Last Resort

by Alison Lurie

  “That’s hateful. There must be something wrong with him.”

  “I thought it was me,” Jenny sobbed.

  “Of course not.” Lee laughed. “There’s nothing in the world wrong with you.”

  “So what do you think is wrong with Wilkie?”

  Lee shrugged. “Who knows? Men get like that sometimes. They see time running out, and something in their hormones starts telling them to chase after younger women, and they get kind of mean and crazy and boring for a while.”

  “So you think he’ll get over it?”

  “I don’t know,” Lee said. “Sure, he might.”

  “But what if I don’t get over it?” Jenny wailed. “I mean, right now, I’m not sure I love Wilkie either. I think I might sort of hate him, actually.” She gulped tears.

  “Well, that sounds natural.” Lee smiled. “Anybody might feel that way.” She pushed a long, slightly damp strand of Jenny’s pale hair back from her face.

  “But it’s me too. I’m so confused; I don’t know what I’m doing at all. And Gerry Grass, you know, that poet I told you was living over the garage?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lee agreed.

  “I agreed to read the proofs of his new book, and now he keeps coming around and telling me I should leave Wilkie and go to Los Angeles with him and help him with his work. He says Wilkie doesn’t appreciate me, and he’s in love with me and we’ll be very happy together.”

  “Really?” Lee scowled and sat back, gazing at Jenny. “And are you in love with him?”

  “No, of course not.” Jenny laughed shakily. “But I was thinking at first, maybe that’s what I should do, because that way I would be of some use in the world. But then I decided that was silly, because Gerry’s book won’t make any difference to the world anyhow, it’s just all about him and what he thinks of other poets.”

  “I see.” Lee smiled slightly. “Well, that makes sense,” she said, gathering Jenny back to her again. “I wouldn’t want you to go to Los Angeles with somebody you didn’t love. Especially since I know you hated the place when you lived there.”

  “Oh, Lee.” Jenny gave a final gulp, drew away a little, and looked up at her friend. “It’s such a relief to talk to someone. I’m so happy I know you—”

  “I’m happy I know you, too.” Lee kissed Jenny again, but this time, as if by accident, the kiss fell on her mouth. It was a soft, gentle kiss, and Jenny met it equally and gratefully.

  “You’re so kind,” she said, smiling. “Listening to me go on this way.”

  “And you’re so lovely.” Lee kissed Jenny again, but this time it was deeper and longer than the kiss of a friend.

  “Oh!” Jenny murmured, when she could speak. She felt dizzy, as if she were inside of a snowball globe that had suddenly been turned upside down, showering her with sparkling flakes. She blinked and put one hand to her head, trying to focus.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” Lee said.

  “N-oh,” Jenny admitted.

  “Ever since I met you on the beach, practically.”

  “Really? I didn’t think—” Jenny smiled unevenly. “I mean, I only thought—” The air still seemed full of sequined snowflakes, whirling in some substance thicker than air: fine, transparent oil, or a heady, gold-tinged solution of perfume. “I wanted to too,” she admitted. “But I never thought—”

  “I love you, you know,” Lee said, taking a step back to look into her face. Jenny, still faint, could only stare and smile.

  “Oh, hell,” Lee added in a very different voice, looking past Jenny toward the street, where a pink Key West taxi had just pulled up. “That’s got to be the woman who’s rented the tower room; she was supposed to be here at five.”

  “Oh.” Slowly, dizzily, Jenny moved away. “I should go home anyhow,” she said. “There’s all these people coming for dinner, and I haven’t even started to cook. I wish I’d never asked them.”

  “But you’ll be back tomorrow,” Lee reminded her.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Lee moved closer and kissed her again; and Jenny, out of love and gratitude and desire, kissed her back.

  “Call me when you get home, all right?” Lee said. “All right,” Jenny whispered. “I’ll try.”

  12

  IN THE HOUSE ON Hibiscus Street, the following day, Wilkie Walker was killing time until the time came to kill himself. The act, he had realized by now, would be relatively easy; what would be hard was making it seem accidental. Already he had been balked three times: by Gerry Grass, by the weather, and by the death of the man in the wheelchair. Fate, he was beginning to believe, wanted to thwart him. But the imaginary goddess (whom he pictured as an elderly, ugly version of classical statues of Justice, in a bunchy chiton) would not succeed. He would die today; all he had to do now was live through the next six hours.

  He had already made what preparations he could without betraying his purpose, and taken all possible actions that would tend to conceal it. He had opened today’s mail and set the bills aside for Jenny to pay as usual. He had scribbled notes of acceptance for her to type up and send to two publishers who wanted him to read and recommend books. He had even agreed to speak without remuneration on “Life Below the Surface” at a Key West Conference on The Writer and Nature—an event that under normal circumstances he might have declined to attend, let alone participate in. Now, however, he could agree, with no consequences except an enhanced posthumous reputation for generosity and goodwill.

  But all this had taken only an hour or so, and the rest of the day still extended before him like the barren, endless salt flats of the southwest, where he had made some of his most difficult excursions as a naturalist. To maintain an appearance of normality he had walked to Valadarez’s newsstand on Duval Street as usual and purchased the Times. He had spoken as usual to the proprietor: the last words he would utter in his life, the lie: “Fine, thank you.”

  Back home, he had methodically unfolded and refolded the newspaper page by page—another lie, a lie of commission—so that it would not seem to have been unread. There was no point in reading it. He would never know how the vote on taxes went in Congress tomorrow, nor pay these taxes; he would not view the new plays or films recommended by the critics.

  When about to die, some men overindulge, since there will be no consequence to their health. “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.” But the idea of such a senseless binge—indeed of any sort of food or drink—now repelled Wilkie. He was not hungry; he had not really been hungry for a long while. If he were to create the illusion of normality, however, he would have to eat, or at least appear to have eaten, the sandwich his wife had left for him.

  Facing this necessity, he opened the fridge and slowly removed the sandwich, which rested on an orange Fiestaware plate in company with a frill of Boston lettuce, a sliced tomato, and a dill pickle, the whole covered by plastic wrap. His impulse was to shove everything in the trash. But if he did so Jenny might find it later and wonder about his health or state of mind. It would be better to conceal the food in the garbage can outside.

  Wilkie glanced toward the kitchen window. Barbie Mumpson was still reading in a lounge chair by the overheated communal pool, with her legs wrapped in a pink towel and another towel over her head and shoulders. This struck Wilkie as wholly idiotic. If she didn’t want a sunburn, why didn’t she stay indoors?

  But the answer was simple: Barbie hadn’t stayed indoors because she was lying in wait for him, just as she had often done before. If he were to start for the garbage bins she would call out to him; she would want to talk about the endangered manatee. And if he didn’t reply calmly and cordially, later she would report to Jenny and everyone else that his behavior had been strange.

  Wilkie had nothing against manatees per se, or even against Barbie—who, he thought now, somewhat resembled one. Like her, the aquatic mammal was a little heavy, a little fleshy, a little slow; not too well adapted to the modern world. The manatee, however, caused no trouble
to anyone: it rested in shallow warm waters eating water weeds. As he watched, Barbie’s large-breasted, towel-wrapped (and thus apparently neckless and one-legged) form blurred in his nearsighted vision into that of a female manatee of the sort that sex-starved eighteenth-century sailors on long voyages mistook for mermaids. And of course Barbie herself belonged to a declining species: the fans of Wilkie Walker.

  Right now Wilkie did not have the energy to converse with or about a manatee, or risk reaching the garbage bins without the creature spotting him. Also, it occurred to him, it would be best that his stomach contain the remains of a normal lunch in case of an autopsy. He opened the fridge again, poured himself a glass of seltzer, placed the plate containing the sandwich (chicken, apparently) on the kitchen counter, sat on a chrome-and-plastic kitchen stool, and attempted to eat. In his mouth the bread and meat tasted like chilled cardboard.

  He got the first bite down, then another. The third, though, seemed to stick somewhere in his esophagus, causing sudden acute pain. Wilkie tried to swallow, but in vain. Instead of easing, the pain increased and spread.

  A gulp of seltzer, rather than relieving the situation, worsened it. In growing distress he pushed the plate away and stumbled to the fridge, where he remembered seeing an open box of baking soda. Breathing hard, he mixed himself a dose and choked it down.

  There was no relief. Instead the pain grew worse each moment, spreading inside his chest, modulating rapidly into agony. Not indigestion, he thought, gasping for air. This is a heart attack.

  Shakily, Wilkie clutched at a chair and lowered himself onto it. Yes, he thought. Fate, having denied him his chosen exit from life three times, had now awarded him an ugly, painful death of her own choice: a death that presumably had been hanging over him for years, though that stupid doctor back in Convers had said his heart was fine, would last him to ninety.

  Still the pain worsened, becoming agonizing. It was as if he had been shot or, as had actually happened when he was in fifth grade, been hit in the chest with a baseball bat. Then, though, the effect had gradually diminished; now it continued to increase, so that it was hard to sit upright. Clumsily, he collapsed onto the tiled kitchen floor, and though he tried to stop it, a shameful noise, half-groan and half-scream, forced its way out of his mouth. I don’t want to die this way, Wilkie thought. That’s too bad, Fate said to him unpleasantly, rattling her scales.

  Hang on, he told himself, lying in a fetal position on the cold floor and breathing with difficulty. It can’t be long now. Soon it will all be over, soon I’ll be dead in this ugly rented house, where Jenny, when she returns from her stupid part-time job, will find me—

  But that will be horrible. His beloved wife will walk into the kitchen and see him lying on the cold, ugly green-and-white marbled floor—a floor composed of genuine antique Cuban tiles, Kenneth Foster had told them with admiration, though to Wilkie they resembled some disgusting dish made of boiled cabbage and whipped cream. Jenny will find him lying dead here, his face distorted, in a puddle of urine and feces. A disgusting, terrible sight; a disgusting, terrible memory for the rest of her life.

  No, no. Somehow he must get out of here, go somewhere else to die. Slowly Wilkie struggled to his hands and knees, then to his feet, gasping with pain. Dragging himself along the kitchen counter, he reached the back door, got it open, and shouted to the towel-wrapped manatee by the side of the pool.

  In the front room of Artemis Lodge, Jenny Walker moved restlessly between the desk, the sofa, and the wide window-seat, where she perched on the handwoven red and purple cushions and stared out at the street, waiting for Lee to return, waiting to be alone with her again. When she’d arrived that morning other people were already there, preparing to accompany Lee to Tommy’s funeral and the reception afterward.

  Though the house was quiet now—all the guests were out too—Jenny’s thoughts were loud and stormy. Lee had said she loved her, but what did that mean? Did it mean as much as it meant to Jenny? She might know if she’d been able to call Lee as she’d promised, but when she got home Wilkie was there, and if she called he might pick up the phone, as he sometimes did, and overhear her. Was Lee angry that she hadn’t called, was that why she’d hardly spoken to Jenny this morning?

  Though the guests had seemed to enjoy it, to Jenny her dinner party last night had been almost unbearable—simultaneously boring and tense. She had been thinking of Lee the whole time, wanting to be with her. Wilkie had drunk rather a lot, and had been alternatively almost wildly talkative, and silent. At the end he had suddenly announced to everyone that The Copper Beech was finished, something he hadn’t yet told Jenny.

  Though upset and insulted, she had managed to conceal her surprise. And after the guests had congratulated him and left she had said only that she was glad the book was done, and she looked forward to going over the final chapter with him.

  “Yes,” Wilkie had said repressively. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’m too tired now.” He had glanced at her in a blurred, peculiar way, and opened his mouth as if about to say something more.

  “Yes?” Jenny had murmured finally. But Wilkie had shut his mouth and fallen into a morose, stubborn silence.

  It was wonderful that the book, their book, was finished. But why hadn’t he told her? What if he wasn’t planning to let her help him with it? What if he were going to ask Barbie Mumpson to help him instead from now on?

  That would be disastrous. Barbie would make a complete mess of the job. She wouldn’t realize how much editing and revision Wilkie’s work always needed: she probably wouldn’t be able to read his handwriting—few people besides Jenny could. Possibly she couldn’t even spell. She wouldn’t know how and where to find illustrations, or check the statistics and quotations, things that Wilkie, because he could rely on Jenny, was rather careless about.

  When the book appeared it would be full of errors, and the reviewers would point this out. That would serve Wilkie right, but it mustn’t be allowed to happen, because The Copper Beech was too important, because it was her book too. She must speak to him, must persuade him to give her the manuscript.

  But what if, when she spoke, Wilkie were to say, No thanks. What if he were to say, I’m sorry, but I’ve found someone else to help me. I don’t love you anymore.

  All right, she could say back. I don’t love you either. I’ve found someone else too.

  Outside somebody was turning in at the gate, coming up the walk under the palms; but it was only Perry Jackson. At first Jenny hardly recognized him because he was dressed formally in black slacks, a gray sports jacket, a white shirt, and a formal unsmiling expression.

  “Hi,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “Lee asked me to tell you, she’ll be a little late. If you want to leave now I can hang around till she comes.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Jenny said, determined to hold her ground. “I don’t have to go anywhere.”

  “It won’t be long. She just stayed on to be with Tommy’s parents.”

  “That’s fine,” Jenny assured him, thinking again how kind Lee was, how warm-hearted and generous. “Was it a nice memorial service?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Jacko said flatly. “The music was good, and there was a big crowd. Your husband didn’t come, though.”

  “Oh, no,” said Jenny, surprised. “Did you expect him?”

  “Well. Sort of. Most of the other people who tried to save Tommy were there. The cop and both the paramedics, and a couple of tourists.”

  “Really?” Remembering the detached, exhausted way Wilkie had spoken of the incident, Jenny knew that it would never have occurred to him to attend. She looked down, embarrassed.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it.” Jacko smiled briefly. “Listen,” he added. “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “Yes?” Jenny said politely, but in a manner that withheld assent. People often asked her favors in that tone of voice; usually what they wanted was some sort of access to Wilkie, something she couldn’t always promise, a
nd soon would never be able to promise.

  “I’d like you and your husband to witness my will.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course,” Jenny said, surprised.

  “It’s because you’re not mentioned in it, and everyone else I know is, more or less.” He smiled, shrugged.

  “But you’re not—” Jenny swallowed the rest of the sentence, recalling that in spite of appearances Jacko was ill; was perhaps even dying.

  “You’ll have to come to the lawyer’s office. Maybe sometime this week, if you can make it.”

  “Yes, of course—I mean, I’ll ask my husband and let you know,” Jenny said, wondering if Wilkie would in fact agree to witness Jacko’s will—if he would ever again agree to do anything she suggested.

  “Thanks. Well, see you around.”

  Fifteen tense minutes later, Jenny looked up and saw Lee climbing the front steps, crossing the porch. She was also dressed formally, in a black dress, black espadrilles, a black and purple handwoven chenille shawl, and a black, brooding expression.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late,” she said, hardly glancing at Jenny. “How’s everything?”

  “Oh, fine,” Jenny replied in a thin voice. “Vicki and Sara checked out of Room Three, and the woman who’s arriving today phoned to say she’ll be here around six. There were a couple of calls about rates and vacancies for March, and Marie-Claire wants to come back in April. I wrote down everything and said you’d be in touch. How was the memorial service?”

  “I guess it was good. If anything like that can be good.” Lee did not look at Jenny but at the blank wall next to her. “The church was full, and they played a Maria Callas tape, and Allen Ingram read a poem. People who didn’t know Tommy or Dennis very well probably felt better.” Her voice broke.

  “Oh, Lee.” Jenny went toward her. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I want everyone to stop dying. I can’t take it anymore.” Lee began to sob. Unlike Jenny, she did not cry easily and gracefully, but in a loud, wrenching manner. “Dennis is devastated. Tommy was his life, more or less. Now he doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself.”