The Incredible Charlie Carewe (12 page)

“What’s the name of the other sister—Elsie, you said?”

“Yeah—Elsie—and there’s a girl who shows none of the effects of overprotection. Of all the things that the word ‘wholesome’ means—she is it. I mean, a ‘whole’ person, not necessarily the clean-scrubbed milk-fed gal that usually comes to mind with the word. She’s about eighteen, I think, no great looker, except for the expression in her eyes.” He paused a moment. “Feel like a bit of rum, Herb—help you digest that meal?”

Herb accepted and then pounced on his previous words: “What ‘expression’ and just how brief is your acquaintance with this young lady?”

Gregg looked at him blankly for a moment, and then, “Oh, my God, are you at that again! I’m an old man in her book—it’s just that in a young girl—well, she’s so interested in life, and I’m sure she looks at everyone else the same way, as though they were fascinating—it seems flirtatious, but I’m sure nothing could be further from her mind.”

Herb started to speak, but Gregg stopped him with an upraised hand. “To sum up,” he said loudly to drown any possible speech from Herb, “my point is that I am wondering why a fine family—nice people, good people, really special people—should produce an inexplicable, unpredictable, egocentric, shallow bit of manhood like Charles Carewe.”

“Well—let me ask this.” Herb caught an emotional note to his friend’s words. “Is this an academic question or does it matter to you? And why should you give a damn?”

“I am not sure about how much I care. I don’t know yet what I want to do about it—if anything. I know I want to stick around, first of all because I’m fascinated, but I get that mixed up a little with the fact that I’ve walked into a good thing financially.”

“So?” said Herb. “You don’t know whether to cast yourself as a parasite or a do-gooder, is that it?”

“Not quite——” Gregg bristled a little, because Herb was hitting close. “I’d be no pilot fish to a shark——”

“But that has a sinister sound—if your Charlie’s the shark.”

Gregg was pacing the small area from the front window back to the fireplace. “It’s a funny thing.” He paused and straightened a book which had fallen on its side on the mantelpiece. “You’re not far off. I think the guy’s a man-eater, without the hunger.”

“Well, where in hell have you found evidence to come to that conclusion! It’s not like you to get dramatic, old boy.”

“I’ve practically lived with him, daily—for a couple of months now. Look——” He sat down saddle-wise across the seat of a straight chair, his arms on the back. “This boy is no dope, neither is he insane, by any of the standards that I have heard of, at least. He is poised, he has an appearance of physical well-being. He seems immune from anxiety or worry—too immune, and that’s part of what I mean. Sometimes I think he’s simply a psychopathic liar, but he even falls short in that classification, because that kind of person will fight for his lies. Charlie doesn’t seem to give a damn, if it’s pointed out to him that he’s just shooting the breeze. He gives you that big grin and flatters the hell out of you by saying, ‘Of course it’s not the truth—aren’t you clever to see that!’ I don’t think he has the capacity to love—or to hate. And that’s dangerous.”

“What does he want to be—if anything?” asked Herb.

Gregg threw up his hands. “You name it—as long as it’s something big. Right now he’s going after a career as a criminal lawyer—I think his father put that bee in his bonnet—two weeks ago he wanted to be an explorer in the Amazon. But it’s all hot air. I’m trying to instill some enthusiasm for something he could do right now without half trying—pass his college exams with a very high rating, and make his old man happy for all the trouble he’s had to go through with him.” He stood up suddenly, impatiently, knocking the little chair over. Bending over to pick it up, he said, with more composure, “I don’t know why I should care. I should pick up my monthly check and then, come June, walk away and say, ‘Thanks, it’s been a pleasure!’ But I just have a feeling, and maybe it’s stupid and egotistic, that I’d like to get between him and the people who will cross his path and warn them off. He’s a killer—without a weapon. The only weapon he’ll use is himself. And, if you ask me, he’s already begun.” He swallowed the remains in his glass with one gulp, gagging a little.

Herb watched him, concerned. “Maybe you’re imagining things, Gregg. I must say I want to meet this creature, you’ve got my curiosity aroused. I hope you’re not letting yourself in for something. I think you ought to keep the problem at arm’s length, if it’s that bad. Maybe somebody ought to warn
you!
It’s that old thing about being ‘my brother’s keeper’—I’m all for it, but mix well with prudence.”

Herb had been up at the crack of dawn the next morning, and gone out with a group on a bus to the ski run, which proved to be for children and duffers. It was short, crowded, and therefore dangerous, and he hitched a ride back into town about noon. Perhaps it was the fact that he had the luncheon date with Gregg and Charlie on his mind. Perhaps it was because he was preoccupied that everything seemed to irritate him that morning at the run. He had taken a clumsy fall at the top of the runway and the hoots of laughter and some corny advice, “Get a sled, mister!” had nettled him. He decided the snow was too soft, that everything was lousy. He felt like a professional golfer who’d muffed a putt at a Tom Thumb golf course. He had looked for some fun, and so far the weekend had been anything but exhilarating. In the light of day Gregg’s reluctant schoolboy sounded like an utter bore, and he found himself divided by annoyance and a comradely desire to share his friend’s interests.

It further irritated him when later he found himself in complete disagreement with Gregg’s description and analysis of Charlie.

They had their meal at a big window at the rear of the dining room overlooking a tableau of white birch robed in torn ermine cloaks. In the clear reflected light, listening to Charlie’s voice, Herb saw a young man who was perhaps handicapped by looks and money, at least in his opinion, and he wondered if Gregg wasn’t a little jealous. Truthfully he felt a twinge of that emotion himself. His own lack of distinctive good looks had never particularly bothered him—he saw to it that the face he called his was shaved and clean, and was quite unaware that to others it was a “good” face, reflecting his zest for life, his tempered aggressiveness.

With a slight shock he realized he was dominating the conversation at the table, talking about his passion for New York. “It’s greedy for ideas, new thinking—it not only appreciates talent in any form, it stimulates you and asks for more, more!”

Charlie was listening intently, eagerly. “It sounds wonderful the way you put it,” he said. “Sometimes I feel I’ve hardly lived at all—I’m so impatient to
do
something.”

He drew some fine lines on the tablecloth with the edge of a fruit knife. “I guess my keeper here”—he flipped the knife toward Gregg—“has told you about my difficulties with our educational system.” So far they had avoided personalities successfully, and both Herb and Gregg, though they kept their masks on straight, felt the sudden alertness against betraying to the third party that he had been under discussion.

Gregg protested, “ ‘Keeper’ is a strong word, Charlie.”

“I know, I know, Gregg—but I resented like hell not being able to go back to finish out the semester, and I’ve taken it out on you.” His smile was a warm apology, and then, turning to Herb in explanation, “I got into a bit of a mess at the beginning of the term.” He dropped his eyes to the tick-tack-toe he was drawing. “I don’t think you know this either, Gregg, I’ve never told it, because it sounds too damned egotistic, but it was really because of a couple of gals. Women fighting over me! Can you imagine!” He chuckled modestly, but as though the modesty was obligatory and he was pleasantly resigned to the fate of always being the prey of fighting females.

“One of them was the wife of a professor—a foolish lonely woman—I spent a little time with her, read her poetry, stuff like that—but she got it bad, poor thing.” He sighed at the memory, and lifted his shoulders in a “What was I to do?” gesture.

“It’s my own feeling that the professor got wind of the dear lady’s attraction to me and put a younger girl in my path, just to prove to her that she was too old to flirt.” Gregg was listening, fascinated. This was a brand-new version. He had not even heard of the “professor’s wife.” If this were true, then he could understand more clearly why his being thrown out of school had been so completely without qualification. So far all he had heard was that a girl had pursued him so thoroughly, practically throwing herself at him, that on the night of the Halloween party he had been a little drunk and had lost his head.

Charlie was pounding the table softly in emphasis and frustration. “Well—I made a pass at the kid—she was a pretty piece—she screamed for help—and pulled my world down around my ears.” He was silent, as though he could not go into further detail without being ungentlemanly.

The silence extended itself and Herb broke it, weakly. “Yeah, women are like that——”

Gregg shot him a look, one eyebrow raised, his lips twisting, that said, “Oh, brother!” and then went on, quickly, “Nothing has happened to ‘your world,’ Charlie—I’d say you were in pretty good shape.”

Quickly Charlie said, “Oh, no reflection on you, my friend—you’re damned easy on me. I don’t see, sometimes, how you can put up with me, letting me goof through assignments. Of course, you are rather handsomely paid!”

Gregg felt a rush of blood to his face. “I’m not paid to let you ‘goof’—get that through your head, Charlie. And I intend——”

Charlie cut him off with, “Sorry, sorry—I’m always misunderstood when I speak the truth—it’s a habit of mine, it just seems impossible for me to be dishonest.” And before Gregg could explode he turned to Herb, who was hiding the lower part of his face in his coffee cup. “Herb, I’m sure you understand—this man is my friend. He has the patience of Job, and I’m a very sensitive, very impatient person. I resent being fettered in any way. I hate being ‘crowded,’ and I’m apt to hit out at the person nearest to me.

Herb felt his own impatience beginning to rise. To his straightforward mind, there was no problem. “Why let yourself
be
crowded then?” he asked. “Chuck the whole thing. Hop a train. Go somewhere and do whatever it is you want to do. Gregg says you’ve got a good brain, you’ll probably be a success at whatever you put your mind to—you’ve got dough, health, personality. I’m afraid I agree with Gregg—you’re in pretty good shape.”

Charlie smiled, a small sad smile. “Herb—you’re very kind. I appreciate it—I really do. I can see why you two guys are such close friends. You’re both interested in the other fellow’s problems. You’re unselfish, not like most people. Will you do me a favor?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes intense, serious. “Come for dinner tonight, both of you. I want you to meet Dad; my poor mother will probably be too ill to come down to dinner, but she’ll see you for a minute anyway. I’m not sure, but I think my younger sister will get in late this afternoon—she’s a doll. I want you to see the reasons why I can’t just ‘chuck’ things——”

Herb protested. “Well, I don’t know—I don’t want to butt in——” looking at Gregg, who shrugged and said, “Why not? Thanks a lot, Charlie.”

A plumpish waitress in starched blue and white asked pleasantly if there would be anything else. The three men agreed there was nothing and Charlie reached for the check she was holding, with a deaf ear to the protests of both Herb and Gregg. He peeled a fifty-dollar bill from a wallet that looked as though it contained brothers. “Sorry.” Charlie smiled apologetically. “Can you handle this?”

“Certainly, sir, thank you,” said the waitress, unimpressed.

Charlie gazed after her retreating form and shook his head. “Might be nice—without a girdle—more bounce to the ounce.” And then laughed loudly at his own joke.

“See you later, fellows—I’ll grab the local hack and beat it home—tell the folks to break out the ancestral silver.”

The two men remained silent at the table. The luncheon crowd had thinned and the anemic winter sunshine was beginning to draw charcoal shadows at the base of the birch trees.

Herb looked at the quiet landscape, watching a little girl in a red knitted snowsuit climb over a snow-covered low rock wall, and a barking collie taking it in a leap. For a moment they disappeared, and he waited until they came into view again, the collie ahead and the child after him, before he spoke. “Poor guy,” he said.

Gregg looked up from his not so charitable thoughts. “What do you mean, ‘poor guy’?”

“Just that—poor little rich boy. I wouldn’t trade places with him for all the tea in China. I think he’s swell—a little wet behind the ears, that’s all.”

Gregg said, “I think I’d better make a phone call. Call Mr. Carewe, I mean, and tell him Charlie invited us.”

“What for? He was going right home and——”

“Home,” Gregg said, “is ten minutes from here. Nobody knows what can happen in that ten minutes in Charlie’s head. Enough to make him forget he even asked us. And you’ve got to admit that would be pretty embarrassing for us. Show up there, and nobody knows we’ve been invited for dinner.”

“Well, he seemed anxious to have us—to prove something to us. At least it seemed so to me.”

Gregg fished for some change in his pocket. “Be back in a minute—or better still—let’s get some air. If you’ll go up to the room and get our coats, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Right.”

Gregg was leaning on the cigar and cigarette counter looking idly at a movie magazine when Herb descended the stairs into the deserted lobby. There was one old couple sitting close to the dying fire at the end of the room, looking out at the street, or rather in the direction of the street, in a vapid, meaningless way, without perception, just looking because they had eyes whose function was to see, and they could let their eyes go on seeing, without disturbing whatever it was that was going on in their minds, if anything.

Gregg had the same “spectator” look on his face, and Herb thought how chameleonlike Gregg was. He had always seemed able to be at home in any surroundings. He never looked like a stranger, never intruded his own personality on the picture, but Herb knew he was absorbing every facet of it. He would have made a good detective, Herb thought, like that Hercule Poirot character of Agatha Christie’s. He soaked up information like a sponge. The smells and sounds and looks of things and people. In conversations he seemed to be listening more for the little signs, a tone of voice, a hesitant question, than to the actual words a person was saying. It had made Herb very uncomfortable when he first knew him. He had the impression, and he remembered the dull burning of angry ego, that what he was saying was boring to this intellectual snob. He laughed to think he had categorized him as such, at the time, for Gregg had said, “I exercise my humility by reading. The more I read, the more I study, the more I am appalled by how little one human being can know in a lifetime—and even that thought is hardly original.” They had become friends after a nodding acquaintance in the library at Columbia over a period of months. Gregg was swotting over his doctorate, preparing for a teaching career, and Herb was about to chuck college for a paying research job. Small pay it was and would remain, it seemed, but it meant everything to Herb because he had no family, no one to please but himself, and it was the kind of work he had always wanted to do since he was a ten-year-old fooling with a Christmas toy diem set. They had discussed this in the little Italian restaurant, in the long walks around the reservoir in Central Park. That was during the Lillian part of his life. When he’d almost got married to the dumbest dame in the world.