Desperate Asylum

by Fletcher Flora

He sounded reflective and wistful, as if he were reviewing the lost chances of his life. He was thinking, probably, that he had had very little fun out of living. And he looked as if he hadn’t, his face appearing older than it was, even in the soft and flattering light of the bar, thin skin gray and dry and loose on its bone structure. He had never at home, Lisa remembered, reacted to anything at all with excitement or sign of genuine pleasure, and she felt now that she had somehow contributed to this inadequacy, this effect of flatness, and she was suddenly oppressed by her recurrent conviction of guilt. For a moment she was absolutely certain that she should never have come here with him, that it would never work for good but only for disaster; and that she was not only peculiarly vulnerable herself to corruption and misery but was also a kind of carrier of these things, a source of contagion for everyone who had anything to do with her. She thought that it would be a kindness to him if she were to get up without a word and walk away and never again see him or speak to him or have any contact with him of any kind, and the compulsion was very strong to act upon the thought, but she merely lifted her glass instead and looked at him over the edge.

  His attention had been diverted, and he was staring intently at someone who had come in and got onto a stool at the bar. Following the direction of his gaze, she saw a slim back in a white jacket and, beyond in the glass, a blur of features in a narrow frame.

  “That fellow there,” he said. “I’d swear that I know him.”

  “Maybe he’s someone from Midland City.”

  “No. I don’t think so. If he were from home, I’d remember. I have quite a good memory for names and faces. Well, never mind. Probably he only resembles someone I know. Are you ready for another daiquiri?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He signaled a waiter. The waiter came and picked up their glasses and carried them away. The muted, canned music went on and on. King Cole singing something. Later there would be a live entertainer, a young woman who played the piano and sang unusual songs that you couldn’t hear just anywhere, but now it was King Cole canned. The waiter brought the fresh drinks and Lisa drank some. She was losing her feeling of guilt again, her compulsion to run. Here was the world with her in it, and things were this way or that way, and there was no need to torture yourself about them.

  “Avery Lawes,” Carl said.

  “What?”

  “His name is Avery Lawes.”

  “The man at the bar?”

  “Yes. I knew him in college. Classmates. I suppose it’s been eight, nine years since I’ve seen him.”

  “Really? It’s remarkable that you should recognize him so quickly.”

  “Well, I have a good memory for names and faces. But I said that, didn’t I? He lives in Corinth. Used to, anyhow. Corinth is a town across state from home. Not a large place. About thirty thousand, I think.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a nice town. Prosperous. Lots of money in Corinth. Some good families there too. I guess the Lawes family was about the most prominent of them all. Still is, I suppose. Money and background. There was a Lawes served a term as governor about twenty years ago. Avery’s grandfather, I think.”

  “To hounds, to hunt, and away.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I was just making a joke.”

  “Oh.”

  He stared at her blankly, obviously trying to see the humor of it, in what way it was a joke, and she was ashamed of the impulse that had made her say it, her irritation; and she reminded herself again of his enormous kindness and generosity and, above all, of his sincere efforts to understand her and reclaim her. She did not deserve such consideration and was not at all sure that she could respond to it, or at least sustain her response indefinitely to it, or even for any considerable length of time.

  “It wasn’t funny,” she said.

  “Well, perhaps I’m a little dull. Never was able to appreciate irony and things like that.” He lifted his glass and took a small swallow and set the glass down again. “I’d rather like to speak to Lawes. Do you mind if I do?”

  “Not at all. Do as you like about it.”

  “Excuse me, then?”

  “Of course.”

  He got up and walked toward the bar, and she picked up her daiquiri and drank it quickly and signaled the waiter to bring her another. She would have to be careful about her drinking, she thought. She had quite a capacity for it and did not get drunk easily—not sloppy, out-of-control drunk, anyhow—but there was the very important matter of mood to consider. If she drank too little, the alcohol acted only as a kind of irritant, and she was likely to become nasty and say things she would afterward be sorry for; and if she drank too much she became terribly depressed and started thinking about everything that had happened to her and that it would be much better for her and everyone else if she were dead. And so drinking became in the first place the delicate operation of taking just enough to get the proper lift, the rather lilting feeling of compatibility with herself, and in the second place the even more delicate operation of taking just enough thereafter to sustain the feeling, which was a very difficult thing to do and required lots of practice.

  The third drink arrived, and she tasted it, approaching now the delicate point of sustenance. With a pleasant sense of detachment, she watched the action at the bar, the pattern of diffident action and reaction occurring when one person undertakes to renew with another an acquaintance that had been interrupted long ago and had been no more than casual in the beginning. She could not hear what was said, of course, but she could have supplied almost literally the words to go with the observable expressions and gestures and hesitations. “Excuse me, old man. Aren’t you Avery Lawes?”

  “Yes,” lifting his head and twisting on the stool, “yes, I am.”

  “Sheridan. Carl Sheridan. I’m afraid you don’t remember me.”

  “No. No. Sorry.”

  “The University. Old what’s-his-name’s class in Investments. Remember? We graduated together.”

  “Oh, yes. My God, yes. Sheridan. Carl Sheridan. Inexcusable of me not to have remembered immediately. Well, it’s been a long time.”

  “Certainly has. How have you been, old man?”

  “Fine, fine. Working and getting older.”

  “Still living in Corinth?”

  “Yes. No place on earth to live but Corinth, you know. Family’s been there for eons.”

  “I’ve been right in Midland City myself. Hardly ever get away. Just down here now to recuperate from a spot of pneumonia. Doctor said I ought to come. Takes something like that, I guess, to jar a man loose.”

  “Yes. Seems like it. Will you have a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’d like to, but I have one waiting for me at the table over there. Have my sister with me.”

  “Sister? Not married yet, then, I take it.”

  “No. Never had the time for it. That’s my story, anyhow. Truth is, women don’t like me.”

  Laughter. Polite laughter for the little joke.

  “Glad to hear it. It’s a relief to learn that I’m not the only bachelor left of the old crowd.”

  “Really? Not married yourself? I should have bet you’d take the plunge long ago.”

  “Not I. Hopelessly inveterate, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “To meet me here? No. I’m strictly on my own.”

  “In that case, why don’t you have a drink with my sister and me at our table?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Nonsense, old man. We’d love to have you. If you really aren’t committed, I’m going to insist.”

  “Well, if you’re sure it won’t be an intrusion.”

  “Quite the contrary. Be a genuine pleasure. You know how it is between a brother and si
ster. All right for a while, but eventually it gets pretty dull. Especially for the sister. Come along, old man. Just bring your glass with you.”

  Now Avery Lawes stood up, glass in hand, and came with Carl across the room to the table, and Lisa, watching them come, could see that Lawes was a slim, erect man with a graceful carriage and a rather narrow, good-looking face. His nose was finely shaped, and there was about his mouth a softness and sensitivity that indicated not so much weakness as vulnerability. Lisa noticed these things objectively, with no emotional accompaniment except that of a vague reluctance to emerge from her semi-isolation and engage in a routine of sociability with a man she didn’t know and didn’t want to know. “My sister Lisa,” Carl said. “Lisa, this is Avery Lawes.” Lisa smiled and held out a hand, and he took it briefly and released it. His fingers were dry and hard, with very little flesh on the bones, and the touch of them was not offensive. He bent forward slightly from the hips. “How do you do, Miss Sheridan,” he said.

  She said that she was doing fine. “Won’t you sit down?” she said.

  He took a chair across from her. He drank from his glass, and she saw that it was Scotch he was drinking. On the rocks. It followed, she thought. First family of Corinth and all that. High class stuff. Why did high class stuff almost always drink high class Scotch?

  “Carl tells me you were in the University together,” she said. She laughed. “You can see that we were talking about you.”

  “Convinced I knew you the moment you came in,” Carl said. “Just took me a minute or two to place you.”

  “It’s remarkable that you remembered me at all. After so long a time.”

  “I have a good memory for names and faces.” Realizing that he had said this twice before, Carl shot an almost ludicrously contrite look at Lisa. “I mean, it’s just one of those little knacks a person has sometimes. Would you like to have that drink freshened?”

  “It’s Scotch. I’ll finish it and have another.”

  He finished it. Carl finished his daiquiri. Lisa, nursing her third for sustenance, said in response to Carl’s inquiry that she was not ready yet. The waiter came and left and came back, and everyone was beginning to feel pretty good, not drunk but just temporarily dissociated from the three people they would recover later in the night or wake up with in the morning.

  “That class in Investments,” Carl said. “The professor’s name. I’ve been trying to remember it. It was Barnsdorf.”

  “That’s it. Barnsdorf. It was Barnsdorf, all right.”

  “I kept thinking Barnswell and Barnstorm. It was Barnsdorf, though. Wacky old boy. There was a fellow at the frat house who did a perfect imitation of him.”

  “Yes. Nutty as a peach orchard bore, they used to call him. I never knew why a peach orchard bore was considered particularly nutty, but that’s what they called him. Not so nutty at that, though, I guess. I understand he made over a million dollars just playing the market.”

  “I’ve heard that myself, but I never quite believed it.”

  “You never can tell about these odd old boys. Supposed to be all theory and no common sense, but sometimes they’re pretty shrewd. Sometimes they surprise you. Wonder if old Barnsdorf is still living?”

  “Oh, I should think so. Been some publicity if he’d died. Especially if he’d left over a million dollars.”

  “That’s right, isn’t it? That’s a way to tell if he really has it. All we have to do is wait for him to die.” Avery turned to Lisa. “Is this your first time in Miami?”

  “Yes. We only arrived today.”

  “Is that so? Only been here four days myself. Are you staying long?”

  “I don’t know, really. Carl has been ill. He came down to rest and get some sunshine.”

  “So he told me. Hope you didn’t come along for the same reason. Have you been ill too?”

  She felt all at once a strong and dangerous compulsion to tell him. Yes, she wanted to say, I have been ill too, I have been ill for many years with an illness that is a result of learning something wrong at a time when it should have been learned right, or perhaps of not learning at all something which should have been learned naturally in the normal process of ceasing to be one phase of person and beginning to be another, and still again, perhaps it is something you are born with and can’t help, and the simple truth is that no one actually seems to know what causes it, or what to do about it, least of all the person who has it. You were talking about the old professor at the University, Mr. Lawes. You said he was odd. That is the name of my illness, Mr. Lawes. I suffer from the illness of oddness. For instance, would you believe it, I can look at you and talk with you and ever touch you without revulsion, but I cannot possibly understand how any woman on earth could get excited about the prospect of sharing your life or your bed, even in return for the privilege of becoming a Lawes of Corinth. On the other hand, I can remember a girl named Alison from a long time back, and a woman named Bella from a very short time back, and I can remember others in between these two, and for these I had, and have now in remembrance, a feeling that would astonish you. Isn’t this odd of me? Isn’t this very odd? There is a name for this oddness, Mr. Lawes, and the name derives from the name of an island where a woman named Sappho once lived and wrote poetry and was, they say, very beautiful. It is a name for those with this illness of oddness, the illness that I have, and it is not pleasant to be odd in a way that is different from the oddnesses that are accepted, like that of the old man who was only good for laughs and possibly a million dollars. If you are odd in a way that is not accepted, you are quite likely to suffer for it. Do you understand me? It is this conflict, this threat of massive retaliation, that is never lost entirely from the consciousness, even if it is never executed, that nourishes a sickness of guilt and diffuse fear and in the end quite possibly destroys you. So I have been ill too, and I am still ill, and I have come to Miami to sit in the sun. My brother has brought me here, and I know very well what he is thinking. Would you like to know? He is thinking with great innocence that a husband would cure me. He is thinking that if I deliberately adopted the form of normalcy the substance of normalcy would develop in its own time. He is thinking that I am really a very pretty woman with a good background and that it is his duty to guide me to an eligible man and to encourage my cultivation of this man. Object, matrimony. A kind of desperate asylum, if you follow me. And do you know something? Being aware of this, I am inclined to submit. Rather, let us say, I have been driven to submit. Not because I am convinced that it is the cure he thinks, but because I am convinced that there is at least no other. And I will tell you something else. Though he wouldn’t admit it and probably doesn’t even realize it, Carl is at this moment thinking of you, and I am thinking myself that you are, of all the men I’ve known or am likely to know, quite possibly the least offensive. Do you hear that? Do you understand me?

  Better run, Mr. Lawes. Better get up at once and run as if the devil were after you, for it may be that he is.

  “No,” she said, “I have not been ill.”

  “Good. Are you ready now for another daiquiri?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Carl?”

  “All right.”

  They had two new daiquiris and a Scotch, and Lisa sustained the lift, and it became night. Avery and Gail talked about things that had happened at the University when they were there and about things that had happened to them since they’d been there, and Lisa listened for a while and then began to think about things that had happened to her, but this threatened the lift, so she began listening to the canned music and watching the formulistic people. And after quite a while Carl asked her if she would like to have dinner, and she said she thought that she would.

  Carl turned to Avery. “You’ll have dinner with us, of course.”

  “Oh, no, thanks. I’ve intruded long enough.”

 
“It’s no intrusion at all. We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Lisa?”

  “Of course.” Carl and Avery were both looking at her as if something more were expected of her, so she added, “Please join us. We’re only going into the dining room here.”

  “Well, I’ll accept on one condition. I pick up the check.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Carl said.

  “I insist. I can’t accept unless you agree.”

  “All right.” Carl shrugged and finished his last daiquiri in a gulp. “If you put it that way.”

  They got up and went out of the bar and into the dining room and were escorted to a table. An orchestra was playing something with a Latin rhythm, and a few couples were dancing at one end of the room on the small dance floor directly in front of the elevated place where the orchestra sat. The opposite end of the room was open to the terrace, and a few couples were dancing out there too.

  “What are you going to have?” Carl said.

  Lisa looked at the menu, and Avery said, “I’m going to have the pompano. It’s very good.”

  “I think I shall too,” Carl said. “It’s something different. You don’t often get pompano at home.”

  “There’s a place in Corinth that serves it now and then. Em Page’s restaurant.”

  “Really? That’s rather surprising. It must be a pretty good place.”

  “It is. Em built it up from practically nothing, and he’s very proud of it. It takes pride to make something good.”

  “Come to think of it, that’s true. Pride works wonders.”

  “I’ll also have the pompano,” Lisa said.

  Looking up from the menu, she saw that Avery was watching her with an odd intentness. He was apparently on the verge of saying something to her and was struggling against an impediment of some kind, just as a stammerer will hang up sometimes on a particular sound. The orchestra had begun a medley of tunes with a simple rhythm that required no mastery of intricate steps, and she understood suddenly that he was about to ask her to dance, and she wished that he wouldn’t. Not, however, that she really felt strongly about it. She would prefer not to dance, but if he asked her, she decided, she would accept. She was feeling, as a matter of fact, quite assured. The certainty that she could cope with the small initial contacts of a normal routine filled her with inordinate pride.