That afternoon Gray worked on editing a scene of Charles Corgie footage, and lines of dialogue drifted through her door over and over: “We’ll see if he knows the words ‘Hand it over’ and ‘Say your prayers’” “When there’s only one of them and it makes you a god, there’s no such thing as only a tape recorder” “I don’t know for a fact you took it, so I’m not going to shoot you. But you’re going to watch.” Watch. Watch. The words were Corgie’s, but the voice was Raphael’s.
Errol shot his own afternoon. Whenever he started to read something, images of shattered green glass and disfiguring gashes would loom between his eyes and the page. Errol found that as the afternoon progressed, the events of the day before were shifting weight, changing places.
Gray worked through dinnertime. At about eight o’clock she poked her head in Errol’s door. “I wanted to tell you—those interviews you canceled yesterday? See if you can set them up again for next week.”
“You’re joking.”
“We’ll be more careful.”
“I’m not going back there.”
“Don’t, then. I’ll get another bodyguard.”
“Well, you can use Ralph to protect you from the locals. You need someone else to protect the locals from Ralph.”
Gray watched Errol from the doorway. “Are you getting at something, or are you just being amusing?”
“I guess I’m trying to accustom myself to the fact that he knifed two people yesterday. I wonder how hard it was for him, frankly.”
“Have you forgotten what they were going to do to me?”
“No, but—The second man—”
“I told him to.”
“You were—under stress.”
“I was perfectly in my right mind.”
“I’d prefer not to believe that, Gray. Because the whole thing gives me the willies.”
“Life is harder-edged than you give it credit for, Errol. You’ve been on the veldt almost as often as I have. I can’t understand how you maintain this sentimental attitude when any number of lions have noshed on hartebeests right under your nose.”
“Life isn’t hard-edged, it’s what we make it. That’s the kind of wobbly generalization you used to stay clear of: Life is. And I suppose happiness is a warm puppy? Love means never having to say you’re sorry?—Not that you don’t have a point. Because people can be hard-edged, that’s for sure.”
“Errol.” Gray rubbed her forehead and looked away. “You really can’t stand it, can you?”
“Stand what?” Errol pushed back his chair.
“That man saved my life! And you want to make that out as an act of cruelty. You can’t stand anyone else’s heroics, can you?”
“I didn’t think cutting that boy’s face was heroic. It wasn’t necessary—”
“Errol, what did you do?”
“When?”
“When you couldn’t find me, what did you do?”
Errol faltered. “I—tried to call the police.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It seemed reasonable at the time,” Errol snapped. “I wasn’t carrying a knife.”
“That’s half the point, Errol! I admire someone who carries a knife!”
“Fine.” He stood up from his chair and walked over to Gray. He tapped her chest with his forefinger. “You like someone who carries a knife. Well, just see how much you admire it when he points it at you.” Errol turned on his heel and left the room.
He marched downstairs to the front door; he needed some air. He opened it to find Raphael Sarasola squarely in front of him, a towel over his shoulder.
“Telepathic,” said Raphael. “I hadn’t rung.”
Errol did not have a snappy reply. He felt cut off at the pass. In front of him was a man who carried a knife. Behind him was a woman who told him to use it.
“Don’t fall all over yourself,” said Raphael. “I don’t need a drink, dinner. You don’t even have to kiss me. But I would like to come in.”
Errol realized he’d just been standing there for a good minute or so. Sometimes Errol hated Raphael most, not because he knifed Hispanics or even because he was Gray Kaiser’s lover, but because he could make Errol feel so stupid.
Gray trotted down the stairs with a bubbly demeanor that suggested she’d already shrugged off her fight with Errol with an ease that hurt him in some ways more than the fight itself. She left to pull out some cold cuts and a bottle of wine, and Raphael sauntered into the den. She’d asked Errol to join them, and Errol was still fashioning a stinging, brittle declination when the doorbell rang.
Errol answered it, and found, for once, someone on his side. “I am delighted to see you.”
Ellen Friedman looked at him in surprise. “Why, you sound as if you mean that.” She seemed pleased, but when she came in and saw Raphael in the den, her color blanched. “Mr. Sarasola,” she said gravely.
Raphael looked at Ellen quizzically. “Have we met?”
“Not formally. But I recognize you, from pictures.” Her voice sounded unusually hard.
“My fame has spread more widely than I imagined.”
“We don’t call people like you famous, we call them assholes.”
“Mm,” said Raphael, unaffected. “I don’t like that word nearly as well. Especially from such a lady. It doesn’t suit you.”
“You must have heard the word ‘asshole’ from women pretty often. You must be used to it.”
“I’m not a very curious person, but I’m beginning to wonder what I did to deserve this.”
Just then Gray returned with a tray, but pulled up short. Something was going on.
“In a word: Anita Katrakis. Unfortunately, she still remembers you. Errol, would you like to go for a walk? It’s gotten stuffy in here.”
They turned to go, but Raphael spoke up behind them. “It’s cowardly to make accusations and run away.”
Ellen turned back. “Interesting you hear her name as an accusation.”
“Aren’t you old enough,” said Raphael, “to have noticed how often things between men and women don’t end well? They want different things; there are misunderstandings. Surely this isn’t news to you.”
“Couples split, yes. But when one person flagrantly uses the other for his own gain—”
Raphael raised his hand. “I’m not finished. Sometimes things end worse for one side than the other. These ‘injured parties’ always seem to see themselves as the victims of a moral outrage. They never feel simply rejected, but also abused. I’ve known many women who were great believers in the curative powers of indignation.”
“You have it all worked out, don’t you?” Ellen seemed genuinely amazed. “You really sound as if you don’t think you did anything wrong. Do you practice in the mirror?”
Raphael sank into the couch, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. “Oh, go ahead. You’re having such a good time reviling me, and there’s very little joy in the world. I’d hate to deprive you of yours.” Once more he looked tired and older. In the last couple of days he had aged at an incredible rate. He took the glass of wine Gray offered him and held her fingers lightly in his other hand. He didn’t give Errol or Ellen another glance. They’d been dismissed.
“Ellen, this is pointless,” said Errol. “Let’s go.”
“That,” she said outside, “is a horrible man.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
Errol said nothing.
“What’s going on between those two?”
“Oh,” said Errol vaguely, “they’re friends.”
“Come on.”
“Close friends,” Errol conceded.
Ellen rolled her eyes. “You don’t trust me.”
“My position…”
“Do you talk to anyone?”
“Every five years to my sister from Australia. And to a construction worker in Boxford.”
“A construction worker.”
“He’s a nice guy.”
“Errol, what do you think you
’re keeping secret? I didn’t know it was Raphael, but I already knew she was having an affair with a much younger man.”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Summer’s a slow season, Errol. Not much happening. It gets around.”
“So what’s the consensus?”
“A lot of people have been waiting for thirty years for Gray Kaiser to make a mistake. I think she’s just made it. The comments I hear aren’t—kind.”
“What are yours like?”
“I’ve defended her. After all, if she were a man everyone would be titillated, even envious. That macho-Picasso sort of thing. But for a woman it looks—”
“Pathetic. In the words of Herself.”
“But now that I know who he is, it looks worse than pathetic. It looks ugly. Gray has a lot of power, and I’d hate to see that man get his hands on it. Is there anything immediate she can do for him? Something tangible?”
“There is the Ford Fellowship,” Errol admitted. “I’m sure she has final say on it.”
“I’m sure she does, too. Those foundations don’t know zip about anthropology, just Gray Kaiser.”
“You sound a little bitter,” said Errol edgily.
“I’m sorry, I know she’s your idol. And she is good, but so are a lot of people.”
“Has something in particular set you off?”
“I suppose. I talked to Bob Johanas. He had everything lined up to direct a film project in New Guinea. Lots of money, NEA, NET. For a two-hour documentary. It was his baby, Errol. And suddenly, zip. Oh, the project’s going to go. Bob isn’t.”
“Mm.”
“He was quashed, Errol.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He put months into this, and bang! Nothing! It took very little probing to turn up Gray’s name.”
Errol shrugged.
“And do you know why?”
“I’m not sure, but I do remember a while back Bob wasn’t very—diplomatic.”
“And over what?”
“Ralph.”
“Who?” She looked at him queerly.
“I mean Raphael.”
“You have to do something. That boy is dangerous and Gray’s being irrational. You know that was no reason to get Bob dismissed from that project. It wasn’t even like her. She’s usually fair. You’ve got to get her away from him.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re closer to her than anybody. Get her to take a look at this thing. Why would a man that good-looking go for a woman her age?”
“There are things I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Someone’s got to say them! What’s going to happen? He’ll get his money and she’ll never see him again, and then she’s going to feel pretty stupid.”
“She might feel worse than stupid,” said Errol quietly.
“Listen. Take her to see Anita Katrakis.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. It would be better than shock therapy. Here.” She scribbled on a piece of paper from her purse. “This is her address. Feel free to use my name.”
“We’ll see,” said Errol uncomfortably. “I don’t drag Gray many places. She drags me.”
“Errol,” said Ellen with exasperation, “you’re a wonderful guy, but sometimes—”
“I’m a dishrag.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
“No, you did say it.”
They walked a couple of blocks in silence. The bugs were bad.
“At least make sure she doesn’t give him that damn fellowship,” said Ellen at last.
“No problem,” said Errol. “I’ll say, ‘Gray, don’t give the kid the fellowship,’ and she’ll say, ‘Oh, I was going to give it to him, but I certainly won’t now. I didn’t realize you disapproved. Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Then I’ll tell her, ‘Well, I wasn’t going to mention it until Ellen Friedman pointed out to me how weak and ineffectual I was, so I decided to start being more forceful.’ Then she’ll tell me, ‘What a good idea, Errol. While you’re at it, is there anything else you’d like me to do?’ Then I’ll make her give that documentary back to Bob Johanas. I’ll order her to fund your projects. I’ll tell her to stop eating so much sugar. Any other edicts I should deliver?”
“Very funny.”
“The problem isn’t that I’m a spineless jellyfish, Ellen. The problem is Gray Kaiser.”
Ellen stopped walking. “Errol, you’re right. I’m angry for Anita, and I’m old-fashioned—I like to see people get what they deserve. But they don’t, and that’s not your fault. You should probably steer clear of this whole business. In fact, I was thinking: Errol, you’ve worked in New Guinea, haven’t you?”
“Yes, why?”
“Why don’t you apply for that position? It’s wide open now.”
“I have some other projects lined up.”
“But, Errol, you’re qualified, you’d be away from all this, on your own—”
“Ellen, I don’t want it, period, and I don’t want to talk about it, either.”
“But, Errol—”
“I’m serious. Drop it.”
“Okay.” She shrugged.
There wasn’t much more to say.
When Errol returned by himself, Gray and Raphael were still in the den and the bottle of wine was gone. They were talking; Errol went into the next room to pick up his book. He paused to listen.
“Do you keep up with your father at all?”
“We haven’t spoken since I was thirteen.”
“All that time in the mill you never ran into him? North Adams is a small town.”
“It was a dance. We walked on opposite sides of the street. We shopped down opposite aisles of the grocery store. He went to one pool hall; I went to the one across town. And I went home occasionally, when he wasn’t there. I’d sneak in for a shower. Once, he came home early and must have heard water running. I poked my head out and heard the front door close again. Very softly. Not a bad guy, Dad.”
Gray didn’t say anything. After a minute or so, Raphael went on. “Sometimes I was hungry. I’d warm up a can of ravioli. I cleaned it up, put everything back. But he must have noticed the cans missing. Still, he didn’t change the lock. When I first came back the pantry was still full from my mother’s shopping trips—she loved a full pantry. I used up all the ravioli, my regular lunch. Later that year, though, a whole new stock of these cans showed up—wall-to-wall Chef Boy-ar-dee. It struck me that he threw a shit fit whenever my mother put that stuff in front of him. My father hated ravioli.” Raphael laughed dryly. “Now, you can’t say the guy didn’t care.
“So I did my part. I went by the house once a month. Every time, I’d eat a can of ravioli. I started leaving the pan in the sink. By the time I got older I didn’t even like the shit anymore. I ate it, anyway. He kept a huge stock. After a while I’d stop by the house even when I wasn’t hungry. I figured as long as he found a pan in the sink he knew I was all right.”
“Why don’t we go back?”
“What?”
“Why don’t we go back to North Adams? I want to meet your father.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“I don’t want to meet my father.”
“Coward.”
“This is easy for you.”
“You only do things that are easy?”
“I prefer them.”
“Then why are you with me and not with Pamela Rose?”
“She bores me.”
“Easy bores you.”
“Is this a dare?”
“Yes.”
“Actually—” Raphael stopped. “Actually, there is one person I’d love to give my regards.”
Gray didn’t ask whom. Nor did Errol wonder. They both knew perfectly well. “Regards” wasn’t quite the right word was all.
20
“Why?”
“It’s anthropologically important to me.”
“I’d thought about asking you,
but I assumed you wouldn’t be interested.”
“I’m desperately interested.”
“You won’t carp about the speed limit and get out of the car?”
“He can do 130 and I’ll keep my mouth shut like an absolute idiot.”
Gray sighed. “All right. But, Errol, don’t bait him.”
“Me, bait Ralph?”
“Don’t even call him Ralph for once. This is hard for him. For me, please? Be nice, and quiet.”
“Sounds as if we’re going to church.”
“If you expand your idea of the sacred, then yes, this is a sort of pilgrimage. Don’t profane it. That’s all I’m asking.”
Braced as Errol was for gripping the seat with both hands all the way to North Adams, Raphael obeyed the speed limit. He braked at yellow lights. He pulled over to a gas station when the tank was still half full. In their last leg off the main highway Errol watched Raphael closely as he eased ever more slowly through the Berkshire foothills. He held the steering wheel, ten and two. Errol was incredulous: Raphael Sarasola was nervous.
Raphael pulled into town and stopped the car. They were on the main street, lined with a series of limping commercial projects. Errol knew this kind of lineup: the diner would be overpriced; the hardware store poorly stocked; the styles in the department stores outdated. It was hot and the sun was out, but the street still managed to look gray.
“Are we there?” asked Gray.
“Not quite.”
“Well?”
Raphael leaned back in the seat. “This is crazy. I’m going back.”
“To Boston? Now?”
“Yes.”
Errol was looking around in amazement. This was it. This was the place. Down at the bottom of the hill, that must be the grocery store. That was where the olives were, and Ida’s five-dollar smoked abalone, and Frank’s cans of ravioli.
Gray put her hand on Raphael’s neck. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of this place,” he said simply.
“Why?”
“It’s small.”
“So?”
“I don’t feel small.”
“You’re not.”
“I am, here. And it’s ugly.”
“That makes you ugly, too?”
“Places are important. They rub off on you. I left here. On purpose.”