Daybreak (40 page)

A wave of sorrow passed over Holly. In these last months she had been drowned in sorrow, as if some fate were trying to make up for all the easy years of her
childhood. As if it were trying to teach her something, maybe?

Her father had still not turned from the window. What was he seeing out there? Most probably the face of the sullen, hostile rebel who was his son. Dad must know, she thought, because he is both shrewd and wise, that there is nothing to be expected from that son but rejection and pain.

Suddenly he turned back to the room. His eyes that could so often moisten with either tears or laughter were now dry and weary. “We’ll try one more time, Margaret,” he said. “If it doesn’t work, well, that’ll be just one more death in the family. And besides, we can’t make more trouble for Laura. She’s had too much.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s cheek. “And Holly, about Sunday. You do whatever you want. We shan’t force you.”

Quietly, she replied, “I’m going with you, Dad and Mom.”

   Laura waited until Friday to announce the impending visit. The truth, she admitted to herself, was simply that she had delayed because she did not want to face another explosion.

During the few days since Ralph Mackenzie’s and Tom’s confrontation, little change had occurred, except that Tom had finally given up the dark suit, and Timmy had again developed an alarming cough. The heat wave, having reached a new height, made it dangerous for him to be outdoors at all, so he had become irritable under confinement to books and television. Moreover, he had retreated into silence, not a hostile silence like Tom’s, but a melancholy one, forlorn and vague, in which he refused to be drawn into conversation.
Laura had, therefore, no idea what he was really thinking about Bud, other than that he grieved over Bud’s death.

They had just finished their dinner when she told them. Tom shoved his chair back so hard that he shook the table.

“Not those people again!” he cried.

Laura drew a long breath to gather strength and proceeded. “Tom, I understand how you feel. Believe me, I really do. But listen to me. The fact is, and I’ve told you this, if I don’t set a date, they’re bound to get to you anyway. Would you rather have them surprise you one day at your dorm with all your friends around, or satisfy them now with a quiet visit here at home?”

He was flushed, and not only with anger, although there was plenty of that; she saw again how fearful he was.

“Tell me. If you had to make a choice, and you do have to, which it would be.”

“Oh God Almighty, is this the pattern for the rest of my life?”

“Let’s take one step at a time, Tom. That’s what I’m doing.” And she could not refrain from adding, “Seeing these people isn’t exactly painless for me, either, you know.”

Then a shadow of resignation seemed to pass over Tom’s face, softening its rigid lines. “Okay. I’ll sit there if that’s what it’ll make it easier for you, Mom. But I will not, I cannot, talk to them. I’m warning you now. I’ll sit there despising them, and I won’t care whether they know it or not.”

“They already know it,” Laura said.

* * *

Lunch at the Crawfield house had been elaborate, she remembered. While it was certainly not necessary to match it, for this was no competition, it was only right to take more pains than she usually would take for a couple of old friends who were dropping by to lunch. It was just as well, too, that she would have something to occupy her other than the conflicts that had been raging within her day and night.

Betty Lee offered to come to work on Sunday. “You’re having special company, I can see that. You never ask me for anything, and I can surely give you a few hours of Sunday, what with all the trouble you’ve had.”

With careful, tactful appreciation, Laura declined help. It was strange to think that Betty Lee, who had held Tom in her arms when he was three days old, still knew nothing of his dread secret. But even Timmy desperately wanted it to be kept from anyone.

So she prepared in stages. On Friday a strawberry soufflé went into the freezer, on Saturday she put together the ingredients for Cajun baked chicken and Tom’s favorite corn pudding. All that remained for Sunday morning were the salad and hot biscuits. Of these preparations no notice was taken. No relieving breeze disturbed the thick funereal air that had filled the house since the night of Bud’s death—and indeed before Bud’s death. She moved with her tasks through hours that were almost soundless. Only the rain, which had been falling for two days, disturbed the silence.

Tom clung to his room, reading and listening to his stereo. He was well enough acquainted with popular psychology to diagnosis his ailment; depression was anger turned inward. After grievous explosions, his nerves were worn thin, and anger now had no place to
go but inward. Like a prisoner in a cell, looking out a barred window onto a dreary wall, he was trapped. Mom had caught him in a moment of weakness, just as a sudden surge of pity for her had risen. Now another terrible Sunday loomed.

And then on Saturday Robbie telephoned.

“Miracle of miracles!” he shouted. “How did you know I’ve had you and nothing but you in my mind all day? From the minute I opened my eyes, Robbie, I swear.”

“How did I know? Guess what? You’ve been in my mind all day every day. I’ve been so sad for you. It’s a physical ache. I can feel it in my heart. It must be awful for you.”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“But I’m sure your dad would want you to get back to living as soon as possible.”

“That’s true.” And he thought, I want to lie in your arms and tell you everything.

Her voice picked up a cheerful tone. “Guess what? I finished a day early and here I am, back at old state U. I’ve got my new room, and it’s gorgeous. When are you coming? Today, maybe? Tomorrow?”

Back at college? He had actually lost track of the date. Oh my God, Sunday—

“Robbie, I want to, but let me see what develops here in the next couple of days. My mother—”

“Yes, yes, of course. Your poor mother. Well, honey, I’m here. Just give me a call when you know.”

They talked. And the more they talked, the more powerful became the returning surge of Tom’s anger. He was to give up Robbie in exchange for a day of mental torture with those—those interlopers, unwanted, aggressive, persistent—there were no words.

When he hung up, he lay back in the bed and pounded the pillows.

   The house was too quiet. Laura tried, as she was dressing on Sunday, not to look toward Bud’s closet where his clothes were still hanging. They would have to be sorted and given away. Eventually she would have to do it.

Bud Rice, the man “not interested in politics”! And in a subtle way he had, all these years, been preparing Tom to fit into his mold. All of that going on, she thought, as termites gnaw away until the beam collapses. Oh, she was bitter.

And yet, so complex are we all that she could not look at the clothing he had worn so proudly and so well, he who now lay, silenced forever, under the earth.

By nine o’clock, the kitchen work was finished and the table had been set. When she went out to the cutting garden to get flowers for the centerpiece, the sun was merciless. The temperature was already at oven heat, and by noon they predicted it would reach one hundred.

Timmy came out to the garden offering to help. Such a good kid, he was, a peacemaker in spite of his worries, torn between Tom and herself.

“No,” she said kindly, “thanks, but it’s much too hot. You’re still coughing, and I don’t want you to start sweating. Go back in and have a cool drink. Is Tom up yet?”

“I don’t know. His door’s closed.”

By half-past ten, Tom had still not come downstairs. Laura’s heart began to pound. This undertaking was another terrible mistake. She should never have weakened and given in. Yet Ralph was right when he said
that the Crawfields weren’t going to go away. If only Tom doesn’t make a nasty botch of it again as he did at their house! She had wanted to dig a hole in the floor and crawl into it.

“Tom,” she called, knocking at his door.

There was no answer, so she tried again, and when there was still none, she opened the door. Even before she read the large white sheet of paper that lay on the neatly made bed, she knew what would be on it.

3 a.m.
, she read.
Mom, I’m sneaking out. It’s easier for both of us. I’m going away for a couple of days. Don’t worry. I just can’t face those people. You know how I feel, or maybe you really don’t know. I love you, anyway
.

“I do know how you feel,” she said loudly. “But do you know by any chance how I feel? And what am I to say to ‘those people,’ as you call them? Coming from the other end of the state to see you and it’s left to me to explain? Explain what? How? This isn’t fair of you, Tom.”

The photograph that had stood on the desk had been moved to the night table, where it would be the last thing he’d see at night and the first thing in the morning. That’s where he’s gone, she thought, to the girl.

And as if it could tell her something about the person behind itself, she examined the face again. It was not beautiful, but it was piquant, and very small, enclosed as it was by swoops of dark hair. There was intelligence in the eyes, pert humor in the mouth, and a determined set to the chin. On the whole, nothing remarkable. Yet to him at nineteen, she was unique. She was the Only One. That’s how it is at nineteen. You remember, Laura, don’t you?

A sudden thought shook her into action. Find an
excuse, somebody’s not feeling well, call them off. And she ran to the telephone. But it rang and rang without answer, so they had already left. What on earth was she to tell them?

“The truth,” she said aloud, surprised at her own hesitation. There was never anything else to say but the truth. Then perhaps they would see how hopeless their attempts were.

Timmy was in the kitchen taking his medicine. And she asked him whether he had known that Tom was leaving.

“No, Mom, I didn’t.” He paused and added, “I think of Tom all the time. I’m so sorry for him, and I’m so lucky not to be like him because I’m the son who really belongs here.”

She did not correct Timmy’s choice of words, didn’t say that of course Tom belonged here, too, for his meaning was clear. She said only, “This is a dreadful mess today. I hope you will help me by being friendly. You must be the host.”

“No problem, Mom. Those people don’t mean anything to me one way or the other. They can’t touch my life. I can be the friendliest guy you ever saw. I might even like them.”

   When Timmy, who had been watching out, called, “Here they are,” Laura went to the door. With greater consideration than many people showed, rather than block the driveway, they had parked on the street. Very slowly, they walked up the path. They’re as nervous as I am, she thought, still undecided whether to give them the news the moment they entered the house, or whether to wait until they had been sitting for a while.

The decision did not take long to make itself. Coming
indoors out of the brilliant light, the three stood for a moment in the hall blinking, then, smiling, shook hands with Laura.

“And this is Timmy,” she said.

They shook Timmy’s hand. Their eyes looked beyond him into the depth of the house toward the stairs and came back to Laura.

“We were all so sorry to hear of your trouble,” Margaret said.

“Thank you.”

Mechanical courtesies passed between them.

“I hope you had no trouble finding the house.”

“No, not at all. Your directions were perfect.”

“I’d hoped we might eat on the back veranda. There’s a lovely view of the garden, but not today in this weather.”

“Yes, the heat is fierce, isn’t it?”

In the front parlor, the banjo clock on the wall struck one.

“You couldn’t have timed it better,” said Laura.

“The credit is Arthur’s. If it were up to me, we’d always be late,” Margaret replied.

From Mrs. Edgewood’s roses, which were still fresh, a subtle fragrance floated between the two groups, Laura and Timmy on one side of the fireplace, the other three facing them. American Gothic, Laura thought, stiff as the figures in the famous painting. It is pathetic.

“I love these old-time roses,” observed Margaret. “The hybrid teas may be more flashy, but they have no fragrance.”

“These aren’t ours. Someone gave them to me,” Laura said desperately. It was at this moment that the decision made itself.

“Tom isn’t here. He left in the middle of the night. I
didn’t know until this morning. I tried right away to phone you, but you had already started.”

“Left!” cried Margaret.

“I’m sure he’s all right. There was a note. I think he probably went to see his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend,” repeated Margaret.

“Yes, he seems to have a girl at the university. I don’t know exactly. He never talks about things like that.”

There was no comment. And Laura, still desperate, went on talking. “Of course, I know that boys—young men—never do tell their parents much, do they? I mean—” She stopped. What was the use? They looked stricken.

Then Arthur spoke. “He must have said something.”

“Nothing new. Just the usual about not wanting to see you. Until finally he said all right, he would. I never thought he would do anything like this. No, I never thought,” she finished.

Margaret was biting her lip. Holly was turning her head from her father to her mother and back, questioning, asking without words what was to come next.

A good question, thought Laura. These people were obviously too well-bred to get up and leave, although you could be sure that was what they would like to do. And she would hardly be so outspoken as to say, “I know you want to go, so please don’t be afraid of offending me. I’ll understand.”

It was Timmy who broke through the frozen silence with a loud announcement: “I hope you’re all hungry for lunch, because I am.”

Darling Timmy! She could have hugged him for his sensitivity and his funny, clumsy attempt at tact.

“Are you? Can you survive for another three minutes while I run to the kitchen?”

So now there was no choice but to sit down together and behave normally, that is, to resume mechanical courtesies and a stiff American Gothic pose, around a table this time, each with an organdy place mat and two Irish crystal goblets in front of him.