Authors: Helen Forrester
The Committee for the Preservation of Morals was to meet at the house of Mrs. Murphy, the wife of the Mayor. It was a large split-level home, with unexpected staircases going, it seemed, in all directions, their wrought-iron banisters standing out against the pale-yellow broadloom which covered both stairs and floors throughout the house. The picture windows, thought Mrs. Stych, were larger than any other picture windows in Tollemarche, and the huge brick fireplace in the living-room was festooned with real antique brass ornaments, ranging from a warming pan, top left, to a set of horse brasses, bottom right. The two square yards of broadloom devoted to the open hallway were almost blocked by a large bamboo plant, made of plastic, which waved majestically over a little fountain cascading water over two plastic shell-shaped basins which miraculously never overflowed.
Mrs. Stych noted carefully all the “
day
core”, as she called it, while she removed her coat and gave it to Mrs. Murphy to hang up. Soon she would herself be in the market for a new home, and, though she and Boyd could not hope to outdo a contractor like the Mayor building for himself, she could pick up a few ideas and have them incorporated into their new house in Vanier Heights. She knew that in a couple of days’ time Boyd’s promotion would be announced by his company in the newspaper, underneath a studio portrait of him, and she held her head high as she swayed gracefully into the living-room. Since a few ladies who had been at the tea would also be at the committee meeting, and, anyway, Boyd had messed up her best black afternoon dress, she wore now a pretty gown in green wool which she had picked up in the last sale at Eaton’s. As it was after six o’clock, and, according to her much thumbed book of etiquette, a lady might glitter after that hour, she wore long
diamanté
earrings. The result was, in the eyes of the ladies present, very glamorous indeed, and they were nice enough
to tell her so. She simpered, and took her place on one of the enormous chesterfields flanking the fireplace, sitting next to Mrs. Moore, the dentist’s wife, mother of Hank’s dead friend Tony. Mr. Moore had recently discovered how lucrative preventive dentistry could be, and Mrs. Moore was dressed accordingly.
Mrs. Murphy had moved a coffee table to the centre of the room and grouped four chairs round it, for the use of the officials of the committee. She was a large woman, flushed with the exertion of constantly having to answer the door, and she still showed in her black hair, grey eyes and lovely skin, traces of her Irish forebears. She found the responsibility of being the Mayor’s wife almost too much for her, and was in a constant flutter for fear she forgot something in connection with the entertainment of the steady procession of guests, important to Tollemarche, who filed through her home. She need not have worried, however, for her good nature and naturally hospitable manner covered up any small deficiencies in deportment.
Tonight she was to chair the meeting, so she left the front door unlocked for any late-comers, and, having seated the nervous little reporter from the
Advent
in a position where she could see and hear all the ladies present, giving her at the same time a hastily written list of the names of those expected to attend, she called the meeting to order. As she raised her little hammer to tap on the table, she wondered suddenly why the
Advent
had actually sent a reporter – they usually depended on the publicity secretary to supply them with a report. However, the recording secretary was waiting with the minutes of the last meeting, and Mrs. Murphy announced her.
Donna Frizzell, angular in dark brown, sat as secretary of the committee, with the president, chairman and treasurer, while the lesser fry made their reports. She had a thin, satisfied smile on her face, which not even a few smirks and elbow nudgings among those ladies who had been at the tea could banish. She wished that the
Advent
had sent a more experienced reporter. This girl looked as if she was on her first assignment, as she sat with pencil poised over her shorthand notebook. However, she would probably be very careful over names, and that was what Mrs. Frizzell wanted.
Mrs. Stych’s mind wandered as the voices droned on and the current film at the local drive-in cinema was condemned. She was thinking about a telephone call which she had answered just as
she was about to leave the house. The call had been for Hank, and had been from one of his classmates, who said that he just wanted to inquire how Hank was. Mrs. Stych, in a frantic hurry, had said that he was out but that he was fine, just fine. The caller had sounded a little bewildered, but had said that he was glad to hear it and would telephone again sometime.
Now Mrs. Stych was puzzled. Why hadn’t the stupid boy said he would see Hank in school in the morning?
The treasurer, in sharp, clipped tones, was listing the committee’s various expenditures and was bringing to the attention of the members the fact that there was only twenty dollars in hand. Mrs. Stych forced herself to attend, and the little reporter’s pencil sped across the page.
Finally, Mrs. Frizzell rose to make her report. She hitched her skirt down surreptitiously, cleared her throat, arranged her sample books in a neat pile in front of her, and then, fixing her audience with an angry glare, she began.
“The teenagers of Tollemarche must be protected from obscenity and smut!” she announced dramatically.
There was an immediate murmur of approval, though some of the ladies looked longingly at the lavishly laid tea table just visible in the dining alcove.
“They must be defended, it appears, from their own neighbours!”
It was as if an electric shock had gone through the gathering. Heads snapped round towards Mrs. Frizzell. From their neighbours?
Mrs. Frizzell’s voice sank. “Yes,” she hissed, “from their own neighbours.”
She picked up
The Cheaper Sex
with the tips of her bony, scarlet-nailed fingers.
“This!” She paused for effect. “This shameless piece of pornography was written in Tollemarche by one of our own teenagers. Undoubtedly his parents must have known about it, and that makes it doubly shameful.”
Twenty-four pairs of painted lips let out long-drawn gasps and then broke into speech. Questions poured towards the chair, and Mrs. Murphy banged her gavel so hard on the coffee table that it left a mark, which distressed her so much that she forgot for a moment why she was hammering and stared sadly at the dent in the wood.
She recovered herself quickly, however, and cried: “Order! Order, please! Ladies! One at a time. Mrs. Davis.” She gestured with her gavel towards a doctor’s wife, whose elaborately casual tweed suit proclaimed her husband’s earning power.
Mrs. Davis had been a nurse, and her cold, crisp voice rose above the clamour. “We should like to know who wrote the book and who published it.”
The voice had the effect for which Mrs. Murphy had hoped. There was immediate silence and eager attention.
Mrs. Frizzell surveyed the gathering exultantly. She wished passionately that she knew who Ben MacLean was. But this was her moment, she felt. She would never again have so much rapt attention focused upon her, and she stood silent, until one lady, younger than most of those present, started to rummage in her handbag for a cigarette.
“The name of the author is … Ben MacLean, the publisher a firm in New York.”
Conversation immediately broke out again, while each lady tried to recollect all the MacLeans that she knew. Mrs. Murphy banged with her gavel, rather more cautiously this time. “Ladies, please!”
A thin streak of a woman bobbed up at the back. “What are we going to do about it?”
The voice of the doctor’s wife rose above the hubbub. “Have you read the book?”
Silence again. Everyone looked expectantly at Mrs. Frizzell.
Mrs. Frizzell went a little pink. She hesitated, and then said: “Not all of it. I – er – um …”
Several ladies turned sharply on Mrs. Davis, who was far too efficient in everything she did. “Be reasonable, Hester. She wouldn’t like to read a thing like that.”
“How else would she know it’s a thing like that?” retorted Hester, unabashed.
“The first chapter was enough,” snapped Mrs. Frizzell indignantly, glad that she did not have to explain that she did not give much time to reading.
Mrs. Murphy snatched the opportunity to ask Mrs. Frizzell to proceed with her report, which she did, outlining the story as far as she knew it and using as many euphemisms as she could. The name of the author was evidently a pseudonym, but it was hoped that the committee would take steps to find out who he was, would
decide what should be done to clean this canker out of Tollemarche, and would take more steps to curb their local bookseller’s and cigar stores’ choice of books. She omitted to mention that, when they last made representations to the bookseller, Mr. Pascall, he had said that he stocked the books he could sell; and if the ladies wanted him to sell better books they should take to buying them and reading them, instead of watching television all day. Then he might be able to improve the quality of his stock.
Mrs. Frizzell, having run out of steps, sat down.
“What are we going to do about it?” asked Hester Davis again, through a haze of cigarette smoke.
Handbags were snapped shut, legs were crossed and uncrossed, ladies leaned forward confidentially to their neighbours, ostensibly to confer, though a number got fits of giggles and had to hide their faces behind their hands. Mrs. Frizzell gazed into space and Mrs. Murphy smoothed back errant curls from her damp forehead. Almost all the ladies silently decided to go downtown the next morning and buy a copy of The
Cheaper Sex
. Each justified her interest in such a vulgar book by telling herself that in these matters one must be able to judge for oneself.
The little reporter realized suddenly that she had a real story for her editor, and went pale with fear as she remembered that lady’s ruthless slashing up of her last offering, the report of an insignificant wedding. She shivered and watched Mrs. Frizzell apprehensively as the buzz of conversation continued.
Mrs. Murphy threw the meeting open for discussion, since discussion was already in full flood and refused to be dammed, and wondered if the coffee, left on a low gas in the kitchen, had started to perk yet.
A blonde lady, with bouffant hair above a heavily lined, over-powdered face, addressed the chair. Why, she asked, didn’t they form a small subcommittee to inquire into the identity of this young author, and, when they had discovered it, they could report back to the rest of the members, and they could then discuss what action should be taken.
This suggestion met with immediate approval. The ladies were thirsty and wanted something to drink. Agreement on this suggestion would bring the meeting to a close, and most of those present would not have to do anything at all about the wretched book.
The motion was formally put to the meeting and seconded.
The blonde lady, Mrs. Johnson, whose daughter Hank regarded as little better than a streetwalker, found herself appointed chairman of the subcommittee, and she asked if Mrs. Stych and the president, the hawk-faced wife of a real estate man, would serve with her.
Mrs. Stych protested coyly that she did not know enough about books to be of any use, while she wondered privately how she was going to fit this new commitment into her already overcrowded schedule of social events. What about Mrs. Frizzell? she suggested hopefully. Mrs. Davis pointed out tartly that Mrs. Stych was not at present serving on any of their other subcommittees, and that she must do something to help. Mrs. Stych snapped back that all the ladies present must be well aware of the multitude of offices she held in the charitable organizations of Tollemarche. The ladies murmured reluctant agreement, since most of them had at one time or another tried to oust her from at least one of the appointments which they themselves coveted.
With a delicate sniff in the direction of a slightly cowed Hester Davis, Mrs. Stych enrolled herself as a sleuth in search of an author.
The date of the next meeting was agreed upon, as a delicious odour of coffee began to permeate the room, and the ladies rose expectantly and looked towards the dining alcove.
Mrs. Murphy had made brownies again, and the faces of some of the ladies fell. Mrs. Stych, however, nibbled appreciatively at one of the chocolate morsels, while Mrs. Johnson, who had no real idea how to trace an author, outlined a plan of campaign so huge that it would have confused an entire army staff, never mind Mrs. Stych.
Did Mrs. Johnson spell her name with a
t
? asked the little reporter.
Mrs. Johnson said “No!” indignantly, and Mrs. Stych woke up and checked that the girl had her name down correctly, too. She began to take an interest in the Sleuthing Committee. She felt that having her name mentioned more frequently than ever in the social columns was highly desirable for the wife of a company director. She smiled dazzlingly at the little reporter, and hoped that she would be referred to as “charming”.
The women’s editor of the
Tollemarche Advent,
having found nothing about Ben MacLean in the office files, decided that the quickest source of information regarding Tollemarche’s first author would probably be Mr. Pascall, the bookseller. She therefore telephoned him.
Old Mr. Pascall saw no reason why he should make life easy for a gossiping female and made her hold on, while he sold two ballpoint pens and a packet of rubber bands.
“It’s some high school kid called Henry Stych,” he finally wheezed down the telephone. “Salesman did tell me sumpin’ about a kid from here writing it but I forgot.
“Professor MacFee was in the other day – asked me to order him a copy. Told me the kid’s name was Henry Stych. I asked him why the kid didn’t use his own name, and he said maybe he thought Ben MacLean sorta sounded better.
“Want me to order you a copy? I sold the two I had.”
The editor ground her teeth. “No, thanks. Which high school?”
A small girl was messing about with the birthday cards in Mr. Pascall’s shop. He felt he had wasted enough time on the editor, and replied with asperity: “How should I know? There’re only two high schools, aren’t there – public and separate. Ring ’em up, can’t you?” He slammed down the receiver and fled to the rescue of his birthday cards.
The editor put the receiver slowly back on to its rest.
Stych! That was interesting. She wondered if the boy was any relation to Mrs. Olga Stych. Very thoughtfully, she turned to the telephone directory and looked up the name. Seven Styches were listed. She checked her file again and found that Olga’s husband’s first name was Boyd. There was no mention of any children.
Olga Stych had a vicious tongue and would not hesitate to use it, if she was mistaken in thinking there was a relationship. It would
undoubtedly be wiser to establish the young author’s identity and then, if he proved to be Mrs. Stych’s son, perhaps have a quiet word with the boy first. Since the book seemed to be one that would cause some controversy, she had better proceed with caution.
Her mind made up, she picked up the receiver and dialled the number of the separate school.
The separate school had no Henry Stych on its roll, and the school secretary was left in a state of agonized curiosity at the
Advent’s
interest in such a person.
The principal of the public high school happened to pick up the telephone himself.
Yes, he knew Henry Stych, and, yes, he knew of
The Cheaper
Sex;
he had confiscated a copy of it from a Grade 10 child only this morning. Henry Stych had
what
? Written it? Ridiculous!
The editor said she felt sure her information was correct, and could she have Henry’s address and telephone number?
The principal was immediately cautious and warned her that the boy was under age. He suggested she should contact the father, Boyd Stych, and he gave the parents’ home telephone number, feeling that she would soon trace it anyway.
Deeply concerned, he pressed the intercom buzzer and asked Mr. Dixon, Hank’s home-room teacher, to report to him without delay.
Mrs. Stych had just got up and was still in her dressing-gown when she answered the telephone call from the
Advent
. Hank and Boyd had found their own cornflakes and coffee and had long since departed.
The editor asked for Mr. Henry Stych. Mrs. Stych faltered for a moment and then realized that she meant Hank.
She said gaily: “The story isn’t about Hank – it’s about my husband, Boyd.”
The editor knew nothing of the story of Boyd’s promotion, about to be featured in the financial section, and she said firmly that it was Henry she wanted.
Mrs. Stych did not want to offend the queen of the social columns by arguing with her, so when that lady went on to inquire when the newspaper could send a photographer, Mrs. Stych said in her most gracious tone of voice that the whole family would be at home that evening any time after six.
She rang off, happy that the
Advent
was taking such an interest
in Boyd’s directorship, finished her coffee and went to take her morning shower. It was only then, with the water trickling down her plump back, that an uncomfortably cold premonition seemed to trickle down, too. Had the Editor really meant Hank, and, if so, what had Hank been up to?
She pulled herself up firmly. If Hank had done something particularly dreadful, either Donna Frizzell or some other nosey parker would have been on her doorstep by now to tell her about it. It
must
be about Boyd.
As requested by Mrs. Johnson of the Committee for the Preservation of Morals, she drove out to the library, with the intention of asking the chief librarian for information about Ben MacLean, but when she arrived he had gone out for morning coffee. His languid part-time assistant could not have cared less about books or authors, local or other; she supposed that there was a copy of the book in the new-fiction section.
Mrs. Stych sailed majestically to the bookcase indicated, and found the offending volume almost immediately. She had not looked at Mrs. Frizzell’s copy, so this was her first glimpse of it. Before picking it out, she looked over her shoulder to make sure that no one was looking at her. There was only one person nearby, an elderly gentleman immersed in back copies of
the Edmonton Journal,
so she slipped the book out.
The sultry female depicted on the front shocked her. What a position to lie in – it was indecent! No wonder Donna had been upset. She read the summary of the story and the gushing praise of the New York critics, quoted on the jacket. Finally she turned the book over and read the brief notes about the author; and her deep unease of earlier that morning returned, but she crushed it down.
She read the first two pages, and felt a blush rise from her palpitating bosom up her neck to suffuse her face. For heaven’s sakes, did girls really do such things? Fancy the library allowing such a book on their shelves! She hastily returned it to its place, and in a state of some agitation went back to her car and sat there until she felt calm again.
She started the car with a jerk and hit the bumper of the car in front. Flustered, she reversed, and the groceries she had bought en route fell off the back seat and flopped to the floor. Damn that book! With painful care she eased the car out of its parking place and into the flow of traffic.
The cover said a high school boy. But what could a kid know about such goings-on as were chronicled in the pages she had read? What
did
a present-day high school boy know?
It came to her as a shock that, although she had an excellent opportunity to be acquainted with high school children through her son, she did not know any of his friends. With a burst of self-pity, she mentally reviled Hank for never talking to her or telling her what he was going to do. He never brought his friends to the house and she had never known where he spent his spare time. What
did he
do, other than ride around in his jalopy and sometimes help out in the supermarket?
As she manoeuvred the car through the traffic, the cold feeling which had menaced her earlier returned to plague her.
She tried to brush aside memories of the eager, tiny child that Hank had been, a child who had adored his ugly, heavy-footed Ukrainian grandfather, a child who had screamed with rage at her when she had thrust him into the arms of an unknown babysitter or had forced him to play alone in the basement, until he became a silent, morose schoolboy. Meanwhile, she had pursued personal aggrandizement at his expense, a whisper of conscience hinted, until he had learned that he was nothing but a nuisance to her.
The memories persisted, until she had worked herself into a peevish bout of self-pity, which was not improved by her discovery when she reached home that Hank had not shovelled the snow off the front walk before leaving for school. The snow would certainly invade the tops of her boots when she stepped out of the car, and she swore softly in Ruthenian as she retrieved the groceries from the floor of the car and turned to carry them into the house.
She had just slammed the car door by hooking it with one foot, when Mrs. Frizzell, with a similar brown-paper bag of groceries, came round the nearest corner on foot, having been to the local store.
“Mornin’, Olga,” she shouted as she scuttled towards her, a pair of rollers in the front of her hair sticking out like devil’s horns from under her woollen hat. “Where’ve you been?”
“Library,” said Mrs. Stych shortly as she staggered through the snow towards her house.
Mrs. Frizzell’s face brightened. “About the book?”
“Yeah,” replied Mrs. Stych with an involuntary shudder. She
suddenly recollected that she was now the wife of the director of a large company, and drew herself up with what she hoped was some dignity; but she only succeeded in looking more than ever like a pouter pigeon. “Librarian had gone to coffee.”
“I’d like to know who wrote it,” said Mrs. Frizzell wistfully.
Mrs. Stych put her nose in the air, and said: “We shall have the name in a day or two.”
Mrs. Frizzell surveyed her neighbour speculatively. Olga seemed to be more patronizing than ever today. She was now looking round at both their houses distastefully, though the houses looked the same as usual, snow on the roofs, snow a foot deep over the yards, snow poised on every twig and leaf, a cloud from the central-heating chimney hovering calmly over each residence.
Mrs. Stych had temporarily forgotten about Hank. “I’ll be glad to leave this house,” she said carefully.
Mrs. Frizzell’s nose quivered as she caught the scent of change.
“Leave it?”
“Yeah. Probably next fall. We’re going to build in Vanier Heights.”
The effect of this announcement on Mrs. Frizzell was all that Mrs. Stych could have desired. The bounce went out of her as if she had burst. Envy sprang into her hard little eyes and gleamed maliciously. She stood rooted to the sidewalk, her mind a whirl of dislike. Vanier Heights? She could have cried. Why hadn’t Maxie thought of building a new house there, the old stick in the mud?
She took two or three large breaths over the top of her bag of groceries, while Mrs. Stych watched her stupefaction with complacency. She had, however, understimated Donna Frizzell’s powers of recovery. Between gritted teeth, Donna asked innocently: “Isn’t that a bit old-fashioned? We were thinking of buying a small estate outside the city, three or four acres, so that we could have a real nice ranch-type bungalow – and keep some riding horses.” The last was an inspired idea, a riding horse with an acreage to keep it on being quite a status symbol.
Mrs. Stych licked her lips. “Oh, no!” she drawled, determined not to be outdone, as she moved towards her front door. “We wouldn’t like to be far from town – we like culture – and horses smell so.”
Mrs. Frizzell reminded herself that murder was not civilized.
Not trusting herself to speak, she right-wheeled and made for her own front door, which now looked hopelessly out of date and shabby. She would get to work on Maxie just as soon as his presence at home should coincide with hers; she had not seen him since returning from the tea, except when crawling wearily into bed.
“Let him just show his face,” she muttered darkly.