Excerpt from Aut Mors, Aut Vita Decora:
Leaning heavily on the mantlepiece below the
painting is how Claire had found Montgomery after John’s funeral.
“You’re still up?” she had
asked.
He had not turned around. Instead, he had kept his
gaze on the portrait. “Do you remember all those times Dad
dragged us in front of this when we were little?” He had shook
his head, sarcastically. “Telling us we should take him as our
example. Show some courage, be dutiful, honorable. Remember that?
Remember he always said that?” At this, Montgomery had taken a
deep drink from the glass in his hand. “Shit, John,” he had
murmered then. “You should’ve never listened to him.”
And he had emptied his wine.
“Have you been drinking?” Claire had
asked carefully.
Montgomery had merely laughed. “I have been
drinking for the last four years, Claire.”
For a long while, then, neither one of them had
said anything. Claire had been struck by the number: four, four years
had it been since he had left. Forgotten guilt had shot through her
body, and unspeakable grief and regret about what could have been if
the gardener boy had never come to Grasmere.
Montgomery’s thoughts seemed to have taken
him down the same path. When he had spoken again, it had been about
that evening before he had left Grasmere. “Do you know what pains
me the most?” he had asked quietly. Now, his head had been
lowered, and he had looked into his empty glass. “To think that
the last time I talked to John, we had an argument.”
Claire had taken a step forward. Really, she had
wanted to hug him, to press him close to her and never let him go.
But she couldn’t. Too unstable had been the
ground that they were standing on.
Then Montgomery had continued. “I’m
shit in comparison to him. I wish I had become a soldier, and died in
his stead. It wouldn’t have been much of a loss.”
“Don’t say that,” Claire had
said, shocked. “How can you say that, Mont?”
“Because it’s true,” he had
answered bitterly. “If you ask me, Walter’s not worth much
either, and the first Montgomery would have had to be a really awesome
guy to have been better than John. John was the best. He really was.
Shit.” At this, Montgomery had reached for the bottle again to
pour himself another glass. “We fucking didn’t need another
dead hero in our family, John. You should’ve just pulled
out.” Then, unexpectedly, Montgomery had laughed. “You know
that people call me Dick now?”
“Dick?”
“Yeah,” he had nodded. “Try
being a bum called Montgomery Livingston. First thing I did was tell
people my name was Richard, and even that was too fancy.”
Claire had put her hand over her eyes, pushing
back the sudden tears. “Do you remember when John told us of that
firstclassman at West Point who had found out he was named after the
Chancellor?” For the first time, Montgomery had turned around to
look at her. “That was during Beast Barracks, wasn’t it?
The guy had gone to the Chancellor Livingston School.”
“Yes, and after that he had made John do all kinds of useless
things, just to get at him.” Montgomery had smiled slowly.
“Yes,” he had said, “I remember. John laughed and
said, there he had been, thinking that West Point was finally a place
where our ancestors would inspire awe and keep people off his
back.”
For an almost happy moment, the memory of that
evening had shone between them. Then Montgomery had taken another drink
of wine. “He should have just become a lawyer.”
He had not meant to be funny, but Claire had
laughed anyway. After a second, so had Montgomery. “He
wouldn’t have liked it, would he?”
Claire had shook her head. “I don’t
think so, although I still can’t imagine him barking orders at
people, either.” “That’s because John wouldn’t
have barked,” Montgomery had answered, and for a moment it had
seemed to Claire that he, too, had remembered the calm, but commanding
voice in which John had called him back on that evening of their
argument.
“No,” Montgomery had slowly repeated,
“John wouldn’t have barked.” Then he had emptied his
glass again in another, single gulp.
Claire had finally sat down in the large armchair.
“Will you tell me what you have been doing since you left? You
never wrote much in your letters.”
Montgomery had looked at the wine bottle for a
moment, then he had sighed, put his glass down next to it, and taken a
seat in the chair opposite Claire.
“You don’t really want to
know.”
“But I do,” she had insisted.
Montgomery had rubbed his face in his hands before
he had answered. “No, you don’t. Nothing I can be proud of.
I mean, look at me. How do you think I have become what I am now?
Surely not because I have pursued any of the high paths father had in
mind for me.”
“They didn’t get John very far,”
Claire had said, bitter.
“No,” Montgomery had agreed,
“but at least he did something he believed in.” Then he had
straightened up in the chair. “I can’t stay here,
Claire,” he had said.
And she had studied him. In a way he had looked
like John, although a thin, shabby, unhealthy John. He wasn’t as
tall, but his eyes were as blue as John’s had been, and his hair
as thick and curly. Now, in the flickering light of the fire, it had
looked almost black, but Claire knew the dark-golden tint it had in the
sun. Just like John’s.
“I knew you weren’t going to
stay,” she had simply answered.
“Did you hear all the shit Dad’s
already given me again about my life, and how I have failed the example
of my namesake?” Montgomery had given a sarcastic laugh. “I
mean, we have just buried John, for heaven’s sake. What the hell
does he want me to do? Go and become a soldier as well, and let myself
be shot so that I can be buried at West Point next to him and have a
pile of strangers file by our graves, telling each other how brave
we’ve been? What for?” he had said. “I’m so
tired of this, Claire. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’d
rather shoot myself in the head than become any of the things Dad would
want me to be.”
“You know,” Claire had said quietly,
“things weren’t exactly the way he claims they
were.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Richard, for example,” she had
answered. “I found Janet’s diary and a few of
Richard’s letters, and they both were so human, you know? Not the
iron-clad people Dad makes them out to be. I think they struggled with
their duty just as much as we do.”
“What do you mean?” Montgomery had
asked, confused. “You found her diary?”
“In the Coach House.”
“Does Dad know about this?”
“No, I haven’t told him.”
Montgomery hadn’t even asked why. It had
been enough for him to know such a family treasure right under their
father’s nose, and he had no clue.
“So what does it say?
Claire had told him, but Montgomery’s
reaction had been the opposite of the relief she had expected.
“So they already were a hypocritical bunch
of liars back then,” was all he had said, getting up to pour
himself another glass of wine. Drowning it, he had turned to her once
more. “Claire, don’t be angry if I’ll leave again
without saying good-bye to you. I wish that I could take John’s
place and be the brother you deserve, but...” He had shrugged his
shoulders. “I’m a fuck-up, Claire. I won’t insult you
or myself by pretending otherwise. But I am really embarrassed in front
of you. I hope one day I will have sorted things out, and then you and
I might become as close again as we used to be. “
That day had turned out to be many years away
still. But when Montgomery had unexpectedly arrived in Italy, she had
immediately recognized the thin man on her doorstep. He had lived
with her and Stephano until he died.
Bless you, Claire thought. And you, too, John.
Then she smiled up at Richard’s portrait.
© 2005 Yune Maidegant.
