The Long Secret Page 13

  “Could we get a table next to them?” asked Harriet.

  “Darling …” her mother began, then broke into a laugh. She looked at Harriet and laughed again, a friendly laugh as though she had just met Harriet and liked her.

  “You can’t have everything, darling”—and she smoothed Harriet’s hair—“or will you ever know that?” And the smile her laugh turned into was sad and sweet. “We’re staying for dinner,” she reminded Harriet and then laughed again. Harriet laughed with her. Mrs. Welsch looked around the room. “Why don’t you go ask Beth Ellen if she wants to sit with us in here and have a Coke before dinner. They don’t seem to be paying much attention to her.”

  “Okay,” said Harriet and went out to find Beth Ellen. Bunny struck a mad chord and began a wild thumping. More people came in. The bar buzzed. When Harriet finally found Beth Ellen, she was sitting on the porch steps deep in conversation with Jessie Mae.

  arriet’s eyes narrowed. She closed the screened door gently without going out onto the porch. Beth Ellen was talking earnestly to Jessie Mae. What is she talking about, thought Harriet, and why doesn’t she talk to me like that? She hardly talks to me at all. Jessie Mae started talking now, quickly, as though she were fascinated by her subject. I have to hear what they’re saying, thought Harriet.

  She went through the hall of the hotel into the dining room. The dining room was empty. She ducked down under one of the windows which opened onto the porch. Partially covered by a long white tablecloth, she took up her post and overheard the following conversation.

  “Norman and I, we know how hard it is and all, but we just determined we gonna have a church, a real church, a real nice church, and all the congregation gonna have long white robes, and we gonna immerse—”

  “Immerse?” asked Beth Ellen.

  “Sure, the baptism. We gonna have total immersion in the river. That’s the best way, the only way.”

  Harriet had a vision of white robes wading into the East River at Eighty-sixth Street.

  “We gonna have a pretty white church with real singing and real preaching and Norman says we’re gonna make a barrel of money”—Jessie Mae was talking so fast she was spilling words—“and the people will come, and first we’ll just have a tent, like the tabernacle, you know? And then we’ll raise the money and build the church and, the Lord willing, be there the rest of our days!”

  “How long’ve you wanted to do that?” murmured Beth Ellen.

  “Oh, since we was little things. We always wanted to.”

  “Does Norman still want to?” asked Beth Ellen.

  “Why, sure he does,” said Jessie Mae. “Hey, Norman,” she whispered around the corner of the porch.

  “What?” Harriet heard Norman’s gruff answer.

  “Come here a minute,” whispered Jessie Mae.

  Norman evidently came shuffling over, because there was a noise of hedge and then of his voice much closer. “What is it? I got my work to do.”

  “I was just telling Beth Ellen here about our plans, about the church and all,” said Jessie Mae in a chatty voice.

  “Aw, Jessie Mae, I got WORK to do,” said Norman, and he must have walked away then, because his voice got smaller at the end of the sentence.

  “Oh, Norman,” said Jessie Mae. “You know boys,” she said in a flighty way. “They don’t like to talk about anything.”

  There was silence from Beth Ellen. Naturally, thought Harriet, she has nothing to say again, just like with me. And then suddenly Beth Ellen began to talk.

  “Well, do you think you should leave everything to God?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, will God take care of everything?”

  “Why, sure, honey, don’t you know that?”

  Harriet was so amazed that she stood up to get a look at Beth Ellen and zoinked her head against the table. Ouch, she said to herself as she rubbed her head and slowly took in the picture of Beth Ellen leaning eagerly forward toward Jessie Mae, who held one knee in both hands and rocked back and forth with a small smile on her face.

  “The Bible,” said Jessie Mae. “It’s all in the Good Book.”

  Beth Ellen didn’t say anything.

  “Do you read the Good Book?” asked Jessie Mae.

  “No,” whispered Beth Ellen.

  “Why, you should. It’s the best reading and I read it all the time. It’s the first thing I ever learned to read. Mama taught me to read that way. Norman used to read it all the time too, but now”—Jessie Mae looked over toward Norman and sighed a little—“he’s taken to reading some mighty strange things, like the Wall Street Journal, and things like that. I’m … well, I’m sorta worried, but… you know how boys are. By the way, that sure is a pretty mother you got.”

  “Thank you,” said Beth Ellen politely. “She lives in Europe…. She just came back here. … I haven’t seen her since I was very little. …”

  Harriet listened in amazement as Beth Ellen started to confide in Jessie Mae. She had never heard Beth Ellen talk to anyone like that. She was becoming violently interested, when she heard Bunny and Agatha come into the dining room. She ducked under the table just in time.

  “I loved my wife, Agatha—” Bunny began.

  “Of course, dear boy, but she’s gone, and gone is gone and when gone is gone, we must behave as though gone is gone. That’s all there is to it! Now I’ll give you one more year to get over her and then I’m going to marry someone else—Wallace, perhaps. If you’ve not forgotten everything about her, I’m just going to marry someone else!”

  “Agatha, this very morning I prayed for you … at Mass this very morning.”

  “And that’s another thing. I’m sick to death of you going to Mass.”

  Beth Ellen’s voice came through: “… and they’re in there with their friends and I can’t talk to any of them and I don’t like this place and I’d rather not be here …”

  Harriet couldn’t decide which she wanted to hear most, and wished, as she had a thousand times before, that each ear would do separate duty.

  “… Agatha,” Bunny whined, “you don’t own me!”

  “You WORK here,” said Agatha imperiously.

  “I must explain something to you, dear love, dear sweet Agatha… I will never marry you. I don’t WANT to marry you, and I will continue to go to Mass all my life. That is my life; that’s just the way I am.”

  “NONSENSE,” said Agatha and swept from the room. From the hall her voice floated back, “You’ll be over it all in a year, just wait and see.”

  Harriet peeked, watched Bunny follow Agatha, and then looked out at Beth Ellen, who was now silent.

  “Gee, that’s too bad. Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jessie Mae was saying.

  Do what? thought Harriet. Do what? What did Beth Ellen say she was going to do? Why did I have to miss that part of the conversation? She wasted not a minute but ran right out of the dining room and onto the porch.

  She clattered up to them and stood still in front of them. They turned to look at her as though she were a stranger. Harriet felt suddenly unnerved, shy, and as though she weren’t wanted.

  “Beth Ellen …” she began and just at that moment Mrs. Welsch came out on the porch and walked over to them.

  “Harriet, I don’t want you clattering through the halls. I’d like you and Beth Ellen to come in and sit down. Would you like to sit at our table, Beth Ellen?”

  “Yes,” said Beth Ellen promptly.

  “I better be going on home anyway,” said Jessie Mae, and getting up abruptly, she went to join Norman.

  “Who was that?” asked Mrs. Welsch as she walked with them back into the bar.

  “Nobody,” said Harriet grumpily.

  “A friend,” said Beth Ellen.

  Beth Ellen sat down and looked around the bar. She felt better sitting with Mrs. Welsch, safer and more comfortable.

  I’m a child, she thought. I don’t belong here; I’m frightened. Bunny was playing very loudly now and Mr
s. Welsch was watching him. Harriet was watching Zeeney and Wallace and Agatha at the bar. Wallace looked like a yo-yo being pulled between Agatha and Zeeney.

  I want to go home. Where is my grandmother? I want to go home. Beth Ellen was overcome with longing—a longing so strong it made everything look sad, even the glasses on the table.

  She could think of nothing but her grandmother’s knees. When she had been very small, her grandmother had sat her on a tiny chair every morning to comb her hair. She had been at a level where all she saw was one big knee. The thought of that knee now made her have to bite her tongue so she wouldn’t cry. What a dumb thing to think of, she thought. A knee.

  She was going to cry. She got up, whispered that she was going to the ladies’ room, and left the room. She felt extremely lucky that Harriet didn’t follow her.

  Bunny finally got up from the piano and said to Agatha, “I must eat now. You forget, dear, I expend an enormous amount of energy when I play.”

  “Oh, really,” screeched Agatha, “not a whit more than I do, I can assure you. But if you must. Let’s go, everyone.” She grabbed Wallace and pulled him off the bar stool. Bunny scampered after, leaving Zeeney to exit as gracefully as possible.

  “NOW, Mother, NOW!” said Harriet, poking her mother fiercely in the ribs.

  “Stop that, Harriet!” said her mother sharply; then, “All right, we might as well.”

  Harriet had to be restrained from running into the dining room. They were seated at a table only two tables away from the dinner party. Harriet was terribly pleased. Everyone was in full view and she hadn’t missed a thing, because Agatha was still seating people.

  “I,” said Agatha, arms flailing, “shall sit here between Wallace and Bunny.”

  Zeeney glared and sat next to Wallace. Beth Ellen came into the dining room.

  “Now why is there another chair? They’re so stupid … oh”—Agatha suddenly stopped, then continued—“oh … that child. Well, down there; put her down there … away, away.” She banished Beth Ellen with a wave and fell into her chair. Wallace and Bunny caught her. Beth Ellen looked timidly at Bunny and sat down.

  “Harriet… HARRIET,” said Mrs. Welsch, looking with irritation at Harriet, who was sitting on the edge of her chair leaning forward so dangerously that her nose was on the rim of the water glass. “What do you want first?”

  “Shrimp cocktail,” said Harriet without looking away from Beth Ellen.

  “There,” said Agatha. “That’s over.” She smiled winningly at Wallace and unfolded her napkin with an ugly snap.

  A small piece of paper fell out of the napkin. “What’s this?” she sang out. “Well, my dear, if it’s a party favor, I haven’t seen one since I was six!” She tried to read it but was too farsighted. She was just saying, “Wallace, be a dear and read this for me—” when there was an unearthly yell from the other end of the table.

  Bunny was standing up at his seat, his face purple and upturned, his arms outstretched, the ugly gape of his mouth turning his face into the mask of tragedy. He stood one second in a caught silence of agony during which Harriet fell into her water glass. And then he yelled. His voice croaked and scratched its way out and flew in a burst at the ceiling. “I’ve HAD IT, AGATHA.” He turned on her. “You silly fool with your silly jokes. You fat idiot. Here’s your truth. I sit up NIGHTS praying you’ll trip doing one of your veronicas into the bar. I spend DAYS praying your arms will break off at the elbow from flailing. You want the truth? I DESPISE YOU.” He broke off, gasped for breath, and then screamed: “NATURALLY, I quit.”

  A piece of paper floated down from his hand onto the table. Wallace, Zeeney, and Agatha stopped looking stunned and grabbed for it. Bunny’s face broke in a paroxysm of rage, and so contorted that he seemed a cripple, he ran from the room.

  “Sit up,” said Mrs. Welsch, who had averted an accident by grabbing Harriet’s teetering water glass.

  “Sshush!” said Harriet, standing in her excitement.

  Wallace read the paper aloud:

  THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE

  “Oooo,” said Agatha, much impressed. She flung an arm, looked around uncertainly, then flung the other, thereby disposing of Bunny. With a great smile, she announced triumphantly, “THAT takes care of THAT!”

  Zeeney smiled.

  “Hup,” said Wallace, looking under his napkin, “I think perhaps we all have notes.”

  Harriet looked at Beth Ellen. Beth Ellen looked petrified, her eyes as big as soup plates. “Hhrumph,” said Harriet, sitting down and forgetting she was talking to her mother. “Wonder what she thinks of that Bunny now?”

  “What, dear?” said her mother, a little absently because she too found it hard not to look at the center table.

  “Mine, mine first,” Agatha was saying, waving her paper in Wallace’s face. He read it:

  IF THOU WILT BE PERFECT GO SELL WHAT

  YOU HAVE AND GIVE IT TO THE POOR.

  THEN YOU’LL HAVE SOMETHING

  WHEN YOU GET TO HEAVEN

  “Oooooo,” said Agatha with great joy, “isn’t this fun! It’s like some kind of nasty fortune cookie!”

  “Oh, what’s yours, darling?” Zeeney was getting rather excited about the whole thing. “I can’t seem to find mine. And let’s see if you have one, Beth.” She grabbed at Beth Ellen’s napkin and unfolded a paper.

  Wallace read his:

  YOU NEED MORE PULL TO GET A RICH MAN

  INTO HEAVEN THAN TO GET A CAMEL

  THROUGH THE EYE OF A NEEDLE

  Zeeney laughed a most evil laugh. Wallace looked annoyed. “I don’t think that’s true at all!” said Agatha. “After all, who has any pull but the rich?”

  “Let’s see yours.” Zeeney picked up Beth Ellen’s and read:

  AS IS THE MOTHER SO IS HER DAUGHTER

  Zeeney crowed with joy: “I think that’s lovely!” Beth Ellen looked a little sick. She glanced over at Harriet. Harriet was staring at her. She could see Mrs. Welsch trying to get Harriet to eat a shrimp cocktail.

  “Hup!” said Wallace. “Here’s yours, Zeen, ole girl.” And he read it:

  IN SORROW THOU SHALT BRING FORTH CHILDREN

  Zeeney grabbed her throat as though she were being choked. Wallace looked at her squinty-eyed.

  “Now, what does that have to do with me?” said Zeeney, looking straight into Wallace’s eyes, arching her back and throwing one arm across the table.

  Wallace looked more squinty-eyed.

  Agatha gave a whoop of laughter.

  “You see, it is a silly game,” said Zeeney airily, “a ridiculous game. Whoever is doing it”—she looked at Agatha—“at least should have the sense to have them apply. … I mean, what possible point could there be if—”

  “They do apply, Zeeney,” said Wallace with a voice like a knife.

  “Well, mine doesn’t,” said Zeeney and suddenly stood up, folded her napkin, and looked at Agatha. “I can’t imagine what little joke you think you’re having, but I’ve a big fat piece of news for you—it isn’t funny!” She threw her napkin at Agatha like a gauntlet and left the room.

  “Why, whatever can she mean?” said Agatha, looking around in amazement. “Why in the world would she think I would do a thing like this?”

  “Hup,” said Wallace, his eyes narrowing so they almost disappeared.

  “Well, never mind,” said Agatha. “You and I can have a lovely little dinner together.” She leaned toward Wallace, then saw Beth Ellen. She gave Beth Ellen a long, stony look. Beth Ellen began to slide off her chair. She looked terrified.

  Harriet was beside herself. “BETH ELLEN,” she shouted, “COME OVER HERE!”

  Mrs. Welsch grabbed Harriet’s arm. “We’re going home,” she said firmly, “and I think we’ll take Beth Ellen with us.”

  She stood up and dragged Harriet over to the center table.

  “How do you do. I am Mrs. Rodger Welsch,” she said, extending her hand to Wallace. “I think that perhaps Beth Ellen could come and spend t
he night with my daughter, Harriet. They go to the same school and—”

  Wallace interrupted her, relief flooding his face like a spring shower. “Delighted,” he said, jumping up. “Yes, hup, marvelous idea—can’t imagine where her mother is—smashing idea. Suppose her mother’ll know where to find you and all that?”

  “I’ll call Mrs. Hansen the moment we get home,” said Mrs. Welsch briskly, starting to leave.

  “Delighted, thank you. Yes, hup, return the favor some day,” said Wallace, bending forward as Agatha looked at him with rage.

  “It will never come up,” said Mrs. Welsch. And putting out a hand to Beth Ellen, she said, “Have you got a sweater, dear?”

  Beth Ellen picked up her sweater and nodded to Mrs. Welsch, looking up at her with a face aglow with adoration.

  “Then come along,” said Mrs. Welsch and swept from the room like the Pied Piper.

  When they were driving out of the gates Harriet started: “Well! What do you think of that? What in the world was that? Who was in there? I saw Jessie Mae go in—”

  “We are not going to discuss it,” said Mrs. Welsch, cutting her short. “It’s been a very trying night for everyone, and I’m sure that Beth Ellen would be as glad as I would be never to hear it mentioned again.”

  Beth Ellen felt a wash of gratitude for Mrs. Welsch. She also felt on the verge of tears. She wanted to nuzzle her head against the sleeve of Mrs. Welsch’s sweater. She also felt hungry.

  Harriet sulked a little, but when no one paid any attention, she looked out of the window and thought her own dark thoughts for the rest of the way.

  After Mrs. Welsch had called Mrs. Hansen, made some eggs, and fed them all, Beth Ellen and Harriet got ready for bed. Beth Ellen looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her face. Her mouth was a hard little line and her eyes looked small and rather purple. Something is happening to me, she thought.

  She put on a pair of Harriet’s pajamas and looked down at her feet sticking out of the bottoms. She went into Harriet’s room.

  Harriet looked at her as though she were going to say something; but she evidently changed her mind, because she just looked at Beth Ellen, then turned and got in bed.