Russell Banks - The Reserve

“It gives me a headache. I’ve got rum. Want a taste of old Havana?”

She smiled brightly and like a child nodded yes, and he pulled a bottle and two shot glasses from a cabinet above the sink and poured.

“ Salud, ” he said and drank.

“ Salud. ” She drained her glass and set it on the floor, beside the chair. “I heard about your brawl at the Club. You must be a little crazy,” she said.

“I don’t take lightly to insults. Not from twits like Kendall. Not from beautiful women, either.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Groves. I assume you’re referring to me, but I don’t recall insulting you. Quite the opposite. In any case, I’m quick to forgive and quick to forget. What about you?”

He didn’t answer. He refilled their glasses, then walked to the Victrola, cranked the handle a half-dozen turns, and placed a record on the spindle. The music was fast and pleasant, a quartet of black men singing and a single guitar.

Vanessa listened for a moment, unsmiling. “That’s real cute,” she said sarcastically. “What is it?”

“The song? It’s called ‘My Old Man.’ By some guys named the Spirits of Rhythm. It’s a group I heard at a Harlem joint a couple of years ago. You don’t remember cutting me cold at the Club that day?” The Spirits of Rhythm sang in the background, “My old man, he’s livin’ in a garbage can. Put a bottle of gin there an’ he’ll get in there…My old man, he’s only doin’ the best he can….”

“So I gather you’re not quick to forgive and forget. What if I said I’m sorry?”

“Quick to forgive. Apology accepted. Very slow to forget, however.”

She said she was afraid of that, which was why she had been reluctant to come to him. But she felt she had no choice. He was the only person who could help her.

“You don’t strike me as a girl who needs help from anybody. Least of all from me.”

“My father wanted his ashes up here in the Adirondacks. In the Reserve. He wanted them scattered in the Second Lake. He was practically religious about it.”

“Fine. Do it. What’s the problem?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Not without help.” Russell Kendall, the manager of the Reserve, had informed her that it was against the rules to inter a body on Reserve land. By the same token it was equally against the rules to scatter the ashes of a deceased member in any of the lakes or streams in the Reserve.

Jordan asked her why she didn’t carry her old man’s ashes up to the Second Lake in that Chinese jar and not tell anyone and just row out to the middle of the lake and empty the jar.

“Impossible,” she said. Mr. Kendall had warned her against trying exactly that and had alerted the warden at the gate to check her belongings for Dr. Cole’s ashes if she tried to hike up to the lake and take out one of the guide boats. “The manager dislikes me only a little less than he dislikes you. But my grandfather was one of the founders, so all he can do is harass me. He can’t kick me off the place. We’re shareholders, members. When Mother and I went into the Reserve to go up to Rangeview yesterday afternoon, he and the warden stopped us at the gate and went through our pack baskets and even our purses. Like we were suspected smugglers and they were customs officers. It was a total humiliation for Mother. Luckily, we were only on sort of a reconnaissance mission, and we’d left the ashes in the car, or Kendall probably would have locked Daddy in the clubhouse safe.”

Jordan laughed. “So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fly me and Daddy to the Second Lake in your airplane. When you fly low over the water, I’ll do what Daddy expected me to do. That’s all.”

“Nope,” Jordan said. “Can’t do it.”

“Why not?” she asked. Then, pointing at the record player, “Look, I get the joke. Do we have to hear that song?”

“What do you want to hear?” He lifted the record off the spindle and slipped it into its paper jacket and reracked it.

“I want to hear you say you’ll help me do right by my father. I’ll pay you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know, money’s no object. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I’ll give you one of those James Heldon paintings you seem to like so much.”

“I don’t like them, actually,” he said. “No, that’s not quite true. There were two or three there that I admired. And I can get a Heldon on my own, thanks. But it doesn’t matter, I can’t help you.”

“You mean ‘won’t.’ Why not?” She stood and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I think you’re more afraid of me than angry. Besides, that morning at the Club all I did was tell you the truth. That’s not so bad, is it? You don’t have to be afraid of me, Jordan Groves. I won’t hurt you.”

“Miss Von Heidenstamm…or is it Countess?”

“Miss.”

“Miss Von Heidenstamm, for a man like me, you are nothing but trouble. As you have already noted. No, the best thing I can do for both of us is see you out and say thanks for the visit and good-bye.”

Gently, the artist took her hand off his shoulder and led her to the door. He opened the door and let go of her hand, and she stepped outside. He closed the door and went back to his work-table. For a moment he stood there staring down at the block of maple he’d been carving for three full days. Then he reached for the bottle of rum and poured himself a drink. Glass in hand, he walked to the Victrola. He placed the record back onto the spindle, and the Spirits of Rhythm resumed singing, “My old man, he’s only doin’ the best he can….”

AROUND MIDNIGHT WHEN JORDAN CAME IN TO BED, ALICIA was still awake, reading Gone With the Wind . It was the novel that everyone in America seemed to be reading that summer, sent to Jordan by the publisher in typescript six months earlier with a request that he illustrate an hors commerce limited edition for special friends of the publisher and author, numbered and signed. It was a lucrative offer, tempting. But after skimming the first few chapters, he’d pronounced it a ladies’ antebellum fantasy novel and tossed the manuscript into the fireplace. Now the book had become a beloved best-seller and there was even talk of making a movie adaptation. He was a little sorry he’d turned the offer down — it would have been the first time he’d illustrated a popular book by a living author. It might have led to many rich commissions.

He went into the dressing room and pulled his clothes off, washed his face and brushed his teeth in the bathroom, and came quickly to bed. Alicia had already closed her book and snapped off the bedside lamp, and though she appeared to have gone straight to sleep, he knew that she was awake. Awake and waiting.

For a few moments he remained silent. Then he said, “That girl, Vanessa Von Heidenstamm, she came by the studio today.”

“Yes, I know. I wondered if you were going to mention it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Really, Jordan. She has her cap set for you. You know that.”

“Well, that’s nothing to me.”

“Oh.”

“She wanted me to do something weird for her.”

“Oh.”

“She wanted me to fly her and her father’s ashes up to the Reserve, so she could scatter the ashes in the Second Lake. Pretty weird, eh?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe the place was special to him,” she said. “Will you do it?”

“Christ, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t particularly like the girl. Or her family, either.” He rolled over and put his back to her. “People like that don’t need help from me. They contaminate everything and everyone they touch. Besides, it’s against Reserve rules.”