27
Jason thought that he could deal well enough with great problems, but trivial ones exhausted him. It was their very pettiness that was exasperating, devouring time and seeping away a man’s energy. This day had been full of such trivia. He was thankful to close his desk and stretch and prepare to leave at six. He was almost out the door when Edmund Patterson entered, as regal and stately as always. Jason put out his hand defensively. “Not now! Besides, you should consult Mr. Nolan.”
“Sir,” Edmund said, “it is a matter of hotel management.”
Jason sighed. “Get us a drink from that cabinet. I’m too tired to do it.” Edmund prepared the glasses and the whiskey with immense ceremony. Then he sat down; his chef’s uniform after a full day’s work was as crisp, Jason resentfully thought, as if cut out of fresh white paper. They drank in silence, and Jason decided that the chef was one of the handsomest men he had ever known; Edmund made him feel sweaty and rumpled.
“What area are you proposing now for improvement?” Jason finally asked sarcastically.
“I thought of picnics.”
“We have picnics for those who like them.”
“Informal, primitive ones, sir.”
“That’s the great American picnic, with bugs and wet grass and sprained ankles on the mountain trails and paper plates and warm beer.”
“I am proposing, Mr. Garrity, an elegant picnic—for two. Only two. A lady and a gentleman, with cushions on the grass, white linen, the best silver, the thin-stemmed glasses, cold champagne, gourmet viands, formal china. Instead of walking, the couple would be driven by one of the hotel grooms.”
“That’s a picnic!” exclaimed Jason, laughing. “Ridiculous. No inconveniences, no mud, no bees and hornets and wasps, no poison ivy—why, Americans would be insulted by being deprived of these pleasures. Go on, Edmund!”
Imperturbable, Edmund said, “We could charge a lot for them, as a luxury. They would be unique, grand, lavish.” Edmund coughed. “Quiet. Poetic. You’ve not thought of romance, sir.”
“We get enough of it in some of the rooms.”
Edmund smiled. “Americans are naive. They believe romance is only conducted at night. A lady and a gentleman leaving at midday, decorously, in a carriage—it is only for the view.”
“Edmund, are you conniving at vice?” Jason laughed, but he was interested.
“In romance.”
Feeling less tired and much entertained, Jason reflected.
Edmund said, “Not all our guests come from Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.”
It was a novel idea, and the more Jason thought about it, the more intrigued he was. Edmund said, “Ladies in their prettiest dresses and hats and slippers. No walking shoes, no walking skirts. No sunburn. They would love that. If ladies pretend to like ruggedness and informality, it is only to please gentlemen. But a browned skin—vulgar—and a burned nose doesn’t please the gentlemen at all. They prefer their ladies to be delicate, not milkmaids.”
“Women are getting more manly by the day, Edmund.”
“Alas,” Edmund said. “And the gentlemen don’t like it. A true lady is still the masculine ideal, and nothing will ever alter that.”
“You’ve had experience, then?”
Edmund lowered his eyes. “Daisies won’t tell, to use the vernacular, sir. And no gentleman will.”
Jason refilled the glasses. He thought again. “It might be an experiment, Edmund.”
Later, it turned out to be a great success, and Jason raised Edmund’s salary.
Now Jason said, rising, “I expect you to take charge of the kitchens in the new hotel, Edmund, if it is ever built.”
Edmund’s face broke into a charming smile. “With cooks I will recruit in New York, sir.”
On the way out, Jason stepped into Daniel’s office. Daniel was talking genially to his secretary, but when he saw Jason, his expression became cold. Jason was certain that Molly had not “confessed,” but his face became warm. Even before that episode, Daniel was less friendly, and the coolness had increased over the past few months, to Jason’s bafflement.
“Good afternoon,” Jason said. “I am going home. Dinner with you and Molly?”
“Yes.” Daniel leaned back in his chair. His brown eyes became enigmatic. “By the way, Uncle Pat did not come to the Inn-Tavern this afternoon. He called to say he wasn’t feeling well. His heart, you know.”
“He hasn’t missed a day for years! He was feeling all right this morning.” Jason was troubled.
Daniel shrugged. “Well, his age, you know. A man gets tired. I think he needs a holiday.”
Daniel paused. He appeared to scrutinize Jason, and Jason had the impulse to say, “What’s the matter between us, Dan?” But guilt kept him silent. He half-saluted and went out. Well, he thought, Dan and I were never buddies, in the best of times. But he used to like me. Now he doesn’t at all. Hostility is there like unexploded dynamite. I can feel it.
A little depressed, Jason walked out into the late sunshine. He got into his automobile. The mountains were the color of jasper against a pale blue sky, and basked in serenity. The trees rushed up the hills in a green tide, ranging in shades from emerald and aquamarine to a lively olive, like a sweetly turbulent ocean. The black mood quickened in Jason. He stopped the automobile and glanced up at the hotel. The late sun ignited blond walls. It was a proud sight, but for the first time, Jason was not proud. Dejection overcame him, and he started the automobile again. He could not give a name to his dejection. He shook his head as if to get rid of a swarm of flies. God, what is the matter with me? he asked himself with exasperation. I will be invoking druids, as my ancestors did, next! To ward off evil spirits!
Suddenly a radiance fell over mountain, river, sky, trees, blinding Jason with its effulgence. A sea of light engulfed him, bearing his soul upward to ecstasy, becoming one with the brilliance he thought he saw with his eyes. The light became rapture, the rapture light. They flowed into one another, pulsing, blissful, without boundaries, without end. Above all, they brought joy. All was transformed, charged with grandeur. A thought came to Jason unbidden: “Be still. And know that I am God.”
The glory ebbed. The familiar scene became small, ordinary, merely pretty. The majestic revelation faded. Jason felt as if he had been wakened in some fetid valley after falling asleep in Olympia.
He did not know when he came to the main road; a honk of a startled car came to him like the squawk of a gigantic and indignant goose. A Model-T Ford abruptly came to a stop, and Jason vigorously applied his brakes. Dazed, he saw the opposing motorist rapidly approaching him, frightened and angry. He smiled; it was Father Sweeney, nearly as fat as Patrick Mulligan himself, and nearly as bald now. “Dreaming, Jason?” he actually bellowed, red of face. “Sending me to meet with my ancestors in a hurry, without a shriving?”
“Sorry, Father,” said Jason. “I was thinking.”
“You nearly wrecked the car you gave me!”
“And it cost all of eight hundred and fifty dollars. I couldn’t afford it.” Jason smiled somewhat ruefully. The priest did not smile. His eyes, not so ingenuous lately, fixed themselves seriously on Jason. He had heard rumors.
“Worried, lad?”
Jason studied him. He was still somewhat dazed. Then his big face smiled with mischief, though his eyes seemed far away. “No. Not more than ordinarily. Coming down the mountain road, I thought I had a … vision.”
“Vision of what?” Father Sweeney’s eyes now became sharp.
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
Father Sweeney paused. If someone like John Garrity had come to him and talked of “visions,” Father Sweeney would have been highly suspicious and skeptical. Jason was a different matter. He was not a dreamer or a fanatic. He was pragmatic and sensible. Father Sweeney had come to appreciate Jason during the past years, and to have a deep affection for him. He knew all about Patricia, and about the tragedy of Nicholas. He knew Jason’s secret charities; he knew Jason’s agnosticis
m. Nevertheless, he knew Jason was “God-haunted,” like Bernard. Unknown to Jason, the priest often had observed him in the empty church sitting and grimly contemplating the crucifix over the high altar, which he had given to Father Sweeney. The priest had not approached him. He had respected his thoughts, though he suspected they were not pious. It was as if Jason had confronted a formidable antagonist, and challenged him.
So the priest was thinking that if Jason had a “vision,” it would have been an interesting one at least.
Jason laughed now. “Daydreaming, Father,” he said. “Just daydreaming. Better get the car going, or someone will smash it up.”
“How’s Nick, Jason?”
Jason turned his head away. “As usual. He seems … healthy, thank God.”
“And how’s Reverend Mother Nickie?”
Jason turned back to him. “Manages.” He chuckled.
“And Sebastian?”
Jason’s face softened and his gray eyes actually glowed. But he only said, “Well enough. For a kid.” He paused. “Crank up your car for you, Father?” He left his own automobile and started the priest’s. Father Sweeney watched him, sighing. A massive young man, never complaining, proud and private, as were all the Irish, yet he could be dangerous if aroused. Father Sweeney had rarely seen Jason gentle, except with his mother and his children. But as the priest knew, he could be merciful.
Father Sweeney did not know why he silently prayed. “Guard him, Lord.” On the way home, he wondered what Jason’s vision had been. He doubted that John Garrity ever had a vision in his life, priest though he was.
Jason went at once to the library when informed that Patrick was resting there. Patrick was dozing in a red leather chair; Jason paused to study him. The older man looked pale and exhausted, even in his sleep, jowls drooping, mouth open, hands clasped over his huge belly. Drops of sweat dripped from his forehead. The air was close; the red sun glared sullenly in a window before falling to the rim of the mountains and setting them afire. Jason became alarmed at Patrick’s appearance. There was no sound in the house, not even a servant’s voice. Then Jason became aware of the ticking of the grandfather clock. It seemed to be counting, measured stroke after measured stroke, and in ominous cadence. The mountains were now crowned with a dull flame, like the dying embers of a burning city noiselessly collapsing into ruins. Jason shivered as if the room were cold.
Dusk swiftly invaded the library.
I love him as a father, Jason thought. I love him almost as if he were Da. What has come between us? The troubles? Patricia? I share them with him. It must be something else. He is sick. I didn’t realize it before; I thought it was just his age. When Da was his age, he was still a young man.
Patrick stirred and groaned dimly. He opened his eyes with an enormous effort, as if against his will. He saw Jason standing before him and motioned sluggishly. Jason sat down. Patrick briefly closed his eyes again. “We have trouble.” Jason remained silent. When did we not have? he thought. Patrick was utterly exhausted again, and braced himself with the arms of his chair. He regarded Jason with a new intensity.
Then the older man told him about the accident. The words pained him, and he began to sweat. Jason listened with horror, not speaking, until Patrick had finished. Then he said, “I don’t believe Bastie and Nicole.”
Patrick sighed and said, “I don’t believe them either.”
“Then it was …?”
Patrick nodded.
A heavy silence fell. The two men could hardly see each other in the dusk, and they communicated without speech for some time. A maid noiselessly entered and lit a lamp. They did not notice her. Patrick’s eyes filled with tears, and Jason, moved, averted his gaze. He felt that Patrick had drawn closer to him, with something of the old trust and affection.
Then Patrick said, “I didn’t tell you before, Jase. But I am thinking it over. Nick … should be sent to a … school that deals with his illness.” He paused. “I’ve spoken to the teacher.”
Jason said loudly, “No!” He rose suddenly, in protest. “Think of Patricia. Separated from the boy. She’ll grow worse.”
Patrick sat up straighter. “Then you know something I do not. Tell me.” He added, “I’m her father.”
Jason was silent.
“Tell me, damn you! I’m not some old lady that needs to be soothed and coddled and protected. Sure, and the instincts bothered me …” The little bright blue eyes flashed, and wrath blotched his fat face with patches of scarlet. Jason felt despair. Patrick thumped the table nearest him and shouted, “Tell me!”
“I thought to spare you—”
Patrick screamed an obscene and blasphemous oath. “Tell me, curse you!”
Jason half turned away and told him. Patrick listened, at first denying, incredulous, then throwing himself back in his chair, weeping the hard dry sobs of grief, covering his face with his hands. Jason told him all. “I don’t know where she gets it. Alcoholics are clever. You can’t keep it from them.”
“Christ! ‘Alcoholics’! My daughter is a drunk!”
“Mr. Mulligan. They’re sick people.”
An obscenity came from Patrick. “What’s she sick of? Before she even knew of Nick, this was going on, you tell me. Nothing was denied my colleen. Nothing. You tell of ‘despair.’ Why is she desperate?”
“I don’t know. But she is. For a long time.”
“Get to the bottom of this, then.”
“I’ve tried. Dr. Conners has tried. Ask him.”
“Send her down to me!” Patrick gasped. “I’ll cure her if it takes a whipping!” He gagged, as if about to vomit.
Jason listened in consternation. “She isn’t a child, Mr. Mulligan. To be whipped when she’s naughty. Father Sweeney approached her with tact. She denies everything. Whatever it is, she won’t confess it. She’s sick. Have mercy.”
Patrick glared with something like hate at Jason. “You’re her damned husband! Hasn’t she confided in you?”
Jason did not speak for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know why she married me. She didn’t love me; I’ve found that out. She never confided in me. For a long time—it comes to me—she hated me. From the beginning.”
“Why, then, did she marry you?”
Jason shook his head. Patrick literally leaped from his chair and confronted his son-in-law with clenched fists. “Did you fuck her before, and then had to get married? I’ll kill—”
“Mr. Mulligan.” Jason spoke quietly.
Eventually Patrick dropped his hands and found his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Oh, Christ.” He pondered, then suddenly sat upright. “A seven-month child! It minds me …” He choked.
“Mr. Mulligan! She had no opportunity—guarded as she was. You insult my wife. She was a virgin when I married her.”
Patrick contemplated him with compassion. “How do you know?”
Angered, Jason said, “A man knows. I never will forgive you. An insult, an unpardonable insult, to my wife.”
Patrick reached out and took his hand. “Jase. Forgive me. I’m a distracted father, that I am. My daughter … an alcoholic. My grandson a … a … I’m an old man. Jase, send Nick to a school …”
“No,” said Jason, and left him with a face like iron.
Patrick collasped in his chair when he was alone. His thoughts tormented him. Who? I’ll kill … He reached for a glass of whiskey. God help us all. Troubles never ended for the Irish.
As Jason started up the stairs, he said to himself: How long have I known about Patricia and covered it up—her drinking? And whatever ails her? In despair he asked himself: What ails her? Before Nick was taken sick she hated me. Was I afraid to face something?
He turned on the chandelier at the top of the stairs and hesitated, looking around him, feeling a weight on his shoulders as if he were an old man. Then he went on slowly to the children’s quarters. He found Sebastian and Nicole being read to by Francis Doherty, the children unusually grave and tense in the l
amplight. They got up out of their chairs and stared at him with apprehension. He smiled and patted Nicole on the head and squeezed Sebastian’s shoulder reassuringly. He said to Francis, “Leave us alone, please. I want to talk to my children privately.”
He seated himself and motioned the children to approach him. He took their hands. He said, “You’ve both been taught not to be liars, that lying is cowardly and sinful. Good. I approve. But when a lie is spoken to protect someone helpless, or to spare pain of grief, it is merciful and good. Truth, under these circumstances, would be cruel and unpardonable. Do you understand me?”
They nodded cautiously. They don’t trust me, Jason thought with sadness. It’s because of their mother; I’ve always taken her part even if wrong. He said, “I’ve talked to your grandfather. He’s told me all about it. Nick will not be sent away.”
Nicole’s sturdy face showed joy, her dimples flashing and her beautiful gray eyes growing bright with tears, and Sebastian smiled and blinked. Both children leaned against. Jason’s knees, and he hugged them. They hid their faces in his shoulders. Never had Jason loved his children so much and with such profound tenderness.
Suddenly an animal roar sounded from the boys’ bedroom. A chair was knocked over, feet scrambled rapidly, and gasping, Nicholas, in his nightshirt, leaped explosively into the room. He was a whirlwind; he twirled frantically, shouted, bounded, arms like windmills, eyes unseeing, with a maniacal glittering, mouth open and drooling. Nicole ran to him and grasped his arm, but he thrust her off and kicked her savagely with his bare feet, then resumed his yelling and convulsive twirling about the room. Jason, horrified at this violence, stood up and said, “Nick!” The boy lowered his head like a beast, and with a mad and an inhuman screech he charged his father.
Jason caught him. He was appalled at the child’s demented strength. He had to struggle to hold Nicholas in his arms. The boy bit him in the neck. Jason had difficulty retaining his grip on the boy and avoided the gnashing teeth. He had one thought: Possessed! Nicholas was no longer Nicholas, Jason thought despairingly! What was he? He heard Nicole cry out, a forlorn cry, and Sebastian’s distressed exclamation. For the first time Jason decided Patrick was right.