"And vou didn't have the courtesv to lcac them a note."
"Hey, Dad, could you not get all bent out of shape? I mean, I'm going; I'm sorry I butted in."
"No, hold on. I'm sorry I got angry. Get yourself something to drink and we'll talk. But you've got to call Diane and Jake first."
"We sort of had a fight. At dinner."
"Over what.?"
"This place some guys are going to tomorrow night. It's in New Jersey, and Diane said I couldn't go and then so did Jake."
"What place in New Jersey.'"'
"I don't know. I don't know anything about it. Some place that has music, you know, rock stars. They said it's sort of a barn. Lots of guys go there."
"You want to go someplace, but you don't know where it is or what it is or who goes there or what goes on there, and you're fourteen years old. And you're surprised Diane and Jake said no.''"
There was a silence. David shrugged and went to the kitchen and took a soft drink from the refrigerator and flipped the metal tab into the wastebasket. Then he went to the telephone at Alex's desk.
"I'm sorry," Alex said to Claire. "That is a meager, inadequate word for the way I feel."
"You can't do anything else." They were speaking quietly, with David's low voice in the background. "He's a lovely boy."
"Yes, he is; I think he's wonderful. In fact, I'm crazy about him, and most of the time we get along pretty well, but then I get worked up, feeling helpless because I don't always know the right thing to do, except back up whatever Diane and Jake do, because they're the real parents right now, and I always remember—and so does he—that I gave him up."
"You think he holds that against you.'"'
"I'd be surprised if he doesn't."
"Maybe he does," Claire said reflectively. "But you gave him to loving people when you were in a crisis, and you moved to a place close by and never stopped loving him and being part of his life, and he knows all that. And I'll bet he doesn't hold anything against you. He looks to me like a boy who's as crazy about his father as his father is about him."
Alex watched David talking on the telephone, slouched against the desk, absentmindedly probing with a finger in one ear.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll hold on to that. You're very generous." He hesitated. "I'm sorry you had to see this side of me; it hardly fits a romantic image of—"
"Alex." Claire briefly considered David watching them from the corner of his eye, then thought, oh, the hell with it; he's fourteen; he can handle it. She stood close to Alex and laid her hand along the side of his face, "I don't want a romantic image; I want you."
Alex took her hand in both of his, turned it over, and kissed her palm. "Do you mind waiting while I talk to him.^"
"You might not want me to be part of this. I could take your car and bring it back in the morning."
He thought about it for only a moment. "It's up to you, but I'd like you to stay."
"Then I'd be glad to. Unless David objects."
David turned from the telephone, holding the receiver. "Diane wants to talk to you, Dad."
Alex went to the desk and David dropped into the armchair with a long groan. "They forget what it's like."
Claire returned to the couch, to the same place she had been sitting, and picked up her wineglass, still full. We were too preoccupied to eat and drink, she thought wriy. "Maybe they do remember, and that's why they're worried."
He shook his head gloomily. "They're too old." He looked up. "Have you known my dad long.'"'
"For a few weeks."
"So, is this something special.^ I mean, you're here, which I have to tell you is a major surprise, so is this something I should know about.'*"
"Does your dad tell you about his friendships.'*"
"Sure, but he never said anything about you."
"Did he tell you he was writing a magazine article on someone who won the lotterv.''"
"Yeah, somebody in Connecticut. She won megabucks. She has a big house in the woods, in Wilton; he showed me pictures. Oh. That ffi'tfj youf'^^
Claire nodded.
"You won the lottery.'* That's cool. I never knew anybody who won anything. So Dad interviewed voii; is that how voii met?"
"Yes." Claire was amused, and touched, that nothing could distract him from talking about his father.
"He never dates people he interviews; he tells me about his interviews, he tells me about everything." Claire sat quietly, smiling at him, and he squirmed lower in his chair. "Well, I mean, he can, there's no rule or anything that says he can't; he just never did. But I guess he likes you better than the other people he's interviewed."
"I hope so."
"You like him a lot.?"
"Yes."
"And he likes you a lot.'*"
"That's what he told me."
David contemplated his soft drink can. "So, if you got married, would you live here or in your house in Connecticut.?"
"We haven't gotten that far," Claire said gently.
"I'll bet your house has lots of bedrooms."
"Yes, it does."
"But they're all full, I guess."
"A couple of them are. My daughter is in one, and my cousin —or maybe she's my aunt, I'm not sure which—is in the other." She thought of suggesting that he come for a visit, but decided not to. That was something she should work out with Alex. She tried to change the subject. "What do you and your friends do besides go to rock concerts in New Jersey.?"
"I don't go to rock concerts in New Jersey," David muttered. " 'Cause I'm treated like a little kid instead of somebody who's in high school. They haven't got a clue how to be parents; they never had any kids of their own. My mother and dad knew; we had a house, I guess Dad probably told you, and it was just the three of us, and they let me do whatever I wanted."
Once again he was talking about his father. Claire was impressed with his determined single-mindedness. "Is that so.?" she asked. "That's amazing. You were nine years old—is that right.?— when your mother died, and they let you do everything you wanted.?"
"I was almost ten. It was three weeks and one day before my birthday. Do you know, I'm the only one in my class who has a dead mother.? Everybody else, their parents are divorced, nobody
lives with everybody in their family, but they don't have anybody dead. Just me." He had sunk deeper in the chair, holding the soft drink can on his chest. "My parents never ever said no about anything. If they did, I'd remember it."
"Remember what?" Alex said. He put a hand on his son's shoulder, then walked to the other end of the couch and sat down.
"If you and Mom ever told me I couldn't do things."
Alex dodged it. "Are you still talking about the barn in New Jersey.^"
"She asked." He saw his father's frown, the stern tightening of his lips. "Claire," David said hastily. "Claire asked what we did, you know, where we went, stuff like that."
"Well, tonight where you're going is right here."
David's eyes brightened. "I'm staying over.^"
"Isn't that what you just told Diane on the phone.'"'
David ducked his head. "Well, sort of. I mean, I said I hoped I could. I mean, I said . . . well, uh, yeah, I guess I did. Say I was staying here."
Claire's eyes met Alex's, as they had in the theater, sharing, this time, pleasure in David's honesty.
"But I thought maybe you'd, you know, want privacy or something, like, I didn't want to be in the way."
Alex glanced again at Claire. Not anymore, they thought together, and shared a smile. "You're not in the way," Alex said. "This is your home, too, you know; that's why you have a key."
"So you could let me go with the guys tomorrow night."
"To New Jersey.^"
"Right."
"David, you know without a shadow of a doubt the answer to that; you're too smart to tr' this game." Alex waited. "Look at me." David looked up at him from under his brows. "You know I wouldn't second-guess Diane and Jake; you know I wouldn't undercut their
decision; you know I have no reason to let you go and even*' reason to say exactly what they did. You can't go."
David stared at his feet, crossed on the coffee table, at the same level as his head. Suddenly, he shot up, crossed to the kitchen, and took another can from the refrigerator.
"David," Claire said suddenly as he slumped back in his chair, "how are these guys going to get to New Jersey.''"
He flashed her a look. "Driving."
"Then they aren't freshmen, or even sophomores. They're probably juniors and seniors. Are they guys you're close to.'"'
"Not usually."
"What does that mean.^" She waited. "What is it that you have that they want.''"
"Sheesh," David muttered. He stared at his feet. "They have to write a computer program, it's a group project, and they're having trouble, and they want me to write it."
"That's cheating," Alex said.
"It's okay to get help," David said uncomfortably. "They asked the teacher and he said they could get help."
"What kind of help.?"
"You know, showing them ways they could write it."
"But you're talking about writing the whole program. Which is unethical and could also get you into a hell of a lot of trouble."
After a moment, David nodded. "Yeah, I know. It was just, when they asked me ... it was . . . you know ..."
"They made you feel grown-up and part of their group," Claire said. "And that was exciting."
David looked at her, frowning. "Yeah."
"I had that happen once," she said casually. "It was as if doors were opening to a whole new world. It was a lot of fun for a while, but then it sort of wore out and I decided I wasn't crazy about it. I didn't feel I really belonged there."
"Yeah.''" David asked.
Claire looked at Alex, thinking she was interfering too much, and caught her breath at the warmth in his eyes and a love she had never seen in a man's eyes before. She turned back and contemplated David's newly interested face. "I think you should forget the barn in New Jersey and writing computer programs for anybody but vourself. I guess you're pretty good at it, and thev're not-^"
"They're awesomely stupid," he blurted. It was as if a load had been lifted from him. He sat up. "But, you know, they're cool and they said this place was the greatest . . ."
"Then you can go on your own, when you're a senior," Alex said.
"If I have a car when I'm a senior. Diane and Jake said—"
"Well, that's a discussion I'll be part of," Alex said. David's eyes widened, but Alex stood up, forestalling any more conver-
sation. "Now, look, it's getting late. I'm taking Claire home. If you're still awake when I get back, we can talk some more."
"Well, but couldn't I—"
"No," Alex said.
Claire looked at him, her back to David. "I think it would be a good idea," she said very quietly.
Almost without hesitation, Alex nodded. "Okay," he said to his son. "You come along for the ride."
David sat up. "Right. Thanks." He unfolded his long body from its contorted position and stood up, in front of Claire. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then kissed the other cheek. "You're great. I'm glad you won the lottery." He looked from Claire to Alex and back. "I'll wait outside," he said, and in the next minute he was gone.
In the silence, Alex took Claire's hand. "You were wonderful. You made it seem easy."
"It's always easier with someone else's child," Claire said ruefully. "But I was right about him, Alex: he is a lovely boy. You should be very proud; your sister and brother-in-law didn't do that alone."
Alex stood, bringing her with him, and took her face between his hands and kissed her. Claire held him and she felt the warmth of his arms, encircling her, pulling her to him. Their bodies seemed to flow together; Claire wondered at it, that everything they did made them seem to be one. She had never felt that before. Their kiss grew in intensity until she was dizzy and a low-moan started in her throat, and then, simultaneously, they both pulled back. "We'll never get out of here if we don't do it now," Alex said. "Tomorrow night . . . can I see you tomorrow night.'"'
"Yes. Oh, yes, of course, but do we have to wait for nighttime.?"
He laughed, a joyous laugh that brought lightness to his face and buoyancy to his step. "We can start at the crack of dawn, though that's only a few hours away. Tell me what you'd like."
"I'll call you in the morning." She was regaining her sense of separateness. "I want to see what's happening at home."
Alex helped her on with her coat and kissed the back of her neck. "It doesn't matter what time we start. \'c have a lifetime ahead of us."
SIXTEEN
H
,A N N A H had invited Forrest Exeter for lunch and he arrived early, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, striped tie, and a homburg that sat squarely on his head. He swept it off as he was introduced to Gina, whom Claire had invited. Then he bent over Claire's hand, lifting it reverently to his mouth. "It is an honor to meet you, Mrs. Goddard; you are one of our special friends."
Claire looked at him quizzically. "You mean, I've given you money."
"Ah, no," he said, brushing it aside. "No, no, no; I never equate friendship with money; I do not speak of them in the same sentence. Friendship is a sacred trust: within it we flourish and bloom; without it we wither and die. Poets know this; they write of friendship. It is the bankers, a barren lot, who write of money."
"Indeed," Claire murmured neutrally, and led the way to the library, where Hannah had set a lunch table before the fire. "If all I offered you was friendship, there would be no poetry center."
"But friendship is the first and most beautiful gift, dear lady, and from it flow other gifts. Your two checks, desperately needed and received with boundless gratitude, sprang from your sympathy to my cause, your confidence in me and your belief in my stewardship. In other words, you were a true friend."
Claire did not say that he was right about the friendship but wrong about the person: she had given the money because she loved Hannah; it had nothing to do with him. And she was sure she would never get it back.
In the library, she and Gina sat at a round table set with a green and red cloth that reached to the floor, and holly-patterned plates and bowls. Hannah served soup, and Forrest stood before the fire, one arm resting on the mantel, looking down at them. His mouth was half-hidden by his beard; his brilliant blue eyes held Claire's with unwavering sincerity. Claire, who was sure he was a charlatan, found herself liking him.
"The world is a treasure trove of such glories that we can barely begin to apprehend them in our short lifetimes," he said, and Claire was sure this was how he sounded when he lectured to his college classes in New York. His voice was a resonant bass, and it gained in fervor as he spoke. "The world is fresh each dawn with promise; look around! We are surrounded by wonders and possibilities; we stand tiptoe on a precipice, arms outstretched, one foot in space, poised to fly. My God, what a blessing to be alive, to stretch and feel our limitless grasp and embrace the infinite wonders of this magnificent world! What a blessing, to wake each day to such a splendid world!"
Claire glanced at Hannah and Gina; their eyes were on Forrest and they were smiling. Claire thought she must be, too; she felt buoyed up, as if his voice were a river, carrying her outward, beyond the house. But it was more than his voice: it was his outspread arms, his body, almost springing forward with robust enthusiasm, and a kind of innocence, too, such as a ver^ young child would have, walking through an enticing world where everything beckons and nothing is taken for granted. It was as infectious as an invitation to dance.
"It is our responsibility, as intelligent, sensitive human beings," Forrest went on, his voice dropping, then rising eloquently to new heights, "to increase the glories, to make them fruitfully multiply, and fall as the gentle rain from heaven to sate the thirsts of the spiritually forlorn throughout the world, so that violence and degradation and unhappiness disappear from the face of the earth forever.
"
"I agree," said Claire easily, stopping him in midflight. "I can't imagine anyone quarreling with that."
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to find his place in a script. Then he spread his hands wide, smiled a sunny smile that seemed to radiate happiness, and took the fourth chair
at the table. Gina was gazing at him in admiration. "You're very good. I'm not surprised people give you donations. How many projects have you been out beating the drum for.'"'
A look of pain at Gina's grammatical lapse rippled across Forrest's face, but he banished it in an instant and turned his smile on her. "Alas, none. I would have welcomed other opportunities, but the times were always out of joint. This is a dream I have had for a long, long time. We live on dreams, of course; we would shrivel to dried weeds without them; they nourish us and keep us human and alive, in harmony with the universe, itself a web of dreams. Awake and asleep, we dream; we merge with the ages to become what was, and what will be; we strive to become the invisible future. Now, with the miraculous generosity of Mrs. Manasherbes, all the stars of my destiny have turned in their orbits and arrayed themselves with infinity, and I am prepared to turn my energies and affections to a life's work that fully justifies my existence; I will leave this poor, bruised world a better place when I leave it than when I arrived."
"How.''" Gina asked bluntly. "The generous lady has to come through first."
Claire, who was enjoying Forrest's performance, looked at him with interest, waiting for his answer.
He gave several slow, sagacious nods. He draped his napkin across his thighs, took a spoonful of potato leek soup, and delicately dipped his tongue into it to test its temperature. Claire shot a glance at Hannah, uncharacteristically silent, watching Forrest with a quiet smile on her lips.
After a moment, when it became clear that he was not going to answer, Hannah put down her spoon. "Forrest does enjoy being dramatic," she said. "It's what makes him a great teacher. You should see him in the classroom: filled with fire and tenderness. He brings poetry^ and literature to life, and that brings romance and passion to the lives of his students. They think they know all about romance and passion, but in fact they know almost nothing, because they're too young and too abrupt with the world. Forrest gives them their first real taste of what it's all about, and they adore him; there are waiting lists to get into his classes."
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