Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Yes, but I’m studying composition,” Amanda said, somewhat dazed.

“Yes, I know, dear.”

“Don’t you see? That’s so I can—”

“Yes, I know, dear, and you’ll find your education wasn’t wasted. I can assure you of that. Any husband would be delighted to have a wife who can—”

“But, Mother, I’m studying so I can—”

“I think you should ask yourself, Amanda, if you have the talent.”

“I...”

“You’re old enough now to be frank with yourself, daughter.”

Amanda nodded and said nothing.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Priscilla asked.

“Yes,” Amanda answered. There was an edge of sharpness to her voice. Priscilla’s eyes suddenly moved from the jays and rested on her daughter.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you understand.”

“Yes,” Amanda said. “I understand.”

They stared at each other and Amanda thought, I’m going to hit her, and then instantly thought, God forgive me, and lowered her eyes. Inside the house, the baby began crying again.

“It’s Katherine,” Priscilla said. “She’s awake again.”

“I’ll pick her up,” Amanda said, and she rose from the steps and smoothed her skirt and started for the front door.

“No,” Priscilla said. “Leave her be.”

“I’ll pick her up,” Amanda said without looking back at her mother. The screen door clattered shut behind her. She went through the cool dim house and upstairs to Penny’s bedroom. Kate was sitting in the middle of her crib, bawling loudly, her face red, her cheeks stained with tears.

“Oh, what’s the matter, snookums?” Amanda said, and she held out her arms and picked up the child and put her over her shoulder. “Do you have a little gas, honey? Is that what’s the matter? Here, baby. That’s a good baby. That’s a sweet honey-child. See? All gone now. No more crying, all right? That’s a good honey.” She rubbed the palm of her hand gently on the baby’s back, holding her blond head cradled against her own and thinking, Do I have the talent? and hating her mother for making her wonder about it, and then shrugging the hatred aside and thinking, Mother only means well. “There, that’s a good baby. Come on now, smile for your Aunt Mandy, give your Aunt Mandy a great big smile, there you are, that’s my baby, oh that’s my sweet baby.” And she suddenly hugged Kate to her fiercely, wondering again, Do I have the talent?

She wondered about it for the remainder of the summer. And at last she decided her mother was right. She played piano beautifully, yes, and she had done a few compositions of which she was very proud, but that didn’t necessarily indicate she had any of the real requisites for a career in music. Wasn’t that what Gillian had meant that night? About the falseness of college and the standards of the real world? Wasn’t her mother simply repeating what Gillian had said? And yet, if Gillian had been there, if she could have discussed this with Gillian, she was sure... but of course they both meant the same thing. And of course, she did not have the talent, she simply did not have the real talent.

She faced the knowledge, and somehow the summer went by. She supposed she was relieved. It was good not to have to wonder about something like that. And yet, oh and yet if her mother had only said something other than what she’d said, that was the part that hurt, oh if only her mother had said, Amanda darling go write your music, go write your beautiful music, oh if only her mother had said that, and yet it was good to know, good to have the uncertainty gone if only the other thing wasn’t gone, too. She did not know what the other thing was. It had something to do with her mother’s not wanting anyone to pick up Kate when she was crying, and it had something to do with that deadly awful clicking of the knitting needles, and the way her mother had said, “What do you expect to do, daughter?” — not using her name, not saying “Amanda,” but saying “daughter” instead, and by using that word somehow denying the relationship.

She faced her life. She looked ahead and she faced her life, knowing that something was gone now, something was missing, but facing it nonetheless with a weary sort of sad hurt inside her, looking forward to her return to Talmadge, but not the way she usually anticipated the beginning of school, not with that same rush of excitement she had known even when she was a little girl buying a pencil box and a stiff-backed composition book in the local store, not with that same excitement that seemed to vibrate in the very air of autumn. Something was gone, and she could not escape the knowledge that her own mother had taken it from her, had stolen it from her.

Somehow, the summer went by.

When her mother came into the apartment, Gillian was curled up in one of the living-room chairs, reading Gassner. Her mother’s arms were full of bundles, and there was a curious expression on her face, as if she’d been hit by a bus.

“Hello,” Virginia said cheerily, “hello.” She put down her bag and her packages on the hall table, removed her hat, fluffed her hair, and said, “Were there any calls, Gillian?”

“Nope.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee? I think I’ll make some.”

“I just had some milk.”

“Oh. Well, I think I’ll have some anyway. My, what a beautiful day it is. All the trees are beginning to turn, Gillian. It’s like a painting. My, what a day.” She walked out of the living room, and Gillian could hear her humming to herself as she began filling the coffeepot in the kitchen. Gillian stared at the empty doorframe, shrugged, and picked up her book again. After a while her mother came back into the living room, sat down with her coffee cup, and began sipping at it, smiling somewhat idiotically. Gillian glanced at her over the top of her book, shrugged again, and went back to reading.

“Gillian, guess what happened to me?” Virginia said.

“What?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Sure I am.”

“I was just coming out of Alexander’s. You know, right on the corner of Fordham Road and the Grand—”

“Mom, I know where Alexander’s is. I was only born in this—”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Virginia said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” almost singing the words.

“Well, you always say things like that. Yesterday you asked me if I remembered Aunt Mary. Well, now how could I possibly forget Aunt Mary, since I only know her from when I was two inches high? I know I’ve been away at college, but—” and she cut herself short, thinking, I’d better get away from that little subject right this minute, and feeling again the fear and guilt within her, the knowledge that everyone in the house still thought she was going back to Talmadge on the fifteenth. She had lied about registering by mail, had lied about her plans, had withheld the fact that she had already placed a deposit on an apartment in Greenwich Village, well not really the Village, more or less the outskirts of the Village, actually if one wished to get fussy, the very tail end of the Village or, to be positively accurate, the waterfront almost, but still an apartment of her own, and lucky to get anything at all these days. Still, she had lied, and she could not find the courage to tell her mother and her father that she was not going back to Talmadge, that she was going to register at a real dramatics school downtown, and that she was moving out so she could be closer to the theater district. That was the part she knew would bring down the roof, the part about moving out.

“You must forgive my little idiosyncrasies,” her mother said, still cheerfully, so cheerfully that Gillian was certain now she’d been struck by a bus and had her brains addled.