When Hutch had poured a cup of coffee and found the box of dry saltines, he sat between them.
No one met anyone else’s eyes, and the better part of two minutes passed before Boat spoke. “Mr. Mayfield, is it too late to call Ivory?”
Hutch glanced to the wall clock—just past eleven. He’d forgot his promise to Wade to call her, but it seemed late to disturb a working person with desolate news. “I guess we’d better wait till morning.”
Boat said “Wade asked for Ivory several times today, while you were out.”
“And Strawson,” Ann said. “Straw never sleeps.”
Hutch had forgot Straw too. Well, it had to be unmerciful to rouse anybody for news they couldn’t act on, not tonight. “I’ll call them both first thing in the morning.”
Ann agreed.
But Boat met Hutch’s eyes a long time.
Hutch said “Am I wrong?”
“Mr. Hutch, this is your business to run. But if I was up in Harlem this minute, hearing nothing but garbage trucks in the street and men killing kids, I’d want you to call me soon as you could, any hour of the dark—I loved Wade that much. I could anyhow get down on my knees and beg God to ease him passing over and guard him from worse than he’s known already.”
Hutch looked to Ann.
She said “The same for me.” No tall sycamore in late December was ever stripped cleaner.
So once they’d each lapsed back into silence and Hutch had drunk the last of his coffee, he said “I think I’ll say good night. I’ll try to phone Ivory and Straw from my room. If anybody needs me, don’t hesitate to knock.” He pushed back his chair to stand.
But Boat leaned toward him across the table, both hands extended.
Hutch reached to take them and press them hard. They were tough as new leather and nearly dry as Grainger’s.
Boat freed one hand and held it to Ann.
Hutch met her eyes and mouthed a silent Yes.
So she gave her own two hands to make a full circuit. The three of them held there, quiet together, for maybe ten seconds. Still no force moved among their hands—none but their own alert exhaustion, their bone-deep sadness.
Hutch stood and left them.
51
THIS time a machine answered Ivory’s number, a deep strange man’s voice. “Please leave a message.”
Hutch almost hung up but then chose to gamble. “If this is Miss Bondurant’s residence, I’m Hutchins Mayfield in North Carolina.” He waited a moment.
Then Ivory’s voice said “Good evening, Mr. Mayfield.”
“I’m sorry to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I was lying here, knowing you’d call tonight.”
“And so I have.”
“Wade’s gone then,” she said.
“Very peacefully, yes. Jimmy Boat was with him in his old bedroom; his mother and I were just a few yards off in the kitchen—no sound or struggle.”
Ivory took a long wait. “Well, God, now we can all stop hoping.”
Though plainly not harsh, it struck Hutch as a very odd thing to say. “I guess I’d given up hope way back.”
Ivory said “You had to. I’m just a fool. But then I guess I need to be.”
Again the words seemed so unlike her, Hutch wondered if she was drinking maybe or confused from sleep; and who was the strange man’s voice on her answering machine? “Whatever, Ivory—you helped Wade live as long as he did. He mentioned you today.”
“How was that, Mr. Mayfield?”
Again he asked her to call him Hutch.
“That doesn’t seem right—not yet at least.”
So he answered her question. “Wade said to tell you his tour was finished—he may have said trip, but I think it was tour. Then he said he’d see you and your family soon.”
Ivory said “Wade Mayfield was one gentle man.”
“That he was, to the end.”
“Do you believe he’s ended then?” Her voice made it sound like a genuine question.
Hutch said “How do you mean that exactly?”
“Do people outlast death, as themselves somehow?”
He said “I’ve got a lifelong hunch they do, no personal proof though. One of my old college philosophy teachers used to say ‘The human race in general has believed in immortality; the opinion of a whole race is worth consideration at the least.’” When Ivory was silent Hutch said “And you?”
“I pretty much gave up faith, back in college; but lately I’ve had strong feelings again, like messages almost.”
“From Wyatt or who?”
Ivory said “As a matter of fact, my brother, yes.”
“You’ve felt him near?”
“Just twice,” she said. “Both times strong and close at hand. The second time he brushed my hand, along the back, barely raking my knuckles.”
So Hutch had to tell her. “I felt him today—Wyatt, strong, yes. I was in Wade’s room just before he died—just Wade and I in the space alone—and I’ll swear Wyatt’s presence swept in on us.”
Ivory took the report as a credible fact. “He’s furious, isn’t he?—still, poor child.”
“Frightening, yes.”
“He’ll start to calm.” Her voice was free of tears.
“How’s that?” Hutch said.
“Wyatt has all of Wade on his side from here on.”
Hutch couldn’t think how to go further than that. Can’t and maybe won’t ever need to. He said “I’ll let you sleep on then—deep thanks again. Wade’s asked to be buried up there by Wyatt. When we’ve had our memorial service among his friends down here, in a week or two, I’ll bring the ashes north and shut the apartment. Then if you and your mother don’t object, we’ll bury Wade with Wyatt—I think you said Wyatt’s buried on Long Island?”
Ivory took a long wait. “He is, in Sea Cliff next to our father. Mother and I won’t object, no sir. Not if that’s your wish.”
“I’ll call again when I’ve got clear plans. But get some sleep.”
Ivory balked at saying goodbye. She said a long “Ah”; then “Would I be welcome at Wade’s service, if I could get off?”
“You’d be welcome as the day, absolutely. We’ll have it on a weekend if that will help. Please come.”
“If I can,” she said. “I owe him that much.”
“Ivory, you’ve paid any debt many times with the care you gave him. But I’ll call the moment we have a firm plan.”
For all her self-possession, Ivory said “Promise—”
“A strong promise, surely.”
Then she was gone, no word of goodbye.
That chilled Hutch a little; but before he could dwell on Ivory’s strangeness, he punched Straw’s number. Two rings, then Strawson’s deep “All right.”
At the sound of that voice, Hutch’s own throat shut again.
In his deepest bass, Straw carefully and politely said “If you’re the psycho son of a bitch that’s been calling here and scaring my wife, you’ve met your match tonight, hot stuff. Here comes ten thousand rads of pure X ray down the wire to your ear.” He made an ominous crackling sound; then “There, your brain is hopelessly fried.”
At least Hutch could chuckle. “It’s nobody but me.”
“Hey you. You holding your own tonight?”
“That’s the point,” Hutch said. “My hands are fresh empty.”
“Since how long ago?”
“Three hours maybe. We’ve all been busy, doing small chores.”
Straw said “You’re saying he’s already gone?”
“Wade died tonight. In a good deal of peace.”
Slowly Straw said “Please understand me. Is Wade still there at the house with you?”
“His body, in his bed, clean and ready, yes.”
“I’ll be straight down there then, all right?”
“We’ve got a full house—Ann’s here and Jimmy Boat.”
Straw said “I won’t lie down; I won’t press on you. I just want to see that boy on human grounds, not
in some creep’s embalming parlor.”
“No chance of that. Wade asked for cremation.”
“But you said he’s still there.”
Hutch said “Till morning. Then the undertaker comes.”
“I’m leaving this minute.”
Hutch couldn’t pretend he wanted Straw’s presence this late in the night, but he knew Straw had true rights in this—all his care for Wade through the years. He said “Don’t knock. Just tap on my window.”
Straw said “I’ll sleep in the car till dawn.”
Hutch knew he meant it, no point in a quarrel. “I’ll see you at daybreak; watch your step on the road.” Then “Thanks, old mate.”
“None older,” Straw said. “Lean on that at least.”
In under ten minutes, and fully dressed on top of his sheets, Hutch was deeper asleep than he’d been in weeks.
52
AT four forty-five in the sounding dark, Hutch’s eyes clicked open. The moment he knew he was truly awake, a thick shaft drove right through his body from head to feet—You are utterly alone. In fact, he was. With Wade gone, there were no blood kin to whom Hutch felt remotely close except old Grainger at the end of his century. No friend any nearer to hand than Strawson. And Ann had made her choice to leave, a choice Hutch still couldn’t make himself fight. So a fairly enormous story had ended, as human stories go at least—a story whose long path was visible for ninety years anyhow, from a night in the spring of 1903 when his young grandmother had abandoned her family to flee with her high school Latin teacher and start the line that ended here in Hutch.
All his adult life he’d been a namer, a man whose trade was an effort to transcribe the living and dead in durable words—the minimal words that can summon an essence before the eyes of distant strangers and leave them better endowed for time than they presently are, alone in the solitary cells of their own lives—so now Hutch lay on flat in the thick dark and tried to name his family’s journey. All he could find, here anyhow, was a single word—a word he’d dreaded most of his life: unmitigated waste. What was left of ninety years of Kendals and Mayfields, them and all their close dependents, but the barely phosphorescent trail left by the burning of what they’d all called love as their fuel?—their treacherous, always vanishing fuel, their craving for time. With Wade’s abandoned shell of a body just yards away, that finding seemed unbearably right to Hutch and too hard to live with, this close to daybreak.
Hutch got to his feet, found his robe in the dark and quietly made his way to Wade’s room. In the doorway he paused and listened for Boat—Boat had chosen to sleep again on the floor by Wade.
And there was faint breathing, steady enough to indicate sleep.
So Hutch stepped in. The chair that had sat by the bed was gone. With slow care to make no noise, Hutch sat on the edge of the mattress at the level of Wade’s sharp hipbone encased in the dry nightshirt and the sheet.
At first he felt he shouldn’t touch Wade; the skin would be cold and the rigor of death would have surely set in. But as Hutch sat on, working back toward pictures of a live smiling Wade—ten, twenty years ago—he soon was silently telling himself This is truly the end of the best thing you made; touch him one more time for memory at least. Slowly again Hutch ran his left hand under the sheet toward Wade’s upper arm.
It was cool, not cold, and still yielding to the touch.
Hutch’s thumb tried to brush the skin lightly.
Only then did a force as repellent as high wind pour out of Wade into Hutch’s own body.
Tired and grieving as he was, Hutch still could think of no name but Wyatt’s. Ivory, nearly five hundred miles north, had known that Wyatt owned all of Wade now. Hutch kept his thumb in place and tried to tell the source of that power how thoroughly he ceded his rights in the last remains of his only child. In his mind he said three times Take him, yes.
But the force became an actual blast of silent demand, as strong as loathing.
Hutch bore it ten seconds more—it was surely reaching Boat’s sleep too. What would Boat do or say?
When Hutch couldn’t stand it any longer and drew his hand back free from the covers, Boat spoke plainly from his mat on the floor. “You know who it is here this minute, don’t you, Hutch?”
“I do. And I’ve given Wade up to him—”
Boat waited so long Hutch thought he was gone into sleep again; but then Boat said “Excuse me, Mr. Mayfield, but maybe you still need to know—Wade hasn’t been yours to give for long years.”
Hutch thought I’ve known that longer than you; but he had the grace in the dark to thank Boat, then stand and leave.
53
WHERE he went was toward Ann. She’d shut the guest room door and no light showed; but the last few minutes had left Hutch gravely in need of a presence that stood a chance of welcoming him, tolerating him at least. Without a knock he turned the knob and entered dark air. A good deal of starlight fell through the one big window that Ann had opened beyond her.
Her body was clearly outlined on the bed, a wide double bed. She was on her side, facing the window, apparently wearing only her slip. Her legs were covered to the knee by an afghan.
Hutch went to the near edge of the mattress and waited long enough for Ann to send him out if she wanted, if she sensed his presence. What felt to Hutch like a long time passed, a stretch of minutes in which his right hand burned on still with the memory of Wyatt. Finally he couldn’t make himself wait longer. With gradual care to lighten his moves, Hutch laid his body in the tangled space on the near side of Ann. She was still turned away, though she’d silently waked; Hutch was on his back.
Separate but near, they each soon thought of their bodies’ long denial. Neither had touched another body, not in intimate need, since Ann left here. Alone on their own beds, they’d fed their bodies the best they could manage in their first weeks apart. Then as Wade came home, and his desperation gripped them, they’d silently lost all secret need and lived in their own skins, chaste as clean linen. Now with Wade bound outward, Hutch and Ann lay on, wondering if some kind of trusting union might come down on them in a new natural craving, for partial ease. But neither one’s mind could raise itself to that pitch of want; neither one’s voice had the modest daring to speak in this quiet room and own up to what had become for each a slow starvation.
Eventually, as the starlight dimmed for the endless minutes before sunrise, Ann turned to her back and lay, facing upward, a handspan from Hutch. When she could hear he was still awake, she said “You’re thinking of Wyatt, right?”
“Right, as ever.”
“He’s been all in here, all night, hasn’t he?”
“In my mind at least. And Boatie’s felt him.”
“God damn his soul then.” Ann plainly meant it.
Hutch waited till he felt he had the full right. “Oh no. Wade’s his.”
“I understand that, yes. It hurts worse than Hell.”
“It’ll pass,” Hutch said. “Hell doesn’t exist—not for Wade Mayfield, not after tonight.”
“You can’t promise that.” Ann’s voice was level but still firmly convinced.
“No, I can’t—no promises ever again. But both of us need to believe we’ll outlast even this.”
Ann said “I’m sorry to repeat myself; and Hutch, I’m half glad you think I’m so wrong. But still I very much doubt I’ll outlast my soul’s deep suspicion that, if there’s a place of long damnation, then Wade is in it.”
That stopped Hutch for minutes. He finally said “You’re willing Hell, listen. That’s all Hell is—pure human sadism: you want Wade to burn, for your wild reasons.”
“I’ve got no choice; my whole life believes it.”
Hutch had always known that the unseen world—of gods and fate, yes or no—had come to him much more strongly than to Ann. The simplest child’s prayer was a trial for her; was she telling the truth or sucking sweet lies? So he knew he couldn’t press harder tonight. But he found what felt like a sizable fact and off
ered that to her. “I’ve known a big lot of smart women in my life. Not one of them ever out-ran you for smartness. You can’t scald yourself in ignorance forever; trust your mind. Wade died a good man. Teach yourself that at least. Two people as bent on life as we’ve been are bound to survive, so we owe Wade simple justice at least—intelligent memory.”
Ann had no answer, or offered none. Like Hutch, she’d lost too much through the years to doubt her own adamant strength—the child she’d aborted (that still came at her in dreams, begging life), her long-gone parents, a dozen or so dear missing friends: none of them had downed her, deep as they hurt. So she lay in reach of the warmth from Hutch, not speaking or touching, till daylight first pierced the wide east window. Then she quietly rose and went to look out. It took her awhile to understand, but then she turned and said to Hutch “Strawson is waiting out there in his car.”
In the threatened night, Hutch had forgot that Straw was coming; but he only said “He’s expected, yes.” What he hadn’t expected was the hope that suddenly shot all through him from the sight of Ann’s face.
Even this early, and her hair disarranged, the strength she’d promised last night to bring was visible on her, in her face and eyes. It even seemed greater than ever in her life. And to Hutch that strength felt almost ready to open again and offer him anything he could use. He thanked her simply for being here; but when she only nodded and moved toward the door, he thought the prospect of Straw had troubled her. He said “No way we can wall out Strawson. Straw was in at the start of Wade’s life, and you well know it.” Then Hutch got up too and went toward his friend, the first hope of ease.
Ann reminded herself that she’d urged Hutch to call Straw last evening. She had no grounds for real complaint then; and for the first time in more than a year, she felt none at all. Age and loss—she’d started to see—were the normal acids in every life, eating away the iron spine of anger and greed and unjust demand. She’d wash and dress in yesterday’s clothes and offer to cook a big breakfast for all. Even she was hungry. So what she said was “Bring Straw in, any time you’re ready.”
The Promise of Rest Page 32