Read Online Edith’s Diary by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
Ads: Link
hand, fairly yanking him, and seeing that Cliffie’s feet were wet, Brett picked him up by the waist and carried him in one arm like a sack of wheat, turned the boy slightly so he could breathe. ‘Honestly, Cliffie – Do you want pneumonia next?’
Cliffie erased his thoughts, and endured the short walk home. He stomped his feet on the doormat, entered the warm house calmly, but even so his mother was hovering, telling him not to wet the waxed floor. Someone spread wrappings from Christmas packages under his feet.
Tea again. A sweater over his Superman outfit, the pants of which they had compelled him to take off, because they were attached to the wet feet. The hospital blanket again over his legs as he sat on the sofa. ‘I’m still Superman!’ Cliffie said to the whole room.
Cliffie was pleased by the way the adults stood around wordless, looking at him.
5
2/Feb./57.
Bugle
still tootles along, though barely breaking even now. I refrained from noting its initial success, thinking it bad luck to do so. People (advertisers) simply don’t need it, and that’s the crunch. Gert’s (and I must say my own if I do say so myself) editorials are damned good, and dear old Gert writes extra letters under another name sometimes. Not enough people seem to care enough.
The hopes Edith had had for Brett’s taking Cliffie fishing or rowing – some people did row a bit on the Delaware, some even ventured out in small sailing craft in summer – simply hadn’t materialized. Brett didn’t enjoy taking a walk with Cliffie in the woods because Cliffie (according to Brett) announced after fifteen minutes that he was bored and wanted to go home. Of course Brett wasn’t much of an outdoor man himself. He liked to do jobs like insulating the roof, or putting up shelves in his basement workroom. But Cliffie didn’t like such tasks, and had always been clumsy with his hands. He didn’t grip even a Coca-Cola bottle properly, much less a hammer. It was an everyday thing for him to drop a knife or fork on the edge of his plate. The articulated thumb, praised by anthropologists as man’s blessing (along with the monkeys of course) was in Cliffie short and stiff, and of about as much help as another little finger. His ineffective hands seemed to proclaim that his grip on life or reality was nil.
Edith’s great-aunt Melanie visited every six months or so, and stayed about five days. Edith adored her visits. They talked of a variety of things – old family stories that Melanie might have heard from her own grandmother’s knee, Thomas Mann’s essay on Nietzsche and The Will, school integration (the South would do better than the North, Melanie predicted), and the proper way to make dill pickles. Melanie’s visits brought an extra treat in that Cliffie put on his best behavior. But Edith knew that Melanie was not fooled. She always had a gift or two for Cliffie, always talked with him as if he were a human being worthy of respect and love, but Edith knew that Melanie simply didn’t like Cliffie, didn’t or perhaps couldn’t understand him. ‘There’s nothing to hang onto in him, is there?’ Melanie had said once. Or had she really said it? But Edith knew that was Melanie’s feeling. ‘Is he showing any interest in girls as yet?’ Melanie asked when Cliffie was fourteen or so. It was for Aunt Melanie a rather bold question. Edith said not as far as she could see. Cliffie was unsure of himself, Edith had added quite unnecessarily, and the subject had been dropped.
These days, Edith knew, kids twelve, maybe younger, were attempting intercourse. There was something bizarre, even depressing about it, Edith thought. Cliffie perhaps had a fantasy world as definitely peopled as that of – the Marquis de Sade came first to her mind. She was under no illusion that Cliffie was innocent, naive in heart and mind. Was he still a male virgin? Edith smiled to herself at the thought. Very likely not. Whom did he meet, hanging around
Cliffie erased his thoughts, and endured the short walk home. He stomped his feet on the doormat, entered the warm house calmly, but even so his mother was hovering, telling him not to wet the waxed floor. Someone spread wrappings from Christmas packages under his feet.
Tea again. A sweater over his Superman outfit, the pants of which they had compelled him to take off, because they were attached to the wet feet. The hospital blanket again over his legs as he sat on the sofa. ‘I’m still Superman!’ Cliffie said to the whole room.
Cliffie was pleased by the way the adults stood around wordless, looking at him.
5
2/Feb./57.
Bugle
still tootles along, though barely breaking even now. I refrained from noting its initial success, thinking it bad luck to do so. People (advertisers) simply don’t need it, and that’s the crunch. Gert’s (and I must say my own if I do say so myself) editorials are damned good, and dear old Gert writes extra letters under another name sometimes. Not enough people seem to care enough.
The hopes Edith had had for Brett’s taking Cliffie fishing or rowing – some people did row a bit on the Delaware, some even ventured out in small sailing craft in summer – simply hadn’t materialized. Brett didn’t enjoy taking a walk with Cliffie in the woods because Cliffie (according to Brett) announced after fifteen minutes that he was bored and wanted to go home. Of course Brett wasn’t much of an outdoor man himself. He liked to do jobs like insulating the roof, or putting up shelves in his basement workroom. But Cliffie didn’t like such tasks, and had always been clumsy with his hands. He didn’t grip even a Coca-Cola bottle properly, much less a hammer. It was an everyday thing for him to drop a knife or fork on the edge of his plate. The articulated thumb, praised by anthropologists as man’s blessing (along with the monkeys of course) was in Cliffie short and stiff, and of about as much help as another little finger. His ineffective hands seemed to proclaim that his grip on life or reality was nil.
Edith’s great-aunt Melanie visited every six months or so, and stayed about five days. Edith adored her visits. They talked of a variety of things – old family stories that Melanie might have heard from her own grandmother’s knee, Thomas Mann’s essay on Nietzsche and The Will, school integration (the South would do better than the North, Melanie predicted), and the proper way to make dill pickles. Melanie’s visits brought an extra treat in that Cliffie put on his best behavior. But Edith knew that Melanie was not fooled. She always had a gift or two for Cliffie, always talked with him as if he were a human being worthy of respect and love, but Edith knew that Melanie simply didn’t like Cliffie, didn’t or perhaps couldn’t understand him. ‘There’s nothing to hang onto in him, is there?’ Melanie had said once. Or had she really said it? But Edith knew that was Melanie’s feeling. ‘Is he showing any interest in girls as yet?’ Melanie asked when Cliffie was fourteen or so. It was for Aunt Melanie a rather bold question. Edith said not as far as she could see. Cliffie was unsure of himself, Edith had added quite unnecessarily, and the subject had been dropped.
These days, Edith knew, kids twelve, maybe younger, were attempting intercourse. There was something bizarre, even depressing about it, Edith thought. Cliffie perhaps had a fantasy world as definitely peopled as that of – the Marquis de Sade came first to her mind. She was under no illusion that Cliffie was innocent, naive in heart and mind. Was he still a male virgin? Edith smiled to herself at the thought. Very likely not. Whom did he meet, hanging around
Similar Books
