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The Winningtons stayed for dinner. We had no cook—only a part-time maid—and as usual, Mother prepared the turkey and Father uncorked his favorite Montrachet. After dinner, Father and I sat in the living room, while the three women stayed in the kitchen for chores and lively talk.
Father began in his now-see-here tone. “Terry, don’t be shocked when you start work here.”
“Why should I be shocked?”
“Your self-discipline isn’t all it could be.”
“Up to now—it’s been lousy.”
“I guess you could say that. Just remember—things won’t be as easy here as they were at good old North Chemical and Photographic. There, you had an agency to backstop you. Here, we do the backstopping—and more often, we play it alone. And the game can involve millions for the firm and its clients.”
“I know that.”
“The demands on your time are much greater here. You must know your account backward and forward—even before you get it. That takes study, planning—effort.”
“Sure—I expect that.”
“You have a creative bent, but you must do the work.”
“I’m ready for that.”
“Don’t think you can spend all your afternoons sipping whiskey, writing sonnets, and making love.”
“Gee whiz, Father,” I joshed. “Do you really mean it?”
Father relented with a smile. “Well—not all your afternoons, but maybe some.”
“You had me worried for a minute.”
The women came out of the kitchen, and the Winningtons prepared to leave. After we had seen them off, Father and I returned to our talk.
“How did you like Pamela?” he asked—a bit too casually.
“Fine—she’s the same nice girl I knew at Cornell.”
“Her father was a fine man—a brilliant lawyer.”
“Why did he kill himself?
“He was ill, I think. But I’m not sure.”
Mother came into the living room and sat down. She put an ashtray on the arm of her chair and lit a cigarette and then spoke to Father in a direct tone.
“Father,” she said—in my presence, they always addressed each other as parents—“it’s time for your medication. And I want you to get to bed early. You didn’t have your nap today, and you were up late last night.”
“Which pill do I take now? I’ve got the entire Pharmacopoeia on my night table.”
“Just take your pill. You know the one—and get your rest tonight.”
“All right, Mother,” he said. “If it will make you happy.”
Father stood up slowly and said goodnight as he moved across the carpet, walking not quite as tall as I remembered him. He walked down a short hallway and into the downstairs bedroom.
“How’s he doing,” I asked.
“He’s doing well—considering. A little weaker now.” She blinked away a few tears.
“Have you heard from Bill?”
“Yes—he wrote just recently from that faraway place.”
Bill was now a military advisor in a small hotspot called Vietnam. It was more and more in the news, though Bill’s letters gave few details. I suspected he was playing down the risks.
The next morning, standing on the sidewalk beside my rented car, I said good-bye to Father and Mother. They looked truly happy, and I was feeling better about moving down there for good—at least for the moment. My flight from LaGuardia landed in blowing snow. The temperature was five above, and my face stung as I waded through drifts of white powder to the parking lot. The Valiant started on the third try, and as soon as I got back to my apartment, I called Anna. We spent the evening sipping wine and making quiet love.
New Year’s Eve, we bought a pile of groceries and cooked dinner at my place. Later on, Larry and Andrea stopped by for a drink. Larry had volunteered for the draft, and in February, as we used to say, he had a date with Uncle Sam. Eventually, after tough training stateside, he reached Vietnam in time to die terribly in the Ia Drang valley. A sealed coffin is a sobering artifact.
We walked Larry and Andrea to their car. The night air was very cold and filled with misty-fine snow, and after they drove away, I noticed Anna was crying softly. She was especially lovely with the tears in her eyes and the snow mingled with her dark hair. And once again, I began to wonder whether I might be the damnedest fool under the stars.
By the end of January, I had given away my furniture and shipped my books and Utrillo prints to Father and Mother for safekeeping. At last, one fine morning, with my good-byes said, I stood in my apartment for the last time, staring at the three bare rooms.
It occurred to me that I had never taken a single picture of the place. Was the sofa here? Was the desk there? Where did I hang the Utrillo prints? And the Playmate of the Year? I couldn’t remember the place as it had been only a few days ago. It was all just—well, just gone.
~~~
I’m lying on the white sand near Hatteras. The sun is brilliant in a blue sky, perfect except for the vague Hatteras haze hanging above the horizon. In the gray expanse of the ocean, shrimp boats with orange masts are bobbing and casting. Close to shore, the gulls are shouting and lighting on the waves. Tomorrow, I’ll pack my clubs and golf clothes and drive to the Sandhills, where I’ll be judged by my handicap and, of course, by my golf clothes. For I’m now a man of leisure, having retired at a fairly young age. I still write poetry, from time to time, some of which has actually been published. I’m working on a novel, which I’ll probably finish, if I live long enough.
Father and I worked together for about a year before he died—peacefully in his sleep, as the Times put it in a long obituary accompanied by fine halftone. After his death, I took charge of the firm of W. W. Kilcourse and Son and guided it for twenty-five years—until shortly after Mother died. By then, our fortune had grown still greater, and so had my itch to leave New York City and head for soft terrain. My brother Bill was thriving in his own way. He had survived Vietnam, remained a soldier, and gained three stars and an office in the Pentagon.
About Robert Watts Lamon
