The Late Clara Beame (4 page)

Alice thought: “As usual, she looks about eighteen, in that pink wool dress. And a pink ribbon in her hair, too, for God’s sake! Why doesn’t she grow up?”

As they sat around the fire with their drinks, Alice was thinking, All this, by rights, should be mine. Laura knew on which side her bread was buttered. Playing up to the old woman. How could Aunt Clara have been so stupid not to have seen? I was rather stupid, myself. I should have contested the will.

Laura’s smile was almost too bright, as she poured martinis for her guests. She could feel the hatred in the room like a malignant danger. As she gave David his glass her fingers touched his and they were cold and stiff. Startled, she looked up into his black eyes. They were studying her with an odd expression, one she could not fathom. Strangely enough, she didn’t feel that David shared his sister’s hatred. She remembered how concerned he had been last summer, after her accident. He had stayed on for two weeks, in spite of his appointments in Cleveland, not leaving until she was out of danger. In many ways he had shown kindness, apparently feeling that the accident was in some way his own fault.

On the twelfth night after the accident he had stayed up all night with her, giving her injections because the nurse had accidentally given her an overdose of sedatives. “If it happens again,” he had warned the nurse in a hard voice, “I’ll call the police. Mrs. Frazier might have died. It’s lucky that I missed my train and came back.”

The nurse, grave and frightened, had nodded dumbly. Later, Laura had implored David sleepily: “Please don’t report her. It was an accident, and she’s very young.”

David had also given Henry a sedative that night. And he had stayed two days longer. Before leaving he had given instructions to Henry: “Just keep an eye on that nurse, and check on the dosages.” Henry, white-faced and gaunt, had promised.

Remembering, Laura smiled up at David. “Are the martinis strong enough?” she asked. She wished she knew him better. She had never before noticed that he was quite handsome in an intense sort of way.

“Strong enough,” he replied curtly, and as she turned she could feel Alice’s eyes on her. There was no one but Alice who hated her in this relentless way. She felt trapped among enemies, alone and vulnerable.

“Oh, David,” she suddenly remembered, “you drink bourbon, and here I am, giving you martinis!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered indifferently. She saw him give his sister a peculiar look. As usual, Alice looked lovely, in a starkly tailored dark-blue suit and blue blouse. There were large turquoise clusters at her ears and throat, and a broad band of turquoises set in silver about her right wrist. Sleek and blonde, she makes me feel like a frump, Laura was honest with herself.

She wished miserably that she had never invited them. Even Henry had been displeased when he learned that David was coming. Loath to say anything unpleasant about anyone, nevertheless he had remarked: “Frankly, I’m sorry to hear that. I know we should feel grateful to him, and I’ve known him all my life. But there’s something about him I never liked, though God knows I tried. No, I can’t tell you, for the simple reason that I don’t know. He and Sam were closest to each other. And that’s a funny thing,” he had added, frowning.

“What?” Laura had asked.

Henry shook his head. “I just don’t know. There’s something about Chicago, when Sam died, that I’ve been trying to remember. It keeps slipping my mind; but never mind. It probably isn’t important.” Apparently, however, his subconscious mind registered some disquiet, for he referred to the matter again, later. Then, only this morning, at breakfast: “If I could just put my finger on it,” he had muttered.

Laura, intrigued, recalled Sam’s death, and the subsequent events. Yes, she had conceded, sipping more coffee after Henry had left for New York, there had been ‘something’. A strangeness in the air, perhaps, when the police had come. A sort of hiatus, as if someone knew something he wasn’t telling. Alice had only cried once, briefly and painfully. David had merely walked through the apartment, again and again, his head bent. If someone spoke to him suddenly he would start, and then stare, his black eyes unseeing. Had he actually looked afraid? Laura could not remember. But surely it was all imagination. Poor Sam had killed himself when he had discovered that he had an incurable disease. However, who had told him about it? For months, the police searched for any physician who had attended him and warned him of his illness. None was found. They finally came to the conclusion that, knowing he was ill, he had gone to a physician out of town, and had given a false name. But, why should he have done that, Sam who was like a playful and young boy, Sam who could never keep a secret, good or bad? It wasn’t like him at all. He would have confided in Alice, at least, for he had loved his wife. Or, if not Alice, then David, who was a physician. But he had said nothing to anyone, and had never appeared abstracted or depressed. Of a buoyant nature, and a good color, he had not seemed sick. In fact, he was excited about Christmas, a Christmas he never saw, and he had bought Alice something very special. They had found it later, a string of exceptionally fine, matched cultured pearls with a diamond clasp.

“You’re spilling your drink,” Alice warned her in a detached voice.

“So I am,” Laura said, her cheeks flushed. “I was thinking of a year ago.” She couldn’t help it, and she was ashamed, but she wanted to hurt Alice. “It was exactly a year ago that Sam killed himself.”

“No,” Alice corrected her calmly, “it was a year ago yesterday.” She spoke as if she were referring to something of no consequence. She gave her brother a quick glance, and he spoke as if cued.

“Why bring up the melancholy subject, Laura?”

She could not explain that she had wanted to hurt Alice. “It’s just that — well, you can’t help remembering, can you?”

“Like Banquo at the feast,” David suggested.

“Henry and I were talking about it only this morning,” she heard herself saying. “Henry thinks there was something ‘off’, as he called it.” She caught her breath.

David and Alice had not moved at all, yet Laura had the sensation that they had closed in about her — tightly. The glass in her hand shook. Gently, David took it from her and put it on the mantelpiece. “What did Hank mean, Laura?” he asked softly.

She was frightened, and this was absurd, in her own house, in front of her own crackling hearth. She looked from David’s intense eyes to Alice’s blue ones. Alice no longer seemed indifferent; she was vividly alert.

Oh, thank God, Laura thought, there was the car with Henry and his guest! “Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. It was nothing. Henry and Mr. Carr are here.” She ran out of the room like a frightened child, and the brother and sister heard her throwing open the door.

“Don’t worry,” Alice said in a low voice. “She’s too scatterbrained to remember that she told us that. Are you afraid she might repeat it to Hank? Look, I know Laura. She’s an absolute fool. Listen to her carrying on out there. She’s already forgotten.”

“Now I’m sure of one thing,” David told her. “Henry does know something. We’ve got to find out. Why don’t they shut that damn door?”

Laura came in, smiling like a carefree child again, and Henry Frazier followed her with their guest. Both men looked cold, and their faces were red.

“Well, well, kiddies,” Henry said, shaking hands with David and lightly kissing Alice’s cheek. “As beautiful as ever,” he told Alice, and patted her shoulder. “Alice, this is John Carr, a client of mine. Mrs. Bulowe, John. And this is Alice’s brother, Dr. David Gates.”

How easily he does everything, Laura thought proudly.

She looked at John Carr with interest, judging him to be about thirty-six. Quite good-looking, he was very lean. He had a wide, thin mouth and charming smile. His gray tweed suit did not fit him perfectly, but he was unaware of that, and in a way, it added to his charm.

“From Baltimore?” David asked, scrutinizing the stranger in that intent manner of his. “I know some Carrs, in Baltimore. The Bentwood Carrs. Related?”

“No,” John replied. He had a deep, pleasant voice with a slight trace of a Southern accent. “Sorry. Do you know the Bridges?”

“No,” David answered.

“Let’s have some drinks,” Henry suggested affably, turning to the portable bar with its array of glasses and bottles. “What’ll you have, John? I see these people didn’t wait for us; they’ve been slopping martinis on the sly.”

“Bourbon. I’m expected to like bourbon, and I do.” He turned to Alice, who was watching him closely. Laura was surprised to see her smile easily, and she was relieved. Alice seemed interested in the stranger and would be agreeable, thank heaven. Gratefully, Laura turned to him, then stopped, her dark eyes opening wide in surprise.

“I’ve seen you somewhere, Mr. Carr,” she stated. “I’m sure of it. Haven’t we met before?”

He studied her thoughtfully, his head cocked slightly. He said at last: “No, I don’t think so. Do we know anyone in Baltimore, in whose house we could have met, Mrs. Frazier?”

“I’ve never been in Baltimore,” his hostess told him.

“And do call me Laura. Perhaps we met at mutual friends’ in New York? No? Boston? Philadelphia?” She burst out laughing. “On a plane, somewhere! That must be it!”

“Yes, that must be it,” John agreed, taking his glass from Henry’s hand. “You meet everybody on planes, don’t you?” He found Laura very pretty, but compared with Alice Bulowe she was nothing at all. He turned to Alice. “Have you seen me somewhere before, too, Mrs. Bulowe? On a plane?”

“No. And please call me Alice. If this storm keeps on, and I know these New England storms, we’ll be snowbound together until spring.” Alice’s voice had taken on warmth, even a little liveliness. Laura almost forgot that she had felt the force of Alice’s hatred only a few moments before in this very room. How nice it would be if something came of these days for Alice.

“Coming down to it, you do look familiar, all at once,” Henry remarked, studying his guest intently. “Or perhaps it is the power of suggestion. I didn’t notice it before. Now, who do you look like, that I know?”

“Everybody looks like everyone of his own generation, these days.” David smiled cynically. “The organization man; faceless; cut out of the same pattern. Look at us three. Suggestion of crewcut; big, healthy, open faces; absolutely expressionless. We’re only allowed two expressions these days. Outgoing interest. Smiles, with lots of teeth. It used to be that men didn’t resemble each other. Now we do. I bet if we were all murdered, and had only our teeth to identify us, not a single dentist could do the job. ‘Look, Ma, no cavities!’ ”

“David,” Alice chided. But she was smiling.

“It’s true,” David went on, after a swallow of his drink. “Look at Hank, here. Outdoor type, though his contact with the outdoors is limited to going back and forth to the station, in all seasons. Sunlamp for that healthy effect. Look at me. I blink in sunlight. My sunglasses, on bright days, are no affectation, friends. Yet, I’m suntanned, and how I got that way I don’t know. How about you — John?”

“The same,” John Carr agreed. His gray eyes were sparkling with amusement.

“I don’t think we look alike,” Henry remarked. Laura was surprised because he sounded annoyed. “Except in our minds. We are conformists these days, aren’t we? But it’s a complex world.”

“Being complex, the people who inhabit it should be more of a variety,” David stated. He filled his glass again. “A complex world is a challenge. We shouldn’t melt down in its face like a lot of candles. But we do. There was a time when we could tell a man’s occupation just by looking at him, no matter how he was dressed. But could anyone say the same of us?”

“I think so,” Henry said.

“Well, say you don’t know me, and have never met me,” David went on. “What would you say was my occupation?” He spread out his hands. “No calluses. When I walk I have that bold stride we’re always affecting; makes us look like ads in a man’s magazine. Alert, that’s us. Eager, that’s us. Interested, that’s us. Twentieth-century man, the living and breathing robot, moving to a tune played by sinister men who prefer us to be of one type. We won’t cause them any trouble that way. We won’t be a burden on mental health facilities. Why, damn it, we’ve
got
to be of one type or we’re ‘sick, sick, sick’.”

“Same old tune, yourself.” Henry smiled at John Carr. “Don’t mind old Dave. He was always a nonconformist, even when we were kids. If everybody asked for strawberry ice cream he’d ask for something exotic, just for spite. Once he demanded pistachio, got it, and couldn’t eat it.”

“At least I made a try, which is more than the rest of you ever did, or do,” David retorted.

Laura thought with dismay, “He’s taken a dislike to John Carr.” The coming days were taking on a distinctly dreary look. But John Carr continued to be amused. “I’m right with you,” he said. “I’ve always disliked strawberry ice cream, and that’s literally and figuratively. America’s now one big, sunny, dripping, sweet ice cream cone, and somebody planned it that way, and if I could find out who, I’d wring his or their necks.”

David’s smile became more amiable. “When you find out, let me know and I’ll help you. And if that be treason, as Patrick Henry said, make the most of it. Laura’s been telling us you’re going into the advertising business. May I ask why?”

“I like it. It’s one of the lively arts, even if you don’t think so. It’s very interesting. Guessing, or molding, the public taste is as exciting as a horse race, sometimes. You won’t believe it, but I bet it’s as interesting as electrocardiograms. The graphs are frequently the same.”

“Pulses,” David said sarcastically.

“Exactly. Why, through the advertising business you can find out if the buying public has stenosis of the pocketbook, or a thrombosis in the paycheck, or a block in the wages.”

“Just full of romance and heartbeats,” David said.

John nodded. He glanced at Alice. She was listening with great interest. “Henry was telling me you do commercial art, Mrs. Bulowe. Free-lancing?”

“Yes,” she answered, and Laura hardly recognized her animated voice. “The cup running over one month and not even dregs the next. But I prefer it that way. I’d die of boredom on a salary.”

“So should I,” John agreed. “I’ve been on salary. Now, I’m going to live dangerously. In short, I’ll get a share of the profits, if there are any profits.”

“There will be,” Henry told him. “Rogers and Belton are a fine concern. One of the best.”

“But they’re not a matter of life or death,” David pointed out. He was refilling his glass again, Laura noticed. “People can’t live very well without doctors,” David continued. “I’ll always be in demand.”

John, who was standing near the fire, beside Henry, turned his profile to Laura, and once again she was startled by the fact that she had met him, somewhere! She could almost say where and when. A long time ago. But that was ridiculous. Feeling her stare, John turned towards her, and she caught her breath. His eyes. He regarded her thoughtfully, and frowned, as if he were suddenly disturbed.

“We
have
met!” she blurted out. “You know that, too, don’t you, John?”

Everyone looked at her, and she blushed, but she held John’s eyes almost defiantly. “Why should there be such a mystery about it, anyway?”

“I’m not unusual-looking, Laura,” he answered easily. The frown, however, returned. “In fact, I’m a very ordinary-looking guy. You see thousands just like me on the streets of every city. Faceless, as Dave here has said.”

It was not like Laura to be persistent, but she went on: “No. We’ve met somewhere. I don’t forget faces. That’s one of my few talents.”