by Gore Vidal
Then there were memories of his mother, holding him in her arms, the face no longer gray and lined but young, the way she had been when he was a child and secure. Then his father would approach and he would slip from her arms and his father would beat him, while the river roared in his ears.
The pain in his throat was sharp, like a knife blade probing, underscoring his nightmares. He remained in this dream-haunted state for what seemed years. But on the third day, chronologically, the fever broke and the dreams ended, and he woke up one morning, tired and weak; the worst was over.
Jim was in a small room in the base hospital. Through the window he could see snowy mountains. He was conscious of being quite alone and for a moment he wondered if he might not be the only person left in the world, but then the muffled sound of voices reassured him and the nurse entered the room.
“I see we’re better today.” She took his pulse and put a thermometer in his mouth. “You know, you were quite sick for a while there.” Her tone was accusing, as she removed the thermometer from his mouth. “Normal at last. Well, we stuffed enough sulfa into you.”
“How long’ve I been here?” Jim’s voice was weak; it hurt him to talk.
“This is your third day, and don’t talk. The doctor will be around soon.” She put a glass of water beside his bed and left.
The doctor was cheerful. He examined Jim’s throat and nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Good. You’ll be out of here in a few weeks.”
Apparently Jim had nearly died. This did not surprise him. There had been times in his delirium when he would have been glad to depart. “Anyway, it’s over now. But it may be weeks before you can go back to active duty.”
The days passed quickly and pleasantly. It was the most comfortable period of Jim’s Army career. He read magazines and listened to the radio. In time he was transferred to a ward with twenty other convalescents. He was perfectly content with life, until the pains began, first in his left knee, then in his left shoulder, a constant aching, like a bad tooth. After a number of tests, the doctor sat on Jim’s bed and talked to him in a low voice while the others in the ward tried to hear.
“Are you absolutely certain that you’ve never had these pains before?”
“No, sir, never.” Jim had been asked this particular question a dozen times.
“Well, I’m afraid that you’ve got what we call rheumatoid arthritis.” He sighed. “Contracted while in the Army.”
The ward boy had already given Jim the same diagnosis and so he was prepared for the verdict. Even so, he managed to look alarmed. “Is that bad, sir?”
“Not in this stage, no. It’ll be painful, of course. Not that we know much about arthritis, though I’m willing to bet your throat infection had something to do with it. Meanwhile, you’ll be sent to a warm, dry climate. Does no good, of course, but it’ll make you feel better. Then they’ll probably discharge you with a pension, because the calcium deposits show up in the X rays, and it all happened to you while serving your country in time of war, and you’ve got a swell racket from here on out.”
“Where will I be sent, sir?”
“California desert, maybe Arkansas, Arizona. We’ll let you know.” The doctor stood up slowly. “I’ve got the same thing as you.” He chuckled. “Maybe they’ll discharge me, too.” He left, and Jim wondered if there was anyone in the world he liked so much as this particular doctor.
“You going to be shipped out?” asked the Negro soldier in the bunk next to his.
Jim nodded, hiding his great happiness.
“Man, you’re lucky. I’d sure like to be shipped out of here, to anywhere.”
“It’s tough.”
The Negro then talked about intolerance and discrimination. He was certain that even if he were dying the white officers would not take proper care of him. To cite an example, he told a long rambling story about a Negro soldier who had gone to an Army doctor a number of times for backache and the doctor had told him that there was nothing wrong with him. One day when the soldier was sitting in the waiting room and the nurse went in to tell the doctor that he was there, he heard the doctor say distinctly, “Well, send the nigger in.” White doctors were racially intolerant. Everyone knew it. But someday…
As the Negro talked about the miseries of his race, Jim thought only of his own happiness. He had long since given up all idea of going overseas. From the stories he had heard it was hardly more exciting than duty in the States. He was now eager to leave the Army. He had been no use at all to the war. Soon he would be free. Meanwhile the thought of his pending release made him want to resume relations with those who had been important to him. He borrowed writing paper from the Negro soldier and slowly, laboriously, in his awkward, childish handwriting, he began to write letters, using them as a net in order to recapture his own past.
CHAPTER
8
RONALD SHAW WAS TIRED and there was an uncomfortable pain in his duodenum which he was convinced was an ulcer, if not cancer. His death took place before his eyes, beautifully lit and photographed, with Brahms playing on the sound track. Then there was a slow dissolve to the funeral cortege as it moved through Beverly Hills, escorted by weeping girls carrying autograph books.
Tears in his eyes, Shaw turned into the green oasis of Bel Air. It had been a bad day at the studio. He disliked his new director and he hated the part he was playing. For the first time he was supporting a woman star. He wished now that he had turned down the part, or at least had it rewritten, or retired from the screen before he died of overwork and cancer. The bright cheerful sun made things worse; his head ached; perhaps he was going to have sunstroke.
But the house was cool and he gave a weak sigh of relief as the butler held the door open for him.
“A bad day, sir?” The butler was sympathetic.
“Terrible.” Shaw picked up his mail and went out to the swimming pool, where George was taking a sunbath. George was a sailor from Wisconsin with hair so blond that it was white. He had been with Shaw for a week. In another week he would go back to sea. Then what? Shaw asked himself bitterly.
“Hi, Ronnie.” The boy pulled himself up on one elbow. “How’s the salt mine?”
“Rotten.” Shaw sat down beside the pool. “The director’s an untalented, lousy, professional kike.” Shaw had begun lately to make anti-Semitic remarks, which amused rather than distressed those who knew him.
“I guess they’re pretty lousy, some of them out here.” George was a happy youth who believed everything that he was told. Shaw tousled the blond hair idly. They had met in a bar in Hollywood. Shaw had started to frequent bars, a dangerous pastime, but he was bored and restless, and morbidly aware of time passing, and of the fact that his hair was quite gray beneath the dye and that his stomach was bad, and life was ending even though he was hardly forty. Why? Too much had happened to him, he decided; his career had burned him up and of course he had been unfortunate in love, cheated and betrayed.
George stretched out again beside the pool while Shaw read his mail. He opened Jim’s letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar and at first he thought it was a fan letter. Then he saw that it was signed quite formally, “Jim Willard.” Shaw was pleased, flattered, suspicious: if Jim wanted money, he would not get it. That would be Shaw’s revenge as well as a good lesson for Jim, who had deserted a truly genuine human being for a self-centered writer. Shaw was slightly disappointed to find that the letter was friendly and nothing more.
Jim wrote that he was in the Army hospital but no longer sick. He expected to be discharged soon and he would like to see Shaw again. It was puzzling and yet in character. Jim had always been direct. Shaw experienced a sudden ache of sexual memory. Then he saw that George was watching him. “What you got?” asked George. “A fan letter?”
Shaw smiled dreamily. “No, it’s from a kid I used to know, Jim Willard. I showed you his picture once.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went into the Army,” Shaw lied glibly. “He writes me often. I suppose he’s still in love with me, at least that’s what he says. But I don’t feel anything anymore. Funny, isn’t it?”
George nodded, impressed. Then Shaw sent him into the pavilion for a drink. As the late afternoon sun shone in Shaw’s face and a soft flower-scented wind cooled him, his unhappiness turned to a detachment that was not at all unpleasant. He was utterly alone in the world. This knowledge thrilled him. Of course there was his mother in Baltimore and a few friends at the studio, as well as the millions who knew of him and would doubtless be honored to be his friend; yet having conquered all the world, he was still very much alone and it struck him that there was something magnificent in being a prisoner of fame. He allowed a brooding look to come into his eyes. What a waste, he thought, contemplating the inability of others to reciprocate the love he had to give. None could equal his intensity. A tragic figure, he sat with the western sun in his eyes, perfectly content.
George approached with two glasses. “Here you go.” He gave Shaw his drink.
Shaw thanked him very gently.
“You feeling OK, Ronnie?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” The gin was cold. Suddenly a spasm went through his stomach. For an instant he was panicky. But then he belched and the pain went away: it was only gas.
* * *
—
Mr. Willard was dying and Mrs. Willard wished that he would die soon. Apparently years of bad temper had damaged his liver and weakened his heart. The doctors were able to keep him from pain with great doses of morphine.
Mrs. Willard grimaced as she entered the sickroom; the odor of medicines and dying was overpowering. Mr. Willard lay on his back, breathing noisily. His face was yellow and sagging and the once-commanding mouth hung loose. His eyes were like gray glass from the morphine.
“That you, Bess?” His voice was hoarse.
“Yes, dear. How’re you feeling?” She arranged the pillows.
“Better. The doctor said I was better.” The evening before, the doctor had told Mrs. Willard that her husband would not live another week.
“I know, he told me the same.”
“I’ll be up and around soon.” Mr. Willard would not admit to himself that he was going to die. He asked his wife about the courthouse.
“They’re doing fine, dear. Mr. Perkins is doing your job until you’re ready to go back to work.”
“Perkins is an ass,” said Mr. Willard.
“I’m sure he’s doing his best. After all, he’s only filling in.”
Mr. Willard grunted and shut his eyes. Dispassionately his wife looked at the sunken yellow face, and wondered where the insurance policy was. She had not been able to find it anywhere in the house, but of course the will would tell, and the will was at the lawyer’s office. Mr. Willard’s eyes shut, and he seemed to sleep. She left the room.
On the floor in the hall were several letters. As she leaned over to pick them up, she groaned. The older she got, the more she disliked bending over. But then she forgot her pains: one of the letters was from Jim.
She read it slowly. He was in the hospital and that alarmed her, but he reassured her that he was now well and would soon be getting out of the Army. He promised to come home and visit her as soon as he was free. Her heart beat more quickly as she read this.
She thought of her older son, and wondered what she felt about him after such a long separation, much of it without communication of any sort.
She had not wanted him to leave home. She had wept the night he left even though she realized that he could never live in the same house with his father. In her quiet way, Mrs. Willard had hated her husband from the first day of their marriage. During family quarrels, she had sympathized with Jim and longed to tell him that she felt as he did but that they both had to bear those things which could not be changed. Unfortunately, she had never spoken frankly, and because she had not, Jim left home. Now, of course, it was too late. Jim would never belong to her again. She wanted to cry but she could not.
Mrs. Willard sat erect, the letter in her hands, wondering what had happened to her life. Soon she would be alone, without even a husband to hate in the last years of her life. Where had all the time and all the promise gone to? She pitied herself, but only for a moment. After all, Carrie and her husband lived nearby and so would John once he was a lawyer.
The thought of Jim’s return cheered her considerably. She wondered how he looked now that he was a man. She had no clue except the photograph in the movie magazine which she had shown to everyone, creating an impression that Jim was a movie star, an impression she had never entirely corrected.
Mrs. Willard daydreamed pleasantly of the future. There were several nice girls who would make Jim the kind of wife who would be glad to share him with his mother. As for a job, Jim could take over the physical-training post at the high school. She knew enough politicians to make this possible. Yes, the future could be good, she decided, putting the letter away and returning to the sickroom to find that her husband’s eyes were open. He was staring at the ceiling.
“I’ve a letter from Jim.”
“What does he say?”
“He’s been in the hospital—it’s not serious—and he thinks he’ll be discharged from the Army soon. Then he’ll come home.”
“Probably broke.” Mr. Willard scowled briefly; his features were too weak to hold even a scowl for long. “Wonder what he’ll do when he gets out? Can’t go on playing games forever.”
“I thought perhaps he could get a job at the high school. I…we could get him something, don’t you think? I’m sure Judge Claypoole would be glad to arrange it.”
Mr. Willard’s skeleton hands fumbled with the white sheet. “How old’s the boy now?”
Mrs. Willard thought a moment. “Twenty-two come April.”
“He’s grown.” Mr. Willard was gloomy.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Willard happily. Jim would take care of her. “He’s grown.”
“Don’t know why he wants to wander all over.”
“But the experience is good for him and anyway you know what they say about wild oats.”
Mr. Willard shut his eyes. Conversation tired him. Mrs. Willard went to the kitchen, where she found Carrie. “How is he, Mother?”
“It’s almost over. A few more days at the most. Thank the Lord he feels no pain.”
“That’s something to be grateful for.” Of them all, Carrie was the only one truly sorry about her father’s approaching death. They had been fond of one another. But her sorrow was somewhat assuaged by the fact of pregnancy. Inclined to plumpness, Carrie was now round and contented and looked to be exactly what she was, a comfortable housewife fond of her husband. Mrs. Willard gave Carrie Jim’s letter.
Carrie was delighted. “I do hope he comes back and lives here!”
“So do I.”
“I wonder what he’s like now.”
“We’ll know when we see him. Now I expect you better go in and see Father.”
Carrie left the kitchen and Mrs. Willard began to fix broth for her husband. It would be a great relief to her when he died. She wondered idly if he might not have left the insurance policy with his friend Judge Claypoole. But of course the will would tell them everything.
* * *
—
London was chilly and damp and Sullivan was depressed as he walked past St. James’s Palace on the way to his hotel in Mount Street.
He had been to dinner with H. G. Wells, whom he admired as a figure if not as a writer. The evening had gone well; Mr. Wells had been in good form. Yet Sullivan was obscurely irritated by the perfectly plain fact that not only had the great man never read one of Sullivan’s books, he had never heard of him either. Naturally Wells was an old man but even so it was disquieting and Sullivan was again remind
ed of his literary failure.
The night was dark and the blackout made it even darker. A cold wind blew through the streets. Shivering, he fastened his trench coat at the neck. He would have a strong drink when he got back to the hotel bar, even if it meant running into Amelia, who was now in London. Aggressive, bustling, eager for bygones to be bygones, his ex-wife was unbearably cheery.
And of course there she was, thin and untidy, enthroned in the hotel bar, surrounded by correspondents (she herself was covering the war for a left-wing magazine).
“Paul dear, come on over!” He did.
The other correspondents greeted Sullivan respectfully. At least they knew he was an author. They were impressed by novelists, though they did not take his journalism very seriously, for which he could hardly blame them.
Sullivan shook hands all around. He knew most of them by reputation. Those who were not Stalinists were crypto-Trotskyites. Sullivan was apolitical. But Amelia was totally engaged. She talked rapidly, maintaining herself as group leader. “Paul’s such a dear. Really, I always think one should be nice to one’s ex-husbands, don’t you?” The question was asked at large and no one answered. “I believe if we’re to be really civilized we should have no bitterness when we fail at marriage or anything else, except perhaps politics.” She was a little drunk. “Does that sound like that lovable old cynic La Rochefoucauld? Everything else does!” She laughed gaily, then turned to Sullivan. “Where’ve you been this evening?”
“I had dinner with H. G. Wells.” Sullivan won that round. Immediately everyone asked him about Wells and for a moment Amelia ceased to be the center; even when she loudly demanded a drink for her ex-husband, he still retained his lead. “He was very pleasant. We talked about writing mostly. He’d read one of my books and so I was quite flattered by that. Not that I supposed he liked it, but even so…”
“Here’s your drink, Paul.” Amelia thrust the whiskey at him. He took a swallow and Amelia filled the brief silence. “I think,” she said to the table at large, “that it will be years before there is a Labour government in England. The Churchill-Cliveden set are too well entrenched and, just between us, I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if they created some sort of dictatorship that could never be thrown off without a revolution, and you know how slow these English are at revolting against anything! A nation of masochists.”
