“Is it?” Tom asked. “Thanks for telling me, Hal, and, now you’re here, how about sweetening up my drink with a little Scotch and water? If the ice has melted, never mind, the English never do.”
Hal took the glass with a lieutenant, j.g., alacrity—but he also looked concerned, although the concern was not annoying since it meant that Hal was fond of him.
“You’re kind of living it up tonight, aren’t you?” Hal said.
The remark was devoid of reproof, but Hal still looked concerned, and an answer was temporarily difficult. It occurred to him that he would have to have a frank talk with Hal in the rather near future regarding the financial situation. Hal did not know the news unless Emily had told him, but Tom was in no mood for serious talk at the moment.
“Thanks,” he said, when Hal handed him the glass. “I wouldn’t say I’m living it up, as you put it. It would be more accurate to say that I’m living it down, not that anyone ever can. I’ve just been sitting here thinking.”
“Well,” Hal said, “they must have been long, long thoughts.”
“Not long as much as disconnected,” Tom said. “You’re not old enough to let your mind run on at such length about anything, except sex, while as for me, I’ve done quite a lot of living up and down. I was thinking about the apartment in New York, the one we had when you were a baby. It was a nice place, and maybe we shouldn’t have moved.”
“Say,” Hal said, “you’ve had a fight with Emily, haven’t you?”
It was not a time for serious talk.
“Has Emily been telling you?” he asked.
Hal shook his head.
“No,” he said, “but she woke up and asked me to come down and see what you were doing. She said she was worried about you.”
“I suppose she is,” he said. “It’s funny, when I first met her I never thought that Emily was the worrying kind.”
“She’s upset about something, all right,” Hal said.
“Yes,” he answered, “but let’s not talk about it now. In the morning, maybe, but not now.”
“That won’t be so long,” Hal said. “It’s pretty close to daylight.”
“All right,” he said again, “in the morning, perhaps, but not now.”
“Anyway,” Hal said, “I can always tell when you’ve had a fight with Emily, because you begin thinking about that apartment on Lexington Avenue.”
Tom found himself experiencing one of those rare moments of surprise. It was impossible for any parent fully to realize that a son could be grown-up and reasonably mature.
“That’s observant of you,” he said.
“Well,” Hal said, “I’ve spent quite a lot of time observing you, off and on.”
In the very near future it would be necessary to have a serious talk with Hal.
“I’m afraid it’s been more off than on,” Tom said. “I’m sorry about it from your point of view—I mean about everything smashing up. It must have been tough for you, being pulled two ways at once, but you’ve come out of it pretty well, and …”
He was glad that he had made this speech because he could see that Hal was pleased.
“There weren’t two ways to it particularly,” Hal said. “I always thought you didn’t have a square shake. I was pretty young at the time, but I told her that at the time, with you away at the war and everything, she shouldn’t have done it that way, and you didn’t get a square shake.”
He felt an emotion after Hal had spoken that was connected with the eternal tragedy always surrounding what is euphemistically called a broken home, and combined with the sadness was gratitude for Hal’s loyalty.
“Listen, boy,” he said, “things are never so simple. Just remember things like that are all mixed up. I gave your mother quite a lot of trouble, boy, in various devious ways. I couldn’t be a sound domestic type.”
“Anyway,” Hal said, “you were always a hell of a lot of fun at home. Maybe she thinks so now. And anyway, she shouldn’t have pulled the switch when you were away at the war.”
He found himself wishing for a moment that he were as young as Hal, an age when everything seemed clear-cut.
“Listen,” he said, “really, it’s not as easy as that. I was restless, you know. Goddammit, Hal, I didn’t like soundness. Does she still talk about security?”
Hal shook his head.
“Not any more,” he said. “She doesn’t have to, any more.”
Tom laughed, but he stopped almost at once.
“You see,” he said, “she was always afraid things wouldn’t last. Everybody has his own type of fear, and I never was afraid in just that way. She didn’t want me to go to the war, you know, and she was right. I was too old for that show, anyway, and then along came Presley. Nothing’s ever simple.”
“You wanted to go, didn’t you?” Hal said. “Personally I thought it was a pretty swell thing of you to do. Maybe I think so still.”
There are a few unchanging qualities in a father-son relationship. There may always be a vestige of hero-worship that cannot be completely erased by disillusion or common sense. His mind went back to his own father and to that vanished night at Jack’s. The memory made no sense, but a son’s regard for a father cannot be assessed wholly in terms of sense.
“It’s not as easy as that, Hal,” he said again. “I wanted to see the show. That’s the trouble with show business, it makes you selfish. You don’t want to be left out of anything. You always want to see the show.”
“She should have waited until you got back,” Hal said.
“It wasn’t a waiting time,” he said. “It was an upset time. It would be fairer to say that I shouldn’t have gone. It was being irresponsible, as she said, and I really was too old.”
“You weren’t so old,” Hal said. “Anyway, you didn’t look it. I’ve got your picture still.”
“Hal,” he said, “when you’re around forty, it’s too late to play soldier. I’ll say one thing for it, I knew it right away. I was as miscast as hell, but still I wanted to see the show.”
“Well, you got into the fighting,” Hal said.
“Yes,” he said, “by accident, and I was still as miscast as hell.”
It was a transient episode. His memories of Rhoda were much clearer and more valid than his memories of the war.
“Of course,” he said, “it was a surprise, the ‘dear-John’ letter, I mean, but maybe I had it coming to me. A lot of dear-Johns did.”
“Say,” Hal said, “you’d better go up to bed before you hang one on, Pops. Remember, you’re going up there tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he said, “that’s so. It hasn’t skipped my mind.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“Come on,” Hal said, “go up and get some sleep, Pops.”
Tom was too wide awake for sleep and he did not want to lie still, staring at the dark.
“Did she say why she wanted to see me?” he asked.
“No,” Hal said, “she just said it was important and that she had to see you.”
The whole weight of the day pressed down upon him, and it had been an endless day, what with all the traveling backward and forward in the past.
“I don’t see what can be important now,” he said.
It sounded like an epitaph, which was what it was, and when anything was finished, you could never put life back into it again.
He thought of the last time he had said good-by to her. There had been one of those pointless quarrels that had grown frequent enough to be commonplace, though they had both learned that nothing resolved itself in quarrels.
“But where are you going?” she said. “You can’t just go away and leave us here.”
“I’ve told you,” he said, “that I can’t tell you where I’m going.”
“But what’s going to happen?” she said.
“I don’t exactly know,” he said, “so don’t ask. You’ve got plenty of money if I don’t come back, and the will, and powers of attorney.”
“Oh, God
,” she said, “I never thought you’d do it.”
It could have been that her never thinking so and never believing was what had finally made him do it.
“Rhoda,” he said, “let’s not go over it again.”
“You and your damned uniform …” she said. “But you’ll be doing something. What am I going to do?”
“Behave yourself, I hope, and look after Hal,” he said.
“Just for one more time,” she said, “are you really going to leave us?”
They had been over it, and she knew.
“You won’t even miss us,” she said.
“Of course I will,” he told her.
Her voice broke.
“Everything we had is gone,” she said. “Don’t you feel it? Everything.”
“Look,” he said, “I’ve told you nothing’s gone. I love you more than I ever have. I’ve told you that.”
“Yes,” she said, “you love me because you’re going.” And perhaps this had been true, but still he loved her.
“Well, anyway, good-by,” he said.
She threw her arms around him and she sobbed.
“Good-by, Tom,” she said. “I’ll do the best I can.”
He had spent so much of his time listening critically to voices that he was an authority on the subject. The pitch of a voice or its emotional content could build a scene or mar it beyond recognition. Sometimes a voice could arouse him from his dreams, the voice of someone long ago dead coming urgently from the darkness. As he considered those words of Rhoda’s, he was amazed at how perfectly preserved they were, without blur or blemish.
“Good-by, Tom,” he heard her say, just as though she were in the room, and he thought again of all the things he might have said.
“I am sorry,” he might have said, “that I haven’t been able to give you everything you want.”
“Rhoda,” he might have said, “everyone alive has different things to give and can only give so much.”
“Rhoda,” he might have said, “you’ve got to give back something in return. You’ve got to give enough to make it even.”
Some speech like that was needed for a suitable ending, but he was glad that he had never made the speech. In retrospect, he saw that Rhoda had given him all he should have wanted. He had asked her to write him and not to forget the A.P.O. number, and then he was out in the hall ringing for the elevator, holding nothing but his overnight bag, since the rest of his equipment was in Washington. There were courteous attendants in the building and there were a few famous last words. The younger men had left the apartment staff already and thus the elevator operator was nearly old enough to be his father.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Harrow,” he said.
“Thank you,” Tom had answered. “Thank you, James.”
Their voices, too, were preserved against the elevator’s reassuring descending note and with them the strain of the parting was almost over. He was experiencing what must have been a typically selfish male reaction: relief at having escaped a disturbing scene, in the knowledge that there could be no repetition.
Then the scene shifted and Hal was speaking to him.
“Come on, Pops,” he said, “you’ve got to get some sleep. You’ll want to look corn fed and happy when you go up there.”
Hal might be lacking in imagination, but he had balance. There was obviously no use sitting up any longer, conjuring voices and shadows.
He got to his feet with almost no difficulty. In fact, he was surprised to observe that he was steady on his feet and the knowledge made him identify himself with one of those debauched heroes, so popular in turn-of-the-century drama, who were usually saved from themselves by the honest sweetness of an innocent girl. But where was the pure, sweet girl? Not around the house, nor anywhere else any longer.
“What’s that you’re saying, Pops?” Hal asked.
“I was saying,” he said, “where is the pure, sweet girl?”
“I don’t quite follow you,” Hal said.
“No reason you should,” he said. “I wasn’t asking you to, and if I had, you’d be a demnition fool to want to do it.”
There was style in that remark. He was like the late John Drew and completely steady on his feet.
“There’s just one thing,” he said. “That guy isn’t going to be there, is he? That’s all squared away, to use your language, isn’t it?”
“I guess I’m not with you yet,” Hal said. “What guy?”
There was no slurring in Tom’s speech, but he was aware, now that he was standing, that his self-control was not what it should have been. It was high time he got some sleep.
“Your goddam stepfather,” he said. “He won’t be there, will he?”
“Oh, him,” Hal said. “No, of course he won’t. I told you, didn’t I? She wanted you to know particularly that this was going to be a private talk. Besides, he’s a self-effacing guy.”
His emotional response was erratic and he was unable to control it.
“He’s a self-effacing, goddam son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
He was immediately ashamed and he had not realized that bitterness could be stored so long. Bitterness was the worst of human failings.
“Well, well,” he said, “I seem to be a shade uncomposed tonight. I shouldn’t have used hard words. Your mother wanted him, that’s all. The guy was only a symbol, a symbolic son-of-a-bitch. Don’t hold my elbow. I can get the hell out of here and upstairs alone.”
“Sure you can,” Hal said, “I never said you couldn’t. I’ll put the lights out, Pop.”
“Leave them on,” he said, “lights don’t make any difference. Leave them on tonight.”
“What’s the idea?” Hal asked. “Why keep them on?”
The half-senile flash of anger he had felt had evaporated and he was in control of everything.
“It’s not an idea, it’s a whim,” he said. “I just don’t want to go to sleep when it’s dark downstairs.”
There was a trace of sense in the whim. In a few minutes he would be in the dark, but, if the lights were on, there would still be part of him downstairs, and he did not want to be in one piece at just that moment. Instead, he wanted to be like a good investment list with a suitable balance between stocks and mature bonds.
“The stocks will be upstairs, but the bonds can stay down,” he said.
“How’s that again?” Hal asked.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’m whimsical, but don’t turn out the lights.”
“Right,” Hal said, “if you want it that way.”
He was conscious of a resentment against Hal, not due to Hal’s personality or kindness. It was more tragic, the unexpressed resentment that age always felt towards youth, the knowledge of moving to the edge of the picture. Tom was in a vulnerable position because of overindulgence, where anything he said could be used against him, but he was still, if he might say so, in considerable command of his faculties.
“Say,” Hal said, “what happened to you today?”
“It’s nothing that can’t keep,” he said. “I’m tired now. It’s nothing tragic, just remember that.”
It occurred to him that there were only two dominant tragedies in life. One tragedy lay in the mistakes one made, and the other in growing old, but everyone made mistakes and everyone grew old. He could not recall just then, and he was proud he could not, who had written “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.” It was one of those literary falsehoods that had done much to turn him against poetry. The actuality was that the older one got the less one was lulled and mellowed by the past, the less wise one became in spite of experience. The less you had, and the less you became, and the hell with it.
“To hell with it,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning, Hal.”
Upstairs the reading light was on and his pajamas were folded at the bottom of his turned-down bed, and the door that communicated with Emily’s room was ajar.
“Tom,” she called, “are you all right?”
This
was irritating. In the first place, why shouldn’t he have been all right, and in the second, if he weren’t, why should she have cared? He forced himself to remember that the worst of her problem was that she was obliged to care.
“Poor Emily,” he said. “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be, and just you wait and see. Good night, Emily, I don’t want to talk about it now.” And he closed the door.
Emily did not speak again. She had made the wrong selection back there in Arthur Higgins’s apartment and now she was fearing that even this selection might move on. He was tempted to speak to her again, but it took a longer time than you ever envisaged if you started to converse with Emily, even in the small hours of the morning. Rhoda, on the contrary, had always been frank enough to say that she was sleepy.
“I don’t see why you wait until I am sound asleep,” she always said, “before you have any interesting ideas.”
He had felt so tired that he had thought that he would sleep immediately, but he should have remembered that was a fatal fallacy that sleep invariably followed fatigue. As soon as his bedside light was out, he was much wider awake than he had been during that lonely interval in the library. He was acutely conscious of the night sounds, and he was sure his mind was moving so alertly that he could see beyond the night. His thoughts were deflected on a new, pre-last-war line. He was seeing through the dark, with extraordinary accuracy, places he had taken Rhoda, never against her will: an inn on the road to Oxford, and rooms at New College where they had been asked to tea. He could remember a house party at Sussex, where the people were partly Mayfair and partly intelligentsia. He could remember Claridge’s and the horses’ hoofs on Brook Street, and Berkeley Square and Grosvenor Square, and the Bond Street tailors and the theatres whose curtains rose at reasonable hours. Rhoda had caught the feel of London, just as she had of Paris, but Rhoda was at home anywhere. He could see the Place de la Concorde from the gallery of their sitting room in the Hotel Crillon. They had both been very fond of the Crillon in those days, and the chestnut trees along the Champs Elysées were in full bloom.
He had done a lot for Rhoda in a way very different from the Hertimes’ or the Bramhalls’ and very different from that of anyone like Presley Brake. He had shown her a side of life that they had never seen, or, if they had, one which they could not appreciate. Only a year or two ago someone had told him, intending it as a compliment, that he was very much like the late Scott Fitzgerald in that he had a similar veneration for wealth and power—a complete untruth. Rhoda was the one who had cared for these. But he could see now clearly, in the dark, that he had been dealing in another sort of currency and he was not justifying himself when he admitted that he did not care for money in itself, but only for what could be exchanged for it.
Women and Thomas Harrow Page 43