Homecoming (6 page)

The lobby had been cleared of the dead and
injured. They had done all that they were able to do that day. What remained was the work of the hospitals. What he did recall perfectly, though, was the terrible quarrel with Gene.

Gene had opened a bottle of brandy. “Because God knows we need it. That scene downstairs in the lobby—hell couldn’t possibly be worse.”

Rain spattered on the balcony. A high wind had risen, clattering in the royal palms. It had blown the outer doors open.

“Some idiot didn’t latch the doors,” Lewis said. He got up and locked them. “I feel angry at the world, Gene. Things like this shouldn’t happen. Music one minute and amputated legs the next. Listen to that wind. All we need is a hurricane.”

Gene filled his glass and sat staring at the wall. Lewis still stood at the window, trembling, staring at nothing. After a while, hearing Gene’s mumble, he turned around.

“What are you saying?”

“Just mumbling. Trying to figure the count. How many do you think? Dead and injured altogether.”

“I don’t know. Too many, that’s all I know. God almighty!” he cried. “How and why? Why?”

“I’ll tell you. Because we should have taken action at the start when young Victor came with his story about Sprague. I suppose you see now that I was right two years ago. I hate having to say it, but it’s the truth.”

“You’re jumping at conclusions. We don’t even know yet what went wrong, and you’ve already fixed the blame for it.”

“We know very well what went wrong. The concrete was no good. All you have to do is feel it. Cheap stuff. Not enough aggregate. I searched as best I could in all the mess tonight, and I’ll swear there weren’t nearly enough iron bars for reinforcement either. We trusted. Or you’re the one who trusted. Not I! And now we’ll be blamed for the disaster. The fact is, we deserve the blame.”

“Well, if the supplier gypped Sprague and you’re sure about the concrete, I don’t see—”

“I’m sure. Go downstairs now and see for yourself. I never wanted Sprague, anyway,” Gene muttered. “You know I didn’t. And now we’re
through, finished, washed up. Do you understand?”

“You’re jumping at conclusions, as I’ve already said, and you’re drunk. That’s brandy you’re drinking, not water.”

“I need to be drunk. Do you realize how many people died tonight? And how many may live who will never walk again on account of your stupidity?”

“God damn it, how dare you!”

“I dare. Your fancy friend, heaven help us. Let’s not offend him. Oh, no, never. No social conscience, that’s your trouble.”

“You’re out of your head. I’m not going to let you get away with this when you sober up, brother or no brother.”

Toward dawn the telephone rang, bringing down upon both their heads the raving rage of the hotel’s owners, Arrow Hotels International.

“You were hired because you’re supposed to be the cream of your profession. What in hell have you done or not done with this job? You’ll hear from our lawyers at ten o’clock your time, and we’ll be at your door ourselves as soon as the Concorde lands tomorrow.”

So then we entered the prickly thickets of the law, thought Lewis now, a dark wilderness where we strayed for months and years, looking for some light beyond.

It’s all a matter of passing the buck, distributing the guilt. The supplier cheating the contractor (oh, yes, I admit, Gene was right, and the concrete was inferior). The contractor is an innocent victim, or else he is criminally negligent. The architect engineers at the top of this pyramid have the same choice, as does the owning company. Victimized or responsible? Which is it? So they all sue each other. And the families of the dead and injured sue everyone in sight.

Then into the fracas steps Mr. Jerry Victor, a few years older now, with a respectable suit and haircut this time, plus an interesting story for an investigative reporter. And where does the reporter go after interviewing Victor? Of course he goes to Lewis Byrne. And Lewis Byrne is called upon to explain himself in the courtroom, to give as best he can his foolish reason for not pursuing an inquiry. And Eugene Byrne must explain his part in the affair, how he did ask his brother to speak with Sprague, and how his brother refused.

Thank heaven the business had finally come to an end.

Not, he thought now, that it ever really will. Shall I ever stop seeing the terrible face of that girl with the bloody, mangled shoulder and missing arm? Was she dying, dead, or in shock when I picked her up? I don’t know enough about the human body to tell. And I still hear that old man going mad, screaming a woman’s name: “Julia! Julia!”

“What on earth are you mumbling about?” asked Daisy. “I was just falling asleep when I heard you. Come to bed, it’s almost twelve.”

“I was thinking of things. Of my rotten brother, for one.”

“Honey, you’ve got to stop. He’s not worth your thoughts.”

“All right, I made a bad mistake. But he has no understanding, no mercy. Testifies against me. Accuses me of having no social conscience. Can you imagine? Me, a dollar-a-year man? While he’s still raking in consulting fees?”

“Lewis, please. You get yourself so worked up.”

She was pressed warmly against his back, with
her arms around him, her lips moving on his neck. After all these years she could still give him everything he wanted. Yet tonight he was too filled with his distress to respond.

Feeling this, she withdrew, saying gently, “The last few years have been too tough. We’re due now for some good years. I’m sure we are.”

“Social conscience,” he repeated as though she had not spoken. “That snob. He and his wife, Susan, the
Mayflower
descendant. Neither one of them ever got over that, did they? And look at the way he treated Ellen when she fell in love with Mark. Believe me, I’d choose Mark any day over our son-in-law, with all his fine family background. Even if Mark is Jewish. The things Ellen’s told Cynthia about what they had to go through because of Gene! Good lord, Arthur Roth’s Jewish and he’s been my accountant for thirty years, and my father’s before me, and he’s the salt of the earth.”

“Come, come, for heaven’s sake, you’re out of breath. This isn’t doing you any good, or me either.”

“I didn’t tell you I saw Gene the last time we were in New York to visit Cynthia. I guess I
didn’t want to upset you. I saw him approaching me at the end of the block. It’s a good thing I’m farsighted. It gave me time enough to cross the street and look into a shop window. I tell you, Daisy, the sight of him makes me boil.”

“Then it’s good that you don’t have to see him. Let’s try to do something about our Cynthia instead. We’re going to have a good visit at your mother’s. I always feel as if I’ve stepped back into an easier, slower age when we’re there at your old home. The mahogany is cared for, there are flowers on the table, the dogs are brushed, old George still does the gardening, Jenny’s still in the kitchen, and your mother’s always cheerful.”

At this Lewis did finally have to smile. “Yes, there’s something about her that draws people. Jenny told me last time that she and George plan to stay as long as Mother lives.” Then, frowning again, he exclaimed, “Poor Mother. She shouldn’t have these family troubles at her age. I wonder—do you think maybe she’s asked us to come because there’s something wrong with her? She’s the last person to complain, but if there is anything wrong with her health, I’m glad it’s me
that she wants to see. God knows she wouldn’t get the same help from Gene.”

“Darling, I’m sure there’s nothing the matter. She simply wants to give Cynthia a little change. It’s going to be lovely for the three of us. Come on to bed.”

T
he first thing Gene Byrne noticed when he came home from his office was the topmost envelope in the pile of mail on his desk. Anna, his day worker, had known he would be interested first in his mother’s letter.

Sitting down at once to read it, he had to smile. An invitation to spend the day and stay for dinner! It could just as well have been given over the telephone. But then, that would not have been like his mother to do.

“I would appreciate your not mentioning this to Ellen. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Do I have to tell you how I adore your Ellen and her
babies? I do plan to have them come soon, but this time I’d like to have just you.”

The indefatigable Annette Byrne is finally showing her age, he thought. Young children, especially his darling granddaughter Lucy, can wear even a young person’s nerves out after a full day of their constant dartings, spillings, and questions. He understood that, and yet he was disappointed. Although his days were filled with welcome work, and although, living as he did in New York, he could have filled his evenings, and often did so, with drama and music, he had his lonely hours too. His life had changed when his daughter married, his son moved to London, and his wife died. He had to expect some lonely hours and had no right to complain. He never did complain. Still, he was disappointed.

Anna had put his dinner in the warming oven for him and, knowing his tastes, had set a place at the little table overlooking the East River. It was pleasant while eating to watch boats going by, pleasant to be snug here high above the windy streets, pleasant to take his drink out of a crystal goblet. The embroidered place mat was initialed
SJB
, for Susan Jane Byrne, and was still in use
even though it had been bought for her trousseau some thirty-two years ago.

Susan had left him much too soon. Cancer wasn’t choosy about the ages of its victims. It would be ten years next week since he had taken up what they used to call “bachelor quarters,” directly after her death and Ellen’s marriage, which had come a few months later. He often thought that if she had to die, she had at least been spared some unlooked-for troubles: the woeful marriage and the disaster of the grand hotel.

He himself tried not to think about those things. Fortunately, he was busy, unlike that brother of his, who had, he supposed from the little he heard, relapsed into idleness. One had to accept accomplished facts. Ellen’s marriage, for instance, could have been much worse than it had seemed at the beginning. The children, of course, were wonderful. As to the other blot on his reasonably fortunate life, having had good parents and a beloved wife, he knew that it could never be wiped out. He must simply not look back at it.

That would be difficult this anniversary week, however. Yesterday, coming home in a torrent of
rain, he had had a total recall of the tropical storm that night, the dripping ponchos on the cops, the shine of wet pavement where the ambulances were being loaded, the frenzied bustle, calling, shouting, and the clatter of helicopters overhead.

No more room in the morgue. They’re laying them on the floor
.

It should never have happened. It was, when you came down to it, simply a question of honor and truth. If only Lewis had listened to him when Jerry Victor came with his story, it never would have happened. But Lewis was too impressed with the Spragues and the château in France, where the elder Hanson-Spragues entertained ambassadors and financiers each summer, to open his mouth and investigate.

No one will ever convince me, Gene thought now and probably for the thousandth time, that Victor wasn’t telling the truth. It’s not as if he was looking for trouble. He could have filed a complaint for violation of the whistleblower law. He’d been promised a raise, and then all of a sudden it was denied. He’d been given some work that he’d never been taught to do and that he was
bound to bungle. They wanted him to bungle it. He knew he was being prepared for a fall. Why didn’t he sue? Because, as he said, he had a life to make. I admired him.

The funny thing is, if he had looked the way he looked in the courtroom a few years later, Lewis might have paid more attention to him.

He gets a lot of this snobbery from Daisy too. And who on earth does Daisy think she is? Her family never amounted to a hill of beans. Nobody ever heard of them. When I think of Susan, so unassuming even though she was the closest we come in this country to an aristocrat, going back to the
Mayflower—

Yes, but it’s Daisy’s daughter who made the good marriage, not ours. Life’s little quirks. You never know what’s around the corner. That was a terrible, unspeakable thing that happened to those twins. I was relieved to be in London when it happened; the funeral must have been awful. Ellen said it was. I can imagine. Or rather, I can’t. Suppose it had been Lucy and Freddie, I think I’d go out of my mind.

They’re so beautiful and so smart and so sweet. They look like Ellen. Not that Mark isn’t a nice-looking
young man. He dresses neatly, very well, in fact. Of course, you have to make a proper appearance when you work in a fine midtown art gallery. I wonder how much he makes. It can’t be much, I think, or why would they live in a remodeled loft way downtown instead of up here in this neighborhood, near the park, where Cynthia lives? It’s so depressing downtown among those lofts and factories, so gray and grimy, with all the trucks and cluttered sidewalks. You feel as if the air is poisonous, and it probably is, from the exhausts, and no trees to absorb anything. Where in heaven’s name are the children going to play? And whom are they going to meet?

But Ellen’s apparently quite content, so maybe the choice is her idea. I don’t know. She always was an independent. Like most artists. Maybe she’ll actually make a name for herself someday after the children are both in school. I saw something rather good on the easel that she keeps on the north side of that big room. Good Lord, they cook and eat, she works, the children play, and they all do everything but sleep in that one room. Still, they’re obviously happy together.

That elopement almost gave me a heart attack.
Why, with all the contacts and opportunities she had, did she have to pick anybody named Mark Sachs? Not that I have anything against Jews. Well, maybe I do, a little. They’re peculiar people. I never know what they’re thinking. I don’t feel at ease with them. It’s just—it’s just— Actually, though, it’s not Mark whom I mind so much. No one could say fairly that Mark is not a gentleman. But his parents, especially his father! Never mind that he’s a doctor and supposedly chief of some staff somewhere or other, I can’t look at him. The one time I saw him, nine years ago, was more than enough. I never want to look at that black beard again. Sat there with a sour face; didn’t eat anything. Ellen promised I wouldn’t have to see him, and thank heavens, she’s kept her promise. I daresay the doctor isn’t eager to see me either. Hah! It was mutual hatred at first sight, especially on his part. I sensed it the minute he walked into the room. The mother isn’t quite as bad, except for her loud, whiny voice. Overemotional. Orthodox. Not pleased with my daughter. Not good enough for him. I can imagine how they must have ranted at home. To be mixed up with people like those. And my
grandchildren related to them, tied to them for life.