Some Came Running (144 page)

And no sooner had Geneve gone, than Doris Fredric drove up in her yellow convertible. She knew Edith did not have a car, she said, and she wanted to place her car at Edith’s disposal. She would drive her anywhere she wanted to go. She meant to stay right with her, from now on, until the funeral was over, and until she had gotten hold of herself again. Edith had not seen Doris for quite a long time—not since before she had seen ’Bama Dillert’s car parked on the Fredric drive, in fact. And for a moment she was deeply touched. The two girls put their arms around each other. But it soon became apparent that Doris meant just exactly what she said: She appointed herself as sort of aide-de-camp to Edith, and she took over everything that Edith herself might have done. She drove Edith everywhere she went, and went in with her, and waited for her and drove her back. She even slept with her there in the house in her own bed, the two nights before the funeral. She had, she said, told them at the school that they would just have to get someone to replace her until the funeral was over. No one had ever loved Janie as much as she had, Doris said, and almost commenced to weep. If Edith was a little irritated at her at times, she was nevertheless glad to have her there.

The next two days passed in a kind of wild, unreal dream for Edith. She had decided to leave Janie to lie in state in the undertaker’s chapel, rather than move her out home. Then there was the funeral itself. It was to be at the Baptist church, a member of which Janie’s mother had once made her when she was a little girl, but which none of them in the family had been inside of since Edith was small enough to be forced to go to Sunday school. So there was the minister to talk to. Then there was the problem of Edith’s decision to keep the casket closed. She had already talked of this to both the ever-present Doris and to John. Doris thought it was entirely up to her; but old John, old fuddly-duddly John, was a little perturbed by the idea. A lot of people might feel bad about it, he thought; after all, they done a lot for them, the neighbors and all, and they might want to look at Janie in her casket. The very words, as he spoke them, chilled Edith. And what was the use of buyin all them pretty expensive clothes, John wanted to know, if nobody was goin to be able to see her? They did not actually argue about it; and John, as he always did, acquiesced in Edith’s decision, finally, when she forcefully refused to have it any other way.

Edith was glad that Geneve had taken care of the clothes. Whatever else one said about Geneve, she did have exquisite taste. Maybe it was silly, to go and buy her a whole new outfit, when nobody was going to see her; but whether anyone was going to see her or not, by God, Edith meant to see she looked good. She intended to give Janie the best send-off she could give her.

It was funny, she thought: We don’t really do all we do in funerals to help the dead, we do it to relieve ourselves. We do it to atone: atone for the guilty fact that we ourselves are still living, atone for all the kindly things we might have done for them, if we had only known they were going to die, but which because we
didn’t
know (how could we have known?), we had neglected to do.

They went down to the undertaker’s twice, she and John and the ubiquitous Doris, in Doris’s yellow convertible, once to pick out a casket, and a second time to see how everything looked. She had instructed the undertaker on the first trip that she wanted the casket kept closed, at which the undertaker looked a little nonplussed as if he felt she did not trust his work. But he did as she told him, and when they went back the second time, everything was fixed up and Janie—in the closed casket—lay in state in the undertaker’s chapel. As if hoping that she would change her mind, the undertaker asked if they would not like to see her. The jewelry had been put on her, he smiled, just as Edith had requested, and the jade earrings had been placed just beneath the side of her neck where they would not show. Edith stared at him, feeling faintly sick, but despairing of ever explaining how she felt about keeping the casket closed. But looking at him, she was suddenly startled to realize that his feelings were actually hurt because they would not look at his handiwork, and she knew then that someone was going to have to go look at her, if they did not want to injure the undertaker’s professional pride. So she sent John in to look, explaining that she herself simply could not, and stayed outside with Doris Fredric. John, dull old John, wouldn’t mind anyway.

And in fact, he didn’t. He came shambling out hat in hand, his
good
clothes looking as ridiculous on him as they always did, and wiped his eyes. He was glad to have seen her.

“She looked real purty,” he said in his dull voice. “Real purty, Edith honey. Your jewlry looks nice on her.”

“Yes,” Edith said; and thought further: Yes, and how can anyone look lifelike when they’re dead? It was impossible.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave the casket open?” the undertaker asked hopefully. “There’s been lots of people here already, Miss Edith, who came to see her.”

“I’m quite sure,” Edith said. “But I must insist you close it back up now and keep it that way.”

“Very well,” the undertaker said ruefully. “If you wish.”

After he had reclosed the casket, Edith herself went in, with Doris and John, to look at the chapel. There were a great many flowers, from all kinds of people, both high and low estate. She was glad of that. She complimented the undertaker on how he had arranged everything, complimented him excessively, because she had hurt his feelings so over closing the casket. Then, as politely as she could, she announced that they had better go. She felt she could not get out of there quick enough. Foreverafter, the smell of many banked flowers would haunt her.

But by the time the funeral came, Edith was in such a state that she just merely sat. She felt nothing. It was surprising how many friends Janie had had in Parkman. A lot more people came than she had ever expected. But she didn’t care. It was an ordeal, that had to be got through; not for her own sake, but for Janie’s. And that was why she had done it all: for Janie. It would probably take her and John together half a year to pay off all the expenses; but she didn’t care: It was a good send-off for Janie. And Edith could not help but feel that Janie, if she were aware, would be chuckling happily to herself. And so she sat, flanked by John and by Doris Fredric—who was weeping—her own eyes bone dry: Edith had never been one of those who could share her grief with large groups of people. Almost all of Janie’s friends had come by the house before; and almost all of the people she had worked for—excepting only ’Bama Dillert and Dave Hirsh—had come by the house, too. And at the funeral almost all of them were there, also. She even saw Dave Hirsh, sitting slack-faced and looking half-drunk by himself at the back.

And so, Edith sat through it all, feeling nothing. And it was only after it was all over, that her conversation with Doc came back to haunt her and the guilt and utterly total helplessness she felt then assaulted her. It was she who had called her an old whore to her face. It was she who had ridden her so viciously about going out with her old duffers. It was she whom Janie had really been trying to hide it from. And if it hadn’t been for all these things, Janie would have been willing to have gone to a doctor with her trouble. And they would have been able to catch it, catch that horrible thing growing inside of her, before it killed her. And Edith sat alone in the house (John had already gone to bed, worn out with the confusion and excitement) and faced it: this horrible horror that would live with her the rest of her life. And it was this that broke her. And the Edith Barclay there had once been was no more. And it was this that made her turn to Frank so desperately and frightenedly like a little child, and cling to him, the next time he saw her.

Doris, before she had gone home after the funeral, had insisted that Edith have a couple of drinks with her, to ease her. She had come prepared, and went out to the yellow convertible and came back with a bottle, and they had mixed the whiskey with 7-Up and sat at the kitchen table and drunk them. But the drinks had not helped Edith. And after Doris had finally gone, she lay in her bed dry-eyed and staring at the ceiling, and she did not sleep. But next day, she was back at work at the store anyway, and it was then she discovered that only when she was working could she forget Janie, and what she had done to Janie. Only when she was working, or when she was with Frank.

It was not the first time that she went out with him after Janie’s funeral that he suggested the buying of the little house for her, but the second time. And then he went on to explain how they could say she had bought it with Janie’s insurance money. The “insurance money,” he said, would also take care of all the debts she had incurred with the funeral. Edith did not hesitate at all. She accepted.

In actual point of fact, Janie had had a little insurance. A five-hundred-dollar life insurance policy with some cheap company, which, when all the small print deductions were taken out of it, left a little over half the total face value to be paid. This had already been paid to her and John, and it meant that John would know she was lying when she told him about the new “insurance money.” So Edith did not even try to lie to him about it. She came right out bluntly, and told him the whole truth, and did it almost enjoyably.

Doris Fredric, who had taken to coming over often now after Janie’s funeral, might enjoy talking—and weeping—about her love affair with ’Bama Dillert; and, in fact, did so, to Edith. She would come over and tell her the whole story, and weep and bewail her fate at having lost him. She loved him so very much. And he had thrown her over. It wasn’t him, it was that bunch of bums he hung around with—Dave Hirsh, and Dewey Cole, and Hubie Murson, and all those brassiere factory girls, just whores—who had caused it. He, ’Bama had been going to leave his wife and marry her, Doris; and to hell with what the town of Parkman or her parents and relatives thought. But they had talked him out of it. And then she would cry heartbreakingly. Doris might talk about all of this, to her, Edith. But Edith was not the type who liked to talk about her love affairs. She could listen to Doris, but she would not talk about herself and Frank.

But when it came to telling John, Edith found she had no such reserve. With an almost cruel, nearly breathless eagerness, she told him everything: what the situation was, how long it had been going on, and what she meant to do. She told how they were going to buy the house for her on Janie’s fake “insurance money,” and he, John, could say any damned thing about it to any damned body, that he pleased. But, of course, she knew he would never say anything.

John, of course, was flabbergasted. He had had no idea such a thing was going on, of course.

“Well, Edith honey,” he said, trying to be kindly, but wrinkling up his brow with shocked pain, “I never thought you would ever do nothing like that.”

“Ahhh, well, but I have,” Edith said eagerly. “And I intend to keep right
on
doing it. I’m Frank Hirsh’s mistress. Frank Hirsh’s
whore,
you might say.”

“Oh, Edith honey!” John said, shocked. “Don’t say that! You could never be a—one of those.”

“Oh? couldn’t I?” she went right on. “But I am. Frank Hirsh’s
whore.
I go to bed with him,” she said, relishing the look of deep moral shock on Old John’s face. “That’s exactly what I am. He keeps me. And now he’s going to buy me a house, and I’m going to live in it.”

“But what will
people
say?” John said feebly, his brow furrowed with pain. Edith, his face seemed to say, Edith was his baby. “They’ll probably never know about it. But I don’t care!” Edith said eagerly. “Do you understand? I don’t
care
what they say!” Shakily, she got hold of herself. “You can get yourself a housekeeper,” she said. Then the eagerness seized her: “I can help you,” she said; “with the money Frank Hirsh gives me. I can hire you a housekeeper. Do you want me to?”

“Well, Edith honey,” John said, “I don’t think—”

“I’ll do it anyway,” she said. “I’ll send it to you. He keeps me. So I’ll keep you. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, Edith honey—” John said.

“I’m going out with him tomorrow night,” Edith said. “And I’ll tell him it’s all fixed up. Now, if you want to go and tell everybody how your daughter is Frank Hirsh’s whore, go ahead.”

“Ahhh, no, Edith honey,” John said anguishedly. “I wouldn’t never do nothing like that to you.”

“I don’t care if you do,” Edith said. “Don’t you understand? I don’t give a damn. Oh, go on to bed,” she said. “Go on to bed, Daddy, and leave me alone.”

So on the next night, when she went out with Frank again, she told him everything was fixed. She was much colder, much more levelheaded, with Frank. John, of course, knew, she said; but he would never say anything. And Frank said he would be glad to pay for a housekeeper for him. And Edith, filled with a nameless panic that had become her constant companion in the weeks since Janie’s death, clung to him fiercely when they went to bed; clung to the only love she had ever found that she herself had not already killed. And Frank said that he would set about seeing how to get the house. Right away. The house that Janie’s funeral had bought.

D
AVE MANAGED TO
make Old Janie’s funeral. Just barely. He did not make his own father’s funeral two months later, but he did make Janie’s. He didn’t make the Old Man’s partly because he did not even know about it— How would he have known? since by that time he was going nowhere and seeing no one? But even if he had known about it, by that time—six weeks later—he was in no condition to go anyway. He had learned about Gwen’s leaving just a few days before Old Janie died, and already its effect on him was prodigious; but by the time the Old Man’s funeral came six weeks later, it had reached really astronomical proportions. In that six weeks, he had fallen completely apart.

But he did make Janie’s funeral. It was considerable of a struggle, but he did get there. He felt he ought to go—since Old Jane had practically raised him; and he managed to rouse himself out of his drunken stupor enough to shave and wash enough of the mushy drunkard smell off him to be reasonably presentable, and put on decent clothes. It took a number of extra drinks to get him that far, but he made it. He learned about her death at Smitty’s, where he had been, at the moment, doing his drinking. He had not had guts enough to go out to the Barclay house to pay his respects, and when he went to the funeral at the Baptist church, he slipped in alone at the back and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. He saw Frank and Agnes sitting down front near Edith and her father, John, who were accompanied by a weeping Doris Fredric. He did not go out to the cemetery for the interment, because he didn’t have the heart for anymore.