Other Plans (25 page)

“Please.” Wearily, Woody held up one hand. “No pictures. I am a very private person. I want nothing but my fireside, my slippers. Maybe to make a movie or two. Write a play now and then, a short story, perhaps. I do not seek fame. It seeks me. Everything must be kept secret. I do not divulge my plots. I want no bright lights,” he said, blinking into the strobes for which Elaine's was famous. “No parties.” His voice could scarcely be heard over the din. “I want only to travel the world incognito. I want only to be free to do my own thing.”

“And what
is
your own thing?” his father asked.

The brunette, waving a wand she had concealed in her flame-colored culotte, had the answer.

“As you wish, sire,” she said in a New Jersey accent. “From henceforth, you are the man in the street.” The wand grazed Woody's shoulder and he flinched. “The average John Doe, pulling down two hundred big ones weekly as a carpenter's apprentice.” It appeared that the brunette, now that she had center stage, was reluctant to leave it.

Woody leaped to his feet, sending her spiraling into the air. Fortunately for her, she was as agile as a fox and landed on her feet twenty feet away, scuffling her running shoes in the sawdust that was indigenous to the boîte in which she found herself.

The crowd applauded her wildly, putting Woody into an even bigger snit. “Carpenter's apprentice!” he howled. “Every time I hear the word ‘carpenter' I think of Jesus Christ. Was he not a carpenter, the noblest of them all? If I grew a beard and assumed a different expression, more soulful-like, I might be mistaken for the Messiah. It is entirely possible that this will be the theme of my next flick, although of course it is too early to tell and, at any rate, must be kept a secret. I may even star in this flick, which would sure beat fighting off fans in some grubby gin mill.”

Hands clasped in a prayerful attitude, Woody studied them from under his hat brim.

“Of course,” he mused, “Christ did not wear glasses. A small matter, taken care of by contacts. I plan to renounce the Hamptons, the fleshpots, the constant surveillance which my fans subject me to. I may even renounce my yellow Rolls.” A great sigh went up. Woody drew his nightshirt close about himself and scuttled off into the night. Alone. That was the worst of it. He was alone.

His father said, “Who
was
that man?” and John woke up laughing. It was the first laugh he'd had in days.

Grandy was coming.

“I didn't want to tell him so soon, John, but your mother insisted. She said he had to know. I know she's right, but I feel he's too old to be dragged in. What can he do? He shouldn't have to deal with this.”

It was the first time his father had spoken to him of his illness. He was dumbfounded. Tongue-tied.

“He's your father, isn't he?” he said, without thinking. “He has to know. Wouldn't you want to know if—” He'd been on the verge of saying “if I was sick.” And said only, lamely, “If it was me?”

His father looked stunned. “Of course,” he agreed, looking, for the moment, almost cheerful. “You're right, John. That's very wise of you.”

It was his turn to be stunned. He rolled the word around in his head for a long time. Wise. His father had said he was wise. A first. Was it possible he'd gained wisdom overnight, and would it be wisdom that would enable him to cope with this horrendous thing that had happened, was happening, to them all?

He and his mother drove to the airport to pick up Grandy. He was arriving on a flight due in shortly after noon. The thin March sunshine picked out bits of detritus strewn alongside the thru way, caught in the greasy snow remnants from the last storm. It was Wednesday. His father had gone in to the office. His mother, after saying she would go alone to Kennedy, had changed her mind and asked him to come with her. She'd even called Gleason to tell him she was keeping him out of school today on a family matter.

When they were near the airport terminal, he said, “Are you going to tell them at school? About Dad?”

“I will if you want me to.”

“I wish Dad would let me talk to him about it,” he said. “The only thing he's said to me is that you made him call Grandy.”

She only shook her head. They parked the car and walked toward the terminal.

“What did Grandy say?” he asked her.

“Only that he would come. Your father didn't want him to, but there was no stopping him.” She stepped off the curb into the path of a taxi. The driver blew his horn, leaned out of his window, and shouted at her. “Watch it, Ma,” he said, putting his hand on his mother's arm. He had to learn to be her protector. Up until now, he had never been anyone's protector. Without acknowledging his touch, she hurried across the street. “Your father told me this morning if he can get through this, seeing Grandy, I mean, handling that part of it, he can get through anything. Poor man. He dreads it so.”

The automatic doors opened and they went inside. Why does he dread seeing his own father so much? he wondered. Grandy might be old, but he was also tough. He wouldn't break down. Grandy would know what to say to his son. John was certain Grandy would know the right words. He counted on Grandy, was glad he was coming. How did people act in situations of this kind? How did they handle a notice of impending death? Either their own or that of someone deeply loved. Maybe Grandy would know what to say because he was old and—until now, anyway—closer to death than any of them.

They got to the gate just in time. Grandy was walking briskly toward them, a middle-sized man, his silver hair cut just so, dressed in a pin-striped suit. He was carrying an overcoat, his Homburg, and a briefcase.

They waved and Grandy came over to them, kissed his mother, and shook his hand. He liked that, was glad Grandy hadn't kissed him, as if he were a child. “Helen sent her best,” Grandy said. “She wanted very much to come, but I told her no. I thought it was better if I came alone. How is he, Ceil?”

“As you might expect, he's perfectly contained and very brave,” his mother said evenly. “He's handling everything methodically, wrapping up all sorts of loose ends in a very businesslike way.”

Grandy peered down at her, his brown eyes sad. “And you,” he said, “you are also brave.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact. She braced her lips against smiling, but a little laugh, tremulous but not without pleasure, came from her. “I'm so glad you're here.” She hugged his arm. “It was good of you.”

“As you can see, I came prepared.” Grandy indicated his overcoat. “I almost forgot a coat, Ceil. I'm getting used to the California weather. I forgot it was March, that it'd probably be cold here. But Helen reminded me.” They walked toward the luggage pickup. “She also insisted I bring two bags.” Grandy smiled slightly. “If it had been up to me, I would've managed with one. Helen has me under her thumb, as you can see. She even packed for me. I had to unpack when she wasn't looking and do it over my way.” He grimaced and they all laughed. “I'm set in my ways. Can't help that, at my age, can I. But Lord knows, if I can't pack my own suitcase at my age, I'm in bad shape.”

They waited at the carousel for the bags to come down the chute.

“It's hard on you, John.” Grandy regarded him intently. “Terribly hard. And on Leslie. I know you'll both bear up, for your mother's sake, as well as your father's.” Grandy cleared his throat and brought out an immaculate handkerchief to blow his nose, not expecting any answer from him, for which he gave thanks. “I'm prepared to stay as long as you want me, Ceil. As long as I'm of some use. Thought I'd play it by ear, as Helen is fond of saying, although what that means I'm not precisely sure. Now.” He turned as the bags began their trip around the carousel. “Let's get this over with. Hope they haven't lost mine. All of my friends in California have stories of luggage winding up in the Azores or some such fool place.”

They saw Grandy's bags almost immediately. “Helen read somewhere that bags should be marked conspicuously with their owner's initials, so she cut out some huge white letters and taped them on mine. I feel rather like a schoolboy going off to summer camp. Only thing she didn't do was sew name tapes in my socks and underwear. Helen is a born executive.”

He grabbed the big bag, his mother dealt with the smaller of the two. Grandy hailed a porter, who loaded the bags onto his cart. They followed the man out to the street.

“You stay here and I'll bring the car around,” his mother said.

“Nonsense. John and I can manage,” Grandy told her. “I'll take the little one, John can have the big one. Why do we have strong teenagers around if not to wrestle with the luggage, eh, John?”

“I can take them both,” he said masterfully. “Stand aside,” he ordered, and they did as they were told, giving him a feeling of immense power and satisfaction. For a minute, he forgot why they were here, at the airport, loading Grandy's bags into the car. For a minute, he knew a moment of pure happiness. Then it came back to him with almost physical force that Grandy was here on a terrible mission, and guilt at his little instant happiness took hold of him. He put down the bags and took a deep breath. When he picked them up again he felt smaller, diminished, a child once more.

They had tea when they got home, and Grandy gave them a large bag of artichokes, a present from Helen, he said, who made a regular trip to the heart of artichoke country, which was near where her sisters lived. Nothing would do, Grandy said, but that Helen must send them a little part of California. “Henry told her how much he liked artichokes when he was out with us,” Grandy said. “He made a big hit with her. And with les girls. Henry was wonderful with all of them, Ceil. They come on pretty strong on first meeting, but he handled them as if he'd been doing it all his life.”

John put too much cinnamon on the toast, his hand shook so. His mother kissed Grandy and thanked him, although she knew as well as he that artichokes had always been well down on his father's list of favorites.

All his life. The simplest remark took on new meaning.

“Henry said he'd be home early,” his mother said in a strained voice. “He's very busy at the office. He carries on as if nothing is wrong, and there's nothing I can do to stop him working. I suppose it's just as well. He comes home exhausted, but he says he has to keep going. While he still has the strength.” Grandy laid his hand over hers and they sat there quietly for a moment. She put sugar into her cup and stirred so vigorously the tea slopped over into the saucer. “He sees the doctor every other day. There isn't any change. There will be no change for a while. Henry's very thin, but otherwise he looks the same. It will take a while, I imagine.”

It was as if he wasn't in the room. It was Grandy and his mother talking to each other.

She walked aimlessly about the kitchen, nipping off dry leaves from the geranium on the windowsill, wiping imaginary spots off the stove with a sponge. Grandy drank his tea, letting her talk.

“What about Ed?” he said at last. “Did he let Ed know?”

She stopped moving. “He said he'd wait until you got here. I don't know why, but that's what he decided. I don't argue. He knows what's best for himself.”

Then Grandy said in a soft voice, “How about Leslie?”

All three of them seemed to stop breathing. He heard a plane go over the house, heard the mail drop through the slot in the front door.

“Leslie,” his mother said. “Well, we haven't told her yet. I was going to call her and he said to wait. She was just here, you see. On vacation. When he got back from Dallas, where he saw Ben Nilson—you remember Ben? Well, he's chief of staff in a new hospital out there, I guess they all love it, it's a whole new way of life, and Henry went to see Ben. They've been friends for years. And when he got back, Les had to leave sooner than she'd thought to write a paper of some sort, and he didn't want to upset her just then. He had to sort it out, had to get used to the idea.” She raised a hand to rub her eyes. “You know what I mean. Of course, he will never get used to the idea but,” her eyelids fluttered, “you know. You know Leslie, I mean. She will have to be told, of course. He wants to be the one to do it.”

He took Grandy's bags up to the guest room, wanting out of the kitchen, which suddenly was stifling. He picked up the mail from where it had fallen. If they didn't tell Les soon, she might spring the Saudi Arabia plan on them. That would be the end. He knew she'd never forgive herself. He was tempted to call her in secret, tell her, but he knew it wasn't up to him. His father had to do it. He only hoped it would be soon.

It seemed an eon since he'd brought Emma and Emma's bags up here, but it had only been a little over a week. He thought he smelled Emma's scent in the room. He wondered if, in her distracted state, his mother had remembered to change the sheets on the guest-room bed. He put down the bags and pulled down the bedspread to sniff at the pillowcase. It smelled of the sun and air. He was glad about that. His mother would never, no matter how distressed she might be, forget to change the sheets. He peered into the hall bathroom and saw fresh towels hanging there. If he closed his eyes he could hear the shower running, imagine Emma was there, washing her hair. He was overcome by a wave of guilt at thinking about Emma's bare skin when he should be thinking about his father.

He went to his room, lay down on the sofa bed, and fished under it, coming up with
Moby Dick
. He'd made a rule that he had to read at least one chapter in any book his arm discovered. It was a form of random self-discipline. He couldn't always read just what he wanted to read. He'd recently decided he couldn't go through life doing exactly as he pleased, either. He knew that tended to soften a person, and he wanted to be hard. Tough. When he was small, he'd gone to church and Sunday school and could never figure out why. He planned on canceling religion entirely when he got to college. It didn't mean anything to him, he'd announced somewhat belligerently, expecting an argument. His father had simply lowered his paper, peered over his glasses at him, and said he might regret that decision.