Destiny (42 page)

262 • SALLY BEAUMAN

in the name of love. On that altar she could, eventually, safely sacrifice her virginity. Not otherwise. Otherwise you were cheap, an easy lay. Men talked about you in the locker room, and they despised you even if they slept with you. And if men despised you, that was the end, because where was your identity then?

She must love Ned Calvert, she thought. She must. Loving was quite different from hking; it certainly didn't mean that you had to agree with everything a person said. You just had to stop those disagreements from getting in the way.

She felt a flurry, then, of doubt and indecision. Uncertainty washed through her mind in gray panicking waves.

She had let Ned give her the money for this dress. She had let him kiss her. She liked it when he kissed her. She loved him—when she thought about it like that, she was almost certain she did.

Shut up, she said to that still small voice in her head; shut up, go away, go someplace else.

She reached for the new underclothes, reached for the new dress.

/ am dressing to go and meet my lover, she said to herself A fine man.

She felt a quickening excitement as she let herself slip into the role. The still small voice grew quieter. By the time she had the dress on, and looked at herself again in the mirror, she had managed to silence it completely.

11/ ould you like a cup of tea. Mother? Shall I boil some water?" T f Her mother had just gotten back. She was sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at the oilcloth. Helene waited for her to look up, waited for the questions about the dress, but none came.

"What? Oh, yes. Thank you. It's so very hot. I'm thirsty. Whenever did it last rain?"

Her mother never even turned her head. Quietly Helene fetched the water, lit the butane gas.

"Helene . . ."

"Yes, Mother?"

"What's the date?"

Helene glanced at the calendar that hung by the stove.

"It's the fifteenth. Mother. July fifteenth."

"I thought so." Her mother bent her head.

Helene made the tea, put the milk in a pitcher, the way her mother preferred, and put the cup and saucer and milk on the table in front of her. Her mother didn't seem to see them, so Helene added the milk herself.

DESTINY • 263

"Helena. Would you go into the bedroom and get the box out? I'd like you to tell me ... to count the money in there."

Helene hesitated, but something in her mother's manner frightened her, so she fetched the box, and opened it, and counted the money inside. There was a silence.

"Well?"

"Twenty dollars. Mother. Nearly twenty dollars. There're two fives, and some singles, and a lot of quarters and dimes. Nineteen dollars and eighty-five cents."

Her mother bent her head and started to cry.

Helene got up quickly and went across and put her arms around her. But her mother didn't touch her or clasp her or anything. She just went on crying, terrible gasping sobs that shook her thin shoulders. Then, just as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped.

"Fetch me a handkerchief, would you, Helene? I'm sorry. I'm just tired, that's all. There's no point in crying. None at all."

Helene fetched her the handkerchief, and her mother wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Helene sat down and took her hand. She wanted to cry too; she always did when she saw her mother like this; it made her whole heart ache with a terrible impotent pain and pity.

"Mother, please . . ." she said gently. "Don't be sad. Don't cry. I can't bear to see you like this. If you're worried—if there's something wrong— can't you tell me? I could help, I know I could."

"I need some money." Her mother interrupted her suddenly, as if she hadn't heard a word Helene said. "I need seventy-five dollars. I have to have it. I have to."

Helene stared at her; she felt alarm tighten around her heart. She opened her mouth, and before she could speak, her mother stood up. She was twisting the wet handkerchief between her fingers.

"I have to see a doctor. I'm not well, Helene. I've known it for a while now—you said yourself. And you were right. I realize that now. I have to see a doctor and I need the money. Seventy-five dollars. I must have it. I must."

"Mother, what's wrong? How aren't you well? You've been coughing a lot at night. Is that it, Mother? Are you worried about the coughing?"

"Yes, the coughing and . . . and other things. I'm not well, that's all." Her mother sounded almost angry. "I haven't felt well for a long time now, and I must see a doctor. I can't let it go on. I have to see a doctor and I have to pay him, and then there might be medication, drugs—drugs are expensive, Helene, they don't come free, you know. I need seventy-five dollars. There's twenty there. So I need fifty-five more. Sixty maybe. Where am I going to get sixty dollars, just like that?"

264 • SALLY BEAUMAN

Helene stared down at the dress she was wearing. She felt sick and afraid. That very afternoon she'd had a twenty-dollar bill in her hand. Not as much as her mother said she needed, but twenty dollars all the same.

She swallowed. Ned's voice swam in her mind. Take it, Helene. I want you to, honey. I like to give my little girl presents.

She stood up, the heat mounting in her cheeks.

"I might be able to help, Mother. I might. I think I might be able to get hold of sixty dollars."

Her mother had been pacing up and down the room. Now she stopped and turned to Helene, her eyes wide with hope. Almost at once the hope died; the violet eyes went blank.

"I need it now, Helene. You can't get sixty dollars. Not just like that . . ."

"I could. Mother. I know I could ..." Helene moved impulsively around the table. The lie was on her lips almost before she had time to think. "Merv Peters would let me have it, I know he would. You know I helped out there sometimes—at the soda fountain, after school? Well, he wants me to do it more often, on a regular basis, he said so. Saturday mornings as well. They get busy then. He said ... he said he'd pay me five dollars every Saturday, and five dollars for the evenings after school. That's ten dollars a week. Mother, think of that—and he'd advance me some money, I know he would if I asked him. If I said I needed it . . ."

She came to a stop. None of it was true. She'd never worked the soda fountain. Merv Peters had mentioned it once, ages ago, but it had never come to anything, and he'd hardly give her a job now—Priscilla-Anne would see to that. But the soda-fountain story had explained her absences after school these past months, and her mother had never questioned it. She looked at her mother's tense white face, and for a second she longed to throw herself into her mother's arms and tell her the truth, everything. And she might have done it if she hadn't seen her mother's face change.

Hope lit up in the violet eyes; her hands stopped twisting the handkerchief She drew in her breath.

"You could do that, Helene? You really think he'd agree?"

"I know he would. Mother."

"Oh, Helene." Her mother's face crumpled, and she held out her arms to her. Helene ran into them, and held her mother close. She was the taller of the two now; her mother's body felt very frail in her arms. After a while, her mother drew back. She made an attempt at a smile, gestured at the pink gingham.

"Such a pretty dress. You're going over to the soda fountain tonight? You said something—I can't quite remember . . . Could you ask him, Helene? Ask him tonight?"

DESTINY • 265

"I'll bring the money back with me." Helene helped her mother back into the chair. "I'll bring it back with me, I promise. And then you can see the doctor, and get well again, and then—" She hesitated, looking down at her mother's bent head. "Then we ought to talk more. Mother. You remember—the way we used to do? We ought to—plan. Think. I could leave school. I could ..." Her mother looked up.

"It's gone six, Helene. Oughtn't you to be leaving? I'll be all right. I'll be fine. I feel better now. I don't want to hold you up."

She reached for the teacup, picked it up, and sipped the half-cold tea. Helene moved uncertainly to the door.

"I might be a little late getting back, Mother. ..."

"That's all right, darling. I know where you are. I shan't be worried. Run along now."

\ ed was waiting for her outside the old summerhouse. They had often 1 1 met there this past month, on the evenings Ned didn't pick her up on the Orangeburg road. Tonight he was waiting as usual, pacing up and down the grass outside, smoking a cigarette. Helene saw him before he saw her, and her heart leapt. He looked so impatient for her to arrive. She had been running, and now she increased her pace, across the grass, cannoning into his arms. She clung to him then, her shoulders heaving, her breath coming fast, fighting back the tears, and Ned laughed with surprise and pleasure, and then held her tight, rocking her back and forth.

"Whoa there, whoa there," he said softly against her hair. "You seem in a mighty fine hurry to get here. . . . What's this now?" He tilted her face up to his. "Something happen to upset you, honey?"

Helene shook her head and buried her face again against his chest. She couldn't tell him, not yet. She'd have to ask him and try to explain, but later, she thought—later.

"I'm all right." She pressed her hps against his fine lawn shirt. She could feel the thud of his heart. "I was just running, that's all. I wanted to see you."

"And I wanted to see you, honey. I've been counting the minutes. . . ." He took her arms and held her away from him so he could look her up and down. Helene stepped back shyly, smoothing back her tumbled hair. His eyes rested on her flushed face, her anxious eyes. Slowly they fell to the neckline of the pink gingham, then down, then up. He gave a long sigh.

"You look beautiful, Helene." His voice was soft, and his eyes had taken on that intent look they did sometimes, so Helene knew he meant what he said. "You look just beautiful. And your hair. You've had your hair fixed."

266 • SALLY BEAUMAN

He lifted his hand and touched her hair, then shpped his fingers down a httle way, and caressed her throat. "It makes me so happy, you know that? Just to see you look the way you do. To know you went right out, and chose that, for me. . . . Give me a kiss, honey, just a little kiss. Doesn't my little girl want to tell me she's pleased to see me now?"

He kissed her parted lips as he spoke, drawing her close against him, and holding her carefully, protectively, in the circle of his arms.

"Oh, honey. If you knew what you did to me." He looked down into her upturned face and smiled. Then he took her arm and rested it through his.

"I've got a little surprise for you. You come along with me now, and you'll see. ..."

He set off toward the house. Helene trotted beside him, quickening her steps to keep up with his long strides. He took her around the shrubbery and out onto the lawns, in full view of the windows. Helene stopped.

"Where are we going? I thought—I thought we were going to a restaurant?"

"Change of plan. I thought of something nicer. You'll see. Come on now."

He led her right up and into the house, holding her hand now. Across the cool hall, into that vast living room. Helene shivered as the cool air of the house hit her skin. The blinds were down, and the lamps were lit, though it was broad daylight outside. Ned saw her glance at the windows, and he smiled.

"More private that way. And I've sent the servants out. We won't be disturbed. Look, Helene. ..."

At the far side of the drawing room he threw back the tall double doors with a flourish. The room beyond was the dining room, which Helene had never seen before. It was a huge room, cooled by fans that rotated slowly overhead. At one end was a heavy antique sideboard laden with ornate silver dishes. The blinds were down here, too, and the room was ht by candles ranged in tall candelabra down the center of the long mahogany table. Their flickering light shone on porcelain and crystal, on gardenias from the estate, on fruit from its hothouses. The table would have seated twenty people with ease. At one end of it, two places had been laid.

She stopped, and Ned gave a low laugh.

"Look."

He moved to the sideboard and began lifting silver covers.

"Lobster. Cold chicken. A special sauce our cook makes, with grapes— it's delicious, you ever had that, Helene? Melons. Fresh raspberries and peaches. Cream." He moved on to an ice bucket. "Champagne, getting nice and cold now. French champagne—Krug, you ever heard of that, Helene? All just waiting for us to serve ourselves. Better than any restau-

DESTINY • 267

rant hereabouts, don't you think, honey?" He glanced at her face, saw the doubt there, and moved back quickly to her side.

"Helene, say you're pleased. I wanted you to be pleased. I wanted you here tonight, don't you see? Just this once—eating by my side, at my table, in my house. My little girl. My lovely little girl. Eating here like the lady she is. Drinking champagne. We're celebrating, Helene, don't you know that?"

"What are we celebrating?" She looked at him uncertainly.

"Why, I guess we'll have to see." He grinned. "You and I, we've got plenty to celebrate, I'd say."

He took her hand and led her back into the drawing room.

"Now you just sit tight there, and I'll bring you some champagne. Sip it nice and slow now . . . remember the bourbon."

Helene remembered the bourbon only too clearly, so she was careful. One glass of champagne. One glass of wine with dinner. Even so, she knew the alcohol was affecting her. It made her head feel Ught, and her spirits rose, and she was glad of that. Ned was being attentive, and amusing, telling her some story about a congressman he knew; he seemed relaxed, perfectly at ease, sitting underneath a rather ugly portrait of his father, just as if this dinner were the most normal thing in the world.

He did not seem bothered by how much he drank, she noticed. Three glasses of champagne to her one; at least four glasses of wine; after dinner, when they returned to the drawing room, he poured a bourbon on the rocks.

He was sitting opposite her, his legs stretched out comfortably, smoking a cigar. The pungent smoke drifted across the space between them. Helene thought; The next time he puts his glass down, then I shall ask him about the money. I'll have to. I can't put it off any longer.