Free An Unfinished Season by Ward Just Page B

neither of us winning big. Art Hodes had yielded to Fred Astaire and now we were listening to Georg Brunis, whose band was permanently in session at the jazz club on Bryn Mawr, the one called the Eleven-Eleven, my haunt on the weekends.
    He plays in Chicago, my father said.
    Does he?
    Some joint on the Far North Side. We should go some night.
    That would be great, I said.
    Ever been there? he said.
    Not that I can remember, I said.
    That’s strange, my father said. I found this the other day. Next to the phonograph, he added, and handed me an Eleven-Eleven Club matchbook.
    Maybe I’ve been there once or twice, I said.
    And I’ll bet you didn’t use your real name, either, he said.
    I looked into his eyes, two black marbles, and decided not to answer. Where I went and the name I went under were none of his business. So we sat across the table from each other in silence, and it was then I noticed the stubble on his jaw and the smudge of ink on his shirt pocket. He continued to move the cards listlessly from one hand to the other, his knuckles huge and skinned as if he had been in a fistfight. At last he put the cards on the table and sat back, staring at the ceiling.
    You’re not a very good liar.
    Sorry, I said, and put the matchbook on the table.
    The room was filled with Brunis’s music and I wondered if he was manipulating the slide with his foot, as he had been known to do; the jazzman as comedian. I was thinking also about a new tuxedo with a shawl collar and wondering if my father would allow me to buy it at Brooks, along with a vest and two lightweight shirts and a pair of dancing pumps; probably not-very-good liars would have to settle for Field’s. I had wanted to ask him if he would let me borrow his silver flask for the car later, after the dance. But now was not the time, nor tomorrow or the day after. My father had resumed shuffling cards. I took that as a sign that the crisis had past, though he remained mute and the expression on his face was not encouraging.
    When the telephone rang, I knew it was my mother, and when I looked at my father across the table—do you want to pick up, or shall I?—he shook his head and I answered.
    Squire’s gone, she said brokenly.
    Oh, I said, and my voice caught. The hum of the telephone wire seemed unnaturally loud. Gosh, I’m so sorry.
    Oh, Wils—
    Mom, I began.
    He passed away this afternoon, she said.
    This is terrible, I said, let me get Dad. My father was staring at me from the card table. He was still shuffling cards and listening to the music but I knew he had heard what I said and what it meant. I put my hand over the receiver and mouthed, Grandpa’s dead.
    We thought he was rallying, she went on. He ate a good lunch and then we put him down for a nap and he never woke up. He just slept away. My mother was openly crying now and her next words were disconnected, her thoughts coming in random order. He’d lost so much weight you’d hardly know him. We called the ambulance but the crew could do nothing. He was gone. They said he didn’t suffer and I’m sure they’re right. He was seventy-nine and he’d had a good life, but still. It was too soon for him. Me, too, and Grandma. I made him iced tea because that was what he said he wanted, a summer drink, to be reminded of summer in Connecticut and sailing
Marine Tort
on the Sound. He talked about
you,
Wils, what a fine boy you were and how proud he was. He talked about all the great things in store, and asked me if I thought you’d choose a career in law. I said I didn’t know but I’d ask. So I’m asking. He’d be so pleased. I happen to know he left you his law books, all his books relating to the law of the sea. Piracy. Salvage. I don’t know what-all, but he said his maritime library was the finest in New England.
    She paused then and said, Is that music you’re listening to? I suppose it’s your father’s music.