Маргарет Миллар - Wall of Eyes

“Johnny!” she screamed, and beat her feet up and down. “You fool! Let me down, you fool!”

She was set down on the couch, dizzy, frozen with fear. Even her voice had frozen and only a thin trickle melted out of her mouth, “Bull elephant!”

He didn’t hear her, but Letty did and came forward and stepped into the circle of sounds.

“Now, now,” Letty said. “Now, now, I guess you kind of scared her, John.”

“He didn’t scare me!” Kelsey said. “I’m not in the least...” She felt Johnny’s hand on hers, squeezing hard, apologetically.

“Sorry, baby.”

“I wasn’t in the least frightened,” Kelsey said sharply. “John, you’re crushing me.”

“Sorry again,” he said quietly. He rarely spoke quietly and when he did he had no dignity, as Alice did; he was merely humble and beaten.

As if, Letty thought, watching him, someone had turned a valve inside of him and let out the air. People often tried to do that to Johnny, though no one had so much success as Kelsey. It was their attempt to bring him down to life size. He was an enormous man, like his father, and everything was drawn to scale, his voice, his big white teeth, his ears pink with health, his hair thicker and coarser than other men’s, yellow and curly like Kelsey’s but carefully darkened by brilliantine and clipped short so the curls wouldn’t show.

But if the gods had constructed Johnny they had made some omissions under the surface.

He looked across at Letty, his eyes bewildered, demanding some answer to some question. Letty smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders.

Johnny returned the smile. It crowded the bewilderment out of his eyes. Johnny’s emotions came one at a time, they chased each other in and out of his mind like scampering squirrels.

“Well, she’s here,” he said in his normal voice. “Marcie’s downstairs waiting for you.”

“Marcie?” Kelsey said.

“Marcella. She’s little, like you, but she’s dark...”

“Marcella. Her own name?”

“Of course. Her mother read the name in a story.”

“Yes, I can believe it,” Kelsey said dryly. “Where did you leave her?”

“With Phil,” Johnny said. “He’s playing for her.”

“Charming,” Kelsey said.

Letty said quickly, “I guess you’re all ready except for your makeup. Maybe John will go down and tell her we’re coming.”

Johnny got up from the lounge and the floor trembled again under his weight. Kelsey felt the vibrations run up her legs like baby mice.

“Damn it, John,” she said. “Can’t you be quieter? Do you have to lunge around like...”

“Now, now,” Letty said, while she gestured to Johnny with her head. “We won’t be longer than five minutes, John. Has Alice come in yet?”

Johnny paused at the door. “No. Phil said she took Prince for a walk.”

When he went out one of his huge shoulders struck the door frame. He said, “Out of my way, door,” and went down the steps. By the time he reached the bottom he was whistling.

Marcie was sitting on the piano bench beside Philip. She was dressed specially for the occasion in a black silk suit purchased from a clerk at Simpson’s who had assured her that the best people always wore black. She looked pale and smaller than ever sitting at the very end of the bench as far away from Philip as she could get without falling off. Her arms were pressed tightly against her body so they wouldn’t get in Philip’s way.

When she saw Johnny standing in the doorway she threw him a small agonized smile and poised her body for flight. But she didn’t get off the bench. From the moment she had entered the house and seen the butler, all her initiative and will power seemed to have drained out of her. She was helpless, she couldn’t get off the piano bench because Johnny had told her to sit there and now she was waiting for him to tell her to get off.

She was a newcomer to a strange world. The black suit didn’t help, and so far she had little opportunity to repeat the sentences she had planned with due regard for grammar. She knew that Johnny’s sister wouldn’t be able to see her or the black suit, that she would be judged by her voice and the English she used. She had gotten up at noon, earlier than usual, and planned a few careful remarks on the beauty of autumn, the pleasure of meeting Johnny’s sister and the situation in India. She had already tried the situation in India on Mr. James, but Mr. James had merely regarded her sadly and said, “Yes, isn’t it?”

Although she knew nothing whatever about India she was a little shocked to discover that people who lived in a house like this didn’t know anything about it either. She felt a sudden surge of patriotism. After all, people who had to earn their own living were too busy to bother about such things, but there was no excuse at all for men like Mr. James who had nothing to do but fiddle around a piano.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and was impressed to discover that he was playing with his eyes closed. She was angry with herself for being impressed. After all, if you had nothing else to do...

Johnny came over and put one hand on her arm, the other hand on Philip’s back.

“Hello, you two,” he said.

Philip’s hands paused, came off the keys. When he turned, Marcie saw that he still wore the expression of sad surprise that he had assumed over India. Maybe that was his usual expression or maybe he really did know something about it and the sentence had struck him hard. What if, in planning polite conversation, she had hit upon a great political truth? She’d try it again later, on Kelsey.

He was looking at her and she turned her head away, clinging to the end of the bench.

“Well,” he said softly. “You look as if you’ve lived through a terrible experience. Am I that bad?”

“He’s wonderful,” Johnny said. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

They were both watching, her now, waiting for her answer, Johnny anxiously, Philip with one eyebrow raised.

She felt the weight of the house pressing on her. She wanted to throw it off and say, “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t.” But she didn’t have the courage.

She laughed nervously. “Wonderful,” she echoed. “The boy that plays the piano at the club, gosh, he’s good. He plays without music or anything, just out of his head.”

“Phil’s marvelous,” Johnny said. “Phil, tell her what Percy Grainger said when you played for him in New York.”

Philip muttered, “Please.”

“He said Phil was terrific,” Johnny cried. “Hard and brilliant, and what else, Phil?”

“He used to play in a big orchestra, this boy, but he was kicked out on account of he drinks.” Marcie said. “I think drinking is a terrible thing.”

“Very terrible indeed,” Philip said, flicking his eyes over her.

She didn’t like that glance, as if he had her all figured out and didn’t think she was worth bothering about. If there was any figuring to be done she had done it: Mr. James was a stuffed shirt; and worse, he had no more right to live in such a house than she had. Less right, he didn’t even work for a living. She wanted to confront him with these facts but when she met his eyes again she saw that it wasn’t necessary, he knew them already. He didn’t feel any more at home or comfortable in this house than she did.

The realization did not move her to friendliness. She was merely annoyed at the injustice.

She turned her face away stubbornly. “I mean it,” she said. “This boy was making a hundred and fifty a week once playing in a big orchestra.”

Johnny squeezed her shoulder. “Hey. I’m jealous.”

“No, but...”

“Why don’t we go over to the chesterfield and get comfortable?” He tucked her hand inside his. “You’re cold.”