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Calderwood pushed the inkstand irritably back to the edge of the desk. “Obviously you’re telling the truth, Rudy,” Calderwood said. “I don’t know what possessed my foolish daughter. Ah—I know what my wife will say—I brought her up all wrong. I made her shy. I over-protected her. If I were to tell you some of the arguments I’ve had with that woman in this house. It was different when I was a boy, I’ll tell you that. Girls didn’t go around, telling their mothers they were in love with people who never even looked at them. The damned movies. They rot women’s brains. No, you don’t have to wait. I’ll handle it alone. Go ahead. I have to compose myself.”
Rudolph stood up and Calderwood with him. “Do you want some advice?” Rudolph asked.
“You’re always giving me advice,” Calderwood said petulantly. “When I dream it’s always about you whispering in my ear. For years. Sometimes I wish you’d never showed up that summer at the store. What advice?”
“Let Virginia go down to New York and learn to be a secretary and leave her alone for a year or two.”
“Great,” Calderwood said bitterly. “You can say that. You have no daughters. I’ll see you to the door.”
At the door, he put his hand on Rudolph’s arm. “Rudy,” he said, pleading, “if the lady in New York says no, you’ll think about Virginia, won’t you? Maybe she’s an idiot, but I can’t stand to see her unhappy.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Calderwood,” Rudolph said ambiguously, and went down to his car.
Mr. Calderwood was still standing in the open doorway, lit by the frugal hall light, as Rudolph drove away.
He was hungry, but decided to wait before going to a restaurant for di
When he opened the front door with his key he heard voices in the kitchen. He went silently through the living and dining rooms and listened outside the kitchen door. “There’s one thing I like to see in a growing boy—” Rudolph recognized his mother’s voice—“and that’s a good appetite. I’m happy to see you appreciate food, Billy. Martha, give him another slice of meat and some more salad. No back talk, Billy, about not eating salad. In my house, all children eat salad.”
Holy God! Rudolph thought.
“There’s another thing I like to see in a boy, Billy,” his mother went on. “Old as I am, and I should be beyond such feminine weaknesses—and that’s good looks combined with good ma
“Everybody says I look like my father,” Billy said, with the bluntness of his fourteen years, but not aggressively. From his tone he was obviously feeling at home.
“I have not had the good fortune ever to meet your father,” the mother said, a slight chill in her speech. “No doubt there must be a certain resemblance here and there, but fundamentally you resemble my branch of the family, especially Rudolph. Doesn’t he, Martha?”
“I can see some signs,” Martha said. She was not out to give the mother a perfect Sunday night supper.
“Around the eyes,” the mother said. “And the intelligent mouth. In spite of the difference in the hair. I never think hair makes too much difference. There’s not much character in hair.”
Rudolph pushed the door and went into the kitchen. Billy was seated at one end of the table, flanked by the two women. Hair flattened down wet after his bath, Billy looked shining clean and smiling as he packed into his food. The mother had put on a sober-brown dress and was consciously playing grandmother. Martha looked less grumpy than usual, her mouth less thin, welcoming a bit of youth into the household.
“Everything all right?” Rudolph asked. “They giving you enough to eat?”
“The food’s great,” Billy said. There was no trace of the agony of the afternoon in his face.
“I do hope you like chocolate pudding for dessert, Billy,” the mother said, hardly looking up for a moment at Rudolph, standing at the door. “Martha makes the most delicious chocolate pudding.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “I really like it.”
“It was Rudolph’s favorite dessert, too. Wasn’t it, Rudolph?”
“Uhuh,” he said. He didn’t remember ever getting it more than once a year and he certainly didn’t remember ever remarking on it, but this was not the night to halt the flights of his mother’s fancy. She had even refrained from putting on rouge, the better to play the role of grandmother and she deserved some marks for that, too.
“Billy,” Rudolph said, “I spoke to your mother.”
Billy looked at him gravely, fearing a blow. “What did she say?”
“She’s waiting for you. I’m going to put you on a plane Tuesday or Wednesday. As soon as I can break away from the office here and take you down to New York.”
The boy’s lips trembled, but there was no fear that he was going to cry. “How did she sound?” he asked.
“Delighted that you’re coming out,” Rudolph said.
“That poor girl,” his mother said. “The life she’s led. The blows of fortune.”
Rudolph didn’t allow himself to look at her.
“Though it’s a shame, Billy,” she continued, “that now that we’ve found each other you can’t spend a little time with your old grandmother. Still, now that the ice has been broken, perhaps I can come out and visit you. Wouldn’t that be a nice idea, Rudolph?”
“Very nice.”
“California,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see it. The climate is kind to old bones. And from what I hear, it’s a virtual paradise. Before I die … Martha, I think Billy is ready for the chocolate pudding.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Martha said, rising from the table.
“Rudolph,” the mother said, “don’t you want a bite? Join the happy family circle?”
“No, thanks.” The last thing he wanted was to join the happy family circle. “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I’m off to bed,” she said. She stood up heavily. “Must get my beauty sleep at my age, you know. But before you go upstairs to sleep you’ll come in and give your grandmother a great big good-night kiss, won’t you, Billy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Billy said.
“Grandma.”
“Grandma,” Billy said obediently.
She swept out of the room. One last triumphant glare at Rudolph. Lady Macbeth, the blood behind her, undetected, now splendidly ru
Mothers should not be exposed, Rudolph thought, as he said, “Good night, Mom, sleep well.” They should be shot out of hand.
He left the house, ate di
Chapter 4
Draw the curtains at sunset. Do not sit in the evenings and look out at the lights of the city spread below you. Colin did so, with you at his side, because he said it was the view he liked most in the world, America at its best at night.
Do not wear black. Mourning is a private matter.
Do not write emotional letters in answer to letters of condolence from friends or from strangers using words like genius or unforgettable or generous or strength of character. Answer promptly and politely. No more.
Do not weep in front of your son.
Do not accept invitations to di
When a problem comes up do not reach for the phone to call Colin’s office. The office is closed.