A Dual Inheritance

by Joanna Hershon

  “Hugh,” said Rebecca. “My dad’s here.”

  Hugh turned around and said, “Well, hello there.” He took a step back and shook his head. “Christ almighty, hello.” Then he stuck out his hand, which Ed ignored, opting for a hug instead. He clapped Hugh on the back several times.

  “Hugh,” said Ed, “congratulations.” The setting here was so pastoral, and the scent of sea air and lavender was so particularly clean, that Hugh Shipley’s own scent was just that much more of a contrast. There was the alcohol, of course, but also tobacco, which was so rare to catch a whiff of these days in civilized company that it immediately reminded him of prison, and he felt briefly revolted. But something besides alcohol or tobacco was even stronger, and Ed couldn’t place it. When he drew back and got a good look at his old friend—his friend from another life—Ed had his first surprise.

  Hugh did not look great. He didn’t even look good. His eyes were the same—a little bloodshot, though still they had the same leonine gaze—and he wasn’t pot-bellied or bald, but somehow he looked different. Was it bloat? Maybe he was sick and on some kind of god-awful medication? Or maybe, Ed thought—as Hugh looked bemused, mumbling about Vivi and Brian’s expensive taste in spirits, while indicating his drink, which he then spilled on his tan lapel—maybe Hugh had become a drunk. And not the functioning kind that proliferated on this island and in the halls of Shipley family homes dotted along the East Coast, or even his own father’s kind of boozing, which had seemed aggressive and grief-stricken, but rather the kind that qualified for the title when Ed and Hugh were children in the 1950s: a drunk—someone who pretended not to be and for whom the common practice of ignoring and pretending didn’t work anymore.

  Ed’s second surprise was when he realized just how fervently he didn’t want this to be the case. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Hugh Shipley. This was something for which he was completely unprepared.

  And so he started to talk. And once he started, he found he couldn’t stop. “I read about the prize, Hugh. Congratulations. Really. Congratulations on that.”

  “Thanks,” Hugh said.

  “I mean it.” Ed clapped him on the shoulder. “Very goddamn impressive. I read all about it.”

  “Did you?”

  “All the articles. I got to see what you’ve been up to. I mean, I knew you’d been up to a hell of a lot—I always knew you’d been productive—but it’s another thing to read all about it. See it in print. Do you know what I mean? Even though these days you can read pretty much anything in print. Do you remember when print really meant something? All the bullshit publications on the Internet these days make it that much harder to see the genuine articles—so to speak—but not with your work. That was easy to find. I’m telling you …”

  Rebecca drifted away; the 1920s band stopped playing; Ed had yet to see Vivi and her husband; he’d yet to see Helen; but still he continued to stand on the lawn with Hugh.

  “Seen any good films lately?” Ed asked, pleased with himself on account of how he’d remembered the perfect way to start Hugh talking and save them both from Ed’s inability to stop. Ed prepared himself for a long diatribe about an obscure tribal practice in a country rarely traveled to—if such places even existed anymore. But:

  “I haven’t seen a real film in years” is all Hugh offered.

  “No?” Ed felt unreasonably disappointed. He waited for Hugh to clarify.

  But Hugh only shook his head. “When I do, it’s on an airplane and I find myself looking forward to the ones about spies and the future, that sort of thing.”

  “But what about those—y’know …” He was at a loss, both to describe the films properly and on seeing Hugh’s blank expression. “What about those films you loved? Anthropological? Ethnographical?”

  “Ethnographic. I always disliked those terms.”

  “I do recall they all seemed to be either over three hours or under five minutes.”

  Hugh shrugged. But he finally grinned.

  “The one about the violent tribe?” Ed probed. “You loved that film. You loved all of them.”

  “Like watching paint dry,” said Hugh.

  “But what about your mentor? Charlie? That was his name, right?”

  “You got it, Ed. You got it.” Ed was suddenly aware of a distinct angry sarcasm. “That mind’s still a steel trap.”

  “What happened to Charlie?” Ed asked, attempting to sound unperturbed.

  “What happened to Charlie,” Hugh said. “Sounds like a play, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re thinking of the play Charley’s Aunt,” Ed corrected him. “Or the musical Where’s Charley? Two Oxford lads and their cross-dressing hijinks.”

  “Right again.” Hugh raised his glass in acknowledgment.

  “Rebecca was in the musical—eighth grade. ‘Once in Love with Amy.’ Don’t you know that song?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Hugh.

  “Everybody knows that song.”

  “Everybody except me,” said Hugh.

  Ed wasn’t sure why he was so convinced of this, or why it even mattered, but he was certain that Hugh knew that sweet, romantic song and simply wouldn’t admit it. “So tell me,” he pressed on, “what did happen to him?”

  “Charlie Case made a terrible picture in Hollywood about ‘cave people.’ He’s taught at Harvard for several decades—beloved by his students, ignored by the rest of the world.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that he’s ignored by the masses, but being a beloved Harvard professor hardly sounds like a tragedy. You know who should have been a professor?”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” said Ed. “That’s what I should have done. A professorial life.”

  “Ha,” said Hugh.

  “No, really,” said Ed, but he was aware he was actually only trying to get another smile out of Hugh.

  “Charlie and I fell out long before the Hollywood picture.”

  Hugh’s tone was so bitter and even mournful at the idea of falling out with a friend that Ed had to look away. Because though it was true that time and geography—as he’d always claimed—certainly served to distance even the most diligent and closest of friends, Ed had always known that it had been he who’d cut Hugh off, and he’d cut him off without warning. He also knew that Hugh had done nothing to deserve this contempt, aside from the fact that he’d gone ahead and married Helen. Which should not have come as any kind of surprise. And though Ed could not abide the marriage—at least not up close—how the hell was Hugh supposed to have been expected to understand this?

  The breeze kept steady, the boats continued sailing, and Ed felt—why?—that he had to keep this conversation going. It was as if he was trying to get through whatever this kind of talk could be called (was there any other word besides bullshit?) and get to the other side, another shore. It felt somehow necessary to get there, as if there were a particular place—like the club, where they’d been met with towels and cheers and hoppy cold beer after swimming through a mess of seaweed. As if there were not simply a shared authenticity, which they’d both abandoned long ago.

  “You know,” said Hugh, clapping Ed on the shoulder, “I’m going to tell you something, Ed. I have thought, you know, over the years, that maybe, if I cared so much about contributing to the world—and I did, you know—that’s what I’ve wanted to do—even when I loved those boring, useless films, because you’re right, I did love them—I have wanted to contribute something—”

  “I know you did,” Ed reassured him. “I know. And who says those films are useless? You know I’ve always been a goddamn Philistine. You were probably right to love them.”

  “I’ve thought—I admit it—maybe I should have done what Ed did. Maybe I should have gone and made some real dough—”

  “Okay,” said Ed, forcing a laugh, not wanting to continue with this particular theme.

  “You remember that’s what you said to me that first night at Cronin’s? I couldn’t get over it.” Hugh smiled. “No one I knew
ever talked about money.”

  “Now, listen here,” said Ed, not only keen on redirecting the conversation but suddenly downright pissed. “You and I both know that you don’t mean a word of this nonsense. If you’re trying to stick in the knife further, why not just come out and say it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Prison,” hissed Ed. “My stint in prison.” He looked around, anxious to have mentioned it. “Jesus.”

  “I only meant—”

  “You’ve just won a goddamn seriously impressive award for a fucking lifetime of selfless service. And whatever mood you’re in—excuse me, but you need to pull it together, because as far as I can tell this is a goddamn happy occasion.” He was not up to this kind of bitter talk right here, right now, although he did realize this was childish. Because—aside from the most banal chitchat, of which he was nearly incapable—what other kind of talk did he think might transpire today, nearly fifty years since their first conversation, their lives still improbably entwined?

  “But you know I could have done that,” Hugh persisted. “I could have made some real dough, like you. Doesn’t mean I would have made the same choices.”

  “Right,” said Ed. But he was still unable to walk away.

  “I could have,” said Hugh, “especially with times what they were when we graduated, before the world woke up—I probably could have inserted myself into any number of firms, even despite my awfully meager academic achievements. You know—what with all those family connections, which I now shamelessly tap for contributions to my clinics.”

  “It’s not as easy as you think,” said Ed.

  “I should have made some real money,” said Hugh, clearly not even making a pretense of listening to what Ed might have to say. “I should have made money and I should have given it away,” said Hugh. “Bam. Contribution. That’s what I should have done.”

  Ed had settled into nodding, into a pattern of nodding and shifting weight and drinking his glass of champagne. “Maybe,” said Ed tightly. “But I don’t think you mean that.”

  “No?” asked Hugh, and his tone sounded conspiratorial now, as if they’d gone into hiding together, far away from this celebration that either was or was not responsible for sending Hugh into anything but a celebratory state. “No?” he repeated. “You don’t think I mean what I say? Why? Because you know me so well?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because we both know you don’t know me at all.”

  “True,” Ed said. He let himself look at Hugh directly. “Or,” he let his eyes apologize, “I might.”

  Hugh breathed the saddest kind of sigh. Then, as if refusing to be sucked under by this display of sentiment, he kicked at the ground; he shook his head. “We both know, actually, that as soon as you met Helen’s father and had every connection you could ever need, you were done with me, done with both of us.”

  Ed swallowed hard, stupidly stunned. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  Hugh shrugged, as if there was so much more that he wanted to say but he was choosing not to.

  Ed knew he should have taken this insult as his cue to excuse himself, if not to simply walk away, but he didn’t do either. There was a part of him that felt oddly more relaxed now, having heard what Hugh really thought of him all this time and hearing it with little to no provocation.

  They stood not together exactly but side by side, looking out to sea like a pair of whaling widows. And when the water no longer held the attention of either of them, they still didn’t part ways. Instead, they turned and shifted their focus up the lawn, where people seemed to be enjoying themselves tremendously. Men in their prime held babies on their shoulders. Women held their long hair off their damp necks. An Indian woman was playing croquet in an emerald-green sari. Vivi and Brian’s friends belonged in one of those politically correct fashion ads for a fantasy version of a picnic on a country estate or an otherworldly kind of tailgating—where several ethnicities were represented and pretty much everyone looked interesting if not overtly attractive. But this wasn’t an ad; this was their life, and Ed could not get over it. The physical landscape of this island had not changed one bit as far as he could tell, but time had left its mark here, at least at this one house. Because at this generation’s Ordway house party, Ed was not a remotely exotic visitor. In fact, in the eyes of some of today’s guests, he might have even belonged on the side porch, where the older folks—decidedly less colorful—were seated at rented chairs and tables, eating deviled eggs in ample shade.

  When Ed saw the woman with the pixie-short hair, he recognized her instantly, even though she was across the lawn with her back turned. He saw her pale narrow shoulders and her long neck and felt his heart not in free fall but rather exploding into his knees and throat. She was wearing a blue sundress. Her figure—at least from this vantage—looked the same. He realized that some might have said the dress was better suited to a younger person, and yet he also saw that on Helen this dress was perfect. When she turned around, her face was just as he’d imagined: bright eyes, high cheekbones, no discernible help from science and thus—older. And still … pretty. Oh my God, was she pretty. As he watched her cross the lawn and give the Indian woman a warm embrace, as she behaved perfectly normally and the party continued as if there were not an asteroid breaking up inside a man pushing seventy standing near the bar, Ed tried not to look so obviously focused. He had come here to see her and here she was—older, with short silver-blond hair—and though he tried to remain at least a little bit tough, steeled against her more than probable lack of interest, he felt weak—even inexperienced—at the sight of her. He forced himself not to ask Hugh about her, not to start the inquiries.

  “I still can’t believe it,” said Hugh.

  “Can’t believe …”

  “That she really left me.”

  Ed wanted to ask if Hugh had deserved it, but he refrained. He knew how idiotic such a question was. He, of all people, knew.

  She’d gone and cut her hair. If anyone had told him she’d cut her hair, he would have mourned the corn-silk loss of it, but he mourned nothing, not even the passage of time, when he saw her now standing on that lawn. When she spotted Ed standing with Hugh, her expression didn’t change. If she was startled, if she was happy or disconcerted, her face did not reveal it. He wanted to go to her immediately, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He waited with Hugh, if not patiently then quietly, until she made her way to the bar.

  “Gentlemen,” she said; her smile was contained. He was on high alert, watching for hints of what remained between Hugh and her. They seemed neutral enough with each other, but he wanted surety. They were divorced, he reminded himself, which oddly didn’t help. If he could get definitive proof that there was nothing left between them, he’d feel—what? Free to proceed and be rejected?

  “Congratulations, Helen,” said Ed. And he offered a kiss—his lips landing on the air next to her slightly flushed cheek. All these years he’d assumed that she understood exactly why he’d bowed out of their life, but as he stood facing Helen now, he suddenly wondered if she didn’t share Hugh’s clearly mixed if not completely harsh opinion of him. It took all he had not to ask for her judgment right there and then. “I still haven’t seen your daughter.”

  “Oh, she’s around,” Helen said. “Probably with one of her children somewhere—putting out fires, you know.”

  “Cute kids,” said Ed. “Do you see them much?” he asked both of them.

  “Yes—I’m afraid I can’t get enough,” said Helen.

  He noticed that Hugh was keeping his gaze on the water, as if watching for signs of a squall.

  “And,” she continued, seemingly unruffled by Hugh’s disengagement, “you must be so proud of Rebecca.”

  “Very proud,” said Ed. And even though he was, he realized he sounded oddly reserved about expressing it. As a rule, he generally disliked people who were too modest about their children. Jill, for instance, was accomplished in this
regard. Plenty of people who’d been seated to her right and left at dinner parties in Manhattan, Palm Beach, Southampton, Milan, hadn’t a clue she even had offspring. So why did Ed now have the unfamiliar impulse to deflect any praise about his kid?

  He hated to think it was because Hugh was keeping disconcertingly quiet on the subject. He hated to think that, after all, Hugh Shipley still basically intimidated him. Or, worse, that Hugh’s silence was due to the fact that Hugh and Rebecca had discussed him during her trip to Tanzania—that they’d torn Ed apart, examining his many flaws.

  “Hugh had the chance to see what Rebecca is capable of. She still says that trip changed her life.”

  Hugh only nodded.

  “She worked hard, I guess?”

  “Sure,” said Hugh. “Sure she did.”

  Ed felt like asking: Really? Who can’t find at least one nice thing to say about Rebecca Cantowitz?

  But he also knew this had nothing to do with his daughter or her trip. Hugh actually thought that Ed had been some kind of social-climbing, ambitious mercenary. The way Hugh had said it, Ed could tell he meant it. Was it possible that Helen agreed?

  “Excuse me,” Ed said, “I just realized I have an appetite.”

  “You just realized this?” asked Hugh, and Ed still couldn’t tell if he was trying to be chummy or cruel.

  “I think I’m going to help myself to some of the brunch that invitation promised.”

  “That invitation …” said Helen, with the lightest touch of an eye roll, making it perfectly clear that she had not been a fan, either.

  He turned away, taking with him the slightest dose of immature pleasure both in their shared reaction to the invitation and that, for the first time since he’d known them, Hugh and Helen were not a couple. There was a line snaking down the hill from the buffet table, and he took his place in it, watching from afar as his old friends parted quickly, though neither of them joined him. He waited, listening to snippets of people greeting one another, reporting on their summers as if it were the first day of school. He made himself a plate and, in lieu of sitting, hovered at the side of the buffet table, not wanting to get stuck talking to anyone. He considered the house from a distance. It was not smaller than he remembered. It was still sprawling, still as magisterial as it was faded. While looking for Rebecca, he somehow failed to notice the oncoming woman until she was literally in his face.