The Secret History (57 page)

After that came a made-for-television movie. It was about the threat of the earth colliding with another planet and how all the scientists in the world united to avert the catastrophe. A hack astronomer, who is constantly on talk shows and whose name you would probably recognize, played himself in a cameo role.

For some reason, I felt uneasy about watching the news alone when it came on at eleven, so I turned to PBS and watched something called “History of Metallurgy.” It was actually quite interesting, but I was tired and a bit drunk, and I fell asleep before it ended.

When I awoke, a blanket had been thrown over me, and the room was blue with a cold dawn light. Francis sat in the windowsill with his back to me; he was wearing his clothes from the night before and he was eating maraschino cherries from a jar balanced on his knee.

I sat up. “What time is it?”

“Six,” he said without turning around, his mouth full.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I didn’t get in until four-thirty. Too drunk to drive you home. Want a cherry?”

He was still drunk. His collar was open and his clothes disordered; his voice was flat and toneless.

“Where were you all night?”

“With the Corcorans.”

“Not
drinking.
”

“Of course.”

“Till four?”

“They were still going at it when we left. There were five or six cases of beer in the bathtub.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be a frivolous occasion.”

“It was donated by the Food King,” said Francis. “The beer, I mean. Mr. Corcoran and Brady got hold of some of it and brought it to the hotel.”

“Where are they staying?”

“I don’t know,” he said dully. “Terrible place. One of those big flat motels with a neon sign and no room service. All the rooms were connected. Hugh’s children screaming and throwing potato chips, the television going in every room. It was hell.… Really,” he said humorlessly as I started to laugh, “I think I could get through anything after last night. Survive a nuclear war. Fly a plane. Somebody—one of those damned toddlers, I guess—got my favorite scarf off the bed and wrapped up part of a chicken leg in it. That nice silk one with the pattern of clocks on it. It’s just ruined.”

“Were they upset?”

“Who, the Corcorans? Of course not. I don’t think they even noticed.”

“I don’t mean about the scarf.”

“Oh.” He got another cherry from the jar. “They were all upset I suppose, in a way. Nobody talked about much else but they didn’t seem out of their
minds
or anything. Mr. Corcoran would act all sad and worried for a while, then the next thing you knew he’d be playing with the baby, giving everybody beer.”

“Was Marion there?”

“Yes. Cloke, too. He went for a drive with Brady and Patrick and came back reeking of pot. Henry and I sat on the radiator all night and talked to Mr. Corcoran. I guess Camilla went over to say hello to Hugh and his wife and got trapped. I don’t even know what happened to Charles.”

After a moment or so, Francis shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Does it ever strike you, in a horrible sort of way, how
funny
this is?”

“Well, it’s not all that funny really.”

“I guess not,” he said, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. “And Mr. Corcoran said the National Guard is coming up today, too. What a mess.”

For some time I had been staring at the jar of cherries without realizing fully what they were. “Why are you eating those?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said, staring down at the jar. “They taste really bad.”

“Throw them away.”

He struggled with the window sash. It sailed up with a grinding noise.

A blast of icy air hit me in the face. “Hey,” I said.

He threw the jar out the window and then leaned on the sash with all his weight. I went over to help him. Finally, it crashed down, and the draperies floated down to rest placidly by the windows. The cherry juice had left a spattered red trajectory on the snow.

“Kind of a Jean Cocteau touch, isn’t it?” Francis said. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a bath now.”

He was running the water and I was on my way out when the phone rang.

It was Henry. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I thought I dialed Francis.”

“You did. Hold on a second.” I put down the phone and called for him.

He came in in his trousers and undershirt, his face half-lathered, a razor in his hand. “Who is it?”

“Henry.”

“Tell him I’m in the bath.”

“He’s in the bath,” I said.

“He is not in the bath,” said Henry. “He is standing in the room with you. I can hear him.”

I gave Francis the telephone. He held it away from his face so he wouldn’t get any soap on the receiver.

I could hear Henry talking indistinctly. After a moment, Francis’s sleepy eyes widened.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not me.”

Henry’s voice again, curt and businesslike.

“No. I mean it, Henry. I’m tired and I’m going to sleep and there’s no way—”

Suddenly, his face changed. To my great surprise he cursed loudly and slammed down the receiver so hard that it jangled.

“What is it?”

He was staring at the phone. “God damn him,” he said. “He hung up on me.”

“What’s the matter?”

“He wants us to go out with that damn search party again.
Now
. I’m not like he is. I can’t just
stay up
for five or six days at a—”

“Now? But it’s so early.”

“It started an hour ago, so he says. Damn him. Doesn’t he ever sleep?”

We had not spoken about the incident in my room several nights before and, in the drowsy silence of the car, I felt the need to make things plain.

“You know, Francis,” I said.

“What?”

It seemed the best thing was just to come right out and say it. “You know,” I said, “I’m really not attracted to you. I mean, not that—”

“Isn’t that interesting,” he said coolly. “I’m really not attracted to you, either.”

“But—”

“You were there.”

We drove the rest of the way to school in a not very comfortable silence.

Unbelievably, things had escalated even more during the night. There now were hundreds of people: people in uniforms, people with dogs and bullhorns and cameras, people buying sweet rolls from the concessions truck and trying to peek into the dark windows of the news vans—three of them, one from the station in Boston—parked on Commons lawn, along with the overflow of vehicles from the parking lot.

We found Henry on the front porch of Commons. He was reading, with absorbed interest, a tiny, vellum-bound book written in some Near Eastern language. The twins—sleepy, red-nosed, rumpled—were sprawled on a bench like a couple of teenagers, passing a cup of coffee back and forth.

Francis half nudged, half kicked the toe of Henry’s shoe.

Henry started. “Oh,” he said. “Good morning.”

“How can you even say that. I haven’t had a wink of sleep. I haven’t eaten anything in about three days.”

Henry marked his place with a ribbon and slipped the book in his breast pocket. “Well,” he said amiably, “go get a doughnut, then.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I’ll give you the money, then.”

“I don’t want a goddamn doughnut.”

I went over and sat down with the twins.

“You missed quite a time last night,” said Charles to me.

“So I hear.”

“Hugh’s wife showed us baby pictures for an hour and a half.”

“Yes, at least,” said Camilla. “And Henry drank a beer from a can.”

Silence.

“So what did you do,” Charles said.

“Nothing. Watched a movie on TV.”

They both perked up. “Oh, really? The thing about the planets colliding?”

“Mr. Corcoran had it on but somebody switched channels before it was over,” said Camilla.

“How’d it end?”

“What’s the last part you saw?”

“They were in the mountain laboratory. The young enthusiastic scientists had all ganged up on that cynical old scientist who didn’t want to help.”

I was explaining the
dénouement
when Cloke Rayburn abruptly shouldered through the crowd. I stopped talking, thinking he was headed for the twins and me, but instead he only nodded to us and walked up to Henry, who now was standing on the edge of the porch.

“Listen,” I heard him say. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night. I got hold of those guys in New York and Bunny hasn’t been there.”

Henry didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he said: “I thought you said you couldn’t get in touch with them.”

“Well, it’s possible, it’s just like a big headache. But they hadn’t seen him, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“I thought you said you couldn’t believe a word they said.”

He looked startled. “I did?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, listen to me,” said Cloke, taking off his sunglasses. His eyes were bloodshot and pouchy. “These guys are telling the truth. I didn’t think of this before—well, I guess it hasn’t been that long—but anyway, the story’s all over the New York papers. If they really did something to him, they wouldn’t be sticking around their apartment taking phone calls from me.… What is it, man?” he said nervously when Henry didn’t respond. “You didn’t say anything to anybody, did you?”

Henry made an indistinct noise in the back of his throat, which might have meant anything.

“What?”

“No one has asked,” said Henry.

There was no expression on his face. Cloke, his discomfiture evident, waited for him to continue. Finally, he put on his sunglasses again in a slightly defensive manner.

“Well,” he said. “Um. Okay, then. See you later.”

After he’d gone Francis turned to Henry, a bemused look on his face. “What on earth are you up to?” he said.

But Henry didn’t answer.