Some Came Running (118 page)

The welfare man nodded smiling as Frank talked, and made more notes. And he did, in fact, take Dawn’s address with him when he left. Someone probably would, in all probability, write to her, he said; although he himself did not deem it at all necessary. He did not believe he had ever seen a situation, he told them before he left, where he would rather have placed a child. Of course, all this would take time; so they must not be too impatient. There was all the other checking to do, of course, and, of course, there was the problem of first finding a suitable child. But the fact that Frank had decided he wanted a boy of six or seven would expedite matters considerably; most people preferred newborn babies. He would probably drop in on them again between now and the time they got the boy, and also, of course, someone would be dropping in during the probation period.

The next time he returned, which was after they returned from Florida, he was even higher in his praise of their home and “situation,” as he called it. No one he had talked to in Parkman but what had had the highest regard for Frank and Agnes.

Frank knew beforehand that that would be the case, of course. The only thing that had really worried him any at all was the existence of the Old Man, and of Dave, in Parkman. But he had mentioned them both himself during that first meeting there at the house, and had explained about his father running off in his youth and about him living up there in that pension home, and about his younger brother who had gotten into trouble in high school and had turned out to be rather a ne’er-do-well. The welfare man had nodded and smiled and made some notes and explained that that sort of thing really had no effect at all upon a decision; things like that happened in just about every family.

And so, in late January, he had received word that they could pick him up, probably the first week in February. Frank could hardly wait to see the little bugger. He was blond, and seven years old, and of German extraction like their own family, the welfare man wrote. He was satisfied that both of them would be immensely pleased with the boy. Of course, if they ever wished they could at any time return him during the “probation” period; and the welfare people themselves had the right to remove the child if they thought that best; up until the final adoption was effected, of course.

The first thing they did immediately, of course, was to write Dawnie the news at school; to which they got back a happy, enthusiastic reply. And the first thing they planned to do as soon as he arrived was for Agnes to take him on a shopping spree in Indianapolis to get him clothes and school things and toys. He would go right into the second grade, the welfare man wrote, in mid-class, since he had already been going to school where he was; and in fact, had been doing exceptionally well.

Frank, of course, was going to have to break the news to Edith. He wanted to do it himself before the boy got here and she heard it somewhere else. If she had not already. Quite honestly, he was not too worried about how Edith would take it; but just the same he felt a little nervous about it. He was sure, by some instinct or other, that it would hurt her deeply. And he hated to do that. But Edith was a pretty solid girl, and he knew she would get over it before long.

He decided that he would tell her the next time they went out together. He had decided the same thing twice before, but both times he had lost his nerve. He didn’t know why he should be so worried about it. She probably wouldn’t even care. But some sure, exact instinct in him warned him that he better
had
worry. And it had cost him a lot of sweat and anguish. The trouble was, he could not seem to find any natural, simple way to bring the subject up—without just blurting it out. And if he just blurted it out, it would show her that he felt he
had
to tell her, which in turn would make it look as though he himself thought there was something wrong with it, when, in fact, he didn’t.

In fact, in a lot of ways, Frank thought suddenly with a sort of shocked surprise, he seemed to be in the same identical state of sweat and anguish with this about the adoption, as he had once been a few weeks earlier with sex.

Only now it was worse, because in addition to all that other, there was added that sharply poignant sense of warmth and gratitude he had had for her ever since he had fully consummated—that was the way he always thought of it—their love affair. That had only been two weeks ago, and the newness had not even worn off yet. But then, he had been deathly scared of that, too—afraid she might take it wrong and be horrified. But then that had worked out all right, hadn’t it? So then, why shouldn’t this? It was just that he would hate to lose her now.

When he picked her up at the little bar out in Terre Haute where they always met, after the letter from the welfare man had come only two days before, he had definitely made up his mind to tell her. In truth, he had no other choice; she would find it out soon enough anyway, now. And if she found it out that way, it might be even worse. She might even quit him. They had a couple of drinks in the little bar, and then drove up toward Clinton. To a little out-of-the-way place they sometimes went for dinner. And Frank, seeing a group of children walking along the street, had a desperate inspiration. Children: that was the answer! He could say something about the children, and from that lead into it naturally. But by the time he had thought of it, the group of children was already past. Well, the next bunch of kids he saw; that would do it.

So the rest of the way to Clinton—about ten miles—he kept his weather eye out anxiously for children. He saw exactly none. All the way to Clinton and at the dinner place where they had more drinks and ate, he saw not one child. It was as if in an accurately timed conspiracy against him the entire world had suddenly become bereft of children. Only when they finally reached the motel where they were going to spend their two or three hours of secret, illicit, dearly bought companionship, did he see a child: The motel manager’s two young sons were sitting in in their father’s office, raptly reading comic books.

Son of a damned bitch! Frank thought despairingly. Hell, he couldn’t do it now. To tell her now while they were getting ready to get their motel room and go to it alone together and make love, he just simply could not do it. What if there was a scene? What if she quit him for good? right here and now, just when he was all ready and primed to go to bed? No! If this was going to be the last time he would ever get to make love to her, he was not going to sacrifice it right at the last minute; he would have to find some other way to tell her, afterwards. Then, at least if she quit him, he would still have that last time to remember. Did that make him a cheater? Well, if it did, to hell with it.

But, luckily, when they got inside and Edith had begun to undress (she no longer had to betake herself shyly to the bathroom to get undressed), Frank saw on the wall just beside the bureau where he set the whiskey bottle a framed full-length painting of a child, a nine- or ten-year-old boy. There was his excuse, as if God after deliberately mocking him and proving to him his own lack of integrity, had suddenly given him an out. And afterwards, after they had talked, and drunk (Edith was much more used to drinking now than she had used to be), and had petted, and had made their love, he made himself get up when all he wanted to do was lie there peacefully, and went over to the bureau to pour himself a drink and looked at the picture and commented on it and then came back, with the drink, and sat down on the bed and told her. He laid special stress on how he had always wanted a son to carry on the business, and his name.

Edith, lying back with her arms behind her head merely stared at him and said nothing. There were no tears in her eyes, but there was pain in them as he had instinctively known there would be and he wanted to smash his fists bloody into the pastel-painted concrete-block wall.

Gradually, he faltered into silence. “I suppose it must be sort of a shock,” he mumbled. “I don’t suppose you had any idea about it.”

“Oh, yes,” she said faintly without moving. “I’d heard about it.”

“You did? Who told you?”

“Jane.”

“Jane! Well, Goddam her! How did she find out?”

Edith smiled, weakly. “Who knows how she ever finds out all she knows about everybody? I’ve been wondering when you were going to tell me.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Frank said. Then he paused. “I hope it doesn’t make you feel unhappy,” he said.

Edith merely smiled that same faint smile, looking at him out of her slapped-looking eyes that were not crying, and said nothing. Frank waited, hoping she would say something, but she still did not answer.

“I think I need a drink,” he said, getting up and heading for the bureau.

“Bring me one, too, will you?” Edith said.

He turned around and looked at her, searchingly, and she smiled back at him.

“A good, big one!” she said cheerfully.

Frank stood, looking disconsolately at that small lithe big-boned body, so different from the thinness of Geneve Lowe that he had also known, thinking back to that Wednesday night two weeks ago, when he also had not known—then he went on to the bureau and the bottle, suffering, and wondering with a dim awe how here on God’s earth the human race, anybody could continue to suffer so—so silently, so hopefully, so—all those fears and hates and hurts and guilts, that had, for some Unknowable Unreasonable reason, been placed in them.

It was only another of their regular ordinary Wednesday (or Thursday or Tuesday or Friday) nights, except that he was a little drunker than usual. At least, it started out to be one. But it did not wind up one.

Another thing, of course, was that he had been doing an awful lot of reading in the past few months about this thing. Anything he could get hold of about the subject, which was surprisingly damned little. Kinsey’s book (which he still kept locked and hidden in his desk) was his greatest source of knowledge, largely because there was so damned little else even written about it. The information had all been suppressed,
almost everywhere,
as if some huge conspiracy were in action to keep everybody in ignorance; as if just by publicly denying its existence, it could be made in actual fact to not exist. A lie, of course. Because it did exist. And existed with surprising commonness, as Kinsey’s book showed with its chart of frequencies. But even without the reading, he probably would not have dared to chance it with Edith if he had not been so drunk. But drunk as he was, coupled to all the heavy reading on it he had been doing, he was at just that mental state where he didn’t give a damn. To hell with it! he thought savagely. They were lying together petting, and when the idea struck him, he got up and went and mixed them both another drink, a really stiff one. Might as well have everything on your side you can get: Every businessman knew that. Businessman! Bastard! And after they had drunk the drink, he said: “Lay back. I want to show you something.”

Edith Barclay, feeling shock and alarm as he touched her, shut her eyes. Fear and self-horror rolled down over her diluting her tenderness, but which nevertheless did not go away. She thought of the soldier who had served in Paris, that she had almost married. Except for things like this. And then she thought of all those things that she had always dreamed of having: even dreamed of
wanting:
The home, the children, the security of a man who loved you, adored you even, and for yourself. Those were the things she had dreamed of having. And these were what she’d got: the mistress of a married man with a grown daughter (and now a son; oh, she knew) and more: mistress of a married man who
loved
his wife; and more yet: a little piddling job of working for him, just to be his lover. Was there no limit to how low Love must make you sink? Completely bottomless? Oh, it would be easy to know what to do, if the tenderness had gone away. But the tenderness had not gone. It was still there, and perhaps even stronger than before: the poor guy. The poor, haunted, painfilled, anguished guy. Oh, she knew hatred; she knew it when she thought of that big, fat, loud-voiced, dominating woman. Agnes. And he
loved
her: Agnes. From the Greek that was: meant chaste, pure. She had even looked it up in the Webster’s Intercollegiate. That was how low she had fallen. From the Edith Barclay she had someday meant to be. And now this, too. And yet he loved her also. In his way. And she clung to that. Oh, it would be easy to know what to do, if she didn’t love him. Edith submitted.

“That’s enough,” Frank heard her say. “No more.”

“Oh, God, I love you, Edith,” he said. “Oh, God.” He kissed her on the neck and put his face against hers.

Edith patted him on his head, and as she did so, made up her mind. If she was going to stay—if she was going to be involved—she ought to be involved entirely. It was only fair.

“Now you lie back and relax,” she said.

With the bottle in his hand, Frank stood looking over at her, in this different but somehow just the same motel room. Then, looking down at his hand that held it and coming back from a long way away, he poured the drinks and carried them back to her in silence. What words were there to say what he would have liked to say?

“That damned Jane,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed. “She seems to know just about everything about everything.”

Edith lowered her glass, from which she had been drinking greedily. “Yes,” she said. “She does.”

A thought struck Frank suddenly: “Do you suppose she knows about—about us—too?”

“If she did,” Edith said, “I don’t think she would ever tell that to anyone, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” he said without much belief. “You bein her granddaughter and all.” He took himself a drink.

“Yes,” Edith said. “I think she does know, as a matter of fact. She has never said anything to me about it; but I think she knows.”

Frank nodded, staring into his glass. Well? There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot you could do about it? Except just wait and hope she didn’t talk? “She’s always hated my guts,” he said.

“If she’s hated you, she’s also loved you a lot, too, I think,” Edith said.