Conrad Aiken: The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

Miss Lavery was already thigh-deep in the water (in the gap between two beds of eel-grass) wading, with a swaying slow grace, towards Mr. Oldkirk, who floated on his back with hardly more than his nose and mustache visible. She skimmed the water with swallow-swift hands, forward and back, as she plunged deeper. “Oo! delicious,” she cried, and sank with a soft turmoil, beginning to swim. “Don’t bump me,” Mr. Oldkirk answered, blowing, “I’m taking a nap.”

The sunlight beat like cymbals on the radiant beach. The green dory was almost too hot to touch, but Miss Rooker dragged and pushed it into the water, threw in the anchor, and shoved off. “Look out!” she sang, whacking a blade on the water.

“Hello! Where are you off to, Miss Rooker?” Mr. Oldkirk blew like a seal.

“Marblehead.”

“Dangerous place for young ladies, Miss Rooker. Better not stay after dark!”

“Oh, Marblehead’s an open book to me!” Miss Rooker was arch.

“Oh, it is, is it!” He gave a loud “Ha!” in the water, blowing bubbles. “Better take me, then!”

He took three vigorous strokes, reached up a black-haired hand to the gunwale, and hauling himself up, deliberately overturned the dory. Miss Rooker screamed, plunged sidelong past Mr. Old-kirk’s head (saw him grinning) into the delicious cold shock of water. Down she went, and opening her eyes saw Mr. Oldkirk’s green legs and blue body, wavering within reach—she took hold of his cold, hard knee, then flung her arms round his waist, hugged him ecstatically, pulled him under. They became, for a second, deliciously entangled under the water. The top of his head butted her knee, his hand slid across her hip. Then they separated, kicking each other, and rose, both sputtering.

“Trying—woof—to drown me?” he barked, shaking his head from side to side. “A nice trick!”

“ You did it!”… Miss Rooker laughed, excited. She swam on her back, out of breath, looking at Mr. Oldkirk intensely. Had he guessed that there, under the water, she had touched him deliberately? There was something in his eyes—a small sharp gleam as of secret intimacy, a something admitted between them—or was it simply a question?… Averting his eyes, suddenly, he swam to the upturned dory, and began pushing it toward the shore. Miss Lavery, who could not swim well, stood in shallow water, up to her middle, breathlessly ducking up and down. She looked rather ridiculous.

“What are you children doing!” she cried, chattering. “I’m cold; I think I’ll go in.”

Mr. Oldkirk pushed, swimming, thrashing the water with powerful legs. “You ought to be”—he puffed—“damned glad”—he puffed—“to be cold on a day like this”—he puffed—“Helen!” Then he called: “Come on—Miss Rooker! Give me a hand. Too heavy.”

She put her hands against one corner of the green bow. The dory moved slowly. It would be easy to touch his legs again—the thought pleased her, she laughed, and, letting her laughing mouth sink below the surface, blew a wild froth of bubbles. Their faces were very close to one another. Miss Lavery, standing and watching, lifted conscious elbows to tuck her hair under her bathing cap.

“You swim like a fish,” said Mr. Oldkirk. “Must be a granddaughter of Venus. Was it Venus who came up out of Duxbury Bay on a good-sized clamshell?”

Miss Rooker laughed, puzzled. Was he flattering, or being sarcastic?… What about Venus?… “No,” she said. “Nothing like that. But, oh, how I do enjoy it!”

In shallow water they righted and emptied the dory, restored the oars. While Mr. Oldkirk, getting into the boat, began hauling himself out to the anchor, which had fallen in, Miss Rooker climbed the beach toward the bathhouse. Miss Lavery stood before the door, taking off her bathing cap. Her face was hard. She was shivering. She struck her cap against the door jamb, sharply, and gave a little malicious smile.

“I know why you did that!” she said. She stepped in and shut the door.

Miss Rooker stared at the door, furious. Her first impulse was to open the door and shout something savagely injurious. The vixen! the snake!… She went into her own room—hot as an oven—and dropped the bathing suit off. Miss Lavery had suspected something.… Well, let her suspect.… She dried herself slowly with the warm towel, enjoying the beauty of her cool body. Let her suspect! Good for her.… Ah, it had been delicious!… She would let Miss Lavery hear her singing. “And—when—I—told—them—”…

Five minutes later Miss Lavery banged her door and departed, and Miss Rooker smiled.

III.

Mrs. Oldkirk, languid and pretty in her pink crêpe-de-Chine dressing gown, leaned back in her wicker chair resting her head on the tiny pillow and closed her eyes. Her silver-embroidered slippers, with blue pom-poms, were crossed on the footstool. The magazine had fallen from her hand. “Oh, how heavenly,” she murmured. “Nothing as heavenly as a scalp massage.… You’re very skillful, Miss Rooker. You have the touch.… Not so much on the top, now—a little more at the sides, and down the neck.…”

Miss Rooker, standing behind the wicker chair, stared over her patient’s head into the dressing-table mirror. Massage. Massage. It was insufferably hot. The breeze had dropped. She felt drowsy. Zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek sang the crickets in the hot grass under the afternoon sun. The long seething trill of a cicada died languidly away—in a tree, she supposed. She remembered seeing a locust attacked by a huge striped bee—or was it a wasp? They had fallen together to the ground, in the dry grass, and the heavy bee, on top, curving its tail malevolently, stung the gray-pleated upturned belly, the poor creature shrilling and spinning all the while. Then the bee—or wasp—had zoomed away, and the gray locust, color of ashes, spun on its back a little and lay still.… Down the smooth soft neck. A curved pressure over and behind the ears. What was the matter with Mrs. Oldkirk? Too young for change of life—no. Something mysterious. She was very pretty, in her soft lazy supercilious way, and had a queer rich indifferent-seeming personality. A loose screw somewhere—too bad. Or was it that she was—Mrs. Oldkirk yawned.

“I love to feel someone fooling about my head: the height of luxury. When I go to the hairdresser I feel like staying all day. I’d like to pay them to keep on for hours. Especially if it’s a man! Something thrilling about having your hair done by a man. Don’t you know? It tickles you all over.”

Miss Rooker laughed, embarrassed. Singular remark! “Yes—” she answered slowly, as if with uncertainty. “I think I know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do—you haven’t those naughty black eyes for nothing, Miss Rooker! Ha, ha!”

“Oh, well, I suppose I’m human.” Miss Rooker snickered. Were her eyes “naughty”? She wanted to study them in the glass, but was afraid that Mrs. Oldkirk would be watching. Zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—sang the crickets. What were they doing, where were they now? Was Miss Lavery taking a nap? Were they out in the car?… Her arms were beginning to be tired.

“Tell me, Miss Rooker, as woman to woman—what do you think of men?” Mrs. Oldkirk opened her gray eyes, lazily smiling.

“Well—I like them very much, if that’s what you mean.”

“ I suppose so! You’re still young. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Ah, yes. Very young. Lucky girl.… But you wait fourteen years! Then see what you think of men.”

“Do they seem so different?”

“They don’t seem, my dear girl, they are . It’s when you’re young that they seem . Later on, you begin to understand them—you get their number. And then—oh, my God—you want to exterminate the whole race of them. The nasty things!”