Her hands gripped mine still tighter and she smiled.
“You’ve been so sweet. You won’t get tired of me, will you?”
Bill was singing an old song which wasn’t so old then, from a musical comedy which I had seen before I had gone to the war.
“First they say, here comes the bride,” as nearly as I can remember it, “and then she’s off to Reno.”
Kay turned her head to listen.
“Don’t you remember the rest of it?” she called across the room. “‘I want to be a good little wife, in the good old-fashioned way.’”
“That’s right,” Bill called back. “That’s it.”
The party broke up early so that Kay and I could be rested. I remember that Bill did not say much when we got back to our room in Mrs. Motford’s cousin’s house.
“Bill,” I said, “I’m awfully lucky.”
Bill was leaning over his suitcase. He pulled out a flask and shook it beside his ear.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I’m awfully lucky, Bill,” I said.
“That’s right,” Bill answered.
Then he took a small white pill out of a bottle.
“Take this,” he said, “and take a glass of water and maybe you’ll get some sleep.”
“What is it?” I asked. “I don’t need any drug to make me go to sleep.”
“You take it and like it,” Bill said. “I don’t want to listen to you pitching around all night.”
I got into bed and Bill crawled into the twin bed beside me and switched on the light and began to read The Trojan Women, which he had brought with him. It seemed to me that he looked a little pale and tired, now that he was reading. After a while he closed the book and looked up at the ceiling and began to talk. He began to tell me about all the things he had been doing in New York and about all the people he was seeing—artists and actors and writers.
“It’s different,” I heard him say, “not one of them is married—not seriously. I suppose it’s what I’m meant for—here today and gone tomorrow.” I must have gone to sleep while he was talking.
Mrs. Motford’s cousin sent us up our breakfast on two trays, and when we were dressing all our pajamas and collar studs and collars seemed to get mixed up with eggshells and pieces of toast and empty orange-juice glasses.
“You’d better take a drink,” Bill said.
“No,” I said, “and at any rate I never drink in the morning.”
“Well, if I were going through what you’re going through I would,” Bill said, and he went into the bathroom for a glass. Then he began worrying about the ring and the gold piece and I had to help him find his tie and his socks.
“You act as though you were getting married yourself,” I told him.
“Maybe I am,” said Bill, “by proxy.”
It amused me, until I remembered how much he had been drinking the day before and that he had not been able to eat much breakfast.
“Bill,” I said, “you aren’t feeling sick or anything?”
“Me sick?” Bill said.
Bill and I were out by the altar and everyone was standing up and all the ushers and bridesmaids were walking up the aisle. I saw Mother standing beside Mary and I saw that she and Mrs. Motford were both crying. The clergyman, who wore glasses with heavy lenses and had an Adam’s apple, swallowed twice and opened his book. Then I saw Mr. Motford, and Kay, holding her father’s arm and looking straight ahead. Then the music stopped and the clergyman swallowed again and began to read.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here—”
The air was heavy with flowers, the way it always is at funerals and weddings, and as I stood listening to the cadence of the words, I was thinking of something that Kay had said, a long while ago, about a period and a paragraph. Those sentences were like closing doors, shutting out all sorts of things that might have haphened, and I wondered if Kay thought so too, as she stood beside me.
“I do,” I heard myself saying.
Then I was only thinking about Kay—that from now on I must look after Kay; no matter what else there was, Kay and I were there.
We stood side by side at the reception surrounded by everyone who was glad that it was over, talking and laughing, shaking hands, trying to remember everyone, trying to say something adequate.
The Skipper’s face was in front of me for a moment, and I heard him tell Kay that he had done his best and that it was her turn now. Then I saw Mr. Wilding and my Uncle Bob and my Great-aunt Frederica, and then I saw Major Groves with whom I had served in France. He moved in front of me out of that sea of faces.
“Why,” I asked him, “how did you get here?”
He said that he had come from Toledo and that he would not have missed it for the world. Then there were lots of children, distant cousins of Kay’s and mine—shy little girls with straight long hair and little boys in hot blue suits, who looked the way Kay and I must have looked once. Later Kay and I and all the ushers and bridesmaids sat at a table, eating chicken salad and bricks of ice cream—layers of vanilla, orange sherbet and chocolate. Then I was up in a guest room and Bill was helping me get into some other clothes. Bill had brought up two bottles of champagne and we both had a drink and while I was dressing Bill sat on the window sill, finishing the second bottle by himself.
“I’m damned if I see how you got through with it without pooping out,” he said.
“Have I got everything in my bag?” I asked.
“Have you got everything in your bag! Don’t ask me that again. Everything’s in your suitcase and your suitcase is in the car and your tickets are in your pocket.”
Then when I was getting into my trousers there was a knock on the door.
“Oh, my,” Bill said, “it’s the Zephyr Club.”
“Bill,” I told him, “if you don’t mind, you’d better go out for a minute.”
“All right, boys,” Bill said. “I don’t belong to any lodge, but if I go out you see that Harry buttons his pants, or do you want to wrap him in a sheet?”
“Go on out, Bill,” I said. “It won’t take long.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, fellows,” Bill said. “I’m leaving right away.”
I wished that the Club had not come in just then, because Bill made us all seem a little foolish.
Even when Kay and I were on the train in our drawing room, we did not seem to be by ourselves. Kay was in her “going-away” dress, but as far as I was concerned she was still in her white satin wedding gown. All we could talk about was the wedding. All the way to New York and over the dinner we had served in the drawing room, but which neither of us really wanted to eat, we talked about what had happened, and each of us had noticed something which the other had not. Every now and then our glances met in a strange sort of astonishment, and I remembered that we would be going away tomorrow on an ocean voyage. I had heard that times like this frighten girls, and I hoped she was not frightened. I wanted to tell her not to be, but she seemed to be taking it all for granted, still talking about the wedding. When we began to see the city lights in the dark outside the windows little silences fell between us which we both joined in struggling against. I reached for her left hand where it lay in her lap with her engagement ring and her wedding ring on the third finger—a plain gold wedding ring, because she did not believe in platinum.
“Kay,” I said, “I’m awfully glad we’re married.”
“So am I,” she said. “I wonder what’s happened to Bill? I’m afraid he’s got awfully drunk.”
“Bill’s all right,” I said.
Then the porter pressed the little button by the door and Kay pulled her hand away.
“Harry,” she said, “have you got all the ribbons off the bags?”
“Yes,” I said.
The porter came in smiling. We would be at the Grand Central in a few minutes now.
“He knows we’re just married,” Kay said. “I hope everybody isn’t going to think that we’re just married.”
/> “There’s no reason why anyone should,” I answered. “I feel as though we had been married for quite a while.”
Kay looked at herself in the mirror and straightened her hat and pulled on her gloves. I still had the feeling that when we got off the train I should be seeing her to some friend’s house.
“Harry,” she said, “the hotel—”
“Lots of people stay at hotels,” I said.
“I’m glad you reminded me,” Kay answered. “When we get there I’ll take off my glove so they can see my ring.”
“It’s going to be all right,” I said. “You just stay with the bellboys and the bags and I’ll go up to the desk.”
“Harry,” she said, “won’t you please kiss me?”
“Why, yes, of course,” I said.
“Don’t say ‘of course’! Just kiss me.”
When we walked up to the desk together—with the cashier’s cage and the telephones and all the pigeonholes full of letters—I hoped that we both appeared bored and casual. The clerk was talking to a fat man holding a smoldering cigar and we had to wait until he was finished.
“There is a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Pulham,” I said, and then I signed the card—Mr. and Mrs. Henry Pulham.
“I hope the room isn’t going to be noisy and near the elevator,” Kay said.
I knew she was saying it because the bellboys were there.
“Oh, well,” I said, “it’s only for tonight.”
The remark did not make much sense. Both of us must have known it was not only for tonight but always. I gave a quarter to each of the two boys who carried our bags, and they closed the door and left us. My suitcase rested on the luggage stand in front of one twin bed and Kay’s was on the other with her new initials C. M. P. upon it. Beside it was her round hatbox with the same initials. I stood there with my overcoat over one arm and my hat in my hand and Kay stood beside me. The bedroom was clean and impersonal. The bathroom was white and shining.
“Well,” Kay said, “it’s awfully nice,” but she didn’t look at me. She sat down in front of the dressing table and took off her hat with a quick decisive little jerk. Then she took off her gloves more slowly and raised her fingers to her hair, and then she stood up.
“Well,” she said.
“Here’s the sitting room,” I said. “We haven’t seen that yet.” We walked into the little sitting room.
“Oh,” Kay said, “it’s lovely.”
It really had the colorless elaborateness of any sitting room in any good hotel—a sofa covered with brocade, two brocade armchairs, one or two other stiff-backed chairs and two tables with contorted-looking lamps. On the wall were a French mirror and imitation French prints of decorous doings in Versailles. I have often thought that there must be a factory somewhere that turns out those prints like postage stamps.
“It isn’t bad,” I said. “You must be awfully tired.”
“I’m not tired exactly,” she answered, “but I suppose we’ll have to get up early tomorrow.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not tired at all. I think I’ll sit here and read for about half an hour—in case you want to go to bed.”
Kay had been examining one of the scenes at Versailles very carefully; when she turned away from it she was smiling.
“Harry,” she said, “I’ll bet you’ve been thinking of that speech for hours. Is that why you took the sitting room? Is it?”
“Well, in a way,” I said.
“All right,” Kay said. “I’ll call you.”
I sat down and opened a book, but I did not have time to begin reading before she called me from the bedroom.
“Yes,” I said, “what is it, Kay?”
Something in her voice had startled me, but nothing was the matter.
“Do you mind leaving the door open so we can talk?”
“Of course,” I said. I heard her draw her breath in sharply.
“Harry—” she began. “Oh, never mind.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “What is it?”
“Harry, I’m not sure we love each other.”
“What?” I said.
“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t it be awful if we thought we loved each other and really didn’t? What I really mean is—if we only got married because we thought we ought to!”
She was thinking just what I was thinking and she had not been afraid to say it.
“Kay,” I said, “maybe everybody feels that way. Maybe millions and millions of people always have,” and then I put my arms around her and kissed her. “Don’t worry. Everything’s all right, Kay.”
“Darling,” she said, and I kissed her again. “I didn’t want to be silly—but I suppose all girls are.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“It’s all right as long as you’re here,” Kay said. “You won’t leave me, will you?”
“No,” I said.
“Not ever?”
“No,” I said.
“And you’ll leave the door open, won’t you, while you’re reading?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Darling,” Kay said, “it’s just a little thing, but could you just stop saying ‘of course’?”
“Why, yes, Kay,” I said, “of course.”
XXVI
The Music Goes Round and Round
It has always seemed to me that whenever I have wanted to get away by myself to read or to think, all the rest of the family have always found out where I was. In North Harbor there was a room upstairs called my dressing room with a single window that looked over the latticed clothesyard and the service entrance. I could never imagine why that room could be attractive to anyone except to me, but once I got in it everyone else came there. That was where I had the mission desk which used to be in my room at college and where I kept my checkbook and papers. There was an armchair and a radio and some tobacco and a closet, theoretically for my clothes, but half of it filled with old evening dresses which Kay could not decide whether or not to give away. When I was at North Harbor, particularly on my vacation, I used to try to get off into my dressing room to read the newspaper and to pay the bills.
There was a bill I had to pay for George’s tennis lessons, $16.50, to the order of the professional at the Harbor Club. When I took up my checkbook I was not sure of the date, for days had a way of slipping into each other when I was out of the office. I looked at a tin desk calendar, first recalling the day of the week, a Thursday. The calendar had been sent me by my classmate Robert Ridge, and on the metal work was stamped: “With the hearty best wishes of Robert Ridge—Life Insurance,” and beneath in quotations was stamped: “Fleeting days.” It was a Thursday near the end of August, 1939, half-past nine in the morning, a clear, warm day.
Beneath me I could hear Jerry, the chore-man, carrying out the wastepaper and the ashes, and I could hear the maids on the kitchen porch quarreling about the Irish Free State. I wrote out the check, and addressed the envelope.
There was nothing to do until I went down to the beach with Kay at twelve, and so it seemed to me that I might be able to make a start at writing my Class life. I had thought about it a good deal, but only up to the time when Kay and I were married.
There did not seem to be so much worth writing about in the succeeding years. I could not understand it, because they were the years on which my life was built, and yet they seemed to be crowded all together in a much more confined space than that earlier time. It all made me try to think of something that would represent it, of some sort of simile. I looked out of the window at the clothesyard where my shirts were drying, all mixed together with garments of George’s and Gladys’, and with some slips and tennis dresses of Kay’s; I watched them all dancing in the breeze, thrown together in an aimless sort of plan over which they had no more control than Kay or George or Gladys or I who would wear them when they were ironed, and then I had it—a simile for my life. Sometimes at parties in town Bob Carroll would bring his big accordion and he would stand up and play all the old
tunes on it. Sometimes when he was playing the accordion would all be creased up tightly at one end, while the other end was all pulled out, and all the music would be squeezed out of one end while the other was still full of sound. Now, my life was rather that way too. The years of the latter twenties and the thirties were telescoped together, while the years before them were stretched out, still playing a sort of music. What happened later may have been important, but it did not seem to matter, because I had grown used to all of it. I knew what Kay would say, for instance, and what I would answer, without having to think about it. Perhaps all years close in together when you grow more capable, but back there when I knew Marvin Myles and when I was engaged to Kay I did not know the answers. That must have been why this time was mysterious and arresting whenever I went back to it.
It gave me a guilty conviction, sitting alone in my dressing room, trying to piece such thoughts together: that it was all a waste of time and that I should be doing something else—reading a good book, for instance. Somehow there never had been time to read, for something always came up which I had to attend to. Back in the twenties the children were being born, or being ill, and there was Mother’s illness and death, and the time I had to untangle the estate after the Pritchard office had got through with it, and then there was Mr. Wilding’s death, and the crash, and then the trouble when Smith and Wilding had nearly gone to the wall. It always seemed that, when I finished with one particular problem, there would be time to read or time to think—but there was always something else. There would be a dinner party or Gladys would fall downstairs or the cook would have a gall-bladder attack. Now just last week, when I had thought that I could get away from the office, the European situation started up again. I had to decide whether or not to sell out pound accounts that some clients were holding in Barclay’s Bank. It surprised me that several clients felt that I was letting the British Empire down when I advised them to sell, but it was just as well that I advised them. There was always something that I had to cope with, when I least expected it. For instance, there was the time when Gladys’ nurse was thrown down by her boy friend and Kay found her in the bathroom drinking iodine. You never could tell what was going to happen in a house, whether you were going to be a figure of fun or a doctor or a veterinarian.
H. M. Pulham, Esquire Page 30