“I am so stale,” Mr. Winston retorted, looking to Jerome to affirm this blistering comeback.
“Me too, old-timer.”
Mr. Winston wore a tuxedo and carried his leather portfolio, which he tapped suggestively. “You are all expected at tonight’s reading. My subject is faith.”
“I’ll be there,” Anna said in a joke on herself.
“How come you’re the star?” Araby asked the old man. “I thought the party was for me.”
“Who are you?”
“Uncle John!”
“I’m Uncle John.”
“Jesus Christ!”
He gave the others a knowing wink. “Sure.”
“Can you help here?” Araby said to Anna. “Tell him I’m his grandniece and I’ve been living here two weeks.”
“And your name is Araby,” Jerome said.
“Duh. So tell him.”
Anna did. Mr. Winston was contrite: “Forgive me — ”
“Why are you staring at me? You’re staring and I wanna know why.” Araby had been reared by servants and knew how to talk to them.
Jerome said to her, “You remind me of my first wife.”
“I’m fourteen years old.”
“I can’t explain it either.”
Anna asked him, “Reminds you in looks or temperament?”
“Oh, the wife was a bitch, no question — ”
“Gee thanks!”
“— but she had a way, you know?”
“Jerome,” Anna warned, losing her humor.
“You don’t even know me,” Araby said.
“You asked me a question, I answered it.”
“You were staring at me!”
“Hey, I’m a cook.”
The non sequitur gave most of them pause. “In that case,” Mr. Winston began, but Araby broke in with a question for Jerome:
“What way was that, exactly? That your wife had.”
Jerome sighted his finger on Araby’s brassy smile. “Bingo.”
Anna felt ill inside. Suddenly Jerome seemed exactly what he appeared to be, nothing fine or complex about him, just another of God’s pure brutes. This was too bad, for she’d grown fond of the idea of remembering him all her life as someone who’d made her self-doubt feel good.
Brendan came into the kitchen, dressed up for him in new jeans and a pullover. He was displeased to see his dad; after his talk today with Lieutenant Claire he had things to say to Jerome, and sympathy and praise to give him — but tonight was all about Araby. “Hi,” Anna said to him. “Meet the chef. We call him Mr. Jerome.”
“Watch out,” Araby said. “He stares.”
The boy glanced at her, for an instant seeing her as Jerome surely did, as slick and arty and trouble. He put his arm around her and growled, “He does it again, I’ll kill him.” Jerome, leaning against the counter, lowered his gaze respectfully.
Mrs. Winston swept in with a panicky smile. “The Clearwaters are here! Miss Anna, please — the hors d’oeuvres.”
Jerome said, “You got Amos and Chief Rickert here? Could get sticky.”
“They do seem rather cool to each other.”
“First Selectman’s tryin’ to get the chief fired.”
“But Thomas has been wonderful for Penscot!”
“That’s what all my old buddies say.”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “The drug pushers like him ’cause he leaves ’em alone.”
“Is that a fact?” Jerome said.
Brendan held the door as people exited. He let it swing shut in the servants’ faces. “I can’t believe you guys are doin’ this!”
“Relax. I just wanted to meet your girl.”
“Just don’t flirt with her!”
Anna laughed. “Flirt, Bren? He’s your father.”
“And hell,” Jerome said, “she don’t even like me.”
“That’s how it always starts with you! They don’t like you, then they sleep over.”
Anna looked from Brendan to Jerome, who shrugged. “That’s happened, sure.”
“So stay away from her, okay? Tonight is important to me. I want it to go perfect.”
Jerome said to Anna when Brendan had left, “That’s a load off my mind. Keepin’ Araby away like he did, I thought it was ’cause I wasn’t good enough. Turns out he’s afraid I’d be competition.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Should it?”
“He’s saying he doesn’t trust you with his fourteen-year-old girlfriend — and you’re not disputing him.” Jerome nodded, awaiting her point. “I mean,” she said slowly, like a teacher with a slow-learner, “among other offenses, it’s insulting. To me.” In what she’d assumed was the etiquette of a morning-after, she and Jerome had said nothing of last night all day. She feared now it had received no mention because that’s what it merited.
“I enjoy goofing with women. Not for serious.”
“Fourteen-year-old girls included?”
“Well, not like you’re thinkin’. Not since Saigon. Fact is,” he went on, handing her a tray of microwaved cheesepuffs, oblivious to the shock in her face, “I have this one rule.”
“And what’s that?”
He nudged her through the swinging door. “Nuns and virgins. I do not flirt with nuns and virgins.” He whispered at her ear, “With them, it’s strictly for keeps.”
She whirled to him in mock anger but the swinging door cut her off. Out in the living room were Mr. Winston, Police Chief and Mrs. Rickert, and, looking aloof and collusive in a loveseat together, Araby and Brendan. Amos Clearwater lingered alone by the window wondering why he’d come, praying the meal was worth it. His wife Angela felt at home; she was Mr. Winston’s visiting nurse, and now was freshening the old man’s cocktail per her usual duties.
Of them all, tonight’s hostess seemed most unsettled. Things she thought and things she did weren’t coinciding. While getting dressed this evening, Mrs. Winston’s mind had been on her third blouse button while her fingers still wrestled the first. She sensed a spell looming like fog over a roadway. Her unease only deepened when Angela Clearwater slipped from Mr. Winston’s side, guided her to a corner of the room and deftly redid Mrs. Winston’s buttons, several having undone themselves. She blinked in cloudy recognition of the affront implicit in Angela’s discreet gesture before locking with frantic enthusiasm on Miss Anna bearing a shiny tray. “Ah, the hors d’oeuvres!” Imperiously she shook off Angela’s steadying hand, recalling again how the role was played. “Please, everyone. Help yourselves!”
“Chef! Chef!” Jerome peered into the dining room from the pantry, Anna close behind him. Mrs. Winston raised her wine glass. “Mr. Jerome, it was delicious, and under the circumstances, miraculous! Please, on the chicken, a vegetable puree?”
“Campbell’s Cream of Celery.”
“How very clever!”
“Woulda used Mushroom, ’cept some people don’t eat ’em.” He winked at Brendan, knowing his son was still mad at him.
The doorbell rang. Brendan went to answer it. At the table Amos Clearwater mumbled, “The men in white coats.”
Brendan returned. “Johnwayne is here.”
“Marcus?”
Araby covered her face.
Johnwayne Locke appeared in a zipped baggy jacket. One hand was behind his back. He brought it forward to show a bouquet of hothouse blossoms. “A’bby. Go out wi’ me?”
Mr. Winston cupped his ear. “Say again?”
“A’bby, you go out me please. Moo’wy.”
Brendan had turned and was staring at Johnwayne. Mr. Winston was still confused. “Jeez, is it me — ”
Araby said loudly, “The moral of this story is don’t be nice to people.”
“He says he walked here,” Brendan explained.
Sally Rickert murmured, “Poor fella.”
Mrs. Winston asked, “Araby, have you been nice to Marcus?”
“No more than to everyone else.”
“Then,” she said drily, “I truly don’t see how this mistake could have happened.”
“Is he selling something?” Mr. Winston asked.
Araby, three feet from him, yelled, “He’s here for me, okay? For a date!”
“Is he? A frontal assault, eh?” Mr. Winston raised his glass. “Bravo, old man. Bravo.”
Johnwayne stood motionless in the entranceway. No one knew what to do. Finally Brendan moved toward the library, motioning Johnwayne to follow. Johnwayne set the bouquet before Araby. His gaze met everyone’s as he passed them.
People were buzzing when the two boys returned five minutes later. “You got us all analyzed yet?” Brendan’s sarcasm silenced the room. “Me and him talked. We worked it out.”
“What’s the plan?” Mr. Winston cackled. “Pistols at sunrise?”
“We’re gonna go with what Araby chooses. Whoever she picks, the other guy backs off. Am I right?”
“Yup.” To compete as an equal was all Johnwayne asked. Second best was okay; he just didn’t want always to be last.
“This is humiliating,” Araby said, loving it.
Mr. Winston beckoned, “Sit you two. Either side of the girl.” He told Jerome, “Take his coat.”
“Nope!” Johnwayne clasped the zipper at his throat.
“No one’ll steal it. The sheriff’s right here.” The old man was sharpening, piqued by the prospect of trouble.
Chief Rickert knew Johnwayne as a stationhouse regular. “Is your brother on duty tonight?” he asked conversationally.
The boy nodded.
“Wish we had more like Del,” Amos said. “A policeman should be aloof, not everybody’s pal.”
Jerome, observing from the pantry doorway, recognized the comment as a jab at the chief. It wasn’t lost on him that he was indebted to Rickert for delaying Robby’s arraignment until Monday; by then, Jerome should have the cash to secure any reasonable bond. He came to Rickert’s rescue with a change of subject out of genuine gratitude. “When’s the big reading?” he asked Mr. Winston. “Got yourself a real crowd now.”
Mr. Winston smacked his portfolio. “Yeah, when?”
“After dessert and coffee — at the earliest.” Mrs. Winston shot Jerome a pointed glance. “All set in the kitchen, are we?”
“Pie’s in the oven. Say the word.”
“Lovely.”
Anna set a dessert plate before Johnwayne and unfolded a fresh napkin in his lap. He knocked her hand away. “Hey, I’m just — ”
His fierce look chilled her. She whispered to Jerome, “There’s something wrong with that boy.”
“Think so?”
Mr. Winston had donned black-framed reading glasses and opened his portfolio to a random page. He declaimed in a bulldog roar, “‘ . . . was Mitchelson alone who strafed the medical train . . . ’’”
“John, please.”
“‘I doubt he slew much more than horses, however the turpitude of such easy kills was a stain on the squadron entire. Some Boche flyboys delivered a protest. We fed and drank with them almost till dawn. Mitchelson we made to apologize — ’”
“John!” Mrs. Winston shouted. “Later.”
“‘— and all except me forgave him.’” He shut the portfolio, grinning impishly. “A preview.”
“It’s about war, Mr. Winston?” Brendan asked him. “When were you in a war?”
“I flew biplanes with the Lafayette Escadrille from 1917 until Armistice. The big war, boy. The Great War. You have to be practically mummified to remember it, but I’m still here to testify. I was nineteen years old — had the time of my life! My memoir starts there as a sort of attention-grabber. I hope to publish, sell a few copies.”
His wife said to him, “Not all of us may be interested in your youthful heroics, dear.” Her misgivings of pride and decorum had grown to true concern. She didn’t want her husband to embarrass himself, didn’t want strangers to see his full frailty.
“It’s my funeral,” he snapped.
She gave up. “As you wish.”
Twenty-Six
Matthew Priam ran himself a bath before his dinner engagement with Willoughby. He was an indoors person, a TV bug and sofa sitter, and his skin was babylike as he sponged it in the hot water. Before donning his bathrobe he strolled naked out to the front room of his apartment where a large mirror hung over the TV — too high. He stood on his sofa. The mirror framed him from chest to knees. He turned a little each way. His bath-pinkened belly looked almost robust, as firmly round as a Russian weightlifter’s; his penis hung down like the droopy nose of that purple Muppet. Self-consciousness aroused by Willoughby’s imminent arrival had prompted Matthew’s curiosity. He wanted to see himself as he appeared to his apartment walls, to the molecules of air he was briefly displacing. Regarding his reflection in the mirror, it pleased him to think that for a middle-aged dying man he didn’t look too awful.
Willoughby, having been directed by Matthew to let himself into the house when he arrived, was halfway up the stairs before Matthew, teetering nude on his cushioned sofa like a delusional sultan, heard footsteps approaching. His loud jump to the floor and dash to his bedroom worried Willoughby out in the hall. He inhaled smells coming down from the kitchen and wondered what was cooking.
Matthew had bought takeout at a gourmet shop and had sweated all afternoon incubating entrees and appetizers in his rarely used oven. Willoughby’s enthusiasm for the meal was genuine. He was feeling fine, and not only because he’d ditched Jerome’s pistol and abandoned his ludicrous murder quest. He was glad to be rid of both. But the truly fine-feeling thing behind his good mood was today’s revelation that he was an utter phony, which, if what’s previously seemed real has been all negative, can be cause to celebrate.
Given time, Willoughby’s cheer might have dwindled to anticlimax on its own, but Matthew impatiently hastened the comedown. “Yes I eat well, yes I cleaned my apartment, yes for a painter I paint too little, and yes my new shirt looks sharp — tell me something I don’t know.”
“What, you don’t like my cocktail conversation? You want me to be miserable?”
“Factual. I invited a factual man to dinner, not a gameshow host.”
Willoughby had broken his own rule and Matthew had called him on it. Throughout his adult life, each wrong Willoughby had seen or done he’d examined and contemplated like artifacts of war, arrowheads and musketballs he could hold in his hand as proof of cruel history, cruel truth. It wasn’t enough that a good thing, this afternoon’s exchange with Brendan Cochran for example, had only peace of mind to commemorate it. Testimony was needed, for like the results of a science experiment, nothing is true if it can’t be repeated. He looked sidelong at Matthew. “Facts, huh?”
“As a rule.”
Willoughby nodded. “I came to hurt Sergeant Cochran.”
“Thank you.”
“Because that grenade he rigged — ”
“Permitted to be rigged.”
“— blew my leg off and ended my career. Which kinda upset me.”
“He smashed your dream. You’re not the first.”
A pause. “You?”
Matthew enumerated: “His first wife, God help her, wherever she fled to. His second wife. Eve, whom he cheated on right and left in the months before she died. His own son! — with a fist in the teeth. And yes, me, who cravenly loved him through all of it.” Matthew let the confession hang. “I backed the wrong horse, you could say.”
They regarded one another. Matthew saw a man scattered and buffeted and thoroughly lonely. Willoughby saw a man defensive, eccentricized, and thoroughly lonely. They conversed in mutual condescension of one another’s deficiencies.
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The cloistral quiet of Matthew’s apartment, his intent expression like that of a hermit quizzing a traveler for human news, persuaded Willoughby that secrets said here would be safe. He told Matthew about having gone to Vietnam for all the wrong reasons, for pride and appeasement unrelated to duty, how he’d tried his best and been betrayed. Betrayed. It was the first time he’d applied the word to the loss of his leg. He hadn’t deserved what Sergeant Cochran did to him — Cochran was wrong, he was criminal. What a rare opportunity, what a chance to make magic, it had been for Willoughby to redeem the bastard in the eyes of Cochran’s son today.
Willoughby described his encounter with Brendan outside the police station. He described the story he’d told the boy, a story Matthew knew to be false in one crucial element.
“You lied to him. After all this talk of revenge, this playing at pain — you gave Brendan a comforting lie.”
“I gave him a better truth. Better for him as the guy’s kid, better for me as his victim.”
“Very noble of you.”
“That’s me. A real Jesus.”
Matthew laughed. “I’m guilty of the same pretension. When Jerome told me last year — about you, about the prisoner execution — it pleased me to think I could orchestrate his salvation. Rather a step up from being just a boring old queer.”
Willoughby tried to keep his expression blank through this revelation that wasn’t. He faltered, blushed. “I’m a country boy, sorry.”
Matthew had lowered his veil to see past Willoughby’s. Dropping veils altogether, he took Willoughby’s hand in his, and Willoughby didn’t retract it. “Forgive me for being short with you before. I wanted to be the one to raise your spirits. I resented it when they seemed raised already. It wasn’t fair of me, and I apologize.”
“It was fair. Because, I don’t know,” Willoughby spoke the words before he considered them, “I really have decided to forgive Cochran. Maybe forgive myself too. And it feels too easy.”
“Easy doesn’t make it wrong.”
He looked at Matthew. Very deliberately he raised Matthew’s hand to his lips and kissed it in plain gratitude. Then he placed Matthew’s hand in Matthew’s lap and released it like a purchase returned. The kiss, a jolt to both men, worked out okay, for its briskly euphonic cluck was itself an appropriately benign comment on the evening thus far, confirming that indeed a kiss had occurred but it was over now, so relax.
Life Between Wars Page 19