Beebo Brinker Chronicles 4 - Journey To A Woman (30 page)

"Yes. It was pretty rough."

They sat side by side, Charlie in his lightweight blue summer suit, solemn and handsome and preoccupied, Beth in her rumpled clothes, the same she had worn on her Village spree. They seemed by now to be the only clothes she had ever worn. She sensed that he wanted to take her hand, even to kiss her, but also that he had a stern lecture saved up, a couple of months worth of grievances and loneliness and resentment to get off his chest. But still, he was not harsh with her or short-tempered, and she knew without his having to say it that he wanted her back. That he could, after what had just happened, warmed her heart and touched her, even though she understood that he was using her troubles to suit his own ends. He was taking advantage of her fear and confusion, using them as a lever to prod her out of New York. But she could not go back and start over with him, however she might have botched her efforts to find a new life here. She dreaded hurting him with her decision.

"My things,” she said. “They're all at the Beaton."

"They were. I picked them up,” he said.

"There wasn't much."

"No."

Between their short exchanges hung a thousand things unsaid a thousand things not for the ears of cabbies, things better left unsaid even to each other. But they would say them anyway, Beth thought with a shudder.

HE CLOSED THE DOOR of the room he had taken in the Blackwell and turned to face her. Beth couldn't look at him. She sat down on the bed—a spacious double bed that unnerved her slightly—and kicked off her shoes. Slowly she glanced up at him.

"I'll order us a drink if you like,” he said.

"I'd love one,” she said thankfully, and he called room service and ordered two vodka Collinses. Beth was burning to know by what miracle she had been released, but she didn't want to drag it out of him. Let him tell her in his own good time. He understood how anxious she was. She supposed he was waiting for the drinks to come and lighten the atmosphere a little.

"I'm going to take a bath and change my clothes,” she said.

"Good idea.” He showed her where he had put her things and she took a change of underwear and a dressing gown into the bathroom with her and bathed herself, weeping softly with relief in her first privacy in forty-eight hours. Warm water, a leisurely bath, a refreshing drink on the way—all the foolish little symbols of a serious and necessary condition to her life: Freedom.

Only Charlie disturbed her. She had been so glad to see him that she had run to his arms and wept. And now she sat in her tub suddenly full of misgivings about him again. She knew enough now to know she loved him, in a way. Only it was the wrong way; it was not sufficient for him or for a marriage. It was enough to make her want him forever as a friend, too little to make her want him back as a lover. If only he could understand that. If only he could accept it. ‘She tried, while she bathed, to clear her mind and think of a way to tell him her feelings which would not offend him.

When she came out, clean and fresh and powdered, the drinks had arrived He lighted a cigarette for her and handed her a glass.

"How did it happen?” she said, sitting down again on the bed. She couldn't hold it back any longer. She wondered why he was so reluctant to get started with it. The whole thing seemed slightly fantastic. A little less than an hour ago she had been a prisoner in jail, a murder suspect; now she was free.

"Well...” He turned his back to her and gazed out the window. “Heinrich saved you—” he began.

"Heinrich?” She broke in. “Who's he?"

"He's a—well, a sort of detective we hired—"

"Who hired?” she demanded.

"Your uncle John and I. Are you going to let me tell you this, Beth, or are you going to keep interrupting me?"

"I'm sorry,” she said, but she felt the flush of indignation on her cheek.

"Beth, we hired him because we were so damned scared,” Charlie said suddenly, turning to face her. His voice, his gestures, pleaded for her understanding. “He was supposed to be the best and we wanted only the best. He did a couple of jobs for Uncle John once, long ago. John trusts the guy and I went along. I was out of my mind worried about you the first couple of weeks. When John phoned to say you'd run away from him, too, I told him to go ahead and hire Heinrich."

"I see.” She looked down into her glass, humiliated.

"We never meant to—to spy on you, darling,” Charlie said. “But when he found you, in New York, we were—well, anything but reassured by what he told us. We told him to stay with it, and he took a room next to yours at the Beaton."

"He what?” she cried. “Oh, Charlie, that was going too far.” My God, we even shared the same bathroom! she thought.

"It was going pretty far, maybe, but he was doing his job, Beth."

"Well, I guess there's nothing I can tell you about my stay in New York that he hasn't already told you!” she exclaimed.

"Not much,” Charlie said quietly, as if embarrassed.

"I suppose he was peeking through the keyhole when Vega showed up,” Beth said, near to tears with indignation. The fact that it might have saved her life was lost momentarily in the shame of the situation.

"Not exactly. He had the room wired,” Charlie said. “He recorded everything. He just gave the tapes to the police and explained to them that Vega was in love with you. The whole thing became clear as a bell. She damn near killed a kid in Pasadena named P.K. Schaefer. With that same gun. P.K. took a chance and ran for it. Vega fired and missed her.” He shrugged. “Well, Heinrich's testimony and P.K.'s and the doctor's Vega was seeing—they were too much for the police. It was plain that she was unhinged. And that you didn't do it."

There was a silence then while they were both absorbed in their thoughts.

"My children,” Beth said. “My poor kids."

"They don't know anything about it,” Charlie said quickly. “They've been in Chicago all this time. I'm going to keep them there till it blows over. You've been exonerated, Beth."

"But Vega was a Lesbian. That part of it you can never wipe out. That part will haunt me. I guess that's what she meant by killing herself to make me suffer."

"I guess it is,” he said. “I heard the tapes,” he added diffidently. “She sounded pretty desperate."

Another pause. Beth finished her drink and Charlie ordered two more.

"How can you take those children back to Pasadena to live?” she asked.

"It doesn't need to be Pasadena,” he said. “California's a big state."

"But the business is in Pasadena. It's all established. You can't just pick up and move out."

"For something like this I could. And I would.” He gazed directly at her as he said it, wanting her to see all the hurt and determination and love in his face.

"But, Charlie,” she protested, feeling caught and flustered, “it would mean dragging everybody with you, all the office staff, the craftsmen, the machinists. Cleve and Jean—"

"Cleve and Jean don't need to worry about it any longer,” he said, and he was gazing down at his drink now, lines of concern on his forehead.

"Why not? What does that mean?"

"Cleve isn't with the company now. It's just—Ayers Toys?"

Beth's mouth dropped open a little. “What happened?” she breathed at last.

"He climbed into that damn bottle and stayed,” Charlie said. “He was coming to work drunk all the time. It was getting bad when you left, Beth; you must have heard me mention it a couple of times.... Well, it just got worse. It got intolerable, to tell the truth. He wasn't doing anything, he wasn't contributing anything. He just sat in his office and tipped the bottle. I did all the work. And goddamn it, I didn't feel like sharing the credit and the money with a souse who didn't raise a finger for either one."

"Oh, but Charlie,” she said, and there were tears in her voice, “it was his business, his idea. You were the newcomer not so long ago. You were the one he took in, and taught the ropes, and made an equal partner.” She was hurt for a moment, as Cleve must have been hurt when it happened.

"Well, damn it!” he cried defensively. “It didn't have to happen ‘that way, Beth. I begged him to quit drinking. I dragged him around to a couple of specialists. I got Jean to help me, and Mrs. Purvis. And Cleve tried. When it got too bad, he felt the same way I did.

’”Honey, you don't think I went in there and fired the guy, do you?” he said, flinging out his hands in a plea for sympathy. “No! Hell, no. Cleve brought it up himself. I couldn't do a thing like that. He just came in one morning about a month ago and told me he thought it would be better for the business and for himself if he quit."

"Who's going to hire him now if he's been drinking?"

"Beth, it's rough, I know. It's a rough life, nobody needs to tell me that."

"Maybe Jean will get a job and support them for a while,” she said.

"He's leaving her!"

"What?” It was impossible. “They were always so happy!” she exclaimed. They had seemed so stable as a partnership.

"It's a trial separation,” Charlie said. “I think they love each other, all right, but they just can't stand each other, if you know what I mean."

"I always thought Jean took everything in her stride. I thought there was nothing that girl couldn't face with a smile. I even used to resent that smile of hers, because I thought it meant inner peace. I thought she had learned to cope with life, and because I was jealous I used to tell myself it was only because she was so stupid. I thought anybody as smart as me could never be happy. Only the nice, jolly, stupid people like Jean."

"She isn't stupid, honey,” Charlie said, sitting down on the bed beside her. “Her only answer to her problems was to smile. She and Cleve have been just—roommates for years. Not husband and wife. I think that's why he drinks. It had something to do with Vega, too. He never did explain it all to me. Just little hints and remarks when he was tight. I guess he and Vega were too close or something. When they were younger, I mean. He even made me think, one time, that it went as far as—” He stopped.

"As far as what?” she prompted with unhappy curiosity.

"Well, as a sort of affair,” he said, obviously embarrassed to talk about it. “Anyway, they were abnormally close. For a long time. And suddenly there was an awful fight. I guess they both got scared and ashamed when they got a little older and realized it wasn't very healthy for a brother and sister, and all that. And they both turned on each other. Vega blamed Cleve because he was a man and men are always responsible for these things. And Cleve blamed Vega because she was the oldest and she showed him the way and encouraged it. And all of a sudden, where there had been so much love, there was hate. They hated each other with real dedication. I guess to hide the fact that they would always love each other anyway, no matter how they tried not to.

"Well, it was too much for both of them. Vega turned to women for relief and affection. And Cleve tried to find a substitute in Jean for Vega. But Jean was the wrong girl entirely. They were different as night and day—the two women. I guess that's why Cleve chose her. He didn't want to be eternally reminded of his sister. But it didn't work, for either of them."

After a pause Beth said softly, “Explains a lot of things, doesn't it? God, it makes you wonder, though. It just makes you wonder if Cleve and Vega wouldn't both have been better off to stay with each other and let the world go to hell."

"You know it wouldn't,” he said, and though his voice was even she could feel the sudden rise in his emotional temperature.

"At least Vega wouldn't have ended up horribly dead on the floor of a hotel room."

"I wouldn't count on it. It's never better to prolong a sick relationship. She might have ended up dead even sooner."

"If prolonging a sick relationship will keep you alive, it's worth it."

"Things would have been much worse for them if they lived together,” he said positively. Anything abnormal he automatically loathed, without understanding it, without questioning himself.

And rather than fight him in an area where his will and his emotions could not be moved, she simply said, “He always managed to write and tell me how you and the kids were. No matter how drunk he was. And sometimes those letters looked like he had palsy when he wrote them. But I was so grateful for them.

"He was writing to you?” Charlie said, turning where he sat to look at her, surprised.

She nodded, her eyes on the floor. “I asked him to, she said “I knew you wouldn't write, and I had to know how you were."

He seemed touched. After a moment he reached for her hand and she let him have it, dreading to argue with him.

"Beth,” he said quietly. “Have you had enough now? Enough of this running around and trying to ‘find yourself,’ or whatever it is you think you're doing?"

He meant to be kind but he sounded condescending, and it wounded her. “You mustn't laugh at me, Charlie,” she said.

"No, darling, I'm not laughing. I know it's serious. God knows I have nothing to laugh about,” he said quickly.

Beth made herself look at him and for a brief moment she saw him the way he had been nine years ago in college when she had loved him so romantically. Or thought she had. The tenderness was reflected on her face and he brightened a little to see it. “Charlie, darling, I'm so grateful to you for so much,” she said. “I owe you a lot and I wish there were some way to repay it."

"There is. Come home with me."

She almost bit her lip. She hadn't meant to give him an opening like that. She wanted to steer him out of the idea without inflicting pain on him. He had come a long way and put up with a lot.

"I—I wish to God I could,” she said.

"You can. Oh, Beth, I've been so damned miserably lonesome—"

"I know, so have I,” she broke in swiftly, afraid to let him start telling her what he had been through. It would be very bad, it would hurt them both, and it would make her feel more obligated than ever to him.

She stood up, walking away from him a few steps, as if that would help her to think clearly. “I'll never be proud of what I've done to you, Charlie,” she said. “I've failed as a wife to you and as a mother to my children. For a woman that's the ultimate disgrace. I suppose it sounds pretty hollow to say that I couldn't help it. But I was as much a failure to myself as a human being as I was to you. When you fail yourself how can you be any good to anyone else?"