Conrad Aiken - Conversation; or, Pilgrims' Progress

“Well, it just looked around , perhaps — perhaps to see where the rest of the starlings had gone to. And then, just as if nothing at all had happened, it up and flew away — lippity-lippity-lip!”

“And it was alive all the time!”

“It was alive all the time.”

“But why did it lie so still, and fall down out of the tree like that!”

“Well, Buzzer, I think maybe it was playing ’possum. Maybe it was pretending to be dead, so that the other starlings would all go away. And so it pretended to fall, like that, as if it couldn’t fly any more, but all the same managing not to hit the ground too hard, you see — it just waggled a wing once or twice, when it saw the ground coming up pretty fast, so as to keep from being hurt, and then it lay still with its eyes shut — but of course it hadn’t expected you and me to be there! That was a surprise.”

“Ho ho! And what do you suppose it thought when you picked it up, daddy?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, my pet. That must have given it rather a shock. Maybe it thought the other starlings were picking it up — goodness knows! But when it opened its eyes, and saw that it was sitting in my hand, and saw a little girl staring at it with eyes as big as lollipops, or marbles, or cannonballs — or umbrellas—”

“Ho, how silly, they weren’t either!”

“—and her mouth wide open, like the wolf in Little Red Riding-hood—”

“Do you suppose it thought I would eat it?”

“Ha! You never know. I daresay you looked pretty frightening, my lamb! And much bigger than a lion. And now, up the stairs!”

“And do you suppose it’s gone back to its friends, now?”

“Very likely. Perhaps when they saw what a fearful danger it was in, actually right in the hands of one of those dreadful, dreadful men — they’d be sorry for it, and think it had been punished enough, see? Now up you go, no more dillydallying. March !”

She skipped out of the bathroom, her hands flapping excitedly against her sides, and scrambled barefooted up the darkening stairs ahead of him. He followed slowly, already feeling how that gaiety fell from him, fell away like something false — or could it be that it was actually truer than the other? No, they were both true — they were both true. The unhappiness with Enid was certainly no truer than the happiness with Buzzer — not a bit. It was only that the shadow of that made this so difficult. And as for the dreadful news about poor Miss Twitchell, which Terence had stopped the wagon to tell him — found drowned in Indian Pond — absent for two days, too, without even being missed —lying there in three feet of water for two days before anybody had so much as noticed that she was gone—

“And wasn’t it lucky , daddy, that Chattahoochee wasn’t there!”

“Yes, very lucky. I should say so. Now, in you hop—”

“And tell me a story!”

“Foo! What nonsense. And besides it’s late. Didn’t I tell you that the world was coming to an end? Well, it has —and with a bang. It’s burst into a billion, billion, billion little pieces.”

“It hasn’t either. I know better! If it had burst, how could you stand there!”

She skipped into the little cot, drew up the counterpane with its embroidered birds, holding it snug against her chin, gave a quick wriggle, and then suddenly lay still. The blue eyes softened, dimmed, looked farther and farther away past him, and as he stooped to kiss the wet golden curl on the forehead, she was already beginning to sing her night song — that odd tuneless little sing-song, so like Enid’s rhymeless humming, with which she always magicked herself to sleep.

“Good night, my pet.”

“Good night!”

“Sleep tight.”

“Sleep tight!”

“Hope the bedbugs don’t bite.”

“Mmmmm!”

“And have a nice dream.”

“Mmmmmm!”

“And I’ll see you next year.”

“Mmmm.”

He touched the tip of her nose with one finger, straightened, went slowly back to the upper hall, and stood there under the sloping roof, listening to the gentle slithery sound of the rain on the shingles, the soft continuous patter mixed with the heavier occasional drip from the trees. Almost dark — the river barely visible, visible only as a dull gleam — mercury-colored. Diffused moonlight, of course — through the clouds, through the rain: the moon was all but full. Cut all things or gather, the moon in the wane; but sow in increasing, or give it his bane —where did that come from? A superstition? But it might be true, and if so the lilacs—

Yes — and the lilies of the valley, which Miss Twitchell had promised to give them, from her garden, only two weeks ago — for the shaded corner at the front, by the street — the lilies of the valley, which now they would never have! Taken with her into the shallow waters of Indian Pond, the pickerel weed and pond lilies — what had happened, what in god’s name had happened? Lying face down, drowned, only a few feet from the rocky shore, bareheaded — and waiting there two days to be found by small boys! What could it possibly mean? Maybe Ee would know — she had been Ee’s friend, rather than his — or acquaintance, rather — but, in the circumstances, how could he tell Ee about it? Had it been money? Cancer? What could move a middle-aged spinster — and apparently perfectly happy — to such a thing, and so suddenly? An orphan, they said she had been, and adopted, living alone in that big house, with the beautiful pine trees, and the Tree of Heaven, and liked by everybody, and kind to everybody. It had been so characteristic of her to come and offer the lilies of the valley, noticing that dark little corner of the garden where nothing would ever grow — he could remember just how she had pointed, with those rather odd-looking chalky hands of hers, the quick and diffident gesture, and said, “Yes lilies of the valley, I’ll bring you some roots.” And now, dead for two days without anyone, not a soul, even noticing her absence! Ah, that was human nature for you, that was brotherly love!

He felt a soft pressure against his leg, heard a little chirp — it was Chattahoochee, curling a striped tail ingratiatingly round his knee, and looking up at him with his slightly dishonest but very affectionate cat-smile.

“So it’s you,” he said.

“ Prtrnyow ,” said the cat.

“And what, might I ask, do you want? Food, I expect.”

“ Prtrnyow .”

“And I suppose the weather’s too much for you, so that the ramming is off, eh? Is that it?”

“ Prrrrt .”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that . I’ve got troubles enough of my own!”

The idea amused him, and he found himself grinning at it, in spite of everything — how shocked Ee would be, by god! The cat padded stiffly away round the corner, tail in air, towards Buzzer’s room, towards his favorite counterpane (it was Buzzer’s theory that he liked to sleep among the embroidered birds) and as he turned from the low window to go down the stairs he heard the first snapping of the fire in the studio — Ee must have come back. She must have come in quietly, without telling him, without saying a word — it was part of the silent treatment, of course. As dining at the Murphys’ had been. The silence before the storm.

The fan of yellow lamplight fell across the hall floor from the half-opened door to the studio, and he found Enid crouched on the hearth before the fire, matchbox in hand. She looked up at him inquisitively, but otherwise without expression — except perhaps that the mouth seemed a little rigid, a shade too controlled. And perhaps she was pale.