Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

‘Everybody says I look like my father,’ Billy said, with the bluntness of his fourteen years, but not aggressively. From his tone he was obviously feeling at home.

‘I have not had the good fortune ever to meet your father,’ the mother said, a slight chill in her speech. ‘No doubt there must be a certain resemblance here and there, but fundamentally you resemble my branch of the family, especially Rudolph. Doesn’t he, Martha?’

‘I can see some signs,’ Martha said. She was not out to give the mother a perfect Sunday night supper.

‘Around the eyes,’ the mother said. ‘And the intelligent mouth. In spite of the difference in the hair. I never think hair makes too much difference. There’s not much character in hair.’

Rudolph pushed the door and went into the kitchen. Billy was seated at one end of the table, flanked by the two women. Hair flattened down wet after his bath, Billy looked shining clean and smiling as he packed into his food. The mother had put on a sober-brown dress and was consciously playing grandmother. Martha looked less grumpy than usual, her mouth less thin, welcoming a bit of youth into the household.

‘Everything all right?’ Rudolph asked. They giving you enough to eat?’

The food’s great,’ Billy said. There was no trace of the agony of the afternoon in his face.

‘I do hope you like chocolate pudding for dessert, Billy,’ the mother said, hardly looking up for a moment at Rudolph, standing at the door. ‘Martha makes the most delicious chocolate pudding.’

‘Yeah,’ Billy said. ‘I really like it’

‘It was Rudolph’s favourite dessert, too. Wasn’t it, Rudolph?’

‘Uhuh,’ he said. He didn’t remember ever getting it more than once a year and he certainly didn’t remember ever remarking on it, but this was not the night to halt the flights of his mother’s fancy. She had even refrained from putting on rouge, the better to play the role of grandmother and she deserved some marks for that, too.

‘Billy,’ Rudolph said,’ I spoke to your mother.’

Billy looked at him gravely, fearing a blow. What did she say?’

‘She’s waiting for you; I’m going to put you on a plane Tuesday or Wednesday. As soon as I can break away from the office here and take you down to New York.’

The boy’s lips trembled, but mere was no fear he was going to cry. ‘How did she sound?’ he asked.

‘Delighted that you’re coming out,’ Rudolph said.

That poor girl,’ his mother said. The life she’s led. The blows of fortune.’

Rudolph didn’t allow himself to look at her,

Though if s a shame, Billy,’ she continued, that now that we’ve found each other you can’t spend a little time with your old grandmother. Still, now that the ice has been broken, perhaps I can come out and visit you. Wouldn’t that be a nice idea, Rudolph?’

‘Very nice.’

‘California,’ she said. I’ve always wanted to see it. The climate is kind to old bones. And from what I hear, it’s a virtual paradise. Before I die … Martha, I think Billy is ready for the chocolate pudding.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Martha said, rising from the table.

‘Rudolph,’ the mother said, ‘don’t you want a bite? Join the happy family circle?’

‘No, thanks.’ The last thing he wanted was to join the happy family circle. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Well, I’m off to bed,’ she said. She stood up heavily. ‘Must get my beauty sleep at my age, you know. But before you go upstairs to sleep you’ll come in and give your grandmother a great big good night kiss, won’t you, Billy?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Billy said.

‘Grandma.’

‘Grandma,’ Billy said obediently.

She swept out of the room. One last triumphant glare at Rudolph. Lady Macbeth, the blood behind her, undetected, now splendidly running a nursery for precocious children in a warmer country than Scotland.

Mothers should not be exposed, Rudolph thought, as he said, ‘Good night, Mom, sleep well.’ They should be shot out of hand.

He left the house, ate dinner at a restaurant, tried to call Jean in New York to find out what night she could see him, Tuesday or Wednesday. There was no answer at her apartment

Draw the curtains at sunset. Do not sit in the evenings and look out at the lights of the city spread below you. Colin did so, with you at his side, because he said it was the view he liked most in the world, America was at its best at night.

Do not wear black. Mourning is a private matter.

Do not write emotional letters in answer to letters of condolence from friends or from strangers using words like genius or unforgettable or generous or strength of character. Answer promptly and politely. No more.

Do not weep in front of your son.

Do not accept invitations to dinner from friends or colleagues of Colin who do not wish you to suffer alone.

When a problem comes up do not reach for the phone to call Colin’s office. The office is closed.

Resist the temptation to tell the people who are now in charge of finishing Colin’s last picture how Colin wanted it to be done.

Give no interviews, write no articles. Do not be a source of anecdote. Do not be a great man’s widow. Do not speculate on what he would have done had he lived.

Commemorate no birthdays or anniversaries.

Discourage retrospective showings, festivals, laudatory meetings to which you have been invited.

Attend no previews or opening nights

When planes fly low overhead, leaving the airport, do not remember voyages you have taken together.

Do not drink alone or in company, whatever the temptation. Avoid sleeping pills. Bear in unassuaged silence

Clear the desk in the living room of its pile of books and scripts. They are now a He,

Refuse, politely, the folios of clippings, reviews of plays and films your husband has directed, which the studio has kindly had made up in tooled-leather covers. Do not read the eulogies of critics.

Leave only one hasty snapshot of husband on view in house. Pack all other photographs in a box and put them away in the cellar.

Do not, when thinking about preparing dinner, arrange a menu that would please husband. (Stone crabs, chili, piccata of veal pizzaiola.)

When dressing, do not look at the clothes hanging in the closet and say, ‘He likes me in that one.’

Be calm and ordinary with your son. Do not over-react when he gets into trouble at school, when he is robbed by a group of hoodlums or comes home with a bloody nose. Do not cling to him or allow him to cling to you. When he is invited with friends to go swimming or to a ball game or to a movie, tell him, ‘Of course. I have an awful lot of things to do about the house and I’ll get mem done faster if I’m alone.’

Do not be a father. The things your son must do with men let him do with men. Do not try to entertain him, because you fear it must be dull for him living alone with a grieving woman on top of a hill far away from the centres where boys amuse themselves.

Do not think about sex. Do not be surprised that you do think about it.

Be incredulous when ex-husband calls and emotionally suggests that he would like to remarry you. If the marriage that was founded on love could not last, the marriage based on death would be a disaster.

Neither avoid nor seek out places where you have been happy together.

Garden, sunbathe, wash dishes, keep a neat house, help son with homework, do not show that you expect more of him than other parents expect of other sons. Be prompt to take him to the corner where he picks up the school bus, be prompt to meet the bus when it returns. Refrain from kissing him excessively.

Be understanding about your own mother, whom son now says he wishes to visit during the summer vacation, Say, ‘Summer is a long time off.’