The Secret History

'What do you suppose he wanted? Money?'

Henry shrugged. 'Who knows. Unfortunately at that point I had very little money to give him. Bu

'I stood it as long as I could but I was begi

'You left him two thousand dollars?' I said, aghast.

Henry shrugged. Francis shook his head and snorted. 'That's nothing,' he said.

I stared at them.

'Really, it is nothing,' said Henry mildly. 'I can't tell you how much that trip to Italy cost me. And my parents are generous, but they're not that generous. I've never had to ask for money in my life until the last few months. As it is, my savings are virtually gone and I don't know how much longer I can keep feeding them these stories about elaborate car repairs and so forth. I mean, I was prepared to be reasonable with Bu

'He's blackmailing you?'

Henry and Francis looked at earh other.

'Well, not exactly,' said Francis.

Henry shook his head. 'Bu

'But I thought his folks were supposed to be such bluebloods,'

I said.

'The Corcorans have delusions of grandeur. The problem is, they lack the money to back them up. No doubt they think it very aristocratic and grand, farming their sons off on other people.'

'He's shameless about it,' said Francis. 'Even with the twins, and they're nearly as poor as he is.'

'The bigger the sums, the better, and never a thought of paying it back. Of course, he'd rather die than get a job.'

'The Corcorans would rather see him dead,' said Francis sourly, lighting his cigarette and coughing as he exhaled. 'But this squeamishness about work wears a bit thin when one is forced to assume his upkeep oneself.'

'It's unthinkable,' said Henry. Td rather have any job, six jobs, than beg from people. Look at you,' he said to me. 'Your parents aren't particularly generous with you, are they? But you're so scrupulous about not borrowing money that it's rather silly.'

I said nothing, embarrassed.

'I leavens. I think you might have died in that warehouse rather than wire one of us for a couple of hundred dollars.' He lit a cigarette and blew out an emphatic plume of smoke. 'That's an infinitesimal sum. I'm sure we shall have spent two or three rimes that on Bu

'I wish I were.'

'I don't mind lending money either,' Francis said, 'if I've got it. But Bu

'And never a word of thanks,' said Henry irritably. 'What can he spend it on? If he had even a shred of self-respect he'd go down to the employment office and get himself a job.'

'You and I may be down there in a couple of weeks if he doesn't let up,' said Francis glumly, pouring himself another glass of Scotch and sloshing a good deal of it on the table. 'I've spent thousands on him. Thousands,' he said to me, taking a careful sip from the trembling brim of his glass. 'And most of it on restaurant bills, the pig. It's all very friendly, why don't we go out to di

My mother thinks I'm on drugs. I don't suppose there's much else she can think. She's told my grandparents not to give me any money and since January I haven't gotten a damn thing except my dividend check. Which is fine as far as it goes, but I can't be taking people out for hundred-dollar di

Henry shrugged. 'He's always been like this,' he said. 'Always.

He's amusing; I liked him; I felt a little sorry for him. What was it to me, to lend him money for his schoolbooks and know he wouldn't pay it back?'

'Except now,' Francis said, 'it's not just money for schoolbooks.

And now we can't say no.'

'How long can you keep this up?'

'Not forever.'

'And when the money's gone?'

'I don't know,' said Henry, reaching up behind his spectacles to rub his eyes again.

'Maybe I could talk to him.'

'No,' said Henry and Francis, one on top of the other, with an alacrity that surprised me.

'Why-?'

There was an awkward pause, finally broken by Francis.

'Well, you may or may not know this,' he said, 'but Bu

'You mustn't let on you know,' said Henry. 'Ever. Unless you want to make things worse.'

For a moment no one spoke. The apartment was blue with smoke, through which the broad expanse of white linoleum was arctic, surreal. Music from a neighbor's stereo was filtering through the walls. The Grateful Dead. Good Lord.

'It's a terrible thing, what we did,' said Francis abruptly. 'I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It's a shame.

I feel bad about it.'

'Well, of course, I do too,' said Henry matter-of-factly. 'But not bad enough to want to go to jail for it.'

Francis snorted and poured himself another shot of whiskey and drank it straight off. 'No,' he said. 'Not that bad.'

No one said anything for a moment. I felt sleepy, ill, as if this were some lingering and dyspeptic dream. I had said it before, but I said it again, mildly surprised at the sound of my own voice in the quiet room. 'What are you going to do?'

'I don't know what we're going to do,' said Henry, as calmly as if I'd asked him his plans for the afternoon.