Mr. and Mrs. Brant were in the little fenced-in patio at the back of their house, preparing a barbecue. Mr. Brant was trying to get the charcoal lit and Mrs. Brant was wrapping ears of corn in aluminum foil. They both wore shorts and cotton shirts and sandals.
“Why, it’s Mary Martha,” Ellen Brant said, sounding pleased and surprised, as though Mary Martha lived a hundred miles away and hadn’t seen her for a year. “Come in, dear. Jessie will be out in a few minutes. She’s taking a bath.”
“I’m glad she didn’t get blood poisoning and convulsions,” Mary Martha said gravely.
“So am I. Very.”
“Jessie is my best friend.”
“I know that, and I think it’s splendid. Don’t you, Dave?”
“You bet I do,” Dave said, turning to give Mary Martha a slow, shy smile. He was a big man with a low-pitched, quiet voice, and a slight stoop to his shoulders that seemed like an apology for his size.
It was his size and his quietness that Mary Martha especially admired. Her own father was short in stature and short of temper. His movements were quick and impatient and no matter what he was doing he always seemed anxious to get started on the next thing. It was restful and reassuring to stand beside Mr. Brant and watch him lighting the charcoal.
He said, “Careful, Mary Martha. Don’t get burned.”
“I won’t. I often do the cooking at home. Also, I iron.”
“Do you now. In ten years or so you’ll be making some young man a fine wife, won’t you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to get married.”
“You’re pretty young to reach such a drastic decision.”
Mary Martha was staring into the glowing coals as if reading her future. “I’m going to be an animal doctor and adopt ten children and support them all by myself so I don’t have to sit around waiting for a check in the mail.”
Over her head the Brants exchanged glances, then Ellen said in a firm, decisive voice, “No loafing on the job, you two. Put the corn on and I’ll get the hot dogs. Would you like to stay and eat with us, Mary Martha?”
“No, thank you. I would like to but my mother will be alone.” And she will have a headache and a rash on her face and her eyes will be swollen, and she’ll call me sweetie-pie and lambikins.
“Perhaps your mother would like to join us,” Ellen said. “Why don’t you call her on the phone and ask her?”
“I can’t. The line’s busy.”
“How do you know that? You haven’t tried to—”
“She wouldn’t come, anyway. She has a headache and things.”
“Well,” Ellen said, spreading her hands helplessly. “Well, I’d better get the hot dogs.”
She went inside and Dave was left alone with Mary Martha. He felt uneasy in her presence, as if, in spite of her friendliness and politeness, she was secretly accusing him of being a man and a villain and he was secretly agreeing with her. He felt heavy with guilt and he wished someone would appear to help him carry it, Jessie or Ellen from the house, Michael from the football field, Virginia and Howard Arlington from next door. But no one came. There was only Mary Martha, small and pale and mute as marble.
For a long time the only sound was an occasional drop of butter oozing from between the folds of the aluminum foil and sputtering on the coals. Then Mary Martha said, “Do you know anything about birds, Mr. Brant?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I used to keep a few homing pigeons when I was a boy but that’s about all.”
“You didn’t keep any owls?”
“No. I don’t suppose anyone does.”
“My ex-father has one.”
“Does he now,” Dave said. “That’s very interesting. What does he feed it?”
“Gin.”
“Are you sure? Gin doesn’t sound like a suitable diet for an owl or for anything else, for that matter. Don’t owls usually eat small rodents and birds and things like that?”
“Yes, but not this one.”
“Well,” Dave said, with a shrug, “I don’t know much either about owls or about your fath — your ex-father, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Gin it is.”
Twin spots of color appeared on Mary Martha’s cheeks, as if she’d been stung by bees or doubts. “I heard my mother telling Mac about it on the telephone. My ex-father has a fat old whore that drinks gin.”
There was a brief silence. Then Dave said carefully, “I don’t believe your mother was referring to an owl, Mary Martha. The word you used doesn’t mean that.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s an insulting term, and not one young ladies are supposed to repeat.”
Mary Martha was aware that he had replied but hadn’t answered. The word must mean something so terrible that she could never ask anyone about it. Why had her mother used it then, and what was her father doing with one? She felt a surge of anger against them all, her mother and father, the whore, David, and even Jessie who wasn’t there but who had a real father.
Inside the kitchen the phone rang and through the open door and windows Ellen’s voice came, clear and distinct: “Hello. Why yes, Mrs. Oakley, she’s here... Of course I had no idea she didn’t have your permission... She’s perfectly all right, there’s no need to become upset over it. Mary Martha isn’t the kind of girl who’d be likely to get in trouble... I’ll have Dave bring her right home... Very well, I’ll tell her to wait here until you arrive. Good-bye.”
Ellen came outside, carrying a tray of buttered rolls and hot dogs stuffed with cheese and wrapped in bacon. “Your mother just called, Mary Martha.”
Mary Martha merely nodded. Her mother’s excitement had an almost soothing effect on her. There would be a scene, naturally, but it would be like a lot of others, nothing she couldn’t handle, nothing that hadn’t been said a hundred times. “If you truly love me, Mary Martha, you’ll promise never to do such a thing again.” “I truly love you, Mother. I never will.”
“She’s driving over to get you,” Ellen added. “You’re to be waiting on the front porch.”
“All right.”
“Jessie will wait with you. She’s just putting her pajamas on.”
“I can wait alone.”
“Of course you can, you’re a responsible girl. But you came over here to see Jessie, didn’t you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why did you come, then?”
Mary Martha blinked, as if the question hurt her eyes. Then she turned and walked into the house, closing the screen door carefully and quietly behind her.
Dave Brant watched his wife as she began arranging the hot dogs on the grill. “Maybe you shouldn’t question her like that, Ellen.”
“Why not?”
“She might think you’re prying.”
“She might be right.”
“I hope not.”
“Oh, come on, Dave. Admit it — you’re just as curious as I am about what goes on in that household.”
“Perhaps. But I think I’m better off not knowing.” He thought of telling Ellen about the fat old whore but he couldn’t predict her reaction. She might be either quite amused by the story or else shocked into doing something tactless like repeating it to Mrs. Oakley. Although he’d been married to Ellen for eighteen years, her insensitivity to certain situations still surprised him.
“Dave—”