Heart Troubles (13 page)

“It's for Barbara's own good, Frank. You've got to see that it is. We'll explain it to her tonight, after the birthday party.”

“This place has gotten very ugly,” he said. “I think I miss the cedar trees the most.”

“Please, Frank,” she said. “Will you please pay attention to me?”

“Let's hurry,” he said.

“Wait,” she said. “Now just stop here and wait a minute.” She pulled his arm. “We've got to get this thing settled once and for all.”

He stopped. “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“Just say it's all right.”

“For us to murder her child? All right. It's all right for us to murder her child.”

“Frank, it's not murdering her child. It's saving her from disgrace. Which would you rather have?”

“There's no answer to that,” he said. “How can I answer that?”

“You've got to. Listen. It's not as though Barbara were the first woman in the
world
to have this operation. Why, in many countries it's no more uncommon than a—than an appendicitis. And in Barbara's case—”

“In Barbara's case,” he said, “I think we might discuss it with Barbara.”

“Barbara knows.”

“How does she know? You've never mentioned it.”

“She knows. She suspects, anyway. Why does she think we brought her here?”

“And do you think she wants to handle it this way?”

“I don't see how Barbara can judge
what
she wants at this point,” she said. “I think Barbara is—frightened, a little—at either of the alternatives.”

“How can you be so analytical about it?” he asked her. “You talk as if Barbara weren't your daughter at all.”

“I'm trying,” she said, “simply trying to be common-sense. To do the sensible thing. A child has no right to live without a father. And how could we have the scandal of a lawsuit, or something, if we told him, and if he refused—if he wouldn't—” Frank thought he detected a note of terror in her voice. “Don't you see? Don't you see how awful it could be?”

“I don't see how it could be awfuller than it is,” he said. “Come on, let's get back.”

“Then you do say yes?” she asked him, swinging into step beside him. “Is your answer yes?”

“Do what you want to, Louise.”

“We'll explain the details to her after the birthday party,” she said. “She'll be in a good mood then. Let her have a drink or two, Frank, to relax her. Then I'll phone Alexander and tell him where to bring the car.…”

“I'll dope her up, and then your strong-arm man can come out of the bushes, truss her up, and haul her off to that doctor.…”

“Frank, please don't talk like that.”

She went on. “I'll run hot water in the bathtub. He wants her to be bathed before she gets there. He'll be awfully short of time.”

“How will you lure her into the tub? Or will you push her in? Tell her it's for her own good, just a little birthday present—?”

“Oh, Frank, please! We're almost to Mrs. Redland's cottage. She'll hear you. Oh, hello there, darling,” she called. “How are you?”

Mrs. Redland waved gaily from her stone-paved terrace—too gaily, Frank thought. It was as though Mrs. Redland waved out of habitual boredom.

“Coming to Barbara's birthday party?” Louise called.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world, Louise. See you then.”

The two of them continued on, past the bare and straggly row of trees that marked the actual boundary of the hotel's property. They walked more slowly now and Louise spoke softly and carefully.

“Her bag will have been packed. But I want you to bring it down to the car, at the east door.”

“How much does this Alexander know about all this?”

“I have no idea. The doctor simply told me we could trust him.”

“Why couldn't we take her there ourselves, in a taxi?”

“I think a private car is better, Frank. And so does he. He'll call us as soon as it's over. He doesn't expect any complications, since she's still in the early stages—”

He was out of her world, and the fact astonished him. He could hear everything that she said clearly and yet, somehow, it seemed as though none of it really involved him. Probably, he thought, it was because nothing he could say or do would stop her. In an hour or two friends would begin to gather for the birthday party. The wonderful joke was that it was Barbara's, Barbara's nineteenth birthday party. Soon a little private car would drive to the east door. Alexander would wait, fully instructed, trustworthy. Frank would see to it that Barbara had one or two drinks. Then it would be time for him to bring Barbara's suitcase down. Meanwhile Louise would be drawing water in the tub—fresh, soft Bermuda rainwater (did they really keep goldfish in those cisterns? he wondered). Downstairs Philip would be busy pouring champagne for the last of the guests, and finally, when she was a little tight, Barbara would be led upstairs and be told. Then down, out through the back elevator she would go, off for her abortion with her suitcase and the tiny silver good-luck spoon clipped in her hair, his own daughter. It was going to happen. He could never stop it, never. Alone, in their suite, he and Louise would wait for the telephone to ring. Louise would sit quiet, consuming cigarette after cigarette, and he, perhaps, would wait with the whiskey decanter.

They were at the foot of the wide white flagstone steps that led up to the hotel terrace from the beach. Louise stopped him again. “I think it would be nice, Frank, if we bought Barbara that little fur she admired in Bendel's window—when we get back, of course. Just a little something to prove to her that we still love her.”

“Yes,” he said.

“It wasn't terribly expensive. But if you feel you can't afford it right now, I can draw another check …”

“Yes,” he said. “You could do that.” Once upon a time, he thought, they had all been his checks, none of them Louise's. Perhaps, if they were still his checks, he could do something now, about Barbara. He turned and looked back across the beach. The tide seemed to be coming in now. He remembered the other years, watching Barbara on the beach, running to pull her back if she went too close to the surf, taking her by the hand. Barbara had trusted in him then. But now she was grown up. And he was betraying her.

“Do you like those cashmere skirts, Frank? I was thinking we might get Barbara one of those—with a little matching sweater.…”

“Yes, Louise.…”

“Oh, Frank,” she said, “I know it bothers you to think about Barbara going to that doctor. But I assure you he's all right. And it's the only thing we can do, Frank.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then brighten up a little bit, Frank. At least
pretend
to. Or she'll certainly suspect—”

“Louise, what would happen if we called the boy and told him?”

“Oh, Frank—don't put obstacles in the way now. It's impossible, just impossible. He's in
college,
Frank—and he has no means of support. And his people have nothing, literally nothing. And of course she couldn't be in love with him.”

“And if we let her—just
have
the baby?”

“It would ruin her life, that's all. No woman would want that. I know, Frank. I'm a woman. You've just got to accept that fact about women.”

“You win, Louise,” he said.

“After all,” she continued, “it's really not such a dreadful thing. Two weeks' rest and she'll be as healthy as a horse. No one will ever know a thing. She can meet some
nice
young man—”

“Come on,” he said. “I feel a little chilly.”

They started up the steps. “Why,
there
you are, Frank Caldwell!” someone in heavy gold bangles exclaimed. “You promised me a game of tennis this afternoon, do you remember that? I saved a court for nearly an hour!”

Frank forced a smile. “I had to make some arrangements for the party,” he said. “Will you be there, Molly?” The woman in the bangles nodded violently. “By the way,” she said, “where
is
Barbara? I haven't seen her for hours.”

“I think she's lying down right now,” Frank said. “We'll see you at seven.”

“There's a divine Princeton man I want her to meet—simply divine! If I weren't old enough to be his—his big sister, why, I'd be in love with him myself! Such
tennis!
And he's just Barbara's type. I do hope they'll get together. He's interested in guns. Brrrr! And all sorts of things. But he's really quite nice and refined, a lovely boy.”

“See you at seven,” Frank said.

In the lobby Frank waited while Louise made some last-minute calls from the pay phone. He sat down in a green leather chair and watched the canaries flying around among the philodendron leaves. He could see Louise talking quietly and efficiently behind the glass doors.

In the suite on the fifth floor the telephone was ringing. But the girl who was lying stretched crosswise on the bed was paying no attention to it. It made no difference to her who it might be. She turned over on her back, and presently the ringing stopped. Her eyes were red from crying. She lifted her feet and looked at her shoes. They were not new, but they were her favorite pair, and she had put them on for a reason. A few minutes earlier she had tried to telephone someone, someone in New York. But the operator downstairs had told her that at Mrs. Caldwell's request no off-the-island calls were to be accepted from Suite 5-C. And so he would never know.

It was horrible, of course. But then, too, it was rather interesting, she thought, to be able to lie back this way and watch the plans whirling around her, while all the time no one supposed she knew that the plans were spinning out, revolving. Yes, she knew, she knew. She laughed suddenly, for suddenly it all seemed rather funny. She tried to imagine her mother's face if she should find out she knew, and if she found out that, after all, she didn't care. It was almost too much to think about.

She got up and lit a cigarette, still shaking with small sobs of laughter. At the window she tried to see New York again. If only she could see home again, she thought, just for a minute, that would be something. But here she was so far away. There was no one anywhere who could help her now. Instead of anything she knew, or wanted to know, she saw a cool, curving stretch of Bermuda beach that shone indelibly white in the fading sunlight and a clear stretch of sea that turned from green to murky blue at the horizon. There were a few late swimmers now, waving brown arms, making deep dashes into the green water—splash!—shouting hellos, waving good-bys. She turned away.

No, there was no one. Where was her father? She wondered. She had always waited for him to pull her out when the waves began lapping over her head. But this time he had not come. And she knew that her mother would be back soon, chattering gaily about the wonderful birthday party, looking at her with little veiled looks of distrust. So she had no time to lose. She went to the small writing desk, sat down, and picked up a pen and a sheet of hotel stationery. The crest was emblazoned with soaring breakers.

“My darling—” she began. She wrote a few more words.

Then automatically, as though indeed there were nothing else in the world to do, she stood up and walked into the tiny kitchenette. Feeling young and cheated and alone, she closed the door, fastened the window tight, and turned on the three gas jets.

Downstairs Frank waited for his wife. When she came out of the, phone booth, she said, “I've just been trying to call the apartment to get Barbara to come down, but no one answers.”

“Shall I go up?”

“No. She's probably just sulking. She's been behaving so
strangely
—”

“She's probably asleep,” he said. “What did you want her for?”

“Well, I thought it would be a good idea if she put in an appearance down here. You heard what Molly just said. There's liable to be enough talk next week, so I thought that if we just sort of promenaded around …”

“Yes, I suppose so. I'll go up.”

“Well, let's go into the bar for one old-fashioned first. I always need
one
drink before entertaining. Come on.” She took his arm.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell,” the bartender said as they entered. “Everything is ready for a wonderful party.”

“That's very nice, Philip,” Louise said. Frank followed her to her favorite window table.

Philip followed to take their order. “Doesn't the shore look beautiful right now?” Louise said. “In this sort of twilight? Look at it.”

“Ah, but the cedar trees,” Philip said. “They are gone now, nearly everywhere.”

“Perhaps they will grow back.”

“Two Scotch old-fashioneds,” Frank said.

“Well, drink up,” Louise said when they had been served. “We'll drink to better fortune, Frank.”

But he had not really heard her, although he did lift his glass. He had discovered something, something about the place, about the people they were, the person he was, about the kelp-strewn pale-pink beach and the blighted cedar trees. It was not just the cedars that were blighted. It was himself, it was Louise. Somehow they had been struck from within by some cankerous disease. This was his discovery, and he waited for the words to come with which to explain it to Louise. Yes, they were blighted—but Barbara was not, not yet. He would stop it. He would not let it happen to Barbara. He would not let Louise go through with it. He would announce his decision to Louise, and he would go upstairs and explain it all to Barbara. And somehow—he didn't know how yet—they would work it out. He ordered another drink, and nursed it slowly, in silence, treasuring his thought.

“We'd better go,” Louise said at last. “It's getting late.”

And then he decided he would not tell Louise. He would first go and phone the boy in New York. He would talk to the boy as the boy's own father would. He stood up. “Excuse me a minute, Louise,” he said. He started across the room.