The Truth of the Matter (25 page)

Agnes nodded that his gift of the television was accepted, but she steeled herself in case simple generosity and gratitude hadn’t been his only motive, as Howard had implied earlier in the afternoon. “Will, I’ve got all these people . . .”

“Just give me a second. I know this isn’t the best time, but I’ve already spoken to Dwight. He was courteous, but I can’t say he was overjoyed. I thought I should speak to him first since he’s the oldest man of the family. But it’s only proper . . .”

Agnes was astounded that Will had talked about his—and possibly her own—personal life to Dwight, but she held her tongue and hoped Will would get to the point. She reminded herself that he always approached any subject in a roundabout way, and she managed to wait attentively.

“I don’t know . . . ,” he continued. “I hope you won’t think I ever meant to go behind your back. Well, the thing is, Agnes . . . well, I’ve finally asked Betts if she’d marry me. She’s accepted. I’m hoping that you’ll wish us well, too.”

Agnes stepped backward and sat down at the table. “Will! Betts? Oh, Will! Is that really true? Does Betts know about this? Oh, what am I saying? How stupid! Of course Betts knows about this. Betts accepted, you said.” She looked at Will appraisingly for a moment, wondering if he had misunderstood. “Betts knows that she said she’d marry you?”

“She does. She certainly does. In fact, she wanted to run off and elope. She wanted to surprise everyone,” he laughed. “I didn’t think that would be a good idea . . . but you know Betts when she’s made up her mind. It was a struggle, I’ll tell you, to get her to agree to a wedding.”

Agnes bristled at Will’s assumption that she would conspire with him about her daughter’s nature. “I have to say, Will, you’ve managed to surprise me,” she said. “I had no idea! I never imagined. I hadn’t ever even thought . . . in fact, I thought Betts and Sam. I guess I hadn’t ever thought of you as being my son-in-law, exactly,” she said, with a wry note back in her voice.

“I know the difference in our ages —”

“Oh, no, no. That’s the least of it —”

“Well, Agnes, I hope you’re not worried. . . . I’ve never said a thing to anyone about you and me, you know. Back during the war. I don’t want you to think I’m the sort of man who’d betray . . . Well. I suppose it’s not
my
honor to betray. I wouldn’t want you to think I was the kind of man who would betray your honor. Or embarrass you, or ever hurt your feelings. You were awfully strict about just being friends, and I never even thought . . . I had no idea I’d fall in love with Betts! And never that she’d feel the same way.”

“No, no. I’m not . . . I’m just surprised. Honestly, Will, I’m not worried that my honor is at risk.” She paused for a moment, looking around the kitchen, reminding herself that she had things still to get done before the rest of the guests arrived, and Will said nothing at all, as if he were waiting for a verdict.

“It’s just a surprise,” she said. “Betts is always off on some tangent. I didn’t know she was serious about anybody. I did think Sam Holloway . . . But maybe this will all work out. Maybe it’s exactly what should happen. . . . Oh, Will, I have sixteen people coming to dinner, whether or not this is the best idea or the worst idea in the world. I can’t think straight right now.”

But after all the guests had gone, Agnes found Betts getting ready for bed while Lavinia and Claytor were still putting Mary Alcorn’s gifts from Santa Claus under the tree, and Howard was out somewhere. Agnes’s levelheadedness had evaporated; she was exhausted and discouraging.

“Why didn’t you let me know what you were thinking? I wish you’d had the courtesy to say something, Betts! It’s ridiculous to have to find it out from Will. And all this time I thought you and Sam —” She was whispering furiously, and Betts followed suit, but the more desperate each one became to make her point, the more strained was the suppressed volume beneath the rustle of her words.

“Oh, Mama!” Betts shook her head at the wrongheadedness of her mother’s ideas. “You must see that if Sam’s interested in anybody, it’s got to be you! But I don’t think Sam’s ever going to get over that girl. Carol? Claire? She was English? Killed in the war?” But Agnes couldn’t fill in the blank, and Betts went on. “No one could have been as perfect as Sam thinks she was, but really that’s neither here nor there. I’m not in love with Sam, anyway. I like him a lot. But I’m in love with Will. We have so many plans! So many things we want to do . . .”

“Betts! Just think about it for a little while! At least a few months. You can’t . . . Will is a nice man, but he’s not the right person for you. Betts, Will is my age!”

“I knew that’s what you’d say! I knew Dwight would say the same thing. Now do you see why I hate to have my family involved in my life? Everyone feels they have the right to give me advice! But if
I
don’t care about our age difference, then it just isn’t anybody else’s business!”

Betts suddenly felt the release of tension across her shoulders; it was a relief, she realized, not to keep this secret. She reminded herself that her mother had known Will her whole life, and it was unlikely in those circumstances that she would ever see him as he was now. Prominent not only in the community but depended upon even by the government. He was an authority on the newest developments in agriculture, often traveling to Washington to speak to one committee or another.

“I should have said something, Mama. I just hate it, though, when everyone knows my business. I just hate it when everyone thinks they can say the rudest things to me and disguise it as advice!”

“Betts! I’m not trying to disguise anything! I’ve known Will all my life, and he just isn’t the right person for you. He’s a man who . . . Why, he’s perfectly nice. He’s an attractive man. But he’s a man who —”

“Who
what,
Mama? I thought Will and I should just go get married. I didn’t see any need to get anyone’s approval. In fact, if Will didn’t have such an old-fashioned idea about what’s proper . . . I really wanted to just go get married and not bother with all this. I know this family . . . Dwight and Claytor . . . even Howard! None of you would have been anything but polite if we’d just come in the door already married. You don’t worry about insulting
me,
but God knows you wouldn’t ever have been rude to anyone outside the family. Not one of you would have said to Will’s face that you didn’t approve!”

“Betts, it’s . . . I don’t approve or disapprove except that he’s just not the right person for you.” Agnes stopped herself for a few seconds to consider what she was saying, to consider what she might say. Just briefly—just in a flash of a thought—Agnes questioned her own possible motives for discouraging the marriage. But, no, she concluded, she certainly wasn’t jealous, and her own involvement with Will seemed to have been so long ago and under such different circumstances that for all intents and purposes it hadn’t happened in the real world. Agnes was certain that nothing but good intentions were at the heart of her objection.

“Betts, really! He’s the sort of man, oh, you know . . . the sort of man who says . . .” She realized Betts’s patience was about to give way, and Agnes finally just plunged ahead. “He’s the sort of man who’s always telling you what sort of man he is! He’ll say, ‘I’m the sort of man who doesn’t approve of that language,’ or ‘I’m the sort of man who doesn’t like seeing a woman smoke cigarettes.’ He’s not as sophisticated as you are, Betts! You’d get bored. . . . He’s not as
smart
as you are!”

“Mother! I never would have guessed you’d be such a snob! Will’s smart as a whip! He’s just . . . It’s just that he’s straightforward. It’s just that he’s a very smart man from Ohio. He doesn’t care about impressing other people. Being clever at anyone else’s expense. You can’t imagine how provincial people are! People from New York! Or Boston . . . or even Charleston, South Carolina. People who come from Los Angeles. You’d think anyone from Ohio was a lumbering, blond oaf of some kind with a blade of grass between his teeth. Will doesn’t pretend anything. I’ve had enough of mysterious, I’ll tell you. More than enough of romantic men. . . . I got sick to death of what passes for sophistication when I was in Washington!”

Agnes stood up from where she’d been sitting on the bed and started rummaging through Betts’s closet, finally reaching up and taking down Betts’s train case and extracting a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches.

“Mother! I knew —,” Betts began, but Agnes waved her off and lit a cigarette, handing the pack and the matches to Betts.

“Oh, you’re right, Betts. And it’s certainly not for anyone else to decide. I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down again and leaning against the headboard, exhaling a long sigh of wispy smoke. “Of course, you understand that there isn’t a man any mother thinks is good enough for her daughter.” But that sounded absurd coming from her as soon as the words left her mouth. Agnes knew that no one would ever think of her as that sort of woman, a sentimental mother. “Will’s seemed like part of the family for years. Now we can make it official. I do think he’s a nice man, Betts, but you can’t blame me for being surprised. I’ve known him since I was born. . . . It’s impossible to imagine your daughter marrying a man who . . . Well. Who you know so well! I was in school with Sally Trenholm, you know. She was one of my best friends, and it’s hard to think of my daughter . . . But I do think that Will is the sort of man you could trust with your life.”

Chapter Ten

S
AM HOLLOWAY FIRST MET Dwight Claytor in 1944, at Deopham Green when they discovered they had mutual acquaintances, but they had become friends over a long, boozy conversation at the Dorchester Hotel in London, where they had been surprised to run into each other. The weather over Europe was bad and expected to remain too cloudy for bombing runs for six or seven days, and each of their crews had been given a three-day pass. Dwight and Sam had headed separately to London.

Sam was staying at the Dorchester, and Dwight had been waiting at the bar for an old friend who never showed up. Dwight didn’t know where he was sleeping that night, since he had had such short notice to make arrangements and every hotel was filled to the gills. Sam insisted he take the other bedroom of the suite that had been put at his disposal by Douglas Boatwright, who owned the radio station and both of the newspapers in Baton Rouge and had been Sam’s boss at WJBO. Mr. Boatwright was in London serving as the head of the Department of Censorship, although he was often away for one thing or another.

“He left word with the Dorchester,” Sam explained to Dwight, “that whenever I was in town, I was to have the use of his suite. I couldn’t see any reason not to take advantage of it. So, the first chance I get, I call up the hotel, called from the base, and I say, ‘This is Sergeant Holloway, and I’ll be coming to London on such and such a day.’ I explain that Mr. Boatwright has offered me the use of his suite. But the fellow I was speaking to seemed uncertain about that. Handed the telephone to someone higher up. So I begin to explain all over again, and by now I’m feeling like a fool. Wondering if Mr. Boatwright had forgotten to notify the hotel and if the manager thought I was some sort of cocky American flyboy. I’m trying to explain, but the manager interrupts me and says that of course they were delighted Mr. Boatwright had made his suite available, and so forth . . .”

Sam paused for a moment and smiled. “So finally there I am, in the lobby, introducing myself, and the doorman seems glad to see me. Tells me he’ll have my things delivered to the suite. Hopes I’ll enjoy my stay with them. All that sort of thing. And then he says, ‘Please notify me if you require any assistance, Lieutenant Holloway.’

“I thought it was odd that he called me ‘lieutenant.’ The way they pronounce it:
lefttenant
. Maybe I had misunderstood or he was confused . . . but, you know, I didn’t want to embarrass him. And I was in a hurry, too.

“But the next morning when I go out—when I say good morning to him—he says, ‘Good morning, Lieutenant Holloway. I hope you were comfortable last night.’ So this time I think I need to straighten this out. And I say I was very comfortable, thank you. But I tell him that there’s some sort of misunderstanding. ‘It’s Sergeant Holloway, I’m afraid,’ I say.

“‘Oh, no sir. I’m certain you’re mistaken about that. The Dorchester, you see, doesn’t take enlisted men.’ At first I didn’t understand what he was telling me. But then I had to laugh. And I go on my way and don’t complain again about getting a promotion.” Dwight and Sam had moved to a table, and Dwight was delighted to have discovered a good storyteller. Someone he enjoyed listening to.

He and Sam sat up for hours, trading stories and absurdities. Dwight told Sam about a diplomatic mission he had been on to the Ukraine after the split between Stalin and Hitler. It had been a hare-brained scheme from the start, Dwight had always thought. And he went on to recount the tale of the whole squadron being stranded in the Ukraine with their planes shot up and being unable to avoid their Russian hosts’ efforts to entertain them by playing balalaikas and insisting that the Americans join them in what seemed to be hours of rigorous dancing.

“We didn’t know if we were stuck there for the duration,” Dwight said. “And every day we would ask if this was the day someone was going to come get us, and every day they would say, ‘Uncle Joe say no.’”

Sam Holloway had spent much of 1943 in Salt Lake City, Utah, training with the other nine men assigned to the same B-17 flight crew. They practiced bombing runs and night flights, and in the spring of 1944, they flew to Goose Bay, Labrador, then to Iceland, and from Iceland to Ireland, where they left their plane and were ferried across to England.

Eventually they were stationed in East Anglia at Deopham Green and told not to worry, that their first flight would be little more than a milk run. Sam thought they would probably be flying an easy mission to acclimate the crew, perhaps just across the channel.

But their first mission, it turned out, was Berlin. They flew in formation in a great, dark cloud of B-17s in broad daylight, and at least sixty of those heavy, lumbering bombers were shot down that day, each with a crew of ten. Sometimes Sam saw chutes open, and sometimes not, and so many planes went down on either side of him that Sam thought he wasn’t likely to live through the day, much less the war. In fact, he never understood why his crew had survived that first mission or even how he himself had survived hour after hour of unremitting and horrified disbelief all alone, kneeling in the tail of the plane, connected to the rest of the crew by intercom, able to breathe because of his oxygen mask, and kept from freezing only by plugging in the underlayer of his flight suit. He had done all this before, time and again, but it had always seemed to him melodramatic, cumbersome, and in some way slightly ridiculous. For the first time, on that mission and under fire, however, his connections seemed not cumbersome, not melodramatic, but wretchedly tenuous and vulnerable.