by David Ely
He returned to the door to greet the stragglers, and saw among them a woman he knew—knew from a past that had been all but surgically removed from him in the creation of his new identity. In that instant of recognition, his pose as Wilson seemed exploded by this one quick pinprick of familiarity. He was exposed. His ears roared with the buzzing of some interior derision as he advanced, trembling, to greet her. It was, by some impudent turn of irony, his good friend Charley’s wife, Sue, and his astonishment was too great to be repressed.
“My God—Sue!”
Sue was not at all disconcerted, but came toward him coquettishly, with a gay appraising look in her eye. “Well!” she exclaimed, taking his hand, “and so you’re mine host!”
“What are you doing here?”
“You invited me. I think. Anyway, I’m here,” she declared brightly. Then she hesitated. “Am I supposed to know you from somewhere?” she asked dubiously, taking a swift inventory of her recollections, for Sue was a woman with a voluminous past and a short memory. “I swear I can’t place you, Mr. Wilson,” she added, “and now that I’ve had a chance to look you over, I’m honestly sorry about it.” She giggled and grasped his arm firmly. “But you come on and meet my husband now,” she continued, nodding her head toward a lanky gentleman who was handing his hat to John. “He plays golf every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, Tony—it is Tony, isn’t it?—and he’d love to have you join his foursome, or whatever he calls it. And if you don’t play golf, why then maybe there’s something else you’d like to do on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons,” she declared, massaging his arm, “like maybe make a twosome somewhere. Oh, Henry,” she called to her husband, “look what I found in the foyer! Our host, Mr. Wilson. Tony, meet Henry. Henry Bushbane. My husband,” Sue confided to Wilson as the two men shook hands, “is supposed to be a writer, but he doesn’t write and he sure can’t spell.” She giggled, still clutching Wilson’s arm. “He can’t spell his own name half the time!”
“Darling,” protested Mr. Bushbane, with the same look of gloomy foreboding Wilson had seen so often on Charley’s face.
“Let me show you to the bar,” said Wilson. He had by this time recovered his composure. Good Lord, he thought, he had almost been betrayed by the sight of Sue into making a terrible gaffe. It was pure coincidence, her being married to one of the reborns. But it was bigamy, too, wasn’t it, since Charley hadn’t killed himself after all? No matter. Poor Bushbane.
“Here we are,” said Wilson cheerily. “Name it, Bushbane. We’ve got it. I think,” he added, as he got a further glimpse of Sue wriggling up to someone else’s husband, like some disreputable evidence of the past which had escaped the company’s notice, “I’ll have one, too.”
He had two, and then a third . . . or was it a fourth? Anyway, it seemed to help. He chattered small talk effortlessly, and moved from group to group, smiling, laughing, getting names mixed up but not caring—being, in short, an almost perfect host, and even receiving occasional glances of grave approval from John.
An hour passed. The room seemed terribly crowded, full of smoke and laughter. Someone sat down unexpectedly in the tiny fountain in the center of the conversation pit. It was Sue Bushbane.
A plump blonde wearing thick glasses was mooing softly at Wilson’s shoulder for attention. “Don’t you just love it out here?” she was saying.
“Oh, California. Absolutely.” Wilson cast a host’s eye toward the conversation pit. Sue sat squealing merrily atop the fountain, her skirt darkening; but no one seemed to mind. He shrugged and gave the blonde a complacent smile. “Delightful climate,” he added.
“There’s something religious about it, don’t you agree?”
“In a sense—”
“I mean all these religious groups out here, the kinds you just don’t find back East,” the blonde explained.
“You certainly don’t.”
“I belong to a special kind of group,” she went on, pressing his arm earnestly. “We change sects.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Each month, we change sects. The one we’re in now, the basic belief is reincarnation.” She simpered, then frowned at her glass, as if the liquor had betrayed her into worldliness. “You know, spirits investing one body after the other, as part of the great Unknowable. Mr. Wilson, do you think there’s anything to that?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” said Wilson. He laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, but laughed again. She blinked at him doubtfully, and to avoid the threat of more laughter, he reached out and tapped the shoulder of the nearest man. “Um, Mr. Jolson here,” he told her, “I understand he’s well informed on things like that—aren’t you, Jolson?”
“Mayberry,” muttered the man.
Wilson freed his arm from the blonde, at the same time maneuvering her to face Mayberry. “The Reverend Mayberry,” he whispered puckishly in her ear. “Mayberry,” he declared, “this young woman has a theory about reincarnation that ought to be of interest to every man in the room.” He chuckled and winked broadly at Mayberry, but instead of winking back in acknowledgment of the irony, Mayberry stiffened, pursed his lips, and looked decidedly ill at ease. Old sourpuss, thought Wilson. What harm could there be in a little joke?
“Reincarnation,” he repeated, mischievously. He pressed the blonde forward. “New bodies for old souls, isn’t that right, my dear?”
But without waiting for her reply, he edged away, leaving Mayberry to deal with her. “Reincarnation,” he said again, to no one, but from across the room he caught a calculating glance from one of the men, as if his exchange with Mayberry had violated some secret code of behavior which had been immediately sensed by the brotherhood. It did not bother him; rather, he was suddenly struck by the amusing notion that he was present at a masquerade whose social façade, ostensibly so proper and ordinary, would at any moment be thrown into confusion with the ripping off of masks and the beginning of wild dancing. The thought made him feel reckless and gay. He snapped his fingers in the air and snatched up another drink. Masks off! Why not?
“I’m crazy about your painting, you know that?” remarked Mrs. Filter, a dark little woman he found himself wedged close to in a corner. “How do you ever do it, anyway?”
“I paint stark naked. That’s the only way to get at the truth.”
“My God, of course.”
“You ought to try it.”
“I’ll try anything once,” she said, significantly. A heavy-set man backed into her. “Hey—oh, it’s my husband. Joe,” she said to him, “we’ve got to have Mr. Wilson over for dinner sometime soon, you know that?”
“Of course.” Mr. Filter, however, seemed slightly annoyed at the sight of his wife on such familiar terms with Wilson, for she in fact had one arm around Wilson’s waist. “Next week, maybe? Not that we want to interfere with your artistic labors, Wilson,” he added, with a touch of sarcasm that irked Wilson.
“I’ll make time,” Wilson responded coldly. “What about your own crowded work schedule?”
“Joe’s an investment analyst,” Mrs. Filter explained.
“Oh? But what do you really do?” Wilson asked the man. “Or should I say what did you do?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Filter, giving him a sharp glance of warning, but at this point Wilson noticed that Sue Bushbane was playfully splashing water on the other guests in the conversation pit, and he disengaged himself from Mrs. Filter to attend to her.
“You’ll weaken their drinks,” he told Sue, and then, to command her attention, launched a dubious subject. “I knew your first husband, Charley. Um, whatever became of him?”
She stood up, dripping, and gaped at him. “Oh—him. It was terrible.” She giggled. “I’m sorry, it really was awful. We went to this island for a vacation. I forget the name, but it had this crater on it. You know, a kind of volcano. Right in the middle, smoking away, and all the tourists were supposed to go see it, but it gave me a headache so I didn’t go up, but Charley did, poor
boy, and he went into it.”
“He fell?”
“He jumped or fell or something, but you see he took his coat off before and left it on the edge, so they called it suicide and I couldn’t collect double on the insurance. But I can’t believe he meant to do it. Charley had everything to live for, don’t you think so?” she asked archly, edging closer to him.
“But surely someone saw what happened.”
“Well, yes, a lot of people did, but he went around to the smoky side, where people weren’t supposed to go, so nobody could tell exactly whether he took a nose dive or just slipped, do you see? They saw him fall in, but it was too smoky to see just how, and so there was nothing clear-cut for the insurance people to go on, which is why I think it was really an accident, because Charley was such a methodical man, you know. He always had a reason for everything. But it was terrible for me, you know,” she added, blinking her eyes as if about to weep. “There I was on vacation all alone, with another week to go and not knowing a soul, except for a nice man named Joliffe who’d sat at our table a couple of times. He saw Charley go, too, and he was considerate enough to try to help me get over the shock. Oh, I was absolutely prostrated,” she added, and then, as though her phrase had recalled an image of a different character, she giggled. “But where did you get to know Charley, anyhow?”
“Oh—at college. We were classmates at Harvard.”
“Really? Say, that’s something.” She grabbed the sleeve of a passing gentleman and tugged him around to face Wilson. “This is Bobby Hamrick. Bobby went to Harvard, too, didn’t you, Bobby?”
“Um, that’s right,” said Mr. Hamrick, uncertainly.
“Your house wasn’t Adams, by any chance?” inquired Wilson, before it occurred to him that Mr. Hamrick’s Harvard background would be of synthetic origin.
“Adams? Well, no, not exactly—”
“I’m sorry,” Wilson added quickly, anxious to cover his faux pas. “I forgot. I didn’t mean to pry. Actually,” he went on, aware that the liquor had given him a heedless tongue, “I’m not a Harvard alumnus, either—myself, I mean to say. That is, I used to be, but I’m not any more.” This explanation somehow did not seem to be satisfactory, for Mr. Hamrick was now glaring at him in a forbidding manner. Sue Bushbane, clinging to his arm, was greatly amused.
“What do you mean,” she cried out, “did you resign or something? My God, that’s priceless.”
“No,” Wilson went on, honestly determined to come up with some convincing reason to repair his mistake, “I did go to Harvard, you see, and I was an alumnus, but that was a long time ago, before I became a painter, and now—now I’m not any more.” The incongruity of his situation struck him as being quite funny. He laughed, and the sight of Hamrick’s face, thunderously grave and fairly rippling with unspoken admonitions, made him laugh all the harder. It was just like old Filter, the pseudo investment analyst, Wilson thought, and sure enough, there was Filter not too far away, reinforcing Hamrick’s silent signals with those of his own.
“The truth is,” Wilson spluttered, “that I just stopped being an alumnus. It’s that simple.” He gave Hamrick a playful punch on the shoulder. “Haven’t you ever stopped anything, for example?”
Hamrick closed in on him. “We must play golf together sometime, Wilson,” he said, meaningfully. Filter had approached from the other side, and Wilson saw several other men moving slowly his way.
“Golf,” Hamrick repeated, taking his arm.
“Did you learn golf at Harvard, Hamrick?” asked Wilson gaily, but as he saw that his irreverent attitude was causing his guests real concern, he composed himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My tongue just keeps on wagging. Look.” He stuck his tongue out and wagged it. “But don’t worry, gentlemen, I’ll try to keep myself in check. There’s just one question on my mind, and I’ll be satisfied.” He turned to Hamrick. “Where did you go to college, old boy? I mean, was it Yale or Columbia . . . ?” The group of men around him had sprouted hands, and the hands were gently edging Wilson in the direction of his bedroom. He did not resist, for he realized that his lack of control had created a certain problem in etiquette, but his voice continued anyway. “I’d really like to know, Hamrick, because if it was Columbia, I’ve got a cousin who went there, about your time, and you might remember the name. And come to think of it, by God, I’ve got a nephew who’s there right now, at the law school—”
“You don’t have a nephew,” someone whispered angrily. Wilson was conscious of having left the living room and that John was among those who were guiding him to bed.
“You’re damn’ right,” he conceded. “I forgot.” He was seated on the bed. Someone was removing his shoes. “I don’t have a nephew. You’re right there. But anyway, he’s at Columbia, and my daughter—I mean, I realize I don’t have a daughter—but my daughter, she’s married to a doctor and maybe by this time—who knows?—she’s got a baby. Do you know that? By God, John,” he continued, addressing the nearest face, “I might be a grandfather by now. Isn’t that something? I mean, if I had a daughter, which I’m the first to admit that I don’t, of course.” He leaned dizzily backward, gazing uncertainly at the figures surrounding the bed who were examining him with what he sensed was deep reproach. “Never fear, gentlemen,” he declared, attempting to reassure them. “I am perfectly aware of the facts. If I am a grandfather, believe me, they’ll never drag it out of me, not even in court . . .” And with this, he clapped both hands to his throbbing head and burst into prolonged laughter.
Chapter 4
HE DID not tell John where he was going. He told no one. Indeed, he himself did not seem to have decided finally on his destination until he marched up to the airport ticket counter, his suitcase in his hand, and in response to the clerk’s inquiry, mumbled: “Denver.”
“One-way?”
“No, round-trip, please.”
He checked his bag and went into the bar to wait for his flight to be called. In the mirror, his face appeared pale and puffy among the reflected bottles and the shuttling figure of the bartender. The mirror’s image of an illuminated clock on the opposite wall showed the hands reversed, with time retreating. For reassurance, he glanced at his wristwatch. Yes, in four hours he would be in Denver, and from there it would be but an hour’s drive to his daughter’s house. It was not to see her again that he was going, he told himself, but simply . . . well, for one thing, he wanted to make sure that she had gotten her portion of his estate, because if a baby were on the way, there would be added expenses, and her husband was probably not making much yet, being so recently out of medical school. Of course, he couldn’t just barge in and inquire bluntly about money matters; he would have to hint around a little.
“Hello, Wilson.”
It was Henry Bushbane, who had climbed up on the next stool. Wilson flushed guiltily and cleared his throat. “Ah. Bushbane.”
“Going somewhere, Wilson?”
“Er, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I thought,” said Wilson, craftily, “I’d take in some of the night life at Las Vegas. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard a lot about it.” He sensed that Bushbane was regarding him with a certain air of irony, as if he knew full well Wilson’s real intentions. Somewhat defiantly, Wilson added: “And what about yourself?”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” Bushbane smiled sadly and gave his order to the bartender.
There was an uneasy pause. Bushbane turned around to study the entrance for a moment, and then, when his drink had been placed before him, he winked at Wilson and said: “Let’s go back to a booth, what do you say? They can spot us too easily here.”
“Who can?” Wilson asked, but he followed Bushbane to a booth anyway, where they sat in semi-darkness while soft piped music hummed at them from a hidden loudspeaker. The room was decorated in heavy shades of green, which gave Bushbane’s face an even more saturnine cast.
“Look here, Wilson,” Bushbane began, “you’re not having an easy time of it. I can tell.”
“If it’s about the party, I just had one too many, that was all.”
“No, I don’t mean just that. You’re a troubled man, Wilson.”
“I’m doing all right,” said Wilson defensively. “I think I can adjust as well as the next man, in time.”
“Of course you can. But what you need most of all right now is a friend. Someone you can rely on. Someone you can confide in. Me, for example.”
“I appreciate that, Bushbane. But let me put it this way. I’ve tried to confide. For instance, the day after the party I called up this fellow Filter and I began apologizing for my behavior, and he was very polite about it, but he absolutely declined to go into the matter. I mean, I tried to explain that what I’d said on the subject of being a grandfather was merely a kind of mental lapse, do you see, but he pretended that I hadn’t said anything of the kind. And then,” Wilson continued, “I paid a call on Hamrick. I felt I was bound to, for I’d insulted the man, so to speak, but it was the same story. When I attempted to explain this little mixup about his Harvard degree, he looked like I’d said something embarrassing and he turned red and kept trying to assure me that Harvard hadn’t been mentioned at all. Well, of course I realize that men in our position must be discreet and that the past is all over and done with, but frankly, Bushbane, this seems to be carrying things a bit far, don’t you agree? You see, if I’m to get on a friendly basis with a man—which I’d like very much to do—I have the feeling that I’ve got a right to know a little something about him. I mean, just between Hamrick and myself, why couldn’t he sort of whisper what school he really went to, eh?”
Bushbane listened to Wilson’s recital with increasing gravity. “Look here, Wilson,” he said. “I want to say first of all that I absolutely understand your feelings. Absolutely. But you’ve got to realize that this is a passing phase on your part. You’ve got to be reasonable.” He raised one finger, like a schoolmaster. “You’ve got to remember that these men have made a tremendous monetary investment in a certain personal service, and they can’t abide the idea that this investment may be threatened. Look at it from their point of view. Suppose one of them took it into his head to go running about and making references to the past and asking questions and so forth. I ask you, Wilson, that kind of thing might snowball, and pretty soon the whole damned structure would be in jeopardy. And why? I’ll tell you why. Because it all rests on faith and trust. Someone who violates that faith and trust . . . well, he’s not playing fair with the others. Don’t you see?”