Rose's Last Summer [= The Lively Corpse]

10

The Clydes’ house was one of a row of identical almost-new stucco houses in the west end of town. Even the plantings were identical and had been chosen for their rapid growth: flowering maples less than a year old were already as big as trees and in full bloom, and castor beans the same age loomed above the flat roofs, their smooth red trunks glistening like oil in the afternoon sun.

Miriam came to the door, a pretty, dark-haired young woman with a demure smile and sharp intelligent eyes. She had on a T-shirt, denim pedal-pushers and a blue cotton apron that looked as if she had made it herself. She wore this strange costume with a certain style and self-assurance that seemed to say, I can’t afford to buy good clothes but with my figure I don’t have to.

“Mr. Dalloway? I’m Miriam Clyde.”

“Very glad to know you.”

“Come in, won’t you? Frank will be back in a minute. After you phoned he decided to go down to the office and pick up the file on Rose.”

“I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a file on her.”

“There is. I’ve read it.”

“You have?”

“Surprised? Don’t be. When a man is as wrapped up in his work as Frank is,” Miriam added cheerfully, “I have to get wrapped up with him to survive.”

The living room and the furniture in it were obviously new, but already they bore the marks of living: a child’s handprint on the woodwork near the light switch, strands of dog hair on the loveseat by the fireplace, black scars of rubber heels on the hardwood floor, and a deck of cards spilled over the piano like fallen leaves.

Miriam made no attempt to pick up the cards or apologize for the room. She accepted a certain amount of disorder as she accepted the weather and the quarterly payments of income tax. She was a fighter, but she never fought the inevitable or started a battle that she wasn’t sure of winning. The main battle was money, and though it was still going on, Miriam was confident of final victory some day.

“I realize this is an intrusion,” Dalloway said, “coming here on Frank’s afternoon off.”

“Frank doesn’t mind.”

“You must.”

“Oh, I do, a little. I don’t mind you personally, Mr. Dalloway — just the general idea of never getting any free weekends. Frank carries that office of his around like a turtle carrying his shell. It goes with us to the beach, the movies, and down to the corner drugstore.” Her sudden, bright smile took the edge off her words. “Sometimes I think my kids will get the impression that the entire world is populated by Frank’s patients.”

Dalloway returned her smile. He liked this calm, candid woman and he wished that Lora could have acquired some similar qualities, a sense of humor, perhaps, or a hard core of common sense. Lora was an idealist without ideals, a rebel without a cause, a woman who affected to despise money and yet was completely dependent on other people for support.

He said aloud, “It would be handy, anyway, having an office you can carry. And the turtle can’t afford to despise his shell.”

“I guess not.” From the backyard came the shouts of children and the shrill barking of a small dog. “Frank’s like a turtle in another respect. He’s always sticking his neck out.”

“Oh?”

“He has no time — no right, even — to go around investigating Rose’s death.”

“Is that what he’s doing?”

“That’s what you’re doing, why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“Mostly more, though?”

“Very well, mostly more.”

“Why?” Miriam said. “Why is everyone so suspicious about Rose dying?”

“You aren’t?”

“No, I’m not. I think both you and Frank simply feel frustrated by her death. Frank didn’t have a chance to finish his job on her, and you didn’t have a chance to question her about your daughter.”

“You seem to be full of both theories and information,” Dalloway said, sounding amused. “As a matter of fact you may be right about my part of it. I do feel frustrated. I think it was extremely inconsiderate of Rose to die before I could talk to her. I’m not sure whether she would have been able to tell me any news of Lora or not. I believe she would. When Lora was in one of her sullen moods, she frequently toyed with the idea of a reunion with her mother. You get the picture? — one sensitive, artistic soul crying out to the other across the bourgeois wilderness.”

“I’m afraid my imagination boggles at the idea of Rose being sensitive and artistic.”

“Mine boggles even more, in Lora’s case. She has the hide of a rhinoceros, as so many people do who confuse sensitivity with egocentricity. When she makes a childish fuss at the dentist’s, for example, she always manages to convince herself that it’s because she feels more pain than ordinary people.”

“Oh, everybody thinks that, about feeling more pain than other people. That’s my opinion, anyway. You don’t have to agree. Frank says I make too many sweeping statements. But how else can you get a good argument started?”

“Do you want a good argument?”

Miriam laughed. “I wouldn’t mind. Frank never argues.”

“Choose your subject.”

“That’s easy. Rose.”

“It’s a wide field. Narrow it down.”

“All right. Was she murdered or not?”

“I’ve never claimed she was murdered.”

“Claim it now, for the sake of argument.”

Dalloway rubbed the side of his jaw thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t. It doesn’t seem very reasonable. No one gained anything from her death. She had no money, no securities, no jewelry—”

“Nothing tucked away for a rainy day?”

“Rose was living in the rainy days.”

“I know,” Miriam said, with a sober little nod. “We tried to help her as much as we could. We took her to a ball game one night — she was bored stiff by the game but she liked the crowds — and she came here for dinner a few times. At first I was afraid that she’d, well, you know, act up a little in front of the kids, especially if she’d been drinking. But Frank said she wouldn’t, and she didn’t. She was very reserved and sweet. I don’t think she liked the children much, but she talked to them in a grownup way and she played with the dog. She was very fond of dogs. Are you?”

“Fond of dogs? Oh yes, moderately.” Dalloway looked as if he was trying to keep from laughing. “Don’t tell me you’re one of these women who judge people by whether or not they like dogs.”

“I certainly am. Frank says it’s a very unscientific system and he’s always citing cases of murderers who were dog-lovers, like Dr. Crippen. Naturally there are exceptions. But I do think that there’s something outgiving and generous about people who are sincerely fond of dogs. Cats are a different matter. Cats are for introverts, lonely people and rather timid people who are afraid of a dog’s gusto and his demands. Cats don’t give or take, they walk alone, and so do the people who own them.” Miriam paused for breath. “There. That ought to start an argument.”

“Why do you want an argument?”

“To get rid of my aggressions. I have quite a few.”

“Indeed?”

“Certainly. So have you. I get rid of mine — some of them — not by spanking my kids or beating my husband, but by talking. Oh yes, and once in a while I break a dish. That’s more expensive than talking, though.”

A car stopped outside, its tire-savers screeching against the curb. A moment later Frank came into the house carrying a manila folder under his arm.

He shook hands with Dalloway and grinned across the room at his wife. “I see you’ve been entertaining Mr. Dalloway with a few theories.”

“How can you tell?” Miriam said.

“You’re looking smug.”

“Oh, I am not.” Miriam went over to the large mirror on the mantel to see if she was looking smug or not.

Frank turned back to Dalloway. “I brought the report on Rose. It’s not complete, as I explained to you before. We’re seldom able to get a complete report on anyone unless there’s been a series of previous commitments. In the case of Rose, I have only what information she volunteered, plus a few of my own interpretations which may or may not be right. So don’t expect much.”

“I won’t,” Dalloway said.

“Actually I had no business taking Rose on as a patient. I don’t think there was anything wrong with her mentally. She was a little punch-drunk. She’d been a champion, in her own way, and then suddenly she couldn’t even get a bout scheduled. “Those are her own words, I’m quoting from the report.”

“Am I to be allowed to read it?”

“Certain parts. A lot of it is personal.”

“To Rose or to me?”

“You’re mentioned in it several times.”

“In a favorable or unfavorable light?”

Frank seemed uncomfortable. “Well, you know Rose.”

“Unfavorable, then.”

“Yes. That’s understandable. She suffered a great many guilt feelings after abandoning you and the child. In order to tolerate these feelings, she had to convince herself that you were quite the villain.”

“I imagine Rose’s life teemed with villains.”

“They were pretty numerous.”

“Any references to those names I told you about that she’d written on the map?”

“Two.” Frank untied the tapes on the manila folder. “Phil and Bernard. Phil was the name of her last husband, Philip Lederman. He was killed in a sailing accident a few years ago. He was alone at the time, there was no suspicion of foul play.”

“And Bernard?”

“Bernard,” Frank said dryly, “was a Pekinese.”

“A dog?”

“Yes. She had him when she worked on the old United Artists lot. She carried him around everywhere she went, on the set, in restaurants, trains, etcetera. Here are the two references if you want to glance at them.”

Dalloway accepted the typewritten pages with a little frown of annoyance. The reference to Bernard was a straight quote from Rose:

“Bernard was the smartest little dog you ever saw. Honest to God, Frank, that dog could read my mind better than you can. Bernie could always tell when I didn’t like people; he’d snap at them. Once he bit the headwaiter at the Ambassador. God, it was funny. I had to pay three hundred dollars’ damages. I’ve never set foot in the Ambassador since. It was the principle of the thing — three hundred dollars for a lousy little dog bite...”

Dalloway looked up, still frowning. “This can’t be the right Bernard.”

“Perhaps not.”

“It’s only a dog, after all.”

“Try the Phil reference,” Frank said. “Page 89.”

Page 89 began with Frank’s own words.

“Patient arrived in a depressed mood, dressed carelessly, hair uncombed. Complained of a sleepless night. Face pallid, respiration uneven. I advised a physical check-up. Patient protested, claiming it was unnecessary, she couldn’t afford it, she distrusted doctors, and so on. She seemed afraid. After a time she admitted this.

“Patient: ‘I had the screaming meemies last night. I woke up around 4 A.M. and it was dark, pitch dark, and quiet. I had the feeling that I was alone, absolutely alone, that everybody else in the whole world had died and there was just me left in that awful quietness. And then gradually I realized it wasn’t so quiet, I could hear the sea. My window was open and I could hear the sea very faintly, that terrible incessant noise, I hate it. It reminds me of Phil. I told you about Phil, didn’t I?’

“I said that she had told me he was her third husband.

“Patient: ‘Phil went out in his sailboat one day and never came back. The sea got him. It’s going to get me if I let him.’

“Note: Patient shows no fear of water in general, only the sea, which she refers to when she is excited as a ‘him.’ The sea appears to be a God-symbol and a conscience-symbol.

“I asked her why she believed the sea would get her.

“Patient: ‘It got Phil. It got him to spite me.’

“I asked her to explain this.

“‘I bought him that sailboat for his birthday. Oh, I’m all mixed up, I can’t explain. I was crazy about Phil; he was always nice to me, never played me for a sucker like Hamman and I wasn’t afraid of him the way I was afraid of Dalloway.’”

Dalloway closed the report and put it on the nearest table with a decisive little slap. His face, which was normally ruddy, had taken on a purplish tinge around the cheekbones, as if blood vessels were breaking under the skin.

He spoke in a tight, controlled voice. “So she was afraid of Dalloway.”

“Oh, you mustn’t take that too seriously,” Miriam said.

He paid no attention to her, keeping his eyes fixed on Frank. “I’d like to read that report, all of it.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t.”

“Professional ethics?”

“Partly that. Mainly, though, because I think it might be harmful to you.”

“I’m not a vulnerable child, you know.”

“None of us knows how vulnerable we are until we’re tested.”

“I’ve been tested by experts.”

Frank didn’t reply. He simply replaced the report in the manila folder and tied the tapes.

Watching him, Dalloway realized that it was useless to continue the subject. Frank wasn’t merely stubborn, he was right, and the combination was like steel and concrete. Dalloway thought savagely, he’s used to handling mental patients. I must be a cinch.

He forced a smile on his face, hoping it made him look friendly and unconcerned. “You’re right, of course, Clyde. I may be more vulnerable than I think. Naturally, I was curious as to what Rose had to say about me. Funny, after all these years that I should be interested, isn’t it?”

“You’re still interested in her.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“So is Frank,” Miriam said with a brief, mirthless laugh. “It’s all we’ve talked about for a week now. I’d like a good long discussion about the weather for a change.”

“The weather,” Dalloway said, “has been perfect. If we suddenly had twelve inches of rain or a tornado, we might work up a lively conversation. As it is” — he shrugged — “what can you say or do about anything perfect? It’s the squeaky wheel, like Rose, that gets the oil.”

Miriam went and sat on the piano bench, her hands folded on her lap in a limp and resigned way.

“There are,” Dalloway added, “other squeaky wheels besides Rose, but so far no one’s paid any attention to them except me.”

“The Goodfields,” Frank said.

“Of course. I talked to Captain Greer about them this morning. He claims that they’re more along your line than his. You’ve seen them?”

“Not the old lady. I’ve heard about her, though, from Greer.”

“You’ve seen Willett and his wife?”

“Yes. At the inquest and at the funeral.”

“What do you make of them?”

Frank smiled. “Well, that’s a pretty big question. I haven’t formed any conclusions.”

“I don’t agree. I think that a man like you forms a conclusion every time he even looks at a person. Of course he may change the conclusion later, but he forms one.”

“You’re half-right anyway. I can’t avoid recognizing types of people and of families.”

“What about the Goodfield family?”

“It’s fairly standard. Much too standard. Dominant mother, rebellious daughter, weak sons.”

“And the wife, Ethel?”

“Probably picked out by the mother.”

“Greer thinks she’s feeble-minded.”

“She may give that impression now — she’s still under Mrs. Goodfield’s thumb. When the old lady dies, Ethel will come into her own.”

“Willett won’t?”

“Afraid not, if he follows the usual pattern. Ethel will simply assume Mrs. Goodfield’s role.”

“An odd set-up.”

“Not nearly odd enough,” Frank said. “There are many families like the Goodfields.”

“Not many who have a dead woman found in their backyard.”

“No.”

“I’m thinking it, you’re thinking it, we may as well say it. Those Goodfields had better be investigated, from top to bottom.”

“By whom?”

“I’ve done what I could. The trouble is, I can’t go around trailing people and asking them questions. I’m too conspicuous for one thing.” He gave his artificial arm a contemptuous tap. “For another, I’ve had no experience in investigation work.” Dalloway paused. “You have.”

Miriam made a sound of protest though she formed no actual words.

“Why are you anxious to get something on the Goodfields?” Frank said.

“If you’ll re-phrase that, I might be able to answer.”

“All right. What’s your interest?”

“You might call it curiosity.”

“I might.”

“Or sentiment. Or boredom. Give it any name you choose. I’d just like to find out for certain if Rose was connected in any way with the Goodfields. If she was, maybe Lora was, too.”

“Was?”

“Was,” Dalloway repeated, grimly. “I have a feeling that my daughter is dead.”

“Have you any reason for thinking that?”

“One. But it’s a good one. She hasn’t written to me asking for money. No, I’m not being humorous. Lora is incapable of supporting herself. She’s never had a job that lasted more than a day, and in spite of her fancy talk she’s as incompetent as a three-year-old.” Dalloway paused again and cleared his throat. “I’m willing to pay you liberally for your services.”

Frank and Miriam exchanged glances. Frank turned away and looked out of the window. The two boys were wrestling on the front lawn while the little black spaniel yipped furiously at the excitement, not sure whether the wrestling was playful or serious. Happy children, Frank thought. But even happy children needed new shoes and jeans and haircuts.

He knew Miriam was thinking the same thing: clothes for the children, maybe a bicycle for John or a rubber wading pool for Peter.

“You have,” Frank said at last, “touched us in a tender place.”

“I was hoping so.”

“It’s not tender enough, however, for me to accept any compromise with my conscience.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything wrong.”

“What are you asking me to do and for how much?”

“For a hundred and fifty dollars go up to San Francisco and find out everything you can about the Goodfield clan. The price I’m willing to pay doesn’t include any expense account, so you can go up any way you choose — train, plane, car, with or without Mrs. Clyde — depending how much of that hundred and fifty you want to save.”

“Frank’s always liked walking,” Miriam said. She meant the remark to be funny, but neither of the men seemed amused. Money was a serious business, to Dalloway who remembered the times when he hadn’t any, and to Frank who had no need to refresh his memory.

“I can’t get more than one day off,” Frank said.

Dalloway nodded. “One day should do it.”

“I’ll drive up tomorrow.”

“It’s Sunday, you won’t be able to get much done.”

“Why not?”

“The factory will be closed.”

“Factory?”

“The Horace Goodfield Doll Corporation. I’d like you to take a look at it, see who’s running it and how.”

“I know nothing about factories, Dalloway. My business is people.”

“People make factories.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.” Frank sounded puzzled. “I wish my instructions were a little more specific.”

“If I knew how to make them more specific I wouldn’t have to ask you to go. I have a vague, general suspicion about that family. I want it confirmed.”

“Or denied?”

“Preferably confirmed.”

“Why preferably?”

“I hate to be wrong, that’s all.” Dalloway made it sound quite convincing. “Well, I must be leaving. I’ll hear from you Tuesday then?”

“Yes.”

Dalloway’s departure was carefully polite. He told Miriam it had been a pleasure to meet such a charming woman, he shook hands with the two little boys, patted the dog’s head, and drove off in his Packard with a smile and a friendly wave.

Frank and Miriam looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“Well?” Frank said.

“Well nothing.”

“You’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” she said gayly. “I think he’s nice. And a hundred and fifty dollars is very nice.”

“You are worried.”

“Oh, don’t be so damned subtle about everything! What if I am worried, the world’s not going to fall apart, is it?”

“Mine might.”

She put both her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into his face. “I love you, too.”

The older of the two boys cocked his head sardonically. “Mush, mush, mush.”