Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “How do you know I have heart trouble?” Strand asked.

  “Romero told me. He said they were afraid you were going to die.” Rollins looked at him with childlike curiosity. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was it like—I mean, when you felt yourself…” He stopped, embarrassed. “I’ve been knocked out a few times myself and the funny thing was it didn’t hurt while it was happening—I just felt as though somehow I was floating through the air, altogether peaceful. I just wondered if maybe it’s like that. I’d feel better about my father if it was like that for him…”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” Strand said, trying to remember what he had felt as he collapsed on the beach. “Now that I look back on it, that is how I felt. It’s a comforting thought. To tell you the truth I didn’t want to come back.”

  “Well,” Rollins said emphatically. “I’m real glad you did.”

  Strand smiled at him. “So am I.”

  At the bank, he had cashed the check and given the two thousand dollars in new hundred dollar notes to Rollins. Rollins didn’t put them in his wallet immediately, but stood there, looking uncertainly down at them in his hand. “You sure you want to do this, Mr. Strand?”

  “I’m sure. Put them away.”

  Rollins folded the notes carefully into his wallet. “I better be getting along,” he said. “The bus for Hartford leaves in ten minutes. Maybe you better take a taxi back to the school.”

  Strand had taken a taxi from the town to the school once. It had cost five dollars. “I’ll walk. The exercise will wake me up. Good luck with Mr. Hollingsbee. I called him and he’s expecting you.”

  “Be careful, please, Mr. Strand,” Rollins said. He strode quickly down the windy street as Strand pushed his wool muffler higher around his neck. At the corner Rollins stopped, turned and looked back. He waved once, then turned the corner and disappeared.

  Shivering and with his ungloved hands feeling like two lumps of ice in his overcoat pockets, Strand walked in the opposite direction along the main street going out of town. There was a drugstore on the corner that sold newspapers. He went in and bought the Times. The story was on page three and was short. “Justice Department Investigates Charges of Influence Peddling in Washington” was the one-column headline. The story itself was tentative. It had been revealed to the Times through reliable sources, it ran, that a prominent New York lawyer, Russell Hazen, had had conversations with a registered lobbyist for the oil industry about the possibility of rewarding an unnamed congressman for a favorable vote in committee on an offshore drilling bill. The conversation had been taped off a tapped telephone wire in Mr. Hitz’s office. The tap had been legally obtained on a warrant from a federal judge. The Justice Department declined to say if an indictment would be sought. The investigation would continue.

  Poor Russell, Strand thought. He felt guilty at having given up after one call trying to reach Hazen to warn him of the FBI’s visit. It was not the kind of story a man would want to come on unsuspectingly as he opened the paper at the breakfast table.

  Strand closed the paper and dropped it back on the pile. He had paid for it, but he didn’t want to read about the murders, the executions, the invasions, the bankruptcies that seemed to make up most of each morning’s news these days.

  He went out of the store into the cold, gray street, where other pedestrians were hurrying, bent over, against the wind. He had foolishly not worn a hat. He pulled the muffler away from his neck and, using it as a shawl, wound it around his head and tied it in a knot under his chin. As he started off again, his eyes tearing from the cold, he thought of all the photographs he had seen in newspapers of refugee women, their heads wrapped in shawls, shuffling along on dusty roads.

  By the time he got back to the school, dragging himself along, cursing the wind, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to last through his classes till five o’clock. Somehow, though, he managed it, sitting at his desk while he lectured, instead of striding up and down as he usually did, and speaking slowly and laboriously. Then, during his last class, the headmaster’s secretary came into the room and told him that he should come over to the office as soon as possible. He cut the class short and went down to the headmaster’s office. Romero was there and Rollins and Mr. Hollingsbee.

  Romero’s mouth was still split and swollen and a bruise on his forehead was lumpy and discolored. But he stood erect and defiant as he glanced once at Strand, then lowered his eyes and stared at the floor.

  “Allen,” Babcock said, “we’ve all been trying to persuade Romero to cooperate with Mr. Hollingsbee. Without success. I’ve told Romero that under the circumstances I have no choice but to expel him from the school as of today. If he is willing to cooperate, I might be able to suspend him provisionally to await the outcome of the trial. Mr. Hollingsbee thinks that with luck he might have Romero put on probation. In that case, I believe I might be able to allow him to come back to the school on probation here, too, to finish his year. Perhaps you can do something with him.”

  “Romero,” Strand said, “you’re playing with the rest of your life. Give yourself a chance, at least. I don’t like reminding you of what you owe to Mr. Hazen and myself, but I have to do it. Between us we have a large investment in you. And I’m not talking about money. A moral investment. It’s callous of you not to feel that you should try to protect it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Strand,” Romero said, still staring at the floor. “Everyone knows what I did and why. I’ll take the consequences. I’m not going to weasel out. Everyone’s wasting their time arguing with me.”

  Strand shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s it,” he said to Babcock.

  Babcock sighed. “All right, Romero,” he said. “Pack your things and get out. Right now. You can’t stay here even one more night.”

  “I’ll drive the boys back to Waterbury,” Mr. Hollingsbee said. “Rollins, maybe your parents will be able to do something with him.”

  “They sure will try,” Rollins said. He took Romero’s elbow. “Come on, hero.”

  Mr. Hollingsbee and Strand followed the boys out of the room and out onto the campus. They made a little cortege as they walked across to the Malson Residence. “Before you came,” Hollingsbee said to Strand, “Babcock read the riot act to Rollins, too. About not reporting the crap games in the room. He put Rollins on probation for the rest of the year. That means he can’t play on any of the teams. The track coach isn’t going to be happy when he hears about it. Rollins is the number one shot-putter of the school. It won’t help him any getting a scholarship for college, either.”

  “Do you have any children?” Strand asked.

  “One daughter. Thank God she’s married.” Hollingsbee laughed.

  Strand couldn’t help wondering if the man had ever read any of his daughter’s letters to her husband or to any other man she knew.

  “How about you?” Hollingsbee asked. “How many children do you have?”

  “Three. So far they’ve managed to stay out of jail.”

  “You’re ahead of the game.” The lawyer shook his head. “Kids these days.”

  When they got to the house Strand was relieved to see that the common room was empty. Romero started for the stairs, but Strand stopped him. “Jesus,” he said, “one last time…”

  Romero shook his head.

  “All right, then,” Strand said. “Good-bye. And good luck.” He put out his hand. Romero shook it. “Don’t take it too hard,” he said. “Just one more stick on the fire.” He started toward the door, then stopped and turned. “Can I say something, Mr. Strand?”

  “If you think there’s anything more to say.”

  “There is. I’m leaving here, but I don’t think you’ll be here much longer, either.” He was speaking earnestly, his voice low and clear. “This place is staffed by time-servers, Mr. Strand. And I don’t think you’re a time-server.”

  “Thank you,” Strand said ironically.

  “The other teachers are grazing animals, Mr. Strand. They graze in pe
ace on grass…”

  Strand wondered where in his reading Romero had picked up that phrase. Unwillingly, now that he had heard it, he recognized the justice.

  “You hunt on cement, Mr. Strand,” Romero went on. “That’s why you understood me. Or at least half-understood me. Everybody else here looks at me as though I belong in a zoo.”

  “That’s not fair,” Strand said. “At least about the others.”

  “I’m just telling you my opinion.” Romero shrugged.

  “Are you finished?”

  “I’m finished.”

  “Go get your things,” Strand said. He was disturbed and did not want to hear any more. At least not today.

  “Come on, Baby,” Romero said harshly to Rollins, “let’s clear out the ole plantation. Massa’s selling us South.”

  Strand watched Hollingsbee and the two boys go up the stairs, then went down the hall to his apartment. The phone was ringing in the living room. He had almost decided not to answer it but then, thinking that it might be Leslie calling from France to reassure him that she was all right, he picked it up.

  It was Hazen. “Did you read that goddamn story in the Times this morning?” He sounded drunk.

  “I did.”

  “Reliable sources.” Hazen’s voice was thick. “Any two bit shyster lawyer in the Justice Department leaking to a crappy newspaperman and suddenly it’s a reliable source. My God, if you tapped a conversation between Jesus Christ and John the Baptist they could make it sound like a federal offense.”

  “I tried to call you last night and warn you about the Times. There was no answer.”

  “I was at the fucking opera. And when I’m not home my goddamn valet is too lazy to move away from the bar where he’s drinking my liquor to pick up the phone. I’m going to fire the sonofabitch tonight. How did you know about the Times?”

  “There were two FBI men here yesterday, questioning me about you. They told me to look at the Times this morning.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “If I’d heard you talking to Hitz about a deal.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “What could I tell them? I said I didn’t hear anything.”

  “You could have sworn, for Christ’s sake, that you were with me every minute and you knew damn well I didn’t say a word about any kind of business with Hitz.”

  “We went through this before, Russell,” Strand said wearily. “I told them what I knew. No more and no less.”

  “Go to the head of the honor roll, Sir Galahad,” Hazen said. “When are you going to come down out of the clouds and hang your halo on the door and learn to play with the big boys on the street?”

  “You’re drunk, Russell. When you’re sober, I’ll talk to you.” Strand quietly put down the receiver. He was shivering. The cold of the day seemed to be embedded in his bones. He went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the tub. He inhaled the steam gratefully as he started to undress. There was a ring on the doorbell. He turned the water off, put on a bathrobe and went barefooted to the door. Dr. Philips was standing there, with his little black bag in his hand.

  “Do you mind if I come in, Mr. Strand?” Strand had the impression that the doctor was on the verge of putting his foot in the door for fear that it would be slammed in his face. “Please.”

  Philips came in. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said. “But Mr. Babcock called me a few minutes ago and said he thought I ought to take a look at you.”

  “Why?”

  “May I take off my coat?”

  “Of course. Did Babcock explain…?”

  “He said he was worried about you, he thought you didn’t look too well,” Philips said, as Strand helped him off with his coat. “He told me about your history with a heart problem and if it’s all right with you I’d like to do a little checking.” He glanced obliquely at Strand. “The truth is your color isn’t all it might be today. I know you’ve been under stress and…”

  “I’ve lost a little sleep the last few nights,” Strand said curtly. “That’s all.” He was certain that no matter what happened he didn’t want to be put back in a hospital again.

  Dr. Philips was taking a stethoscope out of his bag and the apparatus that Strand had become all too familiar with, to take his blood pressure. “If we can just sit over here at the desk,” Philips said, sounding, Strand thought, like a dentist assuring a patient that probing for a root canal nerve wouldn’t hurt, “and if you’ll take off your robe…” Strand threw the robe over a chair. He still had his pants on so he didn’t feel as foolish as he would have sitting naked in his own living room. “You certainly aren’t obese,” Philips said dryly as he put the cold stethoscope to Strand’s chest. The instructions were familiar, too. Cough. Hold your breath. Breathe deeply, exhale slowly. Aside from the brief commands, Philips said nothing. After the chest he put the stethoscope to Strand’s back. Then he wrapped the rubber sleeve of the blood pressure machine around Strand’s arm and pumped it up, let the air out, watching the gauge intently, then repeating the process. Your life on a bubble of air, Strand thought, as he watched the doctor’s impassive face. Or on a slender column of mercury, that unstable element.

  When Philips was through he still remained silent while he put the gadgets away in his bag. Shivering, Strand put on his bathrobe again. “Mr. Strand,” Philips said, “I’m afraid Mr. Babcock is a keen diagnostician. Your breathing is very shallow and there’s a worrisome sound to your lungs. Your heartbeat is irregular, although not too bad. Your blood pressure is very high. Do you remember what it was when they released you from the hospital?”

  “I don’t know the numbers, but my doctor said it was high normal.”

  “It is no longer within the normal range, I’m afraid. Are you taking anything to keep it down?”

  “No.”

  Philips nodded. “If you’ll come by the infirmary tomorrow morning I’ll give you some pills that should work. Just one a day should do the trick.” He dug into his bag and came out with a small bottle. “Here’s something to help you sleep. Don’t worry—it’s not addictive.”

  “I’m really not afraid of becoming a drug addict at my age,” Strand said.

  “Addiction is not only a teenage disease, Mr. Strand,” Philips said coldly. “There’s some liquid in your lungs, too…”

  “It’s a wonder I’m still walking around, isn’t it?” Strand said, trying to sound amused at the minor misfunctions of his refractory body.

  “A little walking is fine. It’s even prescribed. Although I’d stay indoors until it gets a little warmer. I’ll give you a diuretic, too. I don’t want to alarm you. You’ve recovered remarkably from what Mr. Babcock has told me was a massive attack. But emotion—stress, as I mentioned before—plays a great part in conditions like this. If possible, I’d like to see you take things more calmly.”

  “What should I have done when I saw one of the boys in my house chasing another with a knife—sat down and played the flute?”

  “I know, I know,” Philips said, reacting to the ring of anger in Strand’s voice by talking more slowly and calmly than ever. “There are situations when what a doctor advises sounds foolish. I’m not an extravagantly healthy man myself, but there is advice I give myself that I can’t hope to follow. Still, if possible, try to put your problems into some larger perspective.”

  “How do you make out when you put your problems into some larger perspective?”

  Philips smiled sadly. “Badly.”

  Strand knew from what Babcock had told him that Philips was a widower. His wife had been killed in an automobile accident five years before. He had had a prestigious practice in New York City and had been a professor at Cornell Medical Center. When his wife had died he had given it all up, practice, hospital, office, apartment, friends, and the rest of his family, and had gone off for a year to live alone in a cabin in the Maine woods. He had come to Dunberry, where he had frankly told Babcock that he wanted to have a practice that
made minimum demands on him and where his responsibility was limited and where none of the friends and associates he had known when his wife was alive would crop up to remind him of his happier days. As he had just confessed, when he had put his problems into a larger perspective he had fared badly.

  “Sprained ankles and adolescent acne,” he had told Babcock. “That’s about as deep into medicine as I want to go for the rest of my life.”

  Remembering this dissipated Strand’s irritation with the man for coming over unasked to examine him and highhandedly prescribing for him, meddling, as Strand had felt when he saw the doctor at his door, with matters that were not really any concern of his. After all, Strand was not a child and he had his own doctors to whom he could appeal if he felt it necessary. He tried to imagine what Hazen’s reaction would have been on the phone if the doctor had answered it and counseled him to put Washington and the FBI into a larger perspective.

  “I understand from Mr. Babcock,” the doctor was saying, “that you’re the most conscientious teacher in the school. That has to mean overwork and overworry. If I may make a suggestion, be less conscientious. Try to let things slide here and there. And don’t run after boys with knives if you can help it.” He smiled as he said it. “Rest as much as you can. Mentally even more than physically. One more question. Do you drink much?”

  “Hardly at all.”

  “Take a whiskey now and then. It can put things into a rosier light, aside from opening up the capillaries.” Philips struggled into his coat. Just at the door, he turned. “What do you think will happen to the Romero boy?”

  Strand thought for a moment. “Rollins says that if he goes to jail he’ll wind up on the street and he won’t be carrying a knife, there’ll be a gun in his belt and dust in his pocket. I guess what he means by dust is heroin or cocaine. My feeling is that it’s either that or he’ll lead a revolution somewhere.”

  Philips nodded soberly. “Mercy is the scarcest virtue on the market,” he said. “We’re all such bunglers, aren’t we? Well, sir, good night. And sleep well.”