Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 77, No. 4. Whole No. 451, March 25, 1981

A Harmless Vanity by Theda O. Henle

“Mary faced her facts, made her decisions, and felt better because she had given herself goals and deadlines”...

It was — until it ended — an ordinary domestic triangle: a husband, a wife, and another, younger woman. For the three participants, of course, it was not, by any stretch of their imaginations, ordinary, and for the wife it was shattering.

A kind, meddlesome friend told her that George had a mistress in La Mesa, and she wondered why she hadn’t guessed without being told. He’d been careless enough, heaven knows, counting on her to be credulous and blind — or not giving a damn? She led a very full, happy life — even without children — and had never been one to anticipate trouble. Her love for him was unchanged, and she never questioned his for her, never looked for grief. But the danger signs were there — if she’d ever looked.

His love-making had become perfunctory and infrequent; she’d thought this was because he was adjusting to a new job, a substantial advance which involved a much more demanding schedule. He’d taken to coming home late several evenings a week. That, too, was accounted for by his new responsibilities. In fact, all the alterations in his behavior — his inattention, his growing irritation with her unprepossessing looks, haphazard housekeeping and sloppy work habits, his withdrawal when she made amorous advances — everything had been attributed to the new job and the absurd air of importance that apparently came with it. His “position” called for a grander background, he’d told her.

“I owe it to myself — and to the prestige of the firm. My home should look like $250,000 — God knows it cost enough! And my wife should, too. You’re not a grubby student any more. You’re an established artist.” He hadn’t liked it when she laughed at him.

“A man is judged as much by appearances as by his superior qualifications,” he said.

Imagine George talking like that even a year ago! Mary had been sure he was going through a temporary phase, that his common sense and humor would surface, and he’d settle down and be himself again. Not for a moment had she suspected that the changes she saw in him could be permanent — or that his love for her was changing too.

It was this that made the sick pain so much harder to bear, her naive stupidity. She knew that nothing stays the same; she wasn’t really stupid, but she had exempted her marriage and his love as glowing exceptions. Until death us do part. God, how could she have been so blind — and so complacent?

It took Mary Hitchman agonizing hours to absorb the shock — and the pain which, surprisingly, was so physical. It took interminable, lost days before she gained an upper hand over her self, and was ready to face the facts and decide what she would do about them. It was the hardest thing she had ever done, and the first hard thing she’d done alone. Even facing the fact that she had “a nice talent” but no genius had been shared.

Fact number one: George loved someone else — was probably making love to someone else right now, someone younger — someone who evidently did look like $250,000!

Fact number two: He would never divorce her because her family had money, and he liked being wealthy. This other woman, she was hardly more than a girl, Liz said, and didn’t have a cent.

Fact number three: She would leave him if she had to. She wouldn’t divorce him if California laws made her give him so much as half a dollar; but to live with him in a marriage of polite pretense was unthinkable. There would be no dragged-out, miserable status quo for her! Mr. George Hitchman, Esquire, wasn’t going to have his cake in the suburbs and a wife with a grand background in San Diego if she had anything to say about it! She’d have to talk to him soon, make all this clear, but first she had to meet the woman.

She was a schoolteacher and her name was Carol James. George must have met her last winter when he gave a series of lectures at San Diego State. Mary thought she remembered his mentioning a young woman with admiration — a serious, promising midwesterner, he’d said, who was working evenings toward her Master’s degree, and who had none of the far-out notions he deplored in other younger people. He certainly hadn’t mentioned her lately! Mutual friends on the faculty at San Diego State knew about the affair, had seen George and his Carol James on the campus, in the park, and once at a motel in East San Diego. They liked the girl, Liz Ferguson told Mary, and they did not like what George was doing to her. He hadn’t told her he was married — had, in fact, asked Liz and Dave Ferguson not to tell her.

“Let me handle this in my own way and in my own time,” he’d said, but he had not thought to ask them not to tell his wife.

Mary faced her facts, made her decisions, and felt better because she had given herself goals and deadlines, and something to do. Inaction is the worst liniment for disaster. She’d meet Carol James, perhaps even talk to her; that would have to wait for the atmosphere and the reality of the moment. They might never get beyond trivialities — how could she know before she saw her? She only knew she must meet the woman George was loving. She must assess the magnitude of her loss, the strength of the competition, before she talked to George — or a lawyer.

She’d manage her confrontation casually, somehow, but before that she would spend some time and money in a beauty parlor and a boutique. Like so many other complacent wives, she had let herself go disgracefully. Now that the horse was loose, she’d do something about the barn door. A facial and a manicure. Surely there was someone who could scrub off the paint and charcoal! She’d have her hair cut short. She’d have a permanent. Better yet, she’d have it dyed! She should have done this years ago. Her long unwieldy hair only aggravated the headache she’d suffered almost without letup since Liz had told her.

Bouts of ugly, stormy weeping still caught her unawares, but at least she could cut all that hair off. George wouldn’t even notice! It was a long time since he’d praised her hair, or anything else — or anything else! And no wonder, she thought, staring wildly into a mirror: she looked positively plain. She looked old, and she wasn’t forty yet. She could still compete for a man’s attention, and by God, she would! She’d give George the glamor-wife he wanted, and maybe — just maybe — it wouldn’t be too late. She could do no more, she thought with sick fury, remembering how much he’d loved her once.

George would be away — in Sacramento not La Mesa — until Saturday afternoon. She had five days to patch herself up, meet the “other woman,” and decide if her marriage, too, could be patched up. She’d know that as soon as she met Carol James. Liz Ferguson was delighted to act as middle woman — that was her favorite role. She was an ebullient extrovert who made friends easily and enjoyed being helpful. She liked being “in” on things, maneuvering, rearranging — always, of course, with the best of intentions. She and Carol taught summer classes during the week, Liz said. They would come to meet her at the cove on Saturday.

As long as the weather permitted, Mary swam at the La Jolla cove, sometimes during the week and always on Saturdays. Every summer-Saturday had found her there — and sitting in the same spot — since high school. Her friends knew this and would come, often on purpose, to join her over at the far left, where the high rocky cliff curves down around the edge of the beach to form a smaller cove within the larger one.

If this Saturday habit had started as an affectation, it had gradually become an essential part of her life. That small secluded niche in the Pacific was the only place where she felt completely at home and free within herself. (Sometimes she thought she should have been born with gills.) She had chosen her retreat well. It was a unique and beautiful place — a beach so sheltered by the cliffs on either side that you could swim there, not just fight the surf or ride the waves. She loved it because, while it was never the same, it never changed. It could be both frightening and reassuring — wild and dangerous when the tide was high and the winds blew, still and peaceful when the day was calm. Oddly enough, she had never wanted to paint the ocean, although it meant so much in her life. She only liked working with people — and animals.

Long before she was Mary Hitchman, Mary Burns had learned to swim in the cove — from one of the lifeguards — to ride the waves, and to dive far down into the clear water around the reef, where goldfish darted in the seaweed, and the world was silent. She would float for hours out beyond the rocks, letting the waves rock her gently or tumble her over into the salty spray. She had played there as a child — and daydreamed as a young girl; she’d learned to be afraid there, when the tides ran strong and she’d overestimated her own strength, and she’d learned to love George there, lying close to him on the sand, wrestling in the water — now, of course, “his work” took even his weekends. They had made love there one August night when the sand was still warm, and the beach completely deserted except for a scattering of stars in the sky and the sensuous rhythm of the waves... On Saturday, Liz would bring Carol James to this place of hers for a swim.

Waiting for Saturday, Mary fought against memory and fear at the beauty parlor and the small expensive shops in Del Mar and La Jolla. She’d never spent much money on herself; now she did so lavishly, enjoying the new experience in spite of her unhappiness. Thank heavens she still had a good figure! She became an instant blonde. She’d always envied blondes, and it made her look years younger. Her mirror, and the neighbors and friends she ran into, told her this. She had been pretty, but suddenly she was much more than that. The new hairdo and the clothes gave her a sparkle. She’d been too “sweet” before, but pain and a staunch determination to resolve her problems privately and decently gave her something happiness couldn’t give — it gave her style. The boys in front of Safeway’s whistled at her, and she walked past them with a new spring in her walk, and a new poise.

She reached the cove Saturday morning, ready, she believed, for whatever might happen. She wore an emerald-green bikini and a dark green, sinfully expensive jacket — she who had worn the same serviceable blue for years, and she noticed, with delight, unmistakable signs of interest as she picked her way among the heavily bronzed males lounging on the hot sand. Perhaps she’d make the same gratifying impression on George, flying home that afternoon from Sacramento!

Shortly after noon Liz, burdened down with bathing paraphernalia and an air of importance, and Carol James, looking like all the other girls Mary knew, came across the sand to the end of the beach where she sat, waiting. Their meeting was casual, and Liz Ferguson’s introduction used first names only. The three of them lounged in the sun, digging their toes into the sand, watching unusually heavy waves batter the rocks out near the reef, and talking idly while Mary studied this stranger who had torn her life into jagged pieces, appropriating George without knowing he was secondhand goods. She had not known how much the thought of George making love to this — this child would hurt, but she managed to look relaxed and pleasant.

The girl looked like a teenager. Mary hadn’t realized she’d look this young — like all the girls on all the campuses across the land. She was boyishly slim, light and graceful in a modest blue suit which she’d obviously chosen for swimming, not for show. Her hair was a well-brushed light brown — again like all the girls on the beach, long and straight and shining, framing an intelligent, happy face.

Mary could find nothing there that wasn’t lovely and honest — and she had an artist’s eye. If there was anything ugly or cheap there, she’d have seen it. She understood, helplessly, how George could love this radiant girl; how he could want, want desperately, her soft, untouched youth; but she didn’t understand how he could lie to her, or seduce her with empty promises, as he must have done. His love for Carol James was imperfect, too, and Mary found an unexpected, new pain in this knowledge.

It was a hot day. After almost an hour of desultory conversation — mostly about the charms of southern California — Carol wanted to swim. It was high tide and the waves were strong, but she assured the other two that she was a good swimmer. Mary didn’t want to get her new permanent wet yet, and Liz wanted to talk to Mary. The younger woman piled her hair on top of her head, secured it firmly with a large barrette, and ran into the water, swimming quickly toward the open ocean with strong strokes. Mary had no desire to talk to Liz — or to anyone else, but Liz was doing her a kindness, and Mary Burns Hitchman had always been a proper, polite woman. She lay back on her beach towel, closed her eyes against the hot midday sun, and mumbled answers to her friend’s persistent questioning.

Of course it helped to look younger and handsomer; the new hairdo had done worlds for her morale. Not that her morale couldn’t do with a few more boosts!

No, she didn’t want Liz to leave them alone — the last thing she wanted was a private talk with the girl. She knew all she needed to know already, and no, she didn’t plan on telling her who she was. She couldn’t.

Carol James wasn’t at all what she’d expected — so young and serious. Mary had imagined somebody more seductive, a little grasping, somebody she could hate and blame and fight. Not somebody she could hurt.

She’d have it out with George when she got home. Beyond that, she couldn’t guess what would happen. Almost, she didn’t care! This young lovely child deserved something better than a middle-aged man turning pompous with success. That’s what she would tell George!... And she was able to laugh when Liz did.

Gradually the two women, absorbed by the sun and their immediate thoughts to the exclusion of the rest of the world, realized that something untoward was happening out by the reef — one of the periodic swimming accidents which occur even on the best-guarded beaches. Swimmers insist on swimming too near the rocks where the waves pound relentlessly. Poor swimmers put unwarranted faith in themselves and their fancy goggles and fins and frog suits, and go out much too far. There can be a strong, pulling tide — as there was on that Saturday — and an undertow. Sometimes there are riptides beyond the cove’s shelter. The guards are alert and quick, and usually the sudden excitement ends happily, but on this afternoon it didn’t.

Mary and Liz, standing at the edge of the water, bemused by the sudden turn of events and frightened, watched while the guards rowed back to shore with the body of a young woman, a woman Mary knew, with a stunned, superstitious certainty, would be Carol James. They listened, shocked and silent, to a chorus of voices around them repeating, in conflicting dissonance, what the various bystanders thought had happened.

“She drowned. I saw her. A wave hit her smack in the face. She must have swallowed a lot of water. She just went under and drowned. Just like that.”

“No, she hit her head on a rock. That’s why she went under. I noticed her earlier. She was a good swimmer.”

“Maybe she was caught under the reef, and couldn’t breathe.”

“She must have had a cramp. She just doubled up and sank. I saw her go under, but I was too far away. There was no way I could get to her in time.”

“Nobody was near enough.”

“Yes, there was! I saw a frogman swimming near her just before the guard shouted.”

“That was a shark. I saw it too, swimming under the surface, very near the place where she went under.”

Several people had seen the shark, or the frogman — had seen something; but they were drowned out by the ones who had seen nothing.

“She was alone when the guards reached her. She’d been alone all along, swimming out farther than anybody else. She had seemed to know what she was doing.”

“That couldn’t have been another swimmer out there — he couldn’t just vanish, could he? It must have been a seagull riding on a kelp bed.”

“There was a similar drowning last summer, in almost exactly the same spot, remember?”

“I wouldn’t swim near there for anything!”

Nobody knew who she was until Liz Ferguson walked, reluctantly, over to the beached boat and spoke Carol’s name softly, her voice uncertain because she was crying. Mary didn’t belong there, knew herself to be an ironic intrusion. She spoke soft commiserations, then went quietly away, allowing Liz to look after her friend alone.

But she was loath to go home. It was as though she no longer had a home. She was dazed by the sudden tragedy coming so swiftly on the wake of other violent and conflicting emotions, coming as inevitably, it seemed to her, as the waves which battered the shore cliffs. She wondered with an unreasonable, hopeless dread what the next wave would be like.

She circled La Jolla, driving her car up and down the curving hills blindly, out of tune with the summer’s brilliance. Varicolored tropical plants under tall palms, sharp greens and the rival blues of sky and ocean taunted her bleak, solitary mood. She didn’t belong in this sunlit world any more. She didn’t belong anywhere. With a frisson of horror, she found herself driving, once again, past the stairs which went down to the cove. Numb, unthinking, she turned her car and took the long way back to San Diego, dawdling in the slow lanes, delaying the inevitable.

What would she tell George? How could she explain how she knew? What could she possibly say to him?

George Hitchman was home when she arrived — frantic with worry, he told her.

“Why frantic?” she said, surprised. “I’m not late. I always go to the cove on Saturday.”

“What have you done to your hair?” he asked, staring at her wildly. “What’s that green thing you’re wearing? You’ve never had a bikini. You don’t like bikinis! Where’s your blue suit? What have you done to your hair?... My God! Oh, my God! I told him you had long brown hair on top of your head. And a blue suit. I showed him where you always sit.”