Maggie put down her book. “Well,” she said, eager for more.
“Growing up in that family doesn’t exactly guarantee a promising future. A warped father, a dissociated mother, God knows what kind of family life.”
Maggie interrupted. “Dissociated? You mean catatonic.”
“If you prefer. The point I’m making is that Iris is a lovely, intelligent young girl with what could be a fine future, if she makes the right friends, reads the right books”—he paused—“goes to college.”
“College is the thing,” Maggie said. “We could take care of that. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“That’s the sort of thing I was thinking.”
“Well, that’s settled then. The only question is how shall we do it?”
“It’s going to take a lot of money.”
“We’ve got a lot of money. We’ve got your retirement and we still have all that other money.” She decided to say it: “Sedgwick money.”
“We should have Michael Kelly decide how to do it. He can set it up so that it can be used only by Iris and only for education and then that father of hers can’t get his hands on it.”
“Shall I call and make an appointment with Kelly?”
“Shouldn’t we discuss it first?”
“We’ve just discussed it and I think you made a number of convincing arguments. Now we should just do it. Do you want me to call Kelly or do you think it should come from you? Men like to talk to the man when it’s a question of money. So I think you should call him. Tomorrow. After our walk.”
“What do you make of that, Dickens?” David said, and patted him on the head.
Dickens blinked in appreciation.
* * *
—
DAVID WAS COMING OUT of himself at last. Maggie saw this as a sign that he had decided to rejoin life, thanks to Iris and her winning innocence. They had not yet phoned Michael Kelly about setting up a trust for Iris’s education, but Maggie was determined they would do that soon. Meanwhile they had this wonderful child all to themselves.
Iris visited every day. She and David finished reading Jane Eyre and moved on to Great Expectations. David did all the voices and Iris was delighted. He was particularly good as Joe Gargery and Mrs. Joe.
“He wanted to be an actor,” Maggie said to Iris. She realized after she said it that it was probably true. “Is that right, David?”
“I wanted to act but I never had the courage to try.”
“Claire has the courage and apparently she’s good. Or at least she was good in that Albee play.”
“Anybody would be good in that play. It’s a foolproof role for any actress. Failure proof. You know what I mean.”
Suddenly Iris spoke up. “My daddy says she’s a brilliant actress.”
David and Maggie exchanged a look that was not lost on Iris.
Maggie said, “Has your daddy ever seen Aunt Claire acting?”
“He hasn’t seen her, but he writes about her in his book. It’s his new book.” She paused. “It’s confidential.”
“Then we won’t ask anything about it,” Maggie said.
“I don’t mind,” Iris said. “I read it all the time on the computer.”
“But it’s confidential. So we won’t ask about it. And you shouldn’t talk about it.”
Iris blushed and murmured, “I’m sorry,” and very soon decided she should go home.
After she left, David turned to Maggie and asked, “What’s this about a book with Claire in it?”
“They had a thing, David, but it’s all over. It’s nothing.”
“But he’s writing about her? In a book?”
“Apparently.”
“And about us?”
“Claire thinks so, but you know how Reginald is. It will never come to anything.”
“And what’s this about a thing they had? Do you mean an affair? A sexual thing?”
“You know Claire.”
“I knew Claire. I don’t think I know this Claire. When the hell did all this happen?”
“Now, don’t get all worked up. Think of your health. It’s not worth bringing on another stroke.”
“Well, tell me. Just fill me in—if you would, please—on what’s been going on while I was being a good sport about dying.”
“That’s it exactly. Being a good sport about dying. That’s what they want from a good patient, isn’t it. For you to die quietly and be a good sport about it. Not make a fuss. Not inconvenience people. Even that handsome doctor with all the good news.”
“Don’t change the subject, Maggie.”
“All right. All right. As I understand it, Claire had a little fling with Reginald while you were in the hospital, but it came to nothing very soon. She found him a bore, I think, but everything’s fine now because in some bizarre way he seems devoted to that poor Helen. Thank God for that.”
“And they email one another. Reginald said she emailed him about my stroke.”
“I suppose they do. Everybody emails. Everybody twitters and tweets and skypes, except us. Anyway it’s all over and we can all rest in peace.”
They were silent for a while, each of them anxious not to upset the other. Finally the silence was too much for David.
“Go back to this book. This confidential book.”
“It’s nothing. It’s nothing at all. It’s one of his Ds of G.”
“It better be. A delusion.”
“His whole life is a delusion.”
“I’ll sue the bastard if he writes about us. The goddam nerve!”
“Calm down. You’re upsetting Dickens. You’re upsetting me as well.”
Dickens whimpered beneath the table.
“I am calm. I’m perfectly calm. I’m just saying.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “There,” he said. “He’s an idiot, isn’t he, Dickens. Yes, he is. Yes, he is.”
The doorbell rang and it was Iris. She was nervous, near tears. “I want to apologize, Mrs. Holliss, for being indiscreet. I’m sorry.” She turned quickly and went down the path. She did not look back.
“Indiscreet!” Maggie said. “How can you not love this girl?” Despite her efforts not to, she burst into tears.
David took her in his arms, determined he would not cry.
“That child will be the death of us,” he said.
* * *
—
REGINALD WROTE A lengthy email to Claire in which he set out a scene from his new novel. In the scene the actress Carla Holloway gave a magnificent performance as Hedda Gabler and established herself as the new Meryl Streep. Carla was a short, square woman of unconventional beauty who was famous for her frankness and integrity, personality traits that served her admirably on the stage: thus far the character of Claire. The scene itself was largely narrative, its only drama arising from Reginald’s overinsistence on the greatness of her performance. Its primary intention was to win Claire’s approval, and of course it succeeded.
Claire read the scene and saw at once what he was doing—anything that would elicit her approval—and she was pleased that he had taken the trouble to repair their relationship, even though his methods were crude and obvious.
“Brava for Carla!” she wrote back. “Very subtly done. Now let me see what you’re doing to poor Misery and Poop.”
Reginald smiled as he read her email. He wanted her on his side. He needed her approval. It was no longer a question of getting more information on Misery and Poop or the screwed-up sons. No, it was a psychological thing that he recognized in himself: the need for approval of what, in any case, he was determined to do. He would finish them off.
Meanwhile he would go for a midnight walk. He was determined to have the last word.
* * *
—
DICKENS DIED DURING THE NIGHT. He always slept at t
he door to their bedroom, spread out across the entrance to protect them from whatever dangers lurked in the darkened house. When David woke that morning, Dickens was in his place, his head resting on his paws, his eyes closed, with no thump of his tail in greeting. David realized at once what had happened. He woke Maggie and together they sat on the floor beside the dog. They said nothing for a long while and then David said, “I’ll carry him down to the kitchen and we’ll call the vet.”
“I’ll help,” Maggie said, but in the end it was easier for David to carry the dead dog by himself.
“He was such a good dog,” Maggie said.
“He’s better off now,” David said. He wiped away a tear. “He’s in a better place.”
A better place? Maggie wondered what had happened to her husband.
26.
They took their morning walks without Dickens. These were sad walks because Dickens remained very much a presence to them: his sudden bolt in pursuit of a squirrel, his friendly greeting to anyone who stopped to say hello, his doggy sounds of pleasure and surprise and sheer animal joy in being alive. But he was no longer alive and they missed him.
One September morning, cooler after a long hot spell, they met Reginald Parker out walking. They had not seen him in some time and he seemed older, he looked unwell, and he was distinctly unhappy.
“Good morning,” he said. “No Dickens, I see.”
“No Dickens,” David said, surprised by this assault.
“That must be hard for you. The dog’s death.”
“I’m sure you understand,” Maggie said.
“I do. I know all about loss.”
Neither Maggie nor David replied.
“Which brings to mind my daughter. Iris has been spending much too much time over there with you and I think that should be stopped.”
“We love having her visit,” Maggie said. “We love . . .”
“But she’s my daughter.”
“I see,” David said. “Yes, she’s your daughter.”
“Therefore I’ve told her no more visits.”
“I see,” David said again.
“It’s not healthy for a nine-year-old to be spending her afternoons with old people. She should be out playing with children her own age.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, and David echoed her, “Of course.”
“I hope that’s clear.”
“It’s clear. We’ll miss her, of course.”
“You should think of her as Dickens. Just another loss. You’re looking quite well, by the way, after your stroke, David. Not much damage, I guess.”
“Well, we can always hope for more,” David said.
There seemed to be nothing further to say. They merely looked at each other expectantly.
“Have a nice day,” Reginald said, and he made no effort to conceal his satisfaction. It was a first step. He was not sure what the next would be.
* * *
—
DAVID WAS DETERMINED he would not be defeated by this. Reginald would give in as soon as he needed money and they would get to see Iris again. Besides, Maggie would think of something. Meanwhile he needed a healthy distraction. He needed to write. As soon as he got home he went to his study and piled up his research books on Gissing. He would deal with his rage by immersing it in work, and not the research kind of work any longer but the honest hard work of writing. He sat at the computer dizzy with anger, wondering how anybody managed to write anything. It all seemed impossible. He could see nowhere to begin and so he wrote down some facts. There was no arguing with facts.
George Gissing was born on 22 November 1857 at Thompson’s Yard in Wakefield, Yorkshire. His mother was Margaret Bedford and his father was Thomas Walter Gissing, a chemist. He was the first of five children, the others being William, Algernon, Margaret, and Ellen.
In 1872 he placed twelfth in the Oxford local examinations and in 1874 he placed first in England in both Latin and English in his BA exam at the University of London. In 1875 he fell in love with a prostitute, Marianne Harrison, and to help support her he began stealing from his fellow students. He was found out, tried, and sentenced to a month’s hard labor at Belle Vue Prison in Manchester. He was expelled from college . . . he was unlucky in love, unlucky in marriage . . . he wrote some twenty-three books in twenty-three years . . . his poverty was a constant . . .
* * *
—
DAVID LOOKED AT THAT for a long moment, wondering if there had ever been a more unpromising start to a literary biography. Probably not. Nonetheless he went on with it and after an hour he found that he had written a terrible hodgepodge of Gissing’s life and works, a kind of diary entry, but—astonishingly—he felt he had made a beginning and could at last start to write.
And, he realized, during the time it took to write this, he had put Reginald completely out of his mind.
* * *
—
“I’VE PUT AN END to Iris’s visits,” Reginald wrote. He intended to keep Claire informed about his relations with her family so that she could bring some pressure on them to help out. It was wrong that they should have all that money when he had barely enough to get by on.
It was true—he could hear their objections—it was true that the money he spent on drugs could go toward paying his bills and putting food on the table, but the poor had to live, too. The poor needed air and light and beauty just as much as the Hollisses. “If you have two pennies, buy bread with one and with the other buy a hyacinth for your soul.” Some Persian poet said that and he was right.
He decided to put off telling Claire about his triumph over the Hollisses. Instead he highlighted a long section from his new novel—on the stinginess of David and the selfishness of Maggie—and copied it to the email he’d begun and sent it on, without comment, to Claire. It was just and good and very, very funny. She’d love it.
* * *
—
CLAIRE WAS AT FIRST confused by Reginald’s email and then she found herself indignant and finally she was filled with rage. Who did this idiot think he was? “I’ve put an end to Iris’s visits.” That was cruel. Maggie and David loved the child and it was the act of a vicious man to deprive two old people of the company of someone they loved just because he had the power to do so. What could possess him? At once, of course, she knew what possessed him: drugs. She had seen druggies and their inspired cruelty in the Oregon commune and she knew that the drug train generally ran nonstop on its way to disaster. “I’ve put an end to Iris’s visits,” he wrote. Poor Misery and Poop. Poor Iris.
She read on, amused at first by the idea of a satiric novel about her family. But at once she bristled at the character of Donald. He bore an uncanny physical resemblance to David but the likeness ended there. Donald’s stinginess was so overblown that it was ridiculous, incredible; he was a mere caricature with no emotional or intellectual life whatsoever. And yet he was supposed to be a Stanford University professor who had written books on Thackeray and Crane and was the proud father of the actress Carla Holloway and two loser sons, one of them gay and the other impotent. He was one-dimensional, a stick figure. Donald’s wife, Molly, was another stick figure. Her single quality was self-centeredness, and her devotion to their ugly dog—poor Dickens, she thought—was the only redeeming aspect of her appalling character. The writing itself was graceful enough. The prose was fluid and for the most part free from the metaphorical posturing she would have expected from Reginald. And no metaphysics at all; only malice and envy. She read straight through to the end. What to make of this? Was he losing it entirely?
Claire printed out the email. She would meditate on it over a cup of tea.
* * *
—
DAVID WAS WORKING FULL time on his book. That meant a quick morning walk with Maggie and then a long slog at the computer. Their walk was silent for the most part, while he turned over in
his mind what he would write when he got home, and then he’d make a cup of coffee to place beside his computer and grow cold while he wrote. He found the writing less difficult than ever before and he wondered if this was just a gift of age or a lucky fluke or maybe it meant he was actually going to finish this book before he dropped dead. He had always considered the Gissing biography a project that would never be finished and he was comfortable with that. It was something to talk about, something to think about, something to keep you busy while you waited for death. But now, for the first time, he wanted to finish it. He could see it as a whole, a finished work, an actual accomplishment. He would dedicate it to the women in his life: to Maggie, to Iris.
Suddenly Maggie appeared at the door to his study. It was afternoon and he was still seated at his computer.
“I think you should take a little break,” she said, “and discuss what we’re going to do about Iris.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Are you all right? You look so vague. Like you’ve lost it.”
“Goddammit, I’ve been trying to write.”
“So shoot me,” she said. “Forget about the coffee. I’ll have it by myself.”
“This is what comes of thinking nice thoughts about difficult people,” he said, but Maggie had already left him. He could hear her in the kitchen banging cups and saucers and abusing the coffee maker.
He joined her in the kitchen, guilty although he had no need to be, and he put his arms around her from behind.
“My sweet,” he said. “Did I not give you proper attention? Are we feeling neglected? Have I left you for George Gissing?”
“I wouldn’t mind Gissing. I never mind when you’re working. It’s just that, well, I guess it’s just that I miss her. Iris, I mean. What can we do?”
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