Indiscretion (33 page)
“The nurse said it would have been painless,” she replied. “I’m afraid you’ll need to come back out again.”
The funeral was that Saturday, attended by the usual retinue of guests. Maddy couldn’t make it because Harry was stationed in California at the time, but she called me that night. I told her about how my father had asked me to get him out of the hospital, and that I couldn’t help feeling guilty that I had somehow let him down, that if I had succeeded in spiriting him away he might still be alive. Maddy told me I shouldn’t think like that, that the person who’d asked me that wasn’t my father. It was someone else. Her father had already been in and out of several sanatoriums by this point, and she had experience being around someone who was on psychotropic drugs.
That made me feel better, but it didn’t entirely deaden the sting. I loved my father very much and was furious at his doctors for, in my opinion, not ever finding out what was wrong and for killing him. It wasn’t that the doctors hadn’t tried their best. They had. It was just that their best wasn’t much damn good.
My mother died two years later. Also of a heart attack, but under circumstances less dramatic than my father’s. One morning in Florida, Genevieve was bringing in her breakfast, and she just simply didn’t wake up. I always thought it was the perfect way for her to go.
I was thirty then, and I inherited the house and much else besides. I told Genevieve and Robert they would be welcome to stay on at full salary if they chose, but that I wouldn’t be requiring their services as my parents had. They remained for another few months, mainly to help me clean out my parents’ apartment and put the Long Island house in order. But they were getting on in years themselves and, thanks to a sizable bequest from my parents, decided to return to their village outside of Lausanne and retire in comfort. They had been a big part of my life, and I was sorry to see them go. I visited them once a few years back, and we still exchange cards and gifts at Christmas.
My father’s death, instead of making me more aware of my own mortality, made me avoid doctors. Until then, I had always been responsible about going to the doctor every year. Even then my cholesterol was a bit high, and I could have lost some weight, but otherwise I enjoyed rude good health. But doctors are a little like priests—they claim to possess a secret knowledge that imbues them with an air of unwarranted superiority and most of us turn to them only when everything else has failed.
I
received this letter from Maddy:
Dear Walter,
I can’t believe I have never been here before, but I feel as though I have known this place all my life. It is so beautiful. The Gulf of Mexico stretches green and lazy to the horizon. The sand is clean and white. Little fishing boats depart at dawn and return in the afternoon. Wisps of clouds occasionally break up the brilliant blue sky, and at night there are millions of stars. I am staying at a small hotel in the Yucatán. On the first day I arrived, I went to the five-star resort where I had reserved a room and took one look at the people and the perfect lawn and the unnecessary fountains, the faux-Mayan architecture and the silent, well-groomed staff, and I knew I had to get the hell out of there. So I asked the driver if there was a place less formal, and he drove me down a dirt road to a little hacienda on the beach where there was a dog tied to a stake in the courtyard that barked the minute we stopped and chickens and goats and it looked perfect. The woman who runs the place gave me a nice room with a balcony that looks out over the water and a bathroom down the hall. There is no air-conditioning and no room service, but there is a little bar and a small restaurant that makes the most delicious shrimp I have ever had in my life. These shrimp were literally just plucked from the sea and then boiled with garlic, cilantro, lime, and jalapeño. Delicious. Washed down with a cold Tecate, I could eat them all day.
It’s not all perfect, though. The cockroaches are the size of cats, there are some very unpleasant odors, my room is not terribly clean, and it’s incredibly hot during the day. I am convinced I will come down with diarrhea any minute, every man leers at me like a potential rapist, there is no safe, and it’s a good bet my wallet and passport are going to be stolen at any moment. The owner of the hotel, a lively woman named Sonia who is also the cook, tells me not to worry, but when I go for a walk on the beach, I tend to attract a number of admirers.
But walk on the beach I do. There’s not much else to do, which is fine. I thought about renting a fishing boat, but Sonia told me the skipper she uses is away. When will he be back? She wasn’t sure. Maybe the end of the week. Maybe not. I realize I should have rented a car, but it seemed an unnecessary expense when I booked the trip. One day I did hire a driver to take me out to Chichén Itzá, the large Mayan ruins near here. What an astonishing place. I’ve never been in the “ruin” of a long-dead civilization. In Europe they just keep building over everything and in the U.S. nothing’s that old. But Chichén Itzá is old, and it is dead, its culture and people no more existent than the Sumerians or Hittites. It’s amazing to think that this civilization flourished for thousands of years and built this beautiful city and then one day a small group of Spanish guys with guns and armor appear out of nowhere and, poof, the whole thing’s over in less than a hundred years. It’s heartbreaking to think of the people who once lived here, the children, the families, the warriors and the priests—yes, even the ones who performed human sacrifices—and lost everything. Their lives, their homes, their culture, their language. Gone. Obliterated. All that remain are ruins like this and a few descendants whose ancestors escaped into the jungle centuries ago and hid for their lives until everything was forgotten but their fear.
I was smart to come here. I knew I had to get out of New York. You were right. I was going a little crazy. I am not a self-destructive person and have never been. I grew up around self-destruction, my father raised it to an art form, but I have always fought against it. Still I knew it always existed within me, that urge to lose control, to give in to rage and despair. To throw away everything important to me simply because I could, and because one day I woke up and realized that everything was a lie.
I feel a little like the Maya. I was content in the center of my little world, believing I was protected and powerful—but then something more ruthless came along and tore down my defenses. Who wouldn’t become self-destructive at that point? What was left to fight for? Isn’t that what happens when civilizations implode? The looting starts. My culture lay in ruins too, and it all looked so hopeless. In the grand scheme of things what did it matter what happened to me? Did I think I was above it all? That I could somehow skate through life believing I would remain untouched? History is full of such self-deception. Look at the Maya, look at the French during World War Two. They thought they could hide behind the Maginot Line, but the Germans just went around it.
But did that kill the French? No. France persevered. Its language, its culture, its people, its traditions fought back despite the Nazis, collaborators, and the very human belief that sometimes it can be better to give in rather than resist. Of course, many French did give in, but the greater number did not. Which would you rather be? I’d like to think I would have been among the fighters, and that’s why I am so disappointed in my life and myself that so far I have given in to what has happened to me. Rather than fight, I ran away. I thought I was being brave, but maybe I was just being a coward. If I really loved what I loved, if I really believed in it, then I should have stayed and faced my problems. I might not have been successful, but at least I would have known I had done my best.
I am tired of running away. It’s time to fight.
I hope you are well. I am sorry if I have not been myself recently. I hope you know how much you mean to me and how important your love and friendship are to me. Thank you for everything. I’ll see you soon.
XXXX
Maddy
P.S. The French didn’t do it alone. They had help. I am counting on you for that help. I know I can.
P.P.S. I had a nice letter from Harry.
H
arry is jogging along the river. Every morning he takes Johnny to school and then jogs back home. The mornings are still cool. He is wearing his old gray sweats and has a wool cap over his head. The distance is more than fifty blocks, which is more than two miles. He cuts down to the East River and crosses over, passing other joggers, dog walkers, mothers pushing strollers. He is out of condition. His lungs burn, and his muscles creak. Perspiration streaks his face. The body is evil and must be punished. When he returns to his apartment, he does sit-ups and push-ups until he is exhausted. Then he takes a shower and sits down to write until he has to leave to pick up Johnny. Work on his book is finally going well. The logjam has broken. Words flow.
Maddy sent them a postcard. She sent them both love. The weeks have gone by quickly. Too quickly, he feels. Seeing his son only two nights a week isn’t enough. It never could be. The intensity of his love sometimes threatens to overwhelm him. He is amazed by his son. Wants to know what he thinks. Wishes he could see the world through his eyes and experience his joys and sorrows. He wants to run his fingers through Johnny’s hair, to make him laugh, to feel the warm smoothness of his cheek against his own. Their hands are the same. There is no one in the world he could be closer to. Not Claire. Not even Maddy.
They go for long walks. Sometimes in the park, sometimes just meandering. Johnny is a great walker too. They talk about Johnny’s school, the other children, how Jeremy thinks he’s so cool and Sean gets on his nerves and Jack made Willa cry on the roof. They talk about the Rangers’ dwindling chances in the Stanley Cup playoff. They play a running game of
Jeopardy!
where Harry asks him the names of presidents and state capitals and Johnny gets each one right. They are starting on English kings. “Which king had his head chopped off?” Harry played this same game with his own father. One night they even talk about Darwin’s theory of evolution.
“I don’t see what the big deal is, Daddy,” says Johnny. “I think it’s cool to be descended from monkeys.”
At night, they order in pizza or Harry cooks, usually steak or spaghetti. He helps Johnny with his homework. At bedtime Harry tells him a story or reads to him. The Penguin King is still a favorite, and the ending always has to be happy now. Then Harry sits back down at his table, pours himself his first drink of the night, and starts to write again, happier than he has been in months.
I know this because Harry tells me. A few days after Maddy leaves, he calls me unprompted at the office. “Hey, Walt,” he says cheerily, sounding better than I have heard him in months. “Thought I’d just check in with you and give you a status report on Johnny in case Maddy called.”
“Is everything all right?”
He laughs. “Everything’s fine, Walt,” he says. “Johnny and I were wondering if you’d like to come over to the Palazzo Winslow one night for a bad meal. You haven’t been here, and we thought you’d be curious to see how the other half lives.”
Johnny’s voice comes through the receiver: “Please, Uncle Walt.”
I can hardly say no. And besides, hadn’t Maddy expressly asked me to check in on him? “I’ll see if I can,” I answer. “What night were you thinking of?”
“How about tomorrow? You bring the wine. Something old and expensive, and I’ll make something young and cheap.”
The next night I arrive at his apartment and climb the flights to the top floor. It is clear that money is tight for Harry.
The apartment is small, sparse, in an old tenement near the Midtown Tunnel. The street below is an endless procession of cars and trucks entering and exiting the city, horns honking, engines spewing out carbon monoxide. Through grimy windows, the view is only of more tenements and fire escapes. Harry says the old Hispanic woman down the hall blasts her television. Occasionally he hears fights, shouting. He imagines it is her boyfriend or son coming to borrow money. The smell of cooking oil lingers in the hallway. Sirens heading to Bellevue punctuate the night.
Harry has set up a single bed in the bedroom for Johnny, and he has a couch in the living room for himself. A large poster of a hockey player hangs on the wall. There’s a table where he works and eats. Books are stacked on the floor. There’s a small television with one of Johnny’s video devices hooked up to it. Unlike many bachelor apartments, it is neat, thanks to Harry’s military training. Clothes are folded away, there are no dishes in the sink. He kills cockroaches with his shoe. It is a place to change clothes, to work, as impersonal as a hotel room.
In spite of it all, both seem well. Harry and I shake hands as though the past several months had never happened, and Johnny gives me a big hug, which is extremely gratifying. A steak sits marinating on the counter. The tiny kitchen is part of the living room. Harry pours me a whisky and sits at the table. I sit on the couch next to Johnny.
“Thanks for coming, Walt. Not your usual stomping grounds.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Well, hopefully it won’t be for too long. I only signed a six-month lease. With any luck, if Hollywood makes me a good offer, I’ll be able to afford somewhere better.”
“Or maybe we could live in Los Angeles,” says Johnny.
I keep my opinions to myself.
“Whoa, pal.” Harry laughs. “Let’s not get carried away.”
We talk about Johnny’s school. What he’s studying. Once a week there is chess after school, another day piano. Johnny’s school is near their old apartment, but it is several stops away for Harry.
