Younger Than Springtime

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “So she’s not thinking of marrying him,” I said, trying to hide my relief.

  We were at the Twin Lakes dance hall on the Friday of the third weekend in August, expecting April and Jim the next morning.

  “I didn’t say that,” she murmured into my chest. “She turned him down but left the door open. I don’t think she’ll marry him, but she feels sorry for him and wants to help him. Besides, no one else has asked her to marry.”

  I had continued to worry about my phone conversation with Jim. Had he really sounded more frantic than ever before? Or had he been deteriorating before I left for Europe, but so gradually I had not noticed?

  My first two weeks back in the States had been frustrating. Mike Hurley wanted me to design another church, immediately. I was obliged to spend a weekend at the armory with the horses. Jim was elusive, in and out of town on mysterious business and too busy with his Board of Trade obligations to spend any time with me.

  I didn’t feel that it would be right to call April on the phone.

  I had hardly been back in Chicago for twenty-four hours when my mother asked me, “what ever happened to that nice young girl from St. Gabriel’s you met up at Twin Lakes?”

  “Which nice young girl?”

  “The little Cronin girl?”

  “She’s not very little, Mom.”

  “Have you talked to her since you came home?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did she write you?”

  “I don’t think she knew my address.”

  “You didn’t give it to her?”

  “She didn’t ask for it.”

  Mom threw up her hands and walked out of the parlor.

  As my second weekend back home drew near, no one seemed inclined to invite me to go up to Barry for the weekend. I resolved that I would stay home in Chicago unless someone wanted me at the lake.

  Had no one besides my parents missed me?

  Jim called my office on Thursday afternoon. Mike Hurley summoned me away from my drafting table. “Your crazy friend Clancy on the phone, Jack. He sounds even crazier than usual, by the way…. How did he survive all summer when you weren’t around to take care of him?”

  “His momma kept him out of trouble.”

  “You have a nasty wit when you want to,” Mike chuckled. “I don’t know why you waste time with him.”

  “I’m an idealist.” I picked up the phone. “O’Malley speaking.”

  “Who else would it be?” Jim sounded genuinely puzzled. “I asked for you.”

  “I’m terribly busy, Jim.”

  “Do you have to work on Saturday?” he whined, as he always did when he wanted something from me.

  “Probably.”

  “I thought you were planning on Twin Lakes.”

  “No.”

  “I thought you would help me persuade April to marry me.”

  “No one can do that for you, Jim.”

  “But you’re my best friend!”

  “I’m not a marriage broker.”

  “Oh.” He sounded hurt. And manic. Almost desperate. “Well, would you come up anyway? April wants to hear about your trip to Europe.”

  “Does she?” My heart skipped several beats.

  “She thought we’d see you last week.”

  “I spent all day Saturday at the armory.”

  “Well, she’d really like to see you this weekend.”

  Did she or was it Jim’s imagination? Was he counting on me to plead his case once he had lured me onto the Barry grounds?

  “I don’t know that I can make it,” I lied.

  “Well, we’re driving up on Friday night. There’s no room for you in the car, so maybe you can take the Saturday train.”

  “God forbid that Dr. Cronin’s daughter would have to ride on the Northwestern.”

  “What do you mean?” He was puzzled again, irony always puzzled him.

  “Look, Jim, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t count on me, all right?”

  “Gee, it sure would be swell if you could join us. Just like old times.”

  I hung up, impatient with him and impatient with myself. Jim was a nuisance. Why did I put up with him? And if I was going to put up with him, why was I not more tolerant of his peculiarities?

  Still, I worried about him. Was he about to have a nervous breakdown? Or, as my father said about a political colleague who had suffered a breakdown, how could anyone tell the difference?

  I was also tired of hearing him sing April Cronin’s praises. She was, I told myself riding home on the Lake Street El that night, a decidedly overrated young woman.

  Why couldn’t she make up her mind about Jim and end his anxieties, one way or another?

  Even if she did decide that she didn’t want his (probably stolen) diamond, I probably wasn’t interested in her anymore.

  Sweet little Cronin girl, indeed.

  “Mom,” I said impatiently the second time the subject came up. “She is not little. She’s at least five feet seven, maybe five feet eight. And she’s not really sweet either. She’s a flapper.” And then with sudden inspiration, “She dances the Charleston.”

  “Did she teach you how to do it?”

  “She tried.”

  “I think that was very nice. You weren’t a wallflower on the boat.”

  “I don’t do it very well.”

  Friday morning I packed my duffel bag for the weekend. At breakfast I told Mom that I might just catch the late afternoon train to Twin Lakes.

  “That’s nice.”

  “You didn’t ask whether the little Cronin girl is going to be there.”

  “She’s not little, is she?”

  We both laughed and I hugged Mom as I left for the El. She and April would get along all too well if they ever met one another.

  The whole world was conspiring to find me a wife.

  I met Clarice Powers on the train with a group of young women from the South Side.

  “Welcome home,” she said simply, shaking hands with me. “I’ve persuaded my friends that Wisconsin is more fun than Grand Beach. Easier to get booze.”

  “In Europe we didn’t have to worry about Prohibition.”

  I would not ask her about April.

  “April is driving up tomorrow with Jim.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Something came up tonight. You know how Jim is about his mysterious business.” Then she added, “Her father doesn’t exactly like Jim, but he’s not mean like my father.”

  “He didn’t stop you this weekend, did he?”

  “Only because he’s in California again.” Her lips curled into a sneer. “With his California women.”

  I had no response for that.

  When I checked in at the Drake, I asked for the room with Mr. Clancy at the Blackstone.

  “Mr. Clancy”—Mrs. Kennelly, the elderly woman clerk (a friend of Mom’s from the West Side), did not look up from her register—“has reserved a single room here at the Drake.”

  In the same cabin with April? I felt my fist clench.

  “I see.”

  The woman looked up at me with kind gray eyes. So she was one of the sources of Mom’s intelligence about the “sweet little Cronin girl.”

  “It’s going to be a crowded weekend. We do have a small room at the back of the priests’ house.”

  “I’m not a priest, Mrs. Kennelly.”

  “You’re an unmarried young man.”

  “The worst kind.” I grinned and she grinned back.

  “Your mother would be happy, I’m sure, if you became a priest.” She turned the register in my direction.

  I signed in. “Nowadays she’d be satisfied if I were a married man.”

  “Happily married.” She gave me the key.

  “Naturally.”

  “By the way, John,” she called after me, “there are some Gypsies in the area. Fortune-tellers. They seem harmless, but don’t leave anything valuable lying around.”

  “I don’t own anything valuable, but than
ks for the warning.”

  My room at the priests’ house had probably been a large closet. It was so small that there was hardly room in it for me and the bed. Not a place suited for fornication.

  I laughed to myself at the thought. I didn’t think it possible that fornication could occur within the precincts of Barry. I wasn’t even sure that married love was permitted in its thinly partitioned rooms.

  I wandered back to the Drake and, in the fading light, found Clarice—dressed in sports clothes appropriate for a golf course—sitting on a bench by herself.

  “Golf anyone?”

  “This dress is only for sitting and looking.”

  “And being looked at?”

  She blushed. “Not much to look at, I’m afraid.”

  “You know better than that. May I look?”

  “I can’t stop you.” She turned her back toward me.

  But she didn’t seem to object to my suggestion that we walk over to the dance hall.

  “All right,” she said flatly. “I’ll go change my dress. April taught me the Charleston.”

  Clarice did the wild dance with marvelous grace, kicking her skirt at least as high in the air as had April. Her legs, I noted, as if seeing them for the first time, were incredibly elegant.

  “As good as April?” she demanded when we were finished with the Charleston.

  “I’m not going to answer that question, Clarice.”

  She smiled faintly. “I shouldn’t have asked it.”

  Then I asked her about the romance between Jim and April.

  As we danced and chatted I considered for the first time the possibility that Clarice Powers might be a young woman worth pursuing in her own right and not merely the beautiful but silent partner of April Cronin.

  Her torpid presence in my arms hinted at sultry beaches and luxurious pleasures. Perhaps she merited more careful consideration.

  “I’m surprised that no one has tried to give you an engagement ring yet, Clarice.”

  “Oh, they have.” She dismissed the offers with an airy wave of her hand. “I decided more quickly than April. I’m never going to marry.”

  “Why not? Don’t tell me you’re planning on becoming a nun?”

  “Certainly not,” she said, her lips thin with contempt for the good sisters. “I’m not going to give a man control of my life. I don’t like men. A woman can’t trust men.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I wouldn’t make the novena with April last month,” she said stubbornly.

  “Novena?”

  “To Saint Anne.”

  “As in ‘Oh, good Saint Anne, get me a man’?”

  “Don’t make fun of it.”

  “I’m not…April made the novena? She’s only twenty.”

  “Twenty-one now. You forgot her birthday, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty.”

  Saint Anne, the grandmother of Jesus, according to legend, had somehow become the patroness of women seeking husbands, hence the novena before her feast in mid-July (during which, if my calculations are correct, I was conceived).

  “She said that she’s not taking any chances. And I said that I was afraid that if I went to church with her those nine nights, I might find a husband and I don’t want that.”

  “You certainly dance like a woman who doesn’t object to men. And you’re a very beautiful young woman.”

  “That’s not worth anything. Most of the time I wish I were ugly.”

  Spontaneously I put my hand over her mouth. “Don’t say that, Clarice.”

  “Afraid of bad luck?” she said, with a sneer.

  “Beauty is a gift that should be treasured.”

  “You sound just like April…. Were you faithful to her in Europe?”

  I was stunned. “What kind of a question is that?”

  “See!” She smiled knowingly. “Men are never faithful!”

  I almost said, “I’m not like your father.”

  Instead I tightened my grip on her. “Look, Clarice Powers, you’re a fine dancer and an attractive and intelligent young woman. I don’t intend to permit you to be a bitch. Now to answer your question, which you have no right to ask: first of all, there is no agreement, explicit or implicit, between April and me—”

  “You know that she loves you.” Her body had become as stiff as the lions in front of the Art Institute.

  “I don’t know that and damn it, woman, relax.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Lieutenant…If you mean, did I have minor romances with girls when I was in Europe, the answer is yes. If you mean, did I screw any of them—excuse my language, but I’m being blunt—the answer is no. Was April the reason for my abstinence? I think she was. Does that satisfy your morbid curiosity?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I stopped dancing and released her. “I won’t dance with a woman who calls me a liar.”

  She stared at me stone-faced. Then her eyes misted, her lip quivered, her marvelous breasts moved up and down quickly. She leaned against me, contrite, beaten.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered.

  “Gladly.” I resumed our dance. She was supple and compliant again. “Among your many attractions, Clarice, is that you apologize with grace.”

  “I don’t do it very often,” she sighed, still close to tears, “I’m a real bitch.”

  “No you’re not. Understand?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” We chuckled together and the dance ended.

  “Sit this one out?”

  She nodded. “I’m exhausted. Emotionally.”

  I led her back to the table and poured her a small drink from my flask.

  “More, please.”

  “No.”

  She glared at me, then laughed happily. “You’re worse even than April.”

  I raised my glass in a toast.

  She responded with a silent toast of her own. And a radiant smile that dimmed all the lights in the stuffy dance hall.

  I thought that I could indeed keep this beautiful young woman happy. I could be a stronger influence than her father. I could save her from him and from herself.

  I paid no attention to the distant voice of my mother.

  “Never marry to save someone. You’ll only lose yourself.”

  “I thought you married Dad to save him,” I would respond with a mischievous smile.

  “Himself? Ah, sure”—she’d nod her head decisively toward Dad—“he was beyond saving altogether. I married him because I couldn’t live without him, which is the only reason for marrying anyone.”

  The first time I heard it from her, I was astonished. It was a rare expression of passion. Rare and unmistakable.

  “The woman was implacable when she made up her mind.” Dad would become pleasantly flustered.

  Then they would both laugh and our parlor would fill with loving warmth.

  I remembered the conversation after I had kissed Clarice good night. She offered me her cheek in front of the Drake. I turned her chin and kissed her solidly on the lips.

  “I don’t want you to kiss me that way.”

  “Oh? Then I’ll do it again.”

  Her lips faltered this time.

  “Thank you.” She turned from me. “April is a fortunate woman.”

  “Nothing is settled between April and me—as you well know.”

  She didn’t turn back. “I’m sorry I was unpleasant.”

  “I’ll repeat what I said too: you apologize charmingly.”

  “Thank you.”

  I watched her walk up the stairs, my young male imagination delighting in her splendidly curvaceous rear end.

  I desired her a lot at that moment, and, I think, loved her more than a little.

  As I walked over to the celibate stronghold where priests stayed, presumably secure from the charms of women’s bottoms, I reflected on my mother’s advice. Was it not possible to save someone if you found you could not live without her?

  I could hardly argue because of a one-night
flirtation that I was unable to live without her. But the woman had great possibilities. Who needed April Mae Cronin?

  I did, as it turned out.

  The next morning Clarice and I both waited for her in the parking lot, next to the dining hall, leaning, like models in Vogue, against the station hack.

  The flirtation of the previous night had made us, not lovers, but friends.

  “You really love her, don’t you?”

  “April?”

  “No, the Princess of Wales.”

  “There isn’t a Princess of Wales, not yet anyway…and I’m not sure I love her. I hardly know her.”

  “You’d be a perfect match.”

  “Saint Anne’s answer to her prayer?”

  “Silly.” She poked me just like April would.

  “If I love her, Clarice—and I just don’t know for sure yet—it doesn’t follow that I don’t like you.”

  “I know that.” She rested her right hand on my arm. “After last night. I’m flattered. And astonished. But you shouldn’t even think of marrying me. Neither of us would be happy. You and April would be real happy, a swell match.”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer because Jim’s silver Duesy roared into the gravel parking lot and skidded to a stop next to us with a mighty squeal of protest.

  April, clad in outrageous Chinese red and gold beach pajamas, was standing up behind the windshield waving like an empress to her subjects.

  She vaulted out of the car, embraced Clarice like a long-lost friend, and then threw her arms around me. “Vangie! Welcome home! You didn’t get that suntan in museums! I want to hear all about the trip!”

  Her hug was as brief as it was enthusiastic.

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “I want to hear about it all down at the beach. I can hardly wait to dive into the water.”

  “Did you wear your swimsuit all the way up here?” Clarice frowned in disbelief.

  “It made me feel wonderfully wicked!” April laughed enthusiastically. “My mother said that it was all right, so long as I didn’t take off the top of my pajamas…Do you like them, Vangie? Did they wear anything like this on the beaches of Ostia?”

  There was not the slightest doubt: I was hopelessly in love with her.

  “We had a swell ride up, Johnny.” Jim interjected himself, striving as always to be the center of attention. “I pushed her up to ninety-five. It was lots of fun.”