Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

The woman was in her — but so was the child.

And they recognized the child, too, especially the women, and saw in Kate something fresh and unspoiled, something that was yet to be determined by, fashioned by, molded by her contact with... and here they hesitated. They hesitated because for each there had been a different experience, sometimes sourly admitted, sometimes joyfully, a different experience, but the same knowledge, and they did not hesitate for long. They saw in Kate something fresh and unspoiled, something that was yet to be molded by... men. They saw the child in her, and they watched the glow. But they waited for the greater change, waited expectantly, like women at a wrestling match, aware that the match was a phony, knowing the outcome was identical each time, and nonetheless screaming for blood.

The child in Kate knew fear.

The child was afraid of too many things, afraid of growing up too soon, afraid of never growing up, afraid of being too passionate, or not passionate enough, or frigid, of being popular for the wrong things, or even unpopular for the wrong things, of touching and being touched, afraid. The child Kate could remember sitting in the middle of a room far away, on a scatter rug covered with her hair, while two women struggled grotesquely. The child Kate could remember coming to a strange house and sleeping in a strange room with night noises in the house, timbers creaking, frightening shadows on the wall whenever an automobile passed outside in the night. The child Kate sometimes dreamed of a woman who was insane wandering down long narrow cramped halls, a scissors clutched in her hand.

The child Kate wondered if something would happen to her one day, something terrible and horrible, something that would drive her finally mad. Like her mother.

Like her mother.

She confided her fears to David once. She had gone to the Regan house one weekend, ostensibly to see Julia, but knowing it was the weekend and David would be there. They sat in the living room while she waited for Julia. Outside, the wind whipped under the eaves of the house.

“That’s a very scary wind,” she said.

“Yes.” He paused. “But you get used to it.”

Kate shivered. “It makes me think of terrible things.”

“Like what?”

“Like losing my mind,” she answered quickly and without hesitation. She looked across the room at him. “Do you ever think of losing your mind, David?” she asked.

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” he said, and smiled.

“No, seriously.”

“No, I don’t think I ever do, Kate.”

“I do. I keep waiting for it.” She paused. “Do you think insanity is hereditary?”

David shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“I mean, do you think something terrible could happen to a person, something, well, frightening and traumatic that could cause... could...” and Julia had come into the room, and she had let the conversation lapse, but she was still afraid.

She was afraid of her relationship with David, too. And here, too, there was a combination of woman and child, one creating phantoms and the other putting them to rout. The child was quite sensibly disturbed by her love for a man twice her age. The woman could speculate upon the ecstasies of such a love, could envision passionate embraces and whispered promises, but the child reared back in something like revulsion at the prospect of ever being held or fondled by David Regan. The woman could plan supposedly chance meetings, could sit opposite him in a living room full of other people and plan the quickest and most direct route to his side, concoct the wildest schemes for coming into chance physical contact with him, the resting of her hand upon his arm to emphasize a point, the casual brushing of a breast against his shoulder as she reached for a magazine — and then the child would pick up her skirts and run. The woman wanted him to know she loved him, wanted him to accept this love, use it, abuse it, do with it what he wanted. But the child was fearful that he would laugh, and more fearful that he would act upon a cue from her, act in a masculine and physical way for which she was not yet ready. And so she thrilled in his presence, she quaked in his presence. She schemed in his presence, she defected in his presence. She wanted him, and she was fearful he would take her.

She was seventeen.

It was March.

It was Sunday. Matthew was still in his robe and slippers, reading the newspaper on the sun porch when the telephone rang. In the living room, Amanda was working at the piano. Beverly, the cocker spaniel, began barking the moment she heard the phone. Matthew scratched the dog’s head, shushed her, put down the paper, and went to the telephone.

“Amanda, could you hold it a minute?” he shouted, and then lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello. Mr. Bridges?”

“Yes.”

“This is Agnes. May I speak to Kate, please?”

“Just a minute, Agnes. I think she’s still sleeping.” He cupped the mouthpiece and shouted, “Kate? You up?”

“Who is it, Dad?” Kate called from upstairs.

“It’s Aggie.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He waited until he heard Kate pick up the extension. He put the receiver back into its cradle and went back to reading his newspaper. Beverly dozed at his feet, basking in the sunshine. He had finished a cursory reading of the book section when he heard Kate coming down the steps and going into the kitchen. He put down his newspaper, belted his robe, walked past the living room where Amanda had begun playing again, and then directly into the kitchen. Beverly padded along behind him, sniffing at his bare feet.

“Morning, Kate,” he said.

“Morning, Dad.”

She was wearing a robe-over her pajamas. Her hair was tousled, and there was still a sleepy look on her face. She opened the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and then said, “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. But I’ll have another cup of coffee with you.”

“Okay,” Kate said listlessly. She poured coffee into two cups, and then sat opposite him at the table. “That was Agnes,” she said.

“Yes, I know.” Matthew put sugar into his coffee, added a drop of cream, and then stirred it.

“I don’t know what to do, Dad.”

“What’s the matter? Trouble?”

He could remember when she was a little girl. He could remember sitting at this very table with her, explaining the use of a skate key. He lifted his cup. With his dangling free hand, he idly stroked Beverly’s head where she lay by his chair.

“We’re going to the dance at the church tonight,” Kate said. “Paul Marris is taking me.”

“Mmm?”

“He’s going into the air force, Dad. He graduated high school last term, you know, and he’s enlisted, and he expects to be called by the end of the month.” Kate paused. “He’ll be gone for four years.” She swallowed a hasty gulp of hot coffee. “Do you have a cigarette, Dad?”

Matthew felt in the pockets of his robe, handed her the package, and then lighted one for her.

“Thanks,” she said. She blew out a stream of smoke and picked up her coffee cup again. “He’s going to ask me to go steady, Dad,” she said.

“Paul is?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Agnes told me. He’s discussed it with Ralph, his friend. He’s going to ask me to wait for him.” She paused. “He’ll be gone for four years, Dad.”

“I see.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

The table was silent. A car passed by outside, and Beverly leaped to her feet and began barking.

“Shhh, shhh,” Matthew said, and the dog growled once as an afterthought, and then collapsed at his feet again. In the living room, Amanda kept striking the same chord repeatedly as she transcribed it to the manuscript paper. “Well, do you like him, Kate?”