(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  Eight years ago, it had been. And now?

  Standing in the middle of the room, Lucius Mack gazed down compassionately at the figure of his friend sprawled on the bed, watched the heavy breathing and the deep, deep slumber. Except for the gouged lines of dissipation beneath his eyes and beneath his cheekbones, Craig seemed as he had seemed then, although now he was thirty-nine. Despite the fact that he was sixteen years the author’s senior, Mack felt at one with him, felt a contemporary with no bridge of years between them. Perhaps they had found each other good companions, after that first meeting, because they were alike, their minds galloping the earth and the surrounding universe, and unlike the others who were time-bound and narrow earth-bound by the price of hogs and corn and prairie isolationism and Better Farming.

  Almost weekly, in the early times, Craig had ambled into the newspaper office to have a drink or two with Mack and talk and listen and talk. But after Craig’s time of trouble, after the injury, and the breaking down, and the surrender, Mack had taken to calling on his friend four or five times a week. This was usually in the afternoons, before Craig had become too drunk. They would lounge in the upstairs room, the bottle between them, Mack taking one to Craig’s six, and converse as of old, perhaps more recklessly, more fancifully with the heavier drinking. Sometimes, in a desultory way, they would play gin rummy, too. It had been this way for almost three years, and these days ended, during Craig’s bad periods, exactly as this day had ended.

  Lucius Mack sighed, and collected his packet of cigarettes from beside Craig’s blue humidor. He heard Craig stir fitfully on the bed, and watched unconcerned. Craig was on his side now, one lank arm outstretched, his legs curled, and he was sleeping hard. Mack wondered if he dreamed. He hoped not, not now, not these years.

  Mack let himself out of the room, noiselessly, and went carefully down the two turnings of wooden stairs. The living-room was fully lit against the bleak day, and Leah Decker, her face pinched in the familiar disapproval she always showed at this hour of the day, sat in a corner of the deep plaid sofa, industriously knitting.

  With Mack’s entry into the room, she looked up with her eyes. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Sleeping.’

  ‘How much did he drink this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, a few fingers, no more.’

  ‘I bet!’

  Patiently, Mack struck a match and put it to the cigarette between his lips. He inhaled and blew out the smoke, and dropped the match in a nearby ceramic tray. ‘Look, Leah,’ he said without exasperation, ‘I’ve told you time and again—Andrew’s had a bad time, been through a bitter time, and this is his way of escaping it. He’s not like all other men. He’s a creative person, sensitive as can be—’

  ‘That doesn’t give him licence to behave like Edgar Allan Poe. Even if he’d proved he is Poe. It’s wrong—drinking all day, passing out every night—’

  ‘Come now, Leah, you know this thing goes in cycles—’

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ she said flatly. ‘It used to be two weeks on and two weeks off. Now it’s three weeks on and one week off.’

  ‘We have to endure it for now. When a man’s lost his wife, the shock—’

  Leah put her knitting aside. ‘He killed Harriet with his drinking, and now he’s trying to kill himself. I hate being the witness to two murders.’ She stood up and massaged one hand with the other, turning her back to Mack, and then turning again to face him. ‘Heavens, Lucius, don’t you think I know how it feels? She was my sister—just as much as she was his wife. But you don’t see me, or anyone else, carrying on like this, liquoring up day and night, half the time unconscious from that and sedatives and depression. Harriet was a terrible loss for me, too, but after proper mourning, and thinking about it, I found myself. My God, it’s been three years. Life goes on. On and on. Life is for the living. There’s little enough of it, anyway. We’ll all have our turn, you bet.’ She stopped. ‘Will you have some coffee?’

  They always had coffee together, after his visits to Craig. He bobbed his head. ‘Yes, sure, if you don’t mind.’

  Leah Decker went into the old-fashioned kitchen, and Mack followed her, finding a chair at the table. He traced the floral design painted on the maple table, and he watched Leah brewing the coffee. She was a handsome woman, he reckoned, by any standard. She might not grow old well, but she was handsome now. She had Harriet’s Slavic features, except that they were tighter, more pointed, and her hair, which was brown, not dark blonde, was swept back tight and bunned in the back. Her body was taller, straighter than Harriet’s had been, and pleasing although more rigid and unyielding. She had none of Harriet’s gaiety or humour. She was practical, sensible, and—too often recently—querulous. Mack forgave her the last, because her lot was not an easy one. After the accident, she had come to help out, to bury Harriet and to nurse Craig, and she had simply stayed on. For all her faults, she was selfless in her devotion to Craig, and always softer and more feminine in his presence. Her harder side, her complaints, were reserved for others.

  Mack knew that her life here was lonely. Craig was too rarely sober or mobile or sociable. And Mack understood that things could not be easy, financially. By now, Craig’s meagre savings must have dwindled away, leaving innumerable debts, and there was little hope of salvation. Craig had one hundred pages of a new novel, Return to Ithaca, but only a handful of these pages had been added in six months. Briefly, there had been an opportunity for a teaching job at Joliet College, four miles north of Miller’s Dam. A solemn, scholarly literature professor at the college, Alex Inglis, a frustrated writer in his fifties deeply devoted to Craig’s books, had pulled strings to bring his idol into the college as an instructor. This high-hope had dissolved when, to impress the Board of Regents, Inglis had arranged a literary lecture by Craig, at Joliet, and Craig had appeared too drunk to go on.

  The Craig household still survived, Mack was certain, because Leah was economical and husbanded what was left of Craig’s past. Royalties from paperback editions of the novels, and foreign editions, and television adaptations, dribbled in, and Leah made the most of them. Also, she helped keep alive Craig’s limited cult throughout the country, and interest in his old work, by co-operatively corresponding with every fan and critic, by encouraging them to write about Craig and by bedevilling Craig’s despairing agent to press continually for reprints and new editions of his four books. Thus, she maintained Craig—and herself—above water. But for how long?

  And why? The last question was the one that interested Lucius Mack. Why had Leah Decker, an eligible woman no more than thirty-four, dedicated herself to this existence? Was it that she was sorry for her brother-in-law? Was it that nearness to a once promising literary figure enriched a potentially drab life? Was it masochism? Or was it—and Mack had often speculated on this point—that she secretly wanted her sister’s husband, the future security and prestige he might provide, even his love? Mack wondered.

  ‘It’ll just be a minute,’ Leah called over her shoulder, as she took the rolls from the oven.

  ‘No hurry.’

  Watching Leah, Mack wondered about another thing, too. Whenever Mack or other close friends were present, and Craig was not, Leah always decried her brother-in-law’s drinking. She played Carrie Nation, and evoked sympathy and admiration. Yet, Mack wondered. Somehow, there were always fresh bottles of Scotch in Craig’s room, and Craig did not buy them. Somehow, Craig drank before Mack saw him, and after. Mack wondered if Leah actually, in subtle ways, encouraged Craig’s drinking, or at least went along with it, to reduce his potency as a man. In this way, she could have him dependent on her as part nurse, part mother, part wife. Without drink, as once he had been, Craig might leave Miller’s Dam, depart from the place and Leah’s person, and she would be left without him, in a void and an old-maid. Still, there were arguments against such behaviour on Leah’s part, such as the fact that his insobriety meant his inactivity as an artist, and this impoverished him and, in turn, Leah. What was the truth ab
out Leah? Mack revelled in these old man’s games.

  She brought two cups of steaming coffee to the table, and then bringing the heated rolls and butter, she sat down across from Lucius Mack.

  Stirring sugar into her coffee with her spoon, she said, ‘You know, I’ve tried to talk to him several times these last weeks. I mean, about trying to write a little every day—do something.’ Her eyes stayed on the spoon. ‘I wish you’d speak to him sometime. He might listen to you.’

  Mack poured cream in his coffee, and then sipped his drink. ‘We’ve discussed it many times, Leah. What do you think we talk about up there? A good day’ll come, I’m positive. Right now he’s caught up in this pattern of self-destruction. But at the core, he’s too tough to kill himself. He is a writer. He has a mind. One day, these factors will dominate him. One day, he’ll wake up from all of this, and the bottle will be a stranger, and he’ll say to himself—Christ, where have I been? And he’ll say to himself—it’s my turn to live again. And then, he’ll be like he used to be.’

  ‘Sometimes it never happens. Poe—’

  ‘Nonsense. Forget Poe.’

  ‘Well, I’m waiting for that day. Three years is an awfully long time.’ She pushed the plate of rolls toward Mack. ‘Have some. You need filling.’

  As if to punctuate Leah’s dietary advice, the wall telephone in the kitchen rang.

  There were few calls these days, and Leah was quick to reach the telephone and unhook the receiver. She listened a moment, and, disappointed, told the party to hold on, then held the receiver towards Lucius Mack.

  ‘For you,’ she said. ‘Jake Binninger at the office.’

  Mack got to his feet and went to the telephone. He wedged the receiver between his shoulder and his chin, as was his habit, and listened.

  Seated at the table again, Leah, absorbed in her own thoughts, paid no attention. Sipping her coffee, she almost spilt it when she heard Mack’s sudden exclamation. She looked up surprised, to see his creased face opened wide and red with pleasure.

  ‘Are you sure, Jake?’ he was pleading into the telephone. ‘It’s not a hoax? Read it to me again—the whole thing—slowly—now go ahead.’

  Only the hum of the refrigerator could be heard, as Lucius Mack pressed against the telephone, and Leah observed him with curiosity.

  Mack broke the silence. ‘All right—that’s enough—what a day! Now, look here, Jake, you just drop everything and hop over, and bring all that with you.’

  He hung up with a bang and spun around.

  ‘Leah, it’s sensational—the news just came through—Andrew’s gone and won the Nobel Prize for literature!’

  Her face was puzzled. ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand—’

  Mack took her by the shoulders, half lifting her to her feet, and shaking her in his enthusiasm. ‘The Nobel Prize—!’

  ‘In Sweden?’ she asked blankly.

  ‘The biggest in the world. Over fifty thousand smackers for Andrew Craig!’

  ‘Explain it, Lucius. I don’t know. I’m all mixed up.’

  ‘You know—you know—the annual award to the best author on earth—and they’ve just announced it from Stockholm—they’ve voted it to Andrew.’

  ‘Oh, my—my—’ She was almost speechless. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Jake got it on the Associated Press wire. He checked. The telegram from Stockholm just came into the office on Main Street.’

  ‘What do we do?’ she asked helplessly.

  ‘We get Andrew on his feet, and damn quick. AP and UPI are flying their men in from Chicago. Time, Life, and Newsweek are, too. They’ll all be here tonight. And the Milwaukee and Madison papers are sending down special correspondents. They’ve all checked with our office. This is news, Leah—this is big!’

  ‘But Andrew—he can’t—’

  ‘He can and will,’ said Lucius Mack. Grabbing Leah by the elbow, he began to propel her out of the kitchen, when suddenly he halted. ‘No, wait. You set up gallons of hot, black coffee, while I wake him. We’ve got to get him partly sober!’

  Leah moved her head mechanically in assent, and pointed herself back towards the kitchen. Mack ran through the living-room raced up the staircase, and burst into Craig’s bedroom.

  Andrew Craig lay flat on his back now, arms stretched wide, filling the bed as if crucified. His respiration was nasal and difficult.

  Catching his breath, Mack crossed to him, and sat on the side of the bed. ‘Andrew—Andrew—’

  There was no response. He took Craig by the shoulders and shook him.

  ‘Wake up—’

  Craig wriggled, and then he opened his bloodshot eyes. He searched Mack’s face, trying to orient himself, learning finally who he was, and who was above him, and where he was, and in what condition. He licked his parched lips.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he muttered. ‘For Crissakes, leave me alone—’

  He turned his head on the pillow, but Mack took his face in his hands and brought it back before him.

  ‘Andrew, this is important—’

  ‘I gotta sleep it off—’

  ‘No, listen—now, listen good, man—we’ve just got a flash! You’ve won the Nobel Prize—the real McCoy, I’m not kidding! They cited The Perfect State and Armageddon and your writings in support of “humanitarian ideals”. Andrew, it’s true, and there’s fifty thousand bucks that goes with it!’

  Andrew Craig lay unmoved as a cadaver, eyes open, staring past Mack, letting the communication find transmission through his fogged brain.

  Mack took his friend by the shoulders again. ‘Did you hear what I said, Andrew?’

  ‘I heard.’ He did not budge. ‘It’s a gag, isn’t it?’

  ‘Every word true. Jake Binninger’s on the way from the office with the telegram and AP lead. In a couple of hours, half the press of the country’ll be here!’

  ‘Why me?’ Craig asked suddenly. ‘I haven’t had anything out in four years—’

  ‘I don’t know why—I don’t know how—I only know it’s happened. Old Zeus has come down from Olympus and crowned his man. Andrew, do you know what this means—what day this is? This is the day you’ve become a Nobel Prize winner—joined the rest of the big ones—made the majors!’

  ‘I can’t think of what to say.’

  ‘You’d better, and fast. You’re going to be doing a lot of talking—to the whole world—tonight.’

  ‘Lucius, I’m drunk.’

  ‘We’re going to make you sober. Leah’s in the kitchen now.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She lost her faculty of speech.’

  ‘I’m glad for her.’ He tried to prop himself on an elbow, groaned, bringing his hand to head, and dropped back on the pillow. ‘Wow. I really hung one on. Lucius, I can’t get up. Lemme sleep a little.’

  ‘No. Definitely not. You’re no more Miller’s Dam. Now you belong to the ages. Up.’

  Mack took Craig’s arm and pulled, and Craig pushed, and was abruptly upright, but in agony. He swung his legs off the bed. Mack knelt and slipped the moccasins on to Craig’s feet. ‘There.’

  ‘Do I have to dress?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re a famous author now. Nobody gives a damn how you dress. Only I want you to look sober. Better throw some water on your face and comb your hair.’

  Grumbling, Craig managed to stand up, holding his head between his hands as if to keep it screwed on his neck. Setting one foot hesitantly before the other, he tottered forward and disappeared into the bathroom. After a brief sound of running water, he emerged, better groomed, but still in agony.

  ‘I dunno, Lucius. I see three of you, and all look like Simon Legree. The bed is now twin beds, and I want to sleep in both of them.’ Shakily, he took his briar pipe from the table, and then the worn, half-filled pouch. He considered Mack a moment. ‘The Nobel Prize, you said. What does that mean?’

  ‘I told you. Over fifty thousand dollars.’

  ‘No—that’s good, but—what do I have to
do?’

  ‘Well, there’s the press tonight. And in three weeks, you go to Stockholm—’

  ‘Stockholm? I could never make it.’

  ‘Sure you can.’

  ‘No. I did it once—but that was with Harriet,’ he said almost inaudibly. ‘Now, I’m alone.’ He made a move to leave the room, but his knees buckled, and he snatched at Mack and held. His grin was sickly. ‘Guess I need a collaborator, Lucius. Help me down.’

  They descended the staircase and progressed through the living-room slowly, and, finally, they reached the kitchen. Jake Binninger had just arrived, his sheepskin coat wildly misbuttoned. He was wiping the thick lenses of his spectacles, as he watched Leah read the telegram and teletype dispatch he had just delivered to her.

  Andrew Craig’s entry into the kitchen brought Jake Binninger across the room in two leaps. He grasped Craig’s limp hand and pumped it. ‘Mr. Craig, this is wonderful! I’m proud to know you! A million congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you, Jake.’

  Leah had held back. As the reporter stepped aside, she came forward. She went up on her toes and brush-kissed Craig on the cheek.

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, Lee.’

  ‘Here’s confirmation.’ She handed him the telegram and teletype message.

  Craig’s hand shook as he accepted the sheets, and groped for and found the nearest kitchen chair. He lowered himself carefully into it.

  ‘You smell like a brewery,’ she said to Craig. ‘That’s not right—in your position. I want you to drink black coffee, lots of it—’

  He was reading the telegram. ‘Not now,’ he said absently.

  ‘And that getup,’ she went on. ‘A Nobel Prize winner in a T-shirt, cords, and dirty moccasins—they’ll be taking your picture—’