The Incredible Charlie Carewe (26 page)

There were deeper needs for Zoë, that had made her urge the trip to Nelson over Charlie’s objection that they would be bored to tears. And then it had taken an argument to keep Charlie from asking Mitch to go along with them.

“Take Mitch!” she had almost screamed when he suggested it. “Take Mitch! Are you out of your mind! What would your dad think? Do you want them to know about our life and times with a blackmailer?”

“Zoë, be reasonable,” Charlie had pleaded. “I like the guy. He amuses me. You really make too much of things; you know, darling, your thinking is none too stable these days!” It had taken a tremendous effort not to prove there and then that he was right—the first desperate reaction was the straight shot of whisky that would relieve the unbearable pressure of exasperation. But she had fought it down.

“Charlie—the man is a goon. He ‘amuses’ you because he’s an oily opportunist; it’s to his advantage to listen to you about the cut of an evening jacket or the pitch of his voice. He gets into ‘fancy’ places that way.”

“Why are you so bitter, Zoë—what are you raving about? If the guy wants to improve himself, why shouldn’t I help him?”

“Have you forgotten that you yourself named him by his right name? A blackmailer?”

“Oh, that’s a long time ago, darling. I was angry at the time, I’ll admit. He wouldn’t do anything now, I know—he’s too fond of us both.”

“Just try stopping his checks. You’d see how ‘fond’ he is of us.”

Charlie flared. “All
right
, Zoë—now stop your damned nagging. There’s a lot that you just don’t know about this thing. He’s got a lot of deals up his sleeve—things that he is sure will pay off someday. He is always saying how he hates to take money from me, that one day he’ll get off my back and pay me every cent that I ever loaned him.”

“Loaned! Do you honestly think you’ll ever see the color of the money you have ‘loaned’ him?”

“You seem to forget, Zoë—he’s kept us out of a very embarrassing situation. You seem to forget that it’s those clods in Clarke Falls that are the blackmailers; if it hadn’t been for Mitch they would have been down our throats——”

“So says Mitch Cooper. Did you ever check up?”

“Why should I? He’s a friend—a man of his word. . . .”

“Oh, dear God!” Zoë massaged her throbbing head with stiffened fingers.

“Really, Zoë, you’re very snobbish, you know. Just because poor Mitch is a diamond in the rough; that he hasn’t a cultured background is no reason for you to be so hard on him.”

“Charlie.” Zoë’s voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, although her eyes glittered a little. “Tell me—why do you kid yourself so elaborately?”

Charlie looked at her—a smile of great sweetness on his face, a childlike smile, candid, ingenious. “It’s easier,” he said.

Mitch did not accompany them. Charlie told Zoë a day or so later, “You really put me in kind of a spot, darling. He was nice enough about it, said he understood; he didn’t want to interfere. He’s really very fond of you, you know. He said, ‘I know Zoë’s really off the sauce—she’s a sensible woman.’ He was afraid you might get drunk, and, well, you know how you do, darling—you might get to talking too much about Mavis, and he wanted to be along to help out. To help
me
out, if the truth were known.” Charlie turned his back on her, his shoulders drooped like one who endures deep suffering. “I’m just not capable of handling you, Zoë, my sweet, when you get a few drinks in you.”

“Handle me!” Zoë scoffed. “Did he also let you in on his secret, ‘just in case’?”

Charlie turned quickly, wide-eyed, innocent. “What are you talking about?”

“The little bottle of knockout drops. The little ‘remedy’ he pours into my drink when your back is turned and he thinks I’m too drunk to notice?”

“Oh, you’re crazy,” Charlie laughed. “You imagine things, honey—honestly, sometimes you get to sounding like a soap opera. ‘Knockout drops,’ for Pete’s sake!”

The effect of relief that Zoë got from liquor, she realized, was a delusion; temporary, self-deceptive—and painful. It became urgent for her to talk to someone. Virginia was the only logical person; she had thought of her own father, but it was not possible; he was aging, rigid in his thinking, and would be without compassion for Charlie. Virginia had understood Charlie always. Zoë wished now she had swallowed her silly pride and gone to her with the whole business immediately; and now that she had made up her mind, she could hardly contain herself.

The luncheon seemed interminable to her. She had had a brief word with Virginia just before they were called into the dining room. “It just can’t wait any longer, Virginia—can we lock ourselves up in your room after lunch and let me talk? I’m about to burst!”

Virginia frowned for a moment. “I promised Alma I’d take her and Jeff for a sail—don’t worry, though, I’ll beg off——”

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea if Charlie took them—then we’d know he wouldn’t come barging in——”

“It
is
about Charlie then? I thought so. Oh, Zoë, you shouldn’t have waited so long—my poor dear!”

And then the luncheon bell dingdonged its silver voice, and they went downstairs.

Walter smiled at Beatrice, seeing the pleasure in her face at having most of her family around her. He saw that she was exercising considerable control over being too pleased, too excited by Charlie’s rare presence in their midst. She avoided all recriminations that might have been her privilege; even the most oblique complaint at not even having been informed that they were coming so that she could make some preparation. Her back was straightened in a long-ago dignity and sweet authority as she coordinated the activities for them for the rest of the afternoon.

“Alma, are you sure Gregg has let you off your study hour, or are you just taking advantage of his good nature——”

“Both, Beatrice,” Gregg replied as Alma gave him a doll-face look. “I declare an unconditional holiday, in honor of our guests—I mean——” He stumbled, and Charlie picked him up.

“Most
recent
guests, you mean?”

There was a shade of sarcasm in his words, but he did not go on to say that he felt that Gregg was a usurper in the affections of his parents because it had only just occurred to him, and the feeling was not formed.

Virginia quickly intervened. “Charlie, the varnish is a little sticky on the port side forward—don’t lean on it, will you!”

Charlie turned to her quickly at the warning tone in her voice. “What?” he said. “Oh, okay. How’s the old girl running these days, up to your usual perfectionist demands?”

Virginia laughed. It was true; she had always kept the
Vee Cee
up to local regatta standards. Through the years it had been remodeled, rerigged, until it was almost a completely new boat; her hull was regularly scraped and varnished from stem to stern by a local craftsman. Each summer Virginia’s greatest pleasure was to spend long, lovely hours sailing down the coast.

“You just treat her right, that’s all, Brother darling!” She had full respect for Charlie’s skill as a sailor, since neither could remember when they first handled the tiller.

Alma did not question the change in plans as Virginia had made no excuses—rather it seemed as though she were deferring to Charlie the privilege of taking her and her father for the promised sail.

Jeff said, “Now you’re sure I won’t be in the way, Charlie? You know, once aboard, I’m just so much ballast—have to stay put.”

Charlie waved his objections away. “No problem, no problem at all—let’s get going, what do you say—soon as I change?”

Beatrice rose from the table. “Well, darlings, I shall have to take a rest. Zoë, would you and Virginia like a swim, or what?”

Virginia said, “Perhaps later, Mum—I’m going to put Zoë in my room—she needs a rest too, after the trip—I’ve asked Doreen to freshen up their room.”

“That would be wonderful, Virginia,” said Zoë quickly. “I really am bushed.”

Beatrice spoke to Walter. “You going in to town, dear? I think it would be nice to get some broilers and barbecue them—would you like that?” She turned to the others, and Alma replied for them all: “That would be super, Grandmum!”

“Fine! Then we’ll all have cocktails around six, and Charlie—please come up if you get back early.” She put her hand on his arm as he passed. “I’d love to have a chat with you——”

“Right, Mum darling,” he said and, leaning, brushed her forehead with his lips. As he caught up with Zoë at the door to the hall he whispered to her, “Do be careful, darling—no nipping now, promise?”

A flood of resentment swept over Zoë, at his lack of faith in her, when what she needed was encouragement of her discipline. Her need to unburden herself to Virginia had weakened a little during lunch. Perhaps it was wrong, dangerous. Perhaps she could keep it to herself. Perhaps it was a kind of disloyalty to Charlie, whom she loved. Although she had no intention of mitigating her own faults to Virginia when she talked to her, suddenly, with his whispered words, she wanted to shout his cruelties to the world, to hit out, to hurt. The pressure built within her, unbearably. And she needed a drink.

Even though she had promised herself when she left New York that she was going to be extremely careful, she had brought some insurance with her, in case it should prove too difficult to be careful. She had firmly resolved that she would drink only when the others drank. A glass of sherry or one martini before dinner. A bit of brandy after dinner. But sometimes her sleeping pills didn’t work, so in her toilet case were opaque, half-pint flasks for traveling marked “Hand Lotion,” “Shampoo,” “Skin Tonic,” all carefully washed and filled with bourbon. She had been angry when Charlie had kiddingly gone through her suitcase, after she had told him, “Thank God, I don’t have to carry a bottle with me, this time.” At the last minute, while Charlie was phoning for their car, she had pulled a fifth out from under the bar, so casually and quickly that Charlie never even noticed, and, opening her suitcase in the hall, removed a pair of shoes and stuffed the bottle inside. Carrying them back, she waved the shoes, saying, “Don’t need these,” and Charlie nodded absently, talking into the phone.

By the time Virginia joined her in her own room Zoë had hurriedly changed into a housecoat and had downed, choking almost in relief, half of the bottle labeled “Skin Tonic.” Like Alice’s bottle, she mused, labeled “Drink me.” Virginia’s door was open and she glanced in, and then down the hall, but Virginia had not come up yet. With relief she noted that her anger against Charlie had diminished somewhat, and that her breathing was slower and not so shallow. Now she could cope with the situation. Where to begin? “I don’t know why I’m telling you this . . .” No. She knew. It was finally more than she could handle alone. No one should have to feel this
alone
. The self-pity rose to smother her, and as Virginia came in, saying, “There now, everyone’s disposed of! We’ve got the rest of the afternoon to ourselves,” tears welled into her eyes, and all pretense fell away, and she sank to the bed crying, “I’m a complete idiot, Virginia!”

On the third floor, Gregg occupied what had once been the children’s playroom and nurse’s quarters. It overlooked the veranda and the sea on the east, and the lawn into the woods on the south. Books lined the walls so that it had the soundproofed feeling of a library—in which somebody incidentally slept. With a towel over his arm, Gregg bent over a book on the desk. He was dressed to swim, trunks and a broad-striped robe covered his spare frame, but, as often, he had been caught up in an idea and was reading a portion of
Moby Dick
, the chapter about the whiteness of the whale:

Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a colour as the visible absence of colour, and at the same time the concrete of all colour; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows—a colourless, all-colour of atheism from which we shrink?

He turned the page back to read:

What is it that in the Albino man so peculiarly repels and often shocks the eye, as that sometimes he is loathed by his own kith and kin! It is that whiteness which invests him, a thing expressed by the name he bears. The albino is as well made as other men—has no substantive deformity—and yet this mere aspect of all-pervading whiteness makes him more strangely hideous than the ugliest abortion. Why should this be so?

It was in this sense that the word “white” had come into his mind in thinking of Charlie. Gregg had tried to trace down the unreasonable sense of recoil when he was around him. Charlie was as “well made as other men,” yet in his personality there was a kind of loathsome “whiteness” that contained all colors that one expects. This was no “phony.” He did have a pretty good mind, though not a profound one—but then neither did he pretend to be profound. But there was nothing in him that reflected color—nothing warm and rich, nor, for that matter, cold and hard. No reds, no blues, no sunny yellows. There was something horrible about the fact that he was not horrible—that he was not a monster with shaking horns—this could be dealt with and defeated. But not this guiltless non-existence which, by existing, by echoing passion, seemed more evil, more threatening than evil itself. It was like fighting Melville’s “shrouded phantom of the whitened waters,” filling the heart with a “superstitious dread.”

Out on the raft after his swim, his body tingling, Gregg stretched, relieved from his morbid thoughts. The raft was no longer just an anchored bit of planking, it had become a platform the size of a small room, covered with padded canvas; a ladder dipped over the side, and beneath a trap door was a compartment like a lobster trap, that held beverage bottles chilled by the sea itself. Alma, being in the throes of the current disc-jockey fad, had laboriously towed a small battery radio in a waterproof container and lashed it to one of the uprights at the top of the ladder. He turned on the radio and opened himself a frosty can of beer. The sun was bright and warm, the sea rose and fell, lifting and dipping the raft in a soothing rhythm. Rather far out, the lovely curves of the
Vee Cee
’s sails tipped and rose against the horizon. Lying on his back, Gregg watched its progress from under his half-closed eyelids. Without any sense of treachery, he permitted himself to think of his love for Virginia—the deep abiding emotion that he knew nothing would ever change. And because he loved her, he loved Jeff too. How odd the world had become in calling sex “love”—nowadays the words seemed interchangeable. What had become of the concept of love as a desire for the loved one’s good? The good for Virginia was Alma and Jeff, and therefore he loved them too. He supposed, if anyone knew, they would be astonished that he felt no jealousy of Jeff. There was no room for jealousy in love. He could not possess, but he could guard her and guard the beings she loved. Including Charlie? He swore and grunted, turning over. Falling asleep.