Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  “No.”

  “Not once?”

  “I said no.”

  “Hey, excuse me.”

  “No, my fault. I’m sorry.” Things were getting out of hand.

  “It’s okay,” Lorraine said. “I was just curious why you’re going back now.”

  Because my memory’s been jogged, Grant thought. “I don’t know. The time just seemed right.”

  “But the time isn’t right to go to Lake George?”

  “Lake George?”

  “You don’t remember. Obviously.”

  “No. I guess not.” The lunch wasn’t getting any better.

  “A while back we talked about going to my mother’s cottage for a long weekend. The first chance we got. To get to know each other better.”

  “We will, only—”

  “No, we wont. Because … When is the reunion?”

  “Um, late July, early August.”

  “So you see? There’s the chance, and you’ve made other plans. And we’ve never even …”

  “Now wait. Let’s think about—”

  The arrival of the gazpacho gave him a reprieve. Could he turn things around? Did he want to?

  They started to eat their soup in silence. Grant glanced at the round, white face across from him. Lorraine Pierce’s best features were her black hair and dark eyes. When she put on weight, or when she was angry, her face seemed rounder than ever, her eyes shrank from squinting, and her lips looked thin from pursing.

  Yes, Grant thought. She’s angry.

  “Let’s start over,” he said.

  “So what’s to start over?”

  Oh, he knew that tone. The situation had skidded even further than he had thought. It might not be salvageable; he was starting to think so, and his gin mood seemed to be going in the direction of the skid.

  “I meant—”

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Just excuse me.”

  Lorraine stood up abruptly. Grant saw that her lawyer’s control was holding back an outburst of anger or tears or both.

  “Ladies’ room,” she muttered as she left the table, brushing the tablecloth with her hip.

  Grant gulped the rest of his gin, then shook the ice cubes. The waiter came.

  “One more,” Grant said.

  “And the lady?”

  “She’s taking a recess.”

  Grant was not displeased with his wit, though the waiter didn’t seem to get it. Oh, of course; the waiter didn’t know …

  “She’s a lawyer,” Grant said. But the waiter was gone, and the explanation hung in the air like a bubble.

  He had met her at a party given by a journalistic society for reporters and lawyers. Walt Striker, who didn’t really fit into either of those categories but who knew lots of people who did, had been invited and had taken Grant along. Lorraine Pierce had laughed at some of Grant’s imitations, had seemed to enjoy talking to him, even though she didn’t approve of the magazine he worked for. They had had several dates.

  As he sat in the restaurant, he tried to remember why he had liked her—and tried to imagine why she had liked him.

  Lorraine returned, brushing the tablecloth again with her hip. She smells better than I do, he thought.

  “Don’t get up,” she said, taking her seat.

  By now, Grant was darkly amused, as well as sorry. He saw that Lorraine had applied fresh makeup around her eyes, which were still squinty. She was spearing bits of Caesar salad with her fork and thrusting them into her thin-lipped mouth.

  Unless he wanted a total shambles, he had to say something. “I would like to start over. I would.”

  “The point I was making, the point—if you’re going to this reunion, there goes the summer. Don’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, Grant,” she hissed. “The weekend we’re talking about takes us into August. Before you know it, it’s Labor Day.”

  “And the summer has gone bye-bye.” Oops, wrong thing to say.

  She paused in mid-spear-stroke. Almost like a cobra waiting to strike, Grant thought. But she spoke with a control he found remarkable. “So, you do understand, at least.”

  He did, and was suddenly washed by a wave of contrition. “Look, if we can just …” He could still turn things around, he could! “Look, I can get another weekend. I can. I’ll just—”

  “Even if you do … Oh, goddammit!” She set her fork down on the plate with an angry, ladylike little clink, shook her head slowly from side to side, and flashed a mirthless smile that seemed to say, Why am I bothering?

  “I’m sorry, Lorraine. I am. I know I was thoughtless.”

  “Yes, you were. Where have you been the last few days? Out of town? I called and—”

  “I, uh, I had things to do. Writing. I was writing.”

  “Wonderful. I applaud your dedication. But now this reunion. The point is, you put a higher priority on this reunion than on what we talked about. A reunion in a city you haven’t visited in twenty years, for God’s sake.”

  “That’s the whole point of reunions,” he heard himself say.

  There, that had done it.

  Lorraine opened her purse, threw two crisp twenty-dollar bills onto the table, added a ten as an afterthought, and stood up. “I left enough for you to drink some more, too,” she said.

  And she was gone. Oops, not quite. Here she was back again.

  “Grant, you have a real cruel streak. Sometimes I think there’s something perverse and violent in you, and not just because of where you work. God only knows where it comes from.”

  “Yep, God does.”

  “Do you?”

  Should he tell her?

  “You know, Grant, there’s this thing in you. Whenever you’re especially nasty, like right now, you push it as far as you can. Beyond, in fact. And then you’re always so sorry, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the men who are always sorry? Drunks and wife beaters. And they always do it again.”

  “I don’t have a wife.”

  “And maybe you never will. I don’t need this shit, Grant.”

  Now she was gone, for good. No, here she was again. “Unless you face it, Grant, you’re going to be a really unhappy guy all your life, suffering from contaminated relationships.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Or maybe you’re afraid to face whatever it is.”

  That wounded him. “Maybe you should go,” he said.

  This time she had.

  The waiter came by just then and reached for her salad dish.

  “Leave it,” Grant said.

  The waiter retreated, and Grant reached across the table and slid Lorraine’s salad bowl toward his own. He began to eat, not knowing if he felt sad, relieved, or both. Even before the lunch, he and Lorraine hadn’t been in synch with each other. Now it was dead, had to be.

  “Care for anything else, sir?”

  The waiter had an imperious manner, and Grant was tempted to tell him to fuck off, but his drink was empty and Grant was thirsty. “Light beer. Any kind that’s cold.”

  Grant realized (too late, ah, too late) that he had been very hungry. Now he ate ravenously, washing down the bites with the slaking beer. Grant thought the waiter gave him a sideways glance when he signaled soon for another, but a new bottle appeared on the table—along with the check. A hint?

  He buttered a roll and chewed it slowly, trying to fight off the sadness by embracing the emptiness. He ate another roll and finished the beer. Time to go.

  Grant stood up, steadying himself on the edge of the table, and walked across the carpet toward the exit. He was surprised that the other tables were empty.

  “Thank you, sir. Good day.” The waiter stood near the door.

  Grant nodded, then went out into the sunshine. It was warm, dazzling bright. He fished in his jacket pocket for sunglasses, put them on.

  He walked home, trying not to feel sad. Maybe he should call Lorraine and leave an apology—or farewell—on her answering m
achine when he knew she wouldn’t be in.

  Around Penn Station, beggars drifted close to him like filthy bugs. Grant ignored them.

  There were no messages on his answering machine, and he was thankful for that. He just wanted to nap. Leaving the answering machine on, he lay down on the sofa. At once, he felt sleep coming on. He welcomed it.

  He opened his eyes to the gray light. Just getting to be dawn, he thought. Grant was thirsty and a little stiff from having slept on the sofa. He got up and went to the window. The city was stirring. He heard a street-washing machine below, smelled the fresh smell of water and clean pavement.

  Had the fight with Lorraine been as bad as it seemed? Yes, he could tell from the feeling in his stomach that it had been.

  He went into the bathroom and peeled off his clothes. He started to step into the shower, changed his mind, and walked, naked, to the kitchen. He started the coffee brewing so it would be done by the end of his shower.

  Long after the shampoo was rinsed from his hair he let the water run down his chest, down his throat. He toweled himself, combing his wet hair straight back, put on a robe, and went barefoot to the kitchen. The coffee smelled good. Grant poured a cup and went back to the window. On the sidewalk on the other side, a man and a woman hugged each other. A taxi stopped in front of the apartments across the way. A young woman carrying a duffel bag came out of the building and said something to the cabdriver. Then a young man came out, kissed the woman tenderly, saw her into the cab.

  I could love you people, Grant thought. He wished there were more mornings like this. There are, he corrected himself. You just sleep through them. Or see them before you go to bed.

  He poured more coffee, took a pitcher of orange juice and a glass to the table where his computer lay. He shifted the computer so he could sit facing the window and the pure morning.

  He wrote. He had been away from the words too long, so he had to get caught up again in their rhythm, had to get over the doubt and anger, which flowed from a bottomless reservoir.

  He despised the part of him that was so self-centered, the writer part. But whenever he strayed too far from the autobiographical, he thought his prose became bloodless.

  During one pause, he thought of his parents. He would call them. Maybe he would go see them. And Bessemer. He could not undo things, but perhaps he need not be haunted forever. Yes, it was time for him to go back.

  He wrote until the sun was high and hot in a blue-gray haze.

  Seventeen

  Grant ran off his checklist. Yes, he had all the clothes, toiletries, and other things he needed to visit his parents for a couple of days. He hoped he had the right state of mind.

  He had called his parents in a rush of good feeling and hope, emotions that began to fade halfway through the conversation, but by then it was too late. He had committed himself to meeting them at their summer cottage.

  He had borrowed Walt Striker’s car. Now Grant was about ready to take the subway uptown to pick up the car and get out of the city. But something was bothering him, so he sat down and made a phone call. He hoped for an answer, yet feared it.

  “Lila Burlson speaking.”

  He felt weak in the knees. “Hello. This is Grant Siebert. Sorry to bother you, but I’m going out of town for the weekend, and I was just wondering if you have any indication about what I sent you.”

  Lila Burlson was an agent he had heard about at the magazine, through Walt Striker, and she had agreed to read his partial manuscript. He had mailed her a copy several days ago.

  “Hi. Yes, well, I’ve been reading it. I see from your letter that you’ve had some nonfiction published.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you work for Sleuth. ‘Death Trap Baited With Sex’ and all that. Walt Striker said he liked you.”

  “Really?” Then how come your voice is dripping with contempt, Grant thought.

  “Yes, really. Do you like working with Walt?”

  “Mostly. I mean, I like Walt. As for the work …” Grant hesitated; if he betrayed contempt for what he did, she would pick up on it. “Most of what I do is editing. I only write that kind of stuff occasionally. It’s good practice in scene-setting and dialogue. I don’t pretend—”

  “Never mind. I used to wonder about anyone who was into that stuff. You don’t have any dark secrets, do you?”

  “Maybe.” The question was startling, but the teasing quality in her voice gave him hope.

  “Well, whatever. As for your manuscript, I said I wasn’t finished.”

  “Hmmm.” Please, he thought.

  “I can see that you threw yourself into it. And I do mean your self.”

  “It is, it is autobiographical to an extent, but it isn’t—”

  “I mean, you explore a lot of interesting themes. The elusive nature of happiness, parental love, being true to one’s self. Some of your writing is quite sensitive and good. And there are some powerful undercurrents of anger. I mean, very vivid stuff, a lot of it.”

  “Thanks.” His heart wanted to fly out of his chest.

  “But I honestly can’t commit myself to it as an agent. You see …”

  The words knocked the wind out of him. Lila Burlson had seemed like a good prospect: young, independent, just starting out. Now he listened to her explain why she didn’t like his work well enough to try to sell it: too self-conscious, too much introspection, not enough interaction.

  “So,” Grant said finally, “you think it sucks.”

  “I didn’t say that. I only know I can’t represent it at this time. Sorry I can’t tell you something better.”

  “Okay. I understand. I appreciate your time.” His face burned; he could not keep the tremble out of his voice.

  “So, I’ll send it back to you with my thanks for offering it.”

  “Thanks for reading.”

  He made it through the good-bye pleasantries, barely. He stepped away from the phone, afraid that he would smash it if he didn’t.

  “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!”

  He slammed the side of his foot into the front of the refrigerator, heard something topple inside. Good: let it go rotten.

  He swung the back of his hand at the stack of dirty dishes, sending a glass crashing into the wall at the cost of a little pain where his knuckles came together.

  He sat down, deeply sad and ashamed. The load of emotions pressed down on his shoulders. Would it have been better if he had left without calling, then found the returned manuscript waiting for him when he got back? Would she have returned it by then? Did it matter?

  He didn’t know. He could think about it on the subway, and think about it some more on the drive to his parents’ cottage. And think about it when he got back and saw the broken glass.

  It was nearing dusk as he negotiated the final quarter-mile down the evergreen-lined dirt road. As he got out of the car, he could see the orange glow on the porch from his father’s pipe.

  “Evening,” his father said cheerfully, as a colonel would address a private.

  “Hi.”

  “Heavy traffic?”

  “About normal.”

  “Figured you’d be here earlier. Take the Thruway?”

  “No. Route Seventeen.”

  “Thruway’s faster.”

  “Scenery’s not as good.”

  “You missed a great sunset over the lake.”

  Jesus, Grant thought. He has to argue from word one. “Well, I’m here now. How are you?”

  “Keepin’ busy. Finally closed the Lawrence deal …”

  Grant filtered out much of what his father said. The names, dates, figures of real estate deals in Syracuse and Rochester meant nothing to him, yet his father never tired of talking about them.

  “Your mother’s inside. You’ll want to get cleaned up for dinner before long. You can get a beer for yourself.”

  As Grant opened the screen door and went inside, he realized without surprise that he and his father had not shaken hands. They had not seen each other
in many weeks.

  “Grant, honey!”

  “Hi, mom.”

  His mother smelled of powder and sherry.

  “Your dad is really glad you could come this time.”

  “I can tell he is.”

  “Oh, he is. He is!”

  Grant patted his mother on the shoulder, eased his way past her, and took a beer out of the refrigerator.

  “He’s going to talk to you about a trip,” his mother whispered. She was smiling conspiratorially.

  “A trip?” Alarm bells in his head.

  “Shhh. He’ll hear.”

  Grant tried to keep his face neutral. He took a big swig of beer and was glad he had spotted a dozen or more cans chilled and waiting.

  His mother announced with forced merriness that dinner was ready. The news was a relief to Grant, who had been sitting on the porch with his father in an awkward silence broken occasionally by banalities.

  “How’s things at the magazine?” his father said as they came inside.

  “About the same. Okay.”

  “Do any more exploring?” That was his father’s code for looking for a more respectable job.

  “No. Been too busy.”

  His father frowned in what Grant was sure was disappointment.

  “You’re still writing, I take it?”

  “Yep. Still writing.” Beautiful, Grant thought. The one time he shows some interest, or pretends to, I don’t want to talk about it.

  But his father dependably reverted to form and showed no sign of pursuing the subject. “You said dinner was ready, lady.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Siebert. Coming up.”

  It was his father’s habit to call his mother “lady” instead of her name, Barbara, or some diminutive. Though he feigned affection, his tone was unmistakably domineering.

  “Why don’t you see if your mother needs help.”

  “No! I’m fine, really.”

  Too late, Grant drew back from the frantic tone in her voice. He had already started into the kitchen, so he saw her sneaking a gulp of sherry as she stirred the raisin sauce. He pretended not to notice, just as he had long ago pretended not to notice the bruises on her thin arms and narrow shoulders.