Nothing That Meets the Eye (52 page)

Mrs. Palmer nodded, feeling too low just at that moment to make a comment. She had no comment anyway. Elsie, she thought, had passed back and forth by the amethyst pin for days and never mentioned it, never touched it, maybe never even noticed it. Mrs. Palmer suddenly realized how much more she liked Elsie than she liked Mrs. Blynn.

“The trouble with Missus Blynn—she means well, but . . .” Elsie floundered and jiggled the tray in her effort to shrug. “It's too bad. Everyone's always saying it about her,” she finished, as if this summed it up, and started out the door. But she turned with the door open. “At tea, for instance. It's always get this and get that for her, as if she were a grand lady or something. A day ahead she tells me. I don't see why she don't bring what she wants from the bakery now and then herself. If you know what I mean.”

Mrs. Palmer nodded. She supposed she knew. She knew. Mrs. Blynn was like a nursemaid she had for a time for Gregory. Like a divorcée she and her husband had known in London. She was like a lot of people.

Mrs. Palmer died two days later. It was a day when Mrs. Blynn came in and out, perhaps six times, perhaps eight. A telegram had arrived that morning from Gregory, saying he had at last wangled leave and would take off in a matter of hours, landing at a military field near Eamington. Mrs. Palmer did not know if she would see him again or not, she could not judge her strength that far. Mrs. Blynn took her temperature and felt her pulse frequently, then pivoted on one foot in the room, looking about as if she were alone and thinking her own thoughts. Her expression was blankly pleasant, her peaches-and-cream cheeks aglow with health.

“Your son's due today,” Mrs. Blynn half said, half asked, on one of her visits.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Palmer.

It was then dusk, though it was only four in the afternoon.

That was the last clear exchange she had with anyone, for she sank into a kind of dream. She saw Mrs. Blynn staring at the blue box on the top of the bookshelf, staring at it even as she shook the thermometer down. Mrs. Palmer called for Elsie and had her bring the box to her. Mrs. Blynn was not in the room then.

“This is to go to my son when he comes,” Mrs. Palmer said. “All of it. Everything. You understand? It's all written . . .” But even though it was all itemized, a single piece like the amethyst pin might be missing and Gregory would never do anything about it, maybe not even notice, maybe think she'd lost it somewhere in the last weeks and not reported it. Gregory was like that. Then Mrs. Palmer smiled at herself, and also reproached herself. You can't take it with you. That was very true, and people who tried to were despicable and rather absurd. “Elsie, this is yours,” Mrs. Palmer said, and handed Elsie the amethyst pin.

“Oh, Missus Palmer! Oh, no, I couldn't take that!” Elsie said, not taking it, and in fact retreating a step.

“You've been very good to me,” Mrs. Palmer said. She was very tired, and her arm dropped to the bed. “Very well,” she murmured, seeing it was really of no use.

Her son came at six that evening, sat with her on the edge of her bed, held her hand and kissed her forehead. But when she died, Mrs. Blynn was closest, bending over her with her great round, peaches-and-cream face and her green-gray eyes as expressionless as some fantastic reptile's. Mrs. Blynn to the last continued to say crisp, efficient things to her like, “Breathe easily. That's it,” and “Not chilly, are you? Good.” Somebody had mentioned a priest earlier, but this had been overruled by both Gregory and Mrs. Palmer. So it was Mrs. Blynn's eyes she looked into as her life left her. Mrs. Blynn so authoritative, strong, efficient, one might have taken her for God Himself. Especially since when Mrs. Palmer looked toward her son, she couldn't really see him, only a vague pale blue figure in the corner, tall and erect, with a dark spot at the top that was his hair. He was looking at her, but now she was too weak to call him. Anyway, Mrs. Blynn had shooed them all back. Elsie was also standing against the closed door, ready to run out for something, ready to take any order. Near her was the smaller figure of Liza, who occasionally whispered something and was shushed by her mother. In an instant, Mrs. Palmer saw her entire life—her carefree childhood and youth, her happy marriage, the blight of the death of her other son at the age of ten, the shock of her husband's death eight years ago—but all in all a happy life, she supposed, though she could wish her own character had been better, purer, that she had never shown temper or selfishness, for instance. All that was past now, but what remained was a feeling that she had been imperfect, wrong, like Mrs. Blynn's presence now, like Mrs. Blynn's faint smile, wrong, wrong for the time and the occasion. Mrs. Blynn did not understand her. Mrs. Blynn did not know her. Mrs. Blynn, somehow, could not comprehend goodwill. Therein lay the flaw, and the flaw of life itself. Life is a long failure of understanding, Mrs. Palmer thought, a long, mistaken shutting of the heart.

Mrs. Palmer had the amethyst pin in her closed left hand. Hours ago, sometime in the afternoon, she had taken it with an idea of safekeeping, but now she realized the absurdity of that. She had also wanted to give it to Gregory directly, and had forgotten. Her closed hand lifted an inch or so, her lips moved, but no sound came. She wanted to give it to Mrs. Blynn: one positive and generous gesture she could still make to this essence of nonunderstanding, she thought, but now she had not the strength to make her want known—and that was like life, too, everything a little too late. Mrs. Palmer's lids shut on the vision of Mrs. Blynn's glassy, attentive eyes.

THE SECOND CIGARETTE

G
eorge Leister, a New York tax lawyer age fifty-one, went into his kitchen one Saturday morning and was mildly surprised to see a long, recently lighted cigarette burning in an ashtray. George glanced at the cigarette in his own hand, also recently lighted, and reproached himself for absentmindedness. He had even vowed to cut down to ten a day. He wasn't doing better than fifteen. George put out the ashtray cigarette to save for a next smoke—he was counting—picked up the coffeepot and was about to refill his cup when he became aware of a figure standing in his kitchen doorway through which he had just walked. George jumped with shock, and some of the coffee splashed from the pot onto the floor.

The figure in the doorway was himself, as if a mirror were there, except that his effigy was smiling a little and George was not smiling.

“I smoke, too,” said the figure softly, and in an amused way.

Now George, trembling, turned sideways and poured his coffee as steadily as he could. It was an auditory hallucination as well as a visual one, he thought. Was he going mad? Why? He'd had a quiet evening at home last night—no crazy food, no extra drink. Frowning with fear, his jaw set, George faced the apparition again.

The figure looked back pleasantly. It wore the same dark red dressing gown, hair as much gray as brown, George saw (like his own, he admitted), creases in the cheeks from middle age. George had no brother, had never seen a cousin who so much resembled him. George could have taken two steps and touched him, but George didn't want to. He noticed with disgust the slight yellowness of an eyetooth as the figure continued to smile at him. Disgusting! So this was the picture he presented to the world! Not even clean and healthy-looking!

“Not very proud of yourself, eh?” The figure picked up the stubbed-out cigarette, and lit it from the box of matches on the kitchen table. “Must be the fourth, this, even this morning. Are you counting honestly?”

George thought he had been. But now he had a clue. “If you're my conscience,” George mumbled with a protective shrug, and at the same time his eyes slid away from the figure, “I'm not falling for that. Heard of it before. Visions.” At the same time, George's morale was weakened, he realized, just because he had spoken out loud. Wasn't that the same as talking to oneself? “Other self,” George sneered. “Load of baloney!”

“Not your other self. Your self,” replied the apparition, unperturbed.

The fleshly—even a bit overweight—figure in the doorway scared George all the way down his spine, but he determined to advance as if it didn't exist and return to his newspaper in the living room. George did advance, cup in hand, as if the cup were a lance with which he might run the apparition through if it did not get out of his way.

The apparition stepped back rather smartly into the hall, out of George's path.

George would have been more comfortable if he had been able to walk through the figure, because that would have proven that it was imaginary. George seized the Times like a life raft, and immersed himself in the financial pages. Good solid stuff. dollar continues decline versus dm and yen. George read hungrily, concentrating.

He became aware of the figure in the dark red dressing gown strolling into the living room.

“No, not very proud of yourself.—Seen Liz lately?”

George glanced up with an air of annoyance, and was delighted to see that the figure appeared dimmer now, caught as it was in a beam of sunlight. Good! But George saw also the very real swing of the tassel of the dressing gown belt, as the figure came to a stop. “Liz doesn't want to see me,” George said with conviction, in the same firm, polite tone he used in his office when he made an incontrovertible statement.

“Of course she does. She'd like to be on friendlier terms. She's not the one annoyed, though she ought to be. It's you—who're ashamed of yourself.”

The old conscience game again. I should take a cold shower, George thought, and get rid of this thing.

“Doubt very much if you'll get rid of me.”

Now George could see part of the bookshelves through the figure's torso. That was encouraging.

“Because I'm you—not your other self,” the figure went on, and chuckled.

George recognized his own chuckle. He had, of course, recognized his own voice. I don't even like myself, George thought suddenly. He hadn't liked the chuckle, because it had sounded vaguely dishonest. But George didn't think he was dishonest, not basically. There had to be minor dishonesties in everyone—otherwise the social and business worlds would hardly function. But if he had been asked to rate himself, George would have said he was as honest or more honest than the average fellow. Until that chuckle. What did other people really think of him?

“Now, about Liz,” said the apparition, in the tone of starting a speech.

“Quite happy with her new husband,” George murmured, and picked up the paper again.

“More than one can say for you, eh? That was a mistake, George, a big one.”

What was, Harrietta? George felt warmth rise to his face. Anger? Shame? George had had a girlfriend, Harrietta, for two years, and Liz had found out about her. It had happened almost simultaneously, Liz finding out because of a blabbermouth secretary in his office (George had managed to get her sacked on other grounds), and Harrietta asking George if he would, ever, divorce Liz and marry her. George had said yes to Harrietta. After all, they had got on well in bed and out, Harrietta had a brain, and George and Liz had only one offspring, a grown-up son who was married and doing well in California. When Liz found out about Harrietta, she asked George if he wanted a divorce, and he had said yes. The ironic thing was that Harrietta had then decided she didn't want to get married, after all, and Liz after only three or four months had met a recently divorced man in some kind of molasses-importing business and married him. George had met Liz's husband, Ed Tuttle, a couple of times, a really decent man, full of goodwill, and with an old-fashioned courtesy of the kind that George thought had died out. Yes, Liz had come out all right. And George, piqued by Harrietta's attitude, had broken with her. Harrietta wanted independence, didn't need any money from him, and adored her P.R. job with United Artists. Both Liz and Ed wanted to be friendly. It was George who kept his distance. Liz and Ed lived in a small town north of New York City, but in easy commuting range.

“You can't face them,” the apparition said, interrupting George's thoughts. “You're the loser, alone in life—no Harrietta now to have secret midnight suppers with. . . .” The voice faded out.

George felt a stab in his breast, and it lingered as an ache. Yes, he'd lost. There were some compensations for living alone, but very few. George disliked preparing meals for himself, or even dining out alone, and felt especially lonely Sundays. He and Liz had often gone to a museum or a film Sunday afternoon, had had tea at a hotel or the Russian Tea Room, then a quiet evening at home and a snack before bedtime. That had been nice. But bedtime—George might as well have been sleeping with his sister or brother in the last decade of their marriage. It was almost embarrassing to look back on.

“Have another cigarette.”

George had been looking at the silver box on the coffee table, thinking that if he took one, the figure would reproach him. George opened the box, hesitated, then decided not to smoke.

“Then I will.”

Had George really heard it? George saw a translucent hand take a cigarette from the box, and reach for the table lighter. George heard its click.

“. . . not your conscience,” said the faint voice, “just you. You think I'm your good side? Have you got one? Ha!—But I think we've had some fun, don't you? In our long life?—Remember Maggie?”

George wasn't going to stand any more of it. He stood up, drank off his coffee, and walked to his right (which happened to be away from the figure) toward the hall which led to the bathroom. George took his cold shower, gritting his teeth, every muscle rigid, hating it. Then he scrubbed down hard with a towel. A brisk walk, that was what he needed. Thank goodness he'd done the supermarket shopping yesterday after work, because he wasn't in the mood for that boring chore. George shaved with his battery razor, and dressed in rather a hurry, because he felt that his recent tendency to slow up and daydream might have caused the vision. George was convinced it was a vision. What else? He didn't believe one bit in ghosts, or the supernatural, and when he read articles on extrasensory perception, it was with skepticism, a desire not to believe rather than to believe.

The ghostly figure did not reappear as George went to his door to leave, and George did not glance about for it.

Out in the sunlight, he felt free and safe. The honk of taxicabs sounded pleasant, reassuring. The sight of a black miniature poodle defecating in the gutter, leash securely held by a young woman, seemed normality itself. He breathed deeply, and felt physically rather fit. Hadn't he taken off about four pounds since Liz's departure? Yes. Now, as for girls, women—pretty absurd at his age. Maybe not absurd, but he couldn't act as if or pretend he was thirty any longer. If one of his friends or business associates introduced him to an interesting woman who was free, that was another matter. Free for an affair, maybe, free for marriage, even. That wasn't impossible, no.

“No?”

The voice in his ears had been his own. Rather that of the vision, but quite as clear as he had heard it at home. George quickened his steps, then slowed to the pace at which he had been walking before. He was not going to look over his shoulder. Funny to imagine the fellow—himself—striding along Fifth Avenue in pajamas and a dressing gown! Of course he might be wearing exactly the same clothes George was wearing now: a beige glen plaid suit and a blue polo neck sweater. George thought of other things. Monday was going to be hellish, with a conference in the morning starting at ten and another in the afternoon on the same subject, the Polyfax Company. Polyfax made plastics in all shapes and sizes, and had a Canadian branch called something else. What? They had been easing their profits by messing up their tax declarations, claiming Canada as source, or America when the situation demanded. Freer, Leister, and Foreman had had to go back over three years of Polyfax's tax reports.

“Polyfax, Polyfax,” said George's own voice in his ear, in a mocking way.

George paid no attention. Best to go over the xeroxes again tonight, then another glance tomorrow evening, so he'd be well briefed for Freer Monday morning. “Must do the best for them—within the law,” old Henry Tubman Freer always said, unnecessarily, as if thinking to himself. George would have preferred to have a date for that evening, and remembered he'd declined an invitation from Ralph Foreman, their younger partner, to come to dinner tonight and meet a young man who was interested in joining the firm. So be it. George turned around and walked back in the direction of his apartment.

The vision did not appear that evening. George had been apprehensive, thinking it more likely that visions appeared at night. Silly and childish to think that.

Sunday morning, rather a duplicate of Saturday morning, brought no apparition, either. George felt better. Around noon he prepared his frozen chicken, which he had begun thawing at breakfasttime. He lunched, then rang his son George Jr. at three
P.M.
It was a Sunday ritual that George would telephone between two and three.

“G-wamp!” said the baby voice at the other end.

George heard his son's hearty laugh, and George Jr. continued, “Trying to teach Georgie to say ‘grampa.' He can say it, but I think he's rattled by the telephone.—Want to say hello to Mary?”

Of course George did. Mary sounded energetic and cheery as usual, informed him that the sun was shining, that they were going to set up their new croquet wickets on the lawn later that morning, that Georgie was cutting another tooth. . . .

When George hung up, he felt a thick silence surround him, as if a dream had suddenly ended—noisily. There was such a thing as noisy silence, wasn't there? For a few minutes he had seen and heard the sunshine of California, the sound of forks and spoons clinking against breakfast plates—almost—the babbling of a year-old baby, the laughter of his son, a man happy with his wife.

He started to take a cigarette, maybe the ninth of that day? Then he did not. He was afraid he might conjure up the apparition again, smoking also. And Maggie. Why had the—what should he call it?—brought up Maggie, of all people? That story, finished thirty, no, exactly thirty-three years ago, when George had been eighteen. He'd done the right thing. Yes. With his father's help—money—to be sure, but still the right thing. He had been in love with Maggie and she with him, no doubt about that. And he had got Maggie pregnant, despite their both trying to avoid it. Marriage had been impossible. She wouldn't have put up with four more years of university for him. Would she have? No, Maggie was a simple girl, had been. A juvenile affair, that. . . .