Authors: Patricia Highsmith
George should be having his tea, Edith thought. In fact it was past tea time, already nearly 6. Edith took a leisurely bath, chose a madras wrap-around skirt she had not worn for months or maybe years, a white ruffled blouse, black patent leather sandals with medium heels. After all, it was only next door she was going. And the Quickmans were presenting another ‘nice man’, Edith remembered, and smiled a little. It wasn’t for the first time. Eligible bachelors of a certain age. So far Edith had not been swept off her feet (in fact, had any of the men?), but she appreciated the Quickmans’ thoughtfulness, or supposed she ought to.
‘And what will you have, Admiral Nelson?’ Edith said to the cat who had followed her down. She was finishing the dishes in the kitchen, because she had five minutes to spare.
Cliffie was out, evidently. The light was off in his room, his transistor silent. She gave Nelson only a couple of cat biscuits, because he was going to want a meal when she ate later.
The Quickmans’ male guest was called Lawrence Hodgeson or Hodson, Edith was not sure, a tall slender man with black hair, graying at the temples, a Philadelphia accountant. Ben and Frances had a fire going.
‘You’re looking awfully well tonight,’ Frances said to Edith. ‘Had a good day?’
‘Not particularly. Well –
yes
, I suppose so. A little sculpting this afternoon. And there was a wonderful concert on the radio. Did you happen to hear it?’
Ben and Frances were not interested in the concert, but they both talked about her sculpting.
‘When are you giving us a show?’ Ben asked.
‘I think Ben wants his portrait,’ Frances said, ‘or whatever you call it. His
bust
!’
Laughter.
Edith didn’t mind their remarks on her new pastime.
‘Cliffie didn’t want to come?’ Frances asked.
‘I think he’s out for a walk or something,’ Edith said. ‘I
think
he said thank you for asking him, – but I wouldn’t swear to it.’
Then Edith developed a chill. She felt it coming on, and sat nearer the fireplace. Lawrence was asking her if she came to Philadelphia very often, and the Quickmans were telling her about his summer house or lodge by a lake, where Ben was looking forward to fishing in the summer. Edith’s teeth chattered. Frances brought a coat sweater.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter. It isn’t cold,’ Edith said. She felt stupid in the white blouse, which had long sleeves but was thin. Just because she had wanted to look nice! Why? ‘Silly of me to dress as if it was summer. My fault.’
‘That’s it, put the sweater on,’ Ben said.
‘We’re hoping you’ll stay for dinner, Edie. Can you? If we see Cliffie come in, we’ll ask him too.’
‘Oh, thank you, Fran, but I’d better get back. I haven’t —’ She stopped, about to mention George, that she had to give him his supper.
They gave Edith a second drink. The Quickmans’ old red setter lay sleeping close to the fire near Edith’s feet, the picture of peace and security.
‘Perhaps next time the Quickmans come to Philly, you’ll come too,’ Lawrence said to her. ‘I happen to be Frances’ and Ben’s accountant – since a long time.’
The rest was a little hazy to Edith. She remembered Frances – kind old Fran with her plump, freckled face – looking at her in a concerned way as they said good-bye at the door. They were all really disappointed that she was not staying for dinner.
Edith saw a light in the front hall as she approached the door. She went in and called, ‘Cliffie?’
‘Yep!’ His voice came from the living room.
Cliffie was watching television, with a glass of something.
‘The Quickmans asked about you. Wanted you to come over.’
‘I didn’t know anything about it.’
It was true she hadn’t mentioned it, because Cliffie usually didn’t want to visit the Quickmans. ‘It’s after eight. Want something to eat or have you had something?’
His bearded face turned, showed itself round the wing of the armchair. ‘I can get something later. I’m watching this.’
‘I’d better take something up for George.’
‘He doesn’t want anything,’ Cliffie said at once, looking round at her again.
‘He doesn’t? You asked him?’
‘Yep. I asked him.’ And Cliffie faced the screen again.
Edith went to the kitchen via the hall. Nelson at least would want something. Nelson joined her. She talked to him, lit the fire under the kettle, cut some heart slices into small pieces, and poured hot water over them to take the chill off. Then she poured off the water and set the plate on Nelson’s plastic dining mat. Nelson set to with guzzling noises. He had always eaten in such a manner, and often Cliffie said, ‘Snortin’ good, eh Nelse?’
For herself Edith assembled a sliver of beef, some lettuce and shredded carrot, then realized she was not hungry. She put the plate in the fridge. She decided to polish the silver, the tea set also, Melanie’s gift of long ago. The cleaning woman Margaret was not enthusiastic about doing the silver or waxing or hadn’t the time, so often Edith did these things herself.
Ten o’clock.
It wasn’t 10 yet, so why was she thinking of 10? She realized it was because she thought she must look in on George by 10. And why not now? She didn’t want to. She was afraid to. Or was that it? Did she want to give whatever Cliffie had given him time to work? Or had Cliffie given George anything, for that matter? Of course he had. She had seen it, hadn’t she? Not exactly. Not really, not closely. Could have been plain water. Why should she suspect anything? No, she wasn’t going to mention that Cliffie had given George too much codeine on other occasions, maybe two occasions. No. She and Cliffie were together. Yes. No.
That
was an odd sensation, if there ever was one, feeling that she and Cliffie were together.
The silver gleamed. She saw her face in the teapot, elongated, egg-shaped. She replaced the tea set on the dining room side-board.
Cliffie came strolling in, carrying his empty glass, the other hand in his pocket. ‘You’re looking very elegant tonight.’
‘Felt like wearing a long skirt.’
‘What’s the occasion?’ Cliffie hiccuped in the middle of the question. He was en route to the fridge for a beer.
Edith continued with the silver, but not all of it, just the big ladle and spoon, the candlesticks. She was too tired to tackle the knives and forks. Cliffie was back in the living room.
She went upstairs. It was not quite 10. George’s room was dark, the door partly open, and she walked toward it, not pausing, not listening as she almost always did for snores. ‘George?’ she called through the door. Then she stepped in. ‘George.’ She turned the gooseneck light toward her and pressed the button that lit it.
George lay on his back, mouth slightly open, pale flesh sagging under his cheekbones. There was no sound of snoring.
‘
George!
’
she called and touched his shoulder.
He was breathing. She thought so. But she didn’t hear anything, didn’t see any movement of his chest. She looked around, thinking of a mirror to hold to his nose, and found her eyes fastened on the bottles on the medicine chest – what she now called the medicine chest, the low chest of drawers. There were fewer bottles there than usual, and she saw why: they were all right beside her, by the gooseneck lamp. Tincture of codeine, the aspirins, the bottles of different kinds of sleeping pills, one type yellow, one mauve. The bottles were nearly empty. One bottle was empty.
Edith took a gasping breath, because she hadn’t breathed for nearly a minute.
She made herself touch George’s shoulder, and she shook it. ‘George!’ At least his body felt warm. ‘
George!
’
she yelled closer to his ear. Then she held her finger under his narrow nostrils. Did she feel some warmth or didn’t she? She could not bring herself to feel for a heartbeat, was revolted by the thought of pressing his wrist. His arm lay outside the bedcovers. She was afraid to, she knew.
She wanted to leave the room. She hesitated about the light, left it on, and went into the bathroom to wash her hands. Six, seven hours, she thought, since Cliffie had given him all the stuff. She ought to speak to Cliffie. She ought to phone the doctor. She was delaying. Deliberately, she felt. On the other hand, what if she was imagining all this? What if the bottles were supposed to be that empty now? Why get so excited about it?
Alarmist
.
Strangely, she felt calm for the next minutes, the next many minutes. In her workroom, she changed from the long skirt into the old blue corduroys and a sweater, straightened her desk which held items for the
Bugle
that people had sent in, stuff to be turned into copy and posted to Gert, who got it to Trenton.
What was she going to say to Cliffie? How was she going to start?
Edith switched on her radio. It was jazz music and she didn’t care. The head of Melanie, still in dark gray plasticine, gazed somewhat downward with a haughty, yet kindly amusement. Tonight Cliffie’s clay face looked positively merry, despite the firm brows.
What was she going to say to Cliffie?
Put it off till tomorrow. Then she thought of going to bed in an hour or so, trying to sleep, lying there. That would not be possible.
Five past 11. Edith went again to George’s room. He lay as before. Edith started to call his name, and couldn’t. She felt his shoulder, again shook it, now with hostility. Then at once she went out and down the stairs. George had felt stiff, she thought. Cool? She wasn’t sure about that. ‘Cliffie?’ she said, entering the living room. The television was on, but he was not there. She had the feeling Cliffie had a second before fled to his room. She went into the dining room and across the hall. He was in his room. ‘Cliffie?’
‘Yep?’ Pink-eyed, on his feet.
‘Well.’ Edith was suddenly breathless.
‘Well?’
‘You’ve done it again. Yes?’
‘Done
what
again?’
Edith was breathing in a short, quick way. ‘I think I’d better call the doctor, don’t you?’
‘Doctor? Why?’ Cliffie looked at her with a stupid, animal-like defiance. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Cliffie swayed.
Edith turned and went to the living room. She definitely could use a drink, then at once thought she should hang on without it, then at once decided a drink was a good idea.
Steadying. She poured a scotch straight, sipped half of it, while concluding ponderously that to telephone the doctor was the right and proper thing to do. She went to the telephone with the rest of her drink and dialed the number.
A strange female voice answered. ‘Oh, I’m his daughter. Daddy’s at a dinner in Flemington. Won’t be home till midnight anyway. Is it urgent?’
‘Well – yes. Could I reach him in Flemington?’
The daughter – whom Edith now recalled having met once – produced the number and Edith scribbled it down. Edith called the number. It took several minutes, while she held on. It was a restaurant. Finally Dr Carstairs came on.
‘Hello, this is Edith Howland. I’m
sorry
to bother you.’
‘Yes? It’s —’
‘George. He – he seems to be in a coma. I don’t know. Could you come? Have a look?’
The doctor promised to come within half an hour, forty-five minutes at most.
Edith had a brief sense of security. She left her glass in the living room and went to Cliffie’s room again, knocked quickly. Cliffie was on his back on the bed, transistor on his chest.
‘Cliffie, Dr Carstairs is coming. You’d better sober up or not make an appearance at all tonight.’
‘Why should I make an appearance tonight? I certainly don’t want to make an appearance tonight.’
‘Then put your light out – when he comes.’
‘What’s it got to do with
me
?’ Cliffie shouted.
Edith remembered Cliffie’s lying from the time he could speak. She couldn’t reply. And somehow, now, she admired his falseness. It was a kind of strength. She stated the unnecessary: ‘You gave him a lot of pills and God knows what else.’
‘Maybe he took ’em himself,’ Cliffie replied with a shrug, barely glancing at his mother.
Cliffie was even drunker than he looked. He knew that, and gave himself credit for doing all right so far, though he warned himself that he had better be careful. When his mother left his room, Cliffie went into the kitchen and made a cup of instant coffee, put sugar and cream in it and took it into his room.
The old bastard is dead upstairs
,
Cliffie thought. That was what all the fuss was about, why the doctor had to come – to make it official. Cliffie looked wide-eyed, yet directly, at his room walls, comforting himself with the familiar patches of bright red, yellow, blue – the sweaters of motorcycle racers, football players, pin-up girls with nothing on but a yellow strip, maybe a scarf, which they languidly held across their thighs. Boobies here and there did not hold his eyes just now. Yes, things seemed different with a corpse upstairs. Cliffie hoped to hell they’d get him out of the house tonight.
Cliffie wanted to wash, but didn’t want to go to the bathroom upstairs next door to George’s room. He washed at the kitchen sink, rubbed his face with a kitchen towel, which he tossed back on the radiator. Then he put on pajamas and his old robe, which he thought natural to be wearing after midnight.
His mother’s voice, high-pitched now, extra pleasant, alerted Cliffie to the fact that Dr Carstairs had arrived. Cliffie at once put his bottle back in the closet, and went slowly down the hall. He didn’t want to miss a word of this.
His mother was talking about ‘a coma’.
And Dr Carstairs was in evening clothes! Black tie, anyway. Cliffie at once saw that the doctor was feeling no pain, and was smiling gaily, saying something about a friend’s birthday party.
‘Evening, Cliffie,’ said the doctor.
‘Evening, doctor,’ Cliffie replied.
‘Now we’ll just see,’ said the doctor, going up the stairs first.
Edith followed, then Cliffie. Cliffie waited in the hall outside, because his mother, by the bedside table, rather blocked his entry.
‘Oh-h. Um-m,’ said Dr Carstairs, and to Edith’s murmured question, ‘Yes, afraid so, yes.’
Cliffie saw the doctor pick up a tincture of codeine bottle – empty – from the little table.
‘… nearly all gone,’ the doctor mumbled. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘I was out,’ Edith said, ‘out for drinks. – Rather, I was working in my room there this afternoon. I did notice he was asleep at four or five, I think, but there was nothing unusual about that.’
‘No,’ said the doctor, picking up an aspirin bottle now, in which, Cliffie recalled clearly, one aspirin rattled around.
Edith raised her eyes slowly to Cliffie’s eyes.
Cliffie looked at her steadily, wondering if she was thinking what he was, that the doctor by touching the bottles was taking off his own fingerprints or at least messing them up?
Fine
,
Cliffie thought.
The doctor mumbled on. ‘God knows he was getting on… a bit fuzzy in the head, too.’
Then they were both talking at the same time about a funeral home, an undertaker, Brett, and his mother was saying shouldn’t she phone him, and Carstairs was replying soothingly. Then Carstairs said it was unusual to phone something-or-other so late, but he would do it, because he knew the people there very well. At the funeral home.
Cliffie repressed his amusement: Old Carstairs naturally knew the people at the funeral home very well, because he had so many dead patients! Ha-ha!
‘… might’ve wanted to do it himself, after all,’ Carstairs was saying.
Did that mean old George might have wanted to kill himself? It sounded like it.
And as Dr Carstairs, behind his mother, faced Cliffie to come out of the room, Cliffie saw a faint smile on his face – even as the doctor looked at him – that looked really like relief.
Relief
.
Cliffie was sure of it. Cliffie stepped back smartly by the stairs to let them go first. In fact, they went on as if they hadn’t seen him. Cliffie straightened and felt like hurling a curse at George’s room, where the light was still on.
Out, damned corpse! Out! Out of the house!
Cliffie took one big stride toward the room and looked in with swift boldness.
The sheet was over the face.
Cliffie turned and went down the stairs. Carstairs was on the telephone. Cliffie didn’t try to listen, but went on to the kitchen where his mother was making fresh coffee. Cliffie felt awkward. ‘He’s really
dead
?’
‘What did you
think
?’
Edith frowned at him.
Cliffie looked away.
‘Why don’t you go to bed?’
‘Why should I?’ Cliffie replied, hands in his robe pockets. He saw his mother glance sideways at him – what did that mean? – before she prepared a tray with saucers and cups.
Dr Carstairs came back and reported that he had reached the person he wanted, and that someone should come within twenty minutes. Something more about Brett. Such banalities, Cliffie thought. Keep the conversational ball rolling, yackety-yack! Cliffie alternately stood still, or prowled about the kitchen. Nobody paid the least attention to him.
‘I
will
,’
his mother said, ‘I
will
,’
as if she were taking the marriage vows.
‘Maybe the old boy wanted to die after all.’ The doctor, leaning against a kitchen cupboard, lifted the coffee cup to his lips.
Then they were talking about Melanie. Corpses, corpses. Age. But his mother looked happier just talking about Melanie, even though she was dead.
‘And what’ve you been doing with yourself lately, Cliffie?’ the doctor asked, smiling at Cliffie.
Cliffie had never liked his smile. Carstairs was not a genuinely smiling type. Just then the grate of a handbrake came clearly, and that saved Cliffie from answering.
A long black car had arrived in the driveway, or at the beginning of the driveway, because the Ford and the Volks were there. Now Cliffie stayed out of the way in the half dark living room. Lots of feet and voices went up the stairs, then after about three minutes there was much shuffling down, mumbled orders.
Out
,
damned corpse! Now it was really
out
! Cliffie swaggered to the bar cart and poured a straight scotch into his now empty coffee cup. This was worth a drink, if anything ever had been. He had plenty of time to drink it, while his mother bade adieu to the doctor, who was taking off in his own car. Cliffie sighed deeply.
When his mother came back, she hesitated a moment in the hall, not glancing into the living room even, then went up the stairs. Cliffie finished his cup and climbed the stairs also.
His mother was in George’s room, rather slowly picking up a glass, putting a spoon in it, picking up a wadded handkerchief from the floor. ‘Cliffie, could you get a tray?’ she said quickly. ‘Take this down with you.’
Cliffie grabbed the two glasses with spoons in them and ran down willingly. He returned with two trays. Already his mother had stripped the bed and was folding sheets and blankets, and the wastebasket was full of all kinds of debris. She had opened a window. Cliffie descended with the wastebasket plus dirty sheets and pillow-cases under his arms. He threw the dirty linen on the hall floor, wanting to get it all as near the front door as possible. Empty bottles clattered into the plastic garbage bin outside the back door. He carried the empty wastebasket back upstairs. His mother had dragged out George’s suitcase, and Cliffie would have gladly flung George’s clothes and stuff into it, but suddenly his mother had stopped, started to put her hands over her face, but didn’t quite touch her face.
‘I’ve really got to call Brett,’ she said, and went out and down the stairs.
Frances Quickman was just opening the front door, knocking at the same time. ‘Edith! You’re all right? I looked out the window and saw that ambulance or something – We were worried. It’s George, I suppose.’
Edith nodded. ‘He’s dead. Died in his sleep, it seems.’
Cliffie heard this as he came slowly down the stairs.
‘Oh, dear!’ said Frances. ‘What a shock for you! – But maybe it’s for the best, you know? If he went so peacefully.’
‘I was about to phone Brett. I ought to,’ Edith said. ‘Don’t you —’
‘Oh, Edith, I’ll push off – unless I can
do
anything.’ Frances clutched a raincoat about her and had a flashlight in one hand. She wore bedroom slippers.
‘I can’t think what. Thank you, anyway, Fran.’
‘I’m in all day tomorrow – mostly – if I can do anything, dear. Don’t hesitate. – Hello, Cliffie.’
‘Hello,’ Cliffie replied.
Frances left, and Edith went to the telephone without even a glance at Cliffie. She dialed Brett’s apartment number. There was no answer. Edith tried it again, in case she had made a mistake. Odd for them to be out so late with a six-months-old baby (otherwise a babysitter would have answered), and Edith thought they might all be at Carol’s parents’ house near Philadelphia for the weekend, a number she could easily get from information, but she didn’t want to telephone Carol’s parents’ house. She would try Brett’s office tomorrow morning.
‘Dad’s not in?’ Cliffie asked.
Sometimes Cliffie called him Dad, sometimes Brett. ‘No. I’ll try tomorrow morning. Shouldn’t you go to bed?’
‘No. I’ll help you clean some more – upstairs.’ Cliffie felt cheerful suddenly, but he added with his usual shrug, ‘Why not?’ as if it were as good a thing to be doing at 2 a.m. as anything else.
Before another half hour had passed, Edith had sponged the chest of drawers and the bedtable with warm water and washing-up suds, and vacuumed the carpet and floor. George’s suitcases (two) had been packed with all his clothes except an ancient, limp raincoat which now lay folded on the hall floor beside the suitcases, ready to be thrown out. She and Cliffie moved the bed across the room, and now it stood at a different angle in a corner, with a window near its head and another left of its foot. Edith wanted the pictures rearranged too, but did not want to embark on that tonight.
‘Come on now, that’s enough,’ she said finally, smiling a little. She had enjoyed the physical effort. But even Nelson had grown tired of watching them and departed.
‘Do you know where they took him?’ Cliffie asked, dustrag in hand. He had been wiping out the bedtable drawer, and the wastebasket was again full of junk.
Edith realized she didn’t, exactly. ‘A funeral home, of course. In Doylestown. Begins with a C. I’ll find out from Carstairs tomorrow.’
*
The same morning, Edith was up by 7, feeling not in the least tired, and with her first cup of coffee went to the telephone to try to get Brett before he took off for work.
Carol answered.
‘Hello, this is Edith. I’m sorry to be phoning so early, but there’s something important I have to say to Brett.’
‘Brett’s not here just now. You see, I – Brett dropped me and the baby at the house just a few minutes ago and went on in the car to Long Island.’
‘Oh? Where in Long Island? Can I reach him?’
‘It’s an editors’ conference in Locust Valley, I
think
.
International editors. I’d have to get the exact place – the phone number, I mean, from Brett’s secretary. Can I give him a message?’ Carol sounded most willing.
‘Yes, you can. It’s that his uncle George died last night – apparently in his sleep. I tried to reach Brett last night around one a.m.’
‘Oh, my goodness! – I’ll certainly try to reach him, Edith! We were at my parents’ last night.’
Edith felt impatient, a bit silly, after they had hung up. But for God’s sake she was trying to do the right thing. She poured a second cup of coffee, and telephoned Carstairs. He told her that the Doylestown funeral home was called Crighton.
‘I hope to be in touch with Brett by noon or before. He’ll probably have his own ideas about how things should be done.’ But would he? She could also imagine Brett saying, ‘Doesn’t matter much now, does it?’ Edith added with more conviction, ‘Surely the funeral place knows what to do. I know Brett will want to come to the funeral, anyway.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Dr Carstairs.
By 11 that morning, Edith had not heard from Brett. She had intended to go to the supermarket that morning, so she did, in Lambertville, where the supermarket was better than that of Brunswick Corner. She bought all the usuals, including toilet paper. What a relief, she thought, not to be concerned with extra Kleenexes, sleeping pills, laxatives, boxes of cotton. It made her feel healthier herself.
Before she had unpacked the two cartons and the paper bags, the Crighton Funeral Home telephoned. They asked if she could come that afternoon to make a choice of casket?
‘And there are a few other details that should be attended to,’ said the gentle female voice.
‘Yes. I’m hoping my husband – How late are you open today?’
‘Oh, we’re open day and night, madam. There’s always someone here.’
Brett rang at half past noon. ‘Yes, Carol told me,’ he said, interrupting Edith. ‘Look, I’m phoning at the start of the prelunch cocktails here, which is the only time I’ll have till – till at least five, the way things look. Conferences this afternoon —’
‘The funeral home told me they’re open day and night.’ Like death, Edith thought. She had spoken rather coolly. ‘So why don’t you come any time, Brett? The funeral home – wants the casket chosen, you know, things like that.’
‘Yes. At least I’ve got the car with me. What caused it, do you think?’
‘Well – after all, Brett, he was eighty-seven, wasn’t he?’
By the time they had hung up, Brett had said he should get to Brunswick Corner by 7:30 p.m. with any luck, and they could go to the funeral home in Doylestown.
They
could go. She really didn’t care if Brett went by himself.
Cliffie was still asleep, but surfaced at half past 1, by which time Edith had had a bite of lunch and was about to take off for the Thatchery. Cliffie poured his usual coffee, with nothing else, to wake up on. His shoulders looked broad and sturdy, if a bit round under a threadbare Chinese silk robe with worn out black satin lapels. Cliffie had dug the robe out from some recess in his closet, and was addicted to it lately.