Just before sunset he went up to the small half-attic, which was reached by crawling through a trapdoor in the ceiling of the master bedroom closet. He had to stand on a chair and shinny up in. He hadn’t been in the attic for a long, long time, but the single bare 100-watt bulb still worked. It was coated with dust and cobwebs, but it still worked.
He opened a dusty box at random and discovered all his high school and college yearbooks, laid neatly away. Embossed on the cover of each high school yearbook were the words:
THE CENTURION
Bay High School . . .
On the cover of each college yearbook (they were heavier, more richly bound) were these words:
THE PRISM
Let Us Remember
He opened the high school yearbooks first, flipping through the signed end pages (“Uptown, downtown, all around the town/I’m the gal who wrecked your yearbook/Writing upside down-A.F.A., Connie”), then the photographs of long-ago teachers, frozen behind their desks and beside their blackboards, smiling vaguely, then of classmates he barely remembered with their credits (FHA 1,2; Class Council 2,3,4; Poe Society, 4) listed beneath, along with their nicknames and a little slogan. He knew the fates of some (Army, dead in a car crash, assistant bank manager), but most were gone, their futures hidden from him.
In his senior high yearbook he came across a young George Barton Dawes, looking dreamily toward the future from a retouched photograph that had been taken at Cressey Studios. He was amazed by how little that boy knew of the future and by how much that boy looked like the son this man had come to search out traces of. The boy in the picture had not yet even manufactured the sperm that would become half the boy. Below the picture:
BARTON G. DAWES
“Whizzer”
(Outing Club, 1,2,3,4 Poe Society, 3,4)
Bay High School
Bart, the Klass Klown, helped to lighten our load!
He put the yearbooks back in their box helter-skelter and went on poking. He found drapes that Mary had taken down five years ago. An old easy chair with a broken arm. A clock radio that didn’t work. A wedding photograph album that he was scared to look through. Piles of magazines-ought to get those out, he told himself. They’re a fire hazard in the summer. A washing machine motor that he had once brought home from the laundry and tinkered with to no avail. And Charlie’s clothes.
They were in three cardboard cartons, each crisp with the smell of mothballs.
Charlie’s shirts and pants and sweaters, even Charlie’s Hanes underwear. He took them out and looked at each item carefully, trying to imagine Charlie wearing these things, 269
moving in them, rearranging minor parts of the world in them. At last it was the smell of the mothballs that drove him out of the attic, shaking and grimacing, needing a drink. The smell of things that had lain quietly and uselessly over the years, things which had no purpose but to hurt. He thought about them for most of the evening, until the drink blotted out the ability to think.
January 7, 1974
The doorbell rang at quarter past ten and when he opened the front door, a man in a suit and a topcoat was standing there, sort of hipshot and slouched and friendly. He was neatly shaved and barbered, carrying a slim briefcase, and at first he thought the man was a salesman with a briefcase full of samples-Amway, or magazine subscriptions, or possibly even the larcenous Swipe-and he prepared to welcome the man in, to listen to his pitch carefully, to ask questions, and maybe even buy something. Except for Olivia, he was the first person who had come to the house since Mary left almost five weeks ago.
But the man wasn’t a salesman. He was a lawyer. His name was Philip T. Fenner, and his client was the city council. These facts he announced with a shy grin and a hearty handshake.
“Come on in,” he said, and sighed. He supposed that in a half-assed sort of way, this guy was a salesman. You might even say he was selling Swipe.
Fenner was talking away, a mile a minute.
“Beautiful house you have here. Just beautiful. Careful ownership always shows, that’s what I say. I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Dawes, I know you’re a busy man, but Jack Gordon thought I might as well swing out here since it was on my way and drop off this relocation form. I imagine you mailed for one, but the Christmas rush and all, things get lost. And I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have, of course.”
“I have a question,” he said, unsmiling.
The jolly exterior of his visitor slipped for a moment and he saw the real Fenner lurking behind it, as cold and mechanized as a Pulsar watch. “What would that be, Mr.
Dawes?”
He smiled. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Back on with the smiling Fenner, cheerful runner or city council errands. “Gee, that’d be nice, if it’s not too much trouble. A trifle nippy out there, only seventeen degrees. I think the winters have been getting colder, don’t you?”
“They sure have.” The water was still hot from his breakfast coffee. “Hope you don’t mind instant. My wife’s visiting her folks for a while, and I just sort of muddle along. ”
Fenner laughed good-naturedly and he saw that Fenner knew exactly what the situation was between him and Mary, and probably what the situation was between him and any other given persons or institutions: Steve Ordner, Vinnie Mason, the corporation, God.
“Not at all, instant’s fine. I always drink instant. Can’t tell the difference. Okay to put 270
some papers on this table?”
“Go right ahead. Do you take cream?”
“No, just black. Black is fine.” Fenner unbuttoned his topcoat but didn’t take it off. He swept it under him as he sat down, as a woman will sweep her skirt so she doesn’t wrinkle the back. In a man, the gesture was almost jarringly fastidious. He opened his briefcase and took out a stapled form that looked like an income tax return. He poured Fenner a cup of coffee and gave it to him.
“Thanks. Thanks very much. Join me?”
“I think I’ll have a drink,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Fenner said, and smiled charmingly. He sipped his coffee. “Good, very good. Hits the spot.”
He made himself a tall drink and said, “Excuse me for just a minute, Mr. Fenner. I have to make a telephone call.’ ‘
“Certainly. Of course.” He sipped his coffee again and smacked his lips over it.
He went to the phone in the hall, leaving the door open. He dialed the Galloway house and Jean answered.
“It’s Bart,” he said, “Is Mary there, Jean?”
“She’s sleeping.” Jean’s voice was frosty.
“Please wake her up. It’s very important.”
“I bet it is. I just bet. I told Lester the other night, I said: Lester, it’s time we thought about an unlisted phone. And he agreed with me. We both think you’ve gone off your rocker, Barton Dawes, and that’s the plain truth with no shellack on it. ”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I really have to-”
The upstairs extension was picked up and Mary said, “Bart?”
“Yes. Mary, has a lawyer named Fenner been out to see you? Kind of slicktalking fellow that tries to act like Jimmy Stewart?”
“No,” she said. Shit, snake-eyes. Then she added, “He called on the phone.” Jackpot!
Fenner was standing in the doorway now, holding his coffee and sipping it calmly. The half-shy, totally cheerful, aw-shucks expression was gone now. He looked rather pained.
“Mamma, get off the extension,” Mary said, and Jean Galloway hung up with a bitter snort.
“Was he asking about me?” he asked.
“Yes. ”
“He talked to you after the party?”
“Yes, but . . . I didn’t tell him anything about that.”
“You might have told him more than you know. He comes on like a sleepy tickhound, but he’s the city council’s ballcutter.” He smiled at Fenner, who thinly smiled back.
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“You’ve got an appointment with him?”
“Why . . . yes. ” She sounded surprised. “But he only wants to talk about the house, Bart—”
“No, that’s what he told you. He really wants to talk about me. I think these guys would like to drag me into a competency hearing.”
“A . . . what? . . . ” She sounded utterly befuddled.
“I haven’t taken their money yet, ergo I must be crazy. Mary, do you remember what we talked about at Handy Andy’s?”
“Bart, is that Mr. Fenner in the house?”
“Yes.”
“The psychiatrist,” she said dully. “I mentioned you were going to be seeing a . . . oh, Bart, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said softly, and meant it. “This is going to be all right, Mary. I swear.