Five Smooth Stones

by Ann Fairbairn

  "You haven't given New England food a chance? This place is right in town: broiled mackerel, scrod, lobster, steamed clams. I'm a Catholic and it's Friday, so it has to be fish. Do you good to eat out. The Abernathy, Willis and Shea office is picking up the tab."

  They were in the car now, and David turned and looked at his companion in astonishment.

  "You've got the wrong guy. I'm not a client. Why should they?"

  "Relax. You'll find out."

  Two hours later Culbertson sat in an ancient Morris chair in David's room, nursing a beer, waiting while David showered and shaved. He knew he would always cherish the memory of Champlin's face at the words: "If you haven't anything important to do after dinner, we're going to the Willises' house. Brad wants to talk to you." He wondered as he waited about this man called David Champlin who, if he wanted, would succeed him, Culbertson, in Brad's office. He had not always felt about Negroes the way he felt now. It

  had taken a state university and law school—and Bradford Willis—to change an attitude of "I'll fight for your rights, but stay where you belong," an attitude halfway between the prejudice and patronage of the South and the wordy liberalism of the Northeast, a Midwestern attitude of "You're O.K., but just stay out of my living room, away from my job, and we'll get along fine."

  Now he sat in the room of a New Orleans Negro, envying . him the experience that lay ahead, if he chose it: that of working under Bradford Willis, whose mind had made Culbertson cringe more than once. He himself would be back in Iowa, married to Ella, practicing law with his father, a most worthy gent but no Bradford Willis. He had no doubt about Champlin's accepting Brad's offer, was sure the kid would probably go into shock, as he had nearly done. A nice guy, he thought, a nice, gentle, quiet guy, but wary, most definitely wary, and behind the gentle quietness a mind that Culbertson sensed was never still. From the vast distance of four years away, Culbertson told himself that Champlin would make out fine in law. He might never have the dash, the courtroom flair of Brad Willis, but his would be a different gift, perhaps equally telling, equally forceful. They would make a good pair.

  Culbertson sighed, nostalgic already, just as David, in shorts and undershirt, came out of the bath. Nothing wrong with that guy, he thought, nothing at all. Wide shoulders, smooth muscles, small waist, only the scarred and stiffened foot and ankle spoiling a near perfect body.

  David caught the sigh, said, "Gee, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting—"

  "O.K., O.K. I'm as full of food as an Iowa hog—which I guess I was at dinner—and there's no rush."

  When David was dressed and they were leaving, Culbertson said, "Want to stop for another beer?" His breath was already indrawn to add, "We won't get anything at the Willises'," but he stopped and let the question go untagged. It might bring queries, and he did not feel that it was up to him to explain Peg Willis to David Champlin. David would find out about Brad's deeply loved Peg soon enough, she of the warmth and generosity and deep, understanding humor —when she was not drinking. The time would come when David would see, just as he had, the hell Brad Willis faced almost constantly. Just being around a mind that was dull and blurred was hell on Brad; add to that Peg's constant

  telephoning—"an emergency" she would tell the switchboard operators—to both office and courts, her spells of deep melancholia, her terrifying habit of going for long drives when her step was so unsteady she could barely make it to the car, and Brad's patience seemed, to an outsider, close to saintly.

  Culbertson remembered dinner invitations that never came more than twenty-four hours in advance, then Brad at the office the next day saying, after a telephone call, "Do you mind a rain check on the dinner?" Finally the invitations had come at the last minute, with always a quick check by phone before they left the office.

  Even now, driving to the Willis home in the suburbs, Culbertson dared not be too optimistic, although Brad had sounded cheerful and confident when he said: "I've been hoping I'd hear from the Champlin boy. How about trying to track him down? Bring him out to the house tonight."

  David asked, "Has Mr. Willis always been a defense attorney? Criminal defense, I mean?"

  "Not always, but he has for quite a while. He started out with Shea and Abernathy in corporation law and civil stuff. They had a few criminal cases, but not many. One of them was a murder charge. He saved the client from the chair. After that, he was off and running. He still handles civil cases, of course. Does a neat job on them too, believe me."

  Culbertson was almost giddy with relief when he saw Peg Willis at the door. By now he could tell at a glance if she had been drinking. He introduced David, and then Brad was behind her, throwing an arm across her shoulders, holding out his hand to David. From here on in, thought Culbertson, it was Brad and David's baby, and he ruefully fought down an unmistakable pang of jealousy.

  ***

  Warm greens and browns dominated the Willis living room; the furniture belonged to an era of deep comfort, was cleverly spiced with modern touches. There were lamps whose lights were focused for reading, not imprisoned in cylindrical monstrosities. David tried to overcome his nervousness, or at least any show of it, and knew that in doing so he would probably give an unfortunate impression of dark and silent immobility.

  He and Culbertson entered the room together, Willis and his wife behind them, and he heard her say, "Find chairs, boys," and when he did so, "Nothing will break, Mr. Champlin. Especially that chair. Lean back and relax." Her voice was deep, the kind of voice that would be mistaken for a man's during the first few moments of a telephone conversation. She placed an ashtray on the end table beside his chair, and he had his first close look at her. A full figure, deep breasted, with slender waist and a long line of leg and thigh that, he thought, exceeded standard specifications for grace. Her eyes were as dark as his own, her hair a reddish-brown, more red than brown, its deep waves obviously natural. Not until she said to Culbertson, "Sit on the couch beside me, Bill. Then you'll know we aren't plotting against the whites," did he realize that she was of his own race. Then it was so obvious he was surprised at his slowness in detecting it.

  She must be many years younger than her husband, he thought; certainly she was far too young to have those deepening lines from nostrils to lips, too young not to be able to relax, as she had told him to do, to have to sit forward on the edge of the couch, twisting a bright handkerchief in her hands until he wondered how the fabric held out. She sat there only a moment, jumped up to inspect ashtrays, sat again, and then was up and bringing coffee, and, before they had time for more than two swallows, on her feet once more, coffeepot in hand to replenish their cups.

  Willis searched the pipe rack beside his chairs, said, "Hell! I must have left it in the study—" then held up a quieting hand. "Please, Peg. Sit still. I'll get it." As he passed the divan he touched his wife's shoulder and smiled down at her, and David, seeing the smile, felt the ache of Sara's absence reawaken. He did not know how long the Willises had been married; he could only guess by the settled, lived-in atmosphere of the house that it had been a number of years, but there was no guesswork about the feeling between this man and woman. Then why, he wondered, the nervous tension of the woman on the couch, the inner anxiety that her husband could not quite conceal?

  When Willis returned, pipe in hand, and sat down, Culbertson said: "I'm suffering from a sort of benign jealousy. I'm remembering when I sat here for the first time myself."

  Brad smiled, turned to David, and without speaking welcomed him as he had welcomed the men and women of the jury that morning in court, and David, warming now, less nervous, wondered why a verdict ever went against this man. "What's happening to you up there in Cambridge, David?"

  "Lord! Everything."

  "It's not easy. A trite remark if I ever made one—"

  They talked for an hour of Harvard, its law courses and professors, until David found himself leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out easy and less nervous, laughing at Peg Willis's abrupt husky inte
rruptions, relieved that she, too, seemed more relaxed. She'd be a hell of a swell person, he thought, a hell of a swell person if she'd just untie those knots.

  Then, as unexpectedly as David had heard him switch a particular line of questioning that day in court, Brad Willis said, "Wondering why you're here, young man?"

  "Well—yes, sir, I guess I am—"

  "Can you type?"

  "I'm fair at it. Taught myself touch system. My grandfather gave me a portable when I left home for Pengard—"

  "How fair?"

  "About fifty, I'd say. Sixty's tops for me."

  "My God! Fair, you said? And I've no doubt you're accurate."

  "Well—"

  "Our office is swamped. A good law office always is. We have space problems, too, when it comes to hiring additional help. Someone who can work at home is a godsend. And I prefer a law student to an ordinary stenographer any day. And they usually need the money."

  "You lie," said Culbertson. He turned to David. "What he means is, he'd rather give a leg up to a promising student, even if the guy is a two-finger typist."

  "Well, I'll be damned," said Brad. "Now he knows he's leaving, he calls the boss a liar. Does it interest you, David? Routine stuff at first."

  "Interest me! My God, sir—Mr. Willis—you don't know—"

  Peg Willis's husky voice barely penetrated the haze that was obscuring any rational thought in David's mind as she said: "Brad always knows. Never think he doesn't. He knows how he felt when someone made him the same offer."

  "Back in prehistory," said Brad. "Well, David?"

  "But you don't know me—"

  "Didn't my wife just say I always know? She neglected to add 'everything.' You mink it's a snap judgment? If you become a trial lawyer, David, you'll have to make snap judgments constantly; witnesses you may never have seen—or even heard of—before, and opposing counsel you've never faced, a new judge, others; and a man's life or freedom depending on that judgment. One might say you formed a snap judgment of me, in spite of things you may have heard or read, which might or might not be true. Or might be biased."

  "I"—he stumbled over his reply—"I—well—how do I know I can do it?"

  "We'll change that attitude, young man, as soon as possible. I know, and that's enough. Think about it."

  David was leaning forward now, elbows on knees, the heels of his palms pressed against his forehead. You a lucky boy. You got any idea how lucky you is. This time he had more than an idea; this time he knew; it was like being hit in the wind; he had almost the same physical reactions as when Beanie Benford had told him of the homosexual rumor that was being spread about him.

  When he looked up, Bradford Willis was looking at him, smiling, and for some damned reason this light-skin attorney with the green eyes made him think of Gramp.

  "I don't need to think about it, sir," he said, quietly. "Not for even a minute. It's—there's nothing in the world I'd rather do. I don't even know how to begin to say 'thank you'—"

  "Don't. For God's sake, don't thank me. Wait till next year when you start helping on briefs. You may be sorry you jumped so quickly."

  ***

  "Guess I'm not very good company," he said to Culbertson on the drive home. They were his first words since leaving the Willis home ten minutes before.

  Culbertson laughed. "Don't give it a thought. I went into the same kind of trance. There's a final-year student there now. He'll come up into my spot for a year if he wants. He hasn't come out of his trance yet." After a moment, Culbertson said, "Know what Brad said about you after that day in East Cambridge? Said he liked the way you laugh."

  "The way I laugh! Sounds like hell to me. My grandfather says it raises the roof six inches. Runs in the family. My great-grandmother used to say you could hear my greatgrandfather's laugh two courtyards away. And they tell me my father laughed the same way."

  "I know why Brad liked it. You will, too, after a while. He doesn't get too many laughs himself. Look, David, take care of that character; keep your eye on him. I'll give you my address before I go. Keep in touch, huh?"

  ***

  At two o'clock in the morning David, who had planned for a good night's sleep, climbed out of bed, took the one remaining can of beer from the refrigerator, and sat in the Morris chair by the round, old-fashioned table in the center of the room. If he couldn't sleep, he ought to study; he knew that, but study was out of the question. He felt as he had at the lunch counter that day in East Cambridge: that it was almost a necessity to find someone to talk to, and that was out of the question too. Sudsy would be good-natured about being waked up, but it would be impossible to communicate his inner excitement to him. After all, Sudsy was studying to become a doctor; Sudsy's father was the founder of a clinic that had become a Mecca for sick from all over the world; Sudsy had no money problems that a careful hint or two at home wouldn't solve; he couldn't be expected to know what it meant to a law student, only three weeks at Harvard, to be taken under the wing of a famous attorney and at the same time have the burden of worrying about money lifted from his mind.

  It would be unkind to call Gramp in the middle of the night, unkind and maybe dangerous. Nothing the doctor said about his heart being in good shape, all things considered, would erase from David's mind the memory of the pain-racked little body, the agonized clutch of thin fingers over his hand, the night of Gramp's attack.

  Sara. Sara would understand, yet Sara's position was as dissimilar as Sudsy's. But Sara would know how he felt, would catch the glow that was warming him, the "My God it can't be true" feeling. And that, he supposed—hell, he knew—was because she loved him.

  He sat there, very quietly, the beer forgotten, only an occasional street sound heard dimly through the fog of loneliness that now, slowly, inexorably, dimmed the glow that had warmed him. Lately on the streets, in the restaurants, in classes, he forgot that he was Negro except when an occasional rude stare from a passerby, a withdrawal in a fellow student reminded him. Now, alone, he knew it in every fiber of his being, knew it, damned it, and raged at himself for damning it.

  Was what he had done about Sara just a damfool mistake? Would it be better to be like some, jump at the chance to marry a white woman whether you gave a damn about her or not, just to show you could; jump at the chance to take whatever she offered, using her as balm for old and aching wounds? How many kinds of a fool had he been to listen to the voice of Gramp, and what would have been the voice of

  Gram if she were alive? How stupid had he been to make his first consideration that of what marriage to him would mean for Sara, the trouble, the humiliation, the almost inevitable estrangements, knowing in honest moments that most of this consideration was selfish, because he could not face a future where he would be the instrument that would bring these things about, could not face a future that might change what was in her eyes now to something so different it chilled his blood to think of it.

  Man pays for his luck. Was this it? Was this the payment? He shook his shoulders in a violent shrug. Logic. Philosophy. He had done well in them. Was what he had learned going to degenerate in a matter of months to the simple myths of a small brown man in New Orleans, whose goodness was greater than he had ever known in any other man but whose life was governed by superstitions passed from generation to generation by an oppressed, untaught people?

  He knew that when he told Gramp what had happened tonight the old man would say: "That's fine, son. That's fine! Been praying for you. Ain't it like I been telling you ever since you was a chile? Jesus always hears." Whenever Gramp said something like that, David always wanted to point out that Tant' Irene must have prayed, too, for the young husband who died in flames, wanted to say, "Where was Jesus then? Out for coffee?" But he never voiced the questions; it would have hurt Gramp, and Gramp would have had an answer, damned if he wouldn't. Li'l Joe Champlin would have an answer if God himself was on trial and Bradford Willis was the prosecutor.

  Now, sitting alone and chill with loneliness, he closed h
is eyes, tired at last, and rested his head against the back of his chair. Man pays for his luck. Li'l Joe Champlin gave credit to God and Jesus in one breath and warned against "luck" in the next, and right now in the darkness of early morning David could not reason. He knew he had been fortunate, probably more fortunate than any other member of his first-year class; and, lonely for Sara though he might be, aching unbearably from the loss of her, he must acknowledge this good fortune. Crutch for a lame ego or not, faith was what had been placed in his hand before he could walk, and he could not discard it now, could not take for granted the opportunity that, unsought, lay ahead of him, accept it as his due, and he murmured, because he could not help himself, "Thanks, God." It might make the payment less.

  CHAPTER 40

  Bradford Willis sat across from his wife in one of the deep armchairs that flanked their living-room fireplace. Peg was knitting with dizzying speed, a means, he knew, of working off the tensions built up during a week of sobriety. He sometimes wondered whether these weeks—if the spells of sobriety stretched into weeks—were any harder on her than they were on him. His own tensions seemed to build vicariously; he had the feeling during these periods that her surface equilibrium was a fragile, brittle fabric stretched over a framework of nerves equally fragile and brittle, a framework that vibrated at the slightest impact and could shiver suddenly and then splinter into sharp fragments whose sharp pain knew only the one anodyne. He also wondered at times whether it was harder to come home knowing what he would find, or to come home during one of Peg's dry spells and feel the sickening dismay, the inner lurching of his stomach when the evidence was plain that the drought was over.

  Yet in spite of the knowledge of their mirage-like quality, he treasured these oases of companionship and understanding, stored up for the future the memories of evenings like this one, when they could sit and talk, when the depth of understanding that was so vital a part of Peg could encompass his ideas and strengthen them; when, by God, even a discussion, such as they were having now, of tree roots clogging their house's sewer pipe could be enjoyable because it was intelligible. One drink, he thought, just one, and she would be a million miles away, untouchable, her mind a centrifuge whirling, whirling, yet never succeeding in its purpose of precipitating the self that was Peg into a definable substance. The ache of wanting to help her at times was unbearable, the knowledge that he could not, at least in any way known to him, more than unbearable. Because he loved her, it never occurred to him to leave her.