John Casey - Spartina

Dick had been in the house before, but the clearest memory now came from when he was seven. Because he’d been scared that time too? He recognized the walking sticks with carved heads hanging in a rack on the wall. He looked down at them. They had been at eye level then. They had terrified him. The Indian head, the bulldog with red garnet eyes, the eagle’s beak. The relief of the plain ivory handle. The blackthorn topped with a two-humped gnarl, yellowish in the fissure. It had been most terrifying because it was trying to be something, caught half alive under the layers of shellac.

The nurse came back and led him into the house. Miss Perry was in the library lying on a sofa, a thin wool blanket across her legs. Her glasses lay on her chest. Her white hair was pinned up, as usual, but was untidy. Even in the dim light Dick could see her eyes were red.

“Please sit down.”

Dick looked around, found a straight-backed chair. The curtains were drawn across the tall windows on either side of the fireplace. At one narrow end of the room there was a bull’s-eye window high above the bookshelves. The outside shutter was closed.

“I’m afraid you see me at my worst.”

Miss Perry’s voice was so low Dick could scarcely hear her. He started to move his chair closer, but she raised her hand. He sat down again.

“I don’t like to see people when I’m this way.”

Outside it had been a hot day. Here the air was cooler, but motionless. Dick began to sweat.

Miss Perry said, “Elsie and the doctor want me to take a drug. ‘… let me my senses in Lethe steep.’ That is a line from Webster. Neither Elsie nor the doctor understands why Lethe is terrible. I quote Webster. Webster is morbid, melodramatic, inferior to Shakespeare. But Webster is apt for the way I am. Webster is glittering and unwholesome. I should get him out of my head, but I can’t. The trouble with Webster is that he didn’t meet life head-on the way Shakespeare did. His plots are full of drugs and potions. ‘Sweetmeats which rot men’s nostrils.’ ”

The nurse came in with a tray. Miss Perry said, “Would you like some tea?”

Dick said, “No thank you.”

“No tea, nurse, thank you all the same.”

“It’s all made. I’ll just put it down.”

Miss Perry closed her eyes. “This is like Elsie. Elsie has become insistent too.” Dick winced.

The nurse said, “Let’s just give it a try. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back out, but I bet you end up liking it.” She left.

Dick felt terrible for Miss Perry. He’d been momentarily baffled by her talk about Webster — he’d thought it was the Webster who wrote the dictionary. When he got clear of that idea, he saw what she meant. It also came to him that he’d never heard her be rude, he’d never heard her complain. For that matter, he’d never heard her talk about herself at such uninterrupted length. She’d always seemed to have a built-in conversational timer — it was as though a bell rang in her head every so often and she’d cock her head and switch over to asking about May and the boys or how the lobster season was. But now …

And there was that remark about Elsie — it sounded like Elsie had pushed the old lady hard about taking pills. And maybe about the money.

Miss Perry looked at the tea service. She said, “I suppose it is teatime.” She pushed herself up to a sitting position and poured two cups. She eyed a plate of little sandwiches. “And what are those? I have no idea. Do you know what those are? What’s in them?”

Dick ate one. “It’s crab.” He held the plate out to her. “It’s fresh. Maybe Joxer Goode’s back in business.”

Miss Perry shook her head, took a sip of tea, and leaned back. “I feel like such a child. I simply can’t do anything. I’m absurdly exhausted without having done anything.”

Dick cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry you feel so bad.”

“Each year I say to myself it won’t happen, and then I simply let down. I don’t go to pieces. I simply let down.”

Dick could see that. He felt some sympathy, which he knew was useless. He had no business being here. His being here was just making Miss Perry struggle. She as much as said she wished he hadn’t seen her like this. He wished he hadn’t seen her like this too. Her naked eyes were bleary, unfocused, unguarded … worse than unguarded — feebly guarded. The way she looked was like the way she talked: signs of distress but no signal he could respond to. She wasn’t crazy, she could see what she was like and she would remember it.

Another painful thing was how almost herself she was. It was like standing onshore and watching a boat just getting into trouble. Her bow still rose to the waves, you could see signs of life, someone at the wheel, someone moving on deck, but she wasn’t right. You could imagine she’d fouled her prop or her rudder or lost power. You could imagine, but you couldn’t tell. And you couldn’t help. You could hope she’d get help, or better yet recover herself, but all you were was one of the gawkers. You’d seen her graceless, even if you kept your mouth shut.

Miss Perry said, “Elsie was to drive me to church this morning, but she sent for the doctor instead. I must let her have her way sometimes, I suppose.” Miss Perry’s face was turned toward the back of the sofa. Dick saw that she was really talking to herself, or that she would rather be talking to herself.

Dick was angry with Elsie. And then angrier with himself. What had got him in here was his own distress. Elsie’s part was only that she’d told Miss Perry about his trouble, told him about Miss Perry’s. Elsie, with all her young and easy sympathy, thought that trouble was just trouble; she had no idea how heavy the sense of fault was, and how heavy the shame of being seen.

Miss Perry rang for the nurse. Dick got up and said, at last, “Thank you. That’s what I came to say.”

Miss Perry didn’t speak for a moment. Then she said with some difficulty, “I am afraid that I have already reached the point at which conversation is too perplexing. I’m sorry.…”

Miss Perry was distracted by the nurse, who came in and began to put their teacups on the tray.

Miss Perry said, “Please don’t do that until I ask you.” She turned to Dick. “Please go away. You must come again.” She was out of breath. She said hoarsely and fiercely, “But not now. Now you all must go.” She tucked her head down to one side and pushed her hands at them.

When Dick and the nurse got to the walking sticks, the nurse said, “Don’t take it personally.” The bulldog head, the bulbous gnarl of the blackthorn. He felt a fear of Miss Perry’s illness. And a simultaneous revulsion from her body and his, as if he’d bludgeoned her.

D ick stopped at the end of Miss Perry’s driveway. This time he turned away from Elsie’s house. He drove home and walked into the kitchen. May looked up. Dick said, “Miss Perry will do it. She’s lending me the money.” There it is, Dick thought, I’ve closed the circuit. No way to turn it off now.

He sat down and covered his eyes with his hand. He felt dizzy and undone. May looked up. She came over and touched his shoulder. “You’ll pay it back. She’s a nice woman, but you’ve earned your way. You’ll make it good.”

Dick felt May’s power. He wished he could receive it.

He said, “There’s another thousand too. Elsie Buttrick wants to lend it.”

May tilted her head. “It’s not a whole lot, is it? But it’s something.”