The Towers of Love (16 page)

“I'm sure you are.”

“And we can open some cans or something.”

“Yes, we can open some cans.”

“All right, then,” she said slowly. “I'll be over at—oh, around eleven-thirty?”

“Fine,” he said. “I'll see you then.”

“Good-bye.”

He hung up the telephone. Then, on a sudden impulse, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the piano, lifting aside the folds of the shawl as he went through. It was, of course, not at all the vast space he had remembered. Sitting there, tailor-fashion, with his head hunched down between his shoulders, he seemed to fill the whole space now; there was very little room to move around. A child growing up is not so much a matter of the child becoming slowly larger, but of all the spaces and objects he has known steadily diminishing. The lamp that used to tower over you, way up in the sky, is all at once—when you return to it after a little while—at your elbow. He began to grope around now with his fingers along the odd-shaped little shelves and ledges that were carpentered beneath the piano's belly, wondering if perhaps—just perhaps there might be something left there. The ledges were heavily furred with dust and then, sure enough, his fingers did touch something—something soft. He pulled it out. It was a small toy mouse, still faintly redolent of catnip—a catnip mouse. Its tail was gone, but its small black bead eyes still glared malevolently from its pinched face, and he studied it. The strange thing was that he couldn't remember it at all. For the life of him, he could not recall ever having seen it before. Why would he have owned a catnip mouse? His mother had always detested cats, and cats had never been allowed in the house. It seemed a curious toy for him to have owned and, as far as he knew, he had been the only one of the three children who had ever hidden things under the piano. It must have had, he supposed, some significance or meaning to him once upon a time, and he had thought enough of this tailless mouse to secrete it away there, where it would be safe from all predators. He sat there, for a long time, thinking about it.

When she came walking up the gravel drive, he was waiting for her on the terrace, and he waved her a high salute of greeting. She waved back to him. She was wearing a pair of grey Bermuda shorts and a yellow sweater, and her hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon.

“Isn't this a gorgeous day?” she said. “There's almost too
much
spring in the air, isn't there? Why don't we have our lunch out here on the terrace?”

“Good idea,” he said.

They went into the house and into the kitchen.

“Now don't follow me around,” she said. “It always makes me nervous to have anybody watching me while I'm doing my alleged cooking.”

“Do you know where everything is?”

“Do
you
? Don't worry, I'll find things. You—you sit out in the living-room and have a cigarette or read a magazine or something. I'll bring everything out when it's ready.”

“I'll wait on the terrace,” he said. “I'll see if I can figure out how to turn the fountain on.”

When she came out again, carrying a tray, he was sitting on the stone bench.

“No fountain?”

“I've forgotten how the damn' thing works,” he said. “I guess only Pappy knows the secret now.”

“Well, who needs a fountain?” She set the tray down between them. “Fruit salad,” she said. “Oh, I've forgotten salt and pepper. Well, we don't need salt and pepper, do we? Oh, and I've forgotten paper napkins.”

“We don't need paper napkins either,” he said. “We'll lick our fingers.”

She looked sceptically at the tray. “Not a terribly imaginative lunch, is it? I'm sorry. But it was the best I could do from the cans I found.”

“Looks delicious,” he said, taking a bite of salad. “It
is
delicious!”

“Liar,” she said.

They sat side by side, the breeze stirring the still bare branches of the pear tree just above them.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about all the things you've done in these last ten years.”

“There's not much to tell, I'm afraid,” he said.

“Tell me anyway. Tell me—something.”

“Well, let's see. After I was married I went into the Army—”

“Did you?” she said, turning to him. “Did you really? I never knew you were in the Army.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “You're looking at a Korean War veteran. I used to have the little ruptured duck around somewhere.”

“A Korean War veteran!”

“That's technically speaking,” he said. “I didn't see any war. I didn't get out of the country at all. Anne and I spent three years in a little rented house in Sacramento, California, where I went every day to a desk job. I was what they call a pencil-pusher in the Army. Public Information work—dreaming up news stories for the local papers. Just like any other P.R. man, except I was in uniform. But it was fun, I liked it. Those weren't bad years, those years in the Army. There was nothing glamorous or dangerous or exciting about any of it, but at least I felt I was doing something.”

“Of course,” she said. “So you really had your newspaper career.”

“I was lucky,” he said. “When I first tried to enlist, they didn't want me because of—you know—the physical business.”

“But they finally let you.”

“Yes. Oh, some strings were pulled to do it. But I'm glad because I felt at least I was doing something, the way everybody else was. I figured that my sitting at a desk in Sacramento might mean that some other guy could be going overseas to fight. I know it sounds kind of
gung ho
, but that was how I felt.”

“Of course,” she said. “I understand. I think it's wonderful, Hugh. I don't think it sounds
gung ho
at all. I think it's wonderful that you could persuade them to let you in.”

She sat up straighter, looking away, across the sunny terrace. He finished his salad. “I used to cut a pretty good figure as a soldier, if I do say so,” he said. Then, suddenly, he said, “Edrita, do you remember me ever having a catnip mouse?”

“A catnip
mouse
?” she said, putting down her fork. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Do you remember how we used to crawl under the piano in the library?”

“Under the piano?”

“Yes—you know, we sometimes used to crawl under the piano, and play there?”

“Oh,” she said, “yes, yes, I guess I do remember.”

“And we used to hide things there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I crawled under the piano again this morning—”

“
What
? You did what?”

“I just crawled under the piano—to see what it was like.”

“Hugh,” she said. “You haven't gone slightly
loony
in the last few years, have you? Well, tell me—what
was
it like?” And suddenly she laughed. “Oh, I wish I could have seen you! You—a great hulk—down on all fours under the piano to see what it was
like
!”

“I found something,” he said. He patted his trousers pocket. “I guess I've left it somewhere.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“A catnip mouse.”

“A catnip
mouse
? Where is it? I want to see it.”

“I think I left it upstairs,” he said.

“Oh, Hugh, get it! I must see it!”

“Come on, let's see if we can find it,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

They carried their plates into the kitchen, and Edrita followed him up the back stairs. Hugh stepped into his room. “Here it is,” he said, and picked up the catnip mouse from his dresser-top.

She stepped into the room with him. “Oh,” she said softly, taking the mouse from his hand. “Oh. And he's lost his tail.”

“It must have been mine once,” he said. “I must have hidden it for some reason up in one of those corners under the sounding-board, because there it still was this morning. But the funny damn' thing is that I can't remember ever having owned such a thing. Or putting it there.”

She smiled at the little mouse in her hand. “It wasn't yours,” she said. “It was mine.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “I remember. I gave it to you.”

“Did you? What for?”

“I don't know. What does a person ever give another person a thing for? But I remember giving it to you. I remember that—for some reason—I just loved this little mouse!”

“Do you want it back?” he asked her, smiling.

“No. I gave it to you, remember?” She handed it back to him.

“I just wish I did remember. But—”

“But what?”

“But it must have meant a lot to me,” he said, “if I hid it there. That was where I used to hide things I didn't ever want anyone else to find.”

She laughed. It was a small, high, distracted laugh.

She crossed the room and sat down in one of his chairs. “Oh, this room!” she said. “It's a little different—you've changed it a little from the way I remember it, but not much. It's still by far the pleasantest room in the whole house. It always was.”

“Yes, well, I—” he began. She was sitting there in his chair, smiling at him, studying him, and suddenly he was enormously conscious of the silence of the house. And he thought how odd it was that the two of them had simply walked up the stairs to his room without even thinking about it and now, here they were, in his room. And they were both thinking about it now.

Her laugh was like a little signal from the chair that the atmosphere had changed. It was like the bell that had rung at school, signifying that one class was over and another was about to begin. English 4 was over for the day; History 4 was about to start. “Why, you're shy, aren't you!” she said.

“Shy?”

“Shy—about having me here, in your room!”

“No,” he lied.

“You never used to be. What happened to the match folders?” she asked him. “I remember there used to be match folders, strung all around the room on strings. And weren't there some model airplanes too—hanging from the ceiling on wires? Don't be shy.”

“All my old hobbies—” he said.

“What happened to them?”

“I guess they got taken down—when I lost interest in them.”

“But your Millbrook and Yale banners are still here, aren't they?”

“Yes, they're still here.”

“Boys' rooms have always fascinated me,” she said. “I suppose it's because I never had a brother of my own.”

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose so.”

“There's always a funny, special smell about boys' rooms. You probably wouldn't notice it, being one. But a girl notices it. It's a smell like—like the way an old football smells, or the handle of a hockey stick that's all been wrapped in black tape. Or the smell of a fielder's glove. Do you know what I mean? A nice, sweaty smell—clean, but sweaty-clean. Whenever I used to go to a house party I used to try to prowl through a boy's room—go through his desk with all his old letters and study notes, look in his closet—I was a terrible little snoop.”

The sun had moved and sunlight was coming through the window now, pouring all over her as she sat there in her yellow sweater, and it was hard to see her distinctly in the dazzle of it, or to tell, really, what her expression was.

“I always wanted a brother,” she said. “But of course I had you.”

“Yes,” he said. And then, “Well, shall we go downstairs?”

“Oh,” she said, “do you want to? You
are
shy of me. I love this room so.”

“Well—” he said.

“Tell me more. Tell me more about those years.”

“There's not much to tell.”

“Oh, there must be lots of things. You've told me just a little bit about three of them. But there are still seven more, Hugh. Something must have happened in seven years. Tell me about those.”

“There isn't much that's interesting, I'm afraid.”

“Well, let's see. You obviously got out of the Army. You came back to New York. You got a job—”

“Yes, I got a job.”

“You liked the job?”

“I loved the job,” he said.

“You got rich. You were successful—”

“Yes.”

“I'm pumping you, you see. And what else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Nothing but a job? You and Anne—”

“Edrita,” he said quickly, “I ought to tell you something. The fact is that Anne and I are separated. We separated about a month ago and—well, Anne wants a divorce. And there's probably going to be a divorce. So that's that, Edrita. And so I think we'd better go downstairs now.”

She was silent for a moment, her face pensive. Then she said, “Oh. So those years weren't happy years.”

“No, they weren't.”

“And you don't want to talk about them?”

“No.”

He stood facing her.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Well, I'm sorry, Hugh. So sorry.”

“I'm not,” he said. “Not about the divorce, that is. I really can't make myself feel sorry at all. I don't feel—well, I really don't feel anything at all about it, not even relieved. I just sort of feel as though I'd been cut loose from something, and that I'm dangling from somewhere.”

“Yes,” she said, “dangling. I know what you mean.”

“So I've come here—sort of to try to reappraise my life, if you can understand that, Edrita. To try to figure out what I've accomplished so far, and what I haven't, and what the next thing will have to be—where I'm going.”

“Yes.”

“So let's go downstairs.”

She stood up. “You've told me your secret,” she said. “Now I'll tell you mine. My reasons for being here, in case you haven't guessed, are like yours—not the same, but similar.”