The Tight White Collar (25 page)

“She's got to get well, Jess,” said Nate desperately. “She's
got
to.”

“She will,” said Jess. “Margery has strength. If she didn't, she could never have carried the burden of Robin for ten years. I only wish that she'd never picked up the burden in the first place, but she had to. She's been all tangled up with a mess of things she's tried to prove.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Nate.

“It's a great tragedy to produce a child like Robin,” said Jess. “And in Margery's case it wasn't only a matter of tragic misfortune but a point of pride as well. She had produced an imperfect child so she felt that she had to prove to herself, to you and the world that she could be a perfect mother. Nate, Margery is a healthy, normal woman. Do you think for a minute that she enjoyed caring for a sick, abnormal child?”

“But it was what she wanted, Jess,” objected Nate. “The only time she seemed happy was when she was with Robin.”

“It wasn't what she wanted,” said Jess. “I've often wondered how she coped with what must have been an almost overwhelming feeling of resentment toward Robin and how she managed to squash her feelings so that they didn't show. And I've wondered how bitterly she must have hated herself for feeling like that and how many times she held Robin to herself, screaming silent denials.”

“Good God, Jess. You're trying to tell me that all this time she's hated Robin.”

“Yes, I am,” said Jess.

“But you haven't seen her as I have. Day after day and night after night there was no one for Margery but Robin, and even after all this time, it's still Robin. How long do you think she can go on without her? You saw the way she was tonight.”

“Tonight Margery was deliberately making herself unhappy,” said Jess. “She's punishing herself for what she thinks of as abandoning her child. You're comparatively lucky, Nate. You made a good adjustment to Robin. You got used to taking a back seat and waiting. Now you're all that Margery has left and you're going to have to make her feel as needed as Robin did or else she won't feel as if she has any purpose in going on. But most important of all, Margery shouldn't think of herself as a failure as far as being a woman goes and there's only one way to solve that. Another child.”

“Another child?”

“Yes, Nate. Another child. A perfect, normal child.”

Nate smiled. He was thinking of what Margery had told him, about the way she had watched Lisa Pappas and Anthony Cooper and had thought of love.

“It's queer the way things turn out, isn't it?” asked Nate.

“Like what?” asked Jess.

“Like the way big things are often triggered by little insignificant things.”

“Whatever that means,” smiled Jess. “I suppose I agree.”

Nate shrugged and laughed at himself. “I was just thinking that the Pappas mess wasn't such a total loss after all because there was one little facet of it that triggered Margery into thinking of feeling again.”

“And what was that?” asked Jess.

“Lisa Pappas's love affair with my nephew,” said Nate. “I imagine that this is probably the only time in history that some good has come out of such a situation. Not that I respect Anthony any for it. I don't approve of a man poaching on another man's land.”

Jess looked at the tip of his cigarette.

“No,” he said. “I never imagined that you did.”

Slowly, the weeks had passed and little by little Nathaniel had begun to notice an improvement in Margery. She no longer wept for hours on end and she did not wake quite so often in the night, imagining the cry of a child. She no longer hurried constantly, as she had previously done, but seemed content now to let things slide a little.

And finally, one day in February, she asked Jess, “When may I go to see Robin?”

He gave her a quick, sharp look. “Do you think you're ready to see her?” he asked.

“I have to, Jess,” she said. “I'll have to face it sooner or later and it might as well be now.”

“Go anytime,” said Jess.

The big, black Buick turned into the graveled drive in front of St. Jude's.

“Here we are,” said Nathaniel. He was apprehensive and depressed. It'll never work, he thought. The minute she sees Robin it'll be all over and we'll be right back where we started.

“Please, honey,” said Margery softly. “Don't be unhappy and frightened on my account. I'll be fine.”

Nate tried to smile, then he took her arm and they went up the steps and through the front door of St. Jude's.

A black-robed Sister came forward and extended her hand.

“Mrs. Cooper,” she smiled. “How very nice to meet you. I'll fetch Robin. She is playing in the yard with the others.”

Margery put a restraining hand on her arm. “Please, Sister,” she said. “Couldn't we go out with you?”

“Yes, of course,” said the nun and led the way.

Margery and Nathaniel followed her down a long hallway and out into the yard. Margery's eyes searched for only a moment before she saw Robin. The child was standing in the snow, bending to gather up a huge handful of the soft whiteness and then tossing it up in the air with giggles of delight. When the Sister walked up to her, Robin stopped immediately and went to the black-clad figure. She nuzzled against the dark robe and smiled into the face that smiled at her.

“Robin, your mother and father have come to see you,” said the Sister and she spoke in the same tone she would have used with a normal child.

She led Robin to Margery and Nathaniel and Margery immediately put her arms around her child. Robin rubbed her cheek against Margery's sleeve and smiled up at her just as she had always done.

But she doesn't know me, thought Margery. It's exactly the same smile she gave to the Sister. She'd smile like this for anyone who seemed kind to her.

For a sharp, hurtful moment, Margery felt the quick sting of loss and then she took Robin's hand and the three Coopers walked through the yard of St. Jude's.

It was a short visit and it terminated itself when Robin again took notice of the snow that covered the ground. She dropped Margery's hand and stood still, then slowly she bent forward and picked up two handfuls of snow and raised them to her face. Her tongue came out slowly, to taste, and she laughed gleefully at the feel of the soft cold.

She's forgotten that I exist, thought Margery.

They stood for a long time, watching Robin play, and at last Nathaniel touched Margery's arm.

“Come, dear,” he said. “It's time to go.”

They walked slowly out of the yard and through the long hallway and out the front door. Neither of them spoke as the car sped along the highway. Nathaniel was silent because he was afraid and Margery was still because she was busy with her thoughts. They were almost to the town line at Cooper Station before Margery put her hand on Nathaniel's thigh.

“You were right, Nate,” she said. “It
is
a wonderful place. Even if I hadn't one single other reason for happiness, I'd be happy just knowing that Robin is happy and loved and well cared for.” She paused and smiled up at her husband. “But I do have other reasons, Nate. So many, many more.”

She reached up and kissed his cheek gently as Nathaniel turned the car into Benjamin Street and headed for home.

Anthony Cooper finished his fourth Martini and looked gloomily at his Aunt Margery when she stood up and announced that it was time to eat.

“Roast beef, Anthony,” she said, “and spring peas. The first of the season and right out of your Uncle Nate's garden fresh this afternoon.”

God, but she's turned into a pain in the ass, thought Anthony sourly. When they had the kid around there was a certain fine-drawn look about Margery, an aura of tragedy that suited her. But now she's turned into a regular bucolic
hausfrau
, roast beef, new peas, ruffled apron and all. Christ.

“Must we?” asked Anthony rudely. “Personally, I could stand another of Nate's Martinis even if he does eff them up with all that lousy vermouth.”

“You've had enough, Anthony,” said Nathaniel and stood up next to Margery. “You'll ruin your stomach with all that crap. Come on, you've got to eat.”

“My dear uncle,” said Anthony, who was not tight from a mere four Martinis but from the several quarts of beer he had sipped on all afternoon, “the only thing I
have
to do in this life is die.” He almost managed to swallow a rather large belch. “And I have no intention of doing that right at the moment. I shall take a long time about it. A long, long time. And the path will be paved with nothing but Martinis, beer and good Scotch. Oh yes. And girls. Beautiful, blonde, busty girls who dance in nightclubs and never go to bed before daylight.”

“Well, sit there and get plastered if that's what you want,” said Nate impatiently. “We're going in to eat.”

“Go with God,” replied Anthony with a magnanimous wave of his hand.

“Anthony,” said Margery, “you shouldn't drink any more tonight. You have that long drive facing you tomorrow and you don't want to start out with a hangover.”

“Anthony, you shouldn't,” mimicked Anthony. “Anthony you don't want. My dear aunt, the things I want and the things I should do are far beyond your ken. In fact, I might go so far as to say you'd be shocked by the things I should do and the things I want.”

Margery smiled. “I may be a contented hick well on my way to getting fat to your way of thinking,” she said. “But don't count on shocking me, Anthony.”

“Then go eat your spring peas and leave me to my silly notions,” said Anthony.

“We shall,” said Nate. “And when we finish, we're going over to the Stricklands to play bridge, which should also hand you a laugh.”

“It should and it does,” replied Anthony. “As for me, I shall go home and put my feet up and drink a lot of Scotch.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to put your feet up here,” said Margery. “Marie and I finished closing up your house this afternoon. Everything is covered with dust sheets and your refrigerator is empty. So make yourself comfortable right here.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Anthony. “That's what I call real Southern hospitality.”

“You know which room is yours if you want to lie down,” said Margery.

“Indeed, I do,” said Anthony and bowed a little. “But I've no intention of lying down. I shall sit here and get drunk and ponder on my sins.”

Margery and Nathaniel walked into the dining room and as they went, Anthony studied Margery's figure.

She's got it, he thought as he opened a bottle of Scotch. The walk. All women who are good in bed have it. Toward the end, Lisa had it.

Anthony poured whiskey over a couple of ice cubes and sat down with his drink.

In the beginning, she didn't have it. Lord, no. In the beginning Lisa walked like a frustrated small-town librarian, but not in the end. Not by any means. In the end, she rolled when she walked. She swayed. Her hips were alive. They had promise and meaning. Like Margery's now. Guess there's more to old Nate than a nephew would suspect. But I wonder if Margery's like Lisa. Like metal under his hands and his body, Lisa said. And I was the magnet.

Anthony glared down into his drink before he took a heavy swallow.

God, she was a dumb little thing, he thought. A magnet indeed! But dumb in an interesting way. She could learn fast when she wanted to, and she was fun to teach. Well, that's all over with and tomorrow I'll go back to civilization. No dumb girls in New York. Nobody to teach there. Might even learn a few things myself.

When Anthony Cooper drank Scotch, he did so without any appearance of speed, but he drank continually and methodically so that by the time he heard the front door slam shut behind Margery and Nathaniel, more than a third of the bottle he had opened was gone. He went to the window and watched them drive away in the spring evening. It was twilight and there was a smell of new grass on the air.

Summer's coming, thought Anthony and sat down, rubbing his glass between his palms. The long, hot summer, thought Anthony and the smell of Scotch was very heavy in his nostrils. Heavy and smoky, like summer. The long, hot summer. Your belly is damp, my love. Anthony took a deep swallow of his drink and clenched his jaw against a pain that he had not been able to get used to after almost a year of trying.

It was worse when he drank, for the drunker he became the sharper grew his images.

Hurt me, darling, Lisa said. Her teeth were tight together and she half smiled. Hurt me with your hands.

My dear child, said Anthony, do you know why you want to be hurt? It's to expiate your guilt feelings about cheating on your husband.

Am I sleeping with Sigmund Freud or with Anthony Cooper? asked Lisa and rolled over so that he could bite her shoulders.

Who's sleeping? demanded Anthony and began to handle her.

Sometimes you make me feel like a whore, said Lisa. And I love it. A very good, expensive French whore from whom you're going to get your money's worth.

Anthony flicked his cigarette toward the empty fireplace in Nathaniel's living room.

Dumb, he thought. Lisa was as dumb as they come. Goddamn her. And I never could abide stupidity in a woman.

He fixed a fresh drink and as he sat down again he reflected that the whole thing was a damned good joke on him. Dumb or not, hopelessly naive and unschooled as she had been, it was still Lisa who came to plague his dreams at night and who appeared in the bottom of his glass when he drank. And for quite a while after she had gone he had not realized that it was going to be like that. He had thought, Good riddance. Her and her schoolteacher husband and her two obnoxious children and her belly that will soon be distended and ugly and her breasts that will begin to sag like overripe pears. I'm well rid of that one and damned lucky not to have had any more trouble about it than I did.

It was dark in Nathaniel's living room and Anthony thought vaguely of getting up to put some lights on.

I must be getting drunk, he thought. Shouldn't get drunk, Anthony. Don't want to have a hangover in the morning, Anthony. Balls, Anthony. You're nothing but a phony and a coward, Anthony. Ought to take a walk, Anthony. Good for an overactive libido, walks. Like cold baths and basketball.

He got to his feet with an effort and picked up a fresh, unopened bottle of Nathaniel's Scotch.

Got to take a little walk, he thought. A little constitutional before retiring to my dear Aunt Margery's little pink-ruffled guest room.

He went out the front door and walked carefully across the street. He went past his own house that already had a closed, veiled look even though he had left it only a few hours before, and made his way down the path that led to the gardener's cottage. It took him long, fumbling minutes to find the proper key on his ring, but at last he managed to open the door and walked into the house.

A darling little place, he thought. Just like something out of Hansel and Gretel. How goddamned cute can you get. Hansel and Gretel. God, she was dumb. Clichés rolled off her tongue with every breath she drew. A magnet, huh? Christ.

Anthony sat down in an armchair and he drank directly from the bottle now, not bothering to get up and find a glass in the little kitchen.

Man, he told himself, that's when you've had it. That's when you're really a drunk, when you start drinking it right out of the bottle. Funny. But with Lisa around beer had tasted good. Just beer and nothing else.

Liquor is a weakness, said Lisa. It doesn't solve anything to get drunk, Anthony. Not a single thing.

But my dear child, I'm essentially a very weak man, said Anthony. All the Cooper men are weaklings. Take my Uncle Nathaniel, for instance—

I don't want to take your Uncle Nathaniel, for instance or any other way. I want to take you.

How do you want to take me?

Like this, said Lisa and began to touch him the way he had taught her.

Poor Uncle Nathaniel, said Anthony. Doesn't know what he's missing.

Shut up, said Lisa as she rolled over on top of him. Just shut up and lie still. Who do you belong to?

And then lower and more savagely as she moved faster and faster on top of him.

Who, Anthony? Who do you belong to?

Whom, corrected Anthony, to make her angry and stronger, and then at last, just before the end, To you, my darling. I belong to you.

But he hadn't, thought Anthony and tried to make his smile triumphant as he sat in the dark in the little house where Lisa had lived. He hadn't belonged to her any more than he had ever belonged to anyone. He was his own man, always had been, and he hadn't changed. Anthony leaned his head against the back of the chair and grinned drunkenly in the dark.

No, my dear girl, not to anyone. The only person I've ever belonged to is me, and I'm never going to be any different. Thank whatever Gods there be, or something. I am the master of my soul.

But then, why were there the moments of aching? The moments of impotent rage toward people who didn't matter? Like Polly Sheppard, for instance.

It hadn't taken Polly long to forget that Lisa Pappas had ever existed, reflected Anthony. Within a matter of days after Chris and Lisa had left Cooper Station, Polly was back to normal. Good old civic-minded, community-spirited, busybody Polly who, as Lisa had confided to Anthony, had been Lisa's best, true, good friend.

Friends like that you can live without, Anthony had warned. Polly Sheppard is nobody's friend but her own.

Don't you dare say a thing like that, insisted Lisa angrily. Polly and I have been friends for years. You don't know what she's had to put up with, Anthony. Did you know that Jim Sheppard used to run around on her all the time?

Anthony smiled and kissed her neck. That was his Lisa all right. Here she was in his bed, doing what all Cooper Station would have considered as “running around” and her voice was full of outrage at the defections of Jim Sheppard.

No, I didn't know, he said.

Well, he did and it was just awful for Polly. She thought she was going to die from it.

My dear child, people don't die from the effects of infidelity.

How would you know, Anthony. Honestly, I think you're the most cynical person I've ever known.

Seeing someone like Polly Sheppard in a true light does not constitute being a cynic, said Anthony.

Well, you can be wrong, can't you? And you're wrong about Polly.

But Anthony hadn't been so far wrong. The night of the town meeting he had questioned Lisa.

And what did your good true friend Polly have to say about all this? he asked.

What could she say? demanded Lisa. It wasn't her place to speak up.

I thought it was an open meeting, said Anthony. At an open meeting everyone has the right to say whatever he wishes. What did Jim have to say?

Nothing, admitted Lisa. But it was too late to say anything anyway. They offered the money and before anyone could say anything, Chris jumped at it.

I thought he would, said Anthony.

What do you mean by that? asked Lisa.

He supposed that he could have told her. If she'd known about the money then perhaps she would have hated him instead of believing herself in love with him, and then everything would have been easier for her. But Anthony could not tell her and he didn't even know why. What difference did it make? He was through with her anyway, so why not make a clean break of it? Now what did he mean by that? He'd already told her it was finished and she'd accepted that, so why worry about what she might think? But still Anthony did not speak and he would not admit that it was because he wanted Lisa to think well of him in the future. As the years passed, he wanted her to remember him as the great love of her life, as the sophisticated older man who had been everything to her. He did not want her to think of him as the man who had paid off her husband in order to get rid of her. It all smacked too much of a bad novel or a second-rate movie.

At least she left with a few illusions, thought Anthony. She left thinking that I was really sorry to see her go and that Polly Sheppard was still her friend.

He ought to get up and go back to the house. Margery and Nathaniel would be home shortly and they'd start wondering what had happened to him. If he knew his Aunt Margery, with her goddamned cloying maternal instinct, she'd peek into his room to see if he were properly covered and find him gone. Well, let her. Anthony took another drink from his bottle of Scotch, then he went into the bedroom that opened off the living room. He sat down on the edge of the bed and against all the strength of what little will he had left, he remembered the day he had been with Lisa for the first time on this same bed. He remembered her nakedness and the goldness of her legs and shoulders where her summer tan had already started, and he remembered the way she had fought to try to keep from feeling when he had touched her and the way she had finally given in to him as he had known she would.

Dumb little thing, thought Anthony drunkenly. So she'd been a good lay. What the hell did he care that she was gone? He had a full third of his new novel finished and Kent Purdom, his agent, had sent him a wildly enthusiastic telegram.