Seconds (13 page)

“Well!” he began, heartily. “It's a pleasure—”

The cry of a baby in the next room so startled him that his hand shook. Some of the liquor splashed out on his wrist.

“You have a child?”

“Oh, yes. He's two months old now.”

“But you never—your father never mentioned that you were going to have one.”

“I guess he didn't know. Did he, Sam?” she asked her husband. “Well, anyway, I think he died just about the time we were certain of it—you know, the third month. Would you like to take a look at him?”

“I certainly would.”

His grandson was red with fury, kicking puny legs, his pink mouth disproportionately huge, but even so Wilson triumphantly detected his immortality in such tiny matters as the ears, whose lobes hung free, unlike those of the father. He glanced with secret relish from the howling baby to a wall mirror—where he saw an ungrandfatherly Antiochus Wilson transfixed in virile leanness, and noticed, too, that the surgeons had sewn the lobes tight.

“What's his name?”

“He's Sam Junior,” said Sally, applying a pacifier to the open mouth.

“Oh. I thought possibly you might have . . .” He shrugged and smiled into his drink. “A fine baby. I'm sure your father would have been—delighted by him. It's a shame he didn't at least know about it, before . . .”

They moved back into the living room.

“Being a grandfather,” Wilson remarked, “I mean, it's an experience for a man. Something new. And, well, it sort of demonstrates the continuity of life, doesn't it?” They made no response. He was aware that their curiosity about him had given way to impatience.

“Actually,” he went on hastily, trying to improvise an adequate reason for his visit, “your father asked me to drop in on you if I ever passed through Denver, just to extend his—um.” He coughed and fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes. “I saw him shortly before his—his death, you see, and he spoke very fondly of you, and it was his greatest wish to come out for a visit.”

“He never seemed to be able to break away.” Her voice implied indifference, rather than reproach.

“Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to very much,” Wilson insisted. “He was terribly attached. It was just that his position required . . . unusual fidelity. He carried heavy responsibilities, your father did.”

Sally merely nodded.

“He was a fine man,” Wilson declared, shamelessly, determined to inspire some reaction. “Devoted to his family. Why,” he added almost defiantly, “there was nothing he wouldn't do for them. I mean, he saw they got the best kind of surroundings, and clothes and things, and a decent environment . . .” He detected a look of boredom on Sally's face. It outraged him. “Why do you suppose he worked so hard to be a success at a job he didn't really like? For his family, that's why. He certainly wasn't doing it for his own amusement.” He broke off suddenly, for he sensed that he was on the verge of going too far. They were regarding him quizzically. His son-in-law's eyes seemed to be scanning his face with microscopic intensity, probing for little surgical scars . . . He reached for his handkerchief, not remembering that he had left it on the floor of the cab. Another frustration. He sighed. “Well. I hope his death wasn't too great a blow to your mother.”

“She's doing quite well,” said Sally.

“Fine, fine. I suppose she's sold the house.”

“Oh, no. She's still living there. She wouldn't want to move away from her friends.”

“Of course not, no.” He forced a smile. His glass was empty; they were making no move to refill it. He supposed he should leave, but he wondered whether the baby would not wake again to be fed or changed. He wanted a chance to study it more closely.

“It's nice to know . . .” His smile ached on his cheeks. Know what? That he wasn't missed? “I'm sure your father would be happy to know, that is,” he stammered, and then feeling an imperative need to change the topic, he turned to his son-in-law. “Well, doctor, I imagine you'll be moving into a Denver practice one of these days, eh?”

“As a matter of fact, no. We're established here now.”

“Of course. But I mean eventually.”

“No, not even eventually.” The young man displayed what struck Wilson as a smug little smile. “This town suits us. My office is a block away.” He glanced at his wife. “Sally and I have moved around enough in our lives already.”

“I lived in six different places by the time I went to college,” Sally said absently, looking toward the baby's room.

“Six?” Wilson frowned down at his hands. Surely it hadn't been that many. He began to count on his fingers; then, guiltily, stopped. Their eagerness for his departure was almost palpable. “Six,” he repeated. “Yes, that's a lot, naturally. But it's the way people live in this country. Moving around, I mean. Trying to better their lot. You can hardly blame your father for that.”

“I'm not blaming him for anything,” Sally said coldly. “Sam, perhaps Mr. Wilson would like another drink.”

“Oh, no,” said Wilson. “I've really got to be going.” He shifted position in his chair. “But on the question of social mobility, I think you'll have to admit that it's part of the process of . . . well, of individual freedom. It's what we've been working toward in this country. I mean, people don't have to stay put in one place.”

“It might be better if they did,” the young man said, with a touch of sharpness.

“Yes, of course. Moving a family is an unsettling business. But it's the price one pays for—for benefits.” Wilson wiped his forehead with his hand, once more regretting the loss of his handkerchief. “What I'm trying to say is, this is the way things are in America. People move, that's all. You can't stop it, unless”—he attempted a chuckle—“you're prepared to have a dictatorship.”

The son-in-law closed his eyes, as if impatient to the point of hostility. “We have so many authoritarian controls as it is,” he muttered, “that another one would hardly be noticed. People oughtn't to be permitted to move, unless they can demonstrate that it's in the interests of society as a whole.”

“You're jesting, surely.”

“Not completely.”

“But, speaking in all seriousness, that sounds a lot like socialism. A man in your position—a physician—can hardly be inclined toward socialism.”

The son-in-law blinked wearily at Wilson. “We already have socialism, to a large extent. That's just the trouble. It's socialism without any real controls. Disorganized socialism.”

“My husband is actually rather on the conservative side,” Sally interjected, as if she were explaining some simple class problem to a backward pupil.

“Freedom,” said the young doctor, with the bitterness of a man whose dinner is being delayed by an unwanted visitor. “This freedom you speak of—it's an illusion. Nobody knows how to make use of it. I refer to the great mass of people, naturally. They need to be protected from this freedom, Mr. Wilson, and frankly, if it takes a form of government which involves strict and severe controls, well, I for one will be happy to see the day. Provided,” he added, with a wave of one hand, “they leave people like you and me alone.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.” Wilson was impelled by a powerful desire to leave. He no longer thought of the baby. “Really, I must be going.” He rose to his feet, and Sally and her husband stood up with ungraceful readiness as he did so.

“Must you really?” But she was taking his hat and coat from the closet. “There's a cabstand at the corner, unless you'd rather telephone.”

“No, please. The corner will be fine.” He struggled into his coat. He stared wonderingly into the curved, calm face of what had once been his daughter. “Your father has always been a Republican—a liberal Republican,” he mumbled. The baby howled. She glanced behind her, toward the summoning voice. “He's always tried to stay in step,” Wilson said anxiously, “with the times. He . . . well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”

The sidewalk was unfamiliar in the darkness. He proceeded cautiously toward the corner, afraid that he might stumble. Behind him the breeze carried the cry of the child.

H
e returned to the airport, picked up his suitcase, and went to a hotel. He decided not to bother about dinner. Sleep was what he needed most, but no sooner had he tipped the bellboy, flung his coat and hat on a chair, and sunk wearily down on the bed, fully clothed, than the telephone buzzed at him. It was Charley, calling long distance.

“Charley. How the devil did you know where—”

“Never mind that.” Charley sounded aggrieved. “See here, old man. I'd like to know what's gotten into you. First we get you all nice and settled down on the Coast and then you go chasing around where you've got no business being. It's not proper, old boy. You're demonstrating a pretty negative approach, if I may say so, and the boys back at the colony are darned cut up about it, too.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Wilson said, defensively. He loosened his tie with his free hand and sighed. “I thought it wouldn't hurt just to make one quick little visit.”

“All right. You've had your little visit. Look,” said Charley, obviously struggling to master his peevishness, “let's examine this thing from an ethical standpoint. Is it fair to go rooting around in somebody else's past? I mean, what earthly good does it do? You've got your own life to live. Live it. Let bygones be bygones. All this talk about Harvard and grandchildren—that simply doesn't fit the present situation, old boy. Face up to it. Everybody's better off the way things are—”

“You're absolutely right, of course,” said Wilson. He was too tired to protest.

“—and the stakes are important,” Charley continued. “Not just for you, but for your friends. They've gone to a great deal of trouble to find their happiness, and now you've got them all worried and bothered, because they feel kind of responsible for you. It's a brotherhood, old boy,” he declared, more expansively. “We're all in this thing together. Myself included, you see, because I'm your sponsor, in a manner of speaking. You wouldn't want to let old Charley down, would you?” he inquired in a jesting tone, although Wilson could detect a note of real concern in his voice.

“I'm sorry, Charley. It won't happen again. It was a mistake to come out here, I guess.”

“That's more like it.”

“But I can't help feeling there's been an injustice done. A real injustice. You remember Sally—what a sweet affectionate kid she was—”

“Don't start on that, old boy.”

“No, just let me finish. She doesn't know me, Charley. I don't mean me now, but me—before. It seemed, well, like she sort of wrote me off as some old stupid fuddy-duddy who didn't matter alive or dead, one way or the other.”

“Forget it.”

“I'm willing to forget it, Charley. I really am. But it's pretty damned upsetting to find out that your own flesh and blood didn't give two hoots about you, when you'd worked and slaved for so many years—”

“Old boy, this is being negative again.”

“Just let me talk a minute. That husband of hers, for example. Smug little fascist, that's what he is. One of these little tin medical gods. I tell you, it makes me sick, thinking how the pair of them will be raising that boy of theirs. A grandfather's influence could be decisive, Charley. I realize I'm in no position right now to do anything to that end, but—well, you should have heard the things that fellow said—”

“Look,” said Charley, firmly. “You take a sleeping pill and get a good night's rest. I'll get in touch with Bushbane and have him out in Denver by morning.”

“I don't need Bushbane. I don't want Bushbane. I'm able to get back under my own steam. The point is, Charley, that a man ought to be able to talk about the things that bother him without being shushed up all the time,” said Wilson. “By the way,” he went on, tartly, “do you know who Bushbane is married to? Sue. S-u-e, Sue, that's who.” There was a considerable silence at the other end of the line. Wilson felt a pang of remorse. “Sorry, Charley,” he added. “I didn't mean to stir up old memories.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Charley, gamely. He puffed out a breath that sounded across the transcontinental wires like the rustling of leaves.

“For all I know,” Wilson said, trying to soothe his friend further, “Emily may have remarried by now, too.” He was suddenly appalled by the idea. “A rich widow's an easy mark, by God.”
His
money. The sense of injustice mounted. “Some slick young gigolo—”

“Old boy,” Charley interrupted. His voice was weak with urgency. “In the name of our friendship, I want you to promise me to go back to the Coast. It—it means a lot to me. Believe me, you can't know how much it means to me. We're—we're sort of tied together, you and me.”

“I don't understand.”

“It doesn't matter. But you will go back, won't you?”

“Well, yes. I said I would.”

“And you'll forget all about this other business. Won't you?”

“I'll do my best, Charley.”

“Just play the game, that's all,” said Charley, unsteadily. “Happiness. It's within our reach, old man. Remember that. And just—play the game . . .” His voice cracked. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Charley.”

Wilson sat for some time on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap. His thoughts were confused; he could not seem to order them. He was sorry for Charley, of course, although he could not quite see why the mention of Sue's remarriage should be so upsetting. Emily . . . well, that was a different thing, quite different. Emily had been solid and loyal in her way, and certainly faithful; the idea of her as the wife of some stranger impressed him as being most inappropriate. Undignified, in fact. It would be, he felt, quite unlike Emily to do such a thing. The fact that she had not sold the house was encouraging; at least it indicated that she was not one of these giddy creatures who go fluttering down to Miami or Jamaica the moment their spouses are tucked underground. On the other hand, he reflected, she might have found some man right there in Connecticut; perhaps some fellow who'd lost his wife. Someone like Pierce Johnson, with his big calf-eyes and little brush mustache. Johnson's wife had been seriously ill, hadn't she? She might be dead by now, leaving Johnson free to go mooning about other men's wives . . .