Many years later, when he was drinking wine at the village inn, the father would hold up his glass and, after many sighs and exhalations, glance at some stranger from the corner of his eyes and at last speak. “Have you ever heard of the great bomb that fell in my wheat field and still lies ticking there today?” A grievous sigh. “See these gray hairs? They come from living cheek by jowl with the fiend, the devil grinning under my crops all these terrible years. See how drawn and lined is my face from never knowing when, plowing or asleep, I’ll be blown to oblivion.”
“Well,” all the strangers would say, “why don’t you just pack up and move?”
“Do I look like a coward?” the father would cry. “No, dear God, we’ll stay on, plowing, sowing, reaping, living on borrowed time. And one morning you will see my name listed as a casualty of the war long finished, but which threatens and darkens my precious wheat. Yes, thanks, I will have a bit more of that wine …”
And with the burning of many calendars, and the children grown and gone, the father still could not tolerate Tony of the delicate face and the tiny white hands. Many times in the following years, Tony would write from London or Paris or Budapest, his face smiling his Madonna smile out of the delicate penmanship. Always, at the very end of his note, his parting salutation was one gentle word: “Boom.”
FORE!
The sun was going down and in a few swift minutes it dipped below the horizon and the shadows came out from under all the trees, and one by one the golf-range practicers scabbarded their clubs, packed their golf balls, shucked their dark glasses, and headed for the parking lot. When the sun was completely gone the cars had gone with it; the lot was empty, the driving range abandoned, or almost abandoned.
Glenn Foray was checking some figures on his computer in the small office behind the tee-off point when he heard it. Once, twice, three times.
Whack, whack, whack.
Good solid blows of a club against three balls.
That was not ordinary.
Glenn Foray glanced up.
To the far left of the range, situated on the tee with an old-fashioned niblick driver in hand and his tartan cap pulled low on his brow, stood a now-familiar figure, a man who had been in and out of the range for some years but now was bending to tee three more balls as if it must be done quickly. Then he straightened up, adjusted his club, and whack, whack, whack again.
Glenn Foray regarded the missing sun, the empty car lot with but two cars, his own and this lone golfer’s. He rose from his desk and went to stand in the doorway, watching.
The routine was repeated. One, two, three. Whack, whack, whack. The golfer was starting a third attack when Glenn Foray arrived to his right. The man seemed not to notice and drove the golf balls, one after another, far out on the green fairway.
Foray watched them sail, then said,
“Evening, Mr. Gingrich. Nice go.”
“Was it? Did it?” Gingrich said, having ignored where the balls landed. “Well, yes. Sure. Evening. Quitting time?”
Foray waited as Gingrich placed three more. There was something in the man’s face and the way his arm stretched and his knuckles clutched the missiles that stopped his agreement.
“Quitting time?” he said. “Not yet.”
Gingrich stared at the golf balls on the new tees. “Glad to hear that. Just a few more?”
“Hell,” said Foray quietly. “Take your time. I got some figures to add. Be here at least another half hour.”
“Good news.” Gingrich had a nice backswing and follow-through. One, two, three. “I know it’s not your job. But could I have, oh, say, two or three more buckets?”
“No sweat.” Foray turned, went, and brought back three more fully loaded golf ball carriers. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” said Gingrich, still not looking up, shoving more tees in the turf. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes hot with a kind of sporting frenzy as if he were playing against himself and not happy. His fingers, thrust down, seemed flushed with color, too. “Very kind of you,” he almost shouted.
Foray waited for three more solid cracks and three high-flying white balls before he backed off.
From the office doorway he watched Gingrich attack with an even more concerted energy, blow after blow, almost as if he were striking—what?—a bad day at the office? A fellow golfer? A dishonest friend? Foray snorted at his own one, two, three hard-driven thoughts.
At his computer he tried to recall what he had been summing up, but still the solid blows came as the twilight set in and the night lamps switched on, flooding the empty fairway with light. It was late on a Sunday, the one night when the range closed early, and still the man with the angry eyes and the crimson face slammed the balls high and before they fell thrust more tees in place to empty the buckets.
By the time they were empty, Foray had carried two more full loads out, quietly, and set them down. Gingrich, seeing this as an act of friendship, nodded his thanks and continued his robot performance. One, two, three, one, two, three, one—Foray did not move for a long while. At last he said, “Everything okay, Mr. Gingrich?”
Gingrich hit another three and then at last looked up. “What could not be okay?” he said.
And there were tears in his eyes.
Foray swallowed and could find no words until at last he said, looking at the crimsoned cheeks of the man and the fiery eyes, “As long as it’s all okay, then. Okay.”
Gingrich nodded abruptly and lowered his head. A few clear drops of water fell from his eyes.
Foray said, “I just figured. It’ll take me another forty minutes, an hour, to finish up. You can close the joint with me.”
“Fine. Damned fine,” Gingrich said.
And clipped three clumps of grass and turf.
Foray felt the blows as if the club hit his midriff, they were that intense. The effect was like a film speeded up. No sooner were the balls up than they were gone. The air seemed full of white birds sailing in the night trees.
Foray kept rising to go to the doorway and stare out, taking the impacts, stunned with the progress of this lonely game.
“None of my business,” he murmured, but still turned to his computer. He called up the index of frequent players: Galen, Gallager, Garnes … Here it was. Whack, whack, whack, in the twilight.
“Gingrich. William. 2344 Patricia Avenue, L.A. 90064. Mr. and Mrs. (Eleanor). Golf practice lessons early on. Repeat a few months ago. Steady customer.” All the notes he had typed himself.
He looked out at the range and watched the man in his almost lunatic frenzy and wondered, Do I bring more buckets, yes, no? He brought more buckets. This time, Gingrich did not even glance up or nod.
Foray, like a man walking underwater, for reasons he did not quite understand, moved out toward his open-top roadster, listened to the constant knock, saw more white objects fly in a sky where the moon was slowly rising, and drove away.
What do I say? he thought. Mrs. Gingrich, come get your husband?
When he had parked in front of 2344 Patricia Avenue he looked in at the large Georgian house where some, not all, of the lights were lit. He saw shadows moving to one side in the windows. He heard distant music and dim sounds of laughter.
To hell with this, he thought. What’s wrong with you? Fool!
He stepped on the gas and started to glide away but in his head he heard the chopping sounds, one, two, three, and stopped and coasted the car back near the curb. He waited a long while, chewing his lower lip, cursing, and at last got out, stood swaying, and moved up the walk. He stood before the front door for another long minute listening to the soft voices inside and the music playing low, and at last touched the doorbell with almost as much force as the lone player thrusting in the tees. Silence. He rang again. More silence. One, two, three. Three thrusts. Three bell sounds, each louder.
He stopped and waited.
At long last the door opened and a woman’s face appeared.
Her hair was tousled and her face was moist with
a faint perspiration. Her eyes adjusted to his face and she said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Gingrich?” Foray said.
“Yes?” She seemed confused, and glanced swiftly over her shoulder. In a far doorway, Foray saw the shadow of a man, or what seemed the shadow of a man.
“Yes?” she said again, quickly.
He swayed in place. One, two, three. Knock, knock, knock. Crack, crack, crack. No one else heard the sounds. He wet his lips, closed his eyes, opened them, and for some reason said, “I’m Gingrich.”
“What?” she said, even more confused.
“Gingrich, William,” he said, louder.
“You’re not my husband!” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
And hauled off and struck her in the mouth with his fist. As she held her lips with both hands, falling back, he cried, “And if you come out, you’ll get the same!”
The shadow in the far door did not move. Foray turned and walked back underwater to the car and drove away.
At the driving range Gingrich was still hitting the white objects, striking the blows, mechanically, downswing, strike, downswing, crack, downswing, bang!
Foray appeared nearby with a golf bag full of clubs.
Gingrich paused and looked at the bag.
“What?” he said.
Foray said, “How about one last round?”
Gingrich looked at the open fairway to his left. A wire screen door opened there to the first tee.
“This late at night?” he said.
“It’s never too late,” said Foray. “I’ll carry the clubs.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Gingrich.
“Not if I can help it,” said Foray.
Gingrich said, “We won’t be able to see.”
“We will.” Foray nodded at the sky.
A full moon was rising to light the long spreads and the low hills, the waiting sand traps and the small lake. A wind rustled in the oak trees.
“I’ll be damned,” whispered Gingrich.
He let himself be led out the wire screen door to the first tee.
“You first,” said Foray, and placed the ball and tee for him.
Gingrich watched, almost frozen.
When Foray stood back, Gingrich took steady aim, raised his club, and brought it down like a blow of summer lightning. Bam!
He watched the ball fly like a lovely white bird up toward the moon and down toward the fairway green.
“Son of a bitch!” he cried.
“Oh, oh,” he cried again. “Son of a bitch!”
“Fore!” Foray shouted, though there was no one out there on the course to harm. Or maybe there was someone way out there, a shadow.
“Fore!” he said.
MY SON, MAX
I have this wonderful ability to read lips. It came from growing up with two boy cousins who had hearing problems, and they passed the “language” on to me at an early age. What the hell, I thought, aged nine, if you’re going to be around boys like this, you might as well steal secrets. For I had found that, across parlors, or in halls, I could tune in on people and they were never the wiser. So I have led a secret life and never told anyone that the merest syllable dropped from a lip forty or eighty yards away was mine. No silent word moves through the world without entering my eye to make me smile.
So, armed with this ability, I often dine alone; for, in truth, I am dining with families. Any mouth that I choose to watch becomes my brother, sister, father, mother, or old maid aunt. And if I choose not to “listen” I merely scan my wine, my steak, and my eating utensils, or find fascination in chandeliers.
This one night, I did not need, nor did I want, chandeliers.
I had just finished ordering when a family of three arrived and sat directly opposite me, in such a way that if I missed any of the sweets or poisons dropping from their mouths, in pantomime, the rest I might catch in either ear.
They were a handsome father and mother in their forties, and a son of some twenty years, equally handsome, or, no, beautiful. So beautiful that you knew without knowing that every time he came down to earth there was an eager but soon dissatisfied woman reaching up to grab or an even more ravenous man seizing and keeping.
So it was very sad for me to glance up from time to time to see this man and wife and their lighter-than-air child examining their menus as if a list of their lives was there; the mother calm, the father looking as if he had been hit by life and sunk. In every glance at his son was not recrimination, but a terrible sad acceptance. The son was obviously the only son, and there would be no marriage, no children, no passing on of the name. Everything ended here tonight, at this table, with this child, much loved, but unaccommodating to life. The father looked to be one of those who had rarely stormed at fate, cursed, or dared to throw the son out. His was a deep misery from which he might never surface. He had so looked forward to a lineage, some sort of family, no matter how spare.
Wine was ordered, poured, and as the silent three drank, their faces came to a focus.
Oh, good Lord, yes, I said to myself. They dined here about a year ago! And this, by God, is the second chapter. I’ll find out what’s happened since. It’s the despair family, only this time, they do not look quite as despairing!
I settled in, watching their mouths, occasionally catching a drift of words, and was soon re-immersed in their incredible lives. Soon, I was remembering it all.
A year ago had been a disastrous, half-eaten meal, from which the father had risen, with a distempered and multicolored face, only to have the mother run out after him begging him to return, while the son slowly finished a glass of wine, eyes down, and after a long while, very much alone, paid the bill and, it almost seemed, sneaked away.
Now, watching the family—their name was Robinson, I heard the headwaiter say—it seemed to me that they all looked younger than last January. That night long ago, I had watched them age with shock, horror, incredulity, and then an anger that leaned into madness. At least on the father’s part. His face had got redder and redder, while his wife’s had got paler and paler, and the son’s complexion took on some of each, mottled and blotched with confusion.
The son had realized, too late, that confession was not good for the soul. He had described his hidden life honestly and completely and seen his parents suffering instant devastation.
Now, as I waited, I counted the glasses of wine the father took to solidify his will and loosen his tongue. He was almost beaming when he leaned forward, his enunciation so pronounced it was easy for me to read his lips.
“Now listen to me,” he said. “I have something to tell you.” He poured more wine for the two of them. “You recall, our dinner here, oh, last New Year’s, and here it is nearly Christmas, yes? Well. Back then, Ronald, you admitted to the sort of life you’ve been leading. To say that we were stunned would be putting it mildly. Not that we hadn’t suspected, but you always chide yourself back into ignorance. After all, you think, it can’t happen in our family. And then when we met several of your friends, the safe fell off the building and we were crushed. Sorry to admit, it’s true. Anyway, it took me a month to get back up on my feet, lying awake nights thinking wild thoughts, and then one afternoon in late March having another safe dropped on me. Only this time, it was a wonderfully incredible blow. An inspiration. I had been running around in the rat maze for weeks, with no way out. After all, you are our only son. No use convincing you that you should get married, put up a front, have children. I don’t know what the percentages are in marriages like that. I’m sure they occur and we never know it, or find out about it, later, when there’s a separation or a divorce. Anyway, I knew after several false starts there was no use bargaining a future with you when you were not listening.”
The young man put down his empty wineglass.
“Lord, Dad,” he said, “get on with it.”
“Am I taking too long?” asked the father, sitting back, surprised at himself.
His wife said, “Yes, dea
r, a bit. Where is all this leading?”
The father ducked his head in sudden embarrassment, then looked up, saw the empty wineglasses, and refilled them.
“Well, it’s this. Do you know that Miss Gilham in my office?”
“The pretty one, the one with the legs,” said his wife.
“You have noticed, then.” He ducked his head again, and color crept into his face.
“Good Lord, I think I know what’s coming,” said the young man.
“No you don’t. Not by half!”
“I think I do,” said his wife.
“No, nor you, either. You see, it’s very complicated, yet at the same time simple. I gave her a year off!”
“To do what?” asked his wife, puzzled.
“At full salary. To have a baby. Mine.”
“Hold on!” cried the wife.
But he was on his feet.
“Be right back.” And he was gone toward the men’s room, leaving his wife and son with a large black safe neatly dropped and crashed in their midst now.
“Jesus,” said the young man at last. “He’s crazy.”
“I wish he were,” said the mother.
They sat and waited until the father returned, sat down, without looking at them, drank more wine, and said, “Well?”
“What do you mean, well?” said the son. “You toss a bomb in our faces and run. Is this some crummy joke? To say all this in front of one of us would be bad enough. But in front of both of us? Christ.”
“It was the only way,” the father admitted. “Facing you one at a time would have been an ordeal. This way, somehow, it’s cushioned. Now, before either of you says anything more—”
“We haven’t said anything yet,” said the wife.
“I am not leaving home,” said the husband. “I do not want a divorce, I still love you very much, and I have not seen my secretary again, except to give her her weekly check.”
“I don’t believe it,” said the wife.
“I will not touch the woman again, ever. The child is due to be born at Christmas—splendid timing. And, most important, grandest of all, it is going to be a boy!”