Outerbridge Reach by Robert Stone

visit south, Browne had been having trouble with his moods. His dreams were troubling. Sometimes he had violent fantasies of a frighteningly vivid quality. Occasionally he flashed scenes from the war. At other times, pieces of music or halfremembered scraps of poetry would send him headlong into a fond reverie, without much content but vaguely religious and sentimental. Inevitably it ended in anger, sleeplessness and fear. His sexual life seemed to be progressing by extremes, periods of indifference alternating with much desire. The summons to Shadows was interrupting one of Browne’s better days. He had been in the throes of composition, writing copy on the company’s new stock boat, the Altan Forty. It was said to be based on the boat Hylan would take to sea later in the year. Browne had convinced himself of its high quality.
    â€œI’ll go,” Browne said resignedly. “I don’t expect I’ll like it much.”
    He drove the icy back roads over the Taconic ridge and crossed the river at Peekskill. Going up the right bank, he thought he could hear a military band playing on the parade ground at West Point. The river was icy gray and the trees along the high slopes still bare with winter. Driving down toward Shadows, he was thrilled with the grandeur of the old house. He had grown up around a large estate, although not one so fanciful and grand. The sight of the place filled him with a sad nostalgia, a mixture of disappointment, hope and pride.
    Â 
    In his office, Harry Thorne was chatting with Livingston. They were waiting for Joe Duffy, the representative of the public relations firm Matty Hylan had retained.
    â€œI think I’ll write a book,” Thorne said. “Have I material?”
    â€œAbout what?” Livingston asked. “Yourself or Matty?”
    â€œMatty,” Thorne repeated. “What a story that would be, huh? Not the story he liked to put out. But the real story of the real Matty Hylan. Some story it would be.”
    Livingston sighed and nodded.
    â€œI’ve known him from when he was a kid,” Thorne said. “I made the man my science. What happened? He dazzled me.”
    â€œEverybody understands,” Livingston said. “Believe me.”
    â€œThe fucking gutter press . . .” Thorne began. Anger prevented him from finishing.
    â€œEverybody knows it was Matty,” Livingston said. “They’ll say: Harry loved the guy.”
    â€œI was a fool.”
    â€œEverybody will say the same, Harry. That you’re a man of your word. That your word is your bond.”
    â€œYou know what I think?” Harry asked. “I think a lot of them would like me out the forty-fourth-floor window. Like Sam Spencer.”
    When Duffy arrived they listened sadly to his efforts at exculpatory prose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied chap in a checkered English sportcoat. Livingston had told Harry that Duffy was smarter than he looked. As Duffy was reciting from his handouts, Joyce Manning came in to announce that Owen Browne had come to look at the boats.
    â€œThe guy from the Altan yard,” Livingston reminded Thorne. “To do the appraisal.”
    Thorne waved the notion away like an unpleasant odor.
    â€œMatty’s race was going to be an important part of your public picture,” Duffy pointed out. “Cancellation is going to be bad. I mean, I think you’re going to have to pay for the whole thing anyway. Maybe something can be done with these boats.”
    â€œYou’re the artist,” Livingston said to Duffy. “Know anything about sailboats?”
    â€œThe wind makes them go,” Duffy replied. “Let me have a talk with this guy.”
    Stepping into the outer office where Joyce Manning presided, Duffy saw Browne pacing in the corridor.
    â€œLooks like a sailor, doesn’t he?” he asked the confidential secretary. “Suntanned. Square jaw.”
    â€œYes,” she said.