Harvest

by Belva Plain

  “No one here will have anything to regret, I assure you. Now, what are you going to tell me about Steve Stern?”

  “He’s upstairs. Go up and see for yourself.”

  Paul trembled. His hands went wet. His mouth went dry.

  One of the men said, “This way. I’ll show you.”

  They climbed the stairs, one flight and then a second, past closed doors and open ones, with glimpses of unmade cots and strewn objects, cardboard cartons, books, and clothing. From the back of the house a radio blasted, and in one of the rooms somebody frying food on a hot plate wafted the smell of grease into the air. On the third floor Paul was directed to a door.

  “He’s in there, in bed.”

  “Hurt?”

  “No, just sick. Maybe you can do something with him,” the man added, and pushed the door open. “Here’s someone to see you. He’s come from Tim.”

  After this careless, unfeeling introduction Paul was left alone with the person who lay on the rumpled bed. The room was almost dark. A tattered green window shade was pulled down to the sill so that the faint light that entered was a morose green. In the small space between the shade and the sill, rain spattered, and the wind drove sharply over the bed. When Paul closed the window and raised the shade, a purer and more tender light came pouring out of the gray sky. Now he was able to see the man on the bed.

  He moved closer, surprising himself by the sudden control that had taken hold of him. He had stopped trembling and, curiously, was having a sense of himself accepting this most extraordinary situation, taking hold of it, as in a dream one plays a heroic part in an improbable drama.

  The man on the bed was dozing. His breath came whistling through his half-open, exhausted mouth. Wet hair clung to his forehead.

  “He’s burning up” was Paul’s first thought, and the second one was, oddly enough, “He’s not what I expected.”

  For Theo, through all his anxiety, had described only his son’s intelligence, but never his beauty. Drawing up the only chair in the room that was not littered with dirty clothes, he sat down by the bed and studied the sleeper. The face was sculpted, strong yet sensitive; even the untended beard could not hide its symmetry. Not like his father, Paul said to himself, and then: not like me. For this man—this boy—was his! Of his flesh and blood!

  For long minutes he considered this fact, the reality of the sordid room, and the path that had led such a boy to such a room.

  Then he became aware that Steve’s eyes were open and, glazed with fever, were staring at him.

  “I’m cold,” he murmured.

  “Are you? Has anyone given you any medicine?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, I’m going to get some for you.”

  The commanding young woman was waiting in the front hall.

  “He must have a very high fever,” Paul told her.

  “I know. We’ve given him aspirin.”

  “Not good enough. Hasn’t he seen a doctor?”

  “Our usual doctor’s away till next week. We couldn’t risk taking him to a stranger. He’s a bit out of his head and talking too much.”

  “I understand. But you don’t want him to die here.”

  “Well, have you got any better suggestion?” the tall one asked sharply.

  “As a matter of fact, I have. I’m staying at a rooming house. I can take him back with me and nurse him.”

  The other appeared to be considering the offer.

  “You don’t want him to die here,” Paul repeated.

  “God, no! That’s all we need. Okay, then, take care of him. But how are you going to take him in this rain?”

  “I’ll get a taxi. I’ve been flush for the past few days.” Paul grinned. His meaning was clear: Tim—or someone—had supplied him with money.

  “Well, okay. Go ahead.”

  After the fact Paul was to wonder at his own accomplishment, first in getting Steve dressed; then helping him wobble down the stairs into the taxi and finally into the hotel.

  Once there, he put him into the twin bed nearest to the windows that overlooked the Bay. Next he shaved, changed into his usual clothes, and summoned the hotel doctor.

  “No, he won’t need the hospital,” the doctor said, “unless, of course, he should develop pneumonia. Just keep up the penicillin and watch the fluids.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Is he a relative of yours?”

  “Son of a friend.”

  “Well. A friend in need. You came just about in time. Another day with fever like this …” The doctor shook his head. “He’s lucky he came across you.”

  “Thank you.” Paul smiled and closed the door.

  From a booth in the lobby he made a telephone call to Theo Stern. He felt, as he told his astounding tale, a confusion of triumph and exhilaration along with pity for the boy who lay upstairs in his room. And over the wire, from the far end of the continent, it seemed that he could actually feel Stern’s shock.

  “But is he all right, Paul? The truth, please! Don’t shield me.”

  “Yes, yes, he will be. The doctor’s started him on antibiotics, and he’s a strong guy.”

  “I’m coming right out. I’ll get the first flight I can.”

  “Iris too?”

  “I’m going to try to keep her from coming. It might be too overwhelming. She’s been frantic over him. And, Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Before you hang up I just want to say that I never knew there were people like you in the world. No, don’t answer.”

  “What am I doing here?” asked Steve when, late that night, he awoke.

  “Don’t you remember that I brought you here in a taxi?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Steve sat up and looked around at the room, which was quiet and restful in lamplight. The chairs and curtains were flowered in lemon yellow and leaf green. Engravings of old California hung on the walls. A handsome French armoire concealed a television between the windows. Supper had been wheeled in and set up on a table between the windows. Paul, seated at the table, was peeling some fruit.

  Steve stared. His eyes, though puzzled, were clear, and it was evident that the fever had broken.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m a friend of Tim’s.”

  “Tim? I hate him. Tell him I hate him. I wish he was dead.”

  Paul’s response, despite his astonishment at this, was mild. “Do you? Why?”

  “Damn him. And damn me for listening to him.”

  Paul, aware that he must tread very carefully on unknown ground that might be laden with mines, said softly, “He only wanted to know what had happened to you, whether you—”

  “Whether I was alive?” the boy asked brutally. “Oh, you can tell him I’m alive, all right. But she’s dead. She—where’s my jacket? There’s stuff in the pocket. Here, read. Her picture’s in the paper, page nine.”

  As if he had received a command, Paul read the rumpled clipping. There, indeed, was a photo of a young girl with braids hung on either side of a childish face. “Wealthy mother baffled … why girl left home.… ‘We never had any disagreements,’ the mother said tearfully. ‘She had everything a child could ask for.…’ ” Paul read on. “House used as bomb factory … fragment of man’s torso found under bloody rubble last night … the police are searching … no trail to follow.…”

  “I would have been there if I hadn’t gotten sick.” Steve’s eyes filled and he turned away. “I should have been there. She’s dead! Susan’s dead, and it’s my fault. My fault.”

  As the boy wept, Paul’s own eyes filled. So the story unravels, a pitiable love story, this boy’s first love, perhaps, caught in that mess, born and died in that mess.

  “It was his fault, the bastard. The things he taught us. But I shouldn’t have let her either. I promised that nothing would happen.” Steve’s face was contorted with despair. “She didn’t really understand, she did it to please me. She tried to believe in it all, because she was l
onesome and she loved me. A kid.… She was only a little kid. She didn’t want to do it. She really didn’t want to do it. He taught us.… And now she’s dead.… So you see, you can go back and tell Tim from me to go to hell.”

  Paul got up to stand at the foot of the bed.

  “I haven’t got the foggiest idea where Tim is,” he said, “and I don’t give a damn either. I’ll level with you: I wasn’t sent here by him. I’ve come from your father.”

  “From my father? I didn’t think he cared.”

  “Well, you thought wrong.”

  “Then why didn’t he come himself, if he cares so much?”

  “He’s coming,” Paul answered steadily. “He’ll be here sometime tomorrow.”

  “But I don’t understand who you are, why you’re here.”

  “I’m here because it was I who happened to think of a lead that, miraculously, happened to work.”

  “But why? I can’t figure out why you’re taking all this trouble for me. This expensive room—”

  “What’s there to figure out? Sometimes a person wants to do something for a friend. Or for a stranger too. Either way.”

  Steve said nothing. It seemed to Paul, as he watched the changing expressions on the other’s face, that one of them might be embarrassment, another wonderment, and one disbelief. Then something flared in Paul, sorrow, anger, and exasperation catching fire together.

  “Did you think that only you and your kind knew how to give or to feel compassion?” he cried harshly. “You want to hear something? Your friends would have let you die rather than risk their cause. They’re a cold, cruel lot. And your girl, that Susan, is dead—for what? Answer me, if you can.”

  “It was—it was to stop the war,” Steve answered very low. “We thought if we kept bombing the barracks, they would stop the draft.”

  “It was more than that. It was to make a revolution here. The place was full of printed stuff. Don’t deny it. Your Susan died for that.”

  There was a silence. A horn blew in the street below, voices passed in the corridor, and the silence continued.

  “Revolution,” Paul said. “What? Cuban style? Russian style? Goodies for all, including secret police? Come on, man, you’re too intelligent for that. No, you’ve been used by shrewd heads, drafted into what should be, into what is, a decent cause, to halt this war. But this isn’t the way to do it. Bombs aren’t the answer to anything, as you’ve found out.”

  Steve closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were full of sadness.

  “I know I cursed Tim and I do blame him, I do,” he said. “Yet I ask myself: Can he be all wrong, really? The world is full of injustice, as he says. If you could hear him speak—”

  Paul was about to say grimly “I’ve heard him,” but, catching himself in time, said instead, “Many a tyrant has expressed some noble thoughts. One should examine his methods instead.”

  Again Steve sighed. And Paul, relentless now, pursued.

  “Was there anything noble about Susan’s death?”

  “How will I live with myself?” Steve cried. “I can’t ever undo it.”

  “We all have to live with things we can’t undo.” And Paul asked then, “Do you realize how brave your father was in his time of trouble?”

  “Yes, I do,” Steve said quietly. “But I—I ran away from trouble, I guess.”

  “You were really running away from this revolution business, do you understand that?”

  “I know. The commune was a cop-out.”

  “In a way, one might say it was. Oh, why must we have one extreme or the other? The sane way is always the middle one. Not too much of anything. Except health,” Paul reflected, as a small pain stung and slid down his left arm. Then, as it receded, he finished, “Yes, the middle way, as in peaceful protest against the war. Peaceful, and as firm as you can make it.”

  Steve smiled. “People who look like you don’t always talk like you these days.”

  “Because I’m wearing this suit, you mean? Listen, a person doesn’t have to go around wearing beat-up clothes to express himself every time he happens to be in disagreement with a government policy.” Paul laughed. “I actually like these things I’m wearing, believe it or not.” He picked up Steve’s jeans. “These are a disgrace. They stink. I’m going to measure them and go out to get you some clothes while you finish resting.”

  “You know, you’ve got a handsome mug. Now that you’ve gotten rid of that scruffy beard, people can really see it,” Paul said.

  They were halfway through lunch in the hotel’s sumptuous dining room.

  Steve finished chewing a piece of his enormous steak before replying, “I wouldn’t have shaved it off except that I figure I owe you.”

  “You owe me your life, that’s all,” Paul answered cheerfully. “I’ve been considering something,” he continued. “I could get you a job.”

  “What kind?”

  “In a think tank. You’re good at thinking, aren’t you?” Humor might be a help to this fellow right now, after what he’d been through. “Involve yourself with world peace, world problems. I know a few people. I’d recommend you if you were interested.”

  “What do you mean by ‘involving’?”

  “Research. Preparing papers. Influencing legislation. Long-range planning. Peace. Environment. Poverty. Got the idea?”

  “I might like that,” Steve said slowly.

  “I should think you would. You’d be in Washington, where the action is.” Paul looked at his watch. “It’s one o’clock. Your father’s due in soon. Shall I call my man now before he arrives?”

  “Please. Go ahead.”

  Paul hung the receiver up, thinking, Well, so I’ve accomplished something on this trip. Then, scolding a little, he said to himself, “Don’t give yourself so much credit. It’s really that poor girl’s death that brought him around, and you know it.”

  From the dining room’s door he had a view of Steve, who was still at lunch. He looked good in the new suit, although he had protested that a collar and tie was a uniform, an absurdity. Paul had told him, “That may be, but you need to wear it if you want a job—and if you want to eat, you need a job. It comes down to that.”

  A determined young man, he was; whose genes did he carry? If only all that idealism, all those convictions, could be channeled, as Ilse’s were—but then, you are comparing apples with oranges, Paul; this boy is no Ilse. However, he’s surely worth every chance, because he’s going to make his mark, and it will be a good mark.

  Back at the table he said, smiling, “There’ll be a job for you in Washington as soon as you’re ready—next week, if you like. I’ll give you the details later.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re being so good to me. And I don’t know how I can repay you.”

  “Be good to your parents. That’ll repay me. Oh, I don’t mean that you should act like the prodigal son, for God’s sake! I don’t suppose you’ll ever fit with them hand in glove. I suspect you’re just too different. But you might give them a chance.”

  “All right. Okay. I will.”

  “Here’s a check. It’s not much, but you can open a bank account, and it’ll tide you over till you get your first pay.”

  “I don’t require much,” Steve said. “I don’t believe in having too much.”

  “Fine. Then you’ll do all right. And if you want to thank me, just keep remembering that I’ve stuck my neck out for you. Give me your hand and shake on it. Good luck.”

  The hotel was small and quiet. In an alcove off the lobby where drinks or just afternoon tea were served, the father and son sat talking.

  “It’s been two years,” Theo said softly. “A long time. We’ve missed you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His father looked older than he remembered. And his hand was dreadful, with those twisted stumps of fingers. He had to look away.

  “I don’t mind your seeing my hand, Steve.”

  “But I mind.” He felt a choking in his throat. “I gue
ss I haven’t realized how hard everything’s been for you and Mom. The hand, and expenses, and me.…”

  Theo gave him a tissue and Steve wiped his eyes. Then, feeling the heat of embarrassment, he tried to explain. “I’m not myself, I’m not usually like this, I—”

  “Well, I know that!” Theo smiled. “Don’t be ashamed. You’ve been through a lot yourself. Paul told me about your girl. I won’t say any more and make it harder for you, except to say that I feel your pain.”

  “Who is Paul, anyway? He’s an amazing guy.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  “Have you known him long? I don’t remember seeing him at home.”

  “Well. I’ve known him more—more professionally. We go back a long time. Well. Can’t ever thank him enough for this, though. Your mother’s taken on new life.”

  Suddenly Steve wanted to do something for his father, and there being nothing else at the moment to do, he poured another cup of tea for him and passed the plate of cakes. And then, as suddenly, he said, “I’m going to be all right now, Dad.”

  “You’re really through with those people?”

  “Yes. They didn’t want peace, truly. They wanted war, their kind of war. It’s taken something awful to show me.”

  “You’re not the only one, son.”

  Theo laid a hand on Steve’s, and the two sat for a few minutes like that, while a kind of peace, something they had never before felt with one another, settled upon each.

  Presently it became time to go.

  “If we’re going to catch the red-eye back,” Steve said. And he did something he had not done in years: He kissed his father’s cheek.

  22

  “I remember being told,” Paul said, “that both Timothy and Steve were the brightest in their families. What went wrong with their intelligence?”

  Ilse sighed. “Personal grudges. Insecurities. That’s as neat an answer as any. And now I’d like to put this behind us and just enjoy your being home.”