Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  Physically she had improved, and she had a small appetite. She did not know, Jason suspected, that America was at war. Friends never visited; they were discouraged by the nurse, under doctor’s orders.

  Lionel Nolan, who intended to take a drive this mellow May Sunday with Joan, was surprised to receive a call from Jason. Jason’s voice was hoarse, almost incoherent, and Lionel had difficulty at first understanding him. “I’m at home. I … I was called at my office. I don’t know who to call! Goddammit! It’s Bastie.… No, no, he isn’t hurt. God damn, he isn’t dead, I tell you! I wish I were. Don’t interrupt. It’s hard to talk. I know you’re fond of him—I don’t have anybody else! Mr. Mulligan’s in Philadelphia at the heart clinic … I’m all alone. Patricia.… Don’t interrupt! It seems that Bastie and the twins were playing with the Crimshaw boy next door. Patricia was sleeping, Doherty was taking a walk with his new lady friend; all but one of the servants had the half-day. Bastie … He told me when I arrived home, Patricia was hysterical. Conners gave her a sedative just now, and she is sleeping.”

  Lionel was surprised at the acceleration of his heart. He raised his voice and said, “You’re not making any sense, Jase. Speak louder and take your time.”

  Jason took a deep breath. “Bastie told me he wanted to show little Herbert Crimshaw the shotgun I bought him. You know he goes hunting with me. He says he broke the lock of the gun cabinet; he didn’t have the key. It … doesn’t sound like Bastie—he doesn’t like guns. He says he didn’t know the gun was loaded—I taught him to unload his gun and clean it after every hunt. It’s a mystery. Well little Herbert was killed, two hours ago.”

  “Christ!” Lionel shouted.

  “The servant called me. Crimshaw had a heart attack; he is in the hospital. The police were called, and homicide detective Waters came out. He took a statement, from me, from Bastie. We’re now at police headquarters. The chief of police, Leo Schwarz, your cousin, has gone to Crimshaw’s house. Lionel, I didn’t know who else to call. You’re my friend, Joan’s my sister. Help … Bastie.” Jason added, groaning, “Nickie—she’s stricken dumb. Doesn’t say a word; dazed. Bastie was the only child who talked. Nickie took Nick home; he’s sleeping.”

  “The hell with Nick and Nickie!” Lionel yelled in his distraction. “I’m interested only in Bastie! I’m coming down to police headquarters, right away. I’ll have to call Joan first. It’ll be a shock.”

  “Yes. Well. Thank you, Lionel. I didn’t know anyone else to call—” But Lionel had already hung up.

  He found Jason and Sebastian in the waiting room at the police station. The sergeant, behind his desk, was glowering at the man and the boy; at intervals he worked busily with reports. He rose when Lionel entered, and gave him a brief smile. “Hell of a thing, Mr. Nolan. The chief’s just arrived; he’s in his office going over the reports. Hell of a thing.”

  “Isn’t it, sergeant.” Lionel turned to Jason and Sebastian and sat down near them. Jason was haggard and white, his big hands trembling on his knees. His gray eyes were turned inward, as if he was remembering the nightmare scene of blood and anguish he had just left. He had difficulty focusing on Lionel; he stared, as if at a stranger he did not recognize immediately. Sebastian was utterly immobile in his blue blazer and matching short trousers. The boy’s brown hair with the reddish lights was disordered, his beautiful grave face drawn. He was not crying. But his very immobility expressed a despair beyond his years. He looked as though he feared to move lest he would lose control and start screaming, and all his strength was directed at the effort to keep silent. His small hands were in his pockets. His agate eyes with the yellowish glints were wide, without expression.

  Lionel looked at his son with fierce protection, but he spoke to Jason. “I told Joan. Well …?”

  Sebastian blinked and sternly swallowed to hold back tears. Lionel put his freckled hand on the boy’s arm and pressed it encouragingly. The small room became hotter, the smell of dust more pervasive. The telephone rang, and the desk sergeant answered it.

  “Don’t be afraid, Bastie,” said Lionel. “Tell me about it.”

  But the boy was mute. His lips moved; no sound came from them.

  “He’s in shock,” said Jason, and his voice was weak. “As we all are.”

  Lionel kept himself from saying, “The hell with all of you. Bastie is the only one who counts.” The Sunday quiet was disturbed only by an occasional policeman and the muttered conversation of the sergeant talking on the telephone.

  “I told you before,” said Jason. He glanced at Sebastian and appeared about to speak to him; he made an agitated movement with his hands. “Sebastian, you must—”

  “Must what?” asked Lionel, alert. But he was taken aback by the look of terror in the child’s eyes, and his defiant expression. “What is it, Bastie?”

  The boy shook his head over and over. “I told the truth to Papa. I broke into the gun cabinet; it was locked. I got the gun …” He was unable to go on, but his eyes implored Lionel to believe him.

  “It was very bad of you,” said Lionel tentatively.

  The boy nodded. “Very bad.” He shuddered. “I … I didn’t intend to … shoot Herbert. He didn’t know the gun was loaded.”

  “Herbert?”

  Terror leaped into Sebastian’s eyes again. Lionel said, “Did Herbert handle the gun?”

  “No!” the boy cried, and immediately after, “Yes, yes! He … handed it back to me.”

  “Did he, Bastie? Did he? Perhaps you boys struggled with the gun and it went off accidentally?”

  “Yes. No! I mean, yes! Nickie saw it, so did Nick!”

  Jason gripped Sebastian’s arm and shook him. At this point the police sergeant said, “Mr. Garrity, the chief wants your son in his office. Alone.”

  Jason stood up. “I’ll see the chief. Alone.” He gave the sergeant a daunting glance. “The child’s been through enough today.”

  Lionel said, “Was Nickie a witness?”

  “She told me … it happened that way,” said Jason. “Then she refused to say more.”

  Sebastian signed and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He appeared to be overcome and Lionel saw this and frowned intently. He said to Jason, “Leo’s not so bad. Humor him.”

  “Hah,” said Jason. He hesitated and looked at Sebastian and patted his shoulder without hope. “Stay with Uncle Lionel. I’ll soon be back.”

  “I’ll speak to Leo after you do,” said Lionel.

  Jason left the room, and the sergeant watched him inimically. He said to Lionel, “Kids. They make all the trouble in the world. I wish I didn’t have any.” He spoke emphatically.

  Lionel smiled. “Tom, you were a kid yourself.”

  “And I was a little bastard. Wonder the old man didn’t beat me to death. I deserved it.”

  The chief of police, Leo Schwarz, was waiting. Mr. Crimshaw was one of his favorite people, which Jason was definitely not. A short and burly man, he had a sullen and belligerent expression which no doubt came from his necessary dealings with the public. It was also a Sunday, and he had promised his wife to take his five children “off her hands” and to the park. Partly relieved at being denied his paternal duty, he was vexed at being called to his office, which was stuffy and airless and extremely unattractive. Jason had voted to give the chief of the fire department not only a new building but a fine airy office with electric fans and two telephones, and had agreed to outfit his men with tailored uniforms. But he joined those who had voted down doing the same thing for the police department. “Not enough money in the city treasury.” Mr. Crimshaw disagreed with the majority opinion and had given the Police Relief Association a handsome sum.

  The chief was properly and genuinely horrified at the “murder” of little Herbert Crimshaw. He regarded all killings, no matter how accidental, as “murders,” and was justified at least half of the time. He had joined the police force twenty-eight years ago and quickly decided that the public were murderers at heart, “every man
jack of them.” The years had not proven him wrong.

  He entered his office like an avenging executioner, seated himself in his ancient chair, which he managed to make creak exceptionally loudly and caused Jason, in the midst of his distress and horror, to have regrets for being so benign to the fire department at the expense of the police: After all; what was a burning house compared with the death of a little boy?

  The chief had not greeted him, and this was ominous. After all, Jason was the son-in-law of Patrick Mulligan, who was a pet of the police department, and Sebastian was Patrick’s grandson. The chief bent over his desk and his sparse red hair—he was a first cousin to Lionel Nolan—was matted with sweat and seemed to accuse Jason.

  The chief had small, pudgy features that had been cherubic in his youth but were now brutal. He had put on his spectacles and was studying the papers his men had prepared for him. “Goddamn! Christ Almighty! Unbelievable! God Almighty!” he muttered, shaking his head. Occasionally he looked at Jason with furious incredulity. Jason felt despair. The chief was a formidable man even when he attempted to appear genial, but when outraged, was truly implacable. His ice-blue eyes never smiled even at his wife, and his men said they were “snake eyes.” He had an abhorrence of lawbreakers, however mild the offense. Confronted with violence, he could be truly forbidding, like a primitive force, merciless and fearful. Judges cowered before him, and even hardened criminals soon became terrified in his presence. Appearing occasionally in the courtroom, he frequently reduced lawyers for the defense to tears. He was not eloquent, but his mere presence inspired dread.

  Patrick heartily admired him, and so had Jason—until now.

  The chief had finished the reports, and he threw himself back in his chair and surveyed Jason with loathing. “Where’s the little bastard?” he growled.

  “Outside. I left him with his uncle, Lionel Nolan.” Jason said huskily, “Leo—”

  The chief stopped him by lifting a meaty and inexorable hand. “Chief Schwarz, if you please.” He paused. “Do you realize the horror of this tragedy, Mr. Garrity?”

  “More than you do, chief.” Jason’s Irish temper was rising. “And I’ll thank you not to call him a ‘bastard.’ He’s my legitimate son.”

  The chief ignored that. “Where’s your lawyer?”

  “In New York, at the moment.”

  “Bring the little … your son in here.”

  “He’s only nine years old.”

  “Old enough to commit murder.”

  “It’s not murder.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “It was an accident.”

  The chief eyed Jason with renewed hatred. “He confessed, didn’t he? He was acquainted with firearms, wasn’t he? He didn’t think the gun was a toy, or a peashooter? He’s gone hunting with you for years, hasn’t he?” The chief banged his fist on the reports and leaned toward Jason over the desk. “You’re pleading this was just a boyish prank?” The chief breathed strenuously. “The fact remains that a little boy was killed!”

  “Yes.” The nightmare was vivid before Jason. “I saw him.”

  “So did I. And his parents.” The chief shook his head. “The mother collapsed.”

  “Yes. I wish to God that I had died. Instead.”

  The chief suddenly grinned with malevolence. “Before this over, you’ll be wishing it regularly. Well, bring your son in.”

  “He’s answered all the questions before.”

  “Send him in, I tell you!”

  Jason stood up. All at once the cruelty of fate seemed to culminate in the events of this tragic day. His very helplessness increased his rage. His face swelled, and the veins in his temples beat visibly. He clenched his raised fists. Looking at him, the chief was alarmed, and he fumbled at his revolver in its holster. “Eh!” he said.

  But Jason no longer saw or heard him. He turned and left the office. Outside the door, he leaned against the wall, breathing with difficulty. He closed his eyes. There was a huge pain in his chest. “God, God, God,” he repeated. Several policemen eyed him curiously and exchanged glances. It was several minutes before Jason could trust his legs to carry him to the waiting room.

  At the sight of his face, Lionel involuntarily jumped up, releasing Sebastian’s hand. “Jase!”

  Sebastian was mutely white. Only his hair and eyes held color; he stared at Jason, and his mouth trembled. Jason made a disordered gesture, tried to speak, and failed. Lionel came to him, frightened.

  Jason said in a hoarse whisper, “The son of a’ bitch … the son of a bitch … I’ve known him all my life, the bastard, the …” He became aware of Sebastian and broke off. “He … wants Bastie, alone.”

  Lionel said, “I’ll go with him.” He put his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “After all, Leo’s my cousin.”

  “The swine,” said Jason. “The goddamn swine. I … I’d like to kill him, sure and I would.” Jason was gasping. With an anguished cry Sebastian seized Jason’s hand and looked up at him with the first tears of this terrible day. “Papa, Papa! Don’t look so … Papa!”

  Jason clutched the child’s arm. “Bastie, listen. You’ll have to tell the truth, the truth.”

  Lionel became rigid. “What truth? Bastie told it, didn’t he?”

  Jason clutched the boy harder. “The truth. No matter who’s hurt. Goddammit! The truth!”

  Lionel whistled softly, and his fox’s face became shrewd. “The truth. What’s the truth, Jason?” His light voice was insidious and sly.

  Sebastian was frantic. “I told the truth, Papa!”

  “You lie, Bastie. As you’ve lied before. This time …”

  Lionel turned to the child and forcibly removed him from Jason’s grasp. He squatted before Sebastian in one flexible movement.

  The boy stared into the dilated eyes of his real father. But he spoke to Jason. “I told the truth, Papa! It … it was an accident! I got the gun to show Herbert—I didn’t know it was loaded …” Sebastian shook uncontrollably, but he could not evade Lionel’s glare.

  Jason reached out and slapped the child heavily across the cheek. Sebastian reeled and would have fallen if not for Lionel’s grip on his arm.

  Lionel sprang up, and his freckles jumped out on his suddenly pallid face. “Hit my … my nephew again and you’ll answer to me!”

  “He’s got to tell the truth! That pig in there is out to send him to jail.” Jason turned to the boy. “I’m sorry, Bastie. But you’ve got to tell the truth. It was Nick, wasn’t it?” He was full of shock and sorrow.

  “Mama! Nick!” Sebastian was nearly out of his mind with fear. “They’ll die!”

  So, thought Lionel. He actually smiled. Sebastian threw his arms around Jason’s waist. He lifted a frenzied face, and his eyes were filled with despair. The vehement suffering in his face caused Lionel to glance aside, moved almost intolerably. Lionel thought: My son is protecting that drunken bitch and her idiot son. He said, “Jase. I’ll go with Bastie to Leo. Jase? It’ll be all right. Jase?”

  But Jason, with tears in his eyes, stooped to give Sebastian a kiss. He had never struck the child before. “I’m sorry, Bastie,” he said in a broken voice. “Go with Uncle Lionel.”

  He watched the child walking to the door. Sebastian was gulping sobs and Jason closed his eyes and collapsed into a chair. Lionel, graceful and confident as always, uttered soothing words to the boy, and Jason heard them with gratitude and also a feeling of loss. After a while numbness spread over his exhausted emotions.

  Lionel entered the chief’s office wearing an easy smile. “Hello, Noddie,” he said affectionately, using the nickname of his youth, for all the years the chief was senior to him.

  “Don’t call me ‘Noddie’ around here,” the chief grunted. “I have trouble enough keeping my men in line. Why did you come in, anyway? I want to see the little bastard alone. Well. Have a seat, Lionel. And don’t you interfere, hear me?”

  “Have a cigar. Mulligan’s best. You can’t afford them with five kids, on your sa
lary.” Lionel struck a match on the sole of his shoe and lighted the cigar the chief had ungraciously accepted.

  “No call for you to be here, Lionel. You’re only uncle by marriage to the little murderer. How’s Joan, by the way?”

  “Beautiful as ever.”

  “My wife, Dolores, will be sorry to hear that,” and the chief smiled sourly. “She thinks beauty is sinful, and prides herself on not being so ‘cursed.’” He chuckled. Then he glanced at Sebastian, who was standing by Lionel’s side. “Proud of yourself, using your father’s shotgun?”

  “Now, now, Leo,” said Lionel. “That’s in all the reports you have on your desk.” He turned to Sebastian, who was now leaning against him, and he squeezed the boy’s hand reassuringly. Sebastian hid his face on Lionel’s shoulder and heaved with silent sobs. Lionel put his arm about him. The chief arched his brows. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Lionel! For a brat that isn’t blood relation! Oh, I know Joan’s dippy over him, though I never understood why. She’s not crazy about his father, and she hates his mother. People talk. His father! He’s not got a friend in this town, except you and old Mulligan, and I heard Mulligan’s not so friendly anymore.” He puffed on the cigar. “And to hear the gossip, you’re not, either.”

  “Talk,” said Lionel. “You’re an old gossip, Leo. Jase and I have been friends since we were kids. And speaking of friends, I’ve heard priests say that two thousand years ago Christ had no friends, except his blessed Mother. The penalty for being good.”

  “No call for being blasphemous, Lionel.”

  “But Jase is good.” Lionel made a wry mouth, as if he had tasted something nasty. “And a good man deserves kicking for his asininity, which is what he usually gets. I’m not ‘good,’ and that’s why I have tons of friends, eager to do me favors. There’s nothing offends sensible men like a righteous man. Offends their sense of proportion. It’s irrational, that’s what it is.”

  “Sure and Garrity’s irrational! Look what he did to me!”

  Lionel smiled. “Think of what I did for you, Noddie. Helped you get where you wanted.”