his wallet for a card. “Us being me and Jennifer. My girlfriend,” he added with a smile, as if he expected Simon not to believe him. “This is our L.A. place, but I’ll write our present number on the back.—New Canaan. We’ve rented a house for a year.”
Simon thanked him, and pocketed the card. The noise of conversation made it difficult to talk. “Do you think—How does Chris look to you today? You’ve been here longer than I have.”
Carl looked at Simon as if he didn’t understand. Or maybe Carl understood Simon to mean that he, Simon, was in a hurry to leave. Thinking of this, Simon said:
“I understand Richard’s taking off today.”
“Or maybe tonight. You’re pressed, Simon?”
“I’m not, ” said Simon, realizing painfully that Carl had misunderstood. “No, it’s just that I don’t know how Chris usually looks, if this is an ordinary day—”
“You can’t tell with Chris.” Carl smiled serenely, indulgently, as if he had all the time in the world, and worse, as if it didn’t matter if Chris died today, tomorrow or next week. Carl’s eyes were bright with confidence, even happiness, because his life would keep on its same runners with Jennifer and his work, whatever it was just now.
Nor did Detweiler understand, looking at Simon levelly, almost challengingly, as if Simon had said something disrespectful in regard to Chris. It was more comforting to hear Richard’s deep laugh from the direction of Chris’s bed, but Simon knew the laugh was half-phony too.
No one loves Chris as I do, Simon thought. He felt bitter and miserable. He put on a pleasant face, said, “See you,” and moved away towards Chris.
The white splotches on Chris’s face looked whiter, and did Simon see a faint blueness at the lips or was he imagining? Chris’s breathing was audible. His blue eyes, still alert and striving, swam in water or tears held within bounds by the pink lids. Simon clasped two fingers of the unnaturally plump hand that Chris extended, the left hand which held still another cigarette.
“Chris, I love the cigarette case,” said Simon. “You know I always loved it. Just the right present for me. Thank you.”
“Simon, what’s the matter? You’re not yourself.” Chris’s voice creaked like old furniture, old bones.
“Noth- ing, ” Simon replied, smiling.
A few seconds later, Simon was out of the room. Chris had called for music now, and was there enough champagne?
Simon ran down the garden steps. Wasn’t there a gorge, a small waterfall somewhere down here to the right? He looked through trees and underbrush, then he found it—like a promise come true, but how small it was! Barely seven feet to jump down there and hit the rocks, then hardly enough water to drown a baby or a cat! Still if he smashed his skull, that would do. Simon rubbed his palms together, breathed deeply, and felt himself smiling. He was happy, in a quiet and important way. This scene had momentum, a tempo that didn’t wish to be slowed or hastened. He looked at the stony, half-grassy ground under his desert boots: nothing to trip him or cause a bad takeoff. He prepared to run.
Then a crackle made him stop. It had come from his right, up the slope.
“Simon?—Hey, Simon! We’re all looking for you!” It was Carl Parker loping towards him.
“Could you leave me alone? Would you?”
“What do you mean?— Freddy !” Carl called loudly up the slope. “Simon’s here!”
“Coming,” Detweiler’s voice said, not far distant.
Carl clapped an arm around Simon’s shoulder suddenly. “Come back,” he said in a serious tone, swinging Simon towards the house.
Simon’s strength exploded, he threw off Carl, and saw Detweiler approaching. Simon ran towards the little gorge, aware that Carl was just behind him. Carl grabbed his arm, Carl’s hand slipped down and took a grip on Simon’s left hand, swinging Simon around.
“What’re you—”
Simon silenced him with a hard punch in the face. Now
Simon thanked him, and pocketed the card. The noise of conversation made it difficult to talk. “Do you think—How does Chris look to you today? You’ve been here longer than I have.”
Carl looked at Simon as if he didn’t understand. Or maybe Carl understood Simon to mean that he, Simon, was in a hurry to leave. Thinking of this, Simon said:
“I understand Richard’s taking off today.”
“Or maybe tonight. You’re pressed, Simon?”
“I’m not, ” said Simon, realizing painfully that Carl had misunderstood. “No, it’s just that I don’t know how Chris usually looks, if this is an ordinary day—”
“You can’t tell with Chris.” Carl smiled serenely, indulgently, as if he had all the time in the world, and worse, as if it didn’t matter if Chris died today, tomorrow or next week. Carl’s eyes were bright with confidence, even happiness, because his life would keep on its same runners with Jennifer and his work, whatever it was just now.
Nor did Detweiler understand, looking at Simon levelly, almost challengingly, as if Simon had said something disrespectful in regard to Chris. It was more comforting to hear Richard’s deep laugh from the direction of Chris’s bed, but Simon knew the laugh was half-phony too.
No one loves Chris as I do, Simon thought. He felt bitter and miserable. He put on a pleasant face, said, “See you,” and moved away towards Chris.
The white splotches on Chris’s face looked whiter, and did Simon see a faint blueness at the lips or was he imagining? Chris’s breathing was audible. His blue eyes, still alert and striving, swam in water or tears held within bounds by the pink lids. Simon clasped two fingers of the unnaturally plump hand that Chris extended, the left hand which held still another cigarette.
“Chris, I love the cigarette case,” said Simon. “You know I always loved it. Just the right present for me. Thank you.”
“Simon, what’s the matter? You’re not yourself.” Chris’s voice creaked like old furniture, old bones.
“Noth- ing, ” Simon replied, smiling.
A few seconds later, Simon was out of the room. Chris had called for music now, and was there enough champagne?
Simon ran down the garden steps. Wasn’t there a gorge, a small waterfall somewhere down here to the right? He looked through trees and underbrush, then he found it—like a promise come true, but how small it was! Barely seven feet to jump down there and hit the rocks, then hardly enough water to drown a baby or a cat! Still if he smashed his skull, that would do. Simon rubbed his palms together, breathed deeply, and felt himself smiling. He was happy, in a quiet and important way. This scene had momentum, a tempo that didn’t wish to be slowed or hastened. He looked at the stony, half-grassy ground under his desert boots: nothing to trip him or cause a bad takeoff. He prepared to run.
Then a crackle made him stop. It had come from his right, up the slope.
“Simon?—Hey, Simon! We’re all looking for you!” It was Carl Parker loping towards him.
“Could you leave me alone? Would you?”
“What do you mean?— Freddy !” Carl called loudly up the slope. “Simon’s here!”
“Coming,” Detweiler’s voice said, not far distant.
Carl clapped an arm around Simon’s shoulder suddenly. “Come back,” he said in a serious tone, swinging Simon towards the house.
Simon’s strength exploded, he threw off Carl, and saw Detweiler approaching. Simon ran towards the little gorge, aware that Carl was just behind him. Carl grabbed his arm, Carl’s hand slipped down and took a grip on Simon’s left hand, swinging Simon around.
“What’re you—”
Simon silenced him with a hard punch in the face. Now
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