And you read about that kind of thing all the time, about earthquakes, floods, fires. This one must have started in much the same way as the great Coconut Grove fire, with the curtains catching and a panic and people trampled in the push. But this one seemed to have been more complete, since hardly anyone present in the club had suffocated in the smoke. Those who got away were bruised, in some cases had bones broken; those who did not get out, burned. The catastrophe was later to cause a tremendous furore in the press, as the survivors alleged that after the initial storming of the exits, the management issued orders that the doors should be locked so that no one could get out before paying. In a matter of weeks the case was brought to court and the staff, owners, and management acquitted. A hundred and thirty-four people died.
The hospitals (the first telephone call) had no patients of the name Mackenzie on their lists.
They took him to the nightclub. It was a hot day and people walking on the street again looked as though they were moving behind water or perhaps the waves of fire. His head felt cold and he was sweating. He staggered when he got out of the car. And inside they asked him questions. Do you recognize this woman, señor? Could this be your wife? Could this be your son? Does this look like your daughter, señor? The police were there in uniform and other people like himself, and newspapermen and a crew of men in their shirt-sleeves, removing bits of débris and taking the bodies away in large wicker laundry baskets. There was the smell of fire. Everywhere. He kept saying, “I don’t know,” and “I can’t be sure.” And the police asked: What jewellery did your wife wear? What make of watch did your son have on? Can you describe your daughter’s engagement ring? And the young man, do you remember his watch? Yes, he had an old-fashioned pocket watch, it was his grandfather’s, he told me. “It is difficult, you understand,” said one of the policemen. “Some of the rings, they have melted.”
But they were found at last, all four; two at first, and the other two had to be identified by sending back home for dentists’ X-rays.
“Coming out, Lucky?” one of the hobos called over to him.
“Not just yet. I’ll set a spell.”
He watched the three of them go. From the houses behind the wall a smell of grease and vegetables came to him, now perceived and now not as the wind changed. The branches of the tree flapped, making a noise against the wall, and he stood up.
He thought he would have a drink.
Before he found the park and met the hobos he used to spend his days in the bars, going from one to another in that long street which was like a street that might reach all the way around the world, every bar the same and the neon lights going even in daylight. That was before he learned what made him feel at ease. He had tried to talk to people then and once picked up a woman. But when they got to the room, the walls jerked in front of him like the walls in the nightclub and he thought how stupid it was not to realize what it would be like: the sprung, creaky bed, sheets that hadn’t been changed from the time before, and the woman herself as she undressed and the clothes came away like the store wrapping on an uncooked chicken, a large piece of meat sitting down on the bed and nothing to do with him. He got as far as removing his shirt, and he kissed her, but he did not like touching her and knew it wouldn’t work, it was a mistake to have thought it would. He finally said, “I’m sorry, I thought it would be all right. I’m too old for this kind of thing any more.” And she said, “Relax, sugar. Like they say, you’re as old as you feel. Come on, I’ll help you along.” She put her arms around his neck; he remembered a story about a girl who danced with a mechanical robot which went berserk and smashed her against the wall—this woman, made of mechanized flesh. He said no, truly, he hadn’t been feeling very well lately. “Suit yourself,” she said, lighting up a cigarette and looking mean, as if about to tell him, You’re not getting out of this room without paying me for my wasted time, mister. He put on his shirt again, gave her something for her trouble, and said he’d buy her a meal. But that had been a mistake, too. She had wanted to talk.
Now he knew, and now he could always go to the park. Before that he had gone to places and done things without knowing why—sitting in the waiting-room at the railroad station, or driving out to the airport to sit there. He knew now that he had done those things because he wanted to be where there were other people, but not to talk to any of them or to be alone with them. He liked to sit there and not have them bother him, have them go about their own business.
Dr. Hildron had seen him on the street one day, a month after the house had been sold.
“Charlie,” he said, and looked concerned.
“Doctor.”
“We don’t see much of you nowadays, Charlie. How about coming down to the club, having a round?”
“Thanks,” he said. “Everything’s packed up in storage—golf clubs, books, clothes, the furniture. I didn’t know what to do with it all. Thought I’d just keep it there till I decide.”
“Where you living now?” the doctor asked.
“Oh, some cheap hotel. Over there.” He threw out his arm in the general direction of the hotel and began to cough. The doctor’s eyes became sharp, clearer than they had been. What does a hawk’s eye look like when it sees a sparrow down on the ground? The look that goes with professional interest is a special look, full, absorbed, riveted, almost like the look of love at first sight.
“Don’t like the sound of that cough. Why don’t you just drop in and see me about it? Wednesday? Thursday?”
“I feel fine.”
“Don’t leave a thing like that.” He wanted to know how Mr. Mackenzie was living and what he was eating and if he was still off the cigarettes. He thought he should get himself a decent place to stay, just until he made up his mind about things, and someone to look after him—a housekeeper or a cook.
“Bessie’s not earning much. She might be glad to take on the job.”
“Bessie?”
“You know, Mrs. Rider,” he said, and laughed.
“Oh, sure. I remember.”
Bessie worked behind the bar at the clubhouse. She was there one day when Mackenzie came in from golf with three of his friends, and he went up to her to order drinks while the others sat at a table and went over the day’s scores. “Three beers and a Coca-Cola, please—” he started, and then he forgot her name. It vanished away from him, leaving only a dark hole where it had been. All he could remember was that she was married to Spelly Rider, so he said, “Three beers and a Coca-Cola, please, Mrs. Rider.” And she seemed to get taller and glow, brighter and crisper than her white apron. “Yes sir, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said. It wasn’t true that you couldn’t see coloured people blush. After that she always liked him, maybe she always had. She was a nice woman. And she had troubles, he had heard that.
“All right,” he said. “I suppose I should see about a place. Seems such a chore. Unnecessary.”
Dr. Hildron patted him on the shoulder, the hand knocking against the coat, but no warmth coming out on his body around the touched place as there used to be when someone touched him, even lightly. The doctor said he could take care of it, he’d put out a word here and a word there, and have a talk with Bessie. He looked into Mr. Mackenzie’s face, saying, “You know we haven’t forgotten you, Charlie. You shouldn’t go on like this. And I want you to make an appointment now about that——”
“Later, later. I told you, I feel all right,” he said. And he apologized for the way he was, explaining that for a little while longer he felt the need to be alone, and added that he was much obliged to the doctor for taking the trouble to see about getting the room. That was back in the days when he still said such things.
Now was different. Now was better. He learned by himself during the first four days of sitting in the park. And after that the hobos had taught him the rest.
They let him sit there for four days before they made a move. Then, while he was still in the middle of Mexico, the youngest one shambled up to him and, looking at his chest, muttered,
“Cigarette, boss?” Mr. Mackenzie hadn’t heard. He was still staring at the wall. Then the man brushed him hesitantly on the sleeve. He turned his head and found the face looking at his face, doing exactly what he did: looking through.
“Got a smoke?”
“Don’t smoke,” Mackenzie said. The man turned away and went back to his bench.
That afternoon he had an appointment to see Bender about making a will. It came about because of the telephone and the messages Bessie left for him on the table. He told her to say he was out, always. After Bender had left eight messages, he telephoned back and told Bessie next time to say he’d gone to Chicago or California or some other place and she didn’t know when he’d be back.
When he walked into the building the receptionist threw a look to the man standing by the elevators, and he walked up, his arm out to bar the way, saying gruffly, “Can I help you?” No mention of “sir”.
“Have an appointment with young Bender,” he said.
“Name?” No “please”.
“Mackenzie.”
“Just a minute.” They didn’t ask him to sit down, either. The receptionist lifted the receiver on her desk and said, “Sally Ann, there’s a man here who says his name is Mackenzie and he’s got an appointment with Mr. Bender. Would you check that, please?” She looked over his head while she waited for the answer. Then the man came back and told him, “It’s the fourth floor, turn left,” which he knew already.
He stepped into the elevator and looked at the elevator boy’s profile. Young, he couldn’t be more than twenty, good-looking, friendly looking, and stood easily. He looked very healthy. Mr. Mackenzie thought he must be new at the job and wondered how friendly, nice-looking, and healthy he would be after five years of going up and down in his little box, never breathing the air or seeing the sun.
There was a sign up in the offices on the fourth floor. It read: If you must have a drink on your lunch hour, kindly do not drink vodka. We would rather our clients thought you drunk than incompetent. A boy carrying a tray of coffee cups passed, saw him standing by the sign, and said, “That’s Mr. Buxted, he put that up—he’s a real joker.”
The secretary stiffened for a moment as he walked in, seemed nailed to her chair, and then rose, smiling uncomfortably.
“Mr. Mackenzie?”
“Hello, Jeanie.”
“I hardly knew you with your beard.”
“Not a beard. I’ve just been forgetting to shave. Maybe I’ll grow one.”
“I’ll just tell Mr. Bender you’re here.”
Mr. Bender. Young Stukely Bender, who was Ben’s age; very outgoing, but not smart enough to deserve the job he had. He got it through his father, who had been Mackenzie’s best friend. They had been in the war together and after the funeral he thought: people say that, we’ve been through the wars together, and that’s exactly what it means, it says everything.
The door opened and the secretary came out, showing him in with her hand. At the far end of the room Bender could be seen advancing with his hand out to be shaken, his face as the door closed still friendly but rigid. Mackenzie nodded, said, “Hello, Stuke,” put his hands in his pockets, and sat down. He hoped they would dive straight into the business. But Stuke just wanted to say how sorry, fiddling with a paperweight on the desk, how very sorry he had been to hear, and Mrs. Bender too, in fact how sorry they all were, and though of course he must have gotten his letter of condolence, what can you ever say except you sympathize, which is true of course, but so difficult not to make it sound like a hollow commonplace.
Mr. Mackenzie had nothing to answer. Something evidently was needed, so he managed a sound, a grunt of assent to show he had been listening. It wasn’t enough. Young Bender’s round face coloured up with annoyance. He had expected more in return for his sympathy. Most people did. There is only one thing pity can do, make you a better person. It cannot help the one you pity. He’s old enough to know that, Mackenzie thought. Maybe if he had been in a war like his brother he would know.
“Well then, about the will. Have you thought about that? I suppose you’ll be wanting to set something aside for your daughter-in-law.”
“She’s no kin,” said Mr. Mackenzie. It came out abruptly, even surprising himself. Then he thought: well, it’s true enough, she isn’t.
“Still——”
“And she’s got the insurance money, anyway.”
“What about your grandchildren, then?”
“They’re not even related to me.”
“But when they grow up, education, enough to start a business on—insurance money doesn’t stretch that far.”
“She’ll probably be married again by that time. Besides, her folks are pretty well off. I imagine she’ll get by all right.”
“Well. Well, let’s see now. Daddy said you had a brother, as I recall.”
“He died four years ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Did he leave any children?”
“Two. The family’s rolling in money. They don’t need it.”
“I see. Any cousins?”
“One or two. Too distant. I haven’t seen them for years.”
“What about your wife’s relatives?”
“There’s her Aunt Sophie. I never did like her. And I believe she’s got a nest egg she’s been sitting on for the past fifty years or so. When she dies she’ll leave it for the care and upkeep of that orange cat she’s got.” Cassandra—the cat was called Cassandra, he remembered.
Young Bender laid down his pencil and swivelled his chair from side to side. Mr. Mackenzie thought: Christ, he’s going to tell me that old office anecdote again.
“You know, Mr. Mackenzie, Mr. Buxted told me his uncle once had a client named Mrs. Cartwright, an old lady that owned a little piece of land over near Baton Rouge. One day he calls her in and says, ‘You’re getting on now, Mrs. Cartwright, don’t you think you should make a will just in case? You’ve got this little bitty piece of land and it should go to somebody. Would you like to leave it to your cousin Sue?’ ‘Not on your life,’ says the old lady, ‘I never did like her.’ ‘Well, do you want to leave it to your nephew?’ ‘No,’ she says, ‘I never did like him.’ Mr. Buxted’s uncle went right on down the line, about twelve people she could have bequeathed something to, and at last she gets up and says, ‘You know, Mr. Buxted, I don’t believe I want to leave nobody nothing.’ ”
Young Bender began to laugh. His teeth were larger than you would have thought. When he stopped, the annoyance came over his face again. Mr. Mackenzie was not responding to treatment.
“I think she was right,” he said. And then suddenly a great devil laugh burst from him and he said, “I think that old lady was pretty damn smart. And right.” Young Bender looked uncomfortable now and fingered some papers on the desk. His hands were trembling slightly.
“Perhaps if you could hunt up the last addresses of your cousins. Any rate, think about it. There’s always charity.”
Not charity. Sixty-eight per cent of what you give goes on advertising and paying the staff and what’s left over is spread so thin it’s never enough to get any one person out of a hole.
“It’s a sizeable sum,” Bender said. “A very sizeable sum,” and the eyebrows went up in his round face, staying there astonished at the size of the sum.
“I’ll think about it some more,” Mr. Mackenzie said.
Out on the street again, he did think about it for the first time. It had not really crossed his mind before the interview.
He thought about Jim’s first wife. When Jim went into the army, after Ben, Betty said she’d die if anything happened to him. He applied to be sent to Germany but in the end he was shipped to Hawaii instead. And he married a Japanese girl. He called her Mitsy, from her Japanese name, though she had been brought up in the western way, speaking English, and had the English name of Lily. Betty took it badly at first. “Think of the children,” she said. He did not think it mattered. But there were no children, and two years later Betty told hi
m that Jim had asked her to talk some sense into Mitsy because she refused to have tests done and they should both go together, otherwise there was no point to it. “I tried to explain, but Charlie, she just sat there and cried and cried and said no. I can’t do a thing. Maybe you can. She likes you.” He had a talk with Mitsy and asked her why she wouldn’t agree to the tests. She told him, “Because if I find out for certain that I can’t, it’s the end of my life.” “There could be all sorts of reasons,” he said, but she was afraid to find out any of the reasons and he did not insist because he was not quite sure how occidental she really was; she might do something terrible and Japanese, unforseen, like killing herself because her husband did not consider her the perfect wife. However, she didn’t do anything terrible after all. That was Ben. Also, the matter was soon taken out of her hands, since by that time Jim had met Alice. Mr. Mackenzie thought his son was behaving shamefully. But you can’t run your children’s lives for them. He went to see Mitsy and talk to her all through the divorce proceedings. He liked her. He wished she were still his daughter-in-law. Three years after the divorce, after Jim and Alice had adopted the first grandchild and were taking steps to adopt the second, she sent him a letter. It arrived just before Christmas, a short letter telling him that she thought of him often and always with gratitude and affection and that he had been right and very wise in all the advice he had given her. A photograph was enclosed, showing her and her second husband, very tall, standing with his arm around her, and towards the camera Mitsy was holding, half as big as herself, an enormous sleeping baby wrapped up in a blanket. Jim saw the envelope lying on his desk. “From Mitsy?” he said. “Can I see it?” He said, because there was nothing he could do, “If you like.” And Jim picked it up, read the letter, and looked for a long time at the photograph. Then he said, “Well, that’s settled. I was worried about her—she never wrote. But she seems to be happy now. I’m glad. I hope she’s forgotten now.” And Mr. Mackenzie thought: it took a lot to say that, probably took more than I’ll ever know, and maybe he’s more like Ben than I thought.
The Man Who Was Left Behind Page 2
