An April Afternoon

by Philip Wylie

  I could quit that folly.

  Of such elaborate and painful nonsense was my thinking composed.

  When the bell rang. I was determined. For Connie's benefit I even forced some gaiety into my voice. A detached sort of gaiety was possible to me-I had· put myself beyond the bounds of responsibility for what had happened to us all.

  "Hello, Connie!"

  "Hello, Frankie. I hope nothing's the matter--?" Her voice was far away, little, and without much life.

  "No accidents or anything. Look, Connie. I'm coming down. To stay with you for a long time."

  There was a wait. I could tell that she was overwhelmed. "I didn't think, Frankie, after that last fiasco--after all you did--after the way I sent you off--you'd ever try it again."

  "It's different now, Connie. You're alone. It's all over--"

  She tried to pull herself together. She laughed gently and said, "Wait till I get out my damn handkerchief." I heard her blow her nose. "There's more in this than meets the eye. Listen, Frankie, what has happened up at Reedy Cove that made you decide to come down here?"

  "I can't explain all the machinations of a devious fellow over long distance!"

  "Yes, you can. This time. Maybe you shouldn't come. I detect something in your voice--"

  I laughed at her. "You're bats. One thing has happened; I've found out who I am!

  Who my parents were."

  "You did what, Frankie?"

  I told that to her--jubilantly. "See? I'm Thomas MacBurney. I'm going around swelled up with pride. Like a frankfurter. And I especially want you to see me in my new personality. You took me blind--oh-hell--I don't feel a debt. I just feel that I've got to come down and share it with you. For fun--!"

  "Where's Virginia?"

  She asked that suddenly, interrupting the stream of information and excitement I had winged into the phone. I suppose I hesitated a moment and that my voice changed perceptibly before I said, "In town--at the moment--with Bill."

  I should have told her the truth in the beginning, I suppose. Because she answered me softly, maternally. "I see, now. Frankie. She's gone away with Bill--"

  "Maybe."

  "Where?"

  "Washington. "

  "Where are they staying in Washington?"

  "Hell, Connie. It won't do any good to get upset. I don't know."

  "Well, I can guess. There aren't many places in that burg where they would go--

  even for a honeymoon with a bar sinister across it. Damn it, Frankie, why didn't you shoot that Bush pup?"

  That astonished me. Connie sounded furious. I said, "Hunh?"

  "You've been in love with Virginia since you were old enough to pull her hair!

  Why didn't you say so? I counted on you when the thing reached this point. And you took it lying down and now you want to come down here beach-combing with me. I won't have it! Virginia knows better--even if you don't. One Sheffield making a fool of herself for romance is sufficient for a dozen generations. I'm going to call up that mouse-witted schoolgirl and tell her to pack up and go back to Reedy Cove the minute you hang up!

  I've been sitting here for some time now--thinking. And what I think is that we Sheffields are a bunch of sissies! My God, Frankie! Did you ever imagine for a minute that I didn't know how you and Virginia felt about each other? Do you think I'd have left my brood if I'd have even guessed that the moment my back was turned they'd go haywire? Virginia needed one of those deep flirtations for the good of her silly soul. Bill can take it--he wasn't getting hurt--and it's not my fault if life wasn't meant to be his rosebed. But I expected you to turn beast in the clinch--brain Bill--run off with Virginia--and--"

  She stopped in what seemed like a mixture of dismay and fury and some kind of mirth. I began to talk. It shattered my picture of the past to know that Connie had perceived my feeling for Virginia. But it altered no important fact. I had to tell her--and I did.

  "Connie! You've got to stop being facetious. I'm in deadly earnest. I admit I've always loved Virginia. I didn't always know it myself. When I learned--it was too late.

  That was my tough luck. I loved her--" It wasn't as easy to explain as I had imagined it would be. "I always will. Adore her. Everything about her. But since you have such cosmic scrutiny, you must know that Virginia has never thought of me as anything but a brother! Older brother. 'Good old Frankie.' 'Sweet Frankie.' 'Frankie who talks to you when you feel blue--and helps you out of jams.' If she'd ever known in the last few months that all I wanted to do when we were having those familiar tête-à-têtes was to take her in my arms and make love to her--she'd have passed out with shame!"

  I was getting angry, also. "I doubt if the fact that I'm male ever really goes through her head! Or ever will. When I did once kiss a girl in her sight, she thought it was amusing and odd--something that hadn't even occurred to her before as a remote possibility! It hasn't been all fun to live in that spot! Especially when a charming guy is stealing your girl from you. And I've been grateful, just the same, that I did have the chance to remain her brother and her friend. Now--she's gone. She's in a mess. I can't even explain that. I'm coming down, Connie--because I belong--with everyone but John and Ivan and Larry--to the outcast Sheffields! I belong to you! We both need consolation, Connie! Peace--"

  She screamed faintly to stop that blast of words. "Lord, will you shut up! And hang up! I want to think! And I don't want to be confused by any more adolescence!"

  Then I was altogether sore. And I did hang up.

  I thought, probably, that I would be insane within another two hours. Even Connie, who was lonely and sad, had scornfully refused my companionship. It was too much. No world, no life could possibly produce so many successive debacles. I had nothing left to do. Nowhere to go. Nobody to help me. I sat looking at my green blotter, too perplexed and discouraged even to cry any more. There was perspiration on my forehead--left from the oratory and confession of my long distance call. I wiped it off.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I thought it was John. Maybe he had come in and stood behind me and heard it all. It didn't matter.

  I looked up.

  It was Virginia. She stood there in her coat and hat. Her face was very tender and quite frightened. I thought, at first, that she was unreal. The beginning of my madness. I just looked at her and she whispered, "Oh, Frankie!"

  "You--came back?"

  Her voice was vague and rambling. She seemed to see that she was still dressed for the outdoors and to realize she had eavesdropped. "I wanted to come up here right away and tell you something--so I didn't take off my wraps. I heard you talking and I came in anyhow. I'm sorry."

  "Where's Bill?" I asked. I don't know why. I didn't know anything then.

  She shook her head and still spoke softly. "I--didn't see Bill. I--well--I got off at 125th Street and took the next train back. I mean--I didn't go to Grand Central. I didn't meet him. I couldn't. I--couldn't do it."

  "Oh."

  She leaned toward me. "I couldn't--you see?"

  There was no relief in me yet. No exultation. Just shock. I nodded as if I understood and said, "Why?"

  She pointed at the telephone. I looked at it, comprehending nothing. "What you just said, Frankie. What I just heard you say to Connie. I--I--I--"

  "Don't chatter. What do you mean?"

  Her lips turned down. "I mean--about you. I always believed you only thought of me as a--a--a relative. I used to try. I--used to kiss you. I used to make you speculate about who you might be--to see if you could get to feel any other way about me. Oh, golly! Don't keep me standing here, Frankie! I'm going to bawl anyhow. You might as well hold me in your arms. You--you've got to hold me--all your life--!"

  I reached toward her numbly, and then she stepped away. "Oh," she said sorrowfully, "why didn't you do something sooner! I hoped so much! I didn't give up and let Bill fall in love with me for such a long, long time. And now-- his life is going to be ruined because of me!" She could hardly speak. "Why does th
is terrible kind of love always have to spoil somebody's life? It could have been yours and mine. Now--it'll be his."

  She swayed and I stood up. I kept her standing and we kissed. We kissed many times and I told her, when I could, about Bill's Joyce. Miracles, too, are hard to bear. And other miracles were in the making. First, though, we had to explore our love a little while.

  Or what seemed a little while--

  For she was still in my arms when it began to grow dark. The snow kept on falling, softly, magically. Our faces, no doubt, were streaked and sticky, and our voices were still uneven. She said, in that ecstatic eventide, "Right away we'll have to go and see Ivan and Larry. To tell them! Don't you think that maybe because we both were doing wrong--it made everyone else do wrong? Don't you think they'll change when they hear?

  I know it! They'll be happy! And John! He'll burst! And maybe it'll be the first step toward getting Connie--maybe--anyway--they'll be so glad."

  I didn't know. I hoped they would.

  And we went, soon afterward, to tell them. They were glad. John came near to bursting--with joy and pride and new hope.

  And we were married--on an April afternoon.

  But I can't write any more about this.

  THE END

  Document Outline

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX