by Belva Plain
“Oh,” Stern said bitterly, “that would be the least of my problems. Iris has been nagging for years about going back to teach. But what she could earn wouldn’t be a drop in this particular bucket.”
Ignoring the last, Paul persisted. “Nagging? Why nagging?”
“Because I didn’t want her to. I wanted her at home, running a proper household. No one can be in two places at once.”
Very mildly, Paul chastised him. “You’re living in a past age, or one that’s passing fast.” But when Stern, raising his eyebrows, said nothing to that, he added more softly, “You’re thinking that I have no right to reprimand you, and you’re correct.”
“I asked for it. It’s I who’ve imposed on you with my troubles.”
What a charade this is! Paul said to himself. A dishonest game on my part, filled as I am with pity and self-pity, posing as a kind, disinterested old man. I should be ashamed, and I am.
Neither spoke. Obviously, Stern was waiting for Paul to get up and leave. But Paul was not prepared to leave.
“So it devolves upon money in the end,” he remarked.
“Most things do, in the end.”
“I will give you what you need to become an oncologist.”
The words fell into the stillness and hung there.
“I beg your pardon,” Stern said.
“I said, I will give you what you need.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You look at me as if I weren’t quite right in the head. But I assure you, I am.”
“It makes no sense. Why should this total stranger make an offer like that?”
“I’m not a total stranger. You forget, I’ve known your wife’s family—”
“Not really, Mr. Werner. You were acquainted with my wife’s mother, I believe, a long time ago. So I still don’t—”
“Haven’t you ever heard of people helping other human beings who happen to need help? And I like you. You’re a fine doctor, and it happens that I can afford to help you. That’s all there is to it.”
Stern was giving him a long, steady look, a physician’s look of appraisal.
“I don’t know why I have the feeling that there’s really more to it, Mr. Werner. As I think about it, too, I’m sure your shoulder doesn’t hurt either. Tell me, why did you really come here today?”
The odd thing was that quite suddenly a reversal had taken place, and Stern’s was now the dominant spirit in the room.
Beneath this unexpected scrutiny Paul floundered. The best answer he could produce was not good enough; he knew it even as he gave it.
“It was an impulse. An eccentric one, you might say.”
Stern was obviously not satisfied with the answer.
“Extraordinary … puzzle. Like your very generous offer, which of course I can’t accept.”
Ah, but this man was difficult!
“Why can’t you?” demanded Paul.
“An enormous loan like that? It’s not lack of appreciation, no. But there’s such a thing as self-respect. Pride.”
“Of which you have too much, if I may say so.”
“Maybe. But I know what I can do and what I cannot do.”
“Apparently, you can let your family suffer. Your wife, who came close to killing herself.… Is your pride more important?”
“It’s not fair to put it that way, Mr. Werner. You’re making it black or white, and that’s so simple.”
“If you won’t take my help, why don’t you go to your wife’s mother?”
“She’s all alone. Why, I would never take from her! My father-in-law left her very comfortable, but not comfortable enough to invade her capital. I couldn’t deprive her of her little luxuries. She’s up in the Berkshires now, going to the concerts at Tanglewood. No, never.”
“So that brings you back to square one. Back to me.”
A powerful impulse drove Paul to stand up and, with his hands clenched in his jacket pockets, walk to the window. The situation was completely mad. And he was horrified to feel tears rising in back of his eyes; this was the first time his eyes had been wet since the day he flew out of Israel, leaving Ilse behind.
“Things are coming back to my mind,” Stern was saying. “Disjointed incidents. I know there are things you are not telling me.”
“Not so.”
“Iris has a vague memory of meeting you two or three times while she was growing up.”
“That means nothing.”
“Except that—well, to be blunt about it, when you came to that dinner a few years back, and afterward came to me as a patient, she said it was clear that you were always turning up. She said you stared at her and it gave her a nasty feeling.”
“That is a brutal thing to tell me,” Paul answered, still not turning around.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to be. But I believe you appreciate honesty. And you must admit there is something unusual about all this.”
He is pushing me, driving me to the edge, Paul thought. How easy it would be, what relief, to come out once and for all with the truth! But that would be insane.
“I’m thinking frankly that there must be some connection. Did you perhaps have business dealings with Iris’s father that ended badly? Or was there some rivalry, maybe, over Iris’s mother when you were all young? I suppose I sound like a private investigator, but there’s something hidden.”
Paul did not answer. His heart was hammering.
Stern’s voice, although courteous and quiet, was absolutely relentless. “Unless of course I am completely crazy. But I don’t think so.”
Now, now, all the years of repression, of secrecy and denial, took their vengeance. And Paul, losing the control that had for so long kept him from doing the unthinkable, whirled about to reveal without shame his wet eyes and trembling mouth, out of which came the unsayable.
“Iris is my daughter. Now you know what’s hidden.”
Then he walked away to the opposite end of the room to stare at a row of books without seeing them. Again a long, long silence followed. Behind him he heard Stern making loud rustling noises with the papers on his desk.
At last Paul broke the silence. “Damn queer things you hear if you live long enough! That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m just hearing your words in my head. I’m wondering whether I heard them correctly.”
And then a fearful panic seized Paul. He felt ill, so faint that he almost lost his balance and had to brace himself with both hands on Stern’s desk. In God’s name, what had he done? In God’s name …
When he leaned forward, his face came to within a few inches of Stern’s open mouth and shocked, dilated pupils.
“You heard them correctly. And if you ever repeat them, I’ll kill you and then kill myself. Do you hear that?”
“My God,” Stern whispered.
“Because I couldn’t live with the damage I’d done. I don’t know what came over me. The first time in all the years. All the years!” he cried.
He sank back into a chair with his face in his hands. From some inner room came the single chime of a clock marking the half hour. A horn sounded in the parking lot. He’d lost control. He’d given to this stranger, this unknown quantity on the other side of the desk, the ultimate power to destroy. Iris … Anna.…
He heard a chair scrape, heard the shuffle of shoes on the rug, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Paul. Paul. Look up. I want you to have a little brandy, but I can’t manage it with one hand.”
When he looked up, he saw the concerned expression of the doctor, the professional command. Obeying, he seized the bottle and the glass that Stern had placed on the desk and poured a drink.
“I needed that,” he managed to gasp when he had taken a mouthful.
“Take more,” Stern said. “It dilates the blood vessels. Your pressure must be shooting up to the top.”
“Yes. I’m dizzy. I’m scared.”
Stern’s hand grasped
his shoulder again, firmly this time.
“Listen to me, you’ll be all right. And you’re not to be afraid, not about a stroke because you’re not going to have one, and not about what you’ve told me. Look into my eyes. I swear to you, Paul, as God is my witness, I will never tell another human being, no matter what may happen—no matter what, do you hear me?—what you said. I swear it.”
The deep, troubled eyes were intelligent and compassionate. He is honorable, Paul thought. Yes. I have to believe him. I must. Yes.
Yet he had to say more. “You understand what the truth would do to them both?”
“Oh,” Stern said quickly, “to anyone at this point in life. But Iris”—he shook his head—“Iris would be shattered. No one knows that better than I do.”
“You will want to hear the story.”
“If you feel you can tell it.”
Stern resumed his seat and Paul, under his quiet gaze, felt the slow lessening of panic.
He began. “It’s simple enough. I was engaged to be married when Anna and I fell in love. I didn’t have courage enough to break the engagement, so I broke Anna’s heart and my own instead. A few years later we met quite accidentally, and Iris was the result.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough, isn’t it? But,” Paul added quickly, “there has been nothing between us since. I want to make that clear. She was loyal to her husband. He never knew.”
“All the years I’ve been in this family … It’s incredible. Anna, with her beauty and serenity … I could have sworn it was a good marriage, that she was happy.” Stern was bewildered.
“Maybe she was. One makes oneself content. There are different ways.” Paul’s voice roughened and stopped. Here in this room he had stripped himself naked and exposed the forbidden. For an instant he felt as though he had merely dreamed of doing it, that it was merely an expression of his worst nightmare.
“He was a good man, a very kind father. Iris adored him,” Stern mused as if he were reminding himself aloud of things forgotten. “It’s astonishing, although it shouldn’t be, I suppose, how much is hidden in people’s lives, even in one’s own, like my old life on the other side of the ocean. Is anything what it seems to be?”
“Fortunately for us all, yes.”
“I don’t know what to believe. I accused her of seeing another man that night, and then I thought how ridiculous that was. She’s not a woman one would ever suspect, but now there’s this about her mother.… I don’t know anything. Maybe I never did.”
Paul felt a great weight. At last he had gotten what he had never dared hope to have, the freedom to talk and learn about Iris, and now he did not know what to do with it.
Then something struck him again, and he had to ask “So I made her feel nasty, you said?”
“An exaggeration. ‘Uncomfortable’ would be more accurate.”
“Those few times we met in all the years! I suppose I must have been overeager.”
“Iris is very acute. She sees everything, the most subtle things.”
Yes. The world crushed such people. Meg had been like that. If you loved such people who could not rescue themselves, you had to rescue them as once he had rescued Meg.
“You will get together again, I hope?”
“I don’t know.” And Stern’s lips tightened into a pale, unbecoming gash.
Paul, who had spent his business life in negotiations, had learned to feel when an atmosphere was changing and the subject must be dropped. On the subject of Iris, Stern had abruptly closed up. He ventured, nevertheless, just one more remark.
“Whatever there is between you, whatever, my advice is to have it out in the open. Tell the truth to each other, hold nothing back.” He finished wryly, “I know I’m a fine one to be giving advice like that, but I’m giving it all the same.”
His energy had returned. Typical of him, he wanted now to get down to solutions, to wherever a solution was possible. From his inner pocket he withdrew a checkbook, pin seal with gold corners. Many years old, it was his mother’s last birthday present. It was a trifle ostentatious and not what he would have bought for himself, but he would keep it, nevertheless, until it should wear out.
“I have always wanted to do something for Iris, and I’ve never been able to. I have never spent ten cents on her. Do you know what that can do to a man? I want to give you whatever you need to get back on track. Just say what you need.”
Stern had a doubtful expression. “I don’t think you understand. We’re talking about supporting a family during two years of study—” he was saying when Paul interrupted him.
“Let’s not waste words.” In this total reversal of mood he was feeling a curious kind of joy. “What is your average income?”
“I’d have to figure that out,” Stern answered, hesitating.
“Not exactly, of course, but an approximation.”
“I can’t even say that offhand.”
It was hard for Paul, who kept exact accounts, to hide his astonishment. “But how then do you know what you can afford to spend?”
Somewhat ashamedly, the other replied, “I suppose I don’t really know. It gets spent as it comes in, and there always seemed to be just enough.”
“Just enough,” Paul repeated, feeling distaste. Then he checked himself. He must hide the distaste, must not seem to be lording it over this man with the power of his checkbook, and weakening his dignity.
“Would you object to letting me see your bank statements for the past three or four months? That would give me some idea of what we’re talking about.”
“Not at all. You’ll have to get them. They’re in the file drawers in that closet.”
And so, while Stern read at the desk, Paul spent the next two hours in the study of money, which, like the analysis of blood, reveals in a different way the life of the owner. When he had finished his notes and conclusions, he was left with both indignation and wonderment, both of which he curtailed.
“You understand,” he said gently, “that I can’t maintain you in this style. I’m afraid you’ll have to make some changes. Painful changes.”
Stern nodded. “Go on.”
“The house. You spend a fortune on the gardens, it seems.”
“They’re very beautiful.”
“They must be. And the real estate tax is enormous.”
“It’s a large property.”
“And the country club. It’s very pleasant, I’m sure, but the cost mounts up, doesn’t it?”
Stern sighed. “Oh, yes, it mounts up, all right.”
“And the rented villa in the Caribbean. And—”
Paul hated what he was having to say. It was like undressing a human being in public. But really, this flow of cash, out the minute it came in, was outrageous.
“It will be a new way of life,” he said, and softening his manner with a smile, added, “I’m sorry to have to make this gift with so many strings attached to it.”
“Not a gift,” Stern said, “a loan. I’m accepting it only because I’m desperate. My children—you understand?” And again he drew himself up taller in the chair.
So proud. So proud, Paul said to himself. This is killing the man.
“All right, then,” he agreed quietly, “a no-interest loan.”
“No, no. Prime rate.”
Paul smiled. “You’re a stubborn cuss, aren’t you? But I can be stubborn too. Since you won’t take my gift, you’ll have to take my interest-free loan. I’ll send a quarterly check, but if anything should come up and you run short, I want you to let me know. Will you give me your word that you will?”
Stern nodded. Paul, seeing that he was overcome with emotion, got up. Dusk had fallen, so he lit the lamps. In the mild glow Stern’s eyes shone wet, and Paul, who had not minded showing his own tears, bent over his checkbook and turned considerately away.
So proud, he thought again, but I can’t help liking him. And aware that Stern was still unable to speak, he said lightly, “Well, I’d best be g
oing. Good luck, and God bless you all.”
He laid the check on the table, then pressed the other man’s left hand and went out.
All the next day Paul’s mind knew turmoil. Much had been clarified, that was true. But the trouble that was central to everything still lay smoldering like a hot coal. What was to become of Iris? And almost squinting with the effort of recalling her face, he imagined her abandoned in some ornate, overlarge house, sick at heart, floundering to explain to her children, then dismantling her home to move out. And would it be she who would live in that smaller house he had prescribed for them, or would it be Stern himself? Possibilities, all pitiable, all wretched, presented themselves to Paul; what he saw chiefly was a repetition of her mother’s disrupted life, or worse. Far worse.
“You’re a hundred miles away, Mr. Werner,” said old Katie when she brought his eggs to the breakfast table.
“So I am, so I am.”
Actually, he was thinking that somebody should be giving Iris some emotional support. She should not be alone with her pain. Her mother should be with her, her mother, who knew them both, must be the one to bring the husband and wife together. Or must try, at any rate. Paul frowned. Perhaps nobody could do it, but somebody ought to try. Definitely.
Absentmindedly, he buttered toast and ate the eggs. Stern would never appeal to Anna. He would never appeal to anyone for help. There was something too rigid about him; one didn’t have to be a psychology major to see that. Or to know that it’s the rigid branch that breaks first either. Well, thank goodness the money would keep the branch from breaking off; he’d be able to keep his children going, to reestablish himself. But that still left Iris.
And, just as on the road to Westchester he had abruptly veered off and gone to Stern, so now Paul shoved his chair away from his unfinished breakfast and stood up.
“Katie,” he called, “I have to go out of town. I may be gone for a day or two, or I may be back very late tonight. So don’t be alarmed if you hear me.”
The Berkshires, Stern had said. She’d gone to the concerts at Tanglewood. She would be staying, then, somewhere close by. With a whole lot of persistence he should be able to find her.
He couldn’t help but think of Ilse again while he threw some clothes into a bag. Would she, prime rescuer that she was, understand what he was about to do, or would she tell him again that he was “playing with fire”? Dear Ilse! He wanted to believe that she would understand.
