Bright Flows the River

by Taylor Caldwell

  Returning to politeness, James accepted the package and was confronted, as he was often confronted in America with dozens of photographs. They were Marcy’s children, of course, a boy of about four, a girl of about three. They, too, were bland-faced and grinning, overfed, almost obese. Marcy, or her husband, was kneeling behind them in all the photographs, too, clutching their shoulders as if the children were crippled or blind or threatened. Threatened. Of course they were threatened. All the children of the world were threatened. And their parents sang sweet songs to them, overwhelmed them with toys and food and ‘fun,’ and lied to them constantly, at least in America and England.

  William said, when James had murmured something and had returned the precious bundle to Marcy, “I wish you could talk to the kids at Harvard, Dr. Meyer.” He was smiling nastily.

  James raised his red-gray eyebrows. “Kids—at Harvard?” he said, as if bewildered. “I didn’t know they are now letting little children, in America, into your colleges. Strange.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” said William. “Kids just out of preparatory school, eighteen, nineteen.” His nasty smile had lessened, but it was vicious.

  “I don’t call men that age ‘kids,’ Mr. Jerald,” said James, in a deliberately insulting voice. “Or are they just ‘kids’ mentally?”

  Hugh laughed aloud and slapped his knees. “Men that age do designate themselves as ‘just kids,’ Doctor, and refer scornfully to ‘adults.’ Precocious, eh? Whoring and drinking and copulating all over the damned landscape, and they call themselves ‘kids,’ not the adults they are.”

  William turned to his uncle, and his light brown eyes blinked rapidly. He lowered his voice but it was still malevolent. “The kids know much more, these days, than their parents ever knew. That is why they are rebelling—”

  James suddenly lost his control. “Rebelling? A great English writer, Malcolm Muggeridge, just recently said, ‘They are not rebelling against anything. They are just degenerate.’ He is correct. Degeneracy of the mind, the heart, and the soul. And who has corrupted them? Look at the schools, and in England, too. Look at the silly materialistic parents. But don’t look at the churches! They have nothing pertinent to say any longer.”

  There was a short silence, and except for Hugh Lippincott, the silence was not amiable. Three pairs of narrowed eyes were fixed on James. Then dinner was announced. It was notable, to James, that no one as yet had mentioned Guy Jerald.

  Lucy’s cook was indeed superb. James’s rage had kept him reasonably sober. There was a saddle of lamb, parsleyed potatoes, peas, a fine salad, hot rolls, and a good vintage of Burgundy. James was not particularly fond of lamb, but this was artfully seasoned with fresh herbs and ginger and garlic. Lucy presided with exaggerated elegance, but James, hopelessly mellowing, overlooked it. Marcy glowered blackly at her plate; William kept shifting in his chair. Hugh Lippincott was giving James furtive and amused glances. He was not accustomed to intelligent and informed conversation, and so he was grateful to James—for all I am a banker, of sorts, he thought, with more amusement.

  He said to James, “Lucy has told me you are an old friend of Guy’s, and a psychiatrist who has published a number of books on the subject of psychiatry. I understand you see Guy every day. Tell me, what is your opinion of his condition?”

  “The same as Dr. Grassner’s, I believe. Jerry is fighting out something in himself. He must resolve it, or he will die, or go mad.”

  William put on a very solicitous expression and leaned towards James. “But he’s mad now, isn’t he?”

  “No, not at all. He is absolutely sane, and that’s why he is confronting something more strenuously every day—in spite of himself. When he has solved it all, he will be well. But it is a tremendous decision he must make.”

  William looked puzzled, glanced at his mother and sister. His voice was very pious. “Poor old Dad. Dr. Parkinson thinks he had a stroke—result of the accident, or perhaps the cause of the accident.”

  James said, looking fully at Guy’s son, “Let us not pretend, among ourselves. He tried to kill himself, because, at that time, he didn’t dare confront what he must confront, or he was fighting the confrontation.”

  “Sounds too psychiatric to me,” said William, and his abrasive eyes were outright hostile now. “Just what do you mean—Doctor?”

  “Exactly what I said. Surely it isn’t too complicated for even a man in Harvard’s School of Business Administration to understand? Every man when he reaches the middle years—that is, if he is intelligent—must face himself, must decide what he wants. As Dante said, ‘In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to a dark wood.’ Your father has entered it. He must find his way out of it, all by himself. If he had faith, perhaps, it would not be top hard, or at least less hard. He would be able to tell himself, ‘God gave me my life, and I must live it as I must, or perish.’”

  Marcy said, still glowering, “Well, for one, I don’t understand either. What does Dad want? More money?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Marcy,” said Hugh, and once again James looked at him with reluctant liking. “What Dr. Meyer is trying to tell us is that your father has come to the decision that he must live his life, not as others want him to live, but as he must live. Clear?”

  “In what way, Uncle Hugh?” asked William, now intent.

  “God knows, Bill. Only your father knows.” Hugh looked down at his lamb. “I’ve made my own decision. I came to it faster than Guy’s doing. That’s why I—” But he stopped, thinking of his wife. This was not the time.

  “Well, why can’t Dad come to his own decision, too?”

  Hugh smiled, and the smile was not pleasant. “Maybe he has a higher sense of duty, or something. Who knows?” He looked quickly at his sister.

  “You’re mixing me all up,” said William. “What’s duty got to do with it?”

  “What, indeed,” said Hugh, and his rumbling voice was satiric. Now, here’s a man of perception, thought James.

  Lucy said with shrillness, “I do not believe, I will not believe, that Guy tried to kill himself! I don’t care what anyone else—He has everything to live for—a wonderful family which is devoted to him, wonderful grandchildren, security, wealth, health, this lovely house, his business, his banks—”

  “But, Lucy,” said Hugh, “you know damn well he tried to kill himself. You accepted that from the beginning.”

  “But why?”

  “He probably couldn’t stand all that ‘wonderfulness’ any longer,” and Hugh laughed and only James detected the bitterness. “No one knows what he wants, or what he wants to decide. Only he knows.”

  “And none of you psychiatrists can help him?” said William, and now his tone was avid, and so were his gleaming eyes.

  “None can help himself but himself,” said James. “If I sound sententious, I’m sorry. But it is the truth. All we can do for your father is to show him, if possible, that it is all up to him and nobody else.”

  “How can he make any decision if he’s out of his mind?”

  “Mr. Jerald,” said James, very slowly, “again, your father is not ‘out of his mind.’ He’s been compromising. Just my opinion. Now he realizes the time for compromising is over.”

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser,’” said William, with mockery. “Dr. Parkinson told Mother today that the case is hopeless, and that Dr. Grassner”—he looked pointedly at James—“isn’t doing Dad any good at all, and that he is only getting worse. Hopeless. I never did believe in psychiatry, anyway.”

  “I don’t, either—that is, not often,” said James. “The human soul is beyond the comprehension of any other soul, except fleetingly. We do get glimpses, but it is like will-o’-the-wisps in a swamp. We are never certain. We can only be supportive and do as little harm as possible, and help the sufferer to get an insight into his own misery, and what has caused it.”

  Marcy said, “I read in the newspaper—new drugs for mental and emotional illness. What are they?”

 
; “Palliatives,” replied James. “Mostly. To help over the rough places. But the least thing your father needs at this stage is palliatives. He needs strength. It is my opinion that he is gaining it.”

  “Such riddles,” sighed Lucy. “What is to become of us?”

  “And the business, and the banks,” said William. He glanced at his uncle. “Uncle Hugh is carrying the whole load, though I’ll be able to help after I am graduated. I don’t think Dad will ever be able to go back—”

  So, thought James, remembering the two women who consciously, or unconsciously, were grateful to their mother’s murderer. He clenched his fists on his knees. He said, “For the last time, your father isn’t mad. He’s not insane. Insanity is a legal term, not a medical one. But I am not here to give you a lecture in psychiatry. If your father wants to return to his ‘business,’ he will. If he does not—” and James spread out his hands.

  “But why shouldn’t he want to return?” asked Marcy.

  “He hasn’t yet told me. Perhaps he will, perhaps he will not. That, too, is his decision.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to me and Uncle Hugh,” William began.

  Now Hugh raised his voice and it was grim. “Never mind the fairness to us both, Bill. Your father is the one who needs fairness if anyone does.”

  William was honestly surprised. “Why, Uncle Hugh, it was you who said, only a week or so ago, that ‘something must be done,’ about Dad and his affairs.”

  Hugh turned crimson. He threw down his coffee spoon. “Perhaps I was wrong, damn it! Dr. Meyer has given me some insight, for myself, too.”

  James felt a sudden compassion for this man he had at first disliked. Et tu, Brute, he thought. He felt he had an ally, a new defense against these vultures. But William was obviously dismayed. He stared at his uncle. “You don’t think we should apply as ‘conservators’?”

  “No!” Hugh almost shouted. He pushed back his chair. “Why the hell don’t you let your father alone to fight his own battles and decide what he wants to do? He’s not senile, though you seem to want to believe he is. I never particularly liked Guy, but now I do, God help him. You’ve heard Dr. Meyer. I happen to know something about him. I respect his opinion, and Grassner’s, too, and not that fuddy-duddy Parkinson. He wouldn’t recognize a neurosis even if it kicked him in the balls!”

  “Uncle Hugh! Mother!” exclaimed Marcy, pretending shock.

  Hugh uttered a worse obscenity and Lucy covered her ears and closed her eyes. “I’ve known Guy was neurotic for years,” said Hugh. “I knew he was fighting something. But I had sense enough to keep out of it. It’s his affair, and his only.”

  Lucy said, almost sobbing, “I’ve been such a good wife, such a good mother. I did my best. Everything for my home and the children—Never a thought of anything else.” Her pale blond head bobbed up and down and she glanced about her imploringly. “I have nothing to reproach myself with at all. It was a few years ago—Guy began to act very strange. I should have advised a psychiatrist right then, instead of waiting. He would stay away overnight—He would never tell me where he had gone. I never thought—”

  “Perhaps there was another woman,” said Hugh, obviously enjoying himself.

  “Uncle Hugh!” Marcy was again in shock. “I’m sure Dad never looked at another woman since he married Mother!”

  “More fool he,” said her uncle. “And I don’t believe it for a moment. Guy’s human. He’s a man. And any married man who tries to tell me that he’s never ‘betrayed’ his wife is either a liar or has been castrated. It isn’t normal for a man to be ‘faithful,’ as they call it, to his wife, after a few years, or even earlier. The male psyche isn’t built that way. We’re a polygamous sex, Marcy, and I’m sure your Alan hasn’t worn a chastity belt all the time he’s been married to you.”

  “Uncle Hugh! Alan never did anything in private that he didn’t do in public!”

  At this Hugh and James burst into ribald laughter while Marcy glared at them. “Women!” shouted Hugh. “Marcy, do you understand exactly what you said? If you don’t, then you are sillier than I suspected.”

  Lucy whimpered, “I’m sure as I can be that Guy never looked at another woman—”

  William, who had not listened too closely to this conversation, was now very glum. “What was it Dr. Parkinson told you, Mother? That”—he looked at James—“Dad shouldn’t have any visitors but the family? I agree.”

  Hugh stood up. He was extremely grim. He leaned his fists on the table and fixed his eyes on his nephew. He spoke slowly and in a deadly tone. “Now, I say that Dr. Meyer must see as much of your father as he wants to, and when he wants to. If any of you interfere—I have ways of standing in your way, and you had better believe it. I know what’s on your minds. I say—halt it, or you’ll be sorry. Very sorry.”

  “He’s incompetent—Dad,” said William, with defiance.

  “You are the incompetent one,” said Hugh. “Not your father. I’m warning you. I am a lawyer, too, remember, and don’t forget it. I know all the tricks sons can work against their fathers. I know them all.”

  Hear, hear, thought James, with some unholy satisfaction. He stood up also, though he usually awaited the signal of the hostess. “Mrs. Jerald, may I be excused? I fear I am coming down with a chill.”

  James called Emma, his mistress, when he reached the Old House. She said at once, on hearing his voice, “Well, love, what is bothering you now?”

  “I need you, Emma, my darling,” he said. “I never needed you so much as I do tonight.”

  “Ah,” she said in a voice of deep and tender sympathy. “You never told me that before, but you must tell me that again when you are home.”

  “About emigrating, Emma. Perhaps. But not to America, say, or the moon. How do you fancy me buying an island somewhere, a lovely island in the South Seas, where we will have peace together?”

  There was a little silence. Then Emma said very gently, “You are in a bad way, aren’t you, sweet? Do you remember what God said to Job? ‘Gird up your loins and be a man.’ I think that is it.”

  The black veil in his mind shifted strongly as in an impending gale, and James was appalled. He said, “And what the hell do you mean by that, love?”

  “I don’t know, quite, Jimmy, but I feel your thoughts even if I can’t put them into words. ‘He is wounded, but not slain. He will lay him down and bleed awhile, then rise and fight again.’ With armor, this time with armor.”

  He was more appalled, and he sweated a little and the red-gray curls on the back of his head grew damp, and then he became frightened and closed his eyes.

  “Emma, you don’t know what I am talking about.”

  She sighed. “I love you, Jimmy.”

  His voice trembled as he said, “It’s enough for me that you are alive, my love. I love you, I love you, and perhaps that is all I need.”

  “Not quite, Jimmy. There is something else and you will probably know soon.”

  9

  It was Sunday, a gray moist Sunday, full of low gloomy clouds and despondent wind. James felt both weary and unable to rest. His dreams had been very bad all night, but though he could not remember them they oppressed his spirit. He was driven to Mountain Valleys. Guy’s family had mentioned seeing the sick man that day. James profoundly hoped it would rain and storm and they would not go out. Americans, he had noticed, did not particularly care for bad weather, and found nothing very bracing about it. Frankly, he thought, neither do I. We are all effete these days. We prefer to look at inclement weather through polished windows.

  The sanitarium was already milling with visitors. But Guy’s family had not yet arrived. Everyone, James noticed, looked damp and bad-tempered, as if visiting their “loved ones” was quite an imposition on their day. Some had sternly dutiful expressions. They are probably calling on their private gods to congratulate them for their forbearance, James commented to himself. I’m glad I have no relatives to “suffer” for me when the time comes. Only Emma, who will
be cheering me up on my deathbed and commenting on pretty houris.

  The nurse was in Guy’s suite and she seemed happy to escape the dismal atmosphere and murmured something about coffee and Danish, which puzzled James. Perhaps she means crumpets, or jam and toast, he commented. He was further oppressed by seeing Guy huddled in the usual wing chair. Then Guy looked at him with full recognition, and his gaunt face, for a moment, wore a strange expression, and he turned away.

  “Well, well,” said James, taking off his deplorably old gray tweed coat and laying it down. “Bad weather, isn’t it? A real English winter day in London. Do you remember London, Jerry, and all the humid girls in the rain? And their hectic cheeks? And the dreadful weekends when everything was closed up tighter than a virgin? But somehow we usually managed to find a whorehouse doing a splendid business, and some scotch, didn’t we? Ah, youth. Thank God it’s over.”

  Guy said nothing. It was as if he were alone. James sat down and rubbed his hands before the fabricated fire. He detested it, but then there were no ashes.

  He said, “At least there were fires in the brothels, though not in our rooms or barracks. Fire. To me it always meant both life and death. Odd, that, isn’t it? Fire is alive—and yet in a way it is dead. It’s hard to put in words. Resurrection, or destruction. Creation, or annihilation.”

  Then Guy spoke. “Oh, my God.” It was a voice of total suffering. James leaned towards him. “Yes, mate?”

  Guy turned his head away and pressed his face into the back of the chair.

  James watched him as long minutes passed. Once Guy’s shoulders lifted in a silent sob. Then he was as quiet again, as if he slept. But James knew he was not asleep.

  It was the winter of 1948. There had been a slight depression after the war but now things were exuberantly “booming,” as the newspapers shouted. Guy had reached the eminence of assistant foreman in the sawmill, and there was inflation, and his wages were one hundred fifty dollars a week. He gave his mother thirty-five, which she sedulously banked, and he was living, as always, in her house. She was charging higher for board and room but her boarders were happy and euphoric, though her table had not much improved. There was sometimes a roast for Sunday, or a big platter of fried chicken, and Mary was leaner than ever and the ribbons of white in her hair were very broad, and her expression was more formidable, her nose longer and harder and more prominent, and she appeared more bitterly determined as her prosperity increased. She always seemed “on the run,” Guy thought, and wondered if she had always been like this. Yes, but not as fierce. She was fifty-eight and looked like a somewhat underfed hawk, and there was a kind of obduracy about her in her pursuit of—what? Security, of course, but that was not the paramount thing. Money. She was a middle-aged and hungry virgin in some dilapidated gaunt temple with no music and no footsteps but her own. Pursuit, not of ease and contentment and love—no. Guy, thinking this, would call himself uncharitable. But then, he would reflect, he was no better himself, and he was no nearer being rich for all his modestly growing bank account. A job was not enough. A small mean pension in his old age was not enough, even bolstered by Social Security. His one besetting thought—and he was no longer ashamed of it—was money also. He was twenty-seven now. The way was no clearer than before to a worthwhile future, free from hard labor and obscurity. How did one get money, not a few thousands, but millions? Education? He told himself he had no gifts, no talents. He no longer even had books. He had not read a book in three years.