Melville Goodwin, USA

by John P. Marquand

  “Yes indeed she has,” I answered in my sincerest voice, “and she has given the house a lot of thought all summer.”

  “The room only needs living in now,” Helen said, “and Sid always keeps going into the library. Don’t you think it would be nice if we lit a fire, dear?”

  Helen could fit in anywhere, and I wished that I could. I examined the logs in the fireplace suspiciously. I knew something about open fires from living on my uncle’s farm outside of Nashua and I knew how to lay logs and kindlings better than Oscar. In spite of the exquisite fans of paper he placed beneath them, the logs were always too close together. I adjusted them as well as I could, considering the tall andirons, and then struck a match while Mr. Brickley looked on with professional interest.

  “There’s nothing like puttering around with an open fire, is there?” Mr. Brickley said.

  “That’s right,” I answered. “It teaches you self-reliance.”

  “Now for years,” Mr. Brickley said, “a crowd of us have always gone up to the Restigouche—that’s up in New Brunswick—to a little salmon-fishing club. There’s a guide up there, old Walt Grant, who can make a fire out of almost nothing, just some birch bark and a few shavings he cuts with his jackknife.”

  “Have you been waiting for me long, dear?” Helen asked.

  “Oh, no,” I said, “only long enough to begin reading one of those books you bought at the Parke-Bernet, General Sir Cyril Bulwythe, K.C.B., A Memoir.”

  Mr. Brickley was politely interested. I must have been as strange to him as he was to me, but then this was the sort of thing I would be expected to be doing—reading a good, unusual book.

  “I don’t think I ever heard of it,” he said.

  “Neither had I,” I answered. “I just picked it out. There were a lot of vacant shelves, and Helen bought an assortment at the Parke-Bernet to fill them up—you know, thoughtlessly—like filling in a pie.”

  “Well, I’ve got a lot of books myself,” Mr. Brickley said, “and I always mean to get at them on a winter’s evening, but all I ever have time to read is balance sheets.”

  “Darling,” Helen said, “did you see Camilla?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “I think she’s asleep now. Miss Otts said Daddy ought not to stay too long, and Camilla noticed I didn’t have a drink with me. She spoke of it particularly.”

  “Oh, Sid,” Helen said, and I was sorry, especially when I saw Mr. Brickley’s expression. I was not doing right by Helen.

  “It always seems to happen that way,” I said. “Helen and I usually have a cocktail before dinner, and then it always seems to be our daughter’s bedtime.” This apparently explained everything to Mr. Brickley, and we were again becoming the nice natural couple that Helen wanted us to be. Talking to Mr. Brickley was like learning to ride a bicycle and finding it was possible.

  “I’d better run up and see how Camilla is,” Helen said, “and speaking of drinks, perhaps Tom would like one. Everything’s all on a tray in the pantry, dear, except the ice.”

  For a moment I did not know who Tom could be until I decided it must be Mr. Brickley.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mr. Brickley said. “How about you—er—Skelton?”

  “I think it would be a fine idea,” I said, “just a nightcap. Or there’s beer or ginger ale.”

  This put it up to Mr. Brickley. I did not especially want a drink and I was sure that he did not either, but we were caught in the vise of the amenities, and there was the danger that I might think the less of him if he wanted ginger ale or beer. We were like two strange dogs circling each other suspiciously and at the same time wagging our tails.

  “Oh, I’ll take anything you take,” Mr. Brickley said.

  He said it genially and jovially as man to man and he had handed the ball right back to me, as Mel Goodwin would have said. I thought of my unfortunate remark about Camilla, and yet it would not have been hospitable to have said that I would settle for ginger ale, although I would have very much preferred it—and I passed the ball back to Mr. Brickley.

  “How about a touch of Scotch?” I said, “or bourbon if you’d like it.”

  Mr. Brickley gave the matter a moment’s serious consideration.

  “Oh, not bourbon,” he said, as though bourbon were going too far, “but I might settle for a drop of Scotch, just a drop.”

  “I like Scotch better myself,” I said, and everything was settled and the debate was over. “I’ll be back with it in just a minute.”

  “Let me come and help you,” Mr. Brickley said. “I know my way around here. I was always in and out of Edgar’s pantry.”

  “Edgar who?” I asked.

  Mr. Brickley coughed. “Oh, I forgot you didn’t know him,” he said. “Edgar Winlock. We used to have great times at the Winlocks’.”

  “I never saw him,” I said, “but I always have a feeling that I’ve known him, living in the house. Sometimes I call Helen ‘Mrs. Winlock.’”

  Mr. Brickley laughed nervously, and I saw I had gone too far again and had not made quite the right impression.

  “Just a bad marital joke,” I said. “There’s nothing more tiresome than conjugal humor.”

  The word “conjugal” made it sound better, and Mr. Brickley laughed.

  “I know what you mean,” he began. “Well, well, who’s this?”

  It was Farouche with his rubber ring. He had become discouraged when I had paid no attention to him and had gone upstairs to bed, but he must have heard our voices.

  “We call him Farouche,” I said.

  “Here, boy,” Mr. Brickley said, “come and give it to me, boy. One thing about the country—you can keep dogs. Maida—er—Mrs. Brickley, has two Scotties called Gin and Fizz. They’re all over the house. Come here, boy.”

  He was tossing the ring to Farouche when I went into the pantry. As I extracted ice cubes, I felt as though I were off stage. I hoped that Helen would be down when I returned, but Mr. Brickley was still alone.

  “I suppose they keep you pretty busy with that broadcasting and everything,” Mr. Brickley said.

  “It’s a steady sort of grind,” I told him.

  “Well, if you ever have any time on your hands,” Mr. Brickley said, “I hope you’ll drop in to see us. Maida—er—Mrs. Brickley, and I are always around over week ends, and we’d like you to meet the crowd.”

  I spoke in my sincerest voice. It sounded almost too sincere.

  “I’d certainly love to, Mr. Brickley,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t come to your house this evening.”

  Mr. Brickley cleared his throat. “We were going to call you up about two weeks ago,” he said, “but then we heard you had a house full of guests, including even a general. Your Oscar knows our Pedro. That’s the way things get around in the country.”

  We had naturally been under observation ever since we had bought the place, and I was under observation now, and what Mr. Brickley thought about me would undoubtedly get around.

  “He dropped in all of a sudden,” I said, “an old friend of mine, Major General Melville A. Goodwin. Did you ever hear of him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Brickley said. “Everybody around here has heard lots about him. Whenever Pedro could get off, he came over here to lend a hand.”

  “Tell him to come often,” I said.

  Mr. Brickley laughed uneasily. I had been uncouth again, but I could not very well undo it.

  “There’s one good thing about it around here,” Mr. Brickley said. “This is a real live-and-let-live community. You can see people or not, just the way you want. Do you know Maxwell Blenheim, the novelist? He has a place here.”

  “No, I don’t believe I do,” I said.

  “He doesn’t get around much either,” Mr. Brickley said, “except to go down to the post office. It’s a real meeting place, the post office. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said, “but I’m sure Helen has.”

  Mr. Brickley looked disappointed.<
br />
  “And there’s Arthur Phillips Stroburt, the composer,” he said. “You know him, don’t you?”

  “I think I’ve heard of him but I’m not sure,” I answered.

  “Well, if you once get going around, you’ll meet a lot of interesting people here,” Mr. Brickley said, “and some salty country characters, too. You mustn’t mind our interest. We were all deeply concerned over what might happen to the Winlock place. When Edgar passed out of the picture and when we heard that someone in radio had bought it—well, frankly we had our fingers crossed, but that was before we met—er—Helen. You won’t mind my saying, will you, that there’s nothing much wrong with Helen?”

  “She’s always made the grade with me,” I said.

  “You ought to have seen her tonight,” Mr. Brickley said. “The gang were crazy about her, and we hope she liked us as well as we liked her. We’ve all got to be neighbors from now on, real neighbors.”

  Mr. Brickley raised his glass. It was an accolade, a signal of approval by an ambassador visiting a migrant tribe, and we had qualified.

  “It’s nice you feel that way,” I said. “I know this is a rather closed community.”

  “Not if you’re inside it,” Mr. Brickley said, “and that’s what I’m here for. We all want to see more of the Skeltons.”

  Then the dialogue was over and Helen was back.

  “She was asleep,” she said. “I was just arguing with Otts about the light beside the bed. Farouche, stop bothering Mr. Brickley.”

  “He doesn’t bother me,” Mr. Brickley said. “No dog ever bothers me. Helen, I was just telling—er—your husband, that he’s got to meet the crowd. You’ve got to pull him out of hiding. What about Saturday night? He has Saturday off, hasn’t he?”

  “Call him ‘Sid,’ Tom,” Helen said. “Of course we’d love to do something on Saturday. Anything you think would be fun. Maida can call me.”

  “You gals just work out something between yourselves,” Mr. Brickley said. “I’ll tell Maida to get in touch with you. Do you play poker, Sid?”

  “Yes, a little, Tom,” I said.

  “Well, I’ve got to be pushing off now,” Mr. Brickley said. “Good night, Sid. We’ll look for you on Saturday. Good night, Helen dear.”

  Newspaper work, I always believed, placed one in contact with people from every walk of life, but Mr. Brickley must have been a type that never made the news. I could see, after I had followed Mr. Brickley to his new convertible, that I had been trying, oddly enough, throughout that whole innocuous conversation to be like Mr. Brickley, and yet I could not understand in the least why I had tried. What was it that had made me? Helen kissed me and she looked as though there had been some sort of achievement somewhere.

  “Darling,” she said, “it’s wonderful, the way you get on with people.”

  “Do you think I did all right?” I asked.

  “Darling,” she said, “you were wonderful, and I was so afraid you wouldn’t like him. It’s been worrying me all evening.”

  There was an atmosphere of triumph, a sense of the bridging of a gap, and she was so happy and excited that she seemed to have forgotten that something had been distressing me when she called me earlier at the office. She was like a girl who had been a great success as a stranger at a dance and could talk about nothing else.

  “What made you think I wouldn’t like him?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You’re so unpredictable sometimes. I was so afraid you would think he was dull or stuffy or something.”

  “I don’t see why you should think I’d think that,” I said.

  “I kept wishing you were there all evening,” she said. “Everybody was so awfully nice and—outgoing.”

  “Outgoing where?” I asked.

  “Darling,” Helen said, “please don’t spoil it all by being critical. They really were awfully nice. Oh, I know if I were to describe it, it would sound simple and corny—I wish no one had ever invented that word. We just talked about the neighborhood and power lawn mowers and tree infusions and things like that.”

  “Tree infusions?” I repeated.

  “There’s a new sort of thing they do for trees,” Helen said. “There’s a sort of liquid full of nitrogen and things that they force down among the roots under pressure.” Helen laughed; she was very happy. “It sounded like forcible feeding.”

  “Why do they have to be fed forcibly?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Helen said, “but I have the address of a man who does it.”

  “How much does it cost?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Helen said, “but you don’t have to do it every year and not to every tree. Darling, they were really awfully nice, and it was such fun talking about ordinary things for a change … like children’s jodhpurs, and the Country Day School.… It was all so homey. I know how you object to the word ‘homey’ but I don’t know any other way to say it.”

  “There must be some other way,” I said.

  “Darling,” Helen said, “please don’t spoil it all.”

  I took her hand and held it tight.

  “I won’t spoil it,” I told her. “I’m awfully glad you had such a good time.”

  “I’m awfully glad you’re getting used to everything,” she said. “You are, aren’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, of course I am,” I told her.

  “And you did like Tom, didn’t you?”

  “Tom?” I repeated.

  “Tom,” she said, “Tom Brickley.”

  “Yes, I thought he was swell,” I said. “I always like people, Helen, when I get a chance to know them.”

  “If you like him you can’t help liking all the rest of them.”

  “The gang?” I said.

  “Sid, please don’t say it in that way. All right then, the gang.”

  “Of course I’ll like them if you do, Helen,” I said.

  “Darling, I’ve been so worried ever since we’ve been here,” Helen said, “… oh, not exactly worried, but wondering whether you’d ever get to like it and whether we could fit in or whether we’d have to move somewhere else. Sid, I can’t tell you how happy I feel. You’ve never belonged anywhere and I haven’t either, not in Delaware or anywhere. I’ve always been someone just passing through, and now I really think we’re going to belong here. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me feel. It’s like having loose ends tied up tight.”

  I began wanting to find an end that was not tied up, but then I had always been that way and perhaps it was time to stop—as long as I did not have to see the gang too continually.

  “Of course we’re going to belong here, Helen,” I told her.

  I was still holding her hand. Melville Goodwin had been absolutely right. I had what he called my directive. I would have to do something right away about Gilbert Frary and Art Hertz. I could not let Helen down if she wanted to belong. If she wanted it, I wanted to belong myself, and if she wanted to feed trees forcibly, I wanted to arrange that she could do it. I wanted her to have everything she wanted. It was about time I pulled up my socks and put my mind on it.

  “Darling,” Helen said, “this is such a wonderful place for children.… I really do think we ought to think about having another baby.”

  XXX

  It Was a Lot of Fun with Goochy

  It had been Gilbert Frary’s pet idea, as I have said before—and Gilbert always did have an instinct for showmanship—to move the broadcast about the country. This gave the broadcast, as Gilbert said, an on-the-spot reporting flavor and what he called, in vaguer terms, the illusion of motion. It may have had its value, this illusion that I was doing my own leg work and contacting the news at first hand, as Gilbert put it. If I started a broadcast by saying, “Good evening, friends. I am speaking to you from Washington tonight”—or London or Paris or wherever Gilbert wanted me—perhaps the listeners did think of me as Sid Skelton, the news hawk, ferreting out his own facts after confidential talks with heads of governments, instead of getti
ng them off the teletype and having Art Hertz prepare them.

  It was an expensive process, but the Crosley rating of the program proved its value, and besides, George Burtheimer, the sponsor out in Chicago, was the head of a corporation that could write the expenses off on the tax return instead of giving them, as Gilbert Frary put it, to Uncle Sam for buying up potatoes. As Gilbert said, it was all just nickels to George Burtheimer, and Gilbert always did like to make arrangements for a show. Though he was still out in Hollywood, he had perfected all the arrangements by remote control. For instance, I was to be in Washington ostensibly looking into the Chinese situation, and somehow Gilbert had contrived to get the State Department interested, and finally a man from the Department named Hubert Stillwater was to have a three-minute spot in which he would tell me all about China.

  “I just happen to be sitting now,” I was to say, “with my old friend, Hubert Stillwater, one of our State Department’s ‘think men.’ We have been just discussing the implications of Chinese Communism, and perhaps Mr. Stillwater would not mind repeating to you what he has just been telling me. How about it, Hubert?”

  This was not an original idea of Gilbert Frary’s, since other commentators had been doing this sort of thing for years, but, as Gilbert Frary said, a good idea was a good idea, and if it was good for them, why shouldn’t it be for me. If somebody else started by saying, “Good evening, everybody,” there was nothing to stop my saying, “Good evening, friends,” which was also Gilbert Frary’s idea and what he termed a warmer and more human salutation. After all, as Gilbert said, you had to start by saying something, and I had as much right to talk as any other commentator.

  I had spent long periods of time in Washington when I had been on the paper and I knew the city as a reporter knows it. In those days I rented a single room without a bath in a lodginghouse on B Street, NE, in order to be near the Capitol, to which I was generally assigned. B Street, NE, was not much of a district, but then I was seldom at home except to sleep, what with all the calls I had to make. My evenings, if I had free time, I usually spent at the Press Club, where you could hear some pretty funny stories and get into a card game if you wanted. It had been a hectic life, with every day rushing into every other in a way that is difficult to describe to anyone who has not led it. Helen could never understand my activities when I tried to explain them to her. She only said it must have been dreadful, and she did not sympathize when I told her that I always wished I were back on the bureau again whenever I returned to Washington.