Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories (2 page)

PREFACE
by
Christopher Beaumont
Roger Anker has put together a good and varied collection of Beaumont short stories. But he's done something more. He's wrapped each and every story in the loving embrace of a friend. Matheson, Tomerlin, Bradhury, Nolan; all names I grew up with. Each one a distinct and pleasant piece of my memory. A memory that includes the picture of a young boy falling asleep, night after night, to the sound of his father's typewriter, the keys finally becoming a familiar lullaby.
Do not think for a minute that the style and clarity found in these stories was not the result of countless hours spent shaping and reshaping, and then reshaping again, the words.
But somehow, in the midst of his passion for the words, he found time enough, and love enough to be a father. And such is the quality of that love that it sustained his children; Catherine, Elizabeth, Gregory and myself, through the stormy weather that followed his death and the death of our mother.
Not only sustained, but inspired and confirmed our suspicions that certain things never die: a story well told, the steadfast loyalty of a good and true friend, and the memory of a father who somewhere knew that his time was short, and so passionately shared all that he had to share.
And even now, some nights, I vaguely hear the typewriter keys tapping in the other room. The single bell at the end of the carriage. The sound of the roller twisting another lucky page into the works. And then the tapping starts again and I begin to drift to sleep.
Good night, Father.
Introduction to
MISS GENTILBELLE
by Ray Bradbury
It has been too many years. Quite suddenly I realize the old memory is failing.
I say this because I thought I remembered everything there was to remember about Charles Beaumont and "Miss Gentilbelle." Not so.
For some letters have come into my hands from that time more than 30 years ago, when Charles Beaumont was a young father and a more-than-aspiring writer. Those were the years when I promised Chuck if he showed up at my house every Wednesday evening with a new story, I would read it. It was a way of forcing him, and several other writer friends, to do one story a week, 52 weeks a year. Quality, I told them and him, came out of quantity. The more you wrote, the better you got. That is if your intentions were honorable and your dreams high and wondrous.
Chuck did just that. He not only wrote 52 short stories a year, but he revised them during the same weeks.
"Miss Gentilbelle" must have come under my eye on not just one or two, but three or four occasions. With this, and other stories, I wanted Chuck to learn how to cut his stories. Like every writer in the history of the world, including myself, his stories ran long, and needed shaves and haircuts.
I wish I had some of the original versions of "Miss Gentilbelle" in front of me. For it is obvious, in re-reading our old letters, that he revised and cut the story three or four times. At one point, I rather rigorously insisted that if he didn't edit his stories, I wouldn't read them. That seems terribly harsh, now that I look back. But young writers are often stubborn, and remembering my own stubbornness about my immortal prose, I had to nag Chuck.
It was all worth while, as can be seen by the story here. Chuck revised it at least four times, and I became its friendly agent to several magazines. My luck was not good. When I had sent it around five or six times, I passed the story on to other hands, and it finally sold.
Further results can be seen in dozens and then scores of his future tales. He became, in a very short while, not only my honorary son, but first cousin to John Collier, Roald Dahl, Nigel Kneale, and a lot of other story tellers that we admired together. Until, at last, he became and stayed the one and only Charles Beaumont.
I am glad that we were friends. I am proud that I gently nagged "Miss Gentilbelle" at various times. Long after the nags are forgotten, the story will stand. Here is the early Chuck Beaumont, promising even greater things that he lived just long enough, thank God, to do.
MISS GENTILBELLE
by Charles Beaumont
Robert settled on his favorite branch of the old elm and watched Miss Gentilbelle. The night was very black, but he was not afraid, although he was young enough to be afraid. And he was old enough to hate, but he didn't hate. He merely watched.
Miss Gentilbelle sat straight and stiff in the faded chair by the window. The phonograph had been turned down and she sat, listening. In her hands were a teacup, faintly flowered, and a saucer that did not match. She held them with great care and delicacy and the tea had long ago turned cold.
Robert decided to watch Miss Gentilbelle's hands.
They were thin and delicate, like the cup and saucer. But he saw that they were also wrinkled and not smooth like his own. One of the fingers was encircled by a tarnished yellow band and the skin was very, very white.
Now the phonograph began to repeat toward the end of the record and Miss Gentilbelle let it go for a while before she moved.
When she rose, Robert became frightened and cried loudly. He had forgotten how to climb down from the tree. Miss Gentilbelle heard him crying and after she had replaced the record in its album she went to the window and raised it halfway to the top.
"Roberta," she said. "I'm surprised. Quite surprised." She paused. "Trees are for monkeys and birds, not little girls. Do you remember when I told you that?"
The soft bayou wind took Miss Gentilbelle's words and carried them off. But Robert knew what had been said.
"Yes, Mother. Trees are for monkeys and birds."
"Very well. Come down from there. I wish to speak with you."
"Yes, Mother." Robert remembered. Cautiously at first, and then with greater daring, he grasped small limbs with his hands and descended to the ground. Before the last jump a jagged piece of bark caught on his gown and ripped a long hole in the gauzy cloth.
The jump hurt his feet but he ran up the splintery steps fast because he had recognized the look in Miss Gentilbelle's eyes. When he got to the living room, he tried nervously to hold the torn patch of cloth together.
He knocked.
"Come in, Roberta." The pale woman beckoned, gestured. "Sit over there, please, in the big chair." Her eyes were expressionless, without color, like clots of mucus. She folded her hands. "I see that you have ruined your best gown," she whispered. "A pity, it once belonged to your grandmother. You should have been in bed asleep, but instead you were climbing trees and that is why you ruined your gown. It's made of silk-did you know that, Roberta? Pure silk. Soft and fragile, like the wings of a dove; not of the coarse burlap they're using nowadays. Such a pity… It can never be replaced." She was quiet for a time; then she leaned forward. "Tell me, Roberta- what did you promise when I gave you the gown?"
Robert hesitated. There were no words to come. He stared at the frayed Oriental rug and listened to his heart.
"Roberta, don't you think you ought to answer me? What did you promise?"
"That-" Robert's voice was mechanical. "That I would take good care of it."
"And have you taken good care of it?"
"No, Mother, I… haven't."
"Indeed you have not. You have been a wicked girl."
Robert bit flesh away from the inside of his mouth. "Can't it be mended?" he asked.
Miss Gentilbelle put a finely woven hankerchief to her mouth and gasped. "Mended! Shall I take it to a tailor and have him sew a patch?" Her eyes came to life, flashing. "When a butterfly has lost its wing, what happens?"
"It can't fly."
"True. It cannot fly. It is dead, it is no longer a butterfly. Roberta-there are few things that can ever be mended. None of the really worthwhile things can be." She sat thoughtfully silent for several minutes, sipping her cold tea.
Robert waited. His bladder began to ache.
"You have been an exceedingly wicked girl, Roberta, and you must be punished. Do you know how I shall punish you?"
Robert looked up and saw his mother's face. "Shall you beat me?"
"Beat you? Really, do I seem so crude? When have I ever beaten you? No. What are a few little bruises. They disappear and are forgotten. You must be taught a lesson. You must be taught never to play tricks again."
The hot night air went through the great house and into his body, but when Miss Gentilbelle took his hand in hers, he felt cold. Her fingers seemed suddenly to be made of iron. They hurt his hand.
Then, in silence, the two walked from the living room, down the vast, dark hail, past the many dirty doorways and, finally, into the kitchen.
"Now, Roberta," Miss Gentilbelle said, "run up to your room and bring Margaret to me. Instantly."
He had stopped crying: now he felt ill. Robert knew what his mother was going to do.
He reached up and clutched her arm. "But-"
"I shall count up to thirty-five."
Robert ran out of the room and up the stairs, counting quickly to himself. When he entered his bedroom he went to the small cage and took it from the high shelf. He shook it. The parakeet inside fluttered white and green wings, moved its head in tiny machine movements.
Twenty seconds had passed.
Robert inserted his finger through the slender bars, touched the parakeet's hard bill. "I'm sorry, Margaret," he said. "I'm sorry." He put his face up close to the cage and allowed the bird to nip gently at his nose.
Then he shook the confusion from his head, and ran back downstairs.
Miss Gentilbelle was waiting. In her right hand was a large butcher knife. "Give Margaret to me," she said.
Robert gave the cage to his mother.
"Why do you force me to do these things, child?" asked Miss Gentilbelle.
She took the parakeet from its cage and watched the bird struggle.
Robert's heart beat very fast and he couldn't move; but, he did not hate, yet.
Miss Gentilbelle held the parakeet in her left hand so that one wing was free. The only sound was the frantic fluttering of this wing.
She put the blade of the knife up close to the joint of the wing.
Robert tried not to look. He managed to stare away from Margaret's eyes; his gaze held on his mother's hands.
She held the knife stationary, frozen, touching the feathers.
Why didn't she do it! Get it over with! It was like the time she had killed Edna, holding the knife above the puppy's belly until- "And now, when you wish you had your little friend, perhaps you will think twice before you climb trees."
There was a quick movement, a glint of silver, an unearthly series of small sounds.
The wing fluttered to the floor.
"Margaret!"
The parakeet screamed for a considerable time before Miss Gentilbelle pressed the life from it. When it was silent, as last, the white fingers that clutched it were stained with a dark, thin fluid.
Miss Gentilbelle put down the butcher knife, and took Robert's hand.
"Here is Margaret," she said. "Take her. Yes. Now: Shall we mend Margaret?"
Robert did not answer.
"Shall we put her together again, glue back her pretty little wing?"
"No, Mother. Nothing can be mended."
"Very good. Perhaps you will learn." Miss Gentilbelle smiled. "Now take the bird and throw it into the stove."
Robert held the dead parakeet gently in his hands, and secretly stroked its back. Then he dropped it into the ashes.
"Take off your gown and put it in, also."
As Robert drew off the thin blue nightgown, he looked directly into his mother's eyes.
"Something you would like to say to me, Roberta?"
"No, Mother."
"Excellent. Put in some papers and light them. And when you've finished that, get a rag from the broom closet and wipe the floor. Then put the rag into the stove."
"Yes, Mother."
"Roberta."
"Yes?"
"Do you understand why Margaret was killed?"
This time he wanted to say no, he did not understand. Not at all. There was such confusion in his head.
"Yes, Mother. I understand."
"And will you climb trees any more when you ought to be in bed?"
"No. I won't climb any more trees."
"I think that is true. Good night, Roberta. You may go up to your room, afterwards.
"Good night, Mother."
Miss Gentilbelle walked to the sink and carefully washed her hands. She then returned to the living room and put a record on the phonograph.
When Robert went upstairs, she smiled at him.
He lay still in the bed. The swamp wind was slamming shutters and creaking boards throughout the house, so he could not sleep. From a broken slat in his own shutter, moonlight shredded in upon the room, making of everything dark shadows.
He watched the moonlight and thought about the things he was beginning to know.
They frightened him. The books-The pictures of the people who looked like him and were called boys, and who looked like Miss Gentilbelle and were called girls, or ladies, or women .
He rose from the bed, put his bathrobe about him, and walked to the door. It opened noiselessly, and when it did, he saw that the entire hallway was streaming with dark, cold light. The old Indian's head on the wall looked down at him with a plaster frown, and he could make out most of the stained photographs and wrinkled paintings.
It was so quiet, so quiet that he could hear the frogs and crickets outside; and the moths, bumping and thrashing against the walls, the windows.
Softly he tiptoed down the long hall to the last doorway and then back again to his room. Perspiration began to form under his arms and between his legs, and he lay down once more.
But sleep would not come. Only the books, the knowledge, the confusion. Dancing. Burning.
Finally, his heart jabbing, loud, Robert rose and silently retraced his footsteps to the door.
He rapped, softly, and waited.
There was no answer.
He rapped again, somewhat harder than before; but only once.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and whispered into the keyhole: "Drake!"
Silence. He touched the doorknob. It turned.
He went into the room.
A large man was lying across a bulky, posterless bed. Robert could hear the heavy guttural breathing, and it made him feel good.
"Drake. Please wake up."
Robert continued to whisper. The large man moved, jerked, turned around. "Minnie?"
"No, Drake. It's me."
The man sat upright, shook his head violently, and pulled open a shutter. The room lit up.
"Do you know what will happen if she finds you here?"
Robert sat down on the bed, close to the man. "I couldn't sleep. I wanted to talk to you. She won't hear-"
"You shouldn't be here. You know what she'll say."
"Just a little while. Won't you talk a little while with me, like you used to?"
The man took a bottle from beneath the bed, filled a glass, drank half. "Look here," he said. "Your mother doesn't like us to be talking together. Don't you remember what she did last time? You wouldn't want that to happen again, would you?"
Robert smiled. "It won't. I don't have anything left for her to kill. She could only hit me now and she wouldn't hit you. She never hits you."
The man smiled, strangely.
"Drake ."
"What?"
"Why doesn't she want me to talk to you?"
The man coughed. "It's a long story. Say I'm the gardener and she's the mistress of the house and you're her… daughter, and it isn't right that we should mix."
"But why?"
"Never mind."
"Tell me."
"Go back to bed, Bobbie. I'll see you next week when your mother takes her trip into town."
"No, Drake, please talk a little more with me. Tell me about town; please tell me about town."
"You'll see some day-"
"Why do you always call me 'Bobbie'? Mother calls me Roberta. Is my name Bobbie?"
The man shrugged. "No. Your name is Roberta."
"Then why do you call me Bobbie? Mother says there is no such name."
The man said nothing, and his hand trembled more.
"Drake."
"Yes?"
"Drake, am I really a little girl?"
The man got up and walked over to the window. He opened the other shutter and stood for a long while staring into the night. When he turned around, Robert saw that his face was wet.
"Bobbie, what do you know about God?"
"Not very much. It is mentioned in the George Bernard Shaw book I am reading, but I don't understand."
"Well, God is who must help your mother now, Bobbie boy!"
Robert's fists tightened. He knew-he'd known if for a long time. A boy…
The man had fallen onto the bed. His hands reached for the bottle, but it was empty.
"It's good," the man said. "Ask your questions. But don't ask them of me. Go away now. Go back to your room!"
Robert wondered if his friend were ill, but he felt too strange to be with anyone. He opened the door and hurried back to his room.
And as he lay down, his brain hurt with the new thoughts. He had learned many wonderful things this night. He could almost identify the feeling that gnawed at the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of Miss Gentilbelle .
Robert did not sleep before the first signs of dawn appeared. And then he dreamed of dead puppies and dead birds.
They were whispering something to him.
"Why, Roberta," said Miss Gentilbelle, in a soft, shocked voice. "You haven't worn your scent this morning. Did you forget it?"
"Yes."
"A pity. There's nothing like the essence of blossoms to put a touch of freshness about everything."
"I'm sorry."
"I should be displeased if you were to forget your scent again. It's not ladylike to go about smelling of your flesh."
"Yes, Mother."
Miss Gentilbelle munched her toast slowly and looked into Robert's flushed face.
"Roberta, do you feel quite well?"
"Yes."
Miss Gentilbelle put her hand to Robert's forehead. "You do seem somewhat feverish. I think we will dispense with today's lesson in Jeanne d'Arc. Immediately following your criticism on the Buxtehude you will go to bed."
The breakfast was finished in silence as Miss Gentilbelle read a book. Then they went into the living room.
Robert hated the music. It sounded in the faded room like the crunch of shoes on gravel, and the bass notes were all dissolved into an ugly roar.
They listened for one hour without speaking, and Robert moved only to change the records.

"Now, then, Roberta," Miss Gentilbelle said. "Would you agree with Mr. Locke that Buxtehude in these works surpasses the bulk of Bach's organ music?"
Robert shook his head. He knew he would have to answer. "I think Mr. Locke is right."
And then it struck him that he had actually lied before, many times. But perhaps he never knew before that he disliked music.
"Very good. No need to continue. The facts are self-evident. Go to your room and undress. Dinner will be prepared at twelve-thirty."
Robert curtsied and began to walk to the stairway.
"Oh, Roberta."
"Yes, Mother?"
"Did you by any chance see Mr. Franklin last night?"
Robert's throat went dry. It was difficult to hold on to his thoughts. "No, Mother, I did not."
"You know you should never see that evil man, don't you? You must always avoid him, never speak a word to him. You remember when I told you that, don't you?"
"Yes, Mother."
"You disobeyed me once. You would never dream of doing that again, would you, Roberta?"
"No, Mother."
"Very good. Retire to your room and be dressed for dinner by twelve."
Robert went up the stairs slowly, for he could not see them. Tears welled in his eyes and burned them, and he thought he would never reach the top.
When he went into his room he saw Margaret for a moment and then she was gone.
He sat on the bed and proceeded to remove his clothes. They were dainty clothes, thin and worn, demanding of great care. He took them off lightly with a touch and looked at each garment for a long time.
The patent leather shoes, the pink stockings, the pale yellow dress-he laid them neatly on the sofa and looked at them. Then, when all the clothes had been removed, he went to the mirror and looked into it.
Robert didn't know what he saw and he shook his head. Nothing seemed clear; one moment he felt like shouting and another, like going to sleep. Then he became frightened and leapt into the large easy chair, where he drew his legs and arms about him. He sat whimpering softly, with his eyes open, dreaming.
A little bird flew out of a corner and fluttered its wings at him. Margaret's wing, the one Miss Gentilbelle had cut off, fell from the ceiling into his lap and he held it to his face before it disappeared.
Presently the room was full of birds, all fluttering their wings and crying, crying to Robert. He cried, too, but softly.
He pulled his arms and legs closer to him and wrenched at the blond curls that fell across his eyes. The birds flew at him and around him and then their wings started to fall off. And as they did, the brown liquid he remembered soaked into all the feathers. Some of it got on Robert and when it did, he cried aloud and shut his eyes.
Then the room seemed empty. There were no birds. Just a puppy. A little dog with its belly laid open, crawling up to Robert in a wake of spilled entrails, looking into his eyes.
Robert fell to the floor and rolled over several times, his body quivering, flecks of saliva streaming from his lips.
"Edna, Edna, don't go away."
The puppy tried to walk further but could not. Its round low body twitched like Robert's, and it made snuffling noises.
Robert crawled to a corner.
"Edna, please. It wasn't me, it wasn't, really .
And then a cloud of blackness covered Robert's mind, and he dropped his head on his breast.
When he awakened he was in bed and Drake was standing over him, shaking his shoulders.
"Bobbie, what is it?"
"I don't know. All of sudden I saw Margaret and Edna and all the birds. They were mad, Drake. They were mad!"
The man stroked Robert's forehead gently.
"It's all right. You don't have to be afraid now. You just had a bad nightmare, that's all. I found you laying on the floor.
"It seemed very real this time."
"I know. They sometimes do. Why, I could hear you crying all the way down the hall!"
"She didn't hear me, did she?"
"No, she didn't hear you."
Then Robert saw the heavy brown bag. "Drake, why have you got that suitcase?"
The man coughed and tried to kick the bag underneath the bed. "It's nothing. Just some equipment for the yard."
"No, no it isn't, Drake. I can tell. You're going away!"
"It's equipment for the yard, I tell you."
"Please don't go away, Drake. Please don't. Please Don't."
The man tightened his fists and coughed again.
"Now you look, Bobbie. I've just got to go away for a little trip, and I'll be back before you know it. And maybe then we can go off somewhere together. I'm going to find out about it, but you musn't say a word to your mother. Hear?"
Robert looked up, confused. Something fluttered. He could see it, from the corner of his eye.
The man was dirty and he smelled of alcohol, but it made Robert feel good when he touched him.
"Really? You mean us?"
"Bobbie. You've got to tell me something first. Do you love your mother?"
He didn't have to think about it. "No, she always kills things, and always hurts things. I don't love her."
The man spoke under his breath. "I've wanted to do this for a long time."
Something crawled in a corner. Robert could almost see it. "Drake," he said, "have you ever killed anything?"
Perspiration stood out on the man's forehead. He answered as if he had not heard.
"Only once, Bobbie. Only once did I kill."
"What was it? An animal?"
"No. It was worse, Bobbie. I killed a human spirit-a soul."
"Mother does it all the time!"
"I know. There's been a lot of death in this house… But here now, lad, are you over your nightmare?"
Robert tried not to look up.
"Are we really going away when you get back? Away from Mother and this place, just you and me, Drake? Promise me?"
"Yes, boy. Yes, we are!"
The man took Robert's hand in his and held it hard.
"Now you see here. If she learns of this there'll be a lot of trouble. Something might go wrong. So, whatever you do, don't you let on to her what's happened. I'll see the authorities and tell them everything and you'll get out of here. And we'll be free, you and me, boy!"
Robert didn't say anything. He was looking at a corner.
"Bobbie, you're not old enough yet to know everything about your mother. She wasn't always like she is now. And I wasn't, either. Something just happened and. well, I'll tell you about it later so you'll understand. But right now, I want you to do something. After I leave, you get yourself another little pet, a frog or something. Keep it in this room. She'll know nothing's changed, then. She'll know you haven't been talking to me. Get that frog, Bobbie, and I'll be back so that you can have it always as a friend. Always.
"Goodbye, lad. You'll not be staying with that crazy woman much longer, I promise you."
Robert smiled and watched Drake go toward the door.
"Will you really come back, Drake?"
"Nothing on earth is going to stop me, son. I knew that when I saw you last night; I knew it when you asked me those questions. The first normal things I'd heard for… Yes, son, I'll be back for you."
Robert did not understand much. Only about the frog. He would find himself a pet and keep it.
The movement in the corners had stopped, and Robert could think for only a little while before he fell into a sound sleep. So sound a sleep that he did not hear Miss Gentilbelle coming up the stairs and he did not see her face when she stepped into the room.
"Roberta, you're late. You were told to be downstairs promptly at twelve-thirty and instead I find you resting like a lady of great leisure. Get up, girl!"
Robert's eyes opened and, he wanted to scream.
Then he apologized, remembering to mention nothing of Drake. He put on his dress quickly and went downstairs after Miss Gentilbelle.
He scarcely knew what he was eating; the food was tasteless in his mouth. But he remembered things and answered questions as he always had before.
During dessert Miss Gentilbelle folded her book and laid it aside.
"Mr. Franklin has gone away. Did you know that?"
"No, Mother, I did not. Where has he gone?"
"Not very far-he will be back. He's sure to come back; he always does. Roberta, did Mr. Franklin say anything to you before he left?"
"No, Mother, he did not. I didn't know Mr. Franklin had gone away."
Robert looked at Miss Gentilbelle's hands, watched the way the thin fingers curled about themselves, how they arched delicately in the air.
He looked at the yellow band and again at the fingers. Such white fingers, such dry, white fingers…
"Mother."
"Yes?"
"May I go into the yard for a little while?"
"Yes. You have been naughty and kept me waiting dinner but I shall not punish you. See you remember the kindness and be in the living room in one half hour. You have your criticism to write."
"Yes, Mother."
Robert walked down the steps and into the yard. A soft breeze went through his hair and lifted the golden curls and billowed out his dress. The sun shone hotly but he did not notice. He walked to the first clump of trees and sat carefully on the grass. He waited.
And then, after a time, a plump frog hopped into the clearing and Robert quickly cupped his hands over it. The frog leapt about violently, bumping its body against Robert's palms, and then it was still.
Robert loosened the thin cloth belt around his waist and put the frog under his dress, so that it did not protrude noticeably.
Then he stroked its back from outside the dress. The frog did not squirm or resist.
Robert thought a while.
"I shall call you Drake," he said.
When Robert re-entered the kitchen he saw that Miss Gentilbelle was still reading. He excused himself and went up to his bedroom, softly, so that he would not be heard, and hid the frog in his dresser.
He began to feel odd then. Saliva was forming inside his mouth, boiling hot.
The corners of his room looked alive.
He went downstairs.
". . . and Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake, her body consumed by flames. And there was only the sound of the flames, and crackling straw and wood: she did not cry out once." Miss Gentilbelle sighed. "There was punishment for you, Roberta. Do you profit from her story?"
Robert said yes, he had profited.
"So it is with life. The Maid of Orleans was innocent of any crime; she was filled with the greatest virtue and goodness, yet they murdered her. Her own people turned upon her and burnt the flesh away from her bones! Roberta-this is my question. What would you have done if you'd been Jeanne d'Arc and could have lived beyond the stake?"
"I-don't know."
"That," said Miss Gentilbelle, "is your misfortune. I must speak with you now. I've purposely put off this discussion so that you might think. But you've thought and remain bathed in your own iniquity. Child, did you honestly suspect that you could go babbling about the house with that drunken fool without my knowledge?"
Robert's heart froze; the hurting needles came.
"I listened to you, and heard a great deal of what was said. First, let us have an answer to a question. Do you think that you are a boy?"
Robert did not answer.
"You do." Miss Gentilbelle moved close. "Well, as it happens, you are not. Not in any sense of the word. For men are animals-do you understand? Tell me, are you an animal or a human being, Roberta?"
"A human being."
"Exactly! Then obviosly you cannot be a boy, isn't that so? You are a girl, a young lady: never, never forget that. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Mother."
"That, however, is not the purpose of this discussion." Miss Gentilbelle calmed swiftly. "I am disturbed that your mind plays tricks on you. No. What does disturb me is that you should lie and cheat so blatantly to your mother. You see, I heard you talking."
Robert's head throbbed uncontrollably. His temples seemed about to burst with pain.
"So-he had gone to get the authorities to take you away from me! Because your mother is so cruel to you, so viciously cruel to the innocent young child! And you will both ride off on a white horse to wonderful lands where no one is mean…"
Her cheeks trembled. Her eyes seemed glazed. "Roberta, can you be so naive? Mr. Franklin is accustomed to such promises: I know." She put a hand to her brow, moved thin fingers across the flesh. "At this moment," she said, distantly, "he is in a bar, drinking himself into a stupor. Or perhaps one of the Negro brothels-I understand he's a well-known figure there."
Miss Gentilbelle did not smile. Robert was confused: this was unlike her. He could catch just a little something in her eyes.
"And so you listened to him and loved him and you wait for him. I understand, Roberta; I understand very well indeed. You love the gardener and you will go away with him!" Something happened; her tone changed, abruptly. It was no longer soft and distant. "You must be punished. It ought to be enough when you finally realize that your Drake will never come back to carry you off. But-it is not enough. There must be more."
Robert heard very little now.
"Stop gazing off as if you didn't hear me. Now-bring your little friend here."
Robert felt the seed growing within him. He could feel it hard and growing inside his heart. And he couldn't think now.
Miss Gentilbelle took Robert's wrist in her hand and clutched it until her nails bit deep into the flesh. "I saw you put that animal in your dress and take it upstairs. Fetch it to me this instant."
Robert looked into his mother's eyes. Miss Gentilbelle stood above him, her hands clasped now to the frayed white collars of her dress. She was trembling and her words did not quite knit together.
"Get it, bring it to me. Do you hear?"
Robert nodded dumbly, and went upstairs to his room. It was alive. Birds filled it, and puppies. Little puppies, crying, whimpering with pain.
He walked straight to the dresser and withdrew the frog, holding it securely in his hand.
Green and white wings brushed his face as he went back toward the door.