James Salter - All That Is

Caroline’s rent was paid by Amussen, no real burden for him since his company managed the building and he could take care of the rent by including it in other things, general expenses. Her alimony was $350 a month and she received a little extra from her father. It was not enough to give parties with or gamble, but she did bet on the horses now and then or dressed up in nice weather and went to Pimlico with Susan McCann, who had almost married a Brazilian diplomat, should have, but there had been a disastrous weekend in Rehoboth during which, she would afterwards confess to Caroline, she had been too narrow-minded and he later began seeing another woman, who had an antique shop in Georgetown.

Caroline, for her part, was not unhappy. She was optimistic, there was still life to think about, both what had been and what might be ahead. She had not given up the idea that she might marry again and had been involved with several men over the years, but none of them was right. She wanted a man who, among other things, would make George Amussen wonder if he’d made a mistake if they happened to cross paths with him, which was bound to happen sooner or later, although she was still angry and didn’t care what he thought.

In her becalmed life she knew she was drinking too much, though a drink or two made you feel more like yourself and people were more lively and attractive when they drank.

“Anyway, you feel more attractive,” Susan agreed.

“It’s the same thing.”

“Are you still seeing Milton Goldman?” Susan asked offhandedly.

“No,” said Caroline.

“What happened?”

“Nothing actually happened.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“He’s a very nice man,” Caroline said.

Which he was and owned property on Connecticut Avenue a little further out, but she remembered very well the photograph of him as a child in what was almost a dress and with long curls along the side of his head like the men in black hats and coats that you sometimes saw in New York. It made her realize that she couldn’t be married to him, not with the people she knew. She was thinking of Brice Lambert and also, though she was no longer part of it, of life in Virginia. But her own life went on, one week very much like another, one year following another, and you began to lose track.

Then one morning a bad thing happened. She woke unable to move her arm or her leg, and when she tried to use the phone her words had lost their shape. She couldn’t make them sound right, they filled her mouth and came out deformed. She’d had a stroke, they told her at the hospital. It would be a long, slow process to recover. Ten days later she boarded a plane in a wheelchair and flew to her father’s house near Cambridge, Maryland, on the Eastern Shore. Beverly had arranged it and taken her to the airport and settled her aboard, but having three children prevented her from doing more, and now Vivian would have to help.

The house was actually in Cornersville on a quiet road, a beautiful, half-derelict old brick house dating almost from Civil War days that Warren Wain, Caroline’s father, had bought to restore and spend his retirement in, but the restoration had proved to be more than he could handle, even with the help of his son, Cook, Vivian’s uncle. Warren Wain had been an architect in Cleveland, well regarded, and though some of his essential quality and good looks had come down to his daughter, less had come down to his son, who had also studied architecture but never gotten a license. For a long time he had worked in his father’s office and his father in essence had supported him. He had few friends and had never married. He had gone with a divorced woman for four or five years and finally asked her to marry him. He did it by commenting that maybe they should get married.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said calmly.

“I thought you wanted to get married. Now I’m asking you.”

“Is that what it was?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Anyway it wouldn’t work out.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“That’s probably because we haven’t been married.”

“Just what in hell do you want?” he asked. “Do you know?”

She didn’t answer.

The house was in sad disrepair. Bricks were piled at one side of it and the walkway to the front door was only half-finished, part brick and the rest dirt. Inside there was unpainted drywall that had been put up to replace the old plaster. Panes in the small windows to the cellar were broken and Vivian could see a pile of empty bottles in there. They were Cook’s, she found out. There were also, not yet known to her, many checks that had been made out to the liquor store in Cambridge and others to “Cash” on which Cook had signed his father’s name. The old man knew about them but hadn’t confronted his son. His arthritis was painful and now, with his daughter there invalided and unable to take care of herself, the tasks of daily life were almost more than he could handle. But he loved the country. They were near a large open field where you could see the weather, the sun rippling and sometimes the wind. On an inlet nearby he had seen a white goose that lived with the ducks there. Whenever a plane passed overhead, the goose looked up, watching and talking as he did. He watched it all across the sky.

Vivian was sleeping in the unfinished room that was intended to have been her grandfather’s study. She stayed for two weeks the first time, cooking, taking her mother to doctor’s appointments and once a week to the hairdresser to cheer her up. She was attentive and sympathetic to her mother but she was her father’s child. Her father had taught her to ride and hunt and play tennis. She had taken to all that more than Beverly had, and in all likelihood loved her father more, too. He was a man who represented so many things, a little stubborn perhaps but beyond that all you could wish for.

Caroline, though she was unable now to do much more than mumble, rolled her eyes whenever Vivian mentioned Cook. That was one of the clearer signs of what she was feeling. There was an inane smile on her face and a mouth full of struggling sounds, but her eyes had an expression of knowing, knowing and understanding. Tick, the black labrador that was Warren Wain’s, lay peacefully at her feet, knocking the floor with his thick tail when someone would approach. Like the rest of the household he had seen better days. He moved a little stiffly and his muzzle had flecks of white but he had a good nature. Cook, not bothering to shave and wearing a shapeless sweater, took him for walks.

“How are they getting along?” Bowman asked when Vivian came back to New York.

“Cook is spending all the money and the house is a wreck,” Vivian said.

“How’s your mother?”

“Not very good. I don’t think she’s going to be able to stay there for long. They can’t take care of her. You have to help her dress and other things, well, you know. I’ll have to go back down there.”

“Should she be in some kind of home?”

“I don’t like the idea, but she’ll probably have to be.”

“Can Beverly help? She’s a lot closer.”

“Beverly is having some trouble herself.”

“What is it? Her children? Bryan?”

Vivian shrugged.

“With the bottle,” she said. “It runs in the family.”

When she left for Maryland again, it was with the understanding that she might have to stay a few weeks longer, and when she arrived in Cornersville things seemed to be worse, for reasons that she soon understood. The bank account was overdrawn, and the old man had to do something. In his slippers and bathrobe at the breakfast table while Vivian was doing the dishes, he finally said,

“Cook, listen, I need to talk to you.”