Let Me Tell You (7 page)

Running again, not even sparing time to change her stockings, she went out to her car. It's like everyone back home, she was thinking, picnics and last-minute invitations, and everything confused and grimy and noisy, taking people away from their homes and their dinners without ever stopping to think how inconvenient it might be for the orderly routine of their houses. Mrs. Spencer remembered, with a little shiver of fury, the troops of laughing friends her sister was always apt to bring home, always, somehow, when the house was freshly cleaned and things put in order.

Potluck, Mrs. Spencer thought, as though it were a word from a nightmare. A picnic at dinnertime. Children being fed all kinds of things they shouldn't have. Grown-ups laughing and drinking and probably never getting anything to eat until all hours. People trampling through the house, wrinkling rugs, upsetting ashtrays, pressing into the kitchen to help make a salad, dropping cigarettes, putting glasses down on polished furniture, making noise. It's vulgar, Mrs. Spencer whispered fearfully to herself, vulgar and untidy and nasty.

She did not often drive along the river road; many of the houses along there were only shacks set by the water, and Mrs. Spencer had been on a committee that stopped the people living in them from throwing their garbage into the river. She had to follow the main highway to the edge of the town, and then turn off, and as she came to the entrance of the river road she slowed down, watching for the abandoned, derelict gas station that marked the turn; it's just
like
them to live along here, she thought, just
like
them.

She could hear the sound of a waterfall through the still night, even over the soft sound of her car. She had not perceived how dark it had grown until she realized that the moon was rising; under other circumstances she might have slowed down briefly to admire the light across the water, as she admired all things done in an orderly manner, but tonight she had to hurry. The thought had crossed her mind that one of these days she might open her front door to find the Oberons and their friends crowding in for a visit, expecting hospitality in the style of their own; she could not get Harry and the children away quickly enough.

Driven by the thought of the Oberons crossing her trim threshold, Mrs. Spencer drove faster. The Oberons' house on the river was not far past the waterfall, but tonight—perhaps because of the darkness growing steadily along the road, with only an occasional glimpse, now, of the moon through the trees—it was difficult to find. Once, Mrs. Spencer slowed down at a curve in the winding road, thinking she heard voices singing, and saw lights through the trees, but when she stopped her car there was nothing but silence, and she drove on.

The Oberons' house was set back from the road, down the slope to the river, and only a ramshackle fence post marked the turnoff that served as a driveway; peering through the darkness, Mrs. Spencer went on, and then found herself without warning on the broad highway that marked the end of the river road on this side; this highway would only lead her back home, alone. She had come too far, and must turn and go back. As she started back, she decided that she had taken enough. Tomorrow she would tell Mr. Sanson at the store, and Mrs. Babcock, and the florist, and all the rest that the Oberons were not to be trusted. “They used my name without any authorization from me,” she would say. “I wouldn't let them owe
me
money; you may be sure that Mr. Spencer and I do
not
accept responsibility.”

The winding road was very dark now, and she had to turn on the car's headlights; all they showed her were trees and quiet leaves. Far away was the sound of the waterfall and then, even more distantly, laughter. Mrs. Spencer stopped her car again and listened. She thought she could hear what might be children shouting, even one high voice that could have been Donnie's, and above the thin noise of the children was music, perhaps a radio, with that peculiarly clear sound that music has near water. She sat in her car, head bent forward intently, and heard—she was positive—Harry's voice singing. “Oh, my darling,” he was singing, “oh, my darling, oh, my darling Clementine,” and the children's voices joined him, rising in glad disharmony, “Oh, my
darling
Clementine…” and the laughter went on.

Unsteadily, Mrs. Spencer opened the door of her car and got out, the stones of the road hard and rough under her thin high-heeled shoes. Somewhere along here, she thought, and moved, stumbling, to the side of the road. Even if she could not see the lights of the house through the trees, the driveway must be along here somewhere, and time was pressing; she could not,
could
not, endure to hear her husband singing and her children laughing somewhere down there at the Oberons' house.

There was a fence going along the side of the road, almost certainly a fence that led to the post that marked the driveway, and she took hold of the top rail—she had forgotten her gloves—to steady herself as she followed it. Even with the car's headlights shining it was dark on the side of the road, among the trees, and the distant singing and laughter faded sometimes until it was only the sound of a very soft breeze going through the leaves. Walking almost blindly, Mrs. Spencer made her way along the fence, slipping into a ditch once, almost losing a shoe in a pile of dead leaves, straining to see lights down by the river. Then, turning at a curve in the road, she was halted; the fence ended in a tangle of fallen boards, and there ahead was the derelict gas station, and the other road home.

I've been going the wrong way, she thought, realizing that there were tears on her face, I've walked all this time the wrong way; the way in is somewhere behind me. Groping, she found her way back to her car, and sat for a minute on the seat, the door open beside her. When she sat still she could hear the singing distinctly, “Oh, my darling, oh, my
darling
Clementine,” and a voice—surely Irma's—shouting, “Popcorn! Popcorn!” I'll have to turn around again, she thought; I must have missed it somehow. Her shoes were ruined, she knew, and it was just as well that she had not changed her stockings; her hands were filthy and scratched from the fence; she knew that her hair was draggled and her lipstick worn away. All of this the Oberons will pay for, she thought. The Oberons will suffer for every single bit of this; I'll have Harry run them out of town tomorrow; you just wait and see, she told the Oberons silently, you just wait and see what I am going to do with you.

She started the car then, fired with anger, and turned around by the gas station and started back along the road, driving very slowly and close to the side of the road. When she came to the spot where she had heard the singing she went even more slowly, her head partly out of the car window. It was possible—considering the haphazard Oberons, it was even probable—that the fence post that marked the driveway had been allowed to fall down, but even so, the driveway ought to have been visible as an opening between the trees. From far away she could still hear the laughter and the singing, as though the guests wandered now all along the river, perhaps in boats, going up and down the river and singing. If those people have put my Donnie into a boat, she thought fiercely, they'll have to account to me—and found herself again at the end of the river road where it joined the other highway home.

Why can't I find it? Why can't I find the house where the Oberons live? Everyone else has gotten there all right. No, she thought, sitting and staring at the streetlights going along in order toward her home, no, it isn't possible.

Then, beginning to feel frantic, she turned her car quickly and drove back along the road until she came again to the other end, to the abandoned gas station, and, turning again, back once more to the lighted highway. Once, she stopped, hearing first only silence and then, far away, the voices singing and the laughter. It seemed to her that she had spent hours, perhaps years, searching up and down a dark and empty road, following the distant merriment, never able to find a way to get closer to it. At last, tired and worn, tears drying on her cheeks, she accepted the highway home and left the river road behind. They will be waiting for me at home, she said over and over, they will be there waiting for me, they will have been waiting all this time.

The town was deserted; only an occasional light showed on a porch or in a hallway, as though most people had gone off by daylight, forgetting that it might be dark when they came home. No one was walking on the sidewalks, and Mrs. Spencer wondered if the movie theater and the restaurants and the drugstores and the bars downtown would all be empty, closed and dark, because all the town was down by the river laughing and singing and dancing. I'm the only one who didn't go, she thought with dismay; they all went off and left me behind.

In her haste she had not left any lights on in her own house, and it was dark and forbidding as she drove into the driveway and walked up to the front door. No one was waiting for her. She looked eagerly, pointlessly, through the downstairs rooms, calling “Harry? Donnie? Irma?” into the silence, then sat tiredly on the bottom step of the staircase. More than anything else, more even than welcoming her family home, she wanted to shower and change, make herself clean again, and yet she had not the will to get herself upstairs; I'm the only one who didn't go, she thought again.

At last she moved, alert, hearing suddenly the sounds of movement; cars going down the street, people walking, voices calling to one another. They're back, she thought, everyone has come home again; I must hurry and change before they get here. Harry and Donnie and Irma must not find Margaret Spencer sitting bedraggled on the bottom step of her own staircase; she must be neat and ready for them, and then, running up the stairs, she realized that they would be coming home dirty and sticky and perhaps wet from the river, perhaps tracking mud across the white doorsill, putting grimy hands on the stair rail, bringing their filthy shoes into the living room, and she sighed irritably. It's too
much,
she thought; it's more than I can stand. I spend my whole life keeping things nice for them, and what thanks do I get?

She heard Harry's car pull into the driveway, and doors opening and closing.

Then, irrepressibly, Irma giggled and said in what was almost a whisper, “Oh, my darling Clementine,” and Donnie began to laugh and then Harry was laughing too. “Oh, my
darling
Clementine,” they said to one another, as Harry unlocked the door, and then they were all inside.

Watching them helplessly, angry and bewildered in the face of their joyful, happy laughter, Mrs. Spencer could only think, It's too much, it's too
much;
I spend my whole life keeping things nice for them, and this is the thanks I get.

It was a sunny afternoon, and the park was nearly full. Old men and women sat on the benches; mothers sat idly beside baby carriages or watched children run shrieking over the grass. There were a lot of dogs walking up and down the paths on leashes or lying next to the benches. Except for the children, there was little conversation and not much noise.

A man came into the park from one of the side entrances. He stopped just inside the entrance to pat a dog on the head and speak to the owner, and then walked on slowly, looking for a place to sit down. He was middle-aged, partly bald, and, judging by his clothes, not very well off. As he walked he watched the people in the park with a bright interest, stopping to listen to an argument between a mother and child, and later to pick up a ball for a group of older boys. One of them said, “Throw it back here, mister,” and held out his hands. The man threw the ball clumsily and it bounced twice before the boy scooped it up. The boy said, “Thanks,” and turned and threw it easily far across the grass to another boy.

The man watched for a minute and then walked on. Finally he stopped in front of a bench with an empty place at one end. Beside it sat a woman with a baby carriage. “May I sit here?” he asked. She looked up and said, “It's not taken,” and the man sat down. He sighed and sat still for a minute before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

The woman looked at him irritably and then turned away. A baby was lying in the carriage on its stomach, asleep, wearing only a diaper. The baby's back was brown, except for a sharp white edge where the diaper began. The woman was tirelessly rocking the carriage back and forth.

“Will the smoke bother the baby?” the man asked.

“I just got her to sleep,” the woman said. “Just about anything wakes her.”

The man leaned over and dropped the cigarette onto the ground and put his foot on it. “She looks like a fine, healthy baby,” he said.

The woman smiled. “She's only six months old,” she said, “and never even had a cold.”

“A fine baby,” the man said. “You see so many around here looking pale and white.”

“They're not healthy,” the woman said. “Some of the children in this park are really unhealthy.”

“It's hard for children in the city.”

“Their mothers should keep them out of the park if they have things other children can catch,” the woman said.

While he was talking, the man had been fingering his billfold, riffling through the papers in it absentmindedly. Now he pulled one out—a magazine clipping. “Want to see my little girl?” he asked.

The woman reached out with the hand that was not rocking the carriage. “Of course,” she said. “I could tell from the way you talked that you had one of your own.”

The clipping was of a little blond girl of about six, with a pretty, adult face and a lot of makeup. “She's lovely,” the woman said. “She has such a sweet face.”

“She's a nice kid,” the man said. He hesitated. “Know who she is?” he asked finally.

The woman shook her head.

“Her name's Angela Foster now.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “In the movies!”

“That's right.” The man took the clipping and looked at it fondly. “It used to be Martin—that's my name. Her mother changed it. Angela Martin's not good for the movies,” he said.

“What a lucky little girl!” the woman said, reaching over to adjust the hood of the carriage. “In the movies!”

“She'll be a second Shirley Temple someday,” the man said. “She's got talent—everything.”

“You must be very proud of her.”

“I'll tell you,” the man began carefully, “I'm proud of her, of course. And it isn't the money I mind, either. She's making plenty right now, and I don't grudge it to her. But it's like this. Before her mother took her out to Hollywood, I was always kicking about the dancing lessons and the singing lessons and the costumes and the late nights when her dance class gave a recital. And now I know I just didn't have sense enough to see the baby had talent.”

“It's hard to tell,” the woman said. “All children have a natural sense of rhythm. Even at six months—”

“It isn't the money I mind,” the man said again. “I don't think a six-year-old girl
should
have to support her father.”

“Well, there's a lot of luck connected with it,” the woman said.

“I saw this article about her in a movie magazine,” the man went on. “It said she was five years old, but she must be six now. And she's already getting fan mail.”

“Really?” the woman said.

“I thought of writing to her and asking for a picture,” the man said. “Her own father.”

“I'm sure you'll be very proud of her,” the woman said. He reached into his pocket again for his cigarettes, and she frowned and shook her head. The man rose.

“I'll just finish my walk while I smoke this,” he said. He smiled at the woman and leaned over the carriage for a minute. “Such a pretty baby,” he said. He bowed slightly to the woman and went rapidly down the path.

When the man got around the next turn, he began to walk more slowly. A little boy just learning to walk staggered out from a bench and grabbed him by the leg. The man said, “Where you going, champ?,” turned the little boy around, and started him back to his mother. The man stopped for a minute to watch a checkers game and then went on again, only to stop a minute later and help a little girl of about two push her stroller around a difficult turn. The man called her “honey.” Her mother, who was standing nearby, thanked him, and he said, “Lovely little girl.” The mother smiled and went on, pulling the little girl and talking to her as she went.

The broad circle the man had been making had by now taken him back in the direction he had come. As he passed the group of boys playing ball, he saw the ball strike a tree and bounce in his direction. He scooped it up awkwardly and, holding it in his hand, walked over to the boys. They were waiting impatiently for the ball, and as he stepped across a low railing and handed the ball to the nearest one, he smiled apologetically and said, “Don't have the muscle I used to.”

“Thanks,” the boy said. He threw the ball, and the boys began to scatter. One of them caught the ball and threw it to another. The man said, “Bud,” and the nearest boy turned around. The man, taking out his billfold, said, “Know who this is?” He pulled forth a newspaper clipping and held it out to the boy.

The boy glanced over his shoulder at his friends and then went over to the man. “Sure,” he said, looking at the clipping, but without making any attempt to hold it. “Nicky Lopez. The middleweight challenger.”

A couple of the boys nearby had also turned when the man called, and now they came slowly over. “Nicky Lopez,” one of them said. “Let's see Nicky Lopez.” The man handed him the clipping, and the boy looked at it and said professionally, “There's a guy that can fight.”

“He's pretty good,” another of the boys said, taking the clipping in turn.

“I used to manage Nicky,” the man said, watching the boys' heads turn slowly toward him. “Yeah,” he said reminiscently, “I used to manage Nicky, until the syndicate got him away from me.” He looked around at the boys and then went on, “It isn't the money I mind, you understand, but I sure hated to lose that boy.”