A dram of poison (4 page)

This earth was dampish and richly dark. She told him it was in good tilth. Mr. Gibson squatted down to admire and, at the same time, to taste and turn and enjoy a word that was new to him. What a wonderful word! Tilth. He understood it immediately.

She said the roses needed mulchng and he learned about mulch. She showed him how delicately she had pruned this one rose bush, how the buds must be left to grow outward. She seemed to understand what the plant needed. It seemed to him that she felt toward this one

plant— all she could manage yet—much as he felt toward her, Rosemary. He didn't say so. When he helped her to her feet, it seemed to him that she sprang up rather lightly. It made him happy.

Then one Saturday morning, puttering in his room, he realized that, while he could hear Mrs. Violette in the kitchen, he missed another presence in the house. He looked out of all the windows and at last saw Rosemary sitting in the back-yard grass, in the sun, with a hairbrush in her hand. She was brushing her hair in slow rhythm and while he watched she did not cease to brush her hair. Something about the scene startled him. The rhythm, the sensuous rhythm, the ritual of it, the strangeness . . . Rosemary was a woman. She was a mystery. One day, when he had brought her to full life and health as he would do, why, he did not know with whom he would be living in this house! He did not know Rosemary, herself. ...

Paul Townsend turned out to be an ideal landlord. He was genial and easy, but he did not intrude. One day, however, when three weeks had gone by and the Gibsons could be presumed settled in, Paul invited them to supper.

It was their first social event.

Rosemary wore her best dress. Mr. Gibson admired it aloud. It was a dullish blue, a pleasant enough dress. But he fussed a little. As soon as ever she felt just like it, he told her, she must buy at least two new dresses... maybe three. Rosemary quietly promised that she would. She accepted everything he urged upon her these days with no more weak spilling of grateful tears. In fact, she was full of grace in the matter of receiving.

They walked across the double driveway to Paul Town-send's house.

While not grand, this was certainly the home of a solvent man. Paul Townsend, a chemicaf engineer, owned the plant and laboratory down near the college, and it must return him if not a fortune at least a pleasant living.

He was a widower. Mr. Gibson had never known his wife, alive. Her picture was in this house many times. It was a little sad to -see how young the pictures were. She did not look as if her daughter could be this tall Jean, fifteen, and in high school. A pleasant child, with a cropped and tousled dark head, fine white teeth in a ready smile, excellent company manners. Then there was

Paul's mother-in-law, Mrs. Pyne, a cripple, poor soul, who inhabited a wheel chair.

Supper was not formal but nicely served and stiffly, politely eaten. Mr. Gibson watched Rosemary. Was she nervous about these people? Was it a strain? Was she strong enough?

The old lady asked kind commonplace questions, and told kind commonplace statistics about herself and the family. She had a thin, rather delicately boned face, and the tact not to mention her own disabilities. The young girl kept her place among her elders, served the meal, cleared the table afterward, and then excused herself to do her homework. Paul was a considerate host, full of good will and social anxiety.

But there are just so many commonplaces. Mr. Gibson set to work to dissolve the stiffness of this first meeting of Rosemary and her nearest neighbors. He was bound Rosemary was going to find it easy and pleasant to move into a world of friendly give and take. In fact, he talked a good deal for a while. At last, by prying and prodding for mutual interests, he discovered how to egg Paul on to talk about his garden. Rosemary began to listen and contribute. Mr. Gibson was eager to learn. Once Paul asked a silly punning question . . . whether Mr. Gibson had a sense of humus. Mr. Gibson was inspired to reply, "Not mulch." And Rosemary giggled. The old lady smiled indulgently and kept listening pleasantly as the session grew quite animated.

At ten o'clock they took their leave, for Mr. Gibson did not want Rosemary tired out. After the good nights and the kind parting phrases, they crossed the roofless porch at the front of Paul's house. They came down the five steps and crossed the double driveways in the soft chill air of night time. They went in at their own back door, skirting the shining new garbage cans, symbolic of a functioning house. They crossed the pale dim orderly kitchen and entered the living room, where a lamp had been left burning. The sense of home flowed into Mr. Gibson's heart.

"Wasn't that fun?" said he. "I thought you were having a good time."

Rosemary stood there, in the blue dress, slowly shrugging off the dark sweater from around her shoulders. She looked brooding and intense. "I have never known," she

said vibrantly, "it was possible to have so good a time. I never, never, knew . . ."

It rather shocked him. He could think of nothing to reply. She tossed the sweater into her chair and sat down and looked up at him and smiled. "Read to me, Kenneth, please," she said coaxingly, "for just ten minutes? Until I simmer down?"

"If you drink your milk and eat your cookies."

"Yes, I will. Bring four."

So he fetched the nourishment. He opened a book. He read to her.

Afterward, she licked a cookie crumb from her forefinger. She thanked him with a drowsy smile. . . .

Kenneth Gibson went into his room, which had by now acquired the look of all the places he had ever lived for long, the mellow order, the masculine coziness. He went to bed a little bewildered. He was beginning not to understand her.

Chapter V

ON THE 19th of May, Rosemary got up before him to make his breakfast. She had on a new cotton frock, for "around the house," she said. It was pink and a particularly springlike pink, somehow. She chattered away. She would like to try feeding the border with a new kind of fertilizer. Paul Townsend said it did wonders. Did he think $3.95 was too much to spend on it? And would he like roast lamb for dinner? Did he prefer mint sauce or a sweet mint jelly with his lamb? Wasn't the early sun on the little stone wall a lovely sight! Pale gold on the gray. Why was sunlight, in the morning, so crisp—and then, by noon, more like cloudy honey?

"Shadows?" he speculated. "Some day you should try to paint what you see, Rosemary."

She wasn't good enough, she said, although to try.,, At least, she announced, tossing her head, Mrs. Violette must wash and starch the kitchen curtains. They'd be nicer crisp to match the mornings. Didn't he think so?

Mr. Gibson sat there at the table, watching her and

Kstening, and his eyes suddenly cleared. Scales fell. He saw Rosemary, not as she had been, or as he had been thinking of her, but as she was, this morning.

The crisp frock showed a figure that, while slim, certainly could not be called skinny any more. Neither was it bent and hollow with the posture of weakness. On the contrary, she sat quite upright and above her snug waist swelled a charming bosom, and the shoulder bones were covered with sweet flesh. Then her hair! Why, her hair was thick and shining and full of chestnut lights! Where had it come from? Whence this face? This face was not pasty white nor did the flesh droop in sad rumples. It was almost firm, and sun-gilded to a rosy-gold, and the lines in her forehead were a maturity (more interesting than the bare bold brow of youth could be). Her blue eyes were snapping with the range of her thoughts among her projects for this day. The odd little fold in the flesh at the comers was so characteristic, so significant of her fine good humor. Her whole face was so animated and ... he didn't know what to call it but . . . Rosemaryish. And that low bubbly chuckle of hers was constantly in her throat.

His breast swelled. Why, she is well! he thought.

Mr. Gibson hid this for a secret temporarily while he smiled and patted all her plans on the back encouragingly .. . and said goodbye.

But he rode the bus with a joyful booming in his heart. She is well again! Rosemary is alive and well! He had as good as raised her from the dead.

All day long, the miracle rang in his heart. He would come back to it, back to it, and, every time, it boomed and rang like bells.

When he came home, to admire the lamb and watch her dainty hunger, and hear how the day had gone and was already only a foundation for tomorrow, he said firmly, "Tomorrow night, Rosemary, we are going to celebrate."

"Are we? Why?"

"Can you drive ten miles? Can the Ark go ten miles?"

"Why, sure it can," she said gaily. "I don't see why not."

"Then we are going out for dinner—to a restaurant I know. Out on the highway. Oh, you'll like it."

"But why?"

"To celebrate." He was mysterious.

"Celebrate what, Kenneth?"

"It's a secret," he said. "I may tell you tomorrow." "What on earth are you talking about?" "Never mind," he said shyly.' He almost hated to share his very miracle—even with her.

In the evening of the next day (which was a Friday), the ancient car proceeded noisily out upon the highway, west of town. It rode high and old-fashioned, in a gait that was both stately and lumbering, like a stout matron who nevertheless has her dignity. Rosemary, in a new white dress with a splash of red roses on the bodice, with a big soft red wool scarf tied around the top of her, drove them without seeming to try too hard. She is equal to this, thought Mr. Gibson with pride, because she is well. And there is no doubt about it.

Mr. Gibson had gone so far as to reserve a table, for this little restaurant was very popular, both on account of its fine French cooking and its atmosphere, which was dim and smoky and smelled deliciously of sauces. It wasn't cheap either. But this was a celebration.

They drank a little wine. They ate hugely of one delectable dish after another, and Mr. Gibson teased by refusing to explain the reason for the reckless expense of this expedition. It was delightful to be together in the midst of the smoke and the savory smells and the soft buzz of other people's conversations. Mr. Gibson knew he was preening himself. He knew that Rosemary was, too. As if they were actors or masqueraders, and out of themselves and yet being themselves in a freer truer way. He couldn't help feeling on the suave side, and a bit of a gay dog. He enjoyed it. Rosemary looked as if she felt that she was rather lovely. And so she was, he decided.

At dessert time, they had a drop of brandy with their coffee. Then without warning these two people-of-the-world fell into a fit of childlike hilarity.

Just something he said, a turn of a phrase.

And Rosemary capped it.

And he extended it.

And they were off. The whole thing spiraled up. It got funnier and funnier. They were behaving like a pair of maniacs. Mr. Gibson laughed so hard he had to retreat behind his napkin. He felt himself aching. Rosemary had her hands to the red roses printed on her bodice as if she

were aching too. They rocked together. Their heads bumped. This was an absolute riot. They shushed each other, faces red, eyes wet, and beaming, and daring each other.

People turned mildly worried faces to look at them, and this was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. And sent them off again. Nothing on earth had ever been so funny. But never could they explain why to sinyone else. Which was extremely funny in itself.

Now people were smiling by contagion and staring with real curiosity. So they controlled themselves and made their mouths stiff and sipped brandy. Rosemary thought of one more word and said it and off they went, careening on laughter right off the earth to some other place.

It took quite a while to simmer down. But at last, just as suddenly, the little sadness fell. It was over. They mustn't try to start it up again. No. Force nothing. Sit, with the sweet contentment in their throats,' the after-taste of laughter that lies so kindly on the very membranes like a salve.

"When will you tell me what we are celebrating?" asked Rosemary gravely.

"I'll tell you now." He lifted the last drop of his brandy. "We are celebrating you. Because you are well again."

Her eyes filled with tears. She didn't answer.

He said quietly, "Well, it's late. I suppose we should

go."

"Yes." She fished the red wool thing from behind her. She seemed to be trembling. The waiter pulled the table away and they rose, moving slowly, as if still entranced, still sweetly remembering the food and the fun. He took the soft wide stole and held it, and she turned her back, and he folded it around her. He wanted to tuck it close around her throat, wanted her safe and warm. He couldn't help it that his hands were tender. Rosemary bent her head, and for one quick wonderful stunning moment she pressed the warm skin of her cheek caressingly upon the bare skin of his hand.

It was only a moment. It changed the whole world.

Mr. Gibson followed her to the little lobby and opened the door which the proprietor was helping to open (saying good night, saying that a bit of a fog had come up, suggesting caution). Mr. Gibson may have replied mechanically. He was absolutely stunned.

He had just discovered that he was in love with his wife Rosemary, twenty-three years his junior—but that didn't matter. Why, he was crazy about her! Now he understood what they meant by "in love." In love... in love ... in love!

They stepped out into a place .of strangest beauty— not like the world at all. A heavy fog but oh, how beautiful!

Rosemary stepj>ed back to rest a moment against him. Their two bodies were all that was left of the old world and all that mattered. Everywhere, veils fell. Across the road, the fields drowsed and drowned.

"Would you rather I drove?" he asked her.

"No, no," she said. "I understand the poor old Ark. Oh, Kenneth, isn't it beautiful!"

There was a vibration between them and he cherished it. It was too dear and too new and much too beautiful to mention.

They got into the car. Rosemary started the noisy old engine, and backed it out of the parking slot. Mr. Gibson strained to see, and to guide her. But he hardly knew what he was seeing. She drove slowly with full caution. The big old car went steadily. The world was invisible ahead of them and vanished behind them. They were nowhere, and yet here. Together and only ten miles from home.