Halcyon, p.6
Halcyon, page 6
I noticed her bag by the door and surmised she’d planned to spend the night at the guest cottage before going up to visit her parents in the morning. “I couldn’t quite figure out who was working in the attic,” she explained. “After I saw your books, I thought it might be my father.” When I asked how she’d heard the news, her answer was “the paper” but then added that it was something she’d already suspected through her mother, who “hasn’t been herself for a while now.” Boose crossed the room, glancing out the night-dark windows in the direction of Halcyon. “I suppose I’ll head up first thing in the morning. It’s going to be pretty busy around here by breakfast.”
She was right. The next morning, not long after sunup, I heard the first set of tires crunching down the snow-covered drive. I had slept the night on the futon in the attic, having offered Boose my own bed. When I climbed down the stairs, the door to my room was open but she was gone. Instead of moving her things up to the main house, which was more comfortable, she had left her suitcase in my room, its contents exploded across the floor in the way a child might unpack themselves. I shut the door.
For the remainder of the day, I sat at my desk trying to forge ahead in my own work from which I’d now taken a nearly weeklong hiatus. Progress proved frustratingly slow. I couldn’t help but imagine the reunion taking place up the road. I assumed Ableson’s stepsons, Doug and Bobby, had by now traveled in from their respective homes in Manhattan and Boston. Did they bring their children with them, so that Ableson could see how the next generation had grown over the past few years? Ableson’s return would be easier for a child to understand. Life, death, the levers of the universe, none of these are yet fixed ideas for a child. For an adult, however, it is a different matter. I could imagine Ableson’s sons being angry at him, or angry at their mother for keeping this secret. Death is horrible, but might it be equally horrible to disrupt life’s natural progression?
By the end of the day, I had little to show for the hours at my desk. I had only poked at my books. Stacked to my right were the three volumes of Shelby Foote’s The Civil War: A Narrative. The one I worked from lay open, facedown, its margins annotated with a plumage of multicolored Post-it Notes. On my desk’s left-hand side was Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era by James McPherson, whose Union-centric writings had aged far better than the writings of Foote, a Mississippi native, though it’s a less compelling read and the guns don’t fire on Fort Sumter until page 273. Tucked beneath the McPherson was Michael Shaara’s The Killer Angels, the Pulitzer Prize–winning fictionalization of the Battle of Gettysburg, and beneath that rested firsthand accounts like the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant and the diary of Mary Chesnut, a genteel Southerner who lived in Richmond through much of the war. There were, of course, other books, and scattered between them all were my yellow legal pads with whole pages written in jagged script, angled like a healthy cardiogram, only to be viciously scratched out.
Outside the attic window, the slanted light moved in a flow, receding quickly as the sun descended past the tips of the bare trees. Through those trees, I suddenly glimpsed a long shadow and then a silhouette. With its determined gait, I recognized the silhouette immediately. It was Robert Ableson, out for his evening constitutional.
* * *
—
“To your health,” he said slyly, raising his glass.
I had welcomed Ableson inside and after mixing our drinks repeated his toast. We settled into our familiar positions in the guest cottage and one by one he ate the four olives off the single toothpick slotted into his martini. There was much to be said between us—too much, in fact—yet I felt certain I wasn’t the one to begin. We lingered in silence, sipping our drinks, and I noticed how Ableson kept regarding himself, stretching out his legs, examining the bend in his arm, like a man who has recently purchased a very expensive new set of clothes. I wasn’t halfway through my martini and he had already drained his first. He walked to the kitchen and poured a second. Reclining in his chair, he’d loosened up, and so began, “A complete disaster. That’s how it went with my children today, in case you were curious.”
“They must have been…”—and I struggled for the word but found it—“overwhelmed to see you.”
He looked at me askance from above the rim of his glass, as if uncertain whether he liked that word. “Furious is more like it, the boys in particular.” From our past conversations, I understood the contentious relationship Ableson had at times with Doug and Bobby. Surely neither had inherited as much of his estate as Boose had, which inevitably caused some resentment; however, I suspected their inability to celebrate Ableson’s return ran deeper than that. Mary’s first husband and their father, a drunken puddle of a human being, stood in stark contrast to Robert Ableson, war veteran, prominent litigator, a man revered. Ableson was the ideal that Doug and Bobby had measured themselves against since boyhood. His death—though they grieved it—had been liberating in its way. It had freed them from an existence in contrast to that ideal.
Since Ableson’s funeral (which the boys now learned had been an empty casket affair) Doug had bought a ranch in Wyoming, where he planned to move off-grid with his family, and Bobby had divorced his wife and taken up with a woman he had yet to introduce to his mother and whom he had no inclination to introduce to Ableson, not because he didn’t revere his stepfather but because he did.
When I asked about his daughter’s reaction, Ableson extended his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles while folding his arms. He studied his drink, his eyebrows knitting together as he considered the question. “Boose is more complicated,” he answered. “She’s still figuring it out.” Figuring it out. This was the second time he’d described his daughter in this way, and I began to wonder what was involved in this process of figuring. He spoke about it deferentially as though it were her profession, or some higher calling. I remembered her suitcase in my room, with its contents exploded across the floor; this didn’t bespeak a person who was in the business of meticulous figuring.
“There was a time when she had more direction, too much maybe,” Ableson explained. “Right out of grad school, her older brother landed her a job in finance, in a firm with offices above the 90th floor of the World Trade Center’s North Tower. Her first day would’ve been September 12, 2001, though she’s had a hard time seeing that as a stroke of good luck.”
“How does she see it?”
“Had she died, she believes she would’ve died for no reason. But having lived, she’s often felt she lived for no reason too. What does anything matter when it can all be arbitrarily swept away? But, little by little, she’s been figuring out her answer to that. I understand the two of you met last night.”
“We did, briefly.” I explained how I’d startled Boose when I’d arrived at the guest cottage unannounced.
“And how was your trip?”
“Fine,” I answered, but guardedly. Like a tiger in tall grass, Ableson the litigator stalked the recesses of our conversation, which suddenly felt as though it might turn into a cross-examination.
“I understand from Mary that you met Dr. Shields, that he spoke to you a bit about my condition.” When I nodded, Ableson added simply, “Good, I’m glad she set that up. He’s quite a remarkable man,” and I recalled Shields’s office with its panoramic views of the Schuylkill River and his degrees hung against the wall. “Amazing to think,” Ableson observed, “that a father and son might save the same life twice.”
I agreed with him but had the secret of Mary’s illness to keep and so wanted to change the subject away from Dr. Shields. “Can I ask you something more personal?” Ableson nodded, telling me that I was welcome to, and so out I blurted: “What’s it like, dying?”
Ableson startled, blinking as though I’d clapped my hands in his face. “Hmmm…You know, I haven’t really thought about how to answer that.” He set his drink on a side table. “I guess the only thing I can really say about it is I have a suspicion that it is different for each person. So if I told you, it would hardly matter.”
“And coming back?” I asked. “What’s that like?”
He leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hand on my leg, giving it a good-natured tussle. “Who says I’m all the way back yet,” he answered with a smile. “But you’re going to help me with that.”
* * *
—
Two days later, at a little after seven in the morning, I stood in the echoing foyer of Halcyon. Hazed light slanted in from the front door’s transom. Motes of construction dust glittered and swirled. I was waiting for Ableson, who had asked me to drive him to the municipal records office in Richmond where he needed to present himself to have his death certificate annulled. While I waited, I could appreciate how grand the main house must have been in its heyday, despite the chaos of the current renovation. In a corner on the floor, blocking what appeared to be a coat closet, rested a chandelier. A few of its crystal pendants peeked out from beneath the white painter’s tarp that covered it; they peeked out like the fingertips of a body concealed by a mortician’s sheet. The foyer led to an airy two-story receiving room, with a trio of grand French doors. A vast garden descended beyond these doors, its environs enclosed with trellised redbrick walls gripped by knotty vines and its terraced four levels strewn with ancient stone planters.
I had come to the main house at the invitation of Ableson, but it was Mary who had let me in the front door. She wore her bathrobe tied tightly at the waist and a creaking silence permeated the house, as though its occupants remained asleep. I had wondered if she might broach the subject of my trip to Philadelphia, which she did in only cursory terms, thanking me for it and also for driving her husband to the records office today. What I craved, however, was an acknowledgment of the secret she’d asked me to keep; or, more specifically, of her intention for how and when I might divulge that secret to her husband. But that morning she wouldn’t mention her own sickness. Her focus was—as I imagined it typically was—on Robert, who soon presented himself.
Outfitted in a gray chalk stripe suit and black leather oxfords and clutching his briefcase, Robert Ableson cut a striking figure. This had been his uniform over the decades that he practiced law, and seeing him attired in a uniform, I could detect something of the old soldier in him. In a final flourish, a white handkerchief poked from his breast pocket and Mary, after making her inspection, straightened it. She then kissed him on the cheek as I could’ve imagined her doing on countless other mornings. “Good luck,” she called after him. She waved at us with one hand while the other remained snugly in the pocket of her robe as we headed out the front door. This trip wasn’t merely a visit to the records office but also Ableson’s first foray into the outside world since his return.
We passed our forty-minute drive with idle conversation, mostly regarding Halcyon’s renovation. The topic proved familiar territory, though up until that morning I’d never seen this enormous undertaking of his from the inside. Casually, I observed that sometimes it was more difficult to renovate a home than to simply start from scratch. “Was that ever something you considered?” I asked Ableson.
His briefcase sat open on his lap as he rechecked a sheath of documents, which he now glanced up from. “Was what something I considered?”
“Starting from scratch, building a new home instead.”
“Never,” and he went back to his documents.
When we reached Richmond’s outskirts, Ableson expertly guided me toward the records office, located down a warren of choked one-way streets in the old Shockoe Bottom neighborhood. I could imagine him, in his younger days, running documents between his law firm, the courts, and this records office whose architecture was centuries-old redbrick. Many of these buildings—Libby Prison, Lumpkin’s Slave Jail, or the Stewart-Lee House—were familiar to me, the old Confederate capital of Richmond being a mainstage of the Civil War, and as is the case with any stage certain performances linger long after the actors have uttered their final lines.
When Ableson entered through the glass double doors of the records office, it was as if to an encore. The elderly security guard at the X-ray machine recognized him and Ableson shook his hand amply. When we loaded into the elevator, the young clerks inside turned their heads as we joined them. Unasked by us, one of them graciously pressed the button to the third floor, certain that our destination was the chief registrar’s office. Ableson mouthed a good morning and basked in their attention. Everyone knew him here or knew of him, either through his work or through his return, which had made headlines in the local news.
The years seemed to bleed off Ableson as we ascended the elevator and by the time we’d arrived at the chief registrar’s door, I felt as though I were in the company of a man my own age, or perhaps even younger. The registrar’s name, Ms. Susan Templeton, was stenciled across the pane of frosted glass, which Ableson rapped on with his knuckle before entering. Ms. Templeton, who was flanked by a much younger aide, stood from behind a large desk piled with paper records as well as at least a dozen framed photographs that faced away from her and toward any visitors. She was handsome, of a pale complexion, with her fine dark hair combed upward, threaded with gray, and clasped in a way that drew attention to her long and graceful neck. “Suzie,” Ableson said affectionately as he approached her with arms outstretched.
The two embraced, and by the time they were finished Ms. Templeton’s gaze wavered through a lens of tears. Ableson removed his handkerchief with a flourish and offered it to her. “I can’t believe you’re standing here….” she said, trying to restrain her emotions. She turned to me and added, “If it wasn’t for Mr. Ableson, I wouldn’t be here today. When no one—and I mean no one—would hire me, he took a chance.”
“Suzie…” said Ableson, refolding his handkerchief. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” she said, and struggled to say more as if telescoping deep into memory, but in the end she could only repeat herself. “I simply can’t believe that you’re standing here.” She waved to her aide, who sorted through a large folder, expertly placing an elaborate collation of documents across the desk, each of which was feathered with adhesive sign here tabs. While the aide arranged the documents, Ableson casually commented on how lovely Ms. Templeton looked, how she hadn’t aged a bit. Ms. Templeton, for her part, seemed to welcome the old-world flattery, even placing her hand flirtatiously on Ableson’s arm and coyly threatening to call his wife if he didn’t let up. “And how is Mary?” she asked with what seemed a genuine affection.
Before Ableson could answer, I caught Ms. Templeton’s assistant, a woman who could’ve passed for her daughter, narrow her eyes to half-mast and—if I observed correctly—roll them. What was it that upset her, I wondered, and could only suppose it was Ableson himself, his outdated flirtation with Ms. Templeton and the way she permitted it, despite her station as chief registrar for the Commonwealth of Virginia. I felt suddenly protective of Ableson, which is to say I felt a threat in the room. Ms. Templeton’s assistant had finished laying out the papers that would bring him back, but Ableson no longer understood the rules of the game he was playing. He was returning to life in a time that was not his own.
“Is everything ready?” Ms. Templeton asked.
The assistant nodded, her irritability having faded toward a schooled politeness, as she offered Ableson a pen.
“Thank you, but I have my own,” he said, to which the young woman didn’t reply.
Ableson placed his signature on one page after another, annulling his own death, while Ms. Templeton worked alongside him, notarizing the documents. Once they’d finished, Ms. Templeton placed her hand on his. “Welcome back, Robert.” He turned toward me and there was more emotion on his face than I had expected. “Welcome back,” I also said. Ms. Templeton’s assistant, however, said nothing. Coolly, she gathered up the documents.
* * *
—
On the return drive to Halcyon, Ableson cracked the car window. This emitted a sharp breeze. Outside the sun held high and raw above the horizon, presiding over an expanse of coarse clouds. I waited until we pulled onto the highway to ask him about Susan Templeton. “You know, she was twenty years old and pregnant when she first came to work for me,” he explained, “a single mom-to-be. I interviewed a number of girls, some really sharp ones. Most of them had been through college. But none wanted the job more than Suzie. I didn’t care that she’d have her baby right after starting. The other partners thought it was a bad idea, that she’d wind up quitting. Suzie stayed on for ten years, won me some important cases. She’s incredibly loyal—too damn loyal. Opportunities came for her that I couldn’t compete with. But Suzie wouldn’t leave. The only way to have her take one of those opportunities was to fire her.” He laughed to himself. “I think she’s since forgiven me.”
“Did you notice the young assistant in her office?” I asked Ableson in an effort to steer him toward the subject I hoped to delicately raise.
“You mean Suzie’s secretary?”
“I’m not sure if you realized how she was looking at you.”
Ableson seemed confused.
“It’s just…What I’m trying to say is that no one calls them secretaries anymore.”
“What do you mean? What do they call them?”
“Personal assistants.”
“Since when?”
“I’m not sure since when. Since they just don’t anymore. Also, you can’t say ‘girl’ or at least you shouldn’t call a young woman, or really any woman, a girl.”
