So Charlie Master was dying while the garbage piled up in the streets. Somehow, irrationally, Gorham felt as if his father was being insulted by the city he loved.
Yet when he got to Park Avenue, he found his father in better spirits than he expected.
After Rose had died at the start of the decade, Charlie had taken over her apartment. For a while, he had kept his old place on Seventy-eighth, and used it as a gallery for his pictures. Then he’d given it up, and used the second bedroom on Park as a temporary store. He’d been talking about renting a small studio downtown this year, but Gorham supposed that wouldn’t be happening now.
Mabel, his grandmother’s housekeeper, was looking after Charlie, and a nurse came in a couple of times a day. If possible, Charlie wanted to stay where he was, right to the end.
When he entered the living room, Gorham found his father dressed and sitting in an armchair. He looked thin and pale, but he smiled cheerfully.
“It’s good to see you, Gorham. How did you come?”
“I took the train.”
“You didn’t fly? Everyone seems to fly these days. The airports are doing great business.” It was true. All three airports, Newark, JFK and La Guardia, were getting busier every year. The city had become a huge national and international hub. “Makes you wonder where they all go.”
“Maybe I’ll fly next time.”
“You should. You just here for the weekend?”
Gorham nodded. Then he suddenly felt a wave of guilt. What was he thinking of? This was his father, who was dying.
“I could stay …”
Charlie shook his head. “I’d rather you kept studying. I’ll call you when I need you.” He smiled again. “I’m really pleased to see you.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any grass?”
Gorham was about to say, “Oh for God’s sake,” but he bit the words back. Instead he just sighed. “Sorry, Dad. I haven’t.”
It was one of the causes of friction between them. Gorham had smoked marijuana only once in his life. That had been the weekend after he graduated high school, back in ’66. He remembered his hesitation, how his friends had told him that Bob Dylan had introduced the Beatles to grass in ’64, right here in New York, and that their best work had begun from then. Was all that stuff really true? He had no idea.
But Gorham had never done it again. Maybe he hadn’t particularly liked it the first time. Perhaps his innate conservatism and caution had set in. He had friends who were getting into LSD, with terrible results, and in his mind he associated hard drugs with soft. Whatever the reasons, he ran with a group of friends who, for the most part, didn’t do drugs, and it embarrassed him that his father did.
“It looks like a big mess outside. Garbage bags everywhere.”
“It is.”
“Nothing dims our affection for the city, though.”
“Right.”
“I guess you still want to come and be a banker here?”
“Family tradition. Except for you, that is.” Had he allowed a hint of rebuke to creep into his voice? If so, his father had chosen to ignore it.
“Do you remember your grandmother giving you a Morgan silver dollar when you were a boy? It’s nothing to do with the Morgan bank, you know. It’s the name of the designer.”
“Remember? I keep it with me every day. It’s my talisman, the badge of my destiny.” Gorham grinned a little sheepishly. “That’s rather childish, I guess.” In fact, the dollar had a more critical significance than that. It was the reminder of the family’s past as bankers and merchants, in the days when they still had wealth—the wealth that his aberrant father had never even attempted to get back.
But rather to Gorham’s surprise, his father looked delighted.
“That’s good, Gorham. Your grandmother would be so pleased—she wanted to give you something you’d value. So you’ll try to get a job with a bank as soon as you graduate?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a pity my father isn’t here, he could have helped you. I know some bankers I could ask.”
“It’s okay.”
“Bankers like people like you.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you worry about the draft?”
“Not right now, but I could be eligible when I graduate. Maybe I’ll go to divinity school or something. That’s what some people are doing to get out of it.”
“Martin Luther King is saying that the war is immoral. But I guess you don’t want to protest about it.”
“I’ll keep a low profile.”
“You should go to business school later. Get an MBA.”
“My plan is to work for a few years, and then go to Columbia.”
“Then you’ll marry, after the MBA?”
“When I make vice president. Maybe assistant vice president. AVP would do, if I find the right person.”
“A good corporate spouse?”
“I think so.”
Charlie nodded. “Your mother would have been a good corporate spouse. An excellent one.” He paused. “Things don’t always work out quite the way we plan, Gorham.”
“I know.”
“I should keep this place, if I were you. The monthly maintenance isn’t too bad—I’ll leave enough to cover that. And being in a good building will save you a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t want to think about that, Dad.”
“You don’t have to think about it. That’s just the way it’ll be. This place will suit you much better than me. I should have moved down to Soho.” He sighed. “My mistake.”
Soho: South of Houston Street. It was a quiet, bare area of former warehouses and cobbled streets, where artists could get a studio or a loft for very little money. A short walk northward and one was in Greenwich Village. Gorham could see that his father would have been happy there. And he was just wondering how to respond when Charlie suddenly said: “You know what I want? I want to see the Guggenheim. Will you take me there?”
They took a taxi. Charlie looked a little frail, but by the time they got out on the corner of Fifth and Eighty-ninth, he seemed to have gained energy.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s great masterpiece might not be to everyone’s taste, but Gorham could see why his father liked it. The museum’s white walls, and its cylindrical stack, like the top of an inverted spiral cone, was in open contrast to and rebellion against so much of the recent public architecture of the city. The huge glass tower blocks that had been rising since the late fifties enraged Charlie Master. The setback laws that had forced architects to make creative designs for the higher, narrower floors of the previous generation of skyscrapers had been relaxed. Huge, flat-topped glass and metal stumps were soaring up forty floors and more, blocking out the sky. In compensation, they had to provide open plaza-like spaces for the public at ground level. But in practice, the spaces were frequently cold, and soulless, and not much used. As for the glass towers themselves: “They are ugly, and boring,” Charlie would cry. He was particularly incensed about a group of Midtown bank towers on Park which he seemed to consider a personal affront to the avenue where he lived.
The strange, curved shape of the Guggenheim, however, was organic, like a mystical plant. Charlie loved it. He seemed quite content to look at the building from the outside. When he’d done, he told Gorham he’d like to walk down Fifth a little way.
If the volume of vehicles using the city streets had been going up for the last two decades, one relief had been granted. Most of the great avenues were one-way now. Park, with its broad arrangement of double lanes, carried traffic in both directions, but to the west of it, Madison carried the traffic uptown, and Fifth Avenue carried it down. Walking down Fifth on a Sunday morning, therefore, especially in February, was a quiet business. To avoid the garbage, they walked beside the park.
The Museum Mile, as people called it, was one of the most delightful walks in the city. Having left the Guggenheim, they passed opposi
te delightful apartment buildings. Then they went by the long, neoclassical facade of the Metropolitan Museum, and down another ten blocks or so toward the Frick. Charlie was walking a little slowly, but he seemed quite determined to continue, and from time to time, he would stare into Central Park, admiring the wintry scene, Gorham supposed. When they came level with the Frick, he sighed.
“I’m a little tired now, Gorham,” he said. “I think we’d better get a taxi back.” It seemed a rather short ride to Gorham, but he wasn’t going to argue, and it was only a few moments before a yellow cab came by. When they were in the cab, Charlie gave him a wry smile. “Couldn’t find what I wanted,” he said.
“Which was?”
“A guy in a red baseball hat. He’s usually in the park around there. He has good stuff.”
“Oh.” So the expedition had been about buying marijuana. Gorham felt a flash of annoyance. His father saw it.
“You don’t understand, Gorham,” he said quietly. “It helps with the pain.”
When they got back into the apartment, Mabel had made them soup and a light lunch. They talked as they ate, mostly about things they’d done together when Gorham was a child. When lunch was over, Charlie said: “There’s something I’m going to ask you to do for me, Gorham, when this is all over.”
“Sure.”
“There’s a piece of paper with a list of names and addresses on it by the bureau. Would you bring it over?” Gorham brought the list. He could see about a dozen names on it. “Most of these are just friends of one kind or another. You’ll see my doctor’s there, and one of the Keller family, and some others. I’ve left them little mementoes in my will, nothing much, but it’d be awfully nice if you’d deliver them and say I asked you to do it. It’s just that I’d prefer them to receive the presents from your hand, rather than from my lawyer in the mail. Would you do that?”
“I already said I would.” Gorham ran his eye down the list. The doctor he knew, and several of the others. Others were unfamiliar. “Sarah Adler?”
“A gallery owner. I had some paintings from there. She might give you something if she likes you. You’ll do them all?”
“Of course.”
“I’m feeling a little tired now, Gorham. I’m going to sleep a while. I think you should get back to school now.”
“I’ll come back next weekend.”
“Make it two weeks. I’ve got some things going on next weekend, and it’s a long way for you to come. Two weeks will be fine.”
Gorham could see that his father was getting tired, so he didn’t argue. After parting from Charlie, he quietly told Mabel that he’d be telephoning to check up on him in the coming days.
Once he was outside, he realized that he had more than an hour to kill before the next Boston train. So he decided to walk a bit to get some fresh air. Crossing Madison and Fifth, he entered Central Park.
The trees were bare and there was snow on the ground, but the cold air was dry and bracing. As he went over the day in his mind, he decided that it could have been a lot worse. He hadn’t criticized his father or lost his temper, even once. Their meeting had been loving and harmonious. Thank God for that.
He wondered how long his father had got. Surely some months, at least. He’d visit him plenty more times, and make his final days as gentle a passing as he could.
He’d been walking about ten minutes when he saw the guy with the red baseball hat standing by a tree.
He was a black man, over six feet tall, wearing a long black coat and a black scarf he’d wrapped around his neck many times. His narrow shoulders were hunched. As Gorham came near, the man looked at him, but obviously without much hope. As he passed, the automatic “Smoke? Grass?” came without conviction. Out of habit, equally, Gorham walked sternly by, trying to ignore him.
He’d gone a little way before his father’s words came back to him. “It helps with the pain.” He’d read about that, people with cancer taking marijuana. Why not? After all, they took other drugs to ease the pain. Maybe his doctor could give him dope on prescription. Could he do that? Gorham had no idea. Presumably not, or Charlie wouldn’t be trying to buy it in the park.
He looked at his watch. Wasn’t it time to be getting along to his train? Not really.
What was the law, exactly? The guy with the red baseball hat could be arrested, certainly, for selling the stuff. But what about if you bought some? In possession of an illegal substance—they arrested people for that, he was sure. What was it going to do to his chances of getting into a bank if he got arrested in Central Park? Not a good idea. He walked on.
So he was going to let his father suffer? His poor father who, in his own crazy way, had been good to him all his life? His father who had nothing in common with him, but treated him with all the kindness he might have reserved for a soulmate? The father who quietly ignored the little moments of irritation that he himself had been unable to conceal entirely even in the company of a dying man?
He turned round. The guy with the red baseball hat was still there. He looked about. Unless there was somebody hiding behind a tree, this section of the park was empty. He walked toward the dealer.
The guy looked at him questioningly. He had a thin face and a small, straggly beard.
“How much?”
“An eighth?”
The man said something, but Gorham hardly heard the price. He was looking around nervously.
“I’ll take half an ounce,” he said quickly. If the man was surprised, he gave no sign. He reached into his pocket and started pulling out little plastic bags. Gorham supposed he’d been given half an ounce, which he knew was plenty, but he had no idea what he was doing. He took the little bags and thrust them into a pocket of his pants, underneath his overcoat. He started to move away.
“You haven’t paid, man,” said the guy.
“Oh. Right.” Gorham pulled out some bills. “Is that enough?” He was starting to panic now.
“That’s enough,” said the dealer. It must have been too much, but right now Gorham didn’t care. He just wanted to get away. He hastened along the path, glancing back only once, hoping the dealer had vanished. But he was still standing there. Gorham followed the path until it led to another, and then made an eastward turn toward an exit onto Fifth. Thank God the guy was well out of sight by now.
He had just got to the sidewalk on Fifth when he saw the cop. He knew what he ought to do. He ought to look casual. After all, he was a respectable, conservative young man from Harvard who was going to be a banker, not a young guy with half an ounce of grass in his pocket. But he couldn’t help it. He froze. He probably looked as if he’d just killed someone in there.
The cop was watching him. He came toward him.
“Good afternoon, officer,” said Gorham. Somehow it sounded absurd.
“In the park?” said the cop.
“Yes.” Gorham was beginning to get control of himself now. “I needed a little walk.” The cop was still watching him. Gorham smiled sadly. “Do I look pale?”
“You might say that.”
“I guess I’d better get a coffee before I go back then.” He nodded grimly. “Not a good day. My father has cancer.” And then, because it was true, he felt the tears come to his eyes.
The cop saw.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “There’s a place where you can get coffee if you follow this street to Lexington.”
“Thank you.” He crossed Fifth and kept going all the way to Lexington. Then he turned north, went up a few blocks and came back to Park Avenue.
His father was still up when Mabel let him into the apartment. He was sitting in the chair, but he was slumped over on one arm, and his face was drawn. Obviously the effort of that day had taken a lot out of him.
“I found the guy with the red baseball hat,” Gorham said quickly, and he disgorged the contents of his pocket. He grinned. “I nearly got arrested.”
It took Charlie a few moments to summon his energy. But when he did, he looked up at
Gorham with a gratitude that was touching.
“You did that for me?”
“Yes,” said Gorham. And kissed him.
After Dark
1977
BY THE EVENING of Wednesday, July 13, the atmosphere, which had been hot and humid all day, was getting oppressively close. It felt as if a thunderstorm could break. Apart from this circumstance, Gorham had no other expectations for the evening ahead—except the pleasure of seeing his good friend Juan, of course.
Gorham had armed himself with a large umbrella as he walked swiftly northward from his apartment on Park. He only saw Juan every six months or so, but it was always an interesting occasion. Opposites in every way, they’d been friends since they were at Columbia together. And although Gorham took pride in the fact that he had a large network of friends from every walk of life, he’d always felt that Juan was special. “I’m sorry that my father isn’t here,” he’d told Juan once. “He would have liked you.” This, from Gorham, was high praise.
By the year 1977, Gorham Master could reasonably claim that, so far at least, his life had gone according to plan. After his father’s death, he’d let the Park Avenue apartment during the rest of his time at Harvard, staying at his mother’s Staten Island house when he visited the city. He’d been fortunate to get a low number in the lottery and avoided the draft. Then he’d managed to impress Columbia Business School so much that they took him into the MBA program without previous work experience. Gorham didn’t want to hang around; he wanted to get started. Columbia had been a wonderful experience, all the same. The business school had provided him with a sound intellectual framework for organizing the rest of his life, and a number of interesting friends as well, including Juan Campos. Emerging with his MBA, he’d found himself, still in his early twenties, in the enviable position of being the owner of a six-room apartment on Park Avenue, without a mortgage, and with enough cash to pay the maintenance for years to come—all this before he started his first job.
This might not be riches by the standards of his class, but if he had been a different character, the possession of so much money at the start of his life might have destroyed Gorham, by taking away his incentive to work. Luckily for him, however, he had such a strong ambition to restore his family to its former status in the city that, in his mind, it represented only the accomplishment of the first step—namely, that the present representative of the family should be seen to start his career from a position of privilege. The next step was to get a job in a major bank. After that, he intended to do whatever it took to get to the top. His father might not have been a conventional success, but Gorham was going to be. That was his mission.
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