A Long Island Story Read online

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Harold’s a gem.’

  ‘Yeah, but so is Ben, you should remember that.’

  ‘I do, or I did. I’m trying to remind myself. And failing.’

  She wasn’t jealous, not quite, had never regarded infidelity as high on the list of human sinfulness, had been tempted herself before her libido was lobotomised, and would have regarded an occasional indiscretion as a bit of fun – if she was lucky – not life-threatening, quite the opposite, a sign of life. No, what she detested was lying, and evasion. If Ben was having an affair – fancy word, a what? A fling? A thing? – why not come out and say so, instead of hiding and slithering and evading her? Say so! Then she could kill him, slowly. She would enjoy that.

  The wine had turned red, how odd, he hadn’t noticed her opening the new bottle, she must have done it when they moved into the living room. He put his glass to his lips, aware that he was that little bit woozy, drank, enjoyed the transition from the faint citrus acidity of that white to this heavily fruited deeper glassful. Fruit? Weren’t you supposed to be able to roll the liquid round your mouth and come up with a string of constituent tastes? Blackberries? Redcurrants? Cherries? Like some demented greengrocer checking his stock. What nonsense. She’d tried to tutor him once, suggested, even, that the better reds had a less fruity taste and more of other flavours. Tobacco. Leather. Peat. Stone. Crap. He swirled it round again open-mindedly, swallowed, leant over and refilled his glass. He was unused to drinking so much wine, his vision fast becoming as unreliable as his emotions. Of which the major one was anger.

  She’d set it up, that library and writing table, she’d set him up, all that casual wet-hair-no-shoes nonchalance, in the service of the final revelation, the gift. It was a gift that was not merely surprising, but surprisingly unwelcome; it signalled the unambiguous fact that she had no idea, no goddamn idea, none, none at all, of what a writer actually is. Of what he does.

  That fat ugly typewriter perched on the library table was merely a symbol, stripped of utility, more likely to inhibit than to encourage. What he needed was a kitchen table, some legal stationery and some pencils, peace, a couple of dry martinis, a bit of mess round him. Dishes, empty cups, unwashed plates. Addie was good at supplying those, better than Rhoda at setting a writerly stage, though unlike Rhoda she had no intention of doing so. She just hated washing dishes. He did that, eventually.

  Rhoda’s antiseptic library was not a writing place but a non-writer’s idea of a writing place, a foolish, ill-informed archetype. And he had experienced it like a casually proffered insult; it startled him, he had no idea how to channel his distaste and disappointment, didn’t even try. She meant well, she’d been shocked at his anger, though even she could hardly deny that she was trying, if not to buy – his horrid phrase – at least to entice him into a better life.

  She was sorry, accepted and regretted her ham-fistedness, her inability to imagine what it was he actually did in the process of composition, her descent into good taste. If she had sanitised the creative process, it was only through ignorance, and it was beastly of him to be so ungenerous in response to her generosity, however misplaced. Buy him? What a thoroughly selfish response.

  By the time his anger had drained somewhat, due to the dual effects of excessive catharsis and alcoholic daze, hers had flared into renewed life, the wine – they’d had a bottle each by now – enhancing rather than diminishing her emotion. Insults were hurled, names called, shoulders turned. If she’d had the energy or will to stand she would have thrown him out, but it was too late. He’d fallen asleep on his chair, his head lolling forward. She suspected drool, but didn’t look. Nor had she the heart to call a cab and get him home.

  She got up, shook herself like a sleepy dog and went into her bedroom, lay on top of the silver bedspread and was soon asleep.

  ‘When is he coming? Can we go to the station? I can’t wait!’

  Becca had missed Ben more than any of them, his ease and goofiness, the enveloping warmth of his love. She was thoroughly aware that she was his favourite. That if she had got the polio and died he would have been broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. If Addie or Jake died, he’d get over that, after a while, over them. But she was necessary to him, he made her feel that, know that.

  ‘He’s on the 11.25 train tomorrow morning, darling. You and Jake and I can pick him up at Huntington Station.’

  ‘Can I wear my new dress?’ Perle had taken the little one for a belated bit of shopping to celebrate her birthday, which had occurred at the end of June. The dress in question was not entirely pink, which her grandmother would have preferred, but it did have sprigs of pink flowers against a cream background. Becca had tried it on in the shop, sidled over to the mirror, turned round shyly looking over her shoulder. It looked lovely! And here was a chance to wear it!

  ‘No!’ The response came out too quickly, too vehemently. Before Addie could explain – which would have been impossible – or apologise, Becca had fled from the porch into her bedroom, slamming the door. Why did Addie have to ruin everything? She didn’t notice Jake at the table at the back of the room, going through his box of baseball cards.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked, without looking up.

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  He could hear that she was crying, sniffling loudly, the prelude to sobs, but he didn’t care. Girls were always making a fuss. Even Addie – moms made fusses too, he’d overheard her crying at night a couple of times recently – or might it have been Ruby? – could tell she was trying to keep it down. Granny and Poppa might have heard.

  In a few minutes Addie tiptoed into the room and sat on the bed, waving Jake away with her finger. When he reluctantly left by the rear door, she put her hand on Becca’s shoulder, for the girl had turned away and hunched up protectively.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you.’

  ‘I only wanted to dress up for Ben. We haven’t seen him for three weeks!’ The words were muttered into the blanket.

  ‘I know. I am sorry.’

  ‘So can I?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Addie gently, ‘and you know what?’

  The child stopped sniffling and turned to look at her mother.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s all dress up! I can wear my pretty red dress that you like, and Jake can have pants and a button-up shirt and shoes, and won’t we look great standing there on the platform when Ben walks down the steps from the train!’

  Becca beamed.

  ‘Can we, can we? That’d be so great! He’d love that!’

  The last time they’d dressed up like that, as a family, was when they’d seen Ben’s sister Sadie off from Idlewild last summer. On a plane going to London. They’d driven to the airport, got a bit lost and almost missed her before they called for the people to get on the plane. But they had fifteen minutes to have a hug and a squeeze, and Ben went to a machine and bought Sadie an insurance policy that meant they would get $50,000 if she died. It only cost $2! Sadie had laughed a little uneasily.

  It wasn’t clear why she should say thank you, but she did.

  ‘But I am not going to die!’ she reassured the children. ‘You’re more likely to die on a bus than on a plane!’

  Becca took this in solemnly, resolving never again to go on a bus. When Sadie got to the going-off place – a gate, it was called – they all waved and she waved back gaily until she went through the door.

  ‘That was a bit much, buying life insurance!’ Addie said.

  Ben laughed. ‘We’ll hope for the best!’

  So he knew, Ben did. When a person went on a trip, or came home, you dressed up to meet them. And then they would give you presents!

  It was quite right, Addie thought. The wisdom of children. She had intended dressing down, throwing on any old schmatta, studiedly unwilling to compete with whatever shadow figure she now presumed to be lurking in DC. But why, why make herself undesirable? Wh
y not give him the full package, remind him what he was missing – and certainly would be missing in the three nights that would follow. The red dress. That’d do it, he’d be bemused and a little taken aback, it was a special dress, one of the few she had accepted from her father, shiny rayon, both free-flowing and figure-hugging, hard to understand how it could be both, showed off her assets perfectly. God knows why she liked it so much, it wasn’t her at all really, she was hardly a party girl. But there was always the hope of a night in the city, theatre and a meal afterwards, glad rags on and then off, in some nice hotel . . .

  The next morning they got themselves ready well ahead of time, Granny Perle perusing them with a puzzled look on her face as Jake reluctantly donned his best clothes, the little one preened in her peachy new dress, and Addie applied her make-up and lipstick.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ she asked. ‘Going to a party?’ She made going to a party sound disreputable, an activity likely to lead to nothing but trouble. Which, thought Addie, was just about right.

  ‘Ben is coming back!’ said Becca. ‘And we are his greeters. We have to dress up.’

  Perle smiled, that smile that meant she knew something was up, and certainly wasn’t going to say so, nor fail to convey that she was on to it, whatever it was. Nothing good, that was clear. Addie looked strained, determined to be gay with the children.

  She stood up from the dressing table, straightened her dress and looked at herself in the mirror, wiped a wisp of red lipstick from the corner of her mouth, put some perfume on her neck and wrists, looked again, approved ironically. Glad rags.

  ‘Let’s go, kids!’ she said loudly. ‘It’s almost eleven.’ The previous afternoon Jake had polished the Caddy and cleaned the insides; it had rarely looked so good, stately, like a limousine, with dressed-up rich people inside. Addie had joked that perhaps Poppa should drive, wearing a suit and a hat like a chauffeur. She had to explain what that was, which rather ruined the joke, and the idea. Anyway, none of them wanted him, he’d just be in the way, it was best just to be together, looking so wonderful, a surprise for Ben.

  When he alighted from the train, Ben looked up and down the platform, and his eyes passed right over them as they stood, grouped like a photograph, some thirty feet down the track. He looked further down, and then slowly back, his eyes stopped, he paused with a puzzled look on his face, waved tentatively. The children ran to meet him, grabbed hold of his arms, as Addie walked to join them.

  He looked puzzled, more than that, raddled somewhat, his hair askew under his hat, his tie at half mast, suit jacket over his arm, with his overnight bag in the other hand. As if he’d sat on the floor for the whole journey, dusty and soiled, blinking at the renewal of the light.

  He shook himself slightly, readjusted his response and expectations, as if surprised by an unforeseen argument trying a case.

  ‘Well,’ he exclaimed, ‘what a surprise this is!’

  Becca giggled and squeezed his arm.

  ‘It is a surprise! Welcome home!’

  ‘Yeah, Ben,’ said Jake, ‘me too!

  He looked at Addie, standing a couple of feet behind the children.

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  Jake grabbed the handle of Ben’s small suitcase and gave a tug, commandeered it, and began a quick walk to the car. Becca took his hand, while Addie strolled alongside.

  ‘My God,’ he said, ‘you all look terrific. What’s the occasion?’

  ‘You are!’ said Becca. ‘Cos you came home!’

  ‘And you,’ said Addie, looking at him closely, ‘you look terrible. What’s the matter?’

  It was true enough: his outward rumpledness mirrored some inward collapse, or desolation. He had those bags under his eyes that indicate both lack of sleep and stress, had shaved badly and patches of hair showed along his chin, his colour reminded her of the belly of a whitefish. Instead of feeling concern, she felt a shiver of revulsion. Could these be the symptoms of late nights, too much drink, too much, too much . . .?

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know. Not been sleeping very well, I stay up all night worrying. And then I thought I could get a few hours’ nap on the train – you know how I can hardly stay awake on trains – but it was full, and a woman with a screaming baby sat next to me. It was purgatorial!’

  ‘You should have moved.’

  ‘I tried. No seats anywhere, people in the aisles. I thought of standing but wasn’t sure I could stay up straight . . .’

  The requisite ‘poor you’ was not forthcoming.

  ‘I called you on Wednesday night and there was no answer.’

  ‘Oh, what time did you call?’

  ‘Nine, and ten, and eleven . . .’

  He paused, but not, she could observe, for thought, but for emphasis, as if his major concern was to deliver his lines convincingly. Looked round to see if the kids were listening, but Becca had run ahead to prepare the car for its royal passenger. She’d brought a silk cushion to put on his seat, he’d be so tired after his trip.

  ‘Wednesday! It’s rather embarrassing . . . I had a meeting late in the afternoon, talking to one of the personnel people about severance terms, and it was clear that something was up, only she wouldn’t say. But it was a frosty atmosphere, and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I went home and drank four martinis instead of eating, and I woke up early in the morning with a hideous hangover.’

  ‘That’s not like you. You can drink four martinis without a trace . . .’

  ‘OK. I lied. I drank half a bottle of gin, with ice. And even I am not used to that.’

  ‘Well, that explains it then,’ said Addie, ‘you didn’t hear the phone, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Ben, as they reached the car. ‘And then last night I did it again. Fell asleep by eight. Did you call?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I am so sorry. This has got to stop. I can’t go on like this.’

  ‘You bet you can’t,’ said Addie, getting into the driver’s seat.

  Becca was holding the front door open for him, standing at attention, as if she wanted to salute. He slumped down and closed his eyes. The kids got in the back. Addie drove them home.

  After one look at Ben, Perle did not press lunch on him, though it was laid out, just how he liked it. He’d been travelling since the early morning and said he was hungry, but he looked pale and exhausted. She rushed into the rear area to make up the bed, ushered him into the bathroom to shower and change, settled him down in the bed. Turned on the fan – it was already pushing ninety – and tiptoed out. He was immediately asleep. In the other room Addie and the kids had changed into the usual shorts and tops. The party was over.

  At the table the family were soon eating listlessly, enervated by the heat and by some contracted emotion that rendered them speechless, though none could have said why, quite. Too tired to eat, or to talk. After they’d cleared the table, Mo went off to his workshop with Jake, Becca took her Peanuts book to bed, while Addie and Perle did the washing up, it was easier than asking Ruby, best leave her to stew and swelter in her little room.

  ‘What’s the matter with Ben?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother. Just a couple of late nights, worrying about this and that, burning the midnight oil . . .’

  ‘I’ve never seen him like this. Should we check his temperature? There’s been a bug going round, Michelle told me about it, I think Jenny got it last week.’

  ‘Mother! He’s been in DC. They have their own bugs. He’s just exhausted. We’ll have an easy weekend, and he’ll be better . . .’

  There was a pause while Perle dried the plates and put the leftover food in the ice box.

  ‘Addie,’ she said tentatively, ‘is everything all right?’

  She knew it wasn’t. Addie knew she knew. Perle knew that Addie knew she knew.

  ‘Yes, Mother, everything is fine. Just fine.’

  ‘Well,’ said Perle, using one of her characteristic phrases, guaranteed to make Addie bridle. ‘May I make a suggestion?’


  ‘Nobody has ever been able to stop you . . .’

  ‘He needs an easy weekend. Let’s let him read, have a rest, listen to his music. We can make ourselves a bit scarce, make some lovely meals for him.’

  ‘Mother! Stop!’

  Over the next two days Ben sat in a deckchair on the porch and read. First he read comics to Becca, and then a Hardy Boys book to Jake, and then he’d earned the right to read to himself, which he did for hours, totally immersed.

  It was not a book he was reading. It was something or other in a fat black folder with a lot of typed pages in it. None of them had ever seen it before. When he once got up for a pee, and left it by the side of his chair, Addie snuck over and opened it. The title page read Nature’s Priest by Martin Brennan, Part 1. Though she knew what it was, she was nonetheless astonished to see it, had assumed it not merely abandoned but lost, or thrown away. Silly of her, really, writers – not that Ben was a writer, not a real one – never throw things away, just stuff them in boxes and put them in the closet, or an attic, perhaps the garage. Out of sight but obviously never entirely out of mind. Why had he disinterred it, why now?

  No reason not to ask, was there? He had it right there, out in plain sight, was virtually asking to be interrogated about it.

  She lifted it up when he returned.

  ‘Ben, how come you’re reading this? You haven’t looked at it for at least ten years.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ he asked owlishly, taking it from her hand.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He paused for a moment, did not meet her eye, reclaimed the folder from her hand.

  ‘I guess it would be wrong to say I am haunted by it, nothing as dramatic as that, but it niggles at me. I worked so hard on it, for so long. It was my life, then, it was about my life then, and before then. A sort of autobiography in the form of a novel . . .’

  ‘But publishers didn’t want it!’

  ‘They didn’t, and they were right, I could see that even then, and even more strongly now I am looking at it again. After all these years I can see quite clearly what is wrong with it.’