“You wouldn’t talk like that if you weren’t drunk,” Tony said.
“No? Maybe not.” Oliver chuckled. “That’s a good reason for being drunk. You don’t remember, because you were too young, but I used to have a high opinion of myself. I thought I was God’s own combination of intelligence, honor, industry and wit. Ask me anything in those days, and I’d come up with the answer, quick as the Pope or an electric brain. I was solid as the Republic and none of the wires was crossed and certainty was my middle name. I was certain about work and marriage and loyalty and the education of children and I didn’t care who knew it. I stared out at the world with a clear and lunatic eye. I was the product of a solid family and a suicide father. I had prosperity behind me and a good college and a proper tailor and lightning couldn’t crack me if it hit me between the eyes on the Fourth of July. And then, in fifteen minutes in a little stinking summer resort beside a lake, the whole thing collapsed. I made the wrong decision, of course. But maybe the only right decision was to take you and hang you by the heels and drown you in the lake, and of course my social position wouldn’t permit that. Abraham and Isaac would never go down in Vermont no matter what angels were on the premises. What happened, of course, was that I turned the knife on myself, although I’m sure you have a different opinion. What the hell,” he said belligerently. “How bad was it for you? You left home a little earlier than usual and you were lonely on a couple of holidays, that’s all.”
“Sure,” Tony said, bitter now and remembering the seven years. “That’s all.”
“As for me,” Oliver said, ignoring his son, “I merely turned up dead. Later on, when I looked back on it, knowing I was guilty, I said it was sensuality that did it. And maybe it was. Only after a little while there wasn’t any sensuality left. Of course, we pretended, because when you’re married there’s a certain obligation to politeness in that department, but by that time there were too many other things in the way, and finally we just about dropped the whole thing.”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Why not? You’re twenty years old,” Oliver said. “I hear you have a rising career as a collegiate stud. I’m not raping any virgin ears. Know Thy Father and Thy Mother. If you can’t honor them, at least know them. It’s not the next best thing, but it’s a thing. The war has made me virile again. I had an affair with a waitress in the town of Columbus, North Carolina. I outlasted a warrant officer and two captains from the Adjutant-General’s office on the crucial week-end. It was a hot week-end and all the girls were going around without stockings. If I were a Catholic, I would seriously think of taking orders. You are my priest,” he said, “and my favorite confessional box is located on the ninth floor of the Hotel Shelton.”
“I’m going,” Tony said, moving toward the door. “Take care of yourself and let me know where I can write you and …”
“For absolution,” Oliver said. “Three slugs of Bourbon. Where’s the bottle?” He asked peevishly. “Where’s the goddamn bottle?” He felt around on the floor next to the chair and found the bottle and poured himself a third of a tumbler full of whisky. He put the bottle down again and, closing one eye, like a marksman, flipped the cork across the room into the wastebasket. “Two points,” he said, with satisfaction. “Did you know that I was an athlete in my youth? I could run all day and I was deft around first base, although the best first basemen are all left-handed. I also hit a long ball, although not often enough to make it finally worthwhile. I also had leanings toward being a military hero, because a great-uncle was killed in the Wilderness, but the First World War cured me of that. I spent all my six months in France in Bordeaux and the only time I heard a shot fired in anger was when an MP fired at two Senegalese who were breaking the window of a wineshop on the Place Gambetta. Don’t go yet,” he pleaded. “Some day a son of yours might ask you, ‘What are the great moments in the family history?’ and you’ll be sick at heart that you didn’t stay another five minutes and soak in the old traditions. On our shield are the three Great Words—Suicide, Failure and Adultery, and I challenge any red-blooded American family to do better.”
“You’re raving now,” Tony said, not moving from the door. “You’re not making any sense.”
“That’s a court-martial offense, Son,” Oliver said gravely, from his chair. “Charity begins at the Hotel Shelton.”
Tony opened the door.
“Don’t,” Oliver cried. He struggled out of the chair, rocking a little, carefully holding his glass. “I have something for you. Close the door. Just five more minutes.” His face worked painfully. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a hard day. Close the door. I won’t drink any more. See …” He put the glass shakily on the dresser. “The ultimate sacrifice. Come on, Tony,” he coaxed, his head lolling. “Close the door. Don’t leave me alone yet. I’m getting the hell out of the country tomorrow and you’ll be free of me for God knows how long. You can spare five more minutes. Please, Tony, I don’t want to be alone just yet.”
Reluctantly, Tony closed the door. He came back into the room and sat stiffly on the bed.
“That’s it,” Oliver said. “That’s the boy. The truth is I drank today for your sake. Don’t laugh. You know me—I’m not a drinking man. It’s just that there’re so many things I wanted to tell you—and I haven’t been able to communicate with you for so long … Those goddamn dinners …” He shook his head. “First of all, I want to apologize.”
“Oh, Christ.” Tony put his head in his hands. “Not now.”
Oliver stood over him, wavering a little. “We sacrificed you. I admit it. The reasons looked good at the time. How did we know they wouldn’t hold up? If what you’re looking for is revenge, look at me and you’ve got it.”
“I don’t want anything,” Tony said. “I’m not interested in revenge.”
“Do you mean that?” Oliver asked eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Son.” Suddenly Oliver reached over and took Tony’s hand with both of his and shook it crazily. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Is that all you wanted to say?” Tony lifted his head and looked up at his father, standing, half-bent, unsteady and bleary-eyed, above him.
“No, no.” Oliver dropped his hands and spoke hastily, as though he were afraid that if he stopped talking for one moment he would be left alone in the room. “I told you I have something for you.” He went over to the open Valpack and got down, with a thump, on his knees in front of it and began rummaging in the interior. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for a long time. I was afraid the proper occasion might not come up and … Here it is …” He pulled out a little package wrapped in tissue paper, with a rubber band around it. Still on his knees, he tore clumsily at the paper. He dropped the paper, now in shreds, on the floor and held up an old-fashioned gold watch. “My father’s watch,” he said. “Solid gold. I’ve always carried it for luck, although really I prefer a wristwatch. He gave it to me two weeks before he died. Solid gold,” Oliver said, squinting at it in the lamplight and turning it over slowly and shakily. “An old Waltham. It’s over forty years old, but it keeps perfect time.” He stood up and came back to Tony, still admiring the watch. “You don’t have to wear it, of course, it’s terribly out of date, but you could keep it on your desk, something like that …” He held it out, but Tony didn’t take it.