“This obsession of yours, this focus on our differences—it’s not inherent.”
“I would hardly call stating the obvious an obsession. And, incidentally, I’m not the one staying up all night reading articles about lineage. I’m not the one bringing it up.”
“Point taken.”
Ed picked up a tennis ball from the floor and began to toss it up and down. He wanted to bounce it off the opposite wall, but he knew that Henley, who lived on the other side of that wall, would make him pay. He knew everyone in Adams House now, and he knew that he confounded these people by wearing such consistently crisp clothing (he hadn’t come to Harvard to dress like a bum) and asking forthright questions about anything that popped into his head. He didn’t need to be bouncing balls off walls in addition to acting—so consistently—like himself. He’d once asked a dark-skinned fellow lounging in the common room if he was an Arab or a Greek or what, and when Shipley nearly gasped, with an expression that struck Ed as distinctly matronly, Ed didn’t understand what the great big deal was. He asked people whether they’d been baptized, whether they’d ever met a Jew. He didn’t see the point in pretending that everyone had sprung from these Ivy halls and that everyone came from Shipley-type homes; he’d read up on the statistics of admission and knew this wasn’t the case anymore.
And yet more often than not he’d felt as if he were on the set of a Hollywood picture, in which everyone was doing his part to evoke a certain collegiate fantasy, and part of that fantasy was erasing all pasts except the popular ones—the houses and lawns and clubs from which Harvard men had originally come and would indeed continue to come for centuries. The way he saw it, he was the one interested in human behavior. As it turned out, the dark-skinned fellow was not an Arab nor a Greek but an Indian from Bombay, and they’d spoken at great lengths about the aftermath of the Raj, the disastrous creation of Pakistan, and how he had no interest in returning home, where he was supposed to take over his family’s textile empire.
“I know that when you talk about our different backgrounds you think you’re simply stating the obvious,” said Hugh now, “but do you ever think about the possibility that what is obvious to you may not be—I don’t know—exactly true? You know it’s very Marxist of you to focus on what tears a culture apart.”
“I haven’t had a goddamn cup of coffee yet today. Please,” said Ed, “go easy with the rhetoric. And I am, as you well know, no Marxist.”
“You shouldn’t come here without having had a full meal. Otherwise you remind me of—and I’m sorry to say it—a certain French military leader. A short one—also highly ambitious—”
“I’m sorry,” said Ed, “but I don’t see the de Gaulle comparison at all.”
“I’m talking about Napoleon, you imbecile.”
Ed half-threw, half-pelted, the tennis ball at Hugh, who caught it just in time.
“Eat first,” he said, tossing the ball back to Ed, while pulling on an overcoat. “At least drink some coffee. Seriously.”
“Interesting that Evans—what was his name?”
“Evans-Pritchard.”
“Right,” said Ed, rubbing his hands together as they finally made it outside, which was cold but not numbingly so. “Evans-Pritchard. Some name. Interesting that he was making these observations while over in Western Europe some pretty important decisions were being made based on the contrary.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“That’s because it is obvious. Anyone would say that.”
“Not really.”
“Forgive me, but it seems more than a little irrelevant, given the historical context of our time, that some Brit in the 1940s took down notes on an African tribe about how they don’t care about lineage. Well, bully for them, right? And don’t you think they’re busy worrying over more-pressing concerns, such as where to kill or gather their next meal? Maybe this lineage obsession emerges when there are moments to think about something other than the most basic survival. When I’m hungry—like now—I don’t give a shit about lineage, either. Hey—notice something different?” Ed stopped suddenly, standing up straight.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“With your head. What are you doing with your head?”
“Gesturing. I am gesturing with my head. Toward my new car. Christ, can’t you just notice? With your profound powers of observation? Here—get in.” Ed opened the passenger door proudly and made his way around to the driver’s seat.
“We’re going to be late,” said Hugh, skimming his hands along the radio dial, the glove compartment; he flipped open the ashtray.
“Late to where?”
“Ah,” said Hugh. “To class?”
“You’re such an ass. It’s Sunday,” Ed said. He turned the key in the ignition. “Boy, do I love that sound.”
The car was a 1958 dark-green Ford Thunderbird convertible, the jewel for which he’d saved during those deadly hours working for his father. He’d studied the Kelley Blue Book all throughout his time at Harvard, as if it were the one constant in an ever-evolving stream of canonical classics, and though GM seemed to be a better value, it was the dark-green Ford Thunderbird that he loved. The previous owner of the Thunderbird had been stylishly shady—a travel agent with a vague Irish brogue, in a great big rush to sell. The car was a good-looking vision, and Ed—neither for the first nor the last time—had been snowed by good looks. As it turned out, the green Thunderbird had defective gears that allowed for forward motion only.
“Now, as much as I appreciate your new car and as much as you’ve surprised and impressed me by sinking your savings into a thing of completely impractical beauty, you are going to get us killed,” shouted Hugh, in order to be heard over the considerable wind.
The sun began a valiant fight with New England and her doleful skies. Light shot through the clouds, and Ed called out, “Jesus, it’s cold! Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”
Hugh lit his cigarette, annoyed by all the wind. He finally exhaled a good cough of smoke. “Thanks to you—evidently—I know tomorrow is Monday. That’s about enough knowledge for me.”
“No kidding?”
Hugh nodded. “What.”
“I can’t imagine being woken up—especially on a weekend—and merrily going along with what somebody told me to do.”
Ahead of them, a little girl waved madly through a station wagon rear window, and they both waved back immediately and without fanfare.
“But you’re not somebody,” he said. “You’ve gotten me out of bed for weeks. You’ve personally ensured my not flunking out.”
“I haven’t,” Ed clarified. “I’ve only made sure you were already up, while on my way to class. It’s not a big deal.”
“Fine. But I appreciate it, is what I’m saying. I do appreciate it.”
Ed kept his eye on the road. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Why can’t I just say thanks? I have to pretend you haven’t done me a few favors?”
“I’m just saying forget it. Let’s talk about something much better. Who’s the girl?”
“What girl?”
“I saw you talking with a girl maybe two weeks ago. You haven’t mentioned it, so I’m curious. I was rushing to a class and I saw you across the Yard. You were sitting on a bench. Tall girl? Good-looking? At least from what I could see.”
Hugh threw his cigarette into the wind. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m trying to think. Could it have been Flossie King?”
“Not Flossie.”
“I don’t know,” Hugh said, as if he were thinking it through. “I can’t think of who that would be.”
As Ed drove the highway, as the buildings grew squatter and uglier, he thought about how—when he had seen Hugh with this girl—he hadn’t, in fact, been in any kind of rush. It had been a strangely empty twenty minutes or so, when he was trying to decide if he was hungry enough to buy a roast beef sandwich before shutting himself in the library
for the night. He was putting off studying, putting off eating, and all the while he had a twitchy feeling, but he couldn’t decide—even when he asked himself—what it was that he really wanted to do. In short, he was momentarily stuck, and when he saw Shipley he’d felt briefly relieved, for he now knew what he would be doing for the next gradient of time, and he knew it would shift his mood. He could say hello to Shipley and get swept up in some pointless argument, which would—especially if a few drinks were involved—break into incredulity at least once on both of their parts, which only heightened the stakes of the argument.
But before he could say hello, he’d noticed that Hugh was speaking with a girl, a stunning girl—he’d also downplayed that part of his observation—and that it was clearly no light conversation. First it had seemed that she was angry, but after watching for a minute it looked as though she was struggling to breathe.
Then Hugh had stood up and taken her by the shoulders, and—how could Ed explain this?—he’d looked scared. Ed watched them for another second, but it quickly started to feel as if he was not supposed to be watching, that no one should be watching, and that—though they were doing nothing but standing together—they should have been given complete and utter privacy.
“I wonder who you mean,” said Hugh.
“I’m sure it’ll come to you. Probably when you least expect it.”
Ed had woken up this morning with a keen urge to drive his new car and figured that—especially with some company—he didn’t need a destination. A Sunday drive. Wasn’t that considered a normal—even a civilized—thing to do? Though he didn’t feel particularly civilized. He wanted to know why Hugh was avoiding talk about this girl and why he was getting the distinct sensation of being placated. It made him want to drive faster.
“Do you really not remember your mother?” asked Ed, in a tone that sounded aggressive, even to his own ears.
“Very little,” Hugh said. “I wish I did. What made you think of that?”
“I don’t know,” said Ed. “I don’t want to say you were lucky that she died so young, but—”
“Then don’t,” Hugh said.
Ed looked at Hugh, and there wasn’t a trace of a smile.
“Forget I said that,” Ed said.
He suddenly remembered a place he’d heard about—a pond closer than Walden, a place that reliably froze each winter, no matter how mild the weather. Ed imagined sliding out on his shoes, looking down at the expanse of frozen water, out at the kids who’d inevitably be testing new skates.
In his mind’s eye he could see himself speeding instead of slipping, feeling the air there just like he felt the air here on the highway, nearly raw on his face. They drove in wind-whipping silence and the road stretched out in front of them and, though the idea had never held all that much appeal—he was no great fan of the Beats—Ed briefly wished that they were setting out to drive across the whole country. He would drive and shut the hell up for once. But when they reached the turnoff into the woods—the one he’d heard about from a girl he’d taken out a few times—he made a sharp right, and they bumped along over rocks and branches until the trees thinned out and there was the silvery pond—the Big Deep, the girl had called it. She’d skated there when she was a kid.
It was a relief to get out of the car, to stop hearing the wind. Though he’d done nothing but drive, the air had made him feel as if he’d played hard in some outdoor sport. He’d make sure to put the top up on the way back. There were only two other parked cars, and one looked as if it hadn’t been started in months. Ed scanned the pond for signs of happy shrieking kids, but there weren’t any kids, only a stooped figure standing far enough away that Ed couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, and this felt like a bad sign somehow.
Hugh jumped up and grabbed a thick branch, hung there momentarily before launching into chin-ups; he was short of breath by the time he let go. And of course Ed had to give it a try. As Ed pulled up on his fourth chin-up (Hugh had done five), Hugh said, “My father’s mentioned that my mother would let me out and run me—you know, like a dog.” He said it as if no time had passed between Ed’s original question and now, and this was one of Hugh’s best qualities as Ed saw it—the ability to pick up on lost queries, to not care if the moment was over, and to thereby create a sense of extended, even luxurious, time.
As Ed pulled up on that branch with every ounce of his strength, he watched how Hugh hoisted himself up onto the hood of Ed’s new car, which should not have mattered, but Ed wanted him off the green paint.
“Whatever the weather,” said Hugh, “if it was snowing or raining, she’d open the door and out I’d bolt.”
“Huh,” said Ed, after letting go of the branch. He’d done five chin-ups. His arms were shaking.
“He’d probably instructed her to train me,” Hugh said. “Probably wanted me disciplined for athletics early. What a false start that was.”
Ed recalled the previous month when they had gone to The Game. Hugh wouldn’t pry the goddamn movie camera from his face, and Ed knew that Hugh wasn’t capturing it for any sentimental reasons. Hugh cared less about football—and whether Harvard beat Yale—than about capturing the naïve hysteria of this game that Ed knew Hugh had grown up watching with his father and brothers each fall and that Ed, incidentally, wholeheartedly enjoyed. With his giant camera (which held by anyone else would have been awkward), Hugh was making some kind of avant-garde short film—at least that was what Ed deduced from Hugh’s grudging description. All Ed understood was that the game in its entirety—when put forth by Hugh—would be rendered in fast motion and thus (Ed supposed) would seem suitably ridiculous.
“Hey, listen,” said Ed, attempting his best impersonation of nonchalance. “Would you mind getting off my new car?”
Hugh did so without hesitating, and they walked toward the pond. “So that’s all you remember?” Ed asked. “Running?” He was suddenly nervous about sliding out on the ice. There was likely a reason for the absence of the kids. And how could he know that the girl who’d told him about this place wasn’t trying to exact some kind of revenge? He wasn’t always terribly polite, especially when it was clear that a date wasn’t going well. His social unease quickly became physical, and he often started to twitch. He couldn’t remember if she’d told him about the pond before or after he’d suggested they call it quits.
“I think I remember this one window,” Hugh ventured. “I have an image in my head of this small window—a picture window. Seeing it from outside. Seeing my mother’s face and then the face disappearing. It used to seem like a memory I’d invented, but now I think it might be a real one, because I would have been outside in the cold and she would have been inside and the window would have fogged from her breath against the glass. And she would have been smoking, too. She’s smoking in almost all of the pictures. So—there you have it—a memory.”
“It wasn’t for me to ask,” Ed said.
Hugh gave a noncommittal nod.
“Even I know that,” Ed admitted.
“Please, tell me something else so I don’t have to be stuck with my one image of the window all day long.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know,” muttered Hugh. “Something.”
Ed thought about how, as a little kid, he’d been terrified—petrified—of the dark. His mother had taken him into the windowless bathroom next to the kitchen, in order to get him over his fear. She shut off the lights and stood with him. At first he’d cry and then he’d settle down and then they’d just stand there, talking in the dark. He remembered her laughter and how she loved to talk and that she was truly good at it. When any conversation went off the rails, she could always, seamlessly, steer it back.
Ed had always thought of this as a happy story, and he considered relaying it to Hugh, but he realized it wasn’t a happy story; it wasn’t even a story. It was a mother and son talking in a dark bathroom, and that seemed kind of weird.
“Well?” said Hugh. “Give
me something. What kind of kid were you?”
“Nosy.”
“Big surprise.”
“I asked my fourth-grade teacher—Mrs. O’Connor, a widow—if she’d ever had sex with her husband before he died. I’d just gotten a handle on the birds and the bees, and since she didn’t have children I was confused. I was sure I was going to get a beating, but she nodded. And of course I couldn’t leave it alone,” Ed said, surprised at how embarrassed he actually felt with this memory fresh in his mind. “I asked her what it was like. What was it like? Jesus, what a mouth I had. Again I expected to get a beating, a bad one, but instead she looked very calm and still and—I’ll always remember this—she said: Lovely.”
“I can’t believe she didn’t kick you out of class.”
“I would have kicked me out of class.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“That’s true. Who knows what I would have done. Probably would’ve given me a smack. God help my future kids.”
They were standing on the banks of the pond. The water, to Ed’s relief, wasn’t frozen after all. It looked black in patches, and the sun had gone behind the clouds. Hugh just shook his head.
“You hungry?” Ed asked.
“I could eat.”
There was a place on the road. Inside was nothing special. When Ed ordered raw sirloin, Hugh looked at him askance.
“Trust me. I know meat. My uncle’s the supplier here.”
When the raw sirloin arrived, Ed split it in two, seasoned it with salt and pepper, cut it up in small pieces, and—voilà!—steak tartare. He’d had steak tartare for the first time on a date last year with a Radcliffe girl who proclaimed it her favorite dish, and he’d figured why not make it himself for a fraction of the cost? He was so proud when Hugh tasted it and declared it as fine as any he’d ever had. They drank scotch and ordered more raw sirloin and ate more steak tartare.
Ed could not stop talking about money. “For instance,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice lowered, as he knew that the subject—not to mention the drinking—would raise his voice automatically, “this check. If you pay it, I feel bad; if I pay it, you feel bad.”
A Dual Inheritance Page 6
