Read Online Some Here Among Us by Peter Walker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Walker
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the young man with strained blue eyes.
‘How am I?’ he said. ‘I’m old .’
‘But lookin’ good, Grandpa. Lookin’ pretty snappy.’
‘I am in my ninety-third year,’ said Bernard. ‘And I may say I feel every minute of it.’
‘You’re going to do the ton for me, I know it,’ said the young man. ‘One hundred years old! I’m relying on you now.’
‘What a horrible prospect,’ said the old man, looking pleased.
‘Come on. I bet you’re having a good time.’
‘A good time?’ said Bernard. ‘Let me show you how I spend my time.’
Bernard laid down his spoon, stood up and, exaggerating his totter, went across the room to the sofa where he sat down, then flung out his arms to represent every emptiness.
Candy sighed.
‘He had Merle in to get him up,’ she said to her son. ‘Then the chiropodist came. Then I spent an hour with him and he told me all about the 1947 snow storm. Didn’t you, darling?’ she cried, bending down to her father-in-law. ‘The 1947 snow storm!’
‘What about it?’ he said curtly, looking up at her. Bernard had been one of the leading ophthalmologists in the United States. His sharp blue eyes had gazed into the orbs of tens of thousands, including Eisenhower, John Foster Dulles and Marlene Dietrich.
‘Where’s Dad?’ said Toby to his mother.
‘Race?’ said Candy. ‘Oh, he’ll turn up like a bad penny. Sorry. I shouldn’t say that. Your father will be here for Thanksgiving.’
‘Toby has come home for Thanksgiving,’ she called to Bernard.
‘As to that,’ said Bernard, ‘in all my years here, no one has made it absolutely clear to me who is thanking whom for what.’
Toby laughed. He looked lovingly at the old man, who was not in fact his real grandfather but the father of Candy’s second husband, Chip. When Race and Candy had divorced, Toby was six. Race, so it seemed to him, suddenly vanished off the face of the earth. But he and the old man had formed a bond. Bernard bought him a bicycle and took him cycling, at ruthless adult speeds, on the Rock Creek trails. He taught him sailing, and even, in his eighties, took up wind-surfing with him on Chesapeake Bay. Chip, by contrast, had no aptitude with children. He looked through them, though without malice. He was a journalist; he had a column on the Washington Post , and he could not identify any child as one of his significant readers. ‘I write for eight significant people inside the Beltway,’ he once said. ‘The million and half others are a pleasing superfluity.’ Race, in the meantime, had not really disappeared, but he no longer lived under the same roof, and for a few years after splitting up with Candy he did travel more often than before. Toby, in boyhood, lived under a windfall of postcards, mostly ultramarine in hue, underwater scenes from obscure tropic shores, Sulawesi, Socotra, various Gulfs. Race was a marine biologist. Toby developed a dislike of the underwater blue. What was the hold it had, the mermaid draw, over his father? He connected it somehow with his mother’s love for Chip; in childhood he developed a distaste for the formidable ardours of the adult world.
‘If it’s the Indians we’re thinking of,’ said Bernard, ‘perhaps an orgy of remorse rather than gluttony might be in order.’
Toby beamed at him.
‘Toby’s just come from England,’ Candy called. ‘He’s at school in England now.’
‘ England! ’ said the old man, startled. ‘I was born in England.’
‘Yes I know, Granddad,’ said Toby. It was an elementary piece of family lore. It was probably one of the reasons that he, Toby, had gone to live there himself. He had left London ten hours earlier. London had been dark, damp, gloomy, lit by a dim silver lamp nearly hidden by clouds. Here, everything was hard, cold, bright, dry. The lawns in northwest Washington looked as though they’d had military haircuts. No rain had fallen in the DC area for forty days. Several strangers, Slavic,
‘How am I?’ he said. ‘I’m old .’
‘But lookin’ good, Grandpa. Lookin’ pretty snappy.’
‘I am in my ninety-third year,’ said Bernard. ‘And I may say I feel every minute of it.’
‘You’re going to do the ton for me, I know it,’ said the young man. ‘One hundred years old! I’m relying on you now.’
‘What a horrible prospect,’ said the old man, looking pleased.
‘Come on. I bet you’re having a good time.’
‘A good time?’ said Bernard. ‘Let me show you how I spend my time.’
Bernard laid down his spoon, stood up and, exaggerating his totter, went across the room to the sofa where he sat down, then flung out his arms to represent every emptiness.
Candy sighed.
‘He had Merle in to get him up,’ she said to her son. ‘Then the chiropodist came. Then I spent an hour with him and he told me all about the 1947 snow storm. Didn’t you, darling?’ she cried, bending down to her father-in-law. ‘The 1947 snow storm!’
‘What about it?’ he said curtly, looking up at her. Bernard had been one of the leading ophthalmologists in the United States. His sharp blue eyes had gazed into the orbs of tens of thousands, including Eisenhower, John Foster Dulles and Marlene Dietrich.
‘Where’s Dad?’ said Toby to his mother.
‘Race?’ said Candy. ‘Oh, he’ll turn up like a bad penny. Sorry. I shouldn’t say that. Your father will be here for Thanksgiving.’
‘Toby has come home for Thanksgiving,’ she called to Bernard.
‘As to that,’ said Bernard, ‘in all my years here, no one has made it absolutely clear to me who is thanking whom for what.’
Toby laughed. He looked lovingly at the old man, who was not in fact his real grandfather but the father of Candy’s second husband, Chip. When Race and Candy had divorced, Toby was six. Race, so it seemed to him, suddenly vanished off the face of the earth. But he and the old man had formed a bond. Bernard bought him a bicycle and took him cycling, at ruthless adult speeds, on the Rock Creek trails. He taught him sailing, and even, in his eighties, took up wind-surfing with him on Chesapeake Bay. Chip, by contrast, had no aptitude with children. He looked through them, though without malice. He was a journalist; he had a column on the Washington Post , and he could not identify any child as one of his significant readers. ‘I write for eight significant people inside the Beltway,’ he once said. ‘The million and half others are a pleasing superfluity.’ Race, in the meantime, had not really disappeared, but he no longer lived under the same roof, and for a few years after splitting up with Candy he did travel more often than before. Toby, in boyhood, lived under a windfall of postcards, mostly ultramarine in hue, underwater scenes from obscure tropic shores, Sulawesi, Socotra, various Gulfs. Race was a marine biologist. Toby developed a dislike of the underwater blue. What was the hold it had, the mermaid draw, over his father? He connected it somehow with his mother’s love for Chip; in childhood he developed a distaste for the formidable ardours of the adult world.
‘If it’s the Indians we’re thinking of,’ said Bernard, ‘perhaps an orgy of remorse rather than gluttony might be in order.’
Toby beamed at him.
‘Toby’s just come from England,’ Candy called. ‘He’s at school in England now.’
‘ England! ’ said the old man, startled. ‘I was born in England.’
‘Yes I know, Granddad,’ said Toby. It was an elementary piece of family lore. It was probably one of the reasons that he, Toby, had gone to live there himself. He had left London ten hours earlier. London had been dark, damp, gloomy, lit by a dim silver lamp nearly hidden by clouds. Here, everything was hard, cold, bright, dry. The lawns in northwest Washington looked as though they’d had military haircuts. No rain had fallen in the DC area for forty days. Several strangers, Slavic,
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