The Listener (5 page)

I do not know this man you are talking about.

Mark 14:71

The man who sat in the marble chair was neither middle-aged nor old. His winter tweeds were good, if worn; his shoes were handmade, if beginning to crack. His expensive tie showed signs of constant ironing. He sat with dignity, his gray hair smooth, his quiet face rigid and bitter.

Then he smiled with faint contemptuousness at the curtains. All this childish superstition! This amateur psychiatry, this self-diagnosis! He, Clive Summers, knew all the psychiatric jargon and the proclaimed methods. You ‘talked’ out your problems to an allegedly sympathetic ear — paid for by the expensive hour — and you found your own solution in the babblings of your own tongue. The new confessional! The most modern way of discovering your foolish self, as if it were precious! Hadn’t he tried it? He had tried three thousand dollars’ worth, and God knows he couldn’t afford that much waste of money now. It had been a long time, in fact, since he could afford much of anything. And of course there were Celia’s chronic doctors’ bills for her arthritis, and there was his idiot son — Well, no, George wasn’t quite an idiot, but pretty close, with his enthusiasms.

The white and utterly silent room waited. Mr. Summers looked about him curiously. Where did the heat come from, this harsh winter day, and the light? He could hear no ventilating fans and see no warm-air outlets. He had never known John Godfrey, a small-time lawyer who had never entered through the door of the Summers Metals Company. He would not have gotten past the reception clerk, except with a subpoena, if even that. Yet he had had the money to build this trumpery pseudo-temple and create this maudlin religious atmosphere. For whimpering housewives and failures and clerks and petty mystics who needed an ear as others need a laxative. Well, then . . .

He spoke in his tight and careful voice. “Good afternoon.”

No one answered. He said, “I am Clive Summers. If you are a resident of this city you’ll recognize the name; everybody knows me or of me.”

He looked at the curtains, and squared shoulders which had taken on a tendency to sag these past five years. The curtains remained shut and still.

Mr. Summers thought of the psychiatrists he had known socially and the one he had known both socially and professionally. His thin cheeks reddened. One of them was behind that damned curtain! Could he be trusted? You could not trust a man unless you had bought him. And often, not even then.

“I hope,” he said coldly, “that everything that is said in here is confidential? By the way, I have deposited twenty dollars in your — offering — box, with the suggested note, which no doubt you have had time to read now. The money is not meant as an offering, which I understand is never requested. But, as I have paid for your time as a professional consultant, you are ethically obliged not to reveal confidences of your — patients. Not that I am, in any sense of the word, a ‘patient’. It is just that I know that I am going blind, in spite of what the doctors say.”

There was no answer. Mr. Summers wished to be irritated, but he found himself, instead, relaxing in the chair. But he spoke warningly. “I have ways of discovering who betray my confidences, I assure you.”

Again he waited. Mr. Summers laughed shortly. “ ‘The Man who Listens’. Who does, except a paid psychiatrist who hardly regards you as human if you have problems? You are a case then; you are a ‘disturbed mind’. You are ‘emotionally involved’. Therefore, not quite sound. You see, I know all about your profession. Well, listen.”

But he could not speak for a while. He listened for the scratch of a pencil in this profound quiet, the rustle of paper, the shift of feet, the creak of a chair. There was nothing. No rumble of traffic reached this room, no footstep, no voice. He sat in a silence that was like eternity. His clenched hands loosened.

He said, and it was easier to speak now: “I am going to destroy a man. Utterly and completely destroy him. So thoroughly destroy him that he’ll have to leave this city, and penniless, if I have my way. It’s possible that a man such as he is will kill himself when I reach him, which will be soon. I hope so! That will be the final pleasure, the complete satisfaction. Yes, I hope so. For you see, he betrayed me.”

He looked at his watch. “I assume twenty dollars will pay for at least half an hour? If not, you may send me your bill.” He spoke arrogantly, but the arrogance fell into the quiet as ineffectually as a feather. “I still live on Humberson Avenue.” He paused. “But not much longer, I am afraid. It is going to be sold for — for — taxes.” Now his voice broke with despair.

“Celia and I built that house. She was a schoolteacher, and therefore had very little money. I was a young chemical engineer, working for thirty-five dollars a week. It was the Depression then. We were fortunate, in a way: we had a little flat, and we ate enough, and we had just enough clothing. Just enough. We both hated poverty. Do you know what it means to be poor? Hopelessly poor? Our parents were that poor. We know what poverty is, grinding, black, crushing. The majority of men don’t mind it, because they have no imagination. But Celia and I had imagination. On Sunday afternoons we’d walk on Humberson Avenue — it’s never deteriorated — and we’d look at a few empty lots and plan for the day when we’d have one of them and build our own house on it. We planned every room, the color of every wall, the trees in the rear gardens, the exact shade of stone we’d use, the fountain, the bedrooms, the nursery, the hall with its great chandelier.

“It took me many years, but we finally fulfilled our dream.

“I had invented a new metallurgic process — I won’t bore you with the details, which would mean nothing to you. I had many offers for the patent, but I kept it: I believed in it. I started out with a small shop, employing one man besides myself. Up to five years ago I employed five hundred. We had our house, we had one child, our son George, who is also a chemical engineer. He never would go in with me, and it was a terrible disappointment. He’s a fool, full of enthusiasms. He says he wants to begin as I began.”

Mr. Summers’ voice broke again, and he did not know that there was a sound of reluctant pride in it.

“Celia and I couldn’t afford a family until it was almost too late. All our savings went into my first shop and into equipment. We wanted children, but there was no time, no money. We needed every penny. Celia continued to teach, and I worked day and night, and I’d forget to sleep or eat. Then Celia was suddenly thirty-eight and I was forty-one, and we had our lot and we had the money for our house. And we were rich! It was only on Celia’s birthday, when she was thirty-eight, that we had time, all at once, to realize the fact that we were rich.

“We also realized that Celia wasn’t young any longer, and if we were to have any children at all we must begin immediately. And so we had George, but Celia could have no more children. She almost died when George was born; she was a little old to be having her first child. The house wasn’t quite finished when we moved in. But women are sentimental. Celia wanted George to be born in our own house, for which we’d worked so many years.”

He chuckled dryly, then started at the sound and put his carefully tended fingers to his lips, as if he had uttered an obscenity. But he shook his head over and over, musingly, and his dry smile lifted the corners of his bitter mouth. “It was winter, and only four rooms could be heated; the entire equipment wasn’t yet in, and the plaster was still wet, and there was no wallpaper or paint. It was, in a way, like the life we’d had as children, huddled together for warmth, a big black old stove temporarily heating the bedroom, a bare table in the kitchen, no curtains at the windows. Makeshift. I never heard Celia laugh so much. She never laughed again quite like that.”

He laughed himself, a rustling murmur like the crackle of parchment. He forgot where he was, remembering. Then he came to himself and stared at the shut curtains. He said a little huskily, “You’re very patient, I see. Thank you. I can’t remember when I’ve talked like this. I was always so busy, too busy for conversation. It must have been lonely for Celia, even with the clubs she joined after we became rich, and her community activities, and only one child who was cared for by experts. No illiterate nursemaids, you see. Yes, it must have been lonely.”

He paused, struck and frowning, and shook his head again. “That’s a stupid remark,” he said. “Celia now had everything she’d ever dreamed of: furs, cars, leisure, effortless living, travel. Of course I was too busy to travel much with her; she had an older sister, a widow, and she would travel with Ethel. Then Ethel died; that was about ten years ago. And then Celia had no one.”

Again he paused, and now he shifted violently on the chair. “Nonsense. I must be losing my mind. Celia had everything. And everyone. Friends, house buzzing with women’s meetings, the church affairs, the Philharmonic Women’s Committee, the various hospital boards. Of course Celia was always a little shy; ‘the schoolteacher’s personality’, I would say to her. It was hard for her to mingle easily. Then of course she was at some disadvantage. All the other women had been in these things from girlhood, and Celia was a late arrival, and I believe there was some social snobbery — People are fools, aren’t they? But I suppose you know that only too well in your practice. Fools.”

The word echoed back from the gleaming white walls like an accusation. Mr. Summers said hurriedly, “Celia began to develop arthritis, or perhaps it was neuritis. At any rate, it is hard for her to walk much now, and she’s only sixty-four. Damn those doctors! They can talk about miracle drugs and new treatments, but, so far as I can see, people are as frequently and mysteriously sick as they were when I was a boy. Celia spends a lot of time in bed now, poor girl. And — ” He hesitated, then spoke in a shamed voice. “We have only a maid of all work, as we used to call them, and she only part time. We can’t afford even that now.”

He waited for a superior murmur from behind the curtains, a condescension. But there was no sound. However, Mr. Summers became suddenly and acutely aware of a deep listening, a weighing, a kind measuring, a sympathy. He took off his glasses and rubbed them, for they had dimmed. “I hope,” he said a little hoarsely, “that I’m not going to lose my eyesight into the bargain. That would just top everything, wouldn’t it?” He coughed, and the cough was like a sob.

Then his words rushed out. “I wish I could do something for Celia! Damn it, do you know that I didn’t really see her for nearly twenty-five years, until just recently? Now you’ll think I’m out of my mind. I mean that I was always too busy to ‘see’ her. She was just Celia to me. Perhaps it was six months ago or less when I ‘saw’ Celia. It was a shock to me. Sixty-four isn’t a great age now, you know, what with vitamins and exercise and beauty parlors. But when I saw Celia, she was old, very old. Not so much physically — ” He stopped. “What in God’s name am I talking about! ‘Not so much physically’. Of course it was physically! Her hair was dyed, and her skin was smooth — you know all those creams women use — and her body was slender. But she was old.” He stopped. “Even older than I. And that’s a damned funny thing. She’s three years younger. Of course women age earlier. But there was something strange about it. It was as if Celia had become lifeless. That’s the word. Lifeless. And I had the peculiar sensation that she’d been that way for a long time. God! I must really be going out of my mind! Or blind.”

His voice rose, became harsh and brutal. “I can see now. It was all that worry over me. Celia’s afraid. She’s afraid of being poor again. And that’s what Henry Fellowes did to me — to Celia. He made us poor again. Poor Celia. Poor Celia!”

He stood up in his powerful hate and rage and began to walk up and down the room, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The turmoil of his spirit filled the room.

“I don’t know why I’ve been blabbering like this, when the most important thing in my life is still unsaid. What has Celia to do with it, or George, that young idiot? I had no intention of telling you about Celia and George — wasting your time! If I hadn’t stopped myself, I’d be telling you now that I never even saw the gardens we planted. They were pictured in that big national magazine; Celia was so proud of them; she worked side by side with the gardeners. George and Celia stood there together in the photographs, and I thought to myself — you can see how things had affected me — ‘Is that actually my son, George, near Celia, with his arm around her shoulder?’ I didn’t recognize him at first. I hadn’t ‘seen’ George for years, not really ‘seen’ him. There was never any time for anything but work, but George had everything I could give him. Everything. Ungrateful, too. He never once thanked me. He’s been pouting for years because I didn’t have the time to go to Boston when he was graduated from Harvard. Children are very ungrateful these days. I tried to explain to him that I had a government contract, but he shrugged it off. Now he has a government contract — a very small one, no importance — himself — ”

He took off his glasses and wiped them vigorously. “Damn it! Am I getting cataracts? Everything seems a little dim.”

He sat down in the chair with determination. “I’m taking up too much of your time. Just send me your bill. It’s very relieving, though, to talk. I haven’t really talked to anyone for years. I was brought up in an age when a man valued every hour and knew he must accomplish something. I remember what I learned in Sunday school about the talents the king gave his servants, and how he damned the one who was afraid to invest the talent he was given and buried it in the ground — where it certainly didn’t breed other talents! You must utilize every minute.” He stopped. “And now I can utilize nothing.”

His hands made fists. “Henry Fellowes. I didn’t tell you. He was the first man I took on. He was my partner, a school chum; was graduated when I was graduated. Chemical engineer, like myself. (By the way, did I tell you that I received an ‘E’ from the government during the war? Where is that flag now? I don’t know, and I don’t care.)”

His voice became deep, almost groaning. “ ‘E’ for excellence. What excellence? I’m getting old too. Never mind. Henry Fellowes. You don’t need the details. I trusted Henry, more than a brother. My partner. Worked together, denying ourselves everything. Together, we became rich. Henry made a mess of his life. Divorced one stupid woman after another; five of them. They only wanted his money. I’d try to tell him. ‘Marry somebody like Celia,’ I’d say. But no. Henry had been poor, as Celia and I had. He wanted glittering women, all teeth and flounce. He was like a kid who has no money but stares through the window of a candy store. And when he gets some money he runs in and gorges. And makes himself sick. Henry isn’t a fool, not normally. But those women of his! Bleached, hard, singing, chattering, flashing. He must have a vulgar streak in him somewhere. He couldn’t have enough of the bitches.”

Mr. Summers laughed briefly. “It’s very funny. He thought, each time he married, that the woman would become like Celia — I suppose. Settle down in a nice house and have children. They never did, of course. They wanted his money, and rich furs and jewels and travel and dancing. And lovers. He always found out. But he had a juvenile personality. Celia wanted to help him, to introduce him to friends of hers, lonely widows. I told her, ‘Mind your own business, Celia. A man always knows what he wants. Henry wouldn’t be interested in your well-bred friends’. I was right, of course. Henry wanted something they call ‘glamour’. ” Mr. Summers paused. “At least I think he wanted that. He’d never had any gaiety in his life when he was young. He had no discrimination. He had no one like Celia to give him a sense of values.”

He became aware of what he had said, and stared blankly. Then he frowned, and his face blackened. He struck the arm of the marble chair with his fist.

“What has all this to do with anything? I had no intention of telling you all this rot. All you need to know is that Henry’s paying alimony to at least five women, all childless. Such women are expensive. They’re like leeches — on Henry. Sucking his blood. Naturally it serves him right. But he was always the hopeful, buoyant type, like a kid. And then it happened, inevitably. I had pneumonia five years ago, a bad siege. I was out for five months, then we went to Montego Bay so I could recover. When I came back I found that Henry had swindled me, ruined me, practically sold me out. He had a team of very shrewd lawyers. The details don’t matter. What does matter is that he betrayed me, his friend, the one who gave him a start, who helped him to become rich in the first place.”