At once, she visibly relaxed, and at once (he would never forget it) came nearer than she ever would, as regards their relationship, to self-reference: “With you,” she said, “I have always been able to say what I feel.”
“As I have with you,” he immediately replied.
This exchange comprised between them a certain tranquil joy (peculiarly, afterwards, to him, haunting). (Many years later, when he was an old man, one of his regrets was that he did not tell her then and there simply that he loved her, but had, instead, then, only made that formal, combining pronouncement—“As I have with you.”)
Over dessert they talked a bit about national affairs, most particularly about a senator—John Fitzgerald Kennedy, “the agreeable son of a very determined father” (Miss Sly’s words). “Jack,” the senator was becoming known as…. It was after ten when he walked her to the lighted lot where she had parked her car. “Stick to your guns on Tuesday,” he said, “and call me the minute the action is over.”
“I will, on both charges…. When do you return to New York?”
“On Thursday. But I’ll be back here in a couple of weeks. We’ll arrange a time to meet.”
He unlocked the car door and held it open for her, then returned the key-ring to her. They embraced. She gathered up her skirt, got into the car, then said: “My goodness, I almost forgot! I brought you something.” From her ample purse, she took out some pages. “It’s a recently published short story, written by a friend. I cut it out of the magazine it was printed in. Don’t have it on your mind to return it. I have another copy. It’s an odd story. Interesting, I think…. Good night, my dear Mr. Shurtliff. Thank you for dinner. It was lovely in every way.”
She drove off. As he next did, going out of the city on the road that rimmed Lake Erie, its waters calm in the calm May night, going on into the dark countryside; deeper on. In the three coming months, how many times would he go—back—to the Hatherton house? Ah, not many. Twenty? Twenty-five? He made a bet with himself: twenty-five at the most. Start counting, beginning Now.
…Later, nearing midnight, lying on a guest room bed in the ghostly silence of the ghostly house, too curious not to and anyhow not able to sleep, he started to read the story she had given him (published, he was careful to note, in the March (1959) issue of The Alexandrian Review, a magazine he had not before heard of; nor had he, before, heard of the story’s author: S. K. P. Dobson).
THE STEEPLECHASE
It is reported that occasionally in the mid-to-late 1800s, in England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, two men in love with the same woman would mount their horses and, using a distant church-steeple as their goal, race toward it, as if it were the woman. By agreement, the man who lost the race would cease his courtship of the woman.
That was the story’s first paragraph.
The story’s three personae had no baptismal names. There was the one Man, and the other Man, and there was the Woman.
By artful suggestion, the story’s Author seduced the story’s Reader into a web-like belief that both the story’s men were of the same social rank, both of the same mature age, both fair-featured, both worldly, and both—to the story’s Woman—in her eyes and as, in the obliquities of her erotic imagination she appraised them—equally inflaming.
The steeplechase of this story commenced at cockcrow of a cold, hoar-frosty day in mid-April of a long-ago year. The two men met on the hill-top of a wild moor remote from village and folk. Each was the only witness of the other’s arrival at this place. In the cold dawn air the horses’ and the men’s breathings were little white tragedies of exhaled clouds, continuously being formed, and by evaporation, continuously vanishing.
Visible in the eastern distance, fixed against the sky, was the church-steeple.
(A risen phallus, it occurred to the story’s Reader to think.)
Astride their horses, the men positioned themselves side by side. There passed between them a glance, a swift eyeing of insane resolve similar to hatred. Then they nodded, each to the other, and at the same instant bolted forward, away, whipping their horses over a cruelly long course of gorse-mounded, rock-studded fields, spurring them to leap ditches and scabrous fences and dense and thorny hedges, foxes and rabbits and game birds and woken ground-larks fleeing before them—
Elsewhere (ever historically elsewhere) was the story’s Woman. In a large, richly furnished, heavily curtained room, she lay alone on a bed, naked and self-absorbed. When the story’s Reader entered the room, the story’s Author caused the Reader to smell, inspissated in the room’s air, the fetch of an aphrodisiac odor—
Did the Woman, lying there—so—on the bed, know to anticipate the approaching noise of the horses’ hoofbeats? Yes. And did she hear the curses the two men hurled at each other as, lashing and lashing their panting steeds, they drew nigh? Yes, she did. And did the sound of their voices excite her? Ah, yes. The extreme, though, happened as the men rode by, as—riding by—they let upon her their separately tongued, separate cries of desire that twice multiplied the pleasure she was giving herself, twice complicating it, making it more and ever more exquisite—
—all as the violent men rode by and were gone; of their erethismic cries and of the horses’ hoofbeats naught an echo—
—while in the by-now late night, alone and carnal on yet another bed elsewhere, the story’s Reader (cleped Morgan Shurtliff) masturbated, completing thereby for the story’s Author the Woman’s climax—
—but not the story.
He finished reading the story, afterwards.
One of the horses refused a jump and threw its rider. Dead then, the one Man. The Woman—on learning of the death of that Man—began at once to love him. Of all the men in all the world, he became the one man she would have chosen. Wracked by phantasies of what might have been (?) a great happiness (?) she went mad. At the dawn hour of a later, bitterly cold winter morning, an old female servant found her naked on the bed, frozen to death. The story’s other Man—reject of the story’s Woman—spent himself out in drunkenness and low debauchery and died at a sooner-than-later time, when seemed not to matter.
The End
…But there is no such thing as an end to any story…. To suggest otherwise (Morgan mused) was only this story’s Author’s way of dismissing the story’s Reader; which musing (a kind of personal reality) prompted him to look at the alarm clock’s face. 1:22 A.M.—the new day (as he found himself in it) already more than an hour old. Sensible of the need to sleep, he switched off the bedside light and closed his eyes, only to remain awake, still in the story’s thrall, still immersed in its drama and psychological commotions. But then, after an indefinite while, and rather abruptly, his thoughts (if such involuntary wildings as were going on in his head could be called) shifted from the story to the story’s author—S. K. P. Dobson: a nom de plume (he decided)…an invented name to hide behind…all those obscuring, genderless initials…but the author surely a woman…how old?…where domiciled?…what like?…which conjecturings, after a further indefinite while, were dispelled by the sudden appearance—a vivid image—of the story’s agent: Miss Sly.
—“I brought you something,” she had said (handing him the something). “It’s a recently published short story, written by a friend…. It’s an odd story. Interesting, I think—” she had gone on blandly to say—
—blandly, about such an entrapping fiction of human folly and human delusion, in its creation so achieved, by its author’s talent so successfully (at least upon himself) so successfully sprung as to have caused him to participate in the story’s action…thinking now of the peculiarity of his having masturbated in the middle of his reading of the story…wondering now at the somehow way the story’s author had transferred (transported) him onto one of the story’s pages, leaving it to the story’s next reader to figure out how he got there, the story’s next reader surely by the author’s deft hand similarly translocated…verging now on the very edge of sleep—irrationally ensnarled in that old apothegm: When w
e think a thing, the thing we think is not the thing we think we think, but only the thing we think we think we think—
“You look like shit” was George Colt’s Monday morning greeting to him, in the office, a very few hours later.
“Ah, gracious George, tread lightly,” Morgan intoned. “Rejoice that I’m here at all to companion you through the swamp of work that lies this day before us.”
George laughed. “Reduced to bad poetry, are you? You must have had a helluva week-end.” Then, quickly serious, with what Morgan knew to be genuine affection and concern: “You are all right, Morgan? Essentially, I mean.”
“Not to worry, George. I had a tiring week-end, but a worthwhile one. I’ll tell you about it over lunch—”
—at which time—hungry and self-possessed after a forenoon of hard work—without prelude, he said to George Colt: “As a result of some good things that happened over the week-end, I’m finally in the clear to go ahead with my plan to sell my Hatherton house.”
“Morgan!”
“Are you that surprised, George?”
“Only for a second, Morgan…. I’m not ultimately surprised. I certainly see why you’d want to.”
“So you see why I’m going to.”
They knew each other so well they could have been old men. But they weren’t old. Only old enough to understand that between them, any further words on the subject were unnecessary.
After lunch, he called Doctor Leigh’s office. “You’re in luck, Mr. Shurtliff,” the nurse told him. “The doctor’s just walked through the door. Hold on, please—”
Then Doctor Leigh’s full-throated baritone: “Morgan—you’ve caught me in the nick of time. I’m just in from the clinic. I’ve a patient waiting, so I mustn’t indulge myself, lingering on the ’phone. You know how it is—if you get behind with one appointment, you get behind with the rest of the day’s appointments. Good to hear your voice.” (So far Morgan had not uttered a word.) “I’ve had it in mind to ring you, but I’ve been so busy this week hosting a group of visiting medics from Spain of all places—an interesting group, I must say. But we mustn’t go on chatting—”
Morgan shot in with: “I had a long talk with Lillie Ruth yesterday, and I need to see you. What about tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow’s out. So’s Wednesday. Wednesday is Spain’s last day. Thursday morning?”
“Too late. I go back to New York on Thursday. Why don’t I drop by your office later this afternoon?”
“I could only give you a few minutes, Morgan. I’m due at a black-tie dinner at seven-thirty.”
God, the energy of the man! “I’ll take the few minutes. What time?”
“Will five-thirty suit you?”
“Yes, I’ll see you then.”
At five-thirty sharp, Doctor Leigh opened the door of his private office. “Well, well, Morgan. Come in. Things going well for you, are they? You look a bit tired, but all busy people look tired at the end of a busy day, including myself, I suppose. Do you think I look tired? Do sit down.” (Doctor Leigh, of course, did not look tired.) “Now about Lillie Ruth. Did she tell you—”
“Everything,” Morgan said. “She’s immensely touched by your gift to her of the house. She asked me to tell you as much.”
“All things considered, buying the place for her seemed to me to be the Christian thing to do.” (Morgan hated Doctor Leigh’s broad-broom sweep of “all things considered” and the piousness of “the Christian thing to do.”) “You ought to have a look at the place, Morgan.”
“I will, of course. I haven’t had a chance yet. Lillie Ruth gave me a happy description of it.” (Doctor Leigh’s eyes were on his wrist-watch.) “Houses are a large part of today’s topic,” Morgan went on. “I’m going to sell mine.”
“Are you indeed? It’ll go fast, I’m sure, being the splendid property it is.” Doctor Leigh said this in a voice as flat as a mill pond. But then, with a slight inflection of interest: “When did you decide to sell it?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time, but only recently concluded that I must. Really only a few days ago.”
“It’s a pity I didn’t know,” Doctor Leigh said. “We might have gotten together on the buying of Lillie Ruth’s house.”
“So we might have,” Morgan replied. “My reason for pushing to see you today has to do with my monetary concerns for Lillie Ruth’s future—with Dennis’s too—because of course my selling of my house means that they’ll both be retiring, and I want to tell you directly that it’s my intention to purchase annuities that will provide them with an income for the rest of their lives.”
“Well, speaking man-to-man, Morgan, I’ve always assumed that in some form or other, you’d see to that matter, especially as they’ve been in your full-time service for the last eleven or so years, has it been? How time does fly! Have you informed them of your intentions?”
“Not yet. I expect to tomorrow. As I think I told you, I go back to New York on Thursday.”
“When will you next be in these parts?”
“In a couple of weeks. Perhaps then we can arrange to see each other in a more leisurely way. But right now, there’s one more thing, very important to me to ask you about—the mantel you allowed me to have removed from the library of your Hatherton house at the time you sold the house—that I had installed in Maud’s sitting room—” Whether it was the mention of Maud’s name or mention of the mantel, Morgan would never for certain know, but some tinge of softness showed suddenly on Doctor Leigh’s face. “I hope you will let me keep it. If you do, I’ll have it sent to New York—”
“Do you have a working fireplace in your apartment?”
“Yes. In the living room.”
“Then by all means, you should keep it. I’m pleased that you want to. It’s an extraordinarily handsome thing. Beautifully carved. I remember bringing in an ivy leaf one day and comparing it to the carved ones. The duplications were wonderful. Charming flowers, too—the blooms imitated in fine detail.”
For the thousandth time, Morgan marveled at the man, sitting stiffly there in his pristinely white doctor’s robe, his neck encased in the iron hold of a cruelly starched shirt collar, his tie tightly knotted, his eyes suddenly misted over—talking of the mantel’s carved ivy leaves and flowers, but shying clear of any out-loud recall of Maud or Mrs. Leigh: of, when they were alive, their often avowed admiration and love of the chimney-piece…. “I do thank you,” Morgan said. “And now I must let you go. You mentioned that you have a dinner engagement—”
“For the Spaniards,” Doctor Leigh said, rising from his chair, extending his hand. “Tell Lillie Ruth I’ll likely get out for a visit with her next week-end.”
“She’ll be pleased to see you. Thank you again, sir.”
“Good-bye, Morgan. Take care of yourself.”
There at the end, Doctor Leigh smiled.
“Mr. Shurtliff—”
“Miss Sly.” This was Tuesday, late afternoon of the next day, Miss Sly on the telephone, keeping her promise to call him at the conclusion of the Tilden-Herne board of trustees meeting. “How did it go?”
“Very, very well. I might even say spectacularly.” She laughed. “They made such a fuss when I told them of my wish to retire—raised so many objections—all very flattering to me, quite overwhelming really.” She sounded breathless.
“But you held firm—”
“I did indeed. And I stressed that I want out by next January. I’m going to meet with some of the board members next week to work out the details. I couldn’t be more thrilled.”
“You sound so,” Morgan said. “We’ll have a private celebration in a couple of weeks. I’ll call you from New York to set a date. It’s wonderful, Miss Sly.”
“Wonderful for me. You were such a help to me, Mr. Shurtliff; such a brace—” She broke off. Morgan heard a background voice speaking to her; and in a moment: “That was my secretary reminding me that I have an appointment with my dentist at five. Such a let-down after my
triumph—”
“Before you go, let me quickly tell you that I read ‘The Steeplechase’—”
“Did you!” she burst out: “And did you like it?”
“‘Like’ is hardly the word. I think it’s remarkable.”
“Oh, I am so glad,” she crowed. “I think so too, but I’m so prejudiced by my regard for its author—I’ve known her all her life—that I hardly dare to trust my judgment…. But forgive me. I shall be late at the dentist’s if I don’t leave this minute—”
“Run!” Morgan said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, my dear, thank you. Call me soon.”
He hung up. He imagined her picking up her purse, hurrying out of her office, the bun of her done-up hair rocking in rhythm with her free gait. And when he let that image go, he focused briefly on what, willy-nilly, she had confirmed for him: that the author of “The Steeplechase”—S. K. P. Dobson—was a woman.
That evening he had dinner with his father at the Union Club.
In the club’s lounge—a large, high-ceilinged, congenially formal room—a lively crowd of pre-dinner drinkers was gathered. Half the room’s length away, he spotted his father enthroned in one of a pair of high-backed leather chairs. Ansel Shurtliff raised his hand and waved, but remained in place. Morgan hurried to him. “Pa.”
“Forgive me for staying pat, son, but I didn’t dare risk losing these chairs. What a horde! Not overly noisy though…. As you see, I presumed you’d have your usual bourbon.”
Atop a square, knee-high oak table was the enticing clutter of a glass of bourbon, a glass of sherry, a silver bucket and a pair of ice-tongs. Morgan sat down and took from the bucket three ice-cubes and dropped them into the bourbon. He handed the glass of sherry to his father, then picked up his own glass and, meeting his father’s eyes, anxious to make his announcement, itchy to have it done, said: “I’ve decided to sell the Hatherton house, Pa.”
No more than a second passed. “So you’ve come to it at last!”
Matters of Chance Page 41
