“John,” she said, as a blare of music hit the room.
Johnny turned the knob and came back to the table. “Murillo,” he said. “That must be the one.”
“What one?” Philip asked, and then, “Oh. You didn’t tell Alice?”
“Tell me what?” Alice said.
Philip reached over and put his hand over hers. It was all she ever got from Philip, a pat on the hand, or a friendly arm around her shoulder. It was all she ever would get. She looked at him with dry cold eyes and said, “Why the affection? More bad news?”
He drew his hand away. “No. Good news, I suppose you’d call it. This man Murillo — Inspector Sands telephoned last night and said they had proof that Murillo killed — killed Kelsey.”
Her mouth opened in surprise. “Incredible!”
“Why incredible?” Johnny said.
She gestured with her fork. “I mean, how could a man, a man we’ve never even heard of, how could he change our whole lives like this? It’s fantastic.”
“Meaning it doesn’t fit in with your orderly philosophy,” Johnny said. “That can’t be helped. I wonder what this Crispcrunch tastes like. I don’t think I’m getting enough vitamins.” Though he spoke lightly, he was perfectly serious and Alice knew it.
She said coldly, “Don’t be moronic. What else did the Inspector say?”
“Just that,” Johnny said. “Maurice answered the phone. Phil and I were having a cigarette in my room and he saw the light under the door and came in and told us. What’s moronic about wanting more vitamins?”
“We have a whole cupboard full of vitamins,” Alice said, “that you’ve been persuaded to buy by radio announcers. Get rid of those first.”
Philip said wanly, “Let’s not have a fight about anything.”
“Who’s fighting?” Johnny said. “All I want is a balanced diet.”
Alice rang the little bell in front of her plate and Maurice came in with the coffee.
He set the coffee in front of Alice and gave her a small prissy smile and said, “Good morning.” Alice knew from the smile and the voice that Maurice had some kind of bad news and was determined to relay it. Usually the news was impersonaclass="underline" he had heard on the kitchen radio or read in the morning paper of a bad fire or an accident or a murder or a robbery. If there was nothing like this on hand he would quote verbatim from a fireside chat or mention the name of some Russian village where so many Nazis had been captured or killed. It was necessary to Maurice to bring tidings, to have all eyes turned up at him, Maurice, the kingly messenger: “Yes, miss, burned right to the ground, two children burned to death.” “Fifty thousand corpses strewn on the ground.”
“Well?” Alice said sharply.
Maurice said, “Inspector Sands has arrived.”
Philip said, “But I thought — didn’t he say he had proof that...?”
“Yes, sir. Nevertheless.”
“Does he want me?” Alice said.
“No, Miss Alice.” Maurice, kingly messenger, would not be hurried. He arranged his face and his voice carefully, while all eyes turned up at him. “He’s talking to Ida.”
“Ida?” Alice repeated.
“I thought you’d like to know, miss.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
Maurice went out again. He had had his moment.
“Be kind of funny to meet this Murillo on the street,” Johnny said. “Mind if I see if any other station is featuring him?”
“I do mind, yes,” Alice said.
“That’s too damn bad.”
He got up and turned the radio on again. Alice had given herself away, she had lost her mystery, and with it her power. She had no hold over these two men, Johnny fumbling with the radio, Philip eating his bacon politely and without appetite.
We’ve all changed, Alice thought, and this man, Murillo, whom we don’t know and never will know, has used the knife on us all. Kelsey is dead, and Philip is like a man who’s had a tumor removed and the pain is gone but the knife has left him weak. And Johnny — Johnny has simply had the years cut from him. He is the Johnny who came home for holidays and filled the house with noise and music and bulky sweaters and coon coats with human legs and heads which turned out to be other Johnnys.
And then one day he brought another young man who was not a Johnny and who had no coon coat, a serious, pale, hungry-looking young man whom Johnny had picked up in a movie, casually, the way he picked up girls or stray dogs and cats. The young man played the piano for his dinner while Johnny sat back beaming proudly at his discovery. Those were the days when Isobel still came down to dinner. When the young man had played Isobel said, “Good. Excellent,” in the firm way she had, though she knew nothing about music.
But it was good, perhaps even excellent. The young man was embarrassed and pleased and promised to come back. He didn’t come, though, for a long time. He tried everything in the meantime, then one evening he came to the door again. Johnny was out, so Alice and Kelsey and Mrs. Heath had him all to themselves. To Isobel he was everything that Johnny wasn’t, and to the two girls he was a new young man, not one of Johnny’s friends older than they and inclined to patronize the kid sisters. They sat on each side of him as he played and he couldn’t reach the keys properly. He was humiliated at his own failure and deeply embarrassed at the easy manners of the two girls who were used to Johnny’s friends. He wanted to go away and never come back, but the house was warm, the girls were friendly, and Mrs. Heath told him he had a remarkable talent. You could tell from Mrs. Heath’s face that she was rarely pleased with anything. You could also tell — he felt this even that second night — that she was planning something. Behind the graciousness of the smile her eyes were narrowed: “Would this work out? Would it be to any advantage? Would this boy influence Johnny or Johnny influence him?”
She asked him to stay.
“Criminal to waste such a talent... It would mean nothing to us financially, you understand... Lessons and set hours of practice... A friend for John too — John is so irresponsible...”
He didn’t want to stay. He had never wanted to. It wasn’t his life and the people who came to the house weren’t his people, and the drawing room was never really his to use. He had always to apologize for practising. Isobel hadn’t realized that you practiced scales and arpeggios and Pischna. She thought you practiced on Debussy and Bach and Mozart, simply by playing them over and over.
He stayed away a year the first time. But the movies weren’t using pianists any longer and he missed tea at four and clean bathrooms and good linen and servants.
When he came back he used his small store of money to rent a room to practice in. His life began to improve. He gave a concert in a church, he fell in love with Kelsey, he gave another concert in a larger church. He was away from the house a great deal and could appreciate it when he got back.
He had even done what Isobel had wanted him to do, influenced Johnny. Johnny had a job and he didn’t drink so much because Philip didn’t drink at all. There remained the question of Johnny’s women, but Isobel didn’t know such a question existed. She was pleased with herself, as patroness of the arts and guider of destinies, and gratified at the engagement between Kelsey and Philip.
She had arranged everything. In spite of the pain that twisted and writhed inside her like a snake, she had had enough control to arrange everything before she retired to her room. She never came down again. She died hard, fighting her pain, fighting even the morphine that numbed the pain. She was too tired to feel the full force of Kelsey’s accident and her blindness. She only realized vaguely that Kelsey was now a cripple and that cripples must have power as she, Isobel, had power.
To clear her mind she went without morphine for a day and the next afternoon her lawyer came. She made a new will.