The Taciturn Sky

To J.D. Salinger

for writing the best book I ever read

PART ONE

On one side of the fireplace was a French silk tapestry depicting a buck evading capture by crossing a river. Behind him, dogs and a huntsman tracked him in vain. On the other side of the fireplace was a matching work, with the buck having reached his resting place in a thicket in the woods. Other deer were with him and he was at peace.

That these two tapestries, which hung in the cabin owned by Bryce’s grandfather, now belonged to him was a realization that evoked wonder. Ever since boyhood, those had been Grandfather’s tapestries over Grandfather’s hearth. Now they were his.

Also his was a catalogue of property and investments so nettlesome that his family’s lawyers and finance managers were still sifting through it. It would be days before the full picture of his inheritance could be presented in detail, but that would give Bryce time to take it all in. He wished he could process all the things he would need to process, and quickly. If only people could die a little at a time, leaving bits of themselves, instead of succumbing all at once.

Woodrow Bryce Parnell’s death had been relatively unexpected for an 87-year-old man. He’d seemed well enough until a cough developed and then worsened. He was hospitalized in a timely fashion, but between lung issues and sudden heart complications, the end came quickly. Bryce almost laughed out loud at the funeral remembering something his grandfather had said once: In the old days, people died in much better health. He had meant they didn’t go through the tortures of life-saving treatments, thanks to elaborate equipment designed to sustain life to the point of absurdity. He had mindfully designated himself DNR—Do Not Resuscitate, but it was hardly necessary. Mother Nature finished him off so quickly, Bryce could almost imagine her quipping Done and dusted, as she evaporated from his bedside.

He was a tough old dog, Bryce reflected. Old-school to the very end, insisting on a three-day wake and a large church funeral; nobody was going to overlook Woodrow Bryce Parnell’s death. He wasn’t the kind of man that you could overlook. Even in death, he cast a shadow of strength over his empire, his absent influence more pervasive even than in life because it dwelt in the imagination.

2

Two hours later, Bryce pulled his car into the driveway of his sister’s house in Tuxedo Park. It had been the house in which their mother was raised. She’d given it to Susan when Susan and Patty married. It was a nice house, with a multicolored stone exterior. The different shades of copper, grey, and brown had a homey effect. Bryce enjoyed going there because it brought back good memories of Mother, and because he liked Patty. She was very personable and helped to take some of the edge off his sister, who could be stern.

Susan had inherited Grandfather’s temperament. During their childhood, he’d invested a lot of time with her since she was the eldest, and since her nature was more like his own than Bryce’s. Bryce had been dreamy and lighthearted as a child; meanwhile, Susan and Grandfather discussed things like controlling interest.

Bryce rang the doorbell and was let in by Margaret, who took his coat and greeted him.

How’s that son of yours doing at Fordham? Bryce asked jovially.

Very well, thank you for asking. John made the dean’s list this semester, she replied. Susan was paying half of John’s tuition; she used to say things like Don’t coddle servants—clearly something learnt at Grandfather’s knee—but under it all, she had a heart. Margaret was a good egg, but was as stern as Susan, mostly because she’d had a rough life. Margaret’s mother, an Irish immigrant, had been in service and Margaret thought she’d escaped that fate when she married a plumber with a small business of his own, but he’d been improperly insured, and when he died young, she was forced into service to support herself and her son. John was studying law now. Bryce realized with a slight chagrin that John would have a better education than he himself did.

Margaret led Bryce to the room where Susan and Patty were awaiting their tea. Margaret insisted on serving tea every day, come hell or high water. It was a pleasant affair, using Mother’s inherited china and a few cookies or a quick bread with a bit of fruit. She frequently served carrot cake, because it was Susan’s favorite. 

The women rose to meet Bryce, Susan giving him a sparce hug. It wasn’t so much a hug as simply a lean-in; a gesture of closeness that implied more than it gave. Patty, on the other hand, embraced Bryce warmly and gave him a kiss on the cheek. In many ways, Bryce felt it was she who epitomized the personality of a sister.

Margaret stood at the drawing room doorway giving a look of impatience, the kind a great servant can manage, firmly but unobtrusively, so Bryce sat down and tea was served. Sure enough, there was carrot cake. Susan took the first slice while Bryce and Patty fiddled with their milk and lemon.

What is Deek up to these days? Patty asked, referring to one of Bryce’s longtime friends. Bryce and Deek had celebrated the Fourth of July at Susan’s a few months earlier.

Oh, the usual. He’s got some kind of crazy girlfriend situation going on. He always does, Bryce said.

It’s that southern charm of his, Patty stated. They attract everyone. And from South Carolina—they have such lovely manners.

She elaborated animatedly. "Southern manners are different than northern manners. They’ve got more flourish. It’s the difference between ‘Please allow me to hold the door for you, Ma’am,’ and ‘My dear lady, may I hold the door?’ It’s more like the Europeans. It’s desperately chivalrous. Faced with that, any woman will melt. She took a sip of her tea and added, I was a puddle when I met Horton Foote."

Susan cast a dubious glance at her, but Patty went on to describe meeting the famous playwright at a shindig down south. He was so courtly, she said with a fond smile.

Bryce, said Susan directly, How was Norfolk?

It’s good. I think I’m going to enjoy the cabin. Michael and his team are still going through the papers, of course, he said, But it looks good.

You need to have the roof done, Susan said.

Why? It looks fine, Bryce protested. Besides, do you think Grandfather would let something like that slip?

Grandfather wasn’t well at the end. I’m telling you, have the roof done, Susan reiterated flatly.

Okay, okay, Bryce conceded.

Patty and Bryce looked at each other. Patty, with her long straight brown hair and dangly earrings had crinkles at the corners of her eyes from smiling constantly. You could even see them behind her large-frame glasses. The walls featured her photographs; vast fields of bluebonnets and tiny red hummingbirds. As an artist, she wasn’t quite what her family expected. Maybe that was why Bryce felt a kinship between them. She may have been christened Patricia Elaine Taylor Robinson, but Patty suited her perfectly.

There was something sad in her silence, but she knew not to countermand Susan. Bryce heard Susan and Patty having a screaming fight once back when they first started dating. They were all spending the weekend at a friend’s summer house in Chatham, New York. He’d come back into the house to get an extra towel for the pool and heard them fighting in their bedroom. Patty tried to stick up for herself, but Susan verbally eviscerated her. Afterwards, he heard Patty sobbing plaintively, followed by Susan’s tones, which became sincerely apologetic. She was the kind who exploded and regretted it later. The rest of the weekend, she was visibly attentive to Patty, even being demonstrably affectionate—something she never did, probably more because it wasn’t like her than because she was trying to be discreet about her sexual orientation—but Bryce sensed that some sort of bitter understanding had been established. Bryce could’ve told Patty that things with Susan were fine as long as Susan was allowed to have her head. Having learned it most likely while he was still in diapers, it never occurred to him to warn Patty.

Susan seemed mild now as her fork cut through the thick ribbon of cream cheese frosting on the carrot cake.

Staying for dinner? We’re having steak, Susan said.

No thanks, besides, I don’t eat much red meat any more. It isn’t good for you, Bryce said.

Nonsense. That’s what gives me strength, Susan explained. Why do you think these tree-huggers can’t get anything accomplished in the world? It’s because they’re all anemic!

I love Margaret’s pot roast, Patty said, But when she serves steak I usually skip it and just have extra vegetables. I really prefer chicken; like you said, it’s so much healthier.

Susan was savoring a bite of cake and let the remark go. Patty seemed relieved.

They chatted for about a half hour longer, mostly Patty performing the role of the entertaining hostess, with Susan and Bryce exchanging important bits of business in the margins. When it came time to leave, Patty stayed behind after Susan announced she would walk Bryce to the door.

As always, when she stood up, she seemed taller than she was. She barely cleared his shoulder, but in his mind, he retained the impression that they were the same height. She had clear, creamy skin with a natural tinge of rosiness in the cheeks, deep blue eyes, and platinum blonde hair that she wore in a short bob. She wasn’t pretty in the conventional sense. Her face was too broad, but she was stately, though she lumbered slightly when she walked, a habit their nanny and two finishing schools couldn’t completely correct. As a little boy, Bryce thought she looked like Jeanne d’Arc, a figure of strength and gravitas; a champion.

I’m concerned about you now that you have so many holdings, she began, walking closely beside him. I’d like you to let me oversee things, at least until you get your bearings.

Susan, Bryce began with a sigh, I’m a grown man. I can handle it.

Bryce, Susan countered, You don’t have the background. Not with all those years off on your own. I don’t want you doing something stupid.

What are you afraid of, that I’ll give it all to the Hare Krishnas? Bryce joked.

Tell Michael to expect my call on Monday morning. I want to go over everything with him, Susan steadily instructed, lowering her voice as they approached the door where Margaret stood ready with Bryce’s coat and scarf.

Susan gave Bryce a parting lean-in and lumbered back down the hallway.

Bryce turned to Margaret and thanked her for his coat. He found himself approving of her prim black dress with its crisp white collar. Susan didn’t allow informal uniforms as some of his younger friends did with their staff. The ones who did were mostly nouveau riche, anyway, and the impression given by butlers and maids clad in ill-fitting khaki pants and button-down shirts was that of being served by the Geek Squad at Best Buy. Either that, or they were so informally dressed that they blended in with the guests.

One time, at a small party on Long Island, Bryce had given his coat to an older woman who answered the door. She was dressed in business casual. She brought him his drink and later offered a tray of canapés to him. He was shocked subsequently to see her lounging on the arm of a chair, sipping a Martini, chatting with guests.

Isn’t that a bit too familiar? he had remarked to his date, who was a friend of the host.

That’s his mother, she whispered.

That was Long Island for you.

3

No sooner did he start the engine but a call came in from Deek.

Bryce! Deek greeted him joyfully.

Deacon! Bryce responded. What’s up?

Tammy got a job!

That’s great, said Bryce. What’s she doing?

She’s actually at work right now. She’s a counter girl at CVS

Bryce cringed inwardly but he was happy that Deek was happy, so he tried to sound elated.

Wow, that’s wonderful; I’m sure she’ll be very good at it, he offered.

That’s not the best thing, though, Deek added, Things are much better between us. I mean, she’s been throwing up every day before work, but she’s managed to do okay. She even says she likes the routine because it gives her life structure—the work, not the vomiting. Last night we had an amazing evening.

I’m happy for you, Bryce said, Especially after everything you’ve gone through.

Boy, I tell you, this is a great change. Everything is going to be different now, Deek affirmed.

I hope so, Deek, I really hope so. Look, I’m driving back from Susan’s and I’m kind of beat. Can I catch up with you mid-week?

Sure thing. I just wanted to share the good news, Deek replied.

Please congratulate Tammy for me and give her my regards, Bryce said.

Will do. Safe trip, Deek said.

Thanks, Bryce said, hanging up.

Bryce heaved a deep sigh. So Tammy the Trainwreck was now a gum-chewing twat at CVS. What was it with Deek? He was always plucking women from the bottom of the barrel. Bryce knew all too well how difficult girls from their class could be, so he could understand Deek’s motivation to marry beneath him and elevate the woman. It happened all the time. Hadn’t that southern billionaire even married one of his servants? It could be successfully done. But there were just as many high-strung low-class women, possibly even more so, and Deek had a talent for finding them.

Tammy had some kind of eating disorder compounded by a drinking disorder. She suffered depression, too, and would cut herself. No, wait, that was the one before; the one who had all those tattoos. What had her name been? Bryce couldn’t recall. She disgusted him.

Deek agonized over Tammy’s constant ups and downs. He hoped he could stabilize her life, this Caligula of a woman who couldn’t tell a salad fork from a dinner fork.

Bryce surmised that Deek had spent too much time at boarding school as a kid and was emotionally stilted from not having had enough contact with his mother. They were Hilton Head folk who had lavish money. Deek’s mother was mostly always away at hot springs, soaking herself during his formative years. He and Bryce met in college, by which time the damage was already done.

But Deek wasn’t the only one with girlfriend troubles. Bryce was beginning to think he himself was in love with a woman who didn’t return his affections.

He’d had a complicated romantic life, Bryce reasoned, and he couldn’t blame it on his own mother, who was ever present and supportive. It had been his father who’d been the distant one, weak and feckless, as the sons of strong men often are. It couldn’t have been easy to have been Grandfather’s son, Bryce allowed, but his father was about as commanding as a bowl of oatmeal. He mumbled, he was frequently away on business, and he didn’t take any particular pride in raising a son.

Bryce let his mind wander as he drove along the highway and could finally recall he and his father sailing together once. His father borrowed a friend’s boat which was docked in Rye, and they set out into Long Island Sound. Twenty minutes into the adventure, Bryce’s father became so seasick he had to go below. Bryce actually managed to keep the craft going for quite some time until his father finally reappeared and took the helm to bring them back in.

Nice job, son, his father had said weakly.

In retrospect, Bryce realized it had gone a long way towards building his self-esteem, that he could manage a boat at age eleven, and it would’ve made him feel especially proud had he not realized the merit came through default, not intention.