One More for the Road (2 page)

He ran the list, and what a list. Ross, the handsome dog, older than the rest though they were all the same age, bright but no show-off, bicycling through classes with no sweat, getting high marks with no care. Reader of books, lover of Fred Allen Wednesdays radio, repeater of all the best jokes next day noon. Meticulous dresser, though poor. One good tie, one good belt, one coat, one pair of pants, always pressed, always clean. Ross. Yeah, sure, Ross.

And Jack, the future writer who was going to conquer the world and be the greatest in history. So he yelled, so he said, with six pens in his jacket and a yellow pad waiting to un-Steinbeck Steinbeck. Jack.

And Gordon, who loped across campus on the bodies of moaning girls, for all he had to do was glance and the females were chopped like trees.

Ross, Jack, Gordon, what a team.

Fast and slow he drove, now slow.

But what will they think of me? Have I done enough, have I done too well? Ninety stories, six novels, one film, five plays—not bad. Hell, he thought, I won't say, who cares, just shut your mouth, let them talk, you listen, the talk will be great.

What do we say first, I mean as soon as we show up, the old gang, by the flagpole? Hello? Hi. My God, you're really here! How you been, what's new, you okay, good health? Marriage, children, grandchildren, pictures, 'fess up. What, what?

Okay, he thought, you're the writer. Make something up, not just hi, a celebration. Write a poem. Good grief, would they stand still for a poem? How about, would it be too much: I love you, love you all. No. Above and beyond. I love you.

He slowed the car even more, looking through the windshield at shadows.

But what if they don't show? They will. They must. And if they show, everything will be all right, won't it? Boys being what they are, if they've had a bad life, bad marriages, you name it, they won't show. But if it's been good, absolutely incredibly good, they'll show. That'll be the proof, won't it? They've done well so it's okay to remember the date and arrive. True or false? True!

He stepped on the gas, sure that they'd all be there. Then he slowed again, sure that they wouldn't. Then stepped on the gas again. What the hell, by God, what the hell.

And he pulled up in front of the school. Beyond belief, there was a place to park, and not many students by the flagpole, a handful at most. He wished there were more, to camouflage the arrival of his friends; they wouldn't want to arrive and be seen right off, would they? He wouldn't. A slow progression through the noon crowd and then the grand surprise, wouldn't that be the ticket?

He hesitated getting out of the car until a small crowd emerged from the school, young men and women, all talking at once and pausing by the flagpole, which made him happy, for now there were enough to hide latecomers, no matter what age. He got out of the car and at first did not turn, afraid to look, afraid maybe there'd be no one there, no one would come, no one would have remembered, the whole thing was dumb. He resisted the temptation to jump back in the car and go away.

The flagpole was deserted. There were a lot of students around it, nearby, but nobody right at the flagpole.

He stood staring at it as if by staring someone would move up, go by, perhaps touch it.

His heart slowed, he blinked, and started instinctively to leave.

When, from the edge of the crowd, a man moved.

An old man, hair white, step slow, face pale. An old man.

And then two more old men.

Oh Lord, he thought, is that them? Did they remember? What's next?

They stood in a wide circle, not speaking, hardly looking, making no move, for the longest time.

Ross, he thought, is that you? And the next one: Jack, now, yes? And the final one. Gordon?

Their expressions were all the same. The same thoughts must have been moving behind each face.

Charlie leaned forward. The others leaned forward. Charlie took the smallest step. The three others took the smallest step. Charlie glanced over at each face. They did the same, trading glances. And then—

Charlie stepped back. After a long moment the other men stepped back. Charlie waited. The three old men waited. The flag blew, softly flapping, on the high pole.

A bell rang somewhere inside the school. Lunchtime over. Time to go in. The students dispersed across the campus.

With the students moving away, with the crowd leaving so there was no camouflage, no more cover, the four men stood in a great circle around the flagpole, some fifty or sixty feet separating them, the four points of a bright autumn day compass.

Perhaps one of them wet his lips, perhaps one of them blinked, perhaps one of them shuffled one shoe forward, took it back. The white hair on their heads blew in the wind. A wind took up the flag on the pole and blew it straight out. Inside the school, another bell rang, with finality.

He felt his mouth shape words but say nothing. He repeated the names, the wondrous names, the loving names, in whispers only he could hear.

He did not make a decision. His lower body did it in a half turn, his legs followed, as did his feet. He stepped back and stood sideways.

Across a great distance, one by one in the blowing noon wind, first one stranger and then the next followed by the next half-turned, stepped a half step away, and waited.

He felt his body hesitate and want to move forward and not off toward his car. Again, he made no decision. His shoes, disembodied, took him quietly away.

As did the bodies, the feet, and the shoes of the strangers.

Now he was on the move, now they were on the move, all walking in different directions, slowly, half-glancing back at the deserted flagpole and the flag, abandoned, high, flapping quietly, and the lawn in front of the school empty and inside the moment of loud talk and laughter and the shove of chairs being put in place.

They were all in motion now, half-glancing back at the empty flagpole.

He halted for a moment, unable to move his feet. He gazed back a final time with a tingling in his right hand, as if it wanted to rise. He half-lifted and looked at it.

And then, across sixty or seventy yards of space, beyond the flagpole, one of the strangers, only half-looking, raised his hand and waved it quietly, once, on the silent air. Over to one side, another old man, seeing this, did the same, as did the third.

He watched as his hand and arm slowly lifted and the tips of his fingers, up in the air, gestured the least small gesture. He looked up at his hand and over at the old men.

My God, he thought, I was wrong. Not the first day of school. The last.

 

Alice had something frying in the kitchen that smelled good.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment.

“Hey,” she said, “come in, take a load off your feet.”

“Sure,” he said, and went to the dining-room table and saw that it was laid out with the best silver and the best dinnerware and candles lit that were usually lit for a twilight meal, and the best napkins in place, while Alice waited in the kitchen door.

“How did you know I'd be here so soon?” he said.

“I didn't,” she said. “I saw you pull up out front. Bacon and eggs are quick, be ready in a sec. Sit down?”

“That's an idea.” He held to the back of one chair and studied the cutlery. “Sit down.”

He sat and she came and kissed him on the brow and went back to the kitchen.

“Well?” she called.

“Well, what?”

“How did it go?” she called.

“How did what go?”

“You know,” she said. “The big day. All those promises. Did anyone show?”

“Sure,” he said. “Everyone showed,” he added.

“Well, spill the beans.”

She was in the kitchen doorway now, bringing the bacon and eggs. She studied him.

“You were saying?”

“Was I?” He leaned forward over the table. “Oh, yeah.”

“Well, was there lots to talk about?”

“We—”

“Yes?”

He saw the waiting and empty plate.

And tears falling on the plate.

“God, yes!” he said, very loud. “We talked our heads off!”

H
EART
T
RANSPLANT

 

“W
ould I what?” he asked, in the dark, lying there easily, looking at the ceiling.

“You heard me,” she said, lying there beside him with similar ease, holding his hand, but staring rather than looking at that ceiling, as if there were something there that she was trying to see. “Well …?”

“Say it again,” he said.

“If,” she said, after a long pause, “if you could fall in love with your wife again …
would
you?”

“What a strange question.”

“Not so strange. This is the best of all possible worlds, if the world ran the way worlds
should
run. Wouldn't it make sense, finally, for people to fall in love again and live happily ever after? After all, you were once wildly in love with Anne.”

“Wildly.”

“You can never forget that.”

“Never. Agreed.”

“Well, then, that being true—would you—”

“
Could
would be more like it.”

“Forget about could. Let's imagine new circumstances, everything running right for a change, your wife behaving the way you describe her once-perfection instead of the way she acts now. What
then
?”

He leaned up on his elbow and looked at her.

“You're in a strange mood tonight. What gives?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's tomorrow. I'm forty, next month you're forty-two. If men go mad at forty-two, shouldn't women become sane two years earlier? Or maybe I'm thinking, What a shame. What a shame people don't fall in love and stay in love with the same people all their lives, instead of having to find others to be with, laugh with or cry with; what a shame …”

He reached over and touched her cheek and felt a wetness there. “Good grief, you're crying.”

“Just a little bit. It's so damned sad. We are.
They
are. Everybody. Everyone. Sad. Was it always this way?”

“And hidden, I think. Nobody said.”

“I think I envy those people a hundred years ago.”

“Don't envy what you can't even guess. There was a lot of quiet madness under their serene notalk.”

He leaned over and kissed the tears from under her eyes, lightly.

“Now, what brought all this on?”

She sat up and didn't know what to do with her hands.

“What a joke,” she said. “Neither you nor I smoke. In books and movies, when people lie in bed after, they light cigarettes.” She put her hands across her breast and held on, as she talked. “It's just, I was thinking of good old Robert, good old Bob, and how crazy I was for him once, and what am I doing here, loving you, when I should be home minding my thirty-seven-year-old-baby husband?”

“And?”

“And I was thinking how much I really, truly like Anne. She's a great woman; do you know that?”

“Yes, but I try not to think of it, everything considered. She's not you.”

“But what if, suddenly”—she clasped her hands around her knees and fixed him with a bright, clear-blue gaze—“what if she
were
me?”

“I
beg
your pardon?” He blinked.

“What if all the qualities you lost in her and found in me were somehow given back to her? Would you, could you, love her all over again?”

“Now I really do wish I smoked!” He dropped his feet out onto the floor and kept his back to her, staring out the window. “What's the use of asking that kind of question, when there can never be an answer!?”