Free Edith’s Diary by Patricia Highsmith Page A

he had been taking his college entrance exams. The man said they wanted to talk to Cliffie after the exams were over at 4 p.m., therefore Cliffie might be a little late. The man had sounded rather annoyed, curt. Cliffie’s being late was of no importance, as he was supposed to wait for Brett to pick him up at the high school just after 5. But the cheating! The answer paper (where had he got it from?), after the private tutors they had paid for in the last year! Cliffie’s math tutor, a boy going to Princeton and no older than Cliffie, had said last week that he thought Cliffie could make it on his intermediate algebra exam. Cliffie’s English was all right, if he bothered to use half his brain. And Cliffie had said just a couple of days ago that he
wanted
to pass this batch of exams so he could get into college (some college, because Princeton was out), so Edith and Brett had thought, this time, surely, Cliffie would come through.
    Brett was going to be livid, the atmosphere in the house awful for the next days. How many days? Would Brett be so angry, he’d tell Cliffie to get out of the house and fend for himself? Brett might want to, but he’d be afraid to, Edith thought, afraid Cliffie would get himself into worse trouble. Cliffie could strike up an acquaintance in a bar, for instance, go with someone on a robbery and – Cliffie would be the fall guy. It hadn’t happened, but it might.
    Edith forced herself to stop thinking about that. Cliffie was going to stay home. There was nothing stronger than Cliffie’s will to stay home. Home was comfortable, safe, cheap – in fact he didn’t pay anything except five dollars a week now and then when he had a temporary job. Home provided meals, laundry service, television, heat in winter and air-conditioning in summer.
    ‘We asked your son if he didn’t want to call you himself, Mrs Howland, but he didn’t, so we’re doing it,’ Mr Colson or Coleman had said on the telephone.
    That meant Cliffie was in a funk of shame. Cliffie could lash out at his father verbally, and had once even swung a fist at him, but the blow hadn’t landed. Cliffie must’ve been in a muddle not to have told them that his father was picking him up after 5. Or did they mean to keep Cliffie longer than 5?
    It was nearly 4 now. She’d have to ring Brett. Edith took a deep breath, left the comfortable atmosphere of her workroom, went downstairs, and picked up the telephone. She dialed the
Standard
’s
number.
    ‘Hello, Mike,’ she said, recognizing the voice. ‘Could I speak to Brett, do you think?’
    ‘Why, I think that’s quite permissible, Edith,’ Mike drawled, and connected her.
    ‘Yep?’ said Brett.
    ‘Hello, Brett, it’s me. Listen – Cliffie might be a bit late, I’m not sure. They telephoned me and said there’s some delay with everything.’
    ‘Something happen?’ Brett sounded on the scent already.
    ‘I don’t think so. Just that he might not be on the steps when you get to the school. You might have to ask where he is.’
    Brett laughed a little. ‘You mean he fainted and they’re still trying to bring him to?’
    ‘Maybe. See you later, dear.’ She hung up.
    Now it was time for George’s tea. Today Edith almost enjoyed the chore, though most days it annoyed her, interrupting her writing, or gardening, or something else. She made Twining tea in the blue and white pot, and put two ginger cookies on a saucer. She carried the tray up.
    George was asleep, wheezing a little, propped up on his back. His right hand, big and bony, lay limp on a library book which was open on his abdomen. The room smelt musty, despite the partly open window. The room had a paleness, a whiteness that depressed Edith. It was due to the expanse of bedsheets, she thought.
    ‘George?’ Edith called. ‘Teatime.’ She had to repeat it, more loudly. Edith disliked waking people up, even waking George who liked being awakened because it was evidently for a meal.
    ‘Wha – Oh! ’Course,