Weren’t they both a little too casual? And—now I came to think of it—wasn’t my son’s touching “I’ve come home to Daddy” routine a little too coincidentally timed? Could Bill’s change of heart have been merely a ruse? Could Jean and he have been communicating? Could Jean have called him to tell him Ronnie was off to Georgia?
“Get back to your father’s and I can work it so Ronnie asks you to look after me.”
Torn between suspicion and shame at my own suspicions, I looked at those two enigmatic young creatures, standing there elaborately ignoring each other, Ronnie was still watching Bill.
“How about it? Could you do that? I’d be very grateful.”
“Sure,” said Bill. “Sure, I’ll show Mrs. Sheldon around.” “That’s my boy. Paint the town red. Do all the things I’m too old and creaky-jointed to tackle. Night clubs, Radio City, Coney Island—the works.”
“Okay,” said Bill.
My son didn’t look up from his nails. Nor did Jean take her straight, dutiful, wifely eyes from her husband’s face. The Sheldons went to the door. Ronnie waved to Bill and me.
“Good-bye, my dear children. Pray for me in the clutches of the dread Sneighley.”
5
It would have been futile to accuse Bill of conspiracy with Jean. I had nothing to go on but my suspicions. My relationship with my son was precarious enough anyway. His return to me might have been sincere. I wasn’t going to risk another even more bitter alienation.
I solved the problem in the only way that seemed possible. In the week after Ronnie’s departure for Georgia, I practically gave up the office, roped in Peter and Iris and took over the entertaining of Jean Sheldon myself.
The five of us—for Bill, of course, was always along—did everything that anybody has ever thought up to amuse and instruct the new arrival. Every night we took Jean to a show and a night club; we took her up the Empire State Building, to Wall Street, to the Cloisters—even to the Statue of Liberty.
Jean submitted meekly to this high-power hospitality. She was quiet and polite and, apparently, enjoyed herself. She never, by the slightest hint, indicated that she preferred Bill’s company to anyone else’s. In fact, she seemed flatteringly to select me. And Bill, although he was unusually silent and unassertive, behaved toward her exactly as if she were Ronnie’s wife—a woman, any woman, who had, for reasons of courtesy, to be shown a good time. I started to feel a lot better. I even began to believe that, in imagining what I had imagined, I had been, once again, a neurotic, over-anxious father.
Painting the town red was an exhausting procedure. Peter and Iris finally rebelled. After the sixth straight relentlessly gay late night. Iris said:
“Jake, darling, it’s a sweet gesture to show Ronnie’s wife the town. But if I personally see any more of this goddam town, I’m going to throw a bomb at it. Thanks, dear. It was lovely. Now Peter and I are going to bed for a week.”
It was on the night after Peter and Iris bowed out that Bill suggested taking Jean to Coney Island. I was half dead myself, but I was determined to stick with it. I considered asking Angie to make a fourth, but the picture of Angie in Coney Island was too improbable. Then I thought how nice it would be if Norah Lacey joined us. I called her. Her voice, over the phone, was stiff and rather frightened, as if a telephone was a new-fangled device which still baffled her.
“It’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Duluth. Coney Island—it’s some sort of a fun fair, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’d seem rather old and dull at a place like that. Besides, Basil doesn’t like me to go out when he’s working. Why don’t you just take the young people?”
So Bill and Jean and I went alone. We took the underground. It had never occurred to me that Peter and Iris might, as glamorous figures, have intimidated Jean. But now that we were only three, she suddenly came to life again. The moment we hit the Boardwalk with its sleazy smell of stale ocean, its jostling, aimless crowds, its screaming lights and canned music, her face lit up like a child’s. She wanted to do everything, eat Frozen Custard, buy a Mickey Mouse balloon, play electric poker and go rides on the roundabouts. She teased and kidded me, infecting me with her gaiety. Bill came alive too. He was flushed and simple and relaxed. I hadn’t felt as close to him in years. I’d forgotten what a spontaneous evening of fun could be.
It was at the Cyclone that I lost them. I’d refused to ride it and they had stayed on for a second trip. The crowd was particularly thick. I waited at the gate through which I thought they’d come out. But there must have been a second exit. I wandered around for half an hour, searching for them. I came upon them quite by chance and I recognized them by Jean’s blue coat and her Mickey Mouse balloon.
They were standing in the shadows near a cheesy rifle-range. Jean had some dreadful Kewpie doll dangling from one hand. They were locked in each other’s arms. Bill was kissing her on the mouth as if no boy and girl had ever kissed before since the beginning of time.
I felt as cold as ice. I walked right up to them. They didn’t notice me.
“Bill,” I said.
They broke apart and spun round. Jean’s face was transfigured. My son blinked, glared at me and then, defiantly, put his arm round her waist.
“I love her,” he said.
I said: “I think we’d better be getting home.”
None of us spoke a word on the train. Bill and I dropped Jean off at 58th Street and took the taxi home. I let us into the apartment. I went and made myself a drink. I made one for Bill too and brought it to him.
“No,” he said.
“Take it.”
“No.”
His eyes were smoldering. He was glaring at me as if I had committed some unpardonable act. I felt so tired that being tired no longer mattered. I felt I could go on forever.
He said: “It’s not what you think. There’s nothing wrong.”
“How do you know what I think? ”
“There’s nothing wrong. That’s the only time I’ve kissed her. She’d never allow … Jean would never …”
“You know her that well? You know what she would or wouldn’t allow?”
“I haven’t been seeing her. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? That’s what you’re hinting. That I’ve been sneaking away and … It isn’t true. It’s disgusting to think Jean would do anything underhand. It’s…”
“It’s—what?”
He turned away from me. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was like a boxer who’d been punched slap-happy.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he repeated.
“Nothing wrong in making love to Ronnie’s wife?”
“Ronnie! Who cares about Ronnie?”
“I do—for one.”
“You. Yes, you do, don’t you? And that’s a laugh.” He sat down on the couch. “Are you going to tell him?”
“What would be the point of telling him?”
“God knows—you don’t have to have a point to do half the things you do.”
He said that with a weight of bitterness that made it sound as if for years I had unreasonably been frustrating his every move. It was such an unfair accusation that, in spite of my apathy, I felt anger coming. I controlled it. It was pointless to get angry. It was pointless really to argue. This wasn’t something to argue about. It just had to be stopped.
I said: “There won’t be any reason to tell Ronnie because you won’t be seeing Jean again.”
He looked up. “Won’t be seeing her? Why?”
“Because I forbid it.”
“You forbid it.” He got up. “What do you think I am? A baby or something? ”
“Or something.”
“But, Pop …” His hand went out to me in a taut little gesture as if, although knowing it was hopeless, he was still trying to bridge a great gulf and communicate. “But you don’t understand. I love her.”
He loved her! Romeo and Juliet. The great big blazing nineteen-year-old love. Like a grass fire.
I said: “A couple of weeks ago you were in love with
Sylvia Rymer.”
“Sylvia?” He flushed. “In love with Sylvia? Are you crazy? As if I could love…”
I cut in: “What do you know about love anyway?”
He laughed then, full in my face. “Look who’s talking in the love department! You and Mother—you were a fine couple, weren’t you?”
I got up too. I was so angry I didn’t care anymore that it was up to me to handle him, to help him, somehow to find a way for us out of this morass.
I said: “Will you promise not to see her again?”
“Not if she wants to see me. Not if she’ll let me…”
“She let you kiss her, didn’t she?” I felt a corroding hatred against that quiet, shy little girl with her winning ways who was permitting my son to build her up into a goddess of rectitude and chastity. “It didn’t bother her that she’d been married less than a month ago to somebody else, somebody who’d swept her out of poverty into a life of luxury, dragging her whole retinue behind her. Don’t worry about that one. She’ll let you do any shabby, dirty adulterous little thing you may have in your mind.”
He looked at me as if it were inconceivable that anyone could be so low.
“I’m getting out of here,” he said.
“Fine.”
“Right now. And I’m not coming back.”
“Sure. I guess you can make out okay without your allowance.”
“My allowance! Your crummy fifty bucks a week. You think I give a damn about that? I’ve got friends.”
“I certainly hope they’ll enjoy supporting you.”
He was standing only a few feet from me, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“— you! ” he said.
He flung out of the room and out of the front door. It slammed remorselessly behind him.
I stood a moment. Then I sat down on the couch with my drink. That girl! I thought. That little English bitch! And suddenly I understood it all because she was Basil Lacey’s daughter. Not Norah Lacey’s daughter. The daughter of Basil Lacey, the Grab-all with the Divine Right.
While I was still furious, before the reaction had time to set in, I called Ronnie’s.
Jean answered the phone immediately.
“Jean?” I said.
She gave a gasp. Then she breathed: “Bill! ”
“It isn’t Bill. It’s his father. I’m coming round to see you — now.”
“No,” she said. “Oh, no. Please.” She was crying or if she wasn’t she was pretending to. “Don’t come. Please. Angie will wake up. She … Oh, there’s no need to come.”
“No need?”
“You don’t have to worry. I won’t see him again. I don’t know what happened to me. I’m so ashamed.”
“You are? That’s nice, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I know what you think. I don’t blame you. But, Mr. Duluth, please, please, believe me. I won’t let it happen again. I won’t. Please. I’m telling the truth. Trust me.”
“On what foundation?”
The sobs came up then, choking off her voice. It was the most desolate sound I’d ever heard. The grief had to be real. That’s what I thought. It confused me. My anger gave way to a drab, exhausted resignation.
I said: “Bill’s left here. He’s stormed out like a lion. He swears he’s going to see you.”
For a moment I thought she hadn’t heard. There was nothing but the sobs. Then she said:
“I don’t care what he swears. I won’t see him again. Mr. Duluth, how did it happen? Tell me. Explain. I didn’t want it. I—I married Ronnie. Daddy and Phyllis and everyone said it was so wonderful and I thought so too. I wanted it to work. I … Mr. Duluth, I’m not a monster, am I?”
What weapon did I have against an onslaught like that?
I said: “Try to get some sleep.”
“I won’t see him. You do believe me, don’t you? I won’t see him.”
“Sure,” I said. “I believe you.”
“And you won’t tell Mummy or Daddy. It would kill them. You won’t …”
“I won’t,” I said. “Good night.”
I put the receiver down. I picked up my drink again.
It’s disgusting to think Jean would do anything underhand. I remembered Bill’s stubborn voice and his young, outraged, exalted face.
Oh, to hell with it, I said and went to bed.
On the tallboy Felicia’s photograph was staring at me. I slammed it down on its front.
6
When she came the next morning, Leora didn’t say anything about Bill being gone again. I’d expected a tirade, but Leora could be very tactful when she knew I was unhappy. I guess my unhappiness showed.
I went to the office, just as if nothing was different. I went three days running, and three days running I came home at six, ate something and went to bed. Maggie must have seen something was wrong. Like Leora, she never probed. But on the fourth day, she invited me to dinner. She and George lived out in Jamaica with her mother. It was miles from anywhere. For that reason, she practically never invited anyone. I was touched. I even found I wanted to go. She left the office early to get things started. Around five I went back home, changed and walked to the garage to get my car.
It wasn’t there. Spike, the mechanic, said:
“Gee, Mr. Duluth, your son took it a couple of hours ago. Around three. Wasn’t that okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d forgotten I’d loaned it to him.”
I went back to the apartment. I called Ronnie’s. The Honorable Phyllis Brent answered. I recognized her voice from its single clipped “Yes?”
I said: “Is Jean there?”
“Who is that? Mr. Duluth?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t Jean with you? She left here somewhere about three. She said you and she were going somewhere with your son.”
“I was held up at the office,” I said. “I haven’t been home. I guess she’s over there at the apartment waiting for me with Bill. Thanks.”
I put down the receiver. I felt so unsteady from anger that I poured myself a drink. I’d trusted the little tramp. I’d fallen for those sobs, that choking, desperate “Please believe me. I’ll never see him again.”
I tried to think where they had gone. Then I was pretty sure I knew. Felicia had owned a summer cottage at Water Island on Fire Island. When she was alive, we’d gone there en famille every summer. Since her death, I’d never let it. Bill had always liked it and I had more or less given it to him. Sometimes he’d go out there alone camping for a couple of days. Now, in April, the community would be virtually deserted. That was the only place I could think of which involved a car—the only place where they would be ideally, romantically alone with their “great love”.
Off season, there are no afternoon boats to the Island, but Bill had known the captains since he was a kid. He could easily get one of them to take them over. I couldn’t be certain, of course, that they were there, but that was my best chance of finding them. And to find them quickly was the only thing that mattered. I called Maggie.
“I’m terribly sorry, Maggie. But something’s come up. I’ll have to skip dinner.”
“That’s okay, Jake.” Maggie wasn’t one to fuss. “Some other time.”
“I wanted to come.”
“Sure.” She paused. “There’s nothing George and I can do?”
“No, thanks. No. It’s just one of those things.”
She knew it was Bill, of course. Maggie knew that the only things that went wrong with me were Bill.
“Don’t let it get you down, Jake.”
“I won’t.”
I called Peter and asked to borrow his car.
“Bill’s got mine and there’s some dreary author in Chappaqua.”
“Not entertaining Ronnie’s wife tonight?” asked my brother. “What’s got into you? Okay, bud. If you’re in a hurry just pick it up at the garage. I’ll leave the keys down there. Iris is screaming out her love.”
I got Peter’s car and drove out to Patchogue.
It took me about two hours. The traffic was heavy. In Patchogue I found my car parked beside the dark ferry dock. I also found Captain Reilly in a bar drinking.
I said: “Hi, Cap, seen Bill?”
“Sure, Mr. Duluth. I took him over to the island a couple of hours ago. With a girl.” He grinned over his beer. “He said you’d settle up. Okay?”
“That’s okay. How about taking me over now?”
He drained the beer. “Why not?”
The bay was fairly rough. Every now and then spray from a breaking wave spattered icily over me. It was dark and clear with a lot of stars. Fire Island is nothing but a long finger of sand out in the Sound. Water Island is one of the smallest communities on it. As we moored at the jetty, no lights were visible. I asked the captain to wait and went up the boardwalk towards the ocean side. My house was the last one down the ocean front, standing a little apart on a dune which protected it from winter storms. As I went towards it, I saw the kerosene lamp flickering in the living-room window. I went right up to the porch and opened the front door.
They were both there. A fire of driftwood was blazing in the fireplace. They were sitting in wicker chairs on each side of the hearth. It was cold. Jean had an old blanket thrown over her shoulders.
They had heard me coming over the porch. They were looking at the door. When they saw who it was, they both got up.
I stood glaring at them. I felt immeasurably depressed. The room, the whole cottage, always depressed me anyway. It was full of memories of Felicia. All my anger was against Jean. Bill, at least, hadn’t tried to deceive me. In the light from the fire, Jean looked, as she always looked, young and beautiful and candid and good. I could gladly have killed her.
I said: “Next time you give me your promise, I’ll know what to do with it.”
Her lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Bill was wearing blue jeans and a blue sweater. His yellow hair gleamed in the firelight. So did his eyes.
“You!” he said. “You have a genius, don’t you? The magic chaperon. Guaranteed to meet all emergencies. No old-fashioned lamp-rubbing necessary.”
I ignored him. I said to Jean:
My Son, the Murderer Page 5
