Man, Woman and Child

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

For my beloved Karen

A wife of valor who can find ? She is far more precious than jewels.

Things fall apart; the center cannot

hold . . . The ceremony of innocence is

drowned , . .

—W. B. Yeats, "The Second Coming"

I

HAVE AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR YOU, Dr.

Beckwith."

^Tm tied up right now. Can I get back to you?''

''Actually, Professor, Fd prefer to speak to you in person/'

An "urgent" phone call had summoned Robert Beckwith from the final departmental meeting of the term. It was the French consulate.

"Can you get to Boston before five?" the undersecretary asked.

"It's almost four-thirty now," said Bob.

*'I will wait for you."

''Is it that important?"

"Yes, I believe so."

Totally mystified, Bob walked back across the hall to where the five other senior members of the MIT Statistics Department were waiting. Citing the unimportance of their agenda when compared to the excellence of the weather, he moved that they adjourn until the fall. As usual, there was one objection.

"I must say, Beckwith, this is rather unprofessional," huffed P. Herbert Harrison.

"'Let's put it to a vote, Herb/' Bob replied. The score was five to one in favor of vacation.

Bob hurried to his car and began threading his way across the Charles River through the heavy rush hour traffic. Moving slower than the passing joggers, he had plenty of time to speculate on what could possibly be so urgent. And the more he thought, the more the odds seemed to suggest one thing: They're giving me the Legion of Honor.

It's not so impossible, he told himself. After all, I've lectured lots of times in France—twice at the Sorbonne. Hell, I even drive a Peugeot.

That must be it. I'm going to get one of those little red anchovies for my lapel. I may even have to start wearing jackets. Who cares? It'll be worth it to see the jealousy on certain faculty faces. God, Sheila and the girls will be proud.

"This message came to us by telex," said M. Ber-trand Pelletier the moment Bob sat down in his elegant high-ceilinged office. He held a narrow slip of paper.

Here it comes, thought Bob. The award. He tried not to smile too soon.

''It requests that Dr. Beckwith of MIT contact a Monsieur Venargu^s in Sete immediately." He handed Bob the paper.

"Sete?" repeated Bob. And thought. Oh no, it can't be.

"Charming little village, if a bit gaucho" said Pelletier. "Do you know the south of France?"

**Uh—yes." Bob grew even more uneasy when he noticed that the consular official wore a rather solemn expression.

"Monsieur Pelletier, what's this all about?"

"I was only informed that it concerns the late Nicole Guerin/'

My God, Nicole. So long ago, so well suppressed he almost had convinced himself it never happened. The single infidelity in all his years of marriage.

Why now? Why after all this time? And hadn't she herself insisted they would never meet again, never contact one another?

Wait a minute.

^'Monsieur Pelletier, did you say the late Nicole Guerin? She's dead?"

The undersecretary nodded.

'1 regret that I have no details. I am sorry, Dr. Beckwith."

Did this man know any more?

*'And who's this person I'm supposed to call?"

The undersecretary shrugged. Which, translated from the French, meant that he didn't know—and didn't care to.

"May I offer my condoleances, Dr. Beckwith?"

This, translated from the French, meant it was getting late. And M. Pelletier no doubt had plans for other things. It was, after all, a balmy evening in the month of June.

Bob took the hint. He stood up.

"Thank you. Monsieur Pelletier."

"Not at all."

They shook hands.

A bit unsteadily. Bob walked out onto Commonwealth Avenue. He was parked diagonally across, right near the Ritz. Should he get a quick shot of courage at the bar? No. Better make that phone call first. And somewhere private.

The entire corridor was silent. Everyone seemed to have left for the summer. Bob closed the office door, sat at his desk and dialed France.

''WuyT' croaked a sleepy voice with a thick Provengal accent.

''Uh—this is Robert Beckwith. May I speak v^th Monsieur Venargu^s?"

^'Bobbie—it is me, Louis! At last Fve found you. What a task... "

Even after all these years, that voice was unmistakable. The rasp created by the smoke of fifty million Gauloises.

'Touis the mayor?"

"Ex-mayor. Can you imagine? They put me out to pasture like some ancient dinosaur. The Council-"

Bob was much too tense for lengthy anecdotes.

'Touis, what is this about Nicole?''

"Oh, Bobbie, what a tragedy. Five days ago. Head-on collision. She was coming from a cardiac emergency. The whole town is in mourning. . . ."

"Oh. Fm sorry-''

"Can you imagine? She was so young. A saint, unselfish. All the Faculty of Medicine from Mont-pellier came to the service. You know she hated religion, Bobbie, but we had to."

He paused to sigh. Bob seized the opportunity.

"Louis, this is terrible news. But I don't see why you wanted me to call you. I mean, it's been ten years since I last saw her."

Suddenly a silence on the line. Then Louis answered almost in a whisper: "Because of the child."

"Child? Was Nicole married?"

"No, no. Of course not. She was an 'independent mother,' so to speak. She raised the boy herself."

"But I still don't see what this has to do with me," said Bob.

"'Uh—Bobbie, I do not know how to say this... /'

"Say iti"

"He is your child too/' said Louis Venargu^s.

For a moment there was silence on both sides of the Atlantic. Bob was stunned beyond speech.

"Bobbie, are you still there? Alio?''

"What?"

"I know you are perhaps shocked by this news/'

"No, Louis. Fm not shocked. I simply don't believe it," Bob replied, as anger helped him to regain his powers of speech.

"But it's true. I was her confidant in everything."

"But what the hell makes you so sure that rm the father?"

"Bobbie," Louis answered gently, "you were here in May. The demonstrations, you recall? The little boy came—so to speak—on schedule. There was no one else in her life at the time. She would have told me. Of course, she never wanted you to know."

Jesus Christ, thought Bob, this is incredible.

"Dammit, Louis, even if it's true, I'm not responsible for—"

"Bobbie, tranquilize yourself. No one's saying that you have responsibility. Jean-Claude is well provided for. Believe me—I am the executor." He paused and added, "There is only one small problem."

Bob trembled at the possibilities.

"What?" he asked.

"The boy has absolutely no one. Nicole had no other family. He's all alone."

Bob did not reply. He was still trying to gauge the direction of this conversation.

"Ordinarily, we would take him in, Marie-Ther^se and L . . ." Louis paused. "We are his guardians. But she is ill. Bob, gravely ill. She doesn't have much time."

"Fm sorry/' Bob interjected softly.

"What can I say? We had a honeymoon of forty years. But now you see why it's impossible. Unless we can find some alternative—and quickly—the authorities will take the boy away."

At last Bob sensed where this was leading. He grew angrier with every breath. And frightened.

"The child is inconsolable," Louis continued. "He is sad beyond tears. His grief is so great he cannot even cry. He just sits there—'

"Get to the point," said Bob.

Louis hesitated.

"I want to tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"That you exist."

"No I Are you crazy? How could that possibly help?"

"I just want him to know that somewhere in this world he has a father. It would be somethings Bobbie."

"Louis, for God's sake! Fm a married man with two young daughters. Look, Fm truly sorry about Nicole. Fm sorry about the boy. But I refuse to get involved in this. I will not hurt my family. I can't I wont That's final."

There was another silence on the line. Or at least ten seconds of nonverbal static.

"All right," said Louis at last. "Fll trouble you no more. But I do confess Fm very disappointed."

Too damn bad.

"Good night, Louis."

Yet another pause (for Bob to reconsider), and then at last capitulation.

"Goodbye, Bobbie," he mumbled, and hung up.

Bob put down the receiver and buried his head in his hands. This was too difficult to take in all at once. After so many years, Nicole Guerin, back in

his life. And could their brief affair really have produced a child? A son?

Oh, God, what should I do?

"Evenin', Perfesser."

Bob looked up, startled.

It was Lilah Coleman, on her daily rounds of tidying the offices.

*'How are you, Mrs. Coleman?"

''Not too bad. How's yer statistics?"

''Oh, pretty good."

"Say, you ain't run across some likely numbers, have ya? Rent's due an' my luck's been pretty lousy lately."

"Sorry, Mrs. Coleman, I don't feel too lucky myself."

"Well, as they say, Perfesser, 'if you don't feel it, don't play it.' Anyway, that's my philosophy. You gotta trust your gut."

She emptied his wastebasket and whisked a cloth across his desk.

"Well, I'll be rollin' on, Perfesser. Have a good summer. An rest that brilliant brain o' yours."

She left and softly closed the door. But something she had said stuck with him. Trust your gut. Quite unprofessional. But very human.

He sat frozen, staring at the telephone, long after Mrs. Coleman's footsteps faded down the corridor. He felt a desperate inward struggle, heart and mind at war. Don't be crazy. Bob. Don't risk your marriage. Nothing's worth it. Who knows if it's even true? Forget it.

Forget it?

An impulse he could not control made him pick up the phone. Even as he dialed he wasn't sure what he would say.

"Hello~if s me, Bob."

"Ah, good. I knew that you would reconsider."

"Listen, Louis, I need time to think. Fll call you back tomorrow."

"Good, good. He is a lovely boy. But do ring a bit earlier, eh?"

"Good night, Louis/'

They hung up. Now Bob was terrified. He had placed his whole existence in jeopardy. What made him call again?

Affection for Nicole? No. All he felt for her now was enormous rage.

A little boy he'd never met?

He walked like a zombie to the parking lot. He was panicked and confused. He had to talk to someone. But in the entire world he had only one close friend, one person who really understood him.

His wife, Sheila.

Jjy now Route 2 was fairly empty and he reached Lexington too quickly. He had really needed more time. To gain control of himself. Organize his thoughts. What am I going to say? How the hell am I even going to face her?

"How come you're home so late, Bob?''

Paula, his nine-year-old, was in constant training to take over as his wife.

''Departmental meeting," Bob replied, deliberately ignoring her unlicensed use of his first name.

In the kitchen Jessica Beckwith, twelve and a half going on twenty-five, was discoursing with her mother. Subject: fruits, creeps, wonks and nerds.

"Really, Mom, there's not one decent male in the whole upper school."

"What's all this?" asked Bob as he entered and kissed the two older women in his family. He was determined to act naturally.

"Jessie's lamenting the quality of the opposite sex at school—or actually the lack of it."

"Then maybe you should transfer, Jess," he said, teasing her.

"Oh, Father, you are hopelessly obtuse. All of

Massachusetts is the boonies. It's a province in search of a city."

Sheila cast an indulgent smile at Bob. "Well, Ms. Beckwith, what is your solution?" asked Bob.

Jessie blushed. Bob had interrupted her very subtle sales pitch.

''Mom knows/' said Jessica. ^'Europe, Bob," said Sheila. "Your daughter wants to take a Garber teen-age tour this summer." "But she's not actually a teen-ager yet," retorted Bob.

"Oh, Daddy, how punctilious you are," sighed Jessica. "Fm old enough to go."

"But you're also young enough to wait a year." "Daddy, I refuse to spend another summer with my bourgeois family on tedious Cape Cod." "Then get a job."

"I would, but I'm not old enough." "Q.E.D., Ms. Beckwith," Bob replied with satisfaction.

"Kindly spare me all your academic double-talk, will you? Wliat if there's a nuclear war? I could die without seeing the Louvre."

"Jessica," said Bob, enjoying this interlude from his anxieties, "I have it on good authority that there won't be a nuclear war for at least three years. Ergo, you have plenty of time to see the Louvre before we get zapped."

"Daddy, don't be ghoulish." "Jessie, it was you who brought the subject up," said Sheila, a seasoned referee for father-daughter sparring matches.

"Oh, you people are hopeless," sighed Jessica Beckwith once again, and slouched disdainfully from the kitchen.

They were alone. Why does she have to look so beautiful tonight? thought Bob.

"I wish they'd outlaw puberty," said Sheila, going to her husband for the daily evening hug she had looked forward to since breakfast. She put her arms around him. *'How come you're late? More memorable orations from the Colleague?"

*Teah. He was in rare stupefying form."

After so many years of talking to each other, they'd evolved a kind of code. For example, Bob's department had three men, two women and a ''colleague"—P. Herbert Harrison, a pompous ass with lengthy and dissenting views on everything. The Beckwiths' friends had also been given nicknames.

''The Owl and the Pussycat invited us for dinner Saturday with Carole Kupersmith."

''Alone? What happened to the Ape of Chestnut Hilir

"He went back to his wife.**

They had a marriage very much in sync. And she had flawless antennae when it came to sensing his emotions.