by Mary Astor
One didn’t bother Grandfather with questions, and he just couldn’t ask Gregg and Aunt Virginia to repeat what they had already told him: “As soon as he can, he said. . . .”
Sometimes his impatience put a band around his chest. He had completed a fine solid scale model of a B-29, so that he’d have it ready to show his father. He’d taught Deinos a couple of tricks, to “play dead” and to jump through the hoop of his arm. He’d gone through his childish collection of treasures that he’d saved back in Clarke Falls to show him, and kept only the medal for swimming—the rest was just silly, now.
It was only during “school hours” that he was more at peace. Gregg was the best teacher he’d ever had, he thought; even better than Grand-mère. He took it slow and easy with him, he didn’t make him learn a lot of stuff by rote memorizing. They didn’t try to cover pages and pages of stuff. Sometimes they spent the whole time in trying to understand just one paragraph—of history for instance. John would be quite sure he understood and then Gregg would start his “whys?” “Why do you suppose he decided to do that?” and at first John replied, “I don’t know, he just did.” But then they would, as Gregg said, “Dig it out,” and they’d get into a fine discussion. “Maybe he was greedy and wanted to kind of have everybody thinking he was important.” Or—and then a light would go on—“Maybe he felt that if somebody didn’t stir them up, why, things would go on as before!”
Once he blurted out, without thinking, “Why are you going to all this trouble? Did my father ask you to? Was he afraid I wouldn’t be good enough for the schools back here?”
Gregg considered his question carefully before answering. “I was a teacher first, and became a friend. Now I am a friend who happens to be a teacher. You are more than ‘good enough’ for the schools back here, even though they may place different emphasis on certain subjects. And believe me, John, it is no ‘trouble’ because we learn from each other. Why, do you remember the other day, you brought out the point that . . .”
His answer pleased John, but he felt, somehow, that his question hadn’t been answered.
Gregg had wheeled the big Webster dictionary and its stand into John’s room, as he wanted John to look up every word he read that he couldn’t define. He couldn’t get away with “I know what it means, but I just can’t put it into other words.”
So it was, one day, when he was looking up the meaning of the word “ambiguous,” that he had his back to the door and someone said, “John?” He answered, “Yes?” without turning. A fraction of a second later he realized the voice was not a familiar one and wheeled around as Charlie said:
“Well, hi there, John—I’m your father!”
He felt his jaw drop in silly shock—all the imagined words that had come so easily in anticipation of this moment—the feeling that his Adam’s apple had suddenly grown larger—it seemed an age, but lasted no longer than the quick intake of breath, for as he let out he said, “Well—hello, Father!”
Charlie looked around at the airy, bright room. “Looks like they’ve got you fixed up real nice, here. Did you get my presents?”
And in a flood of words, John thanked him with many “Gee’s” and “Oh boys” and “gashes”; proudly he showed him the airplane model, and the new one he was starting on. He showed him the closetful of slacks and sweaters and T-shirts, he said he’d never seen such a keen tennis racket, and would he teach him to play?
Charlie seemed to have little to say; he walked around with his hands in his pockets, nodding and smiling, but finally he said, as they stood in front of the window—John had been pointing out the high branch to which he had climbed—“It’s a damn shame, you know.”
John stopped a moment in his chatter, looked up at him, and said, “What is?”
“That you and I should have been kept apart all these years. How could they do it, son?”
“I don’t know, Father. Maybe it was because they thought you wouldn’t want me.”
Charlie pursed his lips as though he didn’t dare to comment on such a possibility. “Well,” he said, finally, “don’t you worry—we’ll make up for it. We’ll have the finest kind of life you can imagine.” He sat down on the bed and hooked up a knee in his clasped bands. John happily dropped to the floor where he could sit and look up at his father adoringly, listening to every word, learning the features of his face, the wonderful admirable relaxed manner.
“You know, son”—Charlie’s voice was low and confidential—“I’ll tell you the truth. A lot of this is my fault. I’ve always been kind of a wild character. I’ve done a lot of things I’m ashamed of—we all do, we’re only human. But I was deeply hurt when your mother ran out on me. I would have given her everything in the world.”
“Well, why did she?” John was eager, the mystery was about to unfold.
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” and Charlie’s expression seemed puzzled, bewildered.
“Well, don’t you worry.” John grinned at him. “One thing for sure, I’m not going to ‘run out’ on you.”
“You’d better not try it,” laughed Charlie, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder, “you’re my son—God, doesn’t that sound queer!—and I want you here, with me and my family. As a matter of fact, now that you are here, the place looks pretty attractive to me, and I expect I’ll be spending more time up here in Nelson. I’ve got my business well in hand and it doesn’t require so much of my attention as it has in the past.”
“Well, will I come to see you at your home in New York when you are there?”
Charlie hesitated. “Well—uh—I don’t have my apartment any more, since my wife died—Zoë, I mean. I expect you’ve been told about her.” John nodded. “I found it too full of happy memories, too full of ghosts. No, I gave it up—I just stay at the club or a hotel——” He sounded as though he must be terribly lonely and John determined to devote himself to making his father’s life a happier one, and, thinking about it, his heart seemed too big for his chest.
Virginia X-ed out a line on the typewriter, impatiently. “Sorry, Gregg—the vicissitudes of the lovely Letitia elude me today. Our readers know perfectly well that she’ll never give in to the vile old captain as long as brave Hugo is around. Oh brother!” She brushed the hair from her forehead. “It’s just—well, just—crap!” She looked up at Gregg with her chin stuck out.
“As Charlie would say?” He laughed and, reaching over, pulled the yellow sheet from the machine, crumpling it in his hand. “Well, maybe you’re right—let’s put it on ice and go for a walk. Let’s do something adventurous like buying a new typewriter ribbon, and then I’ll treat you to a soda!”
Virginia stretched her arms above her head. “I think I’d better leave you so that you can get out your book report.”
“It’s done—and in the mail.”
“Your industry appalls me. How do you do it?”
“It’s easy. I’m not a very good writer. I just put down what I think, instead of worrying about whether I’m any good or not!”
“And you’re modest too. What a paragon!”
It had been Gregg’s suggestion that they collaborate on a book. He made no attempt to hide his reasons for getting her mind occupied. “You’ve had years of being busy, besides running a home, caring for a family—and now your hands are hanging by your sides, full of emptiness. No wonder you don’t sleep. You can’t go on just straightening up closets and shelves for John, playing chess with Walter, and listening to Beatrice talk about the past.”
Gregg read her first novel, which had been unsuccessful. Her fascination with historical accuracy had made it bog down in pages of dull, minute description. “Let’s do something that’s fun. Any historian is a good detective, so let’s follow through on the idea you had—of solving a historical mystery, or maybe we could make it a real rousing ‘whodunit’—fictional characters in an authentic background, black knights and bloody queens, intrigue and love, and evil is found out at the end, the good are triumphant—— What are you la
ughing at?”
“Because you’re a good salesman—I buy it! With you as critic carrying a bright blue pencil, how can I lose?”
She had gained a great deal. Her enthusiasm for the project revived her, taking her mind from her loss and the tragedy of Zoë’s death. It had been slow at first, but with the stimulus of positive, creative work she found that in other areas she was alive again. And the prospect of having young John with them became fun as much as a family duty.
It was only Gregg who noticed that Walter and Virginia and, to a lesser degree, Beatrice took over completely the responsibility of seeing that the child got what was due to him. It was Walter who consulted Gregg about schools and selected one which had not been graced by Charlie’s presence. Beatrice planned the pleasant room for him, while Virginia took care of the correspondence with Mavis and Grand-mère. No one gave a second thought to the fact that Charlie had not been consulted, but simply told what was happening. And they had paid little attention to his brief letter from Mexico, which said, “. . . if he is my son, I shall do everything in the world for him.”
Before going downstairs, Virginia put her head into John’s room, to see if he would like to go with them. The room was empty—and more disorderly than usual. It looked as though he had gone through his closet, changing clothes several times; the discarded garments were left on the bed and the floor. She went in and pulled down the east window, as the wind was blowing papers around, and tidied the place quickly.
On the second floor, as she stopped by her room to get a jacket, she heard John and Charlie laughing in Charlie’s room. Knocking, she called, “Anybody want anything in town?” and opened the door to Charlie’s “Come in! Come in!”
“We’re going to shake the cobwebs from our heads, want to come along?” she asked, looking at John.
The two of them were sitting in the window seat, with Deinos between them, looking at snapshots Charlie had taken in Mexico. John had managed to dress as nearly like his father as possible. Instead of his usual jeans and a T-shirt he had put on gray slacks, a white shirt without a tie, and a sleeveless sweater—his was navy blue and Charlie’s was brown. Virginia made no comment, although she understood the boy’s adoring identification, and felt a tide of hatred rising within her. Charlie was having no trouble casting his spell.
“Look, Aunt Virginia, color transparencies, aren’t they keen? We’re going to get a projector, and take some around here.”
She held one or two up to the light. Mexico was in the background, as a frond from a palm tree or a blue jar on a stone wall indicated, but the foreground subjects were a pair of luscious bikini-clad dark-skinned girls with their arms draped around the equally briefly clad form of Charlie.
She dropped them onto the seat and looked directly at Charlie. “I believe the scenery in Mexico is beautiful——”
“It sure is,” laughed Charlie, indicating the pictures, and John joined him, laughing at the big joke.
Virginia turned on her heel and left the room.
“What’s the matter with her?” she heard John say, and hurriedly she went down the stairs to the hall where Gregg was waiting for her.
The day was bright, and the budding trees showed a faith in the spring, although the weather withheld its promises. The wind was gusty and chill, and Virginia shivered a little as they walked down the driveway under the splendid arch of the elms. Turning to look over her shoulder, she waved to Beatrice sitting at her bedroom window, and blew her a kiss, receiving an answering smile and wave.
“I should have looked in on her,” she said to Gregg. “I guess I was just too—irritated seems a mild word. What’s another word for irritated, Gregg? Get out the trusty Thesaurus, find a word that says it stronger.”
“How about ‘roiled and riled,’ or is that too colloq.? Are your shoes comfortable?” He glanced down at her feet. “Silly question—you never wear high heels, do you?”
“No, why?”
“Let’s cut through the woods.”
“And walk it off, you mean? Oh, Gregg, I’m all right. It was just a silly thing. Charlie was showing John some pictures that—well, you don’t show to a boy of that age. He may have seen pictures of girls in bikinis—who hasn’t? But it seems to me that John is a little young to get a laugh out of his father’s—conquests.”
“I know—just a silly thing. Not worth talking about. Just bad taste. Let’s be sure to be careful of what we say, or each of us will think that maybe the other is jealous of Charlie. And that wouldn’t do at all, would it?”
Virginia looked at him quickly. “Let’s cut through the woods!” she said.
The path ran along the remains of an old stone wall, that disappeared and then reappeared, humped up under a covering of vines. They kept up a fast pace for a while, stopping to look at the glory of a sheet of blooming dogwood against a hill.
Virginia leaned against the wall. “Let’s stop a minute, I’m winded, but I feel better. Do you?”
“Of course. A fast walk is the best thing in the world to get rid of emotional tension. And now we can be properly cerebral again!”
Virginia pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and shielded the match Gregg held for her. “But you don’t want to be ‘cerebral,’ I take it?” she asked.
“Virginia—I’m sick, I’m fed up. I’ve watched this man operate for nearly twenty years now—I had fine, chivalrous, protective dreams when I was younger. Herb knows; maybe he doesn’t remember, but we talked a few times, and in what even I thought at the time were somewhat overdramatic terms, I said I thought Charlie was going to endanger the lives of people around him. And what have I done about it? Watched it happen, over and over, kept silent because I felt it was not my business to ‘interfere.’ ”
Virginia kept her eyes on the toes of her shoes, smoking, listening.
“I’ve watched Walter’s eyes grow deep and dark with bitterness and disappointment. I see the waste of a dear woman like Beatrice, bravely patched up like a delicate piece of Dresden, smiling as though the cracks didn’t show. During the war I thought, ‘I’ll never go back, never get involved again. It’s none of my business.’ But, of course—I had to come back.” He hesitated. “I had to come back because I had to live in your world—be where you sometimes would be. I think you know. I love you, Virginia.” He went right on, without looking at her. “I hoped to be a protector and a friend. I was happy in your happiness, and you seemed so safe, so safe. And I stood around and watched things pile up. Niggardly, petty things, things that became the deepest betrayals. And what do I do? Smile sheepishly and say, ‘Oops! Sorry!’ ” He picked a small stone from the top of the wall and threw it with all his might at the trunk of a tree, where it glanced off into the undergrowth.
“There was never anything you could have done, Gregg.” Virginia’s voice was low, distressed at his emotion.
“What am I going to do, Virginia? What are you going to do! Are we going to have to stand around and watch this happen again!”
“Watch what happen? What are you saying, Gregg?”
“Oh, Virginia, for God’s sake! Why haven’t we been able to work for the past few days? Why has the house suddenly become divided into two camps? Why has John become impudent and loud-mouthed?”
“Oh, I think that’s only natural, Gregg. He’s just full of exuberance; he’ll quiet down after a while, when the newness of the relationship wears off.”
“Or when Charlie disappoints him for the first time.”
“Well, that can’t be helped. You can’t protect people from disillusionment. That’s part of growing up.”
“I can’t agree with you. Seeing things and people as they really are isn’t necessarily disillusionment. But for young Jean Charles to see his father as he really is—it’s going to be one horrible shock.”
“Maybe it won’t happen. This is Charlie’s son, Gregg. Maybe there’s a latent sense of responsibility in Charlie that will be brought out by——”
“You’re dreaming, gir
l. You’ve been writing too much fiction. You know better. You’ve seen it—it’s already begun to happen. Little things, things you can’t put your finger on. We sit at the table at mealtimes and Charlie dominates the conversation with his long-winded stories—who said what to who, and then I said—the boring type of wit. And John sits with his face wreathed in smiles and Beatrice makes little tsk-tsks when his language gets too strong——”
“—and Dad just gets up and leaves the table,” added Virginia, “I know. And John thinks there’s something the matter with us.”
“You see what I mean? I told you it would sound like jealousy.” Virginia crushed out her cigarette and, pulling on a pair of old soft pigskin gloves, said, “Let’s move on a little—I’m getting cold.” The path was wide enough for them to walk side by side for a while and they walked slowly, thoughtfully.
Virginia finally spoke. “I can’t understand one thing. Charlie has no love for any of us. I’ve heard him talk about Mum and Dad and this town, and the people in it, with the most withering contempt. He’s left here in a rage or without so much as a good-by—and yet he always comes back. And expects to be welcomed with open arms, and nothing short of a celebration. Why does he come back at all?”
“You’ve just said it. Because he has no really deep feeling at all. He’s just like any other organism—it has a tendency to return to its original form. Nelson, the house, Bea and Walter contain him best in that form.”
“What a horrible way to put it! Sounds like a piece of dough!”
“Speaking of dough,” Gregg said, “and excuse the pun—you know that Charlie is broke, don’t you?”
“You mean, what he calls broke,” said Virginia, “down to his last Mercedes-Benz, probably.”
“Not according to Walter. Seems that he tried to compete with some Texas fellow. Charlie was the darling of the crowd till he came along. I don’t know the details, and couldn’t care less. But it involved gambling, yachts, and something about the purchase of an apartment building, which the Texas man deeded over to the fair Louisa. Anyway, Walter told me that Charlie bleated about ‘lack of loyalty,’ of ‘his pride taking a beating,’ but the upshot was that Charlie has returned to the heart of his family for monetary reasons, mainly.”
