Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “I don’t drive,” Strand said, “and neither does my wife. But Eleanor has a license.” She had owned a beat-up old Ford the last two years in college. He turned and said, “Eleanor, did you hear what Mr. Conroy said? There’s a station wagon in the garage you can use.”

  “Does that go for me, too?” Jimmy asked.

  “Of course,” Conroy said.

  “I didn’t know you had a license, Jimmy,” Strand said.

  “A friend loaned me his car for a few afternoons,” Jimmy said, “and I tootled around and took the test.”

  Strand shook his head. Something else he hadn’t been told about his family.

  Conroy asked if they wanted him to turn the radio on and get some music, but Leslie vetoed the idea. “We never can agree on what we want to hear,” she said, “and I don’t want my ride to be spoiled for Jimmy and Caroline and Eleanor nor theirs for mine.”

  Strand enjoyed the trip. It was a balmy evening, the sun still shining. Conroy drove well and after they got out of Queens the traffic was light and the big Mercedes smoothly ate up the miles through the lines of trees of the Parkway. In a way Strand was glad that Hazen had been detained at his office. If he’d been along Hazen would have kept the conversation going and Strand preferred to ride in silence. Conroy didn’t speak and Strand felt no need to listen to the holiday babble going on behind him. He was glad they had all decided the weekend would be a treat and he looked forward to seeing the inside of Hazen’s house. You could tell a great deal about a man from seeing the way he lived. Hazen was a new breed of animal for Strand and he was growing more and more curious about the lawyer. Strand was by nature cautious about quick impressions of people and had not yet made up his mind about what he really thought about Hazen. The circumstances under which they had met had been bizarre and with all his talking, Strand realized as he thought about it, Hazen had managed to find out a great deal about the family without telling anything much about himself except that his family had arrived in New York in 1706 and had never gone to Ohio. His absolute silence about his own immediate family, for example, was well beyond the bounds of ordinary discretion and except for confessing that he was a lawyer and went to symphony concerts, he had confined himself almost entirely to impersonal abstractions. From Who’s Who Strand knew a considerable amount about the public man; the private one was still concealed.

  While waiting for the car to come to pick them up Eleanor had said of Hazen, “That man wants something.”

  “Why do you say that?” Strand had asked.

  “A man like that always wants something,” Eleanor had said, and he had been annoyed at her cynicism. In Strand’s code you didn’t accept hospitality, especially of this lavishness, from somebody about whom you had misgivings, even if they were only as vague as his daughter’s.

  Leslie, who had a proprietary interest in the man whose wounds she had tended and admired the stoical way he had behaved when he was in pain, had snapped, uncharacteristically, at Eleanor, “If you feel like that, why don’t you just go someplace else for the weekend?”

  “Sorry,” Eleanor had said. “I thought we were in America. Freedom of speech. Guaranteed by the Constitution, and all that.”

  “Hush, everybody,” Strand had said. “This is a holiday.”

  Jimmy had just grinned, pleased that for once Eleanor and not he was on the receiving end of a rebuke. Caroline had paid no attention to what was going on, but had sat dreamily humming to herself, cradling her racquet in its new case.

  Looking out at the swiftly passing spring countryside, Strand thought about the exchange between his wife and his daughter and wondered if what Eleanor had said had some truth in it, then decided it was just idle spite, born of Eleanor’s jealousy or distaste for some of her superiors under whose orders she chafed on her job and whom, rightly or wrongly, she identified with Hazen. For himself, Strand decided that he would accept Hazen at face value. The face so far, he had to admit, was somewhat obscure, but he had detected no signs of malice or desire for advantage. Quite the opposite. If anything, after the news about the son, Strand pitied the man and sympathized with him. If Hazen was using the family to alleviate his loneliness, that hardly could be called manipulation. Strand remembered his fleeting suspicion of Hazen’s intentions about Caroline and smiled. Hazen would hardly have asked them out to his house en masse if he was plotting to satisfy his lust for the seventeen-year-old daughter of the family.

  He dozed, the steady motion of the big car lulling him, and awoke only as the car slowed down and turned into a private road leading from a stone gate through a long alley of high trees toward the sea, whose rumble could now be heard.

  Conroy stopped the car in a raked gravel courtyard and tooted the horn. “Here we are,” he said and they got out of the car. An enormous rambling white clapboard house loomed up against the clear twilight sky.

  “Man,” Jimmy said, whistling, “that’s some hunk of architecture.”

  “It was built by Mr. Hazen’s grandfather,” Conroy said. “They thought big in those days.”

  The old American doom, Strand thought, from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations, obviously didn’t apply to the Hazens. The grandfather could be proud of the grandson.

  Conroy touched the horn again, and in answer to the signal a man and a woman came hurrying from the house.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ketley,” Conroy said. “They take care of the house. They’ll bring up your bags.” He introduced them to the servants. The man wore black trousers and a starched white cotton jacket. His wife was dressed in a black uniform, with a white apron. They were both middle-aged, pleasant-appearing people who looked as though they had worked hard all their lives.

  “I’ll be saying good-bye to you now,” Conroy said. “I have to go back to town to pick up Mr. Hazen at the office and bring him back here.”

  “You’re going to make this whole trip all over again?” Leslie asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Conroy said. “We should be here by eleven.”

  “If we’d known, we could have waited until Mr. Hazen was ready to leave,” Leslie said. “It seems like such an imposition.”

  “Mr. Hazen wouldn’t have heard of it,” Conroy said. “Make yourself at home, he told me to tell you, and ask the Ketleys if there’s anything you want. Dinner is ordered for you.” He got into the car, faithful servitor, bicycle rider, anonymous, forever on duty, messenger in neutral livery, man of many small useful talents. He started the engine, made a sweeping turn in the courtyard and the taillights of the Mercedes disappeared down the alley of trees.

  “This way, please,” Mr. Ketley said, leading the family toward the front door of the house, which was flanked by two huge carriage lamps that snapped on as they walked across the flagstones that bordered the entrance.

  As they went into the front hall, from which a broad staircase with a mahogany rail curved up to the next floor, Mr. Ketley asked if they would like to be shown their rooms or prefer to have a drink first to refresh themselves after the journey.

  Strand said he’d stay down for a while, but refused the drink with thanks and strolled into the living room while the Ketleys led the way upstairs for the others. The room was large, with dark wood wainscoting on which hung paintings by Pissarro, Vlaminck, Chagall and Dufy, as well as some abstract oils by painters whose work Strand could not identify. A grand piano stood in one corner, closed. There were flowers everywhere in large bowls and low, comfortable sofas and easy chairs of a nondescript, unpretentious style that contrasted with what looked like authentic Early American wooden chairs, tables and desk. There was a big fireplace, with a fire laid but not lit. The windows and a door along one side fronted on the ocean. Hazen might complain that he had too many bedrooms vacant for his psychic comfort, but his creature wants were certainly handsomely taken care of. Still, there was little in the house, or at least in the living room, that spoke of its owner. And except for the piano and the paintings there was no indication of the particular interest
s of the inhabitants. Through a half-open door, Strand glimpsed a small library. He would examine the books at another time. He didn’t want Mr. or Mrs. Ketley to catch him prying. The house had obviously been built at the turn of the century, and its fixtures and furnishings looked as though they had been supplied as needed by several generations with varying tastes.

  Strand opened the door that led out to the terrace and the roar of the sea filled the room. He stepped out and looked across at the dark expanse of the Atlantic in the twilight. The sea itself was calm, but long rollers from far out swept in and crashed on the beach. Just below the terrace a fine mist rose from the surface of the swimming pool, reflecting the lights from the house.

  Strand breathed deeply, luxuriating in the tonic salt air. Far off along the dunes there were other lights from houses that also faced the ocean, but there were no immediate neighbors. If the grandfather had wanted peace, he had chosen the site for his mansion shrewdly. Little more than a hundred miles from New York City, there was the feeling of limitless space, of a benevolent climate whose silence was broken only by the sound of the sea and the cries of gulls. Standing there, Strand thought, you could forget that your fellow citizens were struggling to breathe in the city, crowded inhumanly in fetid subway cars, assaulted by the clamor of traffic, forced to waste their days in mindless occupations. On the border of the sea, the air fragrant with the odor of salt and the scent of grass and flowers, for one evening at least, you could forget the wars that were at that moment being fought all over the earth; for one evening forget the men falling, the towns going up in flames, the bloody clash of races, tribes, ambitions.

  Yes, Strand thought, as he went back into the house, closing out the rumble of the Atlantic as he shut the door, Leslie was right, a little sea air won’t do me any harm.

  There was a fire going in the dining room fireplace when they went in to dinner and candles on the table. Eleanor had changed into pale blue slacks and a cashmere sweater and Jimmy had taken off his necktie, which, Strand supposed, Jimmy believed made him appropriately dressed for a country weekend. Leslie, who rarely wore slacks, although she had fine legs, had put on a long, printed cotton skirt and a blouse that left her arms bare. Caroline had scrubbed her face in the shower and looked, Strand said to himself, dotingly, new-minted. To Strand, sitting at the head of the table, his family presented a picture of decorous and attractive health and in the light from the fire and the candles Leslie looked like a beautiful, only slightly older sister to the two girls who sat on either side of him. “Believe it or not,” she had whispered to him when she came down to dinner, “there’s a Renoir drawing in our room. A nude. Imagine that. In a bedroom.”

  It was a splendid meal, clams and delicious bluefish, served by Mr. Ketley. He poured a white French wine and they all took some, even Caroline, who said, in explanation of her inaugural indulgence, “Well, this is the first time I’ve ever had dinner in front of a fireplace. Isn’t it sexy?”

  Jimmy raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to the rich,” he said.

  Caroline giggled, impolitely, Strand thought, as she sipped at her wine and Strand glanced surreptitiously at Mr. Ketley to see how the man was reacting to this tribute to his employer. But Mr. Ketley was wrapping a towel around a second bottle of wine and he seemed not to notice what was said at the table. Still, taking no chances, Strand raised his glass and said, “To the kind hospitality of our absent host.”

  By the wink that Jimmy flashed him he knew that Jimmy understood what his father was doing. He would have to speak to Jimmy later and remind him to look to his manners for the weekend.

  After dinner Mr. Ketley came around with a box of cigars. Strand started to shake his head, then reached into the box and took one. As he used the clipper that Mr. Ketley gave him to cut the end of the cigar, Leslie looked at him doubtfully. “Are you sure want—” she said.

  “If at her age Caroline decided that this was the night for her first glass of wine,” Strand said, “I guess her father is old enough to try his first cigar.” He puffed diligently as Mr. Ketley held a lighter for him. The smoke tasted surprisingly good.

  “Mr. Ketley,” Jimmy said, “I think I’d like one, too.”

  “Jimmy,” Leslie said.

  “I like the way it looks on Pops,” Jimmy said. “Maybe it’ll improve my appearance, too.” He took a cigar from the box, examined it approvingly. “Havanas. Sneaked into the country under the guns of the Gringo Imperialists. I’m doing my bit for World Revolution.”

  Definitely, Strand thought, as Jimmy lit the cigar and clenched it between his teeth at a jaunty angle, definitely I’ll have to have a little talk with him about what is and what isn’t permissible to say in this house. He was pleased to see that after the first few puffs Jimmy waved the cigar around, twirling it in his fingers, and smoked it only enough to keep it alight. It was less than half smoked when Jimmy crushed it out in an ashtray as he and Eleanor said their good nights and went off in the station wagon to Bridgehampton, where, according to Eleanor, there was a cozy bar with a lot of nice people usually hanging around it and where the owner played a good jazz piano in the evenings.

  Caroline said she wanted to watch television and settled herself in front of the set in the small library, and Strand and Leslie decided to take a walk on the beach. Dressed warmly against the evening chill and holding hands they strolled on the hard sand left by an ebbing tide, occasionally feeling a little sting of salt on their faces from the waves foaming onto the beach. The moon was up in a clear sky and there was a brisk wind and on the horizon they could see the lights of a ship going east.

  Leslie squeezed her husband’s hand. “Only perfect,” she murmured.

  Strand sat in one of the easy chairs in front of the dwindling fire in the living room. The house was quiet and he was alone. Leslie was upstairs preparing for bed and she liked solitude for the ritual of creaming her face and brushing her hair. Eleanor and Jimmy had not yet come back and the Ketleys had long ago gone to their room at the rear of the house. Strand sighed contentedly as he watched the dancing patterns of the fire. Then he heard the sound of a car driving up to the house and stopping.

  A moment later Hazen and Conroy came into the living room and Strand stood up to greet his host. “Good eve—” he said, then stopped. There was something wrong with Hazen. Under the dark felt hat that sat squarely on his head his eyes stared straight ahead, unseeingly, and he walked slowly and stiffly, with great care, as if he would stagger if he went any faster. At his side, Conroy looked haggard, his hands out, ready to catch his employer if he started to fall. As Hazen came closer, without seeming to notice Strand standing in front of him, there was a strong smell of whiskey. He was very drunk. Conroy made a little apologetic grimace at Strand as Hazen sprawled, still with his hat on, into a deep easy chair.

  “Conroy,” Hazen said, speaking very slowly and deliberately, “I want a whiskey. And bring the soda bottle. I’ll pour the soda myself. I don’t want you goddamn drowning the Scotch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Conroy said and went over to the sideboard that served as a bar.

  “Excellent secretary, Conroy,” Hazen said, still not looking at Strand. “Excellent chauffeur. But unde—undependable when it comes to drink. Strand,” he said, without turning his head, “you’re a lucky man. You do not have to deal with thieves. I, on the other hand, deal almost exclusively with thieves, week in, week out. Week in, week out. It isn’t love that makes the world go round, Strand, as they say, it is greed, naked, over—overpowering, criminal greed. I tell you, Strand, if the laws of the land were ever enforced, three-quarters of our most re—respected citizens would be in our country’s jails. For Christ’s sake, Conroy, am I going to have to wait all the fucking night for my drink?”

  “Coming, sir.” Conroy, cupbearer, among other things, hurried over with the glass and the small bottle of soda.

  Without looking up, Hazen put out his hand and Conroy put the glass into it “Now, pour the soda,” Hazen said. “G
ently, gently. Enough!” Conroy, dose-dealer, had barely put a thimbleful of soda into the whiskey. “Conroy does not drink and does not approve of others drinking.” Hazen glared up at his secretary. “Am I being accurate, sir?”

  “More or less, sir,” Conroy said, bowing a little.

  “More or less.” Hazen nodded solemnly. “Conroy is a more or less man. A teetotaler, he tolls the drunkards’ knell. An anal type. Beware of teetotalers, Strand, they will have their total revenge.” He laughed hoarsely, then carefully, stiffly, like an automaton, raised the glass to his lips and drank. “For this relief,” he said, “much thanks.” He laughed hoarsely again. “Strand,” he said, “I travel in the country of despair. Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Conroy,” Hazen said, “get the hell to bed.”

  “I thought perhaps you might need me,” Conroy, ashen with fatigue but ever available, said nervously. “I’m not tired, really.”

  “I’m tired,” Hazen said. “You tire me. Get out of here. I can go to bed by myself. I don’t need you to assist in my dreams. Get out of here, man. Go.”

  “Yes, sir,” Conroy said. “Good night, sir. Good night, Mr. Strand.” He went out the front door, watchdog of power, uneasy at dismissal.

  “There’s a room for him over the garage,” Hazen said. “Conroy. I don’t like the idea of his sleeping in the same house with me. Understandable, isn’t it, Strand?”

  “Well…” Strand mumbled, at a loss. “I don’t know him and…”

  “Understandable. Did I ask you if you believed in God?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you answer?”

  “I said I did.”

  “You are out of joint with the times, Strand. Do you believe in the Ten Commandments?”

  “I would say yes,” Strand said, feeling foolish at this drunken catechism in the middle of the night.

  “One meeting with my col—colleagues,” Hazen said, “and your beliefs would change. Honor thy father and thy mother. It’s late, Strand. I like to sit here alone and have a little nightcap in the waning hours and reflect. Reflect. I mentioned my admiration for Mr. Buster Keaton on our walk, did I not?”