The Henderson Equation (37 page)

"I thought I saw something amiss here." He folded
the paper and put it under his arm, turning toward her, feeling his upper lip
quiver. She held out her hand, a farewell gesture. He took it mechanically in
his, which had started to sweat. He cursed his own impotence, feeling the
cutting edge of the castrator's knife.

"You'll have no regrets, Nick," he heard her say
sweetly as the door closed behind him.

The heavy blow to the side of her head had sent her
spinning across the main living room of the old Parker house. She fell in a
heap, her hair awry, her stocking torn. Charlie stood over her, remorseless,
glass in hand, his eyes dancing with drunken rage and madness. Then he had sent
the glass where she had fallen.

He had run toward the telephone, lifted the receiver as she
screamed to him: "Please, no, Nick."

But Charlie had by then grabbed a whiskey bottle by the neck,
removing the cap with his teeth as he upended it between his lips, sucking it,
like a baby with a bottle, the liquor pouring over his chin. He rushed into the
den, wobbling, his shoulders banging against the jambs as he slid the heavy
doors shut. They heard the click as he locked himself in.

Nick rushed to help her off the floor. She stood
unsteadily, rubbing the side of her head where the blow had fallen, brushing
her dress, uncomfortable at the indignity of her condition.

"You took him out too soon, Myra," he admonished.
He had been surprised when she told him only the day before that she was
bringing him home.

"He seems better, Nick," she had said cheerfully
on the phone. It was an uncommon call. "And I feel so damned guilty about
leaving him there."

"What do the doctors say?"

"Doctors," she said with undisguised contempt.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"We'll see," she said.

An unholy alliance, he and Myra. By then it had stretched
over two years, this descent into the pit, as Myra would characterize it in
hurried whispers each time Nick carted Charlie back home to the Parker house.
Because his condition was masked by drunkenness it was hard to tell how lucid
he would be once the effects of the alcohol wore off. At first he was contrite,
ashamed. Then nothing mattered. One simply stood aside and watched. To be a
watchdog was futile. Charlie was simply descending into a private hell, his own
mind. Sometimes Nick would be in at the beginning. It might start as an
allegedly innocent drink at Matt Kane's self-named authentic Irish pub, a noisy
contrivance, beer-soaked, screamingly ethnic, where the American Irish might
imagine that outside the door was the old sod. It had, though, the same odd
ambience of Shanley's, the same reddening Irish faces, the same startling
eloquence and self-pity.

Quickly, Charlie became a celebrity in the netherworld of
Matt Kane regulars. They were a motley assortment: tired waitresses, their big
butts perched ominously on the bar chairs, loquacious government intellectuals
whose obnoxiousness increased in proportion to their intake, the failed and
lonely, some, like Charlie, worldly successful, others merely worldly. The
bartender's name was Murray, wildly incongruous, he remembered, since there
couldn't have been a single Murray in all of Ireland. For five bucks, he would
keep an eye on Charlie while Nick walked the two blocks back to the
Chronicle,
picking up the reins of leadership that Charlie had by then cast aside. At
first he had tried euphemisms, little evasions, white lies, to hide Charlie's
condition from the
Chronicle
staff. But the stragglers at Matt Kane's
soon spread the word, and what people had thought was merely an indisposition
on the part of their executive editor was now specifically diagnosed.

At first he had tried to be a loyal friend and companion,
dutifully spending the time at Charlie's side until the wee hours of the
morning, then steering his friend to the car and planting him at his doorstep.
But that soon proved debilitating. He had not yet learned to exist on four
hours' sleep and Margaret was using the evidence to increase the pressure for
separation.

"I think you're carrying this too far, Nick," she
would say, turning in her sleep, heavy-lidded and annoyed because she had been
awakened.

"I owe it to him."

"I suppose," she would grunt, rolling heavily
from side to side to find her comfort again. "But I think you're a damned
fool." She might have thought he was joining in the drinking. There was
always a slight odor of alcohol, a brief dab since he rarely let himself have
more than three drinks a night while Charlie guzzled to insensibility.

Charlie did make valiant attempts to return to work each
morning, a white hulk, hands out of sight to hide the shakes, beads of sweat on
his forehead as he struggled for concentration, a pot of coffee at his side.

"You're killing yourself, old friend," Nick would
say, feigning light-hearted disinterest.

"I'll get over it, Nick."

"Not unless you break this cycle."

"I will."

"Why don't you get away, Charlie?" he would
sometimes plead. "You and Myra. Take a trip somewhere."

He would look up, eyes blazing with hatred.

"With that bitch? Are you crazy?" It was the
focal point of his rage, an obsession. Soon he gave up the pretense of working,
hardly able to survive through the first editorial conference and he was off to
Matt Kane's, usually arriving before the barstools had been taken off the bar.

Because it had happened by degrees, there was always the
hope that Charlie might snap out of it, as from a periodic bender. He had
learned from his experience at the
News
that there was a rhythm to these
episodes. At the
News,
when a man called in sick, his colleagues would
nod knowingly, calculating that the absent peer would emerge in a few days
physically ravaged but psychically refreshed. But Charlie, although he tried,
could not emerge. Not that he was without courage. Sometimes he would make it
almost to the point of the budget meeting, then shamefacedly mumble some excuse
and disappear out of the city room, trailing his jacket as he walked
heavy-stepped toward the elevators.

After months of this behavior, Nick had expected Myra to
call, to consult. But she remained aloof. And yet he sensed that he could feel
her eyes staring down at him from one of the upstairs windows of the house as
he led Charlie to the front door, putting the key into the lock and turning it
quietly, pushing the door aside for Charlie to stumble through. Perhaps she was
too ashamed, humiliated, although it seemed a measure of her confidence that
she assumed he was handling Charlie's editorial duties with some skill.
Apparently she always had confidence in that.

Finally she had come into the office. Nick had found her
there sitting at Charlie's desk, looking vaguely confused, trying desperately
to wear a pose of authority. She was sitting stiff and prim in Charlie's chair,
staring at an opened copy of the morning paper. He had seen her first through
the glass, a pitiful figure, paralyzed with fear, immobilized by the sudden
reality of being in Charlie's place.

He would always remember his own resentment at seeing her,
wondering if Charlie had finally been unable to get out of bed. He looked at
his watch, calculating that Charlie's driver might be just hauling him awake
and throwing him into the shower. It had come to that by then. He went into
Charlie's office, feeling vaguely annoyed.

"Myra," he said, feigning surprise, masking his
real feelings. She looked up at him, her helplessness undisguised.

"I feel I owe it to my father," she said
apologetically, "to be here." She was hesitant, confused. He watched
her without pity.

"Is he very bad this morning?" he said, forcing
himself to be gentle.

"It's hard to tell," she said. "He's beyond
communication." She lit a cigarette and Nick noted that the ashtray was
already filled with half-smoked lipstick-tipped cigarettes. "I'm
determined that my father's work shall not go down the drain," she said,
her voice strained. Then, turning to face him, "I need your help,
Nick."

He nodded. There was not much else he could do. Suddenly
the telephone rang on Charlie's desk, startling her. She looked at it dumbly,
her resolve fading swiftly as she watched it without reaching for it. He could
see her panic, and made no move to rescue her. It rang again. She stamped out
her cigarette and stood, stepping back from the desk, as if the telephone were
something threatening, evil. It rang again, persistent, urgent. Was he being
cruel not to pick up the receiver, end its ringing? It had become one of those
frozen moments of regret and years later he had wondered if it might have been
a cause for secret contempt. And yet it was the very first time that he could
sense the feel of her power over him, despite her hesitancy, her helplessness.

He could never recall whether the telephone had stopped of
its own accord, for Charlie's voice had intruded, crackling with anger,
startling them both, as he emerged through the office door, a shaky pale
figure, dapples of red flush painted on either cheek.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted at
her. Faces in the half-filled city room looked up, embarrassed. Some turned
away, perhaps sensing some future retribution for being a witness to the event.

"I will not let you destroy this paper," she
said, the strength in her voice ebbing. He was beginning to feel some
compassion for her.

"You get the fuck out of here," Charlie shouted.

"Charlie," Nick said, the words sticking in his
throat as he made a move toward him. But Charlie moved, as if his very survival
had been challenged.

"You keep out of this, Nick." He turned again
toward Myra, now cowering, a cornered helpless animal. "I want you the
fuck out of here," he shouted again, his arm outstretched, shaking a
finger, pointing to the door.

"You've no right."

"You get out of here."

"I will not," she said, summoning every ounce of
her defiance.

"You get out of here or I'll kill you. I swear I'll
kill you, you miserable bitch." His hand reached for some object on the
desk, a small paperweight, which fell from his hand as it left the support of
his desk. Nick jumped toward him, reaching to restrain him. But he managed to
shake himself free and swing out at her, as she covered herself with her arms,
expecting a blow to fall.

"I think you better go," Nick shouted, struggling
to keep Charlie's arms pinned to his sides.

"I will not go," she said, recovering some
determination. "I belong here. I have every right."

Charlie became slack in his arms, a ruse, Nick discovered,
for as soon as he relaxed his hold, Charlie stiffened, managing to loosen an
arm which he swung in Myra's direction, catching her in the upper arm, the
force of the blow pushing her against the wall.

"If you don't stop, Charlie, I'll have to call
someone." Nick's threat seemed to calm him.

"I just want her out of here," he said quietly,
almost pleading.

"Please, Myra," Nick begged.

"Let him go," she said, rubbing her arm, glancing
toward the city room, watching the tense faces. Charlie seemed suddenly spent
as Nick released him. Sitting down on a chair, he slumped over and put his
hands over his face. Myra came forward and put a hand on his head.

"It's all right, Charlie," she said, tears
misting her eyes, as she raised them and looked helplessly at Nick. He was
sorry for her now, sorry for them both.

"I'll go now," she said, looking at Nick, who could
sense the beginning of their alliance. Or was it a conspiracy?

Apparently the realization that he could be violent had
some effect and Charlie quickly submitted himself to treatment, allowing
himself to be registered in a local sanitorium. There they attempted to dry him
out while a battery of doctors poked around in his head for some hint of his
malady. Even Myra could appear hopeful on the telephone, reporting to Nick as
part of their new relationship, although she obediently refrained from setting
foot in the city room.

"He's improving, Nick. Really improving. And he looks
marvelous. He's even beginning to talk to me." She laughed gaily, like a
young girl.

"Great," he would comment, then reassuringly,
"Everything is under control up here. Tell Charlie we're not letting him
down."

"I know that, Nick. I'm very grateful." He felt
her sincerity and he threw himself into his work with passion.

It was the first of many cures. Charlie always returned
well rested, tanned, filled with enthusiasm, and with vials of pills, which he
lined in his desk drawer, but quickly refused to take.

"They're trying to poison me," he assured Nick,
and soon he was back at Matt Kane's, caught in the mist of his confusion, now
complicated by an odd sexuality, as if booze could no longer be an efficient
escape.

He had befriended a huge, big-buttocked woman named Mary
Lou. Coarse-featured, with hair dyed a reddish mouse color. She drank great
quantities of beer and possessed a howling laugh that could splinter the air,
an abrasive, nerve-racking sound.

By then, Nick was paying Murray regularly to make sure he
got home in one piece. Even his driver had quit and Nick had refused to play
watchdog again. One couldn't possibly keep up with Charlie's pace, losing
sleep, then be expected to put in a grueling day at the
Chronicle
. This
did not prevent shattering intrusions of telephone calls in the night, when
Charlie could not be placated.

"You better come over, Mr. Gold. I can't be
responsible," Murray would hiss urgently into the phone. On the first
occasion of the complication with Mary Lou, he had rushed into his pants with a
sweater thrown over his pajama top and jumped into his car for a wild ride to
Matt Kane's. When he banged on the now closed door Murray opened it swiftly,
his face oddly calm with a broad smile breaking on his face, irritating to
Nick, whose heart had not yet stopped beating in anxiety. Without a word,
Murray's head indicated the direction in which Charlie could be found.

Charlie and Mary Lou half lay, half stood, in an amorphous
mass, totally senseless, knotted together it seemed, obviously too much for one
man to extricate.