by Irwin Shaw
They were both tall men, approximately the same age, and obviously of the same class and education, but they were marked by wide differences of temperament. Oliver still had the body and movements of an athlete, precise, quick and energetic. Patterson seemed to have let himself go somewhat. A slouch seemed natural to him and even when you saw him sitting down you had the feeling that when he stood he would stoop over a little. He had shrewd eyes, which he kept half-veiled almost all the time by a lazy droop of the eyelids, and there were habitual wrinkles from laughter cut into the skin at their corners. His eyebrows were thick and unruly and overhanging and his hair was coarse, unevenly cut, with a good deal of rough gray in it. Oliver, who knew Patterson very well, once told Lucy that he was sure that Patterson had looked in a mirror one day and decided quite coldly that he had a choice between appearing rather conventionally good-looking, like a second leading man in the movies, or letting himself go a little and being interestingly grizzled. “Sam’s a clever man,” Oliver had said approvingly, “and he opted for the grizzle.”
Oliver was already dressed for the city. He wore a seersucker suit and a blue shirt and his hair was a little long because he hadn’t bothered to go to a barber on his holiday and his skin was evenly tanned from the hours on the lake. Looking at him, Patterson thought that Oliver was at his best at this moment, when all the advantages of his vacation were so clearly marked on him, but at the same time wearing clothes that in this setting gave him an air of urban formality. He ought to wear a moustache, Patterson thought idly; he would look most impressive. He looks like a man who ought to be doing something complicated, important and rather dangerous; he looks like the portraits of young Confederate cavalry commanders you used to see in histories of the Civil War. If I looked like that, Patterson thought, and all I did was run a printing business that my father left me, I think I would be disappointed.
Across the lake, where a slanting outcropping of granite dipped into the water, they could see Lucy and Tony, minute sunny figures floating quietly in a small boat. Tony was fishing. Lucy hadn’t wanted to take him, because it was Oliver’s last afternoon, but Oliver had insisted, not only for Tony’s sake but because he felt that Lucy had an unhealthy tendency to sentimentalize arrivals and farewells and anniversaries and holidays.
Patterson was dressed in corduroy trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, because he still had to go up to the hotel, which was about two hundred yards away, on the same estate, and pack his bag and get dressed. The cottage was too small for guests.
When Patterson had volunteered to come up for the week-end to check up on Tony, which would save Lucy and the boy a long trip down to Hartford later in the summer, Oliver had been touched by this evidence of thoughtfulness on his friend’s part. Then he saw Patterson with a Mrs. Wales who was staying at the hotel, and he had been less touched. Mrs. Wales was a handsome brunette, with a small, full figure and avid eyes, who came from New York, a place that Patterson found an excuse to visit, without his wife, at least twice a month. Mrs. Wales, it turned out, had arrived on Thursday, the day before Patterson had stepped off the train, and was due to leave for New York again, discreetly, the following Tuesday. She and Patterson made a point of being most formal and correct with each other, even to the extent of not calling each other by their first names. But after twenty years of friendship with the doctor, who had always been ambitious, as Oliver put it, with women, Oliver was not to be fooled. He was too reticent to say anything, but he tempered his gratitude for Patterson’s long trip to Vermont with a touch of fond, though cynical amusement.
From the boys’ camp a half mile away across the lake came the thin music of a bugle. The two men listened in silence, sipping their drinks, while the sound died echoing away on the water.
“Bugles,” Oliver said. “They have an old-fashioned sound, don’t they?” He stared drowsily at the distant boat in which his wife and son floated, just on the edge of the shadow of the granite shelf. “Reveille, Assembly, Retreat, Lights out.” He shook his head. “Preparing the younger generation for the world of tomorrow.”
“Maybe they’d be better off using a siren,” Patterson said. “Take Cover. Enemy Overhead. All Clear …”
“Aren’t you cheerful?” Oliver said good-naturedly.
Patterson grinned. “Actually, I am. It’s just that a doctor always sounds so much more intelligent when he’s gloomy. I can’t resist the temptation.”
They sat in silence for a moment, remembering the bugle, vaguely thinking of old, enjoyable wars. There was a telescope which belonged to Tony, lying on the lawn beside Oliver, and he idly picked it up. He put the telescope to his eye and focused it across the water. The distant skiff became clearer and larger in the round blur of the lens and Oliver could see Tony slowly reeling in his line and Lucy begin to row toward home. Tony had a red sweater on, even though it was hot in the sun. Lucy was wearing a bathing suit and her back was deep brown against the blue-gray of the distant granite. She rowed steadily and strongly, the oars making an occasional small white splash in the still water. My ship is coming in, Oliver thought, smiling inwardly at the large saltwater image for such a modest arrival.
“Sam,” Oliver said, still with the telescope to his eye. “I want you to do something for me.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to tell Lucy and Tony exactly what you told me.”
Patterson seemed almost asleep. He was slumped in his chair, his chin down on his chest, his eyes half-closed, his long legs stretched out. He grunted. “Tony, too?”
“Most important of all, Tony,” Oliver said.
“You’re sure?”
Oliver put the telescope down and nodded decisively. “Absolutely,” he said. “He trusts us completely … so far.”
“How old is he now?” Patterson asked.
“Thirteen.”
“Amazing.”
“What’s amazing?”
Patterson grinned. “In this day and age. A boy thirteen years old who still trusts his parents.”
“Now, Sam,” Oliver said, “you’re going out of your way to sound intelligent again.”
“Perhaps,” Patterson said agreeably, taking a sip of his drink and staring at the boat, still far out on the sunny surface of the water. “People’re always asking doctors to tell them the truth,” he said. “Then when they get it …” He shrugged. “The level of regret is very high in the truth department, Oliver.”
“Tell me, Sam,” said Oliver, “do you always tell the truth when you’re asked for it?”
“Rarely. I believe in another principle.”
“What’s that?”
“The principle,” Patterson said, “of the soft, healing lie.”
“I don’t think that there is such a thing as a healing lie,” said Oliver.
“You come from the North,” said Patterson, smiling. “Remember, I’m from Virginia.”
“You’re no more from Virginia than I am.”
“Well,” Patterson said, “my father came from Virginia. It leaves its marks.”
“No matter where your father came from,” Oliver said, “you must tell the truth sometime, Sam.”
“Yes,” said Patterson.
“When?”
“When I think people can stand it,” Patterson said, keeping his tone light, almost joking.
“Tony can stand it,” said Oliver. “He has a lot of guts.”
Patterson nodded. “Yes, he has. Why not—at the age of thirteen.” He took another drink and held up his glass, turning it in his hand, inspecting it. “What about Lucy?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about Lucy,” Oliver said stiffly.
“Does she agree with you?” Patterson persisted.
“No.” Oliver made an impatient gesture. “If it was up to her, Tony would reach the age of thirty believing that babies came out of cabbage patches, that nobody ever died, and that the Constitution guaranteed that everyone had to love Anthony Crown above everything else on earth, on pain of imprisonment fo
r life.”
Patterson grinned.
“You smile,” Oliver said. “Before you have a son, you think that what you’re going to do with him is raise him and educate him. That isn’t what you do at all. What you do is struggle inch by inch for his immortal soul.”
“You should have had a few others,” Patterson said. “The debate gets less intense that way.”
“Well, we don’t have a few others,” said Oliver, flatly. “Are you going to tell Tony or not?”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“I want it to be official,” said Oliver. “I want him to get used to the verdict of authority, unmodified by love.”
“Unmodified by love,” Patterson repeated softly, thinking, What a curious man he is. I don’t know another man who would use a phrase like that. The verdict of authority, he thought. My boy, do not expect to live to a ripe old age. “All right, Oliver,” he said. “On your responsibility.”
“On my responsibility,” Oliver said.
“Mr. Crown …?”
Oliver turned around in his chair. A young man was approaching across the lawn from the direction of the house. “Yes?” Oliver said.
The young man came around in front of the two men and stopped. “I’m Jeffrey Bunner,” he said. “Mr. Miles, the manager of the hotel, sent me down here.”
“Yes?” Oliver looked at him puzzledly.
“He said you were looking for a companion for your son for the rest of the summer,” the young man said. “He said you planned to leave this evening, so I came right down.”
“Oh, yes,” Oliver said. He stood up and shook hands with the young man, examining him briefly. Bunner was slender, a little above medium height. He had thick, black hair that was cut short and naturally dark skin that had been made even darker by the sun, giving him an almost Mediterranean appearance. His eyes were a profound, girlish blue, approaching violet, and they had the shining clarity of a child’s. He had a thin lively face which gave an impression of endless youthful energy and a high, bronzed forehead. In his faded gray sweatshirt and his un-pressed flannels and his grass-stained tennis shoes he seemed like an intellectual oarsman. There was an air about him, too, as he stood there easily, unembarrassed but respectful, of the privileged but well-brought-up son of a polite family. Oliver, who believed in having handsome people around him whenever possible (their colored maid at home was one of the prettiest girls in Hartford), decided immediately that he liked the young man.
“This is Dr. Patterson,” Oliver said.
“How do you do, Sir?” Bunner said.
Patterson lifted his glass lazily. “Forgive me for not getting up,” he said. “I rarely get up on Sundays.”
“Of course,” Bunner said.
“Do you want to grill this young man in private?” Patterson asked. “I suppose I could move.”
“No,” Oliver said. “That is, if Mr. Bunner doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Bunner said. “Anybody can listen. Anything embarrassing I’ll lie about.”
Oliver chuckled. “That’s a good start. Cigarette?” He offered the pack to Bunner.
“No, thanks.”
Oliver took a cigarette and lit it and tossed the pack to Patterson. “You’re not one of those young men who smokes a pipe, are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” Bunner said.
“When I hear the word twenty,” Patterson said, “I feel like reaching for a pistol.”
Oliver peered out at the lake. Lucy was rowing steadily and already the boat seemed much larger and the red of Tony’s sweater had grown brighter. “Tell me, Mr. Bunner,” he said, “were you ever sick?”
“Forgive him, Boy,” Patterson said. “He’s one of those people who’s never been sick in his life and he regards illness as a willful sign of weakness.”
“That’s all right,” Bunner said. “If I were hiring somebody to hang around with my son I’d want to know whether he was healthy or not.” He turned to Oliver. “I had a broken leg once,” he said. “When I was nine. Sliding into second base. I was tagged out.”
Oliver nodded, liking the young man more and more. “Is that all?”
“Just about.”
“Do you go to college?” Oliver asked.
“Dartmouth,” said Bunner. “I hope you have no objections to Dartmouth.”
“I am neutral on the subject of Dartmouth,” Oliver said. “Where is your home?”
“Boston,” Patterson said.
“How do you know?” Oliver looked over at Patterson, surprised.
“I have ears, don’t I?” Patterson said.
“I didn’t know I gave myself away so easily,” Bunner said.
“That’s all right,” said Patterson. “It’s not unpleasant. It’s just Boston.”
“How is it,” Oliver asked, “that you didn’t go to Harvard?”
“Now I think you’ve gone too far,” Patterson said.
Bunner chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying the interview. “My father said I’d better get away from home,” he said. “For my own good. I have four sisters and I’m the baby of the family and my father felt I was getting more than my share of loving kindness. He said he wanted me to learn that the world was not a place where you have five devoted women running interference for you all the time.”
“What do you expect to do when you get out of college?” Oliver asked. He was obviously feeling friendly toward the boy, but he wasn’t going to skip any information that might have a bearing on his capabilities.
“I expect to go into the Foreign Service,” Bunner said.
“Why?” Oliver asked.
“Travel,” Bunner said. “Foreign lands. Reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom at the age of sixteen.”
“I doubt that you’ll be called upon to lead any camel charges,” Patterson said, “no matter how high you rise in the Department.”
“Of course, it’s not only that,” Bunner said. “I have a feeling that a lot of important things are going to happen in the next few years and I like the idea of being on the inside when they do happen.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “It’s hard to talk about what you want to do with your life without sounding like a stuffed shirt, isn’t it? Maybe I just fancy the picture of myself in a morning coat sitting at a conference table, saying, ‘I refuse to give up Venezuela.’”
Oliver looked at his watch and decided to lead the conversation into more practical lines. “Tell me, Mr. Bunner,” he said, “are you an athlete?”
“I play a little tennis, swim, ski …”
“I mean on any of the teams,” Oliver said.
“No.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “Athletes are so busy taking care of themselves, they never can be relied upon to take care of anyone else. And my son may need a great deal of care …”
“I know,” Bunner said. “I saw him.”
“Oh?” Oliver asked, surprised. “When?”
“I’ve been up here for a few days now,” Bunner said. “And I was here most of last summer. My sister has a place a half mile down the lake.”
“Are you staying with her now?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want this job?” Oliver asked suddenly.
Bunner grinned. “The usual reason,” he said. “Plus being out in the open air for the summer.”
“Are you poor?”
The boy shrugged. “My father survived the Depression,” he said. “But he’s still limping.”
Both Oliver and Patterson nodded, remembering the Depression.
“Do you like children, Mr. Bunner?” Oliver asked.
The boy hesitated, as though he had to think this over carefully. “About the same as people,” he said. “There’re several children I’d gladly wall up in cement.”
“That’s fair enough,” Oliver said. “I don’t think you’d want to wall Tony up in cement. You know what was wrong with him?”
“I think
somebody told me he had rheumatic fever last year,” Bunner said.
“That’s right,” said Oliver. “His eyes have been affected and his heart. I’m afraid he’ll have to take it easy for a long time.” Oliver stared out at the lake. The boat was well in toward shore by now and Lucy was rowing steadily. “Because of his trouble,” Oliver said, “he’s been kept away from school for the last year and he’s been around his mother too much …”
“Everybody’s been around his mother too much,” Patterson said. “Including me.” He finished his drink.
“The problem is,” Oliver said, “to permit him to behave as much like a normal boy as possible—without letting him overdo anything. He mustn’t strain himself or tire himself too much—but I don’t want him to feel as though he’s an invalid. The next year or two are going to be crucial—and I don’t want him to grow up feeling fearful or unlucky …”
“Poor little boy,” Bunner said softly, staring out at the approaching boat.
“That’s exactly the wrong tack,” Oliver said quickly. “No pity. No pity at all, please. That’s one of the reasons I’m glad I can’t stay up here for the next few weeks with Tony myself. That’s why I don’t want him left alone with his mother. And why I’ve been looking for a young man as a companion. I want him to be exposed to some normal, youthful, twenty-year-old callousness. I imagine you can manage that … ?”
Bunner smiled. “Do you want some references?”
“Do you have a girl?” Oliver asked.
“Now, Oliver,” Patterson said.
Oliver turned to Patterson. “One of the most important things you can know about a twenty-year-old boy is whether he has a girl or not,” he said mildly. “Whether he’s had one, whether he’s between girls at the moment.”
“I have one,” Bunner said, then added, “approximately.”
“Is she here?” Oliver asked.
“If I told you she was here,” Bunner said, “would you give me the job?”
“No.”
“She’s not here,” Bunner said promptly.
Oliver bent down, hiding a smile, and picked up the telescope, collapsing it against his palm. “Do you know anything about astronomy?”