William F. Buckley Jr. (6 page)

“And Number Three?”

“Well now,
that
was a real romance. Hang on.” Danny coasted to a stop in front of the liquor store. “
Torrington Spirits. Founded During the Civil War.
”

“Couple of reds, couple of whites, couple of six-packs? Have I forgotten anything?”

“Sounds right,” Henry nodded. “I’m sure Mother can supply some absinthe for after dinner.”

In five minutes Danny was back in the car, the cardboard case of beer and wines reposing on the backseat.

“Okay, got what we needed. Do you suppose” (Danny did not avoid any opportunity to advertise his knowledge of wines) “they’ll ever make a wine in California you can drink? Last week I had a California Chablis. Tasted like Coca-Cola poured over old battery acid.”

“So you got French at the Civil War liquor shop?”

“Italian. And where was I? Oh yes, the
real
romance. Well, Number Three was an Eye-talian opera singer. He sang in Miami at a big benefit for the USO, and Mom was one of the sponsors, so he sat next to her at the dinner, and she invited him to stay at her place—oh, I didn’t tell you: She got Number Two’s big place on the water as part of the divorce settlement—because the Eye-talian tenor had two days to kill before his next performance.”

“What was
his
name?”

“Brace yourself, Henry. His name was Francantore Incantadore.”

“You are kidding me.”

“I am not kidding you. Franki’s father and mother must have thought they were kidding
somebody.
No wonder Franki looked so sad.”

“Did you find him sad?”

“Actually, believe it or not, I laid eyes on him exactly one time. It was just after basic, at Camp Wheeler—when I met you. I had—we had—a fortnight’s leave, I went home, late train, Atlanta-Miami, didn’t want to disturb Mom, so I got a taxi, drove to the house, got out, paid the taxi, lugged my stuff into the house. But I stopped. I heard this—
voice
bellowing outside, singing an opera aria. I dropped my bags, went around to the back of the house, and there was Francantore Incantadore standing naked on the beach, facing the house and singing like he was in the Metropolitan Opera.”

“Where was your mother?”

“She was on the second floor, in the bedroom, standing, the French door open, the moon shining in. I mean it was a great sight, grand opera in the buff.”

“You mean she was naked too?”

“No. Of course, I don’t know whether she would have become naked if after the aria I hadn’t cleared my throat.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, when Franki spotted me he dived into the sea. I didn’t much know what to do, so I walked into the house. Mom hugged me, told me about Franki, said he was divine and a real nature lover, loved to swim in the sea at night, and maybe I knew or had read somewhere that in Europe, along the Mediterranean, nature lovers don’t always use bathing suits? Anyway, by the time I left for Fort Dix they were engaged. That was true love. But,” Danny sighed, “true love doesn’t always last very long, and when Mom found out—she told me about it—that Franki had taken up with a lady harpist in Mexico, she called up the lawyer.”

“Your mom’s lawyer must have gotten used to it.”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s why she ended up marrying
him
, cheaper that way.” Danny laughed. “Actually, he’s a nice guy. Hard-working, Yale Law graduate, divorced himself, no kids. It’s lasted what, five years? and maybe it’ll go on—Hey, see that?”

Danny brought the car to a quick stop, reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his .22 Colt pistol. “Keep quiet,” he said quietly. He slid out from the driver’s seat, closing the door gently, and slunk into a ditch alongside. His body prostrate, he eased his head up to view the field, the pistol barrel protruding through the barbed-wire fence. Seated on the front seat of the car, Henry could see the woodchuck in the farm pasture. He had never himself shot one but that was simply because he hadn’t developed the appetite; woodchucks were plentiful in Litchfield County. Usually the opportunist hunters tracked them with rifles, .22s, but if the aim was sharp a pistol would do. Henry had seen Danny shoot and kill squirrels, five minutes’ drive past the Yale Bowl.

Danny fired. The woodchuck thirty yards away plunged into his hole. Danny lifted himself off the ground, brushed away stray leaves and thistle, returned the pistol to its holster and re-entered the car. He grinned happily. “I get maybe one out of five at that distance. I cleaned out the whole county at Newport the
summer before Camp Wheeler.” He tossed the pistol back into the glove compartment, put the car back in motion, and exulted in the top-down view of the Berkshire foothills toward which they headed.

As ever, Danny talked, about this and about that, about his pleasures, which were abundant, and his pains, centered mostly on this faculty member or that dean or that cousin, cumulatively not an enormous assembly, given that Danny O’Hara, charmer, led a pretty charmed life, and why not? Weren’t the alternatives ugly, he asked Henry?

A half hour later Henry said, “Turn left at the stop sign. You’re in Salisbury. We’re only two miles away.”

Danny drove and admired the elm trees that lined the road. They got to the town of Lakeville and Henry guided him to the northern fork from the town center. “See that house up there?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanda Landowska lives there.”

“Who?”

“The harpsichordist, Wanda Landowska. She does all her recording there.”

“So? Where else would she record?”

“Danny. Most recordings are done in studios. S-t-u-d-i-o-s. It is very unusual to record professionally in a country house a hundred yards from a lake.”

“So what happened to Miss Landowska?”

“What happened is she made a great hit, recording the
Well-Tempered Clavier
for RCA Victor. The locals—that includes me and Caroline and Mother; Caroline is a great buddy of the great lady, ever since she was nine years old—got a kick out of it because—all this was written up in
Time
magazine—when she began to record suddenly she stopped. Said she could hear noise from cars driving down along this road. The audio people said there’s no noise, but she said she didn’t care what the audio people said, she herself was not deaf—
Hi em noht defff!
—unlike the audio people, and—
she heard noise.
So she went to the phone and called the state police.”

“Called the police?”

“I mean, called the state troopers in Canaan, said she was the greatest living artist, was recording, and would they please seal off the road—this road, the one we’re on—for a couple of hours. And they did!” Henry moved his hand up across the steering wheel. “—Yes, turn into the driveway right there.… Speaking of the police, I wonder what—”

The state trooper stationed by the driveway motioned to Danny not to turn in. Henry intervened.

“Tell him it’s my house. My mother’s house.”

The policeman bent down and looked at Henry, then back at Danny. “You’ll have to wait. Just a minute. There’s an ambulance there. It’ll be coming right up. Matter of a minute or two.”

Henry opened the car door and jumped out. “What’s happened?”

“You the lady’s son?”

“I am Henry Chafee. Mrs. Chafee is my mother.”

The state trooper, a man in his middle age wearing heavy dark glasses, paused. “Your mother has had a heart attack. She’s being taken to the hospital in Sharon. I suppose everything will be all right. But you have to wait—the ambulance,” he peered down the road, “they’re taking her into it now.” He motioned a clearance to the ambulance driver and a moment later it crested the height and turned right, toward Sharon.

They sat silent in the living room, and Danny focused his eyes on Caroline Chafee, struck by her peculiar beauty. She was as plain as a subject of Andrew Wyeth, dressed in the simplest cotton, her hair untended, a lustrous yellow-brown, her brown eyes demure yet searching, intensively engaged, her face oval, her fine nose and ears exquisitely framed, Danny noted, spotting the tension in her hands gripped on the ends of the armchair. Twenty minutes later the telephone rang. Mrs. Chafee was dead.

The telephone rang twice and Henry spoke with a hospital administrator, with a doctor, and then with the family lawyer. Danny took the earliest opportunity to motion Henry to one side. “Henry, at this point I don’t think I can be of any help. Would it make sense if I just took off, went back to New Haven,
leave you and Caroline here without me to worry about?” Henry didn’t appear quite to understand him. But Caroline, grown in a few moments of tragedy into womanhood, Danny thought—this morning she must have been a beautiful girl, now she was a beautiful young woman—Caroline understood, and reacted decisively.

“Please stay, Danny.” Her voice was soft, yet oddly authoritative in tone. “It will help Henry.” Danny nodded. He would do as bidden.

Campbell Beckett, the family attorney, drove in. Caroline threw her arms around him and, in the arms of her godfather, let herself cry. The silver-haired lawyer stroked her hair and told her to try hard to compose herself, to accept the will of God. He went to the telephone in the little study. Henry was seated on a stiff upright chair, pale and silent. Danny, standing by the bookcase, could hear the lawyer talking to the doctor over the telephone. When he was through, Mr. Beckett addressed Henry.

“Dr. Coley is coming. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” He motioned to Henry to step outside with him.

“Did you know about your mother’s illness?”

Henry shook his head, no, he didn’t know about it.

“Dr. Coley will give you the details. I knew she was having trouble. After her physical in May she came to see me. She told me when she came in to make some changes in her will.”

“Was there any sign something was going to … happen?”

“No. She said the doctor had told her it could come any time, probably sooner rather than later. They could not bring her pulse rate down.”

Henry walked into the study and signaled to Danny to join him and Mr. Beckett. “Please tell him,” he asked the attorney, who filled Danny in. It didn’t completely surprise Henry when Danny then asked, “Are the kids, the, er, survivors, broke?”

Henry motioned to Mr. Beckett. “Please answer the question, Mr. Beckett.” He managed a half smile. “Don’t worry about breaking any confidences, Uncle Cam. Danny likes to be in on everything.”

The lawyer looked over at Henry. “Your mother has—had—some
money. And,” he pointed down to the floor and then up at the ceiling, “the house here is unmortgaged.” He turned to Caroline. “Whatever you want to do, dear, the estate can pay the bills, if you are careful. You will have to give that some thought. You will talk it over with Henry, of course.”

“What has Caroline been doing?” Danny whispered his question to Henry when the lawyer and his goddaughter walked out of the room.

“Going to night school in Torrington, working during the day at the hospital.” They could hear the doorbell. “Here’s Dr. Coley.”

William Coley, all six feet four of him, maneuvered himself into the little study, was introduced to Danny, conferred with Cam Beckett, walked into the house and into the bedroom and closed the door. Fifteen minutes later he came out and sat down by Henry. He looked up at Danny, and pointed his finger suggestively at the door. A New England doctor of the old school was not prepared to discuss intimate matters in the company of an undergraduate from Yale who was not a member of the family.

Danny walked out of the room, onto the lawn. He gazed for the first time at the spring-fed mile-square lake Henry had several times made reference to. At the opposite end he could make out what he assumed must be the Hotchkiss School for Boys, which Henry had attended while Danny was at school in Millbrook, fifteen miles west. The site was quite beautiful, Danny thought, prettier than any of the lakes around New Haven. The afternoon had turned colder but the sky was cloudless, and the sun’s rays brightened the foliage, yellows and reds and golds. Danny thought to himself: What a hell of a place and time for this
dumb
—he couldn’t find the right word for it—thing to happen. This was his first death outside the battlefield, he reflected. How many more deaths would he come upon before—dying himself? He laughed inwardly. He had forgotten all about dying since the war ended. He doubted he would ever die, he teased himself. Dying was for people less … competent than he! Silly thought, sure; he’d die, as everyone would, one of these days.
But for the next hundred years or so dying was for other people. Which reminded him—

What in the hell should
he
now do? After what Caroline said, he’d have to stick around. He couldn’t pretend he looked forward to sticking around, though Caroline was an entrancing girl. Woman. It would be good if he could think of something—anything—to
do.

Henry came out on the lawn. His color had returned. He cleared his throat.

Danny raised his hand. “You don’t have to give me the details, Henry. Just tell me this, you want me here—you agree with Caroline?—or should I go back to New Haven? I can find some way of getting back and leave you my car to use.”

“Thanks. Caroline has Mother’s car. I’d like you here, but only if you … if you don’t mind staying. Caroline’s better. The doc gave her some sort of something.” He smiled shyly. “I know something about shock.”

Danny’s instinct was to be direct. “Well now, Henry, I think I can remember that all right. How many days did you go without talking to anybody? Eh? But you know something, Henry, if somebody is so sick they can’t
endure
life, maybe it’s good it goes the other way? Maybe she was suffering a lot and you and Caroline didn’t know it. Did Dr. Coley tell you?”

Henry looked at Danny inquiringly, as if he had never quite thought about it that way. In fact he hadn’t. He didn’t really want to talk about it. “We should start thinking about having something to eat.”

Danny said he would go out and get some food and bring it in.

“You don’t know where to go.”

“I’ll figure it out. You stay with Caroline. Where’s a beer-can opener?”