Heart Troubles (18 page)

“Really, I'm awfully sorry.”

“Don't mention it,” Mrs. Carmichael said crisply. “You had no way of knowing. But now you know.” She picked up her knitting bag and placed it on her lap. “From three to four every afternoon I walk. During that hour this chair is available for any guest of the hotel who wishes to sit in it. But I expect it relinquished by four sharp. I assume you found it comfortable.”

“I did,” Ellen said. “Very.”

“It is probably the only one of its kind.” Mrs. Carmichael began to knit rapidly—a signal, Ellen was to learn later, that the conversation was closed.

For the next few days Ellen avoided Mrs. Carmichael carefully. She told her mother about the incident, and Ellen and her mother enjoyed speculating about Mrs. Carmichael's presence at the hotel.

“I think she's a famous ax murderess,” Ellen had said. “She's come to the Virgin Islands to escape the law.”

“She comes from Newburyport, Massachusetts,” Ellen's mother had said.

“How on earth did you find that out?”

“She has a Newburyport paper mailed to her. I've seen her pick it up.”

“But why in the world would a little old lady like that come down here?” Ellen asked. “She doesn't go near the beach. She hates the sun—she pushes that chair into the shadiest spot she can find. I've heard her complaining about the food—”

“She's been here for a long time,” Mrs. Brier said. “They told me that at the desk.”

“Aha! Then you've been doing a little detective work yourself.”

“Well,” Ellen's mother said, “she doesn't seem like the kind of person one would expect to find …”

That afternoon Ellen had been walking back from the beach when she met Mrs. Carmichael on the path. She murmured, “Good afternoon,” stepping to one side to let Mrs. Carmichael pass. To Ellen's surprise, Mrs. Carmichael stopped, looked up at her, and smiled brightly. “Well, my dear,” she said, “are you enjoying yourself?”

“Very much,” said Ellen.

Mrs. Carmichael leaned on her cane. “Is that your mother who is with you?”

“Yes.”

“A most attractive woman. Where is your father?”

“My father isn't living,” Ellen said.

“I see,” said Mrs. Carmichael without pausing. “Why are you here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you here? Why did you come to St. Croix? You're far too pretty to be stuck in this Godforsaken spot. There are no young men on this island.”

“Well,” Ellen faltered, “I—I came here for a rest.”

“A rest? You don't look tired. You look as healthy as a horse. Where is your home?”

“In Connecticut.”

“Ah, that's a familiar state. A very familiar state. I am from Newburyport, Massachusetts. Do you know Newburyport?”

“No, I've never been there,” Ellen said.

“It's cold in winter. That's why I winter here. I have wintered here for thirty years. If you wish, you may finish my walk with me. I walk down there”—she pointed with her cane—“and then I turn and circle back by the lookout hill.”

Ellen found herself falling into slow step beside Mrs. Carmichael. For most of the walk the old lady was silent. But she would stop occasionally to point out a particular landmark—a tree or a ruin or a stretch of sea view where a ship had gone down—and with these comments she would supply bits of island history. “There was once a fine harbor at Christiansted,” she said. “But they have let it become clogged with mud. Laziness.”

Gradually Ellen found herself enjoying the old lady—her quick, imperious gestures with her cane, her abrupt, almost rude questions, and her quick, unexpected smiles. They were almost back to, the hotel when Mrs. Carmichael placed a hand on Ellen's arm. “You still haven't told me,” she said.

“Told you what?”

“You haven't told me why you came here. I don't believe it was for a rest. You might as well tell me—I'll find out sooner or later. I make it a point to know everything about everybody who comes to the hotel.”

Ellen laughed. “Very well,” she said. “I came here to forget.”

“Ah. That's more like it. To forget whom?”

“A young man. I was engaged.”

“Yes. And what happened?”

“The engagement was broken.”

“By whom? By you or by him?”

“It was—it was a mutual thing,” Ellen said. “It wouldn't have worked out.”

“Why not, may I ask?”

“We—we had different backgrounds.”

“Poppycock. What difference does that make?”

Ellen was suddenly flustered. “He—he wanted to be a schoolteacher.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“For one thing, there's no money in it,” Ellen said lamely.

“What? I'm surprised at you! What an absurd answer!”

“No,” Ellen said, “I don't mean that. But—well, that's what my mother said, and it's just one reason—”

“Your mother. Did she break it off?”

“Really,” Ellen said, “there's no point in our discussing it. There were many reasons, believe me.”

“But your mother. Tell me what she wanted.”

“You have to understand Mother,” Ellen said. “She's a wonderful woman, really she is. But she's a businesswoman. I mean, she took over Daddy's business after he died. She really made it what it is today. She's always hoped I'd marry someone who would go into the business. Jimmy couldn't care less about it. All he wants is to be a schoolteacher. Even a college teacher would have sounded better to Mother—but Jimmy wants to be a grammar-school teacher! He doesn't care about making money. He and Mother quarreled badly—” She broke off. “Why am I telling you all this?” she asked.

“Because I don't beat around the bush,” said Mrs. Carmichael. “Did you love him?”

Ellen was silent a moment. “Yes, I think so,” she said finally. “Jimmy is a funny person. Not handsome, I suppose, but intelligent and kind. He's sort of an idealist …”

“I assume you're rich,” Mrs. Carmichael said abruptly, her pale blue eyes looking up sharply at Ellen.

“Why, I—”

“Are you?” Mrs. Carmichael snapped. “Answer me.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you might say—”

“Don't apologize,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “I am rich too. Much richer than you, I'll wager. And of course he is poor.”

“Yes.”

“Rich is rich and poor is poor, and never the twain shall meet,” she said. “Ah,
les neiges de jeunesse.
”

“Pardon me?”

“Les neiges de jeunesse—
the snows of youth. An expression I use. How old are you—twenty-one, twenty-two?” Without waiting for Ellen to answer, she said, “Come along. It's nearly four o'clock.” They started up the path to the hotel.

That evening Ellen's mother came to her room. “Would you zip me up please, dear?” she asked, turning the back of her pale-green sheath toward Ellen. “I can't find my nail polish. Did you borrow it?”

“No,” Ellen said. She pulled up her mother's zipper.

“I strongly suspect these native maids,” Mrs. Brier said. “My perfume has been disappearing at the rate of an inch a day. I'm sure the polish was on my dresser this morning before the maid did the room.”

“Mother,” Ellen said, “did you know Jimmy wrote me a letter yesterday?”

“No, dear, I didn't. What did he have to say?”

“It was just—nothing. Just a letter.”

“Surely you're not going to answer it, Ellen.”

“I don't know.…”

Mrs. Brier turned to her. “Ellen,” she said, “you wouldn't do such a thing, would you? It's ended, isn't it? The whole problem is settled. Why keep reopening it?”

“I just don't know, Mother.”

“Oh, Ellen, please, don't talk like this! There's nothing more to it, can't you see?”

“Mother, what's wrong with being a schoolteacher?”

“Well, in the first place—”

“I know,” Ellen said sharply. “There's no money in it! But what else is wrong?”

Mrs. Brier turned away. “Oh, Ellen,” she said, “I wanted so much more for you. So much more!”

“I know, Mother,” Ellen said quickly. “I'm sorry.”

“Just don't
think
about Jimmy any more. Come on, let's have a cocktail before dinner. I met some people named Kent this afternoon. Quite attractive, from Chicago. They mentioned bridge with us tonight. Would you like that?”

That night Ellen and her mother played bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Mr. Kent was large and boisterous; Mrs. Kent was small and complaining. The evening seemed long, and Ellen finally excused herself and went to her room. She made it a point to look at the letter again, not to read it, not even to think about Jimmy. But that night, quite late, she awakened and began to cry, and was unable to sleep again.

As the days went by, Ellen met Mrs. Carmichael often on her walks. She began to time her return from the beach in the afternoon to find Mrs. Carmichael on the path. Mrs. Carmichael's walking schedule proceeded as regularly as clockwork, and always when they met the old lady seemed genuinely pleased to see Ellen.

“You're one of the few promising people at this hotel,” Mrs. Carmichael said once. “Have you looked at the rest of them?”

“Well, Mother sees a lot of the Kents, and I've met that Mrs. Arnold.”

“They have no promise, any of them. The Kents—he's an excommunicated priest. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“And Mrs. Arnold came down here to get a divorce, but she's taken her time about getting it. She wants the house and the car and the bank account, and Mr. Arnold doesn't seem to want to give them to her. No promise, any of them.”

“Really, you do know the most amazing things about people!”

“I have nothing else to occupy me,” Mrs. Carmichael said simply.

Periodically she would look inquisitively at Ellen and say, “Well, have you forgotten yet?” If Ellen replied, “Yes,” as she sometimes did, Mrs. Carmichael would shake her head and say, No, you haven't.” And if Ellen said, “No,” which was after all closer to the truth, Mrs. Carmichael would say, “Well, it takes time, I suppose.”

Bit by bit, in fragments and pieces, Mrs. Carmichael told Ellen about herself. “My father was a Dane,” she said. “A long time ago he owned this island—most of it. He came here as a poor boy from Denmark and exploited the natives. Why beat around the bush? That's what he did. He ended up owning the lighter fleet, a sugar plantation—the old mill up there was his. He owned the bank and most of the shops. He was ruthless.”

“Then you were brought up here.”

“Yes. I have lived through twenty hurricane seasons and I'll never live through another one. I went to Newburyport when I was twenty-one. Now I come here only during the good season and leave before it starts to blow. You wouldn't enjoy the island through a hurricane—it's dreadful. We had storm shutters two inches thick. Now that this is a tourist island, all the hotels close to let the hurricanes go through.”

“Yes. That's when we go home.”

“I'm eighty,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “That seems old to you, doesn't it? My father lived to be ninety-three. The natives said he was too mean to die—neither the Almighty nor the devil wanted him. He always wore a white silk ascot with a black ivory cameo pinned in the center of it. He was very handsome and very vain.”

“He must have been a remarkable man,” Ellen said.

“You might say that,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“Was your husband—Mr. Carmichael—from here?” Ellen asked.

“Edward? No, no. He was from Newburyport. He was a sea captain. He sailed down here and we were married here.”

“How romantic!” Ellen said.

“Yes. I suppose you'd call it a whirlwind courtship.”

“And he took you back to Newburyport?”

“No, we lived here. He went to work for my father, with the lighter fleet. We were going to build a house.”

“And what happened?”

“He died,” said Mrs. Carmichael simply.

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry,” Ellen said gently.

“It was very long ago,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Come on, it's nearly four o'clock.” They went toward the hotel in silence. Then, just at the last turn in the path, Mrs. Carmichael stopped. “Why do you always meet me at the end of my walk?” she asked.

“Because it's on my way back from the beach.”

Mrs. Carmichael snorted. “The beach! The sea holds too many bodies. Someday I'll take you on the beginning of my walk. I start there”—she raised her cane and pointed—“and I go to the top of the hill, then down.”

“I'd love to go with you,” Ellen said.

“Well, one day I may ask you,” Mrs. Carmichael said crisply. As they came within view of the hotel terrace, she whispered, “Look. There's that Kent man in my chair. I shall tell him to stay out of it.”

That night as they sat having dinner Mrs. Brier turned to Ellen and said, “Darling, why
do
you spend so much time with that peculiar old woman?”

“Why, I think she's rather sweet, Mother.”

“Honestly, you're always walking around with her. Aren't you having fun?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well, really, dear, it does look awfully funny. You never talk to anyone except her. I'm afraid people will think you're as barmy as she is!”

“She's not barmy!”

“Well, it certainly is grotesque. A young girl spending all her time with a decrepit old lady in a long black dress and black stockings. John Kent remarked to me just this afternoon—”

“Mr. Kent! I could tell you a few things about him!”

Mrs. Brier leaned forward eagerly. “What?” she asked. “What have you learned? He's most attractive, don't you think?'”