All He Ever Wanted: A Novel

by Anita Shreve

  “Van Tassel,” Ferald said, and even in that greeting an entire universe was hinted at: a pecking order, mild amusement, and, of course, dismissal. “I’d like you to meet Phillip Asher, lately of Yale.”

  Asher stood a head taller than I and had a leaner frame. He wore a suit of gray worsted that matched his eyes (though perhaps it was the other way around, and the eyes had taken on the coloration of the cloth). He smiled slightly, but unlike Ferald’s grin, Asher’s contained nothing of malice or of mischief. He wore his pale hair longish and brushed straight back from a young man’s forehead. He had a pleasing aspect — one might even have said handsome — and radiated, in addition to general decency, a keen intelligence. I could well believe the man from Yale.

  “What brings you to Thrupp?” I asked.

  “Professor Asher will deliver the Kitchner Lectures,” Ferald answered for him.

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  The Kitchner Lectures were a series of talks structured around the eternal conflict between the common good and private gain. Senior students in the departments of Philosophy, History, and English Literature were required to attend, though all students and faculty were invited. Typically, the talks were given by a distinguished man of letters, and they lent the college a bit of prestige. As might have been expected, they often provoked intense, college-wide debate as well.

  “Asher is a man of many talents,” Ferald said. “In addition to being a Professor of Philosophy, he is a scholar of Milton, an economist, and a poet.”

  “Truly,” I said.

  “I believe I know your work,” Asher said. “Your field is Scott?”

  I could not help but be pleased that my work had come to Phillip Asher’s attention. I could not, however — to my chagrin — put Asher’s name to any critical work I could think of. It was Moxon who came to my rescue. “Asher’s particular field is Nietzche,” he said.

  I thought a moment.

  “‘I am afraid we are not rid of God,’” I quoted, the pedant in me rising to the fore, “‘because we still have faith in grammar.’”

  Ferald actually laughed. “Van Tassel, you impress us with your scholarship.”

  Ferald had grown only more insufferable over the years, if such a thing be possible. What had been incipient in Ferald at nineteen was, at thirty-four, fully fledged. He had developed an elegance matched only by his arrogance. His clothes, imported from England, were of the finest that could be made at the time. He had cultivated an ironic drawl, one that I thought had quite twisted the shape of his mouth; in repose, he appeared to be sneering. I detested the man — his ostentatious wealth in the face of so much genteel academic poverty, his unearned authority (though he was clever, he had been a poor student — indeed, he rather prided himself on this fact), his nattering interference in college matters (he favored the addition of a medical school, a proposal I violently opposed, as it would all but exhaust the fragile resources of the college). Mostly, however, I loathed his half-lidded gaze, a look he fixed upon me as we stood in that hallway.

  “Will you travel back and forth from Yale?” I asked Asher.

  “I’m on sabbatical,” he said. “Actually, I’m staying at the Hotel Thrupp.”

  Beside us, Moxon was a choreography of nervous tics — ruffling his hair, putting his hands in and out of his pockets, removing bits of lint from his lapel. Even Ferald seemed anxious to move on. Only Asher had poise.

  “Professor Asher,” Ferald said, nudging his guest forward. “We mustn’t delay Professor Van Tassel any longer.”

  Asher put out his hand. “Very happy to have met you, Professor.”

  “And I you,” I said in kind.

  I must stop now, for my eyes are aching from the strain of trying to write in a moving vehicle. It has grown quite warm in my compartment, but there is always mechanically cooled drinking water available in bubblers, not to mention a pitcher of iced tea upon request, and so I am keeping as comfortable as possible in this North Carolina heat. (I had no idea September could be so humid.) To find some relief this morning, I went through to the observation / library car, which is the car farthest to the rear, where I sat on the back deck with several fellow travelers and took in the countryside. The land whooshed away from me as we traveled along at sixty miles an hour, and I couldn’t help but think this sensation not unlike the writing of a memoir: one attempts to write forward in time, keeping to a reasonable chronology, all the while trying to seize the past as it speeds by and recedes into the distance — finally disappearing at the vanishing point.

  Imet Etna at the foot of the staircase and was again reminded of how handsome she had grown over the years. She no longer looked as tall as she had when I met her. (Can that really have been possible? No, of course not. It was simply that she did not seem as formidable as she once had). She wore that night a high-necked satin gown of a burnished copper color that had a daringly raised hemline (only three inches above her evening slippers, however, so not as audaciously raised as hemlines are today; shamelessly, I often think, though I have never been immune to female charms). She had matched the hue of her silk stockings to her dress, and I had no doubt that every man at the party would admire those strong copper-colored ankles. She was also wearing her outrageous driving hat, a black-and-brown concoction with a wide brim and veil and two sashes with which to tie it underneath the chin. I adored the hat and had often said so; it was, by now, a familiar feature in our household.

  I helped her with her coat. “Shall I drive?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “You’re far too nervous a driver, Nicholas. So I will, if you don’t mind.”

  She was entirely right. I was a dreadful driver, hunching over the steering wheel, gripping its rim with such force that my fingers were stiff for some minutes after I had arrived at my destination. I couldn’t get the hang of it and was never relaxed. “I don’t mind at all,” I said.

  I followed Etna out the side entrance and along a garden path that led to the carriage house. There had been, a half hour earlier, a ferocious thunderstorm, but now the sun was setting within a clear ribbon beneath a blanket of cloud. Most of the light was gone, but one could still see the garden, or rather the autumnal remains of same. There were some phlox in bloom (how I loved their scent; I have thought from time to time of reviving the garden simply to have it again, but as it would be only myself who would enjoy it, and as I would be certain to feel a sort of melancholy there, I do not think it wise). The garden was of Etna’s design, and it was her pleasure to work in it of a morning. She would don a gardener’s apron and straw hat and a pair of boots, and would look both comical and endearing. She had a deft touch with the roses, which still lingered and would do so until a killing frost. Indeed, we normally had masses of the things on the hall table right up until the middle of October.

  “Should I become Dean,” I said to Etna’s splendid back, “I shall have two parties a year: one in the fall for the faculty only — a men’s-club sort of thing with cigars and brandy and so forth — and then in the spring a family party in the garden. In May, I think. I should like to see the garden full of children.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Etna said.

  As it will sometimes do with its dying gasp, the sun just then lit up the rose canes and the stalks of phlox and the picket fence Etna had insisted upon and the lawns and the fruit trees and even my beloved wife in her mad hat with such a glow that I was struck with awe (and am even now, remembering it). The world became, for that instant, salmon colored and shimmering. Above it, against the retreating dark cloud, a sunset rainbow, a rare enough sight, rose straight up from the field adjacent to ours.

  “Look, Etna,” I blurted.

  My wife stopped, and we watched the phenomenon together, and I could not help but think that my life and my possessions were receiving a pagan blessing. I was a fortunate man, was I not? Apart from my nightly disquietude, which in that rosy light I was more than willing to ignore, Etna and I had a good marriage, rather
better than most. We never quarreled, nor were we ever dismissive of each other, a quality I have witnessed far too often in other couples. How lucky I am! I thought as I stood transfixed on the garden path. Happiness, which had eluded me all my life, seemed so much within my grasp that I labeled it as such. “I am so happy,” I said.

  “My dear,” Etna said.

  “I shall very much enjoy tonight,” I added.

  “Of course you will,” Etna said.

  Ferald’s house was ostentatiously grand and quite out of keeping with the general modesty of the Yankee countryside. It was built in the Georgian manner of English limestone that had been imported for the purpose. (I cannot conceive of the cost — and with New Hampshire granite all about!) It had a massive portico with columns that rose two stories high. The unadorned windows were large as well, and I suppose, if one forgave the excess, the house might have been regarded as stately, a comment that was, in fact, often put forth that evening by men eager to curry Ferald’s favor. (Said house, I am pleased to report, is now a school for the blind.)

  “My goodness,” Etna said when we had driven up the circular drive.

  “Mutton out of lamb, if you ask me.”

  “Still, though, it’s quite extraordinary.”

  “There are no limits to which some men are willing to go to demonstrate their wealth, better left undemonstrated, in my view.”

  “You don’t like him much, do you?” she said.

  “I’m required to be civil to the man,” I said.

  “Do you think it wise to be merely civil? Under the circumstances?”

  “His is but one vote out of seven. No more, no less. And I am certain of at least three of the others. Fortunately for me, the board is a democratic one.”

  As we entered Ferald’s house, he greeted us with a faint smile. “Professor Van Tassel, may I present my wife, Millicent.”

  As I had never before been invited to dine with the Feralds, I had not met his wife of less than a year, a luxurious froth of a woman in her lace jacket and bejeweled tiara. She was slender and delicate of feature, her hair nearly as pale as her skin. She had, however, a somewhat bewildered look about her, as one who is continually startled. It suggested that Ferald’s wife might be no match for her wily husband, and, instantly, one felt a sort of pity for her.

  “How do you do?” I said, taking her hand. “This is my wife, Etna.”

  (How we men enjoy our possessive adjectives.)

  Etna smiled at the younger woman. Quite young, actually; Millicent Ferald cannot have been more than twenty. “Your house is lovely,” Etna said.

  “Oh, do you think so?”

  “Yes, it’s quite grand.”

  “You don’t think it too big?”

  “No, not at all. You must do a lot of entertaining.”

  “That’s what makes me so nervous,” Millicent Ferald said. “All this entertaining!”

  Ferald, barely able to conceal his impatience with this revealing exchange, leaned pointedly around Etna to shake the hand of the man standing behind her. It was an insult I sought to hide from my wife by moving her away from the entry. Fortunately, we were almost immediately accosted by Moxon, who seemed all arms and legs in his ill-fitting suit, the trousers too short for his considerable height. I wondered how he could ever have been put forth for the post of Dean, despite his success with his popular biography. He rambled and could not command an audience and dressed, despite a decent income, like a tradesman. That night he sported a redstriped vest that on anyone else would have been vulgar, but on Moxon was merely curious.

  “Hello, hello,” he said in his too-loud voice, his pleasure at seeing a friend (insofar as either Moxon or I had friends) apparent in his tone and in the wide smile on his face. “And Etna. You look magnificent.”

  Moxon, ever hapless, had been engaged to the daughter of a local Methodist minister and had all but been left at the altar when the girl had come to her senses and gone off to Simmons College in Boston. Having read Moxon’s biography of Lord Byron and convinced herself that Moxon and Byron were one and the same, the woman had been, for a time, romantically persuaded. I knew for a fact that Moxon had been crushed by the rejection, though he put on a brave face. The evening would be trying for him, as nearly all of the senior faculty were married — all except for the monkish Erling Morse, a prematurely wizened man who taught several dry courses in Ancient History.

  “Thank you,” Etna said, accepting his kiss. “What an interesting vest.”

  “Horrid,” Moxon said with genial self-deprecation. “I must get a tailor. I keep saying that. Nicholas here has a very good tailor. Don’t you, Nicholas? Quite a spread, isn’t it?”

  Etna gazed up at the coffered ceiling, bordered by an ornate gilt molding.

  “Who dreams up such flourishes?” I wondered aloud, glancing at the silk walls.

  “The house has a swimming pool,” Moxon said.

  “I can’t imagine Ferald taking exercise,” I said.

  “A swimming pool,” Etna said. “What fun.”

  I was so distracted by the image of Etna in bathing costume slipping into the water of an indoor pool (a toga and grapes somehow came to mind) that it was some moments before I realized we had moved into the sitting room in which most of the guests were sipping champagne (an unnecessary extravagance, I thought, typical of Ferald; we were, after all, in the business of providing educations, not entertainment). Nevertheless, I noted, the drink was producing a giddiness in the gathering, the effervescence of the beverage transferring itself to musical voices. There was a great deal of laughter, which was not altogether unwelcome. Indeed, some would later recall Ferald’s party as having been one of the more spirited evenings in recent college history.

  Canapés were produced. More champagne was drunk. Moxon was lost in the crowd. I put my hand to Etna’s back, but, as a rowboat will sometimes drift away from its mooring, she became separated from me by various jostlings and greetings. I had a short talk with Arthur Hallock about the state of William Bliss’s health (not good) and, while doing so, I noticed that Eliphalet Stone, a corporator, was standing not far from me. Viewing his presence as a welcome opportunity to further promote my candidacy, if only by engaging the man in conversation, I moved in his direction.

  “We’re to have lobster,” I said when I had reached him.

  Stone, eighty if a day, was scarcely five feet tall, and I had to bend to him to make myself heard above the animated din.

  “What was that?” he asked, cupping his ear.

  “Lobster!” I said, nearly shouting.

  “Lobster,” he said with evident distaste. “Don’t eat bottom-feeders.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Really. Well, perhaps not.”

  “Had a chat with the fellow from Bates,” Stone said, getting right to the point. “The one looking for your job.”

  “You mean Fisher Talcott Ames.”

  “Bit on the dull side,” Stone said, which I thought an interesting comment coming from a man not known for either his conversation or his wit. “You’re my man, you know,” Stone added, as if delivering an unhappy pronouncement. “Hate change.”

  “Yes,” I said agreeably. “One does.”

  “Where’s your handsome wife?” Stone asked.

  I turned to introduce my handsome wife and realized then that I had lost her.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Stone, thinking that Etna was always an asset and that I should not miss an opportunity to have her speak with Stone. “I’ll just see if I can find her.”

  But where was my wife? I wondered. Not in the parlor and not in the dining room. I grew distinctly worried. Had she taken ill?

  I slipped away from the party and moved along a hallway that held some rather good art (a few of the Dutch masters, I was pleased to see). The general noise of the gathering receded as I walked. The floor was tiled and led, I shortly discovered, to the natatorium. I entered the blue-tiled and humid room. The pool was not as impressive as one had been led to believe;
there seemed to be barely room for one exuberant swimmer.

  “What do you suppose it’s for?” Etna asked, startling me. She’d been standing just to the right of the door when I had entered, and I hadn’t, for the moment, seen her.

  “Etna,” I said with some surprise. “I was worried about you.”

  “I wanted to see the pool.”

  “You should have said something to me.”

  “You were talking with Mr. Stone. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “We’re trespassing,” I said.

  She smiled — a delightfully mischievous smile. “And shall we be punished, do you think? Sent home without our supper?”

  Had the house been anyone else’s but Ferald’s, I should have insisted that we return to the party at once. But as I had already had two glasses of champagne, I found the idea of violating Ferald’s privacy somewhat appealing.

  “I imagine Ferald and his wife swim here,” I said.

  I had then a brief and unpleasant vision of Ferald sitting in one of the chaise longues by the pool’s edge, watching his wife, Millicent, cavort in the nude for his own especial pleasure — an image I sought at once to banish, not only for its lewdness, but also because it had replaced the more felicitous image of Etna with the toga and the grapes. Ferald did have a look of the venal about him — louche and morally corrupt, one might have said — and I find, as I try to recall that evening and put my memories down on paper, that the image of that face keeps intruding upon my narrative.

  Etna bent to touch the water, which sparkled from the electric lights overhead. She trilled her fingers along its surface, lost for some moments in a reverie of her own. Perhaps she was remembering a pleasant excursion of ours to the seashore. Contentedly, I watched her.

  “You are having a happy memory,” I said after a time.

  She glanced up at me.

  “You,” I said. “Just now. You seemed to be remembering something pleasant.”

  “I have many happy memories, Nicholas,” she said.

  “I hope some of them are with me,” I said.