And Sons (47 page)

Andrew wished he could spit. “Where’s your”—swallow—“tooth?”

“Knocked out.”

“By what?”

“Like I said, from a punch to the face. You’re looking kind of pale.”

“I think I need to go home.”

Edgar Mead waved. “There’s Rainer. Hey, Rainer!”

A large head stopped and turned, towering over all other heads, the fellow guests appearing merely representational in his company, like the shallow end of a pool. He came toward them, paddling through
well-coiffed water, with Dennis Gilroy and an earnest-looking young man following.

“Andrew”—Dennis’s eyes went Wow—“great of you to come.”

“I’m not really here,” Andrew said between swallows.

“Mr. Dyer, Rainer Krebs. It’s a pleasure. My great-uncle knew your stepfather.”

“My stepfather?”

“Friends during the war, I think.”

“War?”

“Andrew,” Dennis said, “I’d love for you to meet Christopher Denslow. He’s the young writer we’re celebrating tonight. He’s written a terrific first novel, which I really think you’d love. It’s right up your alley.”

This young writer stepped forward, obviously well bred and radiating a humble confidence, as though he were a force for good even if he occasionally found himself in offensive company. Like tonight. But you understand, Mr. Dyer, he seemed to say, shaking his hand like they were both privy to their own secret identities. “I met your son earlier, all three of your sons actually.”

“Yes,” Rainer said, “half the crowd seems to be made up of Dyers.”

Andrew grinned, his lips a dam.

“Rainer’s a producer,” Dennis explained. “He’s bought the rights to Chris’s book.”

“It’s a very exciting project,” Rainer confirmed.

“I might play the chimp,” Edgar Mead said.

“A bonobo,” Christopher corrected.

“In my defense, part of the chimp family.”

Andrew wondered if you could drown in your own spit.

“And this punk is only twenty-four,” Dennis said of Christopher.

“Almost twenty-five.”

“Younger than you with
Ampersand
.”

“If only there was a comparison to be made.”

“Jeanie, do you have a book?” Jeanie Spokes at Dennis’s command handed over a copy of
The Propagators
, which he passed on to Andrew. The cover was a crude but evocative drawing of a teddy bear scratched into dirt.

“Great cover, huh?” Dennis said.

The new-book smell and texture turned Andrew’s stomach even more.

“Christopher designed it.”

“I’m just glad it came out all right.”

“What’s the font again?”

“Dot Matrix.”

“Christopher’s also doing the screenplay,” Rainer informed them.

“I’m sure he’ll design the movie poster as well,” kidded Dennis.

“I do have my ideas.”

“I bet you do. Hey, you should sign Andrew’s copy.” Dennis took the book from Andrew and handed it to Christopher. “A passing of the torch moment.”

Andrew was pretty sure he only had so many more swallows left.

“It’s really something to be signing a book to you,” the young man said. His earnestness, while honest, was without warmth, his eyes darkly calculating all his good deeds, even the minor ones, like being friendly to people and putting up with stupid questions, in general remaining patient with those who were far less evolved, hoping this might excuse his other, faintly genocidal thoughts. “You were one of my heroes growing up,” he said.

Andrew listed to the left.

“I’m not sure if Richard’s talked to you about
Ampersand
,” from this Rainer character.

“My all-time favorite number-one book,” from Edgar.

“These guys do have an interesting take,” from Dennis, “and a good track record.”

Andrew listed to the right.

“
The Erasers
was brilliant.”

“It’s all about the script for us. That’s number one.”

Andrew turned toward Jamie. “I don’t understand these people.”

“Yeah?”

“I need to go home.”

Jamie was swaying a bit himself. “Okay.”

“Like now”—an uncertain pause after that last swallow—“I think I might throw up.”

A party photographer had appeared and was positioning for a candid of A. N. Dyer with Christopher Denslow, his hand nudging Christopher closer, there, perfect, now trying to get the attention of the old man, right here, right here, his fingers snapping for focus, but Andrew was on the verge of collapsing.

“No pictures,” Jamie said, stepping in.

“Hey, it’s a nice moment,” from Dennis.

Jamie took his father’s arm. “We’re going.”

“Yes. Please. Fast,” Andrew told him.

“Just one picture,” Dennis almost begged.

“Richard,” Jamie called.

Richard was busy watching Emmett talk with Andy, Emmett doing his best to cheer Andy up, which involved a series of animated gestures that Richard was desperate to understand.

“Richard, we need to go like now.”

Richard saw his father’s pallor. “Yeah, okay.”

“What about Andy?” Andrew mumbled.

“We’ll get him later,” Jamie said.

“No, no, no, we should get him now.”

“He’s already gone,” Richard lied. He took his father’s other arm.

“Wait, Mr. Dyer,” from Edgar Mead.

But the three of them were already hustling through the Library, through the Living Hall. Their hurried pace caused a small scene, these sons escorting their sick old dad toward fresh air. But the Dyer boys cut through the murmurs and the questions, steadfast with their guidance, no need for revisions or edits here; they were taking care, and with every step Andrew loosened and let his feet bounce along in a pantomime of walking.

“Faster,” he said.

“Hold on,” from Richard.

“Hang in there,” from Jamie.

All this spit and Andrew was parched.
Water, water, every where …
The word
sequela
popped into his head. He had always wanted to use that word in one of his books. As the boys swerved through people, Andrew leaned his head back and imagined the ceiling starting to
buckle, a few drops coming from the cracks, the mansion groaning as the flow from above increased and opened bigger fissures and linked the drops into a solid gush that inspired chunks of plaster to come down, revealing an unrestrained torrent. Screams would follow. The proactive would proactivate but to no avail. A foot of water. Now two. Now three. Rembrandt would sit back and watch like John Jacob Astor on the
Titanic
. Turner would slowly find his equal. There would be no escape.

“Almost there.”

Andrew began to heave.

Through the vestibule and into the entrance hall and down the stairs, where the boys adjusted their grip and draped him between their shoulders in the style of soldiers removing the wounded, they got him into the cold, reassuring air and crossed the street, Andrew’s Wellingtons no longer pretending to touch the ground.

Behind him, the Frick pitched and rolled.

“Can you make it to the apartment?” Jamie asked.

“Mmmhmm” was all Andrew could manage, which meant I think.

His head seemed to stir his stomach into ever-widening arcs, accelerating the contents within, the specifics of which he tried to forget though he knew cheese was involved. They entered the lobby of his building, the doorman quickly closing the door like an onslaught was coming. Whatever the gastrointestinal g-forces that had held the mess together seized up and Andrew realized that however bad he was feeling was about to get worse. He rocked like a jockey begging his ride to go faster. The boys rushed him into the elevator, Jamie removing his hat, Richard removing his coat, the two of them promising, Almost there, Almost there. Andrew for some reason thought of a sparrow caught in a garage. He could relate to the bird’s confusion. Inside the apartment they hightailed him upstairs, through the master bedroom, into the bathroom, where they posed him in front of the toilet, unsure where their duty ended.

“Made it,” Richard said, breathing hard but victorious.

Andrew stared into that stale hollow.

“You’ll feel better afterward,” Jamie said.

Was there anything more humiliating than an old man with his head in a toilet? He spat into the eye of that Cyclops. At least the cool porcelain was comforting and gave him a favorable anchoring to the floor. He looked over at Jamie sitting on the sink and Richard leaning against the wall and had visions of mobsters trying to get a rat fink to talk.

“Just let it out,” Jamie said.

Andrew nodded, still baffled by the recent events. Poor Andy. He stared back into that clear cornea of water. Oh Polyphemus, look what you’ve done! He spat again. It seemed important to throw up, that not throwing up would somehow be a huge disappointment, perhaps even fatal. He closed his eyes. He wanted to cry but instead focused on the waves of nausea sloshing against his insides, like a careless boy running with a full bucket. All these metaphors. All these similes. A body trapped inside a body. Andrew gripped the rim tighter. You miserable fool. Just throw up. Snot untied from within his nose. He started to moan. Another wave formed, this one bigger than any boy, and Andrew let go and kicked for the gathering break, knowing he only had so much energy. The tide in his mouth receded as glands wrung themselves dry, and everything within him became liquid. Look out, look out, I’m going! It started small but grew larger, like a mouse chased by a cat.

Jamie went over and patted his back.

Richard wetted a washcloth.

“Is he all right?” I asked, peering into the bathroom.

I must have startled them.

“Get the hell out of here,” Richard said.

PHILLIPS EXETER ACADEMY

April 6th, 1951

Dear Andy,

I realize to get a letter from me, here and now, when I could just as easily pull you aside or visit your room, is bordering on lunatic, depending on my nerve of course and if I’ll put a stamp on the upper right corner & let this piece of paper travel miles in order to gain a distance of a few feet. But speaking is not my strong suit—as you well know—& some thoughts are best put down using one’s finest pen—as you well know again. So what are these thoughts? you might be asking now. In all honestly, I’m not sure. I’m just going to let the nib and ink guide me like a tattooist working on dear Queequeg-Savage sentiments, perhaps. I’m sure now you’re curious so …

For the last month I have had terrible dreams, really just one dream in particular with a dozen different tails. In this dream you die. How you die changes but the manner of death is usually gruesome, I regret to inform you. Falling through ice. Shot up on a battlefield. Throat slit by a madman. Sometimes I find you collapsed & bleeding & I have no idea the cause, only its grisly effect. I seem to be having these dreams every night & even on the few occasions when I nap I awake damp with the horror of my oldest dearest friend dead. For you are my oldest & dearest friend, Andy. I cannot imagine my life without you. You are an essential gear within my clockwork jewels and without you I am stopped. That is the sense I get in these dreams. An absolute stoppage. I try to comfort you as you pass from this earth to that great beyond that you have forever reminded me is my earlier due. I squeeze your hand. I brush the hair from your face—in these dreams your appearance seems inspired by the Romantics. You are Wordsworth to my Coleridge, Keats to my Shelley. And my lap is your final resting place. Forgive the language. It is late at night and I seem inspired by these poets as well. But it always seems so real, this dream; I can tap into it even during the most mundane moments of my waking day & turn standing in line for lunch or pretending to play right field into a threnody. Already I am laughable enough at this school without people seeing me wipe my eyes as a brace of drake mallards fly by. Ridiculous. The thing is, I haven’t had a proper sleep for the last few weeks & I’m exhausted & featherbrained, certainly weary, possibly deranged, absolutely hopeless, constantly lonely & fearful that I’m a drag on you. I can sense that when you catch me staring. But you are the window with a view onto the ocean and I am the cripple, chin perched on the sill. I remember all the times you stood up for me & spoke for me & brought me along when Darwin would have left me behind, and I am certain much of that came not from clear affection or easy affinity but from the long haul of our time together, a rapport manufactured by parents & school & proximity. Yet buried in there was an understanding, I think. You, brave knight, defended me. It was part of your code. But now, after seventeen years together, I must seem so weak. And you must be so sick and tired.

Which brings us to sleeping, which brings us to dreaming, which brings us to the point of this letter. I remember when your father passed away and my parents told me I had to say something to you, give you my sympathies, and I had no nerve, & no voice, to properly entertain this notion. Yet I tried. I probably picked the wrong place & the wrong time, and you stopped me & told me my father would die some day so there was no point in bothering with the sorrys. We were all in the same boat. Fathers die. Mothers too. I think I cried because I didn’t understand the point. And you were angry—of course you were angry. But we do die, some sooner than others, and we should try our best to say the things that might mean something before that day does arrive. After much thought, I understand that you’re not the one who’s dying in my dreams. I am. I sense it every night as I try to fall asleep, the descent steeper and longer, the landing harder. I am at Wit’s End. But what I need to tell you before I hit wherever I might land is that I have a tremendous affection for you, my friend. I always have. You mean everything to me. I can scarcely define my life without regarding you as the measure. I still remember holding hands when we were toddlers on the march & feeling the thrill as our arms swung. Even then I never wanted to let you go. And as close as we are, or were, or have been, or never will be again, I still yearned—yearn to be closer. Those nights we occupied the same dimension of sleep, whether camping or an overnight, I wanted to reach over and touch you just to confirm there was flesh to my feelings. I wanted to show you the secrets of my devotion; its tremendous volume. I wanted my chest to be a door. I wanted you to see, if just for a moment, what you mean to me within this small room. That’s what this letter is, I suppose, a coffin, in keeping with sweet strange Queequeg. Not that this paper will keep you afloat.

I wish I could say all of this was hastily put down in some fever dream, but I am knee-deep in nineteen drafts. Every word is the best that I can manage, even the ampersands. Particularly the ampersands. You & Me. I do hope the effort will help me get some sleep. Maybe it will do its job without ever having to pass through the mailman’s hands. Regardless I do hope you take these words as what they are—a tribute, a whisper of my endearment. That said, after reading, please send this letter to the fire so that regardless of its content at least for a moment it might provide you with a bit of warmth.

Melville to your Hawthorne,
Charlie