by David Ely
“Charley. How the devil did you know where—”
“Never mind that.” Charley sounded aggrieved. “See here, old man. I’d like to know what’s gotten into you. First we get you all nice and settled down on the Coast and then you go chasing around where you’ve got no business being. It’s not proper, old boy. You’re demonstrating a pretty negative approach, if I may say so, and the boys back at the colony are darned cut up about it, too.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Wilson said, defensively. He loosened his tie with his free hand and sighed. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt just to make one quick little visit.”
“All right. You’ve had your little visit. Look,” said Charley, obviously struggling to master his peevishness, “let’s examine this thing from an ethical standpoint. Is it fair to go rooting around in somebody else’s past? I mean, what earthly good does it do? You’ve got your own life to live. Live it. Let bygones be bygones. All this talk about Harvard and grandchildren—that simply doesn’t fit the present situation, old boy. Face up to it. Everybody’s better off the way things are—”
“You’re absolutely right, of course,” said Wilson. He was too tired to protest.
“—and the stakes are important,” Charley continued. “Not just for you, but for your friends. They’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to find their happiness, and now you’ve got them all worried and bothered, because they feel kind of responsible for you. It’s a brotherhood, old boy,” he declared, more expansively. “We’re all in this thing together. Myself included, you see, because I’m your sponsor, in a manner of speaking. You wouldn’t want to let old Charley down, would you?” he inquired in a jesting tone, although Wilson could detect a note of real concern in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Charley. It won’t happen again. It was a mistake to come out here, I guess.”
“That’s more like it.”
“But I can’t help feeling there’s been an injustice done. A real injustice. You remember Sally—what a sweet affectionate kid she was—”
“Don’t start on that, old boy.”
“No, just let me finish. She doesn’t know me, Charley. I don’t mean me now, but me—before. It seemed, well, like she sort of wrote me off as some old stupid fuddy-duddy who didn’t matter alive or dead, one way or the other.”
“Forget it.”
“I’m willing to forget it, Charley. I really am. But it’s pretty damned upsetting to find out that your own flesh and blood didn’t give two hoots about you, when you’d worked and slaved for so many years—”
“Old boy, this is being negative again.”
“Just let me talk a minute. That husband of hers, for example. Smug little fascist, that’s what he is. One of these little tin medical gods. I tell you, it makes me sick, thinking how the pair of them will be raising that boy of theirs. A grandfather’s influence could be decisive, Charley. I realize I’m in no position right now to do anything to that end, but—well, you should have heard the things that fellow said—”
“Look,” said Charley, firmly. “You take a sleeping pill and get a good night’s rest. I’ll get in touch with Bushbane and have him out in Denver by morning.”
“I don’t need Bushbane. I don’t want Bushbane. I’m able to get back under my own steam. The point is, Charley, that a man ought to be able to talk about the things that bother him without being shushed up all the time,” said Wilson. “By the way,” he went on, tartly, “do you know who Bushbane is married to? Sue. S-u-e, Sue, that’s who.” There was a considerable silence at the other end of the line. Wilson felt a pang of remorse. “Sorry, Charley,” he added. “I didn’t mean to stir up old memories.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Charley, gamely. He puffed out a breath that sounded across the transcontinental wires like the rustling of leaves.
“For all I know,” Wilson said, trying to soothe his friend further, “Emily may have remarried by now, too.” He was suddenly appalled by the idea. “A rich widow’s an easy mark, by God.” His money. The sense of injustice mounted. “Some slick young gigolo—”
“Old boy,” Charley interrupted. His voice was weak with urgency. “In the name of our friendship, I want you to promise me to go back to the Coast. It—it means a lot to me. Believe me, you can’t know how much it means to me. We’re—we’re sort of tied together, you and me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. But you will go back, won’t you?”
“Well, yes. I said I would.”
“And you’ll forget all about this other business. Won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best, Charley.”
“Just play the game, that’s all,” said Charley, unsteadily. “Happiness. It’s within our reach, old man. Remember that. And just—play the game . . .” His voice cracked. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Charley.”
Wilson sat for some time on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap. His thoughts were confused; he could not seem to order them. He was sorry for Charley, of course, although he could not quite see why the mention of Sue’s remarriage should be so upsetting. Emily . . . well, that was a different thing, quite different. Emily had been solid and loyal in her way, and certainly faithful; the idea of her as the wife of some stranger impressed him as being most inappropriate. Undignified, in fact. It would be, he felt, quite unlike Emily to do such a thing. The fact that she had not sold the house was encouraging; at least it indicated that she was not one of these giddy creatures who go fluttering down to Miami or Jamaica the moment their spouses are tucked underground. On the other hand, he reflected, she might have found some man right there in Connecticut; perhaps some fellow who’d lost his wife. Someone like Pierce Johnson, with his big calf-eyes and little brush mustache. Johnson’s wife had been seriously ill, hadn’t she? She might be dead by now, leaving Johnson free to go mooning about other men’s wives . . .
He seized the telephone. “Operator? Let me have long distance, please.”
“One moment, sir.”
His heart was pounding painfully and the receiver seemed terribly heavy in his hand. He had the feeling that he was under the solemn and reproachful observation of Charley, of Bushbane, and of John, and as he glanced guiltily around the room he saw, in the full-length mirror on the closet door, Antiochus Wilson regarding him suspiciously. The lips of the image moved. It whispered: “You fool . . . !”
“Long distance,” said the operator cheerfully.
“Ah . . . never mind. I’m sorry. I’ll call—later.”
He put the receiver down. For several minutes he stared silently at the image in the mirror, waiting for it to move or speak again, but it merely eyed him with sullen audacity, and only when he slumped back on his pillow and swung his legs up on the bed did it vanish.
But still he sensed its presence. It was there in the room with him, slipping stealthily from one mirror to another, watching him. The telephone buzzed. He sat upright. Charley again—or Bushbane, possibly. No, by God, he would not answer. Swiftly he pulled his tie tight, grabbed his coat and hat from the chair, and went out of the room, letting the phone ring on and on behind him.
In the lobby, he hesitated, not knowing what to do. A family group paced past him on the way to the hotel dining room—a lean young man holding a small boy by the hand, accompanied by a young woman, evidently in the middle stage of pregnancy; and right behind them, a stout gentleman in a well-tailored suit escorting a thin, beaky woman wearing mink and flowers. Three generations celebrating some anniversary, Wilson decided. He could almost smell the odor of long relationships—familiarity, apathy, weariness—that seemed to radiate from them. The child was tired and fussy. The young wife looked slightly nauseated, and the older woman was recounting some complaint to the portly gentleman, whose face displayed a look of disciplined boredom. The man’s eyes rested for a moment on Wilson’s face, and in that moment Wilson seemed to catch a glimpse of envy, self-pity, and, as the man turned his head away again pati
ently toward his wife, a mild despair.
“A table for one, sir?”
Wilson stopped short. It seemed that he had trailed along behind the irritable family group right up to the door of the dining room, and the headwaiter was addressing him politely, looking somewhat askance at the coat and hat he still held.
“Um, oh, no.” Wilson was confused. “I think I’ll eat later on, actually.”
“Very good, sir.”
He turned away and went hesitantly back through the lobby, where tall mirrors glittered in the brilliance of chandelier light. Everywhere he glanced he seemed to see the image of Antiochus Wilson. He stopped and turned to face it. The figure in the glass had the appearance of reality, of being a living man, and yet was without substance . . . a fleshless apparition, this reflection of himself. He stepped closer to it; obediently, the image advanced to meet him. He wondered whether it would not be possible for him to merge with it finally, so that he might become forever fixed in the coldness of the shining glass, a two-dimensional representation of a man—
He started nervously as he heard his name being cried aloud by a bellboy. He turned hastily away from the mirror. The page-call—that would be Bushbane, growing anxious. Or perhaps Bushbane had telephoned some Denver reborn to seek him out and help him over what Bushbane had called “a tough moment.” My God, yes, there would be plenty of reborns to call on; they must be spread over the entire country by now. That tweedy fellow standing at the registration desk—he might be one of them. Bushbane’s Denver correspondent, dutifully answering a summons to assist a comrade temporarily in distress. What would the man suggest? A game of chess? Chinese girls?
Wilson hurried out to the street. If he had to converse with someone, he would prefer that plump gentleman who had so gloomily ushered his family into the hotel dining room—the whining grandchild, the bilious daughter, the skinny son-in-law, the irritable wife—all the sour proofs of a life in depth. With such a man, one could at least have the reassurance of an unimpeachable reality.
“Cab, sir?”
“Y-yes, thank you.”
He had the impression that the man in tweeds had spotted him and was lumbering in his wake.
He climbed into the taxi. The driver’s vicious little face stared at him from the photograph on the licensing permit. The man asked: “Where to?”
“I want to go to—to a night club. I don’t know the town. You pick one.”
The taxi moved out into the midevening traffic. Wilson glanced through the rear window. He saw no tweedy figure emerge from the hotel, but it mattered little. There were so many of them that he could not hope to elude their kindly pursuit. Indeed, how could Charley have phoned him so soon after he had checked in at the hotel, if he had not been followed and watched every step of the way?
“ . . . You want something big with a floor show, mister?”
“Well, yes. That is—no, not exactly. I thought some place a little quieter.”
The driver hesitated, estimating his client’s intentions. “You sure it’s a night club you want, mister?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, well, okay . . .”
The place the driver selected was almost pitch-dark inside. The air was heavily scented with perfume and liquor. In one corner, a man in a blue tuxedo sat playing a piano with an illuminated keyboard; nearby stood a girl apparently nude but wearing flesh-colored tights and tiny stars on her breasts, moving her arms about in imitation of some Oriental dance of gesture, as yellowish and roseate lights alternately passed across her.
Wilson sat at a tiny table and ordered brandy. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he perceived the shapes and shadows of the other patrons, spotted with the glowing ends of cigarettes. In time, he was able to identify male and female by their clothing, but their faces remained indistinguishable in the gloom, and he was thankful both for that and for the fact that their conversations were whispered, perhaps out of consideration for the performers. He felt peaceful, and anonymous. The brandy comforted him. He gazed placidly at the girl, and thought that he would be content to remain as he was indefinitely, sipping liquor and watching the awkward and pretentious movements of her arms. She reminded him of Sara Jane, a resemblance that was heightened when he noticed that she seemed to be chewing gum.
A woman sat down at his table. “Do you mind? I’m waiting for someone and it’s so crowded—”
“Not at all. Please, um.”
He had been caught off guard and had not had time to rise, which slightly annoyed him, for the woman appeared to be a lady, well-dressed and with a pleasant voice.
“Would you let me offer you something while you’re waiting?” he asked, anxious to prove his politeness.
“Well, really, it’s awfully kind of you, but—”
“A little brandy? It’s rather good.”
She smiled. Or at least he thought she smiled, for even at close quarters it was difficult to make out the arrangement of another person’s features.
“Let me order anyway,” he insisted. “You needn’t touch it, if you don’t want to.”
“All right, then. Permission granted.”
“Splendid.”
A waiter was nearby. Wilson placed his order more loudly than he had intended, and he realized that he was getting drunk. No matter. He turned back to his companion, and, lighting her cigarette, saw with satisfaction that she looked like a decent, cheerful woman. A bit too much rouge for his taste, but perhaps that was the custom in these parts.
“You know, you’re the first real person I’ve had a chance to talk to for a terribly long time,” he said earnestly.
“My goodness. That sounds grim. Where are you from?”
“California. A bunch of phonies out there. I mean it,” said Wilson, “literally. You know, they take a man at face value out there.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“No, you don’t understand.” He felt a great impulse to unburden himself before Bushbane arrived to lead him away. “There are some people I’ve come to know who aren’t at all what they seem. I mean, they’re decent fellows and all that, but they’ve turned their backs on the past, in a sense. Some of them have changed their names, even,” he added, aware that he was not expressing himself as freely as he should, perhaps through the intervention of a subconscious allegiance to Charley and the others.
“Sounds like movie stars,” she said.
“No, no. Quite a different thing. Hard to explain.” He sat moodily for a moment. The rose and yellow girl had vanished. In her place stood a young man, whispering a song into a microphone. “The point is,” said Wilson, “that a man likes to be liked for his inner qualities. That’s what I mean. Face value is all very well for the ordinary sort of human experience, but suppose you change the face? Then you lose the value, don’t you?”
The woman laughed softly and touched his hand. “You’d better let me have your brandy, too. It’s good, but it’s not that good.”
“No, I’m serious. I mean, it’s nice to know you can change your face, but actually going ahead and doing it has certain drawbacks. For example, I’m a grandfather—and at the same time, I’m not a grandfather.”
“You don’t look like a grandfather to me.”
“Exactly. Face value.” Wilson paused self-consciously and sighed. “You must be wishing your husband would show up so you wouldn’t have to listen to any more of my nonsense.”
“I’m sure it isn’t nonsense. It’s just a little complicated. And it isn’t my husband, as a matter of fact. I’m a widow.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve gotten quite used to it, really. It’s been almost a year. I was lonely at first. Well,” she added, with a decisive note in her voice, “I’ll tell you something else, too. I’ve just about come to the conclusion that the person I’ve been waiting for isn’t going to come after all—”
“What a nuisance.”
“—and I’ve been thinking that what you need right now is a good strong
cup of coffee. I hope you won’t think I’m the kind of woman who goes around picking up strange men in bars, but it occurred to me you might like to see me home. I’ll make you some coffee and I’m sure you’ll feel much better.”
“I’d—I’d like that a lot.” But he was confused by the fact that her knees were now touching his, and that she was very gently massaging his hand with her fingers.
“Good. Well, you pay the bill like a good boy, and we’ll set off . . .”
In the taxi, they exchanged a long, hearty kiss, and then sat comfortably close in an embrace.
“You’re younger than I thought,” she said, studying his face.
“I’m older than I look.”
“Maybe it’s because you have no family responsibilities.”
“Maybe.” He laughed, and the cab seemed to tilt. “But it’s a little strange at first, even when you look in the mirror. It didn’t use to be—”
“You’ve lost your wife,” she said keenly, as if she had divined the secret behind his incoherence.
He laughed again. “Yes.”
She touched his hand. “It makes things lonely. I know. And almost anything’s better than being alone.”
“It was very sudden,” he added.
“So was mine—my husband. He went on a business trip to New York and died in a hotel. It was a cerebral hemorrhage.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know—a stroke.”
“In a New York hotel—”
“Yes.”
Wilson’s face bloomed with perspiration.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I just remembered something. Tell me . . . when did you stop being—lonely?”
“Oh, about four months ago.” The taxi pulled over to the curb in front of a large and handsome apartment building. “Here we are,” she added, “home.” He did not move to open the door. “Well, don’t you want to come up?” she asked.