Some Came Running (170 page)

She had been reading in some of Bob’s occult books and in one of them, a thin little volume called
Light on the Path,
she had read a phrase that leaped out at her from the page:
“Shun not the cloak of evil, for if you do it will be yours to wear.”
It leaped out into her heart and mind and she read on:
“And if you turn with horror from it, when it is flung upon your shoulders, it will cling the more closely to you.”
It was almost like some personal message to her, and she had closed the book. Because this was what she had done. And it was the measure of her guilt, and the measure also—after that evening she talked to Bob—of the penance she imposed upon herself.

Bob had already, when they were first starting the work on Dave’s manuscript, written to their lady editor friend at NLL, asking if she would not like to reconsider the book and explaining the circumstances of Dave’s death and their own posthumous editing of his manuscript. They had got back from her one of her typical letters saying that she would be glad to look at it again, but from the condition of the book as she remembered it she couldn’t see how just simple cutting would ever help it. Bob had written her back, when he sent the manuscript, an extremely forceful letter praising it, and which, in effect, put his own reputation as a critic, and even as a writer himself, on the block.

And they had, in a remarkably short time—just under two weeks—gotten back a letter enthusiastically accepting the book for publication. There were reservations from the lady editor: She thought, as the book now stood—without the love affair—it was so
very
shocking, both in its implied attitude about the human race, and also in its technique of making death so comic and unheroic, that it might be almost completely unpalatable to an average American reader. Nevertheless, she felt, as did her associates and the publisher himself, that it was a true work of genius—a twisted genius perhaps—but nevertheless genius. And now, with the love affair cut completely out of it—something she herself would never have even considered doing—it did nevertheless have a peculiar unity that it had not had before. It was, she said, good enough that they intended to do it in a hardback edition first.

Gwen and Bob stared at each other, after reading the letter, and then grinned victoriously.

“Well, you pushed them into it,” Gwen smiled.

“On the contrary, dear Gwen,” Bob said; “the manuscript and its merit pushed them into it. You know as well as I, that no one can push a publisher into publishing a meritless book.” He smiled slyly. “Despite all our lady editor friend’s reservations, she herself knows that it is a truly unique and outstanding book. As do her superiors and the publisher himself.”

“I think Dave would be pleased,” she said.

“I’m sure he would,” Bob said gently.

Gwen, looking at him lovingly, felt tears come up into her eyes. But calmly she blinked them back. And suddenly she knew that now was the time to tell him: about what she had been feeling—that guilt, and that sense of responsibility for Dave’s death. Bob was the only one who could understand it—and, for that matter, was the only one who would even be interested, now—now that Dave was dead.

They were both sitting in the kitchen, after she had gone down for the evening mail: Bob in his big chair down by the fireplace, herself in one of the ladder-backs at the big table, the same kitchen which Dave had used to stand and admire so many times. It seemed that they were always sitting here in this kitchen, whenever they talked seriously.

“You know, Bob, you told me once—before I left for Tucson—” Gwen said clearly, “that you thought it would be a bad thing for me to leave. You really wanted me to stay, didn’t you? Do you still feel that way? Wait,” she said calmly, before he could answer; “this is of tremendous importance to me. Do you still feel that way?”

Bob smiled sadly. “Dear Gwen, who am I to say? I just don’t know.”

“In other words, you do still feel I shouldn’t have left; but you just don’t want to say so to me.”

Bob spread his hands out helplessly. “Who am I to judge?”

“You mustn’t have reservations with me,” Gwen said; she felt completely cool, completely rational, inside. “You’ve always been honest with me. More honest than I’ve been with you, in fact,” she added. Bob raised his eyebrows questioningly, but she only shook her head. “I want to know your opinion,” she said. “Do you believe that had I stayed, Dave wouldn’t have been killed?”

“Perhaps not,” Bob said. “Perhaps not by that boy at any rate. But,” he shrugged, “who knows?”

“That’s another ambiguous answer,” Gwen said, refusing to be put off. “You told me, back then, that you believed Dave would not ever finish his book if I left. And you were right: He didn’t. We did.”

“Dave did finish it,” Bob said. “It was finished when it came into our hands. He just didn’t know it. But then again, perhaps he did know it was finished. Because he wrote you that the love affair must come out.”

“No,” Gwen said stubbornly; “it was
not
finished. It was not finished because it still needed work done on it. Luckily, it was work you and I were able to do. Or it would never have been finished.”

“Dear Gwen, I fear you’re quibbling,” Bob said. “What is it that is bothering you?”

“I feel a very strong responsibility for Dave’s death,” Gwen said. “I’ve thought and thought about it. I feel a
very
strong sense of responsibility for it, and a great guilt about it.”

“Dear Gwen,” Bob said sadly. “I feel the same thing. There is so much more I could have done, perhaps. Everyone always feels that after a death.” He smiled; but Gwen stared back at him, and shook her head. She was not about to be eased out of what she had to say.

“I don’t mean that,” she said; “and you know it. And also, if I
am
responsible for his death, I am then also responsible for all the work he did not do—but might have done, had he lived.” She was glad—and very relieved—that they were at last getting this out in the open.

“Dear Gwen,” Bob said; he had laid both the NLL letter and his book he had been reading, aside; “is anyone ever
really
responsible for another’s death?
If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways 1 keep, and pass, and turn again,
” Bob said, quoting Emerson’s poem “Brahma.” “Perhaps no one is ever responsible for one’s death except the one himself.”

“You know,” Gwen said, and took a deep breath, “you know, Dad, you and I have never talked much about ourselves, about our own private lives, our sexual lives.”

“Need we?” Bob said.

“Yes,” she said clearly; “right now we must. I have something I feel I must tell you. I don’t want to embarrass you; but this is something I’m—well—more or less morally obligated to tell you, I feel.”

“Very well,” Bob said, and folded his hands together.

Gwen tood another deep breath. “You see, Dad,” she said, looking at him squarely, “I’m a virgin. I never slept with Dave Hirsh.” It took a great deal out of her to say it—a great deal more than she had thought it would, even. And yet she felt strangely very calm, too.

“Dear Gwen,” Bob said from his chair, “dear Gwen, I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry?” Gwen demanded. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, I—” Bob said. “Well, I guess, because I instinctively felt that you regretted that you hadn’t.” He paused. “But, I guess, more than that, because I’m embarrassed for you, that you should feel you had to tell me.”

“It changes everything, doesn’t it?” Gwen said.

“No-o,” Bob said helplessly; “no. I don’t think it changes any of it. It does give me the missing element in this whole affair that I’ve never just been able to put my finger on.”

“You thought I was sleeping with him,” Gwen said. “I know it from things you said to me. But you see I never had been. Although I let you think it.”

“The missing element,” Bob said again, sadly. “Ahhh, dear Gwen. Poor dear Gwen. I had no idea.”

“No,” Gwen said. “Nor does anybody else. It’s always been my secret. Dave didn’t know, either. Hes always thought I was almost promiscuous. He even accused me of being a nymphomaniac once. Nobody knows. And all those other men, those former lovers, all that sophisticated woman-of-the-world routine—all an act: a part of my secret lie.”

“But why?!”

“Because I was ashamed of anybody finding out. I was afraid of being laughed at.”

“The missing element,” Bob said sadly. He straightened up in his chair, suddenly looking very tired. “It is I, dear Gwen, not you, who am responsible for Dave’s death. I should have known. I should have been intelligent enough, perceptive enough, to have figured it out. Had I done that, I would have reacted very differently, I think. I would have told Dave about Ginnie Moorehead coming over here and talking to you—even when you didn’t want me to; and that would have changed everything. That girl knew
exactly
what she was doing. Dumb as she appears to be, she outsmarted us all.” He paused, and shrugged sadly. “But I— I, with all my books I’d read; I, with my notion of trying not to interfere, and to avoid new Karma; I, in always saying ‘Thy will be done, not mine,’ in trying to follow ‘God’s Will’—I refused to be a
part
of God’s Will. I refused to
act.
I refused to be a part of
life.”
The corner of his mouth pulled itself up into a deep sadness. “I really am the villain of the piece,” he said.

“No,” Gwen said. “It wasn’t you. I was the one who lied.”

“When Dave came over here, and kept coming, he was asking for something—and I didn’t give it to him,” Bob said sorrowfully.

“I’ve read your books, too, you know,” Gwen said. “And when you get so far along, you don’t make Karma anymore. You come in a class where you just don’t
make
Karma. I quote you back your quote from Emerson.”

“My dear,” Bob said. “None of us are in that class. Nor are we likely to be for many lives, I fear. And I expect I made more future Karma for myself in my refusal to act than I should ever have done had I acted and tried to help you and Dave. One simply cannot
withdraw
from life. Not without dire consequences. No, I am the one who is responsible.”

“Don’t forget Dave comes into this for some responsibility, too,” Gwen said. “Don’t forget that in your guilt.”

“No; and don’t you forget it either, in yours.” He paused. “Yes, of course. He does. He was an almost living proof of your theory, wasn’t he?” he said with a sad smile. “Here was a man who on the one hand had his art and had companionship and love, too, though not sexual love; and on the other he had just that: sexual love and nothing more. He had to choose between. He chose the sex.”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t have, if I had not left,” Gwen said calmly. “That’s been my whole point.”

Bob merely shook his head, almost as if he had not even heard her. “Dear Gwen,” he said, “while we are confessing, I have something to confess myself: I have felt—oh, for some time now—that it is I who have taken away your life from you. I kept you here, quite selfishly, just to take care of
me,
and look after
me.
What you told me just a moment ago makes me more sure of it than ever now.”

“I chose to stay,” Gwen said; “you didn’t keep me.”

“Ahh, but in subtle ways I did,” Bob said. “What I should have done was to have forced you out. Out into life. Then life would have forced you to—ahh—love. And in loving, you would have been hurt—as love hurts us all. And in being hurt, you would have grown, as you were meant to do. Yes, I have done you great harm, dear Gwen.”

“You’ve just given me my answer,” Gwen said crisply. “The answer I’ve been asking you for since we started talking.” The peculiar calmness in her seemed to grow even stronger. And suddenly, she knew what she was going to do: now—now—when it was too late, and meant nothing—meant nothing to anyone but herself at any rate. And at the same time, she felt a strange protectiveness toward Bob, like the feeling of a parent for a child. Feeling very strange, she smiled at her father’s bent head sadly. He still had great work in him though, despite the age, despite the change, despite everything. But, she thought suddenly, she had great work in her, too—perhaps even greater; though she didn’t know just what.

But she knew what she was going to do. In fact, she had contemplated doing it out in Tucson, even. But then that had been out of hatred. This was not. She had seen a lot of men who would be quite obviously willing to seduce her, both out there and here; and she had even contemplated a few of them. But even then—even with the hatred—she could never just bring herself to come in contact with them. Physical contact. It was just too intimate a thing to do—without love. She would have felt degraded. But then there was no need to have a man to do it. It could be done professionally by a doctor. And it was this that, when Bob had given her—unwittingly, on his part—her answer, that she had decided to have done.

It really meant nothing—not now. And once it could have meant so much. But whether it meant anything to anybody else or not, it meant something to her. Something very important. Calmly, clear eyed, she was going over to Indianapolis to see a doctor. An act of gynecological surgery could accomplish for her what in their ignorance and silly stupidity neither she—nor Dave—could ever quite get done.

It wouldn’t do her any good especially. Not physically, at any rate. She had no desire for any men now anymore, at all. If indeed she ever had had—except possibly that one brief period with Dave. And it would not bring back what was gone. But whether it served any external purpose or not, it served a purpose in her soul: It would not only be a penance. It would, she felt, in some way, also be a redemption.

She didn’t think she still loved him. And in fact she was sure she didn’t. But she did still love what he
could
have been. And because of this, she felt it was her right—even her duty—to pay off her debt to what she knew she had destroyed.

Why had she never thought of a doctor before? When it might have meant something? Probably she hadn’t wanted to, that was why. Probably, in all her champings and cage shakings and miseries, she had nevertheless been proud of it: Proud of the ancient shibboleth, the mystic symbol; the Vestal’s purity: All that time, she had been playing the “Pedestal,” the “Great Conscience” of the males. And all that time, she had been just like the rest. Only she had been the greatest whore of all. Well, damn it all, it was possible for a woman to be honest like a man. It
had
to be.