Edith’s Diary by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online

that’s not really summing it up either.’
    ‘Hum-m,’ George said, pushing his head comfortably back into the pillows and gazing at the ceiling. ‘I consider him simply a modern boy. He’s a product of the television age. He’s become passive, and like all of us now, he’s bombarded by information, baffled and amused by events over which he knows he has no control – and he never expects to have any. A fit candidate for the Welfare State or whatever they call it in England.’
    Edith remembered that a few years ago, she’d written much the same thing, using different phrases, about Cliffie in her diary. ‘We even tried to budget the TV once,’ Edith said. ‘It didn’t work. Cliffie can sulk.’
    George coughed and reached for a wadded handkerchief. He had Kleenexes, but preferred handkerchiefs. He was making no reply.
    ‘I wonder where we went wrong?’ Edith laughed a little. She realized she was goading George to make a remark in Cliffie’s favor, to mention any smallest positive, praiseworthy thing.
    ‘The time is out of joint,’ George said. ‘This is not an age for heroes.’
    ‘Gumption I’m talking about. Maybe with puberty – You know —’ She was launched now, for better or worse baring her mind to selfish, pain-in-the-neck George because at least he was a new ear and was listening quite as attentively as Brett ever did. ‘You know with puberty, there’s often an impetus, life takes on a meaning, and there’s a drive toward something, even if it’s only – butterfly collecting or making model ships.’
    George looked at her condescendingly. ‘Puberty means what puberty means. There’s an increased awareness of the opposite sex, perhaps.’
    ‘I mean,’ Edith said, pushing the second straight chair farther from her and wishing she had a cigarette, ‘you know what they say about artists, that every child is an artist till puberty, then with puberty he drops it, while the real artist derives strength and a sense of purpose and goes
on
.’
    ‘Is Cliffie showing any interest in art?’
    ‘No.’ Edith smiled.
    There was a silence then. Was George about to doze off? But his dark brown eyes, which were not looking at her, had not quite closed. Their lower lids sagged a bit, showing pink, reminding Edith of an ageing hound. She looked away.
    ‘I just sometimes wonder if he’ll ever pull out – wake up,’ Edith said. ‘So does Brett.’
    George still said nothing. Edith felt his silence, felt his eyes which were on her now. It was as if George might not want to hurt her by commenting further. Then he said:
    ‘Is Brett really liking his job in Trenton, liking the life here?’
    Edith felt a swift shock of insult. ‘Oh, the life, yes. He says the atmosphere isn’t as lively as in New York with the
Trib
.
Most of the material the
Standard
prints is syndicated. But the pay’s not too bad. – Brett and I are starting a newspaper here, maybe he told you.
The Brunswick Corner Bugle.

We’re aiming for Christmas for our first issue – aided financially by some ads the local shops have given us.’ Edith smiled. ‘That’s why the phone rings more often lately. Advertisers. Or Gert informing me —’ But Edith wasn’t sure George was able to hear the telephone. Edith knew George didn’t care for her or Brett’s politics, thought they were babes-in-the-wood, doomed to failure. But after all Tom Paine’s
Crisis
had been a small paper, and with what results!
    ‘Is it cheaper living here than in New York? I suppose so.’
    ‘Oh, it would be now, if we hadn’t so many expenses on the house. You know how it is at first, the extras —’ Edith was not thinking about what she was saying. She felt embarrassed, somehow almost humiliated, and stood up, saying, ‘I’ll take off. Things to do below stairs.’ She collected plates.
    ‘Dear Edith, I wonder if you’d mind terribly bringing me a cup of hot Ovaltine?’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘Yes, please. I think it’s just the thing to get me