“No,” Oliver said wearily, and Lucy had the feeling that he was almost ready to let the whole matter drop.
“Suddenly,” she said, speaking swiftly, pressing her advantage, “everything changes. Now is the time for conspiracy and secret visits and spying and the testimony of children. Why?”
“All right,” Oliver said. “I admit—I should have called. But it still doesn’t answer the question. Why did Tony tell me what he did?”
“How do I know?” Lucy said. “I don’t even know what he told you.”
“Lucy,” said Oliver gently, “he said he saw you and the young man in his sister’s house.”
End of dive.
Lucy took in her breath with a long sighing noise. “Oh. He said that?”
“Yes.”
She spoke in a flat, dead voice. “What exactly did he say he saw?”
“I can’t repeat it, Lucy.”
“You can’t repeat it,” she said, her voice still lacking in timbre.
“No,” said Oliver, “but unhappily, it was most convincing.”
“Oh … I’m so sorry.” Lucy bent over and he couldn’t see her face and for a moment he thought she was going to confess. “Mostly for Tony,” she said. Mistake. The dive was not over. Because it wasn’t a real dive. It was a descent in a dream, whirling, grabbing handfuls of air. “Listen, Oliver,” she said soberly. “There’re several things you ought to know about your son. Not such pleasant things. You know how he makes up stories? Let’s use the exact word. Lies. How many times have we pleaded with him?”
“He’s stopped that,” said Oliver.
“That’s what you think,” said Lucy. “It’s just that the stories become more clever as he grows older. More ingenious, more believable, less innocent.”
“I thought he was getting over that,” Oliver said.
“That’s because you don’t know him. You see him a few hours a week when he’s on his best behavior. You don’t know him the way I do, because you haven’t been with him day and night for years.” Arson, she thought, horrified with herself. Once you light the match, there’s nothing to do but stand back and watch the house burn down. And deny everything and solidify the alibi. “That’s why this has happened,” she said. “The truth is he doesn’t behave with me like a normal little boy. He behaves like a jealous, possessive lover. You said so yourself.”
“Not really,” Oliver said. “Not seriously. As a joke maybe—”
“It’s not a joke,” said Lucy. “You know how he acts when he comes into the house and I’m not there. He prowls around, looking for me. He telephones my friends. He goes to my bedroom and stands at the window waiting, not saying a word to anyone. You’ve seen it dozens of times, haven’t you?”
“Yes. And I never liked it,” Oliver said sullenly. “And I thought you liked it too much. That’s one of the reasons why I hired Bunner.”
“And then you told me to leave him alone more,” said Lucy rapidly. “To let him spend more time by himself. To force him to be independent. And you told Jeff the same things. Well, we followed instructions. Your instructions. And this is the result.”
“What do you mean?” Oliver asked, confused.
“We left him alone from time to time,” Lucy said. “We carefully avoided making him the center of things every minute of the day. And he hated it. And this is his revenge. This sick, unpleasant little story.”
Oliver shook his head. “No little boy can make up a story like that.”
“Why not?” Lucy asked. “Especially now. Among other instructions you left you prescribed a course in sex for him.”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s about time he …”
“About time he could whip together his jealousy and all this interesting new information and try to destroy us with it.”
“Lucy,” Oliver said, “are you telling the truth?”
Lucy took a deep breath, raised her head and stared directly into Oliver’s eyes. “I swear it,” she said.
Oliver turned and went to the door and opened it. “Bunner,” he called to the boy at the edge of the lake. “Bunner.”
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.
“I want to talk to him.” Oliver came back into the room.
“You can’t,” Lucy said.
“I have to,” Oliver said gently.
“You can’t embarrass me like that. You can’t embarrass yourself. You mustn’t degrade me in front of that boy.”
“I’d like to talk to him alone, please,” Oliver said.
“If you do this,” said Lucy, “I’ll never forgive you.” She said it not because she meant it, but because it was what the automatic, innocent wife would have said.
Oliver made a short gesture of dismissal. “Please, Lucy.”
They were standing there facing each other tensely when Bunner came into the room. Oliver saw him finally. “Oh, yes,” he said, “you’re here.” He turned back to his wife. “Lucy,” he said, waiting. Without looking at Jeff she walked swiftly to the door and went out. After a moment, Oliver visibly braced himself, then gestured politely to Jeff. “Sit down,” he said. Jeff hesitated, then sat on a wooden chair. Oliver walked slowly back and forth in front of him as he spoke. “First,” he said, “I want to thank you for the letters you’ve been writing every week reporting on Tony’s progress.”
“Well,” Jeff said, “since you couldn’t get up here I thought you’d like to know what we were doing with ourselves.”
“I enjoyed the letters,” said Oliver. “They were very shrewd. You seemed to know what was going on with Tony all the time and I got the feeling you really liked him a great deal too.”
“He’s a rewarding little boy,” said Jeff.
“Rewarding?” Oliver repeated vaguely, as though this was a new concept of his son. “Yes, isn’t he? The letters gave me quite a good picture of yourself incidentally.”
Jeff laughed a little self-consciously. “They did? I hope I didn’t give myself away.”
“Quite the opposite,” said Oliver. “I got the picture of a most intelligent, decent young man. I even began to feel that, after college, if you might somehow change your mind about diplomacy, I might try to find something for you in my business.”
“It’s very nice to hear, Sir,” Jeff said, embarrassedly. “I’ll remember it.”
“By the way,” Oliver said, as though it would have been impolite to get to the main question too soon and he was casting about, looking for subjects of conversation, “that girl of yours you talked about the day I met you. I even remember your exact words. I asked you if you had a girl and you said, approximately. Is she by any chance still in Boston, in high school?”
“In high school?” Jeff asked, puzzled.
“Yes,” said Oliver. “Cheer leader for the high-school football team?”
Jeff laughed uneasily. “No,” he said. “I don’t know any high-school girls in Boston. And certainly no cheer leaders. The girl I was talking about is a junior at Vassar and actually I was boasting. I don’t see her more than five or six times a year. Why do you ask?”
“I must have gotten a little mixed up,” Oliver said easily. “Maybe it was something in one of Tony’s letters. His handwriting leaves a great deal of room for speculation.” He shrugged. “It’s of no importance. So—no cheer leaders.”
“Not a one,” said Jeff.
Oliver waited. “How about older ladies?” he said evenly. “Married ladies?”
Jeff dropped his eyes. “I don’t think you really expect me to answer that, Mr. Crown.”
“No, perhaps not.” Oliver took out his checkbook and pen from his pocket. “Has Mrs. Crown paid you regularly every week?”
“Yes,” said Jeff.
“She hasn’t paid you this week?” Oliver asked, with the checkbook open.