had seen the last of twenty-five years earlier. Like a schoolboy he wanted to rebel, but he would have to do the work eventually or go under, and he refused to go under - the instinct to survive was stronger than any other, stronger than humiliation, stronger than pain.
To help the people of Chinatown he would first have to find out who they were, and he kept reading.
The volume in his lap was as thick as a blacksmith’s anvil and as heavy, as was its prose. Presently he put it down, and got up and went to stare out the window. What he needed was to talk, not study, to unburden himself of these violent emotions, principally anger, that churned around inside him. He wished his wife were there to talk to, and he resented her for being out of the house, focused on her own life, and not his.
She had worked as a nurse until their first son was born, and now that both boys were in college she had gone back to it. She managed an entire floor at St. Clare’s hospital on Fiftieth Street, and at first she used to come home and regale him with tales of each day’s heartbreaking cases. They were descriptions he did not wish to hear, and she soon came to understand this. The result was that she no longer talked about her work at all, any more than Powers talked about his. The world was full of malignancy, some of it deliberate, and one simply lived with this, one could not turn it into cheerful conversation, and had best not try. Her hours had now become as erratic as his - hospitals, like police stations, were busy around the clock. Each knew vaguely what the other’s schedules were, they made their off-duty hours coincide as much as possible, and for the rest they came together at odd times as they could. But more and more Powers hated the fact that she wanted to work. He longed for the old days when Eleanor’s life had revolved totally around him, and he hoped she would see this for herself without his saying so, though so far she had not.
For most of the afternoon he remained at the window, watching the cars go by. Despite himself he kept replaying in his head every line from that morning, reliving his humiliation. In terms of moving men to action, humiliation may be the strongest of human emotions. It causes not only the blood to boil but also the brain, so that a man’s paramount desire becomes to strike out in some way. Any action becomes better than none. It was out of humiliation that, late in the afternoon, Powers decided to risk more of the same. He telephoned Carol Cone.
“I thought you might like to get your coat back,” he said when she came on the line. He had kept his voice bright and cheerful so as not to scare her off. He could not stand it any longer inside this house and inside himself. But to go out he needed a destination.
“By now I thought maybe you had sold it.”
He managed a light, confident laugh. “So just tell the delivery man where to take it.”
He had thought to meet her downtown, perhaps in a restaurant near her network. But she was off that night and on her way home, she said. To his surprise she told him that she lived in Bronxville, a rich Westchester suburb. Why didn’t he come for a drink about six?
Why not indeed?
HER CAR was in the driveway, an open, very expensive Mercedes. He parked his four-year-old Mustang behind it and got out. He supposed it was her car. The plates read CC-44, her initials plus the number on the door of her house. Who else could it belong to?
Despite his age, he was no more sure of himself as he approached this woman, than he might have been at twenty Did the new sexually liberated generation, exposed (literally) to dozens of girls and women from adolescence on, approach them with more confidence? He didn’t know. Hesitating still, Powers found himself patting the skin of the ostentatious car in front of him. Real leather seats. Chrome. Did she leave it out to impress him? He walked across the lawn and rang her bell.
She wore tight blue jeans and a
To help the people of Chinatown he would first have to find out who they were, and he kept reading.
The volume in his lap was as thick as a blacksmith’s anvil and as heavy, as was its prose. Presently he put it down, and got up and went to stare out the window. What he needed was to talk, not study, to unburden himself of these violent emotions, principally anger, that churned around inside him. He wished his wife were there to talk to, and he resented her for being out of the house, focused on her own life, and not his.
She had worked as a nurse until their first son was born, and now that both boys were in college she had gone back to it. She managed an entire floor at St. Clare’s hospital on Fiftieth Street, and at first she used to come home and regale him with tales of each day’s heartbreaking cases. They were descriptions he did not wish to hear, and she soon came to understand this. The result was that she no longer talked about her work at all, any more than Powers talked about his. The world was full of malignancy, some of it deliberate, and one simply lived with this, one could not turn it into cheerful conversation, and had best not try. Her hours had now become as erratic as his - hospitals, like police stations, were busy around the clock. Each knew vaguely what the other’s schedules were, they made their off-duty hours coincide as much as possible, and for the rest they came together at odd times as they could. But more and more Powers hated the fact that she wanted to work. He longed for the old days when Eleanor’s life had revolved totally around him, and he hoped she would see this for herself without his saying so, though so far she had not.
For most of the afternoon he remained at the window, watching the cars go by. Despite himself he kept replaying in his head every line from that morning, reliving his humiliation. In terms of moving men to action, humiliation may be the strongest of human emotions. It causes not only the blood to boil but also the brain, so that a man’s paramount desire becomes to strike out in some way. Any action becomes better than none. It was out of humiliation that, late in the afternoon, Powers decided to risk more of the same. He telephoned Carol Cone.
“I thought you might like to get your coat back,” he said when she came on the line. He had kept his voice bright and cheerful so as not to scare her off. He could not stand it any longer inside this house and inside himself. But to go out he needed a destination.
“By now I thought maybe you had sold it.”
He managed a light, confident laugh. “So just tell the delivery man where to take it.”
He had thought to meet her downtown, perhaps in a restaurant near her network. But she was off that night and on her way home, she said. To his surprise she told him that she lived in Bronxville, a rich Westchester suburb. Why didn’t he come for a drink about six?
Why not indeed?
HER CAR was in the driveway, an open, very expensive Mercedes. He parked his four-year-old Mustang behind it and got out. He supposed it was her car. The plates read CC-44, her initials plus the number on the door of her house. Who else could it belong to?
Despite his age, he was no more sure of himself as he approached this woman, than he might have been at twenty Did the new sexually liberated generation, exposed (literally) to dozens of girls and women from adolescence on, approach them with more confidence? He didn’t know. Hesitating still, Powers found himself patting the skin of the ostentatious car in front of him. Real leather seats. Chrome. Did she leave it out to impress him? He walked across the lawn and rang her bell.
She wore tight blue jeans and a
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