So Little Time (61 page)

“You're not sore, are you?”

“No,” Jeffrey said, “why should I be? I told you to do anything you wanted. Just remember that.”

“Well,” Jim said, “I guess I'm doing it.”

“You ought not to guess,” Jeffrey said. “You ought to know.”

“All right,” Jim said, “I know.”

“As long as you think you do,” Jeffrey said, and he cleared his throat. “A kid like you can't know. You can only think you know.”

“Well,” Jim said, “as long as you're not sore.”

“I told you—” Jeffrey told him—“as long as you've done it, I think it's fine. When are you going?”

“Tomorrow. We're pulling out tomorrow morning.”

The room where Jeffrey stood was very still. The expression was familiar. They always “pulled out” in the morning.

“Have you got everything?” Jeffrey asked.

“They don't want us to bring anything,” Jim said. “We'll get it there.”

Jeffrey remembered. You left everything behind, or almost everything. Jeffrey cleared his throat again.

“Jim,” he said, “I wish I were going too.” Suddenly he wished to God that he were going. He wished that he could see the barracks again and the streets.

“I'll write you,” Jim said.

“Thanks,” Jeffrey said, “be sure you do—and Jim?”

“Yes,” Jim said.

He hesitated, for after all, it was Jim's business and not his, but still he had to ask.

“What about Sally? What does she think?”

“Sally? She thinks it's fine. Sally's quite a girl.”

There was more that Jeffrey wanted to say, but there was no time for any of it.

“Well,” he said, “I'm right with you, Jim.”

“Yes,” Jim said, “I know you are. I wish I could see you, I'll be seeing you.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “you'll get leave when you get through there. Well, good-by.”

“Wait a minute,” Jim called, “wait a minute.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “what is it?”

“I wish you'd see her sometimes.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “of course I will.”

“And that's between you and me,” Jim said, “just you and me.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “that's all right, Jim.”

“I wish I could see you,” Jim said. “Well, good-by.”

“Good-by,” Jeffrey said, and he cleared his throat again.

He had never been more conscious of silence than at the moment when he put down that telephone. There had been something that went beyond Jim and concerned himself. It might have been vanity, but he did not think it was vanity. All he could remember later was the silence. It was like having a door slammed in his face. He knew that his feelings toward Madge and Minot Roberts would never be quite the same again.

He could hear Madge's voice, a little breathless, a little strained, sounding as it always had when she wanted to manage something that he did not approve of, but which she knew was exactly right.

“There isn't any conclusion to jump at, dear,” he could hear her say. “It is just much better if he's away somewhere.”

He wanted to forget the sound of her voice. It had all that assurance of hers that was based on nothing.

Now it was a question of taking up where he had left off, of putting it behind him, and of going back to the other room. He pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed it hard across his forehead. The voices were back with him again, his own voice and Jim's.

“Well, I'm right with you, Jim.”

“Yes,” he heard Jim answering, “I know you are. I wish I could see you, but I'll be seeing you.”

In the living room there was exactly that sort of silence which he had expected, the questioning silence of people who wanted to know but who could not very well ask. He was glad that Marianna was there, because there was no reason to put on a façade for Marianna, but it was different with Hal Bliss and Elise. It was necessary for him to say something, to put it all in a casual little capsule.

“Well, hello,” he said, and he smiled exactly the way one should have at such a time. “It was the family at El Morocco, celebrating. Jim's just joined the army.” And then he realized that the Blisses might not know who Jim was. “Jim's my son,” he added, and he sat down and smiled again.

“My, my,” Elise said, “you must have been married young.”

“What?” Jeffrey said.

“You must have been married young,” Elise said, “to have a son old enough to get in the army.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “yes. He's old enough.”

“Well, you don't look it, dear,” Elise said, “it must have been an accident.”

“No,” Jeffrey said. “No. Not any more than anything else is.”

“Was he drafted?” Hal asked.

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “drafted?” And he put his mind on it. He had to put the whole thing in a capsule. “No, he wasn't drafted. He was in college. They picked out three boys for the Officers' School at Sill.” And he smiled again.

“Well,” Hal said, “that's fine. All he'll do will be to go to South America or Trinidad or somewhere, or maybe the Philippines. That's fine.”

“The Philippines?” Jeffrey said.

“Yes,” Hal said, “we're sending quite a lot of troops out there. A great place, Manila. Those God damned Japs won't get the Philippines.”

“Does he look like you?” Elise asked.

“What?” Jeffrey said.

“I said,” Elise asked, “does the kiddie look like you?”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “well, yes. Some people think he does. Yes, I guess so. Something like me.”

“Well, he must be cute,” Elise said. “Marianna, don't you think he's cute too?”

“Who,” Jeffrey asked, “me?”

“Yes,” Elise said, “you. You're cute, having a son in the army.”

“Would you like a drink?” Hal asked.

“What?” Jeffrey said. “Oh, yes, I'd like a drink.”

“Well,” Hal said. “There's the bottle. Pour it out. Pour a stiff one. It isn't every day this happens.”

Jeffrey reached for the bottle carefully.

“Here,” Marianna said. “I'll mix it for you, Jeff.”

“Well,” Hal said, “here's to him. I wish I had a kid in the army.”

“No, you don't wish you had a kid in the army, either,” Elise said. “You've got too many wives to have kids in the army, but it's cute.”

When Marianna handed him the glass he sat staring at it for a moment, and then he drank it very quickly. He reached for the bottle again without exactly thinking. It made him feel better, but not happier. He forgot that drinking had never been a means of escape for him—it only intensified his mood.

“Who told you?” Marianna asked him. “Did Madge tell you?”

“Madge?” he said. “Oh yes. Yes, Madge told me.”

“Did you know about it before?” Marianna asked.

“Oh,” Jeffrey said. “Why, yes, of course. Well, not exactly.”

“Was Madge upset?” Marianna asked.

“Upset?” Jeffrey repeated. He was glad that she was asking. “No, not exactly. I think she rather likes it. I was the one who didn't like it. It seemed a little needless, right now. It—Well, it rather surprised me. I didn't think Jim was going to do it, but—Oh well, they wanted him to do it.”

He had said both too much and not enough. He stared at his glass again.

“I suppose they persuaded him,” he said, “but I don't imagine it took much persuading. When you're that age, you're ready for something new.” He stopped and smiled. “Well, it's getting pretty late, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Hal said. “It's one o'clock. Come on, Elise.”

Marianna was standing by the fireplace with her hands clasped behind her.

“I'm not sleepy,” she said, “I'm going for a walk. Jeffrey, you're not sleepy either.”

“What?” Jeffrey said. “No. Well, no. I'm not very sleepy.”

“Well, I am,” Elise said. “Never mind the lights. The boys will be around.”

“Good night, Jeff,” Hal said. “It's swell he's in the army. We'll talk to Mintz in the morning.”

“Mintz?” Jeffrey said. “Oh, yes. Thanks for having me here, Hal. Good night.”

“Good night,” Elise said, and she patted his shoulder.

The way Hal and Elise spoke reminded him of something.

“I'll just get something to put around me,” Marianna said. “I'll be right down.”

“If you'd like to take the car—” Hal began.

“Oh, no,” Jeffrey said. “No, thanks, Hal.”

Then Jeffrey remembered. It was all like Louella and Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. He had the same self-conscious feeling he had once suffered, when he heard Marianna running upstairs to get something to put around her.

37

Don't Speak Any Lines

It was starlight outside. It was cool, but not cold. The first minutes outdoors gave Jeffrey the same sense of release which he used to feel on leaving a room where he had been struggling with a college examination. You thought and thought and you wrote the answers down in a blue copybook which was waiting for you on your desk with the printed examination form beside it; and when you had finished, you closed the book and gave it to the instructor in charge. If you finished early and walked down the aisle with that blue notebook, everyone in the room would stamp perfunctorily in time to your footsteps, because it was a custom. Outside, there was always relief and freedom because you had done all you could. Now Jeffrey had exactly the same sensation of being out with the answers all left behind him. He had done what he could in New York and now it did not matter what he did.

The wind was dying down. There was a damp, moist smell from the ocean, unlike the Atlantic. It came from the fog bank that he had seen at sunset. It might be misty in the morning, but now the sky was clear. They were standing on the lawn by the front door and the lights of the house were behind them. Marianna drew a deep breath of the fresh air, and reached up to fasten her light blue cloak more tightly. Over to the north, he could see the lights of the city against the sky, miles and miles of lights.

“It's a nice night,” Jeffrey said.

“Yes,” Marianna said, “let's go to the garden. The garden overlooks the sea.”

“Did you ever read
Candide
?” Jeffrey asked.

“Yes,” Marianna answered. “What about
Candide
?”

“The only way you can be happy,” Jeffrey said, “is digging in the garden. You don't dig in your garden, do you?”

“No,” Marianna answered. “Why?”

“I don't either,” Jeffrey said. “I never have the time. People always talk about a garden and then pay a man to do it.”

It was too dark to see more than the shape of the garden. He could see the outline of the hedges and the dark black of cypress trees.

“They have spotlights in the trees,” Marianna said, “and in the swimming pool.”

“Have they?” Jeffrey said. “Good God.”

Marianna laughed.

“Darling,” she said, “do you mind if I tell you something?”

“Please don't,” Jeffrey said, “not right now.”

“Darling,” Marianna said, “it isn't that kind of thing. You're the only man I know who makes me feel completely natural. It's because you think of me as a person, that is, when we're not working.”

“You never bother me,” Jeffrey said, “when you're not speaking lines. Marianna, don't speak any lines tonight.”

“I'm not,” Marianna answered. “I never do when I'm with you.”

“You can't tell,” Jeffrey said, “you can't tell that.”

“Let's sit by the swimming pool,” Marianna said, “by the wall, out of the wind.”

The swimming pool was exactly what he thought it would be. There was a lawn around it, and the high wall cut off the wind. He could see the water in the starlight, and the outlines of the dressing rooms which they called cabañas. He could see the shapes of reclining chairs on wheels and metal tables and folding umbrellas.

“Anything but going in swimming,” Jeffrey said.

“No,” Marianna said. “I only like it in the sun.”

“Then what are we doing at the pool?” Jeffrey asked.

“It's out of the wind,” Marianna said. She undid the clasp of her cloak and tossed it on the lawn, close to the white wall, and patted the side of the cloak that lay dark on the grass.

Jeffrey felt that he should have been wearing a pullover and slacks and shoes like Jim's with no laces in them, instead of his gray flannel business suit with a notebook and a billfold and a fountain pen in the pockets. He wished that he had been out there for a longer time and more adjusted to his surroundings, and he was very conscious of Marianna, but in a way which was not altogether comfortable. Her face as she leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the stars had a disturbing, unsettled quality.

He could recall all the roles he had ever seen her play. First she had been an ingénue in one of those boy-and-girl plays, something like Mr. Tarkington's “Seventeen,” and that was quite a while ago. He remembered her in a drawing-room comedy, one of those English importations which were just lines, lines, lines. It had always seemed to him that there was nothing more sterile than an English drawing-room comedy, and yet the critics had said it was like the first fresh breath of spring at the end of a disappointing season. She had been in a Shaw play about marriage—he could not remember the exact one because so many of Mr. Shaw's plays dealt with marriage—and that was when the critics realized that she was a great actress, as critics always did if a girl could take on a Shaw play and get away with it. She had played Ibsen's “Lady from the Sea,” and thank God, Jesse Fineman had not had her do “Ghosts” or “The Wild Duck.” He could think of all the times that he and Marianna had gone over lines together. Although he was in no sense a director, he could always explain character to her, because for some queer reason they could both see it in the same way. When she was younger her taste had been as obvious as department store advertising, but now it was restrained. He had taught her not to be impressed by all the patter and he had taught her not to be spoiled. She seemed to welcome rather than resent the influence he had on her and it gave him a sense of possession when he thought of it. Now that he was sitting beside her on the grass he felt that she belonged to him, simply because he had done so much toward making her what she was.