Lucy Crown

by Irwin Shaw

  “Father,” Tony said painfully, “there’s no need for all this.”

  “Sure,” Oliver said, mumbling into his glass. “Sure there’s a need. Last will and testament. On the way to the wars. The wars help, too. You can’t have a son, have a war. That’s another wave. No time to look back and say who’s pushing me, where am I going. An illusion of purpose, of accomplishment. Take a town. Don’t ask what town. Don’t ask who’s in it. Don’t ask what they’re going to do after you’ve passed through. Don’t ask if it had to be taken. Just hope the war lasts long enough and the supply of towns holds out and that you don’t come back …”

  “You wouldn’t talk like that if you weren’t drunk,” Tony said.

  “No? Maybe not.” Oliver chuckled. “That’s a good reason for being drunk. You don’t remember, because you were too young, but I used to have a high opinion of myself. I thought I was God’s own combination of intelligence, honor, industry and wit. Ask me anything in those days, and I’d come up with the answer, quick as the Pope or an electric brain. I was solid as the Republic and none of the wires was crossed and certainty was my middle name. I was certain about work and marriage and loyalty and the education of children and I didn’t care who knew it. I stared out at the world with a clear and lunatic eye. I was the product of a solid family and a suicide father. I had prosperity behind me and a good college and a proper tailor and lightning couldn’t crack me if it hit me between the eyes on the Fourth of July. And then, in fifteen minutes in a little stinking summer resort beside a lake, the whole thing collapsed. I made the wrong decision, of course. But maybe the only right decision was to take you and hang you by the heels and drown you in the lake, and of course my social position wouldn’t permit that. Abraham and Isaac would never go down in Vermont no matter what angels were on the premises. What happened, of course, was that I turned the knife on myself, although I’m sure you have a different opinion. What the hell,” he said belligerently. “How bad was it for you? You left home a little earlier than usual and you were lonely on a couple of holidays, that’s all.”

  “Sure,” Tony said, bitter now and remembering the seven years. “That’s all.”

  “As for me,” Oliver said, ignoring his son, “I merely turned up dead. Later on, when I looked back on it, knowing I was guilty, I said it was sensuality that did it. And maybe it was. Only after a little while there wasn’t any sensuality left. Of course, we pretended, because when you’re married there’s a certain obligation to politeness in that department, but by that time there were too many other things in the way, and finally we just about dropped the whole thing.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Why not? You’re twenty years old,” Oliver said. “I hear you have a rising career as a collegiate stud. I’m not raping any virgin ears. Know Thy Father and Thy Mother. If you can’t honor them, at least know them. It’s not the next best thing, but it’s a thing. The war has made me virile again. I had an affair with a waitress in the town of Columbus, North Carolina. I outlasted a warrant officer and two captains from the Adjutant-General’s office on the crucial week-end. It was a hot week-end and all the girls were going around without stockings. If I were a Catholic, I would seriously think of taking orders. You are my priest,” he said, “and my favorite confessional box is located on the ninth floor of the Hotel Shelton.”

  “I’m going,” Tony said, moving toward the door. “Take care of yourself and let me know where I can write you and …”

  “For absolution,” Oliver said. “Three slugs of Bourbon. Where’s the bottle?” He asked peevishly. “Where’s the goddamn bottle?” He felt around on the floor next to the chair and found the bottle and poured himself a third of a tumbler full of whisky. He put the bottle down again and, closing one eye, like a marksman, flipped the cork across the room into the wastebasket. “Two points,” he said, with satisfaction. “Did you know that I was an athlete in my youth? I could run all day and I was deft around first base, although the best first basemen are all left-handed. I also hit a long ball, although not often enough to make it finally worthwhile. I also had leanings toward being a military hero, because a great-uncle was killed in the Wilderness, but the First World War cured me of that. I spent all my six months in France in Bordeaux and the only time I heard a shot fired in anger was when an MP fired at two Senegalese who were breaking the window of a wineshop on the Place Gambetta. Don’t go yet,” he pleaded. “Some day a son of yours might ask you, ‘What are the great moments in the family history?’ and you’ll be sick at heart that you didn’t stay another five minutes and soak in the old traditions. On our shield are the three Great Words—Suicide, Failure and Adultery, and I challenge any red-blooded American family to do better.”

  “You’re raving now,” Tony said, not moving from the door. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “That’s a court-martial offense, Son,” Oliver said gravely, from his chair. “Charity begins at the Hotel Shelton.”

  Tony opened the door.

  “Don’t,” Oliver cried. He struggled out of the chair, rocking a little, carefully holding his glass. “I have something for you. Close the door. Just five more minutes.” His face worked painfully. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a hard day. Close the door. I won’t drink any more. See …” He put the glass shakily on the dresser. “The ultimate sacrifice. Come on, Tony,” he coaxed, his head lolling. “Close the door. Don’t leave me alone yet. I’m getting the hell out of the country tomorrow and you’ll be free of me for God knows how long. You can spare five more minutes. Please, Tony, I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

  Reluctantly, Tony closed the door. He came back into the room and sat stiffly on the bed.

  “That’s it,” Oliver said. “That’s the boy. The truth is I drank today for your sake. Don’t laugh. You know me—I’m not a drinking man. It’s just that there’re so many things I wanted to tell you—and I haven’t been able to communicate with you for so long … Those goddamn dinners …” He shook his head. “First of all, I want to apologize.”

  “Oh, Christ.” Tony put his head in his hands. “Not now.”

  Oliver stood over him, wavering a little. “We sacrificed you. I admit it. The reasons looked good at the time. How did we know they wouldn’t hold up? If what you’re looking for is revenge, look at me and you’ve got it.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Tony said. “I’m not interested in revenge.”

  “Do you mean that?” Oliver asked eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Son.” Suddenly Oliver reached over and took Tony’s hand with both of his and shook it crazily. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Is that all you wanted to say?” Tony lifted his head and looked up at his father, standing, half-bent, unsteady and bleary-eyed, above him.

  “No, no.” Oliver dropped his hands and spoke hastily, as though he were afraid that if he stopped talking for one moment he would be left alone in the room. “I told you I have something for you.” He went over to the open Valpack and got down, with a thump, on his knees in front of it and began rummaging in the interior. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for a long time. I was afraid the proper occasion might not come up and … Here it is …” He pulled out a little package wrapped in tissue paper, with a rubber band around it. Still on his knees, he tore clumsily at the paper. He dropped the paper, now in shreds, on the floor and held up an old-fashioned gold watch. “My father’s watch,” he said. “Solid gold. I’ve always carried it for luck, although really I prefer a wristwatch. He gave it to me two weeks before he died. Solid gold,” Oliver said, squinting at it in the lamplight and turning it over slowly and shakily. “An old Waltham. It’s over forty years old, but it keeps perfect time.” He stood up and came back to Tony, still admiring the watch. “You don’t have to wear it, of course, it’s terribly out of date, but you could keep it on your desk, something like that …” He held it out, but Tony didn’t take it.

  “Why don’t you
hang onto it?” Tony said, with a twinge of superstition. “If it’s brought you luck.”

  “Luck.” Oliver grinned painfully. “You keep it for me. Maybe the luck’ll work better that way. Please.”

  Tony put his hand out slowly and Oliver dropped the watch into his palm. The watch was surprisingly heavy. It was thick and the gold of the case was elaborately chased and the face was yellowed a little and marked with thin, old-fashioned Roman numerals. Tony looked at it and noticed that it was after eleven. Damn it, he thought, I’m going to miss Elizabeth. She’ll never wait.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll give it to my son, when the time comes.”

  Oliver smiled anxiously. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s the idea.”

  Tony put the watch in his side pocket and stood up. “Well …” he began.

  “Don’t go yet,” Oliver said. “Not yet. There’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” Tony tried to keep his impatience with his father, with the evening, with the sad and littered little room, out of his voice.

  “Wait. Just wait.” Oliver made a wide, mysterious gesture with his hand and went over to the telephone. He sat down on the bed, still in his cap and trenchcoat, and picked up the phone. He clicked the instrument impatiently. “I want Orange 7654,” he said. “That’s in New Jersey.”

  “Whom’re you calling?” Tony asked suspiciously.

  “That’s right,” Oliver said, into the phone. “Orange.” He turned to Tony, holding the instrument to his ear. “You knew we moved to New Jersey a few years ago?”

  “Yes,” Tony said.

  “Of course. You were there. Happy Thanksgiving.” Oliver grinned painfully. “It turned out it wasn’t really practical to live in Hartford any more,” Oliver said. “And in one way, it turned out very well. The plant was obsolete, anyway, and I had a chance to buy in New Jersey and we expanded enormously. The move made a rich man out of me.” He laughed. “The romance of business,” he said vaguely. “I could even afford to be a patriot and join up when my country called. Operator, operator!” he said impatiently into the phone.

  “Whom’re you calling?” Tony asked.

  “Your mother.” Oliver’s face was tight, almost as though he might cry; although it was probably only the whisky, and his eyes were full of pleading.

  “Oh, come on now,” Tony said. “What’s the sense in that?”

  “Just once,” Oliver said. “Just this last night. Just for the both of us to say hello to her, together. How much harm can that do—just to say hello?”

  Tony hesitated, then he shrugged. “Okay,” he said wearily.

  “That’s fine,” Oliver said happily. “That’s a sport.”

  That’s a sport, Tony thought. The vocabulary of my father.

  “Come over here.” Oliver waved to him vigorously. “You take the phone. You speak to her right off. Come on, come on.”

  Tony walked over and took the phone and put it to his head. He heard the regular distant ringing sound in the receiver. His father was standing close to him, liquorish-smelling, breathing fast, as if he had just run a long distance. The phone rang and rang.

  “She’s probably asleep,” Oliver said anxiously. “She hasn’t heard it yet.”

  Tony didn’t say anything. He listened to the ringing.

  “Maybe she’s taking a bath,” Oliver said. “Maybe the water’s running and she can’t hear it …”

  “There’s no answer,” Tony said. He started to hang up, but Oliver grabbed the phone from him and put it to his own ear, as though he didn’t trust Tony.

  They stood still, the thin, mechanical double sound surprisingly loud in the quiet room.

  “I guess she went to a movie,” Oliver said, “or she’s playing bridge. She plays a lot of bridge. Or maybe she had to work late. She works very hard and …”

  “Hang up,” Tony said, “she’s not home.”

  “Just five more rings,” said Oliver.

  They waited for the five more rings, then Oliver hung up. He stood staring at the phone on the shabby bed-table scarred with cigarette burns and the marks of wet glasses.

  “Well, isn’t that too bad?” he said, very low, shaking his head, staring at the phone. “Isn’t that just too bad?”

  “Good night, Father,” Tony said.

  Oliver didn’t move. He stood looking at the phone, his face serious, reflective, not especially sad, but remote and thoughtful.

  “I said good night, Father.”

  Oliver looked up. “Oh, yes,” he said flatly. He put out his hand and Tony shook it. There was no force in his grip.

  “Well …” Tony said uncomfortably, suddenly feeling the weight and embarrassment of saying good-bye to the wrong member of the family who was going to the war. “Good luck.”

  “Sure. Sure, Son,” Oliver said. He smiled remotely. “It’s been a nice evening.”

  Tony looked hard at him, but his father obviously had nothing further to say. It was as though he had exhausted all his interest in him. Tony crossed to the door and went out, leaving his father standing next to the telephone.

  He took a cab down to Number One, hoping that Elizabeth hadn’t gone. She wasn’t at the bar when he went in and he decided to have one drink and wait fifteen minutes and then, if she hadn’t arrived, go home.

  He ordered a whisky and idly put his hand in his pocket and felt the watch. He took it out and stared at it. It was like having 1900 in your hand. A fat man was standing in a spotlight next to the piano, singing a song called “I Love Life.”

  Tony turned the watch over. It was almost dark at the bar, but if he held the watch down low on the bar a beam of light from a small lamp behind the bottles struck it. The lacily engraved gold gleamed in his hand. There was a little catch on one side of the watch and Tony flicked it and the back snapped open. There was a picture in it and Tony bent over to look at it. It was a photograph of his mother, taken when she was very young. Her hair was in a funny dowdy bun, but it didn’t matter, she was beautiful just the same, staring out of the aging photograph with wide, candid, rather shy and smiling eyes in the slanting, furtive light that the barman used to mix his drinks while the show was on at the piano.

  Oh, God, Tony thought, what did he want to do this to me for?

  He looked around for a place to throw the photograph, but at that moment he saw Elizabeth making her way among the tables toward the bar. He closed the watch and put it in his pocket, thinking, I’ll do it when I get home.

  “Wicked, wicked,” Elizabeth whispered, chuckling, and squeezed his hand. “Is Papa safely in bed?”

  “Yes,” Tony said. “Safe and sound.”

  19

  THE ROAD SPED SMOOTHLY under the tires, the car passing through flickering bands of shade thrown by the rows of trees on each side, the kilometer stones, with the Norman names, going past with streaming regularity. Tony sat straight at the wheel, driving automatically, remembering the night in New York, realizing that for many years he had tried, with a conscious effort, to forget it.

  The last time you see your father before he dies, he thought, you should know it, there should be a sign, a warning, a Nevermore, so that you can say an appropriate word, so that you do not hurry from a bare hotel room, worrying that you are late for a rendezvous at a bar with a girl who has come to the city, at the age of eighteen, to enjoy a war.

  He was conscious of his mother seated beside him, her eyes closed, the wind picking at the loose ends of her scarf. What would it have been like, he wondered, how would everything have been changed if she had been home that night, if she had come to the telephone and he had heard her voice after Oliver had said, “That’s fine. That’s a sport”?

  Sitting in the cramped little seat, half-dozing, with the wind in her ears, rushing toward the grave she had never seen and whose meaning she still did not truly understand, Lucy was thinking, too, of the last time she had seen Oliver. It had been nearly three o’clock in the morning and she knew that Oliver had seen Tony earlie
r and that he had tried to call her, because he told her later, in the cold, empty, echoing house in New Jersey, after she had come in, weary and unsatisfied, turning the young soldier away from the door …

  “No,” she said to the lieutenant, barring the way, not turning the key in the lock, “you can’t come in. It’s too late. And don’t send the taxi away. Go home, like a good boy. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  “I love you,” the boy said.

  Oh, God, she thought. He means it, too. It’s the war. A couple of sad, clutching hours in a shabby roadhouse room, to console the wounded, and they say I love you. Why do I do it? she thought, exhausted, remembering that she had to be in the laboratory at nine in the morning. I must have pity on myself, too.

  “Don’t talk like that,” she said.

  “Why not?” The boy put his arms around her and tried to kiss her.