Balance Wheel

  Jim had also gone to Westminster Abbey, which he had not apparently liked. The day, though in July, was gloomy, bitterly cold, and rainy. “They can keep their Abbey,” Jim wrote. “Tombs back to Edward, King of the East Saxons. Cloisters, disintegrating, sifting into dust. The Abbey’s shaped like a cross, with here and there a dim lantern on dank decay. Smell of death. Some of the fellows here get sentimental about the place, and say ‘home of my ancestors.’ Well, the endless Edwards and Henrys and others meant nothing to me, with the tattered standards drooping over the tombs. Not the home of my ancestors!” He had also toured the Tower of London, which found even less favor with him than the Abbey. The torture chambers, the beheading blocks, the armor perched on wooden horses—all the debris of dead kings who had gained honored fame by the red ax of murder.

  “I’ll write you when I can, Dad, but letters will be even slower than this, in the future. Don’t worry. I’ll be very careful. Be happy, Dad. You’ll probably get this letter about the time you’ll be marrying Aunt Phyllis, and you’ll know how much I’m wishing I could be there, too. But, anyway, as the old song says, I’ll be there in spirit. Be happy, Dad—”

  He ended, then, with this message: “Please take care of Gerry for me, Dad. I get letters from her, and she’s very anxious. Tell her to take care of you, for me, too.”

  Charles called up his minister, who joyously reported that he, too, had just received a letter from Walter. Mr. Haas read the letter to Charles, who thought it was much less colorful than Jim’s, much more flat and monotonous. Charles read Jim’s letter to Mr. Haas, who said, flatteringly: “Why, the boy’s quite a poet! But poor Walter never had much imagination. Perhaps that will help him when he becomes a minister. I don’t know. But it might save him a lot of trouble.”

  Charles called up Phyllis, to read the letter to her, and she, too, flattered him with her admiration. She was very relieved that Charles had heard from his son. It was a very happy circumstance that the letter had arrived just before the wedding.

  Yet, when Phyllis was alone, she remembered only one phrase in that letter: “Be happy, Dad.” She sat alone in the early evening, in her silent living-room, and listened to the sound of the soft rain, and she felt melancholy and sadness move over her like water. “Be happy—” It had a mournful sound, not gay or boyish or loving. It was like an admonition, an urging—Phyllis got to her feet, and went to the French windows. The wet gardens were a green and shadowy blur in the rain. She told herself that the day after tomorrow she would be Charles’ wife, and she would be with him. No matter what happened.

  Charles, however, was not in the least sorrowful. He was more at peace than he had been for almost two months. He read and reread Jim’s letter. Then he went upstairs to his room, to look about him with satisfaction. The day after tomorrow he would be married to Phyllis, and then no more empty bed, no empty house, no unshared fear, no unshared waiting. The warm summer rain outside, and the long green and lilac shadows, did not bring any premonition to him as they had brought to Phyllis. He enjoyed the sound of the rain rustling through the trees. The fresh scent of the earth came to him, as he opened the windows a little wider. He saw a figure running up the steps of his verandah, and wondered who was calling. He heard the bell ring below, then Mrs. Meyers hurrying from the kitchen, and muttering, as she always did when the door needed answering.

  Charles, still looking at the rain and the trees, heard Mrs. Meyers cry out. It was only a single cry, but it was sharp and loud. He ran from the room, and down the stairs. He knew instantly, knew it all even before he saw Mrs. Meyers below, looking up the stairway at him, her mouth stark and open, her eyes stark and open, too. There was a messenger boy on the threshold of the hall. But Charles did not see him, for a moment.

  Yes, he had known it all, at the instant of the cry, before seeing Mrs. Meyers or the messenger or the yellow envelope in Mrs. Meyers’ hand, which she was holding up to him. He was running down the stairs, an endless well of dark stairs, and he knew he had always known it, from the very beginning, two years ago. He had lived a long death. This was only the culmination, this cablegram which came no nearer to him no matter how fast he ran, this oblong of yellow nightmare glimmering under the hall light.

  He had always known it. He could take the envelope quite calmly. He could even scan the words “—regrets—killed while on ambulance duty—somewhere in France—” He could even turn away, still holding the cablegram, and go upstairs again, steadily. At the door of his room he stopped. No, not in there.

  He went into Jim’s room, and he sat down in Jim’s chair, and he looked out at the rain, the cablegram in his hand.

  CHAPTER LXI

  To all the distorted faces, to all the retreating and approaching and disappearing and recurring figures, to every light and to every vague, distant voice, Charles said only: “Go away.”

  Nightmares of sound, of motion, of glasses being put into his hand, of hands on his arms, his shoulders. Nightmares of weeping, of urges, of attempts to move him from Jim’s room. He said to everything: “Go away.” Then there would be darkness, as he lay on Jim’s bed, and he would feel that he was undressed, that someone had spoken to him. He was never alone. That was the most terrible part of it. Someone was always with him, just out of sight, in a chair, and that someone would not leave him. He only wanted to be alone, in the night. There would be an acrid taste in his mouth, as of sleeping powders or other sedatives, and he would close his eyes and drift out for a while on the darkness. But always, there was someone with him, someone who came creeping to the bed when he moved. Sometimes there was a cold wetness on his face, from which he turned, or a hand on his forehead, which he pushed aside. He heard his name being called many times, but not the name he wanted to hear. There was always someone he wanted, but he never came.

  Were the faces he saw dreams? The faces of Friederich, the minister, the priest, Phyllis, all his friends? He never knew. Why did they not pull down the shade to keep out the sun? But it was not the sun, it was the moon. Why was he undressed one minute, and completely dressed the next? Who was laying a tray on his knees, a tray with food at which he stared blankly? Food must have gone into his mouth, but he could never remember. Day and night, footsteps came and went up the stairs, but not the ones he knew. Then there would be more faces, more figures, more lights, more hands on him, more voices asking him to go into his own room, more sounds of crying. “Charles!” “Charlie!” “Karl!” He kept shaking his head, for that was not the name he wanted to hear himself called. He could not quite remember what the name was, but he understood if he once heard it all this vague and numbing death would leave him immediately, and he could rest.

  He had dreams of great hollow voices, like voices calling over mountains: “But ’twas a famous victory!” A victory. But when he asked what victory, the phrase was only repeated like a long boom in his ears.

  And then there was a morning when the sun was brilliant in his eyes and he could see more clearly. Phyllis was with him, too vivid, and his brother Friederich and the minister. He looked at them wonderingly, and Phyllis got up and stood beside his chair—Jim’s chair—and her arms were about his neck and her. head was on his shoulder. She said: “Oh, Charles, Charles.” But that had been another dream, a long time ago. He patted her back, feebly, and said: “Don’t cry, Phyllis. It was only a dream.”

  She straightened up, and she was not Phyllis at all, but Dr. Metzger, and the minister and Friederich and Phyllis were gone, and there was another glass in his hand. And there was someone else coming into the room. His brother Jochen. That was absurd. Jochen would not come here, so it was a dream, after all. It was all a dream. He said to his brother: “Joe.” The sickly powder was dry and choking in his throat. It was Jochen who was putting the glass of water to his lips, and he drank, and then he said: “Thanks, Joe. How is Gerry?” There was some message for Gerry. He frowned intently, and tried to remember. “Still blacked out, thank God,” Dr. Metzger was saying. Charles looked up at hi
m and asked: “Who?” But it was not Dr. Metzger, and Jochen was not there. It was Phyllis again. Charles repeated: “Who?” But everyone was gone, and he was in darkness again, with a little pale light in the distance, and an unseen watcher was with him. Someone who cried.

  There was finally a morning when he came out of a stupor, but did not open his eyes. He felt the sun on them, warm and searching. Then all at once he was floating on a sea of black smoke or mist, and it boiled up all about him. He saw the puffs of it, the waves and streamers of it. He said to himself: “I hate. I hate.” He was rolled in this black smoke, and he knew it was hatred of an immeasurable intensity. Now he had the name he was always remembering and forgetting: Jim. Jim had been murdered.

  He opened his eyes. Phyllis and Friederich were beside Jim’s bed, on which he lay. He saw them clearly, without that too sharp brilliance. He saw every object in the room. He sat up, and Friederich tried to help him. He pushed his brother away. “I’m all right,” he said. He sat on the edge of the bed, bent over so that his shoulders almost touched his knees. He asked: “How long—?”

  Phyllis knelt beside him, in silence, but did not reach out to him. He saw her face, blanched and shrivelled. He saw Friederich’s face, blotched, the eyes swollen. Friederich said: “Karl. Five days, Karl.”

  “Five days,” Charles repeated. He said: “I remember, now.”

  There must have been times when he had left Jim’s room, but all memory of that was gone. There was not even a memory of pain, but he felt pain waiting for him, a huge monster like something hiding just beyond vision. He would have to look for it, and take it, though it wasn’t time as yet. And when he took it, it would be with hatred.

  “I’m all right,” he said. His arms were sore and stiff. They had given him injections, then, besides the other sedatives, to send him out in the darkness. He moved his arms languidly. He said: “I’ll get up, and shave and dress. I’m all right.”

  It was a hot August morning. His wedding day had come and gone, and he had been here all the time. But nothing mattered, nothing at all but this hatred.

  Father Hagerty hung up the telephone, after having called Phyllis, and he was deeply relieved. Charles had awakened from his stuporous state, was quite calm, had even dressed by himself, and though weak, was now downstairs in his parlor. His brother Friederich had stayed with him for a while, then had gone to his offices. She, Phyllis, was with Charles. She thought that Charles was now in a condition to see some of his friends, and that it would be a good thing for him. No, he did not talk about his son. Father Hagerty, remembering that, was less relieved. He decided to call Mr. Haas. He lifted the telephone receiver again.

  Phyllis sat with Charles in the shaded parlor. He had eaten some breakfast. He had even talked to her intermittently. Then he had read a little of the morning newspaper. He sat so still, so listless, and now for nearly an hour he had not spoken. He had just sat, looking before him, his pale mouth a line in his face, his cheeks and jaws lined and furrowed. He was an old man; he had become old in these terrible five days. If only he would talk about it, thought Phyllis desperately. If only he could cry, or rage. But Charles sat as if asleep, except that his eyes were open, and they moved very slightly once in a while. Dr. Metzger had come in after breakfast, and he had told Phyllis that Charles was still in a state of shock, though perfectly conscious. Phyllis did not believe that he was in shock. There was something in the movement of his eyes. He was holding himself against pain, bending rigidly against it. He needed the pain, if he was to get well again.

  So Phyllis sat with him, patiently, praying silently, hoping that he would look at her and tell her about Jim. She was numb with fatigue. It was an effort to breathe, to hold up her head. She wore a thin black dress, but the day was already so warm that the light fabric clung to her thin shoulders and breasts. There were no more tears left in her. Her hands lay in her lap, the palms upturned. She saw the strong patches of sunlight outside, between the jagged shadows of the trees; she heard mourning doves near the house. The curtains fluttered slightly, and there was a smell of roses in the room. Phyllis looked up at the Picasso which Wilhelm had given Charles. Its stark colors shone dazzlingly even in the shade. Below the picture stood a bowl of red roses, burningly alive, and hurting to the eyes.

  Then she heard a carriage drawing up before the house. Two men were getting out, in clerical garb, one the Reverend Mr. Haas and the other the young priest who had been here so often. Father Hagerty jumped out of the carriage, and then helped Mr. Haas. Why did Mr. Haas, who was hardly much older than Charles, need helping? He stepped down from the carriage like a blind man, fumbling on the step. His hand was on the priest’s shoulder, and he leaned heavily on it. Then Phyllis saw the minister’s face, waxen, collapsed. Phyllis got up and went swiftly from the room, out into the hall, and then out into the heat that enveloped the verandah The two men came slowly up the stairs, the priest supporting the older man.

  Charles had seen and heard nothing. It seemed to him, however, that he had been alone for a long time. He heard the silken flow of leaves in the hot wind, the doves, the faint sound of voices. None of this concerned him. None of it would ever concern him again, not living, not being, not caring. That was the sun, out there, but there would never be any sun for him, no moon, no day, no night, no peace. He would go away, and be alone. He would then have time to think, and after that—what? Nothing, world without end.

  People were coming into the parlor, and he frowned at them, and looked away from them. Mr. Haas, and that young priest who was too young to know anything, and who resembled Jim so closely. Charles did not want to see them. Keeping his head averted, he said: “I’m sorry. But I can’t talk to anyone. Please let me alone.”

  The priest, however, helped Mr. Haas into a chair, and then he stood beside the older clergyman, not speaking. Mr. Haas sat in his chair, his chin on his chest, as lifeless as Charles. It was a long time before he spoke:

  “Charles, I had to come to you today. I had to talk to you. When a man loses his child, when a man loses his only child, when a man loses his only son, then his grief is worse than any other grief. Because the death seems so senseless and so futile. The world is full of old people, and useless and wicked ones, and people who want to be dead. But they live, and the child dies, and what is there for a man then? His whole life was in that son, all his hopes for the future, all his worldly immortality, all his pride and his love. Then, all at once the child is gone, and where there was meaning there’s only emptiness. Unless a man has his God and his faith.”

  Charles listened. He said to himself: The clergy talk their platitudes but they don’t know anything about anything. They are anesthetized with their own words, which don’t have any meaning. They even think by rote. Why does this fool waste his time with me? He has his son. Nothing has happened to his son. His son will be back one of these days, perhaps very soon, alive and well. But my son was murdered. He’ll never come back. There’s his room upstairs, and all his clothes, his chairs, his bed, his books, his school papers. And his dreams. I’ll never hear Jim’s voice again. I’ll never hear him running up the stairs, and calling me. Dr. Wittmann. But now there’ll never be a Dr. Wittmann. There’ll never be anything.

  He said, in a dull voice: “Thank you for coming, Mr. Haas. But I’m very tired.”

  Mr. Haas said, as if Charles had not spoken: “A man has his God. He must remember that. Everything comes and goes, but God remains. One should never forget that. Never. Never!” And now the minister’s voice broke.

  He stood up, and staggered a little. The priest caught his arm strongly, and held it. Mr. Haas looked at Charles, and there was something in his eyes so compelling that Charles had to turn to him. He saw the minister, then, with the tears on his cheeks, the mouth falling and quivering. The minister raised his hand:

  “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away—”

  His head fell. The priest put his arm about him, supporting him. The minister was weeping. Slowly, Ch
arles rose from his seat, his eyes fixed on the minister. Something was stirring in him, something rising with an awful pain. He held the back of his chair.

  Very slowly, the minister raised his head. He did not look at Charles now. His lips were moving. The priest nodded, mournfully, and smiled with infinite compassion.

  Mr. Haas spoke, and he faltered: “—Blessed be the Name of the Lord!”

  Then the priest was supporting him entirely, his head fallen on the younger man’s shoulder.

  “No!” said Charles. He took his hand from his chair, and began to walk unsteadily towards the minister. Then he stopped, turned with dread and grief to Father Hagerty.

  “He heard, only an hour or so ago. About Walter,” said the priest. “I called him, to ask him to come here to see you, Mr. Wittmann. Then when the maid at his house told me, I wanted to hang up. But Mr. Haas came to the telephone, and said that he would come to see you immediately.” The priest paused. “Jim—went instantly, it seems. The boys were in the same ambulance together. It was a shell, or something, on the battlefield. Walter was wounded. He must have lived a few days after—Jim.”

  “No,” said Charles. The pain was something alive in him,twisting. “No,” he repeated. And then he was silent, looking at the minister.

  This man, newly bereaved, newly broken, had come to him, his friend, his parishioner. He had come to comfort Charles, he who needed comfort himself. He had come to say the only thing that could be said.

  “He left his wife—for me,” Charles said. “He left his home, after hearing about Walter—for me. He could come—for me.”

  He could reach the minister now. Mr. Haas raised his head. The two fathers regarded each other. Then they were holding to each other and weeping, and they were trying to comfort each other incoherently, patting each other’s shoulder, giving way to their mutual pain and sorrow.