Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

“I’d like to.” He unfolds a metal chair for Erica and takes the stool for himself. “I have a class tonight, though, and tomorrow I’m going out to Vinegar Hill—the commune. I could come on Sunday,” he adds hopefully, handing a thick crockery cup full of dark reddish tea across the counter to Erica.

“Sunday, then.” Though she had in mind a date further off, Erica smiles with some kindness.

“If you’re sure you want me. I’m a vegetarian now, you know.”

“That’s all right. I’ll make a cheese soufflé, or something.” Yes; and without having to worry any more about how the soufflé, or Sandy, will irritate Brian.

“And I haven’t any car. But don’t worry about that. I’ll get out there somehow.”

“Mm,” Erica says, not really listening; it has occurred to her that there is something she must tell Sandy. “Brian won’t be there, you know,” she begins, her voice faltering slightly. “He and I ...

“Yes, I heard about it.”

“Oh? I suppose everybody has, by now. There’s so little to talk about in this town ...How did you hear about it?”

Zed pauses, looking at Erica over his mug. “Wendy told me.”

“Ah.” Erica tries to swallow this information, which tastes unfamiliar and hot, like her tea. She sets the cup down. “You know the whole story, then?”

“Just what she’s told me.” His manner is vague, mild; but Erica is not fooled. She recalls how after quizzes in Greek class, when she asked Sandy how he’d done, he would reply in the same vague, self-deprecating tone. He knows everything.

“I haven’t seen her for a while,” he adds. “I may not be up to date.”

“Neither have I.” Erica looks at the floor, considering. Brian would be furious that someone like Sandy should know his story; yet she cannot blame Wendy for confiding in him. It was always terribly easy to tell things to Sandy, even things you wouldn’t tell your best friend; perhaps partly because he was so dim and out of it all.

“She admires you very much, you know.”

“Yes.” Erica lifts her face, on which a look almost of pride has appeared. “It was all an awful muddle really. I just tried to sort it out the best I could.”

“Wendy said you were incredibly kind to her. She thinks you’re a fantastic, beautiful person.” Zed smiles. “She admires Brian too—maybe even more,” he adds in a different tone.

“Oh yes, she thinks he’s—” Erica begins shrilly; then stops herself, for she has resolved never to criticize Brian to anyone except Danielle. “I don’t blame Wendy,” she continues more evenly. “Not for anything really. She’s a nice girl. A little naïve and weak, that’s all ...You’re shaking your head. Don’t you agree?”

“I was shaking it at them.” Zed indicates the door of the shop, outside which two young people are standing. As Erica watches they turn away with disappointed expressions. “But I don’t agree, not exactly. After all, weakness can be a strategy like any other.”

“A strategy?”

“Or say a modus operandi. I see it here in the store all the time. And I know from my own experience. If you give up the struggle for conventional goals—money, status, power—a lot of energy is released, for one thing.” He refills the cups, and continues, speaking more slowly, “Also, you have certain tactical advantages. The battle isn’t always to the strong, as we learned in History I. The weak have their weapons too. They come and collapse on you, like defeated nations, and you have to take care of them. ‘Oh! What shall I do now?’ they cry. So you tell them what.” He grins mockingly. “Then they go and do it, and whatever happens after that is your responsibility. I’ve had to make myself a rule: never give advice to anyone.”

“Yes, but she was so helpless—so desperate really,” Erica says, almost to herself. “She couldn’t—I had to—” she utters, and stops.

“I know that.” Zed looks at her. “I don’t mean it’s calculated,” he continues. “Or even conscious, most of the time. But it works. How do you think Wendy got what she wanted from Brian in the first place? Essentially it was the same as it was with you. She went into his office and fell apart. Typical double Cancer.”

“She fell apart,” Erica repeats, passing over the astrological joke, if it was a joke. She has a vision of Wendy crying and vomiting into her kitchen sink.

“It didn’t work for a long time. Your husband kept giving her the wrong advice, the kind she didn’t want. He told her to find other interests, study harder, try cold showers—”

“But she didn’t take that advice.” Erica frowns; she feels a little dizzy.

“Oh yes she did. She took it, but she kept coming back again and saying it hadn’t worked. That’s how it’s always done. It’s a very old strategy, thousands of years old—It’s the standard method for getting into a Zen Buddhist monastery, for instance; I’ve used it myself.” Again Zed glances past Erica to the door. The two young customers have returned, with a third, and are gesturing through the glass; one holds up a book. “Just a second; I’ll tell them to come back later.” He stands up.

“No, don’t do that,” Erica says, looking at her watch. “Let them in; I have to leave now anyway to get my children.” She begins to gather her things. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Well. All right.” Zed goes to the door, motioning to the people outside with the patting gesture that means “Wait a moment.” “What time shall I come?”

“About seven? Then I can give the children their supper first.”

“Fine.”

“And I’d better tell you where I am, and how to get there; it’s a little complicated. If you could give me a piece of paper, I’ll draw a map.”

“You don’t need to do that; I know where you are,” Zed says, turning his sign so that CLOSED faces in again, and unbolting the door. “I’ve always known where you were.”

11

IN THE VESTIBULE OF the Frick Museum, shortly past noon on the day after Thanksgiving, Brian Tate strolls back and forth, occasionally glancing at two carved chests and a small bronze sculpture group depicting the triumph of Reason over Error. From time to time he pats the front of his jacket in a quick, concerned way which would inform an experienced pickpocket (who fortunately is not present) that a large sum in cash is concealed there. He is dressed more soberly and formally than usual, and his expression is one of confidence and well-controlled tension, like an officer directing a military operation—in fact, very like that of General Burgoyne in Reynolds’ portrait, which hangs in one of the rooms he has just passed through.

Already today Brian has accomplished much. He has risen early, forced Jeffrey and Matilda to rise, breakfast, pack, and leave his mother’s house in Connecticut; he has driven to New York, garaged his car, bought Cokes and snacks for the children, put them on the bus for Corinth, and seen it depart—completing all these maneuvers in such good time that he was half an hour early at the Frick. His first action there was to make a quick reconnaissance of the galleries, in case Wendy had arrived even earlier. But the museum is unusually empty; it is an unpleasant day, promising cold rain or sleet, and there are only a few well-dressed old ladies and ill-dressed art students wandering about.

Brian has chosen the Frick as a rendezvous for several reasons. First, it is easy to find and convenient to the address he and Wendy must proceed to later. Second, it is one of the few remaining places in Manhattan where it is possible to sit down in pleasant surroundings without buying food or drink. Also it provides the first-comer with something agreeable and educational to do while waiting, instead of wasting time. Even more important, it is never crowded. The Met and the Modern are mobbed by humanity during vacation, and among these mobs some of Brian’s students or ex-students are statistically likely to appear. The Guggenheim is quieter, but its design is unsuited to a meeting—besides, it always makes him dizzy, as if he had been swallowed by a concrete snail.