Frances and Bernard - By Carlene Bauer Page 0,38

failure. He joked, he listened attentively, he pried some gossip out of John (no man hath greater love than this, that he lay down his scruples for his friend Lazarus). After half an hour or so he sent Ted and John away—“Go talk to my father about the war,” he told them, and they obliged—and then I panicked, wondering if he was going to become romantic. He took my hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it with no small amount of grief. I stopped panicking and felt grief too. He kissed my hand even harder, and then eventually set it down on my knee without letting it go. “It’s terrible,” he said. “You answered a letter and befriended a monster.” At this his mother arrived in the yard. She clucked her tongue and both of us looked up, startled. (I have never seen Bernard startled. He’s usually the thing doing the startling.) “Stop that this instant,” she said to him, and I noticed her chin trembling. “You are no such thing.” Neither of us said a word. “Now, would you two like something to drink?” she said. By this time he had composed himself. I didn’t think people’s chins actually trembled, but hers did. “No, thank you, Mother,” he said. And I could tell that he was pleased that she had intervened in some way on his behalf because of the note of gratified surprise in his voice. From what he’s told me, that kind of protective, affectionate rap on the knuckles was rare. We were silent for a few moments, and then he began to stroke my hair, and I let him, even though I thought he might have been trying to push his luck. I didn’t have the heart to crab about it. After a while Ted came into the yard and gave me a look that told me I was doing the right thing. “Time’s up, Dante,” he said. “I came back here because John was too nice to. Come on, reward us by rejoining the household.”

Later there were another few minutes of panic. After lunch, when the men had gone out back to smoke their various tobacco items, I was left alone at the table with Mother Eliot. Who said, as if two hours hadn’t gone by between the yard and lunch: “He’s grown self-pitying. I’ll have none of it.” It’s true that Bernard’s penchant for exaggeration is trying, and it’s true that I was glad she rapped his knuckles so I didn’t have to, but her lack of compassion gave me the crazy thought that I needed to get him home so my aunts could swaddle his convalescence in good cheer. Before I knew what I was doing I heard myself replying: “If there was ever anything to be self-pitying about, losing your mind might be it.” She gave me a look that chilled my blood. At the time I thought it chilled my blood because it did not differ much from the looks Bernard gave me that day in March. There was a kind of glazed fire behind her eyes, and it wiped out any sense that she was speaking to another human being, let alone a human being who had a point worth considering. But now I’m not sure I saw what I thought I did.

I was glad to be in a car with Ted and John shortly after that. Although Bernard did seem very happy to see us. And I was happy to see him that way.

So that is the news. That and the tops of my feet are peeling something fierce because I went out to Rockaway Beach for the day with a girl from work and I forgot to put Coppertone on them. Send me some of your news, and soon.

Love,

Frances

July 12, 1959

Dear Frances—

So now you have seen the Eliot manse. What did it look like through your eyes?

I felt so lucky to have the three of you here. Did you notice the way John gave up the gossip on Carl and Nancy? I actually think John rather enjoyed setting that story out—the way his smile grew deeper and ever more sly at each piece of information he divulged it was as if he were proudly spreading caviar over a very long loaf of pumpernickel for us all.

I think I need to apologize for petting your hair as I did. I do, don’t I?

What is there to say? I miss you already. Now what. My mother is trying