A Kiss Before Dying (17 page)

When Marion Kingship was graduated from college (Columbia University, an institution demanding long hours of earnest study; unlike that Midwestern Twentieth Century-Fox playground that Ellen was entering) her father off-handedly mentioned the fact to the head of the advertising agency which handled the Kingship Copper account, and Marion was offered a job as a copy writer. Although she wanted very much to write advertising copy, she refused the offer. Eventually she managed to find a position with a small agency where Kingship was a name stamped on the washroom plumbing and where Marion was assured that in the not-too-distant future she would be permitted to submit copy for some of the smaller accounts, provided that the writing of the copy did not interfere with her secretarial duties.

A year later, when Dorothy inevitably followed Ellen’s lead and went off to football cheers and campus kisses, Marion found herself alone in an eight-room apartment with her father, the two of them like charged metal pellets that drift and pass but never touch. She decided, against her father’s obvious though unvoiced disapproval, to find a place of her own.

She rented a two-room apartment on the top floor of a converted brownstone house in the East Fifties. She furnished it with a great deal of care. Because the two rooms were smaller than those she had occupied in her father’s home, she could not take all her possessions with her. Those that she did take, therefore, were the fruit of a thoughtful selection. She told herself she was choosing the things she liked best, the things that meant the most to her, which was true; but as she hung each picture and placed each book upon the shelf, she saw it not only through her own eyes but also through the eyes of a visitor who would some day come to her apartment, a visitor as yet unidentified except as to his sex. Every article was invested with significance, an index to her self; the furniture and the lamps and the ashtrays (modern but not modernistic), the reproduction of her favourite painting (Charles Demuth’s
My Egypt
; not quite realistic; its planes accentuated and enriched by the eye of the artist), the records (some of the jazz and some of the Stravinsky and Bartók, but mostly the melodic listen-in-the-dark themes of Grieg and Brahms and Rachmaninoff), and the books – especially – the books, for what better index of the personality is there? (The novels and plays, the non-fiction and verse, all chosen in proportion and representation of her tastes.) It was like the concentrated abbreviation of a Help Wanted ad. The egocentricity which motivated it was not that of the spoiled, but of the too little spoiled; the lonely. Had she been an artist she would have painted a self-portrait; instead she decorated two rooms, changing them with objects which some visitor, some day, would recognize and understand. And through that understanding he would divine all the capacities and longings she had found in herself and was unable to communicate.

The map of her week was centred about two landmarks; on Wednesday evenings she had dinner with her father, and on Saturdays she thorough-cleaned her two rooms. The first was a labour of duty; the second, of love. She waxed wood and polished glass, and dusted and replaced objects with sacramental care.

There were visitors. Dorothy and Ellen came when they were home on vacation, unconvincingly envying Marion as a woman of the world. Her father came, puffing from the three flights of stairs, looking dubiously at the small living-bedroom and smaller kitchen and shaking his head. Some girls from the office came, playing Canasta as though life and honour were at stake. And a man came once; the bright young junior account executive; very nice, very intelligent. His interest in the apartment manifested itself in sidelong glances at the studio couch.

When Dorothy committed suicide, Marion returned to her father’s apartment for two weeks, and when Ellen died, she stayed with him for a month. They could no more get close to each other than could charged metal pellets, no matter how they tried. At the end of the month, he suggested with a diffidence unusual in him that she move back permanently. She couldn’t; the thought of relinquishing her own apartment was unimaginable, as though she had locked too much of herself into it. After that, though, she had dinner at her father’s three evenings a week instead of only one.

On Saturdays she cleaned the rooms, and once each month she opened all the books to prevent their bindings from growing stiff.

One Saturday morning in September, the telephone rang. Marion, on her knees in the act of polishing the underside of a plate-glass coffee table, froze at the sound of the bell. She gazed down through the blue-toned glass at the flattened dustcloth, hoping that it was a mistake, that someone had dialled the wrong number, had realized it at the last moment and hung up. The phone rang again. Reluctantly she rose to her feet and went over to the table beside the studio couch, still holding the dustcloth in her hand.

‘Hello,’ she said flatly.

‘Hello.’ It was a man’s voice, unfamiliar. ‘Is this Marion Kingship?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t know me. I was – a friend of Ellen’s.’ Marion felt suddenly awkward; a friend of Ellen’s; someone handsome and clever and fast-talking … Someone dull underneath, someone
she
wouldn’t care for anyway. The awkwardness retreated. ‘My name,’ the man continued, ‘is Burton Corliss – Bud Corliss.’

‘Oh yes. Ellen told me about you.’ (‘I love him so much,’ Ellen had said during the visit that had proved to be her last, ‘and he loves me too’ – and Marion, though happy for her, had for some reason been sombre the rest of the evening.)

‘I wonder if I could see you,’ he said. ‘I have something that belonged to Ellen. One of her books. She lent it to me just before – before she went to Blue River, and I thought you might like to have it.’

Probably some book-of-the-month novel, Marion thought, and then, hating herself for her smallness, said, ‘Yes, I’d like very much to have it. Yes, I would.’

For a moment there was silence from the other end of the wire. ‘I could bring it over now,’ he said. ‘I’m in the neighbourhood.’

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I’m going out.’

‘Well then, some time tomorrow—’

‘I – I won’t be in tomorrow either.’ She drifted uncomfortably, ashamed of her lying, ashamed that she didn’t want him in her apartment. He was probably likeable enough, and he’d loved Ellen and Ellen was dead, and he was going out of his way to give her Ellen’s book … ‘We could meet some place this afternoon,’ she offered.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘That would be fine.’

‘I’m going to be – around Fifth Avenue.’

‘Then suppose we meet, say, in front of the statue of Rockefeller Centre, the one of Atlas holding up the world.’

‘All right.’

‘At three o’clock?’

‘Yes. Three o’clock. Thank you very much for calling. It’s very nice of you.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Marion.’ There was a pause. ‘I’d feel funny calling you Miss Kingship. Ellen spoke about you so much.’

‘That’s all right.’ She felt awkward again, and self-conscious. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, unable to decide whether to call him Bud or Mr Corliss.

‘Goodbye,’ he repeated.

She replaced the receiver and stood looking at the telephone for a moment. Then turned and went to the coffee table. Kneeling, she resumed her work, sweeping the dustcloth in unaccustomedly hurried arcs, because now the whole afternoon was broken up.

In the shadow of the towering bronze statue, he stood with his back to the pedestal, immaculate in grey flannel, a paper-wrapped package under his arm. Before him passed intermeshing streams of oppositely-bound people slow-moving against a backdrop of roaring buses and impatient taxis. He watched their faces carefully. The Fifth Avenue set; men with unpadded shoulders and narrowly knotted ties; women self-consciously smart in tailored suits, kerchiefs crisp at their throats, their beautiful heads lifted high, as though photographers might be waiting further down the street. And, like transient sparrows tolerated in an aviary, the pink rural faces gawking at the statue and the sun-sharpened spires of Saint Patrick’s across the street. He watched them all carefully, trying to recall the snapshot Dorothy had shown him so long ago. ‘Marion could be very pretty, only she wears her hair like this.’ He smiled, remembered Dorrie’s fierce frown as she pulled her hair back primly. His fingers toyed with a fold in the wrapping of the package.

She came from the north, and he recognized her when she was still a hundred feet away. She was tall and thin, a bit too thin, and dressed much like the women around her; a brown suit, a gold kerchief, a small Vogue-looking felt hat, a shoulder-strap handbag. She seemed stiff and uncomfortable in the outfit, though, as if it had been made to someone else’s measure. Her pulled-back hair was brown. She had Dorothy’s large brown eyes, but in her drawn face they were too large, and the high cheekbones that had been so beautiful in her sisters were, in Marion, too sharply defined. As she came nearer, she saw him. With an uncertain, questioning smile, she approached, appearing ill at ease in the spotlight of his gaze. Her lipstick, he noticed, was the pale rose he associated with timorously experimenting adolescents.

‘Marion?’

‘Yes.’ She offered her hand hesitantly. ‘How do you do,’ she said, directing a too-quick smile at a point somewhere below his eyes.

Her hand in his was long-fingered and cold. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

* * *

They went to a determinedly Early American cocktail lounge around the corner. Marion, after some indecision, ordered a Daquiri.

‘I – I can’t stay long, I’m afraid,’ she said, sitting erect on the edge of her chair, her fingers stiff around the cocktail glass.

‘Where are they always running, these beautiful women?’ he inquired smilingly – and immediately saw that it was the wrong approach; she smiled tensely and seemed to grow more uncomfortable. He looked at her curiously, allowing the echo of his words to fade. After a moment he began again. ‘You’re with an advertising agency, aren’t you?’

‘Camden and Galbraith,’ she said. ‘Are you still at Caldwell?’

‘No.’

‘I thought Ellen said you were a junior.’

‘I was, but I had to quit school.’ He sipped his Martini. ‘My father is dead. I didn’t want my mother to work any more.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘Maybe I’ll be able to finish up next year. Or I may go to night school. Where did you go to school?’

‘Columbia. Are you from New York?’

‘Massachusetts.’

Every time he tried to steer the conversation around to her, she turned it back towards him. Or to the weather. Or to a waiter who bore a startling resemblance to Claude Rains.

Eventually she asked, ‘Is that the book?’

‘Yes.
Dinner at Antoine’s
. Ellen wanted me to read it. There are some personal notes she scribbled on the flyleaf, so I thought you might like to have it.’ He passed the package to her.

‘Personally,’ he said, ‘I go for books that have a little more meaning.’

Marion stood up. ‘I’ll have to be leaving now,’ she said apologetically.

‘But you haven’t finished your drink yet.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, looking down at the package in her hands. ‘I have an appointment. A business appointment. I couldn’t possibly be late.’

He rose. ‘But—’

‘I’m sorry.’ She looked at him uncomfortably.

He put money on the table.

They walked back to Fifth Avenue. At the corner she offered her hand again. It was still cold. ‘It’s been very nice meeting you, Mr Corliss,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the drink. And the book. I appreciate it – very thoughtful—’ She turned and melted into the stream of people.

Emptily, he stood on the corner for a moment. Then his lips clenched and he started walking.

He followed her. The brown felt hat had a gold ornament that glittered brightly. He stayed some thirty feet behind it.

She walked up to Fifty-fourth Street, where she crossed the avenue, heading east towards Madison. He knew where she was going; he remembered the address from the telephone book. She crossed Madison and Park. He stopped on the corner and watched her climb the steps of the brownstone house.

‘Business appointment,’ he muttered. He waited around for a few minutes, not knowing exactly why he waited, and then he turned and walked slowly back towards Fifth Avenue.

Sunday afternoon Marion went to the Museum of Modern Art. The main floor was still occupied by an automobile exhibit which she had seen before and found uninteresting, and the second floor was unusually crowded, so she continued up the turning stairway to the third floor, there to wander among the pleasantly familiar paintings and sculptures; the arched white smoothness of the
Girl Washing Her Hair
, the perfect spear of
Bird in Space.

Two men were in the room that held the Lehmbruck sculptures, but they went out soon after Marion entered, leaving her alone in the cool grey cube with the two statues, the male and female, he standing and she kneeling in opposite quarters of the room, their bodies elongated and gauntly beautiful. The attention of the statues gave them an unearthly air, almost like religious art, so that Marion had always been able to look at them with none of the slight embarrassment she usually felt on viewing nude sculptures. She moved slowly around the figure of the young man.

‘Hello.’ The voice was behind her, pleasantly surprised.

It must be for me, she thought, there’s no one else here. She turned around.

Bud Corliss smiled in the doorway.

‘Hello,’ Marion said confusedly.

‘It really
is
a small world,’ he said, coming to her. ‘I came in right behind you downstairs, only I wasn’t sure it was you. How are you?’

‘Fine, thank you.’ There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘How are you?’ she added.

‘Fine, thanks.’

They turned to the statue. Why did she feel so clumsy? Because he was handsome? Because he had been part of Ellen’s circle? – had shared football cheers and campus kisses and love …

‘Do you come here often?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘So do I.’

The statue embarrassed her now, because Bud Corliss was standing beside her. She turned away and moved towards the figure of the kneeling woman. He followed at her side. ‘Did you make the appointment on time?’

‘Yes,’ she said. What brought him here? You’d think he’d be strolling in Central Park with some poised flawless Ellen on his arm …

They looked at the statue. After a moment, he said, ‘I really didn’t think it was you downstairs.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, Ellen wasn’t the museum type—’

‘Sisters aren’t exactly alike,’ she said.

‘No, I guess not.’ He began to circle around the kneeling figure.

‘The Fine Arts department at Caldwell had a small museum,’ he said. ‘Mostly reproductions and copies. I dragged Ellen there once or twice. Thought I’d indoctrinate her.’ He shook his head. ‘No luck.’

‘She wasn’t interested in art.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s funny the way we try to push our tastes on people we like.’

Marion looked at him, facing her on the other side of the statue. ‘I once took Ellen and Dorothy – Dorothy was our youngest sister—’

‘I know—’

‘I took them here once when they were just going into their teens. They were bored, though. I guess it was too young.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, retracing his semicircular path towards her. ‘If there’d been a museum in my home town when I was that age – Did
you
come here when you were twelve or thirteen?’

‘Yes.’

‘See?’ he said. His smile made them fellow members of a group to which Ellen and Dorothy had never belonged.

A man and woman with two children in tow came bursting into the room.

‘Let’s move on,’ he suggested, at her side again.

‘I—’

‘It’s Sunday,’ he said. ‘No business appointments to run to.’ He smiled at her; a very nice smile, soft and lenitive. ‘I’m alone; you’re alone.’ He took her elbow gently. ‘Come on,’ he said, with the persuasive smile.

They went through the third floor and half of the second, commenting on the works they saw, and then they went down to the main floor, past the gleaming automobiles incongruous within a building, and out through the glass doors to the garden behind the museum. They strolled from statue to statue, pausing before each. They came to the Maillol woman, full-bodied, strident.

‘The last of the red-hot mammas,’ Bud said.

Marion smiled. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘I always get a little embarrassed looking at – statues like this.’

‘This one embarrasses
me
a little,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s not a nude; it’s a naked.’ They both laughed.

When they had looked at all the statues, they sat down on one of the benches at the back of the garden and lit cigarettes.

‘You and Ellen were going steady, weren’t you?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I thought—’

‘Not officially, I mean. Anyway, going steady in college doesn’t always mean as much as going steady outside of college.’

Marion smoked in silence.

‘We had a great many things in common, but they were mainly surface things; having the same classes, knowing the same people – things having to do with Caldwell. Once we were through with college, though, I don’t think we would’ve got married.’ He stared at his cigarette. ‘I was fond of Ellen. I liked her better than any girl I’ve ever known. I was miserable when she died. But – I don’t know – she wasn’t a very
deep
person.’ He paused. ‘I hope I’m not offending you.’

Marion shook her head, watching him.

‘Everything was like that museum business. I thought I could at least get her interested in some of the uncomplicated artists, like Hopper or Wood. But it didn’t work. She wasn’t interested at all. And it was the same thing with books or politics – anything serious. She always wanted to be
doing
something.’

‘She’d led a restricted life at home. I guess she was making up for it.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And then, she was four years younger than I.’ He put out his cigarette. ‘But she was the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.’

There was a pause.

‘Didn’t they ever find out
anything
about who did it?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Nothing. Isn’t it awful—’

They sat in silence for a moment. Then they began to talk again; about how many interesting things there were to do in New York, what a pleasant place the museum was, about the Matisse exhibit that was coming soon.

‘Do you know who I like?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know if you’re familiar with his work,’ he said. ‘Charles Demuth.’