Ted also played the role of peacemaker when it came to deciding whether Mrs. Mountsier or Glorie should drive. “Personally,” he said, smiling at Glorie, “I think people of your age are better drivers than their parents. On the other hand”—he turned his smile to Mrs. Mountsier—“people like us are unbearable backseat drivers.” Ted turned back to Glorie. “Let your mother drive,” he told the girl. “It’s the only way to keep her from being a backseat driver.”
Although Ted had seemed indifferent to Effie’s rolling her eyes, this time he anticipated her; he turned to the ugly wretch and rolled his eyes, just to show her that he knew.
To anyone seeing them, they were seated in the car like a reasonably normal family. Mrs. Mountsier was at the wheel with the convicted DWI celebrity in the passenger seat beside her. In the back were the children. The one with the misfortune to be ugly was, naturally, sullen and withdrawn; it was probably to be expected, because her apparent “sister” was comparatively pretty. Effie sat behind Ted, glaring at the back of his head. Glorie leaned forward, filling the space between the two front seats of Mrs. Mountsier’s dark-green Saab. By turning in his seat to view Mrs. Mountsier’s stunning profile, Ted could also glimpse her vivacious if not exactly beautiful daughter.
Mrs. Mountsier was a good driver who never took her eyes off the road. The daughter couldn’t take her eyes off Ted. For a day that had started out so badly, look what opportunities had come out of it! Ted glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was early in the afternoon. He would be home before two—plenty of time to show the mother and daughter his workroom while there was still good light. You can’t judge a day by its beginning, Ted had decided, as Mrs. Mountsier passed Agawam Lake and turned from Dune Road onto Gin Lane. Ted had been so transfixed by the visual comparison between mother and daughter that he’d not been watching the road.
“Oh, you’re going this way . . .” he said in a whisper.
“Why are you whispering?” Effie asked him.
On Gin Lane, Mrs. Mountsier was forced to slow the car to a crawl. The street was littered with paper; it hung from the hedges. As Mrs. Mountsier’s car passed, the paper swirled around it. A piece stuck to the windshield. Mrs. Mountsier considered stopping the car.
“Don’t stop!” Ted told her. “Just use your windshield wipers!”
“Talk about backseat drivers . . .” Effie remarked.
But, to Ted’s relief, the windshield wipers worked. The offending scrap of paper flew on. (Ted had briefly seen what he was sure was Mrs. Vaughn’s armpit; it was from one of the most compromising series, when she was on her back with her hands crossed behind her head.)
“What is all this stuff ?” Glorie asked.
“Someone’s trash, I guess,” her mother replied.
“Yes,” Ted said. “Someone’s dog must have got into someone’s trash.”
“What a mess,” Effie observed.
“They should fine whoever it is,” Mrs. Mountsier said.
“Yes,” Ted agreed. “Even if the culprit is a dog—fine the dog!” Everyone but Effie laughed.
As they neared the end of Gin Lane, a spirited gathering of shredded paper flew all around the moving car; it was as if the ripped drawings of Mrs. Vaughn’s humiliation didn’t want to let Ted go. But the corner was turned; the road ahead was clear. Ted felt a surge of wild happiness, but he made no attempt to express it. A rare moment of reflection overcame him; it was something almost biblical. In his undeserved escape from Mrs. Vaughn, and in the stimulating company of Mrs. Mountsier and her daughter, Ted Cole’s overriding thought repeated itself in his mind like a litany. Lust begets lust, begets lust, begets lust—over and over again. That was the thrill of it.
The Authority of the Written Word
The story that Eddie told Ruth in the car was something she would always remember. When she even momentarily forgot it, she had only to look at the thin scar on her right index finger, which would always be there. (When Ruth was in her forties, the scar was so small that it was visible only to her, or to someone who already knew it was there— someone who was looking for it.)
“There was once a little girl,” Eddie began.
“What was her name?” Ruth asked.
“Ruth,” Eddie replied.
“Yes,” Ruth agreed. “Go on.”
“She cut her finger on some broken glass,” Eddie continued, “and her finger bled and bled and bled. There was much more blood than Ruth thought could possibly be in her finger. She thought the blood must be coming from everywhere, from her whole body.”
“Right,” Ruth said.
“But when she went to the hospital, she needed only two shots and two stitches.”
“Three needles,” Ruth reminded him, counting the stitches.
“Oh, yes,” Eddie agreed. “But Ruth was very brave, and she didn’t mind that, for almost a week, she couldn’t swim in the ocean or even get her finger wet when she took a bath.”
“Why didn’t I mind?” Ruth asked him.
“Okay, maybe you minded a little, ” Eddie admitted. “But you didn’t complain about it.”