by Ward Just
“Well,” Charles said in his clear voice. “We’re still at the hospital, but we’re getting ready to go to my place. Really, there isn’t anything—”
“I’d like to be there,” Townsend said and added, unnecessarily, “If that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right.” Charles Rising spoke automatically the voice clear and distinct; he was controlling it with effort. Townsend could hear bursts of conversation in the background, a confusion of sound in Amos’s room. He saw the white walls and the high hospital bed and cylinders of oxygen; the buzzer on a frayed cord; the vials of medicine next to the latest edition of the I. The voices in the room rose and fell. Charles said, “We’re through here now, we’re leaving. Come to my place.” He paused and put his hand over the mouthpiece and there was flat dead air between them. Then, “We’ll have a drink and something to eat.”
“I’ll be right along,” Townsend said. The background noise had stopped. “Is there anything I can bring? Anything at all?”
“I guess nothing,” Charles said.
“Charles, do you want me to phone anyone?”
“Oh no.” He paused. “No, not yet.” Then, “No, we can do that later.”
“Then I’ll come along directly,” Elliott Townsend said. And as he replaced the receiver he knew his own life was halved, diminished absolutely. A part of him was gone forever, he could never reclaim it. The old man silently toasted his friend, eyes up, looking beyond the ceiling to the invisible night. Mouth trembling, he nodded smartly. He and Amos, what a run they’d had together. He promised to carry on, vowed that in his heart, but for the first time in his adult life he could not embrace the future. There was nothing to embrace. Amos was dead, and there was only the remorseless spreading of the past.
2.
WHEN Townsend drove up the winding driveway the others were just alighting from their cars. All of them were quiet in the cold, their mouths pluming like fumaroles. Yellow porch lights threw grotesque shadows on the driveway. Townsend parked behind Mitch Rising’s Buck, his headlights momentarily blinding the others. They all stood touching, cleaving together like stone figures in a sculpture; Rodin’s men of Calais. They were reluctant to mount the front steps, as if they were the scaffold to a gallows. In the yellow light they all seemed physically connected, Charles and Lee Rising together, their shoulders touching as they swayed forward; Mitch and Tony walking arm in arm with their wives on either side. Tony’s son was behind them, his head in silhouette, hands clasped behind his back. They moved up the porch in a pack, shadows undulating in the yellow light.
There was a low babble of voices when Townsend got out of his own car and joined them on the porch. He shook hands with the men and consoled each woman in turn. They muttered condolences to each other, Townsend brushing the cheeks of the women and putting his gloved hand into the gloved hands of the men. The women had been crying; the men looked solemn and embarrassed, though their eyes glittered.
“Let’s get inside,” Charles said, and they pressed forward on the porch. The door was locked and he fumbled for a key, cursing and patting his coat pockets. Then the door opened and light from the inside flooded the porch. It was Dana, Charles’s daughter. She stood blinking in the doorway, then seeing her father and the others, all familiar faces, she took a startled step backward, her hands moving quickly to her chest, protecting herself. They were all of them unsmiling and when she looked at them their eyes refused to meet hers. From somewhere inside the house came the sound of jazz music, braying horns and a fast trap, riotous and hot in the silent cold sorrow of the occasion. She did not know what any of this meant, she had been listening to music and reading a book; she had not heard the cars and the doorbell had not rung. She had gone to the door for a breath of fresh air and had seen them, gray and massed and silent. Charles opened his eyes wide; she seemed to him for a moment a gorgeous and innocent dream inside his nightmare. Then he closed his eyes and put out his arms to her but she stood still as if frozen. Lee tried to edge past the others to reach her but Charles had already flung his arms around Dana and moved inside. He squeezed her against his chest, advancing both of them into the hallway, Dana’s slender legs scissoring as she stumbled backward. Lee struggled to reach her but the others had come together silently in the doorway. The girl was propelled backward into the room by her father, huge and overpowering in his camel’s hair coat and black scarf. His grief had at last spilled over and the others turned away in embarrassment as he wept, his voice breaking, explaining to his daughter that Grandpa was gone, they’d left him just now. Dana could not understand his cracked voice but felt his warmth and distress and love, and returned it. His tears frightened her; she had never seen him cry or imagined him crying. Finally Lee broke through and rushed to her husband and her daughter. The others watched as the girl stammered something and put her arms around Charles’s neck. The music was very loud now and the others turned away from it. Charles released her finally and slumped against the wall, spent, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. Dana moved close to him, at last understanding, and put one arm around his waist and said something. Lee hovered a foot away, her hands clasped in front of her. In her bright red sweater and Bermuda shorts Dana looked like an alien creature, gay and light as air, cheerful and beautiful and erotic at once; the rest of them were heavy and gray in suits and overcoats. Lee was already veiled. Dana was speaking seriously now but Charles had ceased to listen. He nodded impatiently and after a moment Dana was silent and demure. Then Charles turned to the others with a hard smile. It was like turning stage front to an audience; no one had moved from the doorway and the cold. Charles said, Close the door. Take off your coats. Dana was close against him now and the three of them moved off into the den, Charles leading. Conversation resumed in the hallway. Charles turned to Dana and said, “Please.” The girl disappeared and the music stopped abruptly When she returned she went straight to her father and put her arm around his waist and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled sadly, distracted, and patted her on the head.
Dana said, “I’ll get the ice,” and walked off into the kitchen. When she returned with the ice bucket she was wearing a skirt and stockings and a black cardigan sweater. The others were standing awkwardly near the fireplace.
Charles said, “This family needs some refreshment.” He turned to Townsend, standing in the doorway. “Brandy for you, Elliott?”
He nodded. Fine.
The tension began to ease. Orders were requested and given. Tony and his son Jake began to light a fire, each self-consciously polite to the other. They seemed to move in slow motion.
Mitch excused himself.
Lee and Mitch’s wife Sheila went into the kitchen to see about food. Dana was about to follow but didn’t. She stood watching her Uncle Tony and her cousin arrange the fire in the grate. Tony’s wife Jane fussed with the room, patting cushions and arranging ashtrays. No one spoke to Dana. In a moment the den was prim and a fire was sputtering in the fireplace.
Charles fixed himself a Scotch and motioned for Townsend to join him on the davenport at the far end of the room. He said, “He wasn’t even conscious at the end. That was a blessing because I believe there was a lot of ... pain. This morning they operated again. They needed my concurrence, which I gave. They thought it might have given him a slim chance.” Townsend nodded, not wanting to listen to any of this. “A slim chance, they said, to hang on a little longer.”
“Well, you do everything you can. Can’t do more.”
Charles said, “You saw him on Thursday. That was his last good day. He got worse the next morning and a lot worse yesterday. Then this morning—” Charles shrugged, slowly stirring his drink with his middle finger. It was not a line of thought he was anxious to pursue. “I’m glad you saw him Thursday.” Townsend turned away, nodding in agreement. Suddenly he remembered years ago Amos describing his youngest son as “prematurely serious.”
“You did the right thing.”
Charles nodded. “I think so.
I hope so. I’m not so sure whether they think so.” He moved his hand, a gesture encompassing the room. He was speaking very quietly. “But for better or worse I was making the decisions and I decided to go the full route. He would’ve.”
“Sure,” Townsend said. “The doctors—”
“—yes, are great. Doc Green is great. But they don’t know a damn thing, when you get down to it. They’re very good, they say all the right things. They pretend to know all about it, but they don’t. They do their best, I’m sure of that. When Mother died, bless her soul—” He looked away, distracted. He saw Dana standing by the fireplace and smiled at her. A shame she’d never really gotten to know the old man, though they did have a friendship of sorts. He lit a cigarette, exhaling with a rush. His finger still made circles in the drink.
“Was he conscious all day?”
Charles shook his head. “Woke up briefly around noon. They tried to feed him something but he wasn’t hungry. I think he was half delirious. Talked a little about Mother and about Ella Ashcroft. That was the damnedest thing, Ella died—when? Ten years ago? I remember her well, a very nice woman, she’d sometimes take Christmas with us—”
“She died five years ago,” Townsend said.
“Well, whenever. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, mostly it was her name; then some other things I couldn’t catch. He was just mumbling, it wasn’t anything you could make sense of. I didn’t really want to listen, it was like eavesdropping at a keyhole. Listening in on a private conversation. The thing is, you’re used to seeing Dad—strong. Seeing him like that, it wasn’t the old man you were looking at. It was a shadow.” He sighed and took a long pull at his drink. “It was like a bad copy of the original.”
“Can a man get a drink?”
Charles looked at Mitch and pointed to the drinks tray “Help yourself and come sit down.” Mitch moved off and Charles looked back at Townsend. “Anyway, it’s a blessing. That’s a hell of a thing to say, and I hate to say it. I don’t like saying it and wouldn’t, except to you. However, it’s true.”
Townsend said, “He had a strong life. All a man could ask for. More.” Charles nodded slowly. “I know Doc Green did all he could. You know, Charlie. There comes a time.”
Charles had picked up a copy of Town and Country from the coffee table and was leafing through it, idly turning the pages. His mouth turned down in distaste as his eyes flitted from station wagons to swimming pools to mink coats to diamonds, all of them photographed in expensive surroundings, Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or New York City. The people were props for the goods. He said, “Place won’t ever be the same. No matter what we do or don’t do. It won’t be the same. We won’t be the same either . . . Jesus Christ!” Townsend bent forward to look at the picture, two women reclining beside a swimming pool in a Connecticut suburb; they were wearing two-piece bathing suits. Charles looked at Dana, turning the magazine around so she could see it. “This is the life, hush?”
She made a face. “No, Daddy.”
He said, “That’s my girl.”
Mitch Rising joined them, sitting heavily on the arm of the davenport. He was a strong, heavy man, his white hair cut in a brush, Marine-style. The coat of his double-breasted suit hung in folds and an evening stubble of beard covered his cheeks and lower jaw, giving him a menacing appearance. The coat seemed two sizes too large for him. Mitch’s eyes were soft, almost feminine in their damp gaze. Charles excused himself, leaving the room, and Mitch gripped his drink with both hands and looked at Townsend, smiling widely. He said softly, “Charles tell you? He woke up briefly afternoon and started talking about Miz Ashcroft.” He shook his head, still smiling.
Townsend shrugged. “Old friends.”
“Oh, great friends,” Mitch said. “Lived a block away from each other for forty years.” Townsend nodded and looked away. “We couldn’t make out what he was saying. Which was just as well, I suppose.”
“Mn,” Townsend said.
“It hurt the hell out of Mother,” Mitch said.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I’m telling you it did.” He looked at Townsend, who was silent. “Not very many people know the story.” His voice was rising now. “Charles doesn’t know. Did you know that Charles doesn’t know?”
“Yes,” Townsend said. His eyes searched the room.
“Tony doesn’t either.” His voice was ugly now.
Townsend said, “No.”
Dana watched them, her back to the fire. She could feel the heat on her thighs and calves and self-consciously smoothed her skirt. She felt the tension between these two men, men she had known all her life. She was as close to Elliott Townsend as she was to her uncle; and not very close to either of them. She listened to them now, Townsend typically monosyllabic. Mitch was tight. She’d watched him pour a tumbler full of whiskey, drain it, and as quickly refill it. She kept her eyes away from them, affecting disinterest. If they caught her listening they would stop and it would be lost to her. She had only to look away to be invisible. It was not difficult for her to detach herself. She felt terrible about her father but she didn’t understand at first. She didn’t understand why they were there, all of them so grim and unblinking; all of them in gray or black. Her father had not explained that her grandfather was expected to die so soon. He had not called (but of course he wouldn’t); she’d had no warning. She thought it was something else, some other tragedy; an unexpected death like her brother’s. She had recoiled out of fear, her father stumbling toward her and then in tears. And just as quickly out of tears. One moment she had been listening to Papa Celestin and reading Tender Is the Night and the next moment she was consoling her father; her mother coming close to them both, but not daring to touch. She glanced around the room. Tony and Jake were in a corner talking quietly. From the davenport she heard Elliott Townsend say:
“Get on some other subject, Mitch. You’ve exhausted this one.”
Then Mitch’s heavy voice, “He kept her for forty years.”
She felt rather than saw Townsend turn toward her and measure her with his eyes. “Goddammit, Mitch. Be quiet.”
She thought, oh hell. She turned farther away; she did not want them to notice her at all now. She moved a few steps from the fire.
Mitch said, “It killed my mother.”
“A heart attack killed your mother, Mitch.”
Mitch was rising now, still looking at Townsend. “A toas’. To Dad!” No one responded to the toast, or appeared to notice him at all. Mitch sat down again and Townsend whispered something to him. then they were tête-à-tête, all words muffled. Muffled: the style of the family. She thought, Dick Diver and Tommy Barban, Rosemary and Nicole; she knew them better than the people in this room. Better than her parents and her aunts and uncles and her cousin. She was not like them, but she knew them. She knew what Rosemary would say even before she said it. She felt it in her heart and mind and blood. Some nights she was so hot she thought she could not endure it. She was hot in every pore of her, almost—she smiled—too hot to touch. The people around her, her family and the others, did not feel what she felt. If they did, they would behave differently. She believed that sometime she would fly out of control, and then what would happen to her? She believed that sometime she would truly act out the dreams that she had. She looked at Jake Rising, talking with his father. Jake, who had worked at the Intelligencer every summer of his life since he was twelve, in fierce competition with her brother. Now he was twenty, a tall, serious boy enrolled at the University of Michigan. Jake had been table conversation for as long as she could remember. He was doing well, doing badly, was a hard worker, was lazy, was “solid,” was a “screwball.” Once, it was several years ago just after Frank had died and her father was morose and unreachable, he’d turned to her and asked her opinion of Jake. She was surprised; her father never asked her opinion of anything. She’d waited a minute before replying and said, “He’s conscientious.” Her father had not let it drop there. “What else?” he’d
said. She’d shrugged. “Well, he’s very mature for his age.” She wanted to say that Jake behaved as if he were fifty years old, but did not. Yes, we know that, her father said. “But how smart is he?” Oh, she’d said, Jake’s smart. Her father pressed again: “Don’t hedge. Smart smart or book smart?” Then he’d grinned, teasing her. “Come on! How smart?” her father asked again. “Not as smart as me,” she’d replied, furious, and left the table, mortifying her mother (bad manners) and confusing her father.
Her father returned. He looked at her and at Jake. “Jake, will you get me a drink?” He collected Charles’s glass and Mitch’s and Townsend’s and moved to the liquor cabinet. Dana preceded him. Here, she said, let me. Jake shook his head and prepared the drinks himself.
Charles said, “Elliott, there’s something you can help us with.” He paused, as if the effort to go on was too great. But at that moment the telephone rang and Charles struggled to his feet. He swayed unsteadily a moment, then said, “The hell with it.”
Dana said softly, “I can get it.”
Her father appeared not to hear her, for he called to his wife in the kitchen. “Lee? Will you answer that? Then take the phone off the hook?” There was an answering murmur from the kitchen and the ringing stopped. But in a moment Lee Rising was in the doorway, looking from one to another of the men. She said, “It’s the governor.”
Townsend looked at Charles, “Why don’t you take it? He’ll just want to talk a minute. You’ll have to do it sooner or later. There’ll be plenty of those tomorrow. This one you ought to take now,”
Mitch was on his feet. “I’ll take it.”
Charles waved him back. He moved into the hall and in a moment they could hear him, his voice unnaturally loud. Yes . . . well, it’s good of you to call. Yes, a shock to all of us. Then a long pause and finally Yes, of course, as soon as we can get settled here. It’ll be a pleasure. I’ll call you as soon as . . . Another pause, longer this time. It’ll be Tuesday, in the afternoon . . . Yes, I understand that and I appreciate the call.