Part 52 (2/2)

”He thought I might like a boat-ride.”

But there was an unconvincing overtone in this, as though I were myself aware of some fantastic element in what I said even as I dared arrogantly to say it. Shrewdly Mrs. Purse picked at my absurdity: ”Mr. T. loves going fast,” she reflected.

”So do I,” Throw said. ”She's already had a fast boat-ride, I gave her a dandy.”

”That's pride in you,” Foxy said sourly.

”It's not Throw's fault, it was pried out of him,” Sonny said.

”Derivative,” chided Mrs. Purse. And to me: ”Couldn't find the motor could he? That poor man doesn't have enough resourcefulness to fill a hub-cap. He nearly tried to go off without any fuel-he forgot about fuel. I made him put the oars in just in case. He never thought of taking them-said he had full confidence in my repairs. Confidence in the fixings of a Purse, I told him, is subject to change. Change- nickels and dimes, you see-well, I really enjoy hearing that man laugh,” she crowed. ”And then what did you do?”

”When?”

”After you gave up about the motor.”

”Came back up,” I said.

”And talked, I don't doubt. Talked a good deal. A lot of family catching-up to do? A lot of that? I shouldn't wonder, father and daughter-charming. I understand you haven't met for some years? A reunion of sorts?”

”A reunion,” I agreed. Walt Whitman and Bronson Alcott were wrestling in the gra.s.s; I pretended to be distracted by their shrieks. Overhand over they rolled, the poet On top of the philosopher, and then the philosopher in the ascendant position astride the poet. They shrieked and they rolled, their pale heads full of sc.r.a.ps of straw, their pale joyous barbarian faces patterned with clinging mud; they rolled right over the sculptured baby, they rolled hugging one another right down the hill, they rolled right through the froth of high-grown Queen Anne's lace until the horizon toppled them out of existence.

”Those two,” said Mrs. Purse. ”They stick to each other like Damon and Pythias. Excuse me, like a demon and a python.”

”Derivative!” yelled Sonny.

”Derisible,” Mrs. Purse said modestly. ”Children are such animals one almost prefers machines. Of course you need switches for both.”

”DiRIgible,” Sonny interpreted.

”What?” Foxy said, but it was less a sign of incomprehension than a syllable of contempt. He followed his father in being a spiritual, rather than a mechanical, Purse. It pleased him that he had never heard of a dirigible; in morality machines do not matter, and clearly he was in favor of keeping a mind clean of man's folly.

”It flies,” Sonny informed an ignorant world. ”You fill it with gas. Not gasoline-gas, like laughing gas. Then it goes up, it's lighter than-”

”Incorrigible. What I said, Sonny, was 'derisible'-”

”You said incorrigible.”

”Oh, I'd like to flatten you! Purses should be flattened when they come as empty as you. Dirigible, you misp.r.o.nounced it anyhow-well, go fly like one. I'm trying to have a conversation with this young lady, can't you see that, Ralph Waldo? Flee, if you please,” commanded his parent, ”flee, flee-”

He took it properly-i.e., like a proper noun. ”If I can find a dog to light on,” he acquiesced, and fled.

”Purses are capital, but too many at once!-give me an occasional bankruptcy. Look at that one there. If you leave a Purse lying around someone's bound to pick it up.” The sculpture on the gra.s.s, hearing itself mentioned, suddenly came to life and stuck its thumb in its nose. Mrs. Purse made a sad face. ”Your mother's dead? Now that's tragic. Mr. T. told us she died very young, only twenty-two or so, over in England, in Brighton, he said. Isn't that a sort of beach place?”

I abandoned my biscuit with fingers stiffened by shock. Tilbeck dared anything. He dared the lie that plays with life and death. He trusted, I saw obscurely, in a G.o.d like a man-interested more in the phantasmal re-arrangement of justice than in justice. For the sake of a story he struck my mother dead; it gave his story a color to tell it that way. A greyish curl of margin appeared on the surface of the table, just under the biscuit. A shadow. Afternoon was on the point of beginning. ”I've never been there,” I said. Then I remembered that I had. Jaggedly I amended: ”Though I was born there.”

Mrs. Purse chose not to remark on the contradiction. Perhaps she decided that to have been born in Brighton was not the same as to have been in Brighton really; full consciousness might have been her criterion. Yet I had the sensation-it was more than a suspicion, and could almost be witnessed physically-that she had made a small note for herself, and tucked it away. ”Such a lot of travelers you are!” she breathed out with a moment's absent brightness; then resumed funereally, ”Mr. T. said he actually had to farm you out-he'd tried keeping you, tried nursemaids and so on, he said, but it didn't work. He told us he finally had to give you to the Peruvian Amba.s.sador's family to be brought up. in.” She was very polite; she looked to me for corroboration, as if she nearly expected me to believe she believed this.

”Not Peruvian,” I said dully.

This encouraged her. She gave out a facsimile of eagerness: ”But I suppose you speak Spanish fluently?”

”Not fluently.”

”That's your modesty doubtless,” she acknowledged with disappointment. She had been hoping for total denial, not ambiguity. By ”not fluently” did I mean ”not at all”? She could not tell. ”I wish you'd transfer some of it to Throw-we have a terrible time with that boy's ego. Throw!” she called. He was skipping stones across the brook. It was a sport which Foxy would not partake in: stoning was contrary to the creed of harmlessness. A water-bug might get hurt. Throw thought Foxy thought Foxy might get hurt, and said so. Foxy resented this; it confused compa.s.sion with cowardice. Throw replied that he didn't think doing good meant doing nothing. The two sects competed in argument. Argument proceeded to obstinacy, obstinacy to conviction, conviction to crusade. Stones were hurled, not at water-bugs. Arms and s.h.i.+ns and a feature of the face were struck. Martyrs' yells rose up piously. ”Throw!” Mrs. Purse pounded on the table with a missile that conveniently came her way. Nothing happened; the Friend continued to war with the minister, D.V. ”Will you see about that water? b.l.o.o.d.y nose, good Lord!”

Henry David Th.o.r.eau departed from the field of action and peered into the suspended pail. Mrs. Purse's offspring were complaisant, if only gradually. ”Boiling like mad,” he said.

”Are you sure? Well don't bleed into the pot Are there bubbles?”

”s.e.xtillions.”

”You know how you irritate Purse when you exaggerate. You know he thinks you use that word only because it's got s.e.x in it.”

Foxy looked affronted and stroked an elbow. A bruise glowed ih it like an interior flower. ”Purse is in the woods,” he warned.

”If you don't mind,” I said, ”I'll let the tea go.”

”Maybe you're right. It's too hot for this part of the month. It's too hot for tea and Lord knows it's too hot to drink blood. That must've bled a lot That cut on your finger? It's since yesterday, isn't it? My boys turn into thugs when Mr. T. isn't here to organize them-George Fox is Caliban himself. Bloodshed's common enough here. I see you've not only noticed it but experienced it. Well! Do you find him an affectionate father?”

Bewilderment caught me. She had intended it to. -I said: ”We're strangers-”

”That's just what I'm driving at In spite of that, I mean. After such a lengthy separation. It must be hard. Though he's such an easy man to get on with, isn't he? So lovely and hilarious. Day after tomorrow we'll be gone and you'll have him all to yourself on a Purseless island. Prospero and Miranda-Mr. T.'s words. Pretty!” Her forefinger shook at me comically but grimly. ”Without Purses the wages of sin never get paid. It is a sin to be a poor correspondent He writes to you though?”

”To my mo-” I began, and stopped.

”Hm?” said Mrs. Purse. ”I didn't catch-”

”Sometimes he writes.”

”But not often enough. I see. Well, in your case it hardly matters. Blood is thicker than ink. In our case we're likely to lose him forever, though not, if you're with me, not the case itself: Mr. T.'s getting my husband a new traveling case actually-isn't that kind? He's remarkable about giving gifts-very sensitive to one's circ.u.mstances. I hope he thinks of alligator-I was enamored of your alligator thing the minute I set eyes on it. It shows he's just as sensitive about his own flesh. A wonderful man. It's himself he gives, like so few of us. Lord knows how many people have abused the privilege and taken advantage. Now Dee, get up, rise and s.h.i.+ne. Make him get up, boys.”

The warriors were sulking under a tree.

”He looks asleep,” Foxy said, ”with his eyes open.”

”Maybe he's dead,” Throw said.

”What's it feel like?”

”To be dead?”

”No. Drunk.”

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