All He Ever Wanted(91)

All along the train, men are shedding clothes like boys headed for a swimming hole. First a jacket is laid upon a chair. Then a tie is tugged down, after which the cuffs of the shirt are unbuttoned and rolled. I saw a man with his braces undone. Manners are being cast away with the clothing, it would seem, for tempers are noticeably shorter today than they have been the entire journey. One man snarled at a porter for delivering a drink with no ice (the ice, it would seem, melted in Georgia). I tried to nap but awoke too quickly, my silk sleeping mask wet with both sweat and tears.

Will my daughter come to the funeral if I am there? This is a question that vexes me no end. And if she does come, will she speak to me? I would say ordinarily not, for she has lived with her aunt now for eighteen years and has not spoken or written to me in all that time. But the human heart is a mysterious organ, is it not, and it may be that Clara has forgiven me.

How is it that life goes forward when so many people have been wronged?





There is just one more piece of my story to tell, which is just as well, for soon we shall be approaching West Palm Beach, the end point of my journey. My trip has taken somewhat longer than I thought it would (more than three days due to the derailment near New Haven and the bout of food poisoning in Richmond; it was supposed to have taken thirty hours), and I have realized I will be lucky to make the funeral on time; it has already been delayed, as per my sister’s wishes, so that I can be there. Meritable’s pronouncement on this matter moved me when I first got the telegram from Berthe, one of our sisters, and indeed motivated me to take the journey, which I might not otherwise have done. It was gratifying to see that Meritable still bore me some affection, despite what can only have been a strong allegiance all these years to Clara. Perhaps Meritable had some design to thrust Clara and me together after her death so that we may repair the rift between us.

I should like to have gone to the library car after breakfast this morning, particularly to the periodicals room, as I feel, in my moving metal cocoon, as though I have been estranged from the world. I have been writing almost without interruption since I boarded the train at White River Junction three days ago, though I have traveled through sixty-four years of personal history.

What a fraught venture this has been, more perilous than I ever imagined.


As soon as Etna received her letter — the same letter I had written and delivered to Frank Goodspeed, the President of the college, and Merrill Gates, the chief of police — she drove to the house.

Etna and Clara and I gathered in the sitting room. Etna would not sit, however, despite repeated entreaties on my part to do so. She held the letter in her hand as if she had been clutching it all the way from Drury. My heart had lifted when I had seen the green-and-gold Landaulet pull into the driveway, as I had known it would. (I had predicted the time of her arrival to within the quarter hour.)

“Is this true?” she asked of a trembling Clara, who had, as my daughter and I had planned, returned to Holyoke Street after school.

Clara, who wished only that the family be reunited, said yes, it was true, Mr. Asher had touched her.

“Touched you how?” Etna asked, her voice and face as sharp as the point of a thorn.

I watched my daughter carefully. This would be Clara’s truest test, her most difficult examination. For a long moment, we all stood in an unhappy triangle, breathing slowly in unison, Nicky safely closeted with Abigail. Clara touched her bosom, a three-fingered brush at the side of her breast that was nearly obscene against the white blouse of her school uniform. It was a breathtaking gesture, not only for its implications, but also for the sight itself — that of a young girl who may never have touched herself in that way before, doing so in such a public manner. It froze Etna’s expression. My wife, in unconscious mimicry, brushed her fingers against her own breast, as if wishing (or needing) to feel what Clara had felt.

Clara blushed. She must have longed, as in a child’s game, to shout, “Make-believe!” To call to all the players, “All-ee, all-ee, in free!” But she was committed to her actor’s role, her lines rehearsed, the unthinkable gesture completed. To quit now would be to lose everything.

“Touched you when?” Etna asked in a voice so quiet as to be barely audible. She took off her driving hat and let it fall to the floor.

“After school,” she said, “when you went to the market.”

“Once?”

“Three times,” Clara said, sealing Asher’s fate with a number. A number picked by me both for its damning quality and for its unlikely plausibility.

“Three times,” Etna repeated, struggling, I could see, for comprehension. “When were the other times?”