It was impossible not to have a sense of well-being on that waning sunny day of a Southern spring. Outside the windows of the sitting room were the fine glistening leaves of a large magnolia and from its branches came the liquid notes of a mockingbird. The room looked homelike, with the bottles and ice and glasses and a few random copies of periodicals including his company house organ, Harcourters Only. The Wayde family photographs stood upon a long console table. The bottles and ice and glasses probably should have been put there, but the photographs in their leather frames would have looked crowded elsewhere. One was of Willis’s mother, and then of equal size was a fine study of Sylvia seated in the library reading. Sylvia had said facetiously that it represented the first chance offered her to read in weeks. Then, in smaller frames, appeared the children. Al was in his Scout outfit, indicating that Willis believed strongly that the family should be an integrated part of the community. Paul, in the ridiculous long trousers that little boys now wore, was playing with their new retriever, whom Paul had named Hugo. Louise was simply standing out on the lawn with Miss Farquahr, and Willis was glad to have Miss Farquahr included, because she was getting to be quite an old retainer now. Finally there was an enlarged snapshot of Waydeholm as seen from the garden and the swimming pool. Combined, those pictures made a good sound gallery.
“Say, Jerry,” Willis said, “I particularly want you to observe P. L. Nagel. Although a competitor, Jerry, I really have a warm spot in my heart for him and a deep admiration. He’s a fine type executive, who keeps a youthful outlook. He gives the air of being a playboy, but don’t let that deceive you.”
“I hear Simcoe is going into foam rubber in a pretty big way,” Jerry said.
“Yes,” Willis said, but he did not want to be talking about foam rubber when P.L. came in, so he changed the subject.
“Jerry,” he said, “I was watching you this afternoon, particularly on the twelfth and fourteenth. You’re developing the makings of a good sound game.”
“I work at it,” Jerry said. “I admit golf’s a fascinating game, just from the point of view of precision.”
Willis smiled. There was no doubt that Jerry Bascomb was executive material.
“Golf is something you’ve got to cultivate pretty prayerfully,” Willis said. “I used to be a duffer, and I’m not proud at all of my ninety-one today, but that trap on the tenth set me back three strokes. I’ve got to remember to look around the golf shop tomorrow for another wedge.”
He looked at his wrist watch. P.L. was a little overdue.
“Basically,” Willis said, “a golf game is like a man’s character, or like integrity or loyalty. It mellows with experience. Come to think of it, the first time I saw that golf was a significant game was during my honeymoon. Sylvia and I spent it at a place called Chieftain Manor in the Adirondacks. It happened—it’s quite a coincidence—that I played several times there with old P. L. Nagel, who was vacationing there with Mrs. Nagel when we were honeymooning. P.L. studies every shot. He never lets anything get by, and that’s just the way he is at Simcoe.”
He had gone on about golf deliberately, as a sort of test, and Jerry had listened without allowing his attention to waver for a moment.
“It’s interesting,” Jerry said, “that you speak of golf in terms of philosophy, while I think in terms of ballistics. It’s fascinating that the power of a swing, properly exerted, can send a ball so far and so straight.”
Those remarks of Jerry’s showed that he could talk interestingly on a general subject, and Willis hated to break up the conversation, but he was thinking about the two young couples, the Freemans and the Seagurts.
“The whole secret of golf,” Willis said, because he did not want to change the subject too abruptly, “is hitting from the inside out. Get a nice pivot, and if you make a good clean finish you don’t have to worry. By the way, Jerry, after you’ve had a little visit with P.L., maybe you’d better get in touch with the kids down the hall. I’ve just remembered that P. T. Green is throwing a little shindig in the Pine Room—you know, president of the Green Gauge and Roller Company.”
“It sounds like a kind of plum, doesn’t it? I mean Green Gauge,” Jerry said, and Willis laughed perfunctorily.
“It sounds good to us right now, Jerry,” he said, “because they’ve just put in an inquiry for Planeroid. I don’t know whether I can induce P.L. to go down or not, but I’d like you and the Freemans and the Seagurts to show up in the Pine Room, and you might indicate indirectly to P.T. that you’re our Planeroid specialist. You don’t mind, do you, Jerry?”
“Mind?” Jerry said. “Why should I mind?” And then there was a banging on the door, and Willis heard P. L. Nagel’s voice.
“Open up there,” P.L. was calling. “It’s the house detective.”
When he was playing, P.L. always was a lot of fun, although Willis sometimes suspected that those playful moods were a sort of iron curtain that concealed many of P. L. Nagel’s thoughts and motives. The truth was P.L. was not really an entertainer like the regular pranksters and jokesters who would appear at the banquet. No matter how he tried, he was not a natural-born comedian, because comedians did not have steel-trap minds. And yet out of courtesy to an older man, Willis had to act up to the horseplay.
“Don’t put the bracelets on us yet, Chief,” Willis said. “And how about a drink?”
If it was a flat answer, it had the advantage of stopping P.L. from being a house detective. In spite of his corpulence, which had been catching up with him in the last few years, P.L. looked sharp in a beautifully pressed Palm Beach suit and a canary-yellow necktie, and his growing bald spot gave the illusion of an island surrounded by white breakers.
“Just a tetch of bourbon,” P.L. said. “Say, I’ve just been down at Alec Bingkrampf’s with a crowd of wild men. It’s my considered prognostication after severial drinks, that they’re going to tear this caravansary apart tonight.”
Willis laughed in the way one should when playboys and fun were mentioned.
“I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, seriously speaking,” Willis said, “to have some informality at an opening banquet. Jerry, as long as you’re being barkeep, I’ll have a little bourbon too.”
But P. L. Nagel’s mind had not yet left the Bingkrampf get-together.
“Have you seen the song sheet those boys have got printed?” P.L. asked. “They’ve got a real theme song for this convocation. Just hold onto your chairs and listen.
Nothing could be finer
For an old Production Liner
Than the Hotel Carolina
In the morning.”
It seemed to Willis that this was a very obvious effort, but P.L. was watching him critically, so Willis had to be careful of his reaction.
“Well,” he said, “I guess it has the makings of a theme song, but I’m not much of a judge of music.”
“Say, Bascomb,” P.L. said, “how about sweetening up this drink a little? Say, Willis, someday I’m going to snake Jerry away from you. He’s too smart to be in a one-horse show like Harcourt Associates.”
Willis rose, laughing heartily, and slapped Jerry affectionately on the shoulder.
“Oh no you don’t, P.L.,” he said, “because Jerry’s smart enough to know he’s all fixed right where he is.”
“I wish you young fellows wouldn’t get steamed up at a little clean fun,” P.L. said. “When did I ever hire a man from out of a friend’s office? Just when did I?”
Willis burst into another hearty shout of laughter.
“You mean just when didn’t you, don’t you, P.L.?” he said.
After all, part of the game was being able to joke with competitors in a friendly way. Wllis had P.L. there, and P.L. beamed at Willis and Jerry Bascomb.
“You ought not to tempt me by having Jerry here,” P.L. said.
“I guess the boss would feel better if I pulled out of here then,” Jerry said, “and seriously, some of our crowd has got to show up at Mr. Green’s. It’s been a real
pleasure seeing you, Mr. Nagel. Table Fifty-two, isn’t it, Chief?”
It was Table 52, and everything about Jerry confirmed Willis’s opinion that Jerry was topflight material. He had handled P.L. very nicely, but even so Willis had a twinge of uneasiness, because you could not always tell what anyone, even as loyal as Jerry Bascomb, might do when brought into contact with someone like P.L. This was one of the dangers in conventions that sometimes offset advantages, and it seemed to Willis that P.L. looked at him in a questioning way when Jerry closed the door.
“Seriously and all kidding aside,” P.L. said, and he rattled the ice in his glass, “it’s nice to snatch a moment of peace and quiet up here. Listen to that God-damn bird singing in that God-damn tree out there. He sounds like a professional bird-caller, doesn’t he? Seriously, I’m mighty glad to have a little get-together alone with you, because you’ve kind of been on my mind lately, Willis.”
Willis looked carefully at his old-fashioned glass. He was old enough by now to conceal surprise and old enough also not to indulge in a series of guesses as to what was coming.
“I hope I’ve been on your mind in a nice way, P.L.,” Willis said.
When you were dealing with someone of P.L.’s caliber, you were playing in the big league. You needed to be careful if you wanted to keep your shirt. Willis saw P.L. watching him, and he gazed back innocently, but then before P.L. could make a further move the telephone on the console table rang.
“Sit right where you are, P.L.,” he said, “and sweeten up your drink. I was so absorbed in what we were saying that I completely forgot I put a call in for home for six-thirty—just to say hello to Sylvia and the kids.”
The telephone rang impatiently before Willis could reach it. Then he sat down with the instrument propped expertly against his ear and smiled at P.L. hospitably.
“Speaking,” he said. “… Hello, sweetness … How’s everything going in the park? … Oh, I couldn’t be better, honey. The weather’s wonderful and this is going to be a real party. I do wish you were here to enjoy it with me, but Jerry Bascomb’s mighty good company.… Yes, I’ve been out already, but I only shot a ninety-one today. I took three strokes getting out of a trap on the tenth on Course Two.… Oh, no no, I’m not at a cocktail party or anything. I’m just lazing around up here in the suite, and who do you think is up here with me? Old P. L. Nagel.”
“Oh, my God,” Sylvia said, “not that terrible old bore.”
Willis had been careful to hold the receiver tight to his ear because you never could be sure what Sylvia might say, but still he was glad to remember that someone had said that old P.L.’s hearing was not what it used to be.
“Now, sweetness,” Willis said, “I certainly will give him your love. I wouldn’t forget it for the world.”
“Give him my love but don’t have him or that wife of his here if you can help it, darling,” Sylvia said.
“Right,” Willis said, “right, sweetness, and now if the kiddies are there, how about my saying a few words to them?”
“First about the Packard,” Sylvia said. “You never told me you were going to turn it in. Really, Willis, it’s just as good as it ever was.”
Willis smiled at P. L. Nagel. Conceivably, it might be valuable if P.L. overheard this part of the conversation.
“Now, sweetness, let’s get this straight,” Willis said. “The Packard is obsolescent, and I’ve had my name in for a Cadillac for months, sweetness.”
“But, Willis,” Sylvia said, “we don’t really need a Cadillac.”
“It isn’t a question of needing a Cadillac,” Willis said. “The point is we can readily afford a Cadillac. Just to reassure yourself, you might look up Harcourt Associates in the New York Times.” Willis laughed and winked mischievously at P.L. “Just see what a share is quoted at now, and remember what I paid for it. In fact I’m willing to get two Cadillacs, sweetness.”
“Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said. “Let’s not have people think we’re Miami gamblers.”
As Sylvia spoke, Willis released the telephone from his ear so that Sylvia’s rather high voice could carry across the room.
“All right, honey,” he said, “we’ll leave it at one for the present, and you can keep the Packard and turn in the Ford if you want to. Well, if that’s all—oh, just a second. I hope you called up Boston in my behalf and that the news is still reassuring.”
“He’s had a very good day,” Sylvia said, “and he sent you a special message not to break things off at Pinehurst, and now Al’s waiting for you. He’s crazy to speak to you about something.”
Willis put his hand over the transmitting end of the telephone.
“That’s about Bryson Harcourt, P.L.,” he said. “There’s been no publicity but we’ve had some bad news in that direction—a slight stroke in the Boston office ten days ago—very slight, thank goodness, but his left side is still affected. It’s upsetting because he’s a very splendid person.”
“That’s very tough,” P.L. said. “I didn’t know.”
He spoke as one who recognizes we must all meet an inevitable ending but also like a soldier who sees his comrade fall in the ranks. They could not go on with the conversation, because Willis could hear Al’s voice, still the falsetto of childhood, calling to him from hundreds of miles away.
“Hey, Dad,” Al was calling.
“Hello, son,” Willis answered. “How’s every little thing with you, Al?”
“Dad,” Al said, “we’re going out for a two-day hike beginning Friday.”
“For a two-day hike,” Willis repeated after him. “Well, well. Where are you going to sleep, Al?”
“In the woods in pup tents,” Al answered. “Troop A and Troop B.”
Willis was about to ask what woods, until he remembered that a large area in New Jersey had been left to the Scouts for just such purposes, but he still could not understand this desire for woods and woodcrafts when there were no frontier days any longer.
“That sounds wonderful, Al,” he said. “Don’t chop your finger off or anything and don’t run if you see a bear.”
“Say, Dad,” Al said. “When are you coming back?”
“Why, Al,” Willis answered, “I’ll see you Monday night, and I want to hear all about that hike.”
“Okay, Dad,” Al said, and his voice sounded fainter.
It was something like a spiritual seance, speaking to one’s children hundreds of miles away, and now Paul’s voice was speaking through the unsubstantial distance.
“Well, well,” Willis said. “How’s Hugo, Paul?”
“Hugo’s okay,” Paul answered. “Say, Dad, will you bring me a present when you come back?”
“Yes,” Willis said. “I’ll see what I can do, Paul.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “I’ve got to be going now.”
“Daddy.” It was Louise speaking, and her voice was fainter still, giving Willis the impression that Sylvia and all the children were drifting away into space. “Daddy, I’m on the second spelling book now.”
“The second spelling book,” Willis said. “Well, my little honey bunch.”
“Well, that’s all, Daddy,” Louise said.
“Good-by, honey bunch,” Willis said. “Give Mommy a big kiss for me. Good-by, honey bunch.”
Willis smiled at P.L. as he put down the telephone. The Carolina Hotel suite was more like home and P. L. Nagel like a house guest because of those brief domestic speeches.
“I wish Myrtle and I had ever had kids,” P.L. said, “but Myrtle was always against babies. Those kids of yours must be getting to be quite a handful now.”
Willis laughed the way a family man should when his children came up for discussion.
“You’ve got to watch yourself at the Wayde house,” Willis said, “so as not to trip over roller skates and doll carriages, but I’m willing to settle for the lot of them, frankly, and besides, we have Miss Farquahr to look after them. Miss Farquahr’s a real wonder. She showed up when Paul was born. We couldn’t do without Fa
rky now—that’s what the kids call her, Farky.”
“No,” P.L. said, “there’s nothing like kids to make a home, and it’s sort of tragic that Myrtle thinks so too, now it’s too late. There we are in Lake Forest in a house just made for kids and grandchildren and everything, and no kids. Pour me out another tetch, will you? On the rocks. I wish you lived next door, boy, so I could see your kids running around our lawn. Those are their pictures over there, aren’t they?”
“That’s right,” Willis said. “There they all are, to keep Daddy on the straight and narrow.”
“It’s quite a display, isn’t it?” P.L. said. “I’d like to take a look, if it isn’t too impertinent, son.”
P.L. pushed himself up and put on a pair of massive horn-rimmed spectacles of the type used by Hollywood producers.
“I always feel better about anyone,” P.L. said, “when I see him traveling with a picture of his mother, and your mother’s a lovely little lady, Willis. Old Alf introduced her to me once while he was working for Harrod Cash. Where are your parents now, Willis?”
“They’re pretty much retired now,” Willis said. “They’re living in a very attractive ranch-type house in a development near San Bernardino—or San Budoo, as they call it in California.”
“That’s a lovely part of the world,” P.L. said. “Do you know old Ralph Schultz in Hocking Aircraft?”
“I surely do know old Ralph,” Willis said. “I look upon him as one of my sweetest West Coast contacts. The last time I was out there he was kind enough to lend me a car and a driver to take me out to San Budoo.”
“It is, I repeat, a lovely part of the world,” P.L. said. “It’s too bad you’re not living nearer to it, Willis. As I always say to Myrtle, a man can have a lot of wives, and a great many do—” P.L. chuckled but sobered up immediately—“but, boy, you only have one mother.”
“That’s right, P.L.,” Willis said. “I’ve never heard it said in quite that way.” But P.L. had turned to continue his inspection of the photographs.
“That’s a sweet shot of Sylvia,” he said. “Remember back at The Old Chief? Been fond of Sylvia ever since.”
Sincerely, Willis Wayde Page 45