An Unfinished Season

by Ward Just

  We’ll be leaving now, Charlie said.

  He was mean to me, Al said.

  Goodbye, Aurora, Charlie said. God bless.

  How was he mean to you? Aurora said dully.

  He said things.

  What things? Aurora asked.

  That’s for me to know and for you to find out, Al said.

  This is not the time, I said coldly, but at a look from Aurora said nothing further.

  I’m sorry, Aurora, Charlie said.

  Thank you for coming, Aurora said softly.

  We watched Charlie Smithers move off with his son, who seemed unaware of the surroundings. His gestures were mannered, as if he were onstage, his chin high and his smile frozen, waiting for the house lights to dim and the curtain to fall. Now they were at the door, Charlie suddenly looking very old and unsteady on his feet, though he had a firm grip on his son’s arm. You shouldn’t’ve said anything, Aurora muttered to me. You should have let him speak. I didn’t mind. What do I care what he says? Poor Charlie. Then she gathered herself and walked slowly down the corridor to her father’s study, closing the door behind her.

  I was at sea, a room full of unfamiliar faces, Aurora in shock. I wanted to help her but I seemed unable to find the right words, beginning in the cab at the Art Institute. She was inconsolable, and I was helpless. So I emptied the coffee saucers and fetched more ice and generally made myself useful, mixing drinks for those who wanted one, passing the sandwiches. The company became more animated, clustering around the drinks end of the round table. Many of them were discussing Jack Brule, how long they had known him, his skill as a psychiatrist, his reserve, his love for his daughter. Others were replaying everyday events in their own lives, the second grandchild, Aïda at the Lyric, the long summer, the Labor Day weekend, the Red Scare and the awful Rosenberg business—and in the middle of everything, the Korean War at an end at last thanks to Ike, at least he was good for something. The deceased was also present in conversations tête-à-tête on the perimeter, the conversations conducted in confidential tones, ceasing when anyone drew too close. The women looked stricken, and I was surprised that so many were drinking cocktails, the glasses held in both hands, the hands gloved. When they talked, they talked in hushed whispers. Twice I heard Consuela’s name mentioned but when I looked for her in the room, she was not to be found. The noise level rose a pitch when a thick-bodied younger man entered, walking with a seaman’s rolling gait. It was Marlon Brando, instantly recognized but not otherwise noticed. On such an occasion anyone was entitled to anonymity. The great actor had the wary look of a wrestler circling the ring but was taken in hand at once by the doctors Bloom, who shook hands with him in turn and ambled off toward the window. When one of them indicated the bar, Brando shook his head, and when he turned his heavy eyes to the corridor and asked the obvious question—Where’s Aurora?—the doctors began to speak in quick bursts, finishing one another’s sentences, Brando turning from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. Finally, he asked another question and both doctors were silent, evidently searching for the correct answer, and when it came the actor shook his head and slumped as if he had been struck physically, everyone watching but making a show of not watching, and so the noise level rose to a higher pitch.

  A few guests left and others arrived. I rummaged in the kitchen for more flower vases and another bottle of scotch. Now there were thirty-odd people in the room and this surprised me because I did not think of Jack Brule as a man who had a wide circle of friends. Of course some of them would be patients, and still others medical colleagues. I noticed there were more women than men, and some of the women were weeping openly, trying and failing to maintain a brave face. The conversations around me seemed ever more bizarre—

  Two overweight older men, both wearing white short-sleeved shirts with a forest of pens in the breast pockets, were arguing about tattoos and which regimes required them and which did not, but when I approached with a cheese board, the men turned their backs and began to speak in German. When I went away they continued in German, their voices rising. One word was repeated and I tried to remember it so I could look it up later. Their abrupt manner discouraged familiarity and the others in the room did not join the argument.

  I moved off, worried about Aurora, wondering what had become of her. I was in a room full of strangers. Near the window, the doctors Bloom were talking and Marlon Brando was listening, nodding fractionally, his heavy-lidded eyes unreadable, straying now and then to the door, the way out.

  Then Aunt That was at my elbow, smiling encouragement.

  I said, What are they talking about? The German men.

  The war, she said.

  It was something about tattoos, I said.

  They’re always arguing, those two. Friends of Jack’s. Jack knew all kinds. Have you met Mr. Brando?

  No, I said.

  A good friend of Jack’s, she said.

  I started to say that I had seen a picture of him in Aurora’s bedroom, but caught myself. I said, Aurora told me.

  It’s nice of him to come. I heard he was in town, something to do with one of his films.

  Yes, I said. How did they all—hear about this?

  My sister Emily, she said. She thought it would be better if we were not alone. I suppose she called Mr. Brando, or one of the Blooms did. I’ve never been introduced to him but with a face like that, in the films, you feel that you know him. You know him but he doesn’t know you. It’s strange, don’t you think?

  I muttered something noncommittal. I did not think I knew Marlon Brando. I knew Zapata and Stanley Kowalski but I didn’t know him any more than he knew me.

  The Blooms are taking care of him, she said. I don’t need to interfere.

  Do you think you can make me a drink, Wils? Scotch, soda, lots of ice?

  I made Aunt That the drink and she said she was happy to meet me at last, her brother had spoken warmly of me. He said you were a good-looking boy. Considerate. That was the word he used. He was happy that Aurora had a beau. She’s had others but Jack never liked them. Drugstore cowboys and pseudo-intellectuals, he said. Either too old or too young, too rich or too poor, or too full of themselves. Jack was protective of Aurora, and why not?

  I liked him, I said. We only met one time.

  Only once?

  He was—fierce.

  Jackie? Fierce? Oh no, he was gentle as a lamb. He was never fierce.

  He was fierce when he talked about the war.

  You talked to him about that? He rarely mentioned the war, the war was verboten, ancient history. Jack always said it was a mistake to live in the past. I believe the war was too painful for him. Jack was sickly as a child. You should have seen him when he came back, all skin and bones, a fright.

  I think he was at Bataan, I said.

  It was somewhere in the Pacific, she said.

  The march, I said.

  I don’t know what it was. Jackie was never a great talker. Not a great talker at all. He kept things to himself. She sipped her drink thoughtfully, hesitating, and then she said, You’ll have to take care of Aurora now.

  I will, I said.

  It’ll be worse for her tomorrow and the day after.

  I know, I said.

  It’s a terrible thing, she said, just hideous for her. I worry about how she’ll get on after this, who will look after her, where she will go. She certainly cannot stay here, with all the memories of her father, and Consuela. Aurora and Consuela do not always see eye to eye, and now ... She turned her head when she heard the ring of the telephone, but it stopped almost at once; someone had picked up. Jack was not good with women, she continued.

  She said this in a bitter whisper, peering at me as if she were sharing her darkest secret.

  Aurora knew it, too, she said. Consuela is so—spectacular. No one knows who she is or where she comes from. Jack met her at some concert, and before you could say Jiminy Cricket she’d moved in. She was not a good influence on poor Jack, as events have sho
wn. Her voice trailed away as she angrily dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up piece of tissue.

  I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, she went on.

  I am, too, I said.

  I have a boy about your age, Oliver. He’s at Princeton. Jack’s school. You’ll meet him at the funeral if he gets back in time. Aunt That paused to nod at someone across the room. She said, His father died when Oliver was very young. Jack was a kind of surrogate father until he went away to the Pacific. I married again, a rat. Welch was his name and never in this world was a name a better fit. A wartime romance, except romance would be the wrong word in this instance. Oliver never liked him, told me he was a four-flusher. One day Welch walked out the front door and never came back, good riddance...

  Aunt That went on about second husband Welch but I didn’t listen carefully. Bright shafts of light fell through the dining room window, touching the edge of the round table, and when I looked at my watch I saw that it was almost five o’clock. The room was very warm but, preserving the formality of the occasion, none of the men had removed their jackets except for the Germans, now talking in whispers. Conversation was low-key now, with a tangible sense of unease. This was Jack Brule’s room, the chair where he sat, the table where he ate his breakfast. But he was not present. At a certain moment, the company felt they were intruders, invited but not necessarily welcome. The pictures on the wall, the china, the ice bucket, the coffee urn, the bottle of Gordon’s—all Jack’s, except they were now orphaned objects. The dead man’s disapproving spirit was all too present, an unnerving feeling for those who had come out of sympathy. Where was Aurora anyhow? The dead man’s sisters were the only family in the room. Emily remained at the door, greeting new arrivals.

  ...and I don’t know if he’s alive, or what.

  I said, Is Consuela here?

  I believe she is in the apartment somewhere, Aunt That said brusquely. How long she’ll stay is something else again.

  And Aurora?

  She’s with Consuela and the gentlemen from the city. I expect they’ll be a while longer. But there’s nothing to be done about it.

  I nodded as if I understood.

  What you must understand is that it would be impossible for Aurora to live here alone, quite apart from her memory of what happened here this morning. This apartment is not suitable. It’s too large and expensive to maintain. It should be sold, that’s obvious. I want Aurora to come live with me, I have a comfortable place in Hyde Park, plenty of room. It’s near the university, where you’ll be, so it’s convenient. But I don’t think she will. And I can’t force her to. I don’t know what will happen to her now. And I do think it would be good if you would speak to her.

  I can’t tell Aurora what to do, I said.

  Nevertheless, she said.

  But I will look after her.

  Aunt That looked at me with a whisper of a smile and nodded doubtfully.

  She said, Jackie and I were not as close as we should have been. We were very close when we were growing up and then our parents died and we grew apart. He is closer now to my sister Emily. It was awful when our parents died but Jack kept us together as a family until he went away to war. He didn’t have to go. He volunteered. Can you believe it? I did not approve. He had a young daughter and other responsibilities. But Jack always made up his own mind about things, no matter what anyone else said. He did not like to listen to people. I am bound to say that as a boy, Jack did not play well with others. And when he grew up, he no longer tried. Still, he was an attentive father to Aurora, and Aurora was not an easy child, her mother’s bad influence. Olivia was an impetuous woman, an egoist and a materialist. I never liked her because she talked behind my back and turned Jack against me. Poor Jack, she led him a merry chase, and finally he kicked her out. For some reason, Olivia and my sister Emily got on. Emily made excuses for her, so they were simpatico, cheaters together. Jack’s strategy with Aurora was simple: he let her do whatever she wanted, no restrictions at all on her behavior and very little guidance, though he insisted on knowing where she was at all times. He has been very lucky with Aurora so far. We were a wonderful family, Wils. But we are no longer the family we had been and I don’t know how that happened, and now this.

  I was having trouble keeping track of the betrayals but I nodded thoughtfully each time I heard a new one. I glanced over at the window, where the doctors Bloom were arguing energetically with each other. Brando had vanished. The noise level had dropped and the animation with it, air from a balloon; people were at a loss, remembering their grief, oppressed by the atmosphere of the dead man’s room. I felt myself a trespasser once again, and Aurora still out of sight in the consulting room with the gentlemen from the city. I wondered if the actor was with her, giving what comfort he could. Zapata and Stanley Kowalski were both sympathetic characters and probably he was also, speaking to Aurora in that damaged mumble, the voice of a wounded animal. Marlon Brando would be just the thing for her, an experienced older man, and if his performances were any guide, no stranger to grief himself. He would know what to say and how to say it, and I could imagine her drum face softening and becoming beautiful again as she listened to him speak of grief. An actor would have an instinct for grief, how it was felt and how it was expressed, its appalling vacancy and privacy. You wanted to let go of it and hold on to it at the same time, words bringing a measure of consolation. But that actor’s instinct would come from surrendering a certain essence of yourself. You would need the courage to ignore your own personality, having confidence that something more worthwhile—really, more sincere—would come with the surrender, finding your way into another soul, even if it was only a soul on paper or on the screen or stage. I knew I could never do it. I feared disintegration. Even now I could not feel grief at Jack Brule’s death. Pity for Aurora, yes, and tenderness toward her. But I had no understanding of grief because I had never felt it in my heart.

  I remembered Edward Hopper’s lonely woman, trying to feel better and failing; all she had was her empty room and the knowledge that night would soon fall. The telephone would not ring. No one would knock on her door. I felt myself in a bewildering netherworld, neither here nor there. Too many names and family stories had come at me too quickly. I felt short of breath and wondered if I was having an attack of Dora’s dyspnea, the room so warm and airless, the atmosphere as heavy as an anvil. Aunt That and I stood uncomfortably in a closed zone of silence. There seemed nothing more to be said.

  Then, quite suddenly, the apartment began to empty. The doctors Bloom were the first to go, followed by the women who had come alone, the ones who had been so distraught. Emily stood at the door thanking everyone for coming and receiving a murmur of condolence in reply. Behind me, two older men took a last sip of their drinks, put the glasses down, and shuffled from the room. They were the two who had been talking about Auschwitz and Ravensbrück and I wondered if they had settled their argument concerning tattoos. They seemed friendly with each other, so I supposed that they had. I had the German names in my mind so that I could look them up later and understand about the tattoos. Alone now in the dining room, I listened to the goodbye sounds at the door. I poured a scotch, my first of the afternoon, and stood sipping it, looking at the table with its remains, half-eaten sandwiches, crumpled napkins, dirty glasses, and stale cigarette smoke in the air. I stepped into the corridor and took a few steps down it. When I heard voices in Jack Brule’s study, I ducked into the consulting room and closed the door. I could not avoid looking into the glassed-in bookcase and was surprised to see the skull on the top shelf. The bullet hole was conspicuous along with the gold-filled molar, and I wondered if the doctor had felt a premonition and had taken the skull out for a last look. Sudden noises in the corridor made me hold my breath; and then the voices receded and I relaxed and resumed my speculation about the origin of the skull. But it had yielded all it was going to yield. I sat on the edge of the couch and sipped my drink, thinking that a room like this one would encourage fa
ntasy, the dark curtains and patterned carpet, the small window that admitted so little light, and Jack Brule silent in the ladder-back chair out of the patient’s sight. I stood and stretched, glancing again at the skull in the bookcase, and exited into the corridor. The study door was open, the room empty.

  Everyone seemed to have departed. I took my drink to the dining room window and looked out. The world was returning to normal, rush hour in Chicago, people moving across the street in the afternoon sunlight, everyone in a hurry as if they had urgent errands that needed attending to without delay. I stood at the window a few moments longer, watching the people in the park and thinking that I should call my parents and tell them what had happened. They had not met Aurora but that didn’t mean they shouldn’t know her father had died. I knew my father would have good advice; and my mother would know what to do. Below in the street, two gray-haired men stood talking, their heads close together. When the taller of the two turned to look up, I was startled to see Henry Laschbrook, Ed Hoskins at his elbow. Henry scribbled a note on the pad in his hand, and they both hurried away up the street, waving their arms for a taxi.

  At a rustle behind me, I turned from the window.

  Consuela said, Hello, Wils, in a voice so small it was almost a whisper.

  11

  WHEN I TOLD HER how sorry I was, Consuela gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders. She fell into the nearest chair and closed her eyes, her hands on her knees. She looked years older, her face swollen, her skin slack and without vitality. Consuela wore no makeup or jewelry and her black dress looked slept in. I wondered where she had been all this time.

  I said, Can I make you something?

  She said, Is there any Cinzano?

  I said, They’ve cleaned us out. Except for scotch.

  Scotch, then. I’ll be in the living room.