Росс Макдональд - The Three Roads

“Yes, I know. Go ahead and cook the roast. I’ve got a friend coming in for tea, by the way. I don’t know just when, but she should be here soon. I’ll let you know when to make it.”

“It’s a little late for tea, isn’t it?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Afternoon tea was a habit she’d picked up from the English writers in the studio. It was a convenience rather than a ritual, something to do with the mouth and hands when cocktails were inappropriate or doubtful.

“Okay, Miss West.”

Paula fled from under her friendly critical eyes, back to her living room. She tried to read a trade magazine, but that was a laugh. She couldn’t bear to listen to a record. She couldn’t even look at her Modigliani on the wall. Damn doll face! El Greco was more in her line at the moment, but she wasn’t in the El Greco bracket yet, and probably never would be. If she got out of this with a whole skin and her nervous system all in one piece, she’d be having more luck than she deserved. “Funny,” she thought, “a little while ago I was trying to talk Bret out of thinking about justice, and now I’m thinking that way myself.” But the only alternative to justice was blind chance, something you couldn’t face for long, not if you loved someone. So she was the girl who not so long ago had thought she could tear down the patterns of chance and rebuild them to suit her better. Now chance (or was it justice?) had taken the play away from her. If there was no Hays Office in the real world, there were no scenarists either – no human ones at least.

She heard the faltering engine as the car turned the corner and came down the street, and she was at the front door before the woman got out. A yellow taxi she had noticed when she glanced out of the window an hour or so earlier was still parked across the street near the corner. It occurred to her for a panicky moment that someone was watching her house, but she rejected the notion. She couldn’t see anyone in the cab but the driver sleeping behind the wheel, and he was probably just snatching a couple of hours’ rest after a hard day.

She stepped out onto the porch to meet Mrs. Swanscutt, who was climbing the steps a little uncertainly. There was something of the ghost about her, and something of the bird. Of ill omen? No, rather a timid bird listening for signs of danger; a hesitant, unwanted ghost looking for a house to haunt, with no assurance that she would ever find one. But that really wasn’t fair. There was something appealing about her, in spite of her nervousness and thinness and the dating of her clothes. She must have been nearly fifty – she’d have to be, of course, if she was Bret’s mother – but there was still a beauty of feature discernible in her sallow face. Paula looked into it for traces of Bret, and saw the same high-arched nose and blue eyes. There was none of his strength there, but there was a kind of vague charm hiding beneath the surface, almost as if it were afraid to show itself. There were lines around the mouth and eyes which showed that she had acquired the habit of suffering.

Paula liked her and felt sorry for her. She held out her hand and received the pressure of long thin fingers. “I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Swanscutt.”

“It was so nice of you to ask me over.” She flung a bright birdlike glance upward at the house, as if to praise and glory in its size. “Coincidence certainly does have a long arm, doesn’t it?”

She gave Paula a similar look of admiration, which was a little absurd but not unpleasant. One dressed for those looks from other women.

Mrs. Swanscutt herself was not well dressed, though the gray suit she was wearing had probably been smart enough when she bought it six or seven years ago, and she knew how to wear clothes. Time had flattened her chest and thinned her legs, but her bones were good, and she carried herself like a lady – a lady in adversity.

“Please come in.” Paula led her into the living-room. “I’m sorry Bret isn’t here. I know how eager you must be to see him.”

“Oh, I am. Are you expecting him today? Where does he live?”

“No, I’m not expecting him. He’s in the Navy, you see – stationed in San Diego.”

“In the Navy?” Mrs. Swanscutt said brightly. “I’m so glad to hear that – he’s doing his bit.”

“He’s had quite a distinguished career in the Navy.” Paula couldn’t refuse that to the woman, though a funny kind of grief was gathering in her own throat. “Wait a minute. I have his picture.”

“I’d love to see it.”

Paula ran upstairs for her framed photograph of Bret. He’d had it taken when he was first commissioned as an ensign, and he’d aged a lot since then, but it was the only one she had. Tears came to her eyes for some reason when she faced the young, smiling face on her dressing table. She wiped them away and went back downstairs to the living-room.

“That’s my Bret,” said Mrs. Swanscutt. “My, he’s handsome, isn’t he? You didn’t tell me he was an officer.”

“Yes, he was an ensign then. He’s a full lieutenant now.” In order not to postpone the inevitable she added: “He’d be in line for lieutenant commander if it weren’t for his illness.”

“His illness? Is he ill?”

“He’s recovering, but he was seriously ill for a time. His ship was bombed last April, and he had an attack–” Her mind scrambled for the right word. All she could think of was “the screaming meemies,” and that was what she had herself. She found it at last: “An attack of battle exhaustion.”

“Why that’s dreadful! The poor boy! But you say he’s getting better?”

“Yes. Much better.” I hope. I hope.

“Do you think he’ll be glad to see me?” Mrs. Swanscutt said shyly. “Does he ever speak of me?”

“No, never.” She was tired of handling people with kid gloves. Let them face the truth for a change, as she had had to face it. Irony and grief had already destroyed her sympathy with this woman, this sentimental mother who had forgotten her son for twenty-five years and now walked out of the past to claim her maternal rights. “Bret told me you were dead.”

“That’s strange. He couldn’t have believed that. His father knew I was alive. He was a stern man, but surely he wouldn’t tell his son that his mother was dead. It wouldn’t be natural!”

It would be a relief to think it wasn’t Bret’s mind that was at fault, that he had been deceived by his father. But this idea, like a lamp turned on in the corner of a room, lit up one area while it cast the rest into deeper darkness. Dr. Klifter had told her over the phone that Bret had been deeply impressed by his mother’s death. Yet his mother had not died. Could he have confused his mother with his wife? Stranger things had happened in case histories she had read.

“I may as well tell you, Mrs. Swanscutt, that Bret has had rather serious psychological difficulties. You couldn’t have been in Los Angeles last May?”

“No. Why? We were visiting my sister in New Mexico. Do you mean that Bret had a nervous breakdown?”

“You might call it that–”

“His father had a nervous breakdown. That was before I met him, while he was still in the seminary. I don’t think he ever recovered from it entirely. He was a very intelligent man, and highly cultivated, but he was always a little – unpredictable.” She raised her voice slightly in sing-song defiance, like someone reciting a creed to a private god. “I’ve never regretted leaving him for an instant.”

Paula took advantage of the opportunity. “Just what were the circumstances of your leaving him?”

Mrs. Swanscutt’s blue eyes clouded and looked away. “It’s rather a painful memory,” she faltered. Then her voice regained its power and at the same time became a little phony. “Don’t imagine that I consider that I did wrong. I followed the dictates of my heart, and I have never known a moment’s remorse. I married Frank immediately after the divorce, and our marriage has been an ideally happy one. Our friends will tell you that. We put love ahead of reputation and convention, but a love like ours is more important than anything else, Miss West.”