He went at a dogtrot through the grape arbor leading to the garage, and through its dark green tunnel he could see Charlie and Zoë arguing savagely, their words drowned in the noise of the revved-up engine. He stopped, because it looked as though Zoë had no intentions of leaving, and perhaps that was what the argument was about, in which case he was happy not to interfere.
It was not a full blow, it was hardly more than a shove, but he saw Zoë’s head snap back and she staggered a little, covering one cheek with her hand. At the same time, Charlie slid into the seat of the open car. As he looked back over his right shoulder and started the car out onto the driveway, he caught a glimpse of Gregg, now moving toward them from the arbor. The car rocked as he slammed on the brakes. “Did you see that, my friend?” he called indignantly.
“I saw it.” Gregg moved behind the car over to where Zoë stood, still holding her cheek, her eyes wide in astonishment.
“Did you see what she made me do? I’ve never hit a woman in my life. She’s evil, Gregg, evil and selfish! She
made me
hit a
woman!
” There seemed to be no answer to this, and as he saw that Gregg was not sharing his indignation, Charlie gave a grunt of disgust and backed the car around the turn-around, cutting into the petunia bed, and then roared down the driveway.
“You okay, Zoë?” Gregg asked.
Zoë touched her cheek tenderly, and then rubbed the back of her neck. “I couldn’t be better, Gregg—it hurts a little, but I think I feel as though I’d been suddenly cured of a disease.” They walked slowly back through the arbor, stopping to sit on a bench beside a sundial which no longer recorded the hours in the dense, burgeoning growth of the vines.
Zoë said with a laugh, “I’m not one of those women who say, ‘He loves he—he beats me!’ I never have cared for the cave-man type. I think it was one of the things that made me fall in love with Charlie, the very fact that his was a gentle nature, full of the charm of a sensitive man—almost too sensitive, I thought, and so I had to—take care of him.”
“Zoë, people have been making excuses for Charlie all his life, for just that reason. He can charm a bird off a tree, as ‘they say’—and ‘they’ means everyone who has anything to do with him.”
“I’m going to have to stay away from him, Gregg. Stay away until everything is settled, because I know how easy it is to succumb to that engaging grin, that liquid twinkle in his eyes—the ‘personality kid’!”
“Virginia was very anxious that you didn’t go back to town with him——”
“I know—that’s what she is afraid of—that I might try to go on living with him—when I really have no right to.”
“What do you mean by that, Zoë?”
Zoë hesitated and then, taking a deep breath, she said, “Later, Gregg. I’ll tell you all about it. Right now, I’m feeling rotten. It was my fault, I needed to talk to Virginia and kept her—made her change her plans. Oh, lord, I wish I believed in Fate, or something, so as to feel that I was no part of the circumstances.”
Gregg smiled. “You and all the rest of mankind, Zoë—that antagonist of freedom has been the subject of the great disputes. But I think for your own sake, and Virginia’s, it is better to act on the present and real things like keeping her company and seeing that she eats something.”
Zoë rose quickly. “Oh, lord, yes, I’m sorry—and maybe I can help you with condolence notes and that kind of thing?”
“I’ll be very grateful, Zoë. I think you’re fine, you know,” and lightly he said, “and someday maybe I’ll be in that line that forms on the right!”
Zoë said, “Thanks for the flattery—I’m badly in need of it at the moment. And while my opinion of you has almost completely reversed itself since I first met you, I know one thing for sure—you’ll never be in that position!”
“You’re still an attractive woman, why not?”
“Because you love Virginia, Gregg.”
Gregg’s face closed, and he was very still for a moment. “Yes, I do love her.” And with a seriousness that ended the conversation he said, “I am her friend, Zoë.”
Sunlight and time, sand and salt air can heal the heart and mind. Day after day, lying on an inflated pad on the flat rocks of Berry Pie, Virginia listened to the sea gulls cry, and watched the sandpipers busy running, their cat-stitches of footprints erased gently by the fingers of the tide.
She wondered if she would ever be “ready” to cope with the problems that lay ahead of her: the small heartbreaking jobs of subletting the apartment, of sorting and disposing of garments and belongings that held the presence and personality of their owners. Others had done it, and so could she, but not yet.
She had persuaded Zoë to stay awhile, before she left for Reno to get her divorce. They seemed to strengthen each other, in sharing a loss. Zoë still held firm about not drinking, and Virginia felt that it was because she wanted to continue the sense of being helpful. There was an unspoken conversation that went on between them constantly: “Being with Virginia, I can bear Charlie and what he has done to me, because he has done worse to her—I am experienced in his ‘bull-in-a-china-shop’ demolishment, his deadly, unthinking, unfeeling purposeless injuries; I have been to that fire—I have watched that flood, and I know the pain passes.” And within Virginia, as she watched some of Zoë’s beauty and calmness return, “It is good for me to be reminded of what Charlie has put Zoë through; it keeps me from diving too deep into myself and wondering at the mystical thought of why I have always known I would lose something at Charlie’s hands. It would be unbearable to live with the idea that I alone was a predestined victim—it is too fanciful, an insane absurdity.” It was still impossible for Virginia to sort things out clearly. She felt an apathy about life, an ennui with the trivial, an aversion to listening to the words of comfort and kindness from friends. The role of the brave widow was simply bad casting, and it was enough that she could assume it when convention required it of her, but alone she had her battles with emotions at the level of a tragedy of Euripides. The day of the funeral when her face cracked with brave smiles, she came home and tore off the black costume, the hat with its soft black veiling, the discreet string of pearls, rolled the new black soft kidskin gloves into a ball and tossed them onto the heap. Without seeing anyone she slipped out of the house and down to the beach in her bathing suit and robe. Reaching the raft, she dove repeatedly into the water and in its depths she yelled without sound against the unyielding salty walls until some of the pain subsided.
Still, she was able to estimate her own strength, she knew what she could do and what she could not do, and in this she knew that eventually she would be stronger than Zoë. Virginia felt that there would come a day when Zoë’s resolutions to be done with Charlie once and for all might weaken; when the inevitable time came that Virginia did not need to have her hand held, when life became its everyday self again, then would be the test for the character of Zoë. She had a great surface drive, a need for activity, and Charlie had certainly kept her busy. Without Charlie, without children of her own, with only her self-sufficient father, there would be no one whose life she could run, for her generosity was, paradoxically, self-centered.
For the hundredth time, Virginia wondered if there were other “Charlies” in the world. Surely he wasn’t the only kind, the only “type,” unique in his odd make-up. He didn’t fit the stereotypes of the villains and criminals and just plain “no-goods” even from her own experience or in history. He was a murderer outside the law, without intent to kill, he was a bigamist, who in a few weeks would not be a bigamist, because Zoë was divorcing him, and no one was going to bring it to the attention of the courts. He did not fall into the category of those who swindle and cheat for power, of those twisted souls who murder and rape and kill in lust. These the law and the institutions provided for—they could keep them from hurting society by confinement or punishment. But one would feel ridiculous saying to someone, “Look out for this man—he is dangerous—don’t get too close to him, he may destroy you.” For the answer would be, “Charlie! Absurd! He may be a bit of a heel sometimes, but who isn’t! And he
is
fun!”
The day for “turning out” the bedrooms of the second floor was always a Thursday, rain or shine. And rain it was, trapping people indoors, but it was just too complicated to explain to Doreen that she should wait for a sunny day when they could be outside and out of the way. Walter and Beatrice were in Walter’s study with the elder Shelleys. Virginia had knocked on Gregg’s door on the third floor and said:
“Let me come in and read or something—I won’t disturb your writing, but I can’t bear the reminiscing that old people torture themselves with. Mother Shelley has brought over
baby pictures
, for God’s sake!”
Gregg laughed, saying, “I don’t need to write; I’m glad of an excuse to quit, as a matter of fact! But hadn’t we better rescue Zoë also?”
“Rescue Zoë from what?” From the landing Zoë had overheard Gregg’s voice as he was admitting Virginia. “Oh, hi! I’m looking for Virginia—Doreen said she came up here—I’ve got a letter.”
Gregg made some futile passes at the desk, piling up papers and books from the two other chairs, and then threw his hands into the air. “I give up. Just make room for yourselves. I’m not the orderly type.”
Virginia said, “Don’t bother, Gregg, we’re barging in anyway, and we’ll barge out again as soon as Doreen gets through. Lord, in a house this size, wouldn’t you think we could find someplace to go, and not bother you? There is something so uninviting about an empty guest room. You feel as though you had to go in and sit very properly on the most uncomfortable chair with your hands folded, so as not to disturb even yesterday’s dust! What’s the letter, Zoë?”
It was from Charlie, written from an address in Mexico City, in care of Louisa Morales.
Zoë, my dear [it ran pleasantly].
I’m afraid we are indeed at the parting of the ways. I’m sure it is my fault, although I can’t see quite how—but I am very sorry anyway. You may use this letter to give to your lawyer if you wish, and use desertion as your grounds, and say that I have no intention of supporting you or living with you. I am sure you will appreciate the fact that, if I wanted to, I could certainly make things pretty damned unpleasant for you, but I will say nothing about your drinking and your absolutely filthy temper. Just go to Reno and get it over with and don’t bother me any more.
I am feeling very depressed, because I have lost a friend. I had an ugly row with Mitch. I told him we were going to be divorced, and he seemed to feel badly about it. Then I told him I didn’t have the money to keep on paying him and I will spare you his words. He was absolutely furious! He went back to his old blackmailing theme, which I thought he had forgotten years ago—he said he couldn’t afford to pay the terrible demands from the Durands. When I tried to tell him they would have no foundation for further demands, he said, “Wouldn’t your family like to know of your marriage to a backwoods floozy!” He may try to tap you or Dad, but frankly I am too depressed to care. I have come down here to be in friendly surroundings. The intolerable attitude of everyone regarding the unfortunate circumstances of the wreck had me almost completely unnerved. If I had thought for one minute that I was responsible, I would have killed myself! As a matter of fact, I strongly contemplated it on reaching home. The things you said to me are seared into my brain.
Incidentally, I’ve put all my things in storage—if you need to communicate with me you can address me care of Louisa as above. She is a divine gal, with scads of money from her dear departed husband (she married him when he was sixty-five, the clever child!). She has this absolutely heavenly house in Mexico City and a lovely jewel box of a place in Cuernavaca; the house is always full of people, artists, the bullfighting crowd, etc. Must run—I’m to be “shown off” at a cocktail party in my honor this evening, and it’s all to be très, très chic!
Love,
CC.
“I think the time has come to take steps about my so-called husband,” Zoë said as she finished.
“So-called?” Gregg asked.
“That’s what I said. Virginia, shall we fill Gregg in about why I speak of my husband as ‘so-called’?”
Virginia was concentrating on rereading the letter and hadn’t heard their words. “What does he mean, ‘He may try to tap you or Dad’! I’d like to see him try it!”
“He might—but I doubt it, Virginia,” said Zoë. “Mitch has simply been working a good thing for years. But I have some doubts as to whether he’d take a chance on someone as smart as Walter.”
Gregg filled a pipe, and swiveling his desk chair around, he faced the two women. “Just who is Mitch?”
“Mitch Cooper,” Zoë said, “a
very dear
friend of ours. He was on a hunting trip with Charlie about twelve years ago. Spring of ’37, it was, I believe. I mean I know.” She was thinking of a sheet of official paper which she had removed from Charlie’s carelessly kept files, and which she had secreted behind a photograph of Charlie in a leather traveling folder.
Virginia put Charlie’s letter down with a sigh. “There’s nothing to be done, Zoë. Charlie has again run from trouble or pressure as he always has, and maybe it’s a good thing this time. Does the Louisa thing bother you?”
“I can cope with it. There’s been a new Louisa or a new car or a new painting in his life as long as I’ve known him. It’s something that brings out the only ‘best’ in him. There’s a light in his eyes and a lift in his voice whenever he finds something ‘new’. I was something ‘new’ ten years ago—a ‘new’ wife.”
Gregg listened, waiting for them to include him in the conversation when they were ready. He noticed a growing tension in Zoë’s manner, a bitterness in her voice. He wondered if she had been really “cured of a disease,” as she had said the day Charlie left Nelson. He wondered if a complete split in the form of a divorce was the answer for her. Her drinking problem lay behind her, or so it seemed. He wondered if it also lay in wait for her.