“Lennie told me yesterday that the two of you had never spoken about your marriage.”
“I wonder why he’d say that,” I said, although even as I was asking the question I knew the answer.
“Probably so I wouldn’t guess he’d told you all about us. There’s no way Lennie could listen to your problems and not tell you his own.”
I was trapped again, and as usual it was by my own words. I didn’t want to tell her that Lennie had told me all about their troubled marriage—perhaps far too much—but I didn’t want to deny it either. Under the influence of the alcohol that first night when we had run into each other at Mortimer’s, Lennie had confided to me the depth of Nora’s unfulfilled longing for a child and the resulting stress and preoccupation with timing that had created such intimate problems in their bedroom.
Luckily, Nora didn’t press me to tell her more right now. She got up from the table, and we walked together toward the sitting room.
We passed April and Hugh in the hallway. She was giving her husband a tour of the Big House’s interior. They had begun earlier in the library and were working their way back toward the studio. There were still many things to be seen. They hadn’t even reached the arrowhead collections.
Nora and I entered the sitting room, where Lennie was building his fire and the Foxes and the boys were playing backgammon—Lars against Will, while Mario and Kathleen kibitzed—at a small table set up near the entryway. Kathleen was alternating her time between the game and seeing that everyone got coffee or tea and dessert. This after-dinner backgammon game, I was informed, was a Big House tradition. (Apparently, anything done more than twice at the Big House was a tradition.) Tonight, instead of paying attention to the game, Mario was horsing around with one of Nora and Lennie’s more quirky things—a pair of black velvet-covered handcuffs, real ones, complete with key.
Three soft brown leather sofas bordered the low walnut table in front of the hearth. Moving aside a Bargello throw pillow, Nora sat next to Noboro on the sofa facing the fireplace. On the table in front of her, sitting on a protective trivet, were two gleaming silver pots of steaming coffee—one decaf and one regular—which she poured for those who wanted it into delicate Limoges cups. Also on the table was a large, filigreed silver tray holding silver containers of cream and sugar cubes, a dozen silver spoons, a pile of colorful plaid cloth napkins, and a platter stacked with homemade brownies. Soon, everyone was sipping coffee or nibbling a brownie, watching Lennie fiddle with the fire. He was having a difficult time getting it to start and was muttering to himself.
“It’s this damn wood,” he said. “Claude Rhodes says it’s dry, but I know it’s wet on the inside. As soon as the paper burns up, the fire goes out.”
“The wood is burning,” said Ray, sitting on the leather sofa to the right of the fireplace. “The logs have to be spaced better for the fire to draw.”
“I’ve had this problem before, Ray. It’s the wood.”
As smoke wafted into the room from the firebox, Nora said, “I’ve been telling you for years, Lennie. You don’t know how to build a fire.”
Lennie handed the poker to Ray, who stood up.
“Here,” Lennie said. “See if you can make the damn thing burn.”
Five big logs were stacked, smoldering, on the iron grate. Ray nudged two of them with the poker, opening the space between them slightly, then blew softly on the fire, from the bottom. Air flowed through the cracks immediately and flames blossomed, feeding on the newly exposed wood as they were drawn upward between the logs. Within sixty seconds, the sputtering, smoking fire was transformed into a satisfying blaze.
“Bravo, Ray,” said Tamara.
“You had her laid too tight,” Ray said to Lennie, placing the protective screen inside the sturdy brass railing set into the edge of the marble hearth.
Ray settled back into his position on the sofa and retrieved his glass of wine from the table in front of him. “You should get a basket of Georgia fatwood for kindling,” he said to Lennie. “It’s full of resins and pitch. It’ll start a fire right away.”
Tamara shifted slightly on the sofa toward Ray, then leaned forward, picked up a brownie, and said, to no one in particular, “Brownies are my second favorite thing.”
“Where did you learn so much about fires, Ray?” I asked.
“I lived in a foster home in the country when I was a kid. Fireplaces gave us heat, and my foster father showed me how to make them draw. Once you learn you never forget.”
The wine clearly was getting to him, because, for Ray, this was positively talkative. Lennie brought the conversation back to his obsession of the month—kendo.
“Noboro’s been telling me the most wonderful folk tales about Japanese sword masters.”
“You men look like Darth Vader in those helmets,” said Tamara. “And that screaming!” She gave a shiver, as if a finger had been drawn down her spine.
“Noboro says every student of kendo has his own tale, a particular story that’s intended for him,” said Lennie. “It’s part of the tradition.”
We all looked at Noboro, who was leaning forward on the sofa, enjoying the fire. “What stories?” Nora asked him.
“They are folk tales used in teaching kendo,” he replied. “And while it can’t be said that each student has but one story of his own, each may find one that is especially meaningful. The kendo master should know these stories and use them as they are intended.”
“I’d like to hear one,” said Nora. “Is that allowed? I mean, you don’t have to tell them in a private clubhouse for guys only, do you?”
“The stories are for anyone who cares to listen,” said Noboro with a smile. “No clubhouse is necessary.”
“Tell us a story for Ray,” Tamara said.
Everyone was still. Noboro cleared his throat, then paused theatrically.
“A long time ago, a famous sword master was approached by a man who wanted to be accepted as his student. The master said, ‘Why are you trifling with me? I can tell merely by looking that you are an accomplished specialist of the sword. What do you want from me?’”
Noboro changed his voice for the part of each speaker, dramatizing the roles.
“‘Oh, no, Sensei,’ the man said. ‘With all respect, I must say you are wrong. I came to you because I have never learned the art of the sword.’”
“The master replied, ‘If you say so, it must be true, for I can tell that you are an honorable gentleman. In apology for my doubts, I will accept you as a student. But I am troubled by the misjudgment, for in these matters I have never before been mistaken. Please think carefully. Is there any one thing in your life that you have completely mastered? Anything at all?’
“The student answered, ‘When I was a younger man, I was deeply troubled by the question of life or death. I spent many years in study and contemplation of this question, and it is now resolved for me. Could this be what you are asking about?’
“The master said, ‘I am greatly relieved that my judgment had not failed me.’ He wrote a certificate, signed it, and presented it to the man. ‘There is nothing left for you to learn in the study of the sword. Devote your gifts to other pursuits.’”
No one in the room had any trouble understanding the story. Lennie, especially, was delighted. “That’s the perfect story for Ray,” he said.
Tamara asked Ray, “Is it true? Is that the perfect story about you?”
“The story’s great,” said Ray, “but I’m not sure it’s about me. I never set out to study anything, except painting, of course, and I certainly didn’t spend years contemplating the question of life and death. I don’t even know what that means.”
“You did kill someone a long time ago, didn’t you?” asked Tamara. “In prison? That’s what the newspaper said, anyway. So maybe that’s what the story is about.”
Everyone looked at Ray except Nora, who was staring at Tamara.
“Maybe,” said Ray. He had that impassive look on his face again. Ray coul
d have given inscrutability lessons to Noboro.
“Was that experience a big influence on you?” asked Lennie. “If you don’t mind my asking? I know it’s a personal question, but we’re all friends here.”
“Leave the man alone,” said Nora quietly.
“No,” said Ray. “It’s all right. I told you this morning, Lennie. Ask whatever you want. You deserve that. But I don’t understand your question.”
“How did it happen?” Lennie asked. “Killing that man. And what was it like?”
It was then that I had my first serious doubt about Lennie. I’d always before seen him as a tremendously admirable person—with his immense talent, a giant among men. Now I got the sense that he was crossing an invisible but very real personal border.
Ray, however, was undisturbed, as if Lennie’s question were the most innocent ever asked, like “What time is it?” or “Did you see that rainbow yesterday?”
“Most of these things happen the same way,” he said. “I was young, and new there. I’d gotten nailed on four counts of grand theft auto and transporting across state lines. If I ever needed a car when I was a kid, I took one, and I had a bad record in the juvenile justice system in DC, where I’d been living. They called me incorrigible, so as an adult I got eight years for the grand theft auto.”
He drained the glass of wine into his mouth, then refilled it from the bottle on the table in front of him. “So, anyhow, lucky for me,” he continued, “there was this guy I’d known from juvenile who was in the ‘limited privileges’ wing with me the first week, before I had to go out in GP—general population. GP was dangerous, he warned me, and he gave me a shank and said if one of the wolves picked me out, I’d only get one chance. He was worried they might hit on me because I was young and not too hairy. He wasn’t worried for himself this time, because he knew he was ugly.”
“Who were the wolves?” Tamara asked.
“Some of the cons who’d been in a long time. The wolves liked being there because of what they could do with the younger guys—things they couldn’t do on the outside.”
“And a shank is a knife?” I asked, for Noboro’s benefit.
“Yeah. You had to have one, even in juvenile. I remember this one was a long, thin kitchen knife. It was a terrific piece of steel—Solingen, I think, with a great temper. The wooden handle had been broken off, so the bottom was wrapped with electrical tape, and someone had put a wicked edge on the blade. You could see little blue jags on the edges. I was almost afraid to carry it, not because I’d get caught, but because I might slice myself with the damn thing.”
“And one of the wolves grabbed you when you went into the general population?” Lennie asked.
Ray gave a harsh laugh. “No. If one of them grabs you, it’s too late. He was hitting on me hard, and I knew I didn’t have any choice. I had to stick him.”
There was dead silence in the room again until I heard the creak of a floorboard. Hugh and April were standing in the doorway, back from their house tour. The backgammon game had stopped, and the players and newcomers were all listening to Ray, who was talking in a soft voice, as if to himself.
“The scene was awful,” he said. “One reason I remember that shank so well is because my friend had shown me something unusual. Someone had put it in a vise, heated it up with a torch, and bent the blade near the handle. My friend said to me, ‘When you go into the chest, the angle will help you get it into the heart.’” Ray gave that chuckle again. “That was a mean-looking blade for a young fellow to be carrying. Hell, today I wouldn’t want to be in the same room as that knife, much less have it in my pants.”
He looked around at each of us to see if we were following him. Lennie couldn’t let the story alone. “So the guy just died when you stabbed him?” he asked.
“No one ‘just dies’ when you stab them,” Ray said. “Their life is still inside them, you know. I was lucky he didn’t kill me, even with my knife sticking in him. But instead of pulling his own shank, he tried to use mine. That was a mistake, because the blade was stuck in his chest, and he cut his hands to pieces.”
I was appalled. I stood up quickly and everyone in the room glared at me, apparently worried that I might interrupt Ray’s story, afraid he might stop before he’d said all he was willing to say. The dinner guests had become a small mob. I couldn’t stand their eyes on me, so I sat down again without speaking.
“Did he say anything?” Lennie asked.
Ray appeared surprised, almost shocked, by the question. “Yeah. He did say something. ‘I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.’ He pulled the blade out and blood was pumping everywhere. That’s when I saw something I’d never heard of before. His life flew out of his mouth like a bird. I could see it leave. Though the guy was still jerking on the ground, I knew he was dead.”
When I looked at Tamara her face wore a look of rapture, as if she’d watched the arrival of a liberating angel. Lars abruptly shifted in his chair, and the backgammon board and pieces crashed to the floor, along with the velvet-covered handcuffs. Will, Kathleen, and Mario quickly picked up the game pieces. Luckily, the fallen bottle of wine was empty. Lars sat there, looking sheepish.
I was glad the accident had happened so that Ray’s story could end, but Lennie still hadn’t had enough. “And they put twelve more years on your sentence,” he said.
“No,” said Ray. “Not for that. Nothing ever happened to me for that.”
“So you got the twelve more years for killing someone else?” Lennie asked.
“I told you this morning, after we were out walking. They framed me. I didn’t do that other guy, the brother, but they gave me twelve years for him.”
Noboro stood up.
“Now I am ready to retire,” he said. “I’m not used to drinking wine and staying up so late. I thank you all for listening to my stories and for sharing this most interesting evening.”
He went through the room, first shaking hands then bowing to Lennie, Nora, and each of the guests. Tamara held his hand for a long time and kissed him on the cheek. Tamara and Noboro’s faces were both flushed from all the wine. I wondered how many bottles we’d gone through this evening.
The others were also preparing to leave. Everyone was standing except Nora. It was only ten-fifteen. The evening would be an early one.
“And don’t forget, Ray,” Lennie was saying. “You and Bradley are going to meet Nora at the stable tomorrow morning.”
“You’re all going riding?” asked Tamara. “Stop at the Buttons afterwards, and I’ll give you a cup of tea. Okay?”
“Don’t ask me—ask Nora,” Lennie said to her.
“Nora, is that okay? Will the three of you stop for tea after your ride? Nora?”
“Yes,” Nora said, as she stood up slowly. “Yes. Thank you.”
We had all said good night and were leaving the sitting room when I heard Nora say to Lennie in a low voice, “I hope you’re satisfied.”
I was tired and ready for bed, but Ray was still wide awake, and he pleaded with me to stay up.
“I’m sorry, Ray,” I said as I headed upstairs. “I’m beat. We’re going riding first thing in the morning, remember? I have to sleep.”
I had stripped to my underwear and was drifting off when I heard tap, tap, tap and the opening of the front door.
Tamara certainly doesn’t waste any time, I thought.
Laughter soon drifted up the stairs, surprising me. Ray seldom laughed and Tamara was totally without humor. Maybe Ray’s little story this evening had brought out her jolly side. I covered my head with a pillow, but, as I was drifting off again, someone pounded frantically on the front door.
Still in my underwear, I ran downstairs and looked through the side window at Lars. The porch light had been left on, and I could see clearly that he was upset, his face red and eyes watery. We never locked the front door—no one ever locked a door at Schoolcross—so he could have walked in, but he kept hammering.
I opened it and asked, “What’s w
rong, Lars?”
“Mario’s missing. He’s gone.”
“Missing? We were together at the Big House only half an hour ago.”
“We had a fight,” Lars said. “I was mad at him for showing off to Ray, and being so funny for him, and at my expense too. Don’t deny that he was.”
“It sounded like everyone was having fun. I saw you laughing.”
Tears flowed down his enormous Scandinavian face, and I realized he was very drunk. “But I was dying on the inside,” he wailed.
If the scene hadn’t been so sad, it would have been comic.
“Well, come in,” I said. “But Mario’s not here. Ray’s in his studio with . . .”
I remembered the laughter. Of course. Ray wasn’t with Tamara. The door to the studio opened, and Ray was standing there.
“What’s all the racket?” he asked.
“It’s Lars. He’s looking for Mario.”
“Well, he’s right here. We were talking. Hey, Lars, what’s the matter? Are you drunk?”
“Yes, I am,” said Lars, sobbing now.
“Why are you crying?” Ray asked. There was no answer. “Come in,” he said.
Mario was sitting in a chair, a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table next to him. He must have brought them, because we didn’t keep any wine or glasses like that in the house. He wore a defiant look on his face.
“You don’t need to follow me everywhere, Lars.”
“How do you know I’m following you?” Lars answered. “Maybe I come to visit Bradley. Did you ever think of that?”
“You two had a fight, didn’t you?” said Ray.
“No,” said Mario. “We’re having a fight. We’re having a fight right now.”
I’d never seen Lars angry, but I’d heard about it. He was standing up very straight, his face bright red.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked Ray.
“What am I doing where?” Ray answered. “In my own house?”
“On Schoolcross!” Lars yelled back. “You don’t belong here. Nora’s a lady. The way you talk around her is disgusting.”
It's Not About Sex Page 8