Fortunate Lives (32 page)

Slade Road wound flat through sweeping acreage that had once been farmed by the original Slades, the builders
of the Howellses’ house in the late 1700s or the early 1800s. Eventually the Slades had given up farming and established a
grocery store on Carriage Street where they had brought their vegetables to sell. Two large estates had been built on the
farmland in the 1880s by prosperous owners of the woolen mills that had sprung up in nearby Bradford. The main houses loomed
large across the road from one another, and the estate that had been built on the land adjacent to the old Slade farmhouse
had become a sort of neighborhood all its own, with the clever renovation and habitation over the years of the carriage house,
the two barns, the stables, and several other outbuildings.

Slade Road had been paved long ago and sidewalks laid out along the verges, but it retained the unpopulated feeling of a country
lane. The chestnut trees that had once canopied the length of the road had all died off, but there were still, here and there,
a few towering, ancient spruce and hemlock from the forests that had flourished long before any of the land had been cleared
and settled. There were also huge walnut trees, oaks, maples, grand embattled elms, and other relatively short-lived trees
like birch and soft maple. And there were still stretches of virgin forest, a swath of which ran along the section of Slade
Road that dwindled off into a gravel track not far beyond Martin’s house. These lush stands of deep woods were unheralded
because of the fear that once they were widely known they would inevitably be widely abused.

As Martin made his way in the damp, gentle air up the hill that led to the town green and toward the campus, he could not
understand how it was that he had not even been able to ensure David’s happiness in a place such as this. There was undoubtedly
the same proportion of villains and fools in West Bradford as there was anywhere else, but, nevertheless, the image of David’s
face turned to him in pale, outraged misery struck him as an unreasonable occurrence in the benevolent air, the placid landscape.

Arlie Davidson approached from the other direction with his corgi, who was immediately alert with interest in Duchess. The
two men stopped and spoke about the warm weather while their dogs inspected each other peaceably, and then they parted company,
continuing on their separate ways. Martin crossed Route 7 and skirted the green, planted lushly with flowers, and waited for
traffic to ebb so he could cross again at the intersection of Route 7 and Route 2. It was a dangerous intersection that needed
a traffic light, but many of the townspeople believed that any traffic light in their small town would spoil the idea of village
life. The obtuseness of this notion always astounded and enraged Martin. He had agonized over the terrible possibilities of
an accident when, at age seven or eight, his children began to ride their bikes to Carriage Street or to friends’ houses,
having to thread their way through this very spot where too many cars came barreling through town on the state highway, which
was known as State Street for the several miles where it bisected the town.

After managing to make his way across, he entered the campus. He didn’t have any particular destination in mind, and he wasn’t
in a hurry. He and Duchess walked downhill, avoiding afternoon joggers and passing under the beautiful elm in front of the
college president’s house. Martin regarded the tree critically, but it seemed to be holding its own against disease. He turned
into the cordoned-off drive next to the Congregational church. The West Bradford Theater had reserved the space for parking
for whatever play they were doing this evening. He and Duchess climbed the Lapham Hall steps, known as Lapham Beach by the
students because, with the first hint of spring, they lounged against the columns of the Roman Revival building, wearing shorts
and sandals even if it was only fifty degrees. Now that the students were gone, however, there was no one about, and Martin
sat down on the top step, bracing his
back against a column, and Duchess settled down beside him.

He could not disengage himself from the image of David in the garden, so filled with pain. Martin knew that he was partly
responsible for that pain. It occurred to him for the first time that his resolution not to interfere in his son’s life was
more a convenient way to avoid unpleasantness than an act of restraint or generosity. Advising him would have been an unpleasant
task; David would have resented the intrusion, but Martin could have tried to warn him. After all, he was David’s father.
Why hadn’t he attempted to protect his own son from any vulnerability he might have had to Netta?

Some tourists parked nearby and began unpacking baskets of food and bottles of wine, and a young woman approached Lapham Hall
with several collapsed webbed lounge chairs clasped awkwardly in one hand. Clearly the group was planning to picnic on the
steps before the play. They were joking and calling back and forth to each other, and Martin thought they were probably recent
graduates come back for a visit. He was in no mood to chat with them if they happened to recognize him. He rose, leading Duchess
along behind him, and headed off toward his office.

Vic’s car was in the parking lot; and for a moment Martin was undecided about meeting him, but then he thought it might be
a relief to talk to Vic. It was Vic who had tried to alert him to David’s interest in Netta in the first place. When Martin
made his way downstairs and caught a glimpse of Owen in the anteroom, he veered off to Vic’s office, ignoring Owen altogether.

Before Martin even sat down, Vic got up and closed the door. “I just tried to phone you. I stopped by for a minute to get
some stuff to take home for the weekend, and Owen was here. I think he’s been here all afternoon.” Vic was anxious, running
his hand through his hair, and Martin was puzzled. “I don’t know what we should do,” he said to
Martin. “Owen is really fucked up on something. Or maybe he’s drunk, but I don’t think so. He’s been talking a mile a minute.
I swear to God, Martin, I don’t want to deal with this anymore!”

Vic paced the length of his office and back. “He’s driving me crazy. Maybe I should call his father. I don’t have any idea
what he might have taken. You think I should call Larry? I’ll tell you the truth, I’m not going to deal with this shit anymore,
Martin! You’ve made all of us put up with him. Helen checks with me now before she’ll even mail the letters Owen leaves for
her. He’s gotten away with murder all summer!”

Martin felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickle. He was suddenly so filled with adrenaline that, when he
turned around to open Vic’s door, he felt stiff-legged, as though all his movements were slowed down. He approached Owen,
whose chair was tilted back. His legs rested on his desk across a welter of jumbled manuscripts and carefully lettered, self-addressed,
return envelopes, which had been enclosed with each one but were now probably hopelessly separated.

“Hey, Martin. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” Owen’s voice was drawn out, the vowels elongated, the consonants soft and
blunted. “A great story, here.” He gestured toward the papers and attempted to swing his legs off the desk and sit upright,
but the flex chair rolled backward a fraction. “Whoa! Whoa!” he said, reaching for the edge of the desk to catch himself.
Martin was around the side of the desk and upon him in an instant, slamming the chair as far back on its spring as it would
go. Owen’s arms flailed desperately in an attempt to keep his balance.

Martin hovered over him, one hand clamping Owen’s shoulder and the other grasping the back of his chair. “I saw what you did
to Netta. Do you have any idea… do you know what you’ve done to David? You pathetic son of a bitch!” His voice rose, and he
was bending over, shouting
directly into Owen’s face. “Netta should have left you alone. You never would have done anything to hurt
yourself
. But oh, God! Oh, God! I would be
glad
if you were dead. I would be so glad if you were dead! I could kill you!” He slammed the back of Owen’s chair against the
wall. “God damn you! You stupid, fucking son of a bitch. I could kill you!”

Martin’s expression was a grimace of pure fury, and Owen was wild-eyed. “Hey, hey! What…” Martin shook him by the front of
his shirt. “You’re not worth shit! You’re fucking well not worth shit! And Toby is
dead
! He is absolutely
dead
!” Martin’s face was inches from Owen’s, whose mouth had gone slack, who was by now terrified. Vic had hold of Martin’s shoulders
and was yelling at him to stop, but Martin was wound as tight as a knot.

“You’re left, you
pathetic
little shit. Only you…” and Martin, gasping for breath, released his hold on Owen’s shirt and clasped his arm across his
own midsection, bending forward in sudden pain so that the top of his head grazed Owen’s chin, and Owen remained pinned backward
in the office chair, with Martin leaning on him now, a dead weight.

Vic wrenched Martin backward away from Owen, whose chair snapped forward and who remained sitting there, stunned. Martin was
bent over, his face red, pulling in great drafts of air.

“Christ, Martin! Are you all right? Martin?” Vic was horrified, and Martin made an odd keening sound in the back of his throat
as he at last managed to exhale. He straightened a little and put his hands out to ward Vic off, and then he was sobbing,
leaning against the wall, bracing himself against the spasm of sobs that overtook him.

Vic had one hand on Martin’s shoulder. He felt Martin heave forward slightly and then arch back against the wall in convulsive
weeping. Vic looked away from his friend
long enough to say to Owen, “Get out! Get out!” And Owen fled, his feet ringing on the metal stairs.

“Martin? Are you okay?” Martin had grown calmer, but he was still crying, and Vic watched cautiously as Martin made his way
around the desk and collapsed in Owen’s chair.

Martin looked up and made a sort of grimace of apology. “I’m sorry, Vic. I’m so sorry.”

Vic waved his hand in dismissal. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, I’m all right. I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’m sorry, Vic. I don’t know what happened.
I can’t believe…”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter,” Vic said, “as long as you’re okay.” And when Martin nodded, Vic turned the light off
in his own office and left him alone.

Martin sat on in Owen’s chair, and Duchess recovered enough of her courage to slink in and lie down next to him on the floor.
The light that filtered in through the small line of basement windows deepened into a dusky gray and then faded altogether,
until only the arched desk lamp illuminated the room, but Martin was too tired to get up and go home.

He did not believe an honorable man would have behaved as he had just behaved. It pained him to have abandoned all that he
deeply believed was decent to the one person in the world whom he finally understood that he despised.
Not
hating Owen had been the only action left for him to exercise on Toby’s behalf. The notion of only
remembering
his second child was horrible to Martin. It would be as painful to him as looking through old photographs, which only emphasized
the loss of the tangible person each time he held before him a flat, brittle approximation of the image of the boy his son
had been.

Martin had never let go of the idea of a continuing association with Toby, and oddly enough it was Owen’s existence in the
world that had granted Martin the sweet
encumbrance of that connection. He recognized that he had at last relinquished it. Martin was forty-five years old, and he
felt terrifyingly disburdened. His father was dead, and his mother was failing. His oldest son was an adult, his daughter
was growing increasingly aloof, and he and Dinah would soon be all that the other had left. It was too much weight to lose,
all that.

He was afraid to be stripped so lean, to be attenuated, thinned, and chilled in the encroaching solitude. Martin sagged back
against the chair, exhausted, as the determined tension of holding on to Toby dissipated. There was nothing left at the moment
but sorrow and ashy regret.

T
HE FIRST FEW DAYS
in September hung over the northern Berkshires warm and humid and slightly hazy in the valleys. It was stale weather by now,
wearing to the spirit. In the Howells household all the windows were wide open day and night, but the atmosphere was so still
that there scarcely seemed to be an exchange of air. It was eerily tropical, with the calls of birds harsh and jarring among
the quiet leaves. Even with the window fans on through the night, the interior temperature scarcely dropped by morning. The
communal mood was subdued.

The heat was a little less fierce than it had been in late August, but still, almost everyone in town had given up the effort
of putting together cool summer meals of pretty salads or chilled soups. Grocery shoppers crowded the supermarket deli or
stood chatting at Duke’s Market while waiting in line to pick up his special “broasted” chicken—which was battered, deep-fried,
and then baked, and was good at room temperature. Fancies, a catering
business and upscale takeout, sold over seven pounds of mousse de canard, a silky pâté, at $3.49 a quarter pound in only two
days, while across the street at Minuteman Pizza business was almost at a standstill. No one wanted hot food.