Rapture

by Thomas Tessier

  The place was warm and stuffy from being shut up for a couple of days, but impeccably neat and tidy. Jeff opened several windows. In addition to a few items of food, he found a couple of cans of beer in the refrigerator. He took one and drank it while wandering from room to room. The house seemed remarkably impersonal, as if his father had taken care of every possible aspect of his private life and died leaving not so much as a scrap of paper out of place.

  Jeff left the lights off as he sat in the front room for a while, drinking the beer and watching the dusk darken into night outside. Cool air gradually filled the house. He felt relaxed, even peaceful, and no longer quite so weary.

  Next time I come back here, he thought, it'll be for Roy's funeral, or Kitty's. Unpleasant thought; he liked both of them. Roy would probably go first. Either way, there were at least two more return visits in Jeff's future.

  At least? Now what does that mean, Jeff wondered as he went into the kitchen to get the other beer. He smiled at himself and at the way his mind sometimes surprised him. Something was taking shape, but what? Maybe nothing.

  He was thinking about the Slaton house again. Almost as much as his father's death, that For Sale sign seemed to signify a door shutting on the past. The Slaton house, the mere name Slaton, held many bittersweet memories. They were still real, twenty years later.

  The father-what was his name? He was some kind of engineer, wasn't he? A soft-spoken, more or less invisible man. Successful in his chosen field and within his own limits, but not the sort of person you noticed much, even when you were in the same room with him.

  The mother-Dora, or Doris? She was a bit of a snob, in the silliest ways. She always left her latest book-club purchases on the coffee table. Once, out of the blue, she'd asked Jeff: "Have you read Mr. Mailer's latest?" She had a habit of talking to teenagers with that ridiculous mock-seriousness some adults think is real communication.

  There were two Slaton boys, both of them several years younger than Jeff. He couldn't remember their names either. At the time, they had been kid brothers, occasional pests, nothing more. It was odd to think of them now as grown up, living their individual lives, somewhere.

  And one daughter, Jeffs classmate and good friend: Georgianne Slaton. They had never been boyfriendgirlfriend to each other, but they had spent a great deal of time together. There had been a bond, a closeness between them that had lasted for four or five years. It was something good in his life to remember.

  Jeff couldn't count the number of double dates he and Georgianne had been out on together. He with one of his three successive high-school romances, Georgianne always with Mike Rollins, her steady. Wherever Georgianne was now, it surely wouldn't be with Mike. He may have been a good high-school date, but she must have done better since then. Mike was jolly and energetic, but it was mostly surface flash. He'd probably found a place in marketing somewhere, but he couldn't have held on to Georgianne.

  She had gone to college in Boston, as Jeff recalled. He didn't know where Mike had gone. A couple of months after graduation, Jeff had gone out to UCLA. He'd soon lost touch with Mike and Georgianne. High-school friendships, however intense at the time, often prove to be the most perishable.

  Jeff put the empty beer cans in the kitchen. His old bedroom, he found, was almost completely stripped of personal items. It was like a guest room now, or a motel room, but at least the bed was made up. Jeffs body was tired, but he was awake for a long time, thinking, before he found his way to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jeff woke up about ten minutes before the alarm was due to go off feeling rested and eager to get on with the day. He showered, toweled himself dry, and opened his suitcase to get some clean clothes.

  It came as something of a surprise to find the pistol tucked in among his shirts. Now why the hell did I bring that, Jeff wondered. It was a cheap .22, and he had owned it for five years or more-ever since his company had landed its first significant defense contract. At the time, buying it had seemed the thing to do, for reasons he could no longer recall. Yet he had continued to carry it with him most of the time, and he had obviously packed it for this trip without even thinking about it.

  He picked up the gun and looked at it as if it belonged to someone else and had come into his possession by mistake. Oddly enough, he thought, there was more of a rationale for the weapon now than at any previous time. His company had just begun an extremely sensitive military project. But did a California gun license have any legal status in Connecticut? Could he get in trouble simply for having the pistol? He put it back in the suitcase. It would stay there, and he'd be back in L.A. in a few days.

  He drank the bitter remains of some orange juice, made instant coffee, and smoked his first cigarette of the day. Next, he called Uncle Roy and said he'd be over later in the morning, explaining that he'd already had breakfast. Then he found Dick Hudson's number in the telephone book. The lawyer came on the line at once and said he'd be glad to see Jeff anytime.

  "Thanks. I'll stop by in about an hour."

  "Fine, fine. You know where we are?"

  "Church Street?"

  "Right you are."

  Jeff went into his bedroom to finish unpacking. His suit was rumpled from being left in the suitcase overnight, but he knew Aunt Kitty would be glad to give it a quick press for him. After putting it by the front door, he busied himself by disposing of the rest of the perishables in the kitchen. They filled less than half a trash bag.

  Dick Hudson's office was definitely the establishment of an unpretentious small-town lawyer. The chairs were leather, but worn and scuffed. The carpet felt like it wasn't there, and the rest of the furniture might have come from a forties movie. But it all looked somehow reassuring, and it wasn't uncomfortable.

  Hudson was a large, middle-aged man with fleshy hands and a full head of graying hair brushed tightly back over his skull. Property deals, wills, and probate were the mainstay of his practice, with two or three divorce cases a year thrown in for good measure. He spent a minute or so commiserating with Jeff about his father and a few more on idle pleasantries. Then he got to the point.

  "I suppose you want to know about the will. That's understandable, perfectly understandable," he soothed. "You probably want to get back to California as soon as possible."

  "Right," Jeff said. "But I'm mostly interested in knowing how involved I'll have to be in the process."

  "Ah."Hudson looked at Jeff for a moment, as if he was unsure of what he had heard. "Well, it takes a few months, and there's nothing we can do about that. It's just the way the system works. But your presence isn't really required, if that's what you mean. You'll have to sign a lot of documents, but I can ship them out to you by Express Mail and you can return them to me the same way."

  "That's what I wanted to hear."

  "Good. Now as for the will itself"-the lawyer looked mildly embarrassed-"your father left some money in the bank, but not much. Couple of thousand. He was getting by on Social Security, as you probably know."

  "Right, yes."

  And there's the house and its contents, furniture and tools, and ... uh ... that's about it."

  Jeff nodded; he sensed there was more to come.

  "Anyhow," Hudson went on, "you and your uncle Roy are the only two living blood relatives."

  "I know."

  "Okay. Well." Another deep breath. "The will specifies that the house and everything in it be sold, and that the net receipts be divided equally between you and your uncle."

  Hudson looked at Jeff as if he expected the younger man to explode and begin tearing up the office.

  "Fantastic," Jeff said as soon as he grasped the news. "That's fantastic."

  "Uh..." Still wary.

  "No, really, I'm delighted my father did that," Jeff explained. "Uncle Roy and Aunt Kitty have been retired for quite a while now, and I'm sure they can use some extra money. That's fine with me. Really." He felt a new measure of respect for his father.

  "I see." Hudson's face relaxed
somewhat. Wills tended to bring out the worst in people, but apparently not in this case. "I'm glad you feel that way. Everything should go smoothly. It'll just take a little time."

  They exchanged addresses and telephone numbers, and then chatted for a few more minutes. Jeff was distracted, though. Glancing out the window, he caught sight of the dome skylight over the reading room of the Millville Public Library. He'd spent countless afternoons and evenings there, and now a vivid image took hold of his mind. Georgianne was at one table, doing homework. She was wearing a miniskirt and those patterned black tights that were popular back then. From where he sat, Jeff had an excellent view of her legs under the table, the glorious reach of her thighs. It was as if Georgianne were a picture, composed only for Jeff. She looked up, distracted momentarily, and noticed him. She smiled and winked before going back to her homework.

  The image was so powerful Jeff couldn't remember saying good-bye to Dick Hudson, although he knew he must have. He had lunch with his aunt and uncle and his cousin Nancy, a divorced dental technician. It was pleasant. They sat around the kitchen table eating roast beef sandwiches and drinking lemonade. He was able to talk easily with his relatives, the recollection of Georgianne now a kind of delicious aftertaste. Aunt Kitty lightly ironed his suit.

  They got to the funeral home half an hour before the official start of the wake. Jeff spent ten minutes sitting alone with his father's body. They had done a good job. Not too heavy with the make-up, no signs of disfiguration or pain. He could still see the strength of character in George Lisker's face, even in death. His father had the features of someone who'd been his own man. Worn, weathered, and battered with age, and now submissive to death, they were still, somehow, strong. Well, I got that much from you, Jeff thought, even if we didn't understand each other most of the time. It had been worse when his mother died. Now, Jeff felt remarkably peaceful, and he wondered about it. There was something cold in you, old man, and maybe there's something cold in me, too. Did it have to be? There was warmth in Mom-but didn't she have strength as well?

  Jeff shook himself slightly and left the room for a cigarette. It had been hard enough talking to his father in life; there wasn't much point in trying now.

  The afternoon passed quietly. Not many people came, but those who did stayed until four o'clock. Nearly all of them were older people who had known Jeff's parents over the decades. They were very kind and friendly to Jeff, asking about his life and work in California and telling him, sincerely, nice things about his father. It was a different and more enjoyable experience than he had anticipated.

  The evening session was even better. More people came, and many of them told Jeff that his father had always thought highly of him.

  "Maybe he didn't show his feelings much," one elderly woman said. "But he had them, and we all knew how proud he was of you, Jeff. I don't know if he really understood, or liked, you know, computers and all that high-tech stuff you do. You know what we old folks are like-can't stand anything new. But he knew that was the way the world was going, and he was proud of you."

  Jeff was touched. How strange to learn now what his father had felt about him! Was it all true? Maybe if Jeff had been around more often over the years, or if he'd paid closer attention, he would have gotten the message.

  But did George Lisker ever know how his son felt about him? Probably not, Jeff thought. I did love you, but you made me feel I could never measure up, and that still hurts.

  A few minutes after nine, as Jeff and his relatives were about to leave the funeral home, a fat, sweaty man rushed up to them.

  "Jeff! Boy, am I glad I caught you. I tried to get here earlier, but I was stuck in a meeting. I feel real bad about it. Hey, I'm sorry about your dad."

  He was shaking Jeffs hand vigorously while he talked. It was Mike Rollins, Jeff finally realized.

  "Mike. That's all right. Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. It's good to see you again."

  He had to remind himself that twenty years had passed since they were last out on double dates together. Mike must have gained fifty or sixty pounds. He was virtually unrecognizable. Jeff introduced Mike to his relatives before they left. Then he and Mike stood talking under the awning in front of Butler's.

  "You look great, buddy," Mike was saying.

  "So do you."

  "Yeah, like a house." Mike laughed, evidently not bothered by his weight. "What're you doing now?"

  "Just going back to the house."

  "How about a drink?"

  "Okay, sure."

  "You got a car? You still remember how to get to Ike's? I'll see you there in five minutes."

  Ike's, one of Millville's many bars, had opened in 1956 and was named after President Eisenhower, who was re-elected in a landslide that year. Older townspeople still told each other that Ike's should have been called "Mamie's."

  Jeff caught up with Mike at the back of the bar. After they found an empty booth, Jeff lit a cigarette. He noticed that Mike was still sweating.

  "So what've you been doing all this time?" Mike asked as they clinked glasses.

  "Oh, I've got my own little business, outside L.A., and I live nearby. Otherwise, not much."

  "The land of movie stars and beach bunnies, eh? That's great. What is it-computers, did I hear?"

  "Sort of," Jeff said. "We design special systems. We have one foot in theory and the other in application."

  "Nice." Mike shook his hand loosely. "You always did have a brain for that kind of stuff. I bet there's a lot of money in it, right?"

  "How about you?"

  "I'm superintendent of the Street Department. How do you like that?" Mike grinned proudly.

  "No shit? Superintendent?"

  "Head honcho," Mike confirmed.

  "You've got it made," Jeff said. "That's a job for life."

  Mike didn't dispute this, contenting himself with a smile. "Hey, Millville isn't the liveliest place in the world," he said. "But it's home, you know. And somebody's got to stay here and look after it; otherwise it'll fall apart."

  Jeff wasn't sure that was such a bad idea, but he didn't say so. They talked for more than an hour, shuttling back and forth between the good old days and the present. Jeff caught up on a great deal of gossip he really didn't care about and good-naturedly indulged several of Mike's fantasies about life in Southern California.

  "Tell me," he said eventually, "what happened with you and Georgianne? You were a steady pair, but I lost touch after that last summer. The summer after graduation."

  "Yeah. Georgianne. Right." Mike had a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. He was on his third gin-andtonic, the glass all but lost in his meaty grip. "That was a great summer, wasn't it? Best damn time in a person's life, as far as I'm concerned. After that it's just ... shit and more shit....*

  "So what happened?" Jeff sipped a tall glass of tap beer.

  'Yeah, well. Let's see. Georgianne went to college in Boston, I went to UConn, and we stayed in touch. We talked on the phone, we saw each other when we were home for holidays and breaks. I think I went up to Boston to see her a couple of times. But ... well, you know me, Jeff. I wanted to screw everything in sight, and the big difference in college is there you can almost do it. So ... uh ... Georgianne and I kind of drifted apart. No big breakup, no heavy scenes, but ... you know how it is.*

  "I thought sure you two would get married."

  'Ha. I was a cowboy, man,' Mike said. "1 got married, all right, but not until I was twenty-eight. And even then I couldn't tell you how it happened. Everybody slips up sooner or later. You're married, aren't you?"

  "Married, then divorced two years later," Jeff said. "Too much time working and not enough time home with my wife. She took up with her flying instructor, and for all I know they're still getting their rocks off at ten thousand feet."

  "That's what I mean about California," Mike said obscurely. "Lemme buy a free man a drink.'

  "So what happened to Georgianne after that?" Jeff asked when Mike had returned with a fre
sh round. "I drove up the New Haven Road on my way into town and I saw that the house is for sale."

  "She got married ages ago. Some guy I never heard of. I don't think she lives around here, or I would have heard about it sooner or later, and I haven't heard anything about Georgianne in years."

  "Her family still in the house? Or did they all pack up and move out?"

  "I couldn't tell you," Mike said. "That's a state road, and I haven't been down it in a long time. Christ, I drove up and down it enough times in high school to last the rest of my life."

  "That's true."

  "Georgianne was a sweet kid, though. A real beauty."

  "She was," Jeff agreed quietly.

  "Funny thing is . . ." Mike rambled on. "I'll tell you, though I hate to admit it, but the fact is, for all the time I spent with her, all those hours wrestling in the backseat of my old man's car, then my car, at the drive-in or out on that dirt road in Gunntown, for all that, I never did get in her pants. Not even a finger." He shook his head, as if he still found it hard to believe.

  I'm glad to hear that, Jeff thought, surprised both at the minor revelation and at the sudden intensity of feeling it occasioned.

  Yes, I'm very glad to hear that.

  "Georgianne was one of those gorgeous, unattainable blondes, you know," Mike continued.

  "In high school," Jeff said, "none of us got laid nearly as often as we said we did at the time."

  "Now that's the truth," Mike exclaimed, seizing the point gratefully. "But we sure did kiss like there was no tomorrow, and kissing Georgianne was some kind of experience in itself."

  "I'm sure it was."

  The conversation had become unpleasant and distasteful to Jeff, but at the same time it seemed strangely important to him. Something was taking shape.