23I rushed out. The far side of our steep little street presented apeculiar sight. A big black glossy Packard had climbed Miss Opposite'ssloping lawn at an angle from the sidewalk (where a tartan laprobe haddropped in a heap), and stood there, shining in the sun, its doors open likewings, its front wheels deep in evergreen shrubbery. To the anatomical rightof this car, on the trim turn of the lawn-slope, an old gentleman with awhite mustache, well-dressed--double-breasted gray suit, polka-dottedbow-tie--lay supine, his long legs together, like a death-size wax figure. Ihave to put the impact of an instantaneous vision into a sequence of words;their physical accumulation in the page impairs the actual flash, the sharpunity of impression: Rug-heap, car, old man-doll, Miss O.'s nurse runningwith a rustle, a half-empty tumbler in her hand, back to the screenedporch--where the propped-up, imprisoned, decrepit lady herself may beimagined screeching, but not loud enough to drown the rhythmical yaps of theJunk setter walking from group to group--from a bunch of neighbors alreadycollected on the sidewalk, near the bit of checked stuff, and back to thecar which he had finally run to earth, and then to another group on thelawn, consisting of Leslie, two policemen and a sturdy man with tortoiseshell glasses. At this point, I should explain that the prompt appearance ofthe patrolmen, hardly more than a minute after the accident, was due totheir having been ticketing the illegally parked cars in a cross lane twoblocks down the grade; that the fellow with the glasses was Frederick Beale,Jr., driver of the Packard; that his 79-year-old father, whom the nurse hadjust watered on the green bank where he lay--a banked banker so tospeak--was not in a dead faint, but was comfortably and methodicallyrecovering from a mild heart attack or its possibility; and, finally, thatthe laprobe on the sidewalk (where she had so often pointed out to me withdisapproval the crooked green cracks) concealed the mangled remains ofCharlotte Humbert who had been knocked down and dragged several feet by theBeale car as she was hurrying across the street to drop three letters in themailbox, at the corner of Miss Opposite's lawn. These were picked up andhanded to me by a pretty child in a dirty pink frock, and I got rid of themby clawing them to fragments in my trouser pocket. Three doctors and the Farlows presently arrived on the scene and tookover. The widower, a man of exceptional self-control, neither wept norraved. He staggered a bit, that he did; but he opened his mouth only toimpart such information or issue such directions as were strictly necessaryin connection with the identification, examination and disposal of a deadwoman, the top of her head a porridge of bone, brains, bronze hair andblood. The sun was still a blinding red when he was put to bed in Dolly'sroom by his two friends, gentle John and dewy-eyed Jean; who, to be near,retired to the Humberts' bedroom for the night; which, for all I know, theymay not have spent as innocently as the solemnity of the occasion required. I have no reason to dwell, in this very special memoir, on thepre-funeral formalities that had to be attended to, or on the funeralitself, which was as quiet as the marriage had been. But a few incidentspertaining to those four or five days after Charlotte's simple death, haveto be noted. My first night of widowhood I was so drunk that I slept as soundly asthe child who had slept in that bed. Next morning I hastened to inspect thefragments of letters in my pocket. They had got too thoroughly mixed up tobe sorted into three complete sets. I assumed that ". . . and you had betterfind it because I cannot buy . . . " came from a letter to Lo; and otherfragments seemed to point to Charlotte's intention of fleeing with Lo toParkington, or even back to Pisky, lest the vulture snatch her preciouslamb. Other tatters and shreds (never had I thought I had such strongtalons) obviously referred to an application not to St. A. but to anotherboarding school which was said to be so harsh and gray and gaunt in itsmethods (although supplying croquet under the elms) as to have earned thenickname of "Reformatory for Young Ladies." Finally, the third epistle wasobviously addressed to me. I made out such items as ". . . after a year ofseparation we may . . . " ". . . oh, my dearest, oh my . . . " ". . . worsethan if it had been a woman you kept . . ." ". . . or, maybe, I shall die .. ." But on the whole my gleanings made little sense; the various fragmentsof those three hasty missives were as jumbled in the palms of my hands astheir elements had been in poor Charlotte's head. That day John had to see a customer, and Jean had to feed her dogs, andso I was to be deprived temporarily of my friends' company. The dear peoplewere afraid I might commit suicide if left alone, and since no other friendswere available (Miss Opposite was incommunicado, the McCoos were busybuilding a new house miles away, and the Chatfields had been recently calledto Maine by some family trouble of their own), Leslie and Louise werecommissioned to keep me company under the pretense of helping me to sort outand pack a multitude of orphaned things. In a moment of superb inspiration Ishowed the kind and credulous Farlows (we were waiting for Leslie to comefor his paid tryst with Louise) a little photograph of Charlotte I had foundamong her affairs. From a boulder she smiled through blown hair. It had beentaken in April 1934, a memorable spring. While on a business visit to theStates, I had had occasion to spend several months in Pisky. We met--and hada mad love affair. I was married, alas, and she was engaged to Haze, butafter I returned to Europe, we corresponded through a friend, now dead. Jeanwhispered she had heard some rumors and looked at the snapshot, and, stilllooking, handed it to John, and John removed his pipe and looked at lovelyand fast Charlotte Becker, and handed it back to me. Then they left for afew hours. Happy Louise was gurgling and scolding her swain in the basement. Hardly had the Farlows gone than a blue-chinned cleric called--and Itried to make the interview as brief as was consistent with neither hurtinghis feelings nor arousing his doubts. Yes, I would devote all my life to thechild's welfare. Here, incidentally, was a little cross that CharlotteBecker had given me when we were both young. I had a female cousin, arespectable spinster in New York. There we would find a good private schoolfor Dolly. Oh, what a crafty Humbert! For the benefit of Leslie and Louise who might (and did) report it toJohn and Jean I made a tremendously loud and beautifully enactedlong-distance call and simulated a conversation with Shirley Holmes. WhenJohn and Jean returned, I completely took them in by telling them, in adeliberately wild and confused mutter, that Lo had gone with theintermediate group on a five-day hike and could not be reached. "Good Lord," said Jean, "what shall we do?" John said it was perfectly simple--he would get the Climax police tofind the hikers--it would not take them an hour. In fact, he knew thecountry and-- "Look," he continued, "why don' I drive there right now, and you maysleep with Jean"--(he did not really add that but Jean supported his offerso passionately that it might be implied). I broke down. I pleaded with John to let things remain the way theywere. I said I could not bear to have the child all around me, sobbing,clinging to me, she was so high-strung, the experience might react on herfuture, psychiatrists have analyzed such cases. There was a sudden pause. "Well, you are the doctor," said John a little bluntly. "But after allI was Charlotte's friend and adviser. One would like to know what you aregoing to do about the child anyway." "John," cried Jean, "she is his child, not Harold Haze's. Don't youunderstand? Humbert is Dolly's real father." "I see," said John. "I am sorry. Yes. I see. I did not realize that. Itsimplifies matters, of course. And whatever you feel is right." The distraught father went on to say he would go and fetch his delicatedaughter immediately after the funeral, and would do his best to give her agood time in totally different surroundings, perhaps a trip to New Mexico orCalifornia--granted, of course, he lived. So artistically did I impersonate the calm of ultimate despair, thehush before some crazy outburst, that the perfect Farlows removed me totheir house. They had a good cellar, as cellars go in this country; and thatwas helpful, for I feared insomnia and a ghost. Now I must explain my reasons for keeping Dolores away.Naturally, at first, when Charlotte had just been eliminated and Ire-entered the house a free father, and gulped down the twowhiskey-and-sodas I had prepared, and topped them with a pint or two of my"pin," and went to the bathroom to get away from neighbors and friends,there was but one thing in my mind and pulse--namely, the awareness that afew hours hence, warm, brown--haired, and mine, mine, mine, Lolita would bein my arms, shedding tears that I would kiss away faster than they couldwell. But as I stood wide-eyed and flushed before the mirror, John Farlowtenderly tapped to inquire if I was okay--and I immediately realized itwould be madness on my part to have her in the house with all thosebusybodies milling around and scheming to take her away from me. Indeed,unpredictable Lo herself might--who knows?--show some foolish distrust ofme, a sudden repugnance, vague fear and the like--and gone would be themagic prize at the very instant of triumph. Speaking of busybodies, I had another visitor--friend Beale, the fellowwho eliminated my wife. Stodgy and solemn, looking like a kind of assistantexecutioner, with his bulldog jowls, small black eyes, thickly rimmedglasses and conspicuous nostrils, he was ushered in by John who then leftus, closing the door upon us, with the utmost tact. Suavely saying he hadtwins in my stepdaughter's class, my grotesque visitor unrolled a largediagram he had made of the accident. It was, as my stepdaughter would haveput it, "a beaut," with all kinds of impressive arrows and dotted lines invaricolored inks. Mrs. H.H.'s trajectory was illustrated at several pointsby a series of those little outline figures--doll-like wee career girl orWAC--used in statistics as visual aids. Very clearly and conclusively, thisroute came into contact with a boldly traced sinuous line representing twoconsecutive swerves--one which the Beale car made to avoid the Junk dog (dognot shown), and the second, a kind of exaggerated continuation of the first,meant to avert the tragedy. A very black cross indicated the spot where thetrim little outline figure had at last come to rest on the sidewalk. Ilooked for some similar mark to denote the place on the embankment where myvisitor's huge wax father had reclined, but there was none. That gentleman,however, had signed the document as a witness underneath the name of LeslieTomson, Miss Opposite and a few other people. With his hummingbird pencil deftly and delicately flying from one pointto another, Frederick demonstrated his absolute innocence and therecklessness of my wife: while he was in the act of avoiding the dog,she slipped on the freshly watered asphalt and plunged forwardwhereas she should have flung herself not forward but backward (Fred showedhow by a jerk of his padded shoulder). I said it was certainly not hisfault, and the inquest upheld my view. Breathing violently though jet-black tense nostrils, he shook his headand my hand; then, with an air of perfect savoir vivre andgentlemanly generosity, he offered to pay the funeral-home expenses. Heexpected me to refuse his offer. With a drunken sob of gratitude I acceptedit. This took him aback. Slowly, incredulously, he repeated what he hadsaid. I thanked him again, even more profusely than before. In result of that weird interview, the numbness of my soul was for amoment resolved. And no wonder! I had actually seen the agent of fate. I hadpalpated the very flesh of fate--and its padded shoulder. A brilliant andmonstrous mutation had suddenly taken place, and here was the instrument.Within the intricacies of the pattern (hurrying housewife, slipperypavement, a pest of a dog, steep grade, big car, baboon at its wheel), Icould dimly distinguish my own vile contribution. Had I not been such afool--or such an intuitive genius--to preserve that journal, fluids producedby vindictive anger and hot shame would not have blinded Charlotte in herdash to the mailbox. But even had they blinded her, still nothing might havehappened, had not precise fate, that synchronizing phantom, mixed within itsalembic the car and the dog and the sun and the shade and the wet and theweak and the strong and the stone. Adieu, Marlene! Fat fate's formalhandshake (as reproduced by Beale before leaving the room) brought me out ofmy torpor; and I wept. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury--I wept.