Маргарет Миллар - The Cannibal Heart

“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...”