Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  Leslie was sitting in a robe at the window seat, staring out at the ocean, when Strand came into the room. He went over and kissed the top of her head gently. She looked up and smiled. “I guess you’re feeling better,” she said.

  “Much better,” he said. He sat down beside her and took her hand. “I just had breakfast with Caroline. She told me about Eleanor.”

  Leslie nodded. “I did everything I could to stop her. I asked her to talk to you. She wouldn’t.”

  “I know. Caroline knew that much. Did Eleanor speak to Giuseppe?”

  Leslie shook her head. “She said she didn’t want to argue with him, either. What’re we going to do, Allen?”

  “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to call Giuseppe.” He went over to the telephone next to the bed. There was a small console with buttons on it to call other rooms in the house and outside lines. He pressed an outside-line button and dialed Giuseppe’s number. By now he had memorized it. When Giuseppe said “Hello,” Strand spoke quickly. “Giuseppe,” he said quickly, “this is important. Don’t hang up until you hear what I have to say. Eleanor’s on her way back to Georgia.”

  There was silence on the other end for a moment. Then Giuseppe said, “That’s good news.” His voice was toneless, exhausted.

  “Has anything happened there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Giuseppe,” Strand said, “I want you to tell her that she can’t stay, she’s got to turn around and come right back.”

  “You want,” Giuseppe said. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Listen, Giuseppe, she got her job back, she’s due to start on January second, she’s been promoted, she has a big career ahead of her in a job she likes, in a city she loves. You can’t let her throw it all away. Giuseppe, I can’t let you kill my daughter.”

  “That’s not how I think of her, Allen,” Giuseppe said. “I think of her as my wife. It’s about time she realized that. And the wife’s place is at the husband’s side. It’s an old Italian custom. Maybe you’ve forgotten that I’m Italian.”

  “Being Italian doesn’t mean that you have to be a martyr. And for what? A miserable little country newspaper that even Eleanor says a parcel of high school kids could do a better job on than you two.”

  “I’m sorry that she thinks we’re so inept,” Giuseppe said. “But that doesn’t change anything. When I married her I didn’t promise I was going to win the Pulitzer prize for journalism. All I did was promise to love and cherish her, forsaking all others until death did us part. I’m happy to see that she remembers she signed the same contract.”

  “You’re acting like a maniac,” Strand said. “I’m afraid I have to hang up now, Mr. Strand,” Giuseppe said politely. “I have to clean up the house and get some flowers and some stuff for dinner and a bottle of wine to celebrate the reunion. Thanks for letting me know she’s on her way home.”

  “Giuseppe…” Strand said helplessly, but Giuseppe had already hung up.

  Leslie was still sitting in the window seat, staring once more out at the ocean, her face emotionless. “Did you know there was a chance she was going back?” she asked.

  “Yes. She told me she was going to try to forget him. If she couldn’t, she said, she would go back. She didn’t try hard enough, I guess.”

  “Sex,” Leslie said tonelessly. “I suppose she’d call it passion. Love. What damage those big words can do. I did everything I could to try to stop her. I asked her how she could go off like that knowing that every time the telephone rang from now on we’d be terrified it would be a message that she was dead.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “That she knew the feeling—she’d had it ever since she left Georgia. That we’d have to learn to live with it. I tried to keep it from Caroline, but I’m sure she guessed. How much does she know?”

  “Just about everything. I felt I had to tell her. There’ve been too many secrets up to now.”

  “It’s natural to try to protect the young.”

  “And the old,” Strand said. “Christmas, before I got lost in the fog, I had a talk with Caroline. She said there was a conspiracy in the family to protect me, too, keep things from me. You were in it, too, she said.”

  “So I was,” Leslie said calmly.

  “She intimated that there were things you hid from me.”

  “What things?”

  “That you put Caroline on the pill on her sixteenth birthday.”

  Surprisingly, Leslie laughed. “How dreadful,” she said. “In this day and age.”

  “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “I guess I didn’t think you were in this day and age,” Leslie said. “Are you so anxious to join your contemporaries, dear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see…” Leslie squinted, as though searching the distance for further revelations. “What other sins have I committed that I’ve hidden from you to keep you happy in your illusions? Oh, yes. Of course. I arranged for Eleanor to have an abortion when she was seventeen. Would you like the details?”

  “Not really.”

  “Wise old husband and father,” Leslie said. “I also knew that she had a lover twice her age, a married man with three children, when she was in college. And she didn’t work to save the money for that car she drove in. He gave it to her. Transportation, too, can be a sin, can’t it? And while we’re at it, I conspired with our dear Jimmy to hide it from you that he was stoned out of his mind on marijuana almost every night and rather than have him leave our apartment once and for all I let him keep the stuff under my brassieres in my bureau. Would you have been happier if I had let him wander the streets?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “More news from the front,” Leslie said. “Russell called yesterday with some happy information. He asked me not to tell you. But you’ll probably hear soon enough and it’s better if you find out from me than if you read it in the papers. If he can’t shut her up somehow—and soon—his wife is going to name me, among quite a few other ladies, as a correspondent in her action for divorce.”

  “That bitch.”

  “She says she has proof. Conroy swears he saw me go into Russell’s apartment one day when I was in New York for my weekly lessons. He says I stayed two hours.”

  “Russell said he’d seen you. I wondered why you didn’t tell me.” Strand spoke calmly, waiting for the explanation.

  “They’re both right. I went to his apartment and Russell did see me and the lunch took two hours. The reason I went was that I was worried about you. I don’t think you can stand another year of living in the same house with all those boys and I asked Russell if he could persuade Babcock to let us live off the campus by ourselves. I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want you to think I was fighting your battles for you. Do you think I’m lying?”

  “You’re not in the habit of lying.”

  “Thank you,” Leslie said. “But Conroy wasn’t wrong by much. It was the first time I’d been alone with Russell and suddenly I remembered certain dreams I’d had about him and I realized that I thought about him a great deal of the time and that I wanted him.” She spoke flatly, as though going through a speech she had memorized. “And I’m still enough of a woman to know when a man wants me. And I knew Russell wanted me. But he didn’t say anything and neither did I and we ate our lunch and he said he’d talk to Babcock and I went back across town for my three o’clock lesson. Are you disgusted with me?”

  “Of course not,” Strand said gently. “If you must know, I’ve come closer than that. Considerably closer. If a certain lady had been at home when I telephoned her from Grand Central Station…” He left the sentence unfinished. “Secret sinners all,” Leslie said. “It’s about time we unburdened ourselves. Our imperfections are the bonds that hold us together. We might as well recognize them. While we’re at it,” Leslie said, intoning, rocking gently back and forth, like a child crooning to itself, with the oceanic sunlight streaming through the window sh
aking her long blond hair glitter, “did you know about Caroline’s biology teacher?”

  “I got a letter from the biology teacher’s wife.”

  “I heard from a more accurate source. Caroline. She told me she was crazy about him but he was so awful in bed she dropped him. Girl talk. The sexes mingle, but they’re short on communication. Do you love Caroline—or me—or Eleanor—any the less for all this?”

  “No,” he said. “Maybe I’ll love you in a different way. But no less.”

  “While on the subject of sex,” Leslie went on, “there’s Nellie Solomon. Did you know she’s having an affair with Jimmy?”

  “Who told you?” For the first time since he had come into the room Strand was shocked. “She did.”

  “I had lunch with Solomon. He didn’t say anything about it.”

  “For a very good reason,” Leslie said. “He doesn’t know. Yet. But he will soon. She’s going to follow Jimmy to California. They’re going to get married. That’s why she told me the whole story. I guess she wanted my blessing. If she did I’m afraid she’s in for a disappointment.”

  “When did she tell you all this?”

  “When I was staying with Linda, right before we left for Paris. I tried to get hold of Jimmy, but he wasn’t in town.”

  “What about that dreadful Dyer woman?”

  “Oh, you know about her, too?” Leslie wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  “I met her.”

  “Jimmy seems to be able to handle them both.” Leslie smiled ironically. “Do you think we ought to be proud?”

  “I think he’s acting disgracefully all around.”

  “He is. And in the long run he’ll suffer for it. But in a case like this, a young boy and a woman maybe fifteen years older than he, you have to put most of the blame on her.”

  “She’s not a member of my family.”

  “She will be. Unless they come to their senses before it’s too late. Oh, dearest, dearest Allen, please don’t take it so hard. They’re grown-up people, our children, and they have to lead their own lives.”

  “They’re doing it damn badly.”

  “Forget them for a few years. Let’s concentrate on leading our own lives—well.” She stood up and put her arms around him and kissed him. “As long as I know you’re all right, I can be happy, no matter what else happens. If we make their lives miserable with our disapproval, we’ll be miserable too and they’ll fly from us. Permanently. Let’s be gentle with them. And most of all, let’s be gentle with ourselves. Let’s hold our peace and wait for them to come back. As Eleanor said, we’ll have to learn to live with it. Whatever it is. Now I think the confessional box is closed for the day and it’s time for breakfast. Will you join me in a second cup of coffee?”

  He kissed her, then followed her downstairs, a wiser although not necessarily a happier man than he had been a few minutes before when he had climbed the same stairs.

  It was snowing the next morning. Strand was sitting in the living room looking out over the dunes as the snow drifted down, powdering the spikes of grass, drifting into the gray sea. It was nearly noon and he was alone. Leslie had gone into the village with Mr. Ketley in the pickup truck to do some shopping. Caroline had come down late for her black coffee and had gone back to her room saying that she had some letters to write. There was a slight hum of machinery off in the servants’ wing which meant that Mrs. Ketley was working there. Strand had a book in his hands but he allowed himself to be lulled by the slow rhythm of the falling snow outside the window. The front doorbell rang and he knew Mrs. Ketley couldn’t hear it over the noise in the laundry room, so he heaved himself to his feet and went to the door. He opened it and Romero was standing there. A taxi from the village stood in the driveway, its motor going.

  Romero was dressed in a bright green oversized parka, faded jeans and a red wool ski cap and pointed scuffed boots. He had started to grow a moustache, a thin black line over his lip that made him look like a child made up for Halloween. At Dunberry he had always dressed carefully in his Brooks Brothers clothes.

  “Romero,” Strand said, “what are you doing here?” He knew there was no welcome in his voice.

  “I told Caroline I would come,” Romero said, unsmiling. “Is she here?”

  “She’s upstairs. I’ll call her. Come in.” Strand held the door open.

  “Will you tell her I’m waiting for her?”

  “Come in and get warm.”

  “I’m warm enough. I’d rather not come in. I’ll wait here.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t see her, Romero,” Strand said.

  “She invited me.”

  “I still would prefer that you didn’t see her.”

  Romero put his head back and shouted, loudly, “Caroline! Caroline!”

  Strand closed the door. He heard Romero still shouting over and over again, “Caroline!” Strand went slowly up the stairs and knocked on Caroline’s door. It opened immediately. Caroline had her coat on and a scarf tied around her head.

  “Please, Caroline,” Strand said, “stay where you are.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Caroline brushed past him and ran swiftly down the stairs. From an upstairs window in the hallway Strand looked down. Romero was holding the door of the taxi open and Caroline was getting in. Romero followed her. The door slammed shut and the taxi drove off, making wet tire marks in the new snow.

  Strand went downstairs and sat down again in front of the window that gave onto the dunes and the sea and watched the snow falling from the gray skies into the gray Atlantic. He remembered what Caroline had said over breakfast the day before. “This is an unlucky house. We ought to get away before it’s too late.”

  When Leslie got back he told her about Romero. Her face was pale and strained. She was having her period, always a painful time for her. “Did she take a bag with her?” Leslie asked.

  “No.”

  “What time will she be back?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Do you know where they’ve gone?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not much of a day for sightseeing,” she said. “I’m sorry, Allen, do you mind having lunch by yourself? I’ve got to go up and lie down.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Shoot Romero. Forgive me.”

  He watched her slowly mount the stairs, gripping the banister.

  It was already dark, although it was just past four o’clock, when he heard the car drive up. He went to the door and threw it open. The snow was coming down more thickly than ever. He saw the taxi door swing open and Romero get out. Then Caroline jumped out and ran through the snow toward the door. She pushed past Strand without saying anything, her head bent so that he couldn’t see her face, and ran up the stairs. Romero stood near the taxi looking at Strand. He started to get back into the cab, then stopped, slowly closed the door and came toward Strand.

  “I delivered her safely, Mr. Strand,” he said. “In case you were worried.” His tone was polite, but his dark eyes were sardonic under the bright red wool ski cap.

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “You should have been,” Romero said. “She wanted to go back to Waterbury with me. Tonight. I hope you’re happy that I said no.”

  “I’m very happy.”

  “I don’t take charity from people like you,” Romero said. “Any kind of charity. And I don’t hire myself out to be a stud to flighty little rich white girls.”

  Strand laughed mirthlessly. “Rich,” he said. “There’s a description of the Strand family.”

  “From where I stand,” Romero said, “that’s exactly the word. I took one look at this house this morning and I decided I wouldn’t touch anybody who even spent one night of her life in a house like this. You’ve got a problem on your hands with that little girl of yours, but it ain’t my problem. I won’t bother you anymore. If you ever hear of me again it will be because my name’s in the papers.” He started to turn away.

  “Romero
,” Strand said, “you’re a lost soul.”

  “I was born a lost soul,” Romero said, stopping. “At least I didn’t go out and lose mine on purpose. I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Strand—I like you. Only we got nothing to say to each other that makes any sense anymore. Not one word. You better go in now. I wouldn’t want you to stand out here and catch a cold on my account, Professor.” He wheeled and jumped into the cab.

  Strand watched as the lights of the cab disappeared in the flurries of snow. Then he went in and closed the door behind him, shivering a little and grateful for the warmth of the house. He thought of going up and knocking on Caroline’s door, but decided against it. This was a night, he was sure, that his daughter would want to be alone.

  “Is there anything more you’ll be wanting tonight, Mr. Strand?” Mr. Ketley was saying.

  “No, thank you.” He was sitting alone in the living room. He had had an early dinner by himself. Before dinner he had gone upstairs to see how Leslie was. She had taken some pills and was drowsing and didn’t want to move. She had asked if Caroline was in yet and then didn’t ask any more questions when Strand had said that Caroline had come in shortly after four o’clock. He had tried Caroline’s door, but it was locked. When he knocked Caroline had called, “Please leave me alone, Daddy.”

  He wished he was someplace else. A wave of homesickness overtook him. Not for Dunberry, never for Dunberry. For the apartment in New York, with Leslie’s paintings on the walls, the sound of Leslie’s piano, Jimmy’s guitar, Eleanor’s bright voice as she talked to one of her beaux over the telephone, Caroline murmuring as she tried to memorize a speech from A Winter’s Tale for an English course the next day. He missed sitting in the kitchen watching Leslie prepare a meal, missed the quiet dinners on the kitchen table when the children were out, missed the Friday nights when they were all together, missed Alexander Curtis, in his old combat jacket, glaring at the city from his post next to the front door of the building, missed walking down to Lincoln Center, missed Central Park. What changes a year, not even a year, had made, what uprootings, blows, sad discoveries, defections.