Something in her voice alerted him, and he rolled over on the bed and sat up. “What kind of errand? You’re not going to see a doctor?”
“No, that’s your duty.”
“And what’s yours?”
“Mine,” she said, “is to see Terola.”
“No. Don’t go there.”
“I must. It’s my duty, as your mother.”
“Don’t go.”
“I must confront this evil man, face to face.”
“He’s not an evil man,” Douglas said wearily. “He’s like me.”
“Have you no shame, no sense of decency, defending a man like that to me, your own mother?”
“I’m not defen—”
“Where’s your self-respect, Douglas, your pride?”
He had so many things to say to her that the words became congested in his throat and he said nothing.
“I’m going to see this Terola and give him a piece of my mind. A man like that being allowed to run around loose; it’s a disgrace. He’s probably corrupted other young men besides you.”
“He didn’t corrupt me.”
“What are you saying, Douglas? Of course he did. He was responsible. If it weren’t for him you’d be perfectly normal. I’ll see to it that he pays for the...”
“Mother. Stop it.”
There was a long silence. Their eyes met across the room and went on again, like strangers passing on a street.
“Terola,” she said finally. “He wasn’t the first, then.”
“No.”
“Who was?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“When did it happen?”
“It was so long ago that I can’t remember.”
“And all these years — all these years...”
“All these years,” he repeated slowly, using the words like weapons against both her and himself.
He didn’t hear her leave, but when he looked up again, she was gone and the door was closed.
He lay back on the bed, listening to the beat of rain on the roof, and the cheep-cheep of a disgruntled house-wren complaining about the weather from under the eaves. Every sound was clear and sharp and finaclass="underline" the cracking of the eucalyptus trees as the wind increased, the barking of the collie next door, Mabel’s old Dodge wheezing up the driveway, the slam of a car door, the murmur of the electric clock beside his bed.
It seemed that he had never really listened before, and now that he had learned how, each sound was personal and prophetic. He was the wren and the rain, he was the wind and the trees bending under the wind. He was split in two, the mover and the moved, the male and the female.
All these years, the clock murmured, all these years.
Verna tapped on the door again and came in. She was dressed to meet the weather, in a red plaid raincoat and a matched peaked cap.
She said, “Mabel’s back. Keep your voice down. She has ears like a fox.”
“I have nothing to say, anyway.”
“Perhaps you’ll think of something by the time I get back.”
“You’re not going to see Terola?”
“I told you I was.”
“Please don’t.”
“I have some questions to ask him.”
“Ask me instead. I’ll answer. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Stop wheedling like that, Douglas. It annoys me.” She hesitated. “Don’t you see, I’m only doing my duty? I’m only doing what your father would have done if he were still alive. This man Terola, he’s obviously corrupt, and yet you’re trying to protect him. Why? You said you’d tell me anything. Why?”
He lay motionless on the bed, his eyes closed, his face gray. For a moment she thought he was dead, and she was neither glad nor sorry, only relieved that the problem had been solved by the simple stopping of a heart. Then his lips moved. “You want to know why?”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m his wife.”
“His... What did you say?”
“I’m his wife.”
Her mouth opened in shock and slowly closed again. “You filthy little beast,” she said quietly. “You filthy little beast.”
He turned his head. She was standing by the bed watching him, her face distorted with loathing and contempt.
“Mother. Don’t go. Mom!”
“Don’t call me that. You’re no part of me.” She walked decisively to the door and opened it. “By the way, I forgot. Happy birthday.”
Alone, he began to listen again to the clock and the wren and the rain and the trees; and then the sound of the Buick’s engine racing in response to Verna’s anger. She’s leaving, he thought. She’s going to see Jack. I couldn’t stop her.
He got up and went into the bathroom.
For almost a year, ever since his marriage to Evelyn, he’d been saving sleeping pills. He had nearly fifty of them now, hidden in an Epsom salt box in his medicine chest, capsules in various gay colors that belied their purpose. He swallowed five of them without difficulty, but the sixth stuck in his throat for a few moments, and the seventh wouldn’t go down at all. The gelatin coating melted in his mouth and released a dry, bitter powder that choked him. He did not try an eighth.
He removed the blade from his safety razor, and standing over the washbasin, he pressed the blade into the flesh that covered the veins of his left wrist. The razor was dull, the wound was hardly more than a scratch, but the sight of his blood oozing out made him dizzy with terror. He felt as if his knees were turning into water and his head was filling with air like a balloon.
He tried to scream, “Help, Mother!” but the words came out like a whimper.
As he fell forward in a faint his temple struck the projecting corner of the washbasin. The last sound Douglas heard was sharp and clear and final, the crack of bone.
Chapter 10
At 10 o’clock, Miss Clarvoe, who had slept late, was just finishing her breakfast. When she heard the knocking on the door she thought it was one of the busboys from the dining-room coming to collect her tray and his tip.
She spoke through the crack of the door. “I haven’t quite finished. Come back later, please.”
“Helen, it’s me. Paul Blackshear. Let me in.”
She unlocked the door, puzzled by the urgency in his voice. “Is there anything the matter?”
“Your mother’s been trying to reach you. The telephone company wouldn’t give her your unlisted number, so she called me and asked me to come over.”
“To tell me she’s canceled the birthday luncheon, I suppose.”
“She’s canceled it, yes.”
“Well, she needn’t worry about Douglas receiving a present from me. I sent a check out last night, he should get it today.”
“He won’t get it today.”
“Why not?”
“Sit down, Helen.”
She went over to the wing chair by the front window but she didn’t sit down. She stood behind it, moving her long thin hands nervously along its upholstered back, as if to warm them by friction.
“It’s bad news, of course,” she said, sounding detached. “You’re not an errand-boy; even Mother wouldn’t use you as an errand-boy to tell me about a canceled luncheon.”
“Douglas is dead.”
Her hands paused for a moment. “How did it happen?”
“He tried to commit suicide.”
“Tried? I thought you said he was dead.”
“The doctor believes Douglas swallowed some sleeping capsules and cut one of his wrists, but the cause of death was a blow on the head. He struck his temple against the washbasin as he fell, probably in a faint.”
She turned and looked out of the window, not to hide her grief, but to hide the grim little smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Poor Douglas, he could never finish anything properly, not even himself.
“I’m sorry, Helen.”