Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  “Always asking,” he wheezed. “Even as a kid…always asking those stupid, unanswerable questions!”

  All at once I realized what I’d done. I’d had one last chance, and I’d blown it. I’d picked the wrong stupid, unanswerable question. I stood clutching and unclutching the leather strap of my bag as Dudley railed on. “For Chrissakes, she’s dead. We’re all… dead. Let it go. I won a trial and you wrote a bestseller. What else…goddamn matters…?”

  At that moment I could almost believe he was right. In the larger scheme of things—of life and death; fathers and children—what did it matter? I tried again. “Why do you hate me so much? Was it because of my mother?” Two more unanswerable questions, both still off the mark. The one I’d wanted to ask was “Why can’t you love me?” Always that one.

  Dudley pursed his mouth to laugh again, but now nothing came out. He was dry. “Still trying to make sense of it, Garner? Still think you’re going to stumble onto the one missing piece that’ll make all the others fit? Mummy broke Daddy’s heart, and that’s why he’s such a bastard?”

  He shook his head but the nose tube caught him short. “When are you going to learn that life isn’t one of your made-up stories? Why can’t you just accept people the way they are?”

  I stood at the end of this bed pressing my purse to my chest so my heart wouldn’t fall out. It occurred to me that we’d had almost fifteen minutes together. Fifteen minutes. And I’d spent them foolishly.

  “So much for patching up things in the eleventh hour,” Dudley whispered, jauntily. He rolled toward the wall. I couldn’t see his face, but then that was fitting. I tucked my bag under my elbow and walked to the door.

  “Tell my grandchild that her grandfather sends his best,” he called softly.

  I stood there for a moment—a moment too long, because the unthinkable happened. A sob welled up in my throat and forced its way out. Dudley turned. Our eyes locked before I could siphon out all the love and the pain. All the humiliating love and pain.

  “Garner,” he began, “in my own ways I’ve always—”

  But it was too late. Our fifteen minutes were up.

  SEVEN

  “Ms. Quinn! Ms. Quinn!”

  I spun toward the sound of my name. The man was tall and handsome. He had deep dark pouches under eyes that were very black, and a comic-book hero chin. He reminded me of Omar Sharif. “The nurse pointed you out to me,” he said.

  I must have looked confused, because he continued in a soothing voice. “You are upset. It is a very emotional time for you.” Who is this guy, the staff psychic? “But please accept my assurance, we are doing everything possible to stabilize your father’s condition.”

  The doctor. “Dr. Chuska?”

  “Here, we may talk.” Chuska motioned to a small bench near the nurses’ station. I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my blouse in passing, as though I had an itch.

  “Stability is the key.” Dr. Chuska smiled. His teeth were whiter than his eyeballs. “Once your father is stable, we can begin to pinpoint the troublesome area, and determine the extent of the damage.” He talked on about two kinds of tests, one where they shot the dye, one where they blew up the balloon. He was a happy guy. They were happy tests. It was all going to be wonderful.

  But it wasn’t.

  Chuska stopped abruptly. “I’m so sorry,” he said, fervently. “You are worried and fatigued.” His vocabulary was stilted, antiquated. Charming. Add to that the bucks he pulled in, and it probably made him quite a hit with the ladies.

  “You must take care of yourself so that you can provide support to your father during his recovery,” Chuska told me. “Later we will talk.” His dark eyes twinkled. “You know I, too, am a writer, although, as yet, unpublished. Yes, I have just completed a volume of short mysterious stories with medical twist-ups at the ends.”

  I didn’t know what to say. We stood. The doctor touched my arm. “Now, please. He is being well taken care of. Get some rest. Go out to dinner.” He smiled again. “Surely a lovely lady as yourself will have no trouble finding a companion for a relaxing meal?” I nodded dumbly, backing out of the man’s presence as though he were a raja. Which I supposed was only proper etiquette when taking leave of a doctor.

  At the Mayflower, I put in the requisite calls. Dudley was fine. I was fine. Everything was going swimmingly. I told Temple that her grandfather had sent his regards. Then I sat on the radiator by the window, looking out at Central Park. The phone rang. I wanted it to be Blackmoor.

  “Garn?”

  The voice sounded familiar. “I heard about your old man, and I took a guess that you’d be staying at your old haunt.”

  “Nick! How are you?”

  “Hungry like a wolf,” Shawde replied. “How’s about I take you out for a nice expensive dinner, on you?”

  EIGHT

  It was a bad idea, so bad that, for some reason, it was good. We met at a little Italian place off Columbus. Nice, but relatively untrendy, considering Nick, who flew into the dining room on polished wing tips, a full half hour late.

  He stopped short when he spotted me, then dropped to his knees, as if he’d been shot.

  “Is this Garner Quinn in a moderately sexy dress?” he asked, loud enough for everyone within fifty yards to hear. Shawde flicked up the tablecloth and whistled.

  I put my head in my hands. “Sit down, Nick.”

  The waiter came over. Shawde took a sip of my drink, and decided we should have champagne. “To celebrate,” he said, adding, in a rare flash of sensitivity, “and to toast the health of the Big Guy.”

  I answered all his questions about Dudley, a man Nick revered because, as he said, he’d once heard him described as “the most ruthless attorney alive.” He pulled no punches. “So is this The Big One?”

  “The doctor seems to think he’s stabilized.”

  “Oh, they always say that.” Shawde lobbed great wads of butter onto his bread. “The truth is, these things usually come in waves, you know, bing-bang-boong, you’re gone.”

  “Well, gee, Nick, thanks. I’m glad I decided to let you cheer me up.”

  “Look, somebody’s got to give you your daily dose of reality.” He jabbed my arm with his loaded slice. “I figure if your dad’s anything like me”—meaning, he must be, because he’s brilliant and he’s a bastard—“he’ll probably welcome it. That’s why I became a lawyer. It’s a Type A profession for Type A types who’d rather go out like a light than hang on into doddering senility.” He popped his bread in his mouth, whole. “Bing-bang-boong.”

  We ordered. Dawdled over dinner, drinking too much champagne and dishing people we knew in common. Eileen had finally asked for a divorce. (“She got the house, and she got rid of me. She’s never been so happy in her life.”) He didn’t see Maria Lombardi much anymore. She’d taken an offer from another firm, which was just as well because, according to Shawde, “her biological clock was ticking so loud, it was keeping me awake at night.” I laughed on cue through a veil of bubbly, thinking Nick was really an okay guy.

  “So what’s going on between you and old D.B.?” He did that one-two-three hike of the brows.

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Yeah, right,” he sneered. “Listen, I got it from Gold. She thinks something’s sizzling between you two.”

  I remembered suddenly why I’d always despised Nick Shawde. He was nosy. A gossip. A tease. “Sorry to disappoint you, Shawde,” I said, trying not to slur my words.

  “Aw, come on, Garny,” he needled. “Now that he’s been unofficially let off the hook, you can tell me—”

  “I am telling you, there’s nothing. Now will you lay off?”

  He cut his eyes to the tables around us, as though I’d embarrassed him. The guy who drops on his knees in a restaurant to look at a woman’s legs, embarrassed by a little loudness. “Okay, okay,” Shawde said. “I dunno. Maybe it’s Diana who’s hung up on him—she ever say anything to you?”

  Smooth, Nick, I thought, but I c
aught the way you said her name. “No,” I said. “We don’t get along. It’s one of those girl things.”

  Nick nodded. “She’s a bitch on wheels.” He stretched a hand lazily across the table, ensnaring mine. “But forget about her. I’ve always thought you and I should give it a go.”

  “Give what a go?”

  “That’s what I mean, Garn.” Shawde laughed. “You see through all my shit. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, babe.”

  I sobered up just enough to say, sincerely, “And you, Nick Shawde, would be a new low. Even for me.”

  He sat straight in his chair, clapping his hands and tapping the toes of his spitshine wing tips with delight. “But you know it!” he squealed. “You know what a heel I am! Do you realize what a breakthrough this could be for you, sweetcakes? Hooking up with a guy who you realize is a lying, conniving piece of dogshit from the start! I tell you, Garn, your road to self-actualization could start right here.” Nick thumped his chest.

  “I’ll give it serious consideration,” I said, wryly. Around us, people were shooting warm, positive glances, as if we’d just gotten engaged.

  When the waiter brought dessert, Nick leaned back in his chair and zapped me with one of his I’ve-saved-the-best-for-last squinty stares. “So, didja hear the latest about Susie Trevett?”

  An alarm went up. “No, what?”

  “Seems Sistah Cox is experiencing a major relapse in salvation,” Nick drawled, with relish. “She ditched the hubby, took all his credit cards. Ran up a nifty bill of something like three thousand dollars in clothes and fine dining, and when last heard from was turning tricks and doing a lot of blow in Hot-lanta.”

  My mind took off through the alcoholic haze. “Has she…has she said anything else about Jeff?”

  “Relax, babyface.” He sipped his cappuccino. “The girl just got tired of wearing polyester suits and low-heeled shoes. End of story.”

  “I heard from him,” I said.

  Nick pulled himself straight in his chair. “Yeah?”

  “He wanted me to write a letter of recommendation to some colleges up here.” I played at folding my napkin.

  “Up here?” Nick repeated, cautiously. “So, did you do it?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Yeah,” he echoed. “Why not?” His smile was a little too tight.

  After a lot of feinting this way and that, I ended up paying the tab, wondering at which “No, I insist” he’d bamboozled me.

  Outside the restaurant, he asked if he could sleep with me. I said no. Without missing a beat, he asked if he could get me a cab. I said yes. We stood on Columbus Avenue, the cold drizzle jolting us both back into our respective lives. I thought about Dudley. From the look on Shawde’s face, he was deciding whether to grab a taxi or hit another bar before heading home. He asked me how long I’d be in town. I said I didn’t know, but I’d call.

  We both knew I wouldn’t.

  He hailed a cab and managed a too-earnest kiss on the lips before I slid inside. “Take care of yourself, kid.” Nick waved.

  I waved back, picturing him with Diana Gold. Not a bad match, I decided. Diana would relentlessly ridicule him in public, and Shawde would cheat on her at every opportunity. They’d both be very happy.

  The last I saw of him, he was loping down the street toward one of the big West Side singles’ places.

  The telephone rang at two forty-five. I reached for it, snapping on the light at the same time.

  “Miss Quinn?” a kind voice on the other end said. “Your father has taken a turn for the worse, and we thought you might want to be here.”

  NINE

  The bed was a huge white raft, and he was afloat on it, marooned by his own body. His blue eyes stared blankly. A silvery line of spittle ran down one side of his mouth.

  I took his hand. It was unresisting, unresponsive. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  The screen blipped. The IV dripped. The nose tube sent its invisible charge of life into his body. But he was dying, in spite of it all.

  “I know this is the last thing you’d want.” Not a flicker of an eyelid. Nothing. I dragged over a chair and sat close. Minutes ticked by. I realized they would leave us alone now. The doctor, and the nurses. They were no longer concerned that this patient get his rest. He was resting. He would be resting.

  Little by little, I began to relax. I studied his profile from many angles. Then, very gently, I put my finger to his face and traced a line from cheek to jaw. He had the beard of an old man, slack and shiny, like worn velvet. Not once did he stir; yet it didn’t matter. That I should be able to stand this close to him seemed miraculous, a gift. I’d never touched him just to see how he would feel.

  The monitor skipped a few beats. I put my face on the pillow next to his. “Don’t go yet,” I whispered. “Tell me what you were going to say before I left this afternoon.” Garner, in my own way I’ve always—

  “You can do it. I know you can.” I pressed his hand, hard. “Dammit, I need this—” His eyelids flickered open.

  “I love you, Daddy. I love you.” His eyes looked confused, then they fastened on my face and seemed to suddenly calm.

  A flat buzzing sound screamed from the monitor. I scrambled to my feet as the night nurse rushed in, then someone else, a doctor maybe, but not Chuska. “Wait.” I stood in their way, trying to block them from entering. “Can’t you wait a minute?”

  The nurse put an arm around me. “I’m afraid it’s too late, dear.”

  “You don’t understand,” I told her. “We needed more time”—I clutched the sleeve of her starched white uniform—“just a little more time.”

  TEN

  The whole thing took seven days. It was a Prominent New York Death, culminating in a brief, largely attended, and relatively unemotional memorial service.

  Dudley Lonigan Quinn III, who’d lived a hedonist, died a Puritan. Neatly. Properly. Tastefully.

  At the last minute I’d tried to throw him a rowdy Irish wake. I made a few calls. But they were all gone now, my father’s drinking buddies and cronies, his girlfriends and mistresses, scattered who knew where—although I thought I spied a few of them among the mourners, looking appropriately chastened and somber-eyed.

  Black will do that.

  Jack drove Temple and Cilda up for the service. We stood together, my daughter nodding solemnly to the well-wishers as though she’d really known her grandfather, as if a relationship in her life was actually passing away. I held Cilda’s arm. When the minister read the passage from the Gospel of John, “In my Father’s house are many mansions…,” she swayed and sobbed a little; and I felt certain she was remembering Dudley’s house. The house of my childhood.

  Jack appeared overly awed by the presence of two governors; several once-were and wannabe mayors; celebrities and show-biz types; and the full ranks of the press. There were flowers from my ex-husband, and from Nick Shawde—neither of whom attended. Blackmoor sent a card to my hotel, four words, ‘I’m thinking of you,’ unsigned.

  After the service, the four of us had a quiet dinner. When Jack offered to drive Temple and Cilda home, I was relieved—grateful for a few hours of silence and solitude.

  By the time I pulled through the gates, everything looked locked up for the night. Instead of going directly into the house, I took the flagstone path around back. The air was almost balmy. A chiffon drape of clouds hung over the moon, diffusing its glow against the darkness like a dusting of flour in a cast-iron pan. In a couple of days it would be full. Lights danced in the windows of the guest house. Blackmoor was working.

  Once inside my office I slipped into the spare sweater and jeans I kept in the coat closet, then headed for the beach. The rusty metal ladder that hung from the seawall creaked under my weight. The hump of the wall was only three feet wide, and the uneven rocks made it rough going. Several feet below, the crane and the backhoe grinned wide smiles, with full sets of metal teeth.

  I climbed down the other
side and set off on the sand at an easy jog. After I could run no more, I sat on the slick, black spine of the jetty, fighting hard to keep conscious thought from flooding back to me.

  It was no use.

  I saw death everywhere. In the tangle of crushed crab shells. In the abandoned domiciles of sea creatures that encrusted the crevices of the rocks. In the waves that beat the shore mercilously, with wicked, foamy fists. It surrounded me, leering from under the clouds with a blank, moony stare.

  I leaned back, abandoning myself to a morbid little game of free association.

  Father?—Dead.

  Mother?—Dead.

  Marriage?—Dead.

  But I was forgetting the most important one of all.

  Career—

  Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  One for every bestseller. I closed my eyes, feeling the spray from the ocean on my face. Then something else, warm and substantial. A human hand.

  Blackmoor’s. I scrambled to my feet. “You scared me—”

  “I thought you might like some company.” He was wearing jeans, expensive cowboy boots, and a baseball jacket over a very white shirt. The moonlight treated him kindly. I took the hand he offered and jumped off the jetty.

  “I’m sorry about Dudley,” he said stiffly. This was where the person was supposed to say something nice about the deceased. He was a good man. He did a lot for those in need. He was a great golfer. Anything would do. Blackmoor remained silent.

  We walked. He picked up shells and threw them into the ocean, where they landed in the valleys beneath the waves with flat little splushes. Halfway down the beach, I stopped. “I want to know if you had an affair with my mother,” I said.

  “That’s none of your fucking business,” he replied, very quietly.

  “I think it is.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” He left me standing in a little puddle of foam. I had to run to catch up.

  “Look,” Blackmoor said, when I caught up to him, “I know it’s not polite to speak ill of the dead, but manners never were my strong suit.” He looked out toward the ocean, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Your old man was a born liar. I wouldn’t believe a word he said, especially if it had to do with Gabrielle.”