Friends till the End (9 page)

“Really? What’s it called?”

“It’s called
Mrs. Woolly Goes to Afghanistan
.”

“I see.”

“I plan to have her take a tour, get captured by the mountain people and made into a rug.”

“Sounds educational.”

“Yes. Look, Maya, if it’ll make you feel better, I can have a talk with your brother tomorrow. Let him know how we feel.”

“Oh, thank you, honey. You know Snooky hasn’t listened to me since he was six years old. He might listen to you. Do you know, I think he’s a little afraid of you.”

Bernard was pleased by this. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, no, Bernard, you can be quite terrifying when you want to.”

She gave him a loving hug. From the foot of the bed there came a low yelp, and the dog scrambled up onto the quilt. She wormed her way up to their faces and sniffed them over thoroughly. Then she snuggled down, her tongue lolling blissfully over the pillow.

Bernard leaned over to kiss his wife. “Good night, honey.”

“G’night, Bernard.”

“Good night, Misty,” said Bernard, but the dog was already fast asleep, her stomach heaving in little whistling grunts.

The next day Bernard summoned Snooky into his study. Bernard and Maya had each chosen one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor as an office. Bernard’s was a small room with windows looking out over the back lawn; it was lined with bookshelves and dominated by a massive cherrywood desk that Maya had found in a dusty antique store in Vermont. The desk was nearly a century old and was battle-scarred, covered with graffiti etched into the wood by previous owners: T. and J. Hopstead, June 6, 1910; Billy Inching, 1951; even, on one of the lower right-hand drawers, a little heart with
Emily and Harris
scrawled on it, no date. Bernard loved his desk. He knew every scratch and scar on it. Now he motioned to Snooky to sit down and the two of them sat and stared at each other for a while over its vast, cluttered surface.

“Well, this has been fun,” Snooky said at last, breaking the silence. “Is there any reason you invited me here, Bernard?”

“Yes.”

“Dare I ask what it is?”

Bernard nervously linked several paper clips together to form a chain. “Your sister is worried about you.”

“That’s nothing new. Maya is always worried about me.”

“She’s afraid you’re going to be the next victim.”

“Me? That’s absurd. Nobody’s after me.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know these things, Bernard. It’s like the crossword puzzle. Whatever’s going on with Isabel’s group of friends has nothing to do with me.”

Bernard was interested in this. “You just know?”

“That’s right.”

“What else do you know?”

Snooky shifted in his chair. “I notice things,” he said slowly. “The way people look at other people. What they say. People tell me things, I don’t know why. It’s always been like that. Maya says it’s because I’m basically inoffensive.”

“Quite a compliment.”

“Oh, Maya adores me. You know that.”

“Snooky, you were at that party last week. What did you notice? What did people say to each other, how did they act?”

“Oh, Bernard. Come on. You wouldn’t possibly be interested.”

Bernard gave him a cold fishy glare.

“Try me,” he said.

“Mom,” said Little Harry, depositing his bulk on the kitchen chair, which creaked ominously.

“Yes.”

“I’m hungry.”

The perpetual cry of the Crandall children.

“Have a carrot.”

“I don’t want a carrot.”

“Have some celery.”

“I don’t want any celery.”

This interchange took place without heat on either side. It was a custom; a ritual.

Heather had a brainstorm.

“Have a raw yam.”

Little Harry was intrigued. He took the well-scrubbed yam and gazed upon it. “Raw yam?”

“Good for you,” said his mother. “Lots of potassium.”

“Yeah? Okay.”

Munching on the yam, he left the room.

A few minutes later his father walked in. He had just come from lecturing to a class at the university.

“Hello, Harry.” Heather gave him a fond kiss.

“Hello.” He put his briefcase on the table.

“How was your class?”

“Morons,” said Harry cheerfully. “Morons, all of them. In my day, graduate students had to have a modicum of intelligence in order to get into a program. Now it seems that’s no longer required. They’re drones, Heather; mindless drones.”

“Really? What a shame.” Heather had heard this before. She briefly recalled, from her graduate student days, the general student opinion concerning Professor Crandall. “Pompous ass” and “platitudinous old fool” were two of the kinder comments. She smiled to herself. The comments had stopped abruptly when she had announced her engagement. Humming, she put aside a dish of marinated tofu and began to mince garlic, one of her least favorite tasks.

“Note-taking machines,” her husband was saying with relish. “That’s all they are, note-taking machines. In my day, students were encouraged to
think
. That’s what education was all about! Not all these notes and memorization. The only questions I get are about the final exam next week. How long will the test be? Will it be essay or multiple choice? Basically they’re asking whether they’ll have to think or not. Sometimes I feel like strangling them, the whole lot of them. The academic world would be better off, I’m convinced of it.”

“Yes, dear.”

Dinner was prepared, served and eaten. Little Harry, full to the point of explosion, staggered into the living room. Heather poured out the tea for herself and her husband.

“Harry, I wanted to tell you something that Ruth mentioned to me.”

She told him all about the conversation she had had with Ruth; all about Sam’s problems with the business. Her husband listened attentively.

“Sounds like Walter,” he said when she was done. “He’d stick a knife into the back of his best friend. What’s Sam doing about it?”

“What
can
he do?”

“Nothing much, I suppose. Walter holds the reins. Still, they’ve practically been partners in that business for so many years …”

“I know. I don’t know how Walter can live with himself. The man has no conscience at all.”

“None.”

“By the way, you absolutely can’t tell anybody else, all right, Harry? I swore to Ruth that I wouldn’t tell.”

“All right. Probably everyone knows, anyway. News like that gets around.”

“There’s something else.” Heather paused uncertainly. “I think it’s too bad that nobody’s gotten together since—well, since the party. It’s as if everyone is afraid. So I had an idea.”

She wanted to have a little get-together—“nothing elaborate, just our friends”—the following weekend. “It’s about time that we got together again. It’s ridiculous not to, don’t you think?”

Her husband was amenable. Little Harry, when he heard about it, was delighted.

“Carob mocha brownies!” he said from where he lay on the couch.

“Yes,” said Heather. “And corn chips—homemade—and veggies with dip, and cider. And apple walnut crumble.”

“Hurray!” cried Little Harry.

The next day Heather called all her friends to invite them to her party.

“Ruth, you and Sam must come. This Sunday at one o’clock.
Please
.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Naturally we’ll be there. Can I bring anything?”

“No, no. It’s just going to be a light lunch. Nothing fancy.”

“Yes,” said Ruth. “You know, Heather, since our talk, I really feel that things are going to be better. I told Sam about it. I feel—I don’t know. I feel more optimistic.”

“Good. Good. See you Sunday?”

“Oh, yes.”

Freda sounded drunk when Heather called. Heather looked at her watch. It was three in the afternoon.

“Sunday?” Freda said, in that too-hearty tone she assumed when drunk. “One o’clock? What’s the point, Heather?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the point? Why have this party?”

“I just thought that it would be nice if everybody got together again.”

“Sounds dangerous to me.”

“What?”

“This particular combination of people proved fatal the last time,” Freda said dryly.

“Oh,
Freda
.”

“All right, all right, I’ll be there. Eddie won’t, though.”

“No?”

“I haven’t seen him since the police went round and talked to him,” Freda said. She sounded almost amused. “Do you think it’s something in his past?”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Not at all. See you Sunday.”

If Freda had seemed reluctant. Walter Sloane was downright insulting.

“Don’t be such an ass, Heather,” he said over the phone. “No. I’m not coming.”

“But Walter, the
whole point
is that—”

“I don’t care. Listen to me, Heather. One of my so called friends tried to kill me. If you think there’s any way I’m ever going to be in the same room with any of them again, you’re wrong. That includes you and Harry. I don’t know who did it, or why, but I’m no fool. Frankly, this invitation makes you two seem like the prime suspects.”

He banged the phone down.

“Charming as always,” said Heather out loud. She waited, then redialed the number.

“Walter?”

“What is it now?”

“Linus has something he wants to say to you.” She handed the phone to the five-year-old and whispered in his ear.

“Uncle Wally?” said Linus. “Why aren’t you coming to Mommy’s party?”

Heather could not hear the reply.

“I wish you’d come,” said the little boy. “Why won’t you come see us?”

He listened for a minute.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll tell Mommy. What? Okay. Bye, Uncle Wally.”

Heather took the phone.

“Heather,” rasped Walter’s furious voice, “that was low. That was really low.”

“Walter, it’s important to me that you come to this party. It’s for you, really. You and Isabel and Richard. We’re not just your friends, you know. We’re family. It’s important that everyone not be afraid to get together again. Can’t you see that?”

“I hope you’re satisfied,” he snarled. “I’ll be there. One o’clock sharp. But I’m not
eating
anything.”

He slammed down the phone and Heather sat back with a satisfied smile. She looked at her youngest child.

“Uncle Wally is angry,” said Linus. “He’s always angry, isn’t he, Mommy?”

“Yes, dear.”

Linus toddled off and she sat musing on human relationships. Here was Walter Sloane, the feared, the terrible; and he was mere putty in the hands of a five-year-old boy. It had been that way since Linus was born. He and Walter had taken to each other immediately. Linus called him Uncle Wally and sat on his knee and talked to him with the unselfconscious chatter of a child; and his doting Uncle Wally brought him presents and toys and got down on his hands and knees to play with him. No one could understand it. Walter had never been particularly close to his own children. Yet with Linus it was different. Linus expected him to be his friendly Uncle Wally, and to everyone’s surprise, for the duration of each visit he was.

“That was low,” Walter had told her; “really low.” Well, perhaps it was. But she did want him to be at her party. Smiling, she took out a note pad and began to make a list of things she would need.

“There’s a letter here for you,” Maya told Snooky.

“For me?”

“Yes. It’s from William.”

“Oh,
hell
.” Snooky picked it up gingerly. “Not another letter. How does he know I’m here? Who told him?”

“I did.”

“Traitor Foul traitor.”

“He called the other day and asked me whether I knew where you were. I told him you were in my living room.”

“What did he say?”

“He made a kind of strangled sound and said he was sorry to hear that.”

Snooky opened the letter and read it with increasing despondency. Maya sipped her coffee and watched him.

“What does it say?”

“The usual. When will I get a job? How long do I think my share of our parents’ estate will last? And so on. He says at the end that he and Emily and the kids are going to the Rocky Mountains for a vacation. Gee, I hope they have a nice time, don’t you?”