| The
Rodent
By
Peter Baida
"Dad, do
you know anything about medieval scholasticism?"
"Get off me, doodoohead."
ìHow do I look, hon?"
Harold Winter, adjusting his green-and-gold tie in the mirror, said
to Lisa, his sixteen-year-old: "Saint Thomas Aquinas."
He ignored Anne, his nine-year-old, who had just called Robby, his
twelve-year-old, a doodoohead. To his wife in her crimson dress,
which he saw as a blur of color out of the corner of one eye, he
said, without quite looking at her: "You look great, hon."
From the stereo speakers in a wall unit, Louie Armstrong rasped
out the words to "Ain't Misbehavin'."
"Don't call me doodoohead, squirt!"
"Doodoohead! Doodoohead!"
"Who was Thomas Aquinas?"
"Squirt! Squirt!"
"Ouch!"
"Robby,
Anne, knock it off this second!"
In the mirror, at the same time that he heard his wife's voice,
Harold saw a crimson shape advancing toward his children.
"He called me squirt," Anne complained.
"She called
me doodoohead," Robby complained.
"Knock it off right now!" Peggy said in her "Mom
means business" voice. Robby stuck out his tongue at Anne,
who wrinkled her nose in response. The telephone rang. "I've
got it," Peggy said, heading toward the den.
Harold turned
from the mirror and walked toward Lisa, who was sitting on the piano
bench in the living room, with her back to the piano. "What
makes you ask about medieval scholasticism?" Harold asked.
At the same time, with a swift motion, he threw a mock combination
of punches toward Robby's midsection. Robby responded with a shriek
of pleasure and a fierce karate kick. Anne scowled.
"Term paper,"
Lisa said with an unhappy expression on her face. "Mr. Winkle
says he thinks medieval scholasticism would be a good subject for
a term paper."
"Honey,
it's for you," Peggy said, walking back into the room with
her arms lifted and her hands fussing behind her neck. She was putting
on a strand of pearls to go with the dress.
The year was
1972. Harold Winter was forty-five years old; Peggy was forty-two.
At the Ridgeville Playhouse that night, Harold and Peggy had tickets
to see a road company in a revival of Kiss Me Kate. Later, Harold
would recall this scene--the children squabbling, Satchmo singing,
his wife walking back and forth in the crimson dress, himself getting
ready for an evening out--with wry regret. If he had known the turn
that his life was about to take--well, better not to think what
he might have done if he had known.
Ridgeville is
located in northern New Jersey, twenty miles northwest of Manhattan,
in an area favored by affluent professionals. The Winter family
had lived in Ridgeville, on Starlight Court, since the summer of
1963. The houses on Starlight Court reflected the tastes of interior
decorators who rarely were required to worry about costs. The grass
on Starlight Court shone like the grass in the photographs in real-estate
brochures. The trees that shaded the well-kept lawns were as robust
as the growth-stock portfolios that paid the gardener's salary.
Harold Winter
picked up the telephone in his den and heard the voice of Richard
Olson, a research analyst at Brice Pharmaceuticals. Harold has risen
steadily at Brice since he joined the company nearly twenty years
ago, after earning a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology at Cornell.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news, Hal."
"Not too bad, I hope."
"You might want to sit down."
Harold sat.
"Anything
wrong?" Peggy asked when Harold came out of the den, ten minutes
later.
"Work," he said calmly. "Just a problem at work."
"It couldn't wait till tomorrow?"
Harold shrugged, fastening his cufflinks. "I guess it might
have waited."
"Daddy, Anne farted."
"Don't use that language, Robby."
"But she did."
"I don't care. Watch your tongue."
"But daddy!"
"No but”
Harold turned
to look into the mirror. Robby stuck out his tongue at him, not
remembering that Harold saw him in the mirror as well as he would
have seen him if he'd been looking straight at him. Anne giggled
into the chest of a small stuffed panda bear.
In the car ten
minutes later, as they descended the long curve toward the intersection
of Starlight Court and Chestnut Lane, Peggy said, "I've been
thinking about Venice. I've never been to Venice."
Harold stared
through the windshield without answering. Straight ahead, only a
few inches above the horizon, the moon was big and beautiful. Their
car, a silver Cadillac that Harold had purchased only three months
ago, still was fragrant with the odor of new leather. Harold braked
as the car approached the bottom of the hill. Then he said, "I
think I'd better tell you about that telephone call."
-2-
At the Trevor
Academy, everyone agrees that the fall semester has been difficult.
Mr. Tropp, the chairman of the History Department, suffered a mild
nervous breakdown. Mrs. Ofek, the librarian, left in mid-semester
to work in the alumni affairs department at her alma mater. Mr.
Kromayer, the basketball coach, departed to pursue an entrepreneurial
opportunity with a manufacturer of popcorn equipment. Mr. Chapman,
the assistant headmaster, was fired after an auditor discovered
that he'd supplemented his salary with kickbacks from a supplier
of office goods.
"The Rodent's
the one they ought to get rid of," Craig Wickham said, referring
to Mr. Winter, the chemistry teacher, by his nickname. "What
a specimen."
"They'll never fire the Rodent," Sam Hargrove said. "He's
been here nearly as long as McCabe."
"Where
do you suppose they found him?" Harry Zappacosta said. "I
mean, what hole did he crawl out of?"
"A specimen," Frank Mitchell said. "That's the right
word for him."
The boys were sitting or sprawling in various late-adolescent postures
on the beat-up old furniture in the Seniors' Lounge. Sam Hargrove
took the last sip of his soft drink and tossed the empty can into
the center of a trash can six feet away. "Nothing but net,"
he whispered.
"How'd
you do on the Rodent's last chemistry test?" Harry Zappacosta
asked Craig Wickham. In reply, Wickham made a sound with his teeth
and tongue that indicated he had not done well. The tip of his tongue
pushed out between his pink lips as the sound emerged.
"That guy's
a joke," Frank Mitchell said. He was lying flat on his back
on the floor, with his hands clasped behind his head and his legs
crossed at the ankles, which were propped on the edge of a chair.
"There was stuff on that test we never talked about in class."
"Fletcher
got an 89," Harry Zappacosta said.
"When Fletcher only gets an 89, you know a test is unfair,"
Craig Wickham said.
"I wonder what he does for fun?" Frank Mitchell said.
"I mean, can you imagine any woman getting it on with the Rodent?"
"Minnie
Mouse," Harry Zappacosta said. "The only woman I can imagine
making out with the Rodent is Minnie Mouse."
*
At the Christmas
Party later that same day, Miss Ulrich, the new librarian, found
herself sitting next to Mr. Winter. "How is your year going,
Harold," she asked.
"Well enough," Mr. Winter said. He took a sip of his drink
and added, in a matter-of-fact tone, "You know, I've been here
seven years, and I've hated every minute."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"I really shouldn't be a teacher."
"What should you be instead?"
Mr. Winter ignored
the question. He seemed a bit drunk. "The boys hate me,"
he said. "They call me the Rodent."
"Yes. I know."
Miss Ulrich
glanced at Mr. Winter out of the corner of one eye. He was a soft-voiced
man in his early fifties with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair,
a pale mouth, and a mournful expression in his eyes. Though he wasnít
heavy, he gave the impression that, physically, he had let himself
get out of shape.
"Boys can
be so unfair," Miss Ulrich said.
"It's a cruel name, but it's not unfair," Mr. Winter said.
"I don't like adolescent boys, I don't like teaching, and I
don't like Trevor Academy. The boys sense it. That's why they dislike
me."
"I wouldn't say they dislike you, Mr. Winter."
"Oh, yes. They do."
"Why do you stay, if you dislike teaching?"
"It's a job. I need some income, even if it's a paltry one."
Mr. Winter cleared his throat. "May I get you a drink, Miss
Ulrich?"
Miss Ulrich
watched him walk toward the bar. Everything he had said was true,
she knew. The boys did dislike him, and he seemed to dislike the
boys. What's more, he seemed to have no friends among the faculty.
"That's
a very pretty dress," Mr. Winter said, handing her a glass
of white wine.
Miss Ulrich was wearing white stockings and a simple dress with
horizontal red and white stripes. She was a single woman in her
early forties, who looked closer to fifty. Her lips were pale, her
hips sturdy, her teeth not quite even. A needy and respectable old
maid--that was what she was. She knew it perfectly well, and she
knew perfectly well that that was what men saw when they looked
at her.
As she neared
the end of her drink, Mr. Winter asked Miss Ulrich if she had plans
for dinner. She did not. An exceptionally good Cantonese restaurant
had recently opened in town, Mr. Winter said. Would she like to
join him? Yes, Miss Ulrich said. She would be delighted to join
him.
"The boys
know they can get under my skin," Mr. Winter said as they shared
hot-and-sour soup for two. "That puts me at a disadvantage.
There've been boys that I wanted to strangle."
"A thought-murder
a day keeps the doctor away," Miss Ulrich said. "They
can't arrest anyone for fantasies."
"I think I'd like another drink," Mr. Winter said. "Would
you like more wine."
"I really had enough at the party," Miss Ulrich said.
"Let yourself go, Miss Ulrich."
"All right. Get me a gin and tonic."
"That's the spirit!"
"Never
mix, never worry," Miss Ulrich said, with a giggle.
The last time
she had been intimate with a man had been Labor Day weekend. She
had gone to the beach for the day and allowed herself to be picked
up by a man who owned an antiques shop in Wilmington. The man, Keith
something-or-other, had taken her to dinner at a quiet Vietnamese
restaurant. Later, when they kissed, his mouth had tasted of fried
seabass and hers had tasted of squid with lemon grass and chili.
She liked making love after she had eaten an unusual meal. Tonight
she had ordered braised oysters with black pepper sauce.
"It's snowing," Mr. Winter said.
He was facing
the front of the restaurant, so he could see the front window. Miss
Ulrich twisted her head and looked. The large, soft flakes were
lovely in the square of the window. Below, next to a coatrack, green-and-orange
fish swam in an aquarium.
The last time
Mr. Winter had been intimate with a woman had been six months ago.
Her name was Ricky, she wore intricate black lingerie, and her breath
smelled of tuna salad. Mr. Winter had met her in the bar at a shabby
hotel on Calloway Street, near the bus terminal. In a hotel room
with pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, Mr. Winter had listened politely
while she told him that she hoped to move to Los Angeles and make
a career as a talent agent. He had paid her one hundred dollars
for her services, which she provided without fuss or feigned emotion.
"Did you
read in the paper about those high-class shoplifters?" Miss
Ulrich said.
"No. What about them?"
"A couple in Hoppersville, a dentist and his wife. They hired
a personal shoplifter."
"That's a new one. How are those oysters?"
"Delicious. Have a taste?"
Mr. Winter took
a taste. "That's quite good. Have some of mine?"
Miss Ulrich took a taste of Mr. Winter's clams with black bean sauce.
"Yum," she said, licking her lips.
"What did
their personal shoplifter lift for them?" Mr. Winter asked.
"Whatever their hearts desired."
"What did their hearts desire?"
"Armani suits, a white fox fur coat, a Baccarat crystal eagle."
Mr. Winter sighed, as if he regretted that he could not afford a
personal shoplifter on a teacher's salary.
"Some people will do anything," Miss Ulrich said. "Have
you noticed?"
"Have another drink?" Mr. Winter asked.
"Harold, you'll have to carry me out to the car."
"That’s fine with me.”
"Will you have another?" Miss Ulrich asked.
"No, I have to drive."
"Well, then--" Miss Ulrich paused. Then she said: "Would
you mind? I'd really like another, though I'm floating already."
"Please have one. We're not in any hurry."
The gin and
tonic was Miss Ulrich's second, and she'd also had a glass of white
wine at the Christmas Party. When she stood to go, she felt giddy.
Mr. Winter took her arm and guided her past the aquarium toward
the door. They took a last look at the green-and-orange fish.
Outside, the
snow was falling harder, though still in large, soft flakes. Two
or three inches of snow had fallen in less than two hours. The wetness
felt good on Miss Ulrich's cheeks. The cold made her feel more alert.
"Careful,"
Mr. Winter said, tightening his grip on her arm. "It's slippery."
Miss Ulrich said nothing. Mr. Winter began to drive, slowly, down
Percy Street, right onto Willoughby, then up Washington toward Highgate.
Miss Ulrich was thinking that she would invite Mr. Winter into her
apartment for a hot drink. He would say yes, of course. She would
fix both of them hot cocoa. The taste of the cocoa would overpower
the taste of the Chinese seafood they had eaten, and the rich sauces.
When they kissed, their tongues would taste of cocoa.
Mr. Winter was
thinking that he should have dined alone. He liked the idea of sleeping
with Miss Ulrich, but he did not like the idea of sleeping with
Miss Ulrich and then seeing her every day in the school library
or cafeteria. He did not like the idea of hurting Miss Ulrich, or
being the object of Miss Ulrich's reproachful gazes, or being involved
in unpleasant scenes with Miss Ulrich.
Mr. Winter approached
the end of Washington Street. He could still wish her good night
at her door. He could kiss her on the cheek and drive home and fix
himself a nightcap and watch a few minutes of Johnny Carson or some
old movie. He could wake tomorrow in his own bed, look out the window
to see how much snow had accumulated, fix himself a cup of strong
coffee, and contemplate a future in which Miss Ulrich would never
look at him with pain or bitterness or recrimination in her eyes.
All that was necessary was to wish her good night at her door and
kiss her on the cheek. It was not too late.
Mr. Winter turned
slowly onto Highgate. Perhaps they would skip the cocoa, Miss Ulrich
thought. In the darkness, through the icy mess on the windshield,
Miss Ulrich saw a pair of headlights coming toward them, in a car
that was moving a little faster than it should have been. Yes, Miss
Ulrich thought, she would like to have the taste of oysters in her
mouth when she kissed him. And she would kiss him, she would kiss
him quite soon. At that moment the car coming toward them went into
a skid, Mr. Winter jerked the wheel, and their car began to spin.
Everything happened fast, on the dark street, in the soft snow,
with wheels and cars and headlights spinning. The snow fell gently
onto the spinning cars. Miss Ulrich died with a shriek that Mr.
Winter remembered for the rest of his life. The taste of braised
oysters, a rich and wonderful taste, was in her mouth as she died.
Her eyes were wide open.
-3-
"I think
your father was a hero," Henry Rider said.
Anne Winter looked at Henry Rider with a puzzled expression on her
face.
"My father?" she said.
She was twenty-four
years old, with a narrow, attractive face, a straight nose, pale
lips, and black hair parted in the middle. She was not wearing any
makeup.
"Yes. Your father," Henry said, staring at her. He was
in his early thirties--a dark-haired man with an earnest face, dark
eyes, and sharply cut features. "I think he's a hero."
"Why?"
Henry hesitated.
They were sitting opposite one another in a booth at a coffee shop
he had chosen because he knew it was quiet. Anne Winter had ordered
a turkey sandwich on rye bread. Henry had ordered a Caesar salad
with grilled chicken.
"He blew
the whistle," Henry said. "He stopped something bad from
happening."
"My father?"
"You don't know?"
"Mr. Rider, I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking
about. I haven't seen my father since 1980. That was seven years
ago."
"Miss Winter, you know, don't you, that in 1972 your father
worked at Brice Pharmaceuticals?"
"Yes."
"You know that he was fired?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why he was fired."
"He was working on some big project that failed."
"Yes. That's one way of putting it."
"What are you getting at, Mr. Winter?"
"There's a certain kind of viral infection called G-27. It
affects the kidneys. At Brice Pharmaceuticals in 1972, your father
was in charge of a project seeking to develop an agent to combat
that virus."
"All right."
"A lot of money was at stake. The company projected five-year
sales of half a billion dollars, if they developed an effective
antiviral agent."
Henry paused.
Miss Winter nodded--a signal that he should continue. "Have
you ever heard of a man named Richard Olson?" Henry asked.
"No."
"Richard Olson was a supervisor who worked for your father,
evaluating this experimental drug. At a late stage in the evaluation
process, he discovered that this drug produced some unsuspected
side effects. Very serious side effects. He reported the discovery
to your father."
Henry Rider
lowered his eyes to take a long sip of coffee. When he lifted them
again, he said, "You've never heard any of this, Miss Winter?"
"Never."
"Your father
reported the problem to his boss, who happened to be my father."
That sentence startled her. Henry could see it in her face.
"Your father, Mr. Rider?"
"Yes."
Miss Winter
waited for Henry to go on. He said: "Your father thought that
these side effects were so troubling that, in effect, the company
should go back to square one in its efforts to develop an antiviral
agent. My father disagreed."
"What did
your father want to do, Mr. Rider?"
"My father wanted to manufacture the agent and market it overseas,
where safety standards are not as strict as they are in the U.S."
"I see."
"But my
father lost the argument, Miss Winter. Would you like to know why?"
"Of course."
"Because
your father held his feet to the fire. Your father said that if
Brice tried to market this product overseas, he'd take the story
public. He had all the data, you see, from Richard Olson. And he'd
taken the precaution of copying everything--all the laboratory results--and
putting the copy in a safe deposit box. So he was in a position
to go public, if the company resisted."
"My father
did that?"
"That's why he lost his job, Miss Winter. It wasn't simply
that he led a big project that failed. From the company's point
of view, the project didn't have to fail. They'd have sold the damned
stuff overseas."
"That's what your father would have done?"
"Yes, Miss Winter. That's what my father would have done."
Anne said nothing for a long time. Henry Rider watched her with
an expression of intense curiosity.
"I'll tell
you something else that might interest you," Henry said.
"What's that?"
"Your father stopped my father in 1972, but he wasn't there
to stop him in 1981."
"What happened in 1981?"
"Different drug, same story. Brice sold it in Africa."
"A bad drug?"
"Sixteen people died."
"What happened to your father?"
Henry Rider smiled, but his eyes looked angry. "Not a damned
thing," he said.
"Nothing?"
"I told you, Miss Winter. Brice sold the drug in Africa."
*
Roosevelt Towers, on West 116th Street in New York City, is a grimy,
twelve-story, red-brick apartment building, built shortly after
World War II, that attracts graduate students and young faculty
members associated with Columbia University.
"You mean
she had no idea?" Janet Rider said, preparing a salad in the
old-fashioned kitchen.
"No idea," Henry Rider said, peeling the skin off a red
onion. "The family fell apart, after her father lost his job."
"What happened?"
"One day he was a fast-track executive, and the next he was
a nobody--a chemistry teacher at a third-rate private school. The
wife couldn't deal with it."
"She left him?"
"She left him. The kids hardly ever saw him, growing up."
"What happened to the wife."
"Made a nice career for herself, on the advertising side in
TV. Plus she married a millionaire lawyer. Lives in Chicago now."
"And Winter? Does the daughter know where he lives now?"
"Baltimore." Henry brushed a strand of black hair back
off his forehead. "Carrot?" he asked.
"Sure."
Henry started scraping a carrot.
"Has she seen him lately?" Janet asked.
"Seven years ago."
"Jesus. Cut up some cucumber, too, hon."
"Okay."
"What's she like?"
"Who?"
"The daughter."
"Young. Pretty. Intelligent." Henry paused to pop a slice
of carrot into his mouth. "I think I gave her a good shock."
"I'll bet you did."
"She didn't have a clue."
"Didn't
you write to her?" Janet was tossing the salad, in a big wooden
bowl.
"Sure. I'd written and told her that I was an assistant professor,
blah blah blah, writing a book about corporate ethics, and that
I wanted to interview her about her father. And she said yes, she'd
give me an interview. But when I talked with her, I could tell everything
was new to her."
"Did you tell her about your father?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I told you. All of this seemed to be new to her." Henry
paused, with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a corkscrew in
the other. "You know, when I told her I was writing about corporate
ethics, I think that she thought I was going to tell her about something
terrible her father had done."
"Really?"
"I don't think she's ever been close to her father. I don't
think she's ever known him, or liked him, or thought of him as anything
but a loser."
*
Anne Winter sat for a long time before picking up the phone. At
last she picked it up, listened for the dial tone, hit three buttons,
and abruptly hung up. She sat for another minute. Then she picked
up the phone again. But instead of calling her mother, she called
her friend Isabel.
Anne told Isabel
about her conversation with Henry Rider. What bothered her, Anne
said, was that, somehow, no one had ever told the whole story. Maybe
she'd heard--there must have been dinner table conversations--but,
since she was only nine years old, she hadn't understood what was
being said. Daddy lost his job--that was all she remembered. Then
it was: We can't afford this big house. Then: Daddy has a new job.
Daddy's going to be a teacher. Then came the new school she hated,
in the new town she hated. Then: Mommy and Daddy can't live together
anymore. But we still love you, Anne. We'll always love you.
In any case,
Daddy disappeared. And Mommy made a new life for herself. Mommy
took the children to Philadelphia, got a job in the marketing department
with the local CBS affiliate, did well, moved up, moved to Chicago,
met George, married George, moved up some more. Daddy was left behind--far,
far behind. Daddy was rarely seen or mentioned. Daddy was the man
who had failed. Daddy was the man who sent presents that disappointed
the children and, later, Daddy was the man who did not attend their
high school or college graduations. Daddy was the man who lived
far away and rarely wrote to them. Daddy was the man who drank.
Daddy was the man who lost his teaching job after some poor woman
was killed in a terrible car accident that happened while Daddy
was drunk.
Isabel listened, as a good friend should.
"I spoke
with my brother and sister," Anne told Isabel. "They're
older, and I thought that maybe they would know more than I had.
But they said no. All they remembered was that Daddy lost his job
at the pharmaceutical company, and everything changed."
After her talk
with Isabel, Anne felt refreshed. She rested for a few minutes,
then took a deep breath and called her mother. "Mother,"
she said after they had chatted a while, "I wanted to ask you
about father. Harold, I mean. Not George."
"Yes, dear. What about him?"
Anne's mother had a wonderful voice. When Anne read that famous
line in F. Scott Fitzgerald, the one about the woman whose voice
was full of money, Anne knew exactly how that woman sounded.
"A man came to see me about father, a teacher in the sociology
department at Columbia," Anne said. "He's writing a book
about business ethics. He thinks father is a hero."
"Does he?"
"Yes. He
says that Daddy didn't simply lose his job. He says that Daddy was
fired because he wouldn't go along with a scheme to market a bad
drug."
"Yes, dear. That's true. Though I'm not sure that the drug
was bad, and I'm not sure that it's fair to call it a scheme."
"You think the drug might not have been bad?"
"With any new drug, there's data to interpret."
"So Daddy might have misinterpreted the data?"
"There's a saying you might have heard, Anne: To get along,
go along. Do you know what it means?"
"I suppose.”
"Your father killed a project that mattered a good deal to
his company. He didnít go along, and after that, he didn’t
get along.”
"This fellow at Columbia thinks that father was right."
"He might have been, Anne. I'd like to think he was."
"Why wasn't I ever told, Mother?"
"You were only nine: I guess we thought it was enough to say
that Daddy had lost his job. Then, if I remember correctly, we didn't
talk much about your father, after the divorce. Am I wrong about
that?"
"No, Mother. I can't remember ever talking about him."
"I doubt it was that bad, dear. In any case, it was my fault.
I was angry."
In Chicago,
the former Peggy Winter, now Peggy Merriman, was sitting in bed
with her legs stretched out and her back supported by the bed's
headboard. She was a woman in her middle fifties, with a look and
style she seemed to have modeled on the look and style of Lauren
Bacall at the same age--sophisticated, sadder but wiser, wary yet
basically goodhearted. Her hair was a golden blonde. Her legs were
long. The phone call from her daughter had come on a Saturday, just
after a leisurely, late-afternoon bath. She was wearing a gold silk
robe, a gift from her husband, who liked to buy the best for her.
The call from
her daughter made Peggy Merriman think about a time in her life
she would rather not recall. She had loved her first husband and
enjoyed her life as the wife of a rising executive. After he'd lost
his job, she had wanted Harold to fight back, but he'd lost heart
when it became clear that his reputation as a whistleblower had
made him persona non grata in the pharmaceutical industry. He'd
gone into a tailspin, become moody and uncommunicative, started
drinking, and seemed unable to envision any future for himself except
in a job he disliked at a school few people respected.
Anne said, "But,
mother, if he'd lost his job for a good reason...."
"Yes, Anne. You're right. But I was--oh, I was just angry."
"Because he lost his job?"
"Because he wrecked his career! You see, Anne, he was a star
at Brice. He was making a lot of money, he had every reason to think
he'd make a lot more, and I had certain expectations. I admit it.
We needed a lot of money, Anne, to live the life I wanted to live."
"So you
left him because he stopped making money?"
"Yes!"
Anne heard her mother's voice rising into dangerous territory--a
region where exasperation mingled with self-pity and self-justification.
"I left him because he stopped making money, and, even more,
I left him because I couldn't see myself living the rest of my life
as the happy little wife of a chemistry teacher at a third-rate
private school, in a third-rate town in the middle of nowhere. You
only live once, Anne. That wasn't a life I was willing to settle
for."
"I'm sorry
I made you angry, Mother."
"You didn't make me angry, Anne. You just brought up a lot
of old feelings. I was angry for a long time, but I fought my way
through it."
"I know, Mother. I love you."
"Thank you, Anne. I love you, too."
Anne pictured
her mother--the broad face, the strong nose and chin, the hair like
the hair of a movie star--and said: ìYou went to the big
city with three kids and no special skills, and you got a job and
worked your tail off and you became--well, you became you."
Anne's mother
laughed--a hearty, full-throated sound.
"All of us admire you, Mother. All the kids, I mean. The thing
that has put us in a tizzy is that, now, for the first time, it
looks as if we might have a reason to admire our father, too."
*
"Anne?"
"Hello, Father."
On a bright,
cold Saturday in October 1987, Anne Winter had taken a train from
New York City to Baltimore. Outside Penn Station in Baltimore, she
had found a taxi line. She had given the taxi driver the address
that had appeared on her father's most recent Christmas card. The
driver had taken her to a city street of dreary-looking, two-story,
red-brick rowhouses.
"Come in.
It's been a long time."
Anne stepped in.
"This is Rhonda," her father said.
Anne looked
at Rhonda--a stout, smiling, rosy-faced woman with untidy silvery
hair. Rhonda was wearing a plain housedress, green and pink flowers
on a white background, and carrying a glass with an orange liquid
in it. Her smile revealed a gold tooth.
"Pleased
to meet you," Anne said, holding out her hand.
Rhonda switched the glass from her right hand to her left.
"My pleasure," she said, shaking hands. "Could I
get you something to drink?"
"Coffee," Anne said.
"Coming
up," Rhonda said, and walked from the room with a stiff gait.
The living room was drab but clean, with a sofa, two armchairs,
a coffee table, and a TV. None of the furniture looked close to
new, and none looked expensive, but the room felt comfortable.
Anne's father
was wearing light-gray slacks and a brown sweater, unbuttoned, over
a yellow polo shirt. His hair was gray, sparse, and neatly combed.
Anne was surprised at how small he looked. He was five-foot-seven,
maybe five-six. Had he shrunk?
"Well,"
he said. "It's been a long time."
The last time Anne had seen her father, seven years ago, she had
been seventeen years old, and he had been fifty-three. That had
been in 1980, one year after the auto accident that killed Miss
Ulrich and eight years after Harold Winter had lost his job at Brice
Pharmaceuticals. Anne had traveled to Baltimore to see him during
Christmas vacation in her senior year in high school--a time when
she had been experiencing a high level of adolescent turmoil. Anne
had gone to find her lost father, and she had found a man so far
out of control that he'd arrived nearly an hour late to pick her
up at the train station. The smell of liquor on his breath had made
her turn her face away.
Now she had
taken another train ride to see him, but with different expectations.
Her thought now was that her father was a defeated man who needed
to be rescued. In a difficult situation he had done the right thing,
many years ago, and he had paid a high price for his act of conscience.
All the way down to Baltimore, gazing out the train window at the
landscape rushing by, from the depressing grime of industrial New
Jersey to the white stoops that fronted the rowhouses on the streets
leading into Baltimore, Anne had been dreaming that she would connect
with her father for the first time, that she would have a father
for the first time, that she would console and comfort him, and
he would console and comfort her, and a new life would begin for
both of them.
Anne said: "I
was hoping we could get to know one another, better than we've known
one another in the past."
"I've stopped
drinking," her father said. "That's the main thing you
need to know."
"When did you stop?"
"Three years ago. Rhonda helped me."
Rhonda, who
had returned from the kitchen with coffee for Anne, looked affectionately
at Anne's father, but said nothing.
"Rhonda
saved my life," Harold said. "We're both alcoholics. I
met her at Alcoholics Anonymous. She turned my life around."
"That's wonderful," Anne said.
There was a
pause, while everyone beamed at everyone else.
"If it hadn't been for Rhonda, I'd've been dead by now,"
Harold said.
On the train
that morning, remembering the last time she had seen her father,
Anne had prepared herself for the worst. She had imagined herself
finding her father in a gutter or a saloon. She had imagined herself
lifting him out of the gutter or leading him out of the saloon and,
patiently, nursing him back to health and happiness. A lovely thought
but also, she realized now, childish and grandiose. She would not
rescue her father because, apparently, her father did not need to
be rescued. He sat there in his armchair, sipping orange juice,
and Rhonda sat in the other armchair, also sipping orange juice,
and Anne sat on the sofa, taking an occasional sip of her coffee.
"Are you
working now?" Anne asked.
"I've got a job in a hardware store," Harold said. He
added with a grimace, as if tasting something sour: "A man
with a Ph.D. from Cornell, working in a goddamned hardware store."
Rhonda said,
"You're lucky they took you, as far as you'd sunk."
"That's the truth," Harold said. "It's still a waste.
A man with a Ph.D."
"Wasn't there something else you could have done, after what
happened?" Anne asked.
"After
I got fired, you mean?"
"Yes."
Harold shook
his head. "I could get interviews," he said. "But
whenever I got an interview, they'd ask why I'd left Brice, when
I'd been doing so well there. So I'd tell them why, and that was
that. Nobody looks to hire a troublemaker."
The afternoon
drifted on, quite pleasantly. Harold asked Anne about her brothers
and her mother. Rhonda told Anne about her job in the customer relations
department at Baltimore Gas & Electric. A great deal of orange
juice was consumed.
"I spoke
with that professor," Anne's father said. "The one you
gave my address to."
"Yes. He told me."
"I knew his father."
"Yes."
Anne remembered the look in Henry Rider's eyes when he had told
her how his father had sold bad drugs in Africa. "He hates
his father," she said.
"No," Harold said. "He loves his father. But this
book he's writing, it's all because he can't stand thinking about
some of the things his father did."
"I know,"
Anne said.
"I remember his father very well. Warren Rider."
"What was he like?" Anne asked.
"Good scientist," Harold said.
Anne looked at him, waiting for more. Harold said:
"Damned good scientist. Lousy human being."
-4-
Six years later,
in his private room in a hospital in Baltimore, Harold Winter lay
asleep. His eyes were closed, his face pale, his lips dry, his hair
untidy. At one point, a tall, silver-haired man in a business suit
came into the room, closing the door behind him. With a sad expression
on his face and his hands crossed before him, the visitor stood
looking down at Harold while Harold slept. At last Harold's eyes
opened.
"Warren? Is that you?"
"Yes, Harold."
"I thought you were dead."
"I am."
Harold blinked,
trying to clear his vision. The tall man was still there.
ìDead as a doornail. Warren Rider said. “Did you expect
clanking chains?”
Harold blinked again. The visitor peered down at him.
"You're looking good, Warren."
"Thanks. I wish I could say the same for you, Harold."
"My liver gave out."
"Ah."
"Serves me right. I drank like a fish."
Warren Rider
looked down at Harold without any particular expression on his face.
Harold squinted up at him.
"I met your son," Harold said. "A long time ago."
"Yes. I know."
"He sent me his book. You know the book?"
"Yes. Did you read it, Harold?"
"I did. Smart kid.
"He hates my guts," Warren Rider said.
Harold began to answer, but Warren stopped him:
"He hates my guts, Harold. He called me a murderer."
"You're his father."
"We weren't talking, the last few years of my life."
"I'm sorry, Warren."
"You see. I paid a price, too."
"Don't give me any sob story, Warren."
"That's not what I intended."
Harold closed his eyes and rested for a few minutes.
"Warren?"
"Yes, Harold."
"I killed a woman."
"Miss Ulrich?"
"Yes."
"Accidents happen, Harold."
"I was drinking."
"So was the guy in the other car."
"What difference does that make?"
"Two cars skidded in the snow, Harold. Same thing might have
happened if you'd both been sober."
"Might or might not. Nobody knows for sure."
"Let God worry about it."
Harold closed
his eyes. When he opened them, the light in the room seemed different.
Warren was still standing there, looking down at him.
"You want something from me, Warren?"
"I just wanted to chat. I always respected you, Harold."
"Thanks.” Harold looked away, but Warren waited until
he looked back.
Warren said: “I did what I had to do, Harold."
"That's one way of looking at it."
"I was tough.”
"No doubt."
"You have to be tough in business."
“ And I was soft. Is that what you’re saying, Warren?”
“ If the shoe fits.”
“ Go away, Warren.”
“ I thought I might put your mind at ease.”
“ Oh. How do you plan to do that, Warren?”
“ By showing you how things turned out for me.“
"You made a mint, didn't you?"
"I made a lot of money, Harold. I can't deny it."
"Was it worth it?"
"I told you, Harold. My son hates my guts."
"He said so?"
"He called me a murderer.”
"You still made the big bucks."
"No doubt about it, Harold. I made the big bucks."
“ Left it to your kids?”
“ I left it to my kids.”
“ That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“ Tell my son."
Harold closed
his eyes. The argument had tired him. Gold was the color he found
himself looking at, with his eyes closed. He thought about Warren
Rider and his son. He thought about his own children. A great weariness
descended upon him. He slept.
*
"There's
no telling," the nurse said. She had blue eyes and pale red
hair. "There's no telling how long it will last, or whether
he'll ever come out of it."
Anne and Rhonda nodded in unison.
"You might
want to go home and rest," the nurse said. "I'll call
you if there's any change."
"Oh, I
wouldn't want to do that," Rhonda said.
"I'll stay, too," Anne said.
"That's fine," the nurse said. "Let me know if you
need anything."
"We'll do that," Anne said.
The nurse left.
Anne and Rhonda sat side by side in sturdy and uncomfortable armchairs--the
kind all hospitals seem to buy. The walls in the room were a pale
green. The dying man lay on his back in bed, breathing feebly, with
his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. A clear liquid dripped
soundlessly from a plastic bag hanging on a pole through an IV line
into his right arm.
"You want
a section of the paper?" Rhonda asked.
"Not now, thanks."
Six years had
passed since Anne traveled to Baltimore to make a new connection
with her father. Harold was sixty-six now, Rhonda was sixty-two,
and Anne was thirty, married, with two young children. The children
were with her husband in New York. Anne had come to Baltimore three
days ago, when Rhonda called to say that the end seemed near.
Anne had gained
a few pounds since Rhonda first met her, and she'd lost the last
trace of girlishness in both her looks and her manner. The way she
dressed and carried herself had grown more confident. On happy occasions,
she often dressed stylishly in black, but today she was wearing
white slacks and a yellow sweater--bright and comfortable clothes
for a death watch. If her father woke, his daughter would shine
for him.
Rhonda was still
a rosy-faced woman with a stiff gait and a big smile, though she
had not smiled much in the past three days. She was stouter than
she had been when Anne first met her, her limp was worse, and her
unruly hair had more white in it, less silver. She respected hospitals
in an old-fashioned way, she feared doctors, and she dressed up
for the daily visit as if she were dressing for some formal occasion.
Today she was wearing a bulky beige suit over a pink blouse, with
a scarf around her neck and a silver pin that Harold had bought
for her on her lapel.
"The nurse
is right," Rhonda said. "One of us ought to go home."
"Yes," Anne said. "Why don't you go get some rest?"
"I thought maybe you would."
Anne smiled
without opening her lips and looked again at her father in bed.
Rhonda's eyes, following Anne's, grew misty when they came to rest
on Harold. She sighed. At the sound Anne held out her hand, and
Rhonda reached out to allow her hand to be held.
"Harold
loves jazz," Rhonda said. "Did you know that?"
"There's a lot I don't know about him."
"He chose a jazz song to play at the funeral service."
"Really?"
"Louie Armstrong."
"Dad likes Louie Armstrong?"
"Harold loves Louie Armstrong."
"What song?"
"I don't
remember. I have it written down at home."
Anne remembered
her father singing her to sleep in her bedroom on Starlight Court,
where the family lived so long ago: Hush, little baby, don't say
a word, papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird
don't sing, papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring....
"At least
I'm here," Anne said. "Thank God for that."
"Yes. You're here."
And if that
diamond ring is brass, papa's gonna buy you a looking-glass. And
if that looking-glass gets broke ...
"One of
us should get some rest," Rhonda said.
"Yes."
"We need our strength."
"Yes."
They sat there,
hand in hand, while the last light of evening faded outside. The
hospital grew quiet. There were no patients walking up and down
the corridors, no visitors coming and going, no doctors asking questions
or giving orders, no nurses rushing, no orderlies running errands,
no wheelchairs rolling or stretchers rattling in the halls.
The nurse who
worked the night shift found the two woman fast asleep, their hands
lightly touching, when she came to check Harold's vital signs. The
look that lingered on the face of the dead man was serene, as if
he had answered some nagging question or redressed final grievance.
Peter
Baida (1950-1999) won the O. Henry Short Story Prize for A Nurse's
Story, and his book of short stories, "A Nurse's Story and
Others" (University Press of Mississippi), was a New York Times
Notable Book of the Year.
A Baltimore native, he worked for twenty years at Memorial Sloan-Kettering
Cancer Center in New York City, for much of that time as the director
of direct-mail fundraising. Published in The Gettysburg Review,
American Literary Review, The New York Times, American Heritage,
The Wall Street Journal, and The Atlantic Monthly,and The Free Press,
he was the author of both fiction and nonfiction, including his
first book, Poor Richard's Legacy: American Business Values from
Benjamin Franklin to Donald Trump. |
