Alison Lurie - Last Resort

Whereas if the Copper Beech were toppled in a great storm, all anyone might suspect was that Wilkie was gifted with precognition, since trees do not commit suicide. Today, therefore, he had moved the final version of this ending into a central position on his desk with the finished manuscript, and put the others away. As he did so he felt some regret at having to discard the other two versions, both of which contained excellent passages—some of the best he had ever written, in fact. But he knew he had made the right choice.

About Jenny he was less easy. He had planned to make their last days together memorable and intimate, to make her happy in every way—even agreeing to the dinner party she’d proposed to give. But he had had to forgo the long, intimate, relaxed conversations he had imagined their having here in Key West. The trouble was that whenever they were alone together Wilkie was assailed by the impulse to hint at some of what was on his mind. There was even the danger that he might suddenly weaken and tell her everything, as he had more or less done for so many years. At the same time he had become aware of an irrational anger at Jenny because she didn’t know what was on his mind—irrational, because he had done all he could to prevent her knowing.

And since he had been successful, and Jenny didn’t know what was on his mind—didn’t even guess—she did things that irritated him. She kept trying to direct his attention to meaningless national and local events, or to supposedly humorous newspaper stories and cartoons. She proposed social and cultural events, and wanted him to speak to his children on the phone. Just yesterday she had been pestering him to go with her to some film, reading the reviews out loud and telling him that some new friend of hers said it was wonderful. For a moment Wilkie had felt almost hostile to his wife. When he looked at her across the breakfast table she no longer resembled a transfigured human version of a salt marsh mouse. Instead she reminded him of another creature far from the threat of extinction, rather increasing in numbers every year: Sorex arareus, the common or garden shrew, with its shrill little twittering voice.

But that was only the impression of a moment. It had been deeply painful today to leave Jenny without a sign, and in his mind he had tried out many last speeches: casual phrases that after the fact would reverberate with meaning. In the end he had resisted the impulse, fearing he might break down, and only called out “I’m going for my swim now.” “See you soon, then,” Jenny had called back, hardly glancing round; and he had replied, choking up, “Right.”

His last words—his last word—to Jenny had been a lie. But a necessary one. What would happen now must seem a tragic accident. Why no, Wilkie Walker wasn’t depressed, everyone must say: he was full of energy and plans for the future. Only the night before—

Yesterday he had planned to kiss Jenny casually yet fondly as he passed on his way to the beach, perhaps to compliment her intimately on the dinner party and what he had intended to follow it. That was what hurt, what rankled now more than the sharp occasional pain in his lower bowel. Not only his final words to his wife, but their final significant encounter had been false and meaningless. Last night, their last night together, he had planned to make love to Jenny. He had tried, strained, willed it with all his force—but all for nothing; worse than nothing.

“Darling, it doesn’t matter. Really, it was lovely,” Jenny had said when, muttering an angry apology, he had lain slack in her arms at last, a heavy, sweaty burden of inert bone and muscle and flesh. Wilkie discounted these words. Of course she would say that, out of politeness, out of love. Silently he had turned away from her and pretended to sleep.

In less than an hour he would forget all this, forever; but Jenny would not forget. That clumsy, humiliating failure would always be her last intimate memory of him.

He could wait a few days, try to make love again—earlier in the evening, and sober. But suppose there was another failure? Also, today would be his last chance at the ocean for a while. According to the radio a massive cold front was moving in; temperatures would fall into the fifties tonight, and heavy rain was expected. If he went swimming tomorrow under such conditions he would be thought deranged.

Wilkie glanced again at the house where Jenny sat reading a book, unaware of what was to come. Besides great shock and loss, she would have many duties. For instance, she would have to cancel all the articles, lectures, and conferences that would be the proof of Wilkie’s intention to live on. Fortunately, she had now made a friend in Key West, some woman who had been a therapist in Brooklyn and now ran a guest house here. Neither of these attributes recommended her to Wilkie Walker, but they had advantages. This Lou? Lil?—something like that—presumably knew the local scene, and also had professional training in dealing with crisis and grief.

“Hi there! Wilkie!”

Dimly, he became aware that someone was shouting his name. As he turned, the waving figure far down the street was recognizable as Gerry Grass, who was occupying an apartment in their compound and had come to dinner last night. Wilkie’s first thought was that he was being recalled to some emergency. But as Gerry galloped nearer it became clear that he was grinning, wearing Hawaiian-print swim trunks and carrying a towel—in fact, that he intended to accompany Wilkie to the beach.

Wilkie’s first impulse was to turn and run. He had over two blocks’ lead, and could reach the ocean well before Gerry. But how would such a flight sound when it was reported to Jenny, and to the police? He felt a rush of rage and bitterness. Until now he had had nothing against Gerry, whom he had met before on many public occasions. He had agreed to the inclusion of him and his current bimbo in the dinner party—the more witnesses to his non-suicidal condition, the better, he had thought.

“Going swimming?” Gerry inquired, panting up to him.

Wilkie agreed grudgingly that he was; to deny it and turn back would seem deeply peculiar. It occurred to him that in unconventionally seeking freedom from a painful and constraining future, one had to become more conventional than ever. Acts that might pass without comment if you continued to live became weighted with significance when they preceded your death.

Wearily, he began to stride down Reynolds Street toward the sea. Gerry loped alongside, making noises with his mouth. In the past Wilkie had regarded Gerry as a man of fair intelligence and sound views. Gerry had reviewed two of his books enthusiastically, and Wilkie had more than once quoted from Gerry’s impassioned nature poems in his writing.

But since he had left his agreeable wife (a long-standing fan of Wilkie’s) and moved to Southern California several years ago, Gerry seemed to have become something of a New Age ninny. Though Wilkie knew for a fact that he was pushing sixty, last night he had spoken of himself as “middle-aged,” so as to seem to belong to the majority, just as some rich people speak of themselves as “middle-class.”

“You swim every day? That’s great,” Gerry told him. “You know, I met a really interesting guy in L.A. last month who recommends it. He sees swimming as a form of active meditation; says it helps you to clear your mind and tune into natural rhythms.”

Cretin, Wilkie thought, glancing sideways at Gerry. Previously, he had seemed a normal specimen of Homo sapiens. Now his athletic handsomeness suggested atavism. Was there not a tinge of the anthropoid ape in Gerry’s sloping shoulders, slightly prognathous jaw, and the dusting of gray-peppered curly hair on the rims of his ears?