Part 9 (1/2)
”If you get hungry or thirsty or anything-”
”I know where things are. Bug off, Bridget. Sleep tight.”
In thirty minutes the house was filled with that special silence of Sunday sleep. Little relays and servo devices made faint tickings and hummings. Refrigerator, deep freeze, air-conditioning, thermostats, electric clocks. Kids water-skied the lake, outboards droning, a faint sound through the closed windows.
Where do you look when you have no idea what you are looking for? An alcove off the living room apparently served as a small home office for Tom Pike. The top of the antique desk was clean. The drawers were locked, and the locks were splendid modern intricate devices, un-pickable, except in television drama. On a hallway phone table I found a black and white photograph in a silver frame. Helena, Maureen, and Bridget on the foredeck of the Likely Lady. Likely Lady. Boat clothes, sweaters for cool sailing. Mick Pearson's girls, all slender, smiling, a.s.sured, and with the loving look that could only mean that it had been Mick's eye at the finder, Mick's finger on the shutter release. Boat clothes, sweaters for cool sailing. Mick Pearson's girls, all slender, smiling, a.s.sured, and with the loving look that could only mean that it had been Mick's eye at the finder, Mick's finger on the shutter release.
So roam the silence and up the padded stairs, long slow steps, two at a time. A closed door at the back of the house, unlocked, opening into a master bedroom. Draperied window-wall facing the lake. One end was sitting room, fireplace, bookshelves. An oversized custom bed dominated the other end. It seemed too sybaritic, a bit out of key with the rest of the house. Two baths, two dressing rooms. His and hers. Sunken dark blue tub in hers, square, with clear gla.s.s in the shower-stall arrangement. Strategic mirroring there, as on the walls nearest the oversized bed.
The big bed was neatly made, so on Sunday, at least, Biddy was maid, cook, and housekeeper. Maureen's bath had been cleared of the daily personal things. Winter clothing in her dressing room closets. Bottles of perfume and lotion on her dressing table just a little bit dusty. But he lived here, very neatly. Sport s.h.i.+rts here, dress s.h.i.+rts there. Jackets, slacks on one bar. Suits hanging from another. The shoe-treed shoes on a built-in rack. Silk, cashmere, linen, Irish tweed, English wool, Italian shoes. Labeling from Worth Avenue, New York, St. Thomas, Palm Springs, Montreal. Taste, cost, and quality. Impersonal, remote, correct, and somehow sterile. Apparently no sentiment about an ancient sweater, crumpled old moccasins, baggy elderly slacks, or a gummy old bathrobe. When anything showed enough evident signs of wear, it was eliminated.
I searched for more clues to him. Apparently he did not have anything wrong with him that could not be fixed by an aspirin or an Alka Seltzer. He did not leave random notes to himself in the pockets of his suits and jackets. He did not seem to have a single hobby or a weapon or a book not devoted to economics, law, securities, or real estate.
So I gave up on Tom Pike and walked quietly down the hall and into Maureen's room. The deep breathing was just the same. She had not moved. The little orange light on the face of the control unit of the Dormed went off and on as before. I went to the side of the bed. Her arms rested at her sides, atop the blanket. I cautiously picked her left hand up. It was warm and dry, and complete relaxation gave it a heaviness, like the hand of a fresh corpse. The back of the hand was scratched, and welted with insect bites. I turned the inside of the wrist toward what light there was and, bending close to it, I could make out the white line of scar tissue across the pattern of the blue veins under the sensitive skin. I placed the hand the way it had been and looked down at her. The heavy gla.s.ses made her look as if both eyes had been bandaged. I could see the slow, steady beat of a tiny pulse in her throat. Even welted and mottled, dappled with the dry orange-white spots of lotion, she was a cus.h.i.+oned and luxurious and sweetly sensuous animal.
Sweet outcast. All the lovely, wifely tumbling in that outsized bed, mirrored hoyden, romping in sweet excitements with the lean and beloved husband. But then paradise is warped and the image becomes grotesque. Instead of babies, two sudden agonies, and two little b.l.o.o.d.y wads of tissue expelled too soon from the warm black safety of the womb. Then a world gone strange, like something half dreamed and soon forgotten. Exchange the springy bed for the sacking on the floor of the little storage room at the truck depot where, booze-blind, lamed, and sprung, you are kept at the rough service of the Telaferro brothers. Excuse me, my dear, while I pry around your outcast room looking for answers to questions I haven't thought of. Or one I have: Would you really rather be dead?
But there was nothing. There was a steel cabinet in the bathroom, resting on a bench, securely locked. Medicines, no doubt. There seemed to be nothing left in the bedroom or bath that she could hurt herself with. There was a rattling purr at the end of each exhalation. Her diaphragm rose and fell with the deep breathing of deep sleep.
I was glad to leave her room and leave the sound of breathing. Somehow it was like the coma that precedes death. I went down and found a cold beer, turned on the television set with the volume low, and watched twenty-two very large young men knocking one another down while thousands cheered. I watched and yet did not watch. It was merely a busy pattern of color, motion, and sound.
Blue handles of kitchen shears. Helena climbing naked in the red light of the Exuma sun, rising to teeter on the rail, then find her balance, then dive into the black-gray water of the cove at Shroud Cay and then surface, seal-sleek, hair water-pasted flat to the delicate skull contours. Penny Woertz snuggling against me in the night, her back and shoulders moist with exertion, making little umming sounds of content as her breath was slowing. Biddy sobbing aloud as she trotted into my bathroom, her running a humble, awkward, clumsy, bovine, knock-kneed gait. Memory and digital skills. The bleeders don't jump, and the hangers don't bleed. Twenty thousand to a tall man. Jake saying ”Bon voyage.” The 'Bama Gal 'Bama Gal erupting into the sunlight after all the weeks on the murky bottom. Tom Pike lifting his face from his hands, eyes streaming. Mick thumping the cabin trim with a solid fist as he showed me the honest way the erupting into the sunlight after all the weeks on the murky bottom. Tom Pike lifting his face from his hands, eyes streaming. Mick thumping the cabin trim with a solid fist as he showed me the honest way the Likely Lady Likely Lady had been built. Substantial means more than comfortable and less than impressive. Maurie streaking greasy fingers across the rounded, pneumatic, porcelain-gold of her thigh. Rick Holton flexing and rubbing his wrists after I'd unwound the tight bite of the hanger wire. Blue handles of kitchen shears. Penny's clovery scents. Five dozen silk ties with good labels. Orange light winking. An umber-orange mole, not as big as a dime. Huddled nude in a Gauguin jungle. had been built. Substantial means more than comfortable and less than impressive. Maurie streaking greasy fingers across the rounded, pneumatic, porcelain-gold of her thigh. Rick Holton flexing and rubbing his wrists after I'd unwound the tight bite of the hanger wire. Blue handles of kitchen shears. Penny's clovery scents. Five dozen silk ties with good labels. Orange light winking. An umber-orange mole, not as big as a dime. Huddled nude in a Gauguin jungle.
The mind is a cauldron and things bubble up and show for a moment, then slip back into the brew. You can't reach down and find anything by touch. You wait for some order, some relations.h.i.+p in the order in which they appear. Then yell Eureka! and believe that it was a process of cold, pure logic.
Finally, on my fourth visit to the electrosleep bedside, it was exactly six o'clock, so I gently removed the headset, put it aside, and turned the Dormed off. I watched her, ready to go awaken Biddy if Maureen woke up. For several minutes she did not move. Then she rolled her head over to one side, made a murmurous sound, then rolled all the way over onto her side, pulled her knees up, put her two hands, palms together, under her cheek, and soon was breathing as deeply as before.
As the room got darker I turned on a low lamp on the other side of the room. I sat in a Boston rocker near the bed, watching the sleeping woman and thinking that this was probably where Biddy sat and watched her, while she thought about the marriage and thought about her own life.
At a little after eight I knocked on Biddy's door. After the second attempt I heard a groggy, querulous mutter. I waited and knocked again and suddenly she pulled the door open. She had a robe around her shoulders and she held it closed with a concealed hand. Her hair was in wild disarray and her face was swollen with sleep. ”What time is it!”
I told her it was a little after eight, that I had unhooked Maurie from her machine at six, and that she was still sleeping. She yawned and combed her hair back with her free hand. ”The poor thing must have been really exhausted. I won't be a minute.”
When she was dressed, she sent me downstairs, saying she'd bring Maurie down in a little while. I found the light switches. As I was making a drink the phone rang. It was just one ring. No more. And so I decided Biddy had probably answered it upstairs. As I was carrying my drink into the living room it rang again, and once again it was just one ring.
Soon they came down. Maurie wore a navy blue floor-length robe with long sleeves and white b.u.t.tons and white trim. She was scratching her shoulder with one hand and the opposite hip with the other, and complaining in a sour little voice. ”Just about eaten to pieces. How do they get in with the house all closed up?”
”You'll just make them worse by scratching, dear.”
”I can't help it.”
”Say h.e.l.lo to Travis, dear.”
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and smiled at me, still scratching, and said, ”h.e.l.lo, Travis McGee! How are you? I had a very good nap today.”
”Good for you.”
”But I itch something awful. Biddy?”
”Yes, honey.”
”Is he here?” Her tone and expression were apprehensive.
”Tom went on a trip.”
”Can I have peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches, Biddy, please?”
”But your diet, dear. You're almost up to a hundred and fifty again.”
Her tone was wheedling, sympathy-seeking. ”But I'm real tall, Biddy. And I'm starving. starving. And I had a good nap and I itch something awful!” And I had a good nap and I itch something awful!”
”Well...”
”Please? He He isn't here anyway. isn't here anyway. He He won't know about it. You know something? Some son of a b.i.t.c.h must have kicked me or something. I'm so sore right-” won't know about it. You know something? Some son of a b.i.t.c.h must have kicked me or something. I'm so sore right-”
”Maureen!”
She stopped, gulped, looked humble. ”I didn't mean to.”
”Please try to speak nicely, dear.”
”You won't tell him him?”
Biddy took my gla.s.s and they went out into the kitchen. In a little while Maureen came walking in very slowly and carefully, carrying my fresh drink. I thanked her and she beamed at me. Somehow she had managed to get a little wad of peanut b.u.t.ter stuck on the end of her nose, possibly from licking the top off the jar. She went back. I heard them talking out there but could not hear the words, just the tone, and it was like a conversation between child and mother.
When they came back in, Maureen pulled a ha.s.sock over in front of the television set. Biddy plugged a set of earphones into a jack in the rear of the set and Maureen put them on eagerly and then was lost in the images and the sound, expression rapt, as she ate her sandwiches.
Biddy said, ”She loves to watch things Tom can't stand.”
”Does she remember running away last night?”
”No. It's all gone now. Slate wiped clean.”
”She won't say Tom's name?”
”Sometimes she will. She's so terribly anxious to please him, to have him approve of her. She just gets... all tightened up when he's here. Really, he's wonderfully kind and patient with her. But I guess that... a child-wife isn't what a man of Tom's intelligence can adjust to.”
”If you think of her just as a child, she's a good child.”
”Oh, yes. She's happy, or seems happy, and she likes to help, but she forgets how to do things.”
”It doesn't seem consistent with suicide attempts, does it?”
She frowned. ”No. But it's more complex than that, Travis. There's another kind of child involved, a sly and naughty child. And the times she's tried, she's gotten into the liquor and gotten drunk first. It's almost as if alcohol creates some kind of awareness of self and her condition, removes some block or something. We keep it all locked up, of course, ever since the first time. But the tune she locked herself in the bathroom and cut her wrist, I'd forgotten and left a half quart of gin on the countertop with the bottles of mix. I just didn't see it, somehow. And she sneaked it upstairs, I guess. Anyway, the empty bottle was under her bed. Then the time Tom found the noose, we know she got into something, but we don't know what it was or how. Vanilla extract or shaving lotion or something. Maybe even rubbing alcohol. But of course she couldn't remember. It's quite late. Can I fix you something to eat?”
”I think I'll be moving along, Biddy. Thanks.”
”I owe you, my friend. I was irritated you let me sleep so long. But I guess you knew better than I how badly I needed it. I was getting ragged around the edges. The very least I can do is feed you.”