An Unfinished Season (25 page)

 

The apartment was crowded with friends and a few relatives. Aurora took me around for introductions, Mr. Uh, Aunt This, Aunt That, people smiling automatically and shaking hands, offering their names to me, murmuring a condolence to Aurora. So sorry, so sorry, we'll miss him so, embracing her, holding her gaze until turning away with weary smiles. The room was humid from the afternoon rain and fragrant from the flowers placed in vases here and there. We were in the dining room, the round table laden with a coffee urn and cups and plates of dainty sandwiches at one end and an ice bucket and glasses and bottles of whiskey and gin at the other. Most of the men were drinking whiskey, solemn in their dark business suits. They appeared to have come directly from their offices downtown or from the hospital; a number of them were doctors, colleagues of Jack Brule, gruff dark-eyed men who seemed tightly wound. Some of them spoke with foreign accents and wore suits of heavy worsted, cut in a boxy European style. One of the doctors offered another a cigarette with the comment that it was all right to smoke, Jack wasn't there to give them grief, though if you observed carefully you could find the aura of his disapproval. The doctors used coffee saucers for ashtrays and held their cigarettes ash-end up between thumb and forefinger. When we left them after the introductions, they resumed their conversation where they had left off, something about Dora and a case of hysteria and Fred making too much of Dora's dyspnea. Fred made too much of things generally because he was afraid to face the
truth.
Viennese inhibitions; and I understood then that they were talking about Freud.

The doctors Bloom, Aurora said. They're brothers.

They don't look like brothers, I said.

Nevertheless, Aurora said.

What's dyspnea? I asked.

Inability to breathe, Aurora said. I've got a case of it right now.

Let me get you something, I said.

Aurora shook her head.

Do you want to lie down?

No, she said sharply, and looked off down the corridor. Will you be all right here for a while? I have to talk to—

Of course, I said.

—some men from the city.

What can I do to help?

Stay here, she said.

I will, I promised.

Maybe you could watch the buffet. Make sure there's ice. You know where the liquor is. And if anyone wants anything, give it to them.

Don't worry, I said.

They'll go in a while, I don't know when.

I'll be here, I said. I think you ought to rest.

Stop telling me to rest, I don't need to rest. You don't know anything about it, Aurora said angrily, the same tone of voice she had used when she told me her father would never, ever do anything to hurt her. Then a hand appeared on her shoulder and we turned to see Charlie Smithers with a strikingly handsome young man, blue-eyed, golden-haired, tall, bronzed as a lifeguard. Charlie nodded at me and took Aurora's hand in both of his and murmured something, then moved to introduce the young man, his son, Albert. Albert smiled broadly, a smile that you might see in an advertisement for toothpaste. His smile seemed enormous, larger than life, and he held it until both Aurora and I looked away in embarrassment.

I prefer Al, he said. Al. A1 Smithers. Remember that, please.

Of course, Aurora said.

We'll only be a minute, his father said. We just wanted to pay our respects. Such a terrible shock—

Let Wils get you something, Aurora said.

No, thank you, Charlie Smithers said. We must be on our way.

Do you have bourbon? Al said.

Yes, I said.

Find me a bourbon, then. No ice. No water. Al's smile had remained in place, as unnerving as if he had had a knife in his teeth. He looked directly at Aurora and said, I didn't like him, you know. I didn't like him one bit.

We'll be leaving now, Charlie said.

He was mean to me, Al said.

Goodbye, Aurora, Charlie said. God bless.

How was he mean to you? Aurora said dully.

He said things.

What things? Aurora asked.

That's for me to know and for you to find out, Al said.

This is not the time, I said coldly, but at a look from Aurora said nothing further.

I'm sorry, Aurora, Charlie said.

Thank you for coming, Aurora said softly.

We watched Charlie Smithers move off with his son, who seemed unaware of the surroundings. His gestures were mannered, as if he were onstage, his chin high and his smile frozen, waiting for the house lights to dim and the curtain to fall. Now they were at the door, Charlie suddenly looking very old and unsteady on his feet, though he had a firm grip on his son's arm. You shouldn't've said anything, Aurora muttered to me. You should have let him speak. I didn't mind. What do I care what he says? Poor Charlie. Then she gathered herself and walked slowly down the corridor to her father's study, closing the door behind her.

I was at sea, a room full of unfamiliar faces, Aurora in shock. I wanted to help her but I seemed unable to find the right words, beginning in the cab at the Art Institute. She was inconsolable, and I was helpless. So I emptied the coffee saucers and fetched more ice and generally made myself useful, mixing drinks for those who wanted one, passing the sandwiches. The company became more animated, clustering around the drinks end of the round table. Many of them were discussing Jack Brule, how long they had known him, his skill as a psychiatrist, his reserve, his love for his daughter. Others were replaying everyday events in their own lives, the second grandchild,
Aïda
at the Lyric, the long summer, the Labor Day weekend, the Red Scare and the awful Rosenberg business—and in the middle of everything, the Korean War at an end at last thanks to Ike, at least he was good for something. The deceased was also present in conversations tête-à-tête on the perimeter, the conversations conducted in confidential tones, ceasing when anyone drew too close. The women looked stricken, and I was surprised that so many were drinking cocktails, the glasses held in both hands, the hands gloved. When they talked, they talked in hushed whispers. Twice I heard Consuela's name mentioned but when I looked for her in the room, she was not to be found. The noise level rose a pitch when a thick-bodied younger man entered, walking with a seaman's rolling gait. It was Marlon Brando, instantly recognized but not otherwise noticed. On such an occasion anyone was entitled to anonymity. The great actor had the wary look of a wrestler circling the ring but was taken in hand at once by the doctors Bloom, who shook hands with him in turn and ambled off toward the window. When one of them indicated the bar, Brando shook his head, and when he turned his heavy eyes to the corridor and asked the obvious question—Where's Aurora?—the doctors began to speak in quick bursts, finishing one another's sentences, Brando turning from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. Finally, he asked another question and both doctors were silent, evidently searching for the correct answer, and when it came the actor shook his head and slumped as if he had been struck physically, everyone watching but making a show of not watching, and so the noise level rose to a higher pitch.

A few guests left and others arrived. I rummaged in the kitchen for more flower vases and another bottle of scotch. Now there were thirty-odd people in the room and this surprised me because I did not think of Jack Brule as a man who had a wide circle of friends. Of course some of them would be patients, and still others medical colleagues. I noticed there were more women than men, and some of the women were weeping openly, trying and failing to maintain a brave face. The conversations around me seemed ever more bizarre—

Two overweight older men, both wearing white short-sleeved shirts with a forest of pens in the breast pockets, were arguing about tattoos and which regimes required them and which did not, but when I approached with a cheese board, the men turned their backs and began to speak in German. When I went away they continued in German, their voices rising. One word was repeated and I tried to remember it so I could look it up later. Their abrupt manner discouraged familiarity and the others in the room did not join the argument.

I moved off, worried about Aurora, wondering what had become of her. I was in a room full of strangers. Near the window, the doctors Bloom were talking and Marlon Brando was listening, nodding fractionally, his heavy-lidded eyes unreadable, straying now and then to the door, the way out.

Then Aunt That was at my elbow, smiling encouragement.

I said, What are they talking about? The German men.

The war, she said.

It was something about tattoos, I said.

They're always arguing, those two. Friends of Jack's. Jack knew all kinds. Have you met Mr. Brando?

No, I said.

A good friend of Jack's, she said.

I started to say that I had seen a picture of him in Aurora's bedroom, but caught myself. I said, Aurora told me.

It's nice of him to come. I heard he was in town, something to do with one of his films.

Yes, I said. How did they all—hear about this?

My sister Emily, she said. She thought it would be better if we were not alone. I suppose she called Mr. Brando, or one of the Blooms did. I've never been introduced to him but with a face like that, in the films, you feel that you know him. You know him but he doesn't know you. It's strange, don't you think?

I muttered something noncommittal. I did not think I knew Marlon Brando. I knew Zapata and Stanley Kowalski but I didn't know him any more than he knew me.

The Blooms are taking care of him, she said. I don't need to interfere.

Do you think you can make me a drink, Wils? Scotch, soda, lots of ice?

I made Aunt That the drink and she said she was happy to meet me at last, her brother had spoken warmly of me. He said you were a good-looking boy. Considerate. That was the word he used. He was happy that Aurora had a beau. She's had others but Jack never liked them. Drugstore cowboys and pseudo-intellectuals, he said. Either too old or too young, too rich or too poor, or too full of themselves. Jack was protective of Aurora, and why not?

I liked him, I said. We only met one time.

Only once?

He was—fierce.

Jackie?
Fierce?
Oh no, he was gentle as a lamb. He was never fierce.

He was fierce when he talked about the war.

You talked to him about that? He rarely mentioned the war, the war was verboten, ancient history. Jack always said it was a mistake to live in the past. I believe the war was too painful for him. Jack was sickly as a child. You should have seen him when he came back, all skin and bones, a fright.

I think he was at Bataan, I said.

It was somewhere in the Pacific, she said.

The march, I said.

I don't know what it was. Jackie was never a great talker. Not a great talker at all. He kept things to himself. She sipped her drink thoughtfully, hesitating, and then she said, You'll have to take care of Aurora now.

I will, I said.

It'll be worse for her tomorrow and the day after.

I know, I said.

It's a terrible thing, she said, just hideous for her. I worry about how she'll get on after this, who will look after her, where she will go. She certainly cannot stay here, with all the memories of her father, and Consuela. Aurora and Consuela do not always see eye to eye, and now ... She turned her head when she heard the ring of the telephone, but it stopped almost at once; someone had picked up. Jack was not good with women, she continued.

She said this in a bitter whisper, peering at me as if she were sharing her darkest secret.

Aurora knew it, too, she said. Consuela is so—spectacular. No one knows who she is or where she comes from. Jack met her at some concert, and before you could say Jiminy Cricket she'd moved in. She was not a good influence on poor Jack, as events have shown. Her voice trailed away as she angrily dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up piece of tissue.

I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, she went on.

I am, too, I said.

I have a boy about your age, Oliver. He's at Princeton. Jack's school. You'll meet him at the funeral if he gets back in time. Aunt That paused to nod at someone across the room. She said, His father died when Oliver was very young. Jack was a kind of surrogate father until he went away to the Pacific. I married again, a rat. Welch was his name and never in this world was a name a better fit. A wartime romance, except romance would be the wrong word in this instance. Oliver never liked him, told me he was a four-flusher. One day Welch walked out the front door and never came back, good riddance...

Aunt That went on about second husband Welch but I didn't listen carefully. Bright shafts of light fell through the dining room window, touching the edge of the round table, and when I looked at my watch I saw that it was almost five o'clock. The room was very warm but, preserving the formality of the occasion, none of the men had removed their jackets except for the Germans, now talking in whispers. Conversation was low-key now, with a tangible sense of unease. This was Jack Brule's room, the chair where he sat, the table where he ate his breakfast. But he was not present. At a certain moment, the company felt they were intruders, invited but not necessarily welcome. The pictures on the wall, the china, the ice bucket, the coffee urn, the bottle of Gordon's—all Jack's, except they were now orphaned objects. The dead man's disapproving spirit was all too present, an unnerving feeling for those who had come out of sympathy. Where was Aurora anyhow? The dead man's sisters were the only family in the room. Emily remained at the door, greeting new arrivals.

...and I don't know if he's alive, or what.

I said, Is Consuela here?

I believe she is in the apartment somewhere, Aunt That said brusquely. How long she'll stay is something else again.

And Aurora?

She's with Consuela and the gentlemen from the city. I expect they'll be a while longer. But there's nothing to be done about it.