“Call him,” Esther said. “Why don’t you call him now?”
“What could I say? No, I’ll call him tomorrow. I’ll think of something.” He weighed the letter on his palm. “Besides, he’ll be asleep by now.” Surely he would be asleep by now, deaf to The World and The Universe, his vigil over. “No. I’ll call him tomorrow,” Jim said.
She sighed and stood up, looking down at him, her mouth rueful and soft. “Think I’ll take a shower,” she said. “Unless you want one first.”
“No, go ahead.”
The bathroom door closed behind her. He reached for his pipe, then chose a cigarette from a table. He turned on a lamp, and the room sprang up, limned and clear. Yes, they would have him come here. Marriage is a small room, too, Jim thought. She does not know that yet. And I have just begun to remember.
When she padded out of the bathroom, flushed and lovely, she had on a housecoat he had never seen. She sat down opposite him for his notice, folding her hands in her lap, childishly hiding her feet under the stiff silk. He lit a cigarette and passed it to her. After a while, she leaned toward him, drew the letter from his fingers, and tucked it out of sight behind the jar of willows. She sat back, her lids lowered, her chin cupped in her hands. Her hair was loose on her shoulders and her face had the vulnerable look this gives to women. So many rings to the show now, he thought. And the loving heart must do each justice.
He knelt and put his head in her lap, kneading his face against her knees. Once, he raised it, as if he heard something waning in the distance. She stretched out a draped arm then, and turned out the lamp. But in the darkness his eyes retained the room in perfect memory, with that finish given only by death. So, in the darkness, he clung to her for a moment not as a lover but as he might cling to some foolish crony who had once been there together with him in the Arcady of the past.
One of the Chosen
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE fall reunion of his college class, Spanner had come home a little ashamed of his easy acceptance of the prodding special invitation over the phone that day from Banks, a man whose face he could not even remember. For years he had ignored the printed notices that came to him now and then, even though he lived in the city where the college was, but this time, Banks had said, there was to be a private conclave of all the members of the crew who had won the regatta for the college over twenty years before. Half reluctant to include himself in the picture of the old grads redundantly deploying the terrain of dead triumphs, he had found himself saying that he would come. He had been coxswain of that crew.
Thinking it over idly in bed later on, in those random images just before sleep, which carried with them unexpected prickings of realization that lay just below the surface of expressed thought, he had found himself dwelling, not on the members of the crew, but on all those odd ones, the campus characters who had existed, hardly acknowledged, on the penumbra of his own sunlit, multiform activities of those days. Why should he now think suddenly of De Jong, the spastic, who, jerking and shambling his way one day into the office of the college literary magazine of which he, Spanner, had been a staff member, had thrust upon the group there a sheaf of manuscript, and gargling incomprehensibly, had left before their gauche heartiness could detain him? The sheaf had contained a group of poems clearly derivative from the unfashionable Housman, and therefore unusable, but marked by a discipline of language, a limpidity, almost a purity of organization—as if in them De Jong had tried to repudiate his disjointed idiot face, the coarse clayey skin, the wide slobbering mouth, thickened with effort. They had avoided discussing him, until Black, the psychology student, had remarked, with his clinician’s air, “I saw him once in Phipps’ lecture class, way at the top, you know, in one of those high gallery seats. My God—there he was—twitching away at some lecture of his own—oblivious!” One of the others had sniggered nervously. The talk had passed on, and later that year, because of a lack of copy, one of the poems had been printed after all.
He thought now, with a belated guilt, of the grim separation that must have been De Jong’s, and whether there would have been anything that the rest of them, if less swaddled with their own crude successes, could have done. He’d never heard the man mentioned again, or seen a reference to him in the alumni magazine.
Why now, in this context, should he remember George Shipley, the Negro basketball star of their era, certainly handsome enough, with straight, clipped features so completely lacking the prognathous bulges commonly associated with his race that this, no doubt, had some effect on his acceptance on certain levels by the student body. Smiling, quiet, he had often sat near Spanner in the rotunda of the law library; Spanner had heard that he was a professor of law now in one of the good Southern colleges for Negroes. Why, burning now with something like shame, should he remember him at the dances to which he brought always the same prim-faced mulatto girl; why should he see him, wide shoulders bent in the dégagé dance fashion of that day, black features impassive, slowly circling with the girl, always in a small radius of their own?
Spanner was fully awake now and, raised up on his elbow, his eyes gradually following the familiar outlines of the furniture as they grew more perceptible in the darkness, he forced himself to probe in the archives of recall for others who, like Shipley, like De Jong, seemed bound together in his memory only by the mark of that rejection by the group, which now, in pitying retrospect, it seemed to him, had he then been less grossly unaware, less young, he, by some friendly overture, might have partially repaired.
There was the Burmese princeling who had lived at International House, who had treated a group of them to several awkwardly accepted dinners at Oriental restaurants of his choosing, whose foreignness and wealth had at first had a certain cachet, but from whom they had shortly retreated in ridicule, in gruff embarrassment at the hand, sliding as silk, the emotional waver of the voice. At that, they had never been sure what he was really—that it hadn’t been just a form of Eastern cajolery, or a misbegotten sense of acceptance which had elicited the moist look, the overheated hand. Afterward, when they had met him on campus in a few curt scenes of misshapen talk in which it was evident that camaraderie had flown, his gestures had been restrained enough, Lord knows, his eyes sufficiently flat and dull, with reserve enough to satisfy the most conventional of them.
Of course, there had been that group of those others, pariahs without question, who convened always in that little Greek restaurant, the Cosmos, through the door of which they sometimes glanced out at you with the hauteur of tropical birds in a zoo, jangling consciously into conversation as you passed, with their tense, dulcet exuberance. Toleration of these had been more than one could expect of boys suffused with their own raw reactions to adulthood, which they covered up with a passionate adherence to the norm, with apprehensive jeerings at the un-average in its lightest forms, so that even displaying too good, too undulate a French accent, in class, was likely to incur for one the horse-laugh from behind. But could they have helped, with some small glow of receptivity, young Schwiller, that model young German from the cleanly swabbed villa in North Jersey, with too little money, background, or ability—too little of everything except a straining, unhumorous will to belong—who, after some covert, abortive incident on a group camping trip, had hanged himself to a tree?
Ah well, Spanner thought, fumbling in the dark for a cigarette, and lighting it in a thankful momentary absorption with the ordinary—these had been the extreme cases. But what of the others, less vividly obvious to memory because they had been more usual, or because they had perhaps already achieved their secret dikes of resignation? He remembered, for instance, all the little Jewish boys, with their overexpressive eyes, their thickets of hair whose Egyptian luxuriousness no barber could tame, and most revelatory of all, the forced vying, the self-conscious crackle of their conversation.
As a Jew himself, he had been helped, he knew, by his fair-skinned, freckled, almost “mick” exterior, by the generations of serene cosmopolitan living that were evid
ent, implicit in the atmosphere of his family’s sprawling apartment on the park, and frankly, he supposed, by the unrevealing name of Spanner, which his great-grandfather had brought over from England, and had come by honestly, as far as the family knew. His family had belonged among those lucky Jews, less rare than was commonly realized, who had scarcely felt the flick of injustice expressed socially, much less in any of its harsher forms. Still, despite this, it had been unusual, he knew, to remain so untouched, so free from apprehension of the lurking innuendo, the consciousness of schism—for in addition to his race, he had carried, too, that dark bruise of intellectuality, the bearers of which the group flings ever into the periphery, if it can.
That was where the luck he had had in being coxswain had come in. Because of it, although he had done well, almost brilliantly in his law classes, all his possibly troublesome differences had remained hidden, inconspicuous under the brash intimacy of the training session, under the hearty accolade of his name on the sporting page—because of it he had been hail fellow in the boat house and on the campus—he had been their gallant “little guy.” So, he thought, he had ridden through it all in a trance of security which, he realized now, had been given only to the favored few, while all around them, if he and the others had not been so insensible of it, had been the hurts, the twistings, that might have been allayed. The image of the spastic crossed before him again, a distortion to the extreme of that singularity from which many others must have suffered less visibly, from which he himself had been accountably, blessedly safe. He lay back again, and turning, blotted his face against the dispassionate pillow and slept.
The next morning he awoke late. It was Saturday. Taking his coffee at the dining-room table deserted by his wife and children some hours before, he was half-annoyed at the emotionalism of the previous night. “Who the hell do I think I am—Tolstoy?” he thought, wincing. Rejecting the unwonted self-analysis that had preceded sleep, he finished his coffee offhandedly, master of himself once more. He got the car out of the garage and swung slowly down the parkway, thinking that if he delayed his arrival until well after twelve he would miss the worst of the speechifying.
As he approached the college-dominated midtown neighborhood, idling the car slowly along, he passed some of the brownstone houses, shoddier now with the indefinable sag of the rooming house, which had been the glossier fraternity houses of his day. He had heard that many of them, even the wealthier ones which had survived depression times, subsidized to plush draperies and pine paneling by some well-heeled brother, had gone down finally during the war years just past, when the college had become a training center for the Navy. Then, he supposed, those accelerated waves of young men passing through had not only not had time for such amenities, but, trapped together in a more urgent unity, had had no need for the more superficial paradings of Brotherhood.
Although he had had his fair share of indiscriminate rushing during his freshman year, he himself had had no particular desire to join a house, comfortably ensconced, as he had been, in his family’s nearby home, already sated with the herded confinement of prep school. In his sophomore year, he remembered, after he had joined the magazine, and it was evident that he would have a place on the varsity crew, the best Jewish fraternity had been very pressing, then annoyed at his tepid refusal, and there had been overtures from one or two of the Christian fraternities whose social position was so solid that they could afford, now and then, to ignore the dividing lines in favor of a man whose campus prominence or money would add lustre to the house, but by this time he had already been focusing on his law career. Still, he thought now, he had always had the comfortable sense of acceptance; he had, for instance, never felt that deep racial unease with the Gentile to which his most apparently assimilated Jewish friends sometimes confessed. To be free from the tortuous doubt, the thin-skinned expectancy of slight—it had helped. He had been lucky.
In front of one of the brownstones not too far from Jefferson Hall, the old residence hall in one of whose rooms the luncheon was to be held, he found a place to park the car, and got out. He hadn’t been near here in years; his life was a well-conducted bee-line from suburb to downtown office, and most of his associations were on the East Side anyway. He walked past the familiar architectural hodgepodge of the buildings, noting with pleasure that the rough red cobbles of the walks had been preserved, glancing with disapproval at the new library which had been begun in his time, on the field where they used to play tennis. Half utilitarian, but with reticent touches of bastard Greek on its lean, flat façade, it stretched out, two-dimensional and unassimilable, a compromise of tastes which had led to none. The vulgarization of taste in a place which should have been a repository of the best still had power to shock him; he was pleased at having retained this naïveté, this latent souvenir of youth. Around him and past him, male and female, hurrying or sauntering, or enthusiastically standing still, was that year’s crop of imperishable young, on their faces that which the college had not yet vulgarized—the look of horizons that were sure, boundaries that were limitless—the look of the unreconciled.
Already, he twitted himself, he was developing the spots of the returning alumnus. The secret conviction that inwardly, outer decay to the contrary, one had preserved a personal ebullience better than most, the benignant surveying glance with its flavor of “si la jeunesse savait”—he had them all. Smiling to himself he turned in at the doorway of Jefferson Hall, and making another turn to the reception room on the right, met the slightly worn facsimiles of his youth full on.
They were gathered around the mantel, most of them, talking in voices at once hearty and tentative, glasses in hand. Drinks to melt the integument of twenty years and more—of course. From the group a man detached himself to come forward and pump his hand.
“Davy! Why, Davy Spanner!” The lost face of Banks coalesced at once in his recognition, fatally undistinguished, except for the insistent, hortatory manner that had battened on the years. He had been business manager of the crew.
Banks conveyed him toward the others like a trophy.
“Look who’s here!” he crowed. “Our little coxie!”
Grinning a little stiffly, Spanner acknowledged, not without pleasure, the nickname paternally bestowed on him long ago by these men who had all been so much bigger than he, who had chaffingly, unmaliciously treated him as their mascot perhaps, because of his size, but had unswervingly followed his direction. As a group they were still physically impressive, carrying extra weight fairly well on their long bones.
They gathered around to greet him. With the unfortunate sobriety of the latecomer, he noted, accepting a drink, that they were all, although not yet tipsy, a little relaxed, a trifle suffused, with the larger-than-life voices and gestures of men who had had a few. A table set buffet style in a corner, and a coffee urn, had apparently not yet been touched. Downing his first drink, he took another, and plunged into the babble of expected questions, the “where you been all these years?”—the “what’re you doing now?”—the “whereabouts you living?” One by one he remembered them all, even to the little personal tricks and ways they had had in the locker-room. Bates, whose enormous sweaty feet had been a loud joke with them all, was almost completely bald now, as was Goetschius, the polite quiet boy from upstate, who, politely as ever, bent his tonsure over Banks’ pictures of his house, his family.
Reassuringly, they all looked pretty good, as he thought he did himself, but he wondered if they knew any better than he did what had impelled them to come. “Horse” Chernowski, who stood nearest him, had driven up from Pennsylvania, beckoned on, Spanner wondered, by what urge to reasseverate the past? In his ill-cut, too thick tweeds, his great shoulders swollen needlessly by shoulder pads, the hocklike wrist bones projecting from the cuffs—his nickname fitted him still. He had been their dumb baby, stronger than any of the others, but dull of reaction; once they had lost a race because of his slowness in going over the side when he had jammed his slide.
“Ah
, my God, Davy,” said Chernowski delightedly, “do you remember the cops picking us up for speeding after the big day—the night we drove back from Poughkeepsie?”
“Yes. Sure I remember,” said Spanner, but he hadn’t, until then. From across the room he saw Anderson, the stroke, nursing his drink at the mantel, staring at him ruefully, almost comprehendingly; encountering that blue gaze which had faced him steadily, in the inarticulate intimacy of three years of gruelling practice, faraway incident, and triumph, there was much that he did remember.
Handsome, intelligent son of a family which had contributed both money and achievement to the college for more than one generation, Anderson had more perfectly straddled the continuum of campus approval that stretched between “grind” and “hero” than anyone Spanner had known. Spanner remembered him, effortlessly debonair and assured, burnished hair spotlighted over the satin knee breeches of his costume as Archer in The Beaux’ Stratagem, or stripped and white-lipped, holding Spanner’s gaze with his own as the water seared past the shell. Although he had been as perilously near the prototype of campus hero as one could be without stuffiness or lampoonery, there had never been any of the glib sheen of the fair-haired boy about him, nothing in the just courtesy of his manner except the measurable flow of a certain noblesse oblige.
He crossed now to Spanner, and took, rather than shook, Spanner’s hand.
“Davy!” he said. “Well, Davy!”
The crisp intonation had the same ease, the ruddy hair had merely faded to tan, the eyes stared down at him now straight as ever, but from between lids with the faint, flawed pink of the steady drinker, and Spanner saw now that there was in his posture the controlled waver, the scarcely perceptible imbalance of the man who is always quietly, competently drunk.
The Collected Stories of Hortense Calisher Page 45
