Four whole days in New York. It seemed like a complete fantasy. Margy was arranging everything, from tickets to Sondheim’s new show, A Little Night Music, to a night on the town with a bunch of her friends.
But staring at myself in our bedroom mirror, I saw a small-town Earth Mother looking back at me. All those pasta suppers and the lack of exercise had added about seven pounds to my frame. I vowed that I’d lose five pounds before I left for New York next week.
“What’s with the Bugs Bunny diet?” Dan asked me when I served him lasagne at dinner that night while I stuck to shredded carrots on cottage cheese.
“I’m just trying to drop a few pounds, that’s all.”
“You look fine.”
“Well, thank you—but I still could lose a little weight.”
“So Margy and her friends don’t think you’re some chubby country girl? Believe me, no one in New York is going to care how fat you are . . . even if you’re not really fat.”
Not really fat? Thanks a lot, Doc.
Still, I didn’t care whether Dan thought I was being a little excessive on the dieting front. I continued on the Bugs Bunny regime while also making all the arrangements for my time away—from getting Babs to agree to take Jeff all day (“I don’t want any extra money,” she told me, “just one of those paperweights with the Empire State Building inside, which snow when you shake them”), to negotiating time off with Estelle, to calling the local cab company in Bridgton and arranging an early-morning taxi to the airport in Portland.
Everything was in place, everything was ready—including my little weekend bag, which I had packed three days before my departure. Margy had arranged to take two days off work and told me she’d even meet me as I came off the Eastern flight at LaGuardia.
Two days before my departure, I was at work in the library, stacking books as fast as possible so I could get back to reading E. B. White’s Here Is New York, when Dan walked in. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 11:05 a.m.—and from the time of day and the look on my husband’s face, it was clear that something was terribly wrong.
“What’s happened?”
“My dad’s had a heart attack.”
I shut my eyes—and, as selfish as it is to admit it, my first despairing thought was: I’m going nowhere this weekend.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Massive. He was at work when it hit. Until the ambulance guys arrived, everyone thought he was dead. They managed to get his heart going again, but . . .”
He bit his lip, trying to stay in control. I put my arms around him. He buried his head in my shoulder, stifling a sob.
“Just spoke to the hospital in Glens Falls. They say if he lasts a week, it will be a miracle.”
“Can you go there now?”
“I’ve got appointments until three, but Nurse Bass has called the Regional Health Authority in Lewiston and they’re finding a doctor to cover for me until I get back. I really can’t be gone more than a week, because then the town won’t have full-time coverage . . .”
I put my finger to his lips.
“The important thing right now is that you get to your father’s bedside. Is there a flight?”
“It would mean going to New York and waiting four hours for a little puddle jumper to Syracuse, then it’s a two-hour bus ride to Glens Falls. Also, Nurse Bass found out it’s over two hundred bucks one way. So I’m going to take the bus. There’s a Trailways from Lewiston at four this afternoon. Goes kind of a convoluted route—across to Burlington, then into New York State . . .”
“Why don’t you take the car?”
“Because you’ll need it this week. Anyway, once I’m there I can use Dad’s car.”
“Dan, it’s crazy spending twelve, thirteen hours on a bus.”
“I don’t want to drive. I can’t drive right now. I’m too . . .”
He released himself from my embrace, wiped his eyes, glanced at his watch, and said, “I’ve got patients . . .”
“Dan, I’m so sorry.”
He just shrugged and left.
Later that afternoon, I drove my husband to Lewiston. En route he said very little, except, “I feel bad about New York.”
“It’s kind of beyond your control.”
“As soon as this is all done, you can get down there.”
“New York’s not exactly going anywhere.”
I dropped him off at the bus depot in Lewiston. He gave me a fast peck on the cheek and said, “I’ll call tomorrow, tell you what’s going on.”
Then he grabbed my cigarettes off the dash, picked up his bag, and disappeared into the gray linoleum interior of the Trailways station. He didn’t turn back once to look at me.
On the way back to Pelham, I tried to keep my disappointment at bay. Margy was as let down as I was.
“This is rotten luck—for both of us. I was really looking forward to a wild weekend with you.”
“Well, as soon as things are settled . . .”
“You mean, as soon as Old Man Buchan kicks it . . .”
“Yeah, as soon as we’ve got him in the ground, you’ll see me in Manhattan.”
“How’s Dan handling it?”
“In a very Dan way.”
Margy understood. “He’s in shock,” Margy said.
“He almost cried—then thought better of it.”
“Cut the guy some slack. Losing your dad is a very big thing.”
“I know, and he’s dealing with it as best he can. But, once again, he’s left me feeling all isolated and outside of his life.”
“You’re just feeling disappointed about canceling the trip to New York.”
“It’s not just that, Margy.”
“It’ll pass, hon. Really it will. And you’ll be down here visiting me in no time. But for the moment . . .”
I know, I know. Keep your chin up. Look for the silver lining. Be the loving, supportive spouse.
When he rang me the next afternoon, Dan did sound absolutely exhausted. The bus trip had taken fourteen hours. He’d only arrived in Glens Falls at six that morning, and had gone straight to the hospital, where his father was in the intensive care unit.
“Clinically, he’s all but dead,” Dan said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “There’s been extensive, irreparable neurological damage, coupled with cardiovascular trauma. The thing is, despite the fact that the myocardium is totally compromised—and there seems to be no cerebral activity—his heart is still beating strong. His will to live is ferocious. It could be weeks, months before he goes . . . How has your day been?”
I did feel immensely sorry for Dan—and told him so.
“If I could, I’d jump back on that bus right now and come straight home,” he said. “This is just going to be one long deathwatch.”
Later that day, around six, there was a knock on the door. It was Billy. He smiled shyly at me, then looked down at his shoes.
“I heard about Doc Buchan’s dad. I’m real sorry.”
“I’ll make certain he knows that.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding his head. Then he fell silent.
“Anything else, Billy?”
“Just wondered if you needed some work done around the place.”
“Everything’s just fine—thanks to you.”
He flashed another of his goofy smiles, but kept avoiding my gaze.
“Just was over working on the Bland house today. Mr. Sims lost his new plumber, so he had to call me, ha, ha.”
“No problems over there?” I asked, trying to sound polite, yet desperately wanting to end this conversation as soon as possible.
“Should have it all ready for you in another five, six weeks.”
“Well, that’s great.”
Another awkward pause. Then, bless his intervening heart, Jeff started to bawl.
“Listen, I’d better be going,” I said.
“Oh . . . right,” Billy said.
“Thanks for coming by.”
“You sure you don’t need anything rep
aired or fixed?”
“If anything goes wrong, you’ll be the first to know.”
I closed the door and went over to the playpen where Jeff was crying his eyes out. I picked him up, smelled his diaper, and wrinkled my nose. Then as I lay him down on the floor to change him, the phone rang. I reached for it while unfastening one of the diaper pins, half expecting Billy to be on the line and making me wonder how I should continue treating his strange friendliness. But instead I heard a male voice ask, “Hannah Latham?”
“It’s Hannah Buchan, actually.”
A little laugh. “Oh, right, forgot you got married.”
“Who is this?”
“Toby Judson.”
“Who?”
“You don’t remember meeting me? Tobias Judson?”
The penny dropped.
“Hang on, are you the Tobias Judson of Columbia sit-in fame?”
“The very one. And I met you briefly with your dad a couple of summers ago in Boston. Remember?”
Of course I remembered. It was the evening when I saw Dad with that woman.
“How did you get my number, Toby?”
“Your dad gave it to me.”
“I see,” I said.
“And he said if I happened to be passing through Maine, I should look you up.”
“You’re in Maine now?” I asked.
“Ever heard of a restaurant called Goodwin’s—home of the Awful Awful?”
“You’re in Bridgton?”
“You got it—and I was wondering: you wouldn’t have a floor I could crash on tonight?”
SEVEN
MY TWO-MINUTE CONVERSATION with Toby Judson made me nervous. Not that he said anything weird or unsettling. If anything, the guy was charm itself. He explained with a little laugh that he was “on the run” from his doctoral thesis at the University of Chicago (which was now a year overdue) and had been hitching around the country. He said he fully understood that I would have to check with my husband before deciding if I could put him up for the night, and gave me the phone number at Goodwin’s so I could call him back and let him know if he should start thumbing a ride in the direction of Pelham. There was nothing sinister in his repartee—and hey, calling up friends of friends out of nowhere, introducing yourself, and asking for a spare floor to crash on was simply the done thing. This also wasn’t just a friend of a friend . . . this was a friend of my dad’s, and a guy who had made news across the country for helping turn Columbia University into an ideological battleground during the big sit-down strike there. Toby Judson was something of a campus radical legend, so I certainly knew who he was.
No, what bothered me was—how can I put it?—his know-it-all tone, the air of easy familiarity, the little sarcastic laugh that entered his voice when I used my married name (no doubt, that had made him immediately write me off as totally bourgeois). But maybe my unease came from the fact that I, in turn, hated myself for being so hesitant, so cautious, so bourgeois. Still, I was a married woman living in a very small town, so . . . I took down his number at Goodwin’s, hung up, and called my dad in Vermont.
Much to my surprise, he was at home when I rang. Better yet, he was not his usual preoccupied self. He seemed genuinely concerned about Dan’s father and he also wanted to know everything that Jeffrey was up to—all his little developmental milestones.
“I know I owe you a visit,” he said. “Life has just been a little too full.”
“Speaking of visitors,” I said, then mentioned my phone call from Toby Judson.
“Typical of Toby to hit the road like that,” he said. “He might be the brightest kid I’ve run across in thirty years, but he can never apply himself when it comes to the long haul. One of the best public speakers I’ve ever heard—articulate, funny, ferociously well-read, and a really good writer to boot. You should have seen the stuff he published in Ramparts and The Nation. Great style—and a brilliant analytical mind.”
“Sounds like a smart guy,” I said, interrupting Dad’s rave review.
“Can you put him up for a couple of nights?” Dad asked.
“Well, as you know, Dan’s not here right now.”
“And the neighbors might talk?”
“Something like that.”
“Tell Dan—and also tell the neighbors before they can start gossiping. That’s the time-honored New England way of defusing rumors. And don’t worry, he won’t talk politics at you all the time. That’s not Toby’s style.”
After hanging up, I called Dan in Glens Falls but got no answer. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly seven-thirty p.m.—and I couldn’t keep the guy waiting in Goodwin’s for the rest of the night. I also thought Dan would be cool about it, so I called back Goodwin’s. Toby must have been standing by the phone, since he answered immediately.
I said, “My dad sends you a big hello.”
“Did he also tell you that I don’t wear fangs and don’t sleep in a coffin?”
“Oh, you come highly recommended.”
Another of his sardonic laughs.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “And your absent husband doesn’t mind?”
“He’s got other things on his mind right now. His dad is dying.”
“That’s a drag.”
Nice turn of phrase you’ve got there, mister.
I went silent. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t do sympathy very well.”
“Listen, I can only put you up for a night or two.”
“And that’s all I’m planning to stay.”
I told him where to find us in Pelham.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said. “Be there as soon as I can hitch a lift.”
I hung up, whipped around the house, washed up the dishes in the sink, put away a couple of diapers that had been drying by the stove, cleaned the toilet and the bathroom sink, and thought to myself: You really are bourgeois. I even changed out of the baby-food-splattered overalls that I had been wearing all day, exchanging them for a pair of jeans and a Mexican blouse that I had bought a few years ago at some groovy little shop in Boston, and which still looked reasonably, well, groovy, I guess.
Then I picked up the phone and tried Dan again. No answer, so I dialed a local number. Nurse Bass picked up on the second ring. It was hard to hear her, as the television was, per usual, blasting away in the background.
“Will ya turn it down, for Christ’s sakes,” she yelled, before coming back to me and asking, “You calling to tell me the doc’s dad’s dead?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been trying to get through to him this evening, but I’m getting no answer at his dad’s house . . .”
“Well, he’s probably at the hospital.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured too. But I know he checks in with you to find out about his patients—and just in case he calls late tonight and might worry about ringing me afterward in case I’ve gone to bed, would you mind telling him that a friend of ours has come to stay for a few days and we’ll probably be up until about midnight?”
I know this all sounded a little contrived but I didn’t care. Because if Nurse Bass had seen a strange man emerging from our front door tomorrow morning, I wouldn’t have heard the end of it. So, as Margy might have put it, I was covering my ass. Nurse Bass took the bait.
“Who’s the friend?” she asked.
“Someone from college,” I said, then wished her a good night and hung up.
As it turned out, Dan called thirty minutes later. He sounded strained.
“Dad’s heart arrested twice this afternoon but they brought him back.”
“Was that a good idea?”
“Of course not. But doctors are legally bound to try to keep the patient alive—even if he’s completely brain-dead, like Dad is now.”
“You sound wrecked.”
“I am wrecked—and I want out of here. Fast. If Dad arrests again, I think that’s it.”
“Well, we want you back. Have you spoken with Betty Bass tonight?”
“Not yet.”
/> So I explained how I left a message for him, just in case he called late, about our surprise visitor. When I filled him in, Dan said, “As long as he’s off our floor by the time I get back, it’s fine by me.”
“I’m only doing it as a favor to Dad. They were ‘comrades in arms’ on the barricades.”
“Well, if he gets in your way, kick him out. Oh . . . it was smart to tell Betty about him showing up. Good thinking, Batman.”
“Get some sleep, hon.”
“I miss you.”
After we hung up, the thought struck me: That was about the most affectionate conversation we’ve had in weeks, maybe even months.
An hour went by . . . and still no sign of the famous Tobias Judson. Then another hour. I was just about to leave a key under the mat and a note on top of it, telling him I’d gone to bed, when there was a knock on the door.
I opened it. It had been around three years since I’d met him, and there was so much going on that night that I hadn’t really registered much about him. But the first thing that came into my head when I found Toby Judson on my doorstep was: He’s kind of cute . . . if you like the bearded intellectual type.
Actually, his beard wasn’t really a beard, more like a heavy stubble that softened his very angular face. He was tall and thin, with bushy black hair and little round John Lennon glasses. He wore a frayed blue button-down shirt, a crew neck navy blue sweater with a couple of holes in the sleeves, gray bell-bottom corduroys, and hiking boots. Though he looked scruffy, the good breeding immediately shone through. So did the perfect teeth—the result, no doubt, of hundreds of hours spent in the orthodontist’s chair.
I saw the perfect teeth when he gave me the perfect smile as I opened the door.
“Sorry about the delay,” he said, “but there are no cars between Bridgton and Pelham after sunset.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 124
