The Bell Jar Part 7

"Nelly and I have always wanted a daughter."

For one crazy minute I thought, Mr. Willard was going to announce that Mrs. Willard was pregnant and expecting a baby girl. Then he said, "But I don't see how any daughter could be nicer than you."

Mr. Willard must have thought I was crying because I was so glad he wanted to be a father to me. "There, there," he patted my shoulder and cleared his throat once or twice. "I think we understand each other."

Then he opened the car door on his side and strolled round to my side, his breath shaping tortuous smoke signals in the gray air. I moved over to the seat he had left and he started the car and we drove on.

I'm not sure what I expected of Buddy's sanatorium.

I think I expected a kind of wooden chalet perched up on top of a small mountain, with rosy-cheeked young men and women, all very attractive but with hectic glittering eyes, lying covered with thick blankets on outdoor balconies.

"TB is like living with a bomb in your lung," Buddy had written to me at college. "You just lie around very quietly hoping it won't go off."

I found it hard to imagine Buddy lying quietly. His whole philosophy of life was to be up and doing every second. Even when we went to the beach in the summer he never lay down to drowse in the sun the way I did. He ran back and forth or played ball or did a little series of rapid pushups to use the time.

Mr. Willard and I waited in the reception room for the end of the afternoon rest cure.

The color scheme of the whole sanatorium seemed to be based on liver. Dark, glowering woodwork, burnt-brown leather chairs, walls that might once have been white but had succ.u.mbed under a spreading malady of mold or damp. A mottled brown linoleum sealed off the floor.

On a low coffee table, with circular and semicircular stains bitten into the dark veneer, lay a few wilted numbers of Time Time and and Life. Life. I flipped to the middle of the nearest magazine. The face of Eisenhower beamed up at me, bald and blank as the face of a fetus in a bottle. I flipped to the middle of the nearest magazine. The face of Eisenhower beamed up at me, bald and blank as the face of a fetus in a bottle.

After a while I became aware of a sly, leaking noise. For a minute I thought the walls had begun to discharge the moisture that must saturate them, but then I saw the noise came from a small fountain in one corner of the room.

The fountain spurted a few inches into the air from a rough length of pipe, threw up its hands, collapsed and drowned its ragged dribble in a stone basin of yellowing water. The basin was paved with the white hexagonal tiles one finds in public lavatories.

A buzzer sounded. Doors opened and shut in the distance. Then Buddy came in.

"h.e.l.lo, Dad."

Buddy hugged his father, and promptly, with a dreadful brightness, came over to me and held out his hand. I shook it. It felt moist and fat.

Mr. Willard and I sat together on a leather couch. Buddy perched opposite us on the edge of a slippery armchair. He kept smiling, as if the corners of his mouth were strung up on invisible wire.

The last thing I expected was for Buddy to be fat. All the time I thought of him at the sanatorium I saw shadows carving themselves under his cheekbones and his eyes burning out of almost fleshless sockets.

But everything concave about Buddy had suddenly turned convex. A pot belly swelled under the tight white nylon s.h.i.+rt and his cheeks were round and ruddy as marzipan fruit. Even his laugh sounded plump.

Buddy's eyes met mine. "It's the eating," he said. "They stuff us day after day and then just make us lie around. But I'm allowed out on walk hours now, so don't worry, I'll thin down in a couple of weeks." He jumped up, smiling like a glad host. "Would you like to see my room?"

I followed Buddy, and Mr. Willard followed me, through a pair of swinging doors set with panes of frosted gla.s.s down a dim, liver-colored corridor smelling of floor wax and Lysol and another vaguer odor, like bruised gardenias.

Buddy threw open a brown door, and we filed into the narrow room.

A lumpy bed, shrouded by a thin white spread, pencil-striped with blue, took up most of the s.p.a.ce. Next to it stood a bed table with a pitcher and a water gla.s.s and the silver twig of a thermometer poking up from a jar of pink disinfectant. A second table, covered with books and papers and off-kilter clay pots--baked and painted, but not glazed--squeezed itself between the bed foot and the closet door.

"Well," Mr. Willard breathed, "it looks comfortable enough."

Buddy laughed.

"What are these?" I picked up a clay ashtray in the shape of a lilypad, with the veinings carefully drawn in yellow on a murky green ground. Buddy didn't smoke.

"That's an ashtray," Buddy said. "It's for you."

I put the tray down. "I don't smoke."

"I know," Buddy said. "I thought you might like it, though."

"Well," Mr. Willard rubbed one papery lip against another. "I guess I'll be getting on. I guess I'll be leaving you two young people..."

"Fine, Dad. You be getting on."

I was surprised. I had thought Mr. Willard was going to stay the night before driving me back the next day.

"Shall I come too?"

"No, no." Mr. Willard peeled a few bills from his wallet and handed them to Buddy. "See that Esther gets a comfortable seat on the train. She'll stay a day or so, maybe."

Buddy escorted his father to the door.

I felt Mr. Willard had deserted me. I thought he must have planned it all along, but Buddy said no, his father simply couldn't stand the sight of sickness and especially his own son's sickness, because he thought all sickness was sickness of the will. Mr. Willard had never been sick a day in his life.

I sat down on Buddy's bed. There simply wasn't anywhere else to sit.

Buddy rummaged among his papers in a businesslike way. Then he handed me a thin, gray magazine. "Turn to page eleven."

The magazine was printed somewhere in Maine and full of stenciled poems and descriptive paragraphs separated from each other by asterisks. On page eleven I found a poem tided "Florida Dawn." I skipped down through image after image about watermelon lights and turtle-green palms and sh.e.l.ls fluted like bits of Greek architecture.

"Not bad." I thought it was dreadful.

"Who wrote it?" Buddy asked with an odd, pigeony smile.

My eye dropped to the name on the lower right-hand corner of the page. B. S. Willard.

"I don't know." Then I said, "Of course I know, Buddy. You wrote it."

Buddy edged over to me.

I edged back. I had very little knowledge about TB, but it seemed to me an extremely sinister disease, the way it went on so invisibly. I thought Buddy might well be sitting in his own little murderous aura of TB germs.

"Don't worry," Buddy laughed. "I'm not positive."

"Positive?"

"You can't catch anything."

Buddy stopped for a breath, the way you do in the middle of climbing something very steep.

"I want to ask you a question." He had a disquieting new habit of boring into my eyes with his look as if actually bent on piercing my head, the better to a.n.a.lyze what went on inside it.

"I'd thought of asking it by letter."

I had a fleeting vision of a pale blue envelope with a Yale crest on the back flap.

"But then I decided it would be better if I waited until you came up, so I could ask you in person." He paused. "Well, don't you want to know what it is?"

"What?" I said in a small, unpromising voice.

Buddy sat down beside me. He put his arm around my waist and brushed the hair from my ear. I didn't move. Then I heard him whisper, "How would you like to be Mrs. Buddy Willard?"

I had an awful impulse to laugh.

I thought how that question would have bowled me over at any time in my five- or six-year period of adoring Buddy Willard from a distance.

Buddy saw me hesitate.

"Oh, I'm in no shape now, I know," he said quickly. "I'm still on P.A.S. and I may yet lose a rib or two, but I'll be back at med school by next fall. A year from this spring at the latest..."

"I think I should tell you something, Buddy."

"I know," Buddy said stiffly. "You've met someone."

"No, it's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"I'm never going to get married."

"You're crazy." Buddy brightened. "You'll change your mind."

"No. My mind's made up."

But Buddy just went on looking cheerful.

"Remember," I said, "that time you hitchhiked back to college with me after Skit Night?"

"I remember."

"Remember how you asked me where I like to live best, the country or the city?"

"And you said..."

"And I said I wanted to live in the country and in the city both?"

Buddy nodded.

"And you," I continued with a sudden force, "laughed and said I had the perfect setup of a true neurotic and that that question came from some questionnaire you'd had in psychology cla.s.s that week?"

Buddy's smile dimmed.

"Well, you were right. I am am neurotic. I could never settle down in either the country neurotic. I could never settle down in either the country or or the city." the city."

"You could live between them," Buddy suggested helpfully. "Then you could go to the city sometimes and to the country sometimes."

"Well, what's so neurotic about that?"

Buddy didn't answer.

"Well?" I rapped out, thinking, You can't coddle these sick people, it's the worst thing for them, it'll spoil them to bits.

"Nothing," Buddy said in a pale, still voice.

"Neurotic, ha!" I let out a scornful laugh. "If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as h.e.l.l. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days."

Buddy put his hand on mine.

"Let me fly with you."

I stood at the top of the ski slope on Mount Pisgah, looking down. I had no business to be up there. I had never skied before in my life. Still, I thought I would enjoy the view while I had the chance.

At my left, the rope tow deposited skier after skier on the snowy summit which, packed by much crossing and recrossing and slightly melted in the noon sun, had hardened to the consistency and polish of gla.s.s. The cold air punished my lungs and sinuses to a visionary clearness.

On every side of me the red and blue and white jacketed skiers tore away down the blinding slope like fugitive bits of an American flag. From the foot of the ski run, the imitation log cabin lodge piped its popular songs into the overhang of silence.

Gazing down on the jungfrau From our chalet for two...

The lilt and boom threaded by me like an invisible rivulet in a desert of snow. One careless, superb gesture, and I would be hurled into motion down the slope toward the small khaki spot in the sidelines, among the spectators, which was Buddy Willard.

All morning Buddy had been teaching me now to ski.

First, Buddy borrowed skis and ski poles from a friend of his in the village, and ski boots from a doctor's wife whose feet were only one size larger than my own, and a red ski jacket from a student nurse. His persistence in the face of mulishness was astounding.

Then I remembered that at medical school Buddy had won a prize for persuading the most relatives of dead people to have their dead ones cut up whether they needed it or not, in the interests of science. I forget what the prize was, but I could just see Buddy in his white coat with his stethoscope sticking out of a side pocket like part of his anatomy, smiling and bowing and talking those numb, dumb relatives into signing the postmortem papers.

Next, Buddy borrowed a car from his own doctor, who'd had TB himself and was very understanding, and we drove off as the buzzer for walk hour rasped along the sunless sanatorium corridors.

Buddy had never skied before either, but he said that the elementary principles were quite simple, and as he'd often watched the ski instructors and their pupils he could teach me all I'd need to know.

For the first half hour I obediently herringboned up a small slope, pushed off with my poles and coasted straight down. Buddy seemed pleased with my progress.

"That's fine, Esther," he observed, as I negotiated my slope for the twentieth time. "Now let's try you on the rope tow."

I stopped in my tracks, flushed and panting.

"But Buddy, I don't know how to zigzag yet. All those people coming down from the top know how to zigzag."

"Oh, you need only go halfway. Then you won't gain very much momentum."

And Buddy accompanied me to the rope tow and showed me how to let the rope run through my hands, and then told me to close my fingers round it and go up.