The Fiend (21 page)

“Would you really like to know?”

“Yes.”

She let out a brief, brittle laugh. “I'm pretending to be a tree.”

“You're acting very peculiar tonight.”

“I'm a very peculiar woman. Hadn't you noticed that before, Howard? Surely those sharp eyes of yours couldn't miss any­thing so obvious. I'm not like other women, I'm a freak. There's something missing in me.”

“Take my hand and I'll help you out of there.”

“I don't want to get out. I
like
being a tree.”

“Stop playing games. Are you going to let me help you?”

“No.”

“All right.” Without further argument he picked her up and lifted her out of the dichondra patch. He had to exert all his strength to do it because she'd made herself limp—arms, legs, waist, neck. “O.K., tree, you've just been uprooted.”

“Damn you.
Damn
you.”

“That's better. Now suppose we go inside and you can start pretending you're a person.” He opened the gate for her. “Coming?”

“I have no choice.”

“You'd have even less choice if you were a tree.”

They went into the patio and Howard closed the gate behind them with unnecessary force. The loud bang seemed to Virginia to be a warning, like a shot fired over her head.

“Come in, come in,” Dave said. “Welcome to Brants' Beanery.”

He was standing at the barbecue grill wearing an apron over his Bermuda shorts and T-shirt, and drinking a can of beer. Ellen sat barefoot at the redwood picnic table, slicing an onion. Neither of them looked as though they expected company or particularly wanted any.

Even though Virginia had known this was how it was going to be, she felt a stab of resentment, aggravated by a feeling, a hangover from her childhood, that she was the one who was wrong, and no matter how hard she tried, she always would be. She had spent an hour dressing and fixing her hair but Dave didn't even look at her. He had opened a can of beer for How­ard and the two men were already deep in conversation, one on each side of the barbecue pit.

Virginia sat down beside Ellen. “Anything I can do to help?”

“It's all done, thanks. I wouldn't allow you to touch a thing in that dress, anyway. I'd feel so guilty if you spilled something on it. It's simply gorgeous.”

Virginia had to take it as a compliment but she knew it wasn't. Ellen's voice was too objective, as though the dress had nothing to do with Virginia personally; a gorgeous dress was a gorgeous dress and it didn't matter who wore it or who owned it.

“It's not new,” Virginia said. “I mean, it's just been lying around.” For a whole week it had been lying around, waiting for an occasion. Now the occasion had arrived, hamburger and onions and baked beans in the next-door neighbors' backyard. She thought wildly and irrationally,
damn you, Howard. You didn't have to bring me here.

“I thought perhaps it was the one you bought last week at Corwin's,” Ellen said. “You told me about it.”

“No, no, I took that back. I've had this dress since—well, since before you even moved here. That seems ages ago, doesn't it? I feel so close to you and Dave and Mike and, of course, Jessie.” She glanced hastily in Howard's direction to make sure he hadn't overheard the name. He was still engrossed in his con­versation with Dave. “Where is Jessie?”

“In the front room watching television.”

“I'll go in and say hello. I have a little something for her.”

“Virginia, you shouldn't, you'll—”

“It's nothing at all, really, just a piece of junk jewelry. I saw it in a store window this afternoon and I thought Jessie would like it.”

“She's too young to wear jewelry.”

“It's only a small ring with an imitation pearl. I had one exactly like it when I was six years old. I remember it so clearly. My hands grew too fast and it had to be filed off.”

“It won't have to be filed off Jessie,” Ellen said dryly. “She'll lose it within a week.”

“Then you don't mind if I give it to her?”

“I suppose not.”

Virginia rose and crossed the patio, moving with unaccus­tomed agility as though she wanted to get away before she could be called back.

Jessie was curled up in a corner of the davenport, her chin resting on her knees, her arms hugging her legs. Her eyes wid­ened a little when she saw Virginia in the doorway but it was the only sign of recognition she gave.

“Hello, Jessie.” Virginia went over to the television set. “May I turn this down a minute?”

“I—yes, I guess.”

“I haven't seen you for two days.”

“I've been busy,” Jessie said, looking down at the floor as if she were talking to it and not Virginia. “My mother took me swimming this afternoon. To see if the salt water would hurt my hands.”

“And did it?”

“Not much.”

Virginia sat down on the davenport beside her. “You know what I did this afternoon? I went downtown shopping.”

“Did you buy something?”

“Yes.”

“Was Howard with you to pay for it?”

Virginia sucked in her breath as though the question had knocked it out of her. “No, no, he wasn't. I paid for it myself.”

“But the other night he said—”

“The other night he said a lot of things he didn't mean. He was tired and out of sorts. We all get like that sometimes, don't we?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“When two people are married, they share whatever money comes into the house, whether it's the man's salary or the woman's or both. If I see something I want and can afford, I buy it. I don't need Howard's permission.”
But it helps,
she added bit­terly to herself.
He likes to play Big Daddy, spoiling his foolish and extravagant little girl, as long as the little girl is duly appre­ciative.

Jessie was considering the subject, her mouth pursed, her green eyes narrowed. “I guess Howard gives you lots of money, doesn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Every month my daddy gives money to the bank for this house. In nineteen more years we're going to own it. When is Howard going to own you?”

“Never,” Virginia said sharply. Then, seeing Jessie's look of bewilderment, she added in a softer voice, “Look, dear, I'm not a house. Howard isn't making payments on me.”

“Then why does he give you money?”

“He doesn't exactly give it to me. We share it. If Howard didn't have me to look after the house for him, he'd have to hire someone else to perform the same services for him.”

“If he hires you, that makes him the boss.”

“No.
I mean—how on earth did we get off on this subject? You're too young to understand.”

“Will I understand when I'm older?”

“Yes,” Virginia said, thinking,
I hope you never grow up to understand what I do. I hope you die before your innocence is torn away from you.

Jessie was frowning and biting the nail of her left thumb. “I certainly have tons of stuff to learn when I grow up. I wish I could start right now.”

“No. No, don't wish that. Stay the way you are, Jessie. Just stay, stay like this, like tonight.”

“I can't,” Jessie said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Mary Martha would get way ahead of me. She's already taller and spells better. Mary Martha knows a lot.”

“Some of them are things I couldn't bear having you know, Jessie.”

“Why not? They're not bad, they don't hurt her.”

“They hurt. I see her hurting.”

Jessie shook her head. “No. If she was hurting, she'd cry. She's an awful sissy sometimes, she can't stand the sight of blood or anything oozing.”

“Do you ever see me cry, Jessie?”

“No.”

“Well, I hurt. I hurt terribly.”

“Because of your sunburn?”

Virginia hesitated a moment, then she laughed, the harsh, brief laugh she heard herself utter so often lately. It was like the distress signal of an animal that couldn't communicate in words. “Yes, of course. Because of my sunburn. I must be as big a sissy as Mary Martha.”

“She's not a sissy about everything.”

“Perhaps I'm not either, about everything. I don't know. Not everything's been tried on me yet. Not quite.”

Jessie would have liked to ask what had or had not been tried, but Virginia had averted her face and was changing the subject, not very subtly or completely, by opening her purse. It was a pink silk pouch that matched her dress. Inside the pouch was a tiny box wrapped in white paper and tied with a miniature golden rope.

Jessie saw the box and immediately and deliberately turned her head away. “Your shoes are dirty.”

“I stepped off the path. Jessie, I have a little pres—”

“You're not supposed to step off the path.”

Virginia's face was becoming white even where she was sun­burned, on her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, as though whiteness was not a draining away of blood but a true pigmenta­tion that could conceal other colors. “Jessie, dear, you're not paying attention to what I'm telling you. I said, I have a little present for you. It's something I'm sure you'll love.”

“No, I won't. I
won't
love it.”

“But you don't even know what it is yet.”

“I don't care.”

“You don't want it, is that it?”

“No.”

“You won't—won't even open it?”

“No.”

“That's too bad,” Virginia said slowly. “It's very pretty. I used to have one exactly like it when I was a little girl and I was so proud of it. It made me feel grown-up.”

“I don't want to feel grown-up anymore.”

“Oh, you're quite right, of course. You're really very sensible. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't choose to grow up either. To live the happy years and die young—”

“I'm going to watch television.” Jessie's lower lip was quiver­ing. She had to catch it with her teeth to hold it still so that Vir­ginia wouldn't see how frightened she was. She wasn't sure what had caused the sudden, overwhelming fear but she realized that she had to fight it, with any weapon at all that she could find. “My—my mother doesn't like you.”

Virginia didn't look surprised, her eyes were merely soft and full of sadness. “I'm sorry to hear that because I like her.”

“You're not supposed to like someone who doesn't like you.”

“Really? Well, I guess I do a lot of things I'm not supposed to. I step off paths and get my shoes dirty, I buy presents for little girls—Perhaps some day I'll learn better.”

“I'm going to watch television,” Jessie repeated stubbornly. “I want to see the ending of the program.”

“Go ahead.”

“You turned it off. When company turns it off my mother makes me keep it that way.”

“Turn it on again. I'm not company.”

Awkwardly, Jessie unfolded her arms and legs and went over to the television set. Her head felt heavy with what she didn't yet recognize as grief: something was lost, a time had passed, a loved one was gone. “You—you could watch the ending with me, Aunt Virginia.”

“Perhaps I will. That's the nice part about television pro­grams, they start with a beginning and end with an ending. Other things don't. You find yourself in the middle and you don't know how you got there or how to get out. It's like waking up in the middle of a water tank with steep, slippery sides. You just keep swimming around and around, there's no ladder to climb out, nobody flings you a rope, and you can't stop swimming because you have this animal urge to survive. . . . No television program is ever like that, is it, Jessie?”

“No, because it has to end to make room for another pro­gram. Nobody can be left just swimming around.”

“How would it end on television, Jessie?”

Jessie hesitated only long enough to take a deep breath. “A dog would find you and start barking and attract a lot of people. They'd tie all their jackets and sweaters and things together to make a rope and they'd throw it to you and lift you out. Then you'd hug the dog and he'd lick your face.”

“Thanks for nothing, dog,” Virginia said and got up and went over to the doorway. “I'll see you later.”

“Aren't you going to stay for the ending?”

“You've already told me the ending.”

“That's not
this
program.
This
is about a horse and there's no water tank in it, just a creek like the one behind Mary Martha's house.”