David Gates - The Wonders of the Invisible World

“Right,” said Finn. “I agree. Do you want to, or shall I?”

“Well …” she said.

“I’ll be glad to,” he said. “I take it there’s been very little contact.”

“I guess it’s been a little better since — you know, since he’s been living up here. If anything, they’re—”

“Would you excuse me just a second?” Finn put the receiver down, wedging it between the heavy cut-glass vase and the dinette-style metal napkin dispenser so the tension in the cord wouldn’t pull it off onto the floor, then went over and fetched his cigarettes.

“I’m back,” he said, holding the receiver to his ear with his shoulder as he struck a match. “Carolyn, I’m very sorry to hear this about your father.” He took a deep, welcome drag and considerately raised the mouthpiece as he blew out the smoke. “We’ll hope it turns out to be nothing serious. And I’ll speak to James as soon as he comes down. Now, are you all right?”

“I guess,” she said. “I’m just trying to, you know, wait to hear something concrete and not panic until there’s actually something to panic about.”

“Good girl,” he said. “It’s a harrowing thing, I know. I went through this with my father.” Hardly a reassuring thing to say, on second thought. “I can’t honestly tell you that the waiting is the worst part”—Christ, he was getting himself in deeper—“but in your case I truly hope it will be.” He had extricated himself by inspiration.

“So do I,” she said. Then she said, “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Oh, this was years ago. So meanwhile. What do you recommend? Should James go down there, do you think? Are you planning to go down?”

“No,” she said. “I think at this point all it would do is get everybody more upset. You know, people showing up like …” Had she been going to say like vultures ? “Besides, Fort Myers isn’t all that divine in July. But I do think that if he would call or write — I don’t know, I just think it would mean a lot. If only for his own sake, you know? Like later on.”

“Right,” said Finn.

“I think he really is very ill. I just — something just tells me that.”

“I’ll go upstairs right now. And you’ll let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“ Ciao, ” he said, and stood up to put the receiver back in its cradle.

“So what’s going on?” Finn turned: James was standing, barefoot, in the archway leading to the dining room.

“I didn’t realize you were up,” Finn said. “That was Carolyn. It seems your father has gone in for some tests, and they’re not certain at this point, what if anything, is wrong. But apparently your mother’s quite upset, and your sister seems to think it sounds serious enough that you ought to get in touch with them.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t honestly know, Jamie. That would be up to you.”

James went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of seltzer and drank from it. “Sort of tests are we talking about?”

“Again,” said Finn, and spread his hands, palms up. A long ash fell off his cigarette, and he saw it shatter softly on the floor. “It seems to be some sort of colorectal thing.”

“That figures,” James said. “So we’re talking cancer.”

“Again,” said Finn.

James said, “I want to call my sister.”

The test results weren’t in until the following Friday. On Saturday morning Finn drove James to Albany. He put James’s round-trip ticket on his Visa and got him four hundred dollars, the daily limit, from a cash machine. After a goodbye hug at the gate, Finn walked back out to the car, sat on the front fender and watched the plane out of sight. Watched himself watch the plane out of sight.

The drive down to JFK used to take Finn four hours; today it had taken four and a half. He no longer had the energy — no, the foolhardiness — to roll seventy and seventy-five all the way. Even so, he was half an hour early, so he tried to get comfortable on the narrow aluminum ledge of a giant window near the security station, and to involve himself in the last act of Timon of Athens. He’d deliberately brought nothing else: damned if he’d allow himself to get that far and not finish. But how was he to concentrate? About fifty people were clustered here, whole families with whining children; they sat against the wall, paced, stood shifting their weight from foot to foot. Only ticket holders were being allowed to go through security and down to the gates where there were seats. So decent, ordinary people, waiting for their loved ones, were denied a modicum of comfort all because — well, enough. It was unattractive to be querulous.

He’d driven all the way down here because James couldn’t find a direct flight. Flying to Albany would’ve involved shuttling from JFK to La Guardia, sitting at La Guardia for two hours … ridiculous. If the lights started to bother Finn’s eyes on the drive back, they could always stop and put up at a motel. He’d also driven down because he needed to make another foray into Times Square.

James had seemed in fine fettle on the telephone, but now that it was certain the old man (five years older than Finn) had only months to live, God knows what buried feelings were bound to come up. Finn was truly sorry for James: he himself had been forty-five before he’d had to go through this. But he hoped that whatever James had to endure over the next few months — and he was ashamed of how selfish this sounded — it would not prove too disruptive. During the week and a half James had been gone, Finn had written another three pages of his essay and had composed the covering letter. No doubt James would be upset that he intended to run an errand — particularly this errand — before going home. Had Finn not taken so much wine last night, he would’ve been able to get up earlier, to finish picking up the house earlier and to make his stop before coming to the airport. But if there had to be a showdown, then a showdown there would be. This was his only life, and he had only so much of it left.

He couldn’t concentrate on Timon of Athens.

At last passengers with suitcases and garment bags began appearing. No one had even bothered to announce the arrival: the slipshod way everything was run nowadays would make a saint querulous. Yet he mustn’t visit this querulousness on James, who would need his support. And would find his bitching and moaning unattractive. And there was James now, his canvas duffel slung from his shoulder, and in his other hand — what? A net bag of oranges.

Finn gave him a brotherly one-armed hug. James bent to lay the oranges down, straightened up, gripped the back of Finn’s neck and kissed him on the mouth. “This is New York City,” he said. “Remember?”

“Forgive an old man,” said Finn. “When ye git my age, sonny …”

“If,” James said.

Finn looked at him. James’s tan, he noticed, was even deeper than when he’d left. So more had been going on, apparently, than just the compulsive TV-watching and the silent family dinners James had re-created so amusingly on the phone. “Ah, nature’s bounty,” he said, bending down to pick up the oranges.

“My mother insisted,” James said. “And she was very particular that they were for both of us.”

“Well well well,” said Finn. “God and sinners reconciled. But wouldn’t pink grapefruit have been more appropriate?”

James began walking. The sight of his firm buttocks under his white shorts made Finn suddenly furious.

“Your tan looks splendid,” he said, catching up. “So how are the beach girls down there? Really stacked, I’ll bet.”

James stopped. People passed by on both sides, paying no attention. “Hey, Finn? Why don’t you give it a rest, okay? I’m just really not up to it. This has not been a good week.”