erase them. “It’s possible she woke up for a second, grabbed the bottle, took a couple of pills thinking she wouldn’t go back to sleep—but then why the chained door? God only knows. Maybe it was an accidental overdose like Bob Walker. It’s a real bitch, though, because apparently now the hotel is crawling with reporters and every first edition in the country will be headlining suicide. Bum rap.” He fell silent again. She couldn’thave killed herself deliberately, not over insomnia, nor some lousy play, not when she had so many people whom she loved and was loved by—like me. I had no doubt that my strength would have been more than enough for both of us in this instance, as hers had been in the past; she would have called me—
“She would have called me, Pop, and said something. She loved me. She would have said
something.
”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—like
Help
, come here, I need you, things are rough.”
Pamela went over and put her hands on Father’s shoulders. “Leland, the Logans thought it might be nice for all of us to come out to the country for lunch the day after tomorrow? It would be a lovely drive—and they do agree that there
must
be some form of memorial service, so we’ll talk to Kenneth again in the morning and explain to him how everyone feels about it. After all, Josh was one of her oldest friends and he
is
the children’s godfather, so that may have some influence.”
Everything was settled, organized. Life was so easy, if one could learn how to compartmentalize it. Or be lucky enough to have somebody else to do it for you. The British certainly could teach us a lesson or two about survival. Survival of the fittest? Nothing seemed to apply; maybe that was the point.
Now, months later, in the early evening of October 18, 1960, as Pamela and I sat in the back of Father’s new limousine, heading east through the Park, the sun setting behind us, recollections of our previous journey together pecked at the new skin that had taken all these months to grow. As vulnerable as this protective layer was, it sufficed temporarily, I noted apathetically; not one distinctive emotion either penetrated or emerged, except curiosity, which circled lazily like a hawk in the distance. Pamela had been somehow incorporated into the cellular architecture of this skin; I was actually not at all surprised to be sitting where I was, neither resentful of nor grateful for her presence. It was a way of life, this way of death; I wondered idly how many more times it could happen; there was my father left, and my brother. All my initial rage had subsided into inactive charcoal embers; the mechanism was easy, once you got the knack of it, nothing to do with religion or God or hope or resolution. It was much more animal, just as I had suspected the last time. The trick definitely was to stop thinking altogether. At least for the time being. Focus on simple immediatepleasures like the sunset, or the superb whiskey sour that Monsen, my father’s white-haired English butler, would soon be serving, although I didn’t drink; but nothing too far into the future.
Indenting myself against the gray plush seat, I saw the three of us, my sister, brother, and I, tiger cubs, tumbling in a heap on the mossy floor of some exotic jungle, surrounded by huge fronds of foliage from a Rousseau painting …
“Poor Bill Francisco,” Pamela was saying. “Such a sweet young man.”
“Yes,” I replied, yawning, “yes, I think she wanted to marry him.”
Pamela pressed the button that raised the glass partition between us and the chauffeur. I much preferred it down.
“Darling, before we get home, I think I should tell you about her note to him—to spare your father going through it again.”
“Okay,” I agreed, wondering if Rousseau really had, as alleged, used a palette of a hundred and some-odd different greens in one painting.
As Pamela talked to me, the chain on her purse slipped back and forth through
“She would have called me, Pop, and said something. She loved me. She would have said
something.
”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—like
Help
, come here, I need you, things are rough.”
Pamela went over and put her hands on Father’s shoulders. “Leland, the Logans thought it might be nice for all of us to come out to the country for lunch the day after tomorrow? It would be a lovely drive—and they do agree that there
must
be some form of memorial service, so we’ll talk to Kenneth again in the morning and explain to him how everyone feels about it. After all, Josh was one of her oldest friends and he
is
the children’s godfather, so that may have some influence.”
Everything was settled, organized. Life was so easy, if one could learn how to compartmentalize it. Or be lucky enough to have somebody else to do it for you. The British certainly could teach us a lesson or two about survival. Survival of the fittest? Nothing seemed to apply; maybe that was the point.
Now, months later, in the early evening of October 18, 1960, as Pamela and I sat in the back of Father’s new limousine, heading east through the Park, the sun setting behind us, recollections of our previous journey together pecked at the new skin that had taken all these months to grow. As vulnerable as this protective layer was, it sufficed temporarily, I noted apathetically; not one distinctive emotion either penetrated or emerged, except curiosity, which circled lazily like a hawk in the distance. Pamela had been somehow incorporated into the cellular architecture of this skin; I was actually not at all surprised to be sitting where I was, neither resentful of nor grateful for her presence. It was a way of life, this way of death; I wondered idly how many more times it could happen; there was my father left, and my brother. All my initial rage had subsided into inactive charcoal embers; the mechanism was easy, once you got the knack of it, nothing to do with religion or God or hope or resolution. It was much more animal, just as I had suspected the last time. The trick definitely was to stop thinking altogether. At least for the time being. Focus on simple immediatepleasures like the sunset, or the superb whiskey sour that Monsen, my father’s white-haired English butler, would soon be serving, although I didn’t drink; but nothing too far into the future.
Indenting myself against the gray plush seat, I saw the three of us, my sister, brother, and I, tiger cubs, tumbling in a heap on the mossy floor of some exotic jungle, surrounded by huge fronds of foliage from a Rousseau painting …
“Poor Bill Francisco,” Pamela was saying. “Such a sweet young man.”
“Yes,” I replied, yawning, “yes, I think she wanted to marry him.”
Pamela pressed the button that raised the glass partition between us and the chauffeur. I much preferred it down.
“Darling, before we get home, I think I should tell you about her note to him—to spare your father going through it again.”
“Okay,” I agreed, wondering if Rousseau really had, as alleged, used a palette of a hundred and some-odd different greens in one painting.
As Pamela talked to me, the chain on her purse slipped back and forth through
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