Christopher Isherwood - A Single Man

‘Palo Alto – he was there before, wasn’t he?’

‘Of course he was. That’s where that girl lives. He’s with her, naturally. . . . I must learn not to say ‘that girl’. She’s got a perfectly good name, and I can hardly pretend I don’t know it: Loretta Marcus. . . . Anyhow, it’s none of my business who Fred’s with or what she does with Fred. Her mother doesn’t seem to care. Well, never mind any of that. . . . We had a long talk. This time, he really was quite sweet and reasonable about the whole situation. At least, I could feel how hard he was trying to be. . . .

Geo, it’s no good our going on like this. He has made up his mind, really and truly. He wants a complete break.’

Her voice is trembling ominously. George says without conviction, ‘He’s awfully young, still.’

‘He’s awfully old for his age. Even two years ago, he could have looked after himself, if he’d had to. Just because he’s a minor, I can’t treat him like a child – I mean, and use the Law to make him come back. Besides, then, he’d never forgive me —’

‘He’s changed his mind, before this.’

‘Oh, I know. And I know you think he hasn’t behaved well to me, Geo. I don’t blame you for thinking that. I mean, it’s natural for you to take my side. And then, you’ve never had any children of your own. . . . You don’t mind my saying that, Geo dear? Oh, I’m sorry —’

‘Don’t be silly, Charley.’

‘Even if you had had children, it wouldn’t really be the same. This Mother and Son thing – I mean, especially when you’ve had to bring him up without a father – that’s really hell. I mean, you try and you try – but everything you do or say seems to turn out wrong. I smother him – he said that to me once. At first I couldn’t understand – I just couldn’t accept it – but now I do – I’ve got to – and I honestly think I do – he must live his own life – right away from me – even if he begs me to, I simply mustn’t see him for a long long while – I’m sorry, Geo – I didn’t mean to do this – I’m so – sorry —’

George moves closer to her on the couch, puts one arm around her, squeezes her sobbing plumpness gently, without speaking. He is not cold; he is not unmoved. He is truly sorry for Charley and this mess – and yet – la felicidad remains intact; he is very much at his ease. With his free hand, he helps himself to a sip of his drink, being careful not to let the movement be felt through the engaged side of his body.

But how very strange to sit here with Charley sobbing and remember that night when the longdistance call came through from Ohio. An uncle of Jim’s whom he’d never met – trying to be sympathetic, even admitting George’s right to a small honorary share in the sacred family grief – but then, as they talked, becoming a bit chilled by George’s laconic yes, I see, yes ; his curt no, thank you , to the funeral invitation – deciding no doubt that this much talked-of room-mate hadn’t been such a close friend, after all. . . . And then, at least five minutes after George had put down the phone, when the first shock-wave hit, when the meaningless news suddenly meant exactly what it said, his blundering gasping run up the hill in the dark, his blind stumbling on the steps, banging at Charley’s door, crying blubbering howling on her shoulder, in her lap, all over her; and Charley squeezing him, stroking his hair, telling him – the usual stuff one tells. . . . Late next afternoon, as he shook himself out of the daze of the sleeping-pills she’d given him, he felt only disgust: I betrayed you, Jim; I betrayed our life together; I made you into a sob-story for a skirt. But that was just hysteria; part of the second shock-wave. It soon passed. And meanwhile Charley, bless her silly heart, took the situation over more and more completely – cooking his meals and bringing them down to the house while he was out, the dishes wrapped in tinfoil ready to be reheated; leaving him notes urging him to call her at any hour he felt the need, the deader of night the better; hiding the truth from her friends with such visibly sealed lips that they must surely have suspected Jim had fled the State after some sex-scandal – until at last she had turned Jim’s death into something of her own creation entirely, a roaring farce. (George is grinning to himself, now.) Oh yes indeed, he is glad that he ran to her that night. That night, in purest ignorance, she taught him a lesson he will never forget – namely that you can’t betray (that idiotic expression!) a Jim, or a life with a Jim, even if you try to.

By now, Charlotte has sobbed herself into a calm. After a couple of sniffs, she says ‘Sorry’ again, and stops.

‘I keep wondering just when it began to go wrong —’

‘Oh, Charley, for Heaven’s sake, what good does that do?’

‘Of course, if Buddy and I had stayed together —’

‘No one can say that was your fault.’

‘It’s always both people’s.’

‘Do you hear from him nowadays?’

‘Oh yes, every so often. They’re still in Scranton. He’s out of a job. And Debbie just had another baby – that’s their third – another daughter. I can’t think how they manage. I keep trying to stop him sending any more money, even though it is for Fred. But he’s so obstinate, poor lamb, when he thinks something’s his duty. Well, from now on, I suppose he and Fred will have to work that out between them. I’m out of the picture altogether —’

There is a bleak little pause. George gives her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘How about a couple of quick ones before that stew?’

‘I think that’s a positively brilliant idea!’ She laughs quite gaily. But then, as he takes the glass from her, she strokes his hand with a momentary return to pathos, ‘You’re so damned good to me, Geo.’ Her eyes fill with tears. However, he can decently pretend that he hasn’t noticed them, so he walks away.

If I’d been the one the truck hit, he says to himself, as he enters the kitchen, Jim would be right here, this very evening, walking through this doorway, carrying these two glasses. Things are as simple as that.

‘So here we are,’ Charlotte says, ‘just the two of us. Just you and me.’

They are drinking their coffee after dinner. The stew turned out quite a success, though not noticeably different from all Charlotte’s other stews; its relationship to Borneo being almost entirely literary.

‘Just the two of us,’ she repeats.

George smiles at her vaguely; not sure yet if this is a lead-in to something, or only sententious-sentimental warmth arising from the wine. They had about a bottle and a half between them.

But then, slowly, thoughtfully, as though this were a mere bit of irrelevant feminine musing, she adds, ‘I suppose, in a day or two, I must get around to cleaning out Fred’s room.’

A pause.

‘I mean, until I’ve done that, I won’t feel that everything’s really over. You have to do something, to convince yourself. You know what I mean?’

‘Yes, Charley. I think so.’

‘I shall send Fred anything he needs, of course. The rest I can store away. There’s heaps of space under the house.’

‘Are you planning to rent his room?’ George asks – because, if she is leading up to something, they may as well get to it.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that. . . . Well, not to a stranger, anyhow. One couldn’t offer him any real privacy. He’d have to be part of the family – oh dear, I must stop using that expression – it’s only force of habit. . . . Still, you understand, Geo. It would have to be someone I knew most awfully well —’

‘I can see that.’