by ALEXANDER_
Then one day sometime in November, I was sitting in class, looking out the window at the gray sky and the brown* branches of the trees. Quite suddenly, I stopped seeing them. The sky was bright blue and the gold of the sun was coming around the green leaves across the window and I could hear the sea below. I could smell the charred wood in the fireplace, Mickey’s dogginess sprawled in front, the tangy salt from outside. I heard Justin’s voice and saw his face. . . .
I came to as I heard the teacher yelling at me in exasperation.
That night I dreamed about Justin. It was like the dream I had had before. But Barry was in it this time. He was holding the little snapshot of my father and saying, “But, Chuck, he's The Man Without a Face. Not Justin.” I looked at the picture and it was true. There was no face there. There never had been. I had just thought there was.
When I woke up I knew I had to see Justin. I had to tell him I was sorry for behaving like such a jerk that last morning. I had to make him believe how much I liked him. The word I had always disliked swam to the front of my mind: how much I loved him. I wasn’t afraid of saying it any more, just sick with shame for—again—having run away. And I had to find Justin immediately to tell him all this.
After morning classes, before lunch, I left. There’d be no more roll call till that night. I walked out the gate without anybody seeing me. When I got to the main road I hitched a ride to the nearest town.
Late that afternoon, after several more hitched rides and a long walk, I got to Justin’s house. I began to be afraid
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Justin wouldn’t be there when Mickey didn’t rush out. The house was locked. I went to the bam, which was also locked.
I came back to the house, found a window that wasn’t locked, and got in.
There wasn’t a lot of light left as I went from room to room. I knew now that Justin wasn’t there, hadn’t been there for a long time. It’s hard to say how I knew this. The furniture was the same. His bed still had sheets and blankets on it. But the house had an emptiness that had nothing to do with furniture. It was terribly cold. There were some oil lamps around and I lit those when it got dark because the electricity had been turned off. I found some cans of soup in the kitchen, put some wood in the big range, made a fire, and heated the soup. Then I drank it with some crackers I found in a tin container.
I can’t describe how awful I felt, worse than I had ever felt in my life before, like all the cold in the world was inside me. And I couldn’t blame anybody. I think that was one of the things that was making me feel so sick. The other was the knowledge that was coming to me out of every wall and comer of the room: that the things I had come to say I would now never say—at least not to Justin.
After I had eaten I took down my favorite Terence Blake book to read. When I opened it a piece of paper fell out. I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a letter from Justin.
Dear Charles:
I feel quite sure that sooner or later you will open this book, so I'm putting this note here.
Knowing you, I am reasonably certain that you'll have a delayed reaction about that last morning that will cause you a lot of pain and remorse. Don't let it.
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You gave me something I hadn't ever again expected to have: companionship, friendship, love—yours and mine. I know you don't care for that word. But try to learn not to be afraid of it.
One other request: Try to forgive your father. He did his best. More people do than you realize. A good way to start is by forgiving yourself.
My love to you always.
Justin
P.S. Barry is a good fellow and was a staunch friend to me when I needed one. Try to be his friend, because he's very willing to be yours. By the way, did you know he was an Army pilot during World War II? He doesn't talk much about it, but he might if you asked him.
I slept that night in Justin’s bed, piling on every blanket I could find out of the hall chest. The next day was as cold and gray as I felt. There was wood stacked by the fireplace in the living room and I made a fire. Then I had some breakfast of more soup and crackers plus a can of spaghetti.
That afternoon I walked up the bumpy road to the cliff and looked over the edge to the flat rock below. Despite the two sweaters of Justin’s I had found and put on, I was half frozen; Snow had not yet come, but it would almost any minute. The sea was black. The rock just looked like a rock.
That night I read through the book, had some more soup and a can of mixed vegetables, and opened another box of crackers.
The next morning I was shaken awake by Barry. He looked tired and unshaven and irritated.
“Between you and shotgun Gloria,’’ he said testily as I
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rolled over and sat up, “my legal practice—to say nothing of my marriage—is not getting my undivided attention. I suppose I should be grateful that Meg’s only problem—for the moment —is food.’’
“Justin?” I said, although I was quite sure I already knew the answer.
“He died, son, about a month ago, in Scotland.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to wait until you asked.”
“I behaved like a creep to him.”
“Yes. But he understood.”
There was something I was terribly afraid of. But I was going to ask it now, not a year from now. “Did he . . . How did he die?”
“He had a heart attack. Not entirely unexpected. He’d had some trouble that way.” Barry stood looking down at me. “Do you mind if we finish this conversation downstairs in the kitchen? I started some coffee going. Besides, I don’t have all those blankets.”
“You will be relieved to hear,” he said over the kitchen table, “that Gloria and Percy were married. The first, I can’t help feeling sure, of what will be a series of marriages for her.”
Dimly I realized that Barry was making conversation more or less to help me over this patch. I was trying to get used to his being there, sitting across from me, instead of Justin. I knew I never would, entirely.
“How’s Mother?” I asked finally.
“Fine. She’ll be even finer when she knows you’re back at school. Now that Gloria’s married the two of you may have an easier time.”
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Barry stared into his coffee cup. “I’m taking you back to school, Chuck. God knows, you went through enough to get there.”
The pain in me flared a little. I thought: And so did Justin.
“The point is,” Barry plodded on doggedly, “are you going to stay?” He cleared his throat. “All opinion to the contrary, I’m not completely dim-witted. Evans isn’t either. He said you could come back this time. But not again. I’m not your father. It’s no use pretending I have any authority over you. And you’ve spent most of your life fighting your mother. So realistically, whether you stay or not is up to you. You’re free to do as you want. But you’re going to have to choose.”
So I had got what I wanted: I was free.
Barry got up, washed the coffee pot and his cup and left the room.
You can be free from everything but the consequences of what you do.
A wave of misery washed back over me. But after a while it went away.
Barry appeared in the door. “Well? Where shall it be?”
“School,” I said.
As we passed the living room I stopped. “Justin’s books, the ones he wrote. I’d like to have them.”
Barry was at the front door picking through a handful of keys. “Okay. Take them. They’re yours.”
I was staring at the keys. “How did you get in?” I hadn’t thought about that.
“With this.” Barry held up a key.
“How did you get it?”
“It came to me as executor of Justin’s estate.” Barry looked at me. “The books are yours, Charles. All of them. And this house. Justin left everything to you.”
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I
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I went in and co
llected the books I wanted to take with me.
As we left I said, “What happened to Richard and Mickey?”
“Before Justin went abroad he gave them to a guy in Vermont who seems to have his particular talent.”
“You mean he’s a writer?”
“No. His other talent, for salvaging flawed and fallen creatures. Himself included.”
And me, I thought, as we drove through the gate.
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