Fast Start, Fast Finish

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Outside his rain-streaked window he could see the other houses of the Lane. Afraid. Afraid of the other kids, the neighbors. The lights in the windows of his neighbors’ houses, smeared by the rain, looked oily and small—small, greasy blobs of light, so smug through the dripping trees. They were the ones who had killed her, the Willeys, the McCarthys, the Mayhews, the Phelpses. She had been killed by smugness, by mediocrity, by little minds, by a world from which, once upon a time, he had dreamed of taking them all away.

  In September Harold went off to college and Carla returned to Westmount High School, a sophomore. One of the first things she brought home was the first issue of The Chatterbox, with an article headed:

  “Let’s Know Our Parents” (No. 31)

  Mr. Charles Lord, Parent of Carla Lord, Class of ’68

  by

  Rita J. Melnick, ’67

  Carla placed it beside his plate at the dinner table, folded open to the page, and looked at him eagerly while he read it. He read it through once silently, then read it aloud:

  “‘Mr. Charles Lord, Artist Extraordinary, is the parent of Carla Lord, Class of 1968. Let’s know him.…’”

  “They all start out that way,” Carla interjected.

  “‘Mr. Lord, whose formal education was received in the public schools of Massachusetts and Boston University, is the son of a gold prospector.…’”

  “Was he really, Daddy?”

  “‘… who was also interested in other precious minerals. Despite this background of mineralogy, however, Mr. Lord told your Chatterbox reporter that he has no opinion on the burning issue of fluoridation that has riven this erstwhile quiet village asunder and into fiercely warring camps.…’ Goodness me, I had no idea,” Charlie said.

  “That’s just Rita Melnick writing fancy.”

  “‘His interest is solely in his Art, he told your reporter. He considers the greatest painters of all time to have been Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and Leonardo da Vinci, in that order, but does not rule out the possibility that he may himself one day join the ranks of the Great Masters. A lifelong member of the Democratic party.…’ Actually, only since I reached voting age. ‘… Mr. Lord says that the striving artist should “shoot for the stars” if he is to succeed. In the oft-quoted words of Bette Davis, he says, “Why ask for the moon when we have the stars?” He looks favorably on the works of the pop and the op artists, who, he feels, are also shooting for the stars. He also believes that the United States and Russia will achieve a peaceful working relationship within our lifetime. Turning to Art again, Mr. Lord asserts that he finds his inspiration in the little things he sees, and he cautions the striving artists to “Beware of the fools.” Mr. Lord is of the opinion that in the United States there are more fools than angels, a revolutionary thought. Mr. Lord, at thirty-nine, is a nice-looking gentleman of medium height, and his dark hair has a twinge of gray. His studio, in the Lord residence on Roaring Brook Lane, is full of the typical artist’s supplies and made your reporter think of the typical artist’s studio on the bohemian Left Bank of Paris. His philosophy of life is “Stay Alive,” a thought which bears thinking about. It is this philosophy which makes him an Artist Extraordinary, and a parent we ought to know. Next week, Leonard B. Jasperson, District Sales Manager, parent of Leonard B. Jasperson, Jr., Class of ’68. Let’s know him.’”

  “They all end that way,” Carla said.

  “That’s very nice, honey,” Charlie said, putting it down. “I’m very pleased and flattered. Will you tell them so for me?”

  “I didn’t think it was too bad,” Carla said. “They were going to put something in about Maggie, but I asked them not to.”

  “Yes.… I didn’t know my studio looked that bohemian,” he said.

  “Oh that’s just Rita Melnick showing off, trying to make people think she’s been to Paris, or something.”

  “And the twinge of gray persists,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. No, I like it very much. I’m going to clip it out and put it in a little frame.”

  “Your hair does have a little gray in it, Daddy—just a twinge.”

  Myra Mirisch studied the small picture. “It’s very lovely, Mr. Lord,” she said at last. “Yes, it’s good.”

  “It went rapidly, which is a good sign,” he said.

  “It reminds me of the other little head, the one I liked so much. I think I like this one even better. It’s sort of a companion piece, isn’t it, to the other.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you’re working again.”

  “It’s just a sample of what I’m doing—of what I want to do. I’ll have others to show you—very soon.”

  “You have a talent, I’m convinced of it. But don’t push yourself too much. Take your time.”

  He smiled. “I keep feeling that time is running out on me,” he said. “I’m not getting any younger. I’m forty years old. Don’t you think I’d better hurry?”

  “Pish-tush.” She waved her hand and made a sour face. “Don’t worry about silly things like time and age. You can’t push a talent too much or it turns against you. I’ve seen it happen in dozens of careers. Let the talent find its own time. You don’t look convinced.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like this picture,” he said.

  She handed it back to him and smiled. “And I’m glad you’re keeping in touch with me,” she said. “I’m glad you still regard me as your friend.”

  “So am I,” he said. But as he took the small portrait of Maggie in his hands and placed it gently into the leather carrying case—parts of it were still not quite dry—he had had a far sadder thought than of the passage of time. He had thought: I seem to be best when. I paint dead children. I am a painter of memorials.

  When she got home from work that night she was astonished to see, upon opening the front door, Harold sprawled in one of the living-room chairs, one chino-trousered knee over the arm. Seeing her standing there, his foot swung up, then down upon the floor, and he was on his feet, hands thrust in the hip pockets of his too-tight pants, and walking out of the room, away from her.

  “Harold?” she called. “Why aren’t you in Ithaca?”

  “Because I’m here,” he said, disappearing through the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Ask Dad,” he called back. “He knows all about it.”

  “Dad?” She shrieked. “Dad?” She ran up the stairs and burst into Charlie’s room. “Dad! He says ask Dad! What’s the meaning of this? What’s he doing here?”

  “Now, don’t get excited. It’s all right,” he said.

  “Who’s excited? I want to know what he’s doing here. Why isn’t he at school?”

  “Sit down,” he said, but she refused to sit. “He’s left school.”

  “Left? Why left?”

  “They asked him to leave, I’m afraid.”

  “Asked him? Why? Is it because of the tuition? I explained to them—”

  “No, it has nothing to do with that. There was some trouble, and they made an example of Harold.”

  “Oh,” she said, still not sitting down. “He was expelled, then. Why don’t you say it? He was expelled from college.”

  “They had to make an example of someone, I suppose. They picked Harold.”

  “What did he do?”

  “There was a group of boys. They took a car.”

  “Stole a car. He stole a car. Why don’t you say it?”

  “Now, listen. It was a lark—”

  “Lark!”

  “There was a whole bunch of them. The car was returned in good shape, but Harold just happened to be the one who was driving. The owner isn’t prosecuting, so in a sense we’re really very lucky.”

  “Lucky!” She laughed shrilly. “Oh, lucky, lucky us! Oh, why don’t they prosecute? Why don’t they arrest him and throw him in jail forever, where he belongs!”

  “Now, Nancy—”

  “Rotten little thief! He’s always been a thief
, you know. He’s stolen—”

  “Don’t be so hard on him, Nancy. He feels bad enough as it is.”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet he does! He feels bad that he didn’t get away with it, that’s all. Rotten thief!”

  “Nancy—”

  “And now he’s been kicked out of college. After three weeks. A distinguished college career. Three weeks—then out on his ear for stealing. Well, what’s he going to do now? I’m not going to have him hanging around this house, using this house as his headquarters for his thievery. I’m not going to have him here. He’s going to get out of this house. He’s going to—”

  “We’ll work something out, don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get him in someplace else, or—”

  “He can get a job—that’s what he can do. Start earning his own living and seeing how he likes it, not having me to support him.”

  Charlie hesitated and then said, “He could do that. Or—”

  “He’ll get a job and get out of this house. I don’t want him living here.”

  “I suggested that he get a job once,” he said. “But you were against it.”

  “Oh, you make me sick!” she said. She picked up a bottle of India ink from his table and hurled it to the floor. It shattered, and for several minutes they both looked at the black stain that spread across the polished vinyl.

  Then she did sit down. “Oh, how much more must I be expected to endure?” she said.

  He went to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “I know,” he said. “I know. But we’ve just got to stick together.”

  She nodded. Then she said, “Any calls?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Monroe?”

  “Not today.”

  She stood up. “I’ll get the mop.”

  18

  “Mr. Robinson has made a firm offer of fifty thousand, Mrs. Lord,” Mrs. Monroe said.

  “Oh, dear!” Nancy said. “That’s thirty-five hundred less than what we paid for the house. We paid fifty-three-five.”

  “I know. I’m quite aware of that. But frankly, Mrs. Lord, the real-estate market has been a bit depressed here all summer. I just haven’t been able to get people the prices for their houses that I used to. You bought your house right at the end of the peak, I’m afraid.”

  “But does he know about the new furnace, the—”

  “Yes, he knows about all those things, and about the rugs and so forth that you’re including. And he offers fifty thousand.”

  “I simply can’t let the house go for as little as that.”

  “This is the first firm offer we’ve had, Mrs. Lord.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “And it’s getting on toward October. The winter’s a difficult time to sell. We’ll be lucky to get as much as fifty thousand during the winter months. To get the price you’re asking, you may well have to wait till spring. Buying a house is an emotional thing, you see.”

  “Yes.…”

  “Well, shall we accept it Mrs. Lord? I know you’re in a hurry.”

  “Don’t you think you could get him to come up just a little bit?” Nancy asked.

  “Well, let me see what I can do,” Mrs. Monroe said briskly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  On weekends they had begun looking at apartments, and this was the first one that either of them had really liked. It was in one of those new garden-apartment complexes on Grove Street—a much shorter walk to Nancy’s job—and it was arranged on two floors with its own entrance to the street. When Nancy had first looked at it it had reminded her somehow of California, with its brick-and-redwood construction and its large picture windows. There was an L-shaped living-dining-room combination on the first floor, a nice galley-style kitchen, and a small room in the rear that could be Charlie’s studio. Upstairs there were three largish bedrooms. She had brought Charlie back to look at it.

  “They say they’ll repaint in any colors we want,” she said. “And look—back here—this is what I like.” She led him toward it. “This could be your room, I checked, and the light is north. And you even have a little back door of your own, leading out into the little garden.…”

  “Very nice.”

  “Cupboards for your supplies.… Now let me take you upstairs.” He followed her up the narrow flight of steps. “Look, this bedroom is almost as big as our bedroom on the Lane … has its own bath. I sort of wish the fixtures weren’t pink, but I think we can live with them. Now, out here … two more nice bedrooms and another bath. This room could be for Harold, while he is with us, and the other for the girls.…”

  If she noticed her slip, she said nothing. And he of course said nothing. He followed her through the rooms.

  “Nice hardwood floors …”

  “Does the downstairs fireplace work?”

  “Of course it works. Just think, Charlie—no grass to cut, no garage doors to keep closed …”

  “In fact, no garage.”

  “There are garages for all the tenants in the back. Well, what do you think?”

  “Very nice,” he said again.

  “Do you think so?” she said eagerly. “Oh, I do! All the others we’ve looked at have been so dreary. This one seems so bright and cheerful, and I’m sure our furniture will fit right in. Do you like it?”

  “If it’s what you want, Nancy.”

  “Don’t you like having your own room, with your own entrance? Oh, I really think we’re going to have lots of fun with it, fixing it up. I’m really getting quite excited about it.”

  “Anything’s better than Belching Brook Lane.”

  “They want a two-year lease. Shall we take it?”

  “We haven’t sold the house yet, of course.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’re going to—any day now. I have a feeling in my bones. Don’t you think we should snap this up while it’s available—before someone else does?”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s take it.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” she said and squeezed his hand.

  “Come on into my office, Charlie,” Paul McCabe said.

  “I know you think I’ve been hiding out on you, Paul,” Charlie said. “But honestly, these past few weeks—”

  “Listen,” Paul said, “don’t mention it. I’m not chasing you, either—and I haven’t been. I heard about your daughter, Charlie. What a damn shame. I can’t tell you.”

  “That’s all right, Paul. Thanks.”

  “Sit down, Charlie,” Paul said. “You must have been going through hell, you and your wife.”

  “Well, yes,” Charlie said, taking a chair. “But we’re in the process of trying to sell our house at the moment, and as soon as that’s wound up I’ll be around to you with a check.”

  “To hell with the check; let it wait,” Paul said. “As a matter of fact, your wife sent a check for part of the bill the other day, but apparently she forgot to sign it. Selling your house doesn’t mean you’re leaving Westmount, does it?”

  “No, we’re taking an apartment on Grove Street.”

  “Those garden apartments? Those are nice places. Some friends of ours have an apartment in there—they’re very happy with it.”

  “I think it’s going to work out pretty well,” Charlie said.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re not leaving Westmount,” Paul said, “because I really wanted to talk to you about an idea of mine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve been talking for a long time about expanding our tennis facilities here—with an eye to making this more of a tennis club. Or at least to give tennis the same amount of emphasis as golf.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “We’ve got the money raised to build six more en tout cas courts, and we’re also going to put in a couple of squash courts and a new tennis clubhouse. Some of the members have even been talking about court tennis, but I don’t think we’ve come to that. Have you ever played court tennis, Charlie?”

  “I’ve watched it played a couple of times, never played.”


  “Well, anyway, that’s a long way off—if ever. I think the members want court tennis mostly for the snob appeal. But the real problem I’m facing now is, we need to hire a full-time tennis pro.”

  “And you’re wondering if I have any suggestions.”

  Paul smiled. “Frankly, Charlie, I’ve watched you play—with some of the younger members, and with some of the older ones too. You’ve got an important quality in your game—patience. You’re not a hothead. And I just can’t think of anyone who’d be better for the job than you. If you’re interested.”

  Paul’s expression was earnest. Charlie didn’t want to, but he began to laugh.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been pounding the pavements of New York for the last six weeks looking for a job. Did you know that, Paul?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, I have been. And now here you are with a job offer—and it’s a job I’d never even thought of.”

  “Well, are you interested?”

  “In going to work to pay off my club bill?”

  Paul McCabe’s eyes looked hurt. “Do you really think that’s why I’m asking you?”

  “No—I’m sorry. But just—let me get used to the idea for a minute, Paul.”

  “Some of the new members want us to hire a big name. For prestige they want a big name. But I’m concerned in getting a good man.”

  “And you really think that’s me? You are joking, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not a small job, Charlie. You’d be the club’s official tennis professional. You’d also have full responsibility for managing the new tennis clubhouse and squash courts and the tennis shop.”