The Cannibal Heart

19

Carmelita had closed the drapes in the living room so the afternoon sun wouldn’t fade the carpet. The room was so dark in contrast to the glare outside that Mark didn’t see Evelyn until she spoke:

“Home so early?”

“Yes.”

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see her more clearly, curled up on the davenport as limp as a rag doll, holding in her lap the half-finished sweater she was knitting for Jessie. The ball of yarn was way over by the fireplace as if it had been thrown there in a fit of rage.

He said carefully, “I didn’t get a haircut.”

“So I see.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t get to town at all. I turned around and came back. The wind was so heavy it was like trying to drive through a sand storm on the desert.”

He sat down in a chair opposite her, and rubbed his knuckles against the side of his jaw. He needed a shave and a shower, but he knew that Evelyn expected him to sit down and talk. She had probably been lying there for hours planning what to say to him.

“What have you been doing all afternoon?” he asked her.

“Thinking.”

“What about? Or is that the wrong question?”

“Home, mostly.”

“Homesick already?”

“A little bit.” She stirred, picked up her knitting and let it drop again into her lap. “I know we had a hundred reasons for coming here, but I can’t remember one of them. Isn’t that funny?”

“To avoid the heat,” Mark said, “and to breathe the bracing sea air. Also I believe it was mentioned that travel would broaden Jessie.”

“I don’t feel very braced. And up to today, the heat’s been practically as bad as it is in Manhattan. Do you think Jessie is being broadened?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely. We all are. It’s been a liberal education.”

“Don’t get ironic.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t talk to me for three minutes anymore without getting ironic. Is it... it is because of her, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“You don’t lie to me often. I can always tell when you do.”

“Can you?” he said wearily. “I can hardly tell myself sometimes.”

He reached for the cigarette box on the coffee table in front of him. The box, as usual, was filled, the cigarettes were fresh, and the table lighter worked at the first try. Detail was Evelyn’s specialty. He felt vaguely irritated that she should waste so much time on such relatively unimportant things. “Do we have to have it so gloomy in here?”

“The carpets will fade.”

“They belong to Mrs. Wakefield. You don’t like her anyway, why not fade her damned carpets?”

“That’s a beautiful thought. I will.”

She got up and flung back the drapes. Dust swirled in the shafts of sunlight.

“Please tell me the truth, Mark. It can’t possibly be any worse than what I’ve imagined.”

“There’s not much truth to tell.”

“She hasn’t been here all afternoon. Was she with you?”

“Some of the time. We said goodbye. Permanently. She’s leaving tomorrow morning, and after that I don’t expect to see her again. You can stop thinking about her.”

“Can I? Can you?” There was a ghastly little smile on her face. “Was the farewell — quite touching?”

“Yes, it was. Most farewells are.”

“But this one... this one specially, eh?”

“Stop it, Evelyn.” He stared into the swirling dust and wished he was a part of it, unable to feel.

“You’re suffering, aren’t you?” she said, her mouth shaking. “Underneath all that wonderful masculine control of yours, I can see you suffering. And I’m glad. I’m laughing, see? Now you know how other people feel, don’t you? Now it’s your turn, and I’m glad. I’m so glad I could die laughing!” She put up her arm and hid her face against her sleeve. “Other... other people can suffer, too.”

He walked over to her and put his hands on her trembling shoulders.

“Leave me alone!”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, Evelyn.”

“I know you are. But I don’t happen to want any tender apologies. They don’t affect me anymore. You’re rotten spoiled, Mark. You always have been, always the little king of the castle, with all your sisters dancing attendance on you, and your parents spending half their time convincing you you were the Great Brain. And where they left off, I took over. I became the stooge. I guess I shouldn’t complain now that I’m getting what stooges usually get, a custard pie smack in the puss. Hilarious.” One corner of her mouth turned up in a bitter little smile. “How am I doing in my role of the wronged wife?”

“Just fine,” he said soberly. “Go on.”

“I haven’t anything more to say, except that you’re a hard man, Mark — oh, very gentle and sweet when it comes to dogs or children or horses — but hard on people, on me, and on her, too, I guess. I... I could almost feel sorry for her. Maybe someday I will.”

“And me?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll feel sorry for you, too. How can I help it when I love you?”

The cigarette had burned down to his fingers and the real physical pain of the burn was almost a relief. He opened the window to throw away the butt. The wind fussed, and swept the smoke into the corners of the room like a whining housewife. Closing the window again he saw, a quarter of a mile from shore, the yellow raft bouncing on the choppy, whitecapped waves. The raft was headed out to sea and Mrs. Wakefield was paddling with frenzied speed. In the stern, looking tiny and vulnerable, sat Jessie.

“She must be crazy!” he said incredulously.

“Who?”

“She’s got Jessie out there in the raft with an offshore wind like this.” He wheeled around in fury. “Where’s Roma?”

“I... I sent him to call Jessie.”

Mr. Roma was beside the old shed hanging up the cowbell on its nail.

He turned at the sound of Mark’s feet running across the driveway.

“Jessie doesn’t come. I rang and rang...”

“She’s out in the raft with Mrs. Wakefield.”

“The raft?” Mr. Roma shook his head in bewilderment. “But it’s too rough, Mrs. Wakefield should know that. The small craft warnings are up all the way from Point Concepción, I heard it on the radio.”

“We’ll have to go after them.”

“Better to phone the Coast Guard and say urgent.”

“There isn’t time.” He grabbed Mr. Roma’s arm and shouted, “They’re headed out to sea, deliberately. They’re not just out joyriding. They’re going some place!”

“There’s no place to go. Only the island.”

“That’s miles away!”

“Twenty miles.” The whites of Mr. Roma’s eyes seemed to be swelling like balloons. “And there’s nowhere to land. Just the straight cliff, and the tide caves...”

“For Christ’s sake!” Mark said helplessly. “For Christ’s sake!”

“We’ll go after them in the rowboat. Wait, and I’ll get a blanket.”

Seconds later he came running out of the kitchen door with two blankets over his arm, and Carmelita at his heels screaming at him in Spanish. He paid no attention.

Racing to the edge of the cliff behind Mark, he threw the blankets over. They began to climb down, half-sliding, half-falling, clutching at jutting roots and chaparral to slow their descent. Almost simultaneously they fell sprawling on the beach in a landslide of rock and earth.

Mark’s hands were bleeding and there was a spot on the back of his head that was already starting to swell. “Are you all right, Roma?”

“Yes.”

“The boat doesn’t look too good.”

“It is, though.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

They eased the rowboat off the rock into the sand and carried it down to the water. Mr. Roma fitted the oars into the rusted locks.

“I’ll row,” he said.

“No. I’m going to.”

“Better for me to do it. Your hands...”

“They don’t bother me. Get in.”

The boat lurched wildly through the breakers. Leaning forward, Mr. Roma shielded the blankets with his body to keep them dry. Except for the cut on his cheek that was bleeding slowly, his face had a mauve tinge, and his eyes still seemed ready to burst like the eyes of a fish reeled up suddenly from the vast pressure at the bottom of the sea. He didn’t speak. He sat huddled over the blankets, his gaze fixed on the bottom of the boat, where the water that had splashed over the bow rolled back and forth across his boots.

“Why did she do this, Roma?”

“I... I don’t know exactly.”

“Maybe she doesn’t realize the danger.”

“She must. But she doesn’t care. She told me, she said she had been cheated, that she was entitled to anything she could lay her hands on.”

“What did she mean?”

Mr. Roma raised his head and looked out toward the little raft. “I guess she meant the — the child.”

“What else?” Mark screamed above the wind. “Tell me what else...”

“She said Jessie was all hers.”

“Hers?”

“I think she meant she would take Jessie away with her some place.”

“But there isn’t any place to take her.”

“The island.”

“They’d never get to the island in that thing!”

“She doesn’t care,” Mr. Roma said again.

There was rage and fear now behind every pull of the oars. The boat was catching up easily with the clumsy rubber raft, but neither Mrs. Wakefield nor Jessie had turned around and seen it. They seemed inexorably headed for a destination.

Mrs. Wakefield looked so funny with her hair streaming and her dress puffing in and out with the wind, that Jessie could hardly stop laughing. Wind-tears and laughter-tears squeezed out of her eyes and dried saltily on her blotched cheeks.

“My arms are getting tired,” Jessie said.

“Rest a while then. I will, too.”

“Will we find seals there, do you think?”

“Certainly.”

“I’d like to catch a baby one to take home with me. I bet the kids at school wouldn’t believe their eyes.”

“Home?” Mrs. Wakefield half-turned, so that Jessie could see how very still her face had become. Her hair blew, her dress fluttered, but her face was quiet as stone. “Where’s home?”

“Manhattan.”

“Manhattan.” She spoke with her fingers pressed against her mouth. “That’s an island, too, isn’t it?”

“A city-island.”

Shivering, Jessie hugged her arms together to warm them. The sun had disappeared and a flock of clouds was blowing across the sky. The sea was changing color, from blue to green, and silver to slate. She was a little awed by all the changes, and she looked toward the island to see how close they were getting, and how soon they would be arriving.

But the island had vanished. There was only the sea, going on and on and on.

“It’s gone,” she shouted. “The island’s gone!”

“No, no, it hasn’t. It’s still there, only we can’t see it. The weather’s changed.”

“But we’re getting closer to it. We should see it better. It should be bigger.”

“It’s only hiding behind the weather.”

“Hiding?” She leaned forward straining her eyes, but there was nothing hiding out there. The sleeping giant had wakened and walked away.

She remembered the mystery of the puddles on the highway. It had been a sunny day, and she was out driving with her father when she noticed on the pavement ahead of her shining wet puddles. But no matter how fast her father drove he never caught up with the puddles, they had always dried up and disappeared by the time the car reached them.

“Why can’t we catch them?” she had asked.

“Because they’re not there,” Mark said. “It’s only the reflection of the sun’s rays.”

“But I see them, I see them with my own eyes!”

“It’s an illusion.”

“But...”

“See that one right now beside the maple tree? When we get to the tree we’ll stop and you can get out and look.”

She got out and looked, and there was no puddle. She picked a maple leaf off the ground to take home and wax, as a souvenir.

“There isn’t any island,” she said in a hard tight little voice.

“Jessie, I’ve told you...”

“It’s like the puddles. I looked and they weren’t really there.”

“I don’t understand. Jessie dear, listen...”

She climbed over the seat and put her arms coaxingly around the resisting child. Then she saw, not more than fifty yards behind the raft, Mr. Roma and Mark in the old rowboat. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said harshly. “There isn’t any island.”

“It was all pretend?”

“Yes.”

“And we can go home?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t play jokes like that on people,” Jessie said righteously. “It isn’t nice.”

“I see that now.”

“You won’t do it anymore?”

“No, Jessie. Never.”

“That’s a promise.”

“Look. Look behind you. Your father and Mr. Roma have come to — to meet us.”

“My father!” Jessie swung around, and there, her eyes told her, was her father, and Mr. Roma, and the rowboat. There was no island, but her father was real, and so was the rowboat, and the realest of all was Mr. Roma. He’d taken off his hat and was waving it furiously. His face was all squeezed up with smiles, and he kept nodding and shaking his head so hard it seemed that his neck had come loose.

Jessie screamed with laughter and shouted to him though he couldn’t hear her: “Mr. Roma! Hey, there isn’t any island! It’s just a joke!”

Mrs. Wakefield put out the sea-anchor. She sat in silence until the rowboat pulled up alongside and Mark grabbed the rope that was tied to the sides of the raft.

“Ahoy, ahoy,” Jessie yelled, and Mr. Roma yelled back, “Ahoy!”

“Hey, Mr. Roma! Do you know what? There isn’t any island.”

“Fancy that,” said Mr. Roma, sniffing and wiping his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Fancy that now.”

“Daddy, did you know that?”

“No,” Mark said. “Here. I’ll help you over. You’re going back with us.”

“But why?”

“Be a good girl and don’t ask questions. Step right here now, in the middle.”

He held her as she clambered over the side. Mr. Roma wrapped her in a blanket like a cocoon and she sat pressed tight against his side, rocking back and forth with the motion of the boat.

Mark turned to Mrs. Wakefield, his face cold with anger. “Are you coming?”

“No.”

“Pulling a crazy stunt like this — you must be out of your mind. Now get in here.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re going to, anyway.”

“You’re only wasting time,” Mrs. Wakefield said. “Jessie should be taken home. Her clothes are wet.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I?” She blinked. “I’ll... I’ll be back in a little while.”

“The wind’s against you, and it looks as if it’s going to storm.”

“We never have summer storms here.”

“For Christ’s sake, Janet, stop arguing. Haven’t you been foolish enough for one day? I can’t leave you out here like this, and I’ve got to get Jessie home.”

“Take her then. I don’t want to go back just... just yet. In a little while. I’ll be there in a little while.”

“Janet... Janet, please. Act sensible.”

“Leave her be,” said Mr. Roma, and Mrs. Wakefield looked across at him, gratefully.

“What about the storm?” Mark shouted.

“Storm? Like Mrs. Wakefield told you, we never have a summer storm.”

“Thank you, Carl,” she said.

It began to rain before they reached shore.

Mr. Roma said that Mrs. Wakefield had gone on a long journey, and Evelyn said she didn’t know... “Hush now, Jessie. No one knows. There’s no use asking any more questions.”

But Luisa, whispering from her window across the dark wet driveway, said she knew. “She’s at the bottom of the sea. The sharks are eating her.”

“No!”

“They are so, I bet.”

“Mr. Roma said...”

“You’re such a baby they don’t tell you things. I happen to know they found the raft two days ago. The Coast Guard found it in a tide cave on the island.”

“What island?”

“The island, silly.”

“You’re a stinking liar,” Jessie said and closed her window tight and put her fingers in her ears so she couldn’t hear the trees crying in the dark outside her window, drip, drip, drip.

It was nearly a week before the rain stopped and the sun came out and it was all right to go into the woods again.

She shuffled down the path wearing an old pair of ladies’ rubber boots that Mr. Roma had found in the garage and brushed the cobwebs out of. (“Whose are they, Mr. Roma?” “No one’s.” “They must belong to someone.” “Hush, no more questions.” “Are they Mrs. — ?” “Now, now.”)

It wasn’t raining, but the trees still dripped when she shook their branches, or when the hummingbirds darted in and out of the wet leaves. The path had turned to mud that squished, and tugged at the oversize boots trying to pull them off. When she was out of sight of the house she reached down and picked up a handful of the mud to see how it felt; and there, already growing up out of it, was a miniature tree, with delicate lacy leaves like a pepper tree.

She stared down at it, frowning. The little tree reminded her of something, but for a moment she couldn’t think what. She glanced around her more carefully and then she saw that there were other little trees, too, growing all around her feet, and tiny leaves sprouting from twigs and branches that she’d thought were dead. Everything had come to life again like magic. From bare wood little green sprouts had emerged, and buds seemed to be opening right before her eyes. (“Then it began to rain, and the sea filled and everything came to life...”)

It was all there, just as it had been there in Mrs. Wakefield’s dream. The orange trees glittered with gold, and the live oaks reached the sky, and the leaves of the peppers hung down like moist green lace.

“I bet she never had a dream,” she said aloud, scornfully. “I bet she just saw it for herself and said it was a dream.”

What a liar Mrs. Wakefield was, making up that story about the island, and what a baby she herself had been to believe it. She was much older now. No one could ever fool her again.

She walked on, crushing the little trees deliberately with the heels of her boots.