Little Less Than Kind Page 9

  “Why, point out that they are cousins. Or … that it isn’t suitable, for many reasons. Or … that there are other fish in the sea. You’ll know what you must say.”

  “I must say, right now,” said Abby, “that I don’t, at all. To me, this is very, very strange.”

  “Oh my,” said Rafe. “Not at all. At the dinner table? His outburst?”

  “He is sorry for that,” she said softly. “Forgive him?”

  “But didn’t it come immediately after Felicia spoke to him?”

  “Did she speak to him?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Rafe. “But it must have hurt him somehow. And he lashed out, of course. Easily forgiven, if only we understand. Isn’t that so?”

  Abby sighed deeply. “You understand it? You think it was on Felicia’s account?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I’ll ask him about this … did you say a quarrel?”

  “Please do, Abby. I’ll want to talk to him, too.”

  “Please don’t, Rafe. Let me.”

  “Well …”

  “I still think there is something … confused. Are you sure?”

  Rafe said, “I am sure of one thing. I am afraid that I’ll have to insist that Felicia not be harassed or importuned.”

  “Advances,” said Abby suddenly. “That’s what you said. Now you say ‘harass’ and ‘importune.’” Her voice became gentle, with the faintest touch of a humorous dryness. “I can’t believe Ladd meant to do anything of the sort to Felicia—really. But of course I thank you for coming.”

  Rafe’s face was pinker and his chin was drawn in. “I came in all good faith. I do not want a quarrel between our houses.”

  “Oh, Rafe dear,” cried Abby, “there won’t be. Will you take some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I …”

  “Would you like me to speak to Felicia?”

  “I think … better not,” said Rafe, rather gloomily.

  His ardent good intentions had run into her very polite but total skepticism. He took himself into the stair-hall. Ladd Cunningham was on the stairs.

  He was standing about six steps up, his hand on the graceful rail. Rafe said, very stiffly, “Your mother wishes to speak to you.”

  “Oh, does she?” The voice was light; the fingertips slid and caressed the glowing wood; the boy looked down, with his head held high. He was “looking down his nose.”

  The back of Rafe’s neck ached. He felt old and foolish and furious.

  But Abby spoke behind him and said, “Yes, please, dear, I would like a minute. You must go, Rafe? I think you said there was a committee of ladies?”

  “Yes, I have an appointment.” Rafe stalked toward the terrace door. He looked back over his shoulder and called, “But I want a word with you, later on.”

  Nobody answered him. Ladd came down the six steps with a swift tattoo of his young feet. His mother had drawn back into the library and he went through that door. Rafe, left standing in the stair-hall, began to affirm his right to be, and to be heard, by an angry a stubborn stillness of his feet.

  “Better close the door,” Abigail said, smiling.

  Ladd closed the door.

  “There is no point in troubling Cleona with our problems, do you think?” She sat down, in her graceful way. The boy stood against the closed door.

  “Dear, it seems that you have upset Felicia Lorimer. Somehow.” Abby’s air was the opposite of severe. She was ready to discuss an amusing misunderstanding.

  But Ladd said, “I’m sorry,” with no expression and almost without moving his lips.

  Abby seemed surprised. “I’m afraid I hadn’t realized that you were very much interested.”

  “In what?” Ladd said. (All this was extraneous. Of no matter. Lonely, he stood, with the burden on him, and his mother babbled of green girls.)

  “Felicia is a sweet little thing, of course. Do you find her … attractive?”

  “Why?” he said.

  “Darling,” said Abby with frustration, “that’s not any kind of question. I don’t understand it. Come over and sit down, please. And tell me, did you meet Felicia, Saturday evening?”

  The boy did not move from his position. “What about it?” he said impatiently.

  Abby said, touching her throat, “Oh dear, then Rafe is right?”

  “Right about what?” (He wanted to go. Be alone, think, plot, plan. Didn’t she realize that he had to kill someone?)

  “That you and she have become better friends than I bad … realized. And now there has been this quarrel. He says,” said Abby with elaborate calm, “that Felicia is not as fond of you as you would like her to be?” She looked up, smiling question.

  The boy thought: Lies! Lies! And no time for them.

  His mother said, “Then you do find Felicia Lorimer attractive?”

  “Then you do find,” mimicked the boy, “David Crown attractive?” (He hadn’t meant to say that.)

  “What?” Abby sucked in her breath and said, “We are speaking about something that happened on Saturday night. Did you quarrel with Felicia, dear?”

  (Quarrel? he thought. And that’s not polite. But neither is murder.) His face fell to bitter stone.

  His mother said gently, “I only want to understand. Please?” Then, softly, “Ladd, I’ve asked you a question.”

  “Mother, I’ve asked you a question,” he mimicked, melodiously. His head bent to the right, his eyes were cold.

  She sat very straight. Her eyes filled up with the old familiar reproachful suffering. “Rafe tells me that you made ‘advances.’” Abby’s pretty mouth showed fastidious distaste. “I can’t believe that. Felicia, evidently—”

  “Evidently. Evidentially. Evidence.” (He was thinking, Liars! Liars! Let me alone! It’s not important!)

  “Oh, Ladd, what is the matter?” Abby rose and came toward him, ready for tears and caresses.

  “Don’t touch me,” he said, with an underlying scream.

  “Darling …”

  (Oh, she was so innocent. She was so bewildered. She was so hurt. She was going to cry and that would help a lot. He had no time for it.) “Oh, God, you make me sick,” he said to her with loathing.

  Her face crumpled. She put out one hand.

  “Don’t talk to me,” he said frantically. “Don’t talk to me. I don’t go to bed with the first willing one that comes along.”

  Abby had turned white. “Ladd, aren’t you well?” She begged him to be ill.

  “Well. Well. Very well, Mother.”

  She stepped backwards, looking frightened. She pulled herself up and said, “I don’t know what’s happened between you and this girl—”

  “—you and this man.”

  “Don’t say that. I don’t understand you. Just tell me—What is the matter? You know—surely you know I only want to help you.”

  “Then, help.” He took a step. “Mother, get rid of him.”

  “What?”

  “Kick him out. Throw him out. Tell him to get out.”

  “I think,” she wailed, “you must be crazy!”

  There was a sharp rap at the door. Ladd turned around and yanked it open. Rafe Lorimer stood there. He said, “Abby, do you need me?” His face wore its pleated smile.

  The boy’s face turned demonic. “You too?” he said. Then, with a mocking bow, “Be my guest. Be my mother’s guest. Certainly she needs you. My father is dead. And you know it too, don’t you?”

  “You must not speak to me like that, young man. Nor to your mother.” It was Rafe’s fate to look ridiculous in anger.

  “I’ll say what I want.”

  “I will not listen.”

  “You listen to your lying daughter. Lying daughter! Oh good! Very good! I wouldn’t lie; that was her trouble.” Ladd’s voice was cracking with hysterical laughter.

  “You had better leave this room,” said Rafe sternly. “You are upsetting your mother.”

 
The boy said, laughing, “Words. Words. Don’t you ever listen to the meaning of words? You old fool! Sneak!”

  “Sticks and stones,” said Rafe, pink and puffed up and ridiculous.

  Ladd said, “Get out of my way. Don’t bother me.” He lifted his right arm. Rafe wilted out of his path. The boy rushed away.

  Rafe heard the racking sobs and saw Abby’s body convulsing in the chair. He was frightened. “Abby, don’t, Abby. He must be out of his mind. Really. Don’t pay attention. He didn’t know what he was saying. He couldn’t have known.”

  But she sobbed.

  “Please, try to be a little … a little … calmer.” Rafe didn’t know what to do. “Shall I call the doctor, Abby?”

  “No. Yes.” She writhed. “Call David. I need him. He loves me.”

  “I don’t know his number,” said Rafe frantically. “Everybody loves you.” Rafe, catapulted out of the world he had invented, didn’t know where he was.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ladd Cunningham ran through the garden, down to the drive, back to his car. He began to hear female voices coming from Rafe’s studio, just the other side of the hedge. The women’s voices gushed, babbled, hooted and twittered. Ladd’s hands opened and closed, opened and closed. Women!

  He wrenched his thought to Rafe, the meddling old idiot. And his lying daughter. He would like to tell her … He stepped to peer through the gap in the hedge. All he could see was a strange car, standing in the Lorimers’ driveway with a man in it. Intolerable! Intolerable! In his deep trouble, to have been persecuted by gnats! A liar, and an old fool who was her dupe, and meddlers, both of them. How dared …! How dared …! How dared …! His rage began to turn to ice and his whole soul gathered to a knife-edge. Ladd sidled through the gap. He did not know what he might not do. He felt such power. He could punish. He could publish what they were.

  He reined himself in … narrowed in. As he drew near the car he said, “Hi.” And then, shyly, “Oh, excuse me. I thought I knew you, sir.”

  “Harper is my name. I’m just my wife’s chauffeur this morning.” The man was old, all gray skin, sharp bones, and fierce hair. He was old, but spry, and he was bored by this waiting.

  Ladd turned his head and looked toward the studio.

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “Bunch of women,” the man answered, pleased to be using his voice. “Came to ask this artist fellow to make a speech.”

  Ladd’s ear caught the flavor of scorn on the word “artist.” “Who?” he asked.

  “This Rafael Lorimer. Uh … you the Lorimer boy?”

  “No, I just live around here.” Ladd was pretending to be vaguely troubled. His wits whirled, so sharp, so shining. His eyelids were white on the tan face.

  “They want to kick off this new art course,” Mr. Harper said, “for teen-agers.”

  “Teen-agers?” said Ladd, artfully breathless. White lids flew up. He knew what he was going to say. He had remembered the inside of Rafe’s studio the last time he had seen it. This was good. This was better. This was perfect. Just a questoin of how to say it. Ah, but he had advised Gary. All you had to do was say it “as if.”

  “Say, where is he, do you know?” The old man squirmed.

  “Oh, I guess he’s around,” said Ladd. “Say, Mr. Harper …?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re an older man.”

  “I guess that’s right, all right.”

  “Well, see, I don’t know what I should do.” Ladd hung his head.

  “About what?”

  “About … something. I wish I could ask you.”

  “Why don’t you ask your dad,” said Mr. Harper warily, sensing he knew not what.

  “I can’t. My dad is dead.”

  “Sorry, son. I guess that’s pretty tough.”

  “It’s not about me.”

  “No? What about, then?”

  “About this … artist.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, I happen … Listen, I didn’t want to see anything. I couldn’t help it” (Oh, he would feel like puking, “if.”)

  Mr. Harper shifted in the seat, his interest kindled. “What’s this?”

  “I’ve been keeping still, because … Well, it’s just impossible, that’s all. Only … you say he is supposed to make a speech to some teen-agers?”

  “That’s the idea, I guess.”

  “Well, I can tell you, he’s a great one!” said Ladd viciously. (His duty “if.” Yes, it would be his reluctant duty.)

  “Why?” the man snapped. Ladd twitched and stepped backward. “Come on. Why?”

  “Well, maybe you know he has a … I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can. You can talk to me,” coaxed the old man, perishing of curiosity.

  “I … got to tell somebody. But how can I tell my mom a thing like this? I mean, I couldn’t.”

  “As you say, I’m a man and older. Don’t be afraid.”

  “No, sir.” Ladd came closer. The old man seemed to have excellent hearing. So Ladd spoke low. “He has this daughter. She’s probably about seventeen now.” He looked at his hand. His fingers were on the warm metal of the car. Power was in their very tips, the power of his mind. (As if. As if. As if.)

  “I got the impression he has two kids,” the old man said. “Right?”

  “Yes, but the son … the son goes away to college.”

  “Does?”

  “Well, see, when he goes away, then that leaves just this artist and the girl, living all alone here.” Ladd took his hand away and stepped back. His face was sad stone.

  Old Mr. Harper put his head out the window and looked up at the shabby old house.

  “I didn’t … believe me … I didn’t want to see anything and I wish I never had.” Ladd looked as if he would fly away.

  The old man’s hair seemed to bristle. “What was it that you saw?”

  “It’s kinda awful … kinda sickening …” They stared, eye to eye. Ladd’s eyes had a bright horror. (Because it would be horrible, “if.”)

  “Now, wait a minute. You say you saw?” The old man croaked.

  “Well, it just happens that I can look right into his …”

  “Yes.”

  “Bedroom.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Mr. Harper.

  “She … Look, I don’t want to get them into trouble. I mean, not the girl. She doesn’t … I mean, he is her father, so wouldn’t she have to do what he says?”

  “Oh, Lord.” The old man had the door open and was getting out of the car now, putting one shaky leg to the ground.

  “And her mothers been dead a long time. So there’s nobody … I know it’s not my business …”

  “Oh, Lord.” Mr. Harper hung onto the car door. “If this is true …” His eyes were sharp under the bushy brows.

  “Listen … Please …” Ladd cried. “Maybe it isn’t. I wish it wasn’t. I’ve been practically sick.” He staggered. “I didn’t know what I ought to do. I never looked again. I couldn’t. Listen, I don’t want to get mixed up in anything like this. Only I got to get it off my mind.”

  “I understand. I understand,” said the old man harshly.

  Ladd put both hands over his face. “See, he is an artist. He doesn’t go to work or anything. I said to myself maybe he doesn’t think it’s so … bad. Maybe it isn’t—I mean, for some kinds of people. Only … she’s not very popular, you know. She doesn’t go round with kids her own age. She … hasn’t got anybody.…”

  “Oh, Lord,” the old man said and turned his back and began to walk toward the studio.

  Ladd peered through his fingers. The old man went into the remodeled stable. The sound of female voices died, abruptly. And so much for the lying daughter and the meddling old fool, too. Words, that’s all it took! Ladd moved. Fluidly, he slipped through the hedge and into his car. His ears felt a foot long, waiting for something. An explosion?

  But what he could hear was the slap of Rafe’s sandals. The boy slid far down in his s
eat and did not breathe. The sandals came, slap, slap, on the concrete. Slap, slap, they passed. The hedge rustled. Rafe was a little late to his appointment, the old fool! Teach him to trust a liar! Teach a father to trust his treacherous no-good child!

  Foot and hand, ready to go, Ladd froze, suffering in an instant a flash of clear light. I am sick. (Yes, he knew it.) For upon him had fallen the weight of the memory of all the years of Rafe, like an old pussycat around the place. Rafe and his chatter, his smile, his earnest puttering, his … harmlessness.

  But it was too late now. Nobody could help it now. He was sick, in himself, enough to die. Would rather. But he hardened. There was dear David still. And nothing else really mattered. So a gun was what he had to have. Too late for anything else. So hurry, hurry. Not much more time, Father.

  Oh God, he thought, if I had his keys, I’d take his car and smash it and smash it so no one else could ever touch what has belonged to him.

  He put his own car into gear and roared backward out of the drive.

  Felicia was walking home from the corner grocery store, carrying a big brown paper bag. She thought to herself that life goes on, as they say, but somehow or other it goes on most obviously on a Monday morning. Ah well, then, if it went on there had to be meals and if meals, then expeditions for supplies—so here she was on the sidewalk just as if she hadn’t had her heart broken.

  She was wearing a tight pair of black bermudas and a tailored green-and-white checked blouse that covered the mark on her shoulder. Her dark hair was caught up in a rubber band and hung in a long tail from the crown of her head. One thong threaded through her bare toes to hold each sandal’s sole to the sole of her foot. She might have been twelve years old.

  But, as she ambled through patches of sun and shade along the pleasant suburban street where she had lived all her life, it seemed to her to have been a long life.

  Her childhood seemed to her to have been long and sunny with delights, in the days when she had had a father and a mother and a brother and, in succession, two dogs whose whole lifetimes she could remember. But ever since twelve—yes, since about then—the sun had played in and out of cloud. She had found out that her family did not live just like all the other families—whether for better or for worse. That her house had neither the physical nor the mental furniture that the houses of her playmates had. And a little later she had found out that she was not going to be a pretty girl nor was she going to be able to pretend to be pretty by wearing the teen-fad clothes that most girls wore. Especially party dresses. She was not going to very many parties. She hadn’t the mental furniture that made her an easy guest.