by Mary Astor
Charlie smiled affectionately at her. “What’s the matter, Virgie love? Think I’m going to kidnap my own son? Look, I’m no fool—I know you’ve grown to love the boy—it’s almost as if Providence had given you a substitute for poor Alma.” As Virginia winced he went on gently, “I think it’s wonderful, and John’s a lucky boy to have someone like you to care for him. Don’t think it isn’t a great relief for me to know that in the times when I can’t be with him, and there will be those times——” He spoke dreamily. “I know, and you know, how restless I get, how something seems to drive me to the ends of the earth——”
Virginia looked at him in surprise at this sudden evidence of insight. Or was it insight, she thought, or rather more something like a verbal reflex? Everything in her wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it seemed as unwise as handing back a knife to a killer.
Charlie continued, “No, just this once, I want to have him alone with me—so I can show him the great sweet exciting wonders of New York. I want him to get the feel of the place.”
“You mean like Lindy’s?”
Charlie ignored her and went on. “I want him to see the great liners tied up at the docks, to hear music at Carnegie Hall, to see paintings, the great sculpture . . .”
“How long do you intend to stay?” Virginia asked.
“You’ve no idea what this boy means to me, Virginia—what? Oh, about a week, I should say.”
Walter picked up the phone at his elbow in the library a few nights later. The house was quiet. Deinos lay asleep at his feet. Virginia and Gregg had gone out on a rare visit to the local movies, and he’d said good night to Beatrice about an hour ago.
It was long distance from Boston. Walter heard a voice saying, “This is Officer Riordan of the Boston police, Mr. Carewe.”
“Yes, what is it? What’s the trouble?”
“Nothing serious, sir, but I found your grandson John here at the airport.”
Walter glanced at the clock. Eleven-fifteen.
“The boy says he and his father were to take the seven-thirty flight out of here to New York, that he left to make a phone call and just didn’t come back. The boy says he doesn’t know where to locate him. I called the hotel where they had checked out, and he hadn’t gone back there. Have you any suggestions where we might find him?”
“None whatsoever,” said Walter gruffly. “There must have been some mix-up somewhere. Put the boy on, please.”
“Hello, Grandfather,” came John’s voice, strained and high.
“What happened, boy?”
“I don’t know, Grandfather. Like the officer said, Dad just went to make a phone call——”
“Well, how does it happen you’re not in New York?”
There was a silence.
“Hello! John!”
“Dad decided to stay here for another day. There were some friends he wanted to look up . . .”
“Mm, yes, well—put the officer back on again.”
Another silence.
“Yes, Mr. Carewe,” said Mr. Riordan briskly.
“Would you please be kind enough to put the boy on a train for Nelson? I think there’s a midnight local to Augusta, which should put him in here about nine. The boy’s got money with him?”
The officer was heard to chuckle. “Yes, he’s got money all right. A few dollars in his wallet and he showed me a fifty-dollar bill pinned inside his jacket. Said he was afraid of losing it. Do you want me to try to locate your son?’
“Don’t go to any trouble,” Walter snapped. “Just put the boy on the train, he’s not familiar with the city. And if my son should turn up on a drunk and disorderly charge, don’t call me. Just slap him in jail.”
“That I’ll do. This here’s a fine young man, smart enough not to go wandering about a strange city—I told him that——”
“Yes. Well, thank you, Officer, for your trouble. And tell John we’ll meet the train in the morning.”
Virginia and Gregg had entered the library, catching the end of the conversation. Virginia was pale with fright.
The following night, the phone rang again. Again long distance from Boston. It was Charlie.
Gregg and Virginia and Walter were having an after-dinner brandy, trying to piece together the fragments of information which John had supplied them. He had arrived home quiet and withdrawn; and later complained of feeling feverish. Virginia had tucked him in bed early in the evening with a heavy cold which was severe enough to account for the misery in his eyes.
Walter picked up the phone. A sepulchral voice answered him.
“This is Charlie, Dad. Something dreadful has happened.” Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, Walter said to the others, “I’m going to make him squirm! . . . Yes, what is it, Charlie?”
“John—has disappeared. I’m almost out of my mind. I’ve got the police scouring the city. We’ve called the hospitals, everything——”
Walter made a good show of feigning concern. “Well, what the hell happened, Charlie!”
“We were to take the seven-thirty flight out of here to New York. I went to make a phone call, and when I got back, he had disappeared.”
“When was this?”
“I just told you. Seven-thirty, this evening.”
“This evening! Well, where were you last night?”
“What’s that got to do with it! We went to the Colonial Theater last night to see a play.”
Walter cupped the mouthpiece to say, “He’s either lying or has a fine case of amnesia, I don’t know which!” He went on, into the phone, “And what did you do today, Charlie?” he asked.
“We went to the zoo!” Charlie was almost screaming. “Why are you asking all these questions, when I’m going crazy because the little bastard has given me the slip? You don’t seem to realize I’m responsible for the boy’s welfare. I should never have called you—I thought you might be interested—mildly anyway. I thought you people cared for my son——”
“Hold on, hold on—Charlie!” Walter took the receiver away from his ear, and the sounds reached over to Virginia and Gregg, who were listening, fascinated. He finally got him while Charlie was taking a breath.
“Charlie, are you ill, or something—now wait just a minute, let me finish. I’m sorry you’re so upset about John, but I’m justly curious as to where you were since seven-thirty last night . . . Wait a minute . . . listen to me . . . If you will really check with the police you will find that they sent your son back here to us. That he was found wandering around the airport at eleven-fifteen last night, and therefore neither he nor you was anywhere near the Colonial Theater or the zoo.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Then he’s there with you?”
“Since this morning.”
“Well, how do you like that! That’s gratitude for you! That’s the last time I’ll try to do anything for that kid!”
“You can bet on that, Charles!”
“I thought he had more sense. I got detained, and when I called the airport last night——”
“Oh, it was last night then?”
“Well, obviously, Dad—since he’s been with you since this morning.” He spoke patronizingly.
“Listen to me—I’m not senile, so don’t take that tone to me!” Walter roared, and then, in spite of himself, started laughing, again covering the mouthpiece. “It’s unbelievable!” he said to Virginia, who had risen to stand where she could listen.
“You see, this is what happened . . .” Charlie went on, as though the difficulty of explaining were Walter’s fault. “I met a friend of mine, Jim Gillis, you wouldn’t know him. Well, Jim had just got off the plane, and I ran into him and we had a quick drink together at the bar. His hotel is only about a block away and we went up there and some other fellows came up and we started a poker game. As I told you about three times now, I called the airport and John had left. I thought of course he’d gone back to the hotel, which is what he’d have done if he’d had any sense. This afterno
on, when I got back to the hotel, they said they hadn’t seen him, and I started raising hell with them. But I didn’t really begin to worry till now. I thought he’d turn up, thought he was probably having a ball for himself roaming around on his own—you know how kids are——”
Walter shut him off. “Yes, I know how kids are, but apparently you don’t. And let me tell you something, and I mean what I am saying in all seriousness. If you try to have anything to do with this boy in the future, I will have his mother take legal action against you. So the best thing for you to do is just stay away! Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear, Father,” said Charlie. “Tell John that I forgive him, that I love him dearly and I’ll see him soon,” and hung up.
Walter replaced the handset slowly onto its cradle. “I might as well be talking to the wind,” he said.
After he told them Charlie’s end of the conversation, the three sat quietly for a while. Their thoughts were with the child upstairs.
“Let’s not gloss over this.” Walter spoke finally. “I mean in discussing it with the boy. It would be a cruelty to make him ‘feel better’ about this episode. If we soften it in any way, it will simply mean that he’ll have to go through it all over again at some other time in some other, God knows what disastrous experience.”
“John is still thinking that there must have been an accident—that his father was run over or something,” said Virginia.
“Well, Virginia, maybe you’d better go tell him that there was no accident, at least let him have that relief.”
“I think I’d better. He was only half convinced by his friend Mr. Riordan, who’d made the routine checks before he put John on the train.” She paused at the door. “What in the world do I say to him! Because Charlie’s not going to stay away, you know.”
John’s face on the pillow was flushed, he was breathing heavily from his open mouth. He roused and sat up quickly when he heard Virginia snap on the bed lamp. She smiled at him, saying gently, “I brought you some fruit juice, John. Want to wake up and drink it? How’s the head?”
“Oh, okay, I guess. Thanks—boy, am I thirsty.” Gulping down the juice, drinking half of it, he looked over the edge to Virginia’s calm face, the questions returning.
Virginia nodded, understanding. “Yes, we’ve heard from your father. Nothing’s happened to him.”
John lowered his eyes and handed the glass back to Virginia, without looking at her. “Thanks—that was nice and cool. Aunt Virginia, could I please have some more Kleenex—I think I’ve about used up this boxful.”
“Sure thing.” Virginia went into the bath and brought out a fresh carton. As she came back she watched the battle John was fighting for control. His face was contorted and red and he was making hiccuping noises with the effort.
Impulsively Virginia reached to put an arm around his shoulders, but he pulled away from her violently.
“Don’t, Aunt Virginia! I’m trying not to cry, and if you touch me I’ll be a darn fool baby!”
Virginia smiled down at him and then drew the wing chair closer to the bed. “There’s no law against it, honey. Most people—not just babies—cry when they lose something they thought was valuable. And you’ve lost something—something that’s been dear to you most of your life.”
John looked puzzled. “He did just go off and leave me—I kinda thought that. But I felt like it was my fault.”
“How in the world was it your fault!”
“Oh—he’d been mad at me again—about the girl.”
Virginia waited. John blew his nose with a loud toot.
“What girl, John?” she asked quietly.
“I shouldn’t have asked him, I suppose. I should’ve just kept my big mouth shut.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
He wanted to, with all his heart. Being able to was another matter. He didn’t even know why, but he had felt revolted, frightened. It wouldn’t leave his mind. It remained like an afterimage before his eyes. The sight of the fat naked girl clutching what looked like a small hot-water bottle to her heavy breasts with their dark nipples; startled, screaming obscenities at him, as he slammed the door shut.
“Well, you see . . .” He sniffled and blew his nose again. He couldn’t tell it, of course. How to say that what you thought was clean and shining and good was the same thing that Grand-mère had used to describe as “Pigs!” in quiet contempt when she ousted some noisy, drunken couple from the tavern. His father, he had thought, was going to be finer, better even than those fathers of his school friends. The fathers at the picnics playing games, the fathers at the school and church bazaars, the ordinary, taken-for-granted “my dad” world of Thad and Dick and Tony.
“Dad had taken this suite at the hotel. It was really great. Two rooms with a bath between. I went to bed right after dinner. I was really tired.” No need to tell more than that—no need to say he was keyed up and hoping they’d see something of Boston at nighttime, just a walk maybe. But Dad had seemed in a hurry, he had some friends, clear on the other side of town. There was nothing to do but read some magazines for a while. “. . . and I woke up, oh, I guess it was about three o’clock, and I had to go to the bathroom—and this—this girl was there.” He squirmed his shoulders again in remembered embarrassment, and at the embarrassment of telling it, of editing it so as not to betray too much of his silly kid feelings.
“Did that bother you!” Charlie had said to his son. “Well, boy, you sure have a lot to learn—get rid of those silly kid feelings. Happens all the time, boy, happens all the time.”
“I suppose it happens all the time”—John did not realize that Virginia caught the sound of quotes—“and I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I know he was out of sorts with me for the rest of the day. That’s why I thought——”
Virginia was livid with anger; and only Walter’s admonition not to gloss over matters kept her from bolting from the room.
“It doesn’t ‘happen all the time,’ John! I take it you are fairly well informed on matters of sex, but don’t apologize for being shocked at some aspects of it. And if your father isn’t a decent human being, if he is careless and irresponsible, it is something you are going to have to face—squarely and fearlessly. I’m sorry, John, I’m deeply sorry. You’ve had an image, a dream that—well, really nobody could have lived up to—but I’m sorry it’s had to be shattered this violently.”
She watched him, his brown hands gripping the blanket, swallowing hard, beating his dream to death. It gave a last gasp, a last try at survival. “Do you mean—I mean—you don’t seem surprised or anything—isn’t this, well, kind of a set of unusual——”
“Unusual circumstances? Let’s say ‘particular’ inasmuch as nothing exactly like it happened before.”
Some of the suffering disappeared from his face and he looked thoughtful, the way he looked when he was studying, Virginia noticed—he had left his pain rather than the pain leaving him. “You know, John, I believe there’s some strawberry ice cream in the refrigerator. Would you like some?”
It was a pale imitation of the usual star-spangled response. “Yes, thank you, Aunt Virginia—sounds real good.”
“Coming up. Want some cookies?”
“I don’t think so—my throat’s kinda sore.” Tight and sore from swallowing tears.
In the kitchen, Virginia handed the bowl of ice cream with a spoon and a napkin to Gregg, saying, “Take over, will you? I’m not holding up very well. I’m so disgusted and ashamed that I haven’t any bedside manner left in me.”
When Gregg went in, John was lying with his face toward the windows, which were wet with fog. He turned quickly. “Hi, Gregg! Oh boy, that looks good!”
“How are you doing?” said Gregg.
“Oh, fine,” replied John with exaggerated cheerfulness, and fell to, hungrily. He wanted no more painful discussions, Gregg could see, so he discreetly led the conversation into the merits of ice cream for a cold, the merits of ice cream, period; and t
hen told him stories of his own childhood, sticking to episodes that were light and amusing. Soon John was laughing genuinely, relaxed, and Gregg said, “Hey, you’ve got to get some sleep, you know! Strict instructions from Aunt V.”
“Gregg?”
“H’m?”
“I think I’d better write M’ma tomorrow, like you said I should. I suppose I’ll be in bed, anyway, and I might as well fill in the time some way.”
“Fine!”
John put the empty bowl, scraped clean, onto the table beside the bed. Thoughtfully he said, “I think maybe it’d be a good idea—for the Christmas holidays—if I went home.”
“Well—hasn’t that always been the idea, John? Or are you homesick? Would you like to go back—now?”
John shook his head slowly. “No—no, I’m not homesick. But you know, Grand-mère is getting so old. Oh—shucks, that’s not it!” He brought a fist down on the blankets in exasperation.
“I think,” Gregg said carefully, “I think that you want another look at your mother. I think you understand some things about her that you didn’t before. Is that close?”
John nodded, with a look of surprise. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“Well, when you write to her, I’d do better than the usual ‘I’m fine. How are you?’ If you can, tell her what happened, how you feel about it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could do that. I don’t know whether she’d be interested.” That was his old reaction, John realized, the old resentment at her blank, uncaring face. “But maybe she would, you know——” The complexities were too much for him, and Gregg saw him becoming confused.
He said, “Well, at least try to get in one phrase, one that I know she’ll be interested in: ‘I love you very much—’ ”
John grinned his embarrassment, and then at Gregg’s serious face, said, “Okay, okay!”
Turning out the lamp, Gregg said, “Get some sleep now, and if you want anything—sing out. I’ll leave my door open.”
John replied, with a noisy yawn, “But will you please shut mine?”
