Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse

by Faith Sullivan

  Not all of Chekhov’s characters were so disaffected, however, nor were all the folks in Harvester. The chumminess of a village suited many; others simply ceased to consider their own estrangement. Still, the intimacy she felt with these Russians was nearly unsettling. She found herself speaking aloud to them, to Vanya or Sonya or an old servant. “There, there. Can you find consolations here, in this place?”

  That was another thing about fiction; it could expand your humanity. Not that Nell flattered herself in that regard, but she recognized the possibility and hoped that reading might eventually help her. Who knew? If she read enough fiction, she might even soften toward Aunt Martha. Might.

  When John returned from the legislative session in late spring, he began motoring the back roads of his district, reconnecting with constituents, and this in a gasoline-operated Sears High-Wheel Buggy that frightened horses, terrified geese in farmyards, and raised storms of dust everywhere. In his law office, he caught up with the backlog and invited folks to stop in with their concerns.

  Occasionally that summer, he managed to attend a card game. One evening at Juliet and Laurence’s, he fell into a doze while sitting dummy. Snoring softly, he jerked to attention when Juliet prodded him, “You’re driving yourself too hard.”

  “It’s the nature of the beast, this political hobbyhorse I’m on,” he replied.

  Nell shook her head.

  Now and then John dropped in to see her on his way home from the office, sometimes as late as nine or ten at night, always apologizing for neglecting her and Hilly.

  One night he said, “If I asked how you’re spending your time now that I’m not hanging around, I’d sound presumptuous as hell. I expect you have more offers than you have evenings. But . . . how are you spending it?”

  “Being courted by Monsieurs Balzac and Flaubert and Misters Trollope and Twain, to name but four. I’m also on excellent terms with Miss Austen and Miss Eliot. We manage to fill the hours profitably.”

  “Well, don’t spend too many evenings with Monsieur Balzac. He’s a dour chap, I think.”

  Nell laughed. “My latest courtier is a fellow named Chekhov. You were instrumental there. Mr. Chekhov and I understand each other profoundly.”

  As he was leaving, John kissed Nell—not a simple buss this time, but something more. “I hope you won’t grow too fond of this gent Chekhov. Not sure I could compete with a doctor.”

  He needn’t have worried about Chekhov. That autumn Nell found another intimate altogether—a soulmate.

  On an October afternoon when the air was extravagant with the scent of bonfires and apples, Hilly joined Nell to walk home from school, stopping at the Water and Power Company on their way. Nell spied a book on a high shelf titled Love Among the Chickens, by someone named P. G. Wodehouse—a book left there by Cora, as it turned out.

  As though bewitched, Nell sighed, “Ah, yes,” and pulled the book down. Well, one doesn’t often come across a title like that, she thought.

  While Hilly leafed through an illustrated Wild West magazine from a lower shelf, Nell opened the volume and read. The scene selected at random took place on a golf course. The narrator recounted, “I drove off from the first tee. It was a splendid drive. I should not say so if there were anyone else to say it for me. Modesty would forbid. But, as there is no one, I must repeat the statement.”

  Later, dawdling along Main Street and casting an eye into store windows at goods she couldn’t afford, an irrational giddiness shook Nell, and her hand fluttered to her throat. Love Among the Chickens.

  Mr. Wodehouse, it turned out, was an entirely new experience. He was delicious, lighter than air. Generous to a fault. He made her laugh as no man ever had. Surely, he wrote only for her. His rhythms, the way his wit kissed a phrase and sent it dancing—these warmed her like summer. She laughed aloud and fell in love again and again.

  Since she had a great hunger to feel weightless and amused, to dismiss out of mind grubby envelopes and school boards and men who breezed off to state legislatures, Mr. Wodehouse came to live with her. No. She went to live with him. He was a friend who took her hand, saying, “I’ll show you an innocent place, and I’ll be there when you need me.” A gentle man.

  Other than that extra card from Juliet’s deck—“Wishing you luck in cards and love”—never had Nell stolen anything. But she did not return Love Among the Chickens to the Water and Power Company, and later, she would filch The Swoop! And, should any other volumes by Mr. Wodehouse fall into her hands . . . well, they would meet the same fate.

  chapter twenty-five

  DURING THE TWO YEARS of John’s term in the legislature, Nell watched Hilly growing into a young man. That he was plagued now and again by tormenters at school she was only peripherally aware, since he went to great lengths to protect her. To borrow a saying, Hilly played those cards close to his vest.

  But one December Saturday, late in 1911 and just before Hilly’s thirteenth birthday, Nell came across a note in a trousers pocket as she was gathering up laundry. “Little Milly Stillman. Any time you wanna show me you’re not made outta yellow crap, let me know so’s I can beat the rabbit shit outta you.” Nell sighed and tossed the note into the stove, thinking, if he can make it through these next several years, he’ll be fine. Then she sighed again, hating the wishing-away of his life in this manner.

  She had hoped that after John’s legislative stint, he would be back in their lives as he had been once, a strong masculine presence for Hilly. But in St. Paul, the Democrats had persuaded him to sign on for another run.

  The April morning was unseasonably warm. Through the open windows of the classroom came the sounds of birds racketing in the trees, horses clop-clopping in the street, and the occasional snort of an automobile.

  “Pass your spelling quiz to the person behind you,” Nell told her students. “Back row, bring yours to the front.”

  As the class exchanged the quizzes and prepared to correct them, someone knocked at the door, and Nell crossed to answer. Stepping into the hall, she half-closed the door.

  Minnie Monk, the secretary, stood outside fidgeting with a balled-up handkerchief. “That big ship went down,” she blurted.

  “What ‘big ship’? The Titanic?”

  “That’s it. Yes. It sank. Lots of people drowned. Mr. Brewster wants people to know in case anybody had kin on it.”

  A bolt of fear stunned Nell, followed by dizzying relief. George and Cora weren’t leaving for Europe until June, when young Laurence would be out of school. And of course this ship had been sailing in the opposite direction, toward America.

  Still, for the rest of the day and long after, the Titanic occupied a substratum of Nell’s consciousness. An entire ship. So many people. So quickly—virtually in the snapping of one’s fingers—they were gone. The cosmic capriciousness of it shook her. She felt as if she were only half-breathing—as if everyone was only half-breathing—waiting for a giant to stamp his foot.

  At lunch break, further details had come in on the Teletype at the depot. Walking home, she could not shake the vision of passengers unable to get into lifeboats, struggling in icy water, losing strength and finally hope. And the Titanic had been the finest ship ever built.

  Sitting on the bed, changing out of her shirtwaist, her heart was leaden, too heavy to hold up. She lay back on the quilt. So many poor in steerage. So many souls, each unique. She closed her eyes and groaned, mostly in anger.

  And then a strange thing happened. A part of her mind began drifting, and for minutes she had two minds, one agonizing over babies slipping from their mothers’ arms into the cold north Atlantic, the other floating, not quite against her will, into a daydream:

  Nell was walking to the depot with a letter for Mam, in Wisconsin. If the letter went east on today’s train, Mam would have it tomorrow. Handing the letter to Mr. Loftus, Nell turned to leave.

  There, on a bench in the waiting room, a traveler sat, his bags at his feet. He nodded and she returned the greeting. But bef
ore she could reach the door, he rose—and she could see that he had a question.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “may I trouble you?”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m between trains on my way to Denver to deliver a talk at a university. I have several hours’ wait, and I was hoping to find a restaurant where I could enjoy a meal and while away a bit of time.”

  His accent was British, his voice pleasant, his manner winning.

  “I’m sorry—I should have said—my name is Pelham Grenville Wodehouse.” He extended a hand and she shook it.

  “Nell Stillman.”

  Nell was so shaken that she did not acknowledge recognizing his name. She groped for words. “There’s . . . there’s not a lot of choice,” she told him. “But I should say your best bet is the Harvester Arms Hotel. I’ve never eaten there, so I can’t vouch for the food, but I’m told it will do in a pinch.”

  “Well, this seems to qualify as a pinch.”

  “If you follow me, I’ll walk you there. It’s on my way.” Well, it was nearly on her way. They left Wodehouse’s bags with Mr. Loftus and set out.

  For her kindness, Wodehouse invited her to join him for the meal, and so it was that Nell “whiled away a bit of time” with her literary hero, discussing all manner of things but mostly books, including Love Among the Chickens. Though her collection was limited, she confessed to being a devoted fan.

  “Is that so?” He seemed surprised and inordinately pleased.

  Then, as often happened in the middle of a stimulating conversation, the quotidian intervened. Nell heard the outside door, and the two halves of her mind slowly merged. Hilly was home. The bedside clock read five past five, and there was supper to put on the table.

  chapter twenty-six

  “HILLYARD, MAY I SPEAK WITH YOU?” Abel Timms, who taught history and coached the school’s scant physical-fitness program, called to Hilly in the hallway.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m getting together a running club. Some schools in the county are holding competitions next spring. I figure it’s not too early to get started.”

  Hilly nodded.

  “It wouldn’t take much of your time.”

  An outright “No” felt impolite.

  “You’ve got the build,” Timms continued, “and I need a man in the two-mile category. Think it over.”

  A man. What he meant, Hilly knew, was an “available body.” Still, he was flattered. He’d never been asked to join anything. “I’ll think about it, sir.”

  Timms nodded. “Let me know what you decide.”

  That night at supper, Hilly told Nell. “Mr. Timms wants me to join the running club. He thinks I could be a distance runner.”

  “That’s grand,” Nell said, passing Hilly the bowl of gravy. “How far does a distance runner run?”

  “He mentioned two miles.”

  “Will you say yes?”

  “Now that I’m working after school, I don’t have much time.”

  “True,” she said. “But it would do you good to be out exercising with the other boys.” She slid the plate of sausage patties toward him. “It’s up to you.”

  In the end, the decision was made for him. While he paid for a roll of kite string in Blankenship’s Hardware the next day, he overheard two women discussing a mutual acquaintance. He reddened as he realized it was Nell.

  “I hear she’s set her cap for John Flynn.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, you know, Elsie saw her drinking champagne at the Lundeen wedding reception. And her a teacher, mind you.”

  “And there was that girl who got in a family way.”

  “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but in my day a schoolmarm didn’t try to be more than she was. Which in this case is shanty Irish.”

  Hilly paid for the string and left, cheeks flaming. Witches. Clucking hens. How dare they discuss a fellow’s mother in public! His anger only ripened through the day. If he were older, he’d join the army and be heroic and earn medals—then everybody would know that his mother was a good person. And he’d send home his pay so she could buy a real sofa like the one he’d seen in the Sears, Roebuck catalog. But he wasn’t old enough to join the army. Yet.

  Then he recalled Mr. Timms. What if he became a champion runner? People wouldn’t dare disrespect his mother then. If the boys on the team called him mama’s boy, well, maybe that was all to the good. He’d show them what a mama’s boy could do!

  After school the next day, Hilly found Timms and told him, “I guess it’d be okay, you know, to run.”

  “Good for you, son,” Mr. Timms said, grasping Hilly’s shoulder. “Start running in your spare time, build up your lungs and legs for spring.”

  Son.

  With school out, Hilly began working full-time at Kolchak’s Dray and Livery, where his father had worked. It pleased him to do some of the same jobs Herbert had done—cleaning out the horse stalls, making sure the animals had fresh feed and water, and currying them when they came in at the end of the day.

  Sometimes Hilly climbed on a dray wagon with Arnie Kolchak or Ted Shuetty. Riding along to the depot to pick up freight, or to the furniture store to deliver a sofa or icebox, the men often let Hilly take the reins. He always hoped that one of the school bullies would see him driving the horses. He felt bigger than himself then.

  Hilly enjoyed the heavy lifting as well. “Look at them muscles you’re getting,” Ted Shuetty told him. “Another year or two, you’ll be boxing at the county fair.” And the next time somebody pushed Hilly around, maybe he’d push back.

  But he still saw his mother’s livid face. Don’t ever hit! Do you hear?

  To find time for running, Hilly rose at 5:30, heading into the country before breakfast. Most mornings he jogged past the school, through the park, down the cemetery road, and a mile beyond.

  At first, running felt pointless and arduous, so he began imagining that he was running to someone’s aid: his mother had fallen, turning her ankle; John’s car was stuck in a ditch; a big dog had taken off after Diana Hapgood.

  He had ongoing dreams of heroism. Oh, not just a running hero, winning trophies—but also a hero who did good in the world. Maybe someone like . . . well, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but a person who saved lives in some way.

  One thing he noticed about running was that after fifteen or twenty minutes, a knot in his gut he hadn’t known was there began to unclench. He didn’t know what that was about, but it felt good. He seemed lighter by about five pounds. And faster, as if he had wings on his feet. Like Mercury!

  And when he flew like Mercury, sometimes he flew to India—he saw himself floating down the Ganges on a big raft with a makeshift shelter so he could escape the sun in the heat of the day. Along the shore women chattered and washed clothes against the rocks, and mellow temple bells sounded, and smoke writhed from funeral pyres.

  Then, on another morning, his winged feet took him to Delphi, in Greece, where he raced in the Delphic Games in a magnificent stadium halfway up a mountain. There he was crowned with laurel, and his mother was proud, and they both drank from the Castalian Spring, which gave men (and surely women, too) the gift of eloquence.

  Every morning he flew somewhere. Usually far away. But, closer to home, the cemetery road was his favorite flight. Often he stopped to visit his father’s grave. But never again did he see that huge white swan—though he kept hoping.

  Nearer town, on the cemetery road, lived Grandpa Hapgood and Diana. Unmarried, she was an object of conjecture in the village. So pretty and neat about her person, people said. Pleasant when met on the street. Why had she remained unwed? Early orphaned, she seemed content to keep house for the old man and to mentor new teachers. There must be a story there, people figured. It wasn’t natural.

  “Miss Hapgood,” Hilly called one day, seeing her at the porch railing, shaking dust from a rag rug.

  “Hilly. Can you stop?”

  “For a minute.” He still enjoyed an occasional game of chess
with Grandpa, but he had less free time since he’d taken up running.

  Inside, Grandpa Hapgood rose from the breakfast table, a cup of coffee sitting by his egg-smeared plate. “Have some breakfast, Hilly?”

  “No, thank you, sir. Mama’s waiting with mine before I go to work.”

  “Still at the dray?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry I haven’t been around. How are you keeping?”

  “Pretty fair. Diana looks after me. Coffee at least?”

  “Could you come for supper?” Diana asked, pouring coffee from an enamel pot and setting a cup in front of Hilly. “George Lundeen came by with a string of fish, and we have new peas.” Hilly nodded.

  “Larry is what his dad calls him now,” Grandpa Hapgood said that evening, referring to young Laurence, now in the sixth grade.

  “Fine-lookin’ boy. Dark. Takes after his dad, though George’s gone gray. Darned young to go gray. Must be hard on him, the wife being crippled. He don’t complain, though.” The old man paused, sucking on his corncob pipe. He shook his head. “Nice woman, the wife. She and her mother-in-law’ll build us a library one of these days, I don’t doubt.”

  Diana Hapgood stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “More coffee, Grandpa? Hilly, would you like another piece of cake?”

  At the cleared dining table, Hilly looked up from the chessboard where he had lined up his men. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Timms has got you running,” the teacher noted.

  “Yes, ma’am. He says that next year our club will get together with clubs from St. Bridget and Red Berry and we’ll run races. He says I’m built for long-distance running. Probably the two-mile.”

  During their second game, Grandpa asked Hilly, “Whatever happened to that pretty little thing that lived with you and your mother? The one that worked at the dry-goods store?”