Long After Midnight (30 page)

 
          
"Otherwise?"

 
          
"Otherwise,
he'd get well, in 1938."

 
          
Tom
Wolfe arose from his chair. "You mean, get well, walk around, back there,
be well, and cheat the mortician?"

 
          
"That's
what I mean."

 
          
Tom
Wolfe stared at the phial and one of his hands twitched. "What if I
destroyed the virus and refused to let you inoculate me?"

 
          
"You
can't do that!"

 
          
"But—supposing?"

 
          
"You'd
ruin things."

 
          
"What
things?"

 
          
"The
pattern, life, the ways things are and were, the things that can't be changed.
You can't disrupt it There's only one sure thing, you're to die, and I'm to see
to it."

 
          
Wolfe
looked at the door. "I could run off."

 
          
"We
control the machine. You wouldn't get out of the house. I'd have you back here,
by force, and inoculated. I anticipated some such trouble when the time came;
there are five men waiting down below. One shout from me—you see, it's useless.
There, that's better. Here now."

 
          
Wolfe
had moved back and now had turned to look at the old man and the window and
this huge house. "I'm afraid I must apologize. I don't want to die. So
very much I don't want to die."

 
          
The
old man came to him and took his hand. "Think of it this way: you've had
two more months than anyone could expect from life, and you've turned out
another book, a last book, a fine book, think of that."

 
          
"I
want to thank you for this," said Thomas Wolfe, gravely. "I want to
thank both of you. I'm ready." He rolled up his sleeve. "The
inoculation."

 
          
And
while
Bolton
bent to his task, with his free hand Thomas
Wolfe penciled two black lines across the top of the first manuscript and went
on talking:

 
          
"There's
a passage from one of my old books," he said, scowling to remember it.
"...
of wandering forever and the
Earth
. . .
Who owns the Earth? Did
we want the Earth? That we should wander on it? Did we need the Earth that we
were never still upon it? Whoever needs the Earth shall have the Earth; he
shall be upon
it, he shall rest
within a little place, he shall dwell in one small room forever . . ."

 
          
Wolfe
was finished with the remembering.

 
          
"Here's
my last book," he said, and on the empty yellow paper facing the
manuscript he blocked out vigorous huge black letters with pressures of the
pencil:

 
          
FOREVER
AND THE EARTH, by Thomas Wolfe.

 
          
He
picked up a ream of it and held it tightly in his hands, against his chest, for
a moment. "I wish I could take it back with me. It's like parting with my
son." He gave it a slap and put it aside and immediately thereafter gave
his quick hand into that of his employer, and strode across the room, Bolton
after him, until he reached the door where he stood framed in the
late-afternoon light, huge and magnificent. "Good-bye, good-bye!" he
cried.

 
          
The
door slammed. Tom Wolfe was gone.

 
          
They
found him wandering in the hospital corridor.

 
          
"Mr.
Wolfe!"

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"Mr.
Wolfe, you gave us a scare, we thought you were gone!"

 
          
"Gone?"

 
          
"Where
did you go?"

 
          
"Where?
Where?" He let himself be led through the
midnight
corridors. "Where? Oh, if I
told
you where, you'd never
believe."

 
          
"Here's
your bed, you shouldn't have left it."

 
          
Deep
into the white death bed, which smelled of pale, clean mortality awaiting him,
a mortality which had the hospital odor in it; the bed which, as he touched it,
folded him into fumes and white starched coldness.

 
          
"Mars,
Mars," whispered the huge man, late at night "My best, my very best,
my really fine book, yet to be written, yet to be printed, in another year,
three centuries away . . ."

 
          
"You're
tired."

 
          
"Do
you really think so?" murmured Thomas Wolfe. "Was it a dream?
Perhaps. A good dream." His breathing faltered. Thomas Wolfe was dead.

 
          
In
the passing years, flowers are found on Tom Wolfe's grave. And this is not
unusual, for many people travel there. But these flowers appear each night.
They seem to drop from the sky. They are the color of an autumn moon, their
blossoms are immense, and they burn and sparkle their cold, long petals in a
blue and white fire. And when the dawn wind blows they drip away into a silver
rain, a shower of white sparks on the air. Tom Wolfe has been dead many, many years,
but these flowers never cease. . ..

 
          
The
room was like a great warm hearth, lit by an unseen fire, gone comfortable. The
fireplace itself struggled to keep a small blaze going on a few wet logs and
some turf, which was no more than smoke and several lazy orange eyes of
charcoal. The place was slowly filling, draining, and refilling with music. A
single lemon lamp was lit in a far corner, illumining walls painted a summer
color of yellow. The hardwood floor was polished so severely it glowed like a
dark river upon which floated throw-rugs whose
plummage
resembled South American wild birds, flashing electric blues, whites, and
jungle greens. White porcelain vases, brimming with fresh-cut hothouse flowers,
kept their serene fires burning on four small tables about the room. Above the
fireplace, a serious portrait of a young man gazed out with eyes the same color
as the ceramics, a deep blue, raw with intelligence and vitality.

 
          
Entering
the room  quietly,  one might not have noticed the two men, they were
so still.

 
          
One
sat reclining back upon the pure white couch, eyes closed. The second lay upon
the couch so his head was pillowed in the lap of the other. His eyes were shut,
too, listening. Rain touched the windows. The music ended.

 
          
Instantly
there was a soft scratching at the door.

 
          
Both
men blinked as if to say: people don't
scratch,
they
knock.

 
          
The
man who had been lying down leaped to the door and called: "Someone
there?"

 
          
"By
God, there is," said an old voice with a faint brogue.

 
          
"Grandfather!"

 
          
With
the door flung wide, the young man pulled a small round old man into the
warm-lit room.

 
          
"Tom,
boy, ah Tom, and glad I am to see you!"

 
          
They
fell together in bear-hugs, pawing. Then the old man felt the other person in
the room and moved back.

 
          
Tom
spun around, pointing. "Grandpa, this is Frank. Frank, this is Grandpa, I
mean—oh, hell—" ' The old man saved the moment by trotting forward to
seize and pull Frank to his feet, where he towered high above this small
intruder from the night.

 
          
"Frank,
is it?" the old man yelled up the heights.

 
          
"Yes,
sir," Frank called back down.

 
          
"I—"
said the grandfather, "have been standing outside that door for five
minutes—"

 
          
"Five
minutes?" cried both young men, alarmed.

 
          
"—debating
whether to knock. I heard the music, you see, and finally I said, damn, if
there's a girl with him he can either shove her out the window in the rain or
show the lovely likes of her to the old man. Hell, I said, and knocked,
and"—he slung down his battered old valise—"there
is
no young girl here, I see —or, by
God, you've
smothered
her in the
closet, eh!"

 
          
"There
is no young girl, Grandfather." Tom turned in a circle, his hands out to
show.

 
          
"But—"
The grandfather eyed the polished floor, the white throw-rugs, the bright
flowers, the watchful portraits on the walls. "You've
borrowed
her place, then?"

 
          
"Borrowed?"

 
          
"I
mean, by the look of the room, there's a woman's touch. It looks like them
steamship posters I seen in the travel windows half my life."

 
          
"Well,"
said Frank. "We-"

 
          
"The
fact is, Grandfather," said Tom, clearing his throat,
"we
did this place over. Redecorated."

 
          
"Redecorated?"
The old man's jaws dropped. His eyes toured the four walls, stunned. "The
two
of you are responsible? Jesus!"

 
          
The
old man touched a blue and white ceramic ashtray, and bent to stroke a bright
cockatoo throw-rug.

 
          
"Which
of you did
what?"
he asked,
suddenly, squinting one eye at them.

 
          
Tom
flushed and stammered, "Well, we—"

 
          
"Ah,
God, no, no, stop!" cried the old man, lifting one hand. "Here I am,
fresh
in
the place, and sniffing
about like a crazy hound and no fox. Shut that damn door. Ask me where
I'm
going, what am I up to, eh,
eh?
And, while you're at it, do you have
a touch of the Beast in this art gallery?"

 
          
"The
Beast it is!" Tom slammed the door, hustled his grandfather out of his
greatcoat, and brought forth three tumblers and a bottle of Irish whiskey,
which the old man touched as if it were a newborn babe.

 
          
"Well,
that's more like it. What do we drink to?"

 
          
"Why,
you, Grandpa!"

 
          
"No,
no." The old man gazed at Tom and then at his friend, Frank. "Christ,"
he sighed, "you're so damn young it breaks my bones in the ache. Come now,
let's drink to fresh hearts and apple cheeks and all life up ahead and
happiness somewhere for the taking. Yes?"

 
          
"Yes!"
said both, and drank.

 
          
And
drinking watched each other merrily or warily, half one, half the other. And
the young saw in the old bright pink face, lined as it was, cuffed as it was by
circumstantial life, the echo of Tom's face itself peering out through the
years. In the old blue eyes, especially, was the sharp bright intelligence that
sprang from the old portrait on the wall, that would be young until coins
weighted them shut. And around the edges of the old mouth was the smile that
blinked and went in Tom's face, and in the old hands was the quick, surprising
action of Tom's, as if both old man and you, had hands that lived to themselves
and did sly things by impulse.

 
          
So
they drank and leaned and smiled and drank again, each a mirror for the other,
each delighting in the fact that an ancient man and a raw youth with the same
eyes and hands and blood were met on this raining night, and the whiskey was
good.

 
          
"Ah,
Tom, Tom, it's a loving sight you are!" said the grandfather. "
Dublin
's been sore without you these four years.
But, hell, I'm dying. No, don't ask me how or why. The doctor has the news,
damn him, and shot me between the eyes with it. So I said instead of relatives
shelling out their cash to come say good-bye to the old horse, why not make the
farewell tour yourself and shake hands and drink drinks. So here I am this
night and tomorrow beyond
London
to see Lucie and then Glasgow to see Dick. I'll stay no more than a day
each place, so as not to overload anyone. Now shut that mouth, which is hanging
open. I am not out collecting sympathies. I am eighty, and it's time for a damn
fine wake, which I have saved money for, so not a word. I have come to see
everyone and make sure they are in a fit state of half-graceful joy so I can
kick up my heels and fall dead with a good heart, if that's possible. I-"

 
          
"Grandfather!"
cried Tom, suddenly, and seized the old man's hands and then his shoulders.

 
          
"Why,
bless you, boy, thanks," said the old man, seeing the tears in the young
man's eyes. "But just what I find in your gaze is enough." He set the
boy gently back. "Tell me about
London
, your work, this place. You too, Frank, a
friend of Tom's is as good as my son's son! Tell everything, Tom!"

 
          
"Excuse
me." Frank darted toward the door. "You both have much to talk about
There's shopping I must do—"

 
          
"Wait!"

 
          
Frank
stopped.

 
          
For
the old man had really seen the portrait over the fireplace now and walked to
it to put out his hand, to squint and read the signed name at the bottom.

 
          
"Frank
Davis. Is that you, boy? You did this picture?"

 
          
"Yes,
sir," said Frank, at the door.

 
          
"How
long ago?"

 
          
"Three
years ago, I think. Yes, three."

 
          
The
old man nodded slowly, as if this information added to the great puzzle, a
continuing bafflement

 
          
"Tom,
do you know who that
looks
like?"

 
          
"Yes,
Grand-
da
. You. A long time ago."

 
          
"So
you see it, too, eh? Christ in heaven, yes. That's me on my eighteenth birthday
and all
Ireland
and its grasses and tender maids good for the chewing ahead and not
behind me. That's me, that's me. Jesus I was handsome, and Jesus, Tom, so are
you. And Jesus, Frank, you
are
uncanny.
You are a
fine
artist,
¹
boy."

 
          
"You
do what you can do." Frank had come back to the middle of the room,
quietly. "You do what you
know."

 
          
"And
you
know
Tom, to the hair and
eyelash." The old man turned and smiled. "How does it feel, Tom, to
look out of that borrowed face? Do you feel great, is the world your
Dublin
prawn and oyster?"

 
          
Tom
laughed. Grandfather laughed. Frank joined them.

 
          
"One
more drink." The old man poured. "And we'll let you slip
diplomatically out, Frank. But come back. I must talk with you."

 
          
"What
about?" said Frank.

 
          
"Ah,
the Mysteries. Of Life, of Time, of Existence. What else did
you
have in mind, Frank?"

 
          
"Those
will do, Grandfather—" said Frank, and stopped, amazed at the word come
out of his mouth. "I mean, Mr. Kelly-"

 
          
"Grandfather
will do."

 
          
"I
must run." Frank doused his drink. "Phone you later, Tom."

 
          
The
door shut. Frank was gone.

 
          
"You'll
sleep here tonight of course, Grandpa?" Tom seized the one valise.
"Frank won't be back. You'll have his bed." Tom was busy arranging
the sheets on one of the two couches against the far wall. "Now, it's
early. Let's drink some more, Grandfather, and talk."

 
          
But
the old man, stunned, was silent, eyeing each picture in turn upon the wall.
"Grand painting, that."

 
          
"Frank
did them."

 
          
"That's
a fine lamp there."

 
          
"Frank
made it."

 
          
"The
rug on the floor here now—?"

 
          
"Frank."

 
          
"Jesus,"
whispered the old man, "he's a maniac for work, is he not?"

 
          
Quietly,
he shuffled about the room like one visiting a gallery.