by Ward Just
Ned arranged the memorial service and delivered the eulogy, a slow-rhythm affair that lasted but ten minutes. He talked about her spirit, her courage, and her love of the outdoor life. Elaine was not from Chicago, but her friends were there, many of them attached to the university. Mostly they were strangers to him but a few made a point of approaching him to say how much they would miss Ellie, her skill at backgammon, her obsessive knitting, her mimicry. Ned smiled and nodded as if he were fully familiar with these hobbies. He was not familiar with them, except for the mimicry. Eleanor Roosevelt. Adlai Stevenson. But the atmosphere was desultory, and as soon as they decently could, Ned and Elaine’s heartbroken father took a cab to the Loop and Ned’s club, where they drank one whiskey after another. The club had all the vivacity of a mausoleum but the service was prompt. They were surrounded by portraits of the city’s nineteenth-century founders. Elaine’s father, Michael Ardmore, was a man of considerable personal charm, though somewhat the worse for wear physically. He was stooped. His complexion was sallow and his fingers trembled. He had a lion’s long-jawed, flat-nosed head swarming with silver curls. Elaine had inherited the curls. Also, she had inherited her father’s husky parade-ground voice, minus the continental inflections. They were alone in the club bar, hunched over the small cocktail table like two conspirators. Michael asked Ned if he had been in touch with Elaine, and Ned replied that he hadn’t been. He had written but Elaine had not responded except for one cable that he found incoherent. He had not written back. He had not known what to say except that he missed her. And he was uncertain of the address. Maybe there was trouble with the post, Michael said, and Ned agreed, perhaps there was. Letters or cables lost in transit or confiscated by the authorities.
Ned raised his hand and in a moment the bartender was at his side, nodding and promising two more of the same. Michael watched the barman’s retreat. Ned was lost in his own thoughts, considering the question of Elaine. He had decided a year ago that she was a one-way street, a cul-de-sac really. She inhabited another world, one difficult of access. He said this aloud and Michael shook his head and began to tell his own stories, enchanted tales of his daughter’s childhood, her off-the-charts IQ and her determination to go her own way. Her pranks, her unreliable boyfriends—not you, Ned. Her reading habits, which did not include his own books. He loved her to death. She had written him about Ned, his lust for the news business, how fond she was of him. She thought the news business was a distraction. She said you were settled down.
Do you have a lust for the news business?
I suppose I do, Ned said.
It amused her, I think. I’m afraid she thought it a joke.
That’s one way of putting it, Ned said with a conciliatory smile.
Ned cleared his throat and said, So you got letters from her.
Only the one letter, and not lately, Michael said. It worried the hell out of me. What was she doing? He paused and continued, She was so headstrong. I think she got that from her mother, an impossible woman but delectable. She was a handful. I was crazy about her until she became impossible. She was a beautiful woman but, as she said, serious beauty takes you only so far. She insisted it was tiresome listening to men tell you how beautiful you are. At first you don’t like it and then you come to depend on it, a compliment from every quarter. That was the world according to Dutch. She said it was hard to make friends and harder still to keep them. That would be the jealousy factor. Men were no better but they had the advantage of ugliness; a mournful or repulsive countenance attracted a certain kind of woman. Of course the ugliness had to go along with an unnatural confidence, meaning an air of mastery. Dutch was my second wife. My present wife, Tre, is a beaut. I couldn’t live without her, or at least live successfully. She has final edit on all my books. Ned opened his mouth to inquire into the books and the advantages of ugliness but Michael Ardmore had a question. He ran his hands through his curls, all the while shaking his head. Tell me this. What in the name of God was Ellie doing in Africa?
Hunting animals, Ned said. Exploring.
Africa’s a mystery to me, Michael said. She was on safari?
Rhino and elephant specifically. She liked the unspoiled terrain. I think she meant African naturalness.
Damnedest thing, Michael said.
In her way she was searching for a life. Something to believe in, maybe.
Michael snorted. Sometimes the truth is not present. It takes a hike. At other times it comes in disguise. Surely, Ned, you of all people would know that. Immersed, as you say, in the news. So you kill a rhino. So what.
The truth is always there somewhere. Otherwise—
Otherwise what?
You’re confounded.
That’s usually the way. Searching for something that isn’t there. Things are often—imperfect. Obscure. What you’re left with is a damp stack of wood. No fire, not even a spark. Michael laughed and held up his hand. Or an empty glass, he said, to which Ned smiled and signaled the barman.
Exploring, Michael said sadly. That’s one of the things Elaine did as a child. Got into trouble for it, too. She liked to snoop. That was another thing that drove me crazy. I never did anything about it because she was never malicious. And she made me laugh. I can’t imagine her gone. She never said goodbye. And I didn’t either. Inconsiderate of her. Me, too. Michael shook his head and looked at the ceiling as if he expected to find her hovering like a ghost. The barman came with two drinks, then went away. Michael said, You’re a career man, aren’t you?
What do you mean?
You love your work. Love it to death. Can’t live without it.
Yes, that’s true.
Must’ve been hard with Elaine.
Yes, it was.
There was a sudden noise as three men tumbled through the front door, the one next to the bar. The room filled up with loud voices and rough laughter. They had been to the Bulls game, another loss but a great game all the same. They draped themselves over the bar, demanding whiskey. All three lit cigarettes. The barman greeted them by name as he busied himself with the whiskey. One of the men looked over, saw Ned, and gave a laconic salute. Ned saluted back and their voices dropped an octave. Ned explained that the saluter was a well-known political lawyer, a friend of the mayor’s.
They’ll be out of here in five minutes, Ned said. What they have to say is not for a newspaper editor’s ears.
Private business, Michael said.
Private business meaning city business, Ned said. They sat in silence, Ned wondering why anyone would name a daughter Dutch. Then he said, What kind of books do you write?
Novels, Michael said.
You’re lucky. You don’t need to fact-check. You don’t need sources. You can simply—make it up. And hope that the reader buys in, no?
Not always simple, Michael said. But I see your point.
Ned was quiet a moment, then decided to take his thought a step further. He said, In my business we have these conventions that seem quaint to outsiders. Take the word “plunge.” A woman stands on a roof and an instant later lies broken in the street below. No eyewitnesses, or none that we are aware of. The point’s this: She didn’t fall. She didn’t topple. She didn’t drop. Those words imply agency. They imply carelessness, a stumble, a fainting spell, perhaps suicidal intent. Or foul play. Perhaps an unseen hand, but we do not know that. So the word is plunged. Plunge is immaculate. One moment she’s standing on a rooftop, the next dead in the street. And that’s all the reader is entitled to. The reader does not have carte blanche. The newspaper is not a restaurant where substitutions can be requested. The menu is prix fixe. In certain respects the newspaper resembles a straitjacket. Now if by chance there is an eyewitness, and that eyewitness gives a statement to the authorities, the reporter would be entitled to write that the victim jumped, was pushed, had fainted, according to police. And by the way, a redheaded stranger was in the vicinity. The cause of the plunge must be sourced, you see. Ned’s voice had risen and the lawyers at the bar were lis
tening in.
Michael smiled. What if the cop is lying?
Sooner or later we’ll find that out. And the context will change.
A burst of rough laughter from the bar, but neither Ned nor Michael paid attention.
Michael said, Governments lie as a matter of course. They call it statecraft, raison d’état, national security. When they get caught they have a ready explanation. Mistakes were made. So you’d have to be careful. I like the idea of an immaculate verb, though. An immaculate conception.
Ned lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair, listening to Michael Ardmore’s amendment. He was very sure of himself in a casual way, a wink and a smile. Washington was evidently a common conversation among the expatriates in Capri. Ned had told no one of his new situation, but there was no reason not to tell Michael, father of Elaine. He said, I’ll remember your thought. I’ve taken a newspaper job in Washington, deputy editor. The publisher and I get on very well. He’s only a few years older than I am and wanted someone of his own generation in the newsroom. It bothered him a little bit that I’ve never worked in Washington but we agreed the city’s a quick study. So am I. So the fit should be all right. Two quick studies.
Congratulations, Michael said.
It’s time for me to quit Chicago. There’s nothing to keep me here.
Michael raised his glass. To plunging, then.
Plunging, Ned agreed.
They sat for a moment without speaking. Ned wondered if he had made a mistake telling Michael of his plans. He surprised himself that he had. The announcement had not been made and no one knew of it. Ned was accustomed to keeping things quiet. Still, he was correct in saying there was nothing in Chicago to keep him there. He looked up when Michael cleared his throat.
He said, I’m not sure actually that Washington’s a quick study. All those competing interests. All that scrutiny, not that scrutiny changes anything. It’s a gray city, Ned. It’s not Renoir, it’s Goya. Goya inside and out. For a while the papers were happy to collaborate with Renoir but that time is past. It’s pretty much Goya all down the line, thanks to Indochina. I think you will find Washington—Michael thought a moment—not spontaneous, he said. Of course I may be wrong. It’s been years since I’ve been there. Maybe Washington’s changed. Alas, maybe it’s only more so. They do think well of themselves in our capital. Modesty seems to be one of the casualties.
The barroom had fallen quiet. The lawyers had paid up and left. Ned and Michael Ardmore nursed their drinks in silence. The bartender looked at them but Ned shook his head. Michael rose from the table, saying he had to use the men’s. His step was unsteady. He paused once, his hand on one of the cocktail tables to collect himself. Ned watched him go and had the sudden thought that this would be their last meeting. Michael would disappear into Italy and that would be that. His step was more secure on his return. Michael sat down heavily and said, Where are you from, Ned?
Indiana, Ned said, and went on to describe Herman and life there but did not mention the comedian. He said the town was in decline. His parents were gone now and he doubted if he would ever return. Ned said, I don’t think of myself as being from any specific place. My hometown is wherever the newspaper is. Indi-anapolis is one sort of town, Chicago another. Now Washington. And Herman, of course. It’s all one to me.
The waiter arrived with a chit, announcing that the bar would soon close.
Nice club, Michael said. Good service. I’m glad we had a chance to talk at last, speak privately, sort things out. If you ever get to Capri, look me up.
I will, Ned said. Do you know, I’ve never been abroad. I’ve never been to the West Coast, either. Or the Southwest. Or Canada.
Michael smiled. I’m sure you’ll find Washington to your liking, the whole world crushed into a very small space. Sometimes a dungeon into which no light shines. But you can make something of that, too.
Ned sneaked a look at his wristwatch. The time was eleven p.m. The vast room was in deep shadow, illuminated only by the brace of low-watt sconces on each wall and a crystal chandelier overhead. The bartender was reading the racing form, a pencil between his teeth. Ned remembered that Elaine liked the races, Arlington Park on a sunny Saturday afternoon. She rarely won but liked the atmosphere. Then Ned had the fantastic idea that Elaine was nearby, listening from the shadows. She was wearing a white, long-sleeved shift and was barefoot. She was frozen in a kind of ethereal glow and her lips were parted as if she were about to offer a thought of her own. From the street below Ned heard an ambulance siren, fading away. Then Elaine faded away, too.
You were in her heart, Michael said. I know that.
And she in mine, Ned said. Probably for good.
Don’t say that! said Michael, his voice rising. Why, you’re a young man. You’ve got decades ahead of you and you’re going to an unfamiliar city, our capital, a wholly different world from the one you’re used to. A different cast of characters. Trust me. I know these things. You’ve got a fresh start and you’re young enough to take advantage. Someone else will come along.
Someone else did come along, Ned said.
Well, then—
She’s in California now.
Terrible place, Michael said.
She’s a singer. And an actress. She’s a singer-actress.
They can be unreliable, Michael said.
So they can be, Ned said, finishing his drink and moving to rise.
But Elaine’s father, staring into the middle distance, stayed put.
I hate it, he said. I hate it that she’s gone. That she’s buried in some place I never heard of and that I wasn’t there to say a few words and perhaps better understand what joy she found in east Africa. Perhaps joy isn’t the word. It’s some other word, I don’t know what. I was all she had left in the way of family, blood kin. Her mother died when she was a tyke. But of course you know that. She learned at a young age to look after herself. And when she was ten she was struck by polio, a year of struggle with that, and at last the polio went away, leaving no side effects. But it was a hard year for her. It left her wary. She believed the polio could return at any time. No matter that the doctors said no. I would say the polio left a shadow on her spirit. She became defensive. And also fatalistic. No wonder she liked Africa.
Polio, Ned said.
You didn’t know?
No. Nor her mother’s early death. She never spoke of it.
People are incomprehensible, often.
Evidently, Ned said.
Ellie and my second wife did not get on and that caused some tension, but we all learned to live with it. She went away to university as soon as she could and the university became her life. Many times she did not return home at vacation time but spent it in the library or with friends. She liked Thanksgiving, though. The ceremony of it. The toasts, the bottles of prosecco. She had a million questions about the Italian way of life, manners and, to the extent there were any, morals. I told her the Italian way of life did not project. Or if it did, it projected in farce. The Italian way of life was successful only in Italy. Nowhere else. Do you know what they’re good at? Friendship. And they take the long view of things. Elaine never quite got it. She was an American girl through and through, and even though I was not an attentive father we got along fine when we were together. We liked the same jokes:
“Chancellor Adenauer visits Paris and is obliged to answer questions at customs:
Nationality? German. Age? Ninety-two. Occupation? Nein! Only for ze weekend.”
Michael smiled but it took a moment for Ned to get the joke. Michael said, She was never much interested in my writing life. I don’t know why. Maybe my books were not serious enough for her, or were serious in an unfamiliar way. I wish I knew where she was buried. But that will be an eternal mystery to me . . . Michael Ardmore’s voice trailed off. He had lost his way. He exhaled, then raised his unsteady hands and let them fall. He said, I will never travel to Africa. I have no experience in Africa. Her grave and its location would be unfamiliar
to me. It would be like visiting a stranger.
Michael said, I felt her presence a moment ago.
Yes, Ned said. So did I.
Perhaps a condolence.
Ned said, Elaine adored you. She thought you lived a colorful life and let nothing interfere with it. She called you My Papa.
I know, Michael said miserably.
Ned signed the chit. He had one last inquiry and said to Michael Ardmore, Can I ask where your material comes from? Methods and sources. You begin a novel. I imagine you have the first sentence, perhaps a paragraph in your mind, and beyond that a vast counterpane of blank pages. Where else does it come from besides your own head? From what you have said, I gather that facts do not govern. What governs?
Michael laughed, a derisory laugh without humor. He said, I govern. Something falls out of my mind and lands on a page. You read something in a book or a newspaper and it gives rise to something familiar, something in your life or another life. Someone tells a joke that reminds you of another joke or the same joke reworked. The reworking does not bring you closer to the actual event; it takes you farther away. That’s the essence of it. Nothing is safe from your scrutiny. Perhaps the better word is sacred. Nothing sacred here, only a story that wants telling if you can reach the heart of it, this task that has to fit the grail you have set for yourself—revenge, say, or virtue. Or more likely, both at the same time. You collect stories that you will never use because they are exaggerated and belong to the common speech, a bar confidence that is enthralling but lies dumbstruck on the page. It is outlandish. Too funny to be true. In any case, it lies uneasily on the page. It is an ill-fitting suit of clothes. Sooner or later an emotion must arise, the death of a child or an old woman or a drunk in a bar. “What is our innocence, what is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.” Nothing is safe. Nothing is sacred. Not one thing. Much of the time the novelist is in a dream world. That would be hallucination with some drama. But I don’t think that’s an answer to your question. One answer is this: I don’t know a single rule in the writing of fiction that stands scrutiny, save one. Believe in your material. Trust it as you would trust a barometer or a compass or the tide tables. The atomic clock. When something is wrong with a passage, rewrite the passage. Rewrite it fifty times if need be and in that process your story changes: he becomes she, and Capri becomes Chicago. Something like Mourning Becomes Electra. Rewrite the thing until it has a pulse, a beating heart. That’s it. The one rule. The facts do not govern. I govern. The rest of it is eating and sleeping and dreaming and waking and working and sleeping.