Down there in the vestibule of the Columbarium, eight foot underground. And serve him right!
It was not only that he didn’t look too good; leaning back in the car which was taking him down to Beverly Hills on his way to see Clancy, Mr. Stoyte was thinking, as he had thought so often during these last two or three weeks, that he didn’t feel too good. He’d wake up in the morning feeling kind of sluggish and heavy; and his mind didn’t seem to be as clear as it was. Obispo called it suppressed influenza and made him take those pills every night; but they didn’t seem to do him any good. He went on feeling that way just the same. And, on top of everything else, he was worrying himself sick about Virginia.
The Baby was acting strange, like someone that wasn’t really there; so quiet, and not noticing anything, and starting when you spoke to her and asking what you said. Acting for all the world like one of those advertisements for Sal Hepatica or California Syrup of Figs; and that was what he’d have thought it was, if it hadn’t been for the way she went on with that Peter Boone fellow. Always talking to him at meals—and asking him to come and have a swim; and wanting to take a squint down his microscope—and what sort of a damn did she give for microscopes, he’d like to know? Throwing herself at him—that was what it had looked like on the surface. And that kind of syrup-of-figs way of acting (like people at those Quaker Meetings that Prudence used to make him go to before she took up with Christian Science)—that all fitted in. You’d say she was kind of stuck on the fellow. But then why should it have happened so suddenly? Because she’d never shown any signs of being stuck on him before.
Always treated him like you’d treat a great big dog—friendly and all that, but not taking him too seriously; just a pat on the head and then, when he’d wagged his tail, thinking of something else. No, he couldn’t understand it; he just couldn’t figure it out. It looked like she was stuck on him; but then, at the same time, it looked like she just didn’t notice if he was a boy or a dog. Because that was how she was acting even now. She paid a lot of attention to him—only the way you’d pay attention to a nice big retriever. And that was what had thrown him out. If she’d been stuck on Pete in the ordinary way, then he’d have got mad, and raised hell, and thrown the boy out of the house. But how could you raise hell over a dog? How could you get mad with a girl for telling a retriever she’d like to have a squint down his microscope? You couldn’t even if you tried; because getting mad didn’t make any sense. All he’d been able to do was just worry, trying to figure things out and not being able to. There was only one thing that was clear, and that was that the Baby meant more to him than he had thought, more than he had ever believed it possible that any one should mean to him.
It had begun by his just wanting her—wanting her to touch, to hold, to handle, to eat; wanting her because she was warm and smelt good; wanting her because she was young and he was old, because she was so innocent and he too tired for anything not innocence to excite. That was how it had begun; but almost immediately something else had happened. That youth of hers, that innocence and sweetness—they were more than just exciting. She was so cute and lovely and childish, he almost felt like crying over her, even while he wanted to hold and handle and devour. She did the strangest things to him—made him feel good, like you felt when you’d tanked up a bit on Scotch, and at the same time made him feel good, like you felt when you were at church, or listening to William Jennings Bryan, or making some poor kid happy by giving him a doll or something. And Virginia wasn’t just anybody’s kid, like the ones at the hospital; she was his kid, his very own. Prudence wasn’t able to have children; and at the time he’d been sore about it.
But now he was glad. Because if he’d had a row of kids, they’d be standing in the way of the Baby. And Virginia meant more to him than any daughter could mean. Because even if she were only a daughter, which she wasn’t, she was probably a lot nicer than his own flesh-and-blood daughter would have been—seeing that, after all, the Stoytes were all a pretty sour-faced lot and Prudence had been kind of dumb even if she was a good woman, which she certainly was—maybe a bit too good. Whereas with the Baby everything was just right, just perfect. He had been happier since he’d known her than he’d ever been in years, With her around, things had seemed worth doing again. You didn’t have to go through life asking “why?” The reason for everything was there in front of you, wearing that cunning little yachting cap, maybe, or all dressed up with her emeralds and everything for some party with the moving picture crowd.
And now something had happened. The reason for carrying on was being taken away from him. The Baby had changed; she was fading away from him; she had gone somewhere else. Where had she gone? And why? Why did she want to leave him? To leave him all alone. Absolutely alone, and he was an old man, and the white slab was there in the vestibule of the Columbarium, waiting for him.
“What’s the matter, Baby?” he had asked. Time and again he had asked with anguish in his heart, too miserable to be angry, too much afraid of being left alone to care about his dignity, or his rights, about anything except keeping her, at whatever cost. “What’s the matter, Baby?”
And all she ever did was to look at him as though she were looking at him from some place a million miles away—to look at him like that and say: Nothing; she was feeling fine; she hadn’t got anything on her mind; and, no, there wasn’t anything he could do for her, because he’d given her everything already, and she was perfectly happy.
And if he mentioned Pete (kind of casually, so she shouldn’t think he suspected anything) she wouldn’t even bat an eyelid; just say, Yes, she liked Pete; he was a nice boy, but unsophisticated—and that made her laugh; and she liked laughing.
“But, Baby, you’re different,” he would say; and it was difficult for him to keep his voice from breaking, he was so unhappy. “You don’t act like you used to, Baby.”
And all she’d answer was that that was funny because she felt just the same.
“You don’t feel the same about me,” he would say.
And she’d say she did. And he’d say no. And she’d say it wasn’t true. Because what reasons did he have for saying she felt different about him? And of course she was quite right; there weren’t any reasons you could lay your finger on. He couldn’t honestly say she acted less affectionate, or didn’t want to let him kiss her, or anything like that. She was different because of something you couldn’t put a name to. Something in the way she looked and moved and sat around. He couldn’t describe it except by saying it was like she wasn’t really there where you thought you were looking at her, but some place else; some place where you couldn’t touch her, or talk to her, or even really see her. That was how it was. But whenever he had tried to explain it to her, she had just laughed at him and said he must be having some of those feminine intuitions you read about in stories—only his feminine intuitions were all wrong.
And so there he’d be, back where he started from, trying to figure it out and not being able to, and worrying himself sick. Yes, worrying himself sick.
Because when he’d got over feeling sluggish and heavy, like he always did in the mornings now, he felt so worried about the Baby that he’d start bawling out the servants and being rude to that god-damned Englishman and getting mad with Obispo. And the next thing that happened was that he couldn’t digest his meals. He was getting heartburn and sour stomach; and one day he had such a pain that he’d thought it was appendicitis. But Obispo had said it was just gas; because of his suppressed influenza. And then he’d got mad and told the fellow he must be a lousy doctor if he couldn’t cure a little thing like that. Which must have put the fear of God into Obispo, because he’d said, “Just give me two or three days more. That’s all I need to complete the treatment.” And he’d said that suppressed influenza was a funny thing; didn’t seem to be anything, but poisoned the whole system, so you couldn’t think straight any more; and you’d get to imagining things that weren’t really there, and worrying about them.
Which might be true in a general way; but in this case
