Sins of the Fathers (60 page)

The doctors say it’s cystic fibrosis.

Babies don’t live if they develop cystic fibrosis.

Edward John dies after six days in the world.

I’m drinking too much, I’ve asked Mother if she could take the kids away for a while, and she and Cornelius somehow pull themselves
together sufficiently to ship everyone, including themselves, to Arizona. Cornelius has recently bought a winter home there
not only because the air is good for his asthma but because he’s still kidding himself that he’s building up to an early retirement
among the cacti.

I sit alone at Fifth Avenue and drink. Presently I have to see a social worker at the hospital, and with her help I organize
a very, very small funeral for that very, very small coffin. I’m the only mourner and the service is over in minutes. Then
I drink some more and go to the hospital to see Vicky.

Difficult to talk but I must try.

‘It’s been hell, hasn’t it?’ I say. ‘What do you think’s the best way out? I can take you away somewhere – or we can stay
at the apartment if you don’t want to travel.’

She stares down at the sheet. Finally she manages to say: ‘I want to be alone, Sebastian.’

This is what I’ve been afraid of.

‘To think?’

‘Yes. To think.’

‘Okay.’ Sam Keller’s shoes are nailed to my feet and they’re the tightest possible fit. I’m hurting all over. I don’t know
how I’ll live with the pain.

I take her to the apartment.

‘Call whenever you feel ready to see me,’ I say, kissing her briefly on the cheek.

She nods. I go away.

I return to the Van Zale mansion and wonder how long I’ll have to wait.

She calls. She’s been alone for two weeks. Cornelius keeps phoning in a frenzy from Arizona to say she’s been mentally unhinged
by the loss of her child and may kill herself. Since it’s impossible for me to hold a rational conversation with him I ask
Mother to explain that Vicky wishes to be alone and that no one, least of all Cornelius, has any right to intrude. To her
great credit Mother appears to understand and promises me she’ll restrain Cornelius from rushing to Vicky’s side.

I’m about to leave the bank when Vicky calls.

‘Sebastian, can you meet me at the Plaza?’

When I arrive she’s waiting in the lobby. She’s wearing a drab coat and she hasn’t set her hair so that there are no curls,
only waves. This makes her look younger, and unexpectedly I remember her as she used to look long ago before she unconsciously
played Juliet to my disastrous Romeo at Bar Harbor.

We have a drink in the Oak Bar.

‘How are you doing?’ I say to her.

‘Better. Everything seems clearer at last.’

We’re sitting in a corner and I’m drinking scotch too fast while she’s stirring but not touching a Tom Collins. Her voice
is calm and her eyes are dry but she keeps stirring and stirring and stirring. She can’t look at me.

‘It was terrible about the baby, wasn’t it?’ she says at last. ‘It seemed so pointless to put a baby in the world just for
six days. The pointlessness upset me. I felt there had to be a point. I just couldn’t believe we went through all that for
nothing.’

‘Yes. Futile. No God. Obvious. It makes me mad.’ I drink nearly all my scotch and signal for another. ‘But it doesn’t matter
now – nothing matters so long as we can get back together again.’ I don’t mean to say that but it slips out, and now I’m the
one who stares down at my glass and can’t look anyone in the eye.

I hear her voice. ‘Sebastian, I do love you in many ways and I’ll never forget how much I owe you for standing by me when
I was in despair, but—’

‘Don’t say it. Don’t. Please.’

‘I’ve got to,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to face up to the way things really are. It’s a question of survival.’

I look at her and for the first time in my life I see Cornelius behind her eyes. She’s never reminded me of him before. There’s
a physical
resemblance but nothing in her character or personality has ever reflected him to me, and for a second I see the new Vicky
– no, not the new Vicky but the real Vicky, the person no one, not even I myself, has truly tried to know.

‘I could go on kidding myself,’ she says. ‘I could say Edward John lived and died to bring us together in holy matrimony so
that we could live happily ever after. I did say that for a time because otherwise his life and death seemed so pointless,
but then gradually I began to realize the point was not to encourage me to go on living the same old lies. The point of his
life and death was to bring me face to face with the truth, and the truth is, of course—’

‘I know we should never have had Edward John, but—’

‘No, probably not, but that’s not the main issue. The main issue is that I should never have married you. It’s true I’ve had
a much more successful relationship with you than I ever had with Sam, but that hasn’t stopped us from ending up in exactly
the same mess, has it? You’re so sweet and kind and understanding that I let you make love to me not because I want to but
because I feel I ought to – can’t you see the familiar pattern recurring? You probably had better times with Elsa than you
ever had with me.’

‘No, Vicky. The most wonderful times of my life were with you.’ My new drink arrives. I take a big gulp of it but can hardly
swallow. ‘Vicky, I think we can get this to work. I’m sure we can solve our problems. We’ve got so much else going for us.’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘we have, but the sex is just no good. There are two reasons for this, not just one. If there was only one
maybe we could work something out, but—’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say. But I do.

‘Well, the obvious reason is the physical one – we just don’t seem to fit well together. You must know this – you can’t be
unaware of it. We’re physically mismatched.’

‘Only in your mind, Vicky.’

‘But—’

‘What you’re saying is anatomically impossible. It’s just one of those old sex myths which everyone believes but which has
no basis in medical fact.’

She shrugs. ‘If you want to take that line, I can’t stop you.’

I have another gulp of scotch. She still hasn’t touched her drink. I’m reminded of Cornelius toying with a sherry glass the
size of a thimble while he conducts an interview requiring all his skill and concentration. ‘If you want to take that line,
I can’t stop you.’ I hear the pragmatism echoing behind the terse ruthless monosyllables, and
again I glimpse the stranger who’s so unnervingly familiar to me, the stranger with a mind of her own.

‘Vicky—’

‘All right, you disagree. Then let me give you the other reason why the sex is just no good. It’s because my motives for going
to bed with you are all wrong. They were all wrong with Sam too. What I was really saying to you both was: “Help me, take
care of me, I can’t handle life on my own.” I said that to you when I got pregnant and panicked, although the words which
came out were: “I want to marry you.” Sebastian, I’ve got to learn to stand alone. If I keep seeking out men to take care
of me I’m always going to end up in the same mess, can’t you see, because what I’m really doing is trading my body in return
for paternal care. I’m prostituting myself all the time – no wonder I so often suffer from a revulsion towards sex! It’s a
miracle I can bring myself to go to bed with anyone at all. So I’ve got to end this cycle, Sebastian. I’ve got to get out
and set myself free.’

I don’t answer, can’t answer. She’s probably right, I know she’s right, but where does that leave me? How do I survive in
a world where Vicky never wants me to make love to her again?

‘I didn’t always hurt you, did I, Vicky?’

‘Usually.’

‘No pleasure? None at all?’

‘None.’

How brutal the truth can be. No wonder we all spend so much time lying to each other and deceiving ourselves. It’s dangerous
to look directly at the sun with the naked eye. The sun can blind you. You can be maimed for life.

‘Sebastian—’

‘No, don’t say any more. No point.’

What more is there to say? I love her. I’ll love her always and perhaps one day she’ll come back to me. But meanwhile all
that matters is that I can no longer help her and that if I love her I’ll let her go.

I take a five-dollar bill out of my pocket and leave it on the table for the waiter.

Suddenly she starts to cry and then she’s the old Vicky again, lost, muddled and unhappy, turning to the nearest protective
male for the care she’s been mainlining on for years. That’s some habit Cornelius gave her, and I know now I’ve got to do
all I can to help her break it.

‘Forgive me, Sebastian – I hate hurting you like this – I do love you very much – Oh Sebastian, I didn’t mean it, let’s go
to the apartment, let’s try again—’

‘Then Edward John would have lived and died for nothing.’ Now
it’s my turn to present the brutal truth. ‘Sure you love me, Vicky – like a sister loves a brother. Let’s leave it at that,
shall we?’ I get up. I don’t touch her. I don’t kiss her goodbye. But I say quietly in my firmest voice: ‘Good luck, Vicky.
Lots of luck, all the luck in the world. And remember – wherever you are and whatever happens to you, I’m with you all the
way.’

She can’t speak, just covers her face with her hands.

I leave.

I’m blind with pain. I walk but don’t know where I’m walking. Once I stop in a bar but I can’t drink. I want to talk to someone
but there are no words.

Should I go back to Elsa? No, she’d never have me back. I’d swallow my pride to be with Alfred again but Elsa’s all Reischman
and she’ll never forgive me for walking out on her.

I wonder what I’ll do about women in the future. I guess I’ll eventually make it with someone again, although at present this
seems inconceivable. I’ve no desire. I’m dead from the waist down.

I walk and walk and I know it’s late because I see fewer people on the streets. I must go home, but where’s home? There’s
Elsa’s place and Vicky’s place and Mother’s place but none of them feel like home to me now. I must get a place of my own.
A studio apartment. I’d like to live in one room, like a monk. I wonder who lives in Kevin Daly’s attic nowadays.

I’d like to talk to Kevin Daly. I’d like to talk to the man who understands that two people can love each other yet still
be cut off from true communication; I’d like to talk to the man who knows that love doesn’t necessarily conquer all.

But Kevin’s so famous, so popular, so busy. Better not to bother him.

Where the hell am I? I stop to look around. I seem to be on Eighth Street west of Fifth Avenue. Not far from Kevin.

I find a pay-phone and get the number from the operator. Kevin’s listed under the pseudonym Q. X. O’Daly. I remember Vicky
and I laughing about that once, long ago.

The phone rings.

‘Hullo?’ says Kevin.

‘Hi,’ I say. It’s so hard to speak but I manage to tell him my name.

‘Ah!’ says Kevin, sparkling as ever. ‘The man who compared me with John Donne! When are you going to come and see me?’

I want to be polite and diplomatic but it’s beyond me. I just say: ‘Now?’

‘Okay. You know the address, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ I say goodbye. Then I hang up and glance at my watch. It s half-past one in the morning.

Kevin’s wearing plain blue pyjamas with a white robe on top. He opens the door and says he’s making coffee. Would I mind sitting
in the kitchen?

I try to apologize but he waves that aside and somehow succeeds in making me feel welcome. His kitchen is warm and unpretentious.
I tell him so and he’s pleased.

We sit down with our coffee. I’m not sure what to say – I don’t even know if I want to say anything – but I like sitting in
a well-lit room with someone friendly. It’s better than being alone in the dark.

‘Well, how are you, Kevin?’ I say, feeling I must make some effort to talk since he’s been so kind to me.

‘Frightful,’ says Kevin. ‘My personal life’s like Hiroshima after the Bomb. How are you?’

He’s probably lying but it doesn’t matter because he’s signalling a message which has nothing to do with the surface meaning
of this extravagant declaration. He’s seen that I’m wrecked. He’s agreeing how hellish life can be. He’s saying that if I
want to talk he’ll listen.

I talk a little but not much because I’m afraid of not behaving like an Anglo-Saxon.

‘Christ, this coffee’s terrible!’ says Kevin. ‘Have a drink.’

He’s writing a prescription to help me along.

‘Okay.’

‘Mind what you have?’

‘No.’

Kevin produces a bottle with a picture of a bird on it, and soon talking gets a little easier. I can’t tell him everything,
but it doesn’t matter because Kevin picks up my disjointed sentences and reads meaning into them as no one else would.

We have another drink.

‘I keep asking myself what will happen to her,’ I say at last. ‘Will she in fact ever be able to stand alone? And if and when
she does, will she like her new life any better than the old life she’s rejecting? What does independence means for a woman
anyway? Isn’t it a contradiction in terms? How can a woman reconcile the concepts of independence with the biological fact
that in most male-female relationships both parties are more comfortable if they feel the man’s the dominant partner?’

‘Ah, but is it biological?’ says Kevin quickly. ‘Or is it just social
conditioning? I remember discussing this point once with my sister Anne, and she said – did anyone ever tell you about my
sister Anne?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No, I don’t talk much about her nowadays. Well, Anne called this problem the classic feminine dilemma, and years ago after
her husband died – or was it after she left him? The two events were almost simultaneous – we sat down right here at this
table and debated the subject together. I took the optimistic view: I thought that if only a woman would have the courage
to be herself she’d have much more of a chance of finding a man with the courage to accept her as an independent person, even
if she didn’t live up to our society’s concept of the ideal woman. But my sister Anne said I was deluding myself. She said
this was sheer romantic idealism.’