Mack knew that her life here was lonely. Craig was too rarely sober or mobile or sociable. And Mack understood that things could not be easy, financially. By now, Craig’s meagre savings must have dwindled away, leaving innumerable debts, and there was little hope of salvation. Craig had one hundred pages of a new novel, Return to Ithaca, but only a handful of these pages had been added in six months. Briefly, there had been an opportunity for a teaching job at Joliet College, four miles north of Miller’s Dam. A solemn, scholarly literature professor at the college, Alex Inglis, a frustrated writer in his fifties deeply devoted to Craig’s books, had pulled strings to bring his idol into the college as an instructor. This high-hope had dissolved when, to impress the Board of Regents, Inglis had arranged a literary lecture by Craig, at Joliet, and Craig had appeared too drunk to go on.
The Craig household still survived, Mack was certain, because Leah was economical and husbanded what was left of Craig’s past. Royalties from paperback editions of the novels, and foreign editions, and television adaptations, dribbled in, and Leah made the most of them. Also, she helped keep alive Craig’s limited cult throughout the country, and interest in his old work, by co-operatively corresponding with every fan and critic, by encouraging them to write about Craig and by bedevilling Craig’s despairing agent to press continually for reprints and new editions of his four books. Thus, she maintained Craig-and herself-above water. But for how long?
And why? The last question was the one that interested Lucius Mack. Why had Leah Decker, an eligible woman no more than thirty-four, dedicated herself to this existence? Was it that she was sorry for her brother-in-law? Was it that nearness to a once promising literary figure enriched a potentially drab life? Was it masochism? Or was it-and Mack had often speculated on this point-that she secretly wanted her sister’s husband, the future security and prestige he might provide, even his love? Mack wondered.
‘It’ll just be a minute,’ Leah called over her shoulder, as she took the rolls from the oven.
‘No hurry.’
Watching Leah, Mack wondered about another thing, too. Whenever Mack or other close friends were present, and Craig was not, Leah always decried her brother-in-law’s drinking. She played Carrie Nation, and evoked sympathy and admiration. Yet, Mack wondered. Somehow, there were always fresh bottles of Scotch in Craig’s room, and Craig did not buy them. Somehow, Craig drank before Mack saw him, and after. Mack wondered if Leah actually, in subtle ways, encouraged Craig’s drinking, or at least went along with it, to reduce his potency as a man. In this way, she could have him dependent on her as part nurse, part mother, part wife. Without drink, as once he had been, Craig might leave Miller’s Dam, depart from the place and Leah’s person, and she would be left without him, in a void and an old-maid. Still, there were arguments against such behaviour on Leah’s part, such as the fact that his insobriety meant his inactivity as an artist, and this impoverished him and, in turn, Leah. What was the truth about Leah? Mack revelled in these old man’s games.
She brought two cups of steaming coffee to the table, and then bringing the heated rolls and butter, she sat down across from Lucius Mack.
Stirring sugar into her coffee with her spoon, she said, ‘You know, I’ve tried to talk to him several times these last weeks. I mean, about trying to write a little every day-do something.’ Her eyes stayed on the spoon. ‘I wish you’d speak to him sometime. He might listen to you.’
Mack poured cream in his coffee, and then sipped his drink. ‘We’ve discussed it many times, Leah. What do you think we talk about up there? A good day’ll come, I’m positive. Right now he’s caught up in this pattern of self-destruction. But at the core, he’s too tough to kill himself. He is a writer. He has a mind. One day, these factors will dominate him. One day, he’ll wake up from all of this, and the bottle will be a stranger, and he’ll say to himself-Christ, where have I been? And he’ll say to himself-it’s my turn to live again. And then, he’ll be like he used to be.’
‘Sometimes it never happens. Poe-’
‘Nonsense. Forget Poe.’
‘Well, I’m waiting for that day. Three years is an awfully long time.’ She pushed the plate of rolls toward Mack. ‘Have some. You need filling.’
As if to punctuate Leah’s dietary advice, the wall telephone in the kitchen rang.
There were few calls these days, and Leah was quick to reach the telephone and unhook the receiver. She listened a moment, and, disappointed, told the party to hold on, then held the receiver towards Lucius Mack.
‘For you,’ she said. ‘Jake Binninger at the office.’
Mack got to his feet and went to the telephone. He wedged the receiver between his shoulder and his chin, as was his habit, and listened.
Seated at the table again, Leah, absorbed in her own thoughts, paid no attention. Sipping her coffee, she almost spilt it when she heard Mack’s sudden exclamation. She looked up surprised, to see his creased face opened wide and red with pleasure.
‘Are you sure, Jake?’ he was pleading into the telephone. ‘It’s not a hoax? Read it to me again-the whole thing-slowly-now go ahead.’
Only the hum of the refrigerator could be heard, as Lucius Mack pressed against the telephone, and Leah observed him with curiosity.
Mack broke the silence. ‘All right-that’s enough-what a day! Now, look here, Jake, you just drop everything and hop over, and bring all that with you.’
He hung up with a bang and spun around.
‘Leah, it’s sensational-the news just came through-Andrew’s gone and won the Nobel Prize for literature!’
Her face was puzzled. ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand-’
Mack took her by the shoulders, half lifting her to her feet, and shaking her in his enthusiasm. ‘The Nobel Prize-!’
‘In Sweden?’ she asked blankly.
‘The biggest in the world. Over fifty thousand smackers for Andrew Craig!’
‘Explain it, Lucius. I don’t know. I’m all mixed up.’
‘You know-you know-the annual award to the best author on earth-and they’ve just announced it from Stockholm -they’ve voted it to Andrew.’
‘Oh, my-my-’ She was almost speechless. ‘Is it true?’
‘Jake got it on the Associated Press wire. He checked. The telegram from Stockholm just came into the office on Main Street.’
‘What do we do?’ she asked helplessly.
‘We get Andrew on his feet, and damn quick. AP and UPI are flying their men in from Chicago. Time, Life, and Newsweek are, too. They’ll all be here tonight. And the Milwaukee and Madison papers are sending down special correspondents. They’ve all checked with our office. This is news, Leah-this is big!’
‘But Andrew-he can’t-’
‘He can and will,’ said Lucius Mack. Grabbing Leah by the elbow, he began to propel her out of the kitchen, when suddenly he halted. ‘No, wait. You set up gallons of hot, black coffee, while I wake him. We’ve got to get him partly sober!’
Leah moved her head mechanically in assent, and pointed herself back towards the kitchen. Mack ran through the living-room raced up the staircase, and burst into Craig’s bedroom.
Andrew Craig lay flat on his back now, arms stretched wide, filling the bed as if crucified. His respiration was nasal and difficult.