Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

“Did you?” Strand said. Somehow, the thought that a busy man like Hazen would take the time to walk a seventeen-year-old girl across the park made him uneasy. He remembered what he had said to Judith Quinlan when they had passed the fat man in the baseball cap at the street corner—“Maybe he’s just a simple child molester.” It was just a joke, of course, but child molesting itself was no joke and older men in all walks of life were not immune from the disease. He himself had been deeply troubled by a lovely high school friend of Eleanor’s who was constantly around the apartment. He had to make a conscious effort to keep from touching her and he had to hide what he felt when she kissed his cheek in greeting and he was tortured by the most realistic and explicit erotic dreams about her. He was not the sort of man to go beyond these involuntary excursions, but who knew what sort of man Hazen really was? People didn’t go around wearing signs that read “Child molester.” And he had to face the fact that Caroline was no longer a child but fast becoming an attractive young woman. He knew he couldn’t say anything of this to Caroline, but if there were any developments that looked ominous he would speak to Leslie, whose instincts were more dependable than his. “What did you talk about?” he asked Caroline.

  “A lot of things.” Caroline took another chunk of cake and washed it down with the milk. “He watched me and he commented on the way I played. I was surprised. He knew what he was talking about.”

  “He was an athlete when he was young and he belongs to the Racquet Club.”

  “Is that so,” said Caroline, unimpressed. “Anyway, he said I was pretty good, and that I should try to get more spin on my second serve and hit my backhand flatter and I agree with him one hundred percent. He asked me if I wanted to go in for tennis seriously—you know, coaches and training and all that jazz—and I told him no, I wasn’t good enough, I’d never make it and I’d just eat my heart out getting put out of tournaments in the first round. He said that was wise, we should recognize our limitations. On a tennis court,” she said grimly, “it’s no big deal recognizing your limitations I told him, and he laughed.” She laughed. Then she became more serious. “What did I intend to do with my life, he asked. He doesn’t mind asking questions, does he?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Caroline gave him a sidelong, covert glance, hesitated, as though she were about to say something, then changed her mind.

  He was conscious of a lie, a subterfuge. It was not like Caroline. She was not a secretive girl. She had gone through the usual choices as she was growing up—ballet dancer, actress, nurse—but that was only until she was about twelve. Since then she had been content, it seemed, merely to pass in school and play tennis when she could. He was surprised that she had spoken as openly as she had with Hazen. She was a shy girl who spoke very little and guardedly, except with the family; she had few friends, all of them girls, and he knew from Leslie and Eleanor that she thought boys were making fun of her when they made any advances and fled from them.

  “What did you tell Mr. Hazen?” Allen repeated.

  “I told him I intended to grow up,” Caroline said, almost defiantly.

  “Did he laugh?” Strand asked.

  “He doesn’t laugh much, Mr. Hazen,” Caroline said. “He said he was very much impressed with Eleanor. Naturally.” She spoke without a trace of jealousy, as though she accepted the fact that Eleanor was the star of the family. “He said if there were more young women like that there’d be no need for the Equal Rights Amendment or magazines like Ms. They must have had a real heart-to-heart conversation in the taxi. He didn’t mention Jimmy.” She scowled, as though she considered this a slight to her brother. “Has he got any children?”

  “Three,” Strand said. “A boy and two girls. Approximately the same age as you three.”

  “It’s funny, he never said a word. Do you go around bragging about us?”

  “Bragging isn’t the word,” Strand said. “I mourn your mother’s fecundity.”

  “I bet,” Caroline said, smiling. She got up from the table and leaned over and gave Strand a kiss. “Oops,” she said, “chocolate on the foredeck.” She took out a handkerchief and wiped the chocolate off, then put the remains of the cake in the refrigerator and tossed the empty milk carton into the trash basket. “He’s going to call you tonight, he said.”

  “What for?”

  “He wants to invite us all out to the country this weekend. He has a house on the beach in East Hampton with a pool and a tennis court and everything. It sounds super, doesn’t it?”

  “Super,” Strand said.

  “He says there are some good players I could have a game with and if anybody wanted to ride, there are horses nearby. He said he’d pick us up in his car Friday afternoon and get us back Sunday night.”

  “Your mother has lessons on Saturday morning.”

  “Once, just once,” Caroline said, “she could let those brats play baseball or smoke pot or look at television on Saturday morning. Just once.”

  “We’ll talk it over when your mother comes home.”

  “I’ll tell you the one thing that’s wrong with you and Mother,” Caroline said. “You’re too conscientious.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Now you’d better go in and take your shower before your mother gets home.”

  “Righto,” Caroline said cheerily and started out of the kitchen. Suddenly she stopped. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mr. Hazen said he talked to one of his partners at the office and his partner convinced him he ought to report the crime, that’s what he called it, the crime, to the police. He’s already done it, he said something about his civic duty, and that he wasn’t thinking clearly the night it happened. He said that there’d probably be a detective around to ask me questions. How do you talk to a detective?”

  “I’m not an authority on that,” Strand said. “I’ve never talked to one that I know of.”

  “I hope he’s a young one,” Caroline said and started off again, but Strand stopped her.

  “Caroline,” he said, “don’t tell your mother about the detective.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because probably it’ll never happen and it’s no use reminding her of what Mr. Hazen calls the incident. She may not have looked it to you, but she was terribly upset about you Friday night and I know she’s started to worry about your going into the park even during the day.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” Caroline said. “She’s your wife.”

  “By the way, Caroline, did you thank Mr. Hazen for the racquet?”

  “Of course,” Caroline said, with dignity. “I’m not a complete savage. Profusely.” Humming, she went down the hall toward her shower. Strand rinsed off Caroline’s plate and glass and knife and dried them, to hide the predinner malfeasance from Leslie. As he put them away he wondered if he ought to go to the nearest precinct house and tell whoever took charge of those things to please not send any detectives to the apartment, it had been too dark for his daughter to have recognized any of the boys involved and she was preparing for her final examinations and he’d prefer it if she weren’t distracted for the time being. He had a hunch that with all the major problems the police had to cope with in the neighborhood they’d be only too glad to file the report and forget it.

  He heard the phone ringing and went into the foyer to answer it. It was Eleanor.

  “How was the weekend?” he asked.

  “Green,” she said. “I slept and the others drank most of the time. The people I was staying with know the Hazens. Correction on my first report about your friend. He had three children. The boy died. O.D.’d.”

  “What?”

  “O.D.’d. Overdosed. Heroin. Five months ago. Everybody was away for the weekend and he left word with the help he didn’t want to be disturbed. They didn’t disturb him and when they finally broke the lock into his room it was all over.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Chilling, isn’t it? Maybe you ought to go into Jimmy’s room and loo
k for needles.”

  “Eleanor,” Strand said firmly, “do you know anything about Jimmy that you haven’t told us?”

  “No. Only you can’t be too careful. The places he hangs out—and the people…”

  “I’m sure he isn’t…isn’t one of those.”

  “Maybe Mr. Hazen was sure, too. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Eleanor said. “No use getting the wind up. It was a random thought. Forget it. I heard some more about the Hazen family, too. His wife is not well liked, it seems, spends most of her time in Europe. The daughters’re not anyone’s pets, either. One is living with a so-called New Film director in San Francisco, no visible means of support. The other is in Rome, occupation unknown. Both very pretty according to my friends. No wonder Mr. Hazen liked the idea of having dinner with us. Although he is reputed to have a mistress. Not such sizzling news toward the end of the twentieth century, is it?”

  “No,” Strand said.

  “Kisses to everybody,” Eleanor said. “See you on Friday night.”

  Strand hung up, stared at the telephone. O.D.’d. He shivered. The sense of guilt must be an impossible burden. Good reason for talking about the nihilism of the young, the responsibility toward the new generation, the offer to help Jesus Romero, the walk through the park with a healthy young athlete. All those clubs, all those board meetings, all that money and your son is left undisturbed for two days…

  Strand went down the hallway, stopped at the door to Jimmy’s room. He looked at it for a long time, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked and swung open a little. Strand hesitated, then closed it firmly.

  At dinner, which they were eating in the kitchen, there were only Strand, Leslie and Caroline. Jimmy made sporadic appearances for the evening meal, but conscientiously told his mother if he was going to be absent. Strand hadn’t told Leslie about Hazen’s invitation and he could feel Caroline’s imploring eyes on him. “Now,” she, finally said, in a stage whisper.

  “Now what?” he asked, although he knew what she was talking about.

  “You know. The weekend,” Caroline said.

  Leslie looked at him inquiringly. She had been busy with dinner since she got home and he had been working on the schedule for the final exams and aside from a kiss of welcome and a few words about their respective days, guarded and noncommittal on his part, with no mention of detectives or Jesus Romero or young men found having O.D.’d.

  “What weekend?” Leslie asked.

  “It seems that Mr. Hazen was passing by the tennis courts and walked Caroline home,” Strand said.

  “That was thoughtful of him.”

  “Very,” Strand said. “It turns out that he has a house in East Hampton…”

  “With a tennis court and a pool,” Caroline put in. “Heated. The pool, I mean. And it’s on the ocean.”

  “What in the world would people need a pool for with the whole Atlantic Ocean just in front of them?” Leslie asked sensibly.

  “Oh, Mother,” Caroline said. “For bad weather. And the ocean’s cold.”

  “Well,” Leslie said, “it’s his money. Anyway, what’s Mr. Hazen’s house on the ocean got to do with us?”

  “He invited us out for the weekend,” Strand said, “via Caroline.”

  “All of us,” Caroline said.

  “That’s carrying gratitude for a single bowl of soup pretty far,” Leslie said. She looked at Strand. “What do you think?”

  Strand shrugged. “What do you think?”

  “He’ll pick us up in his car on Friday afternoon,” Caroline said, the words tumbling out of her mouth, “and drive us back on Sunday night.”

  “There’re all those lessons on Saturday morning,” Leslie said doubtfully.

  “Those snooty juvenile delinquents,” Caroline said. “They’d vote you Woman of the Year if you gave them one Saturday off.”

  “Sssh, Caroline,” Leslie said. “I’m thinking.”

  “There’s too much thinking going on in this house,” Caroline said despairingly. “We’ll think ourselves into absolute inertia.”

  “Will you keep quiet for a moment, Caroline,” Strand said crossly.

  “He’s a lonely old man,” Caroline persisted. “The least we could do would be to cheer him up a little. The house has sixteen bedrooms he told me. How would you like to be alone rattling around in sixteen bedrooms week after week? You and Mother’re always telling me we should be considerate of the needs of others. Well, let me tell you, Mr. Hazen is an other.”

  “Miss lawyer,” Leslie said crisply, if you’ll stop for a minute, maybe we can discuss this.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Caroline said.

  Leslie touched her hand gently.

  “All right,” Caroline said, sitting back, resigned and folding her arms. “My lips’re sealed.”

  “Are you sure he included us all?” Leslie asked. “Jimmy and Eleanor, too?”

  “Sure,” Caroline said.

  “Did he say as much?” Strand said.

  “Not in so many words,” Caroline admitted. “But it was certainly implied.”

  “Allen,” Leslie said, “you look as though a little sea air wouldn’t do you any harm.”

  “Now,” Caroline said triumphantly, “we’re beginning to talk some sense around here.”

  “I imagine I could postpone the lessons,” Leslie said thoughtfully. “Some way. And I’d have to talk to Eleanor and Jimmy, see what they want to do…”

  “If they deprive me,” Caroline said, “for their own selfish reasons, I’ll never speak to either one of them again.”

  “Don’t talk like a baby,” Leslie said. “I said we’d discuss it.”

  Then the phone rang and Strand stood up from the table. “I’ll get it,” he said. “It’s probably the lonesome lawyer, himself.”

  It was Hazen on the phone. “I’m not interrupting your dinner, I hope,” he said.

  “No,” Strand said. “We were just finishing.”

  “Did you enjoy the Berlioz?”

  “It was superb,” Strand said. “Thank you again.”

  “Not at all. Any time you want to go, just let me know. They send me tickets for just about everything and very often I find I’m not free on a particular evening.”

  “Caroline told me you walked her home,” Strand said, thinking, What must it be like to be sent tickets to just about everything? “It was very thoughtful of you.”

  “She’s a lovely child,” Hazen said. “And bright, along with everything else. Did she tell you about our enjoyable little conversation?”

  “She did,” Strand said. He couldn’t help thinking about how Hazen would describe whatever conversations he had had with his son before they broke the lock on the door. “I had a little conversation myself with a young person this afternoon,” Strand said. “The boy I told you about—Romero. Not exactly enjoyable.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’ll think about it.”

  “Would it help if I talked to him?” Hazen asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, you know best. Did Caroline ask you about coming out to the Island this weekend?”

  “Indeed she did,” Strand said. “She’s been bludgeoning her mother and me all through dinner about it.”

  “You are coming, aren’t you?” Hazen sounded anxious.

  Sixteen bedrooms to rattle around in and a heated pool to swim in by himself. “We’re still trying to see if we can work it out,” Strand said.

  “Your other daughter and your son are invited, too, of course.”

  “So Caroline implied. I don’t know what their plans are. Can I call you on Wednesday or Thursday?”

  “Anytime,” Hazen said quickly. “Have you got a pencil handy? I’ll give you my office telephone number.”

  “Right here,” Strand said and jotted down the number Hazen gave him over the phone. “By the way, Caroline tells me you
still look a bit the worse for wear.”

  “It’s nothing,” Hazen said quickly. “If I don’t look in the mirror or infants don’t scream in their carriages at the sight of me, I forget anything ever happened.”

  “Caroline also mentioned something about the police,” Strand said, lowering his voice, so it wouldn’t carry into the kitchen.

  “Yes. A useless formality, I’m afraid. But one of my partners is on the Mayor’s Juvenile Crime Commission and he says assembling accurate statistics is one of the hardest parts of the job and more to please him than for anything else, I…You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” Strand said, but he knew he sounded reluctant.

  “Well, I hope you can make it this weekend,” Hazen said. “I’ll await your call.”

  They said their good-byes and Strand hung up. He went back into the kitchen.

  “Well?” Caroline asked anxiously.

  “It must be tough, filling those bedrooms,” Strand said, sitting down.

  “You didn’t answer me,” Caroline wailed.

  “I said I’d let him know later in the week,” Strand said. “Now let me eat my dessert.”

  5

  FORGET THEM, FORGET THE men falling…

  It was Conroy who came to pick them up on Friday afternoon, in a long Mercedes limousine with jump seats. Mr. Hazen sent his apologies, Conroy said, he was unexpectedly detained at the office, but would come down later in the evening. Strand sat in the front seat beside Conroy. Leslie, Eleanor, Caroline and Jimmy sat in the back. Strand had been a little surprised when Eleanor had said that she’d like to go. She loved the Hamptons, especially out of season, she said, and had a lot of friends there she’d like to see. That was another thing he hadn’t known about Eleanor, Strand thought, as he put down the phone—that she was familiar with the Hamptons and had many friends there. He wondered what other revelations she had in store for him and for that matter what information Leslie, Jimmy and Caroline, now all chattering briskly in the back of the car, would divulge to him when they thought it convenient to do so.

  “By the way,” Conroy said, “there’s a station wagon in the garage you can use if you want to get around.”