Virginia was apologizing. “Zoë, either we shut up, and stop talking as though Gregg weren’t here, or we tell him the whole story.”
“That’s what I meant. But it’s a burden, Gregg. You have to become part of a conspiracy. You see, Charlie has finally put us all in the position of protecting him in order to protect ourselves. As a friend, you would also be involved.”
“I think I can handle a burden or two,” said Gregg, “but I don’t want you to tell me if you feel you’ll regret it. Sometimes confidences are dangerous—they often spoil friendships.”
Zoë smiled. “I know. You lose face. But I have lost so much, a little more can’t hurt.”
“Your trouble was in not confiding sooner, Zoë,” Virginia said. “If only you’d told Jeff and me years ago——”
“I know. Instead I confided in a bottle. It has a lot of answers, but none of the right ones. Gregg,” she finally got it out in a rush, “Charlie was married before he met me. He neglected to get a divorce, and our friend Mitch has been on our payroll most of the ten years of our life together.”
Briefly, she related the story of his marriage to Mavis, and in the middle of it Gregg jumped up, startling Zoë into silence.
“I’m sorry, I just remembered something. Walter has a letter, forwarded from Charlie’s firm address to your apartment and then sent here in Walter’s care. He asked me last night—and I forgot—to let him know when you got a mailing address from Charlie, so that he could again forward it. It is postmarked ‘Clarke Falls.’ I’ll get it from him ”
As he dashed out, Virginia said, “Don’t get scared, Zoë, the worst that can happen is that Charlie will have to take his medicine—and we’ll all have to suffer just a little more—it’s not your fault, Zoë—Zoë!”
Zoë was crying into her hands “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—but I’m afraid of showdowns—I should have kept the whole thing to myself.”
Angrily, Virginia said, “Stop it now, Zoë! You’re doing the right thing. What’s more, I think Dad ought to be in on this. If we all stick together, then there are no surprises, no shocks. We’ll protect Mum as long as we can, but if we can’t—if her baby boy has to go to jail on a bigamy charge—but we’re jumping to conclusions—we don’t even know what’s in the letter.”
Zoë blew her nose and said, “I’m sorry—I think the name ‘Clarke Falls’ set me off.” There was a clamoring inside her which she recognized. The clamor was not so much for the liquor itself as for the physical action of relieving tension by the witless running for a bottle, the pouring out, the swallowing. The conditioned reflex when a bell named Fear rang in her nerves. She won on the grounds of postponement: “Not now,” she said to the clamoring. “Not this moment—later maybe.”
Gregg returned with the letter and handed it to Zoë. “It’s addressed to Charlie, but I think you’d better open it,” he said. “It might mean that Mitch what’s-his-name isn’t kidding.”
Zoë’s hands were shaking as she opened the envelope and drew out a sheaf of thin paper, covered with beautiful script. Gregg closed the door firmly and took his place in the swivel chair behind his desk.
Virginia leaned forward, saying, “Read it, Zoë.”
“ ‘My dear M. Charles,’ ” began Zoë. She took a long breath and then plunged ahead.
“I am not sure how this letter will be received by you. I am quite sure you remember me, Berthe Durand, the ‘policeman’ at Clarke Falls, who failed in her duty. I assure you, however, I have no wish to disturb you with my feelings of long ago times. There are too many waters which have flow under the bridges.
“Until now, Mavis and I were in agreement that it would lack dignity to contact you in any way, and now, please, m’sieu, do not think we are asking for money. You were most generous during the two years, and we thank you. But our needs are small, and we supply them quite conveniently.”
Zoë looked up in astonishment. She told them about Charlie’s anonymous small amounts which he had stopped sending when Mitch stepped in. “Then it means that they never——”
“Of course not,” Gregg finished for her. “And it means that probably Mitch doesn’t have a thing to go on—but let’s see—go on, Zoo.” He muttered to himself, “The son of a bitch!”
“Also we do not wish to embarrass you [Zoë continued], as we know you have married again. Perhaps you have had your marriage to Mavis annulled, as we never received notice of legal divorce. Therefore if you do not wish to answer this letter, we will understand. I am getting quite old, and it would relieve me to feel that I have discharge my responsibilities properly.
“You are no doubt unaware that from your union there was a very fine boy——”
Zoë looked up, her voice trailing off, and handed the sheets to Virginia. “Read it, please—I can’t.”
“. . . a very fine boy, whom Mavis named Jean Charles, in honor of her dead father, my son, and in the sentiment she had for you. He is now eleven years of age, extremely intelligent, dutiful and loving.
“Mavis and I feel it is unfair to the boy, that he should not know his father. We can no longer answer his questions with fables. Also you have a right as a parent to have some say in the matter of his schooling. At his home here, we can go no further—although Clarke Falls has grown a great deal, since the new highways have made us a trucking center—we have a decent, but inadequate grammar school. Most of the boys go to work helping their fathers, as they are too dull to require more schooling. Jean Charles is bookish rather than athletic, he is hostile to the teasing from the other boys, and they put themselves above him because he has been brought up by women. I have the strong feeling there will come a day when he will be miserable to stay in this milieu.
“Perhaps you would like the boy to come to you for the visit, before you decide. He is quite intelligent enough to travel alone, if you want to make the arrangements.
“Mavis is extremely shy of her writing, but she joins me in wishing you good health.
“Yrs. obediently,
“B. Durand”
The three sat silently, enclosed in their own separate reactions to the letter. They had prepared for shock; they had been prepared for some kind of claim, a hard-luck story, whining and stupid; accusations of neglect, or plain cold-blooded demands, but not for this gentle apology for the existence of a child, and a simple statement of his needs.
Gregg said, “Of course, we could just tear up the letter, you know—save a lot of trouble.”
“Gregg!” Virginia said sharply. “What are you
saying!
”
“Just anything to get our brains unjelled,” laughed Gregg.
“Do you suppose it’s true?” asked Zoë, and then answered her own question. “It must be. Mitch didn’t know about the boy, for if he
had
known, it would certainly have been material for more pressure.”
Gregg said, “Well, Zoë, that only proves one thing—that Mitch never went near Clarke Falls, and this letter also seems to uphold it. Surely Mrs. Durand would have mentioned Mitch, in some way,” and then added: “It’s incredulous that neither of you ever checked.”
“What difference did it make!” Zoë flared. “Mitch had enough to wreck our lives if he so much as opened his mouth——”
“Sorry, Zoë.” Gregg held his hand. “I shouldn’t have said that. What’s past is past. I think the main point now is simply whether this boy is Charlie’s son or not. I imagine a birth certificate can be produced——”
“And I have the marriage certificate. I showed it to you, Virginia, remember? I’ll go get it. If the dates are straight, I suppose it
is
Charlie’s son, although——”
Virginia leaned over and picked up the envelope which had slipped to the floor. Holding it up to the light, she said, “There’s something else . . .” She shook the envelope and a snapshot slipped out. It was a picture of a boy kneeling on a rock with his arms around an airedale puppy. The blurred background of the moving waters of the falls only served to bring out more clearly the boy’s features. Together they looked at it, and Zoë shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, of course. You would. Did Charles look like that at this age?”
Gregg’s susceptible ear caught the formal ending Zoë used, instead of the usual “Charlie,” and the faint emphasis on the word “that.” Unconsciously, she was dignifying him, a sort of last-ditch attempt to refute this final argument for Charlie’s paternity.
Virginia was smiling, absorbed in the photograph. “It’s so like him it’s fantastic! Why,” she laughed, “it’s like me!”
Gregg looked at the picture over her shoulder. “Charlie would never be able to deny this boy, even if he wanted to——”
“Why would he want to?” Zoë asked, lightly. “Now Charlie has something ‘new’ again. A ‘new’ son. And I wouldn’t worry about how to explain him to outsiders if that has occurred to you. Charlie will invent just the right story; remember he’s fooled experts before this!” As she turned away, her smile contained her old brilliance, the quick humorous dimpling of her cheeks, the sparkle in her blue eyes. As she turned and went out the door she said, “I’ll get that certificate. I knew all the time I’d been keeping it for a purpose. I don’t know why I didn’t—tear it up——” Her voice trailed away with her out of the room. Virginia nodded absentmindedly and turned back to the snapshot. Gregg puffed on his pipe and gently rocked in the desk chair, setting up an old squeak in the springs.
“We must think about how to tell Dad and Mum,” Virginia said. “We can tell Dad the truth, of course; I imagine he’ll want to hold back the more unfortunate legal discrepancies.”
“Leave that to Charlie. Zoë’s right. He’ll invent a beautiful fabric of lies, and we’ll have to join in and lie like hell right along with him.”
“Of course, there’s no cloud on the boy at all. He’s got a lot coming to him.”
“Which Walter and Bea and you will provide,” added Gregg. “Well, you know perfectly well Charlie won’t want to be troubled with having the boy by himself! It’s only natural——”
“I’d give a passing thought to Zoë, if I were you.”
’What do you mean? Zoë’s completely washed up with Charlie. She’s off to Reno on Monday, you know. I’m sure none of this matters to her at all.”
“Zoë always wanted children, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but the other day she said she’s glad there weren’t any now.”
“And you believed her.”
“Of course.”
“Yes. I expect you’re right. Except for one thing. This evidence”—he gestured to the letter and the picture in Virginia’s hands—“is pretty conclusive that it wasn’t Charlie’s fault that they didn’t have children, isn’t it? It denies her that pride-saving possibility, doesn’t it?”
“Poor Zoë,” murmured Virginia. “But she’ll be all right, I know.” Gregg could see her mind was on the boy. She was rubbing her head with her fingertips. “Lord, there’s a lot to do; I think we should postpone telling Charlie till we find out from the boy’s mother exactly for how long she is willing to part with him, don’t you?”
Gregg nodded. “Take it easy, Virginia. No need to rush anything. You’ve hardly got your strength back. Young Jean Charles will keep, you know!”
But he existed. As Zoë descended the third-floor steps, that was all that was in her mind. It was the existence of the boy that banished her completely and forever from the world of the man she would always love. There was a feeling of finality, of loss so crushing that she stopped on one of the lower steps and leaned against the wall.
A row of Audubon prints was hung, one to the level of each step, and idly she looked at the jeweled colors of the Ruby-throated Hummingbird without seeing. In her mind she went over her absurd bright dreams, the dreams that had helped her in the long lonely nights. The Plan—the big absurd Plan. She would go to Reno, and then Charlie would quietly get a divorce from Mavis. And then they would remarry very quietly. And somehow in the process, Charlie had changed, and when he called her “my most beloved,” instead of simply a manner of speaking, he meant it. It would take time, of course—and perhaps she would have to come back to Nelson, keeping on family terms, because of course they would know that she was the one person in the world who would eventually change Charlie and they would admire her for her perseverance, for her unfailing belief in him. And Charlie would say wonderingly someday when they were getting old, “If it hadn’t been for the enduring love of my wife . . .”
“Balls!” she said to the hummingbird. She was out. Out. Even Virginia, she had noticed, had changed subtly while they were talking in Gregg’s room. Could it actually be that old wheeze about blood being thicker than water? No, no, she thought, stop finding excuses. She had done all the right things—nobody would respect a woman who had taken the treatment she had from Charlie. She must let him go, utterly. She must cut all connections, all friendships, all the innumerable little ties of a ten-year marriage. But could she live without Charlie? Definitely not alone. Not without the help of an old friend.
In her room she found the folded bit of paper, behind Charlie’s picture, sparing herself the pain of looking at either it or the photograph. Slipping it in an envelope, she took it to Virginia’s room and put it on her desk. She pantomimed her discharge of the responsibility of keeping it by brushing her palms together in little slaps, brushing away the dust of a nightmare. All her movements had become sharper and quicker and more purposeful. Her plans had formed precisely. She would leave tonight on the six o’clock to Boston and fly to Chicago, making an excuse to the family that she would like to visit her father a few days before she went to Reno. Anything, anything—another minute at home—Charlie’s home, would be too painful.
She made her excuses and her farewells in such a breezy manner, with such reasonableness—she said she had had a phone call from her father, “Poor darling, he sounded so dreary—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before——” that she was gone before they realized it.
Standing on the vine-covered veranda where they had waved her off, Virginia said to Gregg, “She’s been drinking—I smelled it when she kissed me good-by.”
Gregg said, “I didn’t need to smell it—she was on the way to a drink by the middle of Berthe Durand’s letter.”