Lucy Crown

by Irwin Shaw

  Patterson grunted. “This is the damnedest set of questions,” he said.

  “Tony is sure he wants to be an astronomer when he grows up,” Oliver explained, playing with the telescope. “And it would help if …”

  “Well,” Bunner said doubtfully, “I know a little bit …”

  “What time tonight,” Oliver asked, like a schoolteacher, “do you think the constellation Orion will be visible?”

  Patterson shook his head and heaved himself to his feet. “I certainly am glad I’ll never have to ask. you for a job,” he said.

  Bunner was grinning at Oliver. “You’re very devious, aren’t you, Mr. Crown?”

  “Why do you say that?” Oliver asked innocently.

  “Because you know that Orion can’t be seen in the Northern Hemisphere until September,” Bunner said cheerfully, “and you were waiting for me to make a fool of myself.”

  “The job pays thirty dollars a week,” Oliver said. “It includes teaching Tony how to swim, going fishing with him, watching stars with him, and preventing him, as much as possible, from listening to those damned serials on the radio.” Oliver hesitated and then spoke in a lower and graver tone of voice. “It also includes winning him away—diplomatically—a certain distance from his mother, because their relationship, as of this moment …” He stopped, conscious that he was on the verge of sounding harsher than he wanted to sound. “What I mean,” he said, “is that for the good of both of them it would be better if they weren’t quite so dependent upon each other. Do you want the job?”

  “Yes,” Bunner said.

  “Good,” Oliver said, “you can start tomorrow.”

  Patterson sighed in mock relief. “I’m exhausted,” he said. He sank into the chair again.

  “I turned down three other young men, you know,” Oliver said.

  “I heard,” said Bunner.

  “Young men today seem to be either vulgar or cynical and the worst ones are both,” said Oliver.

  “You should have tried a Dartmouth man sooner,” Bunner said.

  “I believe one of them was a Dartmouth man,” said Oliver.

  “He must have gotten in on an athletic scholarship.”

  “I suppose I ought to warn you about a troublesome little wrinkle in Tony’s … uh … character,” Oliver said. “I guess you can talk about a thirteen-year-old boy’s character, can’t you? When he was sick and had to stay in bed for so long he developed a tendency toward—well—fantasy. Tall stories, fibs, lies, inventions. Nothing serious,” Oliver said, and Patterson could see how painful it was for Oliver to make such an admission about his son, “and my wife and I haven’t made an issue of it, considering the circumstances. Although I’ve spoken to him about it and he’s promised to put a rein on his—imagination. Anyway, if it comes up, I don’t want you to be surprised—and at the same time, I’d like to see it discouraged before it grows into a habit.”

  Listening, Patterson had a sudden, chilly insight into Oliver. He must be disappointed, Patterson thought, he must feel that his own life is somehow empty, if he is working so hard on his son’s. Then Patterson rejected the idea. No, he thought, it’s just that he’s used to running things. It’s easier for him to run things than to let other people do it. His son is just another thing that he automatically runs.

  “Oh …” Oliver was saying. “One more thing … Sex.”

  Patterson waved his hand warningly. “Now, Oliver, now I think you’ve really gone too far.”

  “Tony has no brothers or sisters,” Oliver explained, “and as I say—for the most natural reasons in the world, he’s been rather overprotected. And I’m afraid both his mother and myself have ducked the question up to now. If all goes well, he’ll be going to school this autumn and I’d rather he heard about sex from a bright young man who is studying to be a diplomat anyway than from the thirteen-year-old lechers of a fashionable private school.”

  Bunner pulled gravely at his nose. “Where would you like me to begin?”

  “Where did you begin?” Oliver asked.

  “I’m afraid I’d have to begin later than that,” Bunner said. “Remember, I told you I have four older sisters.”

  “Use your discretion,” Oliver said. “After six weeks I’d like him to have a calm … uh … understanding of the theory, without a violent desire to plunge into the … uh … practice—immediately.”

  “I’ll do my best to be explicit,” the boy said, “without being lascivious. Everything in grave scientific language. No word under three syllables. And play down the more … uh … pleasurable aspects as much as possible?”

  “Exactly,” Oliver said. He looked out over the lake. The boat was nearly into the shore by now and Tony was standing in the stern waving at him, over his mother’s shoulder, the sun reflecting off his smoked glasses. Oliver waved back. Still staring at his wife and his son, he said to Bunner, “I suppose I sound a little like a crank on the subject of the boy but I hate the way most children are being brought up these days. Either they’re given too much freedom and they grow up into undisciplined animals—or they’re clamped down and they become secretly vicious and vindictive and turn on their parents as soon as they can find some place else to get their meals. The main thing is—I don’t want him to grow up frightened …”

  “How about you, Oliver?” Patterson asked curiously. “Aren’t you frightened?”

  “Terribly,” Oliver said. “Hi, Tony,” he called and walked down to the water’s edge to help beach the boat.

  Patterson stood up and he and Bunner watched Lucy drive the boat up onto the shingle with two last strong sweeps of the oars. Oliver held the bow steady as Lucy gathered a sweater and a book and stepped out. Tony balanced himself, then jumped off, disdaining help, into a few inches of water.

  “The Holy Family,” Patterson murmured.

  “What’s that, Sir?” Bunner asked, surprised, not sure that he’d heard what the doctor had said.

  “Nothing,” said Patterson. “He certainly knows what he wants, doesn’t he?”

  Bunner grinned. “He certainly does.”

  “Do you think it’s possible for a father to get what he wants in a son?” Patterson asked.

  Bunner glanced at the doctor, looking for a trap. “I haven’t thought about it,” he said carefully.

  “Has your father got what he wanted from his son?”

  Bunner almost smiled. “No.”

  Patterson nodded.

  They watched Oliver approach, flanked by Lucy on one side and Tony, carrying his fishing rod, on the other. Lucy was putting on a loose white sweater over her bathing suit. There was a slight gleam of perspiration on her upper lip and forehead, from the long row, and the wooden clogs on her bare feet fell noiselessly on the short grass. The group passed in and out of the sunlight between the trees and Lucy’s long, naked thighs shone, briefly and goldenly, when she emerged from the shadow of the trees. She walked very straight, keeping her hips in a strict line, as though trying to minimize her womanliness. At one point she stopped and put her hand against her husband’s shoulder and lifted her foot to dislodge a pebble from her clog and the group was posed there, immobile for one midsummer moment in slanting leafy sunlight.

  Tony was talking as the group approached Patterson and Bunner. “This lake is all fished out,” he was saying. His voice was a clear, high childish alto, and although he was tall for his age, he seemed frail and undeveloped to Bunner, with a head too big for his body. “It’s too close to civilization. We ought to go to the North Woods. Except for the mosquitoes and the moose. You have to be careful of the moose. And you have to carry the canoe in on your head, Bert says. There’re so many fish, Bert says, they splinter the paddles.”

  “Tony,” Oliver said gravely, “do you know what a grain of salt is?”

  “Sure,” the boy said.

  “That’s what you need for Bert.”

  “Do you mean he’s a liar?” Tony asked.

  “Not exactly,” said Oliver. “Just that he sh
ould be taken salted, like peanuts.”

  “I’ve got to tell him that,” Tony said. “Like peanuts.”

  They stopped in front of Patterson and Bunner. “Mr. Bunner,” Oliver said, “my wife. And Tony.”

  “How do you do?” Lucy said. She nodded briefly and buttoned her sweater up to the neck.

  Tony went over to Bunner and politely shook hands.

  “Hello, Tony,” Bunner said.

  “Hello,” said Tony. “Boy, your hand is calloused.”

  “I’ve been playing tennis.”

  “I bet in four weeks I can beat you,” Tony said. “Maybe five weeks.”

  “Tony …” Lucy said warningly.

  “Is that boasting?” Tony turned toward his mother.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Tony shrugged and turned back to Bunner. “I’m not allowed to boast,” he said. “I have a hot forehand, but my backhand has flaws. I don’t mind telling you,” he said candidly, “because you’d find it out anyway, in the first game. I once saw Ellsworth Vines play.”

  “What did you think of him?” Bunner asked.

  Tony made a face. “Overrated,” he said carelessly. “Just because he comes from California and he can play every day. You’ve been swimming.”

  “Yes, I have,” Bunner said, puzzled and amused. “How do you know?”

  “Easy. I can smell the lake on you.”

  “That’s his one parlor trick,” Oliver said, coming over and ruffling the boy’s hair. “He had his eyes bandaged when he was sick and he developed the nose of a bloodhound.”

  “I can swim, too. Like a streak,” Tony said.

  “Tony …” It was Lucy again, with the tone of warning.

  Tony smiled, caught out. “But only for ten strokes. Then I go under. I don’t know how to breathe.”

  “We’ll work on that,” Bunner said. “You can’t go through life not knowing how to breathe.”

  “I have to put my mind to it,” Tony said.

  “Jeff’ll teach you, Tony,” Oliver said. “He’s going to stay with you until the end of the summer.”

  Lucy glanced sharply at her husband, then dropped her eyes. Tony, too, stared at Oliver, carefully, with guarded suspicion, remembering nurses, medicines, regimes, pain, captivity. “Oh,” he said. “Is he going to take care of me?”

  “Not exactly,” Oliver said. “Just help you catch up on a couple of things.”

  Tony examined Oliver for a long moment, trying to discover just how candid his father was being. Then he turned and silently inspected Bunner, as though now that their connection had been announced it was necessary to start the process of judgment immediately.

  “Jeff,” Tony said finally, “how are you as a fisherman?”

  “When the fish see me coming,” Bunner said, “they roar with laughter.”

  Patterson looked at his watch. “I think we’d better be going, Oliver. I have to pay my bill and throw on some clothes and I’m ready.”

  “You said there was something you wanted to tell Tony,” Oliver said.

  Lucy glanced from his face to Patterson’s, distrustfully.

  “Yes,” Patterson said. Now that the moment had come he was sorry he had given into Oliver’s demand. “Still,” he said, conscious that he was being cowardly, “don’t you think it could wait for another time?”

  “I think this is the very best time, Sam,” Oliver said evenly. “You’re not going to see Tony for another month, at least, and Tony after all is the one who’s finally responsible for taking care of himself and I think it’d be better if he knew just what he has to expect and why …”

  “Oliver …” Lucy began.

  “Sam and I have talked all this out already, Lucy,” Oliver said, touching her hand.

  “What do I have to do now?” Tony asked, eyeing Patterson distrustfully.

  “You don’t have to do anything, Tony,” Patterson said. “I just want to tell you how things are with you.”

  “I feel fine.” Tony sounded sullen as he said this and he looked unhappily at the ground.

  “Of course,” Patterson said. “And you’re going to feel a lot better.”

  “I feel good enough,” Tony said stubbornly. “Why do I have to feel better?”

  Patterson and Oliver laughed at this, and, after a moment, Bunner joined in.

  “Well enough,” Lucy said. “Not good enough.”

  “Well enough,” Tony said obediently.

  “Of course you do,” Patterson began.

  “I don’t want to stop anything,” Tony said warningly. “I stopped enough things already in my life.”

  “Tony,” said Oliver, “let Dr. Patterson finish what he has to say.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Tony.

  “All I want to tell you,” Patterson said, “is that you mustn’t try to read for a while yet, but aside from that, you can do almost anything you want—in moderation. Do you know what moderation means?”

  “It means not asking for a second ice-cream soda,” Tony said promptly.

  They all laughed at that and Tony looked around him, shrewdly, because he had known it was going to make them laugh.

  “Exactly,” Patterson said. “You can play tennis and you can swim and …”

  “I want to learn to play second base,” said Tony. “I want to learn to hit curves.”

  “We can try,” Bunner said, “but I don’t guarantee anything. I haven’t hit a curve yet and I’m a lot older than you. You’re either born hitting curves or you’re not.”

  “You can do all that, Tony,” Patterson went on, noting somewhere at the back of his mind that Bunner was a pessimist, “on one condition. And the condition is that as soon as you feel yourself getting the least bit tired, you quit. The least bit …”

  “And if I don’t quit?” the boy said sharply. “What happens then?”

  Patterson looked inquiringly at Oliver.

  “Go ahead and tell him,” Oliver said.

  Patterson shrugged and turned back to Tony. “Then you might have to go back to bed and stay there again for a long time. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “You mean I might die,” Tony said, ignoring the question.

  “Tony!” Lucy said. “Dr. Patterson didn’t say that.”

  Tony looked around him with hostility and Patterson had the impression, for a moment, that the boy was regarding the people who surrounded him not as his parents and friends, but as the instigators and the representatives of his illness.

  “Don’t worry,” Tony said. He smiled and the hostility vanished. “I won’t die.”

  “Of course not,” said Patterson, resenting Oliver for having put him through a scene like that. He took a step forward to the boy and leaned over him a little, coming closer to his level.

  “Tony,” he said, “I want to congratulate you.”

  “Why?” Tony asked, a little guardedly, suspecting teasing.

  “You’re a model patient,” Patterson said. “You recovered. Thank you.”

  “When can I throw away these?” Tony asked. He put his hand up with a quick movement and took off his glasses. His voice suddenly seemed mature and bitter. Without has glasses his eyes looked deepset, peering, full of melancholy and judgment, alarming in the thin, boyish face.

  “Maybe in a year or two,” Patterson said. “If you do the exercises every day. One hour each morning, one hour each night. Will you remember that?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Tony said. He put on the glasses and they made him seem boyish again.

  “Your mother knows all the exercises,” Patterson said, “and she’s promised she won’t skip a minute …”

  “You can show them to me, Doctor,” said Bunner, “and we can spare Mrs. Crown.”

  “There’s no need of that,” Lucy said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

  “Of course,” Jeff said. “Whatever you say.”

  Tony went over to Oliver. “Daddy,” he said, “do you have to go home?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Oliver said.
“But I’ll try to come up on a week-end later in the month.”

  “Your father has to go back to the city and work,” Patterson said, “so that he can afford to pay me, Tony.”

  Oliver smiled. “I think you should have allowed me to make that joke, Sam.”

  “Sorry.” Patterson went over and kissed Lucy on the cheek. “Bloom,” he said, “bloom like the wild rose.”

  “I’m walking past the hotel,” Bunner said. “Do you mind if I tag along with you, Doctor?”

  “My pleasure,” Patterson said. “You can tell me what it’s like to be twenty.”

  “So long, Tony,” said Bunner. “What time should I arrive tomorrow? Nine o’clock?”

  “Ten-thirty,” Lucy said quickly. “That’s early enough.”

  Bunner glanced at Oliver. “Ten-thirty it is,” he said.

  He and Patterson started up the path toward the hotel, a big, gravely moving, bulky man and an agile, slender, dark boy in grass-stained canvas shoes. Lucy and Oliver watched them for a moment in silence.

  That boy is too sure of himself, Lucy thought, watching the graceful, retreating figure. Imagine coming asking for a job wearing a sweatshirt. For a moment she thought of turning on Oliver and complaining about Bunner. At least, she thought, he might have let me be here when he interviewed him. Then she decided not to complain. It was done, and she knew Oliver too well to believe that she could change his mind. She would have to try to handle the young man by herself, her own way.

  She hunched her shoulders and rubbed her bare thighs. “I’m cold,” she said. “I’m going to put on some clothes. Are you all packed, Oliver?”

  “Just about,” he said. “There’re a couple of things I have to collect. I’ll go in with you.”

  “Tony,” Lucy said. “You’d better put some pants on, too, and some shoes.”

  “Oh, Mother.”

  “Tony,” she said, thinking, He never talks back to Oliver.

  “Oh, all right,” Tony said, and he led the way, shuffling his feet luxuriously in the cool thick grass of the lawn, into the house.

  3

  ALONE IN THE BEDROOM with Lucy, Oliver finished packing his bags. He was not a fussy man and he never took long, but when he finished with a bag it was always rigidly neat, almost as though it had been done by a machine. To Lucy, who had to pack and repack bags in bursts of inefficient energy, it seemed that Oliver had some brisk, inborn sense of order in his hands. While Oliver was packing she took off her sweater and bathing suit and looked at her naked body in the long glass. I’m getting old, she thought, staring at herself. There are the little secret marks of time on the flesh of my thighs. I must walk more. I must sleep more. I must not think about it. Thirty-five.