The Secret History (69 page)

“For God’s sake.”

He shrugged. “It’s no business of mine,” he said, extracting one crooked cigarette and crushing the empty pack in his hand. “People were bothering me at school, so I was staying on their couch before we came down here. I’ve heard her talking on the phone.”

“And saying what?”

“Oh, nothing, but like two or three in the morning, whispering, you’ve got to wonder.” He smiled bleakly. “I guess she thinks I’m passed out but to tell you the truth I haven’t been sleeping all that well.… Right,” he said, when I didn’t answer. “You don’t know a thing about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.”

“I really don’t.”

“So what were you doing in there?”

I looked at him for a moment, and then I took out a handful of pills and held them out on my open palm.

He leaned forward, brows knit, and then, quite suddenly, his foggy eyes became intelligent and alert. He selected a capsule
and held it up to the light in businesslike fashion. “What is it?” he said. “Do you know?”

“Sudafed,” I said. “Don’t bother. There’s nothing in there.”

He chuckled. “Know why?” he said, looking at me for the first time with real friendliness. “That’s because you were looking in the wrong place.”

“What?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Down the hall. Off the master bedroom. I would have told you if you’d asked.”

I was startled. “How do you know?”

He pocketed the capsule and raised an eyebrow at me. “I practically grew up in this house,” he said. “Old Kathy is on about sixteen different types of dope.”

I looked back at the closed door of the master bedroom.

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Bunny’s grandma. She has to lie down after she eats. We’ll come up later.”

Things downstairs had cleared out some, but not much. Camilla was nowhere in sight. Charles, bored and drunk, his back in a corner, was holding a glass to his temple as a tearful Marion babbled away—her hair pulled back in one of those tremendous preppy bows from the Talbots catalogue. I hadn’t had a chance to speak to him because she had shadowed him almost constantly since we arrived; why she had latched so firmly on to him I don’t know, except that she wasn’t talking to Cloke, and Bunny’s brothers were either married or engaged, and of the remaining males in her age group—Bunny’s cousins, Henry and me, Bram Guernsey and Rooney Wynne—Charles was by far the best looking.

He glanced at me over her shoulder. I didn’t have the stomach to go over and rescue him, and I looked away; but just then a toddler—fleeing his grinning, jug-eared brother—slid into my legs and almost knocked me down.

They dodged round me in circles. The smaller one, terrified and shrieking, dove to the floor and grabbed my knees. “Butthole,” he sobbed.

The other one stopped and took a step backwards, and there was something nasty and almost lascivious about the look on his face. “Oh, Dad,” he sang, his voice like spilled syrup.

“
Oh, Daa-yid.
”

Across the room, Hugh Corcoran turned, glass in hand. “Don’t make me come over there, Brandon,” he said.

“But Corey called you a butthole,
Daa-yid.
”

“You’re a butthole,” sobbed the little one. “You you you.”

I pried him off my leg and went looking for Henry. He and Mr. Corcoran were in the kitchen, surrounded by a semicircle of people: Mr. Corcoran, who had his arm around Henry, looked as if he’d had a few too many.

“Now Kathy and I,” he said, in a loud, didactic voice, “have
always opened our home to young people
. Always an extra place at the table. First thing you know, they’d be coming to Kathy and me with their problems, too. Like this guy,” he said, jostling Henry. “I’ll never forget the time he came up to me one night after supper. He said, ‘Mack’—all the kids call me Mack—‘I’d like to ask your advice about something, man to man.’ ‘Well, before you start, son,’ I said, ‘I want to tell you just one thing. I think I know boys pretty well. I raised five of ’em myself. And I had four brothers when I was coming up, so I guess you might call me a pretty good authority on boys in general.…’ ”

He rambled on with this fraudulent recollection while Henry, pale and ill, endured his prods and backslaps as a well-trained dog will tolerate the pummeling of a rough child. The story itself was ludicrous. It had a dynamic and strangely hot-headed young Henry wanting to rush out and buy a used single-engine airplane against the advice of his parents.

“But this guy was determined,” said Mr. Corcoran. “He was going to get that plane or bust. After he’d told me all about it I sat there for a minute and then I took a deep breath and I said, ‘Henry, son, she sounds like a beaut, but I’m still going to have to be a square and agree with your folks. Let me tell you why that is.’ ”

“Hey, Dad,” said Patrick Corcoran, who had just come in to fix himself another drink. He was slighter than Bun, heavily freckled, but he had Bunny’s sandy hair and his sharp little nose. “Dad, you’re all mixed up. That didn’t happen to Henry. That was Hugh’s old friend Walter Ballantine.”

“Bosh,” said Mr. Corcoran.

“Sure it was. And he ended up buying the plane anyway. Hugh?” he shouted into the next room. “Hugh, do you remember Walter Ballantine?”

“Sure,” said Hugh, and appeared in the doorway. He had by
the wrist the kid Brandon, who was twisting and trying furiously to get away. “What about him?”

“Didn’t Walter wind up buying that little Bonanza?”

“It wasn’t a Bonanza,” said Hugh, ignoring with a glacial calm the thrashing and yelps of his son. “It was a Beechcraft. No, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, as both Patrick and his father started to object. “I drove out to Danbury with Walter to look at a little converted Bonanza, but the guy wanted way too much. Those things cost a fortune to maintain, and there was plenty wrong with it, too. He was selling it because he couldn’t afford to keep it.”

“What about this Beechcraft, then?” said Mr. Corcoran. His hand had slipped from Henry’s shoulder. “I’ve heard that’s an excellent little outfit.”

“Walter had some trouble with it. Got it through an ad in the
Pennysaver
, off some retired congressman from New Jersey. He’d used it to fly around in while he was campaigning and—”

Gasping, he lurched forward as with a sudden wrench the kid broke free of him and shot across the room like a cannonball. Evading his father’s tackle, he sidestepped Patrick’s block as well and, glancing back at his pursuers, slammed right into Henry’s abdomen.

It was a hard blow. The kid began to cry. Henry’s jaw dropped and every ounce of blood drained from his face. For a moment I was sure he would fall, but somehow he drew himself upright, with the dignified, massive effort of a wounded elephant, while Mr. Corcoran threw back his head and laughed merrily at his distress.

I had not entirely believed Cloke about the drugs to be found upstairs, but when I went up with him again I saw he had told the truth. There was a tiny dressing room off the master bedroom, and a black lacquer vanity with lots of little compartments and a tiny key, and inside one of the compartments was a ballotin of Godiva chocolates and a neat, well-tended collection of candy-colored pills. The doctor who had prescribed them—E. G. Hart, M.D., and apparently a more reckless character than his prim initials would suggest—was a generous fellow, particularly with the amphetamines. Ladies of Mrs. Corcoran’s age usually went in pretty heavily for the Valium and so forth but she had enough speed to send a gang of Hell’s Angels on a cross-country rampage.

I was nervous. The room smelled like new clothes and perfume; big disco mirrors on the wall reproduced our every move in paranoiac multiple-image; there was no way out and no possible excuse for being there should anyone happen in. I kept an eye on the door while Cloke, with admirable efficiency, went swiftly through the bottles.

Dalmane. Yellow and orange. Darvon. Red and gray. Fiorinal. Nembutal. Miltown. I took two from each of the bottles he gave me.

“What,” he said, “don’t you want more than that?”

“I don’t want her to miss anything.”

“Shit,” he said, opening another bottle and pouring half the contents into his pocket. “Take what you want. She’ll think it was one of her daughters-in-law or something. Here, have some of this speed,” he said, tapping most of the rest of the bottle on my palm. “It’s great stuff. Pharmaceutical. During exams you can get ten or fifteen dollars a hit for this, easy.”

I went downstairs, the right-hand pocket of my jacket full of ups and the left full of downs. Francis was standing at the foot of the steps. “Listen,” I said, “do you know where Henry is?”

“No. Have you seen Charles?”

He was half-hysterical. “What’s wrong?” I said.

“He stole my car keys.”

“What?”

“He took the keys out of my coat pocket and left. Camilla saw him pulling out of the driveway. He had the
top
down. That car stalls in the rain, anyway, but if—shit,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know anything about it, do you?”

“I saw him about an hour ago. With Marion.”

“Yes, I talked to her too. He said he was going out for cigarettes, but that was an hour ago. You did see him? You haven’t talked to him?”

“No.”

“Was he drunk? Marion said he was. Did he look drunk to you?”

Francis looked pretty drunk himself. “Not very,” I said. “Come on, help me find Henry.”

“I told you. I don’t know where he is. What do you want him for?”

“I have something for him.”

“
What is it?
” he said in Greek. “
Drugs?
”

“Yes.”

“Well, give me something, for God’s sake,” he said, swaying forward, pop-eyed.

He was far too drunk for sleeping pills. I gave him an Excedrin.

“Thanks,” he said, and swallowed it with a big sloppy drink of his whiskey. “I hope I die in the night. Where do you suppose he went, anyway? What time is it?”

“About ten.”

“You don’t suppose he decided to drive
home
, do you? Maybe he just took the car and went back to Hampden. Camilla said certainly not, not with the funeral tomorrow, but I don’t know, he’s just
disappeared
. If he really just went for cigarettes, don’t you think he’d be back by now? I can’t imagine where else he would have gone. What do you think?”

“He’ll turn up,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

I looked all over the house for Henry and found him sitting by himself on an army cot, in the basement, in the dark.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, without moving his head. “What is that?” he said, when I offered him a couple of capsules.

“Nembutal. Here.”

He took them from me and swallowed them without water. “Do you have any more?”

“Yes.”

“Give them to me.”

“You can’t take more than two.”

“Give them to me.”

I gave them to him. “I’m not kidding, Henry,” I said. “You’d better be careful.”

He looked at them, then reached in his pocket for the blue enamel pillbox and put them carefully inside it. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “you would go upstairs and get me a drink.”