Revolutionary Road (17 page)

  "I'm supposed to go out to lunch with him next week and talk it over. Won't that be a riot? Course, if it gets too thick I'll have to tell him I'm leaving the company in the fall. No, but I mean the whole thing's pretty funny, isn't it? After all these—"

  "Why not tell him anyway?"

  "—years of doping along in the damn job and never— What?"

  "I said why don't you tell him anyway? Why not tell the whole pack of them? What can they do?"

  "Well," he said, "it's hardly a question of their 'doing' anything; it'd just be—you know, a little awkward, that's all. I mean I certainly don't see the point of saying anything until it's time to give them my formal notice, that's all." He forked a piece of pork chop into his mouth so angrily that he bit the fork as well as the meat, and as he chewed with all the strength of his jaws, exhaling a long breath through his nostrils to show how self-controlled he was, he realized that he didn't quite know what he was angry about.

  "Well," she said placidly, without looking up. "Of course that's entirely up to you."

  The trouble, he guessed, was that all the way home this evening he had imagined her saying: "And it probably
is
the best sales promotion piece they've ever seen—what's so funny about that?"

  And himself saying: "No, but you're missing the point— a thing like this just proves what a bunch of idiots they are."

  And her: "I don't think it proves anything of the sort. Why do you always undervalue yourself? I think it proves you're the kind of person who can excel at anything when you want to, or when you have to."

  And him: "Well, I don't know; maybe. It's just that I don't
want
to excel at crap like that."

  And her: "Of course you don't, and that's why we're leaving. But in the meantime, is there anything so terrible about accepting their recognition? Maybe you don't want it or need it, but that doesn't make it contemptible, does it? I mean I think you ought to feel good about it, Frank. Really."

  But she hadn't said anything even faintly like that; she hadn't even looked as if thoughts like that could enter her head. She was sitting here cutting and chewing in perfect composure, with her mind already far away on other things.

"I'M GOING TO TAKE
my dollhouse," Jennifer said that Saturday afternoon, "and my doll carriage and my bear and my three Easter rabbits and my giraffe and all my dolls and all my books and records, and my drum."

  "That sounds like quite a lot, doesn't it, sweetie?" April said, frowning over her sewing machine. She had decided to spend the weekend sorting out winter clothes, discarding some things and repairing others, concentrating on the simple, sturdy kind of clothes they would need for Europe. Jennifer was sitting at her feet, playing aimlessly with tornout linings and bits of thread.

  "Oh, and my tea set too, and my rock collection and all my games, and my scooter."

  "Well, but sweetie, don't you think that's quite a lot to take? Aren't you planning to leave anything behind?"

  "No. Maybe I'll throw my giraffe away; I haven't quite decided."

  "Your giraffe? No, I wouldn't do that. We'll have plenty of room for all the animals and dolls and the other small things. It's just some of the big things I was worried about— the dollhouse, for instance, and Mike's rocking horse. That kind of thing's very difficult to pack, you see. But you won't have to throw away the dollhouse; you could give it to Madeline."

  "To keep?"

  "Well, of course to keep. That's better than throwing it away, isn't it?"

  " 'Kay," Jennifer said, and then, after a minute: "I know what I'll do. I'll give Madeline my dollhouse and my giraffe and my carriage and my bear and my three Easter rabbits and my—"

  "Just the
big
things, I said. Didn't you understand me? I just finished explaining all that. Why can't you listen?" April's voice was rising and flattening out with exasperation, and then she sighed. "Look. Wouldn't you rather go outside and play with Michael?"

  "No. I don't feel much like it."

  "Oh. Well, I don't feel much like explaining everything fifteen times to somebody who's too bored and silly to pay attention, either. So that's that."

  Frank was glad when their voices stopped. He was on the sofa trying to read the introduction to a book of elementary French, which he'd bought to replace the "Brighter" one, and their talking had kept him going over and over the same paragraph.

  But half an hour later, when the only sound in the room for that long had been the faint irregular whir of the sewing machine, he looked up uneasily to find that Jennifer was gone.

  "Where'd she go, anyway?" he said.

"Out with Michael, I guess."

"No she didn't. I know she didn't go outside."

  They got up and went together to the children's room, and there she was, lying down and staring at nothing, with her thumb in her mouth.

  April sat on the edge of the bed and laid her palm against Jennifer's temple, and then, apparently feeling no fever, she began stroking her hair. "What's the matter, baby?" She made her voice very gentle. "Can you tell Mommy what's the matter?"

  Watching from the doorway, Frank's eyes grew as round as his daughter's. He swallowed, and so did she, first removing her thumb from her mouth.

  "Nothing," she said.

  April took hold of her hand to prevent the thumb from going back in, and in opening the small fist she discovered that a length of green thread had been wound tightly and many times around her index finger. She began to unwind it. It was so tight that the tip of the finger was plum-colored and the moist skin beneath it was wrinkled and bloodless.

  "Is it about moving to France?" April asked, still working on the thread. "Are you feeling sort of bad about that?"

  Jennifer didn't answer until the last of the thread was removed. Then she gave a small, barely discernible nod and wrenched herself awkwardly around so that her head could be buried in her mother's lap as she started to cry.

  "Oh," April said. "I thought that might be it. Poor old Niffer." She stroked her shoulder. "Well, listen, baby, you know what? There isn't anything to feel bad about."

  But it was impossible for Jennifer to stop, now that she'd started. Her sobs grew deeper.

  "Remember when we moved out here from the city?" April asked. "Remember how sad it seemed to be leaving the park and everything? And all your friends at nursery school? And remember what happened? It wasn't more than about a week before Madeline's mommy brought her over to meet you, and then you met Doris Donaldson, and the Campbell boys, and pretty soon you started school and met all your other friends, and there wasn't anything to feel bad about any more. And that's just the way it's going to be in France. You'll see."

  Jennifer raised her congested face and tried to say something, but it took her several seconds to get the words out between the convulsions of her breath. "Are we going to live there a long time?"

  "Of course. Don't you worry about that."

  "Forever and ever?"

  "Well," April said, "maybe not forever and
ever,
but we'll certainly live there a good long time. You shouldn't worry so much, sweetie. I think it's mostly just from sitting around indoors on such a nice day. Don't you? Let's go wash your face, now, and then you run along outside and see what Michael's doing. Okay?"

  When she was gone, Frank took up a slumped, standing position behind his wife at the sewing machine. "Gee," he said. "That really gave me a turn. Didn't it you?"

  She didn't look up. "How do you mean?"

  "I don't know. It's just that this does seem a pretty inconsiderate thing to be doing, when you think about it, from the kids' point of view. I mean, let's face it: it's going to be pretty rough on them."

  "They'll get over it break their arms, and they'd 'get over' that too; that's hardly the point. The point is—"

  "Look, Frank." She had turned to face him with her little flat-lipped smile, her tough look. "Are you suggesting we call the whole thing off?"

  "No!" He moved away from her to pace the carpet. "Of course I'm not." For all his annoyance, he found it good to be up and talking again after his long silence of faulty concentration with the French book on the sofa. "Of
course
I'm not. Why do you have to start—"

  "Because if you're not, then I really don't see any point in discussing this. It's a question of deciding who's in charge and sticking to it. If the children are to be in charge, then obviously we must do what they think is best, which means staying here until we rot. On the other hand—"

  "No! Wait a minute; I never said—"

  "You wait a minute, please. On the other hand, if we're to be in charge—and I really think we ought to be, don't you? If only because we're about a quarter of a century older than they are? Then that means going. As a secondary thing it also means doing all we can to make the transition as easy as possible for them."

  "That's all I'm saying!" He waved his arms. "What're you getting all excited about? Make the transition as easy as possible—that's absolutely all I'm saying."

  "All right. The point is I think we're doing that, and I think we'll continue to do it to the best of our ability until they do get over it. In the meantime I'm afraid I don't see any point in holding our heads and moaning about how miserable they're going to be, or talking about tripping them up and breaking their arms. Frankly, I think that's a lot of emotionalistic nonsense and I wish you'd cut it out."

  It was the closest thing to a fight they'd had in weeks; it left them on edge and unnecessarily polite for the rest of the day, and caused them to shy away from each other at bedtime. And in the morning they awoke to the sound of rain and the uncomfortable knowledge that this was the Sunday they had arranged to meet John Givings.

  Milly Campbell had volunteered to take the children off their hands for the afternoon, "because I mean you probably won't want them around when he's there, will you? In case he turns out to be a real nut or anything?" April had declined; but this morning, as the time of the visit drew near, she had second thoughts about it.

  "I think we'll take you up on that after all, Milly," she said into the telephone, "if the offer still goes. I guess you were right—it does seem a weird sort of thing to expose them to." And she drove them to the Campbells' an hour or two earlier than necessary.

  "Gosh," she said, sitting down with Frank in the scrubbed kitchen when she returned. "This is sort of nervous-making, isn't it? I wonder what he'll be like? I don't think I've ever met an insane person before, have you? A real certified insane person, I mean."

  He poured out two glasses of the very dry sherry he liked on Sunday afternoons. "How much you want to bet," he said, "that he turns out to be pretty much like all the uncertified insane people we know? Let's just relax and take him as he comes."

  "Of course. You're right." And she favored him with a look that made yesterday's unpleasantness seem years in the past. "You always do have the right instincts about things like this. You're really a very generous, understanding person, Frank."

  The rain had stopped but it was still a wet, gray day and good to be indoors. The radio was dimly playing Mozart and a gentle, sherry-scented repose settled over the kitchen. This was the way he had often wished his marriage could always be—unexcited, companionable, a mutual tenderness touched with romance—and as they sat there quietly talking, waiting for the sight of the Givingses' station wagon to appear through the dripping trees, he shivered pleasurably once or twice as a man who has been out since before dawn will shiver at the feel of the first faint warmth of sun on his neck. He felt himself at peace; and by the time the car did come, he was ready for it.

  Mrs. Givings was the first one out, aiming a blind, brilliant smile toward the house before she turned back to deal with the coats and bundles in the back seat. Howard Givings emerged from the driver's side, ponderously wiping his misted spectacles, and behind him came a tall, narrow, redfaced young man wearing a cloth cap. It wasn't the kind of jaunty little back-belted cap that had lately become stylish; it was wide, flat, old-fashioned and cheap, and the rest of his drab costume was equally suggestive of orphanage or prison: shapeless twill work pants and a dark brown buttonfront sweater that was too small for him. From a distance of fifty feet, if not fifty yards, you could tell he was dressed in items drawn from state institutional clothing supplies.

  He didn't look up at the house or at anything else. Lagging behind his parents, he stood with his feet planted wide apart on the wet gravel, slightly pigeon-toed, and gave himself wholly to the business of lighting a cigarette—tamping it methodically on his thumbnail, inspecting it with a frown, fixing it carefully in his lips, hunching and cupping the match to it, and then taking the first deep pulls as intently as if the smoke of this particular cigarette were all he would ever have or expect of sensual gratification.

  Mrs. Givings had time to chatter several whole sentences of greeting and apology, and even her husband was able to get a few words in, before John moved from his cigarettelighting place in the driveway. When he did, he was very quick: he walked springingly on the balls of his feet. Seen at close range, his face proved to be big and lean, with small eyes and thin lips, and its frown was the look of a man worn down by chronic physical pain.

  "April . . . Frank," he said in reply to his mother's introduction, almost visibly committing both names to memory. "Glad to meetcha. Heard a lot aboutcha." Then his face burst into an astonishing grin. His cheeks drew back in vertical folds, two perfect rows of big, tobacco-stained teeth sprang out between his whitening lips, and his eyes seemed to lose their power of sight. For a few seconds it seemed that his face might be permanently locked in this monstrous parody of a friend-winning, people-influencing smile, but it dwindled as the party moved deferentially into the house.

  April explained (too pointedly, Frank thought) that the children were away at a birthday party, and Mrs. Givings began telling of how perfectly frightful the traffic had been on Route Twelve, but her voice trailed off when she found that John had claimed the Wheelers' whole attention. He was making a slow, stiff-legged circuit of the living room, still wearing his cap, examining everything.

  "Not bad," he said, nodding. "Not bad. Very adequate little house you got here."

  "Won't you all sit down?" April asked, and the elder Givingses obeyed her. John removed his cap and laid it on one of the bookshelves; then he spread his feet and dropped to a squat, sitting on his heels like a farmhand, bouncing a little, reaching down between his knees to flick a cigarette ash neatly into the cuff of his work pants. When he looked up at them now his face was free of tension; he had assumed a kind of pawky, Will Rogers expression that made him look intelligent and humorous.

  "Old Helen here's been talking it up about you people for months," he told them. "The nice young Wheelers on Revolutionary Road, the nice young revolutionaries on Wheeler Road—got so I didn't know what she was talking about half the time. Course, that's partly because I didn't listen. You know how she is? How she talks and talks and talks and never says anything? Kind of get so you quit listening after a while. No, but I got to hand it to her this time; this isn't what I pictured at all. This is nice. I don't mean 'nice' the way she means 'nice,' either; don't worry. I mean nice. I like it here. Looks like a place where people live."

  "Well," Frank said. "Thank you."

  "Would anyone like some sherry?" April inquired, twisting her fingers at her waist.

  "Oh no, please don't bother, April," Mrs. Givings was saying. "We're fine; please don't go to any trouble. Actually, we can only stay a min—"

  "Ma, how about doing everybody a favor," John said. "How about shutting up a little while. Yes, I'd like some sherry, thanks. Bring some for the folks too, and I'll drink Helen's if she doesn't beat me to it. Oh, hey, listen, though." All the wit vanished from his face as he leaned forward in his squat and extended one gesturing hand toward April like a baseball coach wagging instructions to the infield. "You got a highball glass? Well, look. Take a highball glass, put a couple-three ice cubes in it, and pour the sherry up to the brim. That's the way I like it."