Five Smooth Stones (75 page)

"You and I will talk later, David. Go now to Bjarne. You know the room? In a day or two we will have a good talk."

"In a day or two?"

Karl Knudsen nodded, not answering, and turned away. As David slowly mounted the staircase, he heard the whispering rustle of the nurse's skirts as she turned and walked angrily down the hall.

He knew where the Profs room was; once, during his childhood the Prof had been laid up with some unremembered illness and had insisted that David's tutoring sessions continue just the same. The first time he had gone to the Profs room it had been via the back stairs, led by the cook, a cousin of Ambrose and Pop Jefferson.

At the top of the staircase he turned and walked along the upper hallway to the front of the house and the corner room he had almost forgotten. The door to the room was closed. He stood for a long moment, not touching the door. Now it all seemed to have come too suddenly; there had been no time to prepare himself. The Prof had written months before, just after David returned to Boston, and said he was going into the hospital for surgery. "It is not to be worried about," he wrote. David had sent books, a humorous get-well card, and a lightly worded letter urging the Prof to get well quickly so he could attend the swearing-in of the first Negro Justice of the U.S. Soopreme Court. "I'm going to make a speech," he had written, "and tell them I owe it all to a Dane."

There had been no thought then that he would be standing so soon in the upper hallway of a house whose quiet was more shattering than the loudest roar the Prof had ever roared. It was a quiet broken by small, alien sounds that had no place there, that would have been inaudible in the presence of the immense vitality that, so short a time before, filled every room and hallway and remote corner.

He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, and his lips moved faintly. "Give me a hand, God—" Then he entered slowly, without knocking, the door opening soundlessly. Halfway across the room to the hospital-type bed that stood against the wall opposite the door he stopped, feeling the blood drain from his head, feeling his legs fan. The Professor lay quietly, head turned away, one arm stretched along the side of his body, the forefinger of the hand rising, falling, every few seconds. It was the only sign that life still existed within that gaunt, emaciated frame. The neatly trimmed beard seemed to grow out of bare bone; the eyes were closed within deep hollows above sharply outlined facial bones. The hands, the great, strong hands, were sallow skin lying loosely over bony protuberances.

"Christ!" breathed David, shock acting as heavy shackles on feet and legs and hands, as a choking gag in his mouth. He swallowed, trying to clear his throat for speech, closed his eyes against what he was seeing, and when he opened them the massive head was moving on the pillow, turning toward him, and then the blue fire of the eyes was blazing. David moved forward to take the hand that was slowly lifted from the counterpane.

"Prof—" What asinine, inadequate thing could he say next, even if he was able to master the emotion that was shaking him as a terrier shakes a rag toy. There was still strength in the hot, thin dryness of the hand that clasped his, but the voice seemed to be blown through the pale lips by the last, fading winds of the spirit.

"Ja,"
it said, and the lips moved in a smile. "I told them you would come. Not—not to send—"

"You were betting on a sure thing, Prof. You knew I'd be here."

"Is it afternoon, David?"

"Yes. Afternoon."

"Then it was this morning I dreamed about you. We were in a plane."

"I was in one just about then, Prof. Flying down here—" The Prof was laughing, and David wanted to cry aloud to God at the sound of it.

"You think, my son, that I was making a little trip? Before the big one?"

"Knowing you, Prof, I think almost anything's possible." Anything except life; anything except living. David knew that he was smiling, could feel the effort of the muscles in his face to keep the smile alive and real.

"They have told you, yes? About me?"

"Only—only that you're graduating.
Cum laude."

Again the not quite soundless laugh.
"Cum laude?
Bah!
Summa cum laude!"

Then the blue eyes were covered by the pale, veined lids, and the hand that David held grew slack. He laid it gently on the counterpane and drew forward a straight chair standing near so that he could sit quietly by the bed, watching the thin chest rise and fall. Even now the great body did not seem small and puny; there was a kind of majesty about it, and dignity still clothed the framework of its bones. David felt very young, was again the child who had giggled gleefully at the roaring laughter of this man, and, a few minutes later, frowned in concentration over a problem that, if left unsolved, would call forth another kind of roar.

As suddenly as they had closed down, the eyelids opened again, pale curtains rising on the ever-diminishing stage of Bjarne Knudsen's life.

"You are still here, my son. That is good."

"Yes. I—I won't go away."

"You must. It is not good for a boy to sit a death watch."

"I'm not a boy, Prof."

"I forget." His words came slower, now, the phrases spaced by spells of silence. "A few minutes ago I must have dreamed.... I thought you were here... as a child... and when I opened my eyes I would see you with your leg in a cast... and big scared eyes... And now you are here as a man...." A quick, frown-like spasm moved the flesh of the Prof's forehead. "The pain I do not like.
Ja.
This is true.... Soon you will ring for the nurse because it is knocking at the door.... But it will hold off for a little.... Your hand, son."

David laid his hand over the unfleshed bones of the Prof's hand, closed strong fingers gently around it, waited, not able to speak.

"David. You have heard me say I believe in no God—"

"Yes, Prof. But—but it doesn't matter. Honestly it doesn't."

"Wait, son.... I do not know... yet.... I know only that when I—I..." He was silent for a long minute, gathering strength. "When I see... a child grow into a good man... then I must believe in—in something."

"When I see a good man like you, Prof, I don't believe. I know." He was watching the man in the bed closely. "Don't tire yourself, Prof."

"Bah!" There was a dim flash of the Prof of David's youth in the word. "If I tire myself... perhaps I will know... that much sooner."

"Prof—"

"Be quiet.... When I learn what this... something is... I will say to It that... that I have left here a son... a son of my mind... strong and fine.... That is good, David...
. Ja,
that is good." He was quiet again, eyes closed; then the hand under David's twitched, jerked involuntarily, and there was a strained, hoarse whisper, "The buzzer, David... over my head..."

A hospital-type bell, newly installed, was fastened by a safety pin around its cord to the mattress at the head of the bed. David tightened his fingers around the Prof's, and with the other hand pressed the button in the end of the bell. In less than a minute the nurse was in the room, going quickly to the other side of the bed, baring the loose flesh of the Professor's arm for the needle, saying, "You'll be all right in just a minute, Professor. Off to sleep—" She looked across at David, inclined her head sharply toward the door. "I'll stay with him until he's asleep," said David. "Certainly not. You will leave now."

"He will stay!" Where had the strength come from to shape those words so clearly? "Leave us, young woman. He does not like you and neither do I."

David's smile was genuine now. He focused it directly on the indignant nurse's face. "He's so right, Nurse," he said gently. "So right."

When she had left in wrathful silence, he said, "You knew I didn't like her, Prof. How?"

"Minds are alert... when they are going... they hear other minds...."

"Try and sleep now, Prof." He stood up and went close to the bed, slipping a strong arm under the Prof's shoulders, raising the body from the bed, wincing at the lightness of his burden. With his other hand he turned and plumped the pillows up, smoothing the slips over them, then lowered the Professor gently back. He said again, "Try and sleep now—"

"A-a-ah. That is good.... My friend, Li'l Joe... he comes often...."

"I know. He told me. He's thinking of you all the time, Prof."

"Ja."
Again there was a long silence, and David sensed the drug-induced oblivion coming closer with every tick of the bedside clock. Before its mercy became absolute, the blue eyes opened again, vague and unfocused, then focused for the space of a few breaths on David's face. "My son," whispered the Prof. The eyes closed. "The son... of my mind... That is good; my God, that is good...."

David waited ten minutes, his hand lying again over Bjarne Knudsen's. Then he rose quietly and tiptoed from the room, although he knew the Prof was sleeping profoundly and would remain so for hours. There was nothing further that he could do until the Prof awakened, perhaps wanting to see him again. He would stay close to home where he could be reached. "My son," the Prof had said, and David knew it to be true. A part of David Champlin was drifting away in that narrow bed, and when it was gone it would not return and nothing would take its place. For the first time David Champlin realized that death, when it comes, takes more than just the life of him whose forehead it touches.

***

Karl Knudsen was standing in the doorway of the Professor's study, and David hurried over to him when he reached the lower floor. "What can I do to help, Doc? My God—it's—it's hell—"

"There is nothing, David. Except waiting. My wife will be here soon. A friend of Bjarne's will bring her from the airport. She will be glad, too, that you are here. Will you be at
home?"

"I won't leave the house, Doc."

"Later, we will talk. Perhaps you could spend some time with us in Laurel?"

"I wish I could. But there's a case waiting—"

"I forgot. You are a lawyer now. And evidently a busy one. You cannot imagine, David, the happiness and pride my brother has known, realizing this. You could have given him nothing he would treasure more."

"It's not much to give a man who's done as much for me as the Prof—"

"Not much? It is everything, David; everything he could want in life."

***

David and his grandfather talked little that night. Conversations started and trailed off, ending nowhere. Part of the heavinesss of his heart came from his knowledge of how great Gramp's loneliness would be when the Prof died. After a late supper he said: "Gramp, I've got an idea. Why don't you come back with me for a while? Couple of weeks, maybe."

Gramp's face creased in the smile an older person gives a child. "I knows what you're getting at, son, and I appreciates it. But there ain't no sense in it. A man can't run away from what makes him feel bad. You don't know that yet, you going to learn it one of these days." The bright, dark eyes looked at David closely. "Reckon you found it out already, son."

It was the closest Gramp had ever come to putting a gentle finger on the wound David had hoped was so well hidden no one could see it. He did not answer for a minute; then a small smile flickered across his lips. "Know a lot, don't you, Gramp?"

"Know a lot I wish I didn't. Ain't nothing I got any business saying except God'll balance things up, give Him time."

David wasn't quite sure he knew what Gramp meant by that, but he did not press him for clarification. His first thought after Gramp's telephone call to Boston had been of Sara, all memory of their break momentarily wiped from his mind. He wanted to tell her of the Prof's illness, know her instantaneous identification with whatever concerned him, ask her advice about the trip. And then the realization had swept over him—there was no Sara he could reach out to, there was only a faraway figure in an unknown place. Just what it was Gramp meant God would balance up he did not know: the counterweight would have to be beyond his powers to imagine to offset the pain and loneliness of Sara's absence.

He carried the telephone into his room that night, and slept without resting. He was sitting on the edge of his bed drinking coffee at eight the next morning when the phone rang stridently. Hot liquid spilled over his hand as he jumped involuntarily, and picked up the receiver before it could ring again.

"David?" It was Doc Knudsen.

"Yes, Doc—"

"Bjarne is gone, David."

David asked mechanically, "When, Doc?"

"Early this morning. Eve and I were with him. He went in his sleep, David. He did not awaken again after you left him. I had thought it would be that way. He was waiting for you. You will tell your grandfather, or—or shall I?"

"I will, of course, Doc. I—I—we're both—hell, I don't know what to say—"

"There is nothing to be said, my boy. He loved you very much. Will you be at home this morning?"

"Certainly. What can I do?"

"Just let us come and sit with you and Li'l Joe and talk."

"Anytime, Doc. Come now and have breakfast with us."

Ambrose Jefferson drove Li'l Joe and David to the brief service in the chapel of the university and afterwards the Knudsens followed them back to Beauregard.

At supper, which Gramp had insisted be served in the dining room, Karl said: "Ah! I had almost forgotten. We have heard from our Sara. She spoke of you, David."

David kept his breathing slow and steady with an effort. He glanced down the table at Eve, saw her face flush with exasperation, and knew that if she could have reached the length of the table with a foot she would have kicked her husband without mercy. Knudsen, engrossed in the task of dismembering an artichoke, continued: "She is in Brussels for the time being. She says she is doing very well. There have been two paintings exhibited and both were sold. She is delighted, of course. She will do better now. An artist like Sara must have the feeling of communication, of giving something of herself to others, even if they are strangers and the gift is her art."

David had scarcely heard Knudsen's words after his, "She spoke of you, David." He would not ask what she had said, could only hope that Doc would not catch his wife's eye and the warning therein and stop before he had revealed whatever Sara had said. Then Eve, apparently resigned to her husband's blunder, and knowing it irrevocable, said, "In one of my letters I told her about Bjarne's illness, and that was why she wrote. She's a rotten poor correspondent. She addressed her letter to Karl. She said she knew how you would feel, David, as well as Karl. And, of course, that her sympathy was with you both."