The Truth of the Matter Read online

  “On a blue horse with a gold mane . . . then, well, we were all pretty tired. We decided to sit down on a bench. One of those green benches with the wrought-iron armrests . . . Anyway, we sat down in the sun. Just the three of us. The ice-cream man came by . . .”

  Lavinia noticed her daughter’s expression and paused. Mary had that swollen-lidded look she always had if she was feverish, and Lavinia reached across her and soaked a handkerchief in the ice water and then wrung it out. She gently wiped Mary’s face and neck and then took up her daughter’s hands and cleaned them front and back with the cool cloth, trying to make Mary more comfortable.

  “Of course,” Lavinia continued, curbing the urgency in her voice, “you don’t remember your daddy, because he was in the war. He died when you were just two months old. You remember I’ve told you about your daddy? About Phillip? Tall and awfully good-looking? All the Alcorns are good-looking. And, oh . . . he could dance! The first time I met him, we’d come with different dates, but we danced at least every other dance with each other.”

  Lavinia was assailed by the sudden notion that perhaps she had married Phillip because he was such a wonderful dancer. Could that possibly be true? Was that the one final thing that tipped the balance? Being in love was much different than being married. And Claytor! There were all sorts of reasons she had fallen for him, but one of those reasons was Claytor’s idea of what she was like. He had been delighted when they first met and had ended up sitting together at the Officer’s Club for hours discussing books, defending their favorites and discouraging the other’s enthusiasm if they didn’t agree. And, then, the first night she’d gone out with him, he’d picked her up in a borrowed car, and they’d stopped to give a ride to a soldier hitchhiking in the pouring rain. The radio was on, and a romantic piano concerto blared against the onslaught of weather in the desolate, flat Texas landscape.

  “Now, that’s nice,” the soldier had said into the clammy silence of the front seat, where they were all three crushed together. “You don’t hear music like that where I come from. It’s a nice piece.”

  “It is,” Claytor said, to make conversation. “I don’t know what it is . . .” After another silence fell among the three of them, Lavinia finally spoke up. “Well, I think it might be Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number Two in C Minor.”

  And both men glanced at her in frank admiration when the announcer gave that very title after the piece ended. She had thought to herself, What are the odds of that ever happening again in a single lifetime? Lavinia didn’t know much of anything about music. She had only been able to identify that particular piece because, after she had flunked out of Wellesley and was living at home in Charlottesville, an earnest and dreary beau had made it his mission to improve her mind, in part by playing and explaining that particular Rachmaninoff concerto over and over. She could tell Claytor was proud of her intellectualism, which, in turn, pleased and emboldened her, even though she knew her reputation was counterfeit. But, after all, who knows why anyone gets married?

  Lavinia brought her attention back to the matter at hand. “It was Sidney Bechet’s band playing that first night I met your father, Mary. And the crowd . . . Well, that’s not important. After your daddy died, though, you see, he couldn’t sit on the bench with us anymore.”

  Whenever her mother began to introduce the subject of her father, Mary’s attention lapsed; she had never connected any part of the story to herself. But just now her mother’s voice was suddenly dramatic and surprised, as if she had just found out something new, and Mary sharpened her wits and listened carefully to what her mother was saying.

  “And then! What happened then . . . with your daddy gone . . . All of a sudden the park became cold and lonely! Dark clouds came up. . . . They were like a wall around us, Mary. And the wind! Sheets of newspapers were blowing around, empty cigarette packs, gum wrappers . . . grit from the sidewalks blew all over the place. It seemed to us that a terrible storm was coming in!” She could sense Mary’s attention re-engage, and Lavinia found herself caught up in the metaphor she had constructed. She had fallen into the spirit of her own invention. She straightened up and put out her cigarette.

  “Mary, you and I were all by ourselves on the bench! And then—just in the nick of time—Claytor came along. Before that storm swept us away right out into the ocean! And we liked him. Pretty soon he came by our bench almost every day. Finally he asked if he could sit down, too. If we would make room for him. And you and Claytor and I have been so comfortable together on our bench. There’s plenty of room, and the weather’s always nice. The gardens are in bloom again. . . . Everything is fine. But now I’ll tell you what’s happened! Now, well! Claytor and I’ve noticed a stranger wandering all alone in the park . . . a little stranger. And, you and Claytor and I are all so comfortable, the three of us, but we do have some extra room. And you’re getting big enough that sometimes you think it might be nice to look around the park . . . to play with children from other benches.” Lavinia looked at Mary to see if she agreed, but Mary’s expression was impassive.

  “Oh, Mary,” she pleaded, “that little stranger is so lonely. He doesn’t know anything about the park. Claytor and I think it would be the right thing to do to bring him to live with us on our bench. To live with the three of us. And he or she will turn out to be someone we love and take care of. All of us will love him,” she said.

  “Sometimes, though, he might be hungry,” Lavinia hurried on when she noticed that Mary’s attention had started to wander. “Or he might have an earache, you know, and he might cry. He’ll need to be burped. I’ll have to spend an awful lot of time with him. Take care of him and change his diapers and feed him. And sometimes you might feel mad—that you have to give up some of your room on the bench for the baby. And it’s perfectly natural to feel that way, Mary. You might come home after playing somewhere else and think that there wasn’t really any room for you. That might make you sad and angry. But there will always be room on our bench for you, and room for the baby, too! But you’ll probably feel a little . . . crowded by the newcomer . . .”

  Lavinia smiled encouragingly at Mary, who was studying her mother’s earnest expression. Mary had been paying rapt attention, but finally her eyes drooped closed. Her head fell back limply against the seat, and she fell fast asleep in self-defense. She hadn’t known they were going to live on a bench. She didn’t even know how to imagine it.

  When Claytor and his wife and her daughter, Mary Alcorn, finally arrived, Dwight and Trudy and Betts were right at hand. Agnes was trapped chatting with various neighbors and friends. Guests had begun assembling at Scofields after the Washburn Fourth of July parade, which had stepped off at eleven o’clock and been over about a half hour later.

  As soon as Claytor’s car pulled up, Dwight bounded down the steps with Betts right behind him. Trudy moved with more restraint since she was too pregnant to rush anywhere. It was they who absorbed that initial spike of joyousness Claytor felt for a moment, when nostalgia and reality intersected. He had a great hug for Betts and Trudy, an elated handshake and a clap on the back for Dwight, and a quick grin and a kiss on the cheek for his mother by the time she reached him. In just the time it had taken Agnes to maneuver her way though the guests and cross the yard, Claytor and Dwight were already in the middle of a conversation.

  Agnes hadn’t been able to get to Claytor’s wedding during the war, and when Claytor turned back to talk to Dwight after only that quick acknowledgment of her, Agnes determinedly moved between them. “This is Mary Alcorn, isn’t it?” she asked. “And, of course, Lavinia?” Claytor turned back to his mother in surprise, embraced her, too, and then pulled away, beaming.

  “I’ve been on the road too long! I think the heat’s finally addled my brain. Here they are! Here are my girls!” Lavinia held out her hand while Claytor urged Mary forward a bit. “And here’s the apple of my eye! Here she is at last. This is Mary Alcorn,” he said.

  “I’m so glad to have you here,” Agnes
said, taking Lavinia’s hand and then turning her attention to Lavinia’s daughter. “And I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you, Mary Alcorn! Why, Claytor,” Agnes said, “she looks just like a little Scofield! Blond hair! And such brown eyes. I’m very glad to meet you!” But the little girl was leaning against Claytor’s knees, scarcely even awake. Agnes turned back to Lavinia, who was much prettier than Agnes had imagined. Petite and with huge green eyes.

  “That’s an awfully long trip for a little girl! For all of you. And all these strangers! You know, I should have suggested you postpone your trip by one day. But so many people wanted to see you, Claytor. And especially to meet Lavinia and Mary. And lots of people haven’t even had a chance to see Trudy and Dwight and little Amelia Anne. Howard’s home! And a friend of Dwight’s. Sam Holloway,” she added.

  “I hadn’t thought how tired you might be, though. I hope it won’t be too much! Lily and Trudy and Betts have everything under control. Howard got fireworks from somewhere . . .” Agnes caught her breath and slowed down. “Well. I’m so glad to see you,” she said inclusively and then turned to Lavinia. “Mary Alcorn really was born on the fifteenth, wasn’t she?” Agnes asked, with a note in her voice that surprised Lavinia, as if for some reason Agnes might have doubted it. “Yes, she was. March of nineteen forty-three,” Lavinia said.

  “The ides,” Agnes said. “March fifteenth was Claytor’s great-uncle Leo’s birthday, too. And, you know Claytor’s father and aunt . . . Warren and Lily Butler—well, she was a Scofield. And Lily’s husband, too, Robert Butler, were all born on the fifteenth of September. Well, of course, I’m sure you’ve heard more than you want to about that. I certainly did! But I do wish Uncle Leo could have seen Mary Alcorn. He wouldn’t even have been surprised that he and she were born on the same day once he got a look at her.”

  Agnes saw that Lavinia looked blank. “Didn’t Claytor tell you that his great-uncle Leo always claimed that every Scofield was born on the ides of the month? Goodness knows I heard about it before I’d even met the Scofields! I heard about that all my life. It was quite an event, I suppose. Warren and Lily and Robert born on the same day. Uncle Leo was right, you see. Most of the Scofields do seem to be born on the ides—different months, of course.”

  “Well,” Lavinia agreed softly, nodding her head, which made her thick hair swing forward. “Claytor was born on the ides.”

  Betts and Dwight spoke up simultaneously, as did Agnes.

  “Claytor wasn’t —”

  “No, he just missed —”

  “Well, no,” Agnes said. “Claytor is the only one who wasn’t . . .” Agnes interjected. “He was born on April thirteenth. He only missed by two days. All the others, though. But the ides of March! That’s when Mary Alcorn was born! Macbeth, isn’t it? Didn’t Uncle Leo always say it was Macbeth?” she repeated, raising her voice a little to be heard. “Those witches? Or maybe Julius Caesar.” Agnes was so nervous under Lavinia’s impassive attention that her mouth had gone dry, and she ran her tongue across her upper lip.

  She was horrified to find herself gushing on like this. Blithering, she always thought, when Bernice Dameron went on and on, determinedly explaining all the tedious particulars of some story or other while she and Agnes stood together if they were on duty at recess or when they were eating a quiet lunch by themselves in the cloakroom.

  There was something about Claytor’s wife that disconcerted Agnes. She couldn’t think what it might be, but at once she felt dowdy and unsophisticated in her daughter-in-law’s company. The Scofields always all talked at once, their voices tumbling over one another with opinions, ideas, enthusiasms, or disagreements. But Lavinia listened to Agnes with the keenest attention and without any change of expression as Agnes chattered on. Agnes was painfully aware, though, that nothing she was saying deserved such earnest consideration, and as a result she became more and more anxious to fill any silence.

  “But, Mrs. Scofield —,” Lavinia began.

  “Oh, please. Just ‘Agnes’ is fine. Unless it makes you uncomfortable. Warren’s mother—Claytor’s grandmother—always asked me to call her ‘Mother.’ I had the hardest time—I never could do it, and so I was always trying to tell her something without having to call her anything at all . . .” And Agnes finally ran down as though she had been a tightly wound music box. She just stopped speaking.

  Lavinia nodded that she understood. She glanced around the group of Scofields who had gathered to greet her and Claytor. “But, you know,” she said mildly, “those birthdays. Warren Scofield and Lily Butler? And Robert Butler? They were all three born on September fifteenth?”

  “Isn’t it odd?” Agnes said. “One of those coincidences that happens that just doesn’t seem possible.”

  “It is a coincidence,” Lavinia agreed. “All of them born on the same day. But the ides of September is on the thirteenth of the month.” She didn’t speak with an air of insistence, as though the point was particularly important. In fact, she seemed only languidly interested, peering out at them from under her dark bangs with such intense green eyes, emanating a smoky, careless interest. No one wanted to disagree with or correct her, since they had only just met her and wanted her to feel included.

  Howard had arrived, though, and had been standing at the edge of the conversation, intrigued. “Is that so? Hah! Is that right?” He thought Lavinia was stunningly exotic among the rest of them. He was entranced with this new sister-in-law—so clearly a foreigner among them. “What about that! Now what about the rest of us? I’m November fifteenth,” he said. “I’m the baby. Nineteen twenty-six. And I’ll tell you what! Dwight’s never forgiven me for being born on his eighth birthday. He’d been so excited about that birthday that I still hear plenty about it. Betts is February fifteenth. She’s three years older. Well, almost. She was born in nineteen twenty-four. All of us thinking we were born on the ides of the month except Claytor. Feeling that it was too bad that he couldn’t hang on until the fifteenth.”

  “Your birthday is on November fifteenth, too?”

  Howard nodded, smiling down at her. “And it’s so close to Christmas that I get terrible presents. Dwight makes out a lot better, even though Christmas is coming. I’ve finally just put it down to the curse of the last born.”

  “Lavinia, don’t believe any of this,” Dwight said lightly. “It’s just because I’m ancient . . .”

  “Oh, no!” Howard said. “Dwight has seniority, and he’s hard to buy for. Everyone in the family spends months mulling it over and finally decides on whatever it is they think he’d like. And then there they are, in Phillips Department Store, wondering what they’ve forgotten. ‘Oh, no,’ they say. ‘I forgot Howie! I’ll just pick up some little thing.’ . . . Last year Betts sent me a screwdriver with interchangeable parts.”

  “Howard! I thought you’d need —,” Betts began, but Howard was cheerful, never having worried much about his place in the family, and Lavinia was already speaking.

  “The ides of November,” Lavinia was saying to him, “is the thirteenth, you know. In fact, the only months when the ides do fall on the fifteenth are March, May, July, and October. In all the other months it’s the thirteenth. Mary was born on the ides of March. I always hope it won’t be bad luck. Beware the ides of March!” But Lavinia was just flicking over that notion; all the Scofields could tell that she wasn’t really interested but was only making polite conversation in her own soft-voweled, unhurried way. “So only Claytor,” Lavinia went on, speaking to Howard primarily but then addressing Trudy, “and your daughter . . . Amy? . . . were actually born on the ides. Isn’t it funny how notions like that spring up in families? In my house, it —”

  “Amelia,” Trudy corrected. “Amelia Anne.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Howard interjected. “Now that’s amazing. Great God! We’ve spent our whole lives talking about the ides of the month and the Scofields. I’d started hating to have my birthday come along. And not one of us thought to find out when the ides were. Uncl
e George and Uncle Leo were . . . But all the other birthdays . . . So! Only Claytor was born on the ides. We always teased him about being the only one of us who wasn’t!”

  Finally Agnes gathered her wits. “Well, in any case, it certainly is all so interesting, I think,” she said, trying to dismiss the whole issue—which she found oddly unnerving—by brushing it aside. “You’ll have to ask Uncle George to explain it. I’m sure I’ve probably got it confused.” And Agnes spoke at the same moment Betts and Dwight—and even Claytor—dismissed Lavinia’s idea out of hand; it was clear to them that Lavinia simply hadn’t understood what their mother was saying. Of course their birthdays were on the ides of the month; it was part of being a Scofield.

  “I know you must be exhausted,” Agnes proposed, “and you haven’t met all these people who’ve come to see you. You must want a chance to freshen up. Dwight and Trudy and Betts have planned a picnic, and Howard’s found fireworks . . .”

  Lavinia didn’t realize that Agnes was directing this at her, and she stood next to Claytor with a dreamy, distracted expression, which held Agnes in place while her new daughter-in-law shook a cigarette out of a pack from her purse. Claytor offered her a light right there in public, in the front yard in the middle of the afternoon. Lavinia noticed Agnes’s surprise. “Oh, Mrs. Scofield. I know women almost never smoke these,” she said, “but it’s hard to find any other brand at the PX.” She held up a pack of Camels and was careful to exhale away from Agnes, but in the still heat, the smoke lingered in the air. Claytor took one for himself and lit it, cupping his hand around the flame of his lighter.