Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘But, yesterday, you were defending the family values that all those evangelicals trumpet all the time — and sounding very Republican.’

‘How do you know I’m a Republican?’

‘Are you denying it?’

‘I have voted Independent on a few occasions.’

‘But never Democrat?’

‘Once or twice. But they’re just not what I am about. Then again, neither is the new Republican Party — which has turned so extreme and mean.’

‘So where does that politically put you then?’

‘Confused — and unable to figure out where I belong anymore.’

‘I feel that all the time.’

‘About politics?’

‘About everything.’

‘“No direction home”.’

‘Exactly — and that’s Dylan, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is.’

‘You like Dylan?’

‘Clearly — and that surprises you, doesn’t it?’

‘Did I sound surprised?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pleasantly surprised.’

‘Because I’m such a gray middle-aged man who dresses like a weekend golfer.’

‘If you don’t like how you dress—’

‘I know. The C-word. Change.’

Then, looking into the distance, he said:

‘A truly perfect day.’

‘I was just thinking that a moment ago.’

‘I wonder if the British were as entranced by the New England autumn back when this Common was used as a camp by the forces of the Crown during the Revolutionary War?’

‘You know your Massachusetts Bay Colony history, Mr Copeland.’

‘Anytime I start spouting off about such things my wife tells me I am showing off.’

‘That’s sad — and sadly not unusual. My husband does the same thing whenever my vocabulary obsessions get articulated.’

‘But doesn’t he see that this curiosity, this need to learn, is an expression of. ’

Now it was his turn to terminate the sentence before it was finished.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Finish the sentence.’

‘I can only speak for myself. But. the reason I read so much, the reason my head has always been in a book. well, it’s an antidote to loneliness, right?’

‘I think so.’

We then fell silent for a few moments, continuing to stroll towards the Public Gardens. Richard broke the silence.

‘Now, as I was saying, the Brits used the Common as an encampment. And the hanging continued up until 1817. Oh, and there was a major riot here in 1713 when a big mob reacted against food shortages in the city. And do you know the Puritans actually hanged a woman here in the 1660s for preaching Quakerism, that’s how doctrinally extreme they were. And. oh God, will you listen to me, spouting on as if I’m on one of those quiz shows where you have a minute to show off everything you know about something so trivial as the history of Boston Common.’

‘But I actually find what you’re telling me interesting. And impressive. And when did you read up about it all?’

Without breaking stride, and with his gaze still very much on a distanced corner of this public park, he said:

‘Just last night, online back in the hotel. I wanted to sound erudite when I saw you today.’

I found myself smiling again.

‘Well, you succeeded. And I find it rather touching that you would go to the trouble of finding out so much about the Common for my benefit.’

We turned north towards the Public Gardens.

‘So, go on,’ I said, ‘tell me everything you know about this place.’

‘You sure you want to hear the prepared spiel. ’

‘No, I’m just saying that to show off my masochistic tendencies.’

Richard laughed.

‘You are a toughie.’

‘Hardly. though if I make a somewhat sarcastic comment like that one to my husband, Dan takes umbrage. Whereas you laughed.’

‘Familiarity always breeds. complexity.’

‘Why didn’t you say “contempt”?’

‘Because. I wish it didn’t breed contempt. But it does.’

‘In every marriage, every long-term domestic relationship?’

‘I can’t say I’m that knowledgeable about other people’s marriages — which are usually something of a mystery to those on the outside, let alone those actually in the middle of them. But from the ones I do know — and I don’t have that many friends who share stuff like that with me — I can’t say that I know a great number of people who are genuinely happy. Do you know many happy couples?’

‘No. And like you, I can’t say that I have many friends.’

‘That surprises me. You strike me as someone who—’

‘Outside of my family and my best friend Lucy I largely keep to myself. I was this way in school, in college. One or two close friends. Cordial working relationships with those around me, and always this tendency to be standoffish a bit. Certainly not towards my children. Outside of murder and mayhem, I would literally do just about anything for them. And, once upon a time, Dan and I were close.’

‘But now?’

‘I don’t really want to talk about all that.’

‘Understood.’

‘Now you are being too nice,’ I said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because you told me a great deal about your son and your wife. And I’m hedging my bets, as usual.’

‘You shouldn’t feel in any way obliged to tell me. ’

I stopped in front of a park bench and suddenly sat down, no longer wanting to have this conversation while perambulating. Taking my cue, Richard joined me on the bench, sitting at the far end of it, giving me the distance that he cleverly understood that I needed.

‘Dan is a man I don’t know anymore. Though I’ve talked a little about this with my one great friend Lucy, the fact is, I’ve kept much of it to myself. Because he’s been through a major personal crisis with the loss of his job. And because I always felt that I needed to be loyal to Dan. God knows, I wanted things to somehow revert to that time before he was laid off when we had a reasonable and reasonably easy relationship with each other. Now I’m not saying that ours was ever the most romantic of stories.’

‘So who was the love of your life?’

The question — so unexpected, so deeply direct — threw me. But without pausing for a moment to reflect about the wisdom of even going there, I heard myself saying:

‘Eric. His name was Eric.’

I looked up to see my use of the past tense register on Richard’s face. Immediately I regretted letting this small piece of information out. Immediately I was so grateful to Richard for not bringing it up, though again I heard myself say something unexpected:

‘That is the first time I’ve mentioned his name in around fifteen years.’

I held my breath for a moment, hoping that Richard would not follow this revelation with a question. To his immense credit he said absolutely nothing, letting a silence hang between us as I scrambled to think what I should say next. Which turned out to be:

‘And now I’m dropping the subject.’

‘No problem,’ Richard said.

I stood up. Richard followed suit.

‘Shall we continue walking?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely. Where to?’

‘You told me you wanted to show me where you’d live in “the next life”. So show me.’

‘It’s not far.’

We headed further on through the Gardens, past a small pond and flower beds still festooned — that word again! — with the final vestiges of that summer’s flowers.

‘Let me guess,’ Richard said. ‘Does “festooned” work here?’

I laughed.

‘That’s impressive.’

The Gardens ended and we found ourselves facing a long avenue, fronted by venerable nineteenth-century residences, a central barrier of greenery stretching all the way north. Directly in front of us was a church clearly dating back to the colonial era, and an apartment building that looked like it belonged in some jazz-age Scott Fitzgerald story.