and I found I was ready for a drink. As I had no one to sponsor me, the only cure was a long talk with Walt Beery. Living the single life now, Walt’s biorhythms had begun a subtle transformation. At eleven-thirty he was still suffering from the night before and could not seriously think about a drink for another two or three hours. That was fine. We decided to have an early lunch at the Student Union.
I asked Walt on the way over if he was still off the booze. I could smell the answer coming out of his pores, but I thought things would go better between us if we got the confession out of the way early.
Walt gave a weary sigh, admitting his failure in a neat aphorism: ‘I’m not cut out for sobriety, David.’
Over a wilted salad and stale coffee, I said to him,
‘Have you talked to Barbara?’
‘She called me this morning.’ His eyes twinkled at the memory but faded at once, as close to shame as the practising alcoholic gets. ‘I was hung over like a son of a bitch, and she knew it.’
I laughed politely. Wives had certain powers denied other mortals, I told him. Then, ‘I take it you’ve got a place to stay?’
He shrugged, not exactly happy. ‘Got a one bedroom at the Greenbrier.’ I nodded, familiar with the place.
It was expensive, so there would be no students around.
That was good. Walt could screw-up all he wanted around young professional women. And he would, I knew that. Living too close to the co-eds, though, was bound to bring on early retirement.
‘Have you seen Buddy?’
This was not an especially pleasant topic for Walt, and his eyes avoided mine. His shoulders slumped a bit. ‘Not too much. I don’t think he was real happy about what happened with his girlfriend.’
‘The stripper?’ Walt nodded sorrowfully. ‘You were messing around with her?’ Walt nodded a bit less sorrowfully at this. In fact, I thought I detected a faint, proud smile, a story he meant to take to the old folks’
home. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘have you seen her ?’
A watery smile, ‘Onstage a few times.’
‘What happened anyway?’
Walt shook his head. ‘It was just one of those afternoons. Oh! Before I forget. Barbara wanted me to ask you a favour.’
Barbara and I had never been close. That came with the territory, I suppose. You turn up in enough conversations involving lost afternoons that somehow drift into the early morning hours, and wives have a tendency to make rather comprehensive judgements. ‘A favour from me?’
‘Roger has written a book. Well, a novel. She wants you to read it, and see if it’s any good. And maybe talk to him about it.’ As he said this, Walt kept his eyes focused on the table. He knew what he was asking.
Roger was twenty-five, their only son. When I first met him Roger was a senior in high school with applications out to all the best schools in the country. He ended up turning everyone down, claiming he didn’t need to be ‘institutionalized.’ According to Walt and Barbara there was no reason for Roger’s strange and unexpected decision, but it did not take me long to realize Roger Beery had been slowing down and pulling back since the beginning of adolescence. The wonder of the science fair, who was taking Latin and Greek at the university as well as a couple of computer programming courses before his voice changed, had found drugs. Very serious drugs, actually, though nobody had noticed, at least nobody had told Walt and Barbara, because Roger comatose was still among the school’s best and brightest.
Since his dropout there had been reports of hopeful developments. Roger had decided to join the military.
Roger got a decent job at a local factory. Roger had been hired by a local company to update their computer systems. The follow up to whatever the good news never came. Something always got between Roger and success. I had lost track of Roger a couple of years ago because Walt just stopped talking about him. Then one day I saw him working at a
Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar