After Gregory

by Austin Wright

  You told Jack Rome at your next meeting. You were afraid of his reaction to the threat of disclosure. You were resigned to it, yourself. There was always a chance Gregory’s escape would be found out. It could be discovered without your knowing. It might even be known already, or suspected. The great advantage of your fortune, it could protect you from anything. If Florry Gates’s father pursued his suit, your lawyer would fix it. The Sebastian case was closed, the only consequence would be a fuss in the papers. If your identity were revealed, you would calmly acknowledge it. The only threat would be if Peter Gregory had committed a crime. You didn’t have to worry about that, as far as you knew.

  Rome wanted to know what was so special about Nancy Nolan. Nothing, you said, except this one thing. She was perfectly average, inconspicuous among the other students, looking just like them, but when they met on the sidewalk she consistently noticed him before he noticed her. This happened so often he began to anticipate it, and still she surprised him. He would be walking against the crowd flow, wondering if he would see her, and there she was, saying hello before he recognized her.

  So she found you out again, Rome said. You should wear sunglasses when you go into a crowd.

  TWENTY TWO

  As Stephen Trace you found a fine big apartment overlooking the East River, near a girdered bridge. Later Mrs. Koin the real estate agent found you a house, forty or fifty miles from the city on Long Island Sound. This gave you two residences. The house occupied a small island with garden and a few trees, separated from the shore by a ten-foot wide channel with a wooden bridge. There was a broad porch all the way around with pillars of piled boulders, wooden balconies, high ceilings, a path to the dock. Overgrown and weedy. Mrs. Koin said you could hire gardeners and turn it into a beauty spot. Stephen Trace, eyes trusting like the robin, waited to be filled up. By now it was September.

  The next job was to occupy the house and apartment. He went to antique stores, department stores. Furniture vans drove up to the island, easing their heavy wheels across the wooden bridge. Fat men carried valuable pieces of mahogany up the steps past the newly trimmed bushes. Carpets, lamps, prints and decorative screens. He hired Mrs. Heckel as housekeeper and Mr. Jollop to take care of the grounds. In October he moved in. Curtains, pillows, soup dishes, furnishings for Stephen Trace.

  You walked around the house, windows looking at the water, up the central staircase with its curved railing, out onto the balconies, reveling in astonishment. Mrs. Heckel made useful suggestions. It would look nicer if you had a little carpet in the dining room passage. How about an automatic washer in the laundry room?

  You wanted an audience for the house and friends for Stephen Trace, to visit and sit in chairs on his porch and look at his view of the Sound. He sought groups to join and met some real people. Mr. and Mrs. McIntosh across the inlet invited him over for drinks. They showed Stephen their formal garden, with a rose-covered trellis, birdbaths, a statue of a nude woman, a gazebo. Inside, a collection of old musical instruments. Stephen studied how they spent their money, looking for ideas, while Mrs. McIntosh lectured him on the importance of a wife. Carson Grant invited him to dinner. He had hanging carpets on the walls and offered Stephen tickets to the World Series, the Superbowl, the opera, anything you want, just call me a day in advance. He also strongly advised Stephen to join the Episcopalian Church. The wine cost $300 a bottle, and you wondered how long it would take Stephen to learn to recognize the value in the taste.

  The most impressive neighbor was George Bristaff, whose mansion had an awning and valet parking, like a fine hotel. Bristaff’s wife wore a tiara, and he took you aside to advise you about the importance of spending your money wisely. Ordinary people are watching us, he said. They look to us for guidance, which puts a great responsibility on us, not only to show how we utilize our resources, but to impress on them the value of money by displaying clearly and unequivocally what, to put it brutally, they simply cannot afford. To serve humanity, he said, he had contributed a CAT scan machine to the local hospital: if you use it, he said, you’ll see my name on a name plate above your nose just before you enter the tunnel. He had a model railway through his garden, disappearing behind the bushes and trees, and he was making plans to build a working replica of one of the classic steamboats that traveled the waters of the Sound sixty years ago, carrying passengers by this very point in the night.

  Stephen Trace returned these invitations and invited other people as well. Mrs. Heckel hired a staff and served dinner. People like Carol Muldane and Professor and Elena Gorsky, new friends. They made him nervous with their questions. Genevieve Desmond on the porch by one of the stone pillars, heavily wrapped against the cold while waiting for her father’s car, looked at him in an interesting way. She believed in skiing and ice skating. He told her he was a former teacher retired because of an inheritance from his aunt, his wife dead, no children.

  Uneasy, he asked Mr. Peck if he was spending too much. Calculating the income from his fortune modestly, he figured he could spend annually an amount about forty times that of Gregory’s salary as a teacher. This meant that for any item, such as a car or a restaurant dinner or a vacation, he could afford to spend forty times what Gregory would have spent. Of course, some things won’t cost that much, which would give him leeway.

  One day in November you saw Peter Gregory’s children in the Park. You never did find out why they were in New York at that time of year. You were at the entrance of the Park Central Hotel waiting for Jack Rome, who wanted you to meet Luigi Pardon, an old and important friend. You saw the children across the street looking at one of the horses attached to a carriage. You saw first the boy, fat with glasses, dressed up for the city, patting the horse on its forehead. The horse had its nose in a feed bag and a red ribbon tied to its bridle. You thought, That looks like Jeff. Then Patty stepped into sight, also dressed for the city, trying to pat the horse on its cheek. Patty and Jeff, the resemblance was remarkable. Then from behind the horse you saw Louis the Lover. Wearing a tan trenchcoat, perfect fit, and a hat, his face flushed around his black mustache. For a moment you thought he was Jack Rome, whose resemblance to Louis the Lover you had never noticed. The next moment they all disappeared behind the horse and a moment later reappeared, climbing one by one—first Jeff, then Patty, then Louis the Lover, and no one else—into the carriage. You watched. Now Patty was looking at you, then Jeff too. They were staring at you, across the street, no expressions on their faces. You stared back. They did not say anything to Louis the Lover, who was leaning forward talking to the driver. You couldn’t make up your mind to wave. At that moment the limousine drove up. The back door opened and Jack Rome called, Get in. The carriage was starting up and the kids kept their heads turned looking at you as it moved. You thought, if I wave now it’s all over.

  Get in.

  You got into the limousine, still looking at the kids while they twisted their necks watching you, and then you were in, thinking, You should have waved. Just waved, it would have been enough. You should have waved.

  Instead, Luigi Pardon. I want you to meet my old friend, my right hand man. You’ve heard of Luigi Pardon, of course.

  It was hard to concentrate on Luigi Pardon just then. This was the famous singer, who Mrs. Heckel a few days ago said was as good as Perry Como, though he had put on weight since his television days. He sat behind you in the limousine next to Jack Rome, an oldfashioned baritone singer from long ago with slick black hair that had never needed to be dyed waving over his forehead. His face was shiny and artificially tanned, with a preserved youthful look like a polished apple. Thick lips and eyes baggy from enforced smiling. His hand, trained to shake everything it meets, went out to shake yours. He was dressed elegantly in a good dark suit with a handkerchief in his breast pocket. You hadn’t known he was Jack’s right hand man.

  The limousine wasn’t going anywhere, just driving around. Jack Rome was talking to Luigi Pardon about you. I fished this guy from the Ohio River. He tried to commit
suicide and I dragged him out. (You don’t say.) So I gave him one of my grants and now he is trying his hand at being somebody else. (How much did you give him?) Thirty.

  Luigi in his great baritone voice: You’re a lucky fella, son. You musta heard me sing when I came to Cincinnati 1955.

  Well no, in 1955 you were two years old and living in Westchester, New York.

  Westchester? Sang a lot in Westchester in those days, White Plains, but most people came to New York to hear me. You saw me on television, I had my own program, you remember that, seven years. His head always nodding, yeah yeah. Decades later, his voice still leaned into a microphone full of this funny thing called love plus saxophones and trumpets.

  Stephen here has recently bought himself a house on Long Island Sound.

  Yes you are a lucky fellow young man. Not everybody gets to start life with a bundle like that. I started in the ghetto. My papa was a garbage collector, imagine that, and I grew up on the street ducking the rotten melons. But between my native talent and me, we made a go of it and look at me now.

  Stephen, I want you to look at Luigi carefully here. Luigi is a good example of what you can do if you manage your money wisely. Luigi is going to use his money to extend his life span. Tell him, Luigi.

  Gladly. You know I got this voice, one in a million, by which I don’t mean it’s necessarily the only voice in the land, but still one in a million is nothing to snooze at, and I have this talent for giving pleasure, so I figured I owe it to future generations as well as my own.

  Luigi is going to have himself embalmed.

  Not yet. No sense rushing into it because there is a certain risk. It might not work.

  He’s going to wait until he’s old and falls ill with a fatal disease. That will be time enough.

  Embalmed’s the wrong word. Embalmed’s for mummies.

  He’s going to have himself frozen. That way he can have his life prolonged in a frozen state until the time is ripe.

  I’m gonna leave instructions to wait until they get a cure for whatever I have. Then they thaw me out and fix me up, so I can go on giving my art to future generations just like the past.

  Luigi is particularly deserving of this because he has something to give.

  I bring joy into hearts. But eventually this will be available to everybody. Even you can get yourself frozen so you can be cured later. If you got the money, I mean. It takes dough. You gonna do it, Jack?

  I’m young yet. I think I’ll take my time on that one.

  There’s always a risk, you know. What I like to think about is when I wake up many years from now and everybody I know is dead. Think of that, I got to start out all new friends. You ever think about that, Jack? I want to be sure to say my goodbyes before they put me in the freezer, otherwise I may never get the chance.

  It’s important not to forget your friends, Jack Rome agreed.

  But when the limousine brought you back to the Park Central, the children were gone. That night you decided to grow a beard.

  *

  During the winter the bearded Stephen Trace got to know Edgewood Baker, stock broker, Milo Press, editor, Gamble Terhune, swimming teacher, Bink and Bonnie Pepper, youth counselors. The names add up when you make a list. He took flying lessons in a rented Piper Cub from Gordon Knott. Sent for medical school catalogues, but he didn’t read them. He had a feeling there was a natural vocation for Stephen Trace and until he found it his mind would keep wandering. To soften his conscience he made contributions. He gave to the United Appeal, the Metropolitan Opera, the Negro College Fund, Cornell, Grinnell, Earlham, the ACLU, cancer, and muscular dystrophy. Also Sister Theresa and Bishop Tutu and the Policeman’s Ball. He gave Christmas presents to Mrs. Heckel and Mr. Jollop.

  He invented conversations. It looked just like him. It couldn’t have been a ghost, would a ghost ride in a limousine? If it wasn’t him why did he stare at us? If it was him why didn’t he say something? Ghosts don’t speak, idiot. That’s a big wide street, how could you tell what he looked like across the street? If it was him, he would have waved. If it was him, he didn’t want to wave.

  TWENTY THREE

  Having created you—poured you into the open mold of Stephen Trace—Jack Rome wanted to check you out. He wanted to see this old mansion by the water where you had settled, and one night in late January he came to take a look. He came to dinner, bringing Mrs. Rome (who still called herself Jane Delaware) and Luigi Pardon. He came spectacularly in a helicopter, settling down with a shrieking rattle on the frozen grass between the house and the Sound. Just the four of them around a small table, an intimate dinner of newborn wealth, with Mrs. Heckel serving. Jane Delaware was beautiful, with gold hair, smiling ice-blue eyes, a rich brown dress, and well-bred manner. She reminded you of Gregory’s wife though it was hard to determine the point of resemblance.

  Jack Rome was fidgety. He squirmed in his chair. He got up from the table, looked out the window, studied the sideboard, the pewter, the pictures, came back and resumed eating. You would have thought he was displeased with you or Mrs. Heckel’s food except for his compliments. Great cook you got there, Trace, you’re a regular little host with the best. Relax, Jack, Jane Delaware would say, with no urgency, as if she were used to it. Luigi Pardon laughed.

  So, Jack Rome would say, this is your notion of Stephen Trace. An oasis in the midst of Metropolis. Little island mansion by the industrial waterway, garden tucked in a protected corner from the great urban suburbs and heavy traffic flow. Your old house, with great stone walls, boulders in them, sturdy pillars, Victorian ceilings, they don’t make them like that no more. Stability, permanence. I get your point. No more hiking around the country for you. Solidity, security.

  You wondered if he was mocking. You were never sure. He talked about hitchhiking. He had a fantasy of doing it himself, taking to the road in cheap clothes, hitching rides, to see where he could go, what it would be like. Traveling with people who didn’t know who he was, who would be amazed to find out later, who could tell their friends, I actually picked up Jack Rome on the road in Arizona last year. He would collect their names and addresses, send them a few thousand bucks later on as proof, a Christmas present, what a surprise, so that’s who it was.

  Another possibility was to go out on the ocean like your Uncle Phil—he remembered Uncle Phil—alone on a boat, while all the world supposed him dead. Forgotten by mankind, his existence unknown to all but a few intimates, sailing from port to port around the world. Jane Delaware and Luigi Pardon listened indulgently. His voice turned urgent, as if he were lecturing you, some lesson he wanted you to learn. It wasn’t clear what.

  His zest, restlessness, enthusiasm turned edgy as he talked, testy, finally angry. What was he angry about? Never clear, like something other than what he said. He talked about terrorists. Why terrorists? You wondered what they stood for in his picture of the world. He raved against the arrogance of terrorists. All terrorists should be shot and countries supporting them bombed. His security men had caught a man with a bomb in the lobby of the Rome Building. They were keeping him in a cell, dealing with him in their own way. The police didn’t know. Don’t tell anyone.

  After dinner Jack Rome went to the television set and turned it on. I must see my old friend Osgood Landis, he said. Not tonight, Jane Delaware said. Luigi Pardon chortled, Here we go again. Stephen must see this, Rome said. Stephen must see my old friend Osgood Landis, let it be a lesson to him. Jack, you deliberately stir yourself up, Delaware said.

  Does Stephen Trace have a religion? Rome asked. Have you equipped him with one? You had neglected Stephen Trace’s religious education. You remembered the neighbor who suggested you join the Episcopalian Church, but you hadn’t given it any thought. Nor had Peter Gregory any religion to speak of, except to fear the voice in his head that hammered his shames.

  Take a look, Rome said. Osgood Landis, I set him up in business. Damn fool me. Street corner preacher, gave him a grant like you, intended as a joke, and look what he is no
w, the son of a bitch.

  You remembered the name: Osgood Landis and his daughter Miranda, who had occupied the Coliseum by the river when Gregory died. Now on television: a fanfare of trumpets with flags, then a symphony orchestra and choir in a cathedral of silver columns. The music skidded from violins into jazz, with gospel singers and dancers, a medley of hymns and music from television commercials whose words were altered to fit God:

  Come Listen to God Here,

  This Word’s For You.

  Two figures came together down the carpet to the pulpit: Osgood Landis and his daughter Miranda. He wore a white doctoral robe with gold crosses, she a pale blue robe, walking with hands clasped.

  Listen to this crap.

  Folks, Osgood Landis said. God’s folks, listen to God speaking through me and my daughter the Virgin Miranda. I received a letter from a child who said, Reverend Landis, you speak of faith, how those who believe humbly with their hearts shall go to heaven, and yet in my heart I feel ashamed of myself, all doubt and fear and ridden by guilt. Reverend Landis, am I damned already when I am only seventeen? So I ask you, folks, is he, is he damned when he is only seventeen? Therefore tonight, folks, I speak of shame, for truly, some shame is good, God’s very own shame, shame for Jesus who died for us, that brings us together and makes us a church.

  Landis, you ungrateful bastard.

  Pan from Osgood Landis’s glistening spectacles to the smiling closed eyes of the daughter to members of the audience, middle aged and various, hopefully watching with wet eyes, incredulous of their fortune to be there, on camera, witnessing.

  My good people, you know what I have said about God’s bounty, not to be ashamed of what you have. Not to be ashamed of what you are, of being middle class, folks, for what God loves he creates in abundance and he loves the middle class best because there are more of you than any other, loves you best as he loves all moderation, all middleness, the golden mean in all things. Feed the poor, but don’t be ashamed that ye are not poor yourselves, and don’t let the hypocrites twist the Lord’s words to exclude you. (If it wasn’t for me, Jack Rome said.) Look into your hearts, where God is. It’s not what you have or do or intend that makes you godly but what’s in your heart, for all God asks is to believe in Him and in Jesus who died for you, and if you believe, you’ll enter the Kingdom and if you don’t, you’ll burn, simple as that. And if your rebellious mind resists, then you must practice it in speech, and repeat the words, I believe in Jesus, my Lord, so that true faith will respond, for words shall create belief where all else fails.