A Special Providence by Richard Yates
In the end she agreed, reluctantly, to let Bobby cross the street alone, even though it meant standing at the window in the grip of anxiety, morning and afternoon, watching until he had looked both ways and run in awkward safety to the other side. She was willing to agree with Sterling on almost everything now because there was so little time left before his trip, and she couldn’t bear the thought of any unpleasantness.
And it seemed to her that Bobby, by this time, had become as careful as she was about the importance of pleasing Mr. Nelson. He never whined or made childish scenes or tried to monopolize the conversation; he did his homework promptly and without coaxing, and if there was any time left over before bedtime he would spend it lying prone on the living room carpet, absorbed – or, she suspected, pretending to be absorbed – in British Submarine Service in the Great War. One evening, after long preparation, he showed Sterling a slingshot that some boy at school had taught him how to make: a stout and carefully whittled forked stick, with strips of pink rubber cut from an inner tube and a leather sling made from the tongue of an old shoe.
“Oh, I say,” Sterling said, examining the thing. “That’s really fine. That’s a first-rate piece of work.” And Bobby, hooking both thumbs in his hip pockets, could only duck his head in bashful acceptance of the praise. “Want to try it out?” Sterling asked him. “Have a little target practice?” And Alice fondly watched from a window as the two of them went outdoors in the gathering dusk. Sterling fixed a scrap of paper to a tree for a target, while Bobby collected pebbles for ammunition; then together they paced off a range and took turns at firing the slingshot.
But the game had scarcely begun before it ended, and when they came back into the kitchen Bobby looked pink in the face and close to tears. “It broke,” he told her. “Mr. Nelson pulled it back too far and it broke.”
“The rubber was rotted through, you see,” Sterling explained. “All we need is a better piece of inner tube.”
“But that’s the only piece of inner tube I could find. It’s hard to find pieces of inner tube.”
“No,” Sterling said, “I shouldn’t think it’d be all that hard; I imagine I can find one.” But he didn’t sound at all sure of it, and for a perilous moment Alice felt as if she had two children on her hands.
“Well,” she said, “maybe it can be fixed, and anyway it was fun while it lasted. Hurry along and wash up now, Bobby, Dinner’s ready.”
He did as he was told, after throwing down the broken slingshot with only the smallest display of temper. He didn’t sulk over it, and she was proud to notice that he didn’t bring the subject up again in the days that followed, even though Sterling had apparently forgotten about finding a better piece of inner tube.
When the time of Sterling’s departure was only a week away she suggested, shyly, that she might go into the city to see him off – she had a pleasant vision of herself smiling and waving, a little tearful among the cheers and streamers and confetti as the great horn sounded and the great ship drew majestically away from the pier – but he said he thought that would be silly. “These sailings are always such a crush and a bother; lot of overemotional nonsense. I think the less elaborate we make our goodbyes the better, don’t you?”
Then suddenly the day itself was upon them, and their goodbyes weren’t elaborate at all. Breakfast was the same as ever, except that two heavy suitcases stood waiting for removal in the hallway, along with his daily commuter’s briefcase. The only other difference was that when they got up from the table he gave her a little hug and kissed her cheek – normally they never kissed in Bobby’s presence – and then, with one arm still around her waist, he reached out and shook Bobby’s hand.
“Well, old man,” he said. “I’ll expect you to take good care of your mother while I’m gone.”
And Bobby said “Okay.”
She knew she couldn’t expect a letter for at least two weeks, but even so, toward the end of the second week, she began abandoning her studio every morning at ten to watch for the mailman. He would come trudging along the Post Road while she breathed a silent prayer to him – Oh please, please – and more often than not he would go on past the house; the few times he stopped to deposit something in her mailbox it would turn out to be bills or advertisements – and, once, the familiar ugly business envelope from Amalgamated Tool and Die that contained her alimony check. In the third week he brought her a real letter, but it wasn’t the one she was praying for, the one in fragile air-mail stationery with a British stamp and postmark. It was only a letter from her sister Eva, and she was so disappointed that she didn’t even open it until there was nothing else to do in the tedious hours of the afternoon. When she did, she found that it contained startling news: Eva was getting married. Fifty-year-old Eva, the everlastingly plain and bossy big sister, the meddlesome old maid of the family, was announcing her engagement to someone named Owen Forbes from Austin, Texas. And the funny thing, the touching thing, was that Eva sounded so shy and formal about it.
“… Owen is naturally eager to meet the members of my family, so we plan to spend much of our wedding trip in Indiana, before settling in Austin. But I’ve been wondering if it might not be possible to spend a little time with you before we leave. Do you suppose you might come into the city some evening next week, and we could all have dinner together at some nice hotel like the Commodore? …”
So it was pity and curiosity, as much or more than affection, that prompted her to pick up the phone and call Eva that very night.
“… I think it’s wonderful news, Eva,” she said. “Really, I’m so pleased, and so happy for you.”
“Well, I’m very – well, thank you, dear. It was good of you to call.” Eva was as shy on the phone as in the letter, as if she’d been afraid Alice might think the whole idea of her marriage was ludicrous. And when Alice sensed this and felt guilty about it (because she had thought it ludicrous, in a way) it made her even more effusive than she’d planned to be.
“I’d love to meet him,” she heard herself saying. “But look: instead of meeting in the city, why don’t you bring him out here? Wouldn’t that be nicer? And we’ve got plenty of room, in case you’d like to spend the night. You’d be more than welcome. Really.”
More than welcome. That was the phrase that kept ringing in her memory while she readied the house for their visit. This house, filled with Sterling’s belongings and horridly vacant of his presence, had become all but intolerable; and therefore the idea of receiving Eva and Mr. Owen Forbes of Austin, Texas – or anyone else in the world, for that matter – was more than welcome.
“Guess what,” she said to Bobby at breakfast. “Remember your Aunt Eva? Well, Aunt Eva is getting married, and this evening she’s going to bring her fiancé out here to meet us, and we’ll all have dinner together and they might even stay the night. Won’t that be fun?”
“What does that mean?”
“What, dear?”
“Fiancé.”
“Well, it means the man she’s going to marry. His name is Mr. Owen Forbes and he comes from Texas. After they’re married he’ll be your uncle.”
“Oh.” Bobby thoughtfully stirred his spoon around in the remains of his Cream of Wheat, and she could tell from the averted, almost sly look on his face that his next remark would be something less than wholly ingenuous. “Mommy?” he said. “Is Mr. Nelson your fiancé?”
“No, dear; don’t ask silly questions. I’ve explained all that to you before. Mr. Nelson and I are very dear friends. We care very much about each other and we both care very much about you.”
“You mean you’re in love with each other, or what?”
“I mean exactly what I said. Now will you please just finish your cereal and stop asking silly—”
“I’m not asking silly questions. All I mean is, if you and Mr. Nelson are in love with each other, and if you get married when he comes home from England, then what’ll he be? My father, or what?”
“Oh, Bobby, I know you know better than
“You mean he couldn’t ever be my real father because Daddy’s my real father. Right?”
She sighed. “Yes, dear, that’s right.”
“Then how come Aunt Eva’s husband’s going to be my uncle? Won’t he just be my stepuncle?”
“He’ll be your uncle by marriage. Hurry along, now, or you’ll be late for school.”
The mailman passed her by again that morning, but she forced herself not to mind; she was fully composed by the time the taxi turned into the driveway that evening. The house was clean and she and Bobby were both in their best clothes, wearing fixed, vulnerable smiles, ready to make their visitors more than welcome.
Owen Forbes turned out to be big, ruddy, and hearty, so engagingly forceful and masculine a man that Alice was surprised into thinking, How did Eva ever get him? And Eva was radiant. She was as plain and heavy-legged as ever, but she had bloomed into a new womanliness that was all the more impressive because she seemed conscious of it, and proud of it.
“Heard a lot of very fine things about you, little lady,” Owen Forbes said when he took Alice’s hand, and he bent to give her a respectful little kiss on the cheek. Then he turned to Bobby, but instead of shaking hands he made a fist and gently cuffed it across the tip of Bobby’s chin. “Been hearing some pretty good things about you, too, Buster,” he said. “How’s it going?”
His booming voice and lumbering frame filled the house with authority: in the first few awkward moments of choosing chairs and getting the conversation started he took command of them all, as if the house were his own and he were the host, and he put them all at ease.
“None for me, thanks,” he said firmly when Alice offered cocktails. “You girls go right ahead, though.” And a moment later: “Hey, listen,” he said to Bobby. “You got a football? Thought we might get in a little catch outside, before it gets dark.”
Bobby replied that he didn’t have a football but did have a baseball and a glove; would that do?
“Great,” said Owen Forbes, standing up and stripping off his coat for action. “And if you’ve only got one glove, you wear it. Then you can kind of just lob ’em over to me and I’ll really burn ’em into you. Okay?”
“This really is a remarkable room, Alice,” Eva said when they were alone together. “Did you rent the house furnished?”
Alice was prepared for that question; she had already rehearsed her careful lie, and she was glad Bobby wasn’t there to hear it. “Well, no; most of these things are very valuable. They belong to some friends of mine who’ve gone to Europe for a while.”
“And what’s that?” Eva inquired of the purdah. “Is it Persian?”
“It’s Burmese. These people are English, you see, and they lived in the Orient for some time.”
“Well, it’s very – striking,” Eva said. “It’s really very decorative.”
And now that these amenities were out of the way they could get down, over the pouring of second drinks, to the serious business of discussing Owen Forbes. He had been a patient at the hospital where Eva worked – that was how they’d met. “He’s not as strong as he looks, you see,” she explained. “Actually, he’s still in quite delicate health.” That was why he’d had to give up his strenuous position as a history professor at N.Y.U., and that was why they planned to settle in Austin. There, in the gentler climate and the slower pace of life, in semi-retirement, he would find the leisure to finish the book he’d been planning for years: a scholarly treatise on the role of the A.E.F. in the War. He himself had served in the A.E.F. with distinction, emerging as a major; he’d been wounded and severely gassed, which was the origin of his ill-health. He’d been married before to a woman who never understood him, who had divorced him and demanded an exorbitant alimony until her own remarriage; now he was free at last, and he had chosen to share his new life with Eva Grumbauer. “He needs me, Alice,” Eva said as her embarrassed, old-maid’s eyes began to fill with tears. “That’s the wonderful thing. I’ve never known anyone who’s really – really needed me before.”
And Alice found it necessary to wipe her own eyes – not only out of gladness for Eva and not only because of the gin and vermouth, but because she had been touched with an ache of envy. To be needed: that was the wonderful thing. And even if she had been able to tell Eva about Sterling Nelson, could she honestly have said that Sterling Nelson needed her?
But there was no more time for sentimentality, because Bobby and Owen Forbes had come banging and, thumping back into the house – a couple of laughing, winded athletes, ready for a solid meal.
Owen Forbes took full charge of the happy dinner table, though he refused his share of the wine. He kept urging more meat and potatoes and milk on Bobby – “You got to build yourself up, if you want to develop that arm” – and long before the evening was over he had Bobby calling him “Uncle Owen.”
“Okay, Champ,” he said at Bobby’s bedtime. “Get yourself a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You know what, Mommy?” Bobby said when she went upstairs to tuck him in. “Uncle Owen taught me how to throw. It’s easy; what you do is, you do it with your whole body. You kind of put your whole body into it instead of just your arm. I mean I haven’t quite learned how to do it yet, but it’s easy.”
“Well,” she said. “Isn’t that nice.”
But they were gone by noon the next day, after another morning in which the mailman passed her by; they were gone in a flurry of kisses and promises to write, bound for Indiana and then for Texas, and they left the house emptier than before.
Toward the end of the fourth week she considered telephoning Sterling’s office in New York to inquire, discreetly, if they’d heard from him, and to ask if they had an address in England at which he might be reached. But she dismissed the idea, after more than a day of thinking about it and after getting as far, three or four times, as to pick up the phone and begin to place the call.
It wasn’t until a rainy day in the fifth week that she decided she could bear it no longer. When the mailman retreated up the road in the rain, leaving nothing in her box, she settled herself at the telephone with a fresh pack of cigarettes beside her for courage.
She had called his office any number of times before, and always it had been a simple matter of saying “Mr. Nelson, please” to the switchboard operator, and then of hearing his secretary say “Mr. Nelson’s office,” and then of hearing Sterling. Now she didn’t quite know how to begin.
“I’d – I’d like to speak with Mr. Nelson’s secretary,” she told the switchboard girl.
“Mr. Nelson’s no longer with us.”
“No, I said his secretary. I know he’s abroad, but I’d like to speak with his secretary, please.”
“Oh; you mean Miss Breen. She’s working for Mr. Harding now. Just a moment.”
There was a buzzing and a clicking and then another voice said: “Mr. Harding’s office.” It was the same cheerful, Brooklyn-accented voice that used to answer for Sterling.
“Are you Miss Breen?”
“Yes.”
“I’m calling to inquire about Mr. Nelson.”
“Mr. Nelson’s in London. Mr. Harding’s handling all his accounts now; perhaps he can—”
“No, no; this is a personal call. I just wanted to find out when Mr. Nelson is expected to return.”
There was a pause. “Well, as far as I know he isn’t expected to return. I mean I believe he’s been transferred to London on a permanent basis.”
Alice was patient. “No,” she said. “I’m sure there must be some mistake. He was expected back in four to six weeks.”
“Oh. Well, as far as I – perhaps you’d like to speak with Mr. Cameron, our managing director?”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
There was more buzzing and clicking and another secretary to deal with; then at last a thunderous British voice said: “Cameron here.”
“I’m – I’m calling to inquire about Mr.
“If this is Gramercy Realty, I’ve nothing further to say. I’ve made it perfectly clear to you people that we are in no way responsible—”
“No,” she said. “I’m not – this isn’t – Please, I—”
“Well, if you’re another of his creditors my answer’s the same. We are in no way responsible for any debts he may’ve—”
“No, look, please. This is a personal matter. I’m a – personal friend of Mr. Nelson’s, and I simply wondered if you could tell me when he’s expected back.”
Mr. Cameron sighed audibly into the phone, and when he spoke again he was less harsh, as if beginning to sense that this might indeed be a personal matter – perhaps even a delicate one. “I see,” he said. “Well, there seems to’ve been a good deal of confusion about Mr. Nelson’s activities, to say the least. Matter of fact, you might be able to help us. Have you any knowledge of his whereabouts now?”
“His whereabouts?”
“Have you any address in England where he might be reached?”
“No. No, I don’t have—”
“And you say he told you – it was your understanding that he planned to return to this country?”
“That was – yes, that was my understanding.”
“Well, I’m afraid you were misinformed. Mr. Nelson’s American visa had expired and we chose not to arrange for its renewal. Then after he left there began to be no end of nuisance here from his creditors, so I cabled London. The London office has replied that directly after reporting there he severed his connection with the firm, and since he left no forwarding address we’re quite unable to trace him. Puts the firm in a most awkward position but there’s nothing we can …”
Alice could never afterwards remember how she managed to conclude the conversation; all she knew was that when it was over she sat paralyzed at the telephone table for a long time. Then she began walking through the house looking at Sterling’s things, touching them, not crying and not even wanting to cry, realizing in wave after wave of pain that the gift of these things had been Sterling’s way of saying goodbye. “I think the less elaborate we make our goodbyes the better, don’t you?” – and he’d known even then that it was forever. He’d known – he must have known even before the move to Scarsdale, and God only knew how long before that – he must have known she would one day be walking alone and bereft among his gifts, and he must have hoped, in his quiet, knowledgeable way, that she would understand.