by Irwin Shaw
Sprained ankles and adolescent acne, Strand thought, as the door closed behind the doctor. Romero hardly fitted into those categories.
Strand went into the bathroom and put the small bottle of pills Philips had given him on the shelf. Nepenthe by the nightly dose, he thought. Retreat to forgetfulness. Civilization’s answer to religion and ambition.
He turned the hot water on again, once more grateful for the swirling steam, taking deep breaths. Then the phone rang again. Annoyed, he turned the tap off and went back into the living room. “Hello,” he said brusquely.
“You don’t have to snap my head off.” It was Leslie, her voice amused though far away. “I know you don’t like to talk on the phone but you might as well tear it out of the wall if you answer it like that. Nobody will ever dare call you twice.”
“Hello, dearest,” he said. “God, it’s good to hear your voice. Where are you? The last I heard from Air France, you were wandering all over European air space.”
“We finally landed at Nice,” Leslie said, “and now we’re in Linda’s place in Mougins. She said as long as we were so close it would be a shame if I didn’t see it. It’s heavenly. I wish you were here with us.”
“So do I.”
“How are things on the battlefield?”
“Picking up,” he said ambiguously.
“What does that mean?”
“Romero’s out on bail and he’s staying with Rollins’s family in Waterbury.”
“Who put up the bail?”
He hesitated. “Friends,” he said.
“Was it Russell?”
“He’s not Romero’s friend.” Strand did not add that at the moment Romero didn’t think Strand was his friend, either.
“I guess it’s better all around that way, don’t you?”
“Much better.”
“Are you taking care of yourself? Are you lonely?”
“I hardly notice that you’re not here,” he said, laughing, or at least making an effort to laugh. “Mrs. Schiller is pampering me outrageously.”
“I worried about you all over the Atlantic.”
“You should have worried about the pilot. You’re lucky they didn’t put you down in Warsaw. I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You sound tired.”
“It’s the connection. I intend to take up skiing tomorrow. The paper promises snow.” It took an effort to be flip, but he made it. If Leslie had been there, he would have told her all, or almost all, of what he had been through that day. But worries, he knew, were multiplied by the square root of distance and Leslie was three thousand miles away.
“What are you doing now?” Leslie was saying. “I mean at this particular minute?”
“I’m about to step into a hot bath.”
“And I’m going to jump into Linda’s pool tomorrow. Imagine being able to swim in November. When we retire I think we ought to live in Mougins.”
“If you find a nice little place for around a million dollars while you’re down there, put a deposit on it.”
Leslie sighed. “It would be nice to be rich for once, wouldn’t it?”
“Thoreau never saw the Mediterranean,” Strand said, “and he was happy on a pond.”
“He wasn’t married.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“If I let myself go,” Leslie said, “I think I would turn into a frivolous, luxury-loving woman. Would you be able to bear me?”
“No.”
She laughed again. “I do like a man who knows his own mind. I’ve talked long enough. This call is costing Linda a fortune. Are you happy?”
“Never happier,” he said.
“I know you’re lying and I love you for it.” There was a sound of a kiss over the scratchy wire and Leslie hung up.
Strand put down the phone and went into the bathroom and finally sank into the warm water of the bath. My private small sea, he thought as he dozed in the steam. Like Thoreau, he would be content with a pond.
6
HE WAS SURPRISED WHEN he opened the door of his apartment after the last class of the day and saw Hazen standing in the living room picking a magazine off a bookcase shelf. Strand had not heard from him since the drunken conversation on the phone more than a week ago.
“Hello, Allen,” Hazen said. “I hope you don’t mind. Mrs. Schiller let me in.” He put out his hand and Strand shook it. “I brought you a little gift.” He gestured toward the table behind the sofa, where two quart bottles of Johnnie Walker, Hazen’s favorite Scotch, were standing.
“Thank you,” Strand said. “They’re bound to come in handy.”
“I came to apologize for my bad temper over the phone.” Hazen peered at him warily, as though unsure about how Strand would react.
“Forget it, Russell,” Strand said. “I’ve already done so.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Hazen’s manner became hearty. “Misunderstandings are bound to crop up from time to time—even between the best of friends. And I was a little nervy about the piece in the Times.”
“How is it going? I haven’t seen anything more in the papers.”
“There hasn’t been anything more,” Hazen said. “I guess they decided the fishing expedition was a flop. Justice has probably decided to drop the whole thing.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Can I fix you a drink? I’m afraid I’ll have to give it to you out of your own bottle. I finished ours a week ago.”
Hazen looked at his watch. “Well, I guess it’s just about drink time. If you’ll join me…”
“I could use one, too,” Strand said. “This is drinking weather. I nearly froze walking across the campus.” He went into the kitchen to get ice and glasses and a pitcher of water. Although Dr. Philips had prescribed a drink now and then, when Rollins had finished off the last bottle, Strand had not bothered to go into town to get another one. He tried to stay indoors as much as possible during the cold spell, but he could have asked Mrs. Schiller to buy a bottle of whiskey when she went into town to shop. It wouldn’t be Johnnie Walker. There was a limit to the amount of pampering he could fit into his budget.
Hazen had opened one of the bottles when Strand got back to the living room and Strand poured them each a generous drink. They touched glasses and drank. The immediate warmth in his gullet made Strand resolve that from then on he would have a drink each day before dinner.
Mrs. Schiller had laid a fire on the grate and Strand touched a match to the crumpled newspaper under the grate and watched as the flames began to lick up toward the kindling. He warmed his hands for a few moments before he went over to the table in front of the window where Hazen had installed himself. It was snowing lightly outside in the dusk, making a winter pattern on the half-frosted panes. Hazen’s profile was reflected off the glass and the two images of the man himself and his reflection gave a curious double impression of him. The real face was relaxed, friendly; the reflection was etched on metal, cold and austere, like the head of an emperor on a coin, a wielder of power to whom applications for mercy were useless.
As Strand sat down opposite him at the table, Hazen peered at him thoughtfully. “Allen,” he said softly, “I have come to ask forgiveness. Not only for what I said on the telephone to you. For my treatment of Romero. I’ve had plenty of time to think it over and realize what my responsibilities are. I was up in Hartford today and I spoke to the judge and found out that it was the Rollins boy who went bail for him. How he got the money is a mystery to me, but no matter. The judge said he got it in one day. I tell you, I felt ashamed in front of that hard old man. I told him I was going to take a personal interest in the case and would come to the court to take the case myself and explained the circumstances of how I met Romero through you and what we both thought of his capabilities and his extraordinary background. No matter what he looks like, the judge is not a monster, and he remembers my father from the time he, himself, was just a young lawyer breaking in. What he agreed to do was lift the bail and
free the boy on my recognizance.” Hazen smiled bleakly. “I guess he didn’t happen to read The New York Times that day. He made conditions, of course. Romero has to report weekly to the hospital for psychiatric tests and treatment. I’ve already told this to Hollingsbee and Hollingsbee will get Rollins’s money back for him tomorrow.”
Two thousand dollars back in the bank, Strand thought. There would be presents for Christmas. “Russell,” he said, “I can’t tell you how good I feel about this. Not only for you. For you, of course. And for me, too.”
Hazen looked a little embarrassed. He took a gulp of his drink. “It isn’t all pure saintliness of character, Allen,” he said. “Hitz and Company will pass a few unhappy days. That will not exactly displease me. Tell me, now that the kid looks as though he may get a break, what did he say to you that you said was confidential, about why he thought it was Hitz who took his money and letters?”
“It wasn’t he who told me.”
The lawyer’s inquisitory tone came back into Hazen’s voice. “Who told you?”
“I promised I’d keep it to myself.”
“Promises.” Hazen wrinkled his nose in disgust. “They’re the bane of a lawyer’s existence. Did anybody find the letters?”
“No,” Strand lied.
“What could there be in a kid’s letters that could be so damned important?”
“Think back to when you were eighteen, Russell.”
“My father read every letter I received until I went to college.”
“Romero doesn’t even know if his father is alive or dead.”
“The judge had better wake up on the right side of the bed the morning of the trial,” Hazen said, “or the psychiatrist better find out Romero is the most disturbed kid in Connecticut and at the same time as harmless as a pussycat if he’s not ready to do time. The judge was agreeable today but if the prosecutor lays it on, there’s no telling…Professional courtesy is one thing. The law’s another. Ah, well…” He sighed. “I’ve done my best. At least I can go to bed tonight with a clear conscience. It hasn’t been an easy time for me.”
“Not for anybody,” Strand reminded him.
Hazen laughed. “Egotism is not the least of my faults.”
“No, it’s not.”
The smile on Hazen’s face became a little strained. He looked thoughtfully across the table at Strand again. “What do you really think of me, Allen?”
“A lot of things. Naturally. You’ve been insanely generous and helpful to us all. I imagine that you wouldn’t be surprised that I have interlocking feelings—gratitude and”—he hesitated—“resentment.”
“Nonsense,” Hazen said. “You’re not like that.”
“Everybody’s like that,” Strand said quietly.
“Christ, for the most part, it was only money. I don’t give a shit for money.”
“You can say that. I can’t.”
“Let’s forget about the gratitude and resentment and all the hogwash. What else do you think about me?”
“That you’re an unhappy man.”
Hazen nodded gloomily. “That’s no lie. Who isn’t these days? Aren’t you?” His tone was challenging.
“On and off.” Strand realized that Hazen was serious and felt that he should be serious in return. “But on balance, I feel that the happy days in my life have outweighed the unhappy ones. I don’t have that feeling about you.”
“And you’re right. By God, are you right!” Hazen finished his drink, as though to wash out of his mouth the words he had just spoken. “This is just the sort of talk for a cold winter’s evening, isn’t it? Would you mind if I made myself another drink?”
“Help yourself.”
Strand watched the big man as he rose from his chair and crossed to where the bottles and pitcher of water and the ice were standing. The old hockey player was still there, broad, virile, vaguely menacing, willing to take blows and return them. He made his drink, then wheeled at the table. “How about you? This minute? Are you happy now?”
“It’s not the sort of question I usually ask myself.”
“Ask. For old times’ sake.” Hazen sounded mocking.
“Well, for one thing, I’m glad you came. I felt our friendship was being undermined and I didn’t like that,” Strand said, speaking deliberately. “I feel it’s repaired now and I feel better about that. About other things…” He shrugged. “When Leslie’s not around, I miss her. I haven’t yet gotten over not having the children present and I miss them, too. What’s happened at the school is unpleasant and I still don’t think I exactly fit in here yet, but I prefer to hope that given time that will improve. The work is easy and for the most part rewarding. The people are…well…polite and helpful. For the future, yes, I expect to be happy, reasonably happy.”
“The future.” Hazen made a derisive, blowing noise. “The future is going to be goddamn awful. The way things are going in the world.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the world. I can be pessimistic about the world and selfishly optimistic about myself. I’ve found that when a man steps back from very nearly dying and resumes what can be called a normal life, optimism is almost an automatic response.”
Hazen came back with his glass and sat down at the table again. He looked out the window. “Miserable night,” he said. “No wonder the whole country’s moving south. Sometimes I think every city in the Northeast, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, will be a ghost town in fifty years. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Okay, Pollyanna—” For a breath he sounded as he had when he shouted at Strand over the telephone. “Everything is coming up roses, Mr. Strand says. The news of the century. So nothing else is bothering you?”
“Of course there is.” Strand thought of Leslie’s flight in the middle of the night from Dunberry, of the letters signed Caroline, burned in the basement incinerator, of Eleanor, leading her husband around by the nose in Georgia and arousing the antagonism of the townspeople, of Jimmy, aged nineteen, involved with a pop singer almost twice his age, who had already gone through two or three husbands, of his own forced celibacy. “Of course there is,” he repeated. “Family things. Routine.” He knew the word was false. “But I’d rather not discuss what they are or even dwell on them. My dreams remind me of them and that suffices.”
Hazen nodded, his head like a heavy, off-balance pendulum. “Tell me,” he said suddenly, “have you ever thought of suicide?’”
“Like everybody else.”
“Like everybody else.” Again the heavy, swinging nod. “Hell, this is a sorry conversation. The drink. It’s unusual for me. Usually drink makes me feel good.”
Strand remembered the grotesque scene the first night at the Hamptons when Hazen had arrived drunk late at night and snarled and bellowed and railed against his profession, his family, the world. He wondered how a man ordinarily so intelligent could have such a misconception about himself.
“Anyway,” Hazen said, with a plain effort at geniality, “the ladies aren’t here to watch us making self-pitying idiots of ourselves. I talked to Linda in Paris and she says they are having a marvelous time. They’re delighted that the Christmas holiday in the Hamptons is definite.”
“Is it?” Strand asked, surprised.
“I guess I forgot to tell you. Can you get your kids?”
“I haven’t asked them yet.” He didn’t tell Hazen that after their argument he had resolved not to go. “Are you sure Leslie hasn’t got other plans?”
“Linda asked her—she was in the room when I called—and I could hear her say it was a great idea.”
“I’ll get in touch with the rest of the family.” The prospect of ten days away from the school, away from the weight of the presence of four hundred boys, alone when he wanted to be with Leslie on the quiet beach along the shores of the Atlantic, lifted his spirits. “I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.” He smiled. “See what I mean by being able to be pessimistic about the future of the world and still be optimistic about your own? At least for ten days. J
ust keep us from watching the television news programs and reading the Times and it will be Eden.”
The bell of the apartment rang and Hazen looked at his watch. “That must be Conroy. I sent him to the main hall to keep warm while I talked to you. It’s going to be a long drive back to the city in this weather. Thanks for the drinks.” When they shook hands, he held Strand’s for an extra moment. “I’m glad I came. I’m too old to turn friends into enemies.”
“I wasn’t your enemy, Russell.”
“Well, you damn well should have been.” Hazen laughed and went out.
Strand sat down at the table, feeling the glass of whiskey sweating in his hand, and looked out through the patterns of frost on the windowpanes at the thickening snow. He thought of the great cities of the North Hazen had spoken of, half in jest, the winds looting the glass and concrete avenues, the population fleeing. He, too, in the first winter of his imminent and sea-wracked old age, longed for the South.
There were three letters waiting for him the next day when he got back from his last class. Mrs. Schiller had put his mail in a neat little pile on the table behind the sofa in the living room. It had stormed all day. On the walk across the campus snow had gotten into his shoes and down the collar of his overcoat, so before he opened the letters he took off his coat and shoes and socks, dried his feet, put on slippers and changed his shirt. He had been soaked once before that day, after lunch, and his throat felt dry and raspy and there was a peculiar hot throb in his chest. Perhaps he would take Dr. Philips’s advice and go into New York on Saturday and have Dr. Prinz take a look at him.
Then, remembering the inner warmth of the Scotch the evening before with Hazen, he made himself a whiskey and water without ice and took the first sip before he went back into the living room and picked up the letters. One, he saw from the envelope, was from Caroline, another from Leslie, and a third had no name or return address. He usually read Caroline’s letters with a small, indulgent smile on his face. They were short and bubbly and obviously hastily written and were merely signals that she was alive and enjoying herself and loved her parents. But he had had no word from her since the day he had heard from Mrs. Schiller about the letters in the basement trash basket.
