As Far as You Can Go (35 page)

“Yes,” said Henry. “Tell me what happened up there.”

“I think Diane tried to call you first,” said Harold. “I don’t think she could get through, or something.”

“Yes,” said Henry flatly. “I wasn’t home last night.”

Harold gave him the story of the fire as well as he could. Bits of it were already rather hard to remember. He explained about going back for the miniature. It then occurred to him for the first time that if he hadn’t gone back, Mrs Washburn would not have fallen and broken her hip. If he hadn’t gone back none of them would have been in danger. Suddenly he knew what it was like to have tried to commit suicide.

“She slipped and fell and broke her hip. At least the man said he thought it was her hip. It was all in a flash. I don’t remember it clearly. She couldn’t get up, and we tried to put her in the car, but we couldn’t get her in, and the fire was almost on us. So I picked her up and carried her down the hill. There was an ambulance there, and it took us all to the hospital.”

“But why did she slip?” said Henry. His voice sounded puzzled and suspicious.

“It was all so silly,” said Harold. He took a breath and told a lie. “She was turning to get in the car and slipped. That was all. And then in the panic and everything, I told Diane to drive on down, and that I would carry her. We couldn’t get her into the car, and the fire was almost on us, you see.”

“I should be very grateful to you for what you did,” said Henry Washburn. “And I am.”

“I tell you what I’ll do,” said Harold, hoping to change the subject. “I’ll call the hospital, and if Diane’s all right, I’ll bring her to you, with all the stuff. I expect she’ll be pretty upset when she hears about Mrs Washburn. She was still asleep when I left the hospital, but she should be awake now, and they will have told her.”

“I guess I’d like to bring her home myself,” said Henry. “They gave me a couple of days off. I reckon I have to be head of the family now. My brother won’t care one way or the other.”

“All right,” said Harold.

“Thanks for calling,” said Henry. “It is still very soon after the event. I’m rather stunned.” His voice sounded rather falsely religious.”

“Of course,” said Harold.

“Why don’t I call you this evening?” said Henry.

“Very well,” said Harold. “I’ll call the hospital to see how she is, all the same.”

“O.K.,” said Henry. “I’ll call around seven.”

Harold felt slightly aggrieved that his own good fortune should have coincided with the misfortune of others. But Henry Washburn’s feelings had certainly to be considered, and perhaps it would be better if he saw Diane before Harold. At a time of death one wants one’s closest relatives around one, not one’s friends or lovers. Death was something that one kept within the blood of the family circle.

He smoked a cigarette, thinking about Mrs Washburn, then called the hospital. They asked who was calling and he told them. He was put on to a doctor, who said that Diane was coming along well, was awake, and that the news of her grandmother’s death had upset her very much.

“You’re not Mr Washburn, are you?” he said.

“No, just a friend. I was mixed up in the fire with her and her grandmother.”

“Is that right?” said the smooth professional voice.

“Thank you,” said Harold, and rang off.

He wondered whether to go to the beach for the afternoon or not. He still didn’t feel very well. He wanted just to lie about somewhere and let his muscles relax, his mind clear itself of the jumble of images of the fire.

He went and lay in the shade by the hotel’s swimming-pool.
Gradually his headache disappeared. The sky wasn’t quite clear, smoke from the fire causing a haze over that whole section of Los Angeles. But it was better than smog, it didn’t irritate the eyes.

As he lay there, awake but his mind idling, it occurred to him that in all the activity of the day, he had thought of Diane simply as a girl whose life was nearly in danger, never as the girl he loved. Slowly certain scenes came back to him with the black and white clarity of a film. Gone were the yellows and reds and oranges of the real fire, and in their place were close-ups of Diane and Mrs Washburn, as though he had been able to see every pore on their faces during that strange moment of calm and confidence while he had held the miniature in his hand and said “No”. Feeling detached, almost apathetic, about it, he remembered Diane’s face, its whiteness so suddenly flooded with colour, her hands beating the smoke as she lunged towards him. He saw it all again in slow motion, her grandmother’s grab, her collapse on to the ground, Diane halted in mid-stride.

She had hated him then. Oh, yes, she was right about women being prepared to do anything for the protection of their families. In that moment she had been prepared to kill him. He saw it now, all the instincts in her face. He admired her, in his detachment, he admired her very much. It might even be that he loved her for her strength, her determination, her loyalty. But he realized, lying in the shade by the hotel swimming-pool, that he had killed her grandmother. And that as surely as he had done that, he had saved himself. If Mrs Washburn had not slipped, Diane would have attacked him, torn at him with the same hands that had seemed to tear away the smoke between them. She wouldn’t have killed him literally, he could have fought her off, protected himself. But the old woman and the young one could have fought him there, till the fire swallowed all three. One life had saved two, perhaps? Manslaughter, that was what it was.
In his strange apathy, he contemplated what had happened, and was glad. There could be no more attempt at love
between
Diane Washburn and Harold Barlow, and it grieved him, distantly, that this was so. But only distantly, only at the edge of his consciousness. The time would come when he might grieve deeply. But not now. Now there was room only for the contemplation of what he had done, and how he had done it. His limbs still felt weak, but his mind told him he was strong.

Later, he went back to his room and waited for Henry Washburn to call. When the phone rang he prepared himself for bitterness and even threats.

“Mr Barlow?” said Washburn. He sounded deliberately unpleasant.

“Hallo.”

“I’ve been to see Diane. She is very badly shocked still. Not just medically shocked, but shocked to the core of her being. She seems to think you murdered my mother.”

“Yes,” said Harold.

“You don’t deny it?”

“It wasn’t murder,” said Harold. “Don’t be ridiculous. I tried to save her life, didn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry Washburn. The
unpleasantness
went out of his voice. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m all shook up. I shouldn’t have said that. Can you come and see me?”

“All right. Right away?”

“Yes, please.”

As he drove to Santa Monica Harold wondered what Henry Washburn was going to say and do. He thought again of the scene, of the pause in time, on the road below the house, with the fire bearing down. But it wasn’t murder, it was self-defence. He hadn’t meant to harm her. And yet he had, too, without thinking about it, without planning it, without knowing what he was doing.

It had all happened so quickly. He had been running, and then there had been the old woman making an impossible demand when she should have been in the car ready to drive straight off down the canyon. And yet, though this was true, there was something else. There was Harold himself saying “No” and “No” again. And he hadn’t said it because all their lives were in danger, he hadn’t said it because he wanted to spite the old woman, there had been no intention at all, no thought of saying “No”, just the word, coming out flatly, not even shouted, “No”. He didn’t have any idea at that time why he said it, and he wasn’t sure now, but it seemed as though it might have been a test of his strength against hers, a refusal to yield any further, and in that case, if she stumbled and fell under its weight, then the “No” had killed her, the shock of the “No”, its brutality, its very flatness, its finality. But then it wasn’t murder, it was
self-defence
.

Henry Washburn met him on the porch of the house. He had a drink in his hand, and he silently handed another to Harold, ready on a small table. Pedro didn’t seem to be around.

“Look,” he said, in a tired emotionless voice, “I don’t want to talk. Diane says she never wants to see you again. The doctors say she’s still suffering from shock, that she doesn’t mean what she’s saying when she says you killed my mother. But maybe you’d better not see her. I don’t know. I wanted to see you, I wanted to tell you, this was nothing to do with me. It’s Diane. You must make up your own mind. Let’s not talk about it.”

Harold looked bewildered, then he saw an expression of anguish on Washburn’s face, and said, “Let’s get the stuff out of the car.”

“All right,” said Washburn.

They unloaded in silence, then Washburn said, “Do you still have the miniature?”

“Here it is,” said Harold. He took it out of his pocket.

Washburn took it, opened it, then closed it again and handed it back to him. “I don’t ever want to see that again,” he said, “and I don’t want to hear about it, either. I loved my mother very much, Harold. I’d be glad if you’d take the picture away.”

“You must be paid for it,” said Harold.

“I don’t want your money,” said Henry in the same tired voice. “Mother left everything to me.”

“What about Diane?”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think it would be too good an idea to give Diane the money from the picture,” said Washburn. He could have said it maliciously, but he didn’t.

“All right,” said Harold. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” said Henry Washburn. “Let’s go and have a drink, another drink. I’m all shook up today.”

They sat in silence on the porch, then Harold rose and said, “I know what you must be feeling and thinking, Henry. And believe me, if I’d known this damned miniature was going to cause so much trouble, I’d never have come here in the first place.”

“There’s no need to feel that.”

“Are you going to bring Diane here tomorrow morning?”

“I’m going to collect her at ten o’clock, if she’s well enough.”

“May I come and see her about twelve?”

Washburn nodded. “You must do whatever you like,” he said. Then he said, “I feel all shook up.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Harold. “Good-bye.”

“If I’d only been home last night,” said Henry.

“Where were you?’’

“Need you ask?” His face seemed to crack with
self-contempt
. Then he turned his back to Harold and said “Good-bye” in a sad muffled voice.

Harold walked quietly to his car.

“D
IANE, DO STOP IT
,” said Harold.

“You killed her,” she said.

She had been saying it for five minutes, repeating it in a monotonous voice.

“Darling, you know I didn’t kill her, don’t be silly.”

“You killed her. You killed Grandma.”

“You’re crazy. You ought to see a psychiatrist.”

“I don’t need a witch-doctor,” she said, with a sudden flare of contempt. “I know what happened. I saw it. She asked for what was hers, and you wouldn’t give it. You killed her.”

“I shall go,” said Harold. He got up. He felt very relieved. He didn’t love her. He was sorry for her, but you couldn’t love a mad woman. And perhaps he hadn’t really loved her at all. It had been easy enough to think he was in love, when everything was simple, at the beginning. But at the slightest sign of strain, she had weakened, and her weakness had made him doubt his own feelings, and now he was clear. He did not love her. He would leave tomorrow.

“Good-bye, Diane.”

She turned her face away.

“I’m going back to England. I shan’t ever see you again. I’m sorry things ended like this.”

“You killed her,” said Diane.

“Good-bye.”

He left the room. Washburn was waiting outside.

“I’m going,” said Harold. “Good-bye.”

“We’re an odd family,” said Washburn. “You must try and forgive us.”

“I think I’m the one that has to be forgiven, if anyone. But I think we should try not to feel guilty about anything. I don’t think feeling guilty helps.”

“It doesn’t help,” said Washburn, distantly. “But then it’s not supposed to.” He stood looking at his feet for a while, then he said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under less strained circumstances, Harold. But that’s how it was.”

“Good-bye,” said Harold.

“Good-bye.”

There was less haze from the fire today. The wind had died during the night, and the fire was now under control. Two houses besides the Washburns’ had been destroyed. Mrs Washburn’s was the only death attributed to it.

Harold drove through Westwood and up past the campus of U.C.L.A. to Sunset. The brightly dressed undergraduates were standing in large groups, talking and laughing, lounging easily, gracefully, selfconsciously, sexy.

I’m not old yet, thought Harold fiercely, I’m damned if I’m not still young.

At the hotel he packed and paid his bill, had lunch and swam once more in the swimming-pool. The water was almost too warm. It was like all Californian things, just a little bit too good for European taste.

He met Chuck at two o’clock in the lobby, and they went out together under the frown of the desk clerk.

“How was it yesterday?” said Harold.

“It was all right,” said Chuck. “They didn’t ask any embarrassing questions.”

“Do you have a lot of friends in L.A.?” said Harold.

“I’ve lived here all my life. I have friends. It’s a great city, so long as you don’t get nervous. You have to sit back and relax, is all.”

“Eddie never relaxed,” said Harold.

“I guess not,” said Chuck. “Are you leaving today?”

“Yes,” said Harold.

“It’s real good of you to take me out there,” said Chuck. “I have a car. I could go by myself.”

“I want to come with you,” said Harold.

“I’m glad,” said Chuck. “It would be awful if I was the only person who cared about Eddie now he’s dead.”

“I expect there are a lot of people who care, people all over the world.”

“Yeah. But they forget. You don’t remember dead people when there’s lots of living ones around.”

“There are some,” said Harold, “that you only wish you could forget.” He told Chuck about the Washburns.

“Christ,” said Chuck, when Harold had finished. “You’ve sure been living a full life in California, Harold.”

“Well, it’s pretty empty again now.”

“That’s the way it goes.”

“That’s the way it goes,” Harold agreed.

When they reached the Watts Towers, Chuck got out and said, “Wow, this is kind of crazy, right?”

“Right,” said Harold. He left Chuck to look around the Towers by himself, and went to stare over a gate at the railway line. He could see enough of the Towers from there by turning his head, the high fretted cones, with the sky shining through their lattice-work, the masterpiece of a man who didn’t know he was a genius. But he didn’t turn his head very much. It was full of thoughts about death, and he wanted to try and expunge them. The miniature was in a small box in his pocket.

There was long coarse grass beside the tracks, and a warehouse, and some backyards across the way, and telephone-poles and electric cables. A slow freight train went by, each wagon groaning to a different note.

Chuck came and joined him and said, “Shall we go?”

“O.K.,” said Harold.

They got into the car and began to drive back to Beverly Hills.

“I think Eddie would have been glad you’d gone to see the Towers,” said Harold.

“You think so?” said Chuck. He stared out of the window. “I don’t think he’d’ve cared one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Harold. “Acts like this—going to see a place because someone you loved happened to love it—aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living.”

“Oh, sure,” said Chuck. “But they make you think about the dead, I guess.” He slouched against his door.

Harold said, “The Towers are worth seeing for themselves, anyway. Don’t you think?”

“I was about to say that,” said Chuck. “I’d hate to go see some place just for sentimental reasons. I’m not old yet.”

“Nor am I,” said Harold, but when Chuck looked ques tioningly at him he said, “Just something I was thinking about this morning.”

“You know the nicest thing Eddie ever said to me?” said Chuck suddenly. “He said,’ I wish you’d come off this manli ness kick, Chuck’—I’d been telling him I didn’t like some of his friends. You know—the hand-flapping kind. And he made me kind of angry, so I said, ‘I am a man, goddam it.’ And then he said, ‘I know that, Chuck. That’s why I like you.’ I thought of that just now, looking at those Towers. It just came to me. I’d forgotten.”

“People talk a lot of crap about manliness,” said Harold. He felt he knew all about it.

“Would you mind,” said Chuck after a silence, “taking me back to my place, not to the hotel? I’m off in the afternoons.”

“Of course. Where do you live? I didn’t want to go back there myself. I’m all set to head east again.”

“East, huh? I kind of like it here.”

“Well,” said Harold. He didn’t go on. “Where do you live?”

“I’ll show you. It’s a sort of unnamed area, off Pico.”

They took La Cienega Boulevard out of Inglewood, and eventually Chuck said, “Turn right here.”

They went along a street of dilapidated frame houses till Chuck said to stop. The house was painted white, with a green door. The paint was fresher than anywhere else on the street.

“Like to come in a moment?” said Chuck.

“I ought to get going,” said Harold. “I want to get clear of L.A. before the rush starts.”

“Just one drink,” said Chuck. “You’ve been—well, you know, it was good to have you around. You’re not like the rest of Eddie’s friends.”

“I dare say I’m not,” said Harold.

They went into the house. It was very neatly kept, and there was a large bookcase in the living-room.

“Eddie’s books,” said Chuck. “I used to buy them for him. I never got to college myself. But Eddie liked to read.”

They had a drink, then Harold said, “So long, Chuck. I hope things get better for you.”

“They won’t,” said Chuck. “I’ve had the glamour in my life. But don’t worry about me. I can get along.”

Harold got into the car.

“It meant a lot having you around,” said Chuck, leaning through the window. “I had to talk to someone. I hope you didn’t mind.”

“It was a privilege,” said Harold. “Good-bye, Chuck.”

“Good-bye. Drive carefully, now.”

Chuck stood and waved till Harold was out of sight.

He took Pico to the downtown area, then the San Bernadino Freeway. He had missed the worst of the home-going traffic. Getting at last out of the city, he settled into the driving-seat, accustoming himself again to the slow rhythm of a long drive. The miniature was in his pocket, and he felt it
whenever
he reached for a cigarette. Dangerfield would be pleased, anyway. And in his breast pocket was Eddie’s poem. The old world and the new. He smiled to himself.

As he neared the desert the growing dryness and heat
excited
him. His elbow on the window tested the rushing air like a bather’s toe. He thought of the last time he had been in the desert, of his exhilaration, the mixture of apprehension and joy beginning to stir again. He thought of the dirt roads over bronze mountains to dead towns, of the cloud of dust always behind him, of the harshness of the land, its
impenetrable
aloofness. It was something against which a man could measure himself in all humility, knowing it was greater than he and indifferent to his concerns. Ignoring him, it let him find out his strengths and weaknesses for himself. It did not judge. Judgment it left to those who took the risk, with whatever pride, humility or fear, of wishing to be measured against it.

Soon he had left behind the last traces of habitation and was speeding across the Mojave towards the mountains of the great divide. He drove faster, beginning to feel driven again, thinking of the faint tracks that vanished towards vast dry valleys, remembering them dying out on the shoulders of barren hills, longing to be on them again, alone with them.

At dusk he reached Barstow, but he pressed on. The radio station he was listening to went off the sir, signing off with “America, America”. America, America, he thought to
himself
, repeating the words over and over again.

He stopped at a small town called Beacon Station, booked himself into a motel and had dinner.

He was in the desert and it was good. Tomorrow he would turn left at Baker and go up to Death Valley as he had always meant to do. There hadn’t been time, things had happened so quickly. He breathed deeply of the dry night air, then went to bed. He slept well, without dreams.