William Kennedy - Roscoe

Roscoe sent Joey Manucci to hand-deliver the letter to the siblings’ lawyer, Murray Fish, an old hand at probate who was well aware that Surrogate Harry Crowley was married to Patsy’s niece. Bart then drove Roscoe to Tivoli. A taxi was at the front entrance as they pulled in, and Roscoe recognized the woman getting into it: Nadia, the spiritualist with only one name. Bart helped him out of the car and up the front steps and Roscoe then went in under his own waning power. He looked for Veronica in the front parlors, but she was elsewhere. One step at a time, so difficult to catch a breath, he climbed the staircase to his second-floor suite, then stripped and dropped his foul clothing into a hamper. He soaped and showered slowly, sat on the bed and painfully pulled on a clean pair of boxer shorts, and at five o’clock on this afternoon of sublime sanctuary, he eased his transient self between the sheets of his four-poster double bed. Alexander Hamilton had once owned this bed, so went the Fitzgibbon family legend. All his life Roscoe had been linked to this family, and because of it, because of Veronica, he’d remained in Albany and in politics. So was this new illness another fraud to keep him in the same house with her? He’s equal to the idea, but no, Roscoe would not withhold breath from himself for any reason. But he loves being here. Even when he married Pamela and, as the groom, kissed bridesmaid Veronica, he told her she should’ve been the bride. What would it have been like not being near her all his life? Who would be his love? Could he have endured politics without her presence? He buried his face in the pillow and imagined Nadia at the séance in her darkened parlor saying she could see Rosemary, Veronica’s five-year-old daughter, coming through the clouds, and that the child looked beautiful and happy in her pink dress and pink bow. This thrilled Veronica, who said, “That’s exactly what she was wearing the day before she died.” Nadia’s snout came up the sewer drainpipe into the sink, but Roscoe ran the water and down she went. Up again she came, so Roscoe opened both faucets and let them run, and there went Nadia: down the pipe, into the river, and bobbing out to sea, no longer a threat to Veronica. And Roscoe could sleep.

He awoke in sunshine, the pain bearable only if he didn’t move. Nine o’clock on the bedside table clock. He felt as if he’d slept a week, but it was only sixteen hours. Veronica was watching him from the heavy oak rocker by the fireplace. Beside her on a four-wheeled oak serving wagon lay mystery food under two silver-covered serving dishes. Veronica at morning: scoop-neck white blouse with pink roses on the bodice, tan riding britches and brown boots, a vague suggestion of lipstick, hair in a tie at the back of her neck, smiling.

“Somebody killed me and I went to heaven,” Roscoe said.

“You went someplace. I came to call you for dinner three times last night, but you were comatose.”

“You’re looking out for me.”

“People know you’re not entirely well, don’t they?”

“Some people. Is that really nine o’clock?”

“What do you care what time it is?”

“I have to place myself in the cosmos. Time is important. So is food. I’m starving to death and you sit there quizzing me about time, hoarding mysterious food under silver covers.”

“I can’t believe you’re hungry. Not you.”

“I haven’t eaten for weeks. People refuse to feed me.”

“Can you sit up?”

“I can try.” And, as he did, the pain stabbed him in the stomach, the chest, the heart. He fell back. “It hurts,” he said.

“All right, I’ll feed you.” She wheeled the tray to his bedside and uncovered lox and cream cheese and capers and onions and sour cream and applesauce. “There’s coffee in the thermos pitcher, and bagels and blintzes in the warmer, if you want any.”

“Of course. I want it all.”

She took a bagel and a blintz from the warmer in the bottom of the wagon, which was heated by two flaming cans of Sterno. She poured him a cup of coffee.

“You’re serving me a Jewish breakfast.”

“It was my father’s favorite.”

“I remind you of your father, is that your point?”

“You take care of me the way he did. Gordon’s lawyer called. He got your letter and they want to settle. Whatever did you say that made them so agreeable?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I want a bagel.”

She sat on the bed and ripped half a bagel, spread cream cheese on a fragment, piled it with capers, onions, a slice of lox, and put it to his mouth. He bit and chewed, stared at her, swallowed, sipped the coffee, waited for another bite, chewed it, stared.

“Press your breasts against my arm while you feed me,” he said.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s brazen.”

“It’s not brazen. It’s a friendly gesture.”

“It’s more than friendly.”

“We’re more than friends. I’m no stranger to your breasts. I remember them well.”

“Then you don’t need them pressed against you.”

“Memory only goes so far. I need full-rounded reality.”

“You’re very fresh.”

“Just like your bagels.”

She cut a blintz and dabbed it with sour cream and applesauce. She put it into his mouth, and a spot of applesauce stayed on his chin. She leaned close to him and licked it away. He pulled her close and kissed her, her arms over his shoulders, her breasts against him, and it was years gone, years since she had yielded her soft mouth so totally, everything unbelievably sharp to Roscoe. But are these real responses, Ros, or ritualized emotions you turn on like the radio? Is this even the same woman you fell in love with? Well, she still responds the same way in your arms, so the real question is, will she stay there? Don’t ruin it. Don’t go too far. If it’s going to happen it could happen at Tristano, if we ever get there. Also, you couldn’t do anything, anyway. You can barely move. He licked the top of her chest.

“Be careful there,” she said.

“You licked me. I’m getting even.”

“I’m in your debt again.”

Gratitude. Is that what this is about? Gratitude is cheap. True, but if that started it, don’t knock it. And that worshipful-slave routine, so grateful for her handouts — get past it. No woman is that perfect. She’s got the venal streak of the rich, money tunes in her music. Didn’t the phone call on the mill settlement bring on this affection? And somewhere in that beautiful head she’s still a bit of a nutcake, believing a con artist like Nadia has answers. Don’t call her a nutcake.

He put both arms around her and squeezed her, his cheek on hers, and she squeezed him, hurting him, breathless pain he could love. They held this intimate clinch, the closest moment of their lives, at least since 1932, another year that made Roscoe crazy, and this would do it again, no doubt about that either, this embrace that was setting off alarm bells in both of them. You can feel that in her, can’t you, Ros? She squeezed him again. He kissed her hair. He would kiss her soul if he could only find it.

“You are a wonderful man,” she whispered.

He was about to say something excessive and fatuous when he saw Alex in the doorway, a civilian in a gray suit, white shirt, blue necktie, his suit coat folded over his left arm. No smile.

“Alex,” Roscoe said. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I got in last night,” Alex said, coming into the room.

Veronica stood up and faced Alex. “I was keeping him as a surprise,” she said to Roscoe. “That’s why I kept coming up to get you.”

“How are you feeling?” Alex asked. “Mother says you’re not well.”

“I’m in trouble. I should see the doctor.”