Fast Start, Fast Finish

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “But we’re settled now, aren’t we? Wasn’t that the whole point of moving east? Now that things are finally breaking for me—”

  “I don’t mean that, but—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, tomorrow’s Monday, for instance. It’s been a week, and you haven’t called Myra Mirisch. Don’t you think you should call her tomorrow and get everything—”

  “Settled? Oh, for God’s sake, Nancy, I’m going to call Myra Mirisch. If not tomorrow, the next day—there’s no rush. Please let me handle the dealings with Myra Mirisch my own way.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  “Well, what else is bothering you?”

  She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

  He crossed the room to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “Listen,” he said, “cheer up, darling. Shake yourself out of this mood, okay?” He ran one finger diagonally across her throat. “Cheer up,” he said, “or I’ll chop off your head with a courier knife.”

  But she pulled away from him, “Please don’t make jokes,” she said.

  He looked at her for a moment. Then he said, “Why did you tell them we lived in Bel-Air?”

  “I said Encino, practically in Bel-Air.”

  “Which would be the neatest trick of the week. Sort of far apart, aren’t they? As the crow flies—and as the dollar buys? Hey, I made a rhyme.” He began to hum “I’ll See You in My Dreams.”

  “Oh, what difference does it make!”

  He looked around at the empty room, at the soon-to-be-painted walls where the painter had been busy the day before with a spackling knife, sealing the cracks. The spackled cracks made pictures, white on faded blue. “Hey, look at that.” He pointed. “White birds flying into a tree full of snow.” He measured the picture for an imaginary frame. “There it is. Cut it off the wall and the Museum of Modern Art will buy it tomorrow. Hey, that reminds me, you better be nice to René d’Harnoncourt at my opening. Oh, hell, Nancy,” he said, turning back to her. “What is there to worry about? Everything’s going to be wonderful. You said yourself that this was our lucky year.”

  “I’m not worried,” she said. “But just don’t let it be like—like California again.”

  “Why should it be like California?” he said a little sharply. “Don’t worry. It won’t be like Encino, or”—he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist it—“or Bel-Air. Or wherever the hell it is we’re from.”

  She turned away from him, tiptoeing across the dropcloths. “I’d better get dinner on,” she said.

  Back in the Willeys’ living room, the rest of the Lane was sitting—as they often did at the end of the evening—having a nightcap, one for the road, and rehashing the party, deciding how it had gone. Everyone agreed that it had been a wonderful evening and that the meatballs—and the delightful way Jane had served them—had been the hit of it all.

  “And I thought the Lords were—quite charming,” someone said.

  “To me, he is divine!” Alice Mayhew said.

  “And they’re certainly a handsome couple.”

  “But there’s something about them I don’t quite understand, something I can’t put my finger on,” Vera Phelps said.

  “I know what it is, exactly,” her husband said.

  “What is it, Vaughan?”

  “He’s an artist, he says. Anybody ever heard of him? Charles Lord? You see? Now, you and I know that an artist doesn’t make nickel one in this country—oh, maybe he does if he’s a Picasso or a Norman Rockwell, or somebody like that. But most of your artists never make nickel one—till after they’re dead.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “But what I’d like to know is how some guy we’ve never heard of who says he’s an artist can buy the Peterson house and move in here on the Lane and try to live like the rest of us do, which, if I do say so myself, is pretty comfortably.”

  “Oh dear,” Vera Phelps said. “You don’t suppose they’re going to let that nice house run down, do you?”

  “What I want to know is how he affords it,” Vaughan said.

  Genny McCarthy leaned forward, and squinting over the gold cigarette lighter, lighted another cigarette. “Well,” she said in her dusty-dry voice, “I can give you the answer to that one.”

  “What?” everyone said at once.

  Genny paused, snapping shut the lighter, then took a puff, inhaling deeply. “It’s her money,” she said at last. “She’s rich as old Croesus.”

  “Really, Genny? How did you find that out?”

  Everyone hung forward, tense, waiting for her reply. “Yes,” she said, “it’s her money that supports that household. Just as it’s my money that supports mine.”

  Bob McCarthy sat absolutely motionless, his hands spread palms downward on his knees. He seemed to be staring at some area of white carpet directly between the tips of his black shoes.

  The awkwardness of the moment was broken, though, by Jane Willey, who had come to the living-room door and was standing there, leaning against it, looking very strange.

  “Jane!” someone said. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a very—strange thing,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “My diamond watch. It’s gone.”

  “Oh, Jane! No!” Then there was a confusion of questions.

  “I left it on the left-hand side of the chest in my dressing room,” she said. “I know it was there because I made a mental note. I was going to wear it tonight, and I had it on, and then I decided it was too much with this bracelet. So I took it off, and I was hurrying, getting ready, and I thought to myself, I’ll just fix my hair first and then put it back in my jewel case, and I put it there, on the left-hand side of my chest, and just then the doorbell rang.”

  “Could it have fallen under the chest?”

  “I’ve looked there. I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve been turning the place upside down.”

  “Was there anyone else in the house?”

  “Mary was helping me in the kitchen. But I’ve had Mary for thirteen years, and I’ve never missed anything before.”

  “Is it insured?”

  “I suppose so, but—”

  “But still,” someone said. “But still.”

  Alice Mayhew wanted to take a more cheering approach. “Jane,” she said, “I’m just sure you put it someplace else and forgot. I’m just sure it’ll turn up. You know, the clever hiding place so clever you can’t find it? That’s forever happening to me, dear.”

  “I tell you I’ve looked everywhere, Alice!”

  “Well,” Alice added weakly, “I’m just sure it will turn up.”

  Edgar Willey rose slowly to his feet and in a grave voice said, “Yes, Jane, I’m sure it will turn up too. Now suppose we go up, and suppose you show me where you think you left it.”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  “Don’t get excited. Suppose you just show me.” He followed her out of the room. “Folks,” he said, “maybe we’d better call it a night.”

  It was certainly time for the others to go. But they sat there for a moment, looking at each other.

  “I’m certain it will turn up,” someone said.

  And then—because it had to be said, and someone had to say it—“After all, there was no one in the house but us.”

  2

  “Darling?”

  “Oh, hello, Mother,” Nancy Lord said. “Hold the line just a sec, will you?” Lifting the telephone by its cradle and draping the long cord across the bed, she carried the instrument out into the upstairs hall and closed the bedroom door behind her. “Excuse me,” she said. “The painter’s in the bedroom and he insists on playing the radio.”

  “You mean Charlie’s still asleep? What time is it there? It’s after noon here.”

  “No, Mother, the painter—the man who’s painting the bedroom. He has a radio. How are you, dear?”

  “Darling, I�
��m fine; how are you?”

  “We’re all fine. Oh, terribly messed up, of course. But—”

  “Messed up? What’s the matter?”

  “I mean with painters and carpenters and all that, Mother. They tell us we need a sump pump in the cellar. What’s a sump pump?”

  “Why, I suppose it’s a pump that pumps sump,” her mother said. “I wouldn’t know. Darling, how is—everything?”

  “Everything is just as I told you—complete chaos,” Nancy said. “I can’t find anything, can’t unpack anything. Poor Charlie—”

  “Oh, dear!” her mother said. “I feel so sorry for you!”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s an old house, and we keep finding more and more things that need doing. How’s Dad?”

  “Your father’s fine. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh?” Nancy said. “Well, put him on.”

  “I don’t mean he wants to talk to you now, darling. He’s not even here now. He’s at the office. He wants to talk to you sometime, though; we’ve been terribly worried.”

  “Really, Mother? Why?”

  “You haven’t written us in two months.”

  “Mother, you just don’t realize what it’s like to move. The packing, the—”

  “And you didn’t even stop in Detroit.”

  “Mother, it’s so much easier to fly directly across the country, especially with the—”

  “All the planes stop in Detroit, Nancy. There isn’t a single airline that doesn’t stop here. What airline did you take?”

  Nancy Lord held the receiver away from her mouth for a moment, then replaced it. “Trans-Icelandic Airways,” she said.

  “Oh, well no wonder. Darling, you’ve gone and moved from one side of the continent to the other. You seem just as far away from home as ever.”

  “We want to have you and Dad come and visit us, Mother. As soon as we’re through with the painters and all.”

  “What are you doing it in?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The house. What are you doing it in? What colors?”

  “Oh, different colors, Mother. The living room, for instance, I’m doing in a light green—”

  “Oh, I love light green,” her mother said. “That’s nice. Do you have plenty of room for all your things?”

  “More than enough. It’s bigger, really, than our house in California—four large bedrooms, two smaller ones, four full bathrooms. There’s a room for Charlie’s studio, with its own bath. Of course, the poor guy hasn’t been able to do a lick of work, with everything underfoot.”

  “It sounds lovely. Nancy, you know I was looking in my address book for your new address. Did you know I have nine different addresses for you over the last twenty years? Nine different addresses! And I don’t even know your new address. I had to dial the operator and ask for information in Westmount, New York, in order to get this call through!”

  “It’s Roaring Brook Lane, Westmount.”

  “Just a minute, let me get a pencil.”

  While she waited, Nancy hooked the telephone between her shoulder and chin and lighted a cigarette.

  “Here I am. What was that again?”

  “Roaring Brook Lane, Westmount.”

  “Goodness, it sounds as though you live on the edge of a waterfall! Sounds pretty, though.”

  “It is pretty. We’re very happy.”

  “Are you, dear?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And—Charles?”

  “Charles has never been happier, Mother.”

  “Oh, Nancy—”

  Nancy Lord closed her eyes now and pressed the receiver against her cheek and said nothing, for she knew what was coming next.

  “Oh, Nancy,” her mother repeated, “are you sure this was the right move for him to make? Are you absolutely sure? Ever since you wrote me about it I’ve been worried sick. I mean, how can he throw up everything he’s done so far and suddenly decide he’s going to paint. At this point. I mean, is that what one does? Just throw up one’s hand and say, ‘La-dee-da, I think I’ll paint?’ Is that the cust—”

  “Mother,” Nancy interrupted, “this isn’t something he’s suddenly decided. It’s something he’s always wanted to do and now at last has an opportunity to do. I think he’s very lucky. Oh, I knew you’d react this way. I knew—”

  “But what makes him think he’ll be any good? What makes him think he has any talent?”

  Nancy, with the telephone cord threaded under the closed bedroom door, found herself trapped with a drooping cigarette ash and no ashtray to drop it in. She considered the bare floor, then let the ash fall. She said, “Charlie says talent is something an artist never knows whether he has or not.”

  “Exactly. Exactly what I mean.”

  “He means it’s more a question of will, Mother,” she said. “Anyway, the important thing is that a lot of other people think he has talent. Important talent. Genius, even. People who know.”

  “Who, for instance.”

  “For one, Myra Mirisch.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I had this all in my letter, Mother. She’s the one who’s going to give him a one-man show in the fall, at her gallery.”

  “Oh. But what if his pictures don’t sell? What if he is a genius? He could still not sell. Whenabouts in the fall?”

  “September, probably. Look, there are a lot of details—”

  “The reason I ask is, I was just thinking. Your father knows a lot of people who buy paintings. He could suggest—”

  “Don’t you dare,” Nancy said. “Don’t you dare do any such thing, Mother!”

  “Well, I want you to know I’ve been worried just sick. If he wanted to paint, why couldn’t he have painted in California? Why did he have to upset you and the children and drag you all east like this? Was that necessary? Oh, Barbara, you know as well as I that that man’s never been satisfied anywhere!”

  “I’m not Barbara, I’m Nancy. Barbara is your sister Barbara.”

  “I didn’t call you Barbara. I called you Nancy.”

  “All right!”

  “And don’t shout at me, Bar—I mean Nancy! I’m not hard of hearing!”

  There was a pause.

  “How are the children?” her mother asked.

  “All fine.”

  “Tell them I’m writing them each a letter. I’ll enclose a little check for each of them. It won’t be much, but—”

  “That isn’t necessary, Mother.”

  “No, whenever I write to them I like to enclose a little check. It can’t be much, of course—”

  “Any gift, however small, will be appreciated,” Nancy said.

  “Now don’t act smart; you sound like Charles.” There was another, somewhat longer pause. “What are women in New York wearing this spring? Prints?”

  “Mother, I really haven’t had time to notice what the women are wearing.”

  “In Grosse Pointe it all seems to be prints.” Another silence. “Nothing but prints.”

  The cigarette in Nancy’s hand was burning uncomfortably low, threatening her fingers. She looked at the unfinished floor again, sighed, and let the cigarette fall. She covered it with the toe of her slipper.

  “What did you say, darling?”

  “I didn’t say a thing, Mother.”

  “Well, you know what your father thinks.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “He thinks Charles is behaving irresponsibly, that’s what he thinks. We were discussing it just last night, in fact. He says he thinks Charles is a case of delayed puberty.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mother!”

  “Now, wait a minute. Your father is entitled to his opinion. He says he thinks Charles is a case of delayed puberty, and I’m afraid I agree. I was thinking—”

  “Look, Mother, I’ve got to—”

  “I was thinking that maybe it’s hereditary, Nancy. Lord knows his father went from one thing to another and never amounted to a hill of beans! Now, just let me
finish! I was thinking about that, and then I suddenly—remembered.”

  “Remembered what?”

  “Harold.”

  “What about Harold?”

  “Do you remember when he was a baby, and one of his testicles didn’t descend properly, and how worried you were? It was six months before—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” She remembered the painter working behind the closed door and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Mother, I haven’t got time to sit here, stand here, and talk about Harold’s testicles,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Mother, I’ve got—”

  “Well, there could be a connection,” her mother said. “Are you still going to the doctor?”

  “Yes, in fact that’s where I should be now, Mother. I should have been there five minutes ago.”

  “Did you find a good doctor back there?”

  “Yes. I mean I think so. I’m seeing him for the first time today, and I really—”

  “Is he somebody Seligman recommended?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then he’s bound to be good, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Well—”

  “Well, dear,” her mother said briskly, “I’m glad we’ve had this little talk. Even if—”

  “Yes, Mother. Well, good-bye.…”

  “Tell Charles—”

  “I don’t need to tell Charles anything! Now, good-bye.”

  “Give him my love,” her mother said. “Good-bye.”

  Nancy hung up the phone. She stood for a moment, disoriented in the hallway, trying to remember where she was headed, what was to be done next. Remembering, she knelt, still holding the phone, picked up the dead and flattened cigarette from the floor, and pushed herself back into the bedroom, carrying both. She placed the telephone beside the bed and deposited the butt in the wastebasket. Then, murmuring “Excuse me” to the painter, a tall young Negro who was working with a roller on the ceiling, she skirted his paint cans and buckets and made her way to her closet. She took out her beige suit on its hanger, a pair of brown shoes from the rack, extracted a pair of stockings from her dresser drawer, and then, with more “Excuse me’s,” managed to get out of the room again bearing all these items. She hurried downstairs, then down the next flight of stairs into the cellar. There, next to her gleaming new washer and dryer, draping her discarded clothes over the rim of the set-tubs, she undressed. This was one of the exigencies of living with painters in the house. She had to change in the cellar. By the time she had dressed, had her bag and gloves and keys, and was hurrying down the walk to her car, she had actually forgotten that her mother had telephoned at all.