The Memoirs of the Late Mr. Ashley: An American Comedy by Marianne Hauser

Author:Marianne Hauser [Hauser, Marianne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sun & Moon Press
Published: 1986-03-14T13:00:00+00:00

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How can I, of all people, take sides? The mere attempt at moral judgment becomes a lie. And then there was the factor of surprise, of time spiraling too fast, upwards and out of sight. Besides, when Mims, incoherent with confusion or pain arrived home, I had already left for an auction—to bid on an Ingres sketch of peaceable charm.

As usual during a family crisis, I could not be reached, Gwen said, and she had been obliged to manage on her own, not daring to phone anyone for advice until she had phoned her mother who had promised to drive at once to the city. Meanwhile Gwen must rush the girl to the old family doctor whose discretion had been thoroughly tested and amply rewarded. Under no circumstances must there be any publicity. Too much was at stake. —Tell him to keep it under the rug, Gwenny.

And Gwen, distraught but always conscious of her social obligations, carried out orders. The doctor had, upon examining Mims, found the physical damage slight, though he thought it advisable to have her rest at the hospital for a few days, perhaps under an assumed name. But Gwen had quickly vetoed that proposition. An assumed name was no guarantee against snooping nurses or muckraking news-papermen. Her child would be safest resting at home. —I gave mother my word of honor to keep it under the rug.

—That’s where we’ll keep it then.

The old man had nodded heartily. He knew her mother’s code of honor and that of the AMA.

As for myself, I wasn’t present to question their honor. And when I made it home at last with the coveted Ingres sketch, Mims was already upstairs in bed under heavy sedation. And in the funereal parlor, with curtains drawn tightly to shut out the orange gloom of an approaching night, Gwen and her mother sat facing each other, the latter still in her earth-dotted work pants and boots. She had been digging among the camellias in one of the Hamptons when Gwen had telephoned for instant help.

I was still in the door, between the circular, lighted hall and the dim parlor, when Gwen leaped from the Louis XVI fauteuil of mixed memories and raised her tear-streaked face to be kissed. What on earth had kept me so long? Sobbing, her wet cheek against my face, she gave me a quick rundown of the major events. Details must wait till later. —Dear god, Drew, I’m at the end of my rope. What shall we do?

—Have the maniac arrested.

I said it with complete conviction, not hesitating for even a moment. The maniac must be put under arrest or no child in that school would be safe. I socked it to them. I tossed out any old cliché that came to mind. If the rapist wasn’t brought to justice, the three of us would be participants in the cover-up of a heinous crime.

But it was of no use. I might as well have sermonized from the topmast of a ship in a raging Newfoundland storm.

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