know what went through my head, which was: “If anything’s to be done, you better get at it and do it, as this is your big chance.” Soon as the power crew went, I legged it up to the house, let myself in with my key, and called Bill at Waldorf. I said: “Pal, I thought it over, and now, as I believe, I got stuff to tell you.”