Collected Novels and Plays by James Merrill

father reminded her.
    “But you called up at eleven o’clock! We were leaving for the beach with a picnic, the twins and Lily and I.” Once again she seemed to appeal to Francis. “You just don’t disappoint little people that way, do you?”
    “If you remember,” said Mr. Tanning, “I suggested you bring the picnic over here. Grandpa has a beach in front of
his
house, too.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Enid, “I felt you had enough on your hands as it was, without the additional strain of three wild Indians.”
    “Oh I see.” Mr. Tanning swallowed a nitroglycerine pill. “You’ll soon come to realize,” he told Francis, “that your loving father sets an unsavory example for his grandchildren. We can only pray that they manage to live it down.”
    “You
know
that isn’t true, Daddy,” she said, her voice quieter and sadder now that she was indignant. Francis had a movement of tenderness. Enid, after all, lived far more than himself in the world of the Cottage; she played the game of kinship in a way that Francis, who tended to make up the rules as he went along, simply didn’t. Mostly he was touched by her having come to make peace alone, without Larry, trusting her
     brother—virtual stranger that he was—to see her through. “Sunday,” she was earnestly saying, “when you had us to meet the Goods, I told you I had a busy week ahead. Monday I went into town with Larry for the night. Tuesday—”
    “Say no more.” Mr. Tanning smiled wearily. “All is forgiven.”
    Enid gave a helpless laugh. “By the way,” she said after a bit, “I tookthe portrait to be restored. The little man thought it would take about three months. I said to him, ‘What is this, the
season
for slashed portraits?’”
    “Have you found out who did it?” asked Francis.
    “Oh dear,” their father sighed, rising.
    Did he have a pain? They were both alarmed. But no, he wanted only to wash his teeth. He tottered showily out of the room.
    Francis repeated his question. Had they found out who slashed the portrait?
    “Alas,” Enid giggled, “the culprit is still at large.”
    For no reason that he could tell she lowered her eyes. “It’s such a wild thing to have done,” he said encouragingly. “Who on earth would want to hurt you that much?”
    “Daddy’s theory,” she observed, avoiding her own, “is that somebody wanted to hurt
him.
He was very fond of the portrait.”
    “Does he still think Fern did it?”
    “She couldn’t have done it,” Enid flew to her defense, “unless she hired an assassin! She wasn’t in town. It happened on a Friday, the next day was Lily’s birthday. Not that
that
interesting fact,” she quickly added, her manner growing more and more social, “has anything to do with the case, but it’s one way I’m able to remember. Don’t you find you have funny little ways of remembering
     things?”
    By way of reply he swung round in his chair. Knowing that Enid suspected her, he had remembered the money Irene Cheek had left for Mr. Tanning. It was, of course, no longer on the desk. He felt sure that his father hadn’t picked it up.
    “You have the answer after all, I think,” he said. “There’s nothing a certain person wouldn’t do.”
    For the second time Enid refused to meet his eyes. Could she be hiding something? “Oh well,” she murmured, “the milk is spilled. We’ll never find out.”
    “
I
will!” Enid blinked. Francis chuckled at the idea of cross-questioningevery woman who came to the Cottage. “I’m serious, though. I’ll find out, you wait and see!”
    But she didn’t enter into it. “Sweetie, it wouldn’t do any good, even if you were able …”
    “Nonsense! The scene of the crime is overrun with suspects!”
    “I mean, I don’t believe Daddy really wants to know. It would upset him so. He’d lie awake—”
    “Don’t
you?
”
    She looked puzzled. “With my headaches?”
    “No—don’t you want to know who did it?”
    “Oh, naturally I’m