Five Days Page 10

  Four

  I RARELY CRY in the movies. But there I was, sobbing over a western I’d never seen before. It centered around a man who carries so many griefs and furies with him – such anger at the world – that he spends years trying to track down his young niece who was kidnapped by the Apaches when she was just a girl. When he finally discovers her as a young woman – and now one of the wives of the chieftain who had slaughtered her family – his initial instinct is to kill her. Until a profound sense of personal connection kicks in and he saves her, returning her to her remaining relatives. As they welcome her back with open arms, the man who has endured so much while searching for her watches as she disappears inside their home. Then, as the door closes behind her, he turns and heads off into the vast nowhere of the American West.

  It was in this final scene of the film that I found myself crying – and being surprised by the fact that I was crying. Was the reason due to the fact that, like the John Wayne character in the movie, I so wanted to go home? But was that ‘home’ I so longed for just an idealized construct, with no bearing on reality? Do we all long for homes that have no bearing on those we have built for ourselves?

  All these thoughts came cascading out in the last minute or so of the film – along with the tears that once more arrived out of nowhere and made me so uncomfortable.

  The lights were now coming up – and I was racing around my handbag for a Kleenex, trying to dry my eyes in case that man decided to engage me in further chat. I really was hoping he’d do the easier thing, maybe nod to me goodnight, then be on his way.

  I dabbed my eyes. I stood up, along with the other ten or so people who were seated in the downstairs part of the cinema, and deliberately walked the other way out of the theater to avoid running into Richard Copeland. But when I reached the exit door and turned back I saw that he was still in his seat, lost in some sort of reverie. Immediately I felt a little ashamed about wanting to get away from a man who was simply trying to be nice to me in the few moments we’d spoken together, and who had been as touched by the film as I’d been. So, without thinking too much about what I was doing, I lingered for a moment or so in the lobby until he came out. Up close I could see that his eyes were red from crying. Just as he was registering the fact that mine were red too.

  ‘Quite a film,’ I said.

  ‘I never cry in movies,’ he said.

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  I laughed. An awkward pause followed, as neither of us knew what to say next. He broke the silence.

  ‘You get talking with a guy standing in line for the hotel reception, next thing you know he’s at the same movie theater as you.’

  ‘Quite a coincidence.’

  ‘I’d just had dinner with a client of mine who runs a machine tool company in Brockton. Not a particularly interesting town – in fact, it’s the wrong side of grim – and not the most interesting guy in the world either. Still, he’s been a loyal client for eleven years – and we knew each other back in high school in Bath. And I’ve no darn idea why I’m telling you this, bending your ear. But would a glass of wine interest you now?’

  I hesitated – as I was somewhat thrown by the invite, even if I was not displeased by it either.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said in the wake of my silence. ‘I completely understand if . . .’

  ‘Is there somewhere nice around here? Because the hotel bar . . .’

  ‘Agreed, agreed. It’s pretty damn awful. I think there’s a place next door.’

  Again I hesitated – and simultaneously glanced at my watch.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if it’s far too late . . .’

  ‘Well, it is just after ten o’clock. But it’s not a school night, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘OK – let’s go next door, Richard.’

  ‘You remembered my name.’

  ‘You did give me your card, Mr Copeland.’

  ‘I hope that wasn’t too forward of me.’

  ‘I just thought you might be trying to sell me some insurance.’

  ‘Not tonight, Laura.’

  I smiled. He smiled back.

  ‘So you remembered my name,’ I said.

  ‘And without a calling card as well. Then again, salesmen always remember names.’

  ‘Is that what you consider yourself, a salesman?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately.’

  ‘I had a grandfather who ran a hardware shop in Waterville – and he never stopped telling me that everybody’s always selling something. At least you sell something of value to people.’

  ‘You are being too kind,’ he said. ‘And I’m probably now keeping you from something.’

  ‘But I just said I was happy to have a glass of wine with you.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘I won’t be if you ask me that question again.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. A bad habit of mine.’

  ‘We all have bad habits,’ I said as we walked out of the cinema and into the street.

  ‘Are you always so kind?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t kind to you this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, that . . . I really didn’t think . . .’

  ‘I was bitchy. I’m sorry I was bitchy. And if you tell me I wasn’t bitchy—’

  ‘OK, you were bitchy. Totally bitchy.’

  He said this with a small, somewhat mischievous smile crossing his lips. I smiled back.

  ‘Good!’ I said. ‘Now that we’ve gotten all that out of the way . . .’

  The café into which he steered us was called Casablanca and had been done up to very much resemble the joint that Humphrey Bogart managed in the film. The bartenders all wore white tuxedo jackets, the waiters gendarme uniforms.

  ‘You think we’ll run into Peter Lorre tonight?’ I asked Richard.

  ‘Well, as he got shot in the third reel . . .’

  ‘You know your movies.’

  ‘Not really – though, like everyone, I do love Casablanca.’

  The maitre d’ asked us if we were here to eat, drink or enquire about letters of transit out of Casablanca.

  ‘Drinks only,’ Richard said.

  ‘Very good, monsieur,’ the waiter said in what could only be described as a Peter Sellers French accent. As soon as we were installed in a booth Richard rolled his eyes and said:

  ‘Sorry. If I’d known this place was a theme bar . . .’

  ‘There are worse themes than Casablanca. At least you didn’t bring me to a Hooters.’

  ‘Not exactly my style.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘But if you’d rather go elsewhere . . .’

  ‘And miss the charms of Morocco in Cambridge?’

  ‘I’ve never been to North Africa. In fact, never outside of the US or Canada.’

  ‘Me neither. And the thing is, I always told myself, when I was much younger, that I was going to travel, going to spend an important part of my life on the road.’

  ‘I told myself that too.’

  ‘Looking around here . . . it’s funny, but I remember when I was around fourteen and going through the usual adolescent nonsense – and having a really bad time of it with my mother – I announced to her one day: “I’m joining the French Foreign Legion,” because I’d seen some old Laurel and Hardy movie on TV where they ended up in the Foreign Legion . . .’

  ‘Sons of the Desert.’

  ‘And you say you know nothing about movies.’

  ‘Just useless bits of information, like that one.’

  ‘Anyway, I did that thing kids do when they’re furious with their parents: I got a bag out of the closet, counted up all the allowance money I’d saved over the past months, thought about which bus I’d take to New York, and would I have enough cash to buy myself a ticket to wherever it was these days that the French Foreign Legion hang out.’

  ‘Probably Djibouti,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s Djibouti?’

  ‘Somewhere in the Sahara.’r />
  ‘And how do you know the Foreign Legion are there these days?’

  ‘Read an article in National Geographic. Had a subscription since I was a kid. My dreams of travel started there, with that magazine. All those interesting color features about the Himalayas and the Brazilian rainforests and the Outer Hebrides and—’

  ‘Favorite desert hangouts of the French Foreign Legion?’

  He smiled again.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I know where Djibouti is.’

  ‘Do you think Laurel and Hardy shot their movie there?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re quick, did you know that?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve never thought myself that.’

  ‘You mean, nobody ever told you that you were clever?’

  ‘Oh, a teacher, a professor, from time to time. Otherwise . . .’

  ‘Well, you are clever.’

  ‘Now you’re trying to flatter me.’

  ‘You don’t like being flattered?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I like being flattered. It’s just . . . I don’t think I merit it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Aren’t we getting a little personal here?’

  His shoulders suddenly hunched, and he was back again, looking away, looking guilty. Much to my surprise I no longer found this disconcerting. Rather I felt a certain compassion for him – a compassion rooted in the fact that I so understood what it was like to be self-conscious and just a little ill at ease with my place in the larger scheme of things.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said. ‘There I go again, talking before thinking.’

  ‘And there you go again, being self-deprecating . . .’

  ‘Even though my self-deprecation was due to your self-deprecation?’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to score a point.’

  ‘I know that. I also know that what we sometimes criticize in others is something that we find wanting in ourselves.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were criticizing me.’

  ‘Well, I thought that.’

  ‘Are you always so self-critical . . . speaking as someone who shares the same habit?’

  ‘So I noticed. And now I’m dodging the question, right?’

  Richard smiled at me. I smiled back – and simultaneously found myself disarmed by the fact that it was surprisingly easy to talk to this man, that we seemed to riff off each other. The waiter arrived. We both ordered a glass of red wine – and I liked the fact that when asked whether he preferred a merlot or a cabernet sauvignon or a pinot noir, Richard told the waiter that he knew very little about wine, and said that he’d follow his advice.

  ‘A light or robust red?’ the waiter then asked.

  ‘Something in between maybe,’ Richard said.

  ‘Pinot noir will do the job then. Same for the lady?’

  ‘Why not,’ I said.

  The waiter disappeared.

  ‘So you’re not afraid to admit you don’t know something,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know many things.’

  ‘Nor do I. But most people would never dream of revealing that little fact.’

  ‘My dad always told me that the three most important words in life were: “I don’t know”.’

  ‘He has a point.’

  ‘Had a point. He’s no longer with us.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to be,’ he said. ‘A rather complex man, my dad. Someone who always gave advice he couldn’t himself follow. Like ever admitting that he didn’t know things.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Fifteen years in the Marine Corps. Worked his way up to the post of colonel. Then got married and returned to Maine – he was a Bath boy – and started a family. He also opened a little insurance company.’

  He said this last line quietly, his gaze averted from mine, his need to state this and get it out of the way underscored by his discomfort in admitting this.

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘Yep. Followed Dad right into the family firm.’

  ‘Is it a big firm?’ I asked.

  ‘Just me and my receptionist/bookkeeper . . . who also happens to be my wife.’

  ‘So it’s a real family firm.’

  ‘Two people are hardly a firm,’ he said, and again looked away – clearly not wanting to talk about this anymore. So I asked if he had children.

  ‘A son. Billy.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘He turns twenty-six next month.’

  Which must make Richard around fifty-five or so.

  ‘And where’s he now?’

  ‘For the moment he’s living at home. Billy’s kind of between things right now.’

  The way he stated this I could tell he wanted to get off this subject as well.

  ‘I too have a child living at home.’

  I could see him exhale as he got me talking about my kids and my husband. He told me he knew all about that downsizing period at L.L.Bean. Three friends of his also got the axe around the same time as Dan. But wasn’t it a great thing that my husband had been re-hired by the company, especially given how tough times are right now. How long had I been married? Twenty-one years? Well, he beat me on that score – ‘twenty-nine years and counting’ – and wasn’t it rare and wonderful to be the last couple standing, so to speak, given how so many marriages fall apart these days?

  He said this all with an air of bonhomie which I found curious. A look of skepticism must have crossed my face, as he suddenly asked:

  ‘Am I laying it on a little thick?’

  ‘Not at all. Many people do have happy marriages. Then again, many people say they have happy marriages because they can’t say that theirs is difficult. But I’m glad yours is happy.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry . . .’

  ‘For what? You don’t have to keep apologizing.’

  ‘For coming across like a salesman. All slick patter, all “Everyone’s happy, right!”’

  ‘Was your father like that?’

  ‘I was always the salesman, Dad the numbers cruncher.’

  ‘But he must have been something of a salesman to have started the firm.’

  ‘He initially had a business partner – Jack Jones. A fellow Marine. Unlike my father Jack actually liked people. Don’t know what he was doing in business with my father, as Jack was a genuinely happy-go-lucky guy and Dad was kind of dyspeptic about life.’

  ‘I like that word, dyspeptic.’

  ‘“Bilious” would be a good descriptive word as well. “Liverish” might also fit the bill.’

  ‘How about “disputative”?’

  ‘A little too legal, I think. Dad was a misanthrope, but never litigious.’

  I looked at him with new interest.

  ‘You like words,’ I said.

  ‘You’re looking at the Kennebec County Spelling Bee Champion of 1974, which is kind of the Middle Ages now, right? But once you get hooked on words you don’t really ever lose the habit.’

  ‘But that’s a most aspirational habit.’

  We shared another smile. I saw him looking at me with new-found ease, as we were now on interesting common ground.

  ‘“Aspirational”,’ he said. ‘Upward mobility, Horatio Alger and all that. Very American.’

  ‘I think aspirational is not simply an American construct.’

  ‘“Construct”,’ he said, repeating the word to himself, taking evident pleasure in its sound. ‘Even though it has two syllables it has a certain musicality, doesn’t it?’

  ‘If used constructively.’

  ‘Or affirmatively?’

  ‘That’s too Boy Scout.’

  ‘OK, I give you that. How about “abrogatory”?’

  ‘Now you’re getting far too fancy. “Approbative”?’

  ‘That’s not fancy? Sounds downright florid to me.’

  ‘Florid isn’t “aureate”.’

  ‘Or “churrigueresque”?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, please! You are beyond fla
mboyant, baroque or, indeed, churrigueresque.’

  ‘And I am wildly bedazzled by your vocabulary. Were you in the spelling bee racket as well?’

  ‘Actually I sidestepped all that, even though I had an English teacher in junior high who was really trying to get me to join the spelling club after school. The thing is, I always had my nose in a thesaurus . . .’

  ‘Just like me.’

  ‘A geeky habit, as everyone else at school was happy to remind me. But though the teacher who ran the spelling team actually thought I could be the captain . . .’

  ‘So he thought you were that good?’

  Before I could reflect on that question I heard myself saying:

  ‘I’ve never thought myself that good.’

  ‘At anything?’

  Now it was my turn to look away.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I finally said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, sir.’

  ‘My name is Richard, and the reason I ask a lot of questions is part professional habit, part personal interest.’

  ‘Why should you be interested in me?’

  ‘Because I am.’

  I felt myself blushing. Richard immediately saw that, and it was his turn to get all embarrassed, saying:

  ‘That really wasn’t supposed to sound so forward. And if it did . . .’

  ‘It didn’t. You were just being nice to me.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Oh, please . . .’

  The drinks arrived. Richard raised his glass. And said:

  ‘Here’s to Roget, and Webster, and Funk and Wagnalls, and the OED and . . .’

  ‘The Synonym Finder . . . which was my bedtime companion throughout most of high school.’

  ‘Well, I suppose your parents didn’t object to that.’

  ‘My father was a mathematician, and one who really preferred the abstract to the concrete. So he largely stayed charming and affectionate and rather disinterested – in a thoroughly nice way – when it came to anything to do with my life, including my first boyfriend.’

  ‘And who was the first boyfriend?’

  ‘Surely that’s not a question you ask on the life insurance form?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that we were filling in a policy questionnaire.’