The Secret History (22 page)

On Monday morning I was able to leave at last, with a bottle of antibiotics and an arm full of pinpricks. They insisted on pushing me to Henry’s car in a wheelchair, though I was perfectly able to walk and humiliated at being rolled out like a parcel.

“Take me to the Catamount Motel,” I told him as we pulled into Hampden.

“No,” he said. “You’re coming to stay with me.”

Henry lived on the first floor of an old house on Water Street, in North Hampden, just around the block from Charles and Camilla’s and closer to the river. He didn’t like to have people over and I had been there only once, and then for a minute or
two. It was much larger than Charles and Camilla’s apartment, and a good deal emptier. The rooms were big and anonymous, with wide-plank floors and no curtains on the windows and plaster walls painted white. The furniture, while obviously good, was scarred and plain and there wasn’t much of it. The whole place had a ghostly, unoccupied look; and some of the rooms had nothing in them at all. I had been told by the twins that Henry disliked electric lights, and here and there I saw kerosene lamps in the windowsills.

His bedroom, where I was to stay, had been closed off rather pointedly during my previous visit. In it were Henry’s books—not as many as you might think—and a single bed, and very little else, except a closet with a large, conspicuous padlock. Tacked on the closet door was a black and white picture from an old magazine—
Life
, it said, 1945. It was of Vivien Leigh and, surprisingly, a much younger Julian. They were at a cocktail party, glasses in hand; he was whispering something in her ear, and she was laughing.

“Where was that taken?” I said.

“I don’t know. Julian says he can’t remember. Every now and then one runs across a photograph of him in an old magazine.”

“Why?”

“He used to know a lot of people.”

“Who?”

“Most of them are dead now.”

“
Who?
”

“I really don’t know, Richard.” Then, relenting: “I’ve seen pictures of him with the Sitwells. And T. S. Eliot. Also—there’s rather a funny one of him with that actress—I can’t remember her name. She’s dead now.” He thought for a minute. “She was blond,” he said. “I think she was married to a baseball player.”

“Marilyn Monroe?”

“Maybe. It wasn’t a very good picture. Only newsprint.”

Some time during the past three days, Henry had gone over and moved my things from Leo’s. My suitcases stood at the foot of the bed.

“I don’t want to take your bed, Henry,” I said. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“One of the back rooms has a bed that folds out from the wall,” said Henry. “I can’t think what they’re called. I’ve never slept in it before.”

“Then why don’t you let me sleep there?”

“No. I am rather curious to see what it is like. Besides, I think it’s good to change the place where one sleeps from time to time. I believe it gives one more interesting dreams.”

I was only planning on spending a few days with Henry—I was back at work for Dr. Roland the following Monday—but I ended up staying until school started again. I couldn’t understand why Bunny had said he was hard to live with. He was the best roommate I’ve ever had, quiet and neat, and usually off in his own part of the house. Much of the time he was gone when I got home from work; he never told me where he went, and I never asked. But sometimes when I got home he would have made dinner—he wasn’t a fancy cook like Francis and only made plain things, broiled chickens and baked potatoes, bachelor food—and we would sit at the card table in the kitchen and eat it and talk.

I had learned better by then than to pry into his affairs, but one night, when my curiosity had got the better of me, I asked him: “Is Bunny still in Rome?”

It was several moments before he answered. “I suppose so,” he said, putting down his fork. “He was there when I left.”

“Why didn’t he come back with you?”

“I don’t think he wanted to leave. I’d paid the rent through February.”

“He stuck you with the rent?”

Henry took another bite of his food. “Frankly,” he said, after he had chewed and swallowed, “no matter what Bunny tells you to the contrary, he hasn’t a cent and neither does his father.”

“I thought his parents were well off,” I said, jarred.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Henry calmly. “They may have had money once, but if so they spent it long ago. That terrible house of theirs must have cost a fortune, and they make a big show of yacht clubs and country clubs and sending their sons to expensive schools, but that’s got them in debt to the eyebrows. They may look wealthy, but they haven’t a dime. I expect Mr. Corcoran is about bankrupt.”

“Bunny seems to live pretty well.”

“Bunny’s never had a cent of pocket money the entire time I’ve known him,” said Henry tartly. “And he has expensive tastes. That is unfortunate.”

We resumed eating in silence.

“If I were Mr. Corcoran,” said Henry after a long while, “I would have set Bunny up in business or had him learn a trade
after high school. Bunny has no business being in college. He couldn’t even read until he was about ten years old.”

“He draws well,” I said.

“I think so, too. He certainly has no gift for scholarship. They should’ve apprenticed him to a painter when he was young instead of sending him to all those expensive schools for learning disabilities.”

“He sent me a very good cartoon of you and he standing by a statue of Caesar Augustus.”

Henry made a sharp, exasperated sound. “That was in the Vatican,” he said. “All day long he made loud remarks about Dagos and Catholics.”

“At least he doesn’t speak Italian.”

“He spoke it well enough to order the most expensive thing on the menu every time we went to a restaurant,” said Henry curtly, and I thought it wise to change the subject and did.

On the Saturday before school was to begin, I was lying on Henry’s bed reading a book. Henry had been gone since before I woke up. Suddenly I heard a loud banging at the front door. Thinking Henry had forgotten his key, I went to let him in.

It was Bunny. He was wearing sunglasses and—in contrast to the shapeless, tweedy rags he generally wore—a sharp and very new Italian suit. He had also gained about ten or twenty pounds. He seemed surprised to see me.

“Well, hello there, Richard,” he said, shaking my hand heartily. “
Buenos días
. Good to see ya. Didn’t see the car out front but just got into town and thought I’d stop by anyway. Where’s the man of the house?”

“He’s not home.”

“Then what are you doing? Breaking and entering?”

“I’ve been staying here for a while. I got your postcard.”

“Staying here?’ he said, looking at me in a peculiar way. “Why?”

I was surprised he didn’t know. “I was sick,” I said, and I explained a little of what had happened.

“Hmnpf,” said Bunny.

“Do you want some coffee?”

We walked through the bedroom to get to the kitchen. “Looks like you’ve made quite a little home for yourself,” he said brusquely, looking at my belongings on the night table and my suitcases on the floor. “American coffee all you have?”

“What do you mean? Folger’s?”

“No
espresso
, I mean?”

“Oh. No. Sorry.”

“I’m an espresso man myself,” he said expansively. “Drank it all the time over in Italy. They have all kind of little places where you sit around and do that, you know.”

“I’ve heard.”

He took off his sunglasses and sat down at the table. “You don’t have anything decent in there to eat, do you?” he said, peering into the refrigerator as I opened the door to take out the cream. “Haven’t had my lunch yet.”

I opened the door wider so he could see.

“That cheese’ll be all right,” he said.

I cut some bread and made him a cheese sandwich, as he showed no inclination of getting up and making anything himself. Then I poured the coffee and sat down. “Tell me about Rome,” I said.

“Gorgeous,” he said through his sandwich. “Eternal City. Lots of art. Churches every which way.”

“What’d you see?”

“Tons of things. Hard to remember all the names now, you know. Was speaking the lingo like a native by the time I left.”

“Say something.”

He obliged, pinching his thumb and forefinger together and shaking them in the air for emphasis, like a French chef on a TV commercial.

“Sounds good,” I said. “What does it mean?”

“It means ‘Waiter, bring me your local specialties,’ ” he said, going back to his sandwich.

I heard the slight sound of a key being turned in the lock and then I heard the door shut. Footsteps went quietly toward the other end of the apartment.

“Henry?” bellowed Bun. “That you?”

The footsteps stopped. Then they came very rapidly towards the kitchen. When he got to the door he stood in it and stared down at Bunny, with no expression on his face. “I thought that was you,” he said.

“Well, hello to you, too.” Bunny, his mouth full, reared back in his chair. “How’s the boy?”

“Fine,” said Henry. “And you?”

“I hear you’ve been taking in the sick,” said Bunny, winking
at me. “Conscience been hurting you? Thought you’d better rack up a couple good deeds?”

Henry didn’t say anything, and I’m sure that at that moment he would have looked perfectly impassive to anyone who didn’t know him, but I could tell he was quite agitated. He pulled out a chair and sat down. Then he got up again and went to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“I’ll have some more, thanks, if you don’t mind,” Bunny said. “Good to be back in the good old U.S. of A. Hamburgers sizzling on an open grill and all that. Land of Opportunity. Long may she wave.”

“How long have you been here.”

“Flew into New York late last night.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.”

“Where were you?” said Bunny suspiciously.

“At the market.” This was a lie. I didn’t know where he’d been but certainly he hadn’t been grocery shopping for four hours.

“Where are the groceries?” said Bunny. “I’ll help you bring them in.”

“I’m having them delivered.”

“The Food King has delivery?” said Bunny, startled.

“I didn’t go to the Food King,” said Henry.

Uneasily, I got up and headed back to the bedroom.

“No, no, don’t go,” said Henry, taking a long gulp of his coffee and putting the cup in the sink. “Bunny, I wish I’d known you were coming. But Richard and I have got to leave in a few minutes.”

“Why?”

“I have an appointment in town.”

“With a lawyer?” Bunny laughed loudly at his own joke.

“No. With the optometrist. That’s why I came by,” he said to me. “I hope you don’t mind. They’re going to put drops in my eyes and I can’t see to drive.”

“No, sure,” I said.

“I won’t be long. You don’t have to wait, just drop me off and come back to get me.”

Bunny walked us out to the car, our footsteps crunching in the snow. “Ah, Vermont,” he said, breathing deep and slapping his chest, like Oliver Douglas in the opening sequence of “Green Acres.” “Air does me good. So when d’ya think you’ll be back, Henry?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry, handing me the keys and walking over to the passenger’s side.

“Well, I’d like to have a little
chat
with you.”

“Well, that’s fine, but really, I’m a little late now, Bun.”

“Tonight, then?”

“If you like,” said Henry, getting in the car and slamming the door.