The Fourth Side of the Triangle

Talk about faithful Griselda! The heroine of the Clerk’s Tale was flaming with rebellion compared to his mother. She had devoted her life so single-mindedly to the happiness of her husband that she even went along with his betrayal of her as a woman! Or does that make me some sort of Buster Brown-haired prig? Dane thought. Considered as a feat of character, there was actually something sublime in Lutetia’s meekness. Maybe it’s I who haven’t grown up.

“Mother.” His tone was gentle. “Who is she? Do you know? Did he tell you?”

Again she surprised him. This descendant of a hundred Knickerbockers smiled her sweet and self-effacing smile. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this, darling. I’m sorry I did. You have your own problems. By the way, have you settled the question that was bothering you? I mean in your third chapter? I’ve been worrying about that all day,” and on and on she went in this vein, the subject of her husband’s unfaithfulness laid aside, as if she had put by her needlework for a more urgent activity.

I’ll have to find out myself who the woman is, Dane decided. It’s a cinch she’ll never tell me, even if she knows. Probably took some typical Victorian vow against ever allowing her lips to be “sullied” by the creature’s name.

“Never mind my third chapter, Mother. I’ll say one thing more, and then I’ll stop talking about this: Do you want to come live with me? Under the circumstances?” Even in broaching the possibility Dane felt like one of Nature’s noblemen. The most rewarding act of his life so far had been to take an apartment of his own.

His mother looked at him. “Thank you, dear, but no.”

“You’re going to go on here with Father, as if nothing had happened?”

“I don’t know what she is,” Lutetia McKell said, “but I’m my husband’s wife, and my place is with him. No, I’m not going to leave him. For one thing, it would make him unhappy...”

You, said Dane silently, are magnificence incarnate. You’re also either telling me a lie, which ladies do not do, or telling yourself one, which is far likelier, and more in accord with modern psychology. By God, the old girl had some iron in her after all! She was going to put up a fight.

Dane kissed her devotedly and left.

He had to find out who his father’s mistress was.

Exactly why he must unveil the other woman, Dane did not pause to puzzle over, beyond wondering mildly at his compulsive need and overhastily discarding the notion that it had something to do with Freud.

It actually had to do with his mother. The mere thought of that pale and fragile creature setting out to do battle with the forces of cynicism aroused all his pity. It was an uneven fight. Somehow he had to find a way to help her. (And hurt his father? But to that point Dane did not go.)

He considered for only one horrid moment taking the direct route, confronting his father with his knowledge, demanding, “Who is she?” The whole scene was too embarrassing to contemplate. His father would either grasp him by the neck and the seat of the pants and hurl him bodily from the premises (and isn’t the fear of physical punishment at those great father-hands deeply hidden inside you, Dane?) or, worse, he might break down and weep. Dane did not think he could stand either eventuality. (Or even a third possibility, which Dane did not consider: that his father might simply say, “It’s none of your business, son,” and change the subject.)

In any event, as Dane saw it, subterfuge was called for.

Ashton McKell’s movements were generally predictable. He had fairly fixed times for getting to his office and coming home, for going to his club, for reading his newspaper, his magazines, his Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling. Home at seven, dinner at eight, five days a week. It was on weekends that the elder McKell did his personal brand of carousing; but at those times he caroused in the open.

Except...

Except, Dane suddenly realized, that for weeks now — or was it months? — his father had not got home until far past his usual hour on one night of the week, Wednesday. Dane could not recall his mother’s ever commenting on this phenomenon; and all that his father had said, on the single occasion when Dane brought the subject up, was the one word: “Business.”

What “business” was it that recurred Wednesday nights regularly? It seemed an easy leap to the conclusion that on Wednesday nights Ashton McKell made rendezvous with his mistress.

Nothing could be done about it today, which was Tuesday. But tomorrow... His weekend plans would have to be scrapped, Dane told himself, nursing the hunch that it would be a busy time.

He turned to the mumble-sheet in his typewriter.

Jerry at the old stone quarry. Ellen comes, rest as noted. Okay, but. WHY does Jerry go there? To swim? April — too early. Maybe to fish. Check: fish in stone quarries?