Those Harper Women (19 page)

He smiled at her again. “Those snows you used to say you missed so much. I've seen a lot of snow since last we met.”

She was terribly touched and moved. “Come back and see me again some afternoon, Andreas,” she said, “and bring your wife. We'll have tea and talk.” And he smiled at her in a way that told her that, of course, he would not come back. They shook hands.

Later, she heard that his insurance business was becoming very prosperous in St. Thomas, which pleased her.

After lunch the telephone rings, and it is Alan Osborn to tell Edith about her appointment for the X rays. “Monday afternoon at three o'clock for our little posing session, dear,” he says.

“Fine, Alan. I'll be there.” Then there is a long pause at the other end of the line, as though he expects her to have something more to say.

Finally, he says, “Well, aren't you going to ask me if I did my little errand?”

“What little errand?”

“To find out about your Mr. Winslow.” He clears his throat. “Edward George Winslow, Journalist. Age thirty. Graduated Columbia School of Journalism nineteen fifty-four. Specializes in financial reporting. Impecunious parents. Ambitious—”

“Oh, Alan,” she says. “Never mind, never mind! I know all this, and besides—”

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds disappointed that Edith does not want a complete dossier on Mr. Winslow any longer.

“No, Alan, it really doesn't matter any more,” she says in a soothing voice. “Mr. Winslow is now completely out of the picture.”

Eight

“Thank you for the lift, Arch,” Leona says, her hand on the handle of his car door.

“Don't mention it, buddy. I'm always glad to help a lady in distress.” He looks at her curiously. “And you know something?” he says. “I think you
are
a lady in distress, in a funny way. But what are you distressed about?”

“Distressed?” Leona says, forcing a laugh. “Why should I be distressed? I could easily have called a taxi from the beach, but you came along and offered me a ride. That's all.”

“I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about you—something about you I can't quite figure out.”

“No girl likes to think she's been completely figured out.”

“Look,” he says. “I'm a sucker for punishment. Will you have dinner with me again tonight?”

“I can't, Arch. I promised Granny I'd have dinner with her tonight.”

“Then maybe I could pick you up after dinner.”

She shakes her head. “I haven't spent a single evening with her since I've been here. I'm sorry …” Leona looks up at the house and sees, at one of the tall French windows, recessed behind its ornamental grillwork balcony, the figure of her grandmother. She looks away quickly, hoping that Arch has not seen Granny watching them. But he has seen her.

“Is that her?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Well, look,” he says, “if you change your mind later on, and feel like going out, I'm not doing anything. You know where I am. Give me a call.” The tiny muscles of his face are gathered in a grin.

They have both looked up at Edith, and have looked away, which means that they have not seen her standing there. For if Leona had seen her, she would certainly have smiled and waved. Edith has recognized him, the old-house enthusiast from the night before, and thinks that he looks less appetizing by daylight than he looked by night. His neck, she thinks, is too short and, as everybody knows, men with short necks tend to assume the characteristics of Napoleon. And as for the formation of his cowlick, it almost looks—with that very short, brush-cut hair of his—as though he has no cowlick at all, a bad sign. His open car looks expensive. Perhaps it is the automobile which amuses Leona about him. But, quite obviously—a fact which may not have dawned upon Leona—the car is rented; touring gentlemen do not, as a rule, ship their automobiles to St. Thomas. The man leans unpleasantly close to Leona, saying something to her, and Leona nods. Poor Leona. She wants to get out of the car, and he will not let her; she has her hand on the handle of the door. Edith feels that she should warn Leona about this man, exactly as she used to warn her, when she was a little girl, to put on her arctics in the rainy season. At last, Leona manages to make her escape. She steps out of the car and waves to him. She walks slowly into the garden, up the steps, and into the house.

“Is that you, Leona?” Edith calls.

Leona pauses in the hall for a moment. Then she says, “Hi, Granny,” and starts up the stairs. “What time is it, d'you know?”

“Twenty past five, dear.”

“Oh—I'll have time for a swim before dinner then.”

“Fine,” Edith calls. “I'll join you at the pool.”

When Edith arrives at the pool, Leona is already there, lying on an inflatable air mattress, wearing a face mask and snorkel, propelling herself about the surface of the water. She looks up once, seeing Edith coming down the path, and waves. Then her head bobs under the water again.

“Well, how was your day?” Edith asks.

Leona's breath spits and gurgles through the snorkel tube. It is difficult to talk to a submerged granddaughter.

At last Leona rolls off the mattress and swims to the pool's edge, pulls herself out of the water, and removes the mask.

“Well,” Edith says, leaning toward her, “did you speak to Mr. Winslow, dear?”

Leona nods.

“And did he—did he agree not to write anything about us?”

Leona says nothing for a moment; then she nods.

“You mean everything is going to be all right?”

“Yes,” Leona says. She sits very still at the pool's edge, her arms hugging her knees. The sun has left the pool now. A cool breeze stirs the heavy tops of palm trees, and Leona shivers.

“Oh, good!” Edith says, sitting back. “You see? I told you that you could persuade him. Oh, I'm awfully relieved, Leona—really I am. Thank you so much, darling.”

Once more Leona nods. Her eyes travel away from Edith, across the pool, to the chattering leaves of the palm grove.

“And now,” Edith says, “have you given any more thought to our talk this morning?”

“This morning?” Leona says absently. “What did we talk about this morning?”

“Well, among other things, about Gordon. Don't you remember?”

“What did we say about Gordon?”

“You said that, of the three, you liked Gordon best.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Because, you see,
I've
always been fond of Gordon too. He's an awfully nice man—a very sensible and mature human being. And he hasn't remarried,” Edith says.

Leona's smile is small and bitter. “None of them has,” she says. “Do you suppose I soured them all on marriage, Granny?”

“Of course not! They still love you, that's all.”

“Well, it's a pretty thought.”

“Now tell me, Leona. What went wrong with you and Gordon?”

“Wrong? Oh, Granny—” She pauses, looking at Edith, briefly. “It's so hard to say. Gordon is—well, you know the type, don't you? Voted Most Likely To Succeed at Dartmouth. Editor in
Chief
of the Yearbook! As a boy, Gordon was famous in his neighborhood for all the things he could make out of his Lincoln logs. Then he graduated to an erection set—”

“Erec
tor
set, I believe.”

“And he was treasurer of Beta Theta Pi. He could have been
President
of Beta Theta Pi, but he
declined
the nomination in a noble gesture—on the basis that some other man was better
qualified
. Gordon's remembered at Dartmouth for that!” She jumps to her feet now and begins marching stiffly up and down along the edge of the pool, her hands clasping her elbows. “The Eye of Wooglin was upon him, he said, telling him not to accept the nomination. Dear Lord, I think the Eye of Wooglin is
still
upon him, Granny!”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“And then, later, his senior year, after so much mental anguish—so much
Angst
that you wouldn't believe there could
be
so much
Angst
—he decided that fraternities were undemocratic. That's Gordon Cogswell Paine for you in a nutshell!”

Leona lights a cigarette and waves the match out, and Edith sits there wondering why she bothered bringing up the subject. “I'm glad you're having dinner with me tonight, Leona,” she says finally. “I've asked Sibbie Sanderson to join us. You remember my friend Sibbie, don't you?”

“Yes. The one with the sandals.” Then Edith hears Leona say in a different voice, “But still—Still, he was very kind to me once. Gordon.”

Edith sits forward again in her canvas chair, feeling that she has suddenly scored something of triumph. “There!” she says. “You see? That's exactly what I meant. He's so much nicer than any of the others. So much better for you than that man you were with last night—”

“Now
wait
a minute, Granny—”

“I noticed he brought you home this afternoon.”

“Granny, that man means nothing to me at all!”

“Or your Mr. Winslow. Now, I have an idea, Leona. Tell me what you think of it. I'm thinking of writing Gordon a letter—asking him to come here and visit us for a few weeks. The invitation would come better from me than from you, I think. What do
you
think?”

Leona stands quite rigidly for a moment. Then she says, “Playing Cupid, Granny?”

“Well,” Edith says with a small, uneasy laugh, “isn't that what grandmothers are supposed to do?”

Leona steps to the edge of the pool once more, and Edith watches as she curls her toes over the lip of the coping, looking thoughtful. “Well, I suppose it's all right,” she says, and performs a neat little dive into the water, making almost no splash.

“Wonderful. Then I'll do it.”

Leona comes to the surface, takes two quick strokes across the pool, catches hold of the coping, and looks up at Edith. “Whom you invite to this house is your business, Granny!” she says sharply. “After all, it
is
your house, not mine! But I must ask you not to interfere in my affairs! Or feel that anybody you invite has anything to do with
me!
Because if that's the case—”

“Now wait a minute, Leona—I only meant—”

Leona pulls herself quickly out of the water and stands dripping in front of her grandmother. “Oh!” she cries. “If you really want to know what I think of your idea, I think it's just—terrible! And what do you
mean
this is the way grandmothers are supposed to behave? Is there an Ilg and Gesell
Guide to Grandmothering?
”

“Leona—”

“Really! If you're not careful, you'll turn into Mary Worth—just like that! You're already displaying a number of very disagreeable Mary Worth tendencies!” She tugs at the strap of her bathing cap and pulls it off, shaking the dampness from her hair. “Don't you have enough to keep you busy taking care of your own affairs? Without meddling in mine?”

“Leona,
please
. I was only trying.…”

“Don't try! Just don't. Don't try to arrange peoples' lives, Granny. You're not qualified! As a marriage counselor, you stink! Why, you don't even have amateur standing. You presume to try to doctor up some old dead marriage of mine, but your own was hardly a prizewinner, was it? Was it? It was a phony-baloney from the start. Everyone knows the whole thing was completely prearranged!” And she turns on her heel, and runs away, barefoot up the path, leaving Edith seated by the pool.

After a moment or two Edith stands up, picks up Leona's beach clogs, bathing cap, sunglasses, and cigarettes, makes a sort of vagabond's tote-bag for these articles out of Leona's damp towel, and walks back into the garden, under the wilted bougainvillea vines, the acacias struggling for life in their starved soil. How can a garden hope to survive without the ministrations of manures, or the caress of mulches, or the attention of someone who cares about it? Well, Mr. Barbus, she thinks, there is nothing for you to do. This house will go to the hospital, and the starved soil with it. The house will be torn down, and the garden will be bulldozed under, and the sooner it can all happen, I suppose, the better.

Pausing there, thinking about it, she hears the sudden clatter of a stick pulled sharply across the grillwork of her gate, and the children's voices:

Edie, Edie, fat and greedy,

How does your garden grow?

With your husband dead

And your lover in bed

And dollar bills all in a row!

Edith Blakewell smiles. It has been a long time since she has heard that little verse. The song passes on, she supposes, from one generation to the next, and once in a while a group of them, drunk with twilight, dares to chant it outside her gate—then runs off into the shadows, expecting the old lady to come charging out of her house after them with her cane.

Edith goes up the steps and into the house, and picks up the evening mail that lies, neatly arranged by Nellie, on the long table in the hall. There is a letter from Edith's insurance agent, a postcard from a New York department store urging her to hurry-hurry-hurry to a fifth-floor better-dress salon to take advantage of many bargains, and a small brown package for Leona.
Leona Diaz
it says—a name Edith simply cannot accustom herself to. Leona Diaz! It sounds like the name of some fandango dancer. Oh, wasn't it nicer when Leona had those clean, neat, American names—Leona Paine, Leona Breed, Leona Ware?

Edith puts the package down. Nellie is behind her, saying something.

“What is it, Nellie?”

“Miss Sanderson's here, Miss Edith.”

Edith turns toward the drawing room, preparing herself for Sibbie's bellowed greeting.

If she had heard the song the children sang, Leona, alone in her room, would not have known what to make of it. But the only sound in her ears is the roar of the electric hair-dryer she holds in her hand, letting its jets of warm air blow all over her head and face and neck and bare shoulders.