My God, Peter thought, this woman is stark, staring mad, or the next thing to it.
“Well, Allison,” Sheila said, “I’ve got news for you. Your big
brother Dicky is going to put off his new novel for a little while.
He wants to go into the army—get a little more experience. As a matter of fact, Dicky, there’s never been a really
good
novel written about the
peacetime
army. So I thought that after you came out we might all take a sweet little house in Georgetown and. . . .”
“I heard you, Mother,” Allison said. “But you weren’t listening
when I said that
I am not going to come out!”
“What?”
“That’s right, Mother. I came down to say good-by. I’m taking
the train to New York tonight.”
“You’re doing no such thing.”
“Yes, I am, Mother. I suppose the real way to run off is to tie a lot of sheets together and go out the bedroom window. I’m not doing that. I’m here to say good-by because. . . .”
“Oh, New York, are you? And just how long do you think you’re going to last in the most expensive city in the world?”
“Quite a long time, I think. I’ve already got a job. It’s not
much of a job—it’s in an art studio. It starts Monday. I’ll
be at the Barbizon for Women until I. . . .”
“You will be exactly where I tell you to be, Allison,” Sheila said. “You seem to forget that you are eighteen years old and that I am your mother. Until you reach your majority, you will do what I want you to do even if I have to take you to court and. . . .”
“Somehow, Mother, in the light of things that have happened this week, I don’t think you’d look very good in the courtroom. The publicity would be most unfavorable and if you ever try anything like that, Mother, I’ll talk. I swear to God I will.”
“Allison! How could you!”
“I could do it easily, Mother. And I would. This is my chance to be on my own and doing what I want to do. . . .”
“You mean daubing away in some commercial art studio?”
“I mean exactly that. It’s what I intend to do. I called Mr. Gustave and he’s promised me the job. And no one—not even Sheila Sargent—is going to stop
me.”
“Allison, answer this honestly. Have I ever once tried to stop you from doing
anything
you wanted to do? Haven’t I always encouraged you to. . . .”
“Yes, Mother. Yes, you have.”
“Well, then?”
“You’ve not only encouraged us, you’ve
driven
us. You’re a natural bully, Mother. Oh, you’re clever at it, but you
are
a bully. Dicky has no talent for writing. You know it, I know it, he knows it. Now
everybody
knows it because
you
bullied him into writing that book and bullied your publisher into printing it. I hate going to these silly coming out parties. I don’t like to dance, I’m not very good at it, and I despise having to stand around and talk to a lot of sappy boys who haven’t got anything
interesting to say. I’m not very popular and I don’t want to be.
You’re the one who’s hell bent on making me the belle of the ball. You. . . .”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. How very Child of the Century you
are, Allison. Both of you. It’s very smart and psychoanalytical to
be a mess and then blame poor old Mother—all very Freudian
and fashionable. But what would the two of you be today if your
villainous old Mother hadn’t beaten her brains out trying to turn you into vital, interesting, unusual people? I can tell you what
you’d be—both of you—you’d be two drab, feckless little
blah
personalities!”
There was a silence. Then Dicky spoke. “Mother, we
are
two
blah personalities, as you call us. What else could we be? We’ve always had to live in the shadow of
your
personality. Oh, it was
fine when we were little. You were the star and we were the audience. But now you’re not satisfied with that. Now we’ve
all
got to be stars.”
“That isn’t true!”
“It is true, Mother,” Allison said.
“I can’t write a book,” Dicky said. “I couldn’t even write an interesting letter home. But you’re going to turn me into a duplicate of my father if it kills you—and if it kills me. Allie’s got some talent. You know that. But you don’t care about it. She’s got to be the image of you as a girl or she’s nothing. It’s a beautiful idea and we’ve got wonderful patterns to follow but they just don’t fit. Allison at least knows what she wants to do. I don’t. Maybe I’ll end up as an old bookkeeper some place. . . .”
“Oh, don’t talk that way!”
“But at least I want the chance to do it for myself. I don’t want to lead Richard Sargent’s life. I want to live
my
life and I’m going to do it.”
“Good for you, Dicky “ Allison said.
“All right, children,” Sheila said. There was a splendid busi
ness-like quality about her. “You’ve had your say. But you can’t
imagine that I’ve done what—what you claim I’ve done to you out of cold, heartless cruelty. I only did it because I loved you. I’ve made a mistake. Isn’t that human? And even the two of you will have to admit that I’m only human. But that’s no reason to
run out—to desert me. We can compromise. Allison, once you’ve
come out you can take that job you were asking Howard about.
I could do over the tool shed as a sort of studio. As for you, Dicky,
instead of going to Washington, I could try to get you a commission right here around Chicago—at Fort Sheridan, perhaps. I know the commandant. In that way you could live at home here and if you ever felt that you wanted to pick up your writing
again, you could. As for you, Allison, I wouldn’t be worried about
what you were up to, the kind of people you were running around with. You’d each be living your own lives but at least you’d be living them here with me. Now does that strike you as so very unreasonable? I know I can manage Howard Malvern and I’m pretty sure I can manage the commission.”
“Well. . . .” Dicky began.
But Allison was too quick for him. “No, Dicky. Don’t! Can’t you see what she’s doing? Can’t you hear that word—the word ‘manage’? It’s what she’s always done. It’s what she’s doing right now. And it’s what she’ll go on doing as long as you or I let her, She’ll manage Uncle Howard, she’ll even manage the United
States Army. She’s always managed you and she’s always man
aged me into doing exactly what she wants us to do. She’s not
even satisfied to stop with us. She’s got to manage the lives of
everyone in the whole country—anybody who can write a letter or read her damned column.”
“Allison. . . .”
But Allison would not be stopped. “Dicky, you can do as you
like, but I warn you that if she gives an inch she’ll take a mile.
Shell be charming and reasonable, and before you know it you’ll
be charmed and managed right back to the tool shed and I’ll be charmed and managed right into the Junior League. Stay if you want, but I’m going.”
“I . . . I guess you’re right,” Dicky said, hesitating.
“All right then,” Sheila said. “Get out! Get out right now. But when you both discover that you haven’t got me to wipe your noses and change your diapers, don’t come crawling back. When you walk out of this door it’s forever.”
“Good-by, Mother,” Allison said. “Coming, Dicky?”
Dicky halted for a split second and then followed his sister.
Sheila stood silently until she beard the front door close. Then
she turned to Peter and said, “ ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth. . . .’ Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Drink?” Without waiting for an answer, she poured out two.
“Sheila,” Peter said quietly, “have you ever considered some kind of help. I mean psychiatric help?”
“No, but I can see now that I should have. I was wrong and I’m big enough to admit it. Oh, I thought I could raise them myself—be both mother and father to them. And look what I
ended up with—two ungrateful, self-centered neurotics, thinking
only of what
they
want. Yes, I should have taken them both to a good psychiatrist—especially Allison.”
She was too busy with her own thoughts, her own speech, to
notice Peter’s jaw drop, his shoulders sag, the look of bewildered
defeat. Nor, when she came over and stood very close to him, handed him a glass and said, “Well, here’s to us,” did she see that he put the drink down untasted. “Speaking very candidly,
darling—and I hope you won’t misunderstand and think that I’m
some sort of an unnatural monster of a mother—I’m almost glad
they’ve gone. Oh, they’ll come crawling back, I’m not worried about that. Let them get a little taste of life as it really is and then they may begin to appreciate what they’ve just thrown away. And also, Peter, this . . . this
defection
on the part of my entire household gives me a chance to lead my own life for a little while.”
“Yes,” he mumbled, “I-I guess it will.”
“Of course it will! I’m tired, Peter; bone tired. And you’re
tired, too. There’s no reason why I couldn’t find some competent
hack writer to take over my column for a month or two and get
away for a while—South, perhaps; Jamaica, some place like that.
So right after this Mother of the Year ceremony, I suggest that we. . . .
“Sheila! Do you mean to stand here and tell me that you plan to
accept
this Mother of the Year Award after what’s just happened?”
“Well, really, Peter, it’s a little late in the day to refuse. I ought to be dressing at this very minute. You didn’t bring a dinner jacket, did you? No matter, Dicky has a. . . . Really, dar
ling, if you could see the expression on your. . . . What
has
come
over you?”
“Have you lost your mind? Not five minutes ago your kids both walked out of here forever and now you can put on your glad rags and receive this honor as though nothing had. . . .”
“Oh, that! Well, nobody’s going to notice. It’s the mother they’re interested in, not the children. Besides, in my speech
of acceptance I can always explain their absence. You know the
selfless type who sends her children out to stand on their own feet. And Dicky as a buck private will fit in nicely with all that
democracy and patriotism sort of thing. Oh, I can think fast on my feet. You’ll see tonight. Now, do you prefer to fly or sail? I think a nice, slow boat, but
. . .”
“Sheila, I’m taking a plane. . . .”
“Oh, very well. The jet service. . . .”
“Listen to me, Sheila. I’m taking a plane hack to New York
tonight.”
“To
New York?
Oh, yes,
Worldwide Weekly.
You know, I’ve been thinking, darling, it’s such a shabby little magazine. Not
really worthy of you. I have such a load of work piled on me—
details that I can’t possibly handle myself—I thought that you might possibly consider. . . . Or, if you wanted to do some sort of creative writing, there’s the tool shed just begging to be put to good use. Of course I can do
my
work anywhere, but as long as we’ve got this huge house right here, it seems silly to. . . .”
“Sheila!” he said sharply. “Now listen to me and listen carefully. Don’t just think about what
you’re
going to say.”
“Yes, darling,” she smiled.
“I am going to New York tonight. I am getting away from ‘right here,’ from this ‘huge house’ and from you. There isn’t going to be any Mother of the Year banquet in Dicky’s tuxedo. There isn’t going to be any month or two in Jamaica.”
“You’re joking, of course. I mean, all of my plans. . . .”
“I was never more serious. And here you go. It’s just what Allison said—all of
your
plans.
You
decide that I’m going to Jamaica.
You
decide that I’m going to throw everything over and handle details for
you. You
decide that I can be a creative writer in
your
tool shed.
You
give me the choice between being Mrs. Flood or Dicky—both
yours.”
“But, Peter, I love you.”
She said it so beautifully, so simply, so sincerely that for a
moment he stopped as though the breath had been knocked out of him. “Sheila, those are three short, simple words. They’re very easy to say.”
“Why shouldn’t they be easy to say? They’re true.”
“That’s the trouble, Sheila. You
think
they’re true. Right now—right at this moment—maybe they are. You’re the expert on love, I’m not. But the trouble with you, Sheila, is that you love Sheila Sargent.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It isn’t a lie, Sheila. You destroy everyone you touch. And
yet you kid yourself into thinking you help them. You
must
be
fooling yourself. You’re a decent person. If you
knew
the damage you were doing. . . .”
“I’ve said this before. I’ll say it again. If there’s one thing I know, it’s Sheila Sargent. I am ruthlessly honest
about
myself
with
myself. I have no designs on you. You can stay or go as you choose. But I tell you this, Peter Johnson, we could do big
things together. If you’d listen to me for just a little while I could
turn you into one of the most important. . . .”
“Good-by, Sheila.”
“What?”
“I said good-by. I’m going now. Back to New York.”
“I see. It’s quite a story I’ve given you these past few days,
isn’t it? Sheila Sargent, the authority on love who snatches young
reporters into her bed. Sheila Sargent, the Mother of the Year, who’s driven her children away. I don’t suppose you’d be in
terested in
. . .
in selling your little article to me? I’m sure I’d
pay better than
Worldwide Weekly.”