Маргарет Миллар - The Murder of Miranda

“She can’t if we won’t,” Juliet said. “And let’s not. Let’s stand fast.”

“She’ll think of something. You know the mean way she stops payment on checks.”

“This isn’t like that. It’s hard cash. Good as gold. Coin of the realm. And we can hide it in our bras.”

“Even so... Pops, we don’t really have to go home yet, do we?”

“Yes, girls, I think we do.” The Admiral cleared his throat. “You see, your exclusion from the club was intended to teach you a lesson, and you can’t be taught a lesson without suffering a bit.”

“Oh, I hate suffering,” Juliet said passionately. “It makes me throw up. If I throw up in the car, plus we arrive home three hours early, Mrs. Young will be really mad.”

“Now, now, now. Don’t borrow trouble, girls. Your mother will be just as glad to see you as she usually is.”

And she was.

“I told you two to stay at the club until five o’clock,” Iris Young said. “What happened?”

Cordelia answered first. “We got bounced.”

“Dishonorably discharged,” Juliet added.

“For conduct unbecoming.”

Iris banged her cane on the floor. A tall athletic woman in her younger days, she was now stooped and misshapen. Her broad sallow face seldom changed expression and the hump she carried between her shoulder blades was a backpack of resentments that grew heavier each year.

She looked at her husband not in order to see him but to make sure he was seeing her and her displeasure. “You didn’t have to bring them home, Cooper. You could have dropped them off at the zoo.”

“We were at the zoo yesterday,” Juliet said. “What’s so great about being stared at by a bunch of animals?”

“The object of going to a zoo is to stare at the animals.”

“You taught us not to stare because it’s impolite. We never ever stare, do we, Cordelia?”

“Oh God,” Iris said, but as usual He wasn’t paying any attention.

The girls finally went out to the kitchen to make some butterscotch coconut pecan cookies and Iris was left alone with her husband in the small bright room she used both as an office and a refuge.

Here Iris spent most of her time with her books and stereo, a tiny champagne-colored poodle, Alouette, and an assortment of miniature chess sets. She played chess by mail with people she’d met in other parts of the world: a diplomat’s wife in Bogotá, a medical missionary assigned to a hospital in Jakarta, a professor at the University of Tokyo, a petroleum engineer in Tabriz. She wasn’t completely crippled and could have gone places if she’d wanted to, but she’d already been everywhere and her increasing deafness made communication with strangers difficult.

She sat by the window with the elderly poodle in her lap, leaning toward the sun as if its rays could rejuvenate both of them.

“Cooper.”

“Yes, Iris.”

“The girls aren’t improving.”

“I don’t believe they are.”

“Can’t we do something, anything? I’ve been reading in the newspapers and magazines about vitamin E. Do you suppose if we put some in their food—?”

“No.”

“We could give it a try, couldn’t we?”

“No, I think not.”

The little dog began to whimper in his sleep. Iris patted his woolly head and whispered in his ear, “Wake up, Alouette. Nothing’s wrong, it’s only a dream.”

Cooper listened, sighing, wishing nothing was wrong, it was only a dream. Even the dog wasn’t fooled. He woke up with a snort and cast a melancholy look around the room. He had eyes like bitter chocolate.

“Did you say something, Cooper?”

“No.”

“I thought I heard—”

“No.”

“We hardly ever talk these days.”

“It’s difficult to find anything new to say.” And to say it loudly enough and enunciate clearly enough. “Iris, you promised me you’d ask the doctor about a hearing aid. I hate to press the point.”

“Then don’t.”

He didn’t. Besides the fact that he knew further argument would be useless, the Admiral was not combative on a person-to-person level. When his wife and the girls started fighting he got as far away as he could, usually withdrawing to his tiny hideaway in the bell tower, reached by a ladder which Iris couldn’t climb and filled with squeals and scurryings which intimidated the girls. Here, where a century ago there had been a bell to proclaim peace and good will, the Admiral sat and planned wars.

They were not the ordinary kind found in history books. They were small interesting gentlemen’s wars played under the old rules, captain against captain, plane against plane. And when they ended they left no poverty or desolation or bitterness. Everyone simply rallied round and got ready for the next one. A few people had to die, of course, but when they did, it was bravely, almost apologetically: “Sorry to let you down, old chap. I must — go — now—”

He didn’t tell his wife about these private little wars. She was too serious. A mere look from her could cripple a tank or send a platoon into disorderly retreat or bring down a plane. Iris would be no fun in battle — she would insist on winning.

“Are you paying attention to me, Cooper?”

“Certainly, certainly I am.”

“My brother Charles called to wish you a happy birthday. Is it your birthday?”

“No.”

“Good. I didn’t buy you anything... Charles must have had some reason for calling. Perhaps it’s his birthday and this was a subtle way of reminding me. Would you check the birthday book in the top drawer of my desk?”

The desk, like the other furniture in the room, was an antique. Iris had no real interest in antiques. She’d bought the house furnished when Cooper retired because she and Cooper had never lived more than a couple of years in one place and it pleased her to own a house that looked and felt and even smelled ancestral.

Cooper said, “Is Charles listed under Charles or Van Eyck?”

“Van Eyck.”

“Yes. Here it is. His birthday’s next week, he’ll be seventy-five.”

“So I was right. He meant the phone call as a hint. Well, perhaps we should celebrate in some way, since he probably won’t be around much longer. What do you think of a small dinner party?”

Cooper thought nothing at all of it but he didn’t say so. He knew perfectly well that his opinion was not being asked, Iris was merely talking to herself.

“The trouble with a dinner party is that we’ll have to invite some woman for Charles to escort. He’s alienated so many people, I wonder who’s left. Remember Mrs. Roffman who inherited all that meat money? I haven’t heard of her dying, have you?”

“No.”

“Then she’s probably still alive. We could try her.”

“Mrs. Roffman is nearly eighty. Charles prefers younger women.”

“She used to be quite beautiful.”

“I doubt that he’d take that into consideration.”

“If you’re just going to be negative about the whole thing, forget it.”

“I’m not being negative, Iris. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“ Enjoy myself?” The little dog jumped off her lap and darted across the room to hide under the desk. “Enjoy myself? Are you insane? Look at me, stuck here day after day, hardly able to move, worrying myself sick over the girls, wondering what will become of them, of me, of—”

“A small dinner party would be very nice,” Cooper said. “Very nice. As for a partner for Charles, what about Neville’s widow?”

“Who?”

“Miranda Shaw. I had a glimpse of her today at the club, so she’s obviously over her period of mourning. She might be pleased to get back in circulation even if it means sitting next to Charles.”