After the War

by Alice Adams

  Those were her darkest, blackest midnight obsessional thoughts. Another, only slightly less terrible, was that Harry would fall in love with some English lady, someone tall and thin with rose-petal English skin. Good at riding and gardening, cooking roast beef and puddings, all those English things in novels. Harry could fall madly in love with this English woman, and they could kiss a lot, and neck, and end up going the whole way, actually doing it. And then Harry would be more in love than ever, he’d forget all about his wife and his daughter, and never come back to them but just stay in England, maybe sometimes inviting Abigail to come and visit, by ocean liner or maybe a plane. But the idea of sailing or even flying did not cheer Abigail much. The thought of Harry living over there was much too terrible, almost as bad as Harry dead.

  And then: suppose we didn’t win the war after all? Suppose Hitler won, beat our Navy and Army, and Mr. Roosevelt?

  Melanctha Byrd, sitting on the edge of the pool, her bare feet cooling in the water, imagined falling in. How cool, how lovely it would be, all over her body. And then into the silence Melanctha heard (probably everyone else there did too) the overloud, still girlish voice of Deirdre, who was saying, “Derek McFall? But I knew him, he went to Pinehill High one year. He was really cute, real blond and tall, with this accent, from somewhere up North. New England, somewhere like that. He was nice but not one bit friendly. A lot of the girls had these real big crushes on him, but he would never ask them out or anything. He played basketball real well but he kept pretty much to himself, and got terrific grades.”

  “And then he went to Hilton and played more basketball and got straight A’s there too.” Melanctha’s father, Russ, said this. He always knew everything, or else he said he did.

  “Well, I think he’s the best correspondent we’ve got in this war,” said Jimmy Hightower. “He’s always done his homework.” Jimmy went on to talk about this Derek McFall, whom Melanctha of course had heard on the radio, seen pictures of. “He’s even more impressive than Murrow,” Jimmy said.

  Several grown-up voices from all around the pool disagreed with Mr. Hightower. Including Russ’s. “For my money, or what’s left of it,” said Russ, “I’ll take Murrow. There’s something too, too Vermont about McFall. Too Yankee.”

  Cynthia Baird sounded mad at Russ as she said, “Oh come on now, Russell.” (Is that what she called him, always?) “I can’t stand this professional Southerner stuff. And what on earth do you mean, ‘too Vermont’?”

  Deirdre interrupted all this to say, “And if our little baby SallyJane had’ve been a boy, we would’ve named her Derek. I mean him. I always said that, didn’t I, Russ? And I was thinking of Derek McFall, the very same one. Russ, didn’t I always say?”

  “You sure did, darling,” said Russ, in his softest, meanest voice.

  Oh God! to be away from all these people, these grownups with their preening, knowing Southern voices, their drinks and their silly quarrels. Their secret kissing, their necking behind everyone’s back, thinking nobody knew. God, how she hated them all, but soon she would be away, far away. In Boston. In Cambridge, Mass. Melanctha thrilled to those names.

  “… home for Thanksgiving?” Archer Bigelow, beside her, was anxiously asking.

  Thanksgiving? In a blind way, she looked at Archer. “I really don’t know,” she told him, untruthfully; she had already promised Russ and Deirdre that she would. Pullman tickets were bought, hard to come by these days.

  Suddenly, into another heavy heated silence, no one talking, no breeze to stir the leaves, from up at the house came the sound of the telephone. Very loud, everyone could hear it.

  Cynthia and Odessa reacted instantly; simultaneously they both rushed toward the house.

  Cynthia was going too fast, though, in her flimsy green sandals. She skidded on the gravel path and slid to her knees. Looking up, unhurt, for a second she saw Odessa’s terrified face, and she knew that the terror was not for her, but it had to do with the phone, whoever, whatever. But why? It must be, must be Derek, for her. Or just conceivably Harry, somehow wangling a cable call. Can Odessa possibly be that worried about Mr. Harry, as she calls him?

  Getting to her feet, not hurt except for a little stinging on the palms of her hands, Cynthia followed Odessa, who had turned again and was racing for the still loudly ringing phone.

  And then Cynthia heard Odessa’s voice, very clear. “Yes’m. Yes’m.” And then a pause during which Cynthia just stood there, outside the kitchen door. Unable not to listen, although by now she knew that the call was not for her.

  “Unh-hunh. It you. I might’ve knowed. You think call from California free?” (A longer pause.) “That so? That true? You telling me award? Well now, that just mighty fine. Mighty fine. Horace, you done me proud. And yourself too. You a fine man, you know that? You all right now, you tell me true? You not hurt? Yeah, we do that.” She laughed, a small rich intimate laugh. “You get on home, you hear?”

  By the time Cynthia walked into the kitchen Odessa had hung up the phone and was just standing there, brown and radiant, shiningly happy. She seemed to feel some explanation due, or maybe she simply wanted to tell her news. “That Horace, he in the Navy, San Diego, in California. Say there been an accident, and he pull some mens out the water. Horace always did swim real good. And they give him some kind of a prize. Some medal. The Navy do—”

  “Odessa, that’s wonderful! How terrific—oh, I’m so pleased—”

  Cynthia took both Odessa’s hands in hers, saw tears on Odessa’s face, and then moved to her, gave Odessa a tight warm hug. But then she had no idea what to do, and she had in that instant to abandon a momentary impulse, which was to lead Odessa back down to the pool to announce the news, to celebrate, to make toasts. But Odessa would hate that, what a totally bad idea. Instead she said, “Odessa, wouldn’t you just like to go rest for a while, in your room? Please, I can handle the party. Abigail can help me, and Melanctha.”

  “Oh, no’m, I jus’ keep on—”

  “No, Odessa, please—isn’t there something you’d like to do? I mean—”

  For a moment they stared at each other, helplessly, lacking a common vocabulary or common habits.

  But Odessa seemed to read at least good intentions from Cynthia. She told her, “I truly like to go to church now, just for a little?” She glanced at her watch (the watch that Harry gave her, and Harry also taught her to read the time from). “I just make it,” Odessa said, “and Nellie be there, I tell her.”

  The Negro church is less than half a mile away, since this house that Cynthia and Harry bought from Deirdre (the house that Russ bought for Deirdre, long ago) is in a “bad” neighborhood, near “colored people.” Still, Cynthia asked, “You want me to drive you? It’s so hot. Come on, I will.”

  “Oh, no’m. And I be back, time to help you with all the cleaning up.”

  “Odessa, please. I can handle it. Really. Please stay as long as you want.”

  They were standing there staring again, caught in good intentions, when the phone rang loudly—again.

  Cynthia became decisive. “I’ll get it, you go on.” And then, to the long-distance operator, “Yes, this is Cynthia Baird.” And then, “Oh—Derek!”

  “Well, I caught you at home.” His quick, harsh laugh. “I was wondering,” he said. “Any chance of your getting over to Hilton at Thanksgiving? Turns out I have to be down there, some goddam award. It’s what they call their Homecoming Game that weekend. How’re you fixed for gas—got enough coupons?”

  “Oh sure, I think I could arrange that.” Cynthia heard her own careless, light laugh, even as she thought, I’ll steal some coupons if I have to, or get some black-market gas. And thinking too, I’ll take him the Scotch I’ve saved (not letting herself add: saved for Harry). Thinking: Whatever did Russ mean by “too Vermont”? His voice is ravishing.

  “Well okay then.” Businesslike, efficient, thrifty Derek, though it’s been less than three minutes. “Okay, I’m glad you can make it. Or you think you can.
We’ll be in touch.”

  Only then, walking slowly back down to the pool, did Cynthia think of other things that she did not say to Derek: Suppose Abigail wants to come back from Swarthmore, or, suppose Harry gets a sudden leave home for Thanksgiving?

  But she was then struck with a stronger, compelling thought: For God’s sake, she thought, what’s important at this moment is Odessa—this is Odessa’s moment, and everyone should know.

  And so she paused at the end of the path to the pool, and standing there she clapped her hands for attention—an unlikely gesture for Cynthia, who is generally shy (for a Yankee).

  Unlikely too are her first words, when she has everyone’s attention. “You all, listen,” she says, with a tiny laugh; Cynthia never says “you-all.”

  “This terrific thing, we just heard. Odessa’s husband, Horace, he’s out in the Pacific, in the Navy, and he saved a bunch of men’s lives. He’s getting this medal—Odessa’s so proud—” To her own vast surprise Cynthia’s voice broke off, choked by tears.

  Looking up, though, she could see the faces of her friends, and though they all spoke at once she could hear them.

  “Well! That Horace! How you reckon he ever learned to swim so good?”

  “Mother, that’s wonderful, that’s just great!” (Abby, of course.)

  “What a great story.”

  “You could make a movie out of that one, Russ.”

  “There’ll be no holding Miss Odessa now. She won’t do any work for any of us.”

  “Him either.”

  “Couldn’t we take up a collection and buy her a congratulation present?” That last, from Melanctha Byrd, was answered by a total silence, some shifting of feet.

  Until Cynthia said, “Melanctha, what a good idea, you’re terrific.”

  But Melanctha had already turned away, in tears.

  2

  IN Cambridge, during the first weeks of college, in September and October, Melanctha experienced the heady, extreme, and slightly unreal joy of a person reborn. Or, a person restored to her rightful home, the place where all along she was meant to be. At home, back in Pinehill, everyone knew her; they knew who Russ was and what had happened to her mother, SallyJane, her depression and the shock treatment that had killed her. And they knew all about Russ and Deirdre, and all about Russ’s poems and his plays and now all this movie stuff. But here in Cambridge no one had ever heard of Russell Byrd, or any of that awful old family story; of course they hadn’t, they had more important families of their own.

  And all over Harvard Yard, and spilling out onto Harvard Square, there were hundreds of the handsomest young men that Melanctha had ever seen. All around the hooded subway entrance and the Coop, everywhere, in that exuberant wartime fall, men in every variety of uniform, including the old classic Harvard garb of gray flannels and tweed, white shirts and striped ties. So many men, all so handsome and desirable, that at first for Melanctha the faces blurred.

  At last a few faces began to separate out, certain men whom she saw repeatedly and especially noticed. There was one of the Navy officers she saw everywhere, so handsome, with straight blond hair and blue eyes. And a boy about her age, in a V-12 sailor suit, but tall and dark, with curly hair a little like hers (too curly, too much hair). All busily walking along, all preoccupied with the war? Although sometimes they seemed to be giving her certain looks.

  Ben Davis, Abby Baird’s old school friend, the Negro boy, said to be very handsome now, was supposed to call her but he did not. Of course not, he was a football star, as well as handsome.

  In one of her classes, Phil. A with Mr. Demos, she was seated next to a nice-seeming (but too young) boy from Connecticut, Tom (or Ted; she couldn’t quite read from his notebook) Byrington; seating was alphabetical. Later she observed or maybe imagined that he was trying to read her address from her notebook, which she usually carried so anyone could see, if they wanted to. And a few people, mostly very young guys, did call her, and they went out for beer at the Oxford Grill, or a movie at the University Theatre. Nothing exciting, not even any good-night kissing at the doorstep.

  She was not attractive enough, Melanctha decided, not for those older officers. She needed new clothes, and she wrote to Russ saying that the weather up there was cold. A lie: it had been a balmy, golden fall. Russ sent her a check for two hundred dollars: he must have been drunk. And a letter. “Deirdre tells me I’m not a very good father, so let me try to make up for it a little. Besides, I’m being atrociously overpaid by Mr. Goldwyn.” Why did Deirdre even have to know? Melanctha considered tearing up the check and sending it back in fragments, but then did not.

  She went in to Boston on the subway, to Chandler’s and Stern’s and then out to Peck & Peck, on Newbury Street. She came back with so many bulky packages that she felt silly on the subway. She had bought a good tweed suit and some sweaters and a black silk dress, but not a new formal for the dance at Hilton, where she was supposed to go with Archer Bigelow at Thanksgiving.

  A couple of times in the Yard or around the Square, she had seen a tall, handsome medium-dark Negro boy, and at those times her vulnerable heart had leapt up and she thought, Ben Davis, Abby’s friend. But he was supposed to call her, after all, and she couldn’t exactly run up to him and ask, “Are you Benny Davis?” Suppose he wasn’t, he was just some other Negro boy, but he knew Ben Davis, and of course he would know why she thought it might have been. Melanctha found this small fantasy infinitely troubling, embarrassing. As though she had actually done that: rushed up to this handsome Negro and said, “Are you—”

  One night in Whitman Hall, the buzzer sounded; someone answered and then yelled out, “Byrd, line one. Melanctha!”

  This time it could be Ben Davis, she thought irrationally.

  A man’s voice, or a boy’s, but deep, and deeply Southern. (Or was it someone pretending to be Southern? Boys she went out with had done that, to tease her.) “Miss Melanctha Byrd? This here is Miss Melanctha?”

  Not Ben Davis; he wouldn’t talk like that. She said, “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m what you might call a friend.” A laugh, at which Melanctha began to feel an unaccountable fear.

  “We’ve sure looked each other over, you and me,” the voice went on. Was he drunk? He sounded a little like Russ imitating someone more drunk and more Southern even than he was. But of course it wasn’t Russ.

  “And I just wanted to tell you”—the man paused, did he almost laugh?—“tell you that you’ve got the greatest pair of boobs that I ever saw. Tits like that, well—Melanctha, are you there?”

  In the faintest, smallest voice Melanctha breathed out, “No,” as she hung up the phone. Clutching her robe around her as closely as possible, she somehow got back to her room; she closed the door and pushed a chair up against it. She got into bed and she lay there, wholly terrified. Disgraced. Mortified and embarrassed beyond all reason, or recall.

  He could have been anyone at all. Any of those faces, those eyes that have met her eyes. Anyone. It was that that Melanctha found so terrifying. She did not see how she could walk across the Yard again.

  She decided that she would, after all, go home for Thanksgiving. Maybe she could get so sick that she would never have to come back. Never hear that voice again, that horrifying voice that she might not even recognize.

  At the Deke House, in Hilton, on football weekends, in those bright electric days, the major event was the post-game, pre-dance party. The house then was packed with Dekes and their dates, and a few old grads, who generally did not bring their wives. The air, what air there was in that overcrowded room, smelled of bourbon and cigarettes, a few cigars; the powder and perfume of girls, and boys’ anxious sexy sweat. And noise: laughing and shouting, and people trying still to talk above all that. And somewhere a record playing “Tuxedo Junction.” And from down in the basement, what was called the Rebel Room, came more shouts, and a wilder noise of yelling—rebel yells.

  Melanctha, watching and feeling herself apart from all that, although
she was actually laughing and talking and drinking bourbon, at the same time distantly observed that all the girls in the room, in their too hot fall tweeds and pale cashmere sweaters—they all have perfect pancaked skin and small pearl teeth, small breasts and smooth blond hair, almost all of them. Except Melanctha, with her father’s hopeless dark curly hair and her mother’s breasts (did her mother get horrible phone calls, ever? No wonder she drank and went crazy).

  Melanctha has beautiful legs; all the boys say her legs are great and even some girls have said it. Melanctha doesn’t understand: what could be so great about legs, anyway? People don’t touch each other’s legs, as far as she knows. It’s not like breasts or skin.

  This particular party, along with celebrating the big Homecoming Game, was to welcome a special old grad, a Deke: the famous news correspondent Derek McFall. There in town for a speech he was going to give tomorrow, in the new Graham Memorial building. On postwar problems or something like that. Melanctha has seen pictures of Mr. McFall, seen him in newsreels—usually in his trench coat, with his collar turned up, and smoking cigarettes or a pipe. Good-looking, for someone his age: very tall, with straight blond hair. Deirdre claimed that she knew him in high school, but Deirdre could have got his name mixed up with someone else’s, especially since she was drunk when she said it—making such a big deal of it, of knowing Derek, at that awful party by the Bairds’ swimming pool in August.

  But at some point, looking across that crowded, smoky room, Melanctha thought that she actually saw Derek McFall, with a pretty blond lady who looked a lot like Mrs. Baird, Mrs. Cynthia Baird, from Pinehill. Abigail’s mother. (Once, Melanctha saw that Cynthia Baird out in the woods with Russ; they were kissing, so absorbed in it they never saw her.) But that was probably someone else across the room.

  Although Melanctha did not exactly use the word “hate” in thinking of her father, did not explicitly think, I hate my father, she did hate him. His presence to her was unendurable, almost, and she watched him continuously, meticulously: his deep dark and blue eyes, his huge hands gesturing clumsily in the air, his slow warm dishonest smile, pretending to like all the people who loved him too much.