Edith's Diary Page 8

  ‘I’ll tell him.’ Brett’s rather sallow face had gone pinkish in the last minute. ‘Ask him, my foot!’

  ‘Maybe not tonight, Brett.’

  ‘Then when?’

  ‘When you’re calmer. Tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening. Cliffie’s upset too, you know.’

  ‘Up-set, eating like a horse as usual.’

  Edith shrugged involuntarily and disliked herself for shrugging. ‘You know how he is.’

  ‘Yes, indeed I do.’

  Edith was thinking of the time capsules, or whatever they called them, that they were storing in some atom-bombproof containers in New York now. They held samples of plastics, books of mathematics, physics, tape recordings, everything that illustrated achievement at the present time, plus a book which would enable people of the future, even if English had been lost, to make sense of what was in the capsules. She was thinking, of what importance was Cliffie, his life, even her own existence, compared to the capsules? Compared to the whole human race and its achievements up to the year 1965? And here they sat, discussing a minor human failure called Cliffie.

  ‘You know, Brett darling, college isn’t the be-all and the end-all.’

  ‘It’s that he cheated,’ Brett said softly, and his jaw shook. ‘Oh, I’ll shut up, for God’s sake. What’s on TV tonight? Hottening up in Viet Nam, but they’re not going to make news out of that, I’ll bet. Small item today, LB J sending more “advisors” over.’

  And wait till we get what the French got, Edith was thinking, because Brett said it so often, but he said no more.

  It was after 11 p.m. when Edith went into her workroom by herself. She wore her nightdress with a seersucker bathrobe over it. A pleasantly cool breeze came through one of the three curved windows. Brett had gone to bed with a book, and the monotonous beat of Cliffie’s pop music came faintly from downstairs. Edith opened her diary and wrote with her old Esterbrook pen:

  10/June/65. Cliffie took collectively several exams today in Trenton re college entrance & thinks he did pretty well. These were Int. Alg., English, French, geography, history, chemistry. If he gets an 80 average, he’ll go to – maybe Princeton. We are all very pleased tonight, George too, poor old thing.

  Aunt Melanie visits end of this month. What a sweetie! And considering her age, no trouble at all. In fact she loves to cook, make cornbread & spice cake & do any mending I might have around the house. She and C. get on well.

  Edith squirmed in her straight chair, then closed her pen and diary and stood up.

  The entry was a lie. But after all who was going to see it? And she felt better, having written it, felt less melancholic, almost cheerful, in fact.

  7

  Edith’s great-aunt Melanie Cobb arrived at the Trenton railway station one noon, having spent the preceding three days in New York, and both Edith and Brett came in the car to pick her up. Tall and narrow, she wore an eyecatching, wide-brimmed summer hat of dark blue delicately adorned with a veil which covered the hat brim rather than Melanie’s face, and a crisp, navy blue linen top coat with white buttons. Walking toward her on the platform, Edith felt a lift of her own spirits, a surge of admiration and love for her old aunt who still kept up appearances so well, still cared so much how she looked. And she was eighty-six!

  ‘Hello, dear Melanie!’ Edith cried, embracing her.

  ‘Hello, darlings! Isn’t it a lovely day? I’m so glad to be in Pennsylvania! Almost in Pennsylvania.’

  Brett was ready to carry suitcases, but Melanie had engaged a porter, who walked with them to the car.

  ‘Never mind, I’ve paid him nicely, I think,’ Melanie said as Brett fished for his wallet.

  From the smile on the porter’s face, Melanie had.

  ‘Now tell me all about life. How are things going?’ Melanie asked in the car. She rode in the front seat with Brett, Edith sat in the back. ‘How is Cliffie?’

  Brett wasn’t answering, so Edith said, ‘Oh, all right. The same.’

  ‘Did he pass those exams? Weren’t there some exams he was taking?’

  ‘No-o, he didn’t pass,’ Edith replied. ‘Yes, they —’

  ‘They were for college,’ Brett said. ‘Just about the last chance for him. Wasn’t the first try, you know. He took a stab at ’em last summer. Same story.’ Brett gave her a dry laugh. ‘I think he likes letting us down, you know, Melanie? You’d think we’d pushed him too hard in the past, but I don’t think that’s so.’

  ‘Well – I daresay he’s not too depressed by the outcome,’ Melanie remarked with a glance over her shoulder at Edith. ‘Can’t see him buckling down to four years in any college.’

  Edith knew Brett was not going to say a word more, and that he was displeased with himself for having said as much as he had.

  ‘Has Cliffie got some kind of a job now?’

  Now it was Edith’s turn to reply. ‘Nothing steady. He’s on hand Saturdays to help the Cracker Barrel deliver groceries. That’s our swanky grocery store. Cliffie gets good tips. He likes money, all right!’ Edith forced a laugh.

  ‘Oh-h, this scenery!’ Melanie said, gazing out at the trees in full foliage along the Delaware, at the pale willows brilliant in the sunlight. ‘You can believe there’s no pollution in America when you see this! – And how’s George?’

  ‘About the same,’ Brett said. ‘Needs a little more waiting on all the time, I’m sorry to say.’

  Yes, and he carped at the books Edith took out for him at the town library. He had exhausted the history and philosophy books long ago, read some of them twice without apparently noticing, and sometimes declared rotten a book he had praised a year before.

  Melanie asked about the Bugle, knowing it had failed, but she asked if there was any hope of revival. ‘So much is happening these days. In my part of the country the young people are so vociferous about the Viet Nam involvement, and so they should be! Anyone who takes the trouble to read the history of that poor country! Girls and boys of – the stodgiest families around Wilmington,’ Melanie went on, turning to look at Edith, ‘are out in the streets with banners and pamphlets.’

  Was there a hope, if they tried the Bugle again as a monthly? Melanie always gave Edith hope. Lots of people told Edith they missed the Bugle.

  They were home. Melanie praised their freshly cut (by Brett) front lawn, their climbing red roses at the house pillars. Edith regretted that Cliffie’s pop music, not even good music like the Beatles, now boomed especially loudly.

  ‘I hear someone’s home,’ said Melanie.

  ‘And don’t forget George!’ Brett grinned broadly. In the sunlight his big front teeth looked yellowish.

  Edith had bought fresh lobster from the Cracker Barrel, a grand luxury, but Melanie was a grand guest. There was even champagne in the fridge. After Melanie was installed in the guestroom and had said hello to bed-ridden George, they went downstairs to crack the champagne. Edith had set the table before she and Brett left for Trenton. Three creamy roses stood in a vase.

  Cliffie joined them, wearing soiled beige corduroys, swinging his hands and feet. ‘Hello, Aunt Melanie.’

  ‘Hello, my boy! Come and give your old great-great-aunt a kiss.’

  Cliffie did so, with surprising grace, on Melanie’s cheek. ‘You’re looking fine. And I – I suppose you heard about my latest disgrace?’

  Melanie hesitated only a second. ‘You mean the exams, I suppose. Yes, I did. But maybe you’re anti-college.’

  ‘I don’t think I care very much one way or the other,’ Cliffie replied, flinging himself at the other end of the sofa from Melanie, picking up his stemmed glass of champagne. ‘Cheers!’

  He had cut off his radio at Edith’s request, when she called him in for champagne.

  ‘You’re looking well. You’ve gained some weight,’ Melanie said to Cliffie.

  Cliffie only sighed, as if his weight were a problem.

  He’d snared a couple of beers from the fridge before their arrival, Edith could see from looking at him. Edith knew he did n
ot like putting on weight, but wasn’t enough concerned to curb his eating, or the beer.

  Aunt Melanie had somehow smuggled down her presents under her arm. These were a sports shirt for Brett, another for Cliffie, and a bottle of Chanel Number Five cologne for Edith. It was like Christmas again.

  They drank good white wine with the lobster. Melted butter ran down Cliffie’s badly shaven chin before the meal was over. And dear Mildew hovered, riveted by the smell of lobster, accepting gratefully morsels Melanie gave her from her own plate, an indulgence Edith usually didn’t like, but now Edith smiled.

  ‘Getting old like me,’ Melanie said. ‘She deserves it.’

  ‘Now do we have to go up and see George?’ asked Cliffie, slumping back and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘No – we – don’t,’ Edith replied gently. She’d already taken George a tray with lobster, wine and potato salad. Edith looked at Melanie and saw that Melanie had observed, not for the first time surely, that Cliffie resented George’s presence. Cliffie, however, never bestirred himself to carry trays up. Bone lazy Cliffie was, Edith thought suddenly, and narrowed her eyes.

  Melanie was looking at Edith. Then she said, ‘You’re not working this afternoon, Brett?’

  ‘I brought some work home. I arranged this afternoon off to welcome you.’ Brett’s dark eyes smiled at Melanie, then at Edith.

  ‘I’m going to take a nap,’ Melanie announced, ‘which will leave you all in peace for a while. Edith, this was a sensational lunch.’

  Edith was pleased. They had talked about Melanie’s New York stay at the St Regis Hotel, the plays she had seen, the art exhibits on Fifty-seventh and elsewhere. Edith knew her aunt needed a rest. Cliffie’s eyes were sharply on them both as Edith walked into the hall with Melanie. They began to climb the stairs.

  ‘Look, Mildew’s coming with us,’ Edith said.

  ‘She always liked me, if you remember. I’m very flattered, Mildew.’

  Edith tackled the washing up. It was a pleasure. She was happy to have Melanie in the house. Edith wondered if she would ever reach such a ripe old age, and be in such a well-preserved state if she did? Melanie had always had plenty of money. Did it help not to work too much, Edith wondered? Or did it depend on the constitution of the person? Her great-aunt seemed to have both advantages.

  She caught Cliffie with a jigger of scotch in his hand, as she was fetching the last coffee cups from the table. ‘So,’ Edith said mildly. She had suspected him of tippling, but thought it best not to mention it.

  ‘It’s an occasion today. Isn’t it?’ Cliffie asked.

  When Melanie woke up and came downstairs, she and Edith went for a walk along the canal. Brett was working in the bedroom, and Cliffie (Edith thought but was not sure) had gone out. The sunlight was warm on their faces. Melanie wore white tennis shoes with perforations like white polkadots, which she laughed about.

  ‘Doesn’t George give you all quite a lot of work?’ Melanie asked.

  ‘No. Well – it’s trays and such like. But Brett gives me a hand with the trays quite often. At least it isn’t bedpans!’ Edith added and burst out laughing. She could remember when Cliffie had said ‘bedpans’ at the age of ten and she’d felt like scolding him. ‘He’s eighty-three now,’ Edith said, anticipating a question about his age.

  ‘And the doctors still can’t say what’s the real trouble?’

  ‘Oh, they never could! You know these back ailments. As Brett and George say, you can’t see anything wrong, it just hurts.’

  ‘Well, if I can ask you a straight question, dear, has he ever offered in all these years to take himself off somewhere?’

  ‘No.’ Edith looked down at a tiny frog that had been squashed by someone’s foot, then lifted her eyes toward the sun again.

  ‘Are you happy?’ Melanie asked.

  ‘Oh – reasonably, I think. Yes. Brett’s a dear. Very dependable.’ Edith laughed at herself. Maybe she had used the word dependable before in regard to Brett, she wasn’t sure. ‘I should be working more on my book idea, I suppose, instead of on articles that don’t always get published. I have a title, Madmen’s Chess. About war. Now we’re in another, you know, undeclared. Brett’s already writing the first part of his book in longhand – also about war, but mine is more an attempt at psychological causes. His is more historic – so different we don’t even discuss our ideas – maybe just in case they are similar.’

  ‘My dear, I’ll rest myself on this bench for a minute.’ Melanie lowered herself to a weathered green bench at the edge of the path.

  Edith didn’t feel like sitting. She felt that Melanie had been thinking more about Cliffie than Brett when she asked if she was happy. Cliffie would be twenty in November. It seemed not so long ago that he was eleven – in 1956, a year Edith associated with the Hungarian uprising against Moscow rule and the crushing of the rebellion with tanks.

  ‘Getting a bit of gray in your hair,’ Melanie remarked.

  Edith shrugged. ‘Once in a while I have a rinse. But it washes out.’

  They began to walk back. Now the sun was behind them. Edith could see Melanie’s blue eyes, her rather pointed nose. She could have been Edith’s grandmother, and Edith wished she were. There was a resemblance to Edith’s mother in her features, a certain fineness which Edith had not.

  ‘I have another present for you in one of my suitcases,’ Melanie said. ‘That’s for after dinner tonight.’

  The present was a cotton quilt made by Melanie herself, of many hexagons of variously colored pieces. Melanie said she’d learned how to do it as a child, and was the last of the family who had bothered.

  ‘Isn’t that something!’ Brett said when he saw the quilt. ‘Melanie, I’m going to have a photographer from the Standard come, and we’ll do a color picture for our Sunday edition. No!’ he protested over Melanie’s protest. ‘The women love that kind of thing around here!’

  Edith was worried about Mildew. Mildew looked stiffer than usual, and had not eaten her dinner. But Edith didn’t want to sound a sad note by mentioning the cat. Cliffie had not been home for dinner, and had said nothing to Brett. Edith told Melanie that Cliffie was his own man now and didn’t always come home for dinner. Edith suspected that he had drunk too much scotch in the house, or something else like beer outside, and had thought it best not to let his great-aunt see him. If so, it was something to his credit that he was keeping out of sight. Edith was always looking for something to say or think to Cliffie’s credit.

  8

  Breakfast time was chores, George’s tray with boiled egg and tea and orange juice before Edith could get at the more serious business of breakfast for four downstairs with the toaster popping up as often as possible, and Cliffie, thank goodness, being quite helpful. More soft boiled eggs and excellent cherry preserves. Edith’s mind was on Mildew, who had spent the night, Edith supposed, in Melanie’s room. The cat had declined her breakfast, and was now hunched on the kitchen floor.

  Brett had left for the office, and Edith and Melanie were in the kitchen tidying up, before Edith said, ‘I want to take Mildew to the vet. She might’ve caught a poisoned mouse. It’s happened once before.’

  ‘I noticed she was awfully quiet last night,’ Melanie said. ‘Where is your vet?’

  ‘Doylestown. We’ve got a second car now, you know. Half Cliffie’s —’ Edith dwindled off. Cliffie had paid about a hundred dollars toward the second-hand Fiat 600. It was useful for Edith, with Brett having to take the Impala to Trenton workdays. Cliffie could use the Fiat whenever he wished, but in fact he didn’t use it much.

  Just before 10 a.m., Edith and Melanie got into the Fiat with Mildew in her basket.

  The vet was Dr Speck. One didn’t make appointments, just turned up between 10 and 12, and waited one’s turn. They had not long to wait.

  ‘I think it’s another bad mouse,’ said Edith, though she feared something worse.

  Dr Speck, a graying man with muscular forearms, pushed his fingers deeply into Mildew’s sides
as the cat stood docilely on his white table. The doctor had a puzzled expression. Then he looked directly at Edith.

  ‘Cat has a liver tumor – I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Edith asked.

  ‘I can feel it,’ said Dr Speck.

  ‘Well – can you operate?’

  Dr Speck shook his head and smiled quickly, regretfully. ‘Not at this age, you know. With a thing like this – Poor old Mildew,’ he said, pressing the cat’s sides gently, bending over her, because he knew the cat since years. ‘It’s a matter of old age, you know, Mrs Howland. There’s nothing one can do.’