“She does.” Blackshear thought of the things Evelyn Merrick had said to Miss Clarvoe. She had used Miss Clarvoe’s own special set of fears as she had used Mrs. Moore’s, and to a lesser extent, Lydia Hudson’s, not creating new fears but working on ones that were already there. In each case she had taken a different approach, but the results were the same, uncertainty, anxiety, dread. Miss Hudson had a strong enough personality to settle her own problems; Helen Clarvoe’s, perhaps, would never be settled; but Mrs. Moore had a need for, and the ability to accept, help.
Blackshear said, “Evelyn Merrick gets her satisfaction out of other people’s pain, Mrs. Moore. Today it was yours. But there have been others.”
“I didn’t — know that.”
“It’s true. There is absolutely no limit to what she would say to cause trouble, and perhaps in your case she had an extra motive. Mr. Moore tells me that he was busy at the time she came to the studio and he gave her a quick brush-off.”
Bertha smiled, very faintly. “Harley’s quite good at that.”
“The Merrick woman may have wanted to pay him back. Little episodes like that, which the ordinary person would pass off easily and forget about, often become terribly exaggerated in the mind of an unbalanced woman.”
“Of course, I didn’t believe her for a minute,” Bertha said, in a very firm, reasonable voice. “After all, Harley and I have been happily married for nearly twenty years... I suppose Harley’s told you about our little girl?”
“He did.”
“Would you like to see her?”
“I’d like it very much.”
“Let me get her,” Harley said, but Bertha had already risen.
“I’ll get her,” she said, smiling. “I have something to tell her.”
Angie was still asleep. She woke up at Bertha’s touch, and made a squeak of protest that turned into a yawn.
Bertha spoke softly into her tiny ear. “Your father is a good man. We mustn’t either of us forget that. He is a good man.”
She carried the child into the living room, walking fast, as if she could get away from the whispers that echoed against the walls of her memory: You don’t know much of what goes on in that studio... Have you been fooled all these years?... Oh the things you’d see in my crystal ball...
Bertha listened.
Chapter 5
“Helen? Is that you, Helen, dear?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mother.”
“Yes.”
“I must say you don’t seem very happy to hear from me.”
“I’m trying.” Helen thought, she sounds the same as ever, like a whining child.
“Please speak up, dear. If there’s one thing I can’t bear it’s telephone mumblers. Helen? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“That’s better. Well, the reason I wanted to speak to you, I just had a very mysterious phone call from Mr. Blackshear. You remember, that broker friend of your father’s whose wife died of cancer?”
“I remember.”
“Well, suddenly out of a blue sky he called and asked if he could come and see me tonight. You don’t suppose it has anything to do with money?”
“In what way?”
“Perhaps he’s discovered some misplaced stocks or bonds that belonged to your father.”
“I hardly think so.”
“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Wouldn’t it be a lovely surprise, say just a few shares of AT&T stuck away in a drawer and forgotten. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Yes.” She didn’t bother pointing out that her father had never bought any shares of A T&T, and if he had, they wouldn’t be stuck in a drawer and forgotten. Let Verna find it out for herself; she had a whole closetful of punctured dreams, but there was always room for one more.
The expectation of money, however remote, put a bright and girlish lilt into Verna’s voice. “I haven’t seen you for ages, Helen.”
“I realize that.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Are you eating properly?”
It was an impossible question to answer, since Verna’s ideas of proper eating varied week by week, depending on which new diet attracted her attention. She dieted, variously, to grow slim, to gain weight, to correct low blood sugar, to improve her complexion, to prevent allergies, and to increase the flow of liver bile. The purpose of the diet didn’t matter. The practice was what counted. It gave her something to talk about, it made her more interesting and unusual. While her liver bile continued at the same old rate, Verna flitted from one diet to another, making other women who could and did eat anything look like clods.
“Do speak up, Helen.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh. Well. The fact is, Dougie and I are having lunch tomorrow at the Vine Street Derby. It’s so close to where you are that I thought you might like to join us. Would you?”
“I’m afraid not. Thanks just the same.”
“But it’s quite a social occasion. In the first place, it’s Dougie’s birthday, he’ll be twenty-six. Tempus fugit, doesn’t it? And in the second place, someone else will be there whom I’d like you to meet, Dougie’s art teacher, a Mr. Terola. I’m told he’s a terribly fascinating man.”
“I didn’t know that Douglas was interested in painting.”
“Oh, not painting. Photography. Dougie says there’s a big future in photography, and Mr. Terola knows practically everything there is to know about it.”
“Indeed.”
“I do wish you’d make an effort to come, dear. We’ll be at the Derby at one o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll try to make it.” She knew why her mother was anxious for her to be there: she expected her to bring a check for Douglas as a birthday present.
“Are you still there, Helen?”
“Yes.”
“These long silences make me nervous, they really do. I never know what you’re thinking.”
Helen smiled grimly into the telephone. “You might ask me some time.”
“I’m afraid you’d answer,” Verna said with a sharp little laugh. “It’s all set, then? We’ll see you tomorrow at one?”
“I won’t promise.”
“My treat, of course. And listen, Helen dear. Do wear a little lipstick, won’t you? And don’t forget it’s Dougie’s birthday. I’m sure he’d appreciate some little remembrance.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“Good-bye.”
Helen set down the phone. It was the first time in months that she had talked to her mother, but nothing had changed. Animosity still hung between them like a two-edged sword; neither of them could use it without first getting hurt herself.
“A hundred,” Verna said aloud. “Or two, if we’re lucky. She wouldn’t miss it. And if Mr. Blackshear has found those shares of AT&T, we’ll be able to keep going for a little while anyway.”
Verna was down to a single car, a second mortgage and a part-time servant. She had had the telephone company take out the extra phones in her bedroom and in the patio, and she’d covered the bare spot in the dining-room carpet with a cotton mat, and hung a calendar over the cracking plaster of the kitchen wall. In brief, she had done everything possible to cut expenses and keep the household running. But the household didn’t run, it shuffled along like a white elephant, and each week it got further and further behind.
There were occasions, usually at the beginning of the month when the bills poured in, when Verna thought it would be a good thing if Douglas went out and got a job. But most of the time she was content to have him around the house. He was good company, in his quiet way, and he did a great deal of the gardening and the heavier work, when he wasn’t studying. In Verna’s opinion, Douglas was a born student. He hadn’t finished college because of some highly exaggerated incident in the locker-room of the gym, but he had continued studying on his own and had already covered ceramics, modern poetry, the French impressionists, the growing of avocados, and the clarinet. The clarinet hurt his lip, the avocado seedlings in the backyard had withered and no one seemed interested in exhibiting his ceramics or listening to him read Dylan Thomas aloud.