Other Plans (29 page)

The car behind them honked impatiently. The light was green. He inhaled and held out the joint to his father.

“Want to try it, Dad? I got it this morning from a guy who gave me a ride to school.”

“No thanks, John. I'd watch that stuff if I were you. I hear it's habit-forming.”

“Not any more than alcohol is,” he said. “Probably less.” In the old days, that would've started a fight. Now his father only shrugged.

“To answer your question, John. No, I'm not afraid to die. But if I am going to die, I'd like to do a good job of it. I'd like to be brave, not to whimper. I'd like people to remember I didn't whimper.”

He looked out the window, too moved to speak.

“Dad.” He swallowed hard. “I would lay down my life for you. If it would do any good.”

His father pulled into the driveway and turned off the ignition.

“I know you would, John,” he said. “I can't tell you how much it means to me to know that.”

The joint had burned down dangerously low. He could feel the heat from it against his hand. Carefully, he opened the car door and got out, stubbing the butt against the garage floor. Then he put it in his pocket and he and his father went into the house.

26

“Henry.” Grandy patted his son's shoulder, thinking, such fragile bones. He really is down to nothing. “I have loved you all the days of my life. I loved you even before you were born.”

Grandy was going home. The visit had actually aged him. His beautifully cut suit, which had looked so natty on his arrival, hung on him now. Grandy took Henry into arms that trembled, arms that had once been the strongest in the world and he knew, with a terrible certainty, that this thing would come to pass: that he would die, and soon.

My father is so frail, Henry thought, full of sorrow. I'm leaving him so old and frail.

It should be me, Grandy told himself. He has years ahead of him. It should be me.

“Dad, I'm sorry. I should never have said those things.”

“No,” Grandy replied. “It is I who should apologize to you, Henry. For many things. I ask your forgiveness.”

They embraced and parted. They did not say good-bye.

“You'll fight it, Henry.” Ed's voice boomed out at him over the miles as he called, finally, to tell him the news. “I know you'll fight it. Don't give in, Henry. Our thoughts are with you. We'd come, right this minute, but there's an absolutely crucial meeting in Detroit that I can't miss.” Ed's voice faded, then blossomed once more. “Marge says she'll come. If you want her.”

For what? The thought of Marge lending them aid and comfort was so ludicrous that he laughed into the phone. Ed must think he was losing his mind.

“That's all right, Ed. Right now it's best if we're alone. I don't really want to see anyone just now. Just wanted to let you know.”

The time had come to end the charade he'd been acting out. He told Burrell and it was much less difficult than telling someone he loved. “We'll do everything we can to make things easy for you, Henry. Full salary, all that. Modern medicine is a wonderful thing, Henry. They work miracles every day.” Burrell's voice was hearty. “We'll hold your place open, Henry. As long as necessary.” As Burrell spoke, reassuringly, his face became suffused with color. At the finish, he was scarlet. Looked as if he might be on the verge of another minor stroke like the one he'd had several years back.

The word had gotten out. People reacted differently. Some avoided looking at him, meeting his eye on the train, on the street. News of imminent death always gets around, he reflected, not without irony. Those who hear of another fallen comrade stop smoking for a day or two, bring their wives flowers for the first time in years, are kind to the elderly. Tip the blind man on Fifth Avenue.

“If I can do anything, Henry,” they murmured with the best of intentions. “Let me know if I can help.” If he were to say, “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, you can …” they just wouldn't be there. He was sure of that. On the other hand, how would he act if any one of them had been tapped on the shoulder instead of him?

His last day at the office, he told Jane about his cancer. She knew something was up—he could tell from her face—but he suspected that she thought he had another job offer, or problems at home, or a disagreement with Burrell. He had known it would be bad, telling Jane. And it was. She was shattered by the news, put her face in her hands and refused to bring them down, even when he said, “I've got to say good-bye now, Jane. I've got to leave.” She stood there crying into her hands. “You've been a good secretary and a good friend, Jane. I thank you.” She didn't give any indication she'd heard. He closed the door behind him gently, thinking that he would write her a letter from home.

When he got back to the house that evening, he found that some well-meaning fool in the drafting department, whom he hardly knew, had sent him a get-well card with a woebegone lion on its front. Inside, the lion beamed, rejuvenated. Keep Roaring! the card said. He tossed the card to John, who had brought him the mail. “Look at this,” he said.

“Sheesh!” said John, succinctly, bending over ostensibly to tie his shoelace.

His father leaned back and crossed his legs. “You just never believe it's happening to you. Sometimes I forget, for as long as five, even ten minutes. When I sleep, I forget. Unless I dream. I never used to dream. Now I do.” The room was silent. John could hear his father breathing. “The first minute of waking, I think, ‘It's almost spring,' and I leap out of bed and sometimes get all the way to the kitchen without remembering.”

A couple of days ago, this exchange between them would have been unthinkable. Now it only seemed easy, without strain.

“I know a kid whose mother tried to commit suicide,” he said. “There's nothing wrong with her except she drinks too much and takes pills. My friend says he and his mother might try a suicide pact. I think he's joking, but I'm not sure. He talks a lot about committing suicide.”

Asshole. Why'd you go and tell him that?

“What I wouldn't give for another year,” his father said, as if what had just been said was perfectly relevant. “Another six months, even.”

John had the feeling that a barrier had been crossed.

“I've been drawing plans here, John, a diagram, really, for my garden. I wonder if you'd look it over and tell me if there's anything I've forgotten.”

He looked over his father's shoulder at the intricate plan he'd drawn up, what would be planted and where. “You left out the beans, didn't you?” he said. “I don't see beans anywhere.”

“I knew there was something. Your mother would never forgive me if I forgot beans.” The door opened and his mother stuck her head in. “Oh, it's you, John. I thought Dad had a visitor. What are you talking about?”

She sat down, frowning, her lips tucked up into a travesty of a smile.

“Death,” his father said, “dying. Gardens, Ceil. I forgot the beans. John was telling me about a friend of his whose mother attempted suicide and the friend too talks about trying suicide. I said I would be glad of another six months.”

Her hands, which had been fidgeting with a button, fell heavily into her lap.

His father got up, went over to her, and put his arm around her. “Just think. I might've fallen out of an airplane or been killed in a crash on the thruway. This way, I have a chance to say the things I might not have had a chance to say. This way I have a chance to mend my fences. It's hard, Ceil. I won't pretend it's not going to be hard. On you, on John, on all of us. I wish there was some way to make it easy.”

“Nothing should ever be easy, Henry. Isn't that what you always say?”

“Is that what I always say? What an old windbag I'm getting to be. I'm going to order some manure today. You can spread it, can't you, John? We're going to have tomatoes coming out of our ears, given a little luck and plenty of sunshine. We never have enough tomatoes, do we, Ceil? This time I'm planting more than I ever have. You can even put some up.” His mother and father held hands and laughed shakily. His mother hated to put things up.

“Come on.” His father pulled her to her feet. “Come on, John, let's take a look around outside. The light is beautiful this time of day. If we had Les here, it'd be about perfect.”

As if she'd heard her father speak, Leslie arrived home that evening, bags in hand.

“I'm home to stay,” she announced. “The dean was very understanding. I told her about Daddy, said she could check with you, Mother, if she didn't believe me. She said she believed me and how sorry she was. My marks are good enough, so she said I didn't have to worry about making up credits. She said I could take my exams in the fall or whenever I go back to college. Everyone was very kind. I expected an argument, was all ready for one, and they were all so nice.” Leslie turned away.

“So we're going to have you around all the time now,” Henry said.

“I'm where I should be, Daddy,” she told him.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, Leslie, you are where you should be.”

When he and Les were alone, he said, “How's Emma?” He was proud of the effortless way he said her name. “What's she up to?”

“No good, I would imagine.” Leslie lunged and got him in her famous shoulder pinch, with her thumb in that special little groove she knew how to hit just right, immobilizing him.

“Listen, John,” she hissed, looking over her shoulder, making sure they were alone, “don't get me started. I don't have enough time to tell you about Emma. Who the hell does she think she is, coming to my house as my guest and seducing my little brother? Just who the hell does she think she is?”

Leslie, mad, was awesome.

“It was okay,” he said meekly. “It wasn't all her fault.”

“Bullshit.” Leslie, who rarely swore, was on a rampage. “I know her modus operandi. I should've had my head examined, bringing her here. But it never occurred to me she'd pick on my kid brother.”

He struggled gamely under Leslie's thumb. “I'm not a kid,” he said.

“It was your first time, wasn't it?” Leslie's eyes dared him to lie to her.

“Sort of.”

“There's no such thing as ‘sort of' about the first time,” she said. “Either it was or it wasn't.” She took her thumb away and stood up straight, tossing her hair out of her eyes.

“Speaking of sex,” he countered, “how's Varney?”

“He's gone,” she said. “And even if this hadn't happened with Daddy, I wouldn't have gone with him. I decided you were right. I couldn't bug out on them. I had to finish what I started.”

He was speechless. She had listened to him.

“How's Daddy? And Mother?” Leslie said.

“Well, he's all right. We're sort of friends, Les. I don't exactly know what's happening, but we're sort of becoming friends.”

She turned and he saw her eyes were full of unshed tears. “Oh, Johnny,” she said. “Oh, Johnny. I'm so glad.”

27

His mother called Gleason to tell him of his father's illness. “I thought it was time they knew, John,” she said.

He knew she was right, but dreaded their knowing.

“Dear boy.” Mrs. Arthur's voice came at him, sepulchral, lachrymose. Smoothing her rambunctious hair, she said, “You have my—you have my deepest …” She choked up, unable to go on.

“Thanks,” he hollered, and fled.

He found Keith in the lab, studying by himself for a science exam. “If you want, you can help me spread manure on Saturday,” he offered.

“You've been spreading manure as long as I've known you,” Keith said, looking up from his book.

“You're a regular laugh riot. You should get a better gag writer. It's for my father's garden. I hope you don't mind,” he hurried on, “but when I was talking to my father I told him about your mother, about the suicide bit. I didn't mention your name, I only said ‘a kid I know.'”

Keith looked pleased.

“That's all right,” Keith said. “I don't care. Anyone around here who wanted to could check the hospital records and find out she'd been in for a suicide attempt. It's no secret to anyone.”

Keith put down his book.

“You know what my mother told me last night?” he said. “She told me the most important thing she'd ever done had been to try to commit suicide. She said it set her apart from other people and that it was the most memorable, would be the most memorable thing about her. That people would always remember she'd tried to commit suicide.”

He was horrified, and didn't want to let Keith guess his feelings, so he stood there, head down, waiting for Keith to finish.

“I made up my mind there and then”—Keith's voice was so low he had to listen hard to hear him—“that there were going to be other things people would remember me for. Damned if I want to be remembered for trying to knock myself off. What a crock. I couldn't believe I'd heard her right. But that's what she said, and the worst part was that she sounded pretty pleased about it.”

He thought of telling Keith what his father had said about doing a good job of dying, about not whimpering, but he wasn't up to it. Maybe some other time, when they were fully grown and in command of things. But not now.

“Keith's coming to help me with the manure, Dad.”

“Good.” His father peered over his glasses. “John, the money for your college is there. Your mother and I took care of that some years back. That is, if you don't start writing for Woody what's-his-name fresh out of high school.” His father's eyes were kind. The fact was that he knew by now who Woody Allen was.

“Woody only wants guys with experience, Dad. It'd be a while before he'd take me on. But, thanks. It's good to know I can go if I can get in.”