The Jewels of the Cabots

Funeral services for the murdered man were held in the Unitarian church in the little village of St. Botolphs. The architecture of the church was Bulfinch with columns and one of those ethereal spires that must have dominated the landscape a century ago. The service was a random collection of Biblical quotations closing with a verse. "Amos Cabot, rest in peace/Now your mortal trials have ceased...." The church was full. Mr. Cabot had been an outstanding member of the community. He had once run for governor. For a month or so, during his campaign, one saw his picture on barns, walls, buildings and telephone poles. I don't suppose the sense of walking through a shifting mirror--he found himself at every turn--unsettled him as it would have unsettled me. Once, for example, when I was in an elevator in Paris, I noticed a woman carrying a book of mine. There was a photograph on the jacket and one image of me looked over her arm at another. I wanted the picture, wanted, I suppose, to destroy it. That she should walk away with my face under her arm seemed to threaten my self-esteem. She left the elevator at the fourth floor and the parting of these two images was confusing. I wanted to follow her, but how could I explain in French--or in any other language--what I felt? Amos Cabot was not at all like this. He seemed to enjoy seeing himself and when he lost the election and his face vanished (except for a few barns in the back country, where it peeled for a month or so), he seemed not perturbed.

There are, of course, the wrong Lowells, the wrong Hallowells, the wrong Eliots, Cheevers, Codmans and Englishes, but today we will deal with the wrong Cabots. Amos came from the South Shore and may never have heard of the North Shore branch of the family. His father had been an auctioneer, which meant in those days an entertainer, horse trader and sometime crook. Amos owned real estate, the hardware store, the public utilities and was a director of the bank. He had an office in the Cartwright Block, opposite the green. His wife came from Connecticut, which was, for us at that time, a distant wilderness on whose eastern borders stood the city of New York. New York was populated by harried, nervous, avaricious foreigners who lacked the character to bathe in cold water at six in the morning and to live, with composure, lives of grueling boredom. Mrs. Cabot, when I knew her, was probably in her early 40s. She was a short woman with the bright-red face of an alcoholic, although she was a vigorous temperance worker. Her hair was as white as snow. Her back and her front were prominent and there was a memorable curve to her spine that could have been caused by a cruel corset or the beginning of lordosis. No one quite knew why Mr. Cabot had married this eccentric from faraway Connecticut--it was, after all, no one's business--but she did own most of the frame tenements on the East Bank of the river, where the workers in the table-silver factory lived. Her tenements were profitable, but it would have been an unwarranted simplification to conclude that he had married for real estate. She collected the rents herself. I expect that she did her own housework and she dressed simply, but she wore on her right hand seven large diamond rings. She had evidently read somewhere that diamonds were a sound investment and the blazing stones were about as glamorous as a passbook. There were round diamonds, square diamonds, rectangular diamonds and some of those diamonds that are set in prongs. On Thursday afternoon, she would wash her diamonds in some jeweler's solution and hang them out to dry in the clothes-yard. She never explained this, but the incidence of eccentricity in the village ran so high that her conduct was not thought unusual.

Mrs. Cabot spoke once or twice a year at the St. Botolphs Academy, where many of us went to school. She had three subjects: "My Trip to Alaska" (slides), "The Evils of Drink" and "The Evils of Tobacco." Drink was for her so unthinkable a vice that she could not attack it with much vehemence, but the thought of tobacco made her choleric. Could one imagine Christ on the cross, smoking a cigarette? she would ask us. Could one imagine the Virgin Mary smoking? A drop of nicotine fed to a pig by trained laboratory technicians had killed the beast. Etc. She made smoking irresistible and if I die of lung cancer, I shall blame Mrs. Cabot. These performances took place in what we called the Great Study Hall. This was a large room on the second floor that could hold us all. The academy had been built in the 1850s and had the lofty, spacious and beautiful windows of that period in American architecture. In the spring and in the autumn, the building seemed gracefully suspended in its grounds, but in the winter, a glacial cold fell off the large window lights. In the Great Study Hall, we were allowed to wear coats, hats and gloves. This situation was heightened by the fact that my great-aunt Anna had bought in Athens a large collection of plaster casts, so that we shivered and memorized the donative verbs in the company of at least a dozen buck-naked gods and goddesses. So it was to Hermes and Venus as well as to us that Mrs. Cabot railed against the poisons of tobacco. She was a woman of vehement and ugly prejudice and I suppose she would have been happy to include the blacks and the Jews, but there was only one black and one Jewish family in the village and they were exemplary. The possibility of intolerance in the village did not occur to me until much later, when my mother came to our house in Westchester for Thanksgiving.

This was some years ago, when the New England highways had not been completed and the trip from New York or Westchester took over four hours. I left quite early in the morning and drove first to Haverhill, where I stopped at Miss Peacock's School and picked up my niece. I then went on to St. Botolphs, where I found Mother sitting in the hallway in an acolyte's chair. The chair had a steepled back, topped with a wooden fleur-de-lis. From what rain-damp church had this object been stolen? She wore a coat and her bag was at her feet.

"I'm ready," she said. She must have been ready for a week. She seemed terribly lonely. "Would you like a drink?" she asked. I knew enough not to take this bait. Had I said yes, she would have gone into the pantry and returned, smiling sadly, to say: "Your brother has drunk all the whiskey." So we started back for Westchester. It was a cold, overcast day and I found the drive tiring, although I think fatigue had nothing to do with what followed. I left my niece at my brother's house in Connecticut and drove on to my place. It was after dark when the trip ended. My wife had made all the preparations that were customary for my mother's arrival. There was an open fire, a vase of roses on the piano and tea with anchovy-paste sandwiches. "How lovely to have flowers," said Mother. "I so love flowers. I can't live without them. Should I suffer some financial reverses and have to choose between flowers and groceries, I believe I would choose flowers...."

I do not want to give the impression of an elegant old lady, because there were lapses in her performance. I bring up, with powerful unwillingness, a fact that was told to me by her sister after Mother's death. It seems that at one time, she applied for a position with the Boston police force. She had plenty of money at the time and I have no idea why she did this. I suppose that she wanted to be a policewoman. I don't know what branch of the force she planned to join, but I've always imagined her in a dark-blue uniform with a ring of keys at her waist and a billy club in her right hand. My grandmother dissuaded her from this course, but the image of a policewoman was some part of the figure she cut, sipping tea by our fire. She meant this evening to be what she called aristocratic. In this connection, she often said: "There must be at least a drop of plebeian blood in the family. How else can one account for your taste in torn and shabby clothing? You've always had plenty of clothes, but you've always chosen rags."

I mixed a drink and said how much I had enjoyed seeing my niece.

"Miss Peacock's has changed," Mother said sadly.

"I didn't know," I said. "What do you mean?"

"They've let down the bars."

"I don't understand."

"They're letting in Jews," she said. She fired out the last word.

"Can we change the subject?" I asked.

"I don't see why," she said. "You brought it up."

"My wife is Jewish, Mother," I said. My wife was in the kitchen.

"That is not possible," my mother said. "Her father is Italian."

"Her father," I said, "is a Polish Jew."

"Well," Mother said, "I come from old Massachusetts stock and I'm not ashamed of it, although I don't like being called a Yankee."

"There's a difference."

"Your father said that the only good Jew was a dead Jew, although I did think Justice Brandeis charming."

"I think it's going to rain," I said. It was one of our staple conversational switch-offs used to express anger, hunger, love and the fear of death.

My wife joined us and Mother picked up the routine. "It's nearly cold enough for snow," she said. "When you were a boy, you used to pray for snow or ice. It depended upon whether you wanted to skate or ski. You were very particular. You would kneel by your bed and loudly ask God to manipulate the elements. You never prayed for anything else. I never once heard you ask for a blessing on your parents. In the summer you didn't pray at all."

• • •

The Cabots had two daughters--Geneva and Molly. Geneva was the older and thought to be the more beautiful. Molly was my girl for a year or so. She was a lovely young woman with a sleepy look that was quickly dispelled by a brilliant smile. Her hair was pale-brown and held the light. When she was tired or excited, sweat formed on her upper lip. In the evenings, I would walk to their house and sit with her in the parlor under the most intense surveillance. Mrs. Cabot, of course, regarded sex with utter panic. She watched us from the dining room. From upstairs there were loud and regular thumping sounds. This was Amos Cabot's rowing machine. We were sometimes allowed to take walks together if we kept to the main streets and when I was old enough to drive, I took her to the dances at the club. I was intensely--morbidly--jealous and when she seemed to be enjoying herself with someone else, I would stand in the corner, thinking of suicide. I remember driving her back one night to the house on Shore Road.

At the turn of the century, someone decided that St. Botolphs might have a future as a resort and five mansions complete with follies were built at the end of Shore Road. The Cabots lived in one of these. All the mansions had towers. These were round with conical roofs, rising a story or so above the rest of the frame buildings. The towers were strikingly unmilitary and so I suppose they were meant to express romance. What did they contain? Dens, I guess, maids' rooms, broken furniture, trunks, and they must have been the favorite of hornets. I parked my car in front of the Cabots' and turned off the lights. The house above us was dark.

It was long ago, so long ago that the foliage of elm trees was part of the summer night. (It was so long ago that when you wanted to make a left turn, you cranked down the car window and pointedin that direction. Otherwise, you were not allowed to point. Don't point, you were told. I can't imagine why, unless the gesture was thought to be erotic.) The dances--the assemblies--were formal and I would be wearing a tuxedo handed down from my father to my brother and from my brother to me, like some escutcheon or sumptuary torch. I took Molly in my arms. She was completely responsive. I am not a tall man (I am sometimes inclined to stoop), but the conviction that I am loved and loving affects me like a military bracing. Up goes my head. My back is straight. I am six foot, seven, and sustained by some clamorous emotional uproar. Sometimes my ears ring. It can happen anywhere--in a Keisang house in Seoul, for example--but it happened that night in front of the Cabots' house on Shore Road. Molly said then that she had to go. Her mother would be watching from a window. She asked me not to (continued on page 227)Jewels of the Cabots(continued from page 98) come up to the house. I mustn't have heard. I went with her up die walk and the stairs to the porch, where she tried the door and found it locked. She asked me again to go, but I couldn't abandon her there, could I? Then a light went on and the door was opened by a dwarf. He was exhaustively misshapen. The head was hydrocephalic, the features were swollen, the legs were thick and cruelly bowed. I thought of the circus. The lovely young woman began to cry. She stepped into the house and closed the door and I was left with the summer night, the elms, the taste of an east wind. After this, she avoided me for a week or so and I was told the facts by Maggie, our old cook.

But other facts first. It was in the summer and in the summer, most of us went to a camp on the cape run by the headmaster of the St. Botolphs Academy. The months were so feckless, so blue, that I can't remember them at all. I slept next to a boy named DeVarennes, whom I had known all my life. We were together most of the time. We played marbles together, slept together, played together on the same backfield and once together took a ten-day canoe trip during which we nearly drowned together. My brother claimed that we had begun to look alike. It was the most gratifying and unself-conscious relationship I had known. (He still calls me once or twice a year from San Francisco, where he lives unhappily with his wife and three unmarried daughters. He sounds drunk. "We were happy, weren't we?" he asks.) One day another boy, a stranger named Wallace, asked if I wanted to swim across the lake. I might claim that I knew nothing about Wallace, and I knew very little, but I did know or sense that he was lonely. It was as conspicuous, more conspicuous than any of his features. He did what was expected of him. He played ball, made his bed, took sailing lessons and got his lifesaving certificate, but this seemed more like a careful imposture than any sort of participation. He was miserable, he was lonely and sooner or later, rain or shine, he would say so and, in the act of confession, make an impossible claim on one's loyalty. One knew all this, but one pretended not to. We got permission from the swimming instructor and swam across the lake. We used a clumsy side stroke that still seems to me more serviceable than the overhand that is obligatory these days in those swimming pools where I spend most of my time. The side stroke is lower class. I've seen it once in a swimming pool and when I asked who the swimmer was, I was told he was the butler. When the ship sinks, when the plane ditches, I will try to reach the life raft with an overhand and drown stylishly, whereas if I had used a lower-class side stroke, I would live forever.

We swam the lake, resting in the sun--no confidences--and swam home. When I went up to our cabin, DeVarennes took me aside. "Don't ever let me see you with Wallace again," he said. I asked why. He told me. "Wallace is Amos Cabot's bastard. His mother is a whore. They live in one of the tenements across the river."

The next day was hot and brilliant and Wallace asked if I wanted to swim the lake again. I said sure, sure, and we did. When we went back to camp, DeVarennes wouldn't speak to me. That night a northeaster blew up and it rained for three days. DeVarennes seems to have forgiven me and I don't recall having crossed the lake with Wallace again. As for the dwarf, Maggie told me he was a son of Mrs. Cabot's from an earlier marriage. He worked at the table-silver factory, but he went to work early in the morning and didn't return until after dark. His existence was meant to be kept a secret. This was unusual but not--at the time of which I'm writing--unprecedented. The Trumbulls kept Mrs. Trumbull's crazy sister hidden in the attic and Uncle Peepee Marshmallow--an exhibitionist--was often hidden for months.

• • •

It was a winter afternoon, an early winter afternoon. Mrs. Cabot washed her diamonds and hung them out to dry. She then went upstairs to take a nap. She claimed that she had never taken a nap in her life and the sounder she slept, the more vehement were her claims that she didn't sleep. This was not so much an eccentricity on her part as it was a crabwise way of presenting the facts that was prevalent in that part of the world. She woke at four and went down to gather her stones. They were gone. She called Geneva, but there was no answer. She got a rake and scored the stubble under the clothesline. There was nothing. She called the police.

As I say, it was a winter afternoon and the winters there were very cold. We counted for heat--sometimes for survival--on wood fires and large coal-burning furnaces that sometimes got out of hand. A winter night was a threatening fact and this may have partly accounted for the sentiment with which we watched--in late November and December--the light burn out in the west. (My father's journals, for example, were full of descriptions of winter twilights, not because he was at all crepuscular but because the coming of the night might mean danger and pain.) Geneva had packed a bag, gathered the diamonds and taken the last train out of town--the 4:37. How thrilling it must have been. The diamonds were meant to be stolen. They were a flagrant snare and she did what she was meant to do. She took the train to New York that night and sailed three days later for Alexandria on a Cunarder--the S. S. Serapis. She took a boat from Alexandria to Luxor, where, in the space of two months, she joined the Moslem faith and married the khedive.

I read about the theft the next day in the evening paper. I delivered papers. I had begun my route on foot, moved on to a bicycle and was assigned, when I was 16, to an old Ford truck. I was a truck driver! I hung around the linotype room until the papers were printed and then drove around to the four neighboring villages, tossing out bundles at the doors of the candy and stationery stores. During the world series, a second edition with box scores was brought out and after dark, I would make the trip again to Travertine and the other places along the shore.

The roads were dark, there was very little traffic and leaf burning had not been forbidden, so that the air was tannic, melancholy and exciting. One can attach a mysterious and inordinate amount of importance to some simple journey and this second trip with the box scores made me very happy. I dreaded the end of the world series as one dreads the end of any pleasure and had I been younger, I would have prayed. "Cabot Jewels Stolen" was the headline and the incident was never again mentioned in the paper. It was not mentioned at all in our house, but this was not unusual. When Mr. Abbott hanged himself from the pear tree next door, this was never mentioned.

Molly and I took a walk on the bench at Travertine that Sunday afternoon. I was troubled, but Molly's troubles were much graver. It did not disturb her that Geneva had stolen the diamonds. She only wanted to know what had become of her sister and she was not to find out for another six weeks. However, something had happened at the house two nights before. There had been a scene between her parents and her father had left. She described this to me. We were walking barefoot. She was crying. I would like to have forgotten the scene as soon as she finished her description.

• • •

Children drown, beautiful women are mangled in automobile accidents, cruise ships founder and men die lingering deaths in mines and submarines, but you will find none of this in my accounts. In the last chapter, the ship comes home to port, the children are saved, the miners will be rescued. Is this an infirmity of the genteel or a conviction that there are discernible moral truths? Mr. X defecated in his wife's top drawer. This is a fact, but I claim that it is not a truth. In describing St. Botolphs, I would sooner stay on the West Bank of the river, where the houses were white and where the church bells rang, but over the bridge there was the table-silver factory, the tenements (owned by Mrs. Cabot) and the Commercial Hotel. At low tide, one could smell the sea gas from the inlets at Travertine. The headlines in the afternoon paper dealt with a trunk murder. The women on the streets were ugly. Even the dummies in the one store window seemed stooped, depressed and dressed in clothing that neither fitted nor became them. Even the bride in her splendor seemed to have gotten some bad news. The politics were neofascist, the factory was nonunion, the food was unpalatable and the night wind was bitter. This was a provincial and a traditional world enjoying few of the rewards of smallness and traditionalism, and when I speak of the blessedness of all small places, I speak of the West Bank. On the East Bank was the Commercial Hotel, the demesne of Doris, a male prostitute who worked as a supervisor in the factory during the day and hustled the bar at night, exploiting the extraordinary moral lassitude of the place. Everybody knew Doris and many of the customers had used him at one time or another. There was no scandal and no delight involved. Doris would charge a traveling salesman whatever he could get, but he did it with the regulars for nothing. This seemed less like tolerance than like hapless indifference, the absence of vision, moral stamina, the splendid ambitiousness of romantic love. On fight night, Doris drifts down the bar. Buy him a drink and he'll put his hand on your arm, your shoulder, your waist, and move a fraction of an inch in his direction and he'll reach for the cake. The steam fitter buys him a drink, the high school dropout, the watch repairman. (Once a stranger shouted to the bartender: "Tell that son of a bitch to take his tongue out of my ear"--but he was a stranger.) This is not a transient world, these are not drifters; more than half of these men will never live in any other place, and yet this seems to be the essence of spiritual nomadism. The telephone rings and the bartender beckons to Doris. There's a customer in room eight. Why would I sooner be on the West Bank, where my parents are playing bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Eliot Pinkham in the golden light of a great gas chandelier?

I'll blame it on the roast, the roast, the Sunday roast bought from a butcher who wore a straw boater with a pheasant wing in the hatband. I suppose the roast entered our house, wrapped in bloody paper, on Thursday or Friday, traveling on the back of a bicycle. It would be a gross exaggeration to say that the meat had the detonative force of a land mine that could savage your eyes and your genitals, but its powers were disproportionate. We sat down to dinner after church. (My brother was living in Omaha at that time, so we were only three.) My father would hone the carving knife and make a cut in the meat. My father was very adroit with an ax and a crosscut saw and could bring down a large tree with dispatch, but the Sunday roast was something else. After he had made the first cut, my mother would sigh. This was an extraordinary performance, so loud, so profound that it seemed as if her life were in danger. It seemed as if her very soul might come unhinged and drift out of her open mouth. "Will you never learn, Leander, that lamb must be carved against the grain?" she would ask. Once the battle of the roast had begun, the exchanges were so swift, predictable and tedious that there would be no point in reporting them.

After five or six wounding remarks, my father would wave the carving knife in the air and shout: "Will you kindly mind your own business, will you kindly shut up?"

She would sigh once more and put her hand to her heart. Surely this was her last breath. Then, studying the air above the table, she would say: "Feel that refreshing breeze."

There was, of course, seldom a breeze. It could be airless, midwinter, rainy, anything. The remark was one for all seasons. Was it a commendable metaphor for hope, for the serenity of love (which I think she had never experienced)? Was it nostalgia for some summer evening when, loving and understanding, we sat contentedly on the lawn above the river? Was it no better or no worse than the sort of smile thrown at the evening star by a man who is in utter despair? Was it a prophecy of that generation to come who would be so drilled in evasiveness that they would be denied forever the splendors of a passionate confrontation?

The scene changes to Rome. It is spring, when the canny swallows flock into the city to avoid the wing shots in Ostia. The noise the birds make seems like light as the lights of day loses its brilliance. Then one hears, across the courtyard, the voice of an American woman. She is screaming. "You're a goddamned, fucked-up no-good insane piece of shit. You can't make a nickel, you don't have a friend in the world and in bed you stink...." There is no reply and one wonders if she is railing at the dark. Then you hear a man cough. That's all you will hear from him. "Oh, I know I've lived with you for eight years, but if you ever thought I liked it, any of it, it's only because you're such a chump you wouldn't know the real thing if you had it. When I really come, the pictures falloff the walls. With you it's always an act...." The high-low bells that ring in Rome at that time of day have begun to chime. I smile at this sound, although it has no bearing on my life, my faith, no true harmony, nothing like the revelations in the voice across the court. Why would I sooner describe church bells and flocks of swallows? Is this puerile, a sort of greeting-card mentality, a whimsical and effeminate refusal to look at facts? On and on she goes, but I will follow her no longer. She attacks his hair, his brain and his spirit, while I observe that a light rain has begun to fall and that the effect of this is to louden the noise of traffic on the corso.Now she is hysterical--her voice is breaking--and I think that at the height of her malediction, perhaps, she will begin to cry and ask his forgiveness. She will not, of course. She will go after him with a carving knife and he will end up in the emergency ward of the polyclinico,claiming to have wounded himself; but as I go out for dinner, smiling at beggars, fountains, children and the first stars of evening, I assure myself that everything will work out for the best. Feel that refreshing breeze!

My recollections of the Cabots are only a footnote to my principal work and I go to work early these winter mornings. It is still dark. Here and there, standing on street corners, waiting for buses, are women dressed in white. They wear white shoes and white stockings and white uniforms can be seen below their winter coats. Are they nurses, beauty-parlor operators, dentists' helpers? I'll never know. They usually carry a brown paper bag, holding, I guess, a ham on rye and a Thermos of buttermilk. Traffic is light at this time of day. A laundry truck delivers uniforms to the Fried Chicken Shack and in Asburn Place there is a milk truck--the last of that generation. It will be half an hour before the yellow school buses start their rounds.

I work in an apartment house called the Prestwick. It is seven stories high and dates, I guess, from the late Twenties. It is of a Tudor persuasion. The bricks are irregular, there is a parapet on the roof and the sign, advertising vacancies, is literally a shingle that hangs from iron chains and creaks romantically in the wind. On the right of the door, there is a list of perhaps 25 doctors' names, but these are not gentle healers with stethoscopes and rubber hammers, these are psychiatrists and this is the country of the plastic chair and the full ashtray. I don't know why they should have chosen this place, but they outnumber the other tenants. Now and then you see, waiting for the elevator, a woman with a grocery wagon and a child, but you mostly see the sometimes harried faces of men and women with trouble. They sometimes smile; they sometimes talk to themselves. Business seems slow these days and the doctor whose office is next to mine often stands in the hallway, staring out the window. What does a psychiatrist think? Does he wonder what has become of those patients who gave up, who refused group therapy, who disregarded his warnings and admonitions? He will know their secrets. I tried to murder my husband. I tried to murder my wife. Three years ago, I took an overdose of sleeping pills. The year before that, I cut my wrists. My mother wanted me to be a girl. My mother wanted me to be a boy. My mother wanted me to be a homosexual. Where had they gone, what were they doing? Were they still married, quarreling at the dinner table, decorating the Christmas tree? Had they divorced, remarried, jumped off bridges, taken Seconal, struck some kind of truce, turned homosexual or moved to a farm in Vermont where they planned to raise strawberries and lead a simple life? The doctor sometimes stands by the window for an hour.

My real work these days is to write an edition of The New York Timesthat will bring gladness to the hearts of men. How better could I occupy myself? The Timesis a critical if rusty link in my ties to reality, but in these last years, its tidings have been monotonous. The prophets of doom are out of work. All one can do is to pick up the pieces. The lead story is this: "President's Heart Transplant Deemed Successful." There is this box on the lower left: "Cost of J. Edgar Hoover Memorial Challenged. The subcommittee on memorials threatened today to halve the $7,000,000 appropriated to commemorate the late J. Edgar Hoover with a Temple of Justice...." Column three: "Controversial Legislation Repealed by Senate. The recently enacted bill, making it a felony to have wicked thoughts about the Administration, was repealed this afternoon by a stand-up vote of 43 to 7." On and on it goes. There are robust and heartening editorials, thrilling sports news and the weather, of course, is always sunny and warm, unless we need rain. Then we have rain. The air-pollutant gradient is zero and even in Tokyo, fewer and fewer people are wearing surgical masks. All highways, throughways, freeways and expressways will be closed for the holiday weekend. Joy to the world!

• • •

But to get back to the Cabots. The scene that I would like to overlook or forget took place the night after Geneva had stolen the diamonds. It involves plumbing. Most of the houses in the village had relatively little plumbing. There was usually a water closet in the basement for the cook and the ashman and a single bathroom on the second floor for the rest of the household. Some of these rooms were quite large and the Endicotts had a fireplace in their bathroom. Somewhere along the line, Mrs. Cabot decided that the bathroom was her demesne. She had a locksmith come and secure the door. Mr. Cabot was allowed to take his sponge bath every morning, but after this, the bathroom door was locked and Mrs. Cabot kept the key in her pocket. Mr. Cabot was obliged to use a chamber pot, but since he came from the South Shore, I don't suppose this was much of a hardship. It may even have been nostalgic. He was using the chamber pot late that night when Mrs. Cabot went to the door of his room. (They slept in separate rooms.) "Will you close the door?" she screamed. "Will you close the door? Do I have to listen to that horrible noise for the rest of my life?" They would both be in nightgowns, her snow-white hair in braids. She picked up the chamber pot and threw its contents at him. He kicked down the door of the locked bathroom, washed, dressed, packed a bag and walked over the bridge to Mrs. Wallace's place on the East Bank.

He stayed there for three days and then returned. He was worried about Molly and in such a small place, there were appearances to be considered--Mrs. Wallace's as well as his own. He divided his time between the East and the West banks of the river until a week or so later, when he was taken ill. He felt languid. He stayed in bed until noon. When he dressed and went to his office, he returned after an hour or so. The doctor examined him and found nothing wrong.

One evening Mrs. Wallace saw Mrs. Cabot coming out of the drugstore on the East Bank. She watched her rival cross the bridge and then went into the drugstore and asked the clerk if Mrs. Cabot was a regular customer. "I've been wondering about that myself," the clerk said. "Of course, she comes over here to collect her rents, but I always thought she used the other drugstore. She comes in here to buy ant poison--arsenic, that is. She says they have these terrible ants in the house on Shore Road and arsenic is the only way of getting rid of them. From the way she buys arsenic, the ants must be terrible." Mrs. Wallace might have warned Mr. Cabot, but she never saw him again.

She went after the funeral to Judge Simmons and said that she wanted to charge Mrs. Cabot with murder. The drug clerk would have a record of her purchase of arsenic that would be incriminating. "He may have it," the judge said, "but he won't give it to you. What you are asking for is an exhumation of the body and a long trial in Barnstable and you have neither the money nor the reputation to support this. You were his friend, I know, for sixteen years. He was a splendid man and why don't you console yourself with the thought of how many years it was that you knew him? And another thing. He's left you and Wallace a substantial legacy. If Mrs. Cabot were provoked to contest the will, you could lose this."

• • •

I went out to Luxor to see Geneva. I flew to London in a 747. There were only three passengers; but, as I say, the prophets of doom are out of work. I went from Cairo up the Nile in a low-flying two-motor prop. The sameness of wind erosion and water erosion makes the Sahara there seem to have been gutted by floods, rivers, courses, streams and brooks, the thrust of a natural search. The scorings are watery and arboreal and as a false stream bed spreads out, it takes the shape of a tree, striving for light. It was freezing in Cairo when we left before dawn. Luxor, where Geneva met me at the airport, was hot.

I was very happy to see her, so happy I was unobservant, but I did notice that she had gotten fat. I don't mean that she was heavy; I mean that she weighed about 300 pounds. She was a fat woman. Her hair, once a coarse yellow, was now golden, but her Massachusetts accent was as strong as ever. It sounded like music to me on the upper Nile. Her husband--now a colonel--was a slender, middle-aged man, a relative of the last king. He owned a restaurant at the edge of the city and they lived in a pleasant apartment over the dining room. The colonel was humorous, intelligent--a rake, I guess--and a heavy drinker. When we went to the temple at Karnak, our dragoman carried ice, tonic and gin. I spent a week with them, mostly in temples and graves. We spent the evenings in his bar. War was threatening--the air was full of Russian planes--and the only other tourist was an Englishman who sat at the bar, reading his passport. On the last day, I swam in the Nile--overhand--and they drove me to the airport, where I kissed Geneva--and the Cabots--goodbye.