Seconds (11 page)

On the afternoon of the party, Wilson's resolution weakened. He realized that for months he had been virtually a recluse. How well would be stand up to the inspection of all these people? To ease his anxiety, he took a quick drink, and when that did not seem to have much effect, he poured himself a second one which he sipped in his bathroom as he shaved. While he dressed, he conscientiously renewed his study of the guest list, feeling somewhat heartened by the warmth of the whiskey.

“Filter, short with bald spot,” he chanted to the mirror as he tied his tie. “Mayberry, tall and thin. Call him Bill.” He winked at his image. “R. L. Hamrick, ruddy with horn-rims,” he continued. “Phil Jolson and wife Sandra, stout and purple.” No, not purple—purposeful. He snickered at his error. But what right did John have to call anyone purposeful? What purpose could this Mr. Jolson have, anyway, except to remain at “about age 40”?

Wilson took one more drink just before the guests were to arrive, and managed to receive them in a condition of perfect cordiality, for although he was a triffle lightheaded, his speech was not blurred and he was in control of his gestures. The men and women came in a rush, as if they all had alighted from some enormous car, and Wilson found himself besieged by hands and furs and perfumes. He forgot the guest list, but he felt it did not matter. The gaiety of the voices surrounding him encouraged him to believe that at last he was among decent and happy people who would in time become his good friends. He had seen two of them before—the Texan who had so alarmed him at the airport, and the man who had been at the beach—but now they did not represent threats, of course, and as if to show there were no hard feelings, he personally conducted them to the portable bar John had set up near the hearth.

He returned to the door to greet the stragglers, and saw among them a woman he knew—knew from a past that had been all but surgically removed from him in the creation of his new identity. In that instant of recognition, his pose as Wilson seemed exploded by this one quick pinprick of familiarity. He was exposed. His ears roared with the buzzing of some interior derision as he advanced, trembling, to greet her. It was, by some impudent turn of irony, his good friend Charley's wife, Sue, and his astonishment was too great to be repressed.

“My God—Sue!”

Sue was not at all disconcerted, but came toward him coquettishly, with a gay appraising look in her eye. “Well!” she exclaimed, taking his hand, “and so you're mine host!”

“What are you doing here?”

“You invited me. I think. Anyway, I'm here,” she declared brightly. Then she hesitated. “Am I supposed to know you from somewhere?” she asked dubiously, taking a swift inventory of her recollections, for Sue was a woman with a voluminous past and a short memory. “I swear I can't place you, Mr. Wilson,” she added, “and now that I've had a chance to look you over, I'm honestly sorry about it.” She giggled and grasped his arm firmly. “But you come on and meet my husband now,” she continued, nodding her head toward a lanky gentleman who was handing his hat to John. “He plays golf every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, Tony—it
is
Tony, isn't it?—and he'd love to have you join his foursome, or whatever he calls it. And if you don't play golf, why then maybe there's something
else
you'd like to do on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons,” she declared, massaging his arm, “like maybe make a twosome somewhere. Oh, Henry,” she called to her husband, “look what I found in the foyer! Our host, Mr. Wilson. Tony, meet Henry. Henry Bushbane. My husband,” Sue confided to Wilson as the two men shook hands, “is supposed to be a writer, but he doesn't write and he sure can't spell.” She giggled, still clutching Wilson's arm. “He can't spell his own name half the time!”

“Darling,” protested Mr. Bushbane, with the same look of gloomy foreboding Wilson had seen so often on Charley's face.

“Let me show you to the bar,” said Wilson. He had by this time recovered his composure. Good Lord, he thought, he had almost been betrayed by the sight of Sue into making a terrible gaffe. It was pure coincidence, her being married to one of the reborns. But it was bigamy, too, wasn't it, since Charley hadn't killed himself after all? No matter. Poor Bushbane.

“Here we are,” said Wilson cheerily. “Name it, Bushbane. We've got it. I think,” he added, as he got a further glimpse of Sue wriggling up to someone else's husband, like some disreputable evidence of the past which had escaped the company's notice, “I'll have one, too.”

He had two, and then a third . . . or was it a fourth? Anyway, it seemed to help. He chattered small talk effortlessly, and moved from group to group, smiling, laughing, getting names mixed up but not caring—being, in short, an almost perfect host, and even receiving occasional glances of grave approval from John.

An hour passed. The room seemed terribly crowded, full of smoke and laughter. Someone sat down unexpectedly in the tiny fountain in the center of the conversation pit. It was Sue Bushbane.

A plump blonde wearing thick glasses was mooing softly at Wilson's shoulder for attention. “Don't you just love it out here?” she was saying.

“Oh, California. Absolutely.” Wilson cast a host's eye toward the conversation pit. Sue sat squealing merrily atop the fountain, her skirt darkening; but no one seemed to mind. He shrugged and gave the blonde a complacent smile. “Delightful climate,” he added.

“There's something religious about it, don't you agree?”

“In a sense—”

“I mean all these religious groups out here, the kinds you just don't find back East,” the blonde explained.

“You certainly don't.”

“I belong to a special kind of group,” she went on, pressing his arm earnestly. “We change sects.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Each month, we change sects. The one we're in now, the basic belief is reincarnation.” She simpered, then frowned at her glass, as if the liquor had betrayed her into worldliness. “You know, spirits investing one body after the other, as part of the great Unknowable. Mr. Wilson, do you think there's anything to that?”

“I'm afraid I couldn't say,” said Wilson. He laughed. “I'm sorry,” he said, but laughed again. She blinked at him doubtfully, and to avoid the threat of more laughter, he reached out and tapped the shoulder of the nearest man. “Um, Mr. Jolson here,” he told her, “I understand he's well informed on things like that—aren't you, Jolson?”

“Mayberry,” muttered the man.

Wilson freed his arm from the blonde, at the same time maneuvering her to face Mayberry. “The Reverend Mayberry,” he whispered puckishly in her ear. “Mayberry,” he declared, “this young woman has a theory about reincarnation that ought to be of interest to every man in the room.” He chuckled and winked broadly at Mayberry, but instead of winking back in acknowledgment of the irony, Mayberry stiffened, pursed his lips, and looked decidedly ill at ease. Old sourpuss, thought Wilson. What harm could there be in a little joke?

“Reincarnation,” he repeated, mischievously. He pressed the blonde forward. “New bodies for old souls, isn't that right, my dear?”

But without waiting for her reply, he edged away, leaving Mayberry to deal with her. “Reincarnation,” he said again, to no one, but from across the room he caught a calculating glance from one of the men, as if his exchange with Mayberry had violated some secret code of behavior which had been immediately sensed by the brotherhood. It did not bother him; rather, he was suddenly struck by the amusing notion that he was present at a masquerade whose social façade, ostensibly so proper and ordinary, would at any moment be thrown into confusion with the ripping off of masks and the beginning of wild dancing. The thought made him feel reckless and gay. He snapped his fingers in the air and snatched up another drink. Masks off! Why not?

“I'm crazy about your painting, you know that?” remarked Mrs. Filter, a dark little woman he found himself wedged close to in a corner. “How do you ever do it, anyway?”

“I paint stark naked. That's the only way to get at the truth.”

“My God, of course.”

“You ought to try it.”

“I'll try anything once,” she said, significantly. A heavy-set man backed into her. “Hey—oh, it's my husband. Joe,” she said to him, “we've got to have Mr. Wilson over for dinner sometime soon, you know that?”

“Of course.” Mr. Filter, however, seemed slightly annoyed at the sight of his wife on such familiar terms with Wilson, for she in fact had one arm around Wilson's waist. “Next week, maybe? Not that we want to interfere with your artistic labors, Wilson,” he added, with a touch of sarcasm that irked Wilson.

“I'll make time,” Wilson responded coldly. “What about your own crowded work schedule?”

“Joe's an investment analyst,” Mrs. Filter explained.

“Oh? But what do you really do?” Wilson asked the man. “Or should I say what
did
you do?”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” said Filter, giving him a sharp glance of warning, but at this point Wilson noticed that Sue Bushbane was playfully splashing water on the other guests in the conversation pit, and he disengaged himself from Mrs. Filter to attend to her.

“You'll weaken their drinks,” he told Sue, and then, to command her attention, launched a dubious subject. “I knew your first husband, Charley. Um, whatever became of him?”

She stood up, dripping, and gaped at him. “Oh—him. It was terrible.” She giggled. “I'm sorry, it really was awful. We went to this island for a vacation. I forget the name, but it had this crater on it. You know, a kind of volcano. Right in the middle, smoking away, and all the tourists were supposed to go see it, but it gave me a headache so I didn't go up, but Charley did, poor boy, and he went into it.”

“He fell?”

“He jumped or fell or something, but you see he took his coat off before and left it on the edge, so they called it suicide and I couldn't collect double on the insurance. But I can't believe he meant to do it. Charley had everything to live for, don't you think so?” she asked archly, edging closer to him.

“But surely someone saw what happened.”

“Well, yes, a lot of people did, but he went around to the smoky side, where people weren't supposed to go, so nobody could tell exactly whether he took a nose dive or just slipped, do you see? They
saw
him fall in, but it was too smoky to see just how, and so there was nothing clear-cut for the insurance people to go on, which is why I think it was really an accident, because Charley was such a methodical man, you know. He always had a reason for everything. But it was terrible for me, you know,” she added, blinking her eyes as if about to weep. “There I was on vacation all alone, with another week to go and not knowing a soul, except for a nice man named Joliffe who'd sat at our table a couple of times. He saw Charley go, too, and he was considerate enough to try to help me get over the shock. Oh, I was absolutely prostrated,” she added, and then, as though her phrase had recalled an image of a different character, she giggled. “But where did you get to know Charley, anyhow?”

“Oh—at college. We were classmates at Harvard.”

“Really? Say, that's something.” She grabbed the sleeve of a passing gentleman and tugged him around to face Wilson. “This is Bobby Hamrick. Bobby went to Harvard, too, didn't you, Bobby?”

“Um, that's right,” said Mr. Hamrick, uncertainly.

“Your house wasn't Adams, by any chance?” inquired Wilson, before it occurred to him that Mr. Hamrick's Harvard background would be of synthetic origin.

“Adams? Well, no, not exactly—”

“I'm sorry,” Wilson added quickly, anxious to cover his faux pas. “I forgot. I didn't mean to pry. Actually,” he went on, aware that the liquor had given him a heedless tongue, “I'm not a Harvard alumnus, either—
myself
, I mean to say. That is, I
used
to be, but I'm not any more.” This explanation somehow did not seem to be satisfactory, for Mr. Hamrick was now glaring at him in a forbidding manner. Sue Bushbane, clinging to his arm, was greatly amused.

“What do you mean,” she cried out, “did you resign or something? My God, that's priceless.”

“No,” Wilson went on, honestly determined to come up with some convincing reason to repair his mistake, “I
did
go to Harvard, you see, and I
was
an alumnus, but that was a long time ago, before I became a painter, and now—now I'm not any more.” The incongruity of his situation struck him as being quite funny. He laughed, and the sight of Hamrick's face, thunderously grave and fairly rippling with unspoken admonitions, made him laugh all the harder. It was just like old Filter, the pseudo investment analyst, Wilson thought, and sure enough, there was Filter not too far away, reinforcing Hamrick's silent signals with those of his own.

“The truth is,” Wilson spluttered, “that I just stopped being an alumnus. It's that simple.” He gave Hamrick a playful punch on the shoulder. “Haven't you ever stopped anything, for example?”

Hamrick closed in on him. “We must play golf together sometime, Wilson,” he said, meaningfully. Filter had approached from the other side, and Wilson saw several other men moving slowly his way.

“Golf,” Hamrick repeated, taking his arm.

“Did you learn golf at Harvard, Hamrick?” asked Wilson gaily, but as he saw that his irreverent attitude was causing his guests real concern, he composed himself. “I'm sorry,” he said. “My tongue just keeps on wagging. Look.” He stuck his tongue out and wagged it. “But don't worry, gentlemen, I'll try to keep myself in check. There's just one question on my mind, and I'll be satisfied.” He turned to Hamrick. “Where
did
you go to college, old boy? I mean, was it Yale or Columbia . . . ?” The group of men around him had sprouted hands, and the hands were gently edging Wilson in the direction of his bedroom. He did not resist, for he realized that his lack of control had created a certain problem in etiquette, but his voice continued anyway. “I'd really like to know, Hamrick, because if it was Columbia, I've got a cousin who went there, about your time, and you might remember the name. And come to think of it, by God, I've got a nephew who's there right now, at the law school—”