Last Resort

by Alison Lurie

  It was clear to Wilkie now that if he had stayed with serious science he might have made some significant discovery. Instead, horrified by what was happening to the world around him, he had become a popularizer. A propagandist. He had brought upon himself the fate of all successful popularizers: he had made his point so well that it had become banal. Once his name had been used to describe and recommend the works of writers like Ed Hoagland and Annie Dillard; now their names were used to recommend his work. His books, at first popular with adults, were now read mainly by children and teenagers, and it was now mostly high school and college students who asked to interview him. If you’re over seventy, he had realized belatedly, nobody important in the media wants to hear from you anymore. Their attitude is, Wilkie Walker? Is he still alive?

  Once Wilkie had dined at the White House and been the featured speaker at important conferences, earning very large fees (often donated to good causes afterward). Now his typical honorarium had shrunk. He had been reminded of this a while ago by the brash young man with sideburns who had taken over the business of his former lecture agent, now retired. “Let’s face it,” this disagreeable youth had said, leaning confidently toward Wilkie across a table in a pretentious Italian restaurant and breathing garlic on him. “You’re an established name, sure, but you’re no longer the flavor of the month.”

  Wilkie’s left hip, which he had injured five years ago climbing a cliff in New Mexico to observe jackrabbits, ached tonight: no position on the sofa was comfortable. He could picture how the bones must look, lumped with calcium deposits that grated against the adjoining muscles, tendons, and nerves. That hip would never totally heal now; probably it would get worse and worse, until he was permanently stiffened and crippled, permanently in pain.

  Except he probably wasn’t going to live that long. For six months he had been aware of an intermittent ache in his lower gut, and in October, in a graffiti-scrawled toilet stall at the college library, he had seen blood. He knew what that meant: cancer of the colon. He couldn’t feel it yet, but somewhere in his bowels his life was diseased and bleeding away. When that fool Dr. Felch asked him if there were ever blood in his stool, Wilkie hadn’t volunteered the information. He knew the odds; he had looked them up. He was determined never to be the weak, exhausted victim of a colostomy, weakened further by chemotherapy and radiation, dragging through what was left of his life with a plastic bag of his own shit strapped to his body. No. He would say nothing until treatment became impossible.

  The trouble was, he couldn’t put the fear and the pain and the fear of coming greater pain out of his mind. And this failure of courage and detachment pained and terrified him further. He was sick with self-disgust to think that when this planet and the animals that lived on it were in such desperate straits, he should be obsessed with his own declining health—and, worse and more shameful, his declining reputation. He was an animal too, and animals suffered and died, he told himself; that was what had always happened and always would happen.

  His hip ached, ached. But he was not going to admit this to anyone, not even Jenny, not yet. For many years articles and books had portrayed Wilkie Walker as stoic, heroic, fit, and invincible; stories had been told of how in search of rare creatures he had survived Alaskan blizzards, tropical heat and storms, treks through remote jungles, frostbite, days without food, a dislocated shoulder, a broken wrist. Largely, these stories were true.

  But Wilkie was no longer regarded as heroic by everyone. Many animal-rights activists now considered him weak and gullible, and his writings outdated and irrelevant. Ecological vandals who had tried unsuccessfully to enlist him in their cause now despised and bad-mouthed him because he wouldn’t support or participate in the driving of murderous spikes into redwood trees or the bombing of animal research laboratories. As several of them had troubled to inform him, in print or in person, in their opinion he was not only a cowardly, cranky has-been, but a traitor to the environment.

  All this was in Wilkie’s mind, always. But he was resolved not to complain, especially not to Jenny. For as long as he could, he must be strong for her, because she was weak.

  A troubled, complex expression appeared on Wilkie’s face. For a quarter of a century he had loved Jenny more surely, more steadily than any other human being. But now he also resented her, because if she did not exist he would be free to leave the world by the nearest exit—in his current fantasy, the exhaust system of their Volvo station wagon. Because of Jenny all such exits were barred; he knew that psychologically she would not survive his self-inflicted death.

  For Jenny he must live as long as he could and die as peacefully. He must save and shelter her now, as he had saved and sheltered her ever since, over a quarter century ago, they had met at UCLA. His first reaction, even stronger than his awe at her delicate pale beauty, was astonishment that such a creature—a creature of the woodlands and wild places, surely—should be living in Los Angeles. When he heard that Jenny had been born and raised in New England, he understood better. Later, when he learned that she had been unwillingly transported to Southern California by self-centered and ambitious parents, and then abandoned there, a spirit of ecological knight-errantry had suffused his romantic admiration. He swore to himself that, whatever it cost, he would rescue this beautiful, unique primate and restore her to her natural environment.

  And in the end he had done so. Choosing among three possible endowed professorships, he had returned Jenny to an unspoiled New England town, bought her an unspoiled colonial house, and surrounded her with woods and fields and flowers. There was nothing he would not do for Jenny, Wilkie thought. She asked so little, was so content only to be with him. For twenty-five years she had made him almost wholly happy. Moreover, she had presented him with what most people would consider the three greatest gifts of his life: two healthy, handsome, intelligent children and (perhaps even more important) Salty.

  It was Jenny who, when he had taken her to San Francisco at the end of his lecture series, had given a name to Reithrodontomys raviventris. Walking in a Bay Area park just after sunset on that first miraculous evening, Wilkie had spotted a rare salt marsh mouse and pointed it out to her. “Oh, Salty, you’re beautiful!” Jenny had cried as the warm wind swept musically through the pale winter reeds and her long pale reed-colored hair. And the tiny bright-eyed creature, as if understanding, had paused on his tuft of grass to exchange with her a look of mutual appreciation.

  It was not Jenny’s fault that her gifts had turned sour in the end: that Salty had become a media cartoon; or that Ellen and Billy, once so wholly satisfactory, had grown into flawed and problematic young adults. It was no one’s fault that Ellen should have inherited Wilkie’s strong will and his tendency to take control, so much less charming in a woman; or that Billy should have inherited Jenny’s physical slightness and her sensitivity to the opinions of others, so much less charming in a man. In his darkest moments Wilkie sometimes described Ellen to himself as a noisy, opinionated feminist and Billy as a sissy and a computer nerd.

  The way it seemed to Wilkie now, as he crouched in the cold draft, clenching and grinding his jaw against the pain in his hip, only two possible futures were open to him. Either he would give up, tell some doctor the truth about his symptoms, begin taking mind-altering painkilling drugs, and descend into a blurry, shameful last act of life. Or he would get out, while it was still possible.

  And it was, theoretically, possible. An accident on a field trip, for instance ... He would have to leave Convers for that: there were no mountain cliffs here, no lakes he could not easily swim across, even if he could discourage Jenny from accompanying him as she usually did. Perhaps an automobile smashup, one that wouldn’t injure other people? When the snows came, some night when the roads were dark and icy ... But if no one else was involved, there might be doubts about his intention. And how could he be sure that it would not end in a fate far worse than his slowly dwindling life: brain damage, a coma, paralysis?

  Upstairs Jenny was stil
l awake. At last she slipped out of bed, pulled a long robin’s-egg blue robe over her lacy white cotton nightdress, and padded barefoot down the wide, chilly oak stairs.

  “I couldn’t sleep either,” she apologized. “Goodness, it’s cold in here.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Wilkie lied, watching his wife as she turned up the thermostat, thinking how graceful she was, how beautiful, with her pale, fine regular features and her silky pale-beige hair, still only lightly touched with silver, waterfalling over her shoulders.

  “Do you know, I was wondering,” Jenny began, perching on the arm of a wing chair. She paused, waiting for the go-ahead.

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking about that awful cold I had for so many many weeks last year. I was wondering if we might go somewhere warm for a while this winter. It would be so nice to escape all the viruses that I know are on their way to Convers now, just looking for me.”

  Wilkie said nothing.

  “It doesn’t have to be abroad,” she added. “There are parts of America that don’t have winter.” She glanced at the silent television screen, which obligingly showed a weather map of the United States banded in rainbow colors, the wavy bottom strip a glowing red. Wilkie hardly saw it; instead he recalled a recent interview in a local TV studio where he had learned that what one sees on the screen is a lie, a construct: there is no real map projected behind the weatherman, only a blank wall toward which he gestures. That’s what I’m doing now, he had thought at the time, gesturing at a blank wall, while people imagine I see something there.

  “I was wondering, what if we were to take a place in Key West for a month or two,” Jenny continued. “Molly Hopkins still goes there every winter, doesn’t she?” Molly was the widow of a professor of American history who, though older than Wilkie, had been one of his closest friends.

  “I believe so,” her husband said in a neutral, considering voice. Key West, he thought. An island, surrounded by the deep kind drowning sea—Afterward everyone would assume it had been a sudden cramp, or a freak undertow—

  “I wondered if Molly might know something about houses to rent in Key West.”

  He should have known better; some people might say that too, Wilkie thought. Why did the old fool try to swim out so far? they might say. Well, so what?

  “I could write to her there. Or even phone.” Jenny glanced back from the weather map to her husband, and caught her breath. What she saw in the flickering television light was someone she hardly recognized: an old, exhausted-looking person in the grip of something between desperation and despair, his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, his jaw set.

  But then Wilkie shifted his position, turned away from the ghastly blue glare toward Jenny, smiled slightly at her, and was himself again. “Well, why not, my dear?” he said. “If that’s what you’d really like.”

  2

  MID-DECEMBER IN KEY West. Bougainvillea foamed over white stucco walls in Christmas-ribbon colors, palms swayed in the soft breeze, sand sparkled like Christmas tinsel in the sun. Streets and shops and restaurants were crowded with adults dressed like children at play, in colorful shorts, T-shirts, sneakers, and sandals. Their garb was the outward sign that for these few days or weeks they were free to enjoy and indulge themselves, like kids on vacation. They had no responsibilities or chores: they did not cook for themselves or make their own beds. They stayed up late at night, and ate when they liked, preferring the childish foods disapproved of by parents and health experts: cheeseburgers, hot dogs, sodas, chips, fries, pizza, and candy.

  During the day many of them were at the beach: splashing in the warm ocean, or lazing in the warmer sand, watching the slow waves lick the shore. Others dawdled along the streets, gazing into shop windows or licking ice-cream cones. The more athletic were jogging, riding bikes, throwing balls, and tossing Frisbees, or out at sea: windsurfing, sailing, snorkeling, deep-sea fishing, or scuba diving. At night they could be seen dining in open-air seafood restaurants, or sitting in bars listening to loud, rhythmic music and exchanging loud, rhythmic comments.

  Though most tourists accepted the occasional comic misadventure, it was important to them that overall their vacation should be pleasant. When you spend money on a holiday you are essentially purchasing happiness: if you don’t enjoy yourself you will feel defrauded.

  There are dangers, though, in enjoying yourself too much. “Real life,” when you return to it, may seem painfully drab and confined by contrast. But this is usually temporary and bearable. More serious consequences faced those tourists who did not go home, who enjoyed the freedom and pleasure of Key West so much that they stayed on longer and longer.

  What happened then, inevitably, was that these temporary children started to grow up. They bought property, joined volunteer organizations, took jobs, invested in some local business. As homeowners, workers, or proprietors, they began to view tourism from the other side. When they saw plastic debris washed up on the shore, or homeless people sleeping in alleys, they had the impulse to do something about it. They began to take positions on local issues; they not only read the local papers but wrote to the editor. Some became active in politics, or even ran for office. They agitated to save the reef, change the zoning laws, and permit cruise ships to tie up on Mallory Dock more often or never.

  Meanwhile, because they now had jobs and meetings to go to, they stopped wearing shorts and T-shirts and sandals, and changed into shirts and slacks, perhaps even into skirts and suits. For them Key West was no longer a playground. It had become the “real world”—a world in which they were real adults.

  Molly Hopkins, the widow of Wilkie Walker’s old friend, was one of these ex-tourists. For thirty years she had been coming to Key West every winter: at first only for Christmas and Easter vacation; later, after her husband retired, for the six months and one day that made them official residents of a state with no income tax. At present Molly lived in Key West from October through April, and socialized mainly with other winter residents, or with full-time citizens like Lee Weiss, whom she was visiting on this warm afternoon in early December.

  Once, Lee Weiss herself had been a tourist. Twenty-five years ago she had come to the island on impulse for a week’s vacation from an oppressive marriage. As a direct result of this interlude, she left her husband. She returned the next season, then stayed on. Eventually she became the owner of a successful women’s guest house, and one of the island’s semisolid citizens. When she wanted to relax and enjoy herself in a carefree, childlike manner, she left town—usually in August or September, which is hurricane season and the low point for tourism—and went to Europe or to New England.

  In the high season, from mid-December through mid-April, Lee had many cares and responsibilities. Now, as she sat on the vine-shaded front porch of Artemis Lodge with Molly Hopkins, she felt that this burden had just been increased.

  “Oh, hell. How could you do that?” she exclaimed, sitting forward and letting her natural-fiber knitting slide to the floor. “Don’t you know what kind of a reactionary shit Wilkie Walker is?”

  “No, not really.” Molly, who was reclining on a wicker chaise with her hair fluffed out against the flowered cushion, gave a little yip, almost a sigh. As she aged, she bore a greater and greater resemblance to the Hopkinses’ long series of Maltese terriers—especially the last one, Lulu, whose death three months ago still devastated her whenever she recalled it. Molly had the same big brown eyes, pug nose, mildly eager expression, and sparse floppy white curls.

  “Didn’t you ever read that disgusting book of his, The Natural Animal?”

  “I don’t really remember it ...” Molly’s voice trailed off. How exhausting young people are today, she thought. In fact Lee was over fifty, and though her Polynesian tan, wavy black mane, and ruffled magenta mumu suggested vigor and sensuality, at second glance she looked her age. But to Molly, at eighty-one, Lee seemed young, as almost everyone did now. There were so few grown-ups around, so few sensible people left alive in the world.<
br />
  “Made homophobia respectable, that’s what he did,” Lee growled, staring at the dramatic orange and vermillion blossoms of the trumpet vine that partially veiled her veranda from the street. “He’s quoted everywhere by those Family Values creeps. Prize-winning scientist states, etcetera.”

  “But that was years ago. I know he doesn’t think that way now.”

  “Yeah? Did he take it back in print?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Then it doesn’t count.”

  “Honestly, it didn’t occur to me that anyone would mind,” Molly said, surprised by the persistence of her friend’s reaction. Usually Lee flared up and simmered down fast. “And it’s not as if he were living here.”

  “Yeah, but he’s staying in Jacko’s front yard. How’s that going to work out? And it’s not just Jacko, I mind for every gay person on the island. Including myself. That goddamn book of his nearly destroyed me as a person.”

  “Really?” Molly restrained herself from asking what else Lee could have been destroyed as; she had recently resolved to stop protesting the contemporary misuse of language. “I should have thought that would be difficult.”

  “Now it would, sure,” Lee admitted. “But you didn’t know me back in college. Well, hell, I didn’t know myself. When I discovered I was attracted to women, this teacher I thought was so great gave me Walker’s book. Said it would help me. So I read how I was sick and unnatural, because animals aren’t queer. According to Walker, whatever animals do is natural and good. Homosexuality is a disease; it’s got to be treated and wiped out. And then he goes on about how we’ve got to preserve some scruffy old mouse that’s no use to anybody.” She lapsed into brooding silence.

  “You know Wilkie Walker hasn’t been well lately,” Molly remarked eventually.

  “Oh yeah? What has he got?”

  “I don’t really know. But his wife said she thought he ought to be in a warmer climate this winter.”