Double Delight Page 17

  Months ago Terence had said, gently, to correct the boy, “I’m more comfortable as ‘Terence,’ not ‘Dr. Greene.’ I’m not a medical doctor, after all.”

  Chick beetled his forehead, shifted his Phillies cap about on his head, then said, with a sly sideways grin, “D’ja ever try?”

  “Try—?”

  “Like, making out ’script?”—seeing Terence’s baffled expression—“pre-scriptions, like? Valium, oxycodone, Percodan? Like, for a drugstore?”

  Terence laughed, uneasily. He guessed that the boy was making some sort of joke; as with Aaron, such humor struck an awkward note, pointing up the gap between the generations.

  Yet, most of the time, Terence was impressed with Chick’s maturity. At dinner, Chick maintained his part of the conversation, while eating with the gusto of a teenaged boy: He asked astute questions of Terence, Holly Mae, and Ava-Rose on the subject of Holly Mae’s lawsuit (which had become quite complicated, involving now a second high-priced lawyer); he spoke most respectfully to, yet joked with, Cap’n-Uncle Riff (for whom, or with whom, he worked: Apparently he was no longer in school?); and resisted, with big-brother stoicism, Dara’s and Dana’s giggly asides and nudges. Holly Mae Loomis was one of those breathless excitable women who are always leaping up from the table to run into the kitchen, or to pass a serving bowl about, scarcely enjoying their own cooking, and so Chick teased Holly Mae even as he reprimanded her—“Auntie Holly, no wonder your blood pressure’s high! Sit still, or we’re gonna tie you in your chair!”—jumping up himself with surprising alacrity.

  And there was Buster the dog who’d taken such a liking for Terence, dozing with his warm heavy head on Terence’s feet beneath the table—a pleasant sensation. And there was Darling the parrot wheeled into the room in his showy brass cage, chortling, preening, clowning, “cake-walking” about the bars, shrieking for attention—“H’lo! H’lo! H’lo! B’jurr! Beeyt PEEZE! PEEZE!” (Poor Darling: In Cap’n-Uncle’s presence, the parrot had to be shut into his cage. But everyone, including the bearded patriarch, talked cheerfully to him; and those within reach of his cage pushed tidbits—including meat, gristle, skin, tender bones—through the bars. Terence was impressed with the bird’s voracious appetite!) And, too, there was Marcellus the Mystery—a declawed Siamese cat, a neutered male, sleekly beautiful, with bluish-creamy fur, light blue eyes, a blue collar stamped MARCELLUS, and a throaty, crackly mew—who, found wandering by Chick down along the busy River Road, now prowled about the Renfrew household as if he owned it, demanding to be fed from the table. Clearly, the expensive pedigree animal had a strong sense of his own worth.

  Chick said, of the rescue of Marcellus, “I got a soft-touch face, is all. Any lost cat or dog, they sort of got radar for me.”

  Dara, or was it Dana, told Terence, “Last time, Chickie found a poodle along by the river—those real nice houses, y’know? Her name was Tiffny—”

  “Tiffany”—the other twin interrupted.

  “—Tiffny I said. Biggern you’d think a poodle would be, all white fur so curly and fluffy-pretty it’s like angel hair or something? on a Christmas tree, y’know? And—”

  The other twin interrupted breathlessly, widening her eyes at Terence. “Tiffany it was!—Tiffany was worth $500, Dr. Greene! They had this ad in the paper, like ‘Reward—’”

  “—‘and no questions asked.’”

  Holly Mae said in a cheerful, resigned voice, to Chick, yet in such a way as to divert Terence’s attention from the twins, “Lord, I worry about my asthma, all these fancy cats and dogs. Seems like their fur is the most troublesome! You had any luck with the wants ads, yet?”

  Chick said, “Auntie, it ain’t want ads, it’s lost-’n-’found—think you’d know that by now.”

  “Don’t you sass me, boy. You know what I’m saying.”

  Chick’s broad, handsome face, mildly blemished by pimples on his forehead, pinkened with blood. “I’m looking, sure; but I ain’t seen any ad, yet.”

  “Marcellus is such a kingly creature, his owners are sure to miss him,” Ava-Rose said. She’d been feeding the cat slivers of fatty meat, and now he leapt into her lap, causing a bit of flurry at the table, before, with Terence’s help, he was encouraged to jump down again to the floor. “I’d offer a rich reward, for such a beauty.”

  Terence was going to ask Chick if he’d made inquiries at houses along the River Road, but remained silent. By this time he’d had several foamy glasses of Cap’n-Uncle Riff’s home-brewed Chimney Point Stout, as the old man called it—a tart, briny, wood-grainy, delicious-dark, simmering sort of ale, like no other spirits Terence had tasted.

  Since coming to know the Renfrews—this wonderfully eccentric, unpredictable family—Terence often remained silent, and listened. Just when he thought he might have figured out a relationship or two, he was made to see otherwise. In their household, he laughed a good deal, not always knowing why. He had trouble thinking—was it sequentially?—even when, unlike this evening, he hadn’t drunk a little too much Chimney Point Stout.

  The twin on Chick’s left side—Dara?—leaned forward and said, excitedly, “One time, Chick found a lost pony—”

  “—acrost the river, in Yardley?—by the canal?—” the other twin interrupted.

  “—they brought him back in the van. And—”

  In his deep bemused baritone, with a touch of impatience, Cap’n-Uncle Riff cut the girls off. “And there’s pony manure in the cellar, to this day.”

  “Cellar?” Terence said, frowning. “But why the cellar?” Seeing how the Renfrews were watching him, he felt a ticklish sensation all over his body. “Why not outside?”

  “Because, Dr. Greene, that’s where the damned pony abided, during his stay with us.” Cap’n-Uncle smiled in his lofty yet charmingly self-mocking way; and asked Terence if he would like more stout.

  Terence began to say, “No, thank you, sir,” but heard, instead, “Yes, thank you, sir.” He laughed, startled. What was happening to him? Ava-Rose poured the dark, foamy brew into Terence’s glass, and sipped a little from the glass; on principle, Ava-Rose did not imbibe alcoholic beverages, but sometimes took tiny sips from a glass of Terence’s, which pleased him enormously. Terence took a hearty swallow, so happy suddenly that the tip of his nose went icy-cold. “Cap’n-Uncle, why is Chimney Point so named?—no one seems to know.”

  As he often did when he meant to be funny, Cap’n-Uncle tugged at his beard. “Maybe, Dr. Greene, this part of Trenton is named for my stout?” The elderly man’s deadpan delivery made them all laugh, even Terence. Chick, who’d lapsed into a fugue of sullenness, woke from it and laughed loudly.

  Cap’n-Uncle reminisced for some fascinating minutes of his years at sea, in Malaysia, the Indian Ocean, and the South China Sea in particular; his voice took on a wistful note as he told Terence of “the old, lost days” of mercantile trading. He’d run off to sea at the age of seventeen, retired at the age of seventy-six, and then only because the ship he commanded was dry-docked in Taiwan. In 1939, he’d married a beautiful Sulawesi princess in a sacred rite in which he’d had to drink human blood; he’d been madly in love with the princess, and had sired a son with her, whom he’d only seen once—“Tragic European history intervened!” It was in northern Borneo that he’d first drunk the highly potent ale he now brewed himself, given him by an exiled Englishman, a refugee from the British Navy who’d taken a liking to Riff Renfrew (at the time in his early thirties), and willed him his small cache of jewels, gold, stolen icons, and devalued British currency, at his death. With this modest fortune, constituting about twenty-five thousand American dollars, Riff Renfrew had been able to invest in a Greek mercantile ship; and so began his career as an officer, and not merely a slavey under others’ commands. “I never drink this ale without thinking of my old, lost friend,” Cap’n-Uncle said soberly, raising his glass, “—whose name I have forgotten, to my sorrow.”

  Terence was deeply moved. He asked, “Do you miss the sea badly, Cap’n-Un
cle?”

  “No, because I carry the ‘sea’ within me,” the old man said, with unexpected candor, fixing his deep-set, steely eyes on Terence’s. “As, in age, we carry ‘youth’ within us; or, as the lover, if he is true to his love, carries her within him at all times.”

  A moment’s awkward pause. One of the twins giggled, jamming her knuckles against her mouth; the other joined in, snorting.

  “Oh,” cried Ava-Rose, “—aren’t you two silly!”

  Then Marcellus the Mystery leapt boldly up onto the table, seized in his jaws the greasy remnants of some meat on Terence’s plate, and leapt down to the floor again, already in flight—so sinuous in motion, the entire maneuver seemed but a single fluid gesture, as of a magician’s sweeping wand.

  Ava-Rose sprang up from the table, smiling. “Auntie Holly, stay right where you are. I’ll get dessert.”

  And Terence, emboldened by stout, sprang up, too, to follow Ava-Rose out into the kitchen. “I’ll help, dear. Tell me what to do.”

  At first, Ava-Rose seemed genuinely opposed to Terence being in the kitchen with her. She said, almost crossly, “You’ve done so much for us, Ter-ence—I’m plain ol’ embarrassed.”

  Terence said happily, “But I’ve only begun.”

  It was true, though Terence had kept no records, he’d loaned, or given, the Renfrews a considerable amount of money in the past several months; and had impulsively bought them numerous gifts, like the $300 brass parrot cage. (Darling’s former cage had been a cramped, shabby affair, unbefitting a bird of such dignity and character. To see him in such quarters had wrung Terence’s heart.) Without Cap’n-Uncle’s knowledge (for the elderly man was proud, and would not have accepted charity), Terence had helped pay the mortgage on the house, and the insurance; when, on the first really cold day of the year, in December, the Renfrews’ antiquated oil-burning furnace had broken down, Terence had helped Ava-Rose buy a new one. (Conferring with her, in husbandly fashion, had seemed to Terence well worth the price!) There were medical bills of Holly Mae’s; and sizable retainers for her lawyers. There were household repairs, minor, but urgent—windowpanes to replace long-broken panes, new plumbing fixtures for the bathrooms. It had long been a dream of Ava-Rose’s that her nieces should wear braces to straighten their teeth—“For facial beauty, however superficial, is the way in which women in our culture are judged”—but, until Terence came along, taking the girls to an expensive orthodontist was out of the question.

  A twenty-two-pound turkey for Thanksgiving, a six-foot evergreen, poinsettias, a lavish basket of fruit, nuts, and candies for Christmas. Noting the shabby condition of young Chick’s windbreaker, Terence had slipped $200 to Ava-Rose for the purpose of buying him a new one—without telling that Terence was paying. (Terence sensed that Chick too had his pride, and did not want to offend him.) For Dara’s and Dana’s birthday, Terence had arranged for Ava-Rose to buy the girls new winter overcoats, which they’d badly needed; and then, in a reckless gesture, he’d taken the entire Renfrew family, including Cap’n-Uncle, out to a lavish Sunday brunch at the Washington Crossing Inn across the river in Pennsylvania. He’d seemed to know that none of his Queenston acquaintances would chance to see him there, at the head of a motley sort of family and beside a young woman of startling gypsy-beauty.

  After Eldrick Gill, perhaps nothing and no one could touch him.

  Half deliberately, Terence hadn’t been keeping records of these abrupt and often impulsive expenditures. Usually, he gave Ava-Rose cash; which the sensitive young woman would accept only if convinced by. Terence that her family needed it, and then only if it were presented as a loan. (Ava-Rose’s peculiar Church, which Terence hardly wanted to challenge, at least in this stage of their relationship, seemed to forbid any kind of “material transaction” at all.) Terence had little financial acumen, but thought it an easy matter to transfer funds from one account to another, and to another; from a personal account in Queenston to his expense account at the Feinemann Foundation, and sometimes back again, in a convoluted yet surely quite innocent paper trail which could be explained (but why should it be explained?) should anyone, from Phyllis to accountants and auditors at the Foundation, make inquiries. I exceeded my expense allotment for that month at the Foundation, and made it up with personal funds; the time I was short, I sold x, y, z stocks, and transferred the cash to another Foundation account. And then—

  But Terence broke off such calibrations, impatiently. Who would question him?—with his reputation for honesty, probity? It was a lucky thing too that Phyllis had money of her own; and that her mother, who could not live forever, would leave her—and surely Terence, too—millions of dollars.

  Terence, lost in thought, realized that he wasn’t helping poor Ava-Rose, much—he saw her reach for plates on a high cupboard shelf, saw her odd, bunchy little black satin jacket hiking up, exposing her waistband, and the purple taffeta blouse hiking too, to reveal a creamy crescent of skin—and a wave of vertigo overtook him.

  My love, my only love.

  How can I be worthy of you!

  Quickly, Terence got the plates for Ava-Rose, and together, in cheerily clumsy fashion, they dished out prodigious amounts of peaches and ice cream atop thick squares of chocolate cake. Though Terence had eaten a good deal already of Holly Mae’s delicious food, and his stomach was bloated with Cap’n-Uncle’s ale, his mouth watered, like a child’s, for Ava-Rose’s dessert.

  And, at the Renfrews’ crowded table, in his place between beautiful Ava-Rose and Auntie Holly Mae, Terence ate as hungrily, even, as Chick.

  Terence asked Ava-Rose if her chocolate cake had any name, and Ava-Rose and Auntie Holly Mae answered, laughing, in unison—“Double-chocolate-fudge-devil’s-food-delight. An old family recipe.”

  “Is it!” Terence said, picking up the last crumb from his plate with his fingers. “It’s the most delicious dessert I’ve ever tasted.”

  It would have been wise for Terence then to leave, but, hoping for what, exactly, he did not know knowing exactly: to consummate his love for Ava-Rose, this very night and in this very house, he lingered, over coffee; so enjoying himself in this warm-lit, cozily shabby place he could not bear to think of leaving. The wind! the swirling snowflakes! And, in the house at 7 Juniper Way, Queenston, a woman’s stiff face, hurt and sarcastic voice—I thought we’d made a joint New Year’s resolution, but, evidently, I made it alone.

  Then, abruptly, the tone of the evening changed.

  Dara and Dana excused themselves from the table, with a bustling commotion of kissing everyone good night (including “Dr. Greene,” who was most moved); to his surprise, the twelve-year-olds were going out to a classmate’s house to spend the night—a “slumber party,” as they called it.

  Terence, recalling certain unhappy events in the Greene family history, when, it seemed, Kim had not told the exact truth about who would be at one of these parties, or even at whose house the party was to be, felt a tinge of apprehension. Yet, could he speak?—dare he speak? He was not Dara’s and Dana’s father, after all.

  Terence said, uncertainly, “On a school night?—it doesn’t seem—”

  No one heard. Chick sniggered deep in his throat.

  Ava-Rose went away upstairs with the girls, and, when the doorbell rang, came herding them down. There was much good-natured chattering and scolding. Terence drifted out to see the girls off, watching Ava-Rose help them into their attractive new winter coats (a deep burgundy for Dara, a bright green for Dana), feeling a distinct sense of unease.

  And there was Ava-Rose’s somewhat nervous, fussy manner as the girls prepared to leave for the night. She should have children of her own. This peculiar self-sacrificing “family life” of hers is unnatural.

  The father of the twins’ classmate was a stranger, of course, and unexpectedly dapper in his dress. He wore a camel’s hair coat, and a matching fedora tilted on his head. He was about Terence’s age; with a sallow skin and a small, rosebud mouth. Seeing Terence, he frowned, muttere
d something inaudible to Ava-Rose, and turned quickly away, as if to avoid Terence’s scrutiny. Without a backward glance, Dara and Dana ran out to his car idling at the curb.

  Ava-Rose quickly shut the door, shivering. When Terence touched her arm, she turned to him, as if in appeal, and said, “It’s only for overnight, but I worry.”

  Terence said, hesitantly, “It does seem that, on a school night, a slumber party isn’t a good idea. My daughter Kim—”

  Ava-Rose murmured, “Yes!” and led Terence back into the dining room, where, to his surprise, the atmosphere seemed suddenly to be tense. Holly Mae was loudly blowing her nose, and Chick, seeing Terence, went sulkily silent; Cap’n-Uncle, face reddened from many glasses of stout, let fall his fist against the tabletop, as if concluding an argument. He said loudly, “As Abraham Lincoln said, ‘A sucker is born every minute.’”

  Terence felt a pedantic tinge. “Abraham Lincoln?—why, no, I think it was—”

  Curtly, Cap’n-Uncle cut him off. “The principle is the same, Doctor. ‘A sucker is born every minute, and what are you going to do about it?’”