Then I discovered that my favorite fountain pen was gone the day I was to interview Edward Durant Sr. I'm not a particularly tidy person, but when it comes to my desk I'm fanatical. Both Cass and the cleaning woman know never to even go near it. Everything had its place, particularly that lucky pen. If something was missing, even dumb Scotch tape, I'd get cuckoo and search until I found it. The loss of the pen was heart-attack country. I scoured the house to no avail. I even looked in the dog's bed in the kitchen, so aggravated by then that I thought he might have taken it to spite me. I could just see him chewing it while smiling the whole time. But he didn't have it. I called Cass in the city but she knew nothing about it. When she suggested I ask Veronica, a stone door in my brain slammed shut with a tremendous bang. Veronica! She'd broken into the house once before. She knew how important the object was to me . . .
"Yes, I have it." No more than that. No explanation, apology, just yes. I hesitated to ask when she had taken it because I did not want to hear she had been in the house again without my knowing.
"I need it, Veronica. You know I need that pen."
Most casually, she said, "Well, it's simple: I'll give it to you when we see each other."
"Don't do this, Veronica! You're stepping way over the line. Give it back to me. I need it for my work."
"And what about my needs, Sam? What about the fact you've been avoiding me like I'm diseased! What's happening to us? What is going on in your head? Everything was fixed. We were going to work on your book together and –"
"No, you said that, Veronica, not me. I never collaborate on books. You're too close, do you understand? You're taking away all the air in the room. I can't breathe."
"And what am I supposed to do, Sam, while you're in your room with the door shut and all that air around you?"
"I don't know. We have to talk about this another time. I must go now. Please send the pen back."
"You're making me feel like shit, Sam. I don't think I owe you any favors right this minute." She hung up.
The pen arrived the next morning via express mail. It had been cut into two perfectly equal pieces.
Tappan was a pretty village with a cannon from some war plunked down in the middle of the town green like an old brown toad. Whoever came up with the bent idea of leaving large decaying weapons around as reminders of death and loss?
Driving beneath huge old trees that flanked the roads, I caught glimpses through them of the Hudson River below. Tappan's houses were a mixture of Colonial and modern. A great many were for sale. I wondered why. Following Durant's jovial directions, I found his place with no problem.
From all I had heard about the man, I expected his home to be a fifteen-room colossus with pillars and a lawn that stretched for acres. Instead it turned out to be a simple split-level fifties house with a driveway in front and a small but nicely kept yard. The man obviously liked to garden because there was a wide assortment of bright lush flowers all over. Two fat pugs lay in the middle of the driveway, their little tongues hanging out in the heat. I pulled up and got out. Both of them rose slowly and came over to have a look.
"Hey, boys. Hot day, huh?" I bent down to pet them and they cuddled right up. The more I scratched their ears the more ecstatic their panting became. One fell over on his side and wiggled all his paws for me to scratch more. A screen door heeched open.
"Looks like they found a friend." Edward Durant Sr. did not look, as I had heard, like a man in a conservative suit and French cuffs. About five foot seven, he was thin and delicate. He had a large head and a closely trimmed white beard. He didn't look well and carried himself carefully, as if certain that his parts were not working correctly.
His voice contradicted the rest. Deep and full, it had the pitch and timbre of a radio announcer or public speaker. It was easy to imagine that voice in a courtroom. Sexy. It was an extremely sexy voice and he used it well.
"I'm a great admirer of your work, Mr. Bayer. A great admirer. In fact, if you don't mind, I would be very grateful if you would sign some of your books before you leave."
When we went into his house it was like entering a small town library. There were books everywhere, and what was as interesting was the way they were cared for. It appeared every single one was covered with a transparent plastic jacket and they were all behind glass. The whole house was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made out of some kind of rich dark wood I couldn't identify.
"It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it? A hobby that turned into an obsession. I was a sickly boy and books were my only way out of the bedroom for a couple of years. Best friends I ever had.
"Now, I have all of your books right over here –" He walked to a shelf and, bending down, carefully opened the glass door. There they were, all my little chickens, standing together in perfect condition.
"I must admit I don't read a lot of fiction anymore. But yours has a wonderful snap to it."
"That's very flattering. Thank you." I looked around the room at his thousands of books. "What do you usually read?"
"Biography." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the whole shebang. "Since retiring, my time has been spent studying other people's lives and how they muddled through. It's a contemptible occupation."
I was surprised both by the word and the way he said it. "Why contemptible?"
"When you are my age, you feel you have the right to indulge in whatever appeals to you. I don't think that it's wrong but it can be pathetic. Unfortunately, Mr. Bayer, I am one of those fools who reads about other's lives for solace because I made such a botch of my own. Although it's disgusting to take consolation in another's pain, it is reassuring to know that the great stumbled as badly as we did. Would you like something to drink?"
What followed was one of the most engrossing afternoons I had spent in years. There are people who are as distinctive and delicious as a great meal. Edward Durant was one of those people. He had led an incredible life, but instead of showing it off as he had every right to do, he handed it over like a gift to be used whatever way you liked.
He was seventy-three and dying. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon he mentioned that but only as a point of reference. It didn't seem important to him, certainly not in light of the other things he wanted to say. His wife and son were dead. He had failed both of them and that was his greatest sadness. Until their deaths, he had been a successful, confident man.
"Everything important is learned too late, Sam. The tragedy of being old is you can no longer apply what's taken you so long to learn. The thing scientists should work toward is a method that would allow us to skip to the end of our lives for a short while and then come back. There is no context in the now, only greed and emotion."
He had gone to Swarthmore but dropped out to become a fighter pilot in Korea. At the end of the war he returned to college for his degree and ended up a Rhodes scholar. He just missed being an alternate on the Olympic boxing team. One of the greatest moments of his life was sparring two rounds with the welterweight champion of the world, Benny "Kid" Paret in Stillman's Gym. "How often are we allowed the privilege of having a master's full attention for six minutes? I argued cases in front of the Supreme Court, but it was nothing to seeing Paret's eyes size me up and then kick my ass."
It took some time for us to get around to his son, but as in everything else, he was painfully candid. "I was a terrible father for all the reasons I mentioned. I was like a dishonest shoe salesman with Edward. You know, the kind who assures you the shoes you're trying on that are the wrong size will by some miracle fit beautifully as soon as you wear them around awhile. My son was always a serious, steadfast boy who didn't need any encouragement to do what was right. I was idiotic enough to think he still needed both discipline and guidance. Although it's not an excuse, you must remember this was in the fifties when all of us were so sure what we were doing was correct. Everything we needed to know was in books – Dr. Spock, David Riesman, Margaret Mead. The only thing we needed to do was connect the dots and we'd be home free."