The Bad Seed (10 page)

“If we thought anything like that,” said Miss Claudia, “we would have been compelled to notify the proper authorities.”

Burgess smiled and said, “Oh, nothing so melodramatic as that, Mrs. Penmark. Our complaint is that Rhoda is evasive, and
didn’t tell us the whole truth. We feel she has knowledge that she’s told nobody.”

Miss Octavia broke off a piece of sandwich, fed it to her dog, and said that they’d been very fair to the child, and had given her every chance to explain. They had questioned her at length after the tragedy, and she had denied everything with a straight face; she’d denied harassing the boy in the bus, she’d denied trying to take the medal in the woods; she’d denied being on the old wharf at any time. She had been so innocent, so plausible in her denials, that for a time the sisters had doubted the evidence of their own senses.

Christine said, “I see. I see.” Then, as the Fern sisters continued to talk of the affair, her mind went back to the child’s expulsion from the school in Baltimore. Her husband had made light of the matter, perhaps for his comfort as well as her own. Many children took things, he said; he had taken things himself as a child, and he’d turned out all right—at least reasonably so. It was nothing to be concerned about, even if true; and insofar as lying was concerned, that was a part of the growing-up process of children—particularly imaginative children. They had comforted each other, and had accepted these solutions, but in their hearts they both knew the differences; children took fruits from orchards and flowers from lawns; and the lies they told were the magical lies of the imaginary worlds they live in at the moment. There were none of these qualities in her own child. Rhoda was interested in material things for their own sake, and the lies she told were the hard, objective lies of an adult whose purpose was to confound and mislead.

She came back to the reality that surrounded her. Miss Burgess was saying, “We’re sorry all this had to come up, or that Rhoda’s connection with our school had to end this way; but we feel that Rhoda is not a good influence on our other pupils, whose interests we must consider, too.”

“We feel that we’re not able to understand or cope with a child of Rhoda’s temperament,” said Claudia Fern. “We feel we can do nothing further for her.”

Miss Octavia rose, as though bringing the interview to a close, and said, “We feel your little girl would be happier somewhere else. Frankly, we do not want her in our school any longer.”

Christine was depressed and a little anxious when she returned home; to calm herself, she made a cup of tea which she drank at her kitchen table. From where she sat, she could see both the playground and the wide, paved courtyard at the back of the building. In the park, the children of the house and the children of neighbors, who were permitted to use the playground, swung, splashed in the lily pond, skated, or played the running and shrieking games of childhood. Rhoda was in the park, too; but she kept herself away from the boisterous children; she sat on a bench beneath the old white pomegranate, reading the copy of
Elsie Dinsmore
she’d won for attendance and application. Then Leroy Jessup came out of the basement carrying a bucket of ashes from the incinerator. He stopped at the gate to scold the children wading in the pond, to warn them that if they tore up them lilies again, he was going to have their mothers whup them good with a buggywhup; then, lifting his eyes toward the skies, as though asking heaven to witness the things he endured, he disappeared into the alley beyond Mrs. Penmark’s arc of vision.

She began to feel better, her depression dissolving itself in the warmth of the tea. After all, there was nothing the Fern sisters had told her about Rhoda that she had not already known, and for a much longer time. The child’s singleness of purpose, her evasiveness, her innocent plausibility when trapped, her incessant lying, were things which had long since ceased to surprise either herself or Kenneth, and when she considered the factors of the affair in quietness, those things, really, were all the Fern sisters had intimated.

The charges they had brought, if one could call such vague dissatisfactions charges, were susceptible of more than one interpretation. She had little doubt that Rhoda had worried the Daigle boy, or that she had tried to take the medal from him in the woods, even though the child had denied these things with such earnestness. But Claude Daigle, as anyone could see, was the born victim of others—the one who, in a sense, went about the world to invite his own destruction. Rhoda’s violence with him was unusual for her, greatly out of character. She would never have tried such an approach on a child with more courage and self-reliance, one who would cheerfully turn and slap her down.

She was not trying to justify her child, for she could not condone the things the child had done; she was only saying to herself that matters were not so bad as she had feared. Rhoda was her child, and she loved her. It was her duty to protect the child, to make every allowance for her, to give her the benefit of every doubt. She washed her cup and put it away. She would make the best of the matter. She would trust in the future. She would hope that everything turned out all right in time.

Then, returning to her living-room, she telephoned Monica to tell her she’d decided to take her advice and put Rhoda in public school next season. Mrs. Breedlove’s cheerful voice came through the receiver, approving the decision; then, lowering her voice, she explained that Mildred Trellis and Edith Marcusson were in her apartment at the moment. They had called to discuss a clinic for the treatment of alcoholics which she was trying to establish. She had known Mrs. Trellis and Mrs. Marcusson all her life; they were charming girls of excellent families; but what was more important for her present purpose, they were stinking with money. The trouble was, Emory had come home earlier than she had expected, bringing with him that Reginald Tasker, and they were interfering with her plans. They’d been in town drinking,
and Emory, at least, was high. It wasn’t that they were acting common or using objectionable words; this wouldn’t bother her friends in the slightest, for they were both well-read ladies; they were simply sitting together over by the ferns, making silly comments behind their hands; and at regular intervals, Emory would get the sherry decanter and fill the glasses of her visitors. She giggled and wondered if Christine would come up and divert the attention of the boys until she could put the squeeze on her wealthy friends.

“Put on your new high-heel pumps with the little leather bows in front, and see that the seams of your stockings are straight. Emory admires you to distraction. He says you’ve got the best legs in town.”

The men met her at the door, took her into the kitchen, and fixed her a drink. “Why is it,” asked Reggie, “that real pretty girls like Christine never go around talking about their unconscious minds?”

Emory kissed her loudly on the cheek and said, “This one’s got it, hasn’t she, boy? This one’s really stacked.”

In the living-room, Monica was saying, “I’m so tired of novels about sensitive boys and their first sex experiences. You know how it is, Edith; they slink home in disgust, feeling degraded and guilty. Sometimes they flip their lids, sometimes they jump out of windows, they’re all so delicately adjusted and refined.”

Mrs. Marcusson took a swallow of sherry and said solemnly, “Sex is a wholesome and normal experience.”

One of Reginald’s long, pale eyes was set a little lower than its mate, like the migrating eye of a flounder at the beginning of its journey. He patted Christine’s shoulder and said, “Is everything under that black satin dress really
you
?”

Christine took her drink and said, “I get it from the upholsterer. He comes in twice a week and fluffs me out.” She laughed and pulled away, thinking:
Rhoda probably did follow the boy down
the beach. Maybe he ran out on the wharf to get away from her, and she followed him. Maybe he backed away from her and fell among the pilings. I don’t know whether this happened or not. But anyway it’s the worst thing I have to face—

“Now, the sort of book I’d like to read,” continued Mrs. Breedlove, “is one about a boy who hasn’t a smidgen of delicacy in him.” She took a sip from her glass, giggled, and went on. “My little boy is an ordinary, nasty little boy who’s going to be an ordinary, nasty little man when he’s grown. He works in a grocery store after school, I think; and he saves his nickels and dimes until he’s got enough for his first visit to the town whore, who’s old and fat, and hasn’t had a bath all over since Armistice Day.”

Mrs. Trellis laughed shrilly; then, as though realizing how loud her voice sounded in the room, she composed herself, sat up in her chair, and said, “If you’ll write it, I’ll buy a thousand copies.”

Christine thought:
But if the boy backed off into the water, and Rhoda was there, why didn’t she call out to the guard who saw her on the wharf? Why did she run away? Why did she leave the boy to die?
She turned her head and shuddered inwardly. “But I won’t keep going over this,” she said to herself. “It’s strange and terrible. I won’t think about it again.”

“My nasty, average little boy,” said Mrs. Breedlove, “came out of the place smirking and rolling his eyes. He whistled and swaggered from side to side. He’s wondering if he can talk his old man into letting him quit school and take a full time job at the bag factory. That way, he can make more money, and pay more visits to the greasy old whore who’s just taken his virginity. My boy’s going to be such a dear,
normal
boy!”

Emory stuck his head out and said, “If you girls are going to talk dirty, Reggie and I’ll have to leave the room.”

The girls went into whirlwinds of laughter, and Monica, catching his eye, shouted for him to open another bottle of the
good sherry as her guests wanted another sip before they got down to business; then, turning to Mrs. Marcusson, she said, “I want to apologize for Emory’s condition, my dear. Emory’s drunk.” Emory dropped an ice cube, kicked it under the stove, and said, “Well, look who’s talking!”

While he got out the sherry, Christine and Reginald came into the living-room and sat down. Christine said she’d been thinking about the conversation they’d had the last time she’d seen him. He’d told a story then of a woman who’d poisoned her niece for insurance. What she wanted to know now was when did such people start their careers? Did children ever commit murders, or was she correct in assuming that only grown people did such dreadful things?

Reginald thought that this was not the best time for a discussion of such serious matters; but if she was really interested, why not telephone him, or drop by his apartment for lunch some day? However, he would say now, in spite of all the giggling and confusion, that children quite often committed murders, and clever ones, too, at times. Some murderers, particularly the distinguished ones who were going to make great names for themselves, usually started in childhood; they showed their genius early, just as outstanding poets, mathematicians, and musicians did.

He paused, and in the silence Monica said distinctly, “I’ve often wondered why I married Norman Breedlove. Lately, I’ve come to the conclusion that it was his name that attracted me.” She glanced at her brother and continued. “Now, my first association to Norman is ‘normal’; after all, there’s only the difference of a consonant. ‘Normal’ is such a reassuring word. It’s the word the worried people of my generation were looking for.”

Mrs. Trellis wagged her finger and said, “Where’s the sherry? What have you done with the sherry, Emory?”

Mrs. Marcusson, who looked more like a dowdy old farm
woman in town to sell her vegetables than a woman of wealth, tilted her battered old hat with the back of her hand, and said, “I wonder what young people talk about these days? When we were young, at least we had sex and social betterment to occupy our minds. I’ve got a feeling that young people now don’t talk about anything except television and canasta.”

Monica waited tolerantly until her guest had finished, and then went on. “Now, ‘breed’ is associated in my mind with increase, and ‘love’ is associated with love, naturally. So the combination Norman Breedlove brings to mind one who would not only be well adjusted and normal, but one of constantly increasing affection, too. The thing is so simple in retrospect, although it never occurred to me at all at the time.”

Emory said, “I thought you married Norman Breedlove because he was the only man that asked you to.”

Before she could answer, he laughed and said, “Now I bet Christine with those big gray eyes and yellow hair had to beat the boys off with an umbrella.”

Christine said, “You couldn’t be more wrong. I was never popular. I was too earnest and literal for the boys.”

Mrs. Trellis began to laugh, and Mrs. Marcusson joined in the merriment. Mrs. Trellis said, “This has been such a stimulating afternoon, Monica. Now, just relax and sit back and quit worrying about how much you’re going to get out of Edith and me. You’re going to get plenty. Edith and I talked the matter over on our way here. You’re not going to get as much as you figured on, maybe—but you’re going to get quite a bit.”

Emory said in a voice audible to all, “Those three old bags are as drunk as owls. They got away with a quart and a half of sherry.” The three rose and stared at him coldly. Monica steadied herself, put on her glasses, and said, “Let’s go into the library, girls, where we can be by ourselves. We have pens and paper and blank checks on every bank in town.” They put their arms about
one another’s waists and walked away, but as they passed through the big, old-fashioned folding doors, they turned their heads at the same moment, looked back, and screamed with laughter.

Christine put down the drink she had hardly touched, thinking:
But suppose she followed him to the end of the wharf, and Claude, rather than let her take the medal, threw it into the bay. Suppose she picked up a stick or something and hit with it, knocking him into the water, stunning him and leaving him to die there. Suppose—

She lowered her head and gripped the arms of her chair, for already despair and guilt were nibbling like mice at her mind. She got up and said she must go back to her apartment. It was almost five o’clock, and Rhoda should be returning from the playground soon. She called out to Monica that she was leaving, and Mrs. Breedlove, abandoning her friends in the library, came back into the living-room at once.