The Road Through the Wall

  A pounding upstairs indicated that the boys were up and quarreling. Mrs. Roberts went out to the foot of the stairs and called kindly (she was kinder to the boys at these times, waiting for her husband to enmesh himself, just as she was more impatient with them when she loved her husband best), “Listen, you silly kids, stop fighting and get dressed, or there won’t be any breakfast for you.”

  There was a silence upstairs, and then Art said, “Well, he was kicking me.”

  “I was not,” Jamie said with all the indignation of false innocence. “I never went near him.”

  “He was so,” Art said. “I was lying here not doing anything. . . .”

  “Never mind,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Both of you get dressed.”

  She went back to her husband and sat down across the table from him. “I’ll be glad,” she said conversationally—it was a neutral topic—“to have that new girl here today.”

  “New girl?” Mr. Roberts was unable to read a paper at breakfast; until he had his coffee he existed in a sort of unpleasant stupor; it was the only thing, he maintained, which enabled him to shave and dress at all each day. Like anyone who possesses such a dubious gift, he was inordinately proud of it, and he delighted, later in the day, in anecdotes of how horrid he had been that morning, or, if he set off in the morning late without breakfast, driving with Mr. Desmond, how he had sat numbly in a corner of the car. Sometimes Mrs. Roberts felt in the morning that her husband was exaggerating his habits in order to make a better story at lunch. This morning seemed to be such a one; Mr. Roberts stared at her with glazed eyes, his hand shook when he lifted his coffee-cup, and when she spoke to him he turned his head slowly to look away from her. Mrs. Roberts, who was tired herself this morning, made her voice more sharp and her words more emphatic.

  “We are,” she said bitingly, “hiring a new servant this morning. Servant!” She laughed shortly. “A high-school girl. She is coming to help with the housework and the kids. Her name is Hester Lucas. Are you able to hear me?”

  Mr. Roberts lifted his head, and then let it slump again.

  “She’s not a very pretty girl,” Mrs. Roberts went on in her vicious voice, “but you may be able to find some charm in her.”

  Mr. Roberts closed his eyes once, briefly.

  “But that is a subject,” Mrs. Roberts said, pouring herself a third cup of coffee, “which I do not want to discuss any more with you.”

  She was not finished, and the arrival of Artie and Jamie in a wild shrieking chorus left her feeling cheated. Mr. Roberts stood up as the boys came in, put his napkin down, and went upstairs to finish dressing. With an effort Mrs. Roberts recalled her kindly feelings toward the children, and smiled down on them as they fought for the sugar.

  “We’re going to have a new servant,” she said to the boys.

  “Like Joan?” Jamie said.

  “Not like Joan,” Mrs. Roberts said shortly. Her eyes wandered to the stairs; Mr. Roberts would be down in a minute.

  “Not like Joan at all,” Mrs. Roberts repeated. “This girl is named Hester. She is going to help me with the house.”

  “What will she do?” Artie was reading already; one hand brought cereal accurately to his mouth while the other hand held the book down on the table. Jamie ate slowly, babyishly, playing with his spoon and asking questions to keep his mother from seeing the untouched cereal. “What will she do?” he asked again.

  Mrs. Roberts waved her hand vaguely. “All the things I don’t want to do,” she said. “Wash dishes, and keep an eye on you boys.”

  “She can’t keep an eye on me,” Jamie said. “I’ll run away so fast.”

  “She’s not much older than Artie,” Mrs. Roberts said. “I hope she’s a good worker.”

  “Like Harriet Merriam?” Jamie asked.

  Mrs. Roberts was surprised. “Why like Harriet?” she asked. “Harriet doesn’t have to work.”

  “Harriet’s not much older than Artie,” Jamie said.

  “Harriet’s younger than Artie,” Mrs. Roberts said. “She’s just bigger.”

  “Much bigger,” Jamie said.

  “Not like Harriet at all,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Not like anyone. No one else in the neighborhood has a servant living with them.”

  • • •

  Although Marguerite Desmond rarely smiled, she had never spoken a harsh word to or about anyone in her life. She had lived with Mr. Desmond for nineteen years, and in all that time had never raised her voice to him, or acted in any manner that was not genteel; she never treated her adopted son with anything less than perfect courtesy, and her attitude toward her neighbors was such as to set her apart in a lovely aristocratic isolation; she had never, to her knowledge, had a friend. In the few crises of her life, Mrs. Desmond had been collected and thoughtful; during the long uneventful years, serene. She was ungenerous because her family had been poor before she married Mr. Desmond, she was unsympathetic because no one had ever required any sensitivity of her, she was gracious because her mother before her had been gracious and because her daughter Caroline must in her turn learn to be womanly and lady like. Mrs. Desmond was neither intelligent nor unintelligent, because thinking and all its allied attributes were completely outside her schedule for life; her values did not include mind, and nothing that she intended ever required more than money. It must not be concluded, however, that with all these aspects Mrs. Desmond did not sleep and eat, cook and clean, comb her hair and drive her car, like the other mothers on the block. The only thing that set Mrs. Desmond apart was that she never knowingly said, or did, or thought, an unkind thing. Like Mrs. Merriam, Mrs. Desmond slept in her private room, away from her husband, only Mrs. Desmond had Caroline by her bed. Like Mrs. Roberts, Mrs. Desmond was fond of lobster; like Mrs. Byrne, she was excessively concerned about the cleanliness and general superiority of the food she served her family; like Mrs. Perlman, she did her own dusting and bedmaking, leaving the heavy scrubbing for a girl to do every morning; and, like Mrs. Ransom-Jones and Mrs. Merriam, Mrs. Desmond wore her long hair gathered in a knot at the back of her neck; Mrs. Merriam’s hair was grey, Mrs. Ransom-Jones’s hair was dark, but Mrs. Desmond’s hair was pale yellow, almost white. Caroline’s hair was the same color; together they made a pair of delicately shaded creatures, not quite colorful enough, without enough body, to mingle freely with the rest of the world.

  It was a wrench to Mrs. Desmond, although not altogether a surprise, when, after four years of barrenness in his marriage, Mr. Desmond cautiously and tenderly approached the idea of adopting a son.

  “You see,” he told Mrs. Desmond gently, “this way we choose our own child—make sure he’s healthy, and so on. It’s not like—” Mr. Desmond stopped, and started again. “I mean,” he said, “we’d take some poor unfortunate waif and give him a good home.”

  Mrs. Desmond felt that it was not her place to be lukewarm toward any of Mr. Desmond’s enthusiasms, but she allowed herself to say, desolately, “I feel, somehow, that it’s my fault.”

  Mr. Desmond took her hand and said very softly, “If you feel that way about it, Marguerite, we’ll never mention the subject again.” He dropped her hand and said, with a pathetic smile, “I would have called him John Desmond Junior.”

  The Desmonds did not entertain frequently, although the neighborhood ladies met at the Desmond house to sew as often as they met at the Merriams’, or the Donalds’. When Mr. Desmond insisted that they invite people from the city for dinner, or for bridge, Mrs. Desmond, as cool and reserved as ever, sat at the head of her table speaking gently and competently, but the next morning she usually stayed in bed with a sick headache, allowing no one in to see her except Caroline.

  With the neighborhood children, however, Mrs. Desmond was not shy, so that Mr. Desmond’s plan for the children found her almost eager. “I’ve been thinking,” he said one evening, abruptly setting aside his book. “I think these young hoodlums
around here ought to be thinking of something else than roughhouse and foolishness.” When his wife raised her eyebrows over her sewing to show that she was listening, Mr. Desmond went on, “What about all of them getting together and say, reading Shakespeare? Not all of the plays, of course,” he added, before Mrs. Desmond could speak. “A few of the best, like Romeo and Juliet, and Julius Caesar. Then at the end of the summer, maybe, we could give a performance. Invite all the parents.” He waited, beaming at Mrs. Desmond.

  “I’m sure there’s a good deal of talent in the children,” Mrs. Desmond said, after thinking for a minute. “James Donald, for instance, is a very talented boy.”

  “James Donald,” Mr. Desmond said, “and I think that older Roberts boy would do well with something like this to interest him. Get him into the spirit of working with a group.” He stood up and walked over to the low bookcase beside the fireplace, ran his finger along the books until he came to a complete Shakespeare. “Here,” he said, “now we can tell better.” He sat down again in his chair, and began to turn the pages over quickly. “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he said, and smiled reminiscently. “Great stuff,” he said affectionately to the book. “Here’s The Merchant of Venice. The quality of mercy is not strained, and so on. Virginia Donald ought to do that one,” he said to his wife, and consulted the book. “Portia. Virginia ought to do it very well.”

  “You’ll have to have all the children, of course,” Mrs. Desmond said.

  “All of them,” Mr. Desmond said. He closed the book on his finger and said straightforwardly to his wife, “Now there’s something. It’s absolutely up to people like us to lead the way. A thing like this ought to include even—” He stopped, and then said, “After all, Shakespeare’s for everyone.”

  “Let me see,” Mrs. Desmond said. She was quite enthusiastic and put down her sewing. “We could make it once a week, all the children here, and as soon as you finish one play you could start another. And we could serve cookies and lemonade afterward.”

  “Eighteen, nineteen,” Mr. Desmond said, counting characters. “And that doesn’t include all the servingmen and messengers and so on. Someone will have to read two or three parts,” he said. “How many children have we in the neighborhood?”

  “Let me see,” Mrs. Desmond said again. “There’s Harriet Merriam, and our Johnny.”

  “Like to hear old Johnny read Romeo,” Mr. Desmond said, and chuckled. “There’s a part for our son.” He took a pencil from his vest pocket and wrote, “Harriet Merriam, John Desmond Junior—Romeo,” in the back flyleaf of the book. “And the Byrne children,” he said, “Art and Jamie Roberts. I don’t know but what Jamie’s too young,” he said reflectively, looking at the names. “Might start a roughhouse.”

  “He’s very well-behaved,” Mrs. Desmond said. “I was wondering,” she began tentatively.

  “Wondering what?” Mr. Desmond said. He was writing down, “Virginia Donald—Juliet.”

  “The Perlman girl,” Mrs. Desmond said. “Marilyn.”

  “What about her?” Mr. Desmond asked. “We’re going to have everybody, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t want to see her left out,” Mrs. Desmond said. “She seems to be a very sweet girl. But if you read something like The Merchant of Venice, isn’t there . . . wouldn’t it be apt to embarrass her?”

  Mr. Desmond stared for a minute, and then he said with some discomfort, “I see what you mean, yes.” He turned the pages of the book quickly, read a few lines, turned a page and read a few lines again. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I’m glad you thought of it in time. And I think there’s one in Romeo and Juliet, too.”

  “Could you read some other writer?” Mrs. Desmond asked. “Marilyn is such a nice girl.”

  “No sense in it unless we read Shakespeare,” Mr. Desmond said. “Parents would probably think we just asked her down to insult her. They’re so touchy, you know.” He looked at his list, and said, “I haven’t put her down yet.”

  “Perhaps after things are going well, and the children are enjoying it,” Mrs. Desmond suggested, “you might invite her down for an evening when you know they won’t be reading anything—anything unkind.”

  “I’ll put her in a special list,” Mr. Desmond said. He drew a line and wrote “Special Reasons” over it, and under it he wrote Marilyn’s name. “Suppose old Steve Donald would like to join in?” he asked cheerfully.

  “He’s such a pleasant person,” Mrs. Desmond said. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know his children are enjoying themselves.”

  “Desmond, Merriam, two Donald, two Byrne, two Roberts—eight,” Mr. Desmond said. “Who else?”

  “Well.” Mrs. Desmond thought. “There are the Martin children,” she suggested.

  “Well, now—that little Martin girl,” Mr. Desmond said.

  “Hallie,” Mrs. Desmond said.

  “I don’t know as I can quite see her reading Shakespeare,” Mr. Desmond went on cautiously. “Most of these kids, you can tell that even though they’re young, there’s stuff in Shakespeare they can get. Mean something to them. But I can’t see Hallie.”

  “She’s quite young,” Mrs. Desmond said.

  “Really too young, I think.” Mr. Desmond drew another line, wrote “Too young,” over it and “Hallie Martin” underneath. “And her brother,” he said. “I can’t see inviting one and not the other of them, can you?”

  “Perhaps their family wants them to be together,” Mrs. Desmond said. “It would be rude to invite George and not Hallie.”

  “Special reasons,” Mr. Desmond said. He wrote George’s name under Special Reasons, and leaned back. “That’s everyone, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Unless you want to include that girl the Roberts got today,” Mrs. Desmond said humorously.

  “She doesn’t live in the neighborhood,” Mr. Desmond said. “This is just for the children around here. I won’t ever put her down.” He began to count.

  “I can’t think of anyone else,” Mrs. Desmond said. “Caroline can sit here with me, and watch.”

  “Still eight,” Mr. Desmond said, frowning, “I don’t know if there’s a play with only eight characters.” He began to leaf through the book again.

  “They could each read two parts,” Mrs. Desmond said.

  “They all need so many people,” Mr. Desmond said. “I don’t even know as there’s a play with only eight principal characters, even.”

  “You could read some parts, too, you know,” Mrs. Desmond said. “The children would probably feel much better if you did, anyway.”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Desmond said. His enthusiasm was evaporating, and he held the book idly on his lap. “If we ever wanted to give a play—”

  “Perhaps the parents?” Mrs. Desmond suggested.

  “But this was for the kids,” Mr. Desmond said petulantly. Disappointed, he put the book down on the table next to him. “I’ll see what Johnny thinks,” he said.

  • • •

  “Well, for heaven’s sake,” Virginia said, “we can walk down the street, can’t we?”

  “We might meet him or something,” Harriet said. “Please, Ginnie. Let’s go the long way around.”

  “It’s too far,” Virginia said. “Listen, if you’re scared—”

  “I’m not scared, exactly,” Harriet said.

  “He can’t do anything to you,” Virginia said. “You’re silly, Harriet.”

  She began to walk deliberately down Cortez Road toward the highway, and after a minute Harriet followed. “It’s just that my mother wouldn’t like it, either,” Harriet said.

  Virginia stopped. “Listen, Harriet Merriam,” she said, “if you’re going to be scared all the time and always be wanting to go around the other way and afraid of your mother and everything I’ll just go on down to the store by myself and not talk to you any more.” She pulled her arm away from Harriet
and stood, offended, looking away while Harriet hesitated.

  “All right,” Harriet said, “but if we get into trouble it’s your fault.”

  “You’re silly.” Virginia put her arm through Harriet’s again. “Nothing can happen.”

  Once decided, Harriet was persuaded to find arguments for Virginia’s side. “After all, we’re right where we can call for help from anyone,” she said reasonably.

  “And anyway my mother was as mad as yours was,” Virginia said. When they were in front of the apartment house she slowed her steps down deliberately, and Harriet’s anxious haste was retarded.

  “Come on,” she kept saying, caught by panic. “Ginnie, come on.”

  “I’d just as soon go right in and see him,” Virginia said teasingly. “I’m not afraid. I sort of liked him.”

  “I didn’t.” Harriet let go of Virginia’s arm abruptly as the door of the apartment house opened. “It’s him,” she said, “let’s run,” in a whisper; but when Virginia stood still Harriet waited, perhaps from loyalty, perhaps from terror.

  “Hello, young ladies,” he said. He was smiling, and Harriet recalled that they were right where they could call for help.

  “Hello,” Virginia said.

  “I was sorry you could not come to tea on Tuesday,” he said. He was not in a hurry today, and he looked very gay and pleasant, standing with his hat in his hand, his head bent courteously toward Virginia.