Free The Cavanaugh Quest by Thomas Gifford Page B

boat in the middle of a lake? It’s like An American Tragedy. You begin to understand why Montgomery Clift wanted to push Shelley Winters out of the boat. He was bored.” He sat down in the captain’s chair by the typewriter table. “I used to take books up there, read all the stuff there was never time to read at home. Sinclair Lewis, John Galsworthy, Willa Cather, got hooked on S. S. Van Dine and Agatha Christie …” He sighed, reaching for the cigar humidor on the corner of the desk. “It was really quite a civilized group at the beginning, surprisingly so, I suppose.” He gave in and withdrew a cigar, stared at it appreciatively.
    “It stopped being civilized?”
    “Rowdy. Predictably, the jolly boys decided that what the hell was the point of getting away from it all if you behaved yourself? So a good deal of drinking was getting done and that was terribly boring and then the stag films with the naked guys in the black socks and Lone Ranger mask and the inevitable horsing around with ladies of the night … also boring. I was trying to get away from women and now, all of a sudden, they were talking about importing them.” He lit a cigar. “And that was when I bowed out. Later we moved to Chicago and that was that.” He beckoned for the album and I handed it to him. “I’m not a sentimental man,” he said, “but I get a little twinge when I see these pictures. No point in denying your humanity, is there? We were a lot younger then and time has had a go at us since … I can remember the days up there, cold beer and a good book and lying in the sun. Well, you can’t get ’em back once they’re gone. As I suspect you’re discovering, my boy.” He looked down at the album. “It was a nice lodge, big fireplace, lots of wicker furniture, big old oscillating fans on tops of bookcases, nice screened-in porch, rocking chairs … Kept it nice and clean. That’s what she did.” He put his finger on a group picture, a brunette standing on the porch with the men grouped somewhat formally by her side. She looked as if she’d been taken by surprise, hustled out of the kitchen in her apron and snapped abruptly before she’d slid her public face into position. Archie was at the far left, looking away from the happy scene. Tim Dierker was smiling stiffly next to the woman, looking as if he were afraid he might touch her accidentally. The men all looked a bit self-conscious but the woman had a reserved, boys-will-be-boys expression of tolerance. She had an oval face and a widow’s peak pointing at a straight, handsome nose.
    “Who was she?”
    “I can’t remember her name. She came to the lodge from the town and kept house while we were there, did the dishes, got rid of the empties, generally tidied up.” He closed his eyes and leaned back. “Nope, I can’t remember her name. But it was a long time ago, Paul. Almost as long as you’ve been alive. So why should I remember?”
    “Who took the picture?”
    He looked at it. “Must have been Ole. He’s the only one of us not in the picture.”
    I decided to quit fighting it and go he down in a lawn chair. But I stopped at the French window. Archie was putting the album back on the shelf.
    “I understand you saw her last week.”
    “Who?”
    “Kim. Blankenship’s wife.”
    “Yes, I did. Playing tennis with what’s-his-name, the pro at the club. She was giving him a run for his money.”
    “Has she changed much?”
    “From when?”
    “I don’t know—from when you first saw her?”
    “Who knows? I saw her often enough so that any change was a gradual one. But she’s not the kind of woman who lets herself go. Minimal change, I’d say.”
    When I woke up, the sun had slid well below the treetop level and the long shadows had a furry purple color, like giant caterpillars stretched out across the lawn. I was stiff and had a headache. There was a green light hanging in the evening down by a boathouse. The days were getting shorter as August pressed on.