Neither Five Nor Three

by Helen Macinnes

  “Fine hand with a can-opener,” he admitted.

  Benny brought over their old-fashioneds and was formally introduced. “Pleased tomeecha,” he told Rona with a broad grin. And he seemed to be telling the truth. He talked with Paul for a minute or two, just enough to establish the right feeling of welcome. His wife was having trouble with the new garden—not a thing up yet, except the radishes and the grass. Too much grass. Nothing but mowing at the week-ends. All this rainmaking. Still the trees were bigger and greener than they’d ever been.

  “A solid type,” Paul said, watching Benny walk with his slightly rolling step (Benny had always admired the navy) back toward the bar. “There’s as happy a man as you can hope to find. Nothing to grumble about except the weather or his income tax. He did his stint footslogging over Europe and settled his conscience. Then he invested his savings in this little place, married a girl from Brooklyn, left the Lower East Side and moved out to Queens, got himself a couple of kids and a ranch-type house—by the way, how did that word sneak into the language?—and some green grass to mow on Sundays.”

  “How do you know he has nothing to grumble about except the weather and taxes?”

  “True,” he admitted. “I ought to have said he didn’t let himself grumble. Benny’s got one good rule. He says he found it in a ditch in Normandy. To be happy, you’ve got to know what you want; but you’ve also got to know when to stop wanting.”

  “When I was young,” Rona began, and then hesitated.

  “And what are you now?” he asked with amusement.

  “Well, when I was very young, I used to think that if one were grown up, with enough money to buy a chocolate éclair each day, then one would be happy.” She smiled at herself. “And I don’t even like chocolate éclairs any more,” she added. Then, watching him smile, she was shocked to find she had stopped worrying. Here I am, she thought, at the end of one of the most miserable days in my life—certainly the most terrifying and horrible—and I’m chatting about chocolate éclairs.

  “What’s that thought?” he asked quickly.

  How does Paul always seem to know? she wondered. She said, embarrassed and retreating, “That was a nice man. I didn’t feel so frightened after all.”

  He stared for a moment, looked at Benny and then discarded him, and then at last guessed her meaning. “Nice—if you are on the right side of the law,” he said.

  “Yes,” she admitted, recalling the quiet watchful man who had asked occasional questions, well-placed, well-pointed, as she told the story of Charles, and the letter. “Is he really important?” He had been polite, kindly. Not at all terrifying.

  “I guess so.”

  “I suppose Mr. Brownlee stayed to go over the details with him?” Then she glanced at Paul’s face. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “That’s something we’ll have to forget, Rona.”

  “Altogether? I mean—even afterwards, once everything is cleared up?”

  “Altogether.”

  “Oh.” She studied the cubes of ice in the squat glass in front of her. She pressed one against the slice of orange. “All right, Paul. Don’t worry. I shan’t talk about it. I can’t forget, but I promise I shan’t talk.”

  “Good,” he said, noting she had been careful not to mention Charles by name. I can’t forget... Nor shall I, he thought grimly. “Another?” He looked at her glass.

  She shook her head. “This is my first real meal today,” she said as she watched the steaks being carried toward them. “Oh, how wonderful! Mr. Brownlee was right. This is what I needed.” She picked up her fork and knife. And that was the end of conversation for the next ten minutes or so.

  “Why didn’t you want to come here?” he asked at last, still puzzling over her resistance. Was she worrying about the gossip that was being spread around? Was that the only reason? He hoped it was.

  “It isn’t fair to you.”

  “Let me be the judge of that, Rona.”

  “But you see,” she said, cutting into the heart of the matter as determinedly as she had cut into the steak before her, “but you see, Paul you’re the reason Scott blames for our broken engagement. He’s been throwing you at me in every argument we’ve had recently.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “considering we didn’t give him any real excuse—”

  “I know. But he believes it.” As if, she thought suddenly, Scott was determined to believe it; as if he wanted that excuse. Wanted it subconsciously perhaps, not quite realising he wanted it, but still wanting it. Yes, that had been true of Sunday. But today? The excuse that he had created had come so alive in his mind that he could see nothing else.

  “You look afraid,” Paul said. I don’t like what’s going on, he thought. I’ve never seen Rona look like this before. What has Ettley been saying? What has he been doing? I ought to have broken his jaw tonight. Not the intelligent way to settle an argument, but a very satisfactory way to imprint a lesson.

  “I am,” she admitted unexpectedly. “I am afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  She looked up at him, then. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the silly part. I just don’t know.”

  “Did Ettley threaten you?”

  She sat very still. Scott hadn’t meant any of those threats today. He had only lost his temper. “You’d better be careful,” she said, trying to change the direction of the conversation, “or Scott’s going to pick a fight with you. He’ll smash your jaw or something.”

  Paul had a sudden fit of laughing.

  “It isn’t a joke,” she tried to remonstrate. “Scott has quite a temper, you know. And he is terribly angry, he really is.”

  Paul stopped laughing as he heard the concern in her voice. She’s concerned for him, he reminded himself; if I got a broken jaw, she’d be politely sorry. “You’re in love with your Scott?” he asked bluntly.

  She nodded.

  “Then why the hell don’t you stay engaged to him?”

  She pushed aside the empty plate. She hesitated. But the food and drink had given her courage. “Once I was in love with you. Yet I didn’t stay engaged to you. Why? Because we wouldn’t have been happy married. And when I marry, I’m going to stay married. Happily. That’s one dream of my extreme youth I’m not going to compromise on. That’s one idea that isn’t a chocolate éclair.” She avoided his eyes. She picked up her hat, began gathering her handbag and gloves, and half-rose. “Now I’ve been thoroughly rude. I’m sorry, Paul. I’d better go.”

  He reached over the table, pushing her gently back on to the bench, saying, “No, Rona. Did you never think I needed some frankness, face to face? Your letters were too polite, too stilted. I even got the idea that a broken engagement didn’t mean very much to you. You were very young, very beautiful; and you needed someone to take you out, give you a good time. That’s what I thought when I got your letters in London.”

  “You thought that of me?” She was horrified. But she let go of her gloves and bag and hat.

  “It’s hard to find the right explanation in letters. Words are cold things without a face to watch as you listen to them.”

  She sat very still, looking at him. She said, “But those days are all over now.”

  And looking at her, he said, “Yes.” If he had said anything else, she would have risen and walked away. “Yes,” he repeated. “We are talking now as old friends. That’s all, Rona.” And all’s fair in love he told himself, doubly fair when you lose twice. “But I still need a footnote or two to your letters. Why couldn’t we—eight years ago, that is—why couldn’t we have been happily married?”

  “We could have been. But we wouldn’t have stayed that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like jealous wives.”

  His mouth tightened, but his grey eyes looked at her frankly. “You think I’d have turned you into that? You believe all the gossip was gospel truth?”

  She smiled in spite of herself, knowing now what she did about gossip. She loo
ked over her shoulder at the blonde who was sitting at the bar. “I don’t believe gossip, now,” she said. “But I still think you don’t say ‘no’ harshly enough to women. Can’t you snub them when they need snubbing?”

  “Perhaps it takes a woman to do that properly,” he said bitterly. I’ve been learning, he thought grimly, looking down at the small scar still left on his right hand. Five teeth marks, once. Then his voice changed. “I was a fool,” he admitted. “Blame my vanity, Rona. I had more than my share of that.”

  “Oh, Paul!” She reached across the table and touched his arm. Her dark eyes were gentle, there was an appeal in the curve of her pretty lips. “You wanted a footnote to my letters? Yes, I think you ought to have had that at least. But I had too much pride to tell you then. You see, I knew you didn’t really want to marry me. Or else you would have married me before you sailed overseas.”

  “Was that why I didn’t marry you?” he asked. He shook his head slowly, a smile of bitter amusement on his lips.

  “Then why?”

  “How old were you in 1942 when I sailed?”

  “Eighteen.” She looked at him in a puzzled way.

  “And I was almost seven years older. Strike one,” he said. “And what relatives had you to depend on, if you needed them?”

  She was startled. “Well—Peggy,” she said slowly.

  “Who had her own life to live. And what relatives had I?”

  “An aunt in Fresno, and a cousin in Oregon.”

  “Neither of whom has ever seen me. And how much money had I, beyond my soldier’s pay?”

  “Nothing. But that didn’t matter, Paul.”

  “And what chances did any GI think he had when he left this country in 1942?”

  She traced the pattern of the checks on the tablecloth with her coffee spoon.

  “Your witness,” he said, almost angrily. Sure you were a fool, he told himself. But a girl of eighteen, left alone with a child to bring up, wouldn’t have had much of a break. Before she could fight free, she would be a middle-aged woman. That’s the way he had seen it eight years ago. It might seem stupid now, but now was 1950 and a war over and a safe return. It was easy to be wise, now.

  “I must have hurt you, Paul,” she said. “I’m sorry. But I thought—I began to think...” She looked at him, her large dark eyes troubled.

  “Forget it,” he said brusquely. “I made a mess of everything from beginning to end. I got what was coming to me.” He mustered an amused smile. “It knocked some of the false pride out of me, I hope.”

  She said, “It’s strange—how you can think you know another human being so well, so well that you can guess his feelings and his thoughts... And yet, you can’t. Why don’t people explain more? Why don’t we ask more questions when we are puzzled?”

  “But would we always get honest answers? How many of us know ourselves well enough to be able to give an honest answer? Sure, we hope it’s honest. We try to make it honest. But there’s a difference between effort and achievement.”

  “It’s a lonely world, Paul. Can we never know anyone, then? Never know anyone in the way it really matters?”

  “Perhaps we expect to win that too easily. Perhaps it has got to be earned.”

  “You mean—through pain? Not physical pain, but what you suffer here, and here?” She touched her heart, then her forehead. The gesture was simple, yet pathetic in its questioning.

  He said nothing for a few moments. He sat watching the sudden eagerness in her eyes, the sudden hope that brought her face into life once more. “Yes,” he said, “that may be the only way.”

  Benny suddenly appeared beside them. “Everything suitcha?” he asked anxiously. “Just came over to see that you folks were being treated all right. What about some fresh coffee? Hey, Joe, make with the mocha over here!”

  “The steak was wonderful,” Rona said, still watching Paul’s face. For a moment there, before Benny had spoken, she had seen it unguarded. But now Paul was in control of himself again.

  Benny grinned. “How’s about a piece of pie? Apple pie?”

  “Not tonight. Just coffee,” Rona said.

  “No Camongbert? Best Wisconsin Camongbert.”

  “I’ll try that,” Paul said. “Got to support home industries.”

  “You from Wisconsin, too?” Benny said, looking at Rona inquiringly.

  “I’m from Pennsylvania,” she admitted.

  “That’s like most of the people who come in here. They’re from every part of the country except Nyork. Guess I’m the only original Nyorker in this room,” he said with pride. Then he laughed. “And if I had been born two days sooner I’d have been an Italian immigrant travelling steerage with his mom and dad. That was real smart of the old lady.” Then he signalled to the waiter and gave the order, and with a nod and an approving smile he walked with his nautical roll toward his quarter-deck.

  “Here’s another original New Yorker,” Paul said, looking at the door. It was Roger Brownlee, who had just entered. He paused for a moment, glanced quickly around the room, saw them and made his way toward their booth.

  “I didn’t know he was coming to join us,” Rona said in surprise. But she was pleased, too. And reassured. For Brownlee looked unworried and even cheerful.

  “He probably wanted to make sure you got that steak,” Paul said, rising to welcome Brownlee to the table.

  Brownlee said, “That’s right, Paul. Just checking up.” He sat down beside Rona, saying that he would have some coffee with them. The conversation became easy and light.

  But Paul was still watching the door. And, as he had expected, a young man entered and went up to the bar. The stranger was dressed in a quiet blue suit and a grey felt hat. His face was thin, unobtrusive, watchful. He had dark eyebrows, dark hair. Then, leaning on his elbow casually and looking around him as he waited for his glass of beer, the dark-haired man in the blue suit let his eyes rest on the booth where Brownlee sat. When he finished his beer he left the bar, walked slowly past the booths toward the men’s washroom. Paul looked at Brownlee and saw a smile in his keen eyes. Paul relaxed; his guess had been right. And when the man came out of the washroom, he walked in his casual way past their table. For a full moment he looked at Rona, seeing her clearly now in the corner of the booth.

  He looks like a good watchdog, Paul thought, and he has a capable pair of shoulders on him. That was reassuring. It was possible that this FBI agent was an unnecessary precaution, just the very solid proof of Roger Brownlee’s careful thought. But it was a good feeling to know that he would keep an efficient eye on Rona for the next week or two.

  “Do you live with a friend, Miss Metford?” Brownlee was asking.

  “No. I’ve got a little apartment of my own.”

  “Why don’t you stay with Peggy and Jon tonight?” Paul suggested.

  “No, Paul. I’m all right now. I don’t have to bother them.”

  “It might be an idea to see Peggy tonight,” he said doggedly. For if Charles had given Rona’s name away, if he had mentioned any letter sent to her, then tonight would be the time for a search of her apartment.

  But Rona shook her head. I can’t tell Peggy and Jon about breaking my engagement, she thought miserably. Not tonight. I can’t talk to them, yet. Tomorrow or the next day. When I’ve got accustomed to the idea that I’m alone. Tonight, I would only feel twice as alone if I were to see Peggy and Jon together. “I’d only worry Peggy,” she said, her voice strained, a forced smile on her lips. “And then Jon would start worrying too. He’s got plenty of troubles right now, without adding me to them.”

  Paul looked at Brownlee who nodded, as much to say, “She’ll be well guarded tonight and the next night. Stop worrying.” Suddenly, too, he realised why Rona didn’t want to see Peggy and Jon tonight. Yes, he thought, there’s a couple who aren’t just two separate individuals. There’s a couple who have learned to know each other, to form a third personality which they share equally. They will never think of the world as a lonely place.
Was this what Rona meant when she had talked of loneliness? Was this what Rona wanted?

  Paul said, “Only, they may have been expecting you to call them today. And they may be wondering why you haven’t.” He waited. “Would you like me to ’phone them and tell them you are all right?”

  Rona nodded. Then she said, “Would you let them know I’ve—I’ve broken the engagement?” The easy way out, she thought. I guess I’ve still too much pride and too little courage. She looked down at the checked tablecloth.

  When Paul came back from the telephone booth, he found Roger Brownlee ready to leave. He was giving Rona his address and telephone number, just in case she ever wanted to reach him quickly. “Oh, by the way,” Brownlee said very quietly, “I almost forgot to tell you that you can stop worrying about everything we discussed earlier this evening. It’s all under control. You and I, and Paul here, have only one thing left to do—and that is to keep quiet. No comments at all, not even on any newspaper headlines we may see in the future. You will do that, Miss Metford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good enough.” He smiled, in a way that surprised Paul Haydn, as he gripped her hand. “You’ll see Miss Metford safely home?” he asked Paul.

  “I’ll see that it’s all safe,” Paul said. Then he watched Brownlee walking toward the door. “You’ve made a friend, my girl,” he said to Rona.

  “I think he would be a good friend,” Rona said. “And I’d rather be on his side than against him. Yes, I’m sort of glad he is on our side.”

  “Our side...how do you mean?”

  She dropped her voice to a murmur. “Well—I’d say that our side is Charles’ side. I’m for the ordinary man, doing no harm to anyone, who gets pushed around until he can’t stand it any longer. Yes, that’s it. I’m against the men who push other people around—or plan to push them around.” Our side, she thought, remembering the way she had said it so naturally. “What about Peggy and Jon? Did you tell them my news?” she asked quickly, looking away from the watchful grey eyes.

  “Briefly.”

  “Were they—were they disappointed?”

  “No... Jon seems pretty mad with Ettley.”