The Last of the Wise Lovers (19 page)

   "No," I said with some
embarrassment.

   You didn't say anything more than a
slight, "Ahem," which expressed all your doubts.

   "... I don't know much about
him," I assented.

   "Perhaps there was something
she
said about him?" you coached me.

   "Just...” I tried to remember,
"just the bit about wisdom."

   Our dinner was getting cold on our
plates.  You impaled peas on the tines of your fork, then mashed them in
the gravy.

   "I doubt she meant wisdom like
yours," I added, "from knowledge or experience; I think she meant
something else, something I can't quite understand...”

   You asked to know what
exactly
she had said.

   "She called him her `wise lover'
actually...”  I paused, embarrassed, "the last of the wise lovers...”

   You nodded slightly, as if this
information fitted with something you'd guessed.

   "Can you explain it to me?"

   You thought a while longer and then
said, "When you grow up, you'll understand."

   I wonder if you knew at that moment
just what an awful response that was, after all the explicit, honest
explanations I'd gotten from you over the years.

"You've never answered me like that
before," I protested, hurt, "you've never evaded answering."

   "I'm not evading your question.
 That's my answer.  Apparently she meant something emotional, not
intellectual.  I can list the characteristics that make up the man who
would fit that description: sensitivity, experience, willingness to give of
himself - but that's just a list of characteristics, nothing more.  What's
truly important is invisible to the eye...” (I recognized that sentence.
 It was from
The Little Prince
; we read it together years ago, in
your study.) "Maybe it's a matter of need, the need to love
any
woman, to nurture a relationship, to give... not in order to get something in
return, but from the knowledge that only when you love do you exist, can you
overcome the obstacles the world places in your path: competition, defeat,
death... so that what is interpreted on the other side as wisdom is merely the
fulfillment of longing and need - and how can you possibly explain need to
someone who hasn't felt it?"

   Your calm, expository tone barely
concealed a flush of emotion that silenced me, made me think.  You didn't
speak, either, and even Dorothy stopped making her kitchen noises from beyond
the other side of the closed serving window.

   In that silence I felt such warmth
and comprehension between us that I couldn't abide the fact that there was
still one thing I had kept from you.

"I have a hunch," I said, "a
suspicion, actually."

   You arched an eyebrow, as you do
whenever something piques your curiosity.

   I told you about Dad, and about the
chain of associations and analogies that had brought me to that conclusion.
 You pursed your lips and immediately shook your head.

"That's not like him," you said.
 "I've known him since he was a boy and it simply doesn't fit his
personality."

   You didn't sound convincing, and I
probably would have said so if Dorothy hadn't entered the room.  Something
in her step was different, and I could tell from the look on your face that it
would be wise of me to keep silent.  She cleared away the still-full
plates, placed a great bowl of fruit on the table, and left.  You followed
her with your eyes, your brow furrowed.  It seemed you'd suddenly become
aware how secret the matter was, because as soon as she had closed the door you
said in a low voice, "You mentioned a man, someone you turned to for
advice...”

   "K.  He was my boss at the
library," I said, intending to go back to the subject of Dad.

   But you wanted to know about K.

   "An intelligent man, an
intellectual, about 50 years old."

   "How did he know how to identify
that... that missile?"

   "He told me he once worked in a
related field...”

   "Where does he live?"

   "I... I don't know."
 Suddenly I felt negligent and even a bit stupid for knowing so little
about someone to whom I had revealed so much.

   "What
do
you know about
him?"

   I told you everything.  "I
think he's all right," I said in conclusion.

   You could have tortured me with the
barest twinge of doubt, or with a reproving glance, but, as usual, you were fair.

You said, "There are a few strange things
about him: that woman, the one who was poking around in his office; or his
expertise in the area of missiles.  But life generally proves that the
things that seem the strangest are often the most innocent; actually, one must
be wary of what seems most simple and ordinary."

   Dorothy brought in the coffee and
left quickly.  You poured each of us a cup and added, "Of course,
that also goes for what's happening at home."

   At first I didn't understand.
 You explained again.

"You can't assume that there's a simple
explanation for everything that's happened surrounding K., and not give the
same benefit of the doubt to the other events you've described."

   "I don't really know anything
about K., so any explanation is plausible.  But I know my house and my
family's habits...”

   "That's why you're
prejudging," you smiled as you sliced a pear. "Let's assume that your
aunt - who never suffered from excessive intelligence - really did polish off a
bottle of vitamins and get sick.  
You
determined that those
vitamins were really pain killers, because the pills were similar to the ones
you'd seen in K.'s possession.  Let's say someone did break into your
house.  Because of the proximity to other events,
you
interpreted
it as a search for something which, to this day, is unknown to us.  Your
mother writes things that might be a kind of personal diary or might be letters
that never get sent, but which help her deal with a very difficult life as the
wife of an Israeli government official who spends most of his time on the road;
but
you
decide she's got a lover just because she said goodbye to
someone - and it's not clear if this is a man or a woman - on a dark night, at
some distance from the house.  Then you find a slide that your father
lost, and with the help of this K.
you
conclude that your mother is
passing state secrets, something which would seem - at least on the face of
things - quite remote from her.  Finally, you find some cash that she hid
in the hamper and connect this to a sentence you found in a letter that may not
ever have been sent to anyone... I'm not saying you've been wrong all along;
your explanation is certainly plausible, but it's only one of several possible
explanations - and not necessarily the brightest or most innovative of
them."

   I attacked you using the tactics that
you
had taught me during our chess games: I quickly surveyed the facts
and I tried to isolate the one thing that would topple the structure of your
argument.

"The tree...” I stated, "what about the
notch in the tree?"

   "What did you find there,
besides a notch in a tree?  The rest is just another speculation, and you
can't base one speculation on another...”

   Common sense told me I had to admit
you were right.  But deep down I wasn't convinced.  I've already told
you how influenced I am by people I respect.  Something of your confidence
rubbed off on me, and the bad feeling began to fade, replaced by an
overwhelming sense of gratitude.  I remember looking at you, at your
smile, which grew broader by the minute, at the white curl that dipped over
your tanned forehead, at your sharp blue gaze - and I remember thinking how
glad I was that you were my uncle.  I recalled all the stories I'd heard
about the women you'd had, and I was sorry I'd inherited rather less impressive
features than yours.

   "Now," you said,
"let's see what we should do."

   I was ready to make any effort or
sacrifice, but you actually requested the opposite.

"Don't talk to anyone, don't do
anything," you said.  "I'll take care of the rest."

   I gladly agreed.

   You looked at me quizzically.
 "Are you sure you can stand it?"

   Just then, I couldn't foresee any
problems.  I asked what
you
intended to do.

   "I'm not sure yet," you
said.  "Perhaps I'll speak to your mother."

   I imagine you must have seen the
trepidation on my face, for you added, "Don't worry, I won't give you
away...”  You scratched your head, thinking out loud.  "If I'm
convinced it's necessary, I might find someplace else for you and your mother
to stay during the next few days, maybe I'll turn to other sources for help...”

   From the little I'd heard Dad say
that night on the other side of the wall and the following day during our ride
to Kennedy, I knew you were talking about the C.I.A.  Naturally I didn't
let on.  You repeated your instructions.

 "You're not to talk to anyone and not
to do any of the things you've done up till now: no following your mother, no
riffling through papers, no listening in on telephone conversations, no
wondering who's going to die at the end of the month.  Just get yourself
ready for school."  For a moment you seemed lost in thought, but then
you quickly added, "... and another thing: I'd like you to let me know if
anything happens, any change, any problem.  Here," you got up and
went to the buffet, took a small card off a stack that was set there and,
turning it over, wrote something down and handed it to me.  "Call
this number, and only this number.  You can tell them anything you
want."

   I recognized the number: your
answering service.  The paper was stiff and shiny.  I turned it over.
"Temple Beth Hashem will usher Mr./Mrs. _________________________ into its
gates for Rosh Hashanah services."

   "I imagine that doesn't interest
you...” you said.

   I smiled apologetically, folded the
card, and stuck it in my pocket.  I felt as if a great weight had been
taken off my shoulders, now that the responsibility had passed to you.
 Shouldn't it have been that way from the beginning?  I thought, and
I told you how sorry I was that I hadn't come to talk to you immediately after
the incident in the Lincoln Tunnel.  You chuckled and walked me to the
door.

"Go on home," you said again.
 "Calm your mother down, take care of her...”

   "How can I possibly take care of
her when she won't let me?"

   "I trust you'll find a way.
 I'll take care of things here, but you'll be my man there, and don't
forget...”

   "To let you know if anything out
of the ordinary happens," I promised obediently.

   Once back on the street, I had a strange
sensation of betrayal.  Betrayal of whom?  I didn't know.  On
the bus home I thought it might be the suspicion I'd cast on K., which ate away
at me incessantly.  Later I wondered if I hadn't betrayed myself, or at
least that part of myself that believed what it had seen and collected until
the very last minute when you had offered your simpler, neater, alternate
explanation.

   By the time I got off the bus I was
almost as worried as I had been before.  With one difference: now I didn't
know why, or what I was worried about, with you handling everything.

  
*

   As I entered the house (through the
garage, as usual), I heard the telephone ringing.  Not the usual ring, but
those light little `brrings' that are caused when someone dials on the extension.
 I stood opposite the telephone, an old, black model, and I thought how
easy it would be to listen in.  Then I wondered: why had you asked me to
stop following and listening in?  How could I tell you if something
strange or unusual was going on if I blocked my ears and shut my eyes?  As
I walked toward the tool board, I was certain you had done it to protect me
from the tension and worry that resulted from such activities; but then you
couldn't have understood the tension and worry of not knowing.

   I took a screwdriver off the tool
board and shoved it gently between the receiver and the cradle.  The
receiver rose a little.  I brought my ear up close to it.  I heard a
voice, loud and clear.  

Some woman, maybe an operator, said, "The
Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body, good evening.  Would
you care to place an order?"

   Mom said: "I'd like to speak to
administration, please."

   The operator answered, "Yes,
ma'am."

Immediately afterward a different voice came on.

  "Administration, Miss Fletcher
speaking."

   Mom said, "I want to talk to
him."

   Miss Fletcher was silent a moment,
then said, "That's impossible."

  
Mom
persisted.  "I just spoke to him a minute ago.  I
know
he's there now."

  
But Miss Fletcher wasn't made of butter, either.  "He's not
here."

  
"Is he at home?"

  
"I have my orders concerning phone calls."

  
Mom softened a bit.  "All right."  She thought for a
moment, then said, "I won't force you to defy the orders you've been
given, but I'd like you to call him, wherever he is, and tell him that I'm
waiting at home."  She hung up.

   I slid the screwdriver out and let
the receiver drop back into place.  Then I leaned against the wall and
waited.  Mom was also waiting.  I could hear her pacing back and
forth overhead.  A few minutes later I started to get bored, so I went
upstairs.  When I was in the middle of the stairs Mom said, "At last
I've found you."

   I jumped.  It sounded so close,
and it was such a homey, intimate voice, that I was sure she was talking to me.
 But she was talking on the phone.  I went up another stair and
peered around the corner.  She was sitting on the top step with the
telephone next to her, its long cord leading to the kitchen.  Ironically,
the next thing she said was, "Don't worry, I'm alone in the house."