Pages from a Cold Island (27 page)

From Rosalind Baker Wilson I later learned that there was no need whatever to feel badly about Otis and her father. Had there ever been a break between the two men (and even in the face of the letter
’
s bitterness Rosalind Baker Wilson would deny that any hard feelings had ever existed; but then, I soon learned that Rosalind Baker Wilson has one of those likable and naive capacities to see things as they ought to be) it had ceased to exist at the time of her father
’
s death. On the Sunday night before Wilson died, Fern and Otis had in fact been Wilson
’
s last callers at the stone house. When Rosalind Baker Wilson helped him up from his chair by the window to take him into the living room to greet the Munns, Wilson said:

“
Oh. that I should have come to this!
”

After asking Fern and Otis to stay with her father until Mrs. Stabb arrived, Rosalind Baker Wilson said:
“
Goodbye. Father.
”

11

Rosalind Baker Wilson, Wilson
’
s daughter and his eldest child by his first wife Mary Blair, is fiftyish. She has never married. Like her father she is short and fleshy, somewhat pugnacious of eye, formidably and imposingly eagle-like of brow, impatient and crotchety, and seems bent on conveying to people she isn
’
t much impressed by EW
’
s eminence— proudly:
“
I
’
ve only ever read two of his books.
Night Thoughts
and
Upstate
.
”
Too, she goes out of her way to make those people interested in her because of their interest in her father dislike her. From a man who knew her well I once heard,
“
It
’
s very simple—she hates her father.
”
As it happened this was patently untrue. Although she had me constantly dancing to her selections, although if I persisted in what she chose to believe was
“
prying
”
into areas where I shouldn
’
t pry—and in her scrupulous ferocious eyes these included almost any areas at all!—she was rude to the point where on two occasions I had to restrain myself from telling her to stuff it, although she refused to acknowledge my interest in her father as an interest worthy of me, I outlasted her and came finally, in one awful grief-wrought moment, to see how much Rosalind Baker Wilson
’
s life had been bound up with that of her father and saw with rueful clarity the reason she could not bring herself to talk about him.

At Wilson
’
s death I had written and sent to her at Wellfleet a note of condolence in which I said that I had been commissioned by the
Atlantic
to do a piece about her father, especially as to Wilson
’
s life and days at Talcottville. I also said that to make money from another
’
s bereavement seemed to me the action of a scoundrel, but that if she
’
d consent to see me and I published anything as a result I
’
d give the monies to the Red Cross (fat fucking chance!) or any charity she chose. I had not even really been
“
commis
sioned
”
by the
Atlantic
. That magazine
’
s editor Bob Man
ning had been kind enough to let me use his publication as a means of introduction to Wilson
’
s friends and neighbors in the hope that I might put down some words he could use, but I was so vague about my conception I don
’
t think Manning was much impressed or—perha
ps knowing some
thing of my reputation for procrastination—that he really believed he
’
d see any words.

Not that it mattered in Rosalind Baker Wilson
’
s case: she never answered me. When I told Mary this during my day with her, she suggested it might be because the note had gone to Wellfleet and might not have been forwarded to where Rosalind had been
living for the last two years—
three doors down the street from her father
’
s house in Talcottville. A few mornings after my ill-starred picnic I therefore telephoned her and was immediately struck with her volatile impatience. When I tried to explain I
’
d written her and the contents of my letter, she cut me dead by saying she was sure the letter would have been forwarded from Well-fleet. In any case it hadn
’
t made an impression and she couldn
’
t at the moment recall it. She would look for it. She then rang me off posthaste as she was in the process of cooking up
“
a good old-fashioned country breakfast
”
for some
“
good old friends
”
who had come to pay thei
r re
spects. Two days later I received a curt and avuncular note reminiscent of her father
’
s chilling post cards, in which she told me that it would be her policy not to talk about her father with anyone. Following so close on her father
’
s death, the thought of further in
truding myself upon her bereave
ment seemed to me distasteful in the extreme, but even as I came to that conclusion I couldn
’
t help thinking she
’
d never escape being Wilson
’
s eldest child and couldn
’
t help smiling wondering what her reaction would be when the academics and the
“
authorized
”
biographers, lustfully rubbing their hands, descended on her, the stone house, and the eighty-odd inhabitants of Talcottville. Then abruptly I got another letter from her.

Rosalind Baker Wilson was in a grandiose snit, one that would have become her father in his most polemical moods. She began by telling me that if I were going to do anything on her father not to give the money to the Red Cross, to get as much as I could and have a grand time with it. Then she got on to what was so distressing her. Rosalind said she hadn
’
t read anyth
ing on her father but the Water
town
Time
s
obituary. Now a friend had sent her Jason Epstein
’
s piece in The
New York Review of Books
; and though it would be the last thing she answered, she had to write Epstein. For my perusal she had enclosed a copy of a letter she
’
d sent to Jason Epstein in care of the
New York Review
. Of all the obituaries and tributes I
’
d read I
’
d liked Epstein
’
s best. I
’
d never heard of him—I heard later that he
’
d been (perhaps still was) a Random House editor—but there could have been little doubt from reading his eulogy that he and Wilson had been on easy terms. On reading Rosalind
’
s letter to him I had to go back to the New York Review to find the part that had so aroused her ire. Of the ceremony at Wellfleet Epstein had written:

There were moments of humor I had not anticipated: the young Orleans curate, like a scrubbed Beatle, shyly adjusting his lacy canonicals beside his blue Volkswagen in the Wilson driveway, as if he were hanging curtains; Edmund
’
s daughters, Rosalind and Helen, his son, Reuel, and Elena
’
s son, Henry, smiling as they took turns shoveling sand back into the grave where Edmund
’
s ashes had been placed, like children playing at the
beach… .

—an
“
indiscretion
”
which had prompted Rosalind Baker Wilson to tell Epstein that she personally found the way he lounged over the grave repugnant; that he
’
d tried to play head mourner while Wilson
’
s insensitive children were caught up in gaiety. Again I read Epstein
’
s words, but for the life of me I could not see in them any conscious effort to inflict hurt or, for that matter, any effort to suggest that the ceremony had somehow been less grand than it ought to have been. Again I telephoned Rosalind Baker Wilson. That

she had even written and included me in what was obviously one of those family-friends
’
contretemps common to almost everyone
’
s death seemed some reaching out to me, some un expressed hope that if I were going to do anything on her father I might at least get things
“
right.
”

“
I
’
m flexible as hell, Miss Wilson. I don
’
t really know what I want but whatever I do probably won
’
t be any more accurate if no one agrees to talk to me.
”
I then pointed out that if nothing else came from our talking she could tell any future pilgrims that she
’
d already talked with one
“
writer, Mr. Frederick Exley
”
—I liked that!—and intended to talk with no more.

With what seemed to me a somewhat hostile guardedness Rosalind Baker Wilson at last agreed that I might come on a certain early evening for drinks and a hamburger—not
“
hamburger steak.
”
If the weather were sunny—and the rains were continuing—Rosalind Baker Wilson suggested that I could take her to a
“
nice
”
restaurant on Bob Manning and the
Atlantic
. As I had no such expenses agreement with Manning, and as for months my wallet hadn
’
t been used for anything but a frayed and forlorn container for expired driver
’
s and current fishing licenses, I prayed the foul weather would hold. Fortunately it did.

I liked Rosalind Baker Wilson immediately. She wore a Mexican-style black cotton skirt, a white cotton blouse, she was barefooted and her sturdy legs were badly scratched as if she spent a lot of time going barelegged about the yards and fields of Talcottville or as if she were one of those odd blustering people who can
’
t avoid the piercing edges of kitchen cabinets. She shook my hand with warmth and firmness, and laughed with a kind of shakingly bouncy and unaffected joviality that suggested she was genuinely pleased to see me. She began by apologizing for the sparsity of the furniture, which she said she was in the process of rectifying by having on order
“
some things.
”
Almost instantly she ordered me to a typewriter at a card table in the front room and set me to copying for my
“
records
”
the brief eulogy Charles Mumford Walker had delivered at the gravesite at Wellfleet. Mr. Walker had been kind enough to send her a copy, and though it wasn
’
t at all the kind of thing I wanted, I dutifully copied it off, trying to act as solemnly earnest as a cub reporter
“
getting the facts.
”

When I
’
d finished she gave me the rye and water I
’
d requested on her asking me what I
’
d have, I took a sip, made a face, and doing a Jackie Gleason said,
“
Boy, that
’
s
goooood
!”
Rosalind Baker Wilson was not impressed by my fraudulent attempt at gentility, my trying to suggest the drink was a trifle strong for me. Because she, too, had never heard of me prior to my letter, she
’
d set herself to finding who and what I was—in her father
’
s lexicon what finally I was
“
up to
”
—and she
’
d been told by Dan Wakefield, a mutual acquaintance, that though I spilt more than most people drank I was
“
apparently
”
still functioning. She read Dan
’
s letter to me. I had no doubt Dan
’
s words had prompted Rosalind Baker Wilson to open her portals to me, and on that score was immensely grateful, but I didn
’
t much like the letter. My own
“
recommendations
”
are as simple as
he
’
s okay
, or
he
’
s a prick
, and Dan
’
s letter seemed to me somewhat patronizing in tone, self-protective (in case I got drunk and puked in Rosalind Baker Wilson
’
s lap she
’
d have been amply forewarned), and I made a mental note to thank Dan for the letter before I gave him a spanking.

When we were seating ourselves in more comfortable chairs, I brought the subject back to the Epstein piece.

“
I didn
’
t even know we were supposed to fill in the grave till the last minute. If Jason saw anything humorous about it, what he took for us playing a bunch of prancing idiots was probably bewilderment on our part. Besides, who wants to bury their father with some joker hovering about taking notes.
”
She paused, those hawklike eyes narrowed ominously, she was preparing to strike.
“
Jason!
You know what he is?
”

“
What?
”

“
A
con man.
You can quote me on that!
”

She looked steadily at me, with no little defiance inviting me to write it down. Up to this point I hadn
’
t written anything down. With Mary Pcolar I
’
d filled up an entire legal-size pad, had spent two weeks studying the notes, and had determined that none of them had really contributed to catching the flavor of the afternoon, least of all the quotes. With Rosalind Baker Wilson I
’
d hoped to chat and after wards put down only what I could remember as having stood out, if I put down anything at all. Now she was giving me the eagle eye, and as I
’
d seen the results of Jason Ep
stein
’
s incurring her wrath, I removed my ball-point pen from my shirt pocket and with timid, rather quaking dutifulness and feeling downright cretinous wrote Jason Epstein— Con Man! Giving me an abrupt, affirmative so-there nod of the head, one of those I
’
ve-said-it-and-Fm-glad gestures, Rosalind Baker Wilson then digressed to substantiate her
“
charge,
”
looking pointed
ly at me to make sure I was get
ting it all down. And though I made my cute little ball-point go furiously on the page nothing but frantic curlicues was recorded. She said that when she was an editor with Houghton Mifflin Jason Epstein had tried to get her to release for a pittance—perhaps nothing—a bunch of her out-of-print titles for a Random House paperback line.

“
I told Jason Epstein what he could do!
”

“
Certainly your father and Epstein were on amiable terms?
”

“
Huh! Who knows? To me Jason was just another courtier. Maybe father only used him. When there were any difficulties with his contracts, I know he used to kid Roger Straus, Jr., that he could always take his manuscripts to Epstein at Random House.
”
Suddenly Rosalind Baker Wilson
’
s eyes again narrowed furiously.
“
Jason! I don
’
t want to talk about Jason Epstein!
”

We sat in charged silence for a moment. Then she asked,
“
What have you done so far?
”

“
Not much. I
’
ve read all the obituaries and eulogies I could find. I
’
ve talked with a few people.
”
When she asked if I
’
d read anything I liked I said I
’
d liked the Wilfred Sheed piece in the
Time
s
, not daring to tell her I
’
d also liked the Epstein piece. She was skeptical that the Sheed piece could be any good and challenged me to illustrate what was any good about it.

“
It was nice,
”
I said, trying to get the conversation on a jollier plane.
“
Sheed began by saying that only a knave would profess to an intimacy with a dead man he hadn
’
t had in life, he wanted it understood he had no preferred place among your father
’
s acquaintances; then he went on to say your father had once invi
ted him to Wellfleet for Christ
mas, how once invited he
’
d be damned if he
’
d let your father back out of the invitation, how he and his wife had got snowed in at Wellfleet, and the pleasant week they
’
d spent with your father, drinking and talking books on snowbound Cape Cod.
”

Rosalind Baker Wilson said,
“
You
’
re darned right Sheed wasn
’
t going to let Father back out of his invitation!
”

I did not know what to say. Was she going to tell me that Sheed and his wife had forced themselves on Wilson during a family holiday? Certainly everything that was known about Wilson made this impossible, and I sensed some need on her part to preclude anyone
’
s having had any significant place in her father
’
s life. To point out subtly the implausibility of what she was suggesting—Wilson
’
s opening his doors to anyone he didn
’
t want to open his doors to—I told her I might once have met her father had it not been for my unfortunate mention of Edwin O
’
Connor. She really laughed at this, bringing her knuckles to her cheeks to steady her face, and slapping her bare feet on the floor.

“
Don
’
t worry about that!
”
she assured me.
“
Ed was a helluva nice guy but no writer!
”
Once she
’
d told a friend that if O
’
Connor had never written a word the loss to American Letters would be negligible, and as she
’
d then done for the friend, Rosalind Baker Wilson now lifted her glass ceilingward and in a gay toast said,
“
Sorry about that, Ed, wherever you are up there!
”

After a few more ryes we had our hamburgers, and I had mine with the works—mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, and a slice of raw. Rosalind Baker Wilson defied me to convince her I really believed she
’
d give me hamburger.

“
Why wouldn
’
t I believe you? It
’
s delicious.
”

“
I thought you
’
d really expect something fancy. When I say hamburger, you get hamburger!
”

I told her I
’
d talke
d with Mary Pcolar and to my im
mense relief she nodded her head approvingly and said,
“
That
’
s okay. Mary
’
s okay. You can trust her.
”
Feeling emboldened, I then mentioned another couple with whom I
’
d spoken. Rosalind Baker Wilson came boltingly off her chair. I literally shrank back in my own. my mouth went slack.

“
God, that
’
s a laugh. I
’
ll make us another drink. You
’
ll need one to hear this.
Take this down
.
”

When Rosalind Baker Wilson came charging back from the kitchen and handed me another
“
good
”
one, she told me the couple with whom I
’
d talked were health-food quacks. A few days before Wilson
’
s death they
’
d come to the stone house bearing bottles and bottles of vitamins— B12, C, E, the gamut—and for a long time the man had sternly lectured Wilson on
his health, giving Wilson direc
tions for the taking of the pills, the numbers and times of day and so forth. Having at seventy-seven reached an age
“
off the charts
”
for a writer, having been told he hadn
’
t much time left without the insertion of a pacemaker and having scorned the extra time under such clinically aloof conditions, living constantly within the foreboding arm
’
s length of bottled oxygen, Wilson had apparently viewed the offer of yellow and orang
e capsules as the kind of uncon
scionable black humor that can only issue from people totally oblivious of their hang-ups. Aware of the generosity of their offer and out of politeness Wilson had heard the man to the near-interminable end
of his lecture on robust
ness, and then Wilson had looked quizzically and ruefully at the man and with an ironical and theatrical longing had asked,
“
What about griddle cakes?
”