H. M. Pulham, Esquire

by John P. Marquand

  Outside the window Jerry, the hired man, was lifting a galvanized ashcan up the bulkhead steps from the cellar. There was a sudden crash and the whole thing fell back into the cellar. Something like that was always happening. I wondered if Jerry were covered by the new liability insurance.

  “Jerry,” I shouted out the window, “what’s the matter?”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Pulham,” Jerry called back. “It just slipped out from between my hands.”

  Then I heard a knock on the dressing room door. It would be Ellen, the maid, because no one else would knock.

  “It’s Mrs. Frear on the telephone to speak to Mr. Pulham,” Ellen said.

  “Harry,” Mrs. Frear said, “you and Kay haven’t bought tickets for the minstrel show tomorrow night for the library—you know—we have it every year.”

  The day was going to turn out the way every other day on my vacation turned out as soon as I got into the dressing room and tried to read and think.

  When I put up the telephone George appeared. He pushed the door open with a bang, hit against a small table and knocked two books and a pipe off of it.

  “Pick those up,” I said, “and look where you’re going.”

  “Hey, boss,” George said.

  It was often difficult for me to understand what had happened to George. A few years ago he had been a little boy with a pail, who kept slipping off the rocks into the water. Now he was nearly as tall as I was and his arms were too long and his nose was too big and his face was marred by that adolescent disease known as acne. I tried to remember whether I had ever been like George and I could not believe it.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Have you got the keys to the Ford?” George asked.

  “What do you want the Ford for?”

  “I just want to practise running it around,” George said.

  “Your mother and I have told you that you can’t run it around,” I said, “unless someone is with you.”

  “Well, how can I ever get a license if I can’t learn how to drive?” George asked. “I just want to practise backing.”

  “You know what happened the last time,” I told him. “You ripped off the garage door and it cost me fifty dollars.”

  “Well, it wasn’t my fault,” George said. “The wind made that door slam just when I was backing.”

  “Now, listen, George,” I told him, “when I was your age—” and then I stopped, because George was not much interested and I was not interested either. “Go on and get out of here,” I said.

  “Well, boss,” George said, “can I have a dollar?”

  “What do you want a dollar for?” I asked.

  “Well, some of us are going out to the movies,” George said, “and I borrowed a dollar from Gladys. I’ve got to give it back, haven’t I?”

  I felt in my pocket for a dollar. I was wearing some old tennis flannels which were turning slightly yellow and there was no money in them. I got up and opened the closet door. My wallet was not in my gray suit or my blue suit.

  “Where in hell has my wallet gone?” I said.

  “It’s on your bureau,” George said.

  “Well, take a dollar out of it,” I said, “and leave it just where it is.”

  “Say, boss,” George said, “sometime I’d like to have a talk with you about money. If I had a bigger allowance I could buy my clothes and I wouldn’t have to keep asking. It’s humiliating.”

  “Get out now,” I said. “I’m busy.”

  “Well, this is your vacation, isn’t it?” George asked.

  “Get out,” I said. “I’m busy.”

  George hit against the table again. Two books and a pipe fell off, but I did not bother to pick them up.

  I realized that sometime I ought to have a good long talk with George. When he was back from school, either he was busy or I was. I had heard a good deal about being a companion to one’s son, about being pals and doing things together. Perhaps it was my fault that George and I were not exactly pals, but I was not sure. It seemed to me that George did not particularly crave my company, and that his world only touched mine when he wanted something or made too much noise eating. To reach a basis for companionship I had to thumb back through my memory to the time when I had been George’s age and all I could recall was that I had been sensitive and shy and not in the least like George.

  “George.” I could hear Kay’s voice somewhere out in the front hall. “Do you know where your father is?”

  Then I heard Kay walking through our bedroom with quick, brisk steps. Kay was in a white tennis dress with a green eyeshade pulled over her forehead. She was holding a pad and pencil which indicated that she was on her way to the kitchen to see about the ordering.

  “Harry,” she said, “have you seen Gladys?”

  “Gladys? No,” I said.

  “Did you see her at breakfast?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She was going out to study insects.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t do that,” Kay said. “I don’t think it’s normal.”

  “It won’t do any harm,” I said. “Maybe she’s a genius.”

  “It isn’t normal,” Kay said. “They say at school that she does too much imaginary play.”

  “When that school teaches her long division and how to spell,” I said, “I’ll listen to them.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” Kay said, “and you don’t try to learn.”

  “The year before last,” I said, “she was an Eskimo and the year before that she was an Indian and this year she’s a Viking, and she can’t do long division and the tuition is seven hundred dollars.”

  “Let’s not go into it,” Kay said. “It’s easy to be cheap and cynical and funny.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s not go into it.”

  “What are you doing up here anyway?” Kay said suddenly. “Why aren’t you outdoors?”

  “I’ll be out pretty soon,” I said. “There are just some things I wanted to attend to.”

  “When I finish the ordering,” Kay said, “suppose we go out and play some tennis.”

  “I’d like to,” I said, “but not right now. I’ve got to call up the office, and then there’re some bills.”

  Kay sat down in the Morris chair and sighed.

  “I wonder why it is,” she said, “when we’re alone together we always start talking about bills and money.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s the way it always is.”

  Kay sighed again.

  “This room is an awful mess,” she said, “because you won’t let anyone move anything. I don’t see why you want to sit here when you have the whole house. Harry, do you love me?”

  “What?” I said. “Of course I love you.”

  “Then don’t look so nervous,” Kay said. “What’s so funny in my asking if you love me?”

  “I didn’t say there was anything funny about it,” I said.

  “I don’t see,” Kay said, “why we can’t talk naturally and not argue.”

  “Listen, Kay,” I said, “I’d love to talk, but I just came up here to be out of the way.”

  “Harry,” she said, “come and get your racket. Let’s go out and play some tennis.”

  “This afternoon maybe,” I said. “I’m really busy now, Kay.”

  It was like a thousand other conversations. I knew what she would say before she said it.

  “All right,” she said again. “Just don’t say we never do things together.”

  “We never want to do things together at the same time,” I said, but her mind was already on something else.

  “You know we’re going out to lunch?” she said. “Harry, have your clothes come back from the cleaner’s?”

  “Yes, they’re back,” I said.

  “Then wear some other trousers,” Kay said. “Those are awfully tight for you and, Harry—is Bill King coming tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, Bill’s coming,” I said. “I just got a wire.”

&nb
sp; “I wish I didn’t have to think of everything,” Kay said. “Have Bill and Elise really broken up?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I guess so.”

  “I wonder what was the matter,” Kay said.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “You never can tell about things like that.”

  “Harry,” said Kay, “can’t we ever talk about anything?”

  I got up and took her hands and pulled her out of the chair.

  “Come on,” I said, “and get your racket. I’ll play if you want.”

  She looked happy when I put my arm around her. She laughed and rubbed her cheek against my shoulder.

  “I don’t know how I’ve stood you so long,” she said, and then she added quickly, “I don’t mean that. It’s just awful living together in a house so long.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve had a pretty good time, take it all in all.”

  “Harry,” Kay said. “You’re worried about something. Are you thinking about Bill?”

  “No,” I said. “I was thinking about the war. I want to listen to the news at twelve o’clock.”

  “I know,” Kay said. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s like an accordion,” I said.

  “Like an accordion?” she repeated. “What is?”

  “Time,” I told her. “It’s all squashed up between the two wars.”

  Kay laughed.

  “There’s one thing anyway,” she said. “I never know when you’re going to be funny.”

  She stood in the hall, swinging her tennis racket.

  “Go out and get the Ford,” she said. “And don’t start pulling things around in the garage or else we won’t get a court. You know how it is at the Club with all those college boys.”

  I walked past the clothesyard toward the garage and found Gladys lying on her stomach in the long brownish grass.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  She turned her head around without getting up or even getting off her stomach. I saw her eyes watching me sideways with an expression of patient resentment that I should have interrupted her.

  “What are you doing on your belly in the grass?” I asked her. “If you lie there long enough you’ll get a stomach ache and ants will get into your clothes.”

  “I’m studying nature,” Gladys said.

  She said it as though I were an outsider who could not understand, and it was true. I could not understand.

  “Well, what about nature?” I asked.

  She told me that she was looking at a spider through the magnifying glass.

  “I used to like spiders,” I said. “Let me look.” I crawled over beside her, although I knew that she did not really want me there, because it was her spider, not mine.

  “He’s got bristles on his legs,” she said.

  I was very much pleased when she said it and I tried to think of something suitable to reply.

  “All spiders are covered with bristles. It must be so birds can’t eat them.”

  Then I heard Kay’s voice speaking above us.

  “Harry, I thought you were going to get the car. What on earth are you doing?”

  I pulled myself to my hands and knees.

  “We were looking at a spider,” I said.

  “You know we won’t get a court if you don’t hurry,” Kay said. “Gladys, I thought you were going to play with Alberta.”

  “I don’t want to,” Gladys said.

  “Why not?” Kay asked.

  “Because she’s all wet,” Gladys said.

  “Then go down to the beach,” Kay said, “and stop lying in the grass.”

  I felt embarrassed that Kay had found us there. I should have gone to the garage for the car. I should have known that I could not get back to a world which I had left forever—one which Gladys would be leaving soon, before she knew that she was leaving it.

  I backed the car out of the garage and Kay got in.

  “Why is it,” Kay asked, “any time you start doing anything with me you always end by doing something else?”

  “You always do the same thing,” I said. “You always forget your purse or you have to telephone someone.”

  “Harry,” Kay said, “let’s not fight.”

  We drove for a while without speaking, past the bathing beach where the automobiles were already beginning to gather and past the new houses on the cliff. It was a beautiful clear day with a touch of coolness in the air. Autumn always came early in North Harbor. I glanced at Kay, who sat looking straight ahead holding her racket between her knees. I was wondering how it would be if Kay and I did not know exactly how everything would react upon each other. I was wondering how it would be if without knowing each other so well we both tried to be agreeable. Then I knew it was impossible. Simply by having been together so long we could never get back to that.

  “I don’t know why everybody says you have a faculty with children,” Kay said.

  “I didn’t know everybody said so.”

  “Oh, yes, you did. That’s why you always keep acting like Uncle Remus.”

  “I just wanted to see what Gladys is like,” I said. “I don’t see the children very much.”

  “That’s why they like you,” Kay said. “You’re a novelty. I’m not.”

  “I know,” I said, “that’s true. But lot’s not argue about it, Kay.”

  “Why is it,” Kay asked, “that any time I say anything to you you say I’m arguing?”

  I did not answer.

  “What are you thinking about?” Kay asked.

  “I’m thinking about Hitler,” I said.

  “Oh, God,” Kay said, “Hitler!”

  Kay was almost right about the tennis courts. By the time we had got to the Club and parked the car there was only one left—the worst one in the far corner. Nearly all the others were filled with boys and girls who looked at Kay and me peculiarly and called me “sir.” I saw George playing doubles with the little Goodwin girl who had a wall-eye. I could not understand what there could possibly be about her that was attractive. George looked at us much the way Gladys did when I saw her in the grass and I heard him say to the Goodwin girl, “They still play all right.”

  “George is out there again with that Goodwin girl,” Kay said.

  “Well, never mind about it,” I told her.

  “Now, go ahead,” said Kay, “and smash them! And don’t try to be gallant. You’re perfectly maddening when you try to be gallant.”

  Kay always played a hard fast game. I could beat her, but it was never easy. We played for an hour hardly speaking and by the time we got through I think we both felt a good deal better about each other. We walked to the clubhouse like friends who did not know one another too well.

  “You’re awfully good,” Kay said. “Your backhand’s better.”

  “So is yours,” I said.

  “You know darned well,” Kay said, “I always had a good backhand. You used to tell me so.”

  I’d entirely forgotten that I used to tell her so, but now that she reminded me I remembered.

  “Where are we going to lunch?” I asked.

  “We’re going to the Buhlfields’.”

  “The Buhlfields’?” I repeated. “Who are the Buhlfields?”

  Kay shrugged her shoulders and made a cut at the air with her racket.

  “Don’t try to pretend that you don’t know who they are,” she said. “They’ve come up here every summer for the past ten years and you’re the one who always says it’s nice to be gracious to new people. They’ve asked Mary and Jim and now we’ve got to go.”

  “All right,” I said, “all right.”

  “It isn’t all right,” Kay said. “I don’t like it any better than you do. That Ethel Buhlfield’s voice goes right through my ears.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Please,” Kay said, “don’t keep saying ‘All right’!”

  XXVII

  We Westerners Like Our Fish

  I could not seem to remember ver
y much about the Buhlfields, except that they came from some place near. Chicago like Lake Forest, but it was not Lake Forest. Evan Buhlfield had made a lot of money in 1929, and judging from his house he must have kept some of it. It was one of those new stucco houses that were built in that period in an attempt to bring a California Spanish influence to the coast of Maine. There was a court in the middle of it which Mr. Buhlfield called a “patio” and a terrace overlooking the sea where we had cocktails. It was true what Kay had said about Mrs. Buhlfield’s voice. It had a way of going through you and it sounded a little bitter.

  “Why, Mr. Pulham,” she said, “I’m glad you managed to come.”

  Mary was drinking a second Martini. I had not seen her in quite a while.

  “What are you doing here, dearie?” Mary said.

  “How about you?” I asked. “What are we both doing here?”

  “Oh,” Mary said, “never mind. How’s Kay?”

  “Kay’s fine,” I said.

  “I know,” Mary said. “Kay’s always fine.”

  Two maids in lavender uniforms with frilly aprons came passing cocktails and little sandwiches shaped like hearts and pieces of smoked salmon on crackers. Mary finished her cocktail and took another.

  “Mary,” I said, “those are double Martinis. I wouldn’t take any more.”

  “Stop being my brother,” Mary said. “I can drink you under the table.”

  “Well, don’t do it here,” I told her.

  Mary finished her third cocktail.

  “There’s Jim looking at me,” she said. “Jim says you have a bad influence on me, darling. I hear Bill King’s coming up this week.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “Kay did,” Mary said. “She was worrying as to who was going to meet him at the Junction.”

  “Why,” I said, “I’ll meet Bill.”

  By that time everybody was making a good deal of noise and Mary had disappeared. I found myself talking with a man I knew named Albert Thwing. We met sometimes at just such parties. Albert was several classes ahead of me at college but as life went on the age group shifted.

  “Let’s see,” Albert said. “You were three years behind me at Harvard, weren’t you? That means you’re going to have your Twenty-fifth next year.”