The Condor Passes

by Shirley Ann Grau

  The minute Stanley stepped in the door, the Old Man’s eyes grabbed hold of him. He wants to say something to me, Stanley thought, and he’s getting up his strength to do it.

  “But sir,” the doctor was saying, “you cannot keep yourself in this agitated state. In your delicate health, it’s a form of suicide.”

  The Old Man’s eyes stayed with Stanley. He’s using me to pull himself up, Stanley thought. He’s holding on to me, and pulling up. Slowly.

  He’d never seen eyes so deep. Cones, wide open at the top. You could walk into those eyes, and keep walking until you reached, somewhere way down there, a blank wall, where everything ended. Those eyes shivered and threw off light, great exploding cartwheels of light. …

  Miss Anna jiggled his shoulder. Stanley moved out of the range of the Old Man’s glance. “Is something wrong, Stanley?”

  “No, ma’am.” There wasn’t any use trying to explain.

  She turned back to the Old Man. “Really, Papa, we’ve called the Coast Guard. Be reasonable about it. Watkins has turned on all the floodlights at the house. That’s all you can do.”

  Margaret said, from the other side of the bed, “Papa, it’s a good boat and he’s a good sailor; if he just isn’t so drunk that he passes out, he’ll make it without trouble. He can pick up the light at Hatcher’s Point, and then run directly for the house. He’s done it often enough before.”

  The Old Man shook his head.

  Stanley thought: I didn’t know he could move his head that way at all; the paralysis is less than we thought.

  The Old Man said: “He didn’t come here.”

  For a minute everything was absolutely quiet, just the rain on the east window and the wind around the corner of the building and the steady hiss of moving trees.

  If he had any tears, Stanley thought, he’d be crying. … A quick sharp stinging and Stanley was crying for him.

  The Old Man’s eyes found him again, saw the tears. And the Old Man’s eyes blinked them away.

  My God, Stanley thought, is he inside me?

  “Papa,” Margaret said, very quietly, “Robert is like that. He forgets.”

  Across the bed, Anna said, “Papa, Robert has disappointed us all, one way or another.”

  The Old Man said: “I wanted him to come.”

  Christ on the Cross, Stanley thought. Woman on each side; I saw that in a church somewhere, maybe in England during the war; some famous church, only I forgot where. … The only places I ever saw, only places to matter, was in the army. Vera and I, now, we have to go. I’ll ask Vera tonight where she wants to go.

  Margaret said: “Wouldn’t it be funny if that son of a bitch really did drown?”

  Instantly Dr. Doyle became restless; he glanced toward the door.

  He could just turn around and walk out, Stanley thought, and they’d never notice. They were too busy with themselves to care about him.

  “No.” Anna’s voice was level and correctly modulated, neither affected nor coarse, the smooth voice of the perfect lady. Like that sleek shining head of hers, with its gray-dappled hair. Lady of wealth and dignity. The polish that only money gives.

  As beautiful as money itself, Stanley thought.

  “No,” Anna repeated, “it wouldn’t be funny. It would be ironic.” Margaret tossed her head with impatience at the correction of a word. “It would be very ironic if he should die like Anthony.”

  Now the doctor really did turn to the door. Stanley watched him with amusement.

  His frightened hazy blue eyes passed Stanley’s, and he stopped.

  Dr. Doyle, Dr. Doyle, Stanley thought, you are caught. And I caught you.

  “You know,” Margaret said, “I’ve often wondered about Anthony. I think he meant to die.”

  “No more than Robert does.”

  The Old Man moved. They stopped talking.

  “No,” the Old Man said.

  Distinctly. Clearly. The word hung on the still air.

  “No what, Papa?” Anna said quietly. “No about Anthony? Or about Robert?”

  The Old Man’s eyes slipped shut.

  He’s playing, Stanley thought. Behind those lids, he’s waiting, he’s ready to pounce out.

  Anna settled back in her chair, picked up her petit point. “It is storming. I suppose I should be more worried about Robert, but I guess I don’t really care.”

  “Margaret cares,” the Old Man said slowly. His lids stayed closed. His lips hardly moved; for a moment they all wondered who’d spoken.

  “Margaret cares … ,” and the face relaxed, smiling almost.

  “The hell I do,” Margaret said, as all their eyes swung across to fix on her.

  She does, Stanley found himself thinking over and over again. She does, she does. …

  “And the little boy, what happened to the little boy? …”

  Stanley thought: What’s gotten into him?

  “Papa, you know Anthony was sick; you know—” Anna hesitated, and Stanley saw the nerves beneath the skin, the pain that ran along the blood, that twitched beneath the un-moving surface— “you know he had leukemia.”

  “I should have brought him home.” The Old Man sounded breathless now, as if he’d been running. “He asked me to and I didn’t.”

  A long silence. The Old Man seemed really to have fallen asleep.

  Margaret stood up, shaking herself all over like a dog.

  “Anna, he’s right. You should have brought Anthony into town instead of keeping him shut up all that summer.”

  Anna stood up too, her dress falling in perfect folds around her. She looked with real loathing at the piece of related flesh across her father’s bed. “We all would have done things differently.”

  Margaret hesitated: “Ah, the hell with it, what’s the use of fighting, I’m going to take a ride.”

  “I could do with some fresh air too,” Anna said, “I’ll come with you.”

  Margaret puffed out her cheeks and swung her finger in a mocking circle. “Whoopeedoo.”

  The sound of their heels hung briefly in the corridor, then vanished.

  Miss Hollisher emerged from her corner, gaining size and stature, the way a balloon does. Dr. Doyle tinkered with his equipment, turning little hissing valves. He found something he didn’t like; he tapped one gauge with his knuckle, impatiently. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he whispered to Miss Hollisher. “I want to change this.”

  She nodded serious agreement.

  Stanley looked at his own hands. They had come to rest on the rail of the bed, the black fingers were curved around the iron, gripping like claws. He saw himself a bird, big black bird, perched on the Old Man’s bed, waiting. …

  He loosed his fingers. “Well,” he said to Miss Hollisher, “I’ll be getting along.”

  “No,” the Old Man said.

  Stanley jumped, actually hopped a couple of inches into the air.

  “It’s time for me to go home,” he said lamely.

  “No,” the Old Man said and his eyes slipped open. “Not now.”

  “I’m wet.”

  “Change,” the Old Man said.

  Miss Hollisher got up from her chair: “Stanley is tired, sir. I’ll be right here.”

  “Damn fool,” the Old Man said softly. “Hurry.”

  Miss Anna, because she was such a careful housekeeper, kept a locker with extra clothes for him in the staff room. He stripped off his wet clothes, tearing his shirt in his hurry—What do I care, he thought, I’m rich, I can afford it.

  He wiped the mud from his feet and legs and tossed the towels into the heap of his clothes. He put his undershorts on backward and had to take them off again before he put on the formal butler’s black.

  He’s asleep, Miss Hollisher’s lips said silently to him, just as the Old Man’s eyes popped open.

  Like hell he was, Stanley thought; he’s been hiding in there, hurrying me on.

  “Bring the car,” the Old Man said.

  “I left it at the entrance.”

&n
bsp; “Help me up,” the Old Man said.

  “No, no, no, no,” Miss Hollisher said.

  “I’ll get the wheelchair,” Stanley said.

  “I’ll walk,” the Old Man said.

  She grabbed for him and caught Stanley’s arm instead.

  He lifted her fingers. “Quit that, Miss Hollisher.”

  “What-what-what are you doing?” She was so excited she stuttered.

  “He wants to get up,” Stanley said patiently.

  “I’m calling the doctor, that’s what I’m going to do; you’ve lost your mind.”

  The Old Man’s eyes reached out and touched her with their hatred, their loathing. “Woman, get away.”

  “You heard.” Stanley took her shoulders and pushed her back gently into her chair. “Now don’t have hysterics, but if you get up again, I’m going to slug you.”

  The Old Man’s darkened eyes patted him for that.

  Like a dog that’s done something right, Stanley thought.

  Miss Hollisher opened her mouth and closed it, with a little plop of saliva.

  Stanley slipped his arm around the Old Man and lifted him to the floor. They began walking slowly, very slowly. Even so, after two steps the Old Man’s strength gave out, and Stanley had to support him completely. Not that he’s heavy, Stanley thought; it’s just that having him on the side is awkward. If I could carry him in my arms, it would be easy—but he wants his feet touching the floor.

  They were noisy, those soft leather feet dragging along the polished tile floor in the hospital silence.

  Stanley began counting the seconds. Forty-five, forty-six. The corridor remained empty. Just the pale green walls, like a shiny aquarium, and the mirror-polished floor. And the Old Man’s feet moving feebly, like fish fins.

  At least they weren’t going to have to explain to anyone where they were going.

  Seventy-six, seventy-seven …

  They were at the door; the car gleamed wet and shiny just outside. The Old Man twisted his head around. Something flickered in his eyes, amusement, laughter: Stanley was positive. Way down at the bottom of those depths, there was a small child sitting cross-legged on the ground. (Stanley almost could see him in there. Or was it himself he saw reflected?) Laughing.

  The Old Man slowly lifted one arm and pointed.

  “What?” Stanley said. “What?”

  “The alarm.” The Old Man’s voice was perfectly clear. “Ring the alarm.”

  He was pointing directly to it: the red-painted fire alarm.

  “Ring it, sir?” Stanley stared at the box. “I think you’re supposed to break the glass or something.”

  “Go ahead,” the Old Man said.

  Holding the Old Man with his right arm, Stanley pounded on the glass with his left fist. The glass shook—I’m not going to smash my hand through it, he thought. But … wait a minute—the glass shook—so maybe. … He pushed it sidewise, no luck. He pushed it up, too hard; it popped out and fell shattering to the floor.

  We’re making a hell of a lot of noise, Stanley thought. And then: What does it matter how much noise we make when we’re about to ring the alarm?

  The Old Man reached for the alarm, stretching, trying. Not quite enough. Stanley slipped his left hand under the quaking elbow, steadied the arm, and lifted it. The Old Man’s fingers touched and held the handle. And turned.

  On the first wave of sound, Stanley lifted the Old Man into the car, gentle, unhurried. There was an alarm bell ringing outside, its sound strangled and broken in the wind and rain.

  The transmission shifted with barely a click. The noise faded behind them; there was only the swish of wipers and the muddled sound of rain on steel. Stanley drove steadily and calmly, keeping within the speed limits, watching for other cars. As if he were carrying something very precious. Like the big black car was full of gold. Careful. Careful.

  The Old Man said nothing—Stanley checked once in his mirror—his head was tipped sideways and rested against the soft tan wall, next to the little round light. And the light was on. Had he deliberately put it on, or had his falling head just touched the switch? The soft lamp glow separated the back seat from the front, so that the Old Man rode in another compartment, distinctly apart from Stanley’s.

  Stanley stopped under the porte-cochère on the west side of the house. From its scalloped glass panels rain poured steadily in even sheets. He braked the car so gently that it was hard to tell when he actually stopped—except by the silence of rain no longer drumming on the roof and windshield.

  The Old Man’s head was still tipped to one side, but his eyes were open. Stanley straightened his head and then carried him into the house. The wheelchair was waiting, as it always was, by the door. He put the Old Man in it and stood back waiting for orders.

  The house smelled strange, he noticed. In cooler weather the air-conditioning unit did not work well, and air hung in pockets around the house, small quiet backwaters in the flow of ventilation. Here was one. The machine-oil smell, so faint in the rest of the house, was strong here.

  The Old Man said something so softly that Stanley had to bend over. “Go on.”

  “Where?” The dulled eyes flashed anger at him and Stanley added hastily: “The garden room?”

  The light faded. So that was it, Stanley thought.

  The rubber-tired wheels squeaked across the wide boards, then bounced gently over the slate flooring of the greenhouse.

  “Chair,” the Old Man said, pointing with his eyes.

  His big chair with its high fan back. His soft padded wicker cradle. The throne, Miss Margaret called it. The place where he sat day in and day out, watching the birds flutter in their bamboo cage.

  Stanley picked him up, as he had thousands of times before. He seemed lighter, Stanley thought, almost buoyant in his arms.

  The birds were silent in their cage. Not a sound, not a flutter. Stanley set the Old Man down, tucked the light wool blanket around his legs.

  There now, Stanley thought, the Old Man was established in his cage. Maybe he’d nod off and sleep like the birds.

  The eyes were watching him, shiny button eyes. “Stay,” the Old Man said.

  “Yes, sir.” Stanley noticed that the cigar case was out of position on the table, about two inches from its regular spot; he moved it into line.

  The Old Man breathed in and out, whistling a bit each time. Stanley waited, hands behind back, parade rest, trying to make out the huddled dark shapes of birds in their cage. The phone rang.

  Automatically Stanley reached for it. “No,” the Old Man said, very loudly. Stanley jumped back. The Old Man smiled slightly at his haste, a lopsided, contemptuous smile, ancient and supercilious.

  Skull grinning, Stanley thought. He let the phone ring out.

  The noise woke a few birds, they fluttered and squawked. From the other side of the greenhouse there was a soft plop— one of the heavy swollen flowers had dropped of its own weight.

  “Shouldn’t we call your daughters, sir?” Stanley realized he was whispering.

  The birds fell silent. Farther away than the falling flower there was a sudden trickle of water: one of the sprinklers had leaked.

  “I don’t want them,” the Old Man said. And then: “Now you can go.”

  He was silent after that, his head resting easily against the padded chair.

  Stanley took a couple of steps backward, to a stretch of smooth slate under a heavy loop of bougainvillaea. In the entire room there was only a single small lamp burning, next to the Old Man’s chair. Total black surrounded them, sightless and close with the feel of wet leaves and wet ground, its only sound the steady rattle of rain on the glass roof. Stanley stood perfectly still, muscles deliberately relaxed, mind deliberately empty. Occasionally his legs ached and he shifted his stance, but he did not move or sit down. He stood quiet guard in his dark shelter. He could see the Old Man, vague figure without color in the dim light, and he could see a little way into the bird cage. He watched first one and then the other. Not
hing moved.

  He was not quite sure how he knew. Except that his feet were in a way released from their ground. He felt the wet air around him change, felt the leaves shiver and fill with the triumphant evil. He did not go near, he simply turned his eyes away from the mocking arrogance of the shell presence.

  The Old Man was dead.

  STANLEY BACKED AWAY, NOT daring to turn from that seated figure, so long dying and finally dead. He groped his way toward the door, leaves brushing the back of his neck, making him duck his head and hunch inside his collar. He felt for the knob, twisted it, stepped backward into the main house. After the glass door closed, he turned around.

  The lighted house was no different. “Funny,” he said aloud.

  He felt very strange, as if a part of him were missing. Had the Old Man carried something away with him?

  He saw the flickering headlights of cars in the drive as he walked through the pantry, into the kitchen. He filled a glass of water, then set it down untouched.

  “Stanley,” Miss Margaret called. He did not answer.

  He took the limousine key from his pocket and dropped it on the counter.

  “Stanley, where the hell are you!”

  He opened the door; the east wind pulled it from his fingers and slammed it inward. He did not bother closing it. He walked across the porch and down the steps. The wind was very strong; walking into it was like pushing against a soft wall.

  “Stanley!” Both sisters were on the porch now. “Where is he?”

  He turned, the wind slamming the side of his face. “He didn’t want you,” he said, but the wind twisted and mangled the sounds until they were nothing.

  “Where is he?”

  So they hadn’t heard.

  In the glare of the yard floodlight he saw Mr. Robert. Held up by Watkins, he was vomiting into the grass just beyond the corner of the house.

  He had made it, Stanley thought, with nothing worse than a bad hangover. … Funny, he wasn’t more than a hundred feet away, but it seemed he was miles off. Like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. …

  Somebody pushed him aside; he almost slipped on the wet bricks. Miss Margaret was running across the grass, she was bending over Mr. Robert.