Bread Upon the Waters (3 page)

“I think he’s making a pass at you.”

“Of course,” she said complacently. “With no luck. But I think he’s off by a couple of years. On the high side.”

She worked as a computer systems analyst for a big conglomerate concern on Park Avenue. She had been a mathematics major and had taken computer courses in college and she was quick and had a confident and no-nonsense manner. She had been with the concern for only two years but was already entrusted to set up computer programs for all sorts of businesses and institutions in and out of New York. Her passion for her work was very much like Leslie’s devotion to music. Eleanor had tried to explain it to her father, who was fearful of the fate of ordinary humanity in an increasingly computerized and impersonal world. “It’s like producing order out of chaos by stretching your imagination and your talent to its limits. You go into a hospital, say, and you see duplications of work, human error, time being wasted that might cost lives—honest but faulty diagnoses that a machine can correct in a matter of seconds, doctors mired down hunting through records when they could be relieving pain—and presto, you set up a system and you have the pleasure of seeing everything fall into place, everything working, and you know it’s your doing. And it’s the same thing in a business. By the simplest of means you free poor, haunted clerks from thousands of hours of boredom. Contrary to what you believe, Dad, it makes humanity more human—not less.”

Strand admired her eloquence and dedication but remained unconvinced, although he was happy that she was not content to be merely a pretty girl. She had gone away to college, working at summer jobs and tutoring during the school year to pay her way, and she now lived alone in a small apartment in the East Seventies. It had been a sad moment for Strand when she announced, the day she received her degree, that she no longer wanted to share the room in the family apartment with her kid sister. Neither Strand nor Leslie had objected; as they told each other, Eleanor was a capable, level-headed girl and could take care of herself and it was only normal for young people to strike out on their own. And as Eleanor had said, “It isn’t as though I’m going off to Lapland or Peru. I’ll be just across the park and when I’m in trouble I’ll scream so loud you’ll hear me right across the reservoir.” Until now, she hadn’t screamed. When she got her job and told her father what her salary was, he congratulated her, a little ruefully, since, fresh out of college, she was making more than he was after twenty-seven years in the public school system.

“I’m getting a three-week vacation this summer,” Eleanor said, starting to put a corkscrew into one of the two bottles of Chianti on the sideboard, “two weeks paid and one week unpaid and I want to go to someplace new. Have you any ideas, Dad?”

“Ummn.” Strand pulled reflectively at his ear. “That depends. Are you going alone?”

The cork came out with a pop and Eleanor put the bottle on the table. She turned and looked squarely at her father. “No,” she said flatly.

“A young man, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” She smiled.

“What does he want to do?”

“He’s not quite sure. He’s making noises about going to a Greek island and just lying on the beach and swimming.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Strand said.

“He promises there won’t be any computers or even a typewriter on the island. He says I’ll come back to my job with renewed zest.” Eleanor touched up a small bunch of flowers she had brought with her and put into a bowl in the middle of the table. “He’s been there before.” She smiled. “With another lady.”

“He told you that?” Strand asked, trying to keep the tone of censure out of his voice.

“He tells me everything,” she said. “He’s one of those.”

“Different times,” Strand said, trying to make his voice light, “different whatever it is. In my time…” He stopped and grinned. “In my time, nothing. Do you tell him everything?”

“Selected everything.” Eleanor laughed.

“Why don’t you bring him around some evening?”

“He’s not big on families, he says. Anyway, I’m not sure about him. Yet. We’ll see if he passes the three-week test. Then maybe I’ll expose him to the elements.”

“Well,” Strand said, “send me a postcard. I wouldn’t mind a Greek island myself. And not only for three weeks, either. Maybe when I retire…”

Eleanor came over to him and put her arms around him and looked seriously up at him. She was shorter than her sister and more slender and she had inherited her pretty straight nose and deep blue eyes from her mother. “It seems awfully unfair, doesn’t it?” she said softly. “My being able to go off like that for three weeks after working just about two years and you…”

Strand patted her back gently. “We’re not suffering. We opted for a family. You don’t have a family…yet.”

“Hallelujah,” Eleanor said.

Leslie came in from the kitchen, taking off her apron. “Dinner’s just about ready,” she said. “Mrs. Curtis is all set to serve.” Mrs. Curtis was Alexander’s wife, and she helped out three times a week. “Are we all here?”

“Caroline’s not in yet,” Eleanor said, breaking away from her father.

“That’s strange,” Leslie said. “It’s been dark for fifteen minutes. She can’t still be playing tennis. And she knows what time we eat.”

“She probably stopped for a soda or something,” Strand said. “Give us time for a drink. Leslie, Eleanor?” He went over to the sideboard and opened the cupboard where there was a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of sherry.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Eleanor said. Strand had never seen her drink except for a little wine, and he wondered if she was as abstinent when she dined with the young man who told her everything or only reserved her sobriety for her parents. Selected everything, as she had just said.

“I’ll take a glass of sherry,” Leslie said.

As Strand poured the sherry and a Scotch and water for himself, Jimmy came in, showered and clean, smelling of soap. “Hi, Eleanor,” he said. “How’s the beauty of the family?”

“Working her fingers to the bone,” Eleanor said. “My, you look shiny tonight.”

“In your honor,” Jimmy said. “When you grace the family board with your presence the least I can do is shave.”

“You know, you actually look handsome,” Eleanor said, “when you pull yourself together. A little bit like a Corsican bandit cleaned up for Mass.”

Jimmy grinned. “I have my fans. In modest numbers.”

“Jimmy,” Strand said. “We’re having a drink, your mother and I. Want to join us?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Have to keep in training for the Olympics.”

“Olympics?” Eleanor asked incredulously. “What Olympics?”

“1966,” Jimmy said, grinning again. “I expect to take the gold medal for instant gratification.”

“My money’s on you, brother,” Eleanor said.

They were competitive with each other and Eleanor didn’t hide her disapproval of Jimmy’s mode of life and choice of companions. Jimmy, who had a high opinion of his sister’s intelligence, in his turn was contemptuous of Eleanor’s wasting her life, as he put it, wallowing in what he called the brainless, computerized, bourgeois water bed. There was an unformed and unaimed leftishness in Jimmy’s occasional outbursts that was troubling to Strand, with his ordered, pragmatic view of the society they were saddled with, but he didn’t attempt to argue with the boy. The inevitable throes of youth, he told himself when Jimmy sounded off. He knew Jimmy and Eleanor were genuinely fond of each other, but sometimes their exchanges became unpleasantly wounding.

He cleared his throat loudly and raised his glass. “To…well…” He turned toward Eleanor. “To Greece.”

Leslie looked puzzled. “What about Greece?”

“I’ll tell you later, Mother,” Eleanor said. “Girly talk.”

“The poor cook misses everything in the kitchen. All the gossip,” Leslie said, sipping at her sherry. “Well, if Caroline doesn’t turn up in the next five minutes we’ll just have to sit down without her. Did she say she’d be late when you saw her, Allen?”

“No.” The Scotch was his first drink of the week and he was rolling it around in his mouth appreciatively before swallowing it when the doorbell rang.

“That must be Caroline,” Leslie said, “but she has her key…”

The bell didn’t stop ringing, a long, loud, constant clamor.

“Good Lord,” Leslie said. “She knows we aren’t deaf.”

Jimmy glanced quickly at his father. Strand could see the look of alarm on his son’s face and had the feeling it reflected the expression on his own.

“I’ll get it,” Jimmy said and hurried out of the dining room. Strand put his glass down and followed him, trying to seem casual. Jimmy was just opening the door when Strand reached the hallway. Stumbling, half-falling, Caroline lurched through the doorway. She was supporting a man, whose head was lolling on his chest, and they were both covered with blood.

“H
E’S EXACTLY YOUR AGE
,” he heard a voice saying, or remembered he’d heard a voice say. A familiar voice…

Jimmy sprang forward and tried to put his arms around both his sister and the man she was holding and Strand lunged to help him. The man groaned.

“I’m all right,” Caroline said, gasping. “Hold on to
him.
It’s his blood, not mine.” She was still holding her tennis racquet in her free hand. The sweater and jeans she had put on over her tennis clothes were stained. She released her grip on the man as Strand held him up with his arms around the man’s, waist. He was a big man and heavy, a nasty swollen cut across his completely bald head and alongside his temple and left cheek. The leather wind-jacket he wore was slashed in a dozen places. He struggled to raise his head and stand erect. “I’m all right,” he mumbled. “Please don’t bother, sir. I’ll just sit down for a moment and…” He slumped again in Strand’s arms.

“What’s happening here?” Strand heard his wife’s voice behind him. “Oh, my God.”

“Nothing serious, my dear lady,” the man mumbled, trying to smile. “Really.”

“Eleanor,” Leslie said, “go call Dr. Prinz and tell him he must come over immediately.”

“No need, really,” the man said, his voice growing clearer. With an effort he stood up straight. “My own doctor will take care of it presently. I don’t want to trouble…”

“Take him into the living room,” Leslie said crisply, “and put him down on the couch. Eleanor, just don’t stand there. Caroline, what about you?”

“Nothing to worry about, Mother,” Caroline said. “I’m just spattered, that’s all. Let go of me, Jimmy. I don’t need any stretcher-bearers.” Her voice sounded hard and angry, a new note that Strand had never heard before from her.

“If you’ll just let me try to manipulate by myself, sir,” the man said, “you’ll see that…”

Gingerly, still ready to catch the man, Strand stepped back. He noticed that the sleeve of his own jacket was stained from a gash across the knuckles of the man’s hand and then was ashamed of himself for noticing it. The man took a respectable step forward. “You see?” he said, with the dignity of a drunk passing an alcohol test before a policeman. He touched his cheek, looked calmly at the blood on his hand. “A minor bruise, I assure you.” Slowly they all went into the living room. The man seated himself firmly on a wooden chair. “It’s very kind of you, but you shouldn’t take all this trouble.” He was a man, Strand guessed, of about his own age and almost as tall. If he was suffering, there was no sign of it on his slashed, discolored face.

“Jimmy,” Leslie said. “Go and get some warm water and a washcloth.” She looked at the blood-covered face. The blood was still dripping onto the living room carpet. “A towel. Two towels. You’ll find some bandages and adhesive tape in the medicine chest. And bring in the ice bucket.”

“No need to bother,” the man said. “It’s hardly more than a scratch.”

“Caroline,” Leslie said, “you look as though you’ve been through a war. Are you sure there’s nothing the matter with you? Don’t be foolishly brave now.”

“I told you,” Caroline said, her voice suddenly trembling. “I’m fine.” She was still holding the tennis racquet, as though she would need it for some new and important game in the next few seconds. The steel frame of the racquet, Strand saw, was bloody, too.

“What happened?” he asked. He had been standing to one side, feeling awkward. He had never seen that much blood before and it made him squeamish.

“He was mugged and…” Caroline began.

Eleanor came in. “Dr. Prinz isn’t in. His answering service said he’d call back within the hour.”

Leslie groaned.

Eleanor put her arms around Caroline and cradled her. “Baby,” she said, “it’s all right now, it’s all right. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

Caroline began to sob, her shoulders quivering. “I’m ff—ff—fine,” she cried. “I just have to wash my face and change my clothes, that’s all. Oh, I’m so glad everybody’s home.”

Jimmy came in with the bowl of hot water and the towels and bandages and the ice bucket. As Leslie soaked a towel and began gently to clean the wound on the man’s scalp, he said, “You’re all too kind. I apologize for making such a mess and being so much trouble.” His voice was surprisingly calm now, as though he were excusing himself for ringing the wrong doorbell by mistake. His speech had the accent of good Eastern schools. He didn’t move or wince as Leslie wiped the blood away, then worked on the raw flesh of the wounded hand, the towel becoming a sullen rusty iron color. She worked swiftly, without fuss, as though caring for damaged strangers were a commonplace event in her home. “I’m afraid there will have to be some stitches,” she said matter-of-factly, “when the doctor comes. I hope I’m not hurting you.”

“Not at all,” the man said. “I trust my appearance doesn’t shock you. Things always look worse than they actually are.” He managed a smile, meant to reassure her.

“Caroline,” Strand said, “how did all this happen?”

“If I may,” the man said, “I’d like to explain. My dear young lady,” he said to Caroline, “I’m sure you want to get out of those gory clothes.”

“Eleanor,” Leslie said, “take her into the bathroom and put her under a warm shower.” Leslie was a firm believer in the efficacy of warm showers in all emergencies. “And tell Mrs. Curtis to hold dinner.”