Alison Lurie - Last Resort

When she agreed to take Barbie in, Molly had assumed that she’d have to hear more about her unhappy marriage and helpless self-doubt. But in fact Glory Green and the other dolphin and manatee people seemed to have taken over most of this task. They had also provided a lawyer to handle Barbie’s divorce from her husband, Wild Bob Hickock.

“I felt just awful about it at first,” Barbie had declared. “But Glory and Stewart, that’s my lawyer, think it’s for the best really. I mean Bob and I weren’t ever exactly suited to each other. For instance he never really liked animals, except his own dogs.”

As might have been expected, Barbie’s mother was vehemently opposed to the divorce. For several days she’d assaulted Molly’s house with phone calls, some of which had reduced her daughter to noisy tears. But presently, on the advice of the manatee people, Barbie had refused to speak to Myra Mumpson.

“Glory says, when Mom calls, I should ask you to please just tell her I’m not here. She says talking to angry people is counterproductive and bad for the soul. And she says they’ve all noticed that after I’ve been on the phone with Mom I’m too upset for hours to be any use to anybody or anything.”

As a result of this policy, for the next few days Molly had found herself having daily conversations with Myra Mumpson. At first these conversations had been very unpleasant. Myra had accused her (sometimes with justice) of lying about Barbie’s whereabouts. She had dwelt upon the thanklessness of all her relatives, on the ditsiness of her sister Dorrie, and on Barbie’s immaturity and incapacity for success in what Myra referred to as “the real world.”

The last time she phoned, though, Myra had been more concerned with her own situation. She had confided to Molly that she’d decided to run for state representative in the Republican primary. “At my age, can you believe that?” Myra gave a hoarse giggle. “But the other candidate is a complete washout as a speaker, plus he’s pro-choice. He hasn’t a chance in this district. So I thought, why not? I feel it’s what God’s directing me to do now. And besides it’ll get my mind off the mess my poor silly daughter is making of her life, right?”

But she’s not, Molly had thought but not said. As far as I can tell, her life is less of a mess now, and so is mine.

Recently, now that Barbie was apparently planning to be in Key West indefinitely, Molly had begun to think seriously of staying on longer here this year: through June, and perhaps even into July. She might be lonely after the other winter residents had left; but she was lonely everywhere these days. Everywhere the world had been gradually emptied of her friends, by death. And one day, perhaps quite soon, she too would go. But even death, Molly imagined, would be different here, easier—a kind of slow dissolving into the almost perpetual heat and moisture of Key West.

With a somewhat fixed, but essentially satisfied smile, Wilkie Walker signed the last of the many books presented to him, and stood up. A handful of fans still lingered, hoping for a handful of personal words, repeating their praise of what he had said or written, and offering to take him to lunch. But Wilkie excused himself, saying truthfully that he had promised to eat with the other seminar members, and that he had to go now (gesturing vaguely toward the washroom). His fans, many of whom had prostate trouble, or were related to someone with this ailment, moved out of his way with apologies.

Though he had agreed to participate in this conference only in the belief that he would be dead when it took place, Wilkie thought as he crossed the lobby, it hadn’t been bad so far. The younger people on the panel, unlike some of those he had encountered in the past, had been pleasant and even deferential. Wilkie understood what that meant: it meant that he had ceased to be a competitor, and become a kind of elder statesman. Having been out of circulation for a while had been an advantage. He and his books were too out-of-date now to be attacked: instead they were patronized or even acclaimed as historical documents.

As a result, for the first time in years he was experiencing the rush and crush of popularity, the long lines, the ache in his wrist from signing books—all the phenomena of celebrity that had once surrounded him. What had caused this? Wilkie wondered as he stood in the washroom. Was it something he’d said? It had been a good speech, but no better than many others he’d given in the past.

Or was it some characteristic of the audience? By definition, the conference participants were people who were willing and able to pay several hundred dollars in order to sit indoors and listen to other people talking for two days, on a sunny Florida weekend. Not ordinary tourists, therefore; not students or working men and women on holiday. This audience would have to be well off, and middle-aged or elderly—often retired. In fact, it was largely composed of old people, who had preserved their old enthusiasms, among which were Wilkie Walker and his books.

And these people, of course, were also an endangered species—endangered by age and illness and irrelevance—but most obviously and immediately by death. When Wilkie declared that an aquatic mammal, though not productive or attractive or well adapted to its present environment, was still very valuable, interesting, and worth preserving, they naturally felt better. Because by analogy, so were they.

As retirees, most members of this audience were by definition unattractive and unproductive. But they might in fact not be entirely useless, Wilkie thought as he zipped up his pants. Many of them were wealthy, and most of them meant well. If anything could be done for the manatee and the dolphin and the other declining species of South Florida, it might be done here.

It wouldn’t be easy, because rich old people, as Wilkie knew from observation of himself and others, were reluctant to part with their money. Consciously or unconsciously, they often realized that only this wealth made most of them attractive—though a few, like him, might have kept a certain amount of power and influence. And there were so many competing causes: other animals and birds and plants, the arts, diseases, universities ... Not to mention, of course, the forces of agribusiness and commercial and sport fishing. It would be an uphill fight.

But Wilkie had always liked a good fight. Some of his most agreeable memories were of arguing down smug representatives of commercial interests, or (at the other end of the political spectrum) noisy Luddites and vegetarians. If he were quick on his feet, he could often get these competing fanatics to turn on each other, while he sat calmly between them, representing the voice of reason.

It would be interesting to see how Barbie Mumpson and her new friends got on with their campaign. He might give them the names of some of the well-to-do local fans who had crowded round him just now, pressing business cards and telephone numbers on him. He was also seriously turning over in his mind a possible article for the Atlantic about the manatee—perhaps eventually even a book.

If he decided not to leave week after next, if he stayed through March, or perhaps even longer, Jenny could start the research now. And after all, why shouldn’t they stay on? The house was available, and according to reports the weather back in Convers was still cold, gray, and icy. And since he’d got out of the hospital he was sleeping well at night, even heavily: nine or ten hours sometimes.

Jenny would like it if they stayed on, she’d said so only the other day. She hated cold weather, and she had made friends here, though not always wisely. And with modern technology—fax and E-mail and an Internet connection—she could do most of the necessary editing and checking for The Copper Beech right here in Key West. Besides, it would make up to her for that stupid misunderstanding over Barbie Mumpson.