Paul was changing the subject: “Well, we’re back in God’s country.”
“Oh, I can’t imagine,” cried Mrs. Johnson, “what America’s going to be like.”
Charley was bolting his wuffs avec du bakin and the coffee that tasted of bilge.
“What I’m looking forward to,” Joe Askew was saying, “is a real American breakfast.”
“Grapefruit,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“Cornflakes and cream,” said Joe.
“Hot cornmuffins,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“Fresh eggs and real Virginia ham,” said Joe.
“Wheatcakes and country sausage,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“Scrapple,” said Joe.
“Good coffee with real cream,” said Mrs. Johnson, laughing.
“You win,” said Paul with a sickly grin as he left the table.
Charley took a last gulp of his coffee. Then he said he thought he’d go on deck to see if the immigration officers had come. “Why, what’s the matter with Charley?” He could hear Joe and Mrs. Johnson laughing together as he ran up the companionway.
Once on deck he decided he wasn’t going to be sick. The fog had lifted a little. Astern of the Niagara he could see the shadows of other steamers at anchor, and beyond, a rounded shadow that might be land. Gulls wheeled and screamed overhead. Somewhere across the water a foghorn groaned at intervals. Charley walked up forward and leaned into the wet fog.
Joe Askew came up behind him smoking a cigar and took him by the arm: “Better walk, Charley,” he said. “Isn’t this a hell of a note? Looks like little old New York had gotten torpedoed during the late unpleasantness. . . . I can’t see a damn thing, can you?”
“I thought I saw some land a minute ago, but it’s gone now.”
“Musta been Atlantic Highlands; we’re anchored off the Hook. . . . Goddam it, I want to get ashore.”
“Your wife’ll be there, won’t she, Joe?”
“She ought to be. . . . Know anybody in NewYork, Charley?”
Charley shook his head. “I got a long ways to go yet before I go home. . . . I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”
“Damn it, we may be here all day,” said Joe Askew.
“Joe,” said Charley, “suppose we have a drink . . . one final drink.”
“They’ve closed up the damn bar.”
They’d packed their bags the night before. There was nothing to do. They spent the morning playing rummy in the smokingroom. Nobody could keep his mind on the game. Paul kept dropping his cards. Nobody ever knew who had taken the last trick. Charley was trying to keep his eyes off Mrs. Johnson’s eyes, off the little curve of her neck where it ducked under the grey fur trimming of her dress. “I can’t imagine,” she said again, “what you boys found to talk about so late last night. . . . I thought we’d talked about everything under heaven before I went to bed.”
“Oh, we found topics but mostly it came out in the form of singing,” said Joe Askew.
“I know I always miss things when I go to bed.” Charley noticed Paul beside him staring at her with pale loving eyes. “But,” she was saying with her teasing smile, “it’s just too boring to sit up.”
Paul blushed, he looked as if he were going to cry; Charley wondered if Paul had thought of the same thing he’d thought of. “Well, let’s see; whose deal was it?” said Joe Askew briskly.
Round noon Major Taylor came into the smokingroom. “Good morning, everybody. . . . I know nobody feels worse than I do. Commandant says we may not dock till tomorrow morning.”
They put up the cards without finishing the hand. “That’s nice,” said Joe Askew.
“It’s just as well,” said Ollie Taylor. “I’m a wreck. The last of the harddrinking hardriding Taylors is a wreck. We could stand the war but the peace has done us in.” Charley looked up in Ollie Taylor’s grey face sagging in the pale glare of the fog through the smokingroom windows and noticed the white streaks in his hair and mustache. Gosh, he thought to himself, I’m going to quit this drinking.
They got through lunch somehow, then scattered to their cabins to sleep. In the corridor outside his cabin Charley met Mrs. Johnson. “Well, the first ten days’ll be the hardest, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Why don’t you call me Eveline, everybody else does?” Charley turned red.
“What’s the use? We won’t ever see each other again.”
“Why not?” she said. He looked into her long hazel eyes; the pupils widened till the hazel was all black.
“Jesus, I’d like it if we could,” he stammered. “Don’t think for a minute I . . .”
She’d already brushed silkily past him and was gone down the corridor. He went into his cabin and slammed the door. His bags were packed. The steward had put away the bedclothes. Charley threw himself face down on the striped musty-smelling ticking of the mattress. “God damn that woman,” he said aloud.
The rattle of a steamwinch woke him, then he heard the jingle of the engineroom bell. He looked out the porthole and saw a yellow and white revenuecutter and, beyond, vague pink sunlight on frame houses. The fog was lifting; they were in the Narrows.
By the time he’d splashed the aching sleep out of his eyes and run up on deck, the Niagara was nosing her way slowly across the greengrey glinting bay. The ruddy fog was looped up like curtains overhead. A red ferryboat crossed their bow. To the right there was a line of four- and fivemasted schooners at anchor, beyond them a squarerigger and a huddle of squatty Shipping Board steamers, some of them still striped and mottled with camouflage. Then dead ahead, the up and down gleam in the blur of the tall buildings of New York.
Joe Askew came up to him with his trenchcoat on and his German fieldglasses hung over his shoulder. Joe’s blue eyes were shining. “Do you see the Statue of Liberty yet, Charley?”
“No . . . yes, there she is. I remembered her lookin’ bigger.”
“There’s Black Tom where the explosion was.”
“Things look pretty quiet, Joe.”
“It’s Sunday, that’s why.”
“It would be Sunday.”
They were opposite the Battery now. The long spans of the bridges to Brooklyn went off into smoky shadow behind the pale skyscrapers.
“Well, Charley, that’s where they keep all the money. We got to get some of it away from ’em,” said Joe Askew, tugging at his mustache.
“Wish I knew how to start in, Joe.”
They were skirting a long row of roofed slips. Joe held out his hand. “Well, Charley, write to me, kid, do you hear? It was a great war while it lasted.”
“I sure will, Joe.”
Two tugs were shoving the Niagara around into the slip against the strong ebbtide. American and French flags flew over the wharfbuilding, in the dark doorways were groups of people waving. “There’s my wife,” said Joe Askew suddenly. He squeezed Charley’s hand. “So long, kid. We’re home.”
First thing Charley knew, too soon, he was walking down the gangplank. The transportofficer barely looked at his papers; the customsman said, “Well, I guess it’s good to be home, lieutenant,” as he put the stamps on his grip. He got past the Y man and the two reporters and the member of the mayor’s committee; the few people and the scattered trunks looked lost and lonely in the huge yellow gloom of the wharfbuilding. Major Taylor and the Johnsons shook hands like strangers.
Then he was following his small khaki trunk to a taxicab. The Johnsons already had a cab and were waiting for a stray grip. Charley went over to them. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Paul said he must be sure to come to see them if he stayed in New York, but he kept standing in the door of the cab, so that it was hard for Charley to talk to Eveline. He could see the muscles relax on Paul’s jaw when the porter brought the lost grip. “Be sure and look us up,” Paul said and jumped in and slammed the door.
Charley went back to his cab, carrying with him a last glimpse of long hazel eyes and her teasing smile. “Do you know if they still give officers special rates at the McAlpin?�
� he asked the taximan.
“Sure, they treat you all right if you’re an officer. . . . If you’re an enlisted man you get your ass kicked,” answered the taximan out of the corner of his mouth and slammed the gears.
The taxi turned into a wide empty cobbled street. The cab rode easier than the Paris cabs. The big warehouses and marketbuildings were all closed up. “Gee, things look pretty quiet here,” Charley said, leaning forward to talk to the taximan through the window.
“Quiet as hell. . . . You wait till you start to look for a job,” said the taximan.
“But, Jesus, I don’t ever remember things bein’ as quiet as this.”
“Well, why shouldn’t they be quiet. . . . It’s Sunday, ain’t it?”
“Oh, sure, I’d forgotten it was Sunday.”
“Sure it’s Sunday.”
“I remember now it’s Sunday.”
Newsreel XLIV
Yankee Doodle that melodee
COLONEL HOUSE ARRIVES FROM EUROPE
APPARENTLY A VERY SICK MAN
Yankee Doodle that melodee
TO CONQUER SPACE AND SEE DISTANCES
but has not the time come for newspaper proprietors to join in a wholesome movement for the purpose of calming troubled minds, giving all the news but laying less stress on prospective calamitiesd
DEADLOCK UNBROKEN AS FIGHT SPREADS
they permitted the Steel Trust Government to trample underfoot the democratic rights which they had so often been assured were the heritage of the people of this country
SHIPOWNERS DEMAND PROTECTION
Yankee doodle that melodee
Yankee doodle that melodee
Makes me stand right up and cheer
only survivors of crew of schooner Onato are put in jail on arrival in Philadelphia
PRESIDENT STRONGER WORKS IN SICKROOM
I’m coming U.S.A.
I’ll say
MAY GAG PRESS
There’s no land . . . so grand
Charles M. Schwab, who has returned from Europe, was a luncheon guest at the White House. He stated that this country was prosperous but not so prosperous as it should be, because there were so many disturbing investigations on foot
. . . as my land
From California to Manhattan Isle
Charley Anderson
The ratfaced bellboy put down the bags, tried the faucets of the washbowl, opened the window a little, put the key on the inside of the door and then stood at something like attention and said, “Anything else, lootenant?” This is the life, thought Charley, and fished a quarter out of his pocket. “Thank you, sir, lootenant.” The bellboy shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “It must have been terrible overseas, lootenant.” Charley laughed. “Oh, it was all right.” “I wish I coulda gone, lootenant.” The boy showed a couple of ratteeth in a grin. “It must be wonderful to be a hero,” he said and backed out the door.
Charley stood looking out the window as he unbuttoned his tunic. He was high up. Through a street of grimy square buildings he could see some columns and the roofs of the new Penn station and beyond, across the trainyards, a blurred sun setting behind high ground the other side of the Hudson. Overhead was purple and pink. An el train clattered raspingly through the empty Sundayevening streets. The wind that streamed through the bottom of the window had a gritty smell of coalashes. Charley put the window down and went to wash his face and hands. The hotel towel felt soft and thick with a little whiff of chloride. He went to the lookingglass and combed his hair. Now what?
He was walking up and down the room fidgeting with a cigarette, watching the sky go dark outside the window, when the jangle of the phone startled him. It was Ollie Taylor’s polite fuddled voice. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t know where to get a drink. Do you want to come around to the club?” “Gee, that’s nice of you, Ollie. I was jus’ wonderin’ what a feller could do with himself in this man’s town.” “You know it’s quite dreadful here,” Ollie’s voice went on. “Prohibition and all that, it’s worse than the wildest imagination could conceive. I’ll come and pick you up with a cab.” “All right, Ollie, I’ll be in the lobby.”
Charley put on his tunic, remembered to leave off his Sam Browne belt, straightened his scrubby sandy hair again, and went down into the lobby. He sat down in a deep chair facing the revolving doors.
The lobby was crowded. There was music coming from somewhere in back. He sat there listening to the dancetunes, looking at the silk stockings and the high heels and the furcoats and the pretty girls’ faces pinched a little by the wind as they came in off the street. There was an expensive jingle and crinkle to everything. Gosh, it was great. The girls left little trails of perfume and a warm smell of furs as they passed him. He started counting up how much jack he had. He had a draft for three hundred bucks he’d saved out of his pay, four yellowbacked twenties in the wallet in his inside pocket he’d won at poker on the boat, a couple of tens, and let’s see how much change. The coins made a little jingle in his pants as he fingered them over.
Ollie Taylor’s red face was nodding at Charley above a big camels-hair coat. “My dear boy, New York’s a wreck. . . . They are pouring icecream sodas in the Knickerbocker bar. . . .” When they got into the cab together he blew a reek of highgrade rye whiskey in Charley’s face. “Charley, I’ve promised to take you along to dinner with me. . . . Just up to ole Nat Benton’s. You won’t mind . . . he’s a good scout. The ladies want to see a real flying aviator with palms.” “You’re sure I won’t be buttin’ in, Ollie?” “My dear boy, say no more about it.”
At the club everybody seemed to know Ollie Taylor. He and Charley stood a long time drinking Manhattans at a dark-paneled bar in a group of whitehaired old gents with a barroom tan on their faces. It was Major this and Major that and Lieutenant every time anybody spoke to Charley. Charley was getting to be afraid Ollie would get too much of a load on to go to dinner at anybody’s house.
At last it turned out to be seventhirty, and leaving the final round of cocktails, they got into a cab again, each of them munching a clove, and started uptown. “I don’t know what to say to ’em,” Ollie said. “I tell them I’ve just spent the most delightful two years of my life, and they make funny mouths at me, but I can’t help it.”
There was a terrible lot of marble, and doormen in green, at the apartmenthouse where they went out to dinner and the elevator was inlaid in different kinds of wood. Nat Benton, Ollie whispered while they were waiting for the door to open, was a Wall Street broker.
They were all in eveningdress waiting for them for dinner in a pinkishcolored drawingroom. They were evidently old friends of Ollie’s because they made a great fuss over him and they were very cordial to Charley and brought out cocktails right away, and Charley felt like the cock of the walk.
There was a girl named Miss Humphries who was as pretty as a picture. The minute Charley set eyes on her Charley decided that was who he was going to talk to. Her eyes and her fluffy palegreen dress and the powder in the little hollow between her shoulderblades made him feel a little dizzy so that he didn’t dare stand too close to her. Ollie saw the two of them together and came up and pinched her ear. “Doris, you’ve grown up to be a raving beauty.” He stood beaming teetering a little on his short legs. “Hum . . . only the brave deserve the fair. . . . It’s not every day we come home from the wars, is it, Charley me boy?”
“Isn’t he a darling?” she said when Ollie turned away. “We used to be great sweethearts when I was about six and he was a collegeboy.” When they were all ready to go into dinner Ollie, who’d had a couple more cocktails, spread out his arms and made a speech. “Look at them, lovely, intelligent, lively American women. . . . There was nothing like that on the other side, was there, Charley? Three things you can’t get anywhere else in the world, a good cocktail, a decent breakfast, and an American girl, God bless ’em.” “Oh, he’s such a darling,” whispered Miss Humphries in Charley’s ear.
There was silverware in rows and rows
on the table and a Chinese bowl with roses in the middle of it, and a group of giltstemmed wineglasses at each place. Charley was relieved when he found he was sitting next to Miss Humphries. She was smiling up at him. “Gosh,” he said, grinning into her face, “I hardly know how to act.” “It must be a change . . . from over there. But just act natural. That’s what I do.”
“Oh, no, a feller always gets into trouble when he acts natural.”
She laughed. “Maybe you’re right. . . . Oh, do tell me what it was really like over there. . . . Nobody’ll ever tell me everything.” She pointed to the palms on his Croix de Guerre. “Oh, Lieutenant Anderson, you must tell me about those.”
They had white wine with the fish and red wine with the roastbeef and a dessert all full of whippedcream. Charley kept telling himself he mustn’t drink too much so that he’d be sure to behave right.
Miss Humphries’ first name was Doris. Mrs. Benton called her that. She’d spent a year in a convent in Paris before the war and asked him about places she’d known, the church of the Madeleine and Rumpelmayers and the pastryshop opposite the Comédie Française. After dinner she and Charley took their coffeecups into a windowbay behind a big pink begonia in a brass pot and she asked him if he didn’t think New York was awful. She sat on the windowseat and he stood over her looking past her white shoulder through the window down at the traffic in the street below. It had come on to rain and the lights of the cars made long rippling streaks on the black pavement of Park Avenue. He said something about how he thought home would look pretty good to him all the same. He was wondering if it would be all right if he told her she had beautiful shoulders. He’d just about gotten around to it when he heard Ollie Taylor getting everybody together to go out to a cabaret. “I know it’s a chore,” Ollie was saying, “but you children must remember it’s my first night in New York and humor my weakness.”
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