The Road Through the Wall (7 page)

“I don't think she's done anything really
bad
,” Mrs. Merriam said, shocked.

“It's just that she's so much older, mentally, Marguerite, than the other girls,” Mrs. Roberts said. “It's a shame they've gotten to know her so well.”

“Well,
Harriet
won't know her any longer,” Mrs. Merriam said.

“I don't think it's entirely wise,” Mrs. Desmond murmured, “to keep girls apart. As soon as they know someone is bad for them—”

“I didn't even mention it to Artie,” Mrs. Roberts said.

“Well, a boy. . . .” Mrs. Merriam stood up. “How about some tea?”

“Oh, don't bother,” Mrs. Desmond said.

“Really,” Mrs. Roberts added.

“No trouble,” Mrs. Merriam said, as though she had not planned anything. “It's all ready.”

She went into the kitchen, and Mrs. Roberts said, “I think she's a little hard on Harriet sometimes.”

“I suppose she takes it very seriously,” Mrs. Desmond agreed.

“You know,” Mrs. Merriam said, coming busily in from the kitchen with a full tray which had obviously been sitting out there waiting, “You know, it seems strange to have only the three of us this week.”

“Sylvia Donald had to take Virginia to the dentist,” Mrs. Roberts said. “I don't know
what
happened to Dinah.”

“Probably that poor woman had another spell,” Mrs. Desmond said. “It must be a terrible thing to have to take care of an invalid like that.”

“Worse than children,” Mrs. Roberts said heartily. She threw her sewing aside and came over to Mrs. Merriam's tea tray, which she inspected critically. “Those
wonderful
sandwiches, Josephine.”

“Next week you'll all come to my house,” Mrs. Desmond said. “Aren't you
nice
?” as Mrs. Merriam presented a slim glass of milk to Caroline.

“The sweet child,” Mrs. Merriam said. “She sits there so quietly and never says a word.”

“One thing about you,” Mrs. Roberts said enthusiastically to Mrs. Merriam. “You always have the most
wonderful
sandwiches.”

“They're
only
cream cheese with a little sherry,” Mrs. Merriam said. “I'll write it down for you.”

•   •   •

“Are you
sure
you'll be all right, sweetie?” Mrs. Ransom-Jones asked earnestly. “I can very easily—”

“Not at all,” her sister said. “I wouldn't dream of it. I'll be fine.”

“But I just feel so sort of
guilty
,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said. “You so much worse and all.”

“I'll be perfectly all right,” her sister said. “You go right ahead.”

Mrs. Ransom-Jones smoothed the long black skirt of her evening dress; her dark hair was pulled up on top of her head instead of gathered at the back of her neck, and she looked very dignified and sure. She put her hand on her sister's forehead and said, “I'm sure you'll be all right. If we hadn't planned it for so long.”

“You couldn't know I'd be worse,” her sister argued. “Don't give me a single
thought
, dear.”

“Brad would be terribly disappointed,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said. “If he were only coming home instead of meeting me in town.”

“You
look
perfectly lovely,” her sister said. “He'll be proud of you.”

Mrs. Ransom-Jones touched her earrings. “The Roberts boy is very reliable. You know him.”

“Of course, dear,” her sister said. “Just don't worry.”

“I've left the doctor's name and telephone number on the hall table,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones went on, counting on her fingers, “and your emergency medicine is right beside it. And he can always call his mother and father if there's anything.”

“And the Donalds are home right next door,” her sister said.

“I'll call during the evening,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said. “We can get home at any time in less than half an hour.”

“You'll be late, dear,” her sister said. “You don't have to wait till the boy comes.”

“I'd
feel
better,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said vaguely. “Now are you
sure
—”

The doorbell rang, and she took up her evening bag and gloves as she went to the hall. “Hello, Arthur,” her sister heard her say. “You're very nice to come.”

“That's all right, Mrs. Ransom-Jones,” Artie said. “I was just going to read anyway.”

“It's just that my sister had another attack two days ago.” Mrs. Ransom-Jones dropped her voice, but her sister could still hear her. “She has to be very quiet, and I just wanted someone here in case anything should—” She hesitated slightly. “In case anything should happen,” she repeated.

“I see,” Artie said.

“Here's the doctor's name and telephone number, and Lillian's medicine, which she gets if she
should
happen to have another attack, and the telephone number where we'll be, and—”

“I can tell him all about it, dear,” Lillian said, raising her voice. “Don't you bother.”

Mrs. Ransom-Jones came in, bringing perfume and the sound of black velvet moving softly. “Well, sweetie,” she said.

“Good night, dear,” Lillian said, raising her face. “I'll most likely be asleep when you come in.”

“Good night,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said. “I'm sure everything will be fine,” she said to Artie in the doorway.

“Have a nice time,” Artie said politely. “Hello, Miss Tyler.”

“Hello, Arthur,” Lillian said. Mrs. Ransom-Jones waved from the doorway and went out, closing the door very gently. Lillian sat back and smiled at Artie. “She does worry
so
,” she said.

Artie sat down gingerly. He had been in the Ransom-Jones house before, but never in a position of responsibility. He felt proprietary about the tapestry chairs standing carefully against the walls, about the oriental rug, the thick scarf on the piano. He knew Miss Tyler as a person of authority, a grown-up in his children's world, someone his mother knew, and now he was in charge of her; he sat back more comfortably and smiled at Miss Tyler on the couch. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“No, indeed.” Miss Tyler smiled back at him, tenderly, as though drawn away from an enchanting reverie. “They do have such good times together,” she said.

Artie smiled again, blankly.

“Brad and that woman,” Miss Tyler said. “My sister.”

“Have you lived here long?” Artie asked idiotically. He had understood that Miss Tyler would be in bed, an invalid, and he was to read quietly until Mr. and Mrs. Ransom-Jones came home, alert only for an emergency that would require the medicine, the doctor, the various phone numbers. But Miss Tyler sat on the couch across from him, looking fragile in a lavender negligee, and he was, atrociously, condemned to polite conversation until Miss Tyler should remember her duty and go obediently to bed.

“He brought her here when he married her,” Miss Tyler said. She looked up at the ceiling, around the walls. “They've always lived here. You can tell by the flowers.” Artie stared, and she said tolerantly, “Flowers grow best when they have always been tended by the same hand. My sister and I planted this whole garden. It was a wilderness.” She nodded her head vehemently. “It was a real wilderness at first.”

“You've certainly made it look good,” Artie congratulated himself; the remark had made sense, it belonged in the conversation, it was complimentary.

“When I was
your
age,” Miss Tyler said, and laughed lightly. “It must have been twenty years ago,” she said, “I used to tend an acre of roses all by myself. Lady Hamiltons.” She looked at him vaguely. “You wouldn't remember that far back,” she said.

“I'm afraid not.” Artie was troubled with thoughts of his responsibility; she ought to be going to bed soon, that was certain; he had a grave burden on him. (“Shall I help you to bed, Miss Tyler?” “Don't let me keep you up, Miss Tyler,” “You ought to rest now, Miss Tyler.”) “Miss Tyler,” he began, but his voice was weak and he stopped.

“Such a pretty wedding,” Miss Tyler was saying. “She carried armfuls of my roses.
My
roses.”

“You have beautiful roses here,” Artie said. It was the same kind of remark as before, the kind he was proud of.

“
I
never married,” Miss Tyler said. “Young men like you—how old are you, dear? Eighteen? Twenty?”

Artie cleared his throat. “Miss Tyler,” he said. (“Shall I help you to bed, Miss Tyler?”)

“Young men like you passed me by,” Miss Tyler said. “Brad was the only one.”

“That's too bad,” Artie said. That was the kind of remark he was not proud of.

“Well,” Miss Tyler said soberly, “it's time I retired. You don't mind?”

“Of course not,” Artie said. “Can I get you anything?”

“Thank you, no,” Miss Tyler said. “You won't be bored?”

“No, no,” Artie said. “I have to read this book.”

He stood up when she did, standing back respectfully to let her pass him. “Will you help me?” she asked suddenly, and swayed a little so that he was frightened when he ran forward and took her arm. “Over there,” she said. “I have my room downstairs now. There's a bathroom and everything.” He helped her into the hall and she stopped at her doorway. “My sister is so kind,” she said, leaning her head against the closed door. Then she took her arm away from him gently and said, “Thank you very much, Arthur.”

“Can you manage all right now?” Artie said. He felt a very real sympathy, not quite realizing that it was because he could walk perfectly well, could run if he wanted to, could go upstairs fifty times a day. “Please let me help you.”

“I'm perfectly all right now,” Miss Tyler said.

Artie realized with hideous embarrassment that she was waiting for him to go before she opened the door to her bedroom. He backed away, gasping, “Good night, then,” and Miss Tyler waved one finger rougishly at him. “You
gay
young men,” she said.

Artie, sitting tentatively on the edge of one of the tapestry chairs in the living-room, listening for the sound of a fall or a scream, heard her say tenderly, “Always some rash young fool, my darling dear,” and then she was quiet.

He read his book, finally, accustomed to the silence, never leaving the living-room except for one tiptoed journey down the hall to see if he could hear her breathing. After an eternal minute outside her door he came back to his chair and read peacefully until Mr. and Mrs. Ransom-Jones came home shortly after one.

“Everything's been fine,” he said.

“I
knew
she'd be all right,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said, “that's why I didn't bother to call.” She gave him a quarter.

•   •   •

“When I grow up,” George Martin said to his grandfather, “I'm going to drive a truck. A ten-ton truck.”

“First you grow up,” his grandfather said. He nodded sagely. “First you grow up,” he said. “Once,” he went on slowly, “I thought I would be a doctor, myself. Now I am a gardener.” He nodded again, as though a point had been proved. He was sitting on a broken box in the Martins' back yard, wild growing things in profusion around him and the morning sunlight heavy on his old head. It was his custom to sit here Sunday mornings when the weather was good, and regard phlegmatically the garden which belonged to him and which he never had time to cultivate; except for George's abortive efforts and an occasional fussing over by the children's grandmother, the back yard was allowed to run a wilderness. In one corner, near the Merriams' fence, was an aged plum tree which no longer bore plums; next to it was the rabbit-house built by George, where one sickly rabbit had perished miserably the summer before. There were two more plum trees and an apple, the plum trees all barren and the apple given to wry unpalatable fruit. The rest of the yard was wild grass, weeds, and junk, and a climbing rose tree which grew up the back of the house and caught at the grandfather's shoulders when he sat on his broken box.

George was building something again; it was to be either a skate coaster or a wagon. He had nailed an orange crate on to a board and was busy trying to fit two halves of an old skate onto it for wheels.

“If I had a truck, you know what I'd do?” George continued in an even singsong that corresponded rhythmically with his work; when he became most careful, in some delicate operation, his words slid out and became long and breathless; when he worked steadily along, hammering or measuring, he spoke evenly and smoothly. Occasionally he looked up at his grandfather, to prove some important statement, and then the sunlight touched his eyes and mouth, and gave him an expression of intelligence usually lacking in his vacant face.

“You know what I'd do?” he insisted, turning to look at his grandfather. “I'd run it right into old Missus Merriam's house and I'd run right over her. Run over Missus Merriam, run over Missus Merriam, and I'd run over Misssssssssster Meeeeeeeeerriam.” This became very long because George was trying to straighten a skate wheel. Then his voice quickened again. “And I'd run over old Harriet and I'd run over old Missus Merriam. If I had a truck that's what I'd do.”

The sun made the old grandfather sleepy, and he half-closed his eyes. He found it difficult to understand much of what his grandchildren said; they spoke so quickly, and with such strange words, and the tongue itself was still alien to an old man. When George looked up at him, the grandfather smiled and nodded, exactly as he had smiled and nodded at the immigration officials forty years before. “You grow up,” he said sleepily.

“When I grow up,” George went on, “I'm going to have a tractor.”

“Tractor?” the grandfather said.