HENRY H. ROTH
413
and Gregg had drifted to their rooms and homework and whispering and
I thought of Charles and me in times of adolescent despair. Laura tailed
my
father like a wise nurse anticipating a great man's fall. Father, sipping
countless white wine spritzers, was oblivious to problems. He was accus–
tomed to applause and success, but lowed him plenty for the poem I'd
written years ago lamenting the morning Charles was first locked up.
Father, ever impatient, roared, "I certainly anticipate better news
from you about my story than what I just learned about Charles."
"I don't understand. What's happened?"
"Charles tried to
kill
himself last night. But of course he failed!"
"You're disappointed?"
"Facts are always simple. Your brother never stops looking for the
easy
way out."
"Is he okay?"
"Aside from a bruised throat, Charles is the same," father said wearily.
"You spoke to him?" I asked, still unsettled to hear father even say
Charles's name after a dozen years of willful silence.
"I did not," he said, churlishly adding, "I did talk to his lawyer,
whose fee I understand you paid."
"Why didn't you call me last night?"
"I don't know. And believe it or not, professor, I'm glad Charles
didn't succeed."
"Of course you are," Laura interrupted.
Father did not bow out gracefully; it was not his lusty style.
He added, "None of us should be surprised by any of Charles's many
failures."
Furious, I left the room to make sure the boys were getting ready for
bed. Laura and Margaret were serving the appetizers when I strode away.
When I returned, Laura had put aside a platter of pate and Saga
cheese on flat bread. Father had been eating nonstop. His suit was un–
wrinkled. I always considered him of average height, but occasionally I
correctly perceived how tiny and fragile he could appear to the innocent
eye.
We were beckoned to the dining room by Laura and served excellent
roast beef I was not going to say anything more to my father until I read
his
damn
story. "The salad is tasty," my father praised too loudly. I ate
very little. Laura couldn't take her eyes off me.
As Laura and Margaret took the dishes away, father removed the
manuscript delicately from his inside pocket and offered it to me.
It
was a
graceful gesture, the second time in four days I'd seen him almost courtly.
Father tried not to look nervous. He certainly seemed thoughtful.
