She was eager to go talk to the high-school principal during the morning recess; it did not do to postpone things and let your enthusiasm peter out. But she overrode the impulse. The sheep could wait; Warren was anxious for tonight to be a success. He was full of gratitude to Miles, for buying the portrait, and he wanted everything to be nice for him. This meant that Jane would have to go and get the cleaning woman, put her to work, and drive her back home, when she was through. She would have to find Will Harlow and take the carving knife to the butcher to be sharpened; they were having a joint for dinner. She would have to stop at Martha’s and get some herbs for the salad; there was a torn slipcover on the sofa which she could fix in a jiffy, if she could remember to buy mending tape. They had been planning to spend the afternoon at the cove, gathering oysters—her mother had just sent them a patented oyster-opener—but the weather precluded that now. Nevertheless, it would be a busy day for her, and she would be bound to forget something important if she got distracted by the sheep. For one thing, she ought to wash her hair, and for another, she ought to get Paul to open up his antique store during his lunch hour so that she could buy some stem glasses for the wine. She still had a last set of goblets stored away up above the beams in the studio, but it would be more trouble to look for them and get them down and have Mrs. Silvia wash them than it would be to get new ones, which Paul could dust out in the shop for her. That was the difficulty about a party; everything landed on you at once. Most people here didn’t care what you served it in, so long as they got their booze, but tonight’s guest list was a little different, more bourgeois, she supposed you could call it, though to somebody like her family Miles Murphy would be pretty startling.
Warren, moreover, had been funny lately, ever since the Sinnotts had arrived. “Why can’t we have something like this?” he had said wistfully, holding up a thin glass at Martha’s dinner table. For years, he had been setting the table with cottage-cheese glasses for the wine and had never seemed to notice. He was different from Jane; other people’s possessions stirred something in him, evidently—memories of his mother’s house. Jane almost thought he was envious, which was silly because they could afford anything the Sinnotts had, if they wanted it. It was a question of practicality. Martha’s fragile glasses would be broken in a week in the dishwasher—as Jane knew from experience—and nobody nowadays wanted to take the trouble to wash glasses by hand and dry them.
Nevertheless, she was going to let Warren have his way. He would soon see for himself that it was not worth it to have a breathless, perspiring, frazzled wife flop down at the dinner table across from him. What he really prized was her intellectual companionship, and she could not spend the day perusing current books and magazines or just thinking, curled up on the sofa, if she was going to be a compulsive housewife, like her mother, always “over” the servants and arranging flowers and looking for dust. Germs were good for you; they built up immunities; Jane had not had a day’s sickness, except during her periods, since the vacuum cleaner broke.
“I wonder whether the Murphys will come,” said Warren, peering out the window. The weathervane on the studio was whirling about wildly; gusts of rain struck at the house; the gutters ran. “They’ll come,” said Jane. It was the kind of dismal day that made people want to be together. “All the way from Digby?” Warren said doubtfully. “They know I’m expecting them to dinner,” answered Jane, who never worried. “They would have called by this time, if they weren’t coming, so that I wouldn’t go ahead and do the marketing.”
In the station wagon, on the way to the village, Jane herself began to wonder. She could hardly see to drive, down the wet sand road. In the village, the main street was deserted. As she turned into the parking space, she saw the Sinnotts’ car, which still had its New York license plates, speeding north, out of the village, toward Digby. She could not make out who was in it, but it was burning a lot of oil, she noted; they ought to get it fixed. Where could either of them be going, she wondered, on a morning like this? Could they have had another fight? Her speculations ceased as she hurried across the street to the post office in her plastic raincoat and hood, which were no protection, really. Her long full orange cotton skirt was flapping wetly around her bare ankles, and her ballet slippers were soaked.
She opened her mailbox and found a telegram. “Western Union man just brought that around,” said the postmistress. “Your phone’s out of order; somebody on your line left the receiver off the hook.” The smallest village idiot stood watching her with a grin as she broke the seal with her forefinger. “Somebody die,” he repeated in his high, loud gabble. Jane shook her head. “Telegrams don’t mean death any more,” she said to him, kindly. She made it a policy to spread reason wherever she could. Nevertheless, her heart missed a beat; she was afraid it was from the Murphys, begging off for tonight. Her eyes ran over the message: Warren’s mother was dead, of a stroke, yesterday, in Savannah.
Her first thought was of the roast she had had the butcher cut specially the day before. Death was peculiar; it made things like that pop into your mind. Still, it was a problem whether she could return it; being an only child, Warren, of course, would have to go to the funeral. She would have to cancel the play-reading. A deep disappointment took hold of her, as she tried to tell herself, by way of comfort, that at least the day would be simplified. It would not matter now about the wine glasses or trying to get Will Harlow. But it was a cheerless comfort; without the plans to fill it, the day seemed bereft. And Warren would have to be away for three days at the very least; when he came back, he might want to go into mourning. They would
never
have the play-reading, she said to herself sadly, stuffing the telegram into her Mexican leather pouch. She would have to call the Murphys and tell Paul, in the liquor store, and call the Hubers and Martha, who could tell Miss Lamb. They would all be let down just because one old lady had happened to die the day before. It made her think of the time when her fifteenth birthday party had to be canceled because her brother had come down with polio. The Greeks had a better idea; when somebody died, they feasted, to show that life went on.
All at once, she realized that the idiot and the postmistress were both watching her, avidly, she thought. Wrapping her raincoat about her, she started down the street to the drugstore to telephone. They would have to know right away, so they could make other dinner plans. What a waste, she said to herself. But as she trudged through the rain, two thoughts struck her. What was the matter with her? Obviously, Warren could not take the plane; all flights would be canceled. According to her car radio, the storm was general throughout coastal New England. She could drive him to Trowbridge, to get the afternoon train, but he would not reach New York till nearly midnight, too late, probably, to catch the sleeper for Savannah. He might just as well stay here and wait to get a plane in the morning, when the weather would doubtless clear. He could go to Boston, of course, in the hope that flights would be resumed again this afternoon or this evening, but he might not get a seat; Friday was a bad travel day. And there was a second obstacle. What was he going to wear?
Jane had been considering this question ever since they had heard that his mother was failing. In the south, as she knew, people were stuffy about the ceremonial of mourning. A black band sewn on his corduroy sleeve would not be enough, probably, to satisfy Warren’s cousins and his aunt: He could stop off in Boston and get a ready-made dark suit and a pair of black shoes; but it seemed crazy to spend the money on something he would wear only the once. Moreover, there was the time factor. He would have to have the suit altered. Ready-made pants were always too long for him and too baggy in the seat. Even if he took the suit to some little tailor, it would take a couple of hours for the alteration to be done, what with the pressing and everything: he might miss the plane, if there was one, hanging around and waiting. Last week, however, Jane had had a brain wave. Seeing John Sinnott walk into a party in his dark-blue suit, she had realized that he and Warren had much the same build. John, of course, was taller, but his shoulders and waist were narrow, like Warren’s, and he had a small behind; she had checked on this point when they were in swimming, in the nude. The blue suit would be just right for Warren, if she turned up the trousers; there was a steam-iron put away somewhere in the studio that she could press them with. Black or a dark oxford would have been better, but there no point in repining. It was a piece of luck that the only dark suit in all New Leeds—except the bank president’s—should have come here with the Sinnotts in September. If Warren’s mother had died last year, there would have been no suit for him at all. The blue was very dark, almost midnight, and it would look very nice with Warren’s blue eyes. And John had a lot of neckties; she had seen them hanging on his bureau, some of them in dark, conservative colors. Warren had only two: bright wools woven by the New Leeds Craftsmen. The shoes Warren would have to buy, in Trowbridge or Digby. John’s feet were too long, though narrow, and Paul’s black shoes, which he wore for state occasions, were short enough but too broad. Even if Warren were to wear several pairs of wool socks, he would not be comfortable, and foot comfort was important, psychologically—that was why they went barefoot so much.
Sitting in the drugstore phone booth, with her wet skirt and petticoat bundled about her, Jane took out a coin and hesitated. There was no use trying to get Warren yet, if their phone was out of order. It came to her that it must be she who had left the receiver off the hook, while she was calling Will Harlow and thinking about the sheep. And even if Warren had replaced it in the meantime, he would be in his studio now, out of earshot of the phone. With the planes not flying, there was no hurry about telling him. She decided to call Martha first and ask about the suit. But just then she remembered seeing the Sinnotts’ car heading out of town. What was she going to do if they were off somewhere for the day? She dropped in the coin, and Martha answered. She had been trying to get Jane, she said, to tell her they could not come to the play-reading because John had had to go to Boston this morning to finish some research. Jane heard her out, without interruption; she could have saved Martha her breath by telling her about Warren’s mother, but she was curious to know what explanation the Sinnotts had cooked up between them: any fool could see that John had gone to Boston to avoid having to meet Miles tonight. For herself, Jane wanted to find out diplomatically, before asking straight out, whether the blue suit was here or whether it had gone off too. “I thought I saw John,” she said. “Dashing out of the post office. What was he wearing?” “A raincoat,” said Martha. “And that good-looking blue suit?” persisted Jane. “Why yes, I think so,” said Martha. “Yes, he was,” she added, more positively. Jane caught her breath. “How long is he going to be gone?” “Just today,” said Martha. “He has to see somebody for dinner. He’ll be back late tonight.” “Oh,” said Jane.
A new idea was forming in her mind. It was clear now that Warren could not leave till tomorrow in any case; he would have to wait on the weather
and
the suit. There was no reason, therefore, why they should not have the play-reading. Warren himself had been looking forward to it for a week now. He and Jane had read the play, together, in Masefield’s English translation, and he wanted to discuss with Martha the peculiar philosophy behind it. He would be horribly disappointed if the project fell through. But of course, with his mother dead, he would think that they ought not to have it, not for any real reason, but just because of the forms. He had been expecting her death anyway; after all, she was seventy-nine, and when he had gone down to see her last year, he must have realized it was good-bye. And it was not as if his knowing, today, could do any good. If the telegram had said, “Mother dying,” that would have been different: he would have wanted to telephone and start off as fast as he could, even though she would be unconscious and incapable of recognizing him—that was how she had conditioned him. But since the old lady was gone, what could be the harm of letting him have the play-reading before he found out?
It was only an accident, actually, Jane suddenly perceived, that she had got the telegram this morning. There were some days when they did not go for the mail at all, and she often left the receiver off the hook for twenty-four hours without noticing it. Actually, if it had not been for the party tonight, the telegram could have stayed there in the box without their knowing it until tomorrow at least. So to all intents and purposes, it was as if she had not got it yet. And how much better it would be, from everybody’s point of view, if she had not happened to stop in at the post office just now…. If Warren was going to grieve, in spite of having worked through his mother-attachment with the psychoanalyst, he might as well begin tomorrow, Jane said to herself in her practical voice. There was nothing he could do anyway, and useless suffering was the worst kind; that was the good part about funerals—they gave the relations something to put their minds on. If she were in Warren’s place and it was
her
mother, she would want him to spare her until she could get off on a plane and start making the funeral arrangements. She would
want
him to have the play-reading for her.
Absently listening to Martha, Jane made her decision. The play must go on, she said to herself with a grin and a hollow feeling in her stomach. For one wild instant, she considered taking Martha into her confidence, but prudence intervened: if she was not going to tell Warren, it was better that nobody should know until tomorrow morning. And Martha might disapprove. She was telling Jane now all the virtuous reasons why she too could not come to the play-reading: she had some letters to write; she had bought some green tomatoes and was going to make a pickle; she had no car and it was too far for Dolly to come for her. “I’m sorry,” she wound up. “But after all you don’t need me. There are only seven parts. Dolly can do Bérénice; her French is much better than mine. And you can do the confidante.” “Don’t be a nut,” said Jane, feeling cross with Martha. “Of course, we need you. You’re the only professional. Warren will
die
if you don’t come.” It was true: Warren’s expectations rested on Martha’s presence; he was happy in the thought that she and Miles could be friends again, thanks to the portrait. But Martha kept sounding reluctant. She would rather not, she insisted. “Is it because of Miles?” Jane demanded, boldly. Partly, Martha admitted. But it was not only that, she pretended; she had all those things to do and she wanted to be home, for John, when he got back from Boston: he would have an awful drive in this weather. Jane made a face. “Why, you don’t want to stay there all alone, waiting for him,” she exclaimed in scoffing tones. “If he has dinner in Boston, he won’t be back till one in the morning.” “Yes,” acknowledged Martha. “You’ll be home by that time,” Jane pointed out. “Warren will come and get you and bring you back afterward. You might as well come to dinner; I’ve got a big roast.”