Melville Goodwin, USA

by John P. Marquand

  “Oh, God,” he had prayed, kneeling down on the round braided rug that had come from his grandmother’s house in Nashua, “help me pass my examinations and make me a good officer in the United States Army, for Christ’s sake, Amen.”

  It was not a bad prayer either. He had made the same supplication with only a few variations many times in Cadet Chapel at West Point, and God had been kind to him. He had finished in the first quarter of his class at the Point, and some people were of the opinion that he was not such a bad soldier.

  Of course he should have told his plans to his father immediately, instead of deciding to put it off until after his high school graduation. He never thought about the article in the Nashua newspaper, or even that there would be much of an article, until his father showed it to him. When his mother told him one afternoon in May that his father wanted him down at the store, he thought he was only needed to open packing cases.

  His father was out in front waiting on Mr. Hallowell, who wanted to buy a new safety razor and was trying to decide between a Gem and a Gillette. Two of Melville’s friends from high school, who were eating strawberry sundaes at the counter, had abandoned their spoons, and Elmer had stopped polishing glasses behind the fountain while they all listened to the conversation between Mr. Goodwin and the great man who owned the hat factory.

  “It takes such a long time to get the blade out from that thing and clean it,” Mr. Hallowell said. “The blade keeps falling in the wash basin, and I never can seem to do well with it under my chin.”

  Mr. Goodwin picked up the little razor expertly. He looked thin and neat and much more adroit than Mr. Hallowell.

  “Some people like Gillettes,” he said, “and some like Gems, and then there’s the Durham Duplex and the Autostrop, but I don’t know much about them personally. I’ve always used an old straight razor. If you have to bring up three boys, there’s nothing like a good strop in the bathroom.”

  Mr. Hallowell smiled and so did Elmer and the two customers at the fountain.

  “If I had three boys, perhaps I’d use a straight razor. I never thought of razors as being so closely connected with parenthood,” Mr. Hallowell said.

  “Well,” Mr. Goodwin said, “I wish I could advise you, Mr. Hallowell. Why don’t you take both a Gillette and a Gem and try them on different days?”

  “That’s a very good idea,” Mr. Hallowell said. “Will you wrap them both up for me please, Mr. Goodwin, and I’d better have a bottle of shaving lotion. I wish I didn’t always keep cutting myself, even with a safety razor.”

  “How about taking a styptic pencil along, too?” Mr. Goodwin asked. “I find them very handy.” He was beginning to wrap the package, but his hand stopped in wordless interrogation while he waited for Mr. Hallowell’s answer, and everyone else in the store waited with him.

  “That’s a very good idea,” Mr. Hallowell said.

  A deep, respectful silence followed Mr. Hallowell as he left the store. Even when the door closed, no one made any remark about him. After all, none of them would have been there if it had not been for the Hallowell hat factory.

  “Elmer,” Mr. Goodwin said, “get out another Gem and Gillette and put them in the showcase. Melville, come with me to the office.”

  His father kept his account books and papers in a small room behind the prescription counter. His ledgers and his invoices were symmetrically arranged on his roll-top desk. One wall was decorated by a patent-medicine calendar, and the whole place had the clean smell of chemicals. This was the room in which his father talked privately to salesmen about discounts and payment dates, after he had finally decided to place an order. Mr. Goodwin closed the door and seated himself in his swivel chair by the desk and pointed to the salesmen’s chair beside it.

  “Sit down, Melville,” Mr. Goodwin said, “I want to have a little talk with you. I guess I keep forgetting that you’re growing up. You may find, if you have a boy of your own, you’ll forget he’s growing up, too. All of a sudden before you know it, there he is, grown-up, and this will make you sort of sad. You’ll wish you hadn’t been so busy keeping shop and trying to make both ends meet. You’ll wish you had got to know your boy and what he is thinking of, and about the time you get to wishing, it will be too late. It was like that with George, and now he’s away in Nashua. It was like that with Harry, and before I even knew he was a man, he was working in that garage. I ought to have seen my boys more and taken more time off to be with them instead of just seeing them around the table at mealtime. Maybe I’ve been here at the store too much, Saturdays and Sundays and everything, and now it’s too late. Someday you’ll know, too, that something’s too late, Melville, and it’s pretty hard to take.”

  His father sat there straight and handsome in his white coat, as though he were talking to a salesman, and he looked as though he had not slept well for a long while. It was the first time that Melville had thought of him as anything more than a figure in his background.

  “When I used to correct you children,” his father said, “your mother would tell me that you wouldn’t be children for long. Time’s something that’s pretty hard to handle. I used to think when the store was making a little money—and now the store is doing pretty well—that there would be time for you and me to kind of get acquainted, before you grew up like the other boys, and that I could tell you about how things were, and what I used to do when I was a boy—but I guess I’ve worked too hard in the store. I couldn’t do much for the other boys, but I wanted to save some money so that you could have a chance. Well … if you put your mind on one thing, you have to take it off another. Time’s a mighty funny thing.”

  He almost looked as though he were saying words that he had learned by heart, and his lack of eloquence made the words more touching.

  “I used to think,” his father went on, “that you and I would tell each other what was on our minds someday. I’ve never even known what you wanted to do or be—but then I guess my dad never knew I wanted to be a druggist. Still I might have guessed why you ran off in the Ford to see the militia that time down in Blair.… You haven’t seen today’s paper, have you, Melville?”

  His father took down the Nashua paper from the top of the desk. His chair squeaked, but he still sat up straight as he handed it to Melville. There it was, on the front page, a picture of Melville standing beside Congressman Francis J. Garrity.

  “Garrity picks Hallowell lad for West Point,” he read. “‘Not a political choice,’ says congressman.… In a surprise move that has silenced many critics in this city, Francis J. Garrity announced this afternoon that he has ignored the expectations of many supporters by bestowing his principal appointment to the United States Military Academy upon the son of a Republican voter who worked for his opponent in the last election. The lucky lad is Melville A. Goodwin, son of Robert Goodwin, popular Hallowell druggist. Commenting on this selection, Mr. Garrity said today that it was made solely upon merit. Young Goodwin’s grandfather, the late Melville Allen, well known in this city, saw service in the Civil War under General Philip Sheridan, and the young appointee’s great-great-grandfather was a hero of the Revolution. ‘I am fully aware that many friends may be disappointed by this action,’ Congressman Garrity said, ‘but there are times when I ignore political expediency. After all, there are Republicans in my district.…’”

  Melville looked up from the paper and saw that his father was watching him.

  “Garrity’s pretty smart,” his father said. “This will get him a lot of independent votes. It’s funny … I never knew you wanted to go to West Point.”

  It would have been easier if his father had been angry. As it was, his coolness and reserve showed the deepness of his hurt.

  “I was going to tell you, I really was,” Melville said, “but I was afraid there might be a catch to it.”

  His father took the paper and folded it.

  “It’s my fault; it isn’t yours,” he said. “That’s all I’ve been trying to tell you, Mel. Anyway, you did it all
yourself. Let’s not talk about it now, but I’ll tell you what, suppose you and I take the Ford on Saturday and ride down along the Merrimack and maybe you’ll tell me all about it then … and now, if you want, you can help me with some prescriptions. I’m pretty rushed today.”

  His father must have realized that the family would not see much of Melville Goodwin again, but no one at the age of eighteen could have possibly known, and eighteen was his age when he left Hallowell for West Point. It was in June 1915 and he had twenty dollars for traveling expenses and a post-office money order for one hundred and sixty dollars made out to the Treasurer of the United States Military Academy, to pay for his uniform and equipment. This money order was about all he needed to ask for from his father, so at least he was no burden on the family. He carried nothing but a small traveling bag—he would not need more than he was wearing—and his family drove him in the Ford from Hallowell to the Junction. As the train pulled out, he watched his father and mother and Celia standing against the background of oak and scrub-pine hills, waving to him from the bare wooden platform. Only later did he value the memory—after he came to realize how complete that parting was.

  If you got through plebe year you had been malleable enough to be beaten to a mold. They really dished it out to you that first year at the Point. He did not see Hallowell again until the day before Christmas, 1916, when he had a short Christmas leave and he returned in his cadet’s uniform with its long gray overcoat and cape all buttoned and fitted to a T. He wore his uniform partly out of vanity but also because he had grown too tall and broad for his old civilian suit, and the uniform was a part of him by then, anyway. He had developed the posture to wear one correctly. He knew how to hold his gloves. He knew instinctively about the slant of his visored cap and all about buttons and buckles. A regard for personal appearance had already been beaten into him at the Point and he looked an integral part of the Corps.

  December twilight had fallen over Hallowell. Walls of snow bordered the sidewalks. The hat factory was running on a night shift because of French and British war contracts. Gray’s Dry Goods and Notions Store, Richards’s Meat Market, Shute’s General Store and his father’s drugstore were all open for final Christmas buying, and candles were burning in the windows of the Congregational Church. It was a picture that he had created in his mind all the way from West Point, except that when he saw it the size of the whole canvas had diminished. It was his home town but he would never fit there again and he would never have a home again, as he had formerly understood the word.

  When he entered the drugstore everyone was glad to see him, but his father’s look was like that of all the others, welcoming but incredulous. His father was smaller and older, and the boys he had known needed haircuts and appeared untidy and round-shouldered. The house, all fixed for Christmas with the tree, had not changed, but he had not realized how small the rooms were. All the family were there, George and Harry and Celia, down for Christmas—and they, also, regarded him with uneasy, questioning expressions. Celia looked very pretty, but it was hard for him to remember much about her. When his mother kissed him, he was deeply moved, but he had been away for such a long time, and he would only be there for such a little while, that he knew it would be hopeless to explain his life at the Point to her. They were all fingering his uniform and asking questions, but there was no sense to the questions. They were his family, and at the same time he was a stranger. It had to be that way, and you could blame it all on the Point. It had to be that way.

  The only person in Hallowell who did not seem changed was Muriel, and even with her there was a moment of uncertainty. When they stood alone in the Reeces’ parlor, he felt very shy. He had forgotten how beautiful she was.

  “Well,” she said, “well,” and she stood staring at him.

  “You’re looking fine, Muriel,” he said. “You’ve got a new dress, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and so have you. You look just like the pictures.”

  “I ought to. You’ve got to look like that there,” he said.

  “Well, you look all right.”

  He realized that he was standing at attention, and he shifted to at ease.

  “You’ve got to look all right,” he answered.

  “You’ve got a new haircut, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “They make you get them once a week when you’re a plebe and once every two weeks thereafter,” he told her, and then she began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just you,” she answered, “looking as though you weren’t real. Is it against the rules for you to kiss a girl?”

  XVI

  The Color’s Getting Lighter Every Year

  The reticences of women, as I have said, were very different from those of men. Women had another doctrine of security. They, and not the men, were usually the ones who kissed and told. Melville Goodwin, for example, only said that Muriel was just the way she had been and he let it go at that. It was Muriel Goodwin who gave me the full details of this meeting, and it was she, too, who told most about that earlier walk in the dark, when the General had asked her to marry him—but perhaps those episodes had meant more to her than they ever had to him.

  “Melville never was a great lover,” I remember her saying, while she and I motored to New York the next morning, “but I must have always thought he was going to be. I wish you could have seen him when he came home that Christmas. He was so handsome, so distinguished. I didn’t know then that he had just the usual polish that any boy gets at the Point. At first I thought I couldn’t ever be what a boy like that would want—girls, when they’re in love, are so much more romantic and imaginative than boys—but it made me want to cry when I found he was still Melville, at least he was with me. The Point makes leaders but it can’t take men away from women.”

  Melville Goodwin only touched briefly on West Point’s relationship to love, although this aspect of life seemed to have a place in the curriculum, judging from the popularity of hops and of Flirtation Walk at the Academy. He skipped over the subject hastily when he described his career to Miss Fineholt and Phil Bentley, just as most officers did in their memoirs—including General Grant.

  “It was certainly great to see Muriel again,” he said. “Nobody knows what love is who hasn’t been through plebe year at the Point, and that remark isn’t original with me.”

  His mind was back with us again in the library. He was no longer Cadet Goodwin. There appeared to be a physical change in him as he adjusted himself rapidly from one environment to another. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the lines around his mouth deepened and everything he was telling became remote.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ve sort of gone overboard about all this kid stuff. Maybe we’d better break off for a while.”

  A second or two moved by us before anyone answered.

  “General,” Phil Bentley said, “do you mind if I ask a question?”

  General Goodwin turned toward him slowly.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Do you think civilian love is different from military love?” Phil Bentley asked.

  “That’s a smart one, isn’t it?” the General said. “But I’ll tell you one thing, son. Those girls who marry shavetails the day after graduation don’t know what they’re getting into. Somebody ought to give them a briefing. I don’t believe Mrs. Goodwin knew.”

  It was “Mrs. Goodwin” and not “Muriel” now. The General’s mind was back in the library, and he was watching Phil Bentley with cool disapproval.

  “You see, son,” he said, “different individuals have different aptitudes. I could never write like you, but then as I look you over, without meaning to be too personal, I’d say you wouldn’t last six months at the Point.”

  Phil Bentley flushed slightly and then he laughed.

  “Frankly, I wouldn’t want to last three minutes.”

  “All right,” the General said, “then don’t ask smarty-pants question
s about military love, and keep your tongue out of your cheek. I’m pretty tired of some of the cracks that boys like you make about the Point. There may be things wrong with it, but Grant, Lee, Pershing, Eisenhower and Patton and Bradley—they were all turned out by the Point.”

  Colonel Flax glanced at me uneasily. It was close to lunchtime. It was clearly advisable to break up the meeting.

  “How about me?” I said. “Do you think I could have got through the Point?”

  The General examined me impersonally, appraisingly, as he had once or twice in Paris.

  “It’s queer you asked me that, Sid,” he said, “because I was just thinking about it. Maybe they could have kicked some sense into you. Yes, you might have gone through the Point.”

  I felt ridiculously pleased to have him say so. I believe I was about to thank him, and not ironically either, when a knock on the door interrupted me. It was Oscar saying that lunch would be ready in fifteen minutes.

  “And Mr. Skelton,” Oscar said, “Mrs. Peale has been trying to get you on the telephone all morning. She asked especially that you call her before one o’clock.”

  I did not want to look at the General or anyone else in the room, certainly not Phil Bentley or Miss Fineholt—not after Phil Bentley’s question about military and civilian love.

  “Go ahead, Sid,” the General said, “go on and make your telephone call. There’s nothing we can do here until after lunch; and remember me to Mrs. Peale, will you?” General Goodwin cleared his throat. “Mrs. Peale was over in Paris with a writers’ group in the winter of 1945. I had to give them a lecture on the Battle of the Bulge.”