Ceremony of the Innocent (69 page)

The housekeeper, Mrs. Akins, looked at the brother and sister with false regret when she admitted them to Ellen’s chill and dingy house. “Madam,” she said, significantly, and with a sigh, “isn’t very well. I know it is three o’clock—but she is still asleep.” Mrs. Akins was a tall and very thin woman, lanky of figure, sallow of face, long of feature, and with a nose that was perpetually damp. She had eyes the color of clams, and a thin tight mouth. Her lumpish brown hair was short and coarse. She was very religious. She hated Ellen, as did the other three servants, for Ellen, though vague and increasingly lost and dim of mood, had treated them all with the most timid but generous kindness, and never seemed aware of derelictions, petty thefts, dusty corners and cobwebs or badly cooked and served food. For this alone she deserved their contempt. They thought her a “booby,” and stupid, for never did she raise her voice or speak to them with the severity they merited. They had, if possible, even less regard for Francis, whom they considered a poor and pompous thing, but at least he studied the bills and questioned them and talked to them, frequently, concerning the “rights of the workingman,” and gave them Marxist tracts. He had solemnly informed them of his wife’s background as a servant, which made them despise her the more, and resent her. Mrs. Akins had been with the Porters since the death of old Cuthbert, who had been a tyrant, the other servants told her.

Mrs. Akins and the other servants did not know that the unusually large wages they received were due to Ellen, over the protests of her husband, nor did they know that it was Ellen’s money which supported the house, and to a great extent, Francis himself. Had they known, they would have jeered at her even more heartily, when speaking of her in their rooms or their kitchen.

Mrs. Akins was not overly fond of Gabrielle, with the delicately slashing tongue and the dark knowing eyes and the antic grin, but at least Miss Gabrielle was a lady born, unlike her mother. But the housekeeper was very fond of Christian, who always had a cheery and charming smile for her, and tipped her occasionally, and he was very handsome also and sometimes leered at her until she blushed. She was not afraid of him as she was of Gabrielle, who had sharp eyes and would pointedly remark on the dinner she was being served or stare meaningly at a dusty chandelier, or fastidiously wipe a dirty mirror with a lace handkerchief and call attention to it. So Mrs. Akins respected as well as feared Gabrielle.

Gabrielle said, with a sad and downcast face, “Well, this is very important, Mrs. Akins. Important for Mrs. Porter. Do, please, awaken her and ask her to come down to see us.”

Mrs. Akins regarded her keenly. She thought to herself: Well, miss, anytime you feel anything for your ma, please tell me. I mean, really feel. She went upstairs to awaken Ellen. A radio was playing loudly in the upper regions, and Gabrielle began to throw out her pretty silken legs in the Charleston, and after a moment Christian joined her. They snapped their fingers and whirled and kicked; Gabrielle wore her stockings rolled and her round bare knees glimmered in the dusky light. She had flung her mink coat, with the huge shawled collar, onto a chair; her bright black curls danced a miniature and sprightly dance of their own over her small and elegant head. She was the prototype of the Harry Kemp “flapper” of the era, all tinkling with very long strings of clashing beads and bangles and long sparkling earrings and cigarettes in a jutting holder. Her olive cheeks were rosy, her lips painted a vivid purplish red. Christian loved and admired her deeply and wished that she was not his sister; he often had quite incestuous ideas about Gabrielle. As for Gabrielle, though she was twenty-three, she was not considering marriage in her immediate future. Her life was too exciting, and varied, and if she had any fears at all it was of becoming pregnant. Like her brother, she had no illusions, no conscience, and lived only for herself, and her appetites. It would have surprised Christian to know that she often reflected on him as he reflected on her, but her reflections were also amused and less tentative. She knew that he wanted to marry Genevieve, the pretty fair daughter of Charles and Maude Godfrey, and sometimes Gabrielle was sick with jealousy and derided the girl to her brother as a ‘Vapid nothing with empty eyes and a little mouselike voice.” Gabrielle was exercising her derision less and less lately, for she had seen that Christian resented her criticisms and once or twice had abruptly and angrily told her to “mind your own business.”

They danced with vigor on the soiled Aubusson rug and so were not aware immediately that Ellen was standing, smiling with love and tenderness, on the threshold of the room. She was thinking how beautiful they were, her darlings, and how full of life and brimming with the wine of youth, and her heart so throbbed with devotion that it also was full of pain. They finally saw her, and stopped their wild dancing. She clapped a little and said, “How lovely. And what a wonderful surprise this is, to see you when I wasn’t expecting you.”

The room was not only dusky but had a smell of mold and dust, newly aroused from the unclean rug. Gabrielle ran to her mother and took her in her slender arms, which were covered with ruby velvet, and kissed her affectionately. Christian approached his mother also, and kissed her cheek, regarding her with very visible concern. “You don’t look at all well, Mama. Does she, Gaby?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Gabrielle said, and studied Ellen with overly solicitous apprehension. She wrinkled her nose as the keen and acrid stench of bootleg whiskey assailed her nostrils. “You haven’t looked well for a long time, Mama. And that’s why we’re here. To talk to you. How selfish of us that we didn’t come to you like this sooner.”

Ellen was a little bewildered. She smoothed down her drab brown wool bathrobe with trembling hands. Her hair clustered over her head in lusterless folds and loops. Her face was flabby and colorless, her lips burned and dry, her eyes swollen and reddened and without light. She was not yet old, but she appeared many years older than she was, shapeless and fallen of body, and bloated. She bemusedly let Gabrielle lead her to a chair and gently push her down into it. “I’m really very well,” she said, and her once sonorously musical voice was faint and rusty. “You mustn’t worry about me, dears.” She paused. “You will stay for dinner?”

Gabrielle glanced at her brother, then shook a lovingly admonishing finger in Ellen’s face. “Only if you will listen to us, and promise to take our advice.”

Ellen was delighted. “I was so lonely,” she said. After a pause she added, “Francis is in Washington for a few days. At least, I think that is where he is.” Her eyes became momentarily vacant. “What is your advice, my darlings?”

Gabrielle dropped to her knees before her mother, and took her hands firmly in her own. They were hot and feeble. “You know how we love you, Mama, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Ellen, and her scorched eyes filled with tears and her lips shook. “You are all I live for.” She looked up at Christian, for he had moved closer to her. “All I live for,” she repeated. Only her children and her servants would have remained unmoved by her aspect, by her piteous attempts to smile.

“Well, then, live for us, and stop making us unhappy,” said Gabrielle in a brisk tone.

“Unhappy?”

“Yes, you are making us very unhappy. We know you are sick and need a good doctor.”

“But I have a good doctor, Gabrielle. I see him at least once a week.” She began to be filled with a delicious warmth, and her extinguished face suddenly became pearly and translucent again with love.

“Oh, old Dr. Brighton! He’s just a general practitioner. You need a special man, Mama, someone with far more medical knowledge, and younger, too. Someone who has studied in Europe as well as America. A specialist. You’ve heard me talk of Annabelle Lubish, haven’t you? Well, Dr. Lubish is her father, and a brilliant-specialist. Please, Mama”—and Gabrielle’s voice grew fervent, and she moved on her knees—“please see him—for us. Do something for us, just this one time, won’t you? Think of us, just once, and not yourself.”

For just an instant Ellen thought: But I’ve heard that before! I’ve heard that all my life! The warmth left her; guilt mixed with her grief, but she was confused again. In some way she had failed her children—as she had failed her aunt, and probably many others. She gazed at Gabrielle pleadingly.

“I—I’ll have to talk to Francis about it—”

“But we’ve already talked to him, Mama, and he agrees with us. He is very worried about you. But we are the most important to you, aren’t we, dearest?”

Never had Ellen heard her daughter speak so tenderly, so urgently, to her; Christian’s hand was lovingly pressing her shoulder. All at once tears were sliding down her cheeks, and the warmth was returning in a flood of rapture. Still, she shrank a little at the thought of meeting a stranger, even if he was a doctor. She began to speak, then fell silent. Gabrielle kissed her; Christian bent and touched his lips to her hot forehead. God, that stink of bootleg! It would kill her in time, without any interference, but he had no time to lose. With distaste, he saw his mother blow her nose on a grimy handkerchief, she who was once so meticulous and wonderfully gowned. Didn’t she ever give her servants orders?

Ellen said, her voice barely audible, “Yes. For you, my darlings. I’ll do anything for you.” She paused. “You may tell him to call on me. I’ll see him any afternoon.”

This was not in the plans. “Mama,” said Gabrielle, “you must go to his office, where he has all the modern equipment. He couldn’t examine you thoroughly here. Medicine is much more sophisticated and elaborate these days. I’ll call for you tomorrow afternoon, at two, Mama? You will do this for us, won’t you?”

The thought of leaving her house, which was now a cave to her, made Ellen shrink. But she looked into Gabrielle’s brilliant eyes, so dilated, so insistent, and she nodded.

“I don’t go out very much any more,” she said. “But if it will relieve you and Christian, I will go with you tomorrow, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle pretended to be overcome. She wiped perfectly dry eyes. She kissed her mother. Christian kissed her also. Brother and sister exchanged triumphant and elated glances. Christian thought: Even one of those monstrous dinners she has now won’t be too much to pay for this. What an old hag she’s become. I’m convinced myself that she’s mad.

Gabrielle and Christian waited in the luxurious sitting room adjoining Dr. Lubish’s office and examining rooms. Gabrielle restlessly paced the room under the admiring eyes of the nurse-receptionist. Christian stood at a snow-streaked window, tense with expectation. Dr. Lubish had introduced brother and sister to “my associate, Dr. Enright. I’d like him present—for corroboration.” Christian understood at once. Then Gabrielle had solicitously taken her mother’s arm and had left her on the threshold of the office. “Be good, now, Mama dearest,” she had murmured, and Ellen, stiff with fear, had nodded dumbly. ‘Tell the doctors everything, won’t you?” Ellen had nodded again. The door had closed behind her.

Dr. Enright was a tall, youngish, and very fleshy man with huge spectacles, a round full face, and a relentless mouth. He was dark and nervous. He did not enter the examining room with Dr. Lubish and his new patient. He waited as tensely as Christian had waited. He knew the role he would have to play. He had played it a number of times.

Alone with Ellen, Dr. Lubish examined his new patient, for he was an expert and thorough physician as well as a psychiatrist. He wanted to make no errors, on which he could be challenged by other, and unfriendly, physicians. He made careful notes during the examination, which would be typed up later. “Not an alcoholic, but is becoming addicted. Release from mental stress. Patient dull, unresponsive, vague, confused. Apparently of only average intelligence which has declined. Blood pressure 185/110. Bloated. Attrition of the large muscles, due to lack of exercise and poor diet. Heart palpitations. Some kidney dysfunction. Lungs—conspicuous rales. Forty-three, but physical condition is so deteriorated that she appears about sixty. Eyes without life; voice low, uncertain. Gives the impression that she is only existing and not living. Skin dry, face flaccid, hands hot though she has no fever. History…”

He continued to list physical symptoms. But he knew that these were only functional and not organic. It was his patient’s mind that was sick, and this was reflected in her body. He felt his own elation. Still, he must be very careful. Ceremoniously, he suggested she dress and join him and Dr. Enright in his office. There he sat, murmuring in short sentences with the other doctor.

Ellen came timidly into the office and the two doctors rose, and she took the chair facing both of them. Her dark-blue suit was untidy and old; her black round hat sat wearily on her thick rough hair. Her face expressed apprehension. “I am not sick,” she said with a stammer. “I—I am only tired.”

Dr. Lubish regarded her mournfully. “We shall see,” he said in an ominous but concerned voice. “Now, tell us something about yourself, Mrs. Porter. Your children have already told me about your marriages, the first to a gentleman of considerable fame, the second to Congressman Porter.”

Ellen moistened her cracked lips. What had this to do with her need for good medical attention? Then she saw that Dr. Lubish was beaming at her as affectionately as a brother, and she was touched. Tears filled her eyes; she dabbed at them futilely. She said, “There is nothing to say. Nothing. But—but I will never forget Jeremy, my first husband. He was my life—” Her voice faded.

“He died a long time ago, didn’t he, Mrs. Porter?”

Ellen was silent. She fixed her wet eyes on the lamp which was turned fully on her quivering face. Both doctors leaned alertly towards her. She said, “He never died, he never really died. I feel him closer to me every day. I feel him with me. He often tries to tell me—something—but I can’t hear him—yet. He—he sounds afraid for me.”

The doctors quickly made notes. “Hallucinations. Refuses to accept her first husband’s death. Delusions that she sees and hears him. Suspect schizophrenic reactions. Progressive withdrawal from reality; avoids friends. Loss of adaptive power.”