A Charmed Life (28 page)

Dolly tried to shut her ears. She hated Mrs. Viera, with her spying black eyes. The man in the white suit cupped his mouth. “Worst damn cleaning woman in New Leeds,” he whispered, with a wink, to Dolly. Sandy frowned. He was following the testimony intently, leaning forward and nodding as Mrs. Viera spoke. Bottles, yes, bottles everywhere; garbage spilled outside; children barefoot. The S.P.C.C. woman was writing in her notebook. A pair of spectators moved closer, and Mrs. Viera, obligingly, raised her parrot-voice. Barney’s voice, prompting, had a smooth, smiling tone. “And what about this fellow that lives there?”

To Dolly’s surprise, Mrs. Viera became guarded. “What fellow? I don’t know.” “Oh, come on now, Mrs. Viera,” Barney said impatiently. “You know there’s a man living there. The whole town knows it.” Clover’s lawyer rushed in with an objection. The judge leaned forward. “Is there a man living with Mrs. Gray or not?” he said to Clover’s lawyer. “Does your client deny this?” Everyone looked at Clover. “We don’t deny it,” said Clover’s lawyer, easily. “We will show that he is a paying guest.”

Barney took a step backward; the judge raised his eyebrows; even Clover’s witnesses appeared to take this as news. Sandy half-started to his feet, but Dolly pulled him down, by the leather jacket. “Proceed,” said the judge, rapping lightly with his gavel. “Have you seen this man there?” Barney demanded of Mrs. Viera. “Sometimes.” “Where does he sleep?” Mrs. Viera did not know. She was asked to describe the layout of the house. There were two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a little room, with a couch in it. “Maybe he sleep there,” she volunteered. Barney frowned. Had she ever, he wanted to know, seen that couch made up, with sheets on it? No, agreed Mrs. Viera, but most of the times she had been there, the fellow had been away; he worked, she had heard, as a truckdriver.

Sandy made a soft, groaning sound. “She’s changed her testimony,” he whispered angrily. “They all do it—these damned Portuguese. You get them in the courtroom, and they get scared.” “Where does he keep his clothes?” said Barney. Mrs. Viera did not know. Had she ever seen his clothes in Mrs. Gray’s bedroom? The courtroom seemed to catch its breath while Mrs. Viera reflected. She was not sure, she answered finally. Barney protested: this was not what she had told him when he came to her house to talk to her. “What do you mean-not sure?” he said in a hectoring tone. “Not sure,” mumbled Mrs. Viera. Sandy’s witnesses looked wonderingly at each other. The judge intervened. It was an important question, he said, and she could help the court clear it up. She must try to search her memory. “No good, Judge,” said Mrs. Viera, simply. “When he”—she pointed to the lawyer—“come to my house, he ask me if I ever see man’s clothes in Mrs. Gray’s bedroom. I say yes.” “Well?” prompted the judge. Mrs. Viera grinned. “But Mrs. Gray wear man’s clothes herself—man’s shirt, pants, old coat. This the first time I see her in skirt.”

Laughter shook the courtroom, led by Mrs. Viera. “And is that why you’ve changed your story?” Barney demanded sternly. “My daughter explain me my mistake,” said Mrs. Viera serenely, turning to the judge. “She tell me I not understanding questions.” “You mean,” said the judge, “that you sometimes saw men’s clothes in Mrs. Gray’s bedroom, but you are not sure, now, whose they were?” Mrs. Viera nodded. “Maybe hers. Maybe his.” Barney mopped his brow. Surely she knew the difference, he insisted. But Mrs. Viera would not be budged. “Maybe hers. Maybe his,” she repeated, with a gleeful look at the judge.

When Clover’s lawyer’s turn came, he started on a fresh tack. He asked Mrs. Viera how long she had lived in New Leeds and how many residents she had worked for and whether she kept a clean house herself. “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Viera proudly. “I believe you, Ma’am,” said Clover’s lawyer, who spoke with a slight southern accent. “But now tell me. The conditions you describe in Mrs. Gray’s residence—are they unusual?” Mrs. Viera looked puzzled. “I mean the dirt on the floors, the dog food, the moldy icebox, and so on—do you often see these things when you come to clean for your ladies?” Mrs. Viera brightened. “Oh yes,” she said happily. “All the time. All the time. Summer people too. Everybody live like that here in America. Like pigs.” There was a movement of recoil on the benches; the sheriff stiffened and fixed his eyes on the Stars and Stripes. “Watch what you’re saying here,” the judge commanded, sharply. “You don’t mean everybody.” “Everybody I working for,” explained Mrs. Viera. “Not poor people—Portuguese people, Finnish people, Yankee people. They keep clean house; don’t have cleaning woman.” She appeared to search for her meaning. “Rich people, college people, famous people, lawyer, writer, painter—just like Mrs. Gray. Live like bootlegger.” Another laugh rose. “I think she must mean me,” giggled a woman in Dolly’s row. “She’s pathological,” said another woman, with bitter emphasis. “
I
wouldn’t have her in the house.” The judge rapped for silence. “Have you ever worked for Mr. Gray?” continued Clover’s lawyer. Mrs. Viera shook her head. “But Mr. Gray just the same. I have friend who tell me—” The judge cut her off. “You can only testify to what you’ve seen yourself,” he told her. “I don’t know what this testimony proves,” he went on, in tones of irritation, to Clover’s lawyer. “The general standard of living that prevails in New Leeds,” the lawyer went on, undaunted. “I’m trying to set Mrs. Gray’s housekeeping in its context, your honor. Many of the older ladies here, in our permanent winter colony, are famous housekeepers, but the breed is dying out. Other times, other customs.”

“Proceed,” said the judge. “Would you say that Mrs. Gray was a good mother?” Clover’s lawyer asked Mrs. Viera. “Kind, considerate, thoughtful?” Mrs. Viera scratched her head. “Mrs. Gray very nice woman. Very friendly. Good mother, I don’t know.” She turned to the judge. “It’s the same like I was saying, Judge. All the women I work for, not like poor women. Easy with the kids, not strict, not scolding. But not paying attention. Not mending clothes, ironing, fixing hair, cooking, sending to church, sending to Sunday school. ‘Listen to radio,’ ‘Go away and play now.’ Open can. ‘Here, eat.’ Mrs. Gray, I think, have big heart, play with the kids, cut out magazines, draw pictures, play the guitar to them, sing. But not careful for kids. Not worrying.” “Do you think a worrying mother is a good thing, Mrs. Viera?” demanded Clover’s lawyer. “Sometimes,” she said, turning thoughtfully to the judge. “I don’t talk so good in English. What I mean, Mrs. Gray not bringing them up, not teaching, not feeding right, not putting to bed—” “And all your employers are like that?” cut in Clover’s lawyer. “Oh yes,” beamed Mrs. Viera. “Oh yes.”

Dolly’s head was aching when they went across the highway for lunch at a counter. Barney came to sit with them; most of the other witnesses, on their side, had finished their testimony, and gone off to eat at the hotel in the next township, which had a cocktail lounge. Dolly’s testimony, Barney said, was going to be very crucial, as things were shaping up. Mrs. Viera had turned the whole case upside down. There was nobody else who could swear that this truckdriver actually slept with Clover—nobody but the children, who would probably not be asked in chambers, unless the judge could find a way of doing it delicately, by indirection. And Clover had undoubtedly warned them not to tell what they knew. “Oh, it’s all so ugly,” sighed Dolly. She half-agreed with the man who said it would be better to hand all the children of divorced people over to the town. “Human nature,” said Barney, munching on a hamburger.

The trouble was, he continued, that you could never get the natives up here to come into court and tell what they’d seen. Clover never drew a shade, but her neighbors down by the bay acted as though they were blind if you tried to get an affidavit out of them. The ones who were willing to talk always turned out to have a screw loose, like Mrs. Viera, or like the milkman, who was stage-struck and saving up to go off to drama school. The kid loved to testify, but he would only describe the state of the kitchen when he brought in the milk in the mornings. He swore that he’d never looked in the bedroom window, though he walked right past it every morning. “‘I mind my own business,’ he says, with a flounce of his tail.” “I don’t see why you have to bring sex into it,” Dolly said suddenly. “I don’t think Sandy ought to do that when he believes in sexual freedom himself. You’ve got plenty of evidence to show that she’s a bad mother. “Why worry about proving ‘immorality’?” “Because that’s what the court likes to hear about, Miss Lamb,” retorted Barney, reaching for the ketchup. “Besides—let’s be frank—the S.P.C.C. has a record on Sandy. All right”—he raised a hand to forestall Sandy—“I’ll agree. That was different. That was a health fad. You kept the kids barefoot to develop their feet. And you didn’t toilet-train them, to develop their character. And you fed them on peanut butter because of something you read in a book. But the court looks at the
record,
damn it.” “You know what happened,” said Sandy, in a low voice, to Dolly. “The boy went to school barefoot, and the other kids threw knives at his feet. The teacher had the S.P.C.C. after me. There’s an irony for you. It was those ruffians and their parents that ought to have been investigated.” Dolly gave a gasp of pain. “But you went right on sending him,” protested Barney. “After the teacher told you to get shoes.” “How did I know?” cried Sandy. “The teacher sent a note. ‘Please put shoes on Michael.’ Nobody gave me the reason. I’d taught Michael to be brave and he wouldn’t squeal to me on his little classmates. I was damned if I’d put shoes on him, just to appease the local bourgeois.” He banged his knife down on his plate.

“Easy, boy,” said the lawyer. “We don’t want you making speeches to the judge. You used to be a Red, remember?” “Clover can’t use that,” declared Sandy. “She was in the Party herself. I broke long before she did. Miles got me out of it during my analysis. He showed me I was really an anarchist.” Barney laughed. “Oh, balls,” he said. “You’re a property-owner and a registered voter. But don’t forget: there’s a lot of hostility to you artistic folk up here still. You could see that in old Viera’s testimony. She was getting her own back, after all the stinking messes she’s cleaned up for you geniuses. Now, Miss Lamb,” he said, picking up his bill and a toothpick, “when I call you to the stand, speak up. We want the judge to hear you. And don’t be afraid of stressing what you’ve got to tell. Let it ring out. We want to make the court realize that Sandy’s turned over a new leaf. Describe what you’ve seen yourself—the things a woman notices. Is the house clean? Can Sandy cook? Does he wash the dishes? Is he neat, methodical? Does he drink? Does he have women around?”

Dolly nodded. It was not as simple as he thought, she said to herself anxiously as she took the stand. If she were to answer those questions truthfully, she could not give a Yes or a No. He was neat, for a man, but not as neat as John Sinnott or some of the painters she had studied with. The house was fairly clean. He could cook: yes. But most of the time she had been cooking for him. He washed dishes, she supposed, when he was alone. And he was methodical, in his way. He drank, but not as much as many people. In the course of an evening, starting before dinner, he would drink about half a bottle, she had noticed. But lots of the men up here started drinking at ten in the morning. And she had never seen him as tight, for instance, as Martha and Miles Murphy had been, the night of the play-reading. As for women, he had
her
around.

Everything was relative, she reminded herself, as the questioning began. It was like what the anthropologists told you: Sandy had to be measured by the mores of the culture he was in.

She cleared her throat. She had known the plaintiff, Mr. Gray, about one month; she had rented the house next to him and saw him frequently, in a neighborly-way. “Would you say that you knew his habits?” As far as one could, in a month. “Speak louder, please,” said the judge. Did he have women around? Not so far as she knew. “How do you know, Miss Lamb?” the judge interrupted. “Because I was with him,” Dolly replied. The courtroom laughed. The judge rapped with his gavel. “At night, Miss Lamb?” said Barney. “Yes, at night,” said Dolly. “Explain the circumstances.” “We both were living alone; we have a good deal in common.” “You are a painter, Miss Lamb? And Mr. Gray is an art critic?” “He used to be,” said Dolly. “He knows a great deal about painting.” “And he was interested in your work?” “He doesn’t like my work,” admitted Dolly, in a meek voice. Another laugh rang out. “But you saw him just the same?” the lawyer proceeded, with a smile. Dolly nodded. “Speak up,” said the judge. “Yes. We often had dinner together.” “And who did the cooking?” “Sometimes I did. Sometimes he did.” “Would you say he was a good cook?” “Oh yes.” “What did he give you to eat?” Dolly searched her memory. “Spaghetti with clams. Rice and Portuguese sausage. Oysters. And salad,” she added quickly, though in fact it was she who had brought the salad, the two times she had let him cook for her. “Sounds good,” said Barney. “Did he open a can or did he cook these dishes himself?” “Oh,
himself,”
said Dolly.

“Does he drink?” Dolly hesitated. “He drinks socially,” she said at length. “What is ‘socially,’ Miss Lamb?” the judge wanted to know. Dolly turned stricken eyes on him. “When he’s with other people.” “He doesn’t drink alone, you mean,” said the judge crisply, provoking a laugh. Dolly said nothing. “And when he’s with you, Miss Lamb?” encouraged Barney. “He drinks a little,” said Dolly. “What is ‘a little’?” exclaimed the judge. “Be specific. One drink, two drinks, five drinks?” “One or two,” quavered Dolly. She was not really lying, she thought; she was only interpreting Sandy’s daily consumption in the judge’s terms; what would be five drinks to the judge would be one or two to Sandy. And wine did not count. “Sometimes a nightcap,” she added. “And that’s all?” said Barney. Dolly nodded. “Speak up,” said the judge. “Yes.” She looked up and saw Clover’s little blue eyes staring harshly at her from across the room. A faint feeling came over her; she swayed and steadied herself on the stand. “Go on about his habits, Miss Lamb,” she heard Barney say. All she could think of was that she had just perjured herself and that Clover and her lawyer knew it. The judge was looking at her curiously, waiting for her to say something, but she had forgotten where she was in her testimony: had they asked her yet about his housekeeping? “Is Mr. Gray’s house clean?” prompted Barney. “Oh yes,” she said, swallowing. “Very.” “Dishes washed? All that?” “Oh yes,” said Dolly. He seemed to be expecting her to say something more. “He does his laundry,” she volunteered. “You’ve seen him?” “Yes,” she said. “In the pond.” Again there was laughter, and she could tell from the lawyer’s expression that she had said the wrong thing. “In the pond? What pond?” said the judge. “The pond we live on,” said Dolly. “The water is very soft, which makes it good, Mr. Gray says, for washing.”