The Towers of Love (9 page)

Hugh walked across the terrace and into the house. He went up the wide front stairs and down the hall to his mother's room. As he reached her door, he heard the projector click off, and he hesitated, his hand on the knob, feeling somehow that he couldn't enter the room so soon, while Billy's presence was still so freshly there. Then he opened the door, and the room was dark.

A light snapped on. “What do you want?” she cried.

“Are you doing this again, Sandy?” he asked her.

“What's wrong with it? What's wrong if I am?”

He saw that the roll of film was in her hand and she had been about to rewind it, with all the scratches and splices that it had by now. And he saw that she was in tears, as she always was after it.

“I thought you promised,” he said.

“I never promised anything!”

“Don't you see?” he began. “Don't you see how stupid it is, how senseless and awful it is—”

She bowed her head. The long tail of film trailed from her hands. “He was such a little boy,” she said. “Such a
little
boy.”

“Sandy,” he said. “Please, Sandy. Don't do this. Don't do this any more. It's wrong, Sandy, to keep doing it—over and over.”

“All I want—” she said. “All I want is little mementoes of happy times. What's wrong with that? Other people have them. Why can't I have mine?”

“But don't you see?” he said. “It's just a—it's a kind of emotional masturbation, Sandy.”

She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. “How dare you speak to me like that!” she said. “How dare you use a word like that about my son! Get out of here, you disgusting young man! Leave me alone! Get out of here!”

He walked out of the bedroom quickly and closed the door behind him.

Five

In spite of his mother's prediction that his father would be late for their appointment, when Hugh walked into his father's panelled study beyond the library at ten o'clock, he saw that his father was going to be very punctual to-day. His breakfast coffee had preceded him and stood, on a silver tray, ready for him on his desk along with his two slices of toast arranged, in the English manner, in a silver toast rack, and his small bottle of breakfast vitamins. The day was sunny, and warmer than yesterday, and one window had been opened admitting a little breeze that breathed in the folds of the green curtains and riffled, very slightly, the corners of the pages of the morning newspaper which had been placed beside the tray. And presently, as Hugh stood there, he heard his father's footsteps approaching from the library and Hugh turned to greet him.

Allen Carey walked into the room. “Good morning, Hugh,” his father said, holding out his hand. “How are you?”

“Good morning, Dad.” They shook hands rather formally as they always did when they had not seen each other for a time.

“Sit down, Hugh. Nice to have you here.” His father crossed the room, patting his vest and coat pockets briskly. “God damn it,” he said. “I'm trying to find a pencil. Wouldn't you think you could find a simple thing like a pencil in this god-damned house?” He sat down behind his desk and began pulling open drawers, peering inside them, and closing them. “Every time,” he said, tugging at drawers, “—every time your mother does over the damn' house they throw away everything. They throw away everything, and what they don't throw away they hide. They throw away all the pencils, and—”

Hugh reached in his pocket. “I've got a ball-point pen, Dad,” he said.

“I don't want a damn' ball-point pen,” he said. “I've got a ball-point pen. I want a pencil. I also want a match. There are no matches in the house. They've thrown away all the matches.”

“I've got some matches,” Hugh said. “Here.” He reached across the desk and handed his father a pack.

“Thanks,” his father said, taking them. He opened the silver cigarette box on the desk and reached inside. “Damn it, no cigarettes! They've thrown out those, too.”

“I've also got cigarettes,” Hugh said. “I'm well supplied to-day.” And he offered the pack to his father.

“What are those?” He looked at the pack. “Duke of Durham? I never heard of any god-damn Duke of Durham. What kind of cigarettes are those supposed to be? I smoke Chesterfields. Well, I suppose any old port in a storm.” He took one and lighted it with a match, slipping the matchbox in his vest pocket. “Pffaa!” he said, making a face at the cigarette. “They make these things with stable-sweepings. Duke of
Durham
!” He pulled open the centre drawer of the desk. “Now all I need is a pencil.”

“A pen won't do?”

“I can't do the crossword with a pen, can I? How can I do a crossword with a pen? What if I have to erase something?”

Hugh smiled. “I didn't think you ever had to erase when you did a crossword, Dad,” he said.

“Well, I do—sometimes. Why do they have to hide everything?”

“Who are ‘they'?” Hugh asked.

“Your mother and that god-damned Tootoo. They go through the house—”

“Titi, you mean.”

“Titi, Tootoo, Tumtum, I don't know what the hell his name is. They go through the house and throw everything away. I just got a bill from Tumtum for two thousand dollars for a chest of drawers. What do you think of that? Two thousand dollars for some god-damned chest of drawers.”

“It does seem a little high,” Hugh said.

“A little
high
! I'll say it's a little high. I'm not going to pay it. I'm not going to pay two thousand dollars for some god-damned chest of drawers. I wouldn't give Tootoo two dollars for that chest of drawers and I'm going to tell that to Tootoo too.”

“You're beginning to sound like a train going into a tunnel, Dad,” Hugh said. “Too-too-too-too—”

His father was trying to conceal a smile. He put his head down close to the drawer and squinted deep inside it. “Ah,” he said. “There's a pencil they forgot to throw out.” He reached in for it and pulled it out. “Broken!” he said, holding it up triumphantly for Hugh to see.

“This just isn't your day, is it?” Hugh said.

“And I've got a god-damned headache too,” his father said.

“So have I,” Hugh said. “You know how Sandy is with the wine bottle. Before I knew it last night she'd made me drink a whole quart of champagne.”

“Well, I wish a quart of champagne was all I'd had last night,” his father said. “Martinis! But at least I can't blame your mother for that. Only myself to blame for that. I had dinner with a client.”

“Which client was it?”

“Oh, it was just one of those fellows from the insurance company in Hartford that I represent. You've got to watch out for those insurance fellows. They'll drink you under the table.”

“What are you doing for them these days?”

“Oh, they're involved in some litigation. Nothing that amounts to much. They're always involved in some sort of litigation.” His father took a slice of toast from the rack, took a bite of it, and replaced it in the rack. He reached for the coffee-pot. “Want some coffee? Shall I ring for Pappy to bring us another cup?”

“No thanks, I've already had some,” Hugh said.

His father poured coffee into his cup. He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of vitamin pills, extracted a pill, popped it in his mouth, and used the first sip of coffee to wash it down. “Ah,” he said. “Well, at least the coffee's normal.” He set down the cup in its saucer and reached for the toast again. “Well,” he said, “it's good to have you home, son.”

“And it's good to be home,” he said.

His father, people always said, looked like an Englishman. And it was very likely that Allen Carey fancied that idea and endeavoured, in every way he could, to bolster this impression of himself. Sometimes, half jokingly, he referred to himself as Barrister Carey. And this was not quite such a joke as his friends sometimes thought. If he had lived in England, he would have been a barrister, and he would have made a good one. When, after marrying Hugh's mother, he had given up his law office in New York in order to practise in this smaller Connecticut city, the change, Hugh had always thought, had suited him. He enjoyed being a successful, small-city lawyer, with his office in Waterbury and his panelled study in his hilltop country house. And it pleased him, in the village where he lived, to think of himself as a member of the squirearchy. His suits were always tailored in London, in Savile Row, and his custom-made shoes were also English and, to complete the effect, he often carried a walking stick or a rolled English umbrella. Hugh's father was twelve years older than his mother, and his full head of hair was a handsome steel-grey. And, in the manner of Englishmen, he left two fine tufts of hair untouched high upon his cheekbones when he was shaving, and wore a small, carefully clipped moustache on his upper lip. As long as Hugh could remember, his father had carried about his person a faint scent of shaving soap, boot polish, and tobacco.

“Well,” his father said, “I suppose your mother told you the news about Pansy.”

“Yes, she did.”

“Good. Well, it's good news. He's a fine chap. Austin Callender is a fine chap. I'm delighted.”

“Sandy called him nice but dull.”

“What the hell does she mean by that? Nice but dull! What if he is dull? He's a good solid fellow. Feet on the ground. That sort of fellow. Perfect sort of fellow for Pansy. She needs a fellow like that.”

“Well, I think it's very good news, too,” Hugh said.

“Yes. She needs somebody like that, who's solid. It's time she stopped running around being a flibbertigibbet. She needs to get her feet on the ground, too. After all, she's twenty-four years old. It's high time she got married. Didn't want her to end up being an old maid like Reba.”

“Yes, that's exactly what Sandy said.”

“Well, she's right. I'd begun to wonder if she was going to end up like Reba. Yes, I consider this a very good thing. I'm delighted.” He sipped his coffee. “Your mother's not up yet,” he said. “But she's awake. I heard her talking on the telephone.”

“Dad,” Hugh said, “I hate to mention this, but—well, last night I caught her watching the movie again.”

He set down his cup. “No!” he said. “God damn it, she's promised me a hundred times not to do that damn' thing.”

“I know,” he said. “I knew she had.”

“Well,” he said, “I'm frankly not surprised, Hugh. She does it every time I go away. The minute I'm out of the house. If I had the heart I'd burn that damn' roll of film, but I've just never had the heart.”

“It's been fourteen years, Dad,” he said. “Fourteen years since he died.”

“Don't tell me! I know it's been fourteen years. I don't know what to do about it. I'll speak to her again—that's all I can do.”

“Dad, if you do speak to her—just don't tell her I told you, O.K.?”

“Hell, no. No, I won't tell her you told me. She's a very bad liar, you know. Your mother's never learned how to tell a decent lie. Half the time, when she does that thing, she forgets to take down the screen or put away the projector, and there it is when I get home—all the incriminating evidence. No, all I have to do is to ask her, Hugh, if she's been doing it, and she'll tell me.”

“God, I wish she wouldn't.”

His father shook his head sadly. “So do I.”

His father took another swallow of coffee. Then he said, “Well, anyway, it's happy news about Pansy. I'm glad that's worked out. Pansy's all set. But what I really want to talk about is you. Tell me about you.”

“Well, as I guess you've heard, I've sold my share of the agency.”

“Yes. So I understand. Of course the first thing I wondered when I heard it, naturally, was why?”

“Well,” he said, “let me explain. I had a little disagreement with Joe—Joe Wallace. No,” he said, raising his hand, “don't get me wrong. We didn't have a fight or anything like that. It was a perfectly friendly disagreement, a business disagreement on policy. No, Joe and I are still good friends. I've very fond of Joe, and Joe's fond of me. But we just couldn't agree on policy.”

“What sort of policy?” his father asked.

“Well,” he said, “I don't know how much you know about the advertising agency business, Dad.”

“Nothing whatever. But tell me.”

“Well, look at it this way. There's sort of a dividing line between agencies. If you're billing about ten million dollars a year, you're considered a small agency. And a small agency has certain advantages over a big one—closer relationships between top men and the clients, you know. That sort of thing. But when an agency gets big—takes on more clients—begins to get over the ten-million mark, you lose that. Then, if you're over ten million, you might as well be fifty million. And that was where Joe and I disagreed. I wanted us to stay the size we were—right about ten million. I considered that one of our agency's values—that intimacy we could have with the clients we worked for. But Joe—well, Joe's an ambitious guy. He wanted us to keep right on growing—to shoot for the moon. He wanted to go after more clients—more and more. He wanted us to end up being the biggest agency in New York, if we could. We argued and argued about it, all the pros and cons—finally we decided that we just couldn't agree, couldn't reconcile our points of view. There's not much compromise possible between wanting to be big and wanting to stay small. So Joe offered to buy me out, and I accepted the offer.”

“Well,” his father said, “I guess I understand. And I think I'd sympathise with your point of view more than Joe's. I think there's a certain—ah, value—in remaining a manageable size. It's the same with my law firm. Because we're not trying to be Cadwalader, Wickersham and Taft or some damn' thing, all the partners can be on close terms with all our clients. It's good for business.”