Then one day the old Sikorsky amphibian circled the house once and then landed in the bay and they rowed the three boys out to her in the dinghy. Joseph sculled out in another dinghy with their bags. Young Tom said, “Goodbye, papa. It certainly was a swell summer.”
David said, “Goodbye, papa. It certainly was wonderful. Don’t worry about anything. We’ll be careful.”
Andrew said, “Goodbye, papa. Thanks for a wonderful, wonderful summer and for the trip to Paris.”
They climbed up into the cockpit door and all waved from the door to Audrey, who was standing on the dock, and called, “Goodbye! Goodbye, Audrey.”
Roger was helping them up and they said, “Goodbye, Mr. Davis. Goodbye, papa.” Then very loud and carrying over the water, “Goodbye, Audrey!”
Then the door closed and locked and they were faces through the small glass panes and then they were water-splashed faces as the old coffee mills revved up. Thomas Hudson pulled away from the rush of spray and the ancient, ugly plane taxied out and took off into the little breeze there was and then circled once and straightened course, steady, ugly, and slow across the Gulf.
Thomas Hudson knew Roger and Audrey would be leaving and as the run-boat was coming the next day he asked Roger when he was going.
“Tomorrow, old Tom,” Roger said.
“With Wilson?”
“Yes. I asked him to come back.”
“I just wanted to know about ordering on the run-boat.”
So the next day they left the same way. Thomas Hudson kissed the girl goodbye and she kissed him. She had cried when the boys left and she cried that day and held him close and hard.
“Take good care of him and take good care of you.”
“I’m going to try. You’ve been awful good to us, Tom.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’ll write,” Roger said. “Is there anything you want me to do out there?”
“Have fun. You might let me know how things are.”
“I will. This one will write, too.”
So they were gone, too, and Thomas Hudson stopped in at Bobby’s on the way home.
“Going to be goddam lonely,” Bobby said.
“Yes,” Thomas Hudson said. “It’s going to be goddam lonely.”
XIV
Thomas Hudson was unhappy as soon as the boys were gone. But he thought that was normal lonesomeness for them and he just kept on working. The end of a man’s own world does not come as it does in one of the great paintings Mr. Bobby had outlined. It comes with one of the island boys bringing a radio message up the road from the local post office and saying, “Please sign on the detachable part of the envelope. We’re sorry, Mr. Tom.”
He gave the boy a shilling. But the boy looked at it and put it down on the table.
“I don’t care for a tip, Mr. Tom,” the boy said and went out.
He read it. Then he put it in his pocket and went out the door and sat on the porch by the sea. He took the radio form out and read it again. YOUR SONS DAVID AND ANDREW KILLED WITH THEIR MOTHER IN MOTOR ACCIDENT NEAR BIARRITZ ATTENDING TO EVERYTHING PENDING YOUR ARRIVAL DEEPEST SYMPATHY. It was signed by the Paris branch of his New York bank.
Eddy came out. He had heard about it from Joseph who had heard about it from one of the boys at the radio shack.
Eddy sat down by him and said, “Shit, Tom, how can such things happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Thomas Hudson. “I guess they hit something or something ran into them.”
“I’ll bet Davy wasn’t driving,” Eddy said.
“I’ll bet so too. But it doesn’t matter any more.”
Thomas Hudson looked out at the flatness of the blue sea and the darker blue of the Gulf. The sun was low and soon it would be behind the clouds.
“Do you think their mother was driving?”
“Probably. Maybe they had a chauffeur. What difference does it make?”
“Do you think it could have been Andy?”
“Could be. His mother might let him.”
“He’s conceited enough,” Eddy said.
“He was,” said Thomas Hudson. “I don’t think he’s conceited now.”