Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  “Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said. “Just put your mind on a plain gold band. I’ll go to Boston with you tomorrow.”

  He was relieved to see that she was growing calmer.

  “Willis,” she said, “have you done anything about the bouquet?”

  “What bouquet, sweetness?” Willis asked.

  “Oh, God!” Sylvia said. “The bunch of flowers the girl carries to the altar. The man is supposed to buy it.”

  “Is he?” Willis said. “I didn’t know that, honey, but just you leave it all to me.”

  “Just don’t tell anyone I had to tell you,” Sylvia said.

  “Now, sweetness,” Willis said. “I’m sorry I’m so dumb, but I haven’t been married very often.” It was a pretty good joke and he had to laugh at it. “Just you wait till you see the bouquet I’ll get you. It will be solid orchids.”

  “Oh, God!” Sylvia said. “Oh no, not orchids.”

  He was glad that Tom interrupted them. If they didn’t go for that marriage license they would never get it.

  “And we’ll take your car,” Tom said. “It’s like a motor hearse. I’m dying to ride in it.”

  It might not have been a very good joke but it did put things on a lighter level.

  “Come on,” Tom said, “and you’re coming too, Sylvia. Where did you get that suit, Willis?”

  “Brooks Brothers,” Willis said. “What’s the matter with it, Tom?”

  “I’m only admiring it,” Tom said.

  Sylvia turned on Tom sharply. There was no doubt she was very nervous.

  “You’d better admire it,” Sylvia said, “and maybe if you stop being a friend of the Little People, you can afford one like it some day.”

  There was so much happening that Willis could never get events into chronological succession. He was constantly smiling and chatting with friends and relatives of the Hodgeses’ whom he did not know. Sylvia was always saying in amazed tones that she surely must have told him who they were. Although he took pride in sorting out names and faces, it actually took years and several christenings before he got the Hodgeses’ connections straight.

  So this was Willis Wayde, they were saying. They had heard so much about him that they were very glad finally to see him. Sylvia had always been a wonderful girl. In case he did not know it, he was very very lucky to have found a girl like that. He knew he was very lucky, he answered. They were going to live in Rahway, New Jersey. They had not found a house yet, but they would stay in his apartment in New York until they got settled. Yes, he kept saying, it would be great fun to go house-hunting and buy furniture and things. Yes, he and Sylvia would motor around New England for two weeks, but they had no definite idea just where they were going.

  Even his parents treated him sometimes like a stranger. His mother was shy with him at first. She had been worried, she said, as any mother would be, when Willis had written her that he was engaged to a girl she did not know. It was wonderful to discover that Sylvia was just the daughter-in-law she had dreamed of having—a good, sweet, sensible, intelligent girl, whom she seemed to have known always. Her family were all lovely people, too, particularly Professor Hodges. She had never thought that a professor in a great university like Harvard would have such democratic manners or that she would understand nearly everything he said. She told Willis all this when they were finally alone in the hotel.

  “You’ve grown up so, Willis, that I hardly know you,” she said. “Doesn’t Willis look handsome, Alfred?”

  “Yes,” Alfred Wayde said. “He’s been polished off, all right. How about a touch of rye, Willis?”

  “Now, Alfred,” Mrs. Wayde said, “I wish you’d ever been polished.”

  “Anyway you’re getting me into a monkey suit,” Alfred Wayde said, “just because Willis is getting married.”

  He was referring of course to the cutaway he was going to rent. Ever since he had heard of it he had not been able to get it off his mind.

  “Now don’t keep complaining about it,” Mrs. Wayde said. “You know you’re proud of Willis.”

  “Why, yes,” Alfred Wayde said, “I’d like to see this Jacoby who’s giving him fifteen grand a year.”

  “Mr. Jacoby wouldn’t have given it to Willis if he wasn’t worth it,” Mrs. Wayde said, “and you know it, Alfred.”

  “Sure I know it,” Alfred Wayde said, “and I’m proud to have a boy who can shake money out of anyone.” He stopped and looked at Willis in a way that made Willis move uneasily.

  “I’m proud of you all right, son. Here you are, not thirty, with motor cars, golf sticks, everything. There’s only one thing bothers me about you, son.”

  “Well, tell me what it is,” Willis said. “A lot of things bother me about myself, as a matter of fact.”

  Alfred Wayde filled a pipe and lighted it. He looked older and heavier than he had at the Harcourt Mill, and all his motions were more deliberate.

  “Now, son,” he said, and his voice was warm and gentle, “I know you’ve got to get along like all the rest of us. Boys like you have to try to be something they’re not in order to get ahead, and if you try hard enough, no doubt you’ll be what you want to be. You’re marrying a real nice girl. She’s a little thin for my taste, but no doubt she’ll flesh out. There’s only one thing bothers me.”

  He stopped and lighted his pipe again.

  “Just don’t get too smooth,” he said, “or you’ll turn into a son of a bitch. A lot of people do before they know it, son.”

  “Alfred,” Mrs. Wayde said, “you ought to be ashamed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alfred Wayde said, “I apologize if I offended you, son.”

  “You didn’t,” Willis said, “and I know what you mean, and you said it before to me once. Do you remember?”

  “That’s right,” Alfred Wayde said, “up at Harcourt. I didn’t mean to be repeating myself. And the Harcourts sent you presents, didn’t they? Old Mrs. Henry and the Brysons, and Bill and Bess. It was nice of them, considering.”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis said, “it was very nice of them.”

  “Well,” Alfred Wayde said, “I’m going to bed now. My feet hurt in these new shoes.” He pushed himself out of his chair, walked slowly across the hotel sitting room, and slapped Willis on the shoulder.

  XVII

  Willis always liked to think that Sylvia’s and his honeymoon had been a very happy one, and certainly before it was completed they had learned a lot about each other in little ways. He had learned, for instance, that Sylvia liked to smoke a cigarette in bed before she went to sleep, a habit which always alarmed him, and that she left shoes and slippers on odd parts of the floor, which one had to be careful not to step on. In fact Willis had almost dislocated his toe on a sharp heel of one of Sylvia’s mules the third night of their marriage, and Sylvia had told him that it was his fault because he had insisted on walking around barefoot. Sylvia on her side had learned that he did setting-up exercises for ten minutes every morning and never left the top off his toothpaste tube or his shaving cream. Things like this meant more than you thought, and a honeymoon was surely a period of learning both to give and forgive. He had never known, for instance, that Sylvia wore pajamas instead of nightgowns.

  He had heard that the most important recipe for a happy honeymoon was complete physical comfort, and he was glad he had taken this point seriously in spite of what Sylvia had said about economy. He had the good sense not to worry about costs, since, as he told Sylvia, you only had a honeymoon once. He had not told Sylvia where they were going because he had wanted it to be a surprise, and as a matter of fact it had been, very definitely. All he would tell Sylvia was that he had reservations at a place in the Adirondack Mountains and that they would have to hurry through New Hampshire and Vermont in order to reach there on time.

  The name of the place was Chieftain Manor, which Willis had once heard Mr. Beakney say was one of the finest rest and recreation hotels that he had ever seen, and Mr. Beakney certainly had been right. Willis had never been
to a hotel like Chieftain Manor, and he often said sadly to Sylvia in later years that he wished they might go there now—which was unhappily impossible, because Chieftain Manor closed its doors shortly after Pearl Harbor, never to open them again. It lay back in the past now, as something unique to remember, something never to be spoiled by revisiting later when one’s tastes were better formed by wider travel.

  Chieftain Manor was gone, and heaven only knew what had finally happened to the immense shingled building or the eighteen-hole golf course, the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, the bungalows and service quarters, the mountain trails and boathouses. Had the hotel burned down, or was it the property now of some real-estate development with ranch-type houses and imitation log cabins, or had the forest that surrounded it rolled back over it again? Willis did not know, nor did he want to know. He preferred to think of it as it had been—as beautiful as a dream of wish fulfillment.

  He could seem to see it in his memory just as he had when he drove up over its half mile of driveway with Sylvia beside him. He could remember the autumn sunlight, the gold of turning poplars against the deep green of fir trees. Perhaps the past had given his memories a romantic tinge, but his initial impression persisted that Chieftain Manor contained everything that anyone could need in order to achieve happiness. It certainly had tried to contain everything. Once you passed through its front portals that overlooked the putting green and croquet lawn, there were passages branching off in all directions to shops selling linen and lingerie and jewelry, sport shops, book shops, barber shops, and hairdressers, cigar stands, newsstands, conservatories, and a broker’s office. As Willis once said facetiously to Sylvia after they had the ground plan of the main building more or less committed to memory, it must have been that no one coming to Chieftain Manor had decided what to wear until he got there. He was surprised that Sylvia had not appeared amused. Occasionally there were times when Sylvia had not been quite herself at the Chieftain. October was like July, what with the club bar, the golf professional, the card room, the billiard room, the ballroom and the Club Evangeline with its New York atmosphere, and the Turkish baths, and the indoor swimming pool so cozily heated.

  The sun was setting and the red glow from the sky was reflected in the still waters of the lake. There was a suspicion of autumn chill that was only enough to make one glad that a day’s motoring had ended at just the proper moment. The Manor was really larger than Willis had believed was possible, considering how far they were from anywhere.

  “Oh, Willis,” he heard Sylvia say, “is this it?”

  “Yes, honey,” he told her. “It’s quite a layout, isn’t it?”

  “This isn’t a hotel,” she said, “it’s a fantasy.”

  “A what?” he asked her.

  “Oh, never mind, dear,” she said. “Isn’t it going to be terribly expensive?”

  It was strange how apt Sylvia was to miss the point of certain things. For instance she never could understand when it was worthwhile to spend money. Of course the main purpose of Chieftain Manor—or The Old Chief, as Willis came to call it affectionately—was to be expensive. It was a symbolic prize for industry and endeavor, a happy resting place only for those who had made good. Somehow Sylvia never seemed to see that if you worked hard for what you got, it was a pleasure to show that you had money. It never hurt you at all, for example, to be able to say that you enjoyed April at Hot Springs or that you had found that the service at The Breakers at Palm Beach had improved from what you had known of it last. Of course everyone had his own intimate attitude toward money, and he always realized that Sylvia’s was different from his, but he did wish she could understand that he had earned his right to be at The Old Chief.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” he asked her.

  “Oh, Willis,” she said. “It’s just so—Oh, never mind. I only mean that it isn’t very cozy.”

  “But it isn’t meant to be,” he said. “People who come here don’t want anything cozy.” And then he could not help but laugh. “I’ll make you love it, honey,” he said. “We’ll do something new every minute we’re here. This is going to be a real honeymoon right from now on in.”

  There was no time to say anything more because a bell-boy in a horizon-blue monkey jacket and white trousers was already beside the car.

  “Hello, son,” Willis said. “Take out everything, will you? And put the car in the garage.”

  It was new to him, but then Willis had traveled enough at Beakney-Graham to know his way around hotels. Thus The Old Chief only awed Willis when he and Sylvia first crossed the lobby, with its artistically grouped clusters of chairs occupied by the guests in from golf or riding who were whiling away an aimless hour before it should be time to dress for dinner. By the time he was facing the room clerk he was completely sure of himself.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Willis Wayde,” he said, “Rahway, New Jersey. Here’s a confirmation of my reservation.”

  The only wrong thing that he had done, of course, was to tell the clerk that he had a confirmation for his reservation, since this indicated an insecurity that he always avoided afterwards. Actually this made very little difference, because, as Willis found out later, the whole staff had been given careful lectures by Mr. Murcheson, the manager, on the arts of hospitality. A guest, as Mr. Murcheson said—and he always made it a point to contact all guests personally—was a member of The Old Chief Club once he had signed the register.

  Upon leaving the desk Willis was already able to glance in a calm and friendly way about the lobby. The cashmere sweaters of the younger women reminded him that given the proper things Sylvia could look as well as any of them, and Sylvia was beginning to wear clothes beautifully, as well or better even than Bess Harcourt.

  They had the elevator all to themselves, with the two boys and the baggage.

  “You have suite C-16, sir,” the head boy said.

  Willis saw Sylvia glance at him with alarm, and he smiled at her proudly.

  “That’s right, son,” he said, and it was right. The beautifully carpeted hall was almost perfect and so were the sitting room and bedroom, tastefully furnished with chintz and antique maple reproductions.

  “Thank you, boys,” Willis said, and he handed each of them a dollar, and smiled again at Sylvia.

  “Look,” he said to her. “Flowers for you with a card from the manager. Well, how do you like it, Mrs. Wayde?”

  If he had meant the suite to be a surprise, it had been, but Sylvia’s uneasy manner told him that her mind was again on money.

  “Willis,” she said, “we don’t need a sitting room, do we? Really, you’re spending money like a drunken sailor.”

  Somehow the phrase seemed inappropriate and he resented being put in this category.

  “Listen, honey,” he said. “Let’s just sit down and get this straight,” and he put his arm around her.

  “Darling,” Sylvia said, “I don’t mean I’m trying to quarrel. I know this is lovely and I love you for thinking of it, but then there’s all the money we have to spend for the house and everything in New Jersey.”

  “Sylvia,” he said, “do you remember that green dress?”

  It was lovely to see the color rise in her cheeks.

  “Of course I do,” she answered, “but now we’re so much more responsible.”

  “That’s right, honey,” Willis said, “but I still feel just the same way I did about that dress. I guess I always will.”

  “You’re awfully sweet, darling,” she said.

  She said it as though she had made a new discovery, and the warmth of her voice made him happy.

  “It is what makes the game worthwhile, honey,” he said. “I mean giving you things, having a home.” All at once he began to laugh, because finally he had the whole idea straight. “Maybe people like me are like sailors, and do you know why drunken sailors spend their money?”

  “No,” she answered, “unless because they’re drunk.”

  “No, honey,” he said, “they do it because they kn
ow that money’s meant to spend when they get ashore.”

  “And you mean you’re ashore now?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” he said, “but there’s more to it than that. This place means more to me than it does to you, because I’ve been at sea.”

  Then her arms were around his neck and her head was on his shoulder.

  “I’m awfully glad you told me, dear,” she said. “I won’t worry any more. We’ll have a lovely time.”

  Sylvia always was a grand girl, once you made her understand, and of course they had a wonderful time. Sylvia’s evening dress was not bad-looking at all, and he was wearing his new tuxedo. It was pleasant to see people glancing at them as they walked across the lobby, with looks more wistful than envious; and Willis could understand their attitudes better now that he was old enough himself to look at a nice young couple and remember when he and Sylvia were like that—in love and with years ahead of them. Sylvia was dark and tall and there was character in her face and intelligence that meant a lot more than insipid beauty. Then he was not so bad-looking himself either in those days, as he knew from old photographs.

  “Shall we have a cocktail before dinner?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Sylvia said. “Darling, I keep forgetting how handsome you look, and then I start wondering how I ever found you.”

  A waiter pulled back a chair for her at a table in the bar, and the happy released chatter of drinkers around them splashed over them like a wave on a coral beach.

  “Will you have a dry Martini, dear?” he asked. “Make it two dry Martinis, son, and ask the barman just to squeeze a lemon peel over the surface, not drop it in.”

  It occurred to Willis after he made the speech that the waiter was somewhat older than he and that it had been inappropriate to call him son, and he made a mental note to use the word less frequently.

  “I don’t care what it costs now. This is fun,” Sylvia said.

  “And when we finish these drinks it will be more fun,” Willis told her. “Honey, I want to tell you something.”