Such Good People

by Martha Whitmore Hickman

  “Predictable?”

  “You know—steady job, regular hours, what some women want in a husband. Never mind that they themselves choose a precarious profession—like set design,” he added wryly.

  She hesitated, then said, “Ginny told me your marriage didn’t work out. I’m sorry.”

  His smile was sardonic. “No, it didn’t. I’m not sure how much schedule had to do with it. I tried city government, but I couldn’t stand the bureaucracy. Everything else seemed to keep me on the road. I flew a plane, carrying small freight. For a while, I ran an import business. We lived in a lot of places before we finally gave up on the marriage. I’ve always loved travel, so when the marriage failed, I turned to that.”

  “You have a child?”

  “Yes, but she’s given up on me, I’m sure. She’s in California. I never see her.”

  You travel, Laura thought. You could easily arrange to see her. But she felt reluctant to venture further into his private world and she did not say so. Instead, she said, “I’m sure that could be a fascinating life—traveling a lot.”

  “It is. I’m always looking for new destinations. And I do a lot of my own advertising.” He paused. “It occurred to me, when you were talking”—he inclined his head toward the restaurant—“about wanting to get back into art… Would you want to try your hand at travel brochures? Watercolor sketches for a cover? Ginny says you’ve done that kind of work.”

  “Really, Fred?” she said, and caught her breath at the timeliness of the suggestion. “Yes, I might like to. Yes. Thank you. I might like that very much.”

  “We’ll talk about it. You’ll be here a few more days?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom appeared then with the car, Ginny emerged from the restaurant ladies’ room, and they all got in and drove off.

  At Tom and Ginny’s, they all said good night and Laura switched to her own car. “It’s been a wonderful evening,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough—all of you.”

  *

  The house was quiet when she let herself in. She got ready for bed, turned out the light, and, in the dark, again and again, played the evening through, until finally she fell asleep.

  Trace stopped at the post office, picked up the few days of accumulated mail, and drove on home. In the old days (which, now, meant anytime prior to his daughter’s death), he would have gone to the office, checked over mail and messages, done a few hours of study or gone over notes for a class. But he was tired from the meeting—a subcommittee of the American Philosophical Association that oversaw selection of scholars for endowed lectureships, in which he’d once had a great interest but that now seemed arcane and uninteresting.

  He unlocked the door and went in. The house was quiet. Usually, he welcomed solitude, but somehow the silence in the house seemed ominous, lurking, as though something was waiting, ready to do him harm. It had almost the musty air of a house that had been shrouded and quiet over a season and now everything must be freshened again. But Bart and Paula could have been gone for a day or two at most.

  Or maybe they hadn’t moved out yet. They’d be at work now, of course, but maybe they were still packing up, getting ready. He had a wild hope, and, suitcase in hand, he hurried through the house to where the bedrooms opened off a corridor, set his suitcase down, and walked the several feet of corridor to the doorway of the room Bart and Paula had occupied.

  His heart dropped—they were gone. The guest-room aspect was restored—the quilt coverlet in place, the dresser cleared of everything but a ceramic flower holder, a silver-backed hand mirror, and a tray with small glass carafe and inverted water glass. The desktop, too, was clear. He opened the closet door—a few seasonal garment bags pushed to one side, and an array of empty hangers. Bart and Paula had moved out.

  Then he went by Philip’s room—now atypically bereft of disorder, though the bulletin board still had banners and buttons from various high school events, and the poster of the Grateful Dead still hung over the desk. He shook his head. He had never come to terms with names music groups gave themselves, and this one seemed singularly inappropriate now.

  Back in the hall, he hesitated at the doorway to Annie’s room. The door stood ajar and he caught a glimpse of blue-and-white bedspread, but he went on and, picking up his suitcase, took it to the room he shared with Laura, set it up on the bed, and unpacked.

  That done, he went downstairs, picked up the paper, for which he had had delivery resumed, went carefully over the mail—a few financial statements, some solicitations for funds, a letter from his congressman, Newsweek, and the New York Times Book Review. There were also several cards of sympathy and condolence. At first, there had been a stream of such mail; now they still received two or three a week from people who had just learned of Annie’s death. They cherished these messages—some of them full letters, some only a signature on a printed card—but evidence that someone in the human family was reaching out to them. And remembering Annie. That as much as anything, Trace thought, putting the card with the roses and the butterfly back in the envelope for Laura to see—another mark on the face of the earth that his daughter had not vanished without some note being taken of her going, of her having been here.

  For how could it be that at one moment a life was in full sail, heading into a future full of promise and expected occasions—the multiform trivia and substance (parties, trips to the store, conversations with people, donning of clothing and choices of foods, lovers, arguments, birthdays) that make up a person’s life—and then, in a moment, in some freakish accident of fate, it is gone? Finished. The present stops, and there is no future at all. In all of his studies of good and evil, of metaphysics and eschatology, Trace had never stood on the edge of an abyss like this one.

  And how had it been for her? She was safe now. Had there been a choice? Even unconsciously, had she chosen to leave? Going back with Bart to the scene of her fall, he had tried to satisfy himself that she had in no way encouraged this death, been less than full-hearted in trying to save herself from falling—if there had, indeed, been time for her to do more than be carried along by the runaway horse? He knew she was angry with him. And, yes, she had a right to be. But he had banked on the future—that they would forgive each other this period of tumult and mutual hurt feelings. He saw her standing in the kitchen that night he said he couldn’t go to the art reception. She’d been angry, and she’d hurled the accusation at him: “You’re never here for me! You never have been, not since I was a little girl.” He saw her lovely face distorted with rage, and he longed to see it again—just that way, if need be. “I’m here for you now,” he said into the empty room. “Where are you—for me?”

  After a while, he stood up from the chair. He looked at the clock—almost six. He supposed it was time he got himself some supper. He went to the freezer and opened the door. He knew Laura had stocked it with dinners he could heat in the microwave. Yes, there was a stack—chicken in various forms, two boxes of fish Florentine, some pasta combinations.

  Suddenly it occurred to him—maybe Bart and Paula would like to join him, or maybe he could take them out to dinner. They could catch up with one another, and he’d find out how the move had gone.

  The more he thought about the idea, the better it seemed. He dialed the number they’d so recently put in the family phone book. Four rings, a click, and then Bart’s voice, “Hi, you have reached five-five-five—three-seven-two-oh. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please…” He could guess the rest of it, but he listened anyway, somehow reassured by the prosaic reality of his son’s voice. When the beep came to leave a message, he hung up. He didn’t want them to think he was meddling in their lives—or “intruding on their space,” as the young would say.

  Now what? He felt at loose ends, lonely. Later, after the rates changed, he would call Laura at her mother’s. He thought of calling Philip. But trying to reach a college student when you didn’t know his schedule was like trying to find a particular title in one of those boo
k-warehouse sales.

  He was almost through some frozen yogurt, following a rather dried-up chicken Dijon, when he had another thought. Would this be a possible time to talk with Kate about her thesis? Before he’d left, she’d asked if they could meet soon. He looked at his watch. Not quite seven. Reaching her might be as difficult as he’d imagined reaching Philip to be. But he called, and, yes, this would be a good time. She’d meet him at his office in ten minutes.

  *

  As it happened, Dave Ignatius was also in his office—light on, door ajar—and he called, “Hello. Welcome back” as Trace came in.

  “Thanks.” He saw Henry Bowen was in talking with Dave, and he went into his own office and sat down, any uneasiness he might have had about meeting a young woman in a solitary setting eased. He couldn’t imagine any blurred areas of propriety between himself and Kate, but one could hardly be too vigilant these days, with all the sensitivity about sexual harassment. Don’t touch! was the going dictum. Not that he had much impulse to reach out with more than a handshake to anyone with whom he was not on very close terms. And even then… Once more the ghost of his daughter rose before him. “Don’t hug me. You know you don’t feel like it.” He’d not argued with her, though his heart recoiled, his arms ached to hold her, to have all this tension between them banished.

  He was still lost in the pain of that moment when he heard a knock. “Dr. Randall?”

  “Come in, Kate. Sit down.” She came in, papers in hand, wearing jeans and a long blue sweater and those huge white shoes everyone wore. She sat down, pulled her glasses from her sweater pocket, unfolded the glasses, pushed the bows behind her ears, and then, with her index finger, pushed the glasses back up her nose. The gesture undid him. It was so like Annie. She’d worn contacts much of the time, but often her glasses, too, and something about the way Kate moved the metal arch of the frames up the ridge of her nose and then slid her finger back down reminded him so strongly of his lost daughter, of whom he’d already been thinking, that to his great chagrin and embarrassment, his eyes filled with tears and he started to cry. “Oh, Kate,” he said.

  “Dr. Randall!” she exclaimed. “Have I done anything to upset you?”

  “No,” he said. “No.” He reached for his handkerchief, his voice muffled in an attempt to blow his nose. “Excuse me, Kate. I’m terribly sorry.” He looked up, and the compassion in her eyes bathed him in a faint hope of forgiveness for all he had done wrong not only to Annie but in his whole life. “It’s just that you—you remind me of someone,” he said, and then, thinking, So what kind of an excuse is that for losing control in front of a student? he said, “You reminded me just then of my daughter. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, tears in her own eyes now. “Dr. Randall, I am honored. Please don’t feel bad.” She moved a hand toward him and drew it back. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I don’t know how you stand it.” She swallowed hard. “What I want to say—what I’ve been thinking I want to say—is that your daughter was very fortunate to have you for a father. I’ve never had a teacher I thought was so”—she was struggling for the right word—“so attentive to his students as you are. Why, in class, you take every question—no matter if it’s dumb—with great respect and seriousness.” She stopped talking now because she saw she wasn’t making him feel better; in fact, he was crying more freely, except that he was smiling at the same time. She sat back in her chair and lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t be embarrassed—if indeed he was—by seeing her watching his distress.

  He blew his nose again—a large, trumpeting sound—and said, “Well!” She looked up, and he had stopped crying. She’d watched him these few weeks since college began and seen his face look haggard and drawn, watched him walk around staring at the ground. If you said “Good afternoon” to him in passing, he always answered politely, but he looked so…well, sad, and why not? She thought he looked…less burdened, maybe, and wasn’t he even sitting up straighter in his chair? “Dr. Randall?” she said.

  “Yes, Kate?”

  “If you don’t mind. I mean…well, would you let me give you a hug?”

  “Oh, please do.” He stood and, awkwardly, held out his arms, and she came and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her face against the side of his head, while sobs rolled over his tall, sturdy frame, seeming as fragile now as canvas stretched over twigs. “Oh, Kate,” he said, and after a moment he stepped back, and his face, though tear-stained and flushed, was smiling. “I do thank you, my dear.”

  They sat down in their chairs then, opposite each other. He pulled from his pocket a large white handkerchief and wiped his face, and Kate did the same to her face with a bunch of tissues she had stashed in her backpack.

  “Well,” he said, and they smiled at each other through tears. “Thank you, Kate,” he said, continuing to mop his face. Then he said it again, “Thank you, Kate,” and breathed a great sigh. “Now—shall we talk about the golden mean?”

  Rachel came home from the hospital. They reensconced her in her bed under the dining room window. The days of Laura’s visit proceeded. Fred called. He was leaving town again, might not get back until after she’d left, but he’d send her some pictures he’d taken in Iceland, along with a few of his past brochures, so she could see the kinds of things he had in mind, how they were usually blocked out. Would that be all right?

  She was disappointed not to see him again, but yes, that would be fine. She could mail sketches to him.

  “When are you coming back?” he asked. “Maybe I could arrange to come up.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure before too long.”

  “Well, let me know.”

  Virginia came over. The minister came by. Ella and Jackson came, Ella sitting by the bed and talking, her voice going ceaselessly on. Rachel grew drowsy and fell asleep. Laura talked with her aunt, the soothing vacuity of their talk a balm after all—stories of obscure relatives, the moving of furniture from one house to another, Ella’s biweekly trips to the bank. But after a while, her aunt’s meticulous soft-spoken ways irritated her; she wished they would leave.

  At last, they were going. They stood by the door.

  “You go back day after tomorrow?” Ella’s hand rested on Laura’s arm.

  “Yes.”

  “Need a ride to the airport?”

  “No thanks. My old friend—you knew her as Virginia Thayer—is taking me.”

  “C’mon, Ella.” Jackson cleared his throat again.

  “In a minute.” She had turned to answer him and now turned back. “You doing all right?” Ella asked.

  “Thank you, yes—I’m doing all right.” Go, she thought, please go.

  “Bless you.” Ella reached for a handkerchief. “Mother able to help you much?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” Ella’s face was a mirror of concern. She expects me to cry, Laura thought. “I’m really all right.” She edged ever so slightly closer to the door, where her uncle Jackson waited.

  “C’mon, Ella,” he said again. He turned to Laura. “Take care, honey.”

  *

  Laura sat by her mother’s bed, feeling restless. She’d be going home tomorrow. One more day. So much unsaid. “How’s Trace?” Rachel had asked. “Fine.” Never a word about how hard it was sometimes for them to talk with each other, how distant and distracted he often seemed. She hadn’t told Rachel about Bart and Paula. They had talked of Annie some, remembering particular days. But speculations about death had never seemed the thing to speak of. Perhaps it was too close for Rachel herself—old and failing.

  Rachel seemed irritable, too. People didn’t call her. Or when they did, sometimes they talked too long. Didn’t they know she got tired? And Ella and Jackson—she was glad to see them and they’d been helpful during Will’s illness. But, really, it took Ella so long to do anything, to say anything—those endlessly dragged-out farewells, and Jackson there coughing, clearing his throat, trying to nudge her along.

  She shifted in the be
d. “This blanket,” she fumed. “It’s so heavy on my leg.”

  Laura adjusted it. “That better?”

  “Maybe, a little.”

  Carlena came with Rachel’s medicine, a glass of water.

  Rachel swallowed the pill.

  “Finish the water, dear,” Carlena urged.

  Rachel grimaced, did as she was told. Carlena left, taking the glass with her. “She never lets it run cold enough,” Rachel complained.

  Laura looked out the window, acknowledging her growing restiveness, irritation. Is this the best we can do? she thought. Maybe this pettiness was for lack of anything more interesting to think about. Was this the time to tell her mother?

  But why? Rachel was old. She would surely be upset. Really, she probably need never know. They could spare her that, spare a possible bad scene. Why tell her? Finally, she acknowledged it to herself: because it sticks in my throat. Because I need for her to know.

  She leaned forward. “Mother, there’s something I’d like to tell you. It’s important to me, but it may be hard for you to hear. Do you mind if I tell you?”

  Rachel put down the paper she’d been desultorily reading. The complaining look changed to one of compassion. “Of course not, dear. What is it?”

  “It’s about Bart and Paula.”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, they’ve been living together.”

  “You mean—together?”

  “Yes.” She added quickly, “It’s all right with us, Mother. It’s not what we’d have wished for, but it’s all right. We love Paula very much. She seems such good news in Bart’s life—and in ours.” She stopped. What was she trying to do—anesthetize Rachel into concurrence?

  Rachel appeared to be thinking. “They don’t want to get married?”

  “No. At least not now.”

  Laura waited. Her mother’s face was sober, almost expressionless. Then she said, very slowly, “Well, I suppose it’s more important that Bart find the right girl than what they do about the legalities of it.”