The Road Through the Wall (22 page)

From her position in the largest chair she could look down the length of the room at her daughter-in-law perched inconsistently in a leather armchair, and when a minute or two had passed and young Mrs. Martin still did not answer, old Mrs. Martin was satisfied and said, “So now that's settled.” She smiled at George and Hallie and said, “Sometimes you will come and visit your old grandmother, no?” Young Mrs. Martin smiled too.

•   •   •

“‘—And the fowls of the heaven,'” Mrs. Mack was reading, “‘and the beasts of the field, and all creeping things that creep upon the earth, and all the men that are upon the face of the earth, shall shake at my presence, and the mountains shall be thrown down, and the steep places shall fall, and every wall shall fall to the ground. And I will call for a sword against him throughout all my mountains, saith the Lord God: every man's sword shall be against his brother.'” She smiled eagerly on the dog, and said, “You know what that makes me think of? You remember Micah?”

•   •   •

“Well, of course, dear,” Lillian Tyler said to her sister, “of
course
it's your house, but I do think you're making a very serious mistake.”

“What possible harm is there in being kind to an unfortunate girl?” Mrs. Ransom-Jones demanded, although kindly. “What's wrong with showing her some affection when the poor girl's probably never had an ounce of attention in her life?”

“She should be in an institution,” Miss Tyler said emphatically. “The kindest thing you could do is get her locked up.”

Mrs. Ransom-Jones stared open-mouthed. “What an
awful
thing to say!”

“It's true,” Miss Tyler said doggedly. “A great big animal like that ought to be in a cage. And you bring her here!” She made a pushing gesture with both hands, her mouth turning in disgust. “You bring her into this house, that great big dirty animal, right in here with me.”

“But, sweetie,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said soothingly, “I didn't know you were going to mind.”

“And Brad,” Miss Tyler cried, “didn't you see how Brad looked at her? It made him sick, just to think of having her in this house with me.”

“Brad didn't mind,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones began reasonably, but her sister interrupted her:

“Don't tell
me
what Brad minds,” she screamed. “I know all about Brad, and you and I know what he minds, and he was
sick
to think of you bringing that
thing
in here with me, and I just wish you could see how he looked at
you
.”

She stopped, breathing wildly, and Mrs. Ransom-Jones dropped her eyes and put on an air of quiet patience and looked steadily at the carpet.

After a minute Miss Tyler's breathing quieted, and she said softly, “After all, dear, Brad's
your
husband and this is
your
house.” When Mrs. Ransom-Jones still did not look up, she went on, “I wouldn't have said anything for the world, except that I thought you ought to know what Brad was thinking when that girl was here.”

“Don't tell
me
what Brad was thinking,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said, in a desperately calm voice. “After all, he's
my
husband.”

“Of
course
he is, dear,” Miss Tyler said. “He's your husband.” She closed her mouth firmly on a little smile and sat back with gracious resignation. Her eyes wandered to the window, and she sat up for a minute and then relaxed. “Here's Frederica,” she said.

Mrs. Ransom-Jones got up without looking at her sister and went to the door. She talked to Frederica for a minute and then came back to her sister, Frederica moving uneasily behind her. “She says Beverley's lost again,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said accusingly to her sister. “She's gone off somewhere.”

“Come in, dear,” Miss Tyler said to Frederica, leaning forward again to watch the girl. “Come in and tell us about it.”

Frederica stood solemnly in the exact center of the room, facing Miss Tyler. After a minute she said in her slow voice, “She's just gone. Like always.”

“Did she have any money?” Miss Tyler asked.

“I guess so,” Frederica said. She looked at Mrs. Ransom-Jones for confirmation. “She never goes unless she has money.”

“You shouldn't let her have money, then,” Miss Tyler said gently.

“I
don't
let her have it.” Frederica almost wailed. “I can't watch her every
minute
.”

“And your mother?” Miss Tyler asked.

“She was asleep,” Frederica said. She moved uncomfortably. “Please,” she said, “if you know anything about her . . . ?”

“Does your mother always sleep?” Miss Tyler asked. With her quiet voice, and the soft touch she gave the words, they sounded sympathetic.

“She sleeps a lot,” Frederica said. “I don't know what she does.”

“Where does the money come from?” Miss Tyler asked. “Where does your sister get it?”

“I guess she takes it,” Frederica said.

“Takes it?”

“From Mommy's pocketbook.”

“I see,” Miss Tyler said. She looked Frederica up and down steadily. Mrs. Ransom-Jones moved forward abruptly, but Miss Tyler stopped her with a motion of one hand. “Do a lot of . . . men . . . come to see your mother?” she asked delicately.

“No,” Frederica said, surprised. “No one ever comes to see us.”

“Are you
sure
?” Miss Tyler said even more delicately. “Perhaps after you're asleep at night?”

Frederica shook her head, staring at Miss Tyler dumbly, and after giving her a minute Miss Tyler said, letting the words almost drift away from her, as though they were being spoken for her, “Then where does the money come from?”

“I don't know,” Frederica said. “I don't
know
. From Mommy's pocketbook.”

Miss Tyler leaned back again, and Mrs. Ransom-Jones came up to Frederica and said, “Maybe she's just at that same place, having a soda.” She tried to speak lightly, as though it were a friendly joke, but Miss Tyler cut in sharply, “She ought to be locked up, you know.”

“Who?” Frederica demanded, startled.

“Your sister, dear,” Miss Tyler said. “She ought to be put in a home for feeble-minded people.”

“That's not true,” Frederica said. It took a minute for her slow-moving mind to bring forth the emotion to go with the words, but finally an expression of anger came on to her face.

“She's apt to become dangerous,” Miss Tyler said, accenting the last word just enough to make it terrifying. “I was in a home for a while, you know,” she went on idly, “my sister has probably told you.”

“Lillian!” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said urgently.

“I was ill, of course,” Miss Tyler said. “Not feeble-minded, like your sister.”

“There's nothing wrong with my sister,” Frederica said.

“You know, I think sometimes they'd like to put me
back
,” Miss Tyler said, and laughed lightly. “Three's a crowd,” she said.

“Frederica,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said levelly, “we don't know where your sister is, we haven't seen her. Run along, please, dear.”

Taking Frederica by the arm, she led her to the door and put her outside. When she came back to her sister, Miss Tyler was lying back with her eyes shut.

“Do you mind if I lie down for a while?” Miss Tyler said. “I feel quite worn out.”

“I just want you to know,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said, her voice weak with indignation, “I just want you to know that I'm going to tell Brad every word of this when he comes home.”

•   •   •

Walking up the street, Harriet was acutely conscious of the workmen at the wall; she was mortally afraid that they were looking at her, and that perhaps her skirt was caught up in back or torn, or that there was a hole in her stocking. She was so horribly frightened of the men that she walked more quickly, to be a few steps ahead of Marilyn, so that Marilyn would shield her from the staring eyes of the men, but Marilyn walked quickly too, so that they were together, and Harriet said irritably, “What on earth are you running for?”

“
You
were running,” Marilyn said amiably.

Harriet thought she could hear the men laughing behind her; for the first time she had dared to walk with Marilyn past the Merriam house, to the short-cut beyond the Martins' to the creek, and she was oppressed with the dreadful thought that perhaps her mother would hear the men laughing at her, look out of the window, perhaps come down into the street. She was sure she could hear loud shouting laughter behind her, and she thought hotly that they had no right to laugh at her, they were
hoi polloi
; then she thought that perhaps all the truth about Marilyn was obvious, maybe anyone who looked at her could tell, as Mrs. Merriam had been able to tell, maybe everyone but Harriet knew right away, and
that
was what the men were laughing at, Harriet walking along with Marilyn as though it were perfectly all right. Maybe the men were laughing, Harriet thought madly, because she was so fat, and Marilyn looked so small beside her.

Looking at Marilyn walking along placidly, Harriet realized how absolutely atrociously ugly Marilyn was, neither more or less safe from the laughter of the
hoi polloi
than Harriet; they were both ugly.

“Come
on
,” Harriet said. “Do you have to be so
slow
?”

Marilyn hurried obediently. She was eating an apple, and the sight of it offended Harriet; it was difficult for Marilyn to hurry and eat the apple at the same time, and she stumbled.

“Clumsy,” Harriet said, and Marilyn looked up at her over the apple, frowning. “What's eating you?” she asked around the apple, and Harriet shrugged impatiently and hurried on ahead. With Marilyn almost running along behind her, Harriet reached the creek and sat down with determination in their special secret place. By the time Marilyn had dropped down breathlessly beside her, Harriet had her first words ready.

“I can't play with you any more, is all,” she said.

“Why not?” Marilyn was puzzled, and she screwed her face up so that Harriet could not bear to look at her, but looked instead loftily into space.

“My mother says it's not suitable,” Harriet said. “My mother says to tell you that people of my class are always nice to everybody in spite of their religion or their background but that we have to set standards. Standards,” Harriet repeated; it was a solid word in the midst of confusion. “So,” Harriet went on rapidly, “I can't talk to you any more or play with you or come up here or go to the library. My mother says so.”

Marilyn still had the apple, and looking at it in her hand, Harriet said, “And
furthermore
my mother hopes you won't ever try to tell anyone I was your
friend
.”

“I see,” Marilyn said. She swallowed the bite of apple in her mouth and asked meekly, “Is that all your mother said?”

Suddenly Harriet realized that she had no words to use to go any further, whatever she tried to say now would only be the same words over again. She had used up, so quickly, all that her mother had spread over so long a time, so Harriet finished icily, “Isn't that enough?”

“Sure,” Marilyn said. She put the apple down on the ground and began pulling out handfuls of grass to drop on it.

When the apple was covered Harriet thought miserably that she had not done any of it right. She would have liked to start over again from the beginning, make it mean more. “Listen,” she said.

“I don't want to listen any more,” Marilyn said wearily. “You big fat slob.” She got up suddenly and ran as fast as she could toward the road that led to her home. Harriet sat dumbfounded for a minute, thinking: she didn't need to get so mad, I was going to say all of it again, right. Then she remembered what Marilyn had said, and she wanted to cry. That's mean, she thought, that was a mean thing to say, and she shouldn't have said that. After a little while she stood up and began to walk home slowly. I'll tell my mother, she was thinking.

•   •   •

Virginia Donald and Mary Byrne walked lazily up Cortez Road with Beverley Terrel between them. Virginia had a wrapped box of candy under her arm, and she was chewing gum. Mary was chewing gum, too, and she had, in the big pockets of her linen beerjacket, three or four bags of candy stuffed in one on top of another. Occasionally she stopped walking to take out a bag and offer it to Virginia and Beverley before taking a piece herself. Beverley, walking happily in the middle, was carrying a pint package of ice cream. “I wanted to ride all the way home in the taxi,” she said for about the twentieth time.

“We never take taxis
all
the way home,” Virginia said. “Do we, Mary?”

“We
never
do,” Mary said. “We always get them to leave us off at the highway.”

“I
like
to ride all the way home,” Beverley said obstinately.

“Look.” Virginia poked Beverley's shoulder. “You want us to go with you again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Mary echoed. “You want us to go again tomorrow?”

Beverley nodded, looking from one to the other.

“Then you let us do what we want to,” Virginia said. “If you don't let us do it the way we want to we won't go with you.”

“I just wanted to ride all the way home in the taxi,” Beverley said.

“Well, you
can't
.” Virginia tossed her head emphatically. She reached into her pocket and took out a paper bag, handling it tenderly, and leaned back to say to Mary behind Beverley, “I'm so pleased I got my pretty pearls.”

“I should of gotten pearls too,” Mary said. She held out her hand. “Let me look.”

Virginia shook her head. She reached into the bag and took her hand out with the pearls dramatically draped around her fingers, entwined in what seemed to both Virginia and Mary to be the pose of a beautiful hand in an advertisement, holding priceless jewelry.