“Fine.”
“More than I did.” Her voice was so high and sharp that it seemed ready to break into hysteria, or snap with a death twang like a violin string. Every year it seemed to Lucille that Edith’s voice got higher, that the string was pulled more and more taut and played a thin sinister obbligato over the most ordinary remarks.
“What is all the shouting about?” Edith said. “If you want fresh toast, ring for Annie. I told her to have it ready. Sometimes I think Andrew likes to shout simply for the sake of shouting.”
Lucille sat down, smiling, and unfolded her napkin. “Perhaps.”
“I’ve seen him at the office simply oozing quiet charm, and when he gets home he howls, he does, he really howls.”
“He couldn’t find a scarf he wanted,” Lucille said.
She felt suddenly and absurdly happy. She wanted to laugh out loud, she felt the laughter forming in her throat and she had to force it down. She couldn’t explain to Edith or Polly that she wanted to laugh because this room was warm and bright, because it had begun to snow outside, because Andrew. couldn’t find something and had looked under the bed...
She looked at Edith and Polly and for a minute she loved them both utterly, because she was so pleased with herself and the beautiful quiet life she had built out of nothing. I love you, my dears, my dears. I can afford to love you because I have everything I want and neither of you can take anything away from me.
“Andrew never could find anything,” Edith said. “And the closer it is to him, of course, the more trouble he has finding it. I suppose it’s psychological.”
Polly stirred slightly. “What is?” she said. “No, don’t tell me...”
“Finding things,” Edith said. “I expect Freud would say that you find only the things you really want to find. Some people have the most wonderful gift for finding money. There’s a man in New York... Polly, it would be nice if you sat up straight.”
“What for?” Polly said.
“You look as if you have curvature of the spine all huddled up like that.”
“I’m not huddled, I’m relaxed.”
“The table is no place to relax.”
“O.K.,” Polly said without resentment, and uncoiled herself from the chair. For a minute she remained upright, and then she propped her elbows on the table and supported her head in her hands. Her long black hair swung silkily over her wrists.
“Honestly,” said Edith, in affectionate exasperation.
Lucille remained quiet. She no longer made any attempts to discipline her stepchildren, and even when she was especially annoyed with one of them she had enough self-control to refrain from comment. She had always tried to be fair to them and when they disagreed with their father she often forced herself to take their side against him. But in spite of her efforts they had remained aloof and careful.
Perhaps it’s because they were at a difficult age when I married Andrew, Lucille thought. Polly was only ten, and Martin twelve, and they were both so fond of Mildred.
Mildred, Lucille thought, and found that the laughter in her throat had evaporated like the bubbles in a stale drink.
“Though I never relax myself,” Edith said, sitting very upright, “I don’t mind others relaxing in the proper place. It depends on the personality whether you can or can’t.”
“Mildred,” Lucille said, “Mildred had a very relaxed personality.”
She hadn’t said the name aloud for years, she didn’t want to say it now, but she forced the words out. Her moment of complete happiness had gone, and it was as if the warm bright room had led her on and deceived her and she must cast a corpse into it for revenge.
“Yes, she had,” Edith said shortly. “Though I think you should have enough sense not to...”
“Yes, I know,” Lucille said in confusion, conscious of Polly’s hard steady stare. “I’m very sorry.”
“Today of all days,” Edith said.
“I’m sorry, Edith.”
“I’m glad you are. Today of all days we don’t want to be reminded of unpleasant things. We must make a good impression on Mr. Frome.”
“Lieutenant Frome,” Polly said. “And you needn’t bother about the impression. I made that weeks ago.”
“Still, we are your family, my dear.”
“He’s not marrying you.”
Edith blushed and said sharply, “I realize that he’s, not marrying me and that no one ever has, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Please!” Polly said, and got up and planted a quick kiss on her aunt’s cheek. “I didn’t mean that, silly. I meant I hate fusses, and so does Giles. I don’t want this to be a today-of-all-days. Giles’d curl up and die if he thought he was putting anyone out by coming here.”
“Then he’s too sensitive,” Edith said crossly.
“I know he is. That’s why I’m glad he’s got me. I’m not.” She put her arm around her aunt’s shoulders and whispered in her ear, “It’s lucky I’m not sensitive or how could I have stood all your crabbing?”
“Crabbing?” Edith’s mouth fell open. “Really, Polly! As if I’d ever stoop to crabbing!”
“You do crab,” Polly said, laughing. “And you make speeches.”
“Well, I never! The nerve of...”
“Confess it, confess it now or I’ll tickle you.”
“Oh! You sit down right this minute and behave yourself.” Edith smoothed her ruffled hair and feelings. “You and your jokes. You’re worse than Martin. As if I ever made speeches. Do I, Lucille?”
“Never,” Lucille said, with a smile.
“You see, Polly?”
But as soon as Lucille was brought into the conversation Polly’s mood changed. Her face became a blank, her eyes fixed themselves coldly on Lucille and Lucille read in them”: “See how nicely we get along without you? This is how you’ve been spoiling things for us all these years.”
“I don’t believe in mailing speeches.” Edith said. “I think the tongue is a much overrated organ.”
“Isn’t it,” Polly said absently, and strolled over to the window, her square shoulders outlined in the light.
Lucille glanced at her and was struck again by the difference between Polly and the rest of the family. There was something compact and uncompromising and stubborn about even the way she was built. She was rather short, and though slim, she gave the impression of sturdiness and durability. She did not expend her energy haphazardly and aimlessly like Martin and Edith. She moved with a kind of lazy competence and she did nearly everything well, and was at home anywhere.
Her features had the soft roundness of her mother’s, and she was, like her, fundamentally a tranquil person. But where Mildred’s tranquility had been deepened by happiness and security’, Polly’s had been warped and hardened by years of implacable hatred of her stepmother.
Perhaps with Martin alone I would have been successful, Lucille thought. He’s a man, and more pliant. But Polly... Polly seemed already grown-up a: ten. She distrusted me, as a grown woman distrusts another woman whose house she has to share.
Edith had finished her coffee and her long thin fingers chummed restlessly on the tablecloth. She had finished one thing, breakfast, therefore she must start another thing at once. Whether the activity was her own or someone else’s did not matter. She was constantly on the move and setting other people in motion.
“I wish Andrew would hurry.” she said. “I expect Martin to be late, of course. I think I’d better go up and see what’s keeping then.”
“Lots of time,’ Polly said. “Giles’ furlough doesn’t begin officially until noon and it won’t take us over an hour to drive out to the camp.”
“I understand,” Lucille said, rather shyly, “that officers have ‘leaves’ and enlisted men have ‘furloughs.’ ” Polly shrugged, and said, without turning around, “Oh, do you?”