Being There (4 page)

She told Chance that Mr. Rand was much older than she; he was well into his seventies. Until his recent illness, her husband had been a vigorous man, and even now, in spite of his age and illness, he remained
interested and active in his business. She regretted, she said, that they had no children of their own, particularly since Rand had broken off all relations with his former wife and with his grown son of that marriage. EE confessed that she felt responsible for the rupture between father and son, since Benjamin Rand had divorced the boy's mother to marry her.

Thinking that he ought to show a keen interest in what EE was saying, Chance resorted to repeating to her parts of her own sentences, a practice he had observed on TV. In this fashion he encouraged her to continue and elaborate. Each time Chance repeated EE's words, she brightened and looked more confident. In fact, she became so at ease that she began to punctuate her speech by touching, now his shoulder, now his arm. Her words seemed to float inside his head; he observed her as if she were on television. EE rested her weight back in the chair. A knock at the door interrupted her in mid-sentence.

It was the nurse with the injection. Before leaving, EE invited Chance to have dinner with her and Mr. Rand, who was beginning to feel better.

Chance wondered whether Mr. Rand would ask him to leave the house. The thought that he might have to leave did not upset him; he knew that eventually he would have to go but that, as on TV, what would follow
next was hidden; he knew the actors on the new program were unknown. He did not have to be afraid, for everything that happened had its sequel, and the best that he could do was to wait patiently for his own forthcoming appearance.

Just as he was turning on the TV, a valet—a black man—came, carrying his clothes, which had been cleaned and pressed. The man's smile brought back the easy smile of old Louise.

EE called again, asking him to come down and join her and her husband for a drink before dinner. At the bottom of the stairs a servant escorted him to the drawing room, where EE and an elderly man were waiting. Chance noticed that EE's husband was old, almost as old as the Old Man. Chance took his hand, which was dry and hot; his handshake was weak. The man was looking at Chance's leg. “Don't put any strain on it,” he said in a slow, clear voice. “How are you feeling? EE told me about your accident. A damned shame! No excuse for it!”

Chance hesitated a moment. “It's really nothing, sir. I feel quite well already. This is the first time in my life that I have had an accident.”

A servant poured champagne. Chance had barely
begun to sip his when dinner was announced. The men followed EE to the dining room, where a table was laid for three. Chance noted the gleaming silver and the frosty sculptures in the corners of the room.

In deciding how to behave, Chance chose the TV program of a young businessman who often dined with his boss and the boss's daughter.

“You look like a healthy man, Mr. Gardiner,” said Rand. “That's your good luck. But doesn't this accident prevent you from attending to your business?”

“As I have already told Mrs. Rand,” Chance began slowly, “my house has been closed up, and I do not have any urgent business.” He cut and ate his food carefully. “I was just expecting something to happen when I had the accident.”

Mr. Rand removed his glasses, breathed onto the lenses, and polished them with his handkerchief. Then he settled the glasses back on and stared at Chance with expectation. Chance realized that his answer was not satisfactory. He looked up and saw EE's gaze.

“It is not easy, sir,” he said, “to obtain a suitable place, a garden, in which one can work without interference and grow with the seasons. There can't be too many opportunities left any more. On TV …” he faltered. It dawned on him. “I've never seen a garden. I've seen forests and jungles and sometimes a tree or two. But a garden in which I can work and watch
the things I've planted in it grow …” He felt sad.

Mr. Rand leaned across the table to him. “Very well put, Mr. Gardiner—I hope you don't mind if I call you Chauncey? A gardener! Isn't that the perfect description of what a real businessman is? A person who makes a flinty soil productive with the labor of his own hands, who waters it with the sweat of his own brow, and who creates a place of value for his family and for the community. Yes, Chauncey, what an excellent metaphor! A productive businessman is indeed a laborer in his own vineyard!”

The alacrity with which Mr. Rand responded relieved Chance; all was well. “Thank you sir,” he murmured.

“Please … do call me Ben.”

“Ben.” Chance nodded. “The garden I left was such a place, and I know I won't ever find anything as wonderful. Everything which grew there was of my own doing: I planted seeds, I watered them, I watched them grow. But now it's all gone, and all that's left is the room upstairs.” He pointed toward the ceiling.

Rand regarded him gently. “You're young, Chauncey; why do you have to talk about ‘the room upstairs'? That's where I'm going soon, not you. You could almost be my son, you're so young. You and EE: both of you, so young.”

“Ben, dear—” began EE.

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, “you don't like
my bringing up our ages. But for me all that's left is a room upstairs.”

Chance wondered what Rand meant by saying that he'd soon be in the room upstairs. How could he move in up there while he, Chance, was still in the house?

They ate in silence, Chance chewing slowly and ignoring the wine. On TV, wine put people in a state they could not control.

“Well,” said Rand, “if you can't find a good opportunity soon, how will you take care of your family?”

“I have no family.”

Rand's face clouded. “I don't understand it—a handsome, young man like you without a family? How can that be?”

“I've not had the time,” said Chance.

Rand shook his head, impressed. “Your work was that demanding?”

“Ben, please—” EE broke in.

“I'm sure Chauncey doesn't mind answering my questions? Do you, Chauncey?”

Chance shook his head.

“Well … didn't you ever want a family?”

“I don't know what it is to have a family.”

Rand murmured: “Then, indeed, you are alone, aren't you?”

After a silence, the servants brought in another course. Rand looked over at Chance.

“You know,” he said, “there's something about you
that I like. I'm an old man, and I can speak to you frankly. You're direct: you grasp things quickly and you state them plainly. As you may be aware,” Rand continued, “I am chairman of the board of the First American Financial Corporation. We have just begun a program to assist American businesses that have been harassed by inflation, excessive taxation, riots, and other indecencies. We want to offer the decent ‘gardeners' of the business community a helping hand, so to speak. After all, they are our strongest defense against the conglomerates and the pollutants who so threaten our basic freedoms and the well-being of our middle class. We must discuss this at greater length; perhaps, when you are up and around, you can meet some of the other members of the board, who will acquaint you further with our projects and our goals.”

Chance was glad that Rand immediately added: “I know, I know, you are not a man to act on the spur of the moment. But do think about what I've said, and remember that I'm very ill and don't know how much longer I'm going to be around….”

EE began to protest, but Rand continued: “I am sick and weary with age. I feel like a tree whose roots have come to the surface….”

Chance stopped listening. He missed his garden; in the Old Man's garden none of the trees ever had their roots surface or wither. There, all the trees were
young and well cared for. In the silence he now felt widening around him, he said quickly: “I will consider what you've said. My leg still hurts, and it is difficult to decide.”

“Good. Don't rush, Chauncey.” Rand leaned over and patted Chance's shoulder. They rose and went into the library.

On Wednesday, as Chance was
dressing, the phone rang. He heard the voice of Rand: “Good morning, Chauncey. Mrs. Rand wanted me to wish you good morning for her too, since she won't be at home today. She had to fly to Denver. But there's another reason I called. The President will address the annual meeting of the Financial Institute today; he is flying to New York and has just telephoned me from his plane. He knows I am ill and that, as the
chairman, I won't be able to preside over the meeting as scheduled. But as I am feeling somewhat better today, the President has graciously decided to visit me before the luncheon. It's nice of him, don't you think? Well, he's going to land at Kennedy and then come over to Manhattan by helicopter. We can expect him here in about an hour.” He stopped; Chance could hear his labored breathing. “I want you to meet him, Chauncey. You'll enjoy it. The President is quite a man, quite a man, and I know that he'll like and appreciate you. Now listen: the Secret Service people will be here before long to look over the place. It's strictly routine, something they have to do, no matter what, no matter where. If you don't mind, my secretary will notify you when they arrive.”

“All right, Benjamin, thank you.”

“Oh, yes, one more thing, Chauncey. I hope you won't mind … but they will have to search you personally as well. Nowadays, no one in close proximity to the President is allowed to have any sharp objects on his person—so don't show them your mind, Chauncey, they may take it away from you! See you soon, my friend!” He hung up.

There must be no sharp objects. Chance quickly removed his tie clip and put his comb on the table. But what had Rand meant when he said “your mind”? Chance looked at himself in the mirror. He liked what
he saw: his hair glistened, his skin was ruddy, his freshly pressed dark suit fitted his body as bark covers a tree. Pleased, he turned on the TV.

After a while, Rand's secretary called to say that the President's men were ready to come up. Four men entered the room, talking and smiling easily, and began to go through it with an assortment of complicated instruments.

Chance sat at the desk, watching TV. Changing channels, he suddenly saw a huge helicopter descending in a field in Central Park. The announcer explained that at that very moment the President of the United States was landing in the heart of New York City.

The Secret Service men stopped working to watch too. “Well, the Boss has arrived,” one of them said. “We better hurry with the other rooms.” Chance was alone when Rand's secretary called to announce the President's imminent arrival.

“Thank you,” he said. “I guess I'd better go down right now, don't you think?” He stammered a bit.

“I think it is time, sir.”

Chance walked downstairs. The Secret Service men were quietly moving around the corridors, the front hall and the elevator entrance. Some stood near the windows of the study; others were in the dining room,
the living room, and in front of the library. Chance was searched by an agent, who quickly apologized and then opened the door to the library for him.

Rand approached and patted Chance's shoulder. “I'm so glad that you'll have the opportunity to meet the Chief Executive. He's a fine man, with a sense of justice nicely contained by the law and an excellent judgment of both the pulse and purse of the electorate. I must say, it's very thoughtful of him to come to visit me now. Don't you agree?”

Chance agreed.

“What a pity EE isn't here,” Rand declared. “She's a great fan of the President and finds him very attractive. She telephoned from Denver, you know.”

Chance said that he knew about EE's call.

“And you didn't talk to her? Well, she'll call again; she'll want to know your impressions of the President and of how things went. … If I should be asleep, Chauncey, you will speak to her, won't you, and tell her all about the meeting?”

“I'll be glad to. I hope you're feeling well, sir. You do look better.”

Rand moved uneasily in his chair. “It's all make-up, Chauncey—all make-up. The nurse was here all night and through the morning, and I asked her to fix me up so the President won't feel I'm going to die during our talk. No one likes a dying man, Chauncey, because
few know what death is. All we know is the terror of it. You're an exception, Chauncey, I can tell. I know that you're not afraid. That's what EE and I admire in you: your marvelous balance. You don't stagger back and forth between fear and hope; you're a truly peaceful man! Don't disagree; I'm old enough to be your father. I've lived a lot, trembled a lot, was surrounded by little men who forgot that we enter naked and exit naked and that no accountant can audit life in our favor.”

Rand looked pallid. He reached for a pill, swallowed it, and sipped some water from a glass. A phone rang. He picked up the receiver and said briskly: “Mr. Gardiner and I are ready. Show the President into the library.” He replaced the receiver and then removed the glass of water from the desk top, placing it behind him on a bookshelf. “The President is here, Chauncey. He's on the way.”