“Oh, everybody thinks that, about feeling more pain than other people. That’s my opinion, anyway. You don’t have to agree. Frank says I make too many sweeping statements. But how else can you get a good argument started?”
“Do you want a good argument?”
Miriam laughed. “I wouldn’t mind. Frank never argues.”
“Choose your subject.”
“That’s easy. Rose.”
“It’s a wide field. Narrow it down.”
“All right. Was she murdered or not?”
“I’ve never claimed she was murdered.”
“Claim it now, for the sake of argument.”
Dalloway rubbed the side of his jaw thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t. It doesn’t seem very reasonable. No one gained anything from her death. She had no money, no securities, no jewelry—”
“Nothing tucked away for a rainy day?”
“Rose was living in the rainy days.”
“I know,” Miriam said, with a sober little nod. “We tried to help her as much as we could. We took her to a ball game one night — she was bored stiff by the game but she liked the crowds — and she came here for dinner a few times. At first I was afraid that she’d, well, you know, act up a little in front of the kids, especially if she’d been drinking. But Frank said she wouldn’t, and she didn’t. She was very reserved and sweet. I don’t think she liked the children much, but she talked to them in a grownup way and she played with the dog. She was very fond of dogs. Are you?”
“Fond of dogs? Oh yes, moderately.” Dalloway looked as if he was trying to keep from laughing. “Don’t tell me you’re one of these women who judge people by whether or not they like dogs.”
“I certainly am. Frank says it’s a very unscientific system and he’s always citing cases of murderers who were dog-lovers, like Dr. Crippen. Naturally there are exceptions. But I do think that there’s something outgiving and generous about people who are sincerely fond of dogs. Cats are a different matter. Cats are for introverts, lonely people and rather timid people who are afraid of a dog’s gusto and his demands. Cats don’t give or take, they walk alone, and so do the people who own them.” Miriam paused for breath. “There. That ought to start an argument.”
“Why do you want an argument?”
“To get rid of my aggressions. I have quite a few.”
“Indeed?”
“Certainly. So have you. I get rid of mine — some of them — not by spanking my kids or beating my husband, but by talking. Oh yes, and once in a while I break a dish. That’s more expensive than talking, though.”
A car stopped outside, its tire-savers screeching against the curb. A moment later Frank came into the house carrying a manila folder under his arm.
He shook hands with Dalloway and grinned across the room at his wife. “I see you’ve been entertaining Mr. Dalloway with a few theories.”
“How can you tell?” Miriam said.
“You’re looking smug.”
“Oh, I am not.” Miriam went over to the large mirror on the mantel to see if she was looking smug or not.
Frank turned back to Dalloway. “I brought the report on Rose. It’s not complete, as I explained to you before. We’re seldom able to get a complete report on anyone unless there’s been a series of previous commitments. In the case of Rose, I have only what information she volunteered, plus a few of my own interpretations which may or may not be right. So don’t expect much.”
“I won’t,” Dalloway said.
“Actually I had no business taking Rose on as a patient. I don’t think there was anything wrong with her mentally. She was a little punch-drunk. She’d been a champion, in her own way, and then suddenly she couldn’t even get a bout scheduled. “Those are her own words, I’m quoting from the report.”
“Am I to be allowed to read it?”
“Certain parts. A lot of it is personal.”
“To Rose or to me?”
“You’re mentioned in it several times.”
“In a favorable or unfavorable light?”
Frank seemed uncomfortable. “Well, you know Rose.”
“Unfavorable, then.”
“Yes. That’s understandable. She suffered a great many guilt feelings after abandoning you and the child. In order to tolerate these feelings, she had to convince herself that you were quite the villain.”
“I imagine Rose’s life teemed with villains.”
“They were pretty numerous.”
“Any references to those names I told you about that she’d written on the map?”
“Two.” Frank untied the tapes on the manila folder. “Phil and Bernard. Phil was the name of her last husband, Philip Lederman. He was killed in a sailing accident a few years ago. He was alone at the time, there was no suspicion of foul play.”
“And Bernard?”
“Bernard,” Frank said dryly, “was a Pekinese.”
“A dog?”
“Yes. She had him when she worked on the old United Artists lot. She carried him around everywhere she went, on the set, in restaurants, trains, etcetera. Here are the two references if you want to glance at them.”
Dalloway accepted the typewritten pages with a little frown of annoyance. The reference to Bernard was a straight quote from Rose:
“Bernard was the smartest little dog you ever saw. Honest to God, Frank, that dog could read my mind better than you can. Bernie could always tell when I didn’t like people; he’d snap at them. Once he bit the headwaiter at the Ambassador. God, it was funny. I had to pay three hundred dollars’ damages. I’ve never set foot in the Ambassador since. It was the principle of the thing — three hundred dollars for a lousy little dog bite...”
Dalloway looked up, still frowning. “This can’t be the right Bernard.”
“Perhaps not.”
“It’s only a dog, after all.”
“Try the Phil reference,” Frank said. “Page 89.”
Page 89 began with Frank’s own words.
“Patient arrived in a depressed mood, dressed carelessly, hair uncombed. Complained of a sleepless night. Face pallid, respiration uneven. I advised a physical check-up. Patient protested, claiming it was unnecessary, she couldn’t afford it, she distrusted doctors, and so on. She seemed afraid. After a time she admitted this.
“Patient: ‘I had the screaming meemies last night. I woke up around 4 A.M. and it was dark, pitch dark, and quiet. I had the feeling that I was alone, absolutely alone, that everybody else in the whole world had died and there was just me left in that awful quietness. And then gradually I realized it wasn’t so quiet, I could hear the sea. My window was open and I could hear the sea very faintly, that terrible incessant noise, I hate it. It reminds me of Phil. I told you about Phil, didn’t I?’
“I said that she had told me he was her third husband.
“Patient: ‘Phil went out in his sailboat one day and never came back. The sea got him. It’s going to get me if I let him.’
“Note: Patient shows no fear of water in general, only the sea, which she refers to when she is excited as a ‘him.’ The sea appears to be a God-symbol and a conscience-symbol.
“I asked her why she believed the sea would get her.
“Patient: ‘It got Phil. It got him to spite me.’
“I asked her to explain this.
“‘I bought him that sailboat for his birthday. Oh, I’m all mixed up, I can’t explain. I was crazy about Phil; he was always nice to me, never played me for a sucker like Hamman and I wasn’t afraid of him the way I was afraid of Dalloway.’”
Dalloway closed the report and put it on the nearest table with a decisive little slap. His face, which was normally ruddy, had taken on a purplish tinge around the cheekbones, as if blood vessels were breaking under the skin.