Chapter 12 1

I stood in the Morgans' living room with my coat still on, for it was not suggested that I stayfor dinner or anything else. Both Joe and Rennie were in the kitchen, leisurely preparing supper for the boys. They seemed in good humor, and had apparently been joking about something.

"Where have you been this time?" Rennie asked.

"Everything's all settled," I said.

"All you have to do is catch the next plane to Vatican City," Joe told her, mocking the weariness and relief of my voice, "and tell the man you're the Pope's concubine."

"I said once and for all I won't lie," Rennie laughed.

"I'll pick you up at nine o'clock," I said. "The appointment's for nine-thirty. It won't be Ergotrate."

Rennie's smile faded; she paled a little.

"Have you really found somebody?"

"Yes. He's a retired specialist who runs a convalescent home out near Vineland."

"What's his name?" Joe asked unsmilingly.

"He wants to stay anonymous. That's understandable enough. But he's a good doctor. I've known him for several years, before I came here. In fact, I took this teaching job at his suggestion."

They showed some surprise.

"I've never heard of a convalescent home out that way," Rennie said doubtfully.

"That's because he keeps the place private, for his patients' benefit, and because he's a Negro doctor with an all-white clientele. Not many people know about him."

"Is he safe?" Joe asked, a little suspiciously. They were both standing in the doorway by this time.

"That doesn't matter," Rennie said quickly, and went back to the stove.

"Will you be ready at nine?" I asked her.

"I'll be ready," she said.

"You'll want to come too, won't you?" I asked Joe.

"I don't know," he said dully. "I'll decide later."

It was as though I'd spoiled something.

Back in my room, the pressure off, I experienced a reaction not only against the excitement of the days just past but against my whole commitment. It was not difficult to feel relieved at having finally prevented Rennie's suicide, but it was extremely difficult to feel chastened, as I wanted to feel chastened. I wanted the adventure to teach me this about myself: that regardless of what shifting opinions I held about ethical matters in the abstract, I was not so consistently the same person (not so sufficiently "real," to use Rennie's term) that I could involve myself seriously in the lives of others without doing real damage all around, not least of all to my own tranquillity; that my irrational flashes of conscience and cruelty, of compassion and cynicism -- in short, my inability to play the same role long enough -- could give me as well as others pain, and that the same inconsistency rendered it improbable that I could remain peacefully in painful positions for very long, as Joe, for example, could remain. I didn't consistently need or want friends, but it was clear (this too I wanted to learn) that, given my own special kind of integrity, if I was to have them at all I must remain uninvolved -- I must leave them alone.

A simple lesson, but I couldn't properly be chastened. My feelings were mixed: relief, ridiculousness, embarrassment, anger, injured pride, maudlin affection for the Morgans, disgust with them and myself, and a host of other things, including indifference to the whole business.

Also, I was not a little tired of myself, and of my knowledge of my selves, and of my personal little mystery. Although I had, in fact, no intention of keeping my pledge to go to Pennsylvania with the Doctor, I composed a brief note to Dr. Schott, informing him of my resignation: my grand play for responsibility had indeed exhausted me, and I was ready to leave Wicomico and the Morgans. In a new town, with new friends, even under a new name -- perhaps one couldpretend enough unity to be a person and live in the world; perhaps, if one were a sufficiently practiced actor. . . Maybe I would marry Peggy Rankin; take her surname; father a child on her. I smiled.

At a few minutes before nine o'clock I went to get Rennie, and found her and Joe just finishing a late dinner by candlelight.

"Big occasion," Joe said dryly. He flicked on the light at once and blew out the candles, and I saw that they'd been eating hot dogs and sauerkraut. Allowing Rennie to put her coat on by herself, he started carrying dishes to the sink.

"How long does this take?" he asked me.

"I don't know, Joe," I said, acutely uncomfortable. "I shouldn't think it would take very long."

"I'm ready," Rennie said. She looked bad: white and shaky. Joe kissed her lightly and turned the sink faucet on to wash the dishes.

"You're not coming?" I asked him.

"No"

"Well --" I said. Rennie was already headed for the door. "See you after a while."

We went outside. Rennie bounded gracelessly ahead of me down the sidewalk, and opened the car door before I could do it for her. She sniffed a little, but held back the tears. I drove out the highway toward Vineland.

"This really turned into a mess, didn't it?" I said sympathetically. She stared out the window without answering. "I'm terribly sorry that any of it happened."

She gave no clue to her feelings. The thing that I was sharply conscious of was her loneliness in what had happened and what was about to happen -- the fundamental, last-analysis loneliness of all human beings in critical situations. It is never entirely true, but it's more apparent at some times than at others, and just then I was very much aware of her as apart from Joe, myself, values, motives, the world, or history -- a solitary animal in a tight spot. And Joe, home, washing the dishes. Lonely animals! Into no cause, resolve, or philosophy can we cram so much of ourselves that there is no part of us left over to wonder and be lonely.

"This fellow's really a fine doctor," I said a minute later.

Rennie looked at me uncomprehendingly, as if I'd spoken in a foreign language.

"Rennie, do you want me to take you home?"

"If you do I'll shoot myself," she said hoarsely.

When we came to the end of the driveway leading to the farmhouse, I cut out the headlights and drove quietly up into the yard. I explained to Rennie that the Doctor didn't want me to disturb his patients, but I'm afraid the theatricality of it did her nerves no good. As I ushered her into the farmhouse I felt her trembling. Mrs. Dockey and the Doctor were waiting for us in the reception room. They both scrutinized Rennie frankly, and some contempt was evident in Mrs. Dockey's expression.

"How do you do, Mrs. Morgan," the Doctor said. "We can begin right away. Mrs. Dockey will take you to the Treatment Room.

Wordlessly Mrs. Dockey walked toward the Treatment Room, and Rennie, after a second's uncertainty, jumped to follow that formidable woman. My eyes watered. I didn't know how to go about distinguishing compassion from love: perhaps it was only compassion I felt for her.