Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  God, Strand thought, that little girl! “I’m glad now,” he said, “I gave in when Caroline asked me to buy her a steel racquet.” He had to make the little lame joke to keep from showing the emotion he felt, the fear that had swept through him for his daughter as Hazen told his story.

  “I, too,” Hazen said gravely. “More than glad. It is not perhaps too much of an exaggeration to say that I owe my life to your daughter. Tell her, if there is any way I call show my gratitude…”

  “I’m sure she’s happy you’re safe and sound,” Leslie said. “Comparatively speaking.” She permitted herself a little smile. “That’s reward enough.” She looked at Strand, her eyes wet. “What do you know about our baby girl?” she whispered.

  “More than I knew twenty minutes ago,” Strand said. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Someone was trembling, but he didn’t know whether it was Leslie or himself.

  “Did you call the police?” Jimmy demanded.

  Hazen laughed flatly. “The police? In this city? I’m a lawyer, James. What could they do?”

  I guessed right, Strand thought. Lawyer.

  Hazen started to push himself up from the chair. “I’ve kept you from your dinner long enough. Now, I’d better be getting ho—” He staggered and sat down, hard, a puzzled look on his face. “Perhaps another few minutes of rest,” he said in a choked voice.

  “You stay right here,” Leslie said, “until the doctor comes.”

  “Perhaps,” Hazen said weakly, “it might be advisable. If you don’t mind.”

  “Do you want me to call your home,” Strand asked, “and tell them where you are and that you’ll be home later?”

  “No matter,” Hazen said. “Nobody’s expecting me. I’m alone for the weekend.” His voice sounded cold and distant as he spoke.

  He had trouble at home, Strand thought, as well as in the park. “I was just having a drink before dinner when you came in,” he said. “I think you could use a drink, too.”

  “Thank you. That would be useful.”

  “Straight? Or with water? All we have is Scotch.” He didn’t mention the sherry. After what Hazen had been through, Strand doubted that sherry would do much good.

  “Straight, please,” Hazen said, leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.

  “Better pour a whiskey for me, too,” Leslie said as Strand started toward the dining room.

  The phone rang in the hallway as he was pouring the drinks. He left the glasses on the sideboard to answer it. It was Dr. Prinz, irritated. He stopped sounding irritated when Strand told him briefly what had happened and he said he’d come over as soon as he could, he was with a patient who had just had a heart attack and it might take some time.

  When Strand came back with the drinks Leslie said, “Jimmy’s gone downstairs to get Alexander to lock the bicycle in the cellar for the night.” Strand nodded. It would be foolish to have it stolen now.

  Hazen was still sitting with his head back and his eyes closed. “Here we are,” Strand said, hoping his voice sounded cheerful. “A little bit of Highland sunlight.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Hazen opened his eyes and took the glass in his good hand. Nobody offered a toast and Hazen finished his drink in two gulps. Leslie drank hers quickly, too, and then sat down as if she suddenly had realized how tired she was.

  “I feel the stirrings of life,” Hazen said wanly.

  “Another?” Strand said.

  “Thank you, no. This was all that was needed.”

  Mrs. Curtis came in, looking pecky, as Leslie described her mood when things were not going her way. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, looking sternly at the bandaged man in the wooden armchair, “the soup’s on and everything’ll be ruined if…”

  “We’re waiting for the doctor, Mrs. Curtis,” Leslie said. “I’ll tell you when…”

  “If you don’t mind having a scarecrow at the table while you eat,” Hazen said. “I would appreciate it if you’d let me sit with you while you…”

  “I think it would be wiser if…” Leslie started.

  “Maybe Mr. Hazen’s hungry,” Strand said. He himself was hungry and he had been looking forward to dinner ever since he had come home and smelled the aroma from the kitchen.

  “Come to think of it, I am hungry,” Hazen said. “I had just a sandwich at my desk for lunch. I certainly would enjoy a bowl of soup, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “All right, Mrs. Curtis,” Leslie said, “put on another place. We’ll be right in.”

  Mrs. Curtis gave one more accusing look to Hazen, destroyer of dinners, and went back to the kitchen.

  “Well, talk of the silver lining,” Hazen said, with an attempt at heartiness. “And I thought I was going to have to dine alone tonight.”

  Although Hazen had spoken without any trace of self-pity, Strand had the feeling that, despite the cost, the prospect of not being alone that night was a welcome one for him.

  Hazen looked around the big living room, taking in the grand piano, the stacks of sheet music, the orderly shelves of records, Leslie’s landscapes. “What a nice room,” Hazen said. “I take it yours is a musical family…”

  “We all listen,” Strand said. “My wife and son are the only ones you might call musicians.”

  “My mother used to play the piano for me,” Hazen said, with a funny little dismissing gesture. “Ages ago. Does your son play the piano?”

  “My wife,” Strand said. “Jimmy plays the electric guitar. Country rock, I think it’s called.”

  “And the landscapes?” Hazen said. “I don’t recognize the artist.”

  “My wife,” Strand said.

  Hazen nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Eleanor and Caroline came into the room. Caroline was in clean slacks and sweater, her face scrubbed from the shower, no signs that she had vanquished three hoodlums in solitary battle barely an hour ago and had broken into hysterical weeping in her sister’s arms. Finally, she had left the racquet behind her. She was smiling and looked gay and younger than her seventeen years. “How’s the patient?” she asked.

  “More or less in good repair,” Hazen said. “Thanks to your mother. And you, Miss Caroline, how do you feel?”

  “Oh.” Caroline threw up her arms airily. “Triumphant. I have new faith in my powers.” She giggled. “I don’t know if I’d do it again, though, if I had any time to think.”

  “How was it you were alone?” Strand asked. “Where was that boy you were playing with?”

  “He lives on the East Side,” Caroline said.

  “Will you ever be able to use that racquet again?” Hazen asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Caroline said. “It is a little bent. If they’d only let me hit my opponents instead of the ball I bet I’d sweep through tournaments.” She giggled again.

  “Weren’t you afraid?” Hazen asked.

  “Only later,” Caroline said. “And that doesn’t count, does it?”

  Jimmy came in and said, “The bicycle’s locked in the cellar. You can send somebody around for it whenever you want, Mr. Hazen. It is a beauty.”

  “I’ll have one of my secretaries pick it up in the morning,” said Hazen. “I don’t believe I’ll be using it much for the next few days. Unless Miss Caroline volunteers to act as my bodyguard.”

  “I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.” Caroline giggled again.

  Mrs. Curtis appeared at the doorway to the dining room and glared.

  “Oh, dear,” Leslie said, “I think we’d better be sitting down.”

  Strand made a move to help Hazen as he stood up, but Hazen ignored the outstretched arm and took a step, without wobbling, toward the dining room as Leslie led the way.

  “What a pretty table,” Hazen said as Leslie seated him on her right. His speech was a little muffled, as he held the iced towel to his cheek with his bandaged hand. “I hope I’m not intruding on an important family conference.”

  “We have a rule,” Strand said, fee
ling the pangs of hunger, “that the only important thing we talk about on Friday nights is food.” That wasn’t true and he said it only to be polite. Last Friday there had been a discussion about politics that had ended in shouting and Eleanor’s describing her father’s attitude as Early Louis XIV. They had all enjoyed the evening. He picked up the bottle of Chianti. “Wine?” he asked.

  “Thank you,” Hazen said. “I’m terribly thirsty suddenly.”

  “Loss of blood,” Caroline said gaily.

  “Terror, my dear,” Hazen smiled at her. “Pure terror.”

  “What do you think those three boys are thinking about now?” Caroline said, dipping into her soup.

  “They’re planning where they can steal three tennis racquets—no, four—” Hazen said, laughing crookedly because of his jaw, “and wondering where they can get a girl to help them in their next nefarious project.”

  Caroline giggled again. “Oh, I’m a dangerous tennis-person,” she said.

  Strand shook his head wonderingly. This must be what the atmosphere must be like in a football locker room, he thought, after a particularly rough victory.

  Hazen spooned his soup clumsily with his left hand. His mouth was beginning to swell noticeably, but his eyes were bright and he seemed to be enjoying himself. “Excellent,” he said, “excellent. May I pay my compliments to the cook?”

  “That’s Mother,” Caroline said. She was obviously proud of her family this evening, as well as being proud of herself.

  “An accomplished tribe,” Hazen said gallantly. He turned toward Jimmy. “And you, young man, what do you do?”

  Jimmy looked around the table. “According to my sister, I bring dishonor on the family name,” he said. “I frequent stews and dives.”

  “Jimmy,” Leslie said, protesting, “what a thing to say.”

  Jimmy grinned at her. “It’s a private phrase of affection between us. She’s not serious. Are you, Eleanor?”

  “Only sometimes, honey.” Eleanor smiled back at him.

  Hazen looked at Jimmy curiously, then turned his attention to Eleanor. “And you, my dear?”

  “I slave and strive for promotion,” Eleanor said shortly. She had been unusually silent for her. Strand sensed that for some reason, like Jimmy, she did not approve of Hazen and he made a mental note to ask them both why after Hazen had left.

  Eleanor stood up to help clear away the soup bowls as Mrs. Curtis came in with the platter of the main dish and put it in front of Leslie to serve. “I’m afraid the soup is all I can manage,” Hazen said as Leslie reached for his plate. “Although it does look and smell delicious.” He took a sip of his wine.

  “What day of the week is it, Mr. Hazen?” Jimmy asked.

  “What sort of a question is that?” Leslie looked at her son suspiciously.

  “I want to see if he has a concussion,” Jimmy said. “If he has a concussion he ought to lie down in a dark room and close his eyes.”

  “Friday,” Hazen said, smiling. “I believe it’s still Friday. I may not be able to chew at the moment, but I don’t believe I have a concussion, thank you.”

  It occurred to Strand that Jimmy was more interested in getting Hazen out of the room than in the state of his health, but when he looked over at his son, Jimmy stared innocently across the table at him.

  “And you, Mr. Strand, if I may inquire,” Hazen said, “what is your profession?”

  Pretrial investigation, Strand thought. Your lawyer must have the facts as you see them so that he can handle your case efficiently. No, not a lawyer, Strand corrected himself, a little annoyed with the man. More like a general reviewing the troops, asking homely little questions to prove that despite the stars on his shoulder he was at heart a true democrat. “My profession—” He cleared his throat. “I struggle with the bloodthirsty instincts of the younger generation,” Strand said, purposely vague. He had decided that Hazen was an important man, more from his manner than from anything he had said, and that he would have much the same estimate of him Leslie’s father had if Strand said he merely taught in a high school.

  “He teaches at River High.” Leslie had sensed her husband’s hesitation and spoke almost pugnaciously. “He’s the head of the history department.”

  “Ah.” Hazen sounded impressed. “When I was young I wanted to be a teacher. A useful life. More useful than the law, I told my father. He was not of my opinion. I took my law degree.” He laughed deprecatingly. “The arguments were short in my father’s house.”

  “They’re not short here,” Strand said. “I’ll say that for them.”

  “Refreshing.” Hazen turned to Caroline. “And you, young lady? Are you in college?”

  Caroline, who had been eating as though she were starving, laughed. “If I’m lucky, in the fall. I graduate from prep school next month. With my marks…” She shook her head sorrowfully.

  “You don’t go to River?” Hazen asked.

  “It’s across town,” Leslie said hastily.

  “Daddy says it’s too dangerous. I told him if it wasn’t too dangerous for him it wasn’t too dangerous for me.” She giggled. She was not a girl who was ordinarily given to giggling, but Strand forgave her this evening. “That was one short argument. I lost. I go to school ten blocks from here.”

  “I read about it, of course,” Hazen said, “about the violence in the public schools, muggings, children stealing from other children, weapons. I’ve always taken it with a grain of salt. Mr. Strand, have you found…?” He stopped.

  “Well,” Strand said, “it’s not like Sunday school in Vermont, say. There are incidents. Yes, there certainly are incidents.”

  “Have you been involved?” Hazen leaned forward, interested.

  “Once or twice,” Strand said. “Last term a boy threatened me with a knife if I didn’t pass him. He had cut one-half the classes and on the final examination he got a grade of 32 out of a possible hundred.”

  “Did you pass him?”

  Strand laughed. “Of course. If he wanted a passing grade badly enough to threaten to kill me, I thought he deserved it. At least he didn’t try to take my bicycle.”

  Hazen touched the bandage on his head ruefully. “Perhaps you’re more intelligent than I,” he said. “Among the ruffians, do you see any gleams of hope?”

  Strand shrugged. “Of course. Though most of them are doomed to be snuffed out, I’m afraid, in very quick order. In my senior class, for example—there’s an undersized Puerto Rican boy who seems to have been reading history since he was a child. I just read a paper of his this afternoon. About the Civil War. He has some ideas of his own on the subject.”

  “For example…?” Hazen said. He seemed genuinely interested.

  “For example, he wrote that the Civil War was a great mistake.” As he spoke about the boy, Strand remembered the round dark face with white teeth bared in what could be a sneer or an insolent smile. “He wrote that the South should have been allowed to go its own way, that in a short time they’d have had to free the slaves anyway, and a million lives would have been saved. By now, he wrote, the South and the North would have been united in some way, even in a loose confederation, and all of us, black and white, would have been spared a century of misery. That, of course, is not what he’s been taught and I must warn him that if he answers questions in that way on his Regents, he’ll fail.”

  “How do you think he’ll react to that?”

  “He’ll laugh. Passing the Regents doesn’t mean much to him. He can’t go to college, he’ll have to be looking for a job as a dishwasher or hustling on the streets from this summer on, what does he care about the Regents?”

  “It’s a pity, isn’t it?” Hazen said thoughtfully.

  “It’s today,” Strand said.

  “What mark did you give him for his essay?”

  “A,” Strand said.

  “You must be an unusual teacher.”

  “He’s an unusual boy. In another paper he argued that the way he was taught history was bunk. His
word. Bunk. He wrote that cause and effect in historical movements are just designed to make it easy for historians to package our past into neat little phony parcels. He’s done some reading in science—physics—and he’s latched on to the theory of randomness—you’ve read something about that, I suppose?”

  “A little.” Hazen nodded.

  “He takes it to mean that nothing is or was inevitable—everything springs from accident—the random collisions of particles, in politics and economics, as well as in nature and the laboratory. Given that theory, he says, the Industrial Revolution might just as well never have come about if ten people happened never to be born, World War II not occurred if Hitler had been killed on the Western front in 1917, the Civil War avoided if Lincoln had decided he wanted to continue in Springfield as a lawyer…”

  “And what mark did you give him for that rather unorthodox bit of philosophizing?” Hazen asked.

  “A.” Strand laughed. “Maybe because it was so different from all the other papers. He can also spell.”

  “Do you think he’s interested in going to college if he could?”

  “No. He’s confided in me that education is bunk, too. Still, a boy like that once in a while makes you feel it’s all worthwhile.”

  “I can understand,” Hazen said. He took the cold compress away from his cheek for a moment, looked at it consideringly, then put it back. “I suppose education has changed since my day—all education.”