Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

And yet, sometimes, he wondered if her innocence wasn’t a pose. He never wondered whether he was seeing her accurately, whether Amanda at twenty-five and fast approaching twenty-six was the same Amanda he had rescued in Gillian’s apartment. No, he never wondered that, and never concluded that he was cherishing his secret, nourishing his secret, in an attempt to keep Amanda the constant college girl in tweed skirt and loafers, the inviolate female, pure and virtuous, the symbol of some half-forgotten youth. He never wondered about her as a woman, never thought to ask how she felt about herself, never imagined her as anything but a rather beautiful creature who put on lipstick and brassière, who rustled in silk, an amazing young girl who was somehow his wife to watch, to hold, to love — but not as much as she loved him. He only wondered if she affected naïveté because she knew it was appealing. And yet, it seemed genuine enough. She seemed to have an enormous faith in her fellow man, believing everyone was as honest and as trustworthy as she knew herself to be, believing Talmadge was a real town with real people. Matthew himself had recognized Talmadge for the phony town it was the moment they attended their first cocktail party. He decided then and there that he did not want to become even slightly involved with this bunch of bogus small-towners whose hearts and roots were still in New York. He tried to understand what had attracted them to Talmadge at all. The town was picturesque, true, with some of the most spectacular countryside he had ever seen in his life, especially during the fall when the woods lining the roads became unimaginably beautiful. And the first view of the town as you came around the bend in the road, with the church sitting off to the right on the hill, and the university spires in the distance, and the shaded leafy main street, was undoubtedly worth a great deal to the picture-postcard industry.

But what was there about the town itself, other than its scenic worth, that attracted families from New York and New Haven, depositing them in a no man’s land that was halfway between both and close to neither? Was it indeed the university and the shadow of its subtle beauty, its intimations of a scholarly citizenry, a town of knowledgeable, lively, inquiring people? Perhaps so, but its presence seemed only a deterrent to Matthew. Nor had the prices of houses and acreage been designed to encourage impetuous spending. So what was it? He pondered it for a long time, and when he thought he knew, when he thought he’d figured out what brought people to this fake-front town with its fake ideals and fake morality and fake standards, he tried the theory on Amanda, and she sat and looked at him in shocked wonder, as if he were suggesting they walk over to the Talmadge graveyard and disinter a few bodies. Her innocence stared out at him in disbelief. No, this was wrong. No, Matthew, you are doing the town an injustice.

“I’m reading it correctly, Amanda dear,” he said, “and if you didn’t look at the world through those rose-colored glasses of yours, you’d realize that this town and the people in this town are as phony as that exhibit they’re holding at the library this week.”

“And what’s so phony about the exhibit?” Amanda asked.

“If you can’t see it, Amanda...”

“No, I can’t, and I wish you’d explain it to me. We’re having a showing of old kitchen utensils and things. Now, what’s so phony about that?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I just thought your postcards were very funny.” He grinned, remembering the cards she had mailed just the day before. He had picked them up from the hall table and leafed through them, smiling when he read the first one, and then bursting into laughter by the time he reached the fifth.

DEAR LOIS,

If it’s at all possible, we would like very much to have you drop off your cinnamon grinder, wooden ladle, applesauce cruncher and bread-making bucket at the library on January 14th.

Thank you,

DEAR BETTY,

Please drop off your apple corer, cabbage cutter, long spoon, copper dipper and olive wood bowl at the library on January 14th.

Thank you,

DEAR MRS. FRASETTI,

Please drop off your mortar and pestle and French onion print at the library on January 14th.

DEAR MRS. NELSON,

Would you please drop off your handsome loaf baker and match striker at the library on January 14th?

DEAR CONNIE,

Would you please drop off your old doughnut cutter, your pewter kettle and your Swedish cooky things at the library on January 14th?

“Did you say phony or funny? ” Amanda asked.

“Both.”

“I think it’s a wonderful exhibit and exactly what women would like to see. You’re a man. How would you know?”

“I think it’s phony as hell in a day and age when everyone’s kitchen has mechanical devices that can do everything but change the baby’s diaper.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Amanda said, and she shrugged.

“Yes, and my opinion is that Talmadge, Connecticut, is the fakest town in the Eastern United States. And that takes in some pretty fancy fake towns like Darien and Scarsdale and New Hope and—”

“Oh, Matthew, what makes a town fake?”

“I know what makes this town fake.”

“Yes, people like you ,” Amanda said accusingly.

“The first thing that makes Talmadge a fake is that university backdrop hanging in the hills over there. It creates an illusion of higher education when I’ll bet half the morons who live here haven’t even been through the sixth grade.”

“That’s not true, Matthew. You know it isn’t true.”

“All right, maybe it isn’t. They got to junior high school, some of them.”

“They’re some of the brightest people in New York!” Amanda said.

“Then why didn’t they stay in New York? That’s just my point!”

“What’s your point, Matthew?” she asked. “Would you please make your point, Matthew?” She had used his first name twice in as many sentences, a sure sign that she was getting angry.

“My point is this. Talmadge is a fake because only the scenery is real, the rest is all imported like those crumby Japanese toys you can buy in the five-and-ten and which break under the slightest pressure. These people are New Yorkers , honey. The sidewalk sings in their blood. Every time they talk about how much they hate the filthy city, their eyes gleam with nostalgia. You can’t become a small-towner, Amanda. You either are, or you aren’t, and they aren’t, and the whole damn setup here is rotten and phony.”

“Wow,” Amanda said.

“You said it,” he answered.

He did not tell her the rest.

He did not tell her what else he had observed about this phony town, because he felt she was a little too naïve to appreciate it, and besides he didn’t know quite what her reactions would be now that she was pregnant. He watched her moving about the house and wondered anew about her, wondered if this girl-woman he saw every day of the week was the real Amanda, the true Amanda. Something had happened to her suddenly, and whereas he had been a party to the abrupt prenatal change, he felt excluded now that it was a fact. He watched her from a seemingly great distance, and wondered how he felt about the coming baby. July. Not so very far away. July, and there would be a child in the house. Not simply the two of them any more. A child. To share with. To love.

He wanted Amanda to be the way she was.

He wanted Amanda to be the innocent college girl who had lain unconscious on the big brass bed.

The eyes are looking at her.

The eyes are looking at the girl with the claws.

Penny-ellow, Penny-ellow, Penny-ellow-penno-pee.