Guy Vanderhaeghe - The Englishman’s Boy

Outside he ran in circles, yelling for Hardwick. The grass, the trees, the creek were his only company and they could not be killed. He sank to the ground and watched the post burn to nothing. When night came down he walked among the glow of the dying embers, boots smoking. Of Grace and the Indian girl he found nothing.

Hours later, he mounted his horse and three times circled the ruins of the post, dabbed here and there with sparks like the sky was dabbed with stars. A dumb, holy prayer for the two of them. Then he turned his horse northeast, like an Indian, to seek in the wilderness.

Two days after Chance and Fitz pay me their nocturnal visit I go to see Rachel Gold. It’s been a long time since we have had any contact. I think she has phoned several times; the telephone rang so persistently, so doggedly, I concluded it had to be either her or Fitz, and I didn’t want to speak to either of them. But now, cornered by my conscience, I ride a streetcar to her pink stucco apartment building with its Spanish courtyard. It’s as if when my illness, my fever broke, something broke loose in me too, sending things floating to the surface, things I have to deal with.

My knock gets no answer, despite the fact I can hear somebody moving around inside. I bang the door, loudly.

“Pedlar begone!” she shouts imperiously.

“It’s me, Rachel. Harry. Open up.”

The sound of rapid, thudding footsteps and the door is flung open. She’s wearing a Chinese-looking robe, red dragons on a black satin ground. She is barefoot and the famous black hair is alive. So is her face, registering shock at my appearance.

“God, Harry, where’ve you been? Why haven’t I heard from you? What’s happened? You look like hell.”

“I’ve been sick,” I say curtly, inviting myself in, walking past her.

She trails concern after me into the living room. “You look like you could use something to eat. I’ll make you something to eat.”

“No, I don’t want anything to eat.” I sag down into an armchair. I’m nervous because of what I’ve come to say; my eyes drift around the apartment, avoiding hers, the anxiety in her face. “This won’t take long. I have something to tell you. And a favour to ask.”

“Shoot,” she says. I hear her settling on the sofa across from me. I’m reluctant to start; a strained, expectant silence forms.

“Harry, look at me.”

I do.

“What’s the matter?”

I begin, “Remember that day on the beach? When you told me I had to decide? Well, I’ve decided.”

“What have you decided, Harry?”

“I acted on impulse that day and I made a fool of myself. I’m sorry, but I’m acting on impulse again. There’s something that’s been eating at me. Something I didn’t tell you. About Chance.”

She shoots me a penetrating look. “What didn’t you tell me about Chance?”

I want to make this clear. “I’m not taking revenge on him,” I continue awkwardly, “and the last thing I want to do is hurt you, but I think you have a right to know.”

“Forget the pussyfooting. Out with it.”

“Remember what you said about Fitz in the Cocoanut Grove -that he was an anti-Semite?” I hesitate. “Well, so is Chance. In earnest. I’ve heard him say things.”

Rachel stiffens visibly, someone prepared for a slap in the face. She knows what is coming. “What kind of things?” she demands, voice brittle.

“Don’t ask me to spell it out. Take it from me. You don’t want to hear.”

Rachel draws the robe a little tighter around her shoulders. “A drink might help take the bad taste out of my mouth,” she says disgustedly. “Unfortunately for me, I quit drinking.” Her lips twist slightly, struggling to summon up an ironic smile. “But looking on the lighter side, maybe this cloud has a silver lining. When I hand the son of a bitch my resignation, I’ll be free to write that novel I’ve been threatening the public with for as long as you’ve known me.”

“Sure.”

“But I won’t,” she says quietly, more to herself than me.

I don’t contradict her. We both know she’s right on that score. Rachel says nothing else, sits absolutely still and quiet.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She glances up at me. “That’s the second time you’ve said sorry this afternoon, Harry. Don’t be a parrot.” She moves now, abruptly, leans over and plucks a cigarette from a lacquer box on the coffee table, lights it with a flick of a match. Rachel back to business, the decisive close to a distasteful subject. Chance dismissed like a fly. “You mentioned a favour,” she says, shaking out the match, tossing it into an ashtray. “What is it?”

“I want you to visit my mother.”

Her eyes lift quizzically. “Of course. When would you like to go?”

“Not the both of us. Just you.”

She scrutinizes me closely. “Now what the hell is all this about?”

It seems lately there are no clear explanations. The best I can offer is, “I can’t face her right now.” I lay my hands on my kneecaps and watch them shake there uncontrollably.

“You’re a mensch , Harry. A mensch doesn’t abandon his mother,” she says sternly.

That word, whenever she used to apply it to me, would make me angry and envious. I would have preferred to be one of her gigolos. Now it fills me with despair. The debris of a lot of mistakes has floated to the surface in the past couple of days. It seems I have a long history of betrayals. “I let her down once before, Rachel,” I whisper without lifting my eyes. “You know what she asked me just before I left to come down here? To buy her a new dress so I could pick her out from all the rest of those drab women on the ward the next time I visited. She sensed I was running out on her. Knew it.”

“Or you think she did.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to let her down again. My money’s going fast. What if she ends up in one of those goddamn state-run asylums?”

“Stop this, Harry,” she says.

“But don’t you see?” I look up, plead with her to understand. “I can’t let that happen.”

“I told you before,” she says impatiently, “if you need money, I’ll lend it to you. Take my word on it.”

“She’s my mother. My responsibility. I’m going to do my best to take care of her. But I just can’t face her now.”

Rachel isn’t about to relent. “Go and see her, Harry.”

“Believe me, she’d rather see you.” I’m begging, desperate. “You said I was abandoning her. I’m not abandoning her, I’m just asking for a reprieve, a little time to get things straight in my mind. Is that so much to ask? Look at me, for Christ’s sake! Do you think she should see me looking like this?” I hold up my trembling hands as testimony.

She studies my face, my hands. They are the only arguments which have any effect. “Sure I’ll go visit your mother,” she says at last, gently. “But what about you? When will I see you again?”

I’ve made my mind up about that, too. No more lingering hopefully for love. It’s time to try to get Rachel Gold out of my system. “I don’t know. Sometime” is the only answer I can manage.

“Come on, Harry. What are you up to?”

I get to my feet. “Don’t you get it, Rachel? I’m ashamed. About my mother. About you. I can’t forget Chance once accused you of being an influence on me. He meant a bad influence. What I didn’t say is that if you were an influence – it was only for the good.”

“Harry, there’s no reason for this.”

“Listen to me, Rachel. I’m not fit for human company just now. Grant me a little time. Okay?” That said, I start to leave the room.