“A man isn’t to trust his wife?” Evan said. “A wife isn’t to trust her husband?”
“No,” Dade said. “That’s this sick new thinking. That’s crap. A man isn’t to trust himself. He isn’t to trust God. He is to love his family and he’s to arrange for family things to happen to it. If you had to have a car, you could have told me, couldn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to bother you about a car,” the younger brother said.
“If I had to have something that you could give me,” Dade said, “I’d ask you, wouldn’t I? You can’t be a member of a family and behave like a stranger. If you do, you finish the family, and you are a stranger. You can’t invite Swan to be a stranger to you, to be curious about strangers. You can’t invite yourself to become a stranger to her. If you do, the living that happens to you has got to be either without pride—small pride or large pride—or without meaning. So you went off for a car.”
He stopped suddenly, lighted a cigarette, inhaled deeply.
“I’ve got a fever,” he said. “I loved Swan. She was in our family, a radiant girl with red hair from some haunted life someplace, a girl of laughter and fun. The kids she gave you were ours. They were hers, too, but they were ours, too, and I’m sick in my heart that the poor living that happened to her has ended her. You could have taken her with you. You could have asked me to come up to Palo Alto and stay with the kids, or bring them here to Clovis.”
He stopped again.
“I’m delirious,” he said. “There was nothing you could do. Everything you did was right. It’s happened, that’s all. I just don’t like it. I didn’t expect the doctor to leave without talking to me, though. I can’t understand that.”
“I gave him a hard time, Dade.”
“What did you do?”
“He came out and said Swan was dead. I told him he was a liar and took him back into the room. I told him to give her a shot of something to wake her up or I’d kill him. I kept him in the room half an hour. Why should she be dead? Other girls, other wives, other mothers go through a lot more and don’t die. Why should Swan? I wouldn’t let him leave the room.”
“What did he do?”
“He spoke to me in our language.”
“He’s one of us,” Dade said. “You shouldn’t have fooled with that gun. You haven’t had enough experience with guns. If Red had been around, you might have shot him.”
“I planned to,” Evan said. “You might as well know.”
“I know,” Dade said. “I know, because I made the same plans myself once.”
“I planned to finish all of us, one after another,” Evan said. “Red, Eva, and myself.”
“I know,” Dade said. “You asked me the other night what you should do, and I said you should do anything, because anything would be right. What you’ve done is right. You think if you’d loved her enough, it would have been different. A son that’s hers and isn’t yours, and then more of your own together. But it’s not as simple as that, as we’ve seen. Sometimes it’s simpler, though. It wasn’t this time, that’s all. If the doctor hadn’t been one of us, if he’d been one of the others, one I almost called instead, you might be dead now, and then there would be neither mother nor father for Red and Eva. I want you to go to the man, whoever he is, wherever he is, and talk to him. Talk to him about his damned childhood. He’s no different from anybody else. Get that straight. I have a woman, Mary Koury, one of our own, her kids are grown up, keeps my house. She’ll take care of the kids until I’m O.K. After you talk to the man, you’d better go to Paterson. Wander around the streets. Stay away a month. Come back and we’ll talk. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Dade.”
“I’ll be looking for a place here. You look for one in Paterson. If you find one, and want to live there, I’ll bring the kids on the train. I may stay there myself, but I don’t think so. My kids were born in the house on the vineyard. I expect to see them there again someday. Three or four more years, I think. I’ve planted trees and vines for each of them. I want to show each of them their own trees and vines. We’ve lost Swan, Evan. We’ve lost her, too. Go talk to the man.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Evan said.
When they reached home Evan telephoned Dr. Altoun.
“My brother has had an accident,” he said in their language. “He has a serious bullet wound in his shoulder. I’ve removed the slug, but I think you ought to look after him.”
“I understand,” the man said. “I’ll be there.”
Dr. Altoun worked swiftly while Evan sat on the railing of the porch.
“You are very ill,” he said to Dade, “but as you are the older brother perhaps you ought to read this note. I think it would be best if you informed your brother, or not, as you see fit.”
Dade took the note and read it:
My darling Evan, please don’t hate me. I told you I would do anything for Red and Eva. Well, this is everything, and I am doing it for them because I love them so much, my darling. This is easy. I planned to do this someday anyway. At least I’ve given you Red and Eva. That’s something, isn’t it, my darling? I’m not telling you any more, so that you can’t tell Red and Eva any more. Don’t feel sorry for me. Be a good father to Red and Eva. Let them love me. Let them think well of me. I love you, my darling. Don’t ever forget me. Swan.
“Thank you very much,” Dade said to the man. “Do you understand this note?”
“I understand that sometime last night she took an overdose of sleeping pills,” the man said.
“Why?” Dade said.
“I know nothing about her,” the man said, “but I’d say her physical health was quite good.”
“Her physical health?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Many strange personalities,” the man said, “under certain circumstances, such as marriage and family, can conceal the truth about themselves for years. They can be extremely attractive, intelligent, apparently reasonable, even brilliant.”
“Are you trying to say she was crazy?”
“The word is meaningless,” the man said. “I studied the note in my office a long time. You will notice it’s been crumpled. I didn’t crumple it. I found it crumpled under her bed. She may have written many such notes during her marriage and destroyed them at the last minute. It is quite likely your brother had a difficult marriage, for it is not easy to establish security with such a personality. Sooner or later, either both become—well, unstable—and end in violence of some sort, or the marriage ends. With one of us, it would take a great deal to end a marriage. She must have decided to spare him and the children, for unless she removed herself absolutely, she knew they would all sooner or later be overtaken by violence, for your brother isn’t the kind of man who would deny his children their mother—for any reason. She would have to go off with the children, and she could not be their mother without his help. Or she would have to end. She decided to end. Such people are capable of any kind of behavior. She did not die of the operation. I have reported it as a heart attack, which it was, in a way.”
“Poor Swan,” Dade said.
“Will you tell your brother?”
“No.”
“Do you want the note?”
“No.”
“You recognize the handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“May I keep the note in my files? No one will ever know of it.”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to give you something to put you into deep sleep,” Dr. Altoun said. “I must ask that you stay in bed until I tell you to get up. I will look in again tonight, and I will come by twice a day thereafter for a week or so. You were cleaning your gun, is that right?”
“Yes,” Dade said. “I’ve got to be up by noon Thursday. At least for a few hours. I’ve got to go with my brother to the burial.”
“We’ll see,” the man said, “but in any case you must come back immediately afterwards and go to bed.”
&nbs
p; “Yes,” Dade said.
“Do you talk in your sleep?”
“No. Why?”
“You have forgotten the note?”
“Yes,” Dade said. “Will you ask my brother to come here, please?”
The man went out to the front porch.
“Your brother would like to see you a moment before he goes to sleep,” Dr. Altoun said.
Evan and Dr. Altoun went into Dade’s room.
“I’ve got to sleep now, Evan,” Dade said. “Mary Koury’s number and address are on the list over the phone. She doesn’t understand English very well. Tell her I’d like her to come and stay here a few days. On your way to get her pick up the children. Tell Warren and May that Swan died of a heart attack. Tell them I’ve had a foolish little accident and must stay in bed. Take care of everybody until I get on my feet again, will you?”
“Sure, Dade.” Evan turned to the doctor to let him know that he would.
“I’ll come by around nine tonight,” Dr. Altoun said to Dade. “You’ll be awake then. We’ll see about some food, and then I’ll get you back to sleep again.” He turned to Evan. “That’s a nasty bump on your forehead.” He brought a tube of something out of his satchel and handed it to Evan. “Rub some of this on it.”
They left the room, and the man closed the door behind him.
“He’s a good deal sicker than he knows,” Dr. Altoun said. “Please let him rest. You’d better get some rest yourself. Do you want a sleeping pill?”
“No,” Evan said. “I don’t use them. I’ll sleep tonight after the kids get to bed.”
“Yes,” the man said.
Dr. Altoun went out to his car and drove off. When he had gone about a mile he stopped the car and examined the note again. Then he studied the bottle again. There had been two pills in it, one of which he had instantly examined and recognized. The bottle might have had twenty or more in it. Three of them might have stopped the heart of many people, five of them of most, and seven or eight of any. He put the stuff back into his pocket and drove on.
Chapter 40
Dr. Altoun was at the house in Clovis at noon on Thursday. He worked on the wound a half hour, then said, “You must not get up.”
“I’ve got to get up,” Dade said. “Give me something to keep me going for three or four hours.”
“Listen to me,” the man said in their own language. “You are very ill.”
“I know,” Dade said.
“Getting up for only one hour,” the man said, “might not do.”
“I understand,” Dade said. “We are a family. We have lost a member of the family. We are my brother and myself. The children cannot go. They are not to know. My brother cannot go alone. His family must go with him. I understand, but I must go with my brother to the burial of his wife, the mother of his children. You yourself know that I must go.”
“If something were to happen to you, there would have to be an inquiry,” the man said. “Death from a bullet wound would have to be investigated. I am not thinking of myself. I am thinking of the children. Under other circumstances you would be in a hospital. You are to decide for yourself, but I must tell you the truth. I have already given you three transfusions.”
“I must go with my brother.”
“Very well,” the man said. “I will give you another transfusion now, then you will dress and go. You will be there at two. You must be back by four at the latest. I will be here, waiting. It may be necessary for me to spend the night.”
“Thank you,” Dade said.
At half-past one Dade was dressed. The children were in the back yard with Mary Koury, who was mixing dough for bread on the picnic table, showing them how it was done, letting them help, telling them about her four sons and two daughters.
Evan drove.
“How’s Red?” Dade said.
“He’s fine.”
“How’s Eva?”
“She’s fine, too.”
“How are you?”
“I’m sorry, Dade.”
“Are you teaching Red something new in the language every day?”
“Yes.”
“What does he know so far?”
“It is right,” Evan said. “I love you. My name is Rex Nazarenus. My mother’s name is Swan Nazarenus. My father’s name is Evan Nazarenus. My sister’s name is Eva Nazarenus. And, My father’s brother’s name is Dade Nazarenus.”
“When did you teach him all that?”
“Saturday you taught him, It is right,” Evan said. “Sunday I taught him, I love you. Monday I taught him, My mother’s name is Swan Nazarenus. Tuesday and yesterday I taught him all the others. He’s learning a lot from Mary. So is Eva.”
“Do the Walz children know about Swan?”
“No. May broke down and wept.”
“Have you talked to them again?”
“I took the kids over yesterday afternoon for a couple of hours. Red wanted to see Flora. May broke down and wept again. We were drinking in their parlor. I wanted to tell her the truth, Dade. I didn’t tell her, but I wanted to.”
“You’ve already told her the truth. Swan died of a heart attack.”
“They know there’s more to it than that, Dade.”
“There always is. There is always more to it than any of us ever knows.”
“What do you mean, Dade?”
He was about to tell his brother the truth, but remembered that he must not: must not for Swan, must not for Evan, must not for Red and Eva.
“What do you think I put you in my room for?” Dade said instead. “I wanted you to get the business of the guns out of the way before the kids got back.”
“I’m sorry about that, Dade.”
“Tomorrow go and talk to the man. Then go to Paterson.
“I’ll go and talk to the man,” Evan said, “but I can’t go to Paterson. I can’t leave the kids.”
“You may break again,” Dade said, “and I’m sick. Break in Paterson. Break until you’re sure you’re finished breaking. Do it for Red and Eva.”
“I can’t leave the kids, Dade.”
“Do it for me, boy. I’m sick.”
“All right, Dade.”
“Stay in Paterson until you’re sure,” Dade said. “Go back to the house that Petrus made for you and me, if it’s still there. Go back to where it was, anyway. Go back to the factory he worked in for so long to earn money to keep us and open his own little business. Go back to our streets. Break there. Walk along the dirty Passaic and break there. Stay until you’re sure. When you come back your kids will be fine, Swan’s kids will be fine, our family will be fine.”
“All right, Dade.”
“Come back and we’ll talk,” Dade said. “If you feel like working, we’ll prune the vines together. I won’t hire anybody this year. You and I will do the work. You get up in the dark, in the cold. You go out to the vines, and cut them back to their strength. In the spring and summer a good vine puts out a lot of wood. It’s got to, for the grapes. In the winter, in the cold and dark of the winter, the vine must be cut back to its strength. If it’s not, the following summer its grapes are inferior, and cannot ripen. The summer after that the vine is all wood and no grapes. You and I will prune every vine in the vineyard. Then you can decide what you want to do—go back to the university, go back to Paterson, or live on a vineyard of your own.”
“Yes, Dade.”
“When you’re in Paterson,” Dade said, “when you’re cutting the wood back to its strength, remember this vineyard, remember the family, remember Swan, remember Red and Eva.”
“She begged me, Dade.”
“Yes, I know,” Dade said. “If you want to take a gun, take it. I think you should. If it bothers you, take a gun. Otherwise forget it, and take the book.”
“What book?” Evan said.
“The book you gave me,” Dade said. “This book.” He brought the book out of his coat pocket. “Have you forgotten?” he said in their own language. He brought the smallest of the guns from the
same pocket. “Here’s the gun,” he said. “If it bothers you—if you think you’ve killed the mother of your children and must kill yourself, too, take the gun, take it to Paterson with you. Swan was a beautiful mother of beautiful children. I’m sick at heart that she’s gone, that we’re driving to her poor burial, but I’d like Swan to stay beautiful, I’d like her children to stay beautiful. Here they are, the gun and the book. Take one or the other.”
“I’d like to take them both,” Evan said.
“Sure,” Dade said.
Evan Nazarenus took the book and put it in one pocket. He took the gun and put it in the other.
Chapter 41
They went into Gladding and Starch and looked at Swan again. There was no music, no flowers, just the open casket in the private room.
“Whoever she was,” Dade said, “she was beautiful.”
“She’s dead,” Evan said.
“Yes,” Dade said. “The best a man can do is find a mother for his children. You found the best for yours.”
He turned to the young Gladding, and nodded. The man put the cover over the casket. The casket was carried to the hearse, and Evan followed the hearse to the cemetery.
The casket was lowered, and everybody went off.
His brother, standing beside him, fell upon him suddenly, so heavily that Evan was almost unable not to fall, too. He hugged his brother, holding him up, then quickly dragged him to the car.
“For God’s sake, Dade.”
He stretched him out in the back seat, and began to drive back.
When he reached the driveway, he saw Dr. Altoun sitting on the steps of the front porch.
The man hurried to the car.
They got him into the house and onto his bed, the doctor working swiftly. He found a needle, pierced the flesh near the heart, pressed the fluid out of the tube into the flesh.
The man put his cheek to Dade’s nose and mouth.
“You’re working too hard,” Evan said in their language at last. “He’s dead. He died in the cemetery.”
The Laughing Matter Page 16
