“Never mind that,” Cass said, “you know that’s Michael’s chess set and he can do whatever he wants with it. Now, come on, wash up, and get your clothes on.”
She went into the bathroom to supervise their washing and get them dressed.
“Is Daddy up yet?” Paul wanted to know.
“No. He’s sleeping. He’s tired.”
“Can’t I go in and wake him?”
“No. Not this morning. Stand still.”
“What about his breakfast?” Michael asked.
“He’ll have his breakfast when he gets up,” she said.
“We never have breakfast together any more,” said Paul. “Why can’t I go and wake him?”
“Because I told you not to,” she said. They walked into the kitchen. “We can have breakfast together now, but your father needs his sleep.”
“He’s always sleeping,” said Paul.
“You were out real late last night,” said Michael, shyly.
She was a fairly impartial mother, or tried to be; but sometimes Michael’s shy, grave charm moved her as Paul’s more direct, more calculating presence seldom could.
“What do you care?” she said, and ruffled his reddish blond hair. “And, anyway, how do you know?” She looked at Paul. “I bet that woman let you stay up until all hours. What time did you go to bed last night?”
Her tone, however, had immediately allied them against her. She was their common property; but they had more in common with each other than they had with her.
“Not so late,” Paul said, judiciously. He winked at his brother and began to eat his breakfast.
She held back a smile. “What time was it, Michael?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said, but it was real early.”
“If that woman let you stay up one minute past ten o’clock—”
“Oh, it wasn’t that late,” said Paul.
She gave up, poured herself another cup of coffee, and watched them eat. Then she remembered Ida’s call. She dialed Vivaldo’s number. There was no answer. He was probably at Jane’s, she thought, but she did not know Jane’s address, or her last name.
She heard Richard moving about in the bedroom and eventually watched him stumble into the shower.
When he came out, she watched him eat a while before she said,
“Richard—? Rufus’s sister just called.”
“His sister? Oh, yes, I remember her, we met her once. What did she want?”
“She wanted to know where Rufus was.”
“Well, if she doesn’t know, how the hell does she expect us to know?”
“She sounded very worried. She hasn’t seen him, you know — in a long time.”
“She’s complaining? Bastard’s probably found some other defenseless little girl to beat up.”
“Oh — that hasn’t got anything to do with it. She’s worried about her brother, she wants to know where he is.”
“Well, she hasn’t got a very nice brother; she’ll probably run into him someplace one of these days.” He looked into her worried face. “Hell, Cass, we saw him last night, there’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Yes,” she said. Then: “She’s coming here this afternoon.”
“Oh, Christ. What time?”
“I told her about three or four. I thought Vivaldo would be here by then.”
“Well, good.” He stood up. They walked into the living room. Paul stood at the window, looking out at the wet streets. Michael was on the floor, scribbling in his notebook. He had a great many notebooks, all of them filled with trees and houses and monsters and entirely cryptic anecdotes.
Paul moved from the window to come and stand beside his father.
“Are we going to go now?” he asked. “It’s getting late.”
For Paul never forgot a promise or an appointment.
Richard winked at Paul and reached down to cuff Michael lightly on the head. Michael always reacted to this with a kind of surly, withdrawn delight; seeming to say to himself, each time, that he loved his father enough to overlook an occasional lapse of dignity.
“Come on, now,” Richard said. “You want me to walk you to the movies, you got to get a move on.”
Then she stood at the window and watched the three of them, under Richard’s umbrella, walking away from her.
Twelve years. She had been twenty-one, he had been twenty-five; it was the middle of the war. She eventually ended up in San Francisco and got paid for hanging around a shipyard. She could have done better, but she hadn’t cared. She was simply waiting for the war to be over and for Richard to be home. He ended up in a quartermaster depot in North Africa where he had spent most of his time, as far as she could gather, defending Arab shoeshine boys and beggars against the cynical and malicious French.
She was in the kitchen, mixing batter for a cake, when Richard came back. He put his head in the kitchen door, water running from the end of his nose.
“How’re you feeling now?”
She laughed. “Gloomier than ever. I’m baking a cake.”
“That’s a terrible sign. I can see there’s not much hope for you.” He grabbed one of the dish towels and mopped his face.
“What happened to the umbrella?”
“I left it with the boys.”
“Oh, Richard, it’s so big. Can Paul handle that?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “The umbrella’s going to get caught in a high wind and they’ll be carried away over the rooftops and we’ll never see them again.” He winked. “That’s why I gave it to them. I’m not so dumb.” He walked into his study and closed the door.
She put the cake in the oven, peeled potatoes and carrots and left them in the water and calculated the time it would take for the roast beef. She had changed her clothes and set the cake out to cool when the bell rang.
It was Vivaldo. He was wearing a black raincoat and his hair was wild and dripping from the rain. His eyes seemed blacker than ever, and his face paler.
“Heathcliff!” she cried, “how nice you could come!”—and pulled him into the apartment, for it did not seem that he was going to move. “Put those wet things in the bathroom and I’ll make you a drink.”
“What a bright girl you are,” he said, barely smiling. “Christ, it’s pissing out there!” He took off his coat and disappeared into the bathroom.
She went to the study door and knocked on it. “Richard. Vivaldo’s here.”
“Okay. I’ll be right out.”
She made two drinks and brought them into the living room. Vivaldo sat on the sofa, his long legs stretched before him, staring at the carpet.
She handed him his drink. “How are you?”
“All right. Where’re the kids?” He put his drink down carefully on the low table near him.
“They’re at the movies.” She considered him a moment. “You may be all right but I’ve seen you look better.”
“Well”—again that bleak smile—“I haven’t really sobered up yet. I got real drunk last night with Jane. She can’t screw if she’s sober.” He picked up his drink and took a swallow of it, dragged a bent cigarette from one of his pockets and lit it. He looked so sad and beaten for a moment, hunched over the flame of the cigarette, that she did not speak. “Where’s Richard?”
“He’ll be out. He’s in his study.”
He sipped his drink, obviously trying to think of something to say, and not succeeding.
“Vivaldo?”
“Yeah?”