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“You don't have a nephew,” someone whispered angrily. Wilson was conscious of having left the living room and that John was among those who were guiding him to bed.

“You're damn' right,” he conceded. “I forgot.” He was seated on the bed. Someone was removing his shoes. “I don't have a nephew. You're right there. But anyway, he's at Columbia, and my daughter—I mean, I realize I don't have a daughter—but my daughter, she's married to a doctor and maybe by this time—who knows?—she's got a baby. Do you know that? By God, John,” he continued, addressing the nearest face, “I might be a grandfather by now. Isn't that something? I mean, if I
had
a daughter, which I'm the first to admit that I don't, of course.” He leaned dizzily backward, gazing uncertainly at the figures surrounding the bed who were examining him with what he sensed was deep reproach. “Never fear, gentlemen,” he declared, attempting to reassure them. “I am perfectly aware of the facts. If I am a grandfather, believe me, they'll never drag it out of me, not even in court . . .” And with this, he clapped both hands to his throbbing head and burst into prolonged laughter.

Chapter 4

H
E DID
not tell John where he was going. He told no one. Indeed, he himself did not seem to have decided finally on his destination until he marched up to the airport ticket counter, his suitcase in his hand, and in response to the clerk's inquiry, mumbled: “Denver.”

“One-way?”

“No, round-trip, please.”

He checked his bag and went into the bar to wait for his flight to be called. In the mirror, his face appeared pale and puffy among the reflected bottles and the shuttling figure of the bartender. The mirror's image of an illuminated clock on the opposite wall showed the hands reversed, with time retreating. For reassurance, he glanced at his wristwatch. Yes, in four hours he would be in Denver, and from there it would be but an hour's drive to his daughter's house. It was not to see her again that he was going, he told himself, but simply . . . well, for one thing, he wanted to make sure that she had gotten her portion of his estate, because if a baby were on the way, there would be added expenses, and her husband was probably not making much yet, being so recently out of medical school. Of course, he couldn't just barge in and inquire bluntly about money matters; he would have to hint around a little.

“Hello, Wilson.”

It was Henry Bushbane, who had climbed up on the next stool. Wilson flushed guiltily and cleared his throat. “Ah. Bushbane.”

“Going somewhere, Wilson?”

“Er, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I thought,” said Wilson, craftily, “I'd take in some of the night life at Las Vegas. I've never been there, but I've heard a lot about it.” He sensed that Bushbane was regarding him with a certain air of irony, as if he knew full well Wilson's real intentions. Somewhat defiantly, Wilson added: “And what about yourself?”

“Oh, I'm not going anywhere.” Bushbane smiled sadly and gave his order to the bartender.

There was an uneasy pause. Bushbane turned around to study the entrance for a moment, and then, when his drink had been placed before him, he winked at Wilson and said: “Let's go back to a booth, what do you say? They can spot us too easily here.”

“Who can?” Wilson asked, but he followed Bushbane to a booth anyway, where they sat in semi-darkness while soft piped music hummed at them from a hidden loudspeaker. The room was decorated in heavy shades of green, which gave Bushbane's face an even more saturnine cast.

“Look here, Wilson,” Bushbane began, “you're not having an easy time of it. I can tell.”

“If it's about the party, I just had one too many, that was all.”

“No, I don't mean just that. You're a troubled man, Wilson.”

“I'm doing all right,” said Wilson defensively. “I think I can adjust as well as the next man, in time.”

“Of course you can. But what you need most of all right now is a friend. Someone you can rely on. Someone you can confide in. Me, for example.”

“I appreciate that, Bushbane. But let me put it this way. I've
tried
to confide. For instance, the day after the party I called up this fellow Filter and I began apologizing for my behavior, and he was very polite about it, but he absolutely declined to go into the matter. I mean, I tried to explain that what I'd said on the subject of being a grandfather was merely a kind of mental lapse, do you see, but he pretended that I hadn't said anything of the kind. And then,” Wilson continued, “I paid a call on Hamrick. I felt I was bound to, for I'd insulted the man, so to speak, but it was the same story. When I attempted to explain this little mixup about his Harvard degree, he looked like I'd said something embarrassing and he turned red and kept trying to assure me that Harvard hadn't been mentioned at all. Well, of course I realize that men in our position must be discreet and that the past is all over and done with, but frankly, Bushbane, this seems to be carrying things a bit far, don't you agree? You see, if I'm to get on a friendly basis with a man—which I'd like very much to do—I have the feeling that I've got a right to know a little something about him. I mean, just between Hamrick and myself, why couldn't he sort of whisper what school he really went to, eh?”

Bushbane listened to Wilson's recital with increasing gravity. “Look here, Wilson,” he said. “I want to say first of all that I absolutely understand your feelings. Absolutely. But you've got to realize that this is a passing phase on your part. You've got to be reasonable.” He raised one finger, like a schoolmaster. “You've got to remember that these men have made a tremendous monetary investment in a certain personal service, and they can't abide the idea that this investment may be threatened. Look at it from their point of view. Suppose one of them took it into his head to go running about and making references to the past and asking questions and so forth. I ask you, Wilson, that kind of thing might snowball, and pretty soon the whole damned structure would be in jeopardy. And why? I'll tell you why. Because it all rests on faith and trust. Someone who violates that faith and trust . . . well, he's not playing fair with the others. Don't you see?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“No buts, my friend. Believe me, we all have your best interests in mind,” said Bushbane, with obvious sincerity. “We want you to join us heart and soul, we really do. You're one of us, after all. You just have to set yourself to act in good faith, to trust . . . and to accept. And we'll help you, Wilson. We stand ready at any hour of the day or night to help you. Filter and Hamrick and the rest, they're all good loyal fellows, of fine upstanding backgrounds, just your kind of people, Wilson, and as sure as I'm sitting here now, my friend, any one of them would rush to your side at the drop of a hat to give you a boost over a tough moment.”

Wilson could not help being touched by Bushbane's words, but he also was somewhat puzzled by their meaning. “What kind of tough moment?”

“Well, in case you feel a sort of urge coming on to look backward, to think about things that—well, that aren't part of the life of Antiochus Wilson. That kind of thing isn't healthy, Wilson, as you'll be the first to admit. You
are
Wilson, you see. You've got a responsibility to yourself to build a new and better past, and you can't very well do that if you keep harking back to something that doesn't bear constructively on that point.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right.”

“So what I'm saying, Wilson, is that you're bound to have low times. You're bound to feel sort of regressive once in a while. All I want is for you to promise me one thing. When you feel yourself slipping into one of these moods, you just call me up—call up Hamrick, or Filter, or Jolson, for that matter, and we'll run right over to see you.”

“And do what?”

Bushbane lighted a cigarette. “Why, we'll do something to take your mind off your troubles. Do you play chess or checkers? Like to zip into town for a girlie show? It doesn't matter what. Whatever it is, we'll do it with you—we'll do it
for
you, and pretty soon, you'll be yourself again, and then in time you'll be free of these urges and you can join us, Wilson, in extending the old helping hand to newcomers. Believe me, my friend, that's just about the biggest satisfaction in life—helping others to find a little happiness,” Bushbane declared, his gloomy face alight with fervor. “It took me a long time to realize this fact, Wilson. Why, when I remember how in the old days I used to—” He broke off suddenly as if in embarrassment and gnawed his lip. “I mean to say, well—we stand ready to help you, that's all,” he concluded, somewhat lamely. “Can we shake on that, Wilson?”

“Of course,” said Wilson, warmly. They clasped hands briefly. “I can't tell you how much your words have meant to me, Bushbane. It's lucky that we bumped into each other out here, as a matter of fact,” he added, reaching in his pocket for his wallet with the vague notion of displaying his Denver ticket to Bushbane as a token of his new trust. “Are you expecting to meet someone arriving, by the way?” he inquired conversationally.

“Well, no. I came out with the rest of the committee as soon as John called.”

Wilson's hand rested on the wallet but did not withdraw it. “What committee?”

Bushbane grinned disarmingly. “Well, you just told John you were going to be gone for a few days, without saying where, and so he called us.”

“Why?”

“Well . . . to talk to you, Wilson. We were afraid you might be prepared to so something desperate.”

“You mean, you followed me out here?”

“In a sense, yes. Filter and Mayberry and myself. We split up to find you. The reason I dragged you back to this booth,” Bushbane added with a conspiratorial wink, “was that I thought I'd do better with you alone. I mean, Filter and Mayberry are fine fellows, but a little on the direct-action side, and they might have offended you.”

“I see,” said Wilson.

“But everything's all right now, isn't it? That is, you're over your depressed state, aren't you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine. Look here, Wilson. You're going to forget this nonsense about Las Vegas, aren't you? The thing to do in the first few months, you see, is stay with the gang, and then when you get your sea legs, there's no reason in the world why you can't trust yourself to go anywhere you please and do anything you please, within reason. But going off by your lonesome at this stage—well, that's a bit risky.”

“I see your point,” said Wilson, shoving his wallet down more firmly into its pocket.

“You know what the saying is about freedom,” continued Bushbane persuasively. “Eternal vigilance, Wilson. That's the way freedom grows. Here, I've got an idea. Bob Hamrick and I have planned a little outing to the city for tonight. A good meal, a good show, and then afterward, there's a little place on the hill with Chinese girls. You've got no idea, Wilson, what tricks those Chinese girls can play. We just discovered it last month. How about it—you game?”

Wilson hesitated for just an instant. “Of course,” he said. He glanced toward the door with an uneasy expression. “There's just one favor, though, if you wouldn't mind.”

“Name it.”

“I'm a little—embarrassed by all this, Bushbane. My behavior, I mean.”

“Forget it, Wilson.”

“And right now I'd rather not face your other two committee members. Do you think you could get them to go on back without seeing me?”

“Sure thing. Look, I'll pick you up at your place about five, okay?”

“Five ought to be just right for me, Bushbane . . .”

B
y five o'clock, however, Wilson was in a taxicab on his way from the Denver airport to the town nearby where his daughter lived. He had telephoned in advance, naturally, saying that he had been a close friend of her late father, and had received a rather hesitant invitation to come for cocktails.

Now, as the cab drummed over an ice-patched road beside the wall of snowy mountains, Wilson was unpleasantly conscious of his guilt. First of all, by deceiving poor Bushbane, he had violated a deep, instinctive taboo: one simply did not lie to an honest man—and Bushbane was clearly such a man—particularly if one expected to have further dealings with him. He had forfeited Bushbane's trust, and as a matter of fact he would not exactly have improved his standing with the other men, either. There would be long faces and reproving glances when he returned to the colony, that was clear, Wilson thought. But on the other hand, he felt he had the right to decide for himself where he might travel and when, without the intervention of Bushbane and his committee.

“What number was that, sir?” the cabdriver inquired, as he slowed at the outskirts of the town.

“Three twenty-seven.”

Sally, his daughter. He felt guilty about her, too. And fearful. Suppose she penetrated his masquerade . . . suppose the eyes and voice and mannerisms gave him away . . . suppose he made some revealing conversational blunder? His hands were cold and damp. He wiped them on his handkerchief, dropped the handkerchief accidentally on the muddy floor of the cab, and, despairing, let it remain there.

Sally greeted him calmly at her door. “Mr. Wilson? Oh, please come in. Let me take your hat . . .”

He had braced himself irrationally against the shock of her recognition. Stupid of him. It undoubtedly only made him look strained and awkward, when he should have appeared genial, friendly, debonair.

“Ah, yes, um.” He so feared he would call her Sally that he resolved to call her nothing at all. “And this is your, ah—pleased to meet you, doctor.”

His son-in-law was a wiry, dark little man, with a faintly amused and superior expression no doubt copied from some exalted member of the medical school faculty. He frisked Wilson professionally with his eyes, as if his guest were some cadaver laid out to illustrate a surgical problem.

“Bourbon?”

“Yes, thank you.” Wilson had dared give Sally no more than a glance at first, for there had been a shock, but perversely he was the one who had failed in recognition. She
was
Sally, wasn't she? She must be. And yet it was only gradually, with occasional furtive looks at her, that he was able to reconstruct in his mind an acceptable image of his daughter. She was not pregnant, but all the same there had been a distinct physical change in the eighteen months since he had seen her. Nothing gross or obvious; still, she was clearly no longer the rather angular and excitable creature whose church wedding had been the triumph of Emily's career. Sally was placid now, formal, composed. The alteration of maturity, perhaps, Wilson thought. He cleared his throat, not knowing what to say, not sure just why he had made this visit. Had he expected to find his little darling toddling about and shrieking “Daddy!” as she saw him ascend the steps? No, the child was gone, so was the energetic virgin, and in their place was a rather aloof young woman who had moved into matronliness. Change and mobility. Thus, life. He swallowed some of the bourbon and forced a smile, conscious that these two young people were waiting for him to justify his visit. Their curiosity was stifling.