by James Jones
“Perhaps not,” Bob said. “Perhaps not by that boy at any rate. But,” he shrugged, “who knows?”
“That’s another ambiguous answer,” Gwen said, refusing to be put off. “You told me, back then, that you believed Dave would not ever finish his book if I left. And you were right: He didn’t. We did.”
“Dave did finish it,” Bob said. “It was finished when it came into our hands. He just didn’t know it. But then again, perhaps he did know it was finished. Because he wrote you that the love affair must come out.”
“No,” Gwen said stubbornly; “it was not finished. It was not finished because it still needed work done on it. Luckily, it was work you and I were able to do. Or it would never have been finished.”
“Dear Gwen, I fear you’re quibbling,” Bob said. “What is it that is bothering you?”
“I feel a very strong responsibility for Dave’s death,” Gwen said. “I’ve thought and thought about it. I feel a very strong sense of responsibility for it, and a great guilt about it.”
“Dear Gwen,” Bob said sadly. “I feel the same thing. There is so much more I could have done, perhaps. Everyone always feels that after a death.” He smiled; but Gwen stared back at him, and shook her head. She was not about to be eased out of what she had to say.
“I don’t mean that,” she said; “and you know it. And also, if I am responsible for his death, I am then also responsible for all the work he did not do—but might have done, had he lived.” She was glad—and very relieved—that they were at last getting this out in the open.
“Dear Gwen,” Bob said; he had laid both the NLL letter and his book he had been reading, aside; “is anyone ever really responsible for another’s death? If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways 1 keep, and pass, and turn again,” Bob said, quoting Emerson’s poem “Brahma.” “Perhaps no one is ever responsible for one’s death except the one himself.”
“You know,” Gwen said, and took a deep breath, “you know, Dad, you and I have never talked much about ourselves, about our own private lives, our sexual lives.”
“Need we?” Bob said.
“Yes,” she said clearly; “right now we must. I have something I feel I must tell you. I don’t want to embarrass you; but this is something I’m—well—more or less morally obligated to tell you, I feel.”
“Very well,” Bob said, and folded his hands together.
Gwen tood another deep breath. “You see, Dad,” she said, looking at him squarely, “I’m a virgin. I never slept with Dave Hirsh.” It took a great deal out of her to say it—a great deal more than she had thought it would, even. And yet she felt strangely very calm, too.
“Dear Gwen,” Bob said from his chair, “dear Gwen, I’m sorry.”
“Why sorry?” Gwen demanded. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, I—” Bob said. “Well, I guess, because I instinctively felt that you regretted that you hadn’t.” He paused. “But, I guess, more than that, because I’m embarrassed for you, that you should feel you had to tell me.”
“It changes everything, doesn’t it?” Gwen said.
“No-o,” Bob said helplessly; “no. I don’t think it changes any of it. It does give me the missing element in this whole affair that I’ve never just been able to put my finger on.”
“You thought I was sleeping with him,” Gwen said. “I know it from things you said to me. But you see I never had been. Although I let you think it.”
“The missing element,” Bob said again, sadly. “Ahhh, dear Gwen. Poor dear Gwen. I had no idea.”
“No,” Gwen said. “Nor does anybody else. It’s always been my secret. Dave didn’t know, either. Hes always thought I was almost promiscuous. He even accused me of being a nymphomaniac once. Nobody knows. And all those other men, those former lovers, all that sophisticated woman-of-the-world routine—all an act: a part of my secret lie.”
“But why?!”
“Because I was ashamed of anybody finding out. I was afraid of being laughed at.”
“The missing element,” Bob said sadly. He straightened up in his chair, suddenly looking very tired. “It is I, dear Gwen, not you, who am responsible for Dave’s death. I should have known. I should have been intelligent enough, perceptive enough, to have figured it out. Had I done that, I would have reacted very differently, I think. I would have told Dave about Ginnie Moorehead coming over here and talking to you—even when you didn’t want me to; and that would have changed everything. That girl knew exactly what she was doing. Dumb as she appears to be, she outsmarted us all.” He paused, and shrugged sadly. “But I— I, with all my books I’d read; I, with my notion of trying not to interfere, and to avoid new Karma; I, in always saying ‘Thy will be done, not mine,’ in trying to follow ‘God’s Will’—I refused to be a part of God’s Will. I refused to act. I refused to be a part of life.” The corner of his mouth pulled itself up into a deep sadness. “I really am the villain of the piece,” he said.
“No,” Gwen said. “It wasn’t you. I was the one who lied.”
“When Dave came over here, and kept coming, he was asking for something—and I didn’t give it to him,” Bob said sorrowfully.
“I’ve read your books, too, you know,” Gwen said. “And when you get so far along, you don’t make Karma anymore. You come in a class where you just don’t make Karma. I quote you back your quote from Emerson.”
“My dear,” Bob said. “None of us are in that class. Nor are we likely to be for many lives, I fear. And I expect I made more future Karma for myself in my refusal to act than I should ever have done had I acted and tried to help you and Dave. One simply cannot withdraw from life. Not without dire consequences. No, I am the one who is responsible.”
“Don’t forget Dave comes into this for some responsibility, too,” Gwen said. “Don’t forget that in your guilt.”
“No; and don’t you forget it either, in yours.” He paused. “Yes, of course. He does. He was an almost living proof of your theory, wasn’t he?” he said with a sad smile. “Here was a man who on the one hand had his art and had companionship and love, too, though not sexual love; and on the other he had just that: sexual love and nothing more. He had to choose between. He chose the sex.”
“Perhaps he wouldn’t have, if I had not left,” Gwen said calmly. “That’s been my whole point.”
Bob merely shook his head, almost as if he had not even heard her. “Dear Gwen,” he said, “while we are confessing, I have something to confess myself: I have felt—oh, for some time now—that it is I who have taken away your life from you. I kept you here, quite selfishly, just to take care of me, and look after me. What you told me just a moment ago makes me more sure of it than ever now.”
“I chose to stay,” Gwen said; “you didn’t keep me.”
“Ahh, but in subtle ways I did,” Bob said. “What I should have done was to have forced you out. Out into life. Then life would have forced you to—ahh—love. And in loving, you would have been hurt—as love hurts us all. And in being hurt, you would have grown, as you were meant to do. Yes, I have done you great harm, dear Gwen.”
“You’ve just given me my answer,” Gwen said crisply. “The answer I’ve been asking you for since we started talking.” The peculiar calmness in her seemed to grow even stronger. And suddenly, she knew what she was going to do: now—now—when it was too late, and meant nothing—meant nothing to anyone but herself at any rate. And at the same time, she felt a strange protectiveness toward Bob, like the feeling of a parent for a child. Feeling very strange, she smiled at her father’s bent head sadly. He still had great work in him though, despite the age, despite the change, despite everything. But, she thought suddenly, she had great work in her, too—perhaps even greater; though she didn’t know just what.
But she knew what she was going to do. In fact, she had contemplated doing it out in Tucson, even. But then that had been out of hatred. This was not. She had seen a lot of men who
would be quite obviously willing to seduce her, both out there and here; and she had even contemplated a few of them. But even then—even with the hatred—she could never just bring herself to come in contact with them. Physical contact. It was just too intimate a thing to do—without love. She would have felt degraded. But then there was no need to have a man to do it. It could be done professionally by a doctor. And it was this that, when Bob had given her—unwittingly, on his part—her answer, that she had decided to have done.
It really meant nothing—not now. And once it could have meant so much. But whether it meant anything to anybody else or not, it meant something to her. Something very important. Calmly, clear eyed, she was going over to Indianapolis to see a doctor. An act of gynecological surgery could accomplish for her what in their ignorance and silly stupidity neither she—nor Dave—could ever quite get done.
It wouldn’t do her any good especially. Not physically, at any rate. She had no desire for any men now anymore, at all. If indeed she ever had had—except possibly that one brief period with Dave. And it would not bring back what was gone. But whether it served any external purpose or not, it served a purpose in her soul: It would not only be a penance. It would, she felt, in some way, also be a redemption.
She didn’t think she still loved him. And in fact she was sure she didn’t. But she did still love what he could have been. And because of this, she felt it was her right—even her duty—to pay off her debt to what she knew she had destroyed.
Why had she never thought of a doctor before? When it might have meant something? Probably she hadn’t wanted to, that was why. Probably, in all her champings and cage shakings and miseries, she had nevertheless been proud of it: Proud of the ancient shibboleth, the mystic symbol; the Vestal’s purity: All that time, she had been playing the “Pedestal,” the “Great Conscience” of the males. And all that time, she had been just like the rest. Only she had been the greatest whore of all. Well, damn it all, it was possible for a woman to be honest like a man. It had to be.
For a moment, she looked over at her father’s bent head and thought of telling him what she meant to have done, to herself. But that was pointless—and anyway, Gwen realized suddenly, he was so concerned with his own guilt that he no longer had any concern for hers. What was it he was always saying: “Each man must find his salvation within himself alone. It is not to be found outside. In another person.” Well, he would have to find his own. She had found hers.
As if he was aware of her looking at him, Bob suddenly raised his head.
“Yes?” he said. “You do have your answer? And what is it?”
“That I’m guilty,” Gwen said.
“We both are guilty, dear Gwen, I think,” Bob said. “I might say we all are guilty. You, me, Dave, that girl, everyone. And yet, at the same time, we all are also unguilty. We suffer, and we learn; and then we grow. Though growth may often seem like ‘Sin’ to others; to the ignorant. Do you remember the end of Hawthorne’s Marble Faun?” He straightened up in his chair. “And what do you plan to do now? now that you have your answer? Do you intend to go back to teaching?”
“No,” Gwen said. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to teach anybody anything again. If,” she added, “in all these years I ever have.”
Bob was looking at her carefully. “You know, Dave used to tell me,” he said suddenly, “that you didn’t have a critical work in your book, dear Gwen, you had a novel. I gather that he had told you this, too,” he added.
“Yes, he did say that,” Gwen said. She felt suddenly startled. A sudden, strange high excitement began to rise in her.
“Yes, he did say that! As a matter of fact, he told me that that first night we met, there at Frank and Agnes’s.”
Bob just looked at her, almost penetratingly. “Perhaps it might provide a way out of your dilemma with your book,” he said softly.
Gwen stared back, hardly seeing him. “You know, I believe he’s right!” she said. “I could very easily novelize it. It wouldn’t be an academic work, then; and consequently would be no proof; but what do I care for proof? And, if I novelized it, I could develop it in ways I know about—in my mind—but never had the research proof to do. Why, yes!” she said excitedly. “It’s a perfect answer!”
Bob merely continued to watch her, eyes brimming with some private emotion of his own.
“Well,” he said finally, “you do already know a good bit about novel writing, don’t you?”
Gwen turned to look at him. “He gave us something too; didn’t he?” she said softly. “Dave gave us something, too.”
Bob did not answer. But after a moment he said, gently: “I think you should move away from here, too, dear Gwen.”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “I expect I should.”
“Of course, this place will always be yours, you know,” Bob added. “You will always be able to come back to it, when you want.”
Gwen nodded, but she did not answer this remark. She sat for a moment looking at her father, realizing suddenly that if she did not tell him what she meant to have done she would once again be lying, be parading under false pretenses—just as she done before, in just the opposite way. And he, whenever he saw or heard from her, would go right on thinking she was still that same virgin—who had, she was convinced, caused so much damage with her virginity—whether he believed that or not.
So she told him, calmly, what she meant to have done, to herself.
Once more, Bob made his old familiar apologetic near-shrugging motion. “Well, dear Gwen, I cannot advise you. If that is what you think you must do, then you must—” But then he stopped himself. And suddenly he smiled. “Yes, dear Gwen. I think that is just exactly what you should do.” And so it was that three days later, Gwen French with three bags packed and loaded in her new sedan she had bought out in Tucson and driven home, was on Route 40 driving east and keeping a sharp eye out for the Indiana cops. She was headed for New York, where she would put up with their lady editor friend until she could get an apartment, and she planned a stopover in Indianapolis.
She picked one of the nicest of the business buildings, and there were three gynecologists on the wall directory. She chose the first one: a Doctor Goster. She had come in figuring that if she did not like his looks, she would just get up and go right back out; but she didn’t mind this doctor’s looks. But how did you begin? How did you say it? A half an hour later, she was back out on the road, on Route 40, and heading eastward toward Ohio.
It really had been nothing. One small sharp pain, and that was all. Such a simple thing. Well, she was what she was now, at least, at any rate. Perhaps someday she might find a man. Who knew? She didn’t want one. But who knew? She might: one who was sensitive, and kind, and intelligent. She just might. But mostly what she was thinking about was the work she was going to get done, and the thought of it filled her with a rising, burgeoning high excitement of just living.
Then, as her eyes moved about watching the road, a picture of Bob superimposed itself on the windshield in front of her: Bob as he had looked this morning when she left. She had looked back in the rearview mirror before she pulled out of the drive, and had seen him standing in the cellar doorway. He had been leaning on the door, with his white crew cut and heavy gray mustache, and he had been smiling, happily, and there had been that other, strange look on his face, too. Old Bob. Well, she wouldn’t be gone forever. Someday she would be coming back. Coming back home.
Leaning over, she switched on the car’s radio to a news broadcast that the Chinese Communists had invaded North Korea and that our armies were in full retreat. She had heard from Wally’s mother that he was over there (he had never written to herself or Bob) and that his outfit had been one of the first sent there from Japan, and suddenly her heart went out to him, painfully, warmly.
Epilogue
They came running through the paddy fields across the snow, their rifles held at a rigid precise Port Arms, in their quilted uniforms or large long overcoats and the quilted boots,
the conspicuous white bandoliers crossing their chests, and you shot them down. Sometimes, later, you could count upwards of a hundred bodies lying on the slope up which they came in front of the position. Other times, you did not know how many all of you might have killed. But then it didn’t seem to matter, really. There were so many of them that no matter how many hundreds of them you might kill, it was never enough. They swarmed around like ants, everywhere, coming from every direction, all around you. And on those times the Company would finally, under the constant overpowering pressure, have to fall back as best they could to another hilltop and regroup and set up another perimeter.
They did not always run. Sometimes they walked. In long, thin, evenly spaced lines, those rifles held at that rigid Port like on parade, right up the slope at you. At other times, they would come ramming down a draw, all running in unison in their quilted boots, rifles at rigid Port, in a regular column of fours, close packed. Trying to outflank, of course. And usually they did. Those were the best for shooting. But—much more often than not—it would be at night.
In the evening, as dusk came on, you could sometimes hear them on the next hill: that strange weird out-of-tune chant; they were death-singing: getting ready to die. Ought to do some death-singing ourselves, somebody would say. Then, with the dark, the bugles and the shepherd’s pipes and the cymbals and the rattles would start making their weird ungodly noises, and the attack would begin again. And if the night was light enough, or if something was burning somewhere, you could see those widely spaced lines of widely spaced men—strange, alien, totally foreign and un-understandable—coming down their own hill, crossing the frozen paddy fields, beginning to mount your hill below you. They seemed to always prefer the gentlest slope—for their main attack, at least. Sometimes—if the BARs and LMGs didn’t jam, or just simply burn out—the fire would be too much for them and they would go to ground among the rocks. Then the grenading and countergrenading and the firefight would begin, while they tried to work up to rush. They had a trick of—when they thought they were close enough—three men rushing in a V, the two men behind firing to cover the one in front. Lots of times, small knots would break inside the perimeter in their rushes. But they fought funny. Once they were inside, most of them didn’t seem to know what to do and just sort of ran around aimlessly until somebody cut them down. Although all of them didn’t do that though. So far, the Company had kept its unity, as Regiment withdrew slowly westward back onto Division. They had never quite been caught bad enough to be broken up entirely. But if they had kept their unity, attrition was thinning them out swiftly and dangerously.