Boys and Girls Come Out to Play (16 page)

“Did you ever ask yourself what makes them drink?”

“If you mean do I agree that all women are monsters, no I don’t.”

“Have I suggested that all women are monsters?”

“Well, they’d have to be, wouldn’t they, if you think that all your friends are dipsos because of them?”

“All my friends are not dipsos, as you call it. They all work hard and don’t spend their time feeling injured.”

“You mean, that instead of looking after your son and feeding you, I just spend my time wishing I was a man? And won’t you please sit in the living-room where there’s plenty of space.”

“Do you know where you put the Book Section? It’s not on the piano with the rest of the paper.”

“It’s in Artie’s room; he was reading it; but don’t go in now.”

“Certainly not.”

“But you might well.”

He had a cold, wearied look on his face when he sat down with the rest of the Sunday paper; but thanks to Lily his conscience was much easier. It had sometimes seemed to him that life would be sweeter if Lily had some really certifiable defect—say, an irresistible urge to torture Artie, or a large hole in the back of her head which she knew he had discovered but was too good a fellow to explore. He thought there was something unjust in the fact that by remaining merely spiteful she never gave him a chance to escape feeling sorry for her because she was unhappy; but no judge would look benevolently on a husband who said frankly that he had murdered his wife because she was never quite bad enough to make him feel really good. But Lily did her little best in this regard: this was not the first time he had concluded a conversation with her feeling relieved by her instant readiness to make things difficult; he valued the skill and speed she had developed in so re-phrasing his remarks that he could depend on her to seize any word he uttered and fling it back so venomously that any doubt of her responsibility for their unhappy condition was removed.

In short, he was now ready to collect his arguments for going to Poland. He began to speak them to himself in measured tones; after supper would be the best time to deliver. His stomach, unfortunately, would have none of his dignity; it hammered away inside him like a nasty boy in a tantrum: one might have thought Divver was pregnant.

“What’s on your mind?” said Lily, coming in from the kitchen.

How easily she guessed that their recent talk had been nothing but a warm-up!

He put his hand to his mouth and took a deep breath.

“Well, if it’s going to take a long time, I’ll turn down the vegetables,” said Lily.

That alone is grounds for murder, thought Divver, trembling with indignation.

“Well, go ahead,” she said, returning from the kitchen and sitting in a chair. She sighed, lit a cigarette, and looked at him in a way he didn’t like at all—as though she were only too well prepared. He was terrified.

If she leaves me she’ll take Artie too, he thought suddenly.

“I was talking with old Mrs. Morgan this morning,” he said. “In fact, I had a pretty serious talk with her; it made me think a lot.”

Lily continued to stare straight at him.

“Mrs. Morgan,” he said, looking earnestly at Lily, “is really a pretty fine woman. I was surprised. I’d never guessed it before. I had known it, of course,
intellectually
, but I had never, so to speak,
felt
it.”

“Why should you?”

“Just the same, she’s a very high-strung, neurotic type—aggressive, possessive, obsessive, if you know what I mean. Well, apparently she feels that her son….”

“The dopey one?”

“Yes, he’s the only one … apparently she feels that he ought to
get
away
from her more, that it does him no good to be so protected, that he should learn to think and act independently. I imagine she suffers from a sense of guilt; any decent woman would, of course. She would like him to go somewhere. But the question is,” cried Divver, spreading his arms, “go
where
? With things in such a turmoil everywhere, or about to be?”

“Excuse me,” said Lily, and withdrew to the kitchen where she turned down the oven to its lowest notch. “Yes, go on.”

“Go where? She seems to have thought of Europe, but couldn’t quite swallow that—no place right now for a sick boy all alone. On the other hand, it seems suddenly to have occurred to her that since someone had to go to Europe for the magazine, she might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Meaning what exactly? All I get clearly is that somehow Art and I are going to be the two birds.”

“That’s a most unfair remark,” said Divver, drawing himself up.

“O.K. Go ahead.”

“I am, if I say so myself, the most experienced foreign affairs man on the staff. If I am, I feel, why not say so frankly: I know I am; why hide it? So when there was talk about one of us going to Poland …”

“What talk?”

“What d’you mean, what talk?”

“I mean who talked with whom, who brought it up, whose idea was it, where did all this talk go on?”

“Well, at Mrs. Morgan’s it went on.”

“And whose idea was it to send you?”

“Well, that was kind of mixed. I would have been thought of in the first place.”

“Were you?”

“What d’you mean, were I?”

“I mean, did someone say: ‘Let’s ask Max Divver to go; he’s the man’?”

“No, it wasn’t exactly like that.”

“Then you mean, you said you wanted to go?”

“I said nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, I said I
didn’t
want to go.”

“So?”

“Well, I guess I am going.”

“You are?”

“Well, someone has to go; it’s a matter of getting real information for the public.”

“When did all this first come up?”

“Oh, a while back; I couldn’t say to the day.”

“Did you know you were going that day you had the boil and I said I knew you were?”

“Well, yes and no—no, really. I’m not going to lie to you; I’ll be absolutely frank: I suspected
subconsciously
that I felt that way about going, but
intellectually
I felt just the opposite.”

“Well, I knew it subconsciously
and
intellectually.”

“Oh, Lily, you were dead right—without knowing you were of course.”

“You say you didn’t make the suggestion?”

“It wouldn’t be completely honest for me to say I didn’t. I
did
mention Poland.”

“The time after your boil when you went up?”

“Yes, I guess I mentioned it then. Yes, you’re dead right; that must have been when. Mrs. Morgan was saying something about our lack of coverage—you know.”

“In brief, then you said you’d like to go….”

“Oh, no….”

“… anyway you teetered around a while, and in the end Mrs. Morgan said O.K., if you took Jimmy. That would be just like her.”

“Put it that way if you like.”

“So you’re going to Poland as a nursemaid?”

“Yes, quite a job, eh? Looking after him, goddamit, and doing pieces at the same time. My God, when I think of it….”

“Never mind thinking about it right now. You and Jimmy go to Poland, Art and I stay here. Is that right?”

“What the hell’s so wicked about that? It’s my job, isn’t it? Since when is my career something you have to crush?”

“I only asked. You’re all set to go?”

“I guess so. But don’t think it hasn’t bothered me deciding. I often lay awake.”

“Oh. And when do you go?”

“In about one month, I suppose.”

Lily rose and went to the kitchen. “O.K. if you want to eat now,” she said.

“Fine. Smells pretty good,” he said, rubbing his hands and chortling.

“Put the bread and the butter on, will you. And the water and the mayonnaise, please.”

“You bet.”

Lily maintained, apparently with ease, a silence that lasted almost to the end of the meat and vegetables. At that point Divver laid a hand on her’s and said nervously: “Honey, I hope you’re not going to feel too bad about my going?”

“No, why should I? Why should it matter to me?”

“Well, to have your husband go off…. Goddamit; no woman …”

“I don’t see that we need to talk about it any more, do you? I’ve had a headache all day, anyway.”

“What a shame! I wish you’d told me.”

“Do you mind clearing away? I think I’ll go right to bed.”

“Sure. I’ll wash them too? Won’t take me a minute.”

“No, just pile them up for me in the morning.”

*

Divver expected more of the same from Lily; he was wrong. She made no assaults on him at all during the next two weeks; there were no reproaches, no arguments. She talked less than usual, but when she did talk he was surprised by her airy manner; one would have thought she had nothing whatever on her mind. She ’phoned her orders for groceries in her usual firm, interested voice; to Art, too, she gave orders in just the right way, enunciating the words with extreme friendliness and clarity. She also seemed to sense that Divver was embarrassed by the idea of preparing for his trip, and she was not at all hesitant about suggesting which suitcases would be the best to take and explaining what part of the cellar he would find them in. When the cases came up to the apartment—thick with fluffy dust, but with the big initials and hotel stickers of
his past setting seals on his future—it was Divver who avoided them and Lily who went to work on them with a dust-rag. His only idea, really, was to get away as quickly and blindly as possible: he wanted simply to fill any old suitcases with any old things and hail the first taxi.

But this proved impossible: Lily knew how much time there was; she knew which of his suits should be sent to the cleaners, and sent them; she also knew what new shirts he would need, and bought them; finally he realized that when the right time came she would pack for him too. Consequently he had very little to occupy himself with, and spent most of his home hours answering Lily’s sensible questions as to what things he would need, or merely standing in silence watching her do his work for him. Once or twice he made remarks that he hoped would make it possible for him to tell her that he didn’t feel easy about going and that he was already eager to come back to her and knew how much he was going to miss her. But she never responded to these hints; she merely ignored them or tongue-twisted them into questions of visas and underwear.

The days passed with a slowness that was torture for Divver, he-did-not-know-what for his wife, and fascinating and dramatic for his son. Art had not been old enough to appreciate his father’s previous trips to Europe; he was now completely capable of sharing the event. His questions were endless, natural and tactless: how big was the boat, what was Poland, why was his father going, why was he not taking them with him, when was he coming back, who would be his father while his father was away, didn’t he like it at home? When Lily answered these questions she did so calmly and simply, saying, for instance: “Your father has to go, dear, because that’s his work, you see?”—whereas Divver, faced with the same questions, would try to be jocular, and would say: “How d’you think you and your mother would eat if your father wasn’t earning money for you?” “Couldn’t you
earn it here?” “No; how could I say things about Poland if I stayed here?” “Why do you have to say things about Poland?” “For other people who can’t go, don’t you see, stupid?” Art also helped his mother in getting his father’s things ready, so Divver was the only one who was not busy. A stranger,
looking
in at the window, might have thought that a husband was being abandoned by his wife and child.

Life was easier during office hours, except that Divver found himself unable to work and was embarrassed by editorial
conferences
about matters which would come due when he was no longer there. Also, contributors to the magazine put their heads into his room from time to time and told him what a swell idea it was that he was going: “I shall certainly look forward to your pieces. They will fill a real gap.” “Yes, there will be a lot of important stuff to dig out,” Divver would answer, and then find himself thinking with some surprise: that’s
true,
what’s more the work
is
important; of course it must be, or I wouldn’t be going, would I? Just the same, he had reached the stage where he believed that no matter how flawlessly he might refute any charge his wife might bring against him, she would be bound at bottom to be right, and could be in error only in her choice of words.

“Neither Neville Chamberlain nor M. Daladier,” he wrote at this time in an editorial paragraph, “appears capable of realizing that there is a point beyond which the subtlest diplomacy cannot function, if there is behind it no dynamo of positive, honest conviction. It is a fatal error to suppose that even selfish, nationalistic ends can be attained by a devious policy unbacked by faith; it is worse than fatal to suppose that this same policy can miraculously snuff out the armed power that threatens the peace and security of every living being
today
. Behind the recent antics of Chamberlain and Daladier serious men may clearly discern the paranoid visage of a privileged class, to which the Siamese twins of financial profit and
social prestige remain, as ever, the alpha and omega of Western civilization.”

Divver also made two trips to Mrs. Morgan’s house. She, too, was busy. “I’m sure your nice Lily is head over ears in getting you off,” she said to Divver. She also gave Divver many practical details of arrangements she was making
concerning
her son: the American consul in Tutin, “a Southerner, of course, like all our consuls,” a friend of a very dear friend in Richmond, had been informed of Jimmy’s coming, and could be relied upon in case of a surprise move by Hitler. She talked a lot about her son, his seizures, his character, etc. “He has his difficult side,” she admitted, “but I can assure you that his heart is in the right place. There’s nothing tricky and
underhand
about him; he just likes to have his own way.” “I guess we all do,” said Divver. “Yes, of course, don’t we? But I think you men know more about handling that kind of
adolescent
boy than we woman do. Little boys and husbands seem to be about as far as we women are able to go.” They both laughed at that.