Recessional: A Novel (49 page)

In succeeding days the good-hearted inhabitants of Gateways spent considerable effort in trying to make Mr. Hasslebrook as welcome to the Palms as they had been made to feel when they arrived, nervous and insecure about whether they really wanted to settle in a retirement home. They remembered the warmth with which residents like the down-to-earth Mallorys had extended unusual courtesies or the enthusiasm that Senator Raborn displayed when trying to find them a bargain in a used car. And later they realized that Muley Duggan had left his dazed wife to help them, even though he knew he would be relentlessly abused when he returned to her.

Dapper Chris Mallory collared Hasslebrook after dinner one night and said: “Old fellow, it’s none of my business, but you’re going to be a lot happier here if you allow me to take you around to some of the good clothing stores where you can find quite attractive summer suits. They’re usable all year long, you know.”

Hasslebrook rejected the proposal: “I have two other suits. I’ll get by.” But Chris was not one to acknowledge such a rebuff. He knew that Hasslebrook needed summer suits, and he knew where to find them at prices that were not exorbitant, so one morning, without having prearranged the meeting, he banged on the new man’s door until it was grudgingly opened: “Yes. What is it?”

“I’m taking you to some of the finest stores in Florida, where you’ll find handsome clothes, reasonable prices.”

“I really don’t…”

“Come along! You’ve got to learn the neighborhood if you’re to enjoy this place.” And almost by force, he edged Hasslebrook out of the apartment and down to where the Mallory Cadillac waited: “That’s my wife’s car. Let’s take yours,” and although he knew he no longer had a license to drive, he took the wheel of Hasslebrook’s inexpensive rented car. As he again felt the thrill of driving a car he chuckled as if he were a thirteen-year-old sneaking his family’s jalopy out for a spree.

At last Hasslebrook spoke. If he was going to ride in Florida traffic with a man who was clearly past his prime, he wanted to know the worst: “How old are you?”

“Ninety, and my wife and I go dancing together at least twice a week and as many other times as occasion provides.” Hasslebrook had no comment, nor could Mallory guess what he was thinking, for he stared straight down the highway as if he were either mesmerized or terrified.

They stopped first at Mallory’s favorite men’s store, Klaus Ruger’s, where the Vienna-born outfitter imported the best suitings from Italy, Spain and England. When Hasslebrook entered the store he was astounded by the bright colors of the clothes and their suave lines, but he was stunned when he looked at the price tags, for he found that he could acquire a rather nice sports jacket for $495 and a pair of appropriate slacks for $225. “Are all the prices like this?” he asked and Mallory said: “The ones that Esther bought me for my birthday are over here. Fancier cut, better fabrics, they run in the six-hundred-dollar bracket. Trousers are a bargain, though, at three hundred forty dollars.” There were also some fine belts at $55 and up.

“Do you buy clothes like these?”

“Of course. Mr. Hasslebrook, I’m ninety and I believe in indulging myself—nothing but the best for me,” As a puckish smile crept over his face, he said: “I’m having the time of my life, and enjoying my fine rooms at the Palms….”

“You have more than one room?”

“Three bedrooms—I need two for visitors. But as I was saying, best thing my wife ever did for me was getting us that Cadillac. She drives us to all parts of the west coast in the greatest comfort. Beautiful places here, clear down to Naples.”

“Is there a store with more reasonable prices? I admit I need a more colorful suit, but I’m not approaching ninety. I need to—”

“Mr. Hasslebrook, you are approaching ninety. Everyone is, and just because I’m closer to it than you doesn’t mean that I live by special rules. Live a little. Get yourself four or five snappy jackets. But I agree with you—you don’t have to spend five hundred dollars for one. I’ll admit I enjoy special freedom. I don’t have to worry about the next ten years. One at a time is good enough for me.”

With no adverse comment, he took Hasslebrook to another store, where the prices were more reasonable. For a jacket almost as flawless as those at Klaus Ruger’s the price was only $290, slacks at $115, belts at $45 and up. Mallory had expected the newcomer to grab two or three of each, but when he saw the man blanch at the first price tag, Chris knew that they had better move quickly to a lesser store. Here the price range was $240, $95 and $30, which was still more than Hasslebrook was prepared to pay, so Mallory asked the owner of the store where he might take his impecunious guest to find the kind of clothes college students on limited budgets might buy, and the man willingly cooperated.

“In the Hispanic section of Tampa, near those handsome buildings where the Cubans made cigars, there’s a clothing store tucked away in one of the corners. Called Charley’s. A fellow can find good bargains there occasionally. Manufacturer’s overruns plus some very good brand-name clothes that have slight imperfections—you’d never notice.” Having said this, the salesman fingered Mallory’s lapel: “You didn’t get this at Charley’s.”

“No, Klaus Ruger’s. I’m helping him.” He pointed to where Hasslebrook was still unhappily scrutinizing the prices in the store.

With no trouble, they found Charley’s, but the first jackets they looked at were still too expensive, $85 and $65. But as Hasslebrook turned away he saw a sign:
FACTORY SECONDS
.
YOU’LL NEVER SEE THE IMPERFECTIONS
. This was what he wanted, and when he fingered through the racks, $35 cheapest, $55 highest, he found an attractive jacket with a true Florida look: “I like this one, if it fits.” The owner helped him slip into the garment and said suavely: “It must have been tailored knowing you were coming,” and the purchase was made.

“Now, which others do you want?” Mallory asked, and Hasslebrook said in a surprised voice: “This is the one I like.”

“But at these prices you ought to get three or four. Different nights of the week, you know.”

“How many do you have?”

“About a dozen. Maybe fifteen. Can’t look stodgy when I go dancing.”

“You still buy new jackets? At your age?”

“What else am I going to do? I like to look neat, ‘with it’ as the kids say. And I intend looking that way as long as I live. Doctor told me the other day: ‘Your vital signs would do justice to a man of sixty.’ While they stay firm I dance. But Doc said: ‘Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe you look so good because you do dance.’ ”

Hasslebrook resisted the siren call to buy the four or five great seconds that Mallory and the manager picked out for him, suits with damages so minor that only an expert could recognize them if they were pointed out, and he was also satisfied with one pair of trousers at $19.50 with a belt sewn into the waistband. “It was,” he told Mallory on the drive back, “a very successful morning.”

When he entered the dining room that night, Señora Jiménez greeted him with applause: “You look spiffy. My husband doesn’t have a jacket-and-pants set that looks half as good as yours,” and this was true, because Raúl’s matching sets at two hundred dollars each lacked the high styling of the seconds from the prominent manufacturers. Of course, when Hasslebrook appeared night after night in the same clothes, people began to talk, and one evening when Chris Mallory was dining with the men of the tertulia, his wife being absent at a church meeting, he told them about the almost fruitless shopping expedition with the new man.

“What do you make of him?” President Armitage asked, and Chris said: “He’s a jerk. Should never have come to a place like this.”

“That we knew from the first night,” St. Près said, “but is he a dangerous jerk?”

“I thought he was merely stupid.”

“He did graduate from law school,” Armitage said, and St. Près remarked: “So he says.”

The upshot of Mallory’s report was that Armitage and St. Près asked for a meeting with Dr. Zorn, and when they sat down in his office they wasted no time in getting to the point: “Zorn, what’s the story on this Hasslebrook?”

“Anything I know is public information. Boston lawyer in a minor partnership. Credit rating good. No suspicious entries in his track record. Wife died some years ago, nothing suspicious. Had six kids, all married, and he wanted a southern climate. Tired of shoveling snow.”

“That’s all?”

“There was one unusual aspect to his coming here. He never visited us. A woman from his office flew down, inspected us meticulously and spoke to Ken, who made all the arrangements.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Obviously he’s not your standard old widower with his CD collection, his Cadillac and three grandsons at Yale. He’s something very different, and if you discover what it is, please let me be the first to know.” When he led his guests to the door he added: “You men know that at the Palms we do not snoop. We assume that we’re dealing with gentlemen and ladies, people trained to be civilized.”

After weeks of watching Hasslebrook wearing the same jacket and trousers, Chris Mallory once again knocked on his door: “Mr. Hasslebrook, you and I had a profitable trip some weeks ago. You found a jacket I’d be proud to wear myself. But you can’t live here with just one pair of trousers. Sit down. I want to talk like a trusted friend, and no one will ever hear a word of what I’m about to say. You were surprised at Charley’s when I said I had fifteen or so sports combinations. Actually I have eighteen, and three of them I’ve almost never worn here at the Palms. They’d fit you, they’d look great on you, and I would be honored, Mr. Hasslebrook, if you’d accept those three jackets and the trousers and the belts as my gift to a man who could wear them with distinction.” He held his hands forward, palms up as if he were in the desert proving to a stranger that he carried no concealed weapon.

The effect on Hasslebrook was striking. Lowering his head as if to hide deep emotion, he said: “You are truly generous—I’m deeply moved, Mr. Mallory. But I have plenty of money, I did well in my firm. It’s just that I detest exhibitionism, display, ostentatious spending. If you came at me with hot irons you couldn’t force me to pay my money for those suits at that first place, the Austrian one. When I got such a suit home and looked at it, I’d burn it. Wouldn’t risk having it contaminate me.”

“Are you a New England Puritan? You believe in self-flagellation.”

“I was nothing. My wife was Catholic. I learned a great deal from her.”

“Did she help you to convert?”

“I’m still not affiliated with any church. I did go to Holy Cross, where I learned to be a practicing Christian. I do not believe in vanity.”

“I’m a Baptist, not a particularly good one, but I am. So let’s talk sense like two fellow Christians. Mr. Hasslebrook, if you intend staying here at the Palms—”

“I do.”

“You cannot do it with a wintertime three-piece suit and one summer pair of pants. Get in the car with me right now, I’ll advance you the money if necessary, and we’ll go back to Charley’s and buy you those three or four great jackets I picked out that day. If you agree to buy so many, I’m sure he’ll give you a good deal. Well under two hundred dollars.”

Hasslebrook studied the proposal, then asked: “You think it’s necessary?” and before Chris could reply, he added: “Have the women been talking about me?”

“Not my wife. She talks about nobody.”

“The others?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go. You think two hundred dollars will make me presentable?”

“Yes, and I’ll lend you the money.”

“No need.”

They drove up busy Thirty-fifth Street to Charley’s, where Mallory said: “Mr. Charles, as a personal favor to me, I want you to pick out for this gentleman four of your very best factory seconds: sports jacket, trousers, belt, and the bill has to be no more than two hundred dollars.”

While Hasslebrook inspected the four jackets, Mallory whispered to Charley: “If it has to go over the two hundred dollars he has, I’ll make up the difference,” and in that way Clarence Hasslebrook, a dour, secretive man, was able to appear in the dining room in five different handsome outfits; his three-piece dark woolen suit was reserved for Sundays, when he attended one of the nearby churches.

On the last day of August when temperatures in Florida should have been blistering, Andy realized that it was an exceptionally comfortable day for checking the grounds, which he had wanted to do for some time. Walking around, he paid special attention to the walkways, the flower gardens and the swimming pool.

He was feeling pleased with his custodianship when he turned a corner to inspect the tennis court and saw a sight that stunned him.
On the far end of the court stood Bedford Yancey, dressed in tennis shorts with racket in hand. Opposite him on the near end were two women, also in tennis gear: his wife, Ella, who was obviously capable of playing a decent game of tennis, and Betsy Cawthorn, in her new fully fleshed-out legs. It was as if some master sculptor had re-created the shapely legs that Betsy had had before, but the new legs terminated in rather large, heavy shoes with flat soles that held firmly to the ground. She was standing with the right foot forward and well to one side, the left foot slightly back and off to the other side. In her left hand she held a stout cane with a big rubber base that provided her with maximum stability as she moved her torso and arms to return the softly hit balls that her rehab director was sending her way.

But she did not pat the balls back to him. She hit them smartly, getting her entire upper body into the action, and even though she could not run around the court chasing balls, she could from her stable position manipulate her right arm and stretch herself from the waist up to reach balls that Andy thought she must surely miss. When a ball from Bedford went wide, his wife ran to recover it, but when a shot missed Betsy and came at Ella, she could handle it with dispatch. The three were engaged in some strenuous rallying, as though they were warming up for a game.

“Marvelous!” Andy shouted as Betsy reached far to her right to return a shot. “This is miraculous! Betsy, you’re playing like a champion. I can’t believe it!”