Honeyville (30 page)

‘Soon,’ he said, turning back to his hob. ‘I have work to do in Hollywood. A bunch of projects. And I have debts.’ He shivered – a comically expressive shiver: like a dancer. ‘
Horrible
debts. Thanks to my brilliant lawyers. I need to get back to work … But you could come, Dora.’

‘I would love to come with you. But I have debts too, and I have no money.’

‘Ah!’ He tossed the eggs, arranged the toasted bread, the slices of ham. ‘I’d help you. I wish I could.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ I said.

‘It seems kind of ridiculous, Dora. You charge – what do you charge? Thirty dollars a turn?’

‘Fifty.’

He chuckled. ‘It’s a lot of money. Even if Phoebe takes sixty or seventy per cent, how is it possiblethat you’re still broke?’

‘Because Phoebe takes it all.’ I sighed.

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘No. It doesn’t. But she does. She racks up imaginary debts.’

‘Bring the whiskey,’ he said. ‘And a couple of glasses. And explain.’ He picked up our plates and I followed him to the parlour. We took our places, each to our favourite couch, and rested our plates on our laps.

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘she takes more than everything. She takes it all, and then she presents us with more receipts for things she says we owe her for – doctors’ bills, cleaning bills, food, linen, drink, clothing, furniture … It doesn’t matter what. She thinks of something. And then we never have quite enough to pay. So she says:
never mind, darling
.
You can pay me next month …
And so it goes on. Each month, she calls us into her parlour, and she has a great pile of papers before her; and she smiles as if …’ I laughed, and I know it sounded bitter. ‘For a long time, Xavier, I used to believe her. She has the sweetest smile. I used to believe we were friends. And each month, when our little meetings came to an end, she would pat me on the back and thank me for my excellent work, as if Plum Street couldn’t survive without me. She would say to me, “Don’t you worry about the money. I’ll take care of it. That’s what I’m here for.”’

‘How long have you worked there?’ he asked me.

‘I don’t like thinking about it. Too long.’

‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ he said. He laid down his knife and fork. ‘But she’s robbing you. Work it out! How many clients do you see in a week? How many weeks in a year? Let’s say a hundred dollars a night, five nights a week? Six? Multiply that by fifty-two. And multiply that by – six years?’ He came up with a figure without a beat. ‘One hundred eighty-seven thousand, two hundred dollars.’

I laughed. ‘Is that right? How did you do that? Actually it’s seven years, coming along eight. And we’re allowed a week off in the summer.’

‘What if you simply refuse to play along? What if you say: Phoebe, this is absurd! I don’t owe you this money. I never spent that kind of money in my life. If anything, you cocksucker, it’s
you
who owes
me
money … Goddammit,’ he broke off, ‘why must
everyone
in life turn out to be a charlatan?’

Again, I laughed. ‘Well she runs a brothel,’ I said.

‘They’re charlatans in the movie business too,’ he muttered. ‘Every damned one of them.’

‘Profanities won’t help, Xavier.’

‘Oh, don’t be prim,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. And you didn’t answer the question. What could happen if you stood up to her?’

‘She could throw me out of the house. For a start.’

‘But you make her a lot of money. She won’t want to do that.’

‘She could send her heavies after me.’ I had cleaned my plate, but I was still hungry. ‘Trust me, Xavier, there are any number of things she could do, and none I would enjoy. Is there any more ham?’

‘No more ham,’ he said. ‘So, Dora … my friend.’ He considered me. ‘When you and Inez were plotting for you to set up as a singing instructress in town—?’

‘I was living on cloud cuckoo. Shall we talk about something else?’

34

‘Something else’ presented itself at just that instant. Philippa McCulloch was at the door. And the next thing, before Xavier had time to collect himself, she had unlocked it herself, with her own set of keys, and walked right into the house. She stood at the threshold, unwelcome sunlight shining in behind her, a small, stout, wounded silhouette. She gazed at us. Poor, decent woman. It can’t have been an uplifting sight. I lay sprawled on one couch, wrapped in her nephew’s lilac paisley breakfast gown, an empty plate and a filled glass of whiskey on my belly; Xavier lay sprawled on the other, shirt undone and still crumpled from sleep, the bottle of whiskey nestled beside him; and between us the mess and remains of this morning’s breakfast and last night’s drinking.

We both struggled to pull ourselves together, but the impression was made, the damage done.

Xavier said: ‘Aunt Philippa!’ brushing toast crumbs off his bare chest. He stood to welcome her and his balance was just a little off. It occurred to me we were both probably quite drunk. ‘I didn’t realize you had keys. Maybe it’s better if you knock?’ He looked around him at the disarray, carefully avoiding my eye. ‘I might have prepared things a little better.’

Mrs McCulloch moved into the room and the light from the door fell on her face. It was puffy with crying. Her hands were shaking. Her chest rose and fell, as if she were fighting for breath. She didn’t speak.

‘Although I agree,’ he added, looking around him again, somewhat helplessly, ‘it might have needed a little longer to get this place in order.’

She glanced across, but didn’t acknowledge me. She perched herself at the end of the couch I had just vacated in her honour. ‘You’re drinking liquor,’ she said. ‘It’s early to be drinking liquor. I wish you’d come home last night, Xavier. I sat up for you. I thought you were coming back but you didn’t. I was worried about you, darling. But I see you were being looked after.
Looked after
,’ she muttered the words again. ‘So that’s good.’ It seemed hard to believe that she meant it. But at that point there was no disapproval, no bitterness in her voice.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very much. I have just come from the morgue. Mr Adamsson was very kind. Very helpful. Very kind and helpful. You should have gone to the morgue, Xavier. You’re her brother.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

We waited but he said nothing more.

‘Is that it? You’re sorry?’

‘I should have gone to the morgue. I didn’t think. At least I did. I thought …’

‘You didn’t think. You didn’t think at all.’

I thought he was about to cry. I couldn’t bear it for him. I said, ‘Mrs McCulloch, I know he meant to go. I’m afraid I delayed him.’

She shot me a look: through the fog of grief, a spark of pure hostility. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should leave.’

‘Don’t leave!’ Xavier said. ‘Stay.’ He sounded desperate. ‘We are all grieving. There is no reason why you should leave. You loved Inez too. I know you did. We all loved her. We should stay together.’

Mrs McCulloch, bolt upright on the couch, looked at the wall opposite and said nothing.

‘I’ll go get dressed,’ I said.

‘You do that,’ she fired back. And then the strength left her; her shoulders hunched, she put her hands to her face and wept. She looked so pitiful I stopped, kneeled down and wrapped my arms around her. She rested her head on my shoulder, on the paisley silk that smelled of Xavier, and for a moment it was so simple. We helped each other.

Xavier loped off back to the kitchen to fetch his aunt a glass. He returned to the parlour, polishing it with his shirtsleeve, and carefully filled it to the very brim before holding it out to her. She lifted her head from my shoulder, wiped her eyes and swallowed it in one – like an old cowboy.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Xavier said, returning to his seat. I noticed he had fastened the buttons of his shirt. Somehow, in those few moments, he had managed to make himself look respectable. It rendered my own dishevelled and informal state even more uncomfortable.

‘Really,’ I said. ‘I should go get dressed.’

Mrs McCulloch stared vacantly at the hearth. I padded across the parlour into Xavier’s bedroom, and returned as soon as I could, hair tidied with the help of Xavier’s combs, yesterday’s clothes back in place. I could smell the morgue on them. At least – of course I couldn’t. But I could feel it. And there was a speck of something on my cuff that looked like Inez’s blood.

I intended to pick up my purse and slip away, but Mrs McCulloch said:

‘Xavier tells me you have a letter. From Inez to that delightful gentleman, Mr Eastman. Are you going to deliver it to him?’

‘Of course,’ I said. I was surprised that Xavier had mentioned it to her. ‘I had forgotten you met him.’

‘Xavier brought him round, didn’t you darling? I thought he was
exceptionally
charming.’

‘Yes. Yes, he is, isn’t he?’

‘He talked of the deep affection and esteem he held for Inez …’ The tears began to roll again, but her voice didn’t change. She continued to speak normally. ‘He was going to take her to work for his little publication in New York. She was going to lodge in his sister’s apartment, and –’ she frowned uncertainly – ‘in the fall, they were going to marry. It’s what Inez said. But he was in mourning. Which is why there was no date set.’ I could hear her doubts growing with each new word she uttered. ‘He was a very handsome gentleman,’ she said. ‘Quite delightful. And the son of not
one
minister of the church but two! His mother is also a pastor! Imagine that!’ She took another slug from her glass, found it empty, and held it towards Xavier to be topped up. ‘I have tried to imagine it,’ she added. ‘But it’s rather hard. Well. Nevertheless. What does it matter any more? Darlng Inez had finally found her love. I never saw her so happy as these past days, did you?’ She glanced at us both but didn’t seem to expect a reply. I didn’t agree with her in any case. ‘Mr Adamsson assures me he will provide the finest casket for her. Teak. Or ebony. Did he say ebony?’

‘Ebony seems unlikely, Aunt. Mahogany perhaps?’

‘That’s right.’ She glances at me, a fleeting look, sly and fearful. ‘Well Miss – I don’t even know
what
I am supposed to call you any longer. What name are you going by today?’

‘My name is Dora Whitworth. I have told you before.’

‘Yes indeed. Well, Miss Whitworth. I must admit I am not quite certain why the letter is still in your possession in any case. Or why it ever
was
in your possession. But it hardly matters any more. Are you going to show it to us?’

‘Max’s letter?’

‘I don’t know what other letter. Are you going to show it to us?’

I hesitated, looked at Xavier for guidance. But he was making a study of his fingernails. ‘Well, Xavier has already seen it,’ I said.

‘So I understand.’

‘Xavier?’ But he wouldn’t look at me. I wondered what had possessed him to tell her about the letter in the first place. ‘I’m not sure I should …’ I said. It sounded feeble. ‘Xavier, don’t you agree? It was a private correspondence, after all. Between herself and her beloved. I probably shouldn’t have read it myself.’

‘But you
did
read it,’ she said. ‘And I would like to read it too. Very, very much. If you please, Miss Whitworth. I would be grateful.’ Her chin was trembling. ‘If it helps to explain what she was doing halfway to Forbes, in the middle of a battlefield …’

‘But that had nothing to do with Max,’ I said. Again, I glanced at Xavier. He was lying back on the couch, dancer’s body as limp as a ragdoll, looking from one to the other of us, an expression of immeasurable sadness on his face. ‘Say what we will about Max,’ I said to Xavier, ‘but it was something to do with Cody – or maybe Cody’s mother – that sent her out there. We can’t blame it on Max.’

Mrs McCulloch began to cry again: this time, with every living part of her. Her face and shoulders crumpled. She held her head, whiskey glass in hand. ‘I don’t know anything about any Cody,’ she said. ‘Who is Cody?’ Helplessly, I put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off, as I knew she would. She sobbed louder, until her body shook, and still, Xavier did nothing.

‘Xavier!’ I snapped at him. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t just sit there! Help your aunt. Explain to her who Cody is. Won’t you? I don’t know what to tell her …’

He said, as if it were obvious: ‘Tell her the truth. I’m so sick of all the lies.’

I laughed. It occurred to me he wasn’t talking about Inez. ‘The truth? About what, Xavier? How can I tell her the truth? I don’t even know what it is myself. You want me to show her Max’s letter? Why?’

‘She wants to know. We all do. Don’t we? Aren’t you sick of the lies?’

‘
What
lies? Xavier, you’re drunk. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we are talking about the letter. You should shut your mouth if you can’t keep a hold of what’s coming out of it.’

‘What was she
doing
all the way out there?’ Mrs McCulloch cried. ‘Yesterday, of all the days in the year? Why?’ She looked at me as if I not only knew all the answers but I was responsible for them, too. Responsible for everything that had happened.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said.

I knew I should leave, and yet I couldn’t do it. The thought of being any place where the world hadn’t stopped for Inez was unbearable. So I sat still, not moving, knowing I should go, eyes lowered, drinking up the other woman’s hostility: a price for being allowed to share in her grief.

Xavier’s cold voice broke the silence. ‘Don’t look at her like that,’ he said. At first I wasn’t certain which of us he was addressing. I kept my eyes down, felt the itch of a tear rolling down the side of my nose but did nothing about it. ‘Aunt Philippa,’ Xavier said, ‘I said: don’t look at Dora like that. As if this were all her fault.’

‘How can I not?’ she began to sob again. ‘Everything was all right until she came along. She thinks I don’t know – but I do! I know everything!’

‘What do you know?’ I asked.

‘I know that you have spent the night corrupting my nephew.’

‘We were consoling each other, nothing more.’