The Condor Passes

by Shirley Ann Grau

  The next arrangement, Stanley remembered, was tall and narrow. For two or three days it glistened in a Chinese porcelain jar on the low chest in the far corner of the hall, out of the way. Nobody ever really knew how that got broken. There was just a crash and then Mr. Robert shouting: “No more fucking flowers. I’m sick of the god damn water in my shoes.”

  The Old Man burst out laughing—and began to cough, so that he doubled up in the wheelchair, his chin touching his knees. The coughs themselves sounded like air rushing out a tire, Stanley thought. Not human at all, as if the Old Man had gone into a kind of mechanical life, of wheels and air pressure and creaky screws.

  The Old Man coughed too long and stopped breathing. Stanley slipped an arm under his chest, lifted him from the chair; they both knelt on the floor, the Old Man dangling like vestments across an altar boy’s arm. Mr. Robert ran in from the hall, leaving a trail of dirty wet footprints on the rug. The two men knelt, faces close together over the slack, whistling body of the Old Man.

  It’s my face I’m looking into, Stanley thought. My own face I’m seeing there. I can feel the tickle of sweat and the twitch of neck muscles. And the sick weight in the pit of my stomach—I bet he’s feeling that too.

  Just like me, Stanley thought, how funny, just like me.

  Mr. Robert gave two hard slaps on the Old Man’s back; immediately his lungs began taking in air instead of tumbling it out.

  The nurse had the oxygen ready, with a squeak of valves and hiss of gas. They stretched the Old Man on the floor, his lungs filled and emptied easily, his pulse steadied. He fell asleep. The nurse took away the mask.

  “Let him there,” Mr. Robert said. “It won’t be the first time he slept on a floor. And it could have been the last.”

  He saw Stanley staring at him, and he turned abruptly and walked away.

  STANLEY SHIFTED his seat on the boat’s railing. Way up in the blue sky, a small puffy cloud crumbled and streaked in a kind of smile.

  Laughing at me, Stanley thought. Aren’t you?

  He was surprised when the cloud didn’t answer.

  THEY WERE close to shore now, behind a chain of low sandy islands. The sweetness of titi flowers was so heavy you’d swear you could see it, streaks of it, like smoke. In these narrow passes, there were tide rips, too; the Condor bobbed and stamped and Mr. Robert opened the throttles to pass them. Huge smooth ribbons of wake, like roller coaster waves, rose behind the stern.

  “Damn tricky tide, always tricky,” the Old Man said.

  He said something else, his voice lost in the roar of the engines. He lifted his good arm and pointed to the shore. Stanley and Miss Hollisher looked, but all they saw was a clump of wind-burned oaks on a tiny chênière. And gulls rising from the sand, circling and screaming, big white gulls and their brown young.

  The Old Man’s chin quivered for a minute, his eyes closed, with only a few twitches behind their wrinkled lids.

  They came through the passes. The water was deep and quiet, the bow settled down. They were almost home now, the Old Man’s country retreat, fashioned with his money and his daughter’s planning to be beautiful and remote and secure —a long green strip, reaching north as far as you could see, twenty-odd miles. A bird sanctuary, a game refuge, carefully guarded against any guns but Mr. Robert’s and his friends’. Lovely gardens, measured in acres, never photographed, protected from every eye, even on a printed page. Huge gray house, protected by a fire sprinkler system and a staff of caretakers.

  All for the Old Man. And his family.

  “There must be a haze,” Miss Hollisher said. “You can’t see the house yet.”

  As often as they had come this way, Stanley thought, she had never learned that when Mr. Robert passed the islands, he put his bow on a straight compass course for the house.

  Stanley said: “It’s under the bow.”

  Miss Hollisher nodded. “You did tell me that last time. How’d you learn so much about boats, Stanley?”

  “I just keep my eyes open,” Stanley said, “and pick up things.”

  Like a big hawk, me. Grabbing up bits and pieces of things. And what am I stealing? Pieces of their lives. Bits of their minds. … Me, the secret thief, that steals what people don’t miss. …

  Stanley looked again, just to be sure. The house itself, soaring byzantine towers at each corner, was not yet visible. All he could see from this angle was the glistening white gazebo on the bluff; and on the beach beyond it, where the morning mist had burned away, the big gray rock that had been split by lightning. It happened during a September storm five or six years ago, a quick hard blow that tossed porch furniture into the lawns and twisted shutters off walls. Stanley was outside, in the rain, securing a flapping shutter, when the explosion staggered him. Flattened against the house, he spun around, found nothing. But the air was different. It was clear and light and extraordinarily clean and completely impersonal: ozone. He noticed too: absolute silence. It was days before he could hear again.

  All that was permanently left was the big rock split down the middle, tossed neatly into two parts.

  Abruptly Mr. Robert changed course, swung his rudder hard over, opened the throttles. The Condor jumped in the water, dancing uncertainly for a second before it got under way, bow high, stern down.

  Caught unaware, Stanley fell across a chair, scraping his shins.

  Miss Hollisher said: “Are you all right, Stanley? Stanley, did you hurt yourself?”

  “Yeah,” Stanley said, and then, “no.” He watched little drops of blood seep down to his socks. “Look, I get a Purple Heart.”

  They were ninety degrees off course now; the house appeared directly on their beam. They were traveling at top speed, straight north. Stanley squinted ahead. The bay was blue-gray and empty, except for eight or ten small sails, red and white and blue and yellow. Kids from Port Bella at the head of the bay, where vacation cottages clustered back in the trees, out of sight except for their piers. They often sailed this way—to picnic at Smugglers’ Cove. Though it was his land, the Old Man never objected; he even kept the big spring cleared out for them; its cold metallic water flowed down to the beach. Only, his caretakers snooped through the trees watchfully, making sure no one went farther than the beach. Some years past, when the Old Man was stronger, he’d enjoyed spending Sunday afternoon anchored off the cove, while he smoked his cigar and drank his whiskey.

  “Looks like we’re going to Smugglers’ Cove,” Stanley said. He got a pair of glasses and focused them on the boats. There were eight: three Sailfish; a small and ancient sloop, gaff-rigged; a catboat; two Snipes; and a small catamaran. The catamaran had a single boy aboard. The red-and-white Sailfish held two boys, about fifteen. The blue had two girls, and Stanley recognized them: the Foster twins. The sloop had an older boy, twenty or so, and a girl in a green bathing suit. Two more girls with flapping wet hair followed in the Snipe. The last Sailfish had one girl aboard. She had turned her face to the sun and was fluffing out her hair. She was fully dressed in a white blouse and blue shorts. And her face—Stanley studied it again—was round and pale, and black hair floated out on each side, like seaweed blown in the wind. It was a lovely face, an unusual face. A face worth going out of your way to see.

  Which was exactly what they were doing.

  As they neared the boats, Mr. Robert idled the engines; they bobbed there, swinging ever so slightly to the wind and tide. The small boats streamed by them, in a raggedy, irregular line, the catamaran leading. Mr. Robert passed them by with a wave to each, as he hunched over his wheel, alone on the bridge. The Old Man slept, Miss Hollisher began her knitting, Stanley watched. The girl in the Sailfish was almost the last to pass them, followed only by the catboat, its sail luffing furiously. Within ten minutes the leading catamaran had entered Smugglers’ Cove and dropped its sail, the sloop close behind. Just then, one of the usual sudden gusts of summer wind came tumbling down the pine slopes and out across the water. The sailors saw it coming, saw it ruffle the surface like
a million billion fingers as it raced toward them. All except the dark-haired girl. She was dangling one hand in the water, playing with the shiny lights, when the puff reached her boat. Her careless lines fouled, and slowly, before she could clear them, the Sailfish went over.

  The screws turned, the Condor began moving. Mr. Robert yelled from the bridge, “Capsized. We’ll take her aboard.”

  Stanley stood staring at him, thinking: A Sailfish? She’ll have it up in half a minute.

  By the time the Condor reached her, the girl had almost righted the boat. She looked up with astonishment, shaking her head.

  “Stanley”—Mr. Robert scrambled down the ladder—“take the wheel.”

  Stanley couldn’t quite hear what Mr. Robert said, but after a moment he laughed: “No trouble at all.” He leaned over, took the girl’s wrists: “Ready now,” and with one heave and crisscrossing of hands lifted her to the boat.

  It had been, Stanley thought critically, only a fair display of strength and dexterity. Mr. Robert could do better if he had to. He could, for example, lift a dinghy from the deck, singlehanded, and drop it into the water. He could also lift the back end of a car. Stanley had seen him do both—for women. This girl, now, she seemed impressed—she was sitting quietly, looking slightly bewildered, her slim young body hunched under the wet veil of clothes, its delicate line of spine crossed by belt and bra.

  She’d be, Stanley thought, about seventeen or so. Tall. Her round pale face had bright sunburned streaks across the cheekbones. Her eyes were deep-set and dark.

  Mr. Robert said: “I know your uncle. Haven’t seen him in a while, but that’s the way things happen.”

  Be seeing him now, Stanley thought, and smiled down at the coil of rope in his hand.

  “I knew you weren’t used to these waters or you would have known the way the wind comes down.”

  “I’ve never been here before.” She had a pleasant voice, light and gentle and not too high. “But you really didn’t need to pick me up, I’d have gotten the boat up with no trouble.”

  “You’d get chilled with those wet clothes. Next time you’d better wear a bathing suit.”

  Chilled in June, Stanley thought; that was a good one.

  She had a slighter figure than Mr. Robert usually liked. Through the wet clothes you could see clearly, as she stood dripping on the deck, feet braced against the gentle roll of the boat. Narrow hips, small breasts set wide and high. A neck so thin you could see its tendons. Shoulder blades like small wings in back.

  A child’s body, Stanley decided. But not a child’s face. Not at all. Her eyes had a very strange expression. It was— what was it now?

  The Old Man woke suddenly, his eyes flew open. “Where’d the girl come from?”

  “Out of the sea, Pa,” Mr. Robert said. “Like Venus or somebody—who was it?—riding in a sea shell.”

  “It was Botticelli’s Venus,” the girl said primly.

  Mr. Robert chuckled. “I forgot all that. You forget a lot of things, the years wear them right off you.”

  He had acquired a faint Southern accent. More than Southern. It was decidedly Negro. Stanley listened appreciatively. He only did that when he was coming on real strong after some woman. …

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Mr. Robert said. “Venus’s sea shell was more stable than your Sailfish.”

  The Old Man dozed off again.

  The girl asked: “Is he sick?”

  “Age, that’s all.” Mr. Robert regarded her with paternal interest.

  “Oh,” the girl said, “oh, I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Robert patted her shoulder solemnly. “You’re too young to think of such things.”

  Stanley met Mr. Robert’s eyes across the small expanse of deck.

  He knows what I’m thinking. And I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking how he’s going to get inside her pants. And he’s pleased to have me as the audience for one of his best performances.

  “Give me eight hours with a woman,” Mr. Robert told Stanley once, “and I can have her. And it will be her idea, not mine.”…

  “Would you like some coffee,” Mr. Robert was saying. “Stanley, we have some hot coffee, don’t we?”

  He didn’t offer her a drink, Stanley noticed admiringly. Too direct. Might frighten her off.

  “I’m fine,” the girl said. “Really, I’ll just catch up with those people,” she pointed toward Smugglers’ Cove.

  “I’ll run you over there, if you like. Or you can come have lunch with us at the house.”

  He stressed the last word, just slightly. The House. The fabulous house that no one sees—do you want to come?

  “Well, really, I couldn’t. I’ve heard so much, and I wish I could, but...”

  Mr. Robert carefully kept his eyes from her wet clinging shirt. “Whatever you like, my dear.”

  She hesitated just a moment, not because she was uncertain, but because she didn’t want to seem impolite.

  Well, Stanley thought; well, well, well, he’s lost this one. She’s leaving.

  The Old Man opened his eyes and straightened his head. “Stay,” he said. “It would be a pleasure to have a pretty young girl on this boat.” The thin old face broke into the gentlest possible smile, so faint it was almost not there. “Sit down by me, my dear.”

  She did. His hand reached out, hung over her small young one. Very carefully, he did not touch her. Just let the fragile weight of age hang over her, so that she felt it, ever so gently. Let the contact between the two skins (so different, how different) flow through the air, the purifying air.

  “I may fall asleep,” the Old Man said, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t admire a pretty girl.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and settled herself more firmly in the chair. “Thank you very much.”

  The Old Man smiled again. He seemed very ancient, very Chinese.

  “I would like some coffee,” the girl said.

  As he fixed the cups, Stanley thought: Trust the Old Man to think of something. That girl was ready to leave before he popped awake. He’d come through when Mr. Robert needed him. He’d given Mr. Robert his eight hours, his opportunity.

  And Stanley noticed … when the Old Man woke, he’d known exactly what they were talking about. …

  Stanley poured the coffee into the white mugs that had a black bird on their sides.

  I been thinking that I was the big black hawk spying on people’s lives. But now it looks like there was a skinny sparrow right up under my nose, watching everything, watching me. Who’s fooling who? The Old Man. It’s always the Old Man.

  Stanley served the coffee. “Thank you,” she said.

  Stanley recognized her expression now: the look of the virgin. Who knows all about it, but still doesn’t know. The direct-shy look. Delicate, half eager, half afraid. Half wanting, half not …

  And that, Stanley admitted, was attractive. It made her half the daughter he’d never had. Half the woman he’d never met, the elusive perfect woman.

  Mr. Robert put on his sunglasses. “My father has gone back to sleep,” he said. “When you finish that coffee, if you’re not too cold, would you like to come up to the flying bridge with me? You can see better from there.”

  The girl swallowed her coffee and climbed the ladder to the bridge. Mr. Robert followed, staring very closely at the backs of her ankles. They were, Stanley noticed, very nice ankles, small and thin and delicate.

  The Old Man was watching too. His eyes were wide open again, though he hadn’t bothered to lift his head from his shoulder. His bright black eyes followed the two up the ladder, to the bridge.

  Deliberately Stanley stepped into the Old Man’s vision. The eyes blinked once, slowly. A light flickered in their depths.

  He looked, Stanley thought, like he was laughing.

  The Old Man

  THE OLD MAN LAY on his bed, covers tucked beneath his arms, linen pillow smooth behind his head. The top button of his pajamas rose and fell gently, slightly, with his breathing.


  He heard the door open, he heard the creak of the chair as Miss Hollisher took up her position. He heard the rustle of cloth as she picked up her sewing. After a while there’d be the whispers of the night nurse as she crept into the room.

  He could hear all these things, though he wasn’t awake.

  It was like being in a room with shades drawn, listening to sounds in the street. You couldn’t see but you had a pretty good idea of what was passing.

  Once he’d tried to talk, to cry out, to say anything, so that they would know he was still there. He hadn’t even been able to move his little finger. Not so much as that.

  He’d fallen into two pieces, slipping apart; mind and body, once together, separating more and more frequently.

  When the parts came together, people said he was conscious and alert. They didn’t know about the separation. They didn’t know that the greatest alertness came during the blind time they called sleep.

  Deliberately now he quieted his mind which had lately been occupied by a small nesting animal, mouse or rabbit, a shivering furry thing. He stroked its back, rubbed gently over its ears. Until it stopped racing through the empty shell of his body, hunting for a window not yet closed. Patiently, patiently caressing. Gently, gently, until it curled and snuggled in its place. There, there we are.

  As for this business of having two separate pieces, well, he’d noticed that the halves came together less and less frequently. And when they didn’t meet at all …