In the rainbow coma at the edge of Mary's swimming vision the heads of the mourning friends of Alice Herpitude were distributed in rows like round balls strung on a string, shimmering like decorations from a Christmas tree, glistening with bright glorious lights.
The ceremony at the graveside was over. She stumbled over the dry grass, turning away with the others. She shook her head at Gwen and Tom, and straggled off by herself. But there was someone standing beside her car. It was Homer Kelly. He motioned at the car door. 'Get in,' he said.
He was saying goodbye, too. He would be assisting the County Prosecutor and the District Attorney in the preparation of the case against Charley Goss, working out of the County Court House in East Cambridge, living in his own rooms off Brattle Street. Then, he said, maybe he could get back to his book on Henry Thoreau. Homer stirred uneasily behind the wheel and glanced sideways at Mary. 'Concord is too rich for my blood, anyway,' he said. 'I can't seem to think sensibly about Thoreau or Emerson or any of the rest of them unless I'm far away from here, in Kalamazoo or somewhere.'
'You mean you've lost your critical viewpoint? You surely weren't getting fond of them?'
'What do you mean, fond? I don't believe in being fond of the subject of a biography. You lose your objectivity. You've got to be strictly impersonal, strictly impersonal. And all the stuff I've written while I've been here seems to have lost something I used to have. I don't know...'
'That cutting edge, perhaps?'
Homer frowned and was silent. He drove out Barrett's Mill Road to her house and slowed down. Then he speeded up again. 'Come on. Let's go rent a canoe at the South Bridge Boat House.' Mary wondered dully where Rowena was, but she tried to cooperate. Jump, Mary—jump just a little longer. 'Shall we have another fight?' she said.
Homer smiled at her. There was a funny expression on his craggy face. 'You know I like to fight with you.'
It was a heavy, humid day. Over the river the trees piled up like thunderheads. The duckweed lay in a light green scum along the shore. There were tall spikes of cardinal flower and loosestrife along the edges of the water. They drifted silently. Mary leaned her head back and folded her arms, trying to let her mind go blank. Just listen to the birds, don't think about anything. She turned her head and looked in the pickerel weed for the two that were singing, splitting hairs.
Homer looked at her and started to speak. Then he stopped, cleared his throat and started again. 'Charley Goss means a lot to you, doesn't he?'
'Charley? Of course he does.'
'I mean—what I means is, how much?'
'Well, he's a friend of mine in a whole lot of trouble, that's how much.'
Homer digested this, and seemed satisfied. 'What about this Ghoolsworthy fellow? How long have you known him?'
'Just since this spring.'
There was a pause. 'He seems to think a lot of you,' said Homer, looking carefully along his paddle blade. He dipped it clumsily in the water and pulled hard.
'Oh, that's just me,' said Mary. 'I always seem to attract the goofy, adam's-appley ones.'
There was another pause. 'I guess they think you're nice,' said Homer. His voice was thick.
'Well, I'm not,' said Mary. 'Not to them. After a while I start snapping at them and saying waspish things. But they just droop their tongues out and look pathetic and hangdog around again. He left today, thank heavens, to go back home.'
There was another silence. Then Homer changed the subject. He looked around happily. 'Look at that muskrat going along over there,' he said. 'Look at all those ducks!'
By the time they got back to Mary's house it was dark. At the door Homer pulled her back and started talking huskily, quoting Emerson. 'Mary, Mary,' he said, 'a link was wanting between two craving parts of Nature. Oh, Mary, come on. Aw, Mary...'
Mary had been kissed before, but mostly by men shorter than she was. It made her feel maternal. (Run along to bed now, there's a good boy.) Being kissed by Charley or Philip was a nose-to-nose affair, like confronted elephants whose long proboscises were always in the way. But this, now, this was different—Mary struggled against it, then gave in, dissolving altogether. Then she struggled again and broke away. The crazy dope was engaged to Rowena Goss. 'Oh, go on home,' said Mary unsteadily. She pulled at the knob of the screen door. It stuck and she had to kick at it. It wobbled open, and Mary went inside and slammed it, and spoke through the bulge of the screen. 'You give me a great big enormous pain in the
Homer stood in the dusk, his white shirt heaving up and down. His necktie was the one that glowed in the dark. 'You're like the rest of them,' he said bitterly. 'Like your precious Emily Dickinson and Ralph Waldo Witherspoon and all the rest. Cold as ice. Well, go ahead. Wear a white dress, why don't you, and hide in your room and write poetry. Go ahead. It doesn't make any difference to me. I'm going to find me a girl with some blood in her veins.' He turned on his heel and started walking down the road, breathing hard, his white shirt bobbing up and down. Mary went upstairs, lay down on her bed and cried hard. Then she suddenly remembered that they had come home in her car. 'Oh, damn,' she said. She got up and went downstairs and out of doors, climbed into her car and drove after him. She leaned over and opened the door on his side. 'Here,' she said.
He looked at her stiffly, then climbed in. 'Holy smoke, turn on your lights,' he said. Mary said nothing, struggling to control herself. When she drew up beside his car, he got out. 'Thanks,' he said.
'It's quite all right. Good night,' said Mary. She sobbed all the way home.
*51*
Next day Homer was gone. Charley Goss was held in custody for the preliminary hearing in the Concord District Court. The judge found probable cause to bind him over for the Grand Jury, and he was moved to the jail in Charlestown. Mary forced herself to go and see him. Charley was calm, resolutely cheerful. He had been assigned a lawyer. He felt himself the victim of large forces. 'I've always been unlucky, that's all. Some people are born lucky, some aren't.'
'But, Charley, you might as well believe in original sin.'
'Like Jonathan Edwards? Newborn babies hanging over the fiery pit? Well, maybe some of us are.'
He didn't particularly want to talk about his plight. So Mary went back and forth now and then, and passed the time of day. Edith came, too, but her visits irritated her brother, her tongue was so loose and foolish. Rowena stayed home. She was struggling to maintain the dignity and glamor of her position as one of Boston's most ravishing young engaged debutantes. It was difficult, but if anyone could do it with her brother in jail for murdering her father, Rowena could. Mary had discovered with mixed feelings that Rowena's fiance was not Homer Kelly but Peter Coopering, scion of another of Concord's ancient families, an attractive fellow who could be trusted to keep a well-balanced portfolio, play a good game of tennis and wear sensible, conservative ties. Thinking it over, Mary decided that Homer's love-making the other night had been just the result of his being on the rebound from Rowena. She was wrong, but her whole thinking apparatus was upset and running in strange grooves. She was a little bit crazy that fall, there was no getting away from it.
Gwen worried about her. 'She was out in the orchard last night, wandering around in her pajamas with her bathrobe on inside out and her hair every-which-way, singing.'
'Singing?' said Tom.
'Yes, that Mozart thing they sang at Alice's funeral.'
'Look,' said Tom, 'I can only worry about one of the Morgan girls at a time, and you're the one I've got my eye on. How do you feel, honey?'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be ridiculous. I'm fine. But I don't want my lovely Mary to go getting spinsterish
