The Nurse Novel

by Alice Brennan

  They installed themselves in the fore part of the sheltered upper port deck so as not to be too windblown. The guide smiled at them and told them they had the best location on the boat. He was a pleasant young man with black hair, noticeably thick glasses, and a ready smile. He looked as if he might be a college student on his summer job.

  He had the facility of delivering his set speech and his little jokes, all of which must be mournfully familiar to him, with freshness and enjoyment. His gay manner was infectious and he soon had all his passengers in good humor. He seemed to have taken a shine to Alice, for he often directed his remarks to her and smiled. Happily, she smiled back, enjoying the attention and also hoping to provoke some remark from Jacques. But he, always so attentive and observant, appeared never to notice.

  Promptly at eleven-fifteen they backed into the river, sounding a loud, defiant blast. “That,” said the guide, “—my name is Dick, by the way—is so the Queen Elizabeth, which is also sailing today, will know we are here and not run into us. We’d be no match for her, I’m afraid.”

  They went down river, past the twin air vents, one on each shore, of the Lincoln Tunnel ninety-three feet below them (“We’ll pass over sixteen tunnels and under twenty bridges,” said the guide); and past the fabulous minarets of downtown Manhattan to their left and the Jersey shore to their right. “Notice the Colgate clock,” said the guide. “It is said to be the largest timepiece in the world. The minute hand is twenty-seven feet long and its tip travels three-quarters of a mile a day.”

  The Queen did not follow them, but the Gripsholm did, gleaming white and beautiful. She loitered behind them until she in turn sounded a blast so loud and profound that it seemed to lift the little excursion boat right out of the river. Then, visibly taking on speed, she swept by, heading for the Narrows and the Atlantic and Bremerhaven and Stockholm.

  It was exciting and beautiful and Alice looked with eyes that sparkled at the man who had thought of taking her on this trip.

  “We will now take a close look at the Statue of Liberty, America’s number one national monument. She stands on Liberty Island, not Bedloe’s Island. The name was officially changed a few years ago,” the guide said.

  Jacques said, “This boat, you will observe, is for lovers and tourists. Real New Yorkers do not take this trip. It is a pity. I find that most of my friends here know Paris or London or Rome better than their own city. Too bad. I love this city and I love statistics, like that we pass over sixteen tunnels. Did you know, for instance, that in New York City there are printed three newspapers in Armenian?”

  Jacques laughed.

  Alice was entranced.

  They then turned up the East River, past the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where they saw a submarine, and right past Alice’s apartment on Seventy-ninth Street, and Alice waved to her window.

  They went by the Yankee Stadium.

  “Just north of it,” the guide said, “there is a small, neat tar-paper shack. In it lives a man named George Morrison, who is almost seventy. For a living he raises chickens and vegetables. He has lived in this house since 1927 and he has never paid rent or taxes. But the other day some people from the courts called on him in a big shiny Cadillac and told him he had to move. He’s living on city land and a big new bridge is going right through his home. It’s real tough on George and we’d all like to help him, but there’s nothing to be done, I guess.”

  Alice felt deliciously and desperately sorry for poor old George.

  Just then the noon whistles blew all over town and Alice, startled, turned toward Jacques, her rose lips tremulously apart. Without a word Jacques put his arm about her shoulders, drew her to him, and kissed her. Ten thousand orchestras burst into music and a million rockets danced in the night of Alice’s closed eyes…

  They drew apart and the guard smiled at them approvingly. “Very nice,” he said, not into the microphone so that no other passengers heard.

  Alice frantically thought she should say something tender, perhaps, or witty, but not a word came to her and anyway, she further reflected, it was up to the man. But Jacques, too, was silent until finally he smiled lightly, squeezed her hand, and, reaching for the Thermos, said, “We will toast our first kiss. This boat is for lovers and tourists, as I said. So we are both, Alice. Yes?”

  They clinked their little metal cups.

  They were now passing Baker Field and to their right was a large rock on which students had painted part of a large “C” for Columbia University. The police, the guide said, had taken an indifferent, even hostile, view of the project and the letter was never completed.

  Some kids stood atop the rock and as the boat passed they jumped the forty-odd feet into the water, one of them holding a couple of laurel branches over his head to make an even bigger splash.

  “Exhibitionists,” the guide said with disdain. “We have hundreds of nice clean municipal pools throughout the city, yet these kids want to swim in these waters, which are so polluted no self-respecting fish would want to be caught in them.”

  They now swung into the magnificent and always breath-taking Hudson. The guide was silent for a time and then said, “You are now approaching the third longest suspension bridge in the world. In one year, more than 35,000,000 vehicles cross this bridge and now a second roadway is being built directly beneath the existing one. It is a beautiful bridge, is it not?” He became lyrical. “But you should see it at night, ladies and gentlemen, with lights strung all along its cables. Then it looks exactly like a diamond necklace in the sky, a beautiful diamond necklace for the throat of a beautiful lady.”

  Alice was looking at Jacques’ fine, mobile face to see how he reacted to the guide’s poetic outburst and he seemed, if anything, to be somewhat annoyed.

  “What happened,” she asked suddenly, “to the diamond necklace for your sister?”

  “What diamond necklace?” he asked.

  “What a man!” she laughed. “Do you really go around giving diamond necklaces away and forgetting all about them?”

  “Oh, the necklace for my sister, of course,” he said, coming back to earth. “It was a huge success. No, I do not forget things like that, but I was really far away… I’d like to be with you often, Alice, when the noon whistles blow.”

  “You are a dear.”

  They landed at their pier, had a bite to eat, and took a taxi to her apartment, where she was to spend the rest of her day off doing household chores. Jacques had a business appointment. The trip had taken almost two hours. At the entrance to her apartment, Jacques took her hands in his, looked down at her with glowing eyes, and said gently, “May I?”

  “Oh, yes, Jacques. Oh, yes.”

  And that was the second kiss.

  * * * *

  Later that evening the girls talked about the trip. Pat was a native of New York City. She thought she was very sophisticated but in truth was not. “There’s something missing,” she said. “Where, for instance, do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know. He kissed me at the door. But he didn’t say a word. Not even ‘See you around’ or something like that. Just smiled, tipped his chapeau, and hopped back into the cab. He’s exasperating. He’s wonderful.”

  “He’s French, too. Won’t he try to seduce you?”

  “How do I know? I’ve only had one experience with that sort of thing—back in Alexanderville—and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m sure Jacques wouldn’t be so gauche (look at me using French words! Jacques doesn’t). But somehow, although I may be flattering myself, I don’t think that is what he has in mind. I don’t know about marriage either. There are differences of nationalities. And religion. And, for heaven’s sakes, I don’t know what I think… I just know he’s tremendously attractive and that it’s exciting to be with him. Let’s not rush things.”

  “How about Morgan?”

  “Well, how about Morgan?”

  Pat’s was
a good question; Alice’s was not.

  The girls had had Morgan to dinner shortly after he had first gone out with Alice, and had fed him spaghetti with clam sauce and a bottle of Chianti. (It was hardly upstate cooking, but she had liked the idea.) It had been a strained evening. It was so obvious that Morgan wanted to be alone with Alice that Patricia was embarrassed. Although she had promised Alice not to, she finally pleaded a headache and retired to her room. This irritated Alice, who found herself being unnecessarily curt with Morgan, who, after all, had done no harm. So, although there had been pleasant moments, the evening was not an unqualified success and Morgan had left early and discomfited.

  Alice had had the grace to say, “I’m sorry, Morgan. I so wanted you to meet Pat and I thought we’d have a better time, just the three of us. I guess we should have had another man.”

  “I’m delighted to have met Pat and I think she’s a fine girl, but as I think I told you before it’s you I’d like to see. Next time just the two of us, okay?”

  “Okay, Morgan. I am sorry.”

  “By the way, have you seen anything of Jacques Stern?”

  Airily, very airily, she replied, “Yes, I’ve seen him a few times. Why?”

  “It was a loaded question. I’m sorry, too. Everybody seems to be sorry tonight. He told me he’d seen you, asked me, sort of, if it was okay by me.”

  “Well, in a way, that’s rather nice. I mean, I suppose he meant he didn’t want to steal somebody else’s girl.”

  “I guess so. I told him I had no lien on you whatsoever. Was that what you were really trying to establish tonight?”

  “Oh, please don’t, Morgan. I made a mistake about the dinner party, that’s all. Let’s forget it and be friends.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll call you.”

  “Please do.”

  Not an unqualified success was putting it mildly.

  * * * *

  Pat was reading a book. Her hair was tousled and she looked cross. “I knew all along this wasn’t going to work out. How come I let you talk me into it? I sure learned tonight what the expression ‘a fifth wheel’ means. Morgan O’Neill wanted me around like a hole in the head, like an extra hole in the head, for I suspect he may have one already. No more dinners à trois, as you would say since you’ve taken up with Jacques. Two girls living together is okay, sure, but no more entertaining. It’s too crowded here.”

  “Pat, please lay off. I’ve had enough tonight. I thought Morgan would go for you and I thought we’d have fun.”

  “Listen, only a short time ago you were a little girl from upstate New York and you knew nobody here. Now you seem to have so many beaux that you can dispense the spare ones like aspirin. That’s splendid, but please don’t include me in. I was born in this city and I can have all the beaux I want if I want them. In other words, I’m all for sharing an apartment, but let’s not share men.”

  Alice slammed the door and went into her room. She sat on the edge of the bed staring at the little rug on the floor. It was a hooked rug with a picture of an Airedale holding a flower between his paws and sniffing it. It was a copy of a picture by Vertes, the famed artist-illustrator. It was a charming picture—not a cute one. Alice stared and stared at it without even seeing it.

  One thing seemed certain. She had made a mess of things. And was probably heading into another one.

  In her room Pat pondered the advisability of going to see Alice and making up. She decided not to; for one thing, she was still angry, and for another, she firmly believed that a night’s sleep could wash away unpleasantness.

  There was something else, too, that she was willing to admit: she did find Morgan O’Neill attractive, far more so than any of the beaux she had boasted of to Alice. Yes, she would like to be his girl; there was no loss of pride in wanting that. No hope of it either.

  A freighter boomed a melancholy and lonely complaint from the dark river outside as Pat turned out her light and sought sleep. A few minutes later, Alice, also disconsolate, did the same.

  The next morning the Navy nurse rose early and made herself coffee and juice. She was quiet, so as not to disturb Pat, who had later duty and would still be asleep.

  There was nothing unusual about this day, except that Alice’s superior officer told her to stand by to move into the nurses’ quarters at St. Albans.

  “It’s not practical to have you live in Manhattan and permission was granted you because your request coincided with a most unusual condition of overcrowding here. This condition will not last much longer and it will be better all around for you to be stationed here.” Lieutenant Pringle always spoke as if she were reading.

  Alice’s first guilty thought was that this was a reprimand for some conduct in Manhattan, but she realized quickly that this was a childish reaction. Of course, it was more practical and less expensive for her and the Navy (for the Navy gave her a living allowance, since it was not supplying quarters) to live at St. Albans. And she would enjoy it. Because she had not lived there, she had not joined in as many of the extracurricular activities as she should have. Now she would really belong.

  This would be a good turn in her life.

  It would also make her see Manhattan across the river in better perspective.

  Please, she then thought, do not let Pat get the idea I have engineered this because of last night’s quarrel…

  Naturally the thought occurred to Pat that night when Alice told her. But it was quickly dispelled. The quarrel was patched up, forgotten.

  “I’ll miss you, kid,” Pat said. “But it makes sense for you to live with the Navy. That’s what you joined for. I’ll find myself another roommate or move into a smaller flat here if they have one. But don’t let’s lose track of one another. And if they send you to some weird foreign place, you write.”

  The girls hugged one another and Alice packed all but the necessities, so as to be ready as soon as she got the word. It came two weeks later and Alice moved to St. Albans.

  CHAPTER 3

  That winter her mother died and Alice was given leave to go to Alexanderville for the funeral. She found her father mellowed and subdued. For the first time in her life she felt pity for him, for the first time she detected the weakness behind his façade of strength.

  The town had not changed much, but Alice’s attitude toward it was vastly altered. Only a few years before she had been somewhat awed by the town, fearing its indifference and ashamed of her unpopularity, but now she felt calm about it, even unmoved. She saw it objectively for the pathetic microcosm it was; she even felt superior to it, but not in arrogance.

  The town, too, saw Alice in a different light.

  The boys thought, “We sure goofed about her. She’s something…” and in hindsight they cursed their previous lack of foresight.

  The mothers were quick and testy with their sons. “Now, there’s a girl a woman would be proud to have as a daughter-in-law.”

  After the mourners left, Hiram turned to his daughter. “You don’t care much for the farm, do you?”

  “It’s not the farm, Father, it’s Alexanderville. I was never very happy here.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m to blame, I guess. Alice, I’ve always felt that the best thing a man could have was a piece of land to call his own. No matter what happens you can live off the land. It will feed you. With land you always can make out.

  “But you have a profession now and can always earn a living if it comes to that. I’m thinking of selling the farm. I can make a good deal with Higgins. He’s always wanted it. If he buys it, I can live here until I die. That is, if it’s all right with you. It’s really your farm, your decision whether it stays in our family.”

  Alice wondered at his sorrow and loneliness. How he must long for a son, she thought, how hard for him to sell the farm his father had worked and his grandfather before him.

  “Don’t make me make such
a decision, Father. And if you must sell at all, why now? You’re strong and you love the farm. Whatever would you do if you didn’t have it?”

  “There’s plenty for me to do, daughter. I’ve got my church work and recently they elected me chairman of the finance committee. And the town is thinking of building a big community center to serve half a dozen communities around here. Because of my election at the church, the job of organizing and financing the project is mine for the asking. I’d like to do it.”

  “Good. Then, that’s the answer. Sell the farm.”

  “I shall, my dear, and you’ll never regret it. Now is just the right time to get a good price from Higgins.”

  They talked a little more in a warmth of intimacy they had never before enjoyed. Just before Alice went upstairs to bed in her old room her father said, “Alice, now that my dear wife has gone, you’ll try and write, won’t you? You’re all I have left.”

  How very truly lonely he must be. For Alice knew he had never much cared for his wife. Still she must have been companionship, invalid and querulous though she was.

  * * * *

  She rattled southward to Manhattan in a New York Central local amidst a flurry of snow. The landscape was dreary, brown and black and white, and the trees were cold and shriveled. The telephone and telegraph wires swooped down and up, swooped down and up, as the train sped by and the wheels, as they always do, chattered a rhythm of nonsense rhyme.

  She got off at Grand Central and took a taxi to the Navy Corps Office on downtown Broadway. She would find someone to give her a lift to the hospital. It was snowing heavily and it hushed the city. Alice felt despondent and at loose ends. She felt closer to her father than ever before and sad about him. She seemed to be drifting, idly, haphazardly, like the snowflakes that fluttered in the street.

  But then she shook herself free from her personal self-pitying thoughts and remembered her work and the hospital. She was making good progress there; that was her life. She would forget her two beaux and lose herself in work, which was what she was supposed to do. A plague on both your houses, the House of Morgan and the House That Jacques Built. She would forget about them, see them only casually. But mostly forget them, banish them from mind.