H. M. Pulham, Esquire

by John P. Marquand

  I wished that people would not keep talking about my Twenty-fifth.

  “Yes,” I said, “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “Now,” Albert said, “that isn’t the right spirit. It gave me a sort of jolt when I faced it. I didn’t want to go either. I thought it would be depressing, but it isn’t when you get into the spirit of it. Frankly, it does something to you. I don’t know what, but it certainly does something.”

  “What about everybody’s wives?” I asked. “I don’t want to see their wives.”

  “I know,” Albert said. “I felt just that way about it. But I’ll tell you something. After a minute or two you just don’t notice them. They all fit into the picture. It’s a great experience! I didn’t know you knew the Buhlfields.”

  “I didn’t know you did,” I said.

  “He has something to do with soap, hasn’t he?” Albert said. “That soap that’s all over the place—Coza soap?”

  “What?” I said. “Coza soap?”

  I sat at lunch on Mrs. Buhlfield’s left. There were two kinds of wine and a good deal too much to eat. I knew I would fall asleep in the afternoon, and I always hated sleeping in the daytime.

  “I didn’t know your husband had anything to do with Coza soap,” I said.

  Mrs. Buhlfield’s laughter sounded like jangling chimes.

  “Evan gets his fingers into all sorts of things,” she said.

  “Years ago,” I said, “I used to do some advertising for Coza soap. I used to know a girl who worked on it. Her name is Myles—Marvin Myles.”

  “Now, come,” Mrs. Buhlfield said. “I don’t believe you ever did, but it’s awfully funny.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it is funny.”

  “We’re going to have deviled crabs,” Mrs. Buhlfield said. “We Westerners love our fish when we get to the shore. Evan went out with a man and caught them the day before yesterday.”

  “You mean, they’ve been sitting around since the day before yesterday?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Buhlfield. “In a pail of wet seaweed, blowing bubbles. Here they come now. Don’t take one. Take two, Mr. Pulham!”

  It was just as I had thought. I was sleepy after that lunch and didn’t feel like doing anything all afternoon. Kay went out somewhere and then we went for a rock picnic that evening and ate broiled live lobsters and drank beer. Kay did not talk about the Buhlfields until we were going to bed that night.

  “What was it that you and Mrs. Buhlfield were talking about?” Kay asked.

  “About crabs,” I said. “Buhlfield caught them the day before yesterday.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Kay said. “You were talking about something else. What was it you were saying that made Mrs. Buhlfield laugh?”

  “Why is it that you’re always listening to me?” I asked her. “I wish you wouldn’t, Kay.”

  “You always make me nervous,” Kay said. “I’m always afraid you’re going to be tactless. What was it you said to Mrs. Buhlfield?”

  “I was talking to her about soap,” I said. “Coza soap. Someone told me that Buhlfield had something to do with it.”

  “That’s just like you!” Kay said. “Of course it embarrassed her. Harry, have you got the alarm clock?”

  “No,” I said. “What do we want the alarm clock for?”

  “Don’t you know that you have to get up at half-past five to meet Bill King at the Junction?” Kay said. “Now I’ll have to go into Emma’s bedroom and get that alarm clock.”

  “I can wake up without it,” I said.

  “Oh, no, you can’t,” Kay said. “Harry, what are we going to do about Bill when he comes? We’ll have to think of something. We don’t want him to be bored.”

  “Oh, Bill’s all right. Let’s go to sleep,” I said.

  There always seemed to be a time just when we put out the light when Kay’s mind moved restlessly and erratically through all the present, into the past and into the future.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “did you put Bitsey out?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I always do.”

  “You don’t like Bitsey,” Kay said. “I don’t think you like dogs at all. I wouldn’t have married you if I’d known you felt the way you do about dogs.”

  “I’ve always liked dogs,” I said. “Father always had them. Let’s go to sleep.”

  “You don’t really like them,” Kay said. “You don’t really understand them.”

  “I do understand them,” I said. “Let’s go to sleep.”

  Kay was silent for a while and I closed my eyes. My stomach was not feeling right.

  “Harry,” Kay said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I wish I knew whether you’ve really given George a good talk about sex.”

  “Why do you keep asking that?” I asked. “I talked to George two years ago about it when you told me to. If you’ve heard it once it isn’t so important to hear it over again.”

  “Oh,” Kay said, “so you don’t think sex is important?”

  “Listen, Kay,” I said. “Please let’s go to sleep.”

  “I don’t believe you really told him anything about it,” Kay said. “You’re always so reticent, Harry. Did you tell him about it or didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I did, Kay. They tell him at School anyway—with pictures and diagrams.”

  “How perfectly disgusting,” Kay said.

  “When the Skipper was there—” I began.

  “For heaven’s sakes,” Kay said, “don’t begin talking about the Skipper. Just try to remember he’s been dead for ten years.”

  “All right,” I said. “Kay, have you told Gladys the facts of life?”

  “Of course I haven’t,” Kay said.

  “They say now a child is never too young,” I told her.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “I wish you’d please be quiet. You’re so boring when you’re analytical. Can’t we ever go to sleep?”

  “All right,” I said.

  Kay was silent for a while and I could hear the waves lapping against the rocks through the darkness beyond the open window.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “what makes you keep tossing and pitching around?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s something I’ve eaten.”

  “Eaten?” Kay repeated. “It’s something you’ve drunk, you mean.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said. “It’s something I’ve eaten.”

  Now that we had started talking again it would be a long while before we went to sleep.

  “Why is it,” Kay said, “we always seem to end up talking about indigestion or drains?”

  “I guess that’s true of everyone,” I said.

  “Oh, no, it isn’t,” said Kay. “Take the Trilbys—”

  I stirred uneasily. Kay was always taking the Trilbys.

  “Did you see Egbert help her over the rocks?”

  “Damn the Trilbys!” I said. “You don’t like to be helped and you know it.”

  “I’d like it if you’d try sometimes,” Kay said.

  “I do try,” I said. “And I don’t like the Trilbys.”

  “That’s because they’re interesting,” Kay said.

  We were silent for such a long while that I thought she had gone to sleep.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “I wonder why Bill left her. I never liked her much. She was never up to Bill, but she was awfully pretty.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Elise, of course,” she said, “Bill’s wife. I don’t know why he ever married her. I wonder if he’s unhappy about it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Of course you know,” Kay answered, “but you’ve always been so loyal about Bill.”

  “Bill’s never talked about it much,” I said. “I don’t know much about divorce.”

  Kay was quiet again. We did not speak for a long while, but I knew she was lying there thinking, as I was, in the dark.

  “Harry,” she asked, “are you feeling all right?�
�

  “I’ll be all right in the morning,” I said.

  “Harry, you forgot something. You forgot to kiss me good night.”

  I got out of bed and stubbed my toe against the table and leaned over the twin bed beside it to kiss her.

  “Good night, dear,” I said.

  “I always like it,” Kay said, “when you call me ‘dear.’ You know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  Her arms around me tightened and she drew me toward her.

  “Oh, Lord,” she said, “don’t say ‘of course’! It always makes me happy when you kiss me good night. You’ll be sure to wake up in the morning, won’t you? So I won’t have to think about it.”

  I woke up long before morning with violent cramps, feeling deathly sick. I did not call Kay, because I’ve always felt ashamed when I’m ill, and I tried to make as little noise as possible in the bathroom. I thought for a while that I was going to die. It was something you could not fix up with soda, and I went into Gladys’ bathroom for castor oil. I swallowed half a bottle, but it seemed to me that I was getting sicker all the time. I was getting so that I did not notice things around me until I saw Kay in the bathroom in her green silk dressing gown. She must have been frightened by the way I looked.

  “Harry,” she said, “Harry!”

  “It’s those damned deviled crabs,” I said.

  “It couldn’t be,” Kay said. “It was something you drank. I ate the crabs.”

  “Please, Kay,” I said. “I’m going to be sick again.”

  “Darling,” Kay said, “I’m going to call the doctor. You look all green.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “We have too many bills. Just go away and leave me.”

  I began to hope she was going to get the doctor. It was hard to think about anything except the way I felt. It was humiliating—awful—but I hoped she was going to get the doctor. I had never liked him much. He was one of those seaside physicians with a bedside manner. Nothing was very clear again until Kay and Dr. Broderick were both in the bathroom.

  “Well, well,” the doctor said, “you must have eaten something.”

  “It’s clever of you,” I said, “to find that out!” It made me angry when Kay and the doctor laughed.

  “Harry, you poor darling,” I heard Kay say, “just when you’re having your vacation!”

  I said it was a hell of a vacation, that something always happened on my vacation; and then they got me back to bed. I could hear the doctor speaking to Kay.

  “We’ll have a nurse in an hour,” the doctor was saying, “and we’ll give him a high colonic.”

  “Look here,” I said. “I don’t want any nurse. I’ll have to get up at half-past five and meet Bill King at the Junction.”

  “Someone else can meet him,” the doctor said. “You’ll be right where you are for a while.”

  I knew it and I knew that I was acting badly. Doctor Broderick was sponging off a place on my arm. He was asking Kay for a little warm water. He had taken a syringe out of his bag.

  “You’ll be better when you get this,” he said.

  “You’re giving me a shot,” I said. “It’s like the war.” But I did not care what he gave me as long as I stopped feeling the way I did. I heard him speaking to Kay but I did not care what he was saying, and then he was gone and Kay was sitting beside me. I had spoken about the war and I was thinking about the war.

  “They’re going to fight,” I said. “It’s the same thing all over.”

  Kay was sitting beside me holding my hand, and I felt very grateful to her.

  “Never mind, dear,” she said. “Don’t talk.”

  “George mustn’t go,” I said. “Don’t let George go.”

  “Of course he won’t,” Kay said, and she put her hand on my forehead.

  Something was mixing itself in my thoughts and I was moving away from it, but I wanted to speak about it before I moved away.

  “Kay,” I said, “call up the garage. I guess I can’t meet Bill.”

  “I’ll meet him, dear,” Kay said. “Don’t worry.”

  “When he comes I won’t be able to do anything with him.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Kay said. “I’ll look after Bill.”

  Then everything was growing blurred. Now that I was thinking of Bill I was thinking of New York. It would be hot down in New York, the way it was when I was working there, when I used to take Marvin out in the car somewhere in the country for supper. Marvin used to love broiled live lobsters. I felt a slight spasm run through me.

  “What is it, dear?” Kay said.

  “We used to eat lobsters—broiled live lobsters,” I said.

  “Who used to?” Kay asked. “Not you and me. I’ve always hated them.”

  “No,” I said, “not you. I’m not making any sense, am I? Kay, don’t go away.”

  “Of course not,” Kay said. “I’m right here.”

  “All right,” I said. “Did I let Bitsey out?”

  “Yes,” Kay said, “you’re always sweet about letting Bitsey out.”

  “I wish I could say something interesting,” I said. “I know I’m awfully stupid. But Bill—he’ll be interesting.”

  “You’re darling,” Kay said. “I always love to talk to you. You’re darling.”

  “That’s because I threw up,” I said. “Kay, I think I’m going to sleep.”

  I felt weak, but a good deal better, by the middle of the morning. The nurse went away at eleven o’clock and I wanted to get up, but neither Kay nor the doctor would let me. I was to stay in bed for twenty-four hours at least, they told me, eating nothing but liquids. I lay there for a while, trying to read The Education of Henry Adams. It had sometimes seemed to me that the rare times when I was ill should have offered a chance to finish some book or other. The only difficulty was that things always seemed to keep right on happening when I was sick in bed. I would begin worrying over what I might have forgotten—details about the office or whether the car had been greased. Now I began worrying about Bill. I didn’t want him to spoil his good time, seeing me when I was not all right, but I wanted to be with him as soon as I felt better. In the meantime I kept wondering whether he had had a good breakfast and whether he had everything he wanted in his room. Although Kay told me not to bother, of course I kept on bothering. When Kay came in for a few moments at about eleven o’clock I asked if Bill was all right.

  “Don’t keep worrying about him,” Kay said. “Bill’s fine.”

  “Well, is he cheerful?” I asked. “We want to do everything we can. We want to cheer him up.”

  “Don’t you worry about Bill,” Kay said. “He’s been asking about you. I’m going to take him to the beach.”

  “Well, he ought to have some exercise,” I said, “and you’d better show him where the whisky is in case he wants a drink.”

  “He doesn’t drink in the morning, does he?” Kay asked.

  “He might,” I said. “I don’t want him to feel we’re stuffy about it. I want him to feel he can have anything he wants. You know the way you are about drinking.”

  “I’m not that way at all,” Kay said. “I’m just that way with you because it gives you indigestion.”

  “It wasn’t anything I drank,” I said. “It was the crabs.”

  “Well, don’t keep telling me what to do about Bill,” Kay said, “because Bill’s perfectly all right. I’m going to take him down to the beach now and then we’re going to the Sutherlands’ to lunch and then we’re going sailing.”

  “Bill doesn’t like to sail,” I said.

  “Oh,” Kay said. “Well—Bill said he wanted to go sailing.”

  “Well, don’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to,” I said. “Has he talked to you about Elise at all?”

  “Yes,” Kay said, “quite a lot. He seemed to want to talk to someone.”

  “Well, what’s happened?” I asked.

  “It’s all over,” Kay said. “They’ve signed an agreement
and she’s going to Reno next week. I’ll tell you all about it later. Bill’s waiting downstairs now. We’re going to the beach.”

  I lay back and watched the breeze waving the green chintz curtains. There was very little one could do about a thing like divorce, but I knew it must be a time when you needed friends. I tried to imagine how I should feel if Kay and I were ever to break up. I watched Kay as she moved swiftly around the room, taking a compact out of her upper bureau drawer, giving her hair one final brush, getting her light polo coat out of the closet.

  “You’ve got everything, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “everything.”

  Then she was gone and I was left alone with The Education of Henry Adams. I was reading about his days in Washington when George came in. He opened the door and moved furtively into the room.

  “Gosh,” George said, “you look awful.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  George stuffed his hands in his pockets and balanced himself on one leg.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “You make me dizzy. What do you want?”

  “Could I borrow a necktie,” George asked, “one of your snazzy ones?”

  I don’t know why it should have given me a feeling that I was already dead and that George was going to go over my things.

  “What about your own ties?” I asked him. “What do you want one of mine for?”

  “I just wanted to look keen this afternoon,” George said. “I’ve got a date.”

  “If it’s that Goodwin girl,” I told him, “you can take one of your own ties.”

  “Now, listen, boss, you want your son to look properly dressed, don’t you? Ease up on the ties, boss.”

  “Take one and get out,” I said. I did not feel like arguing.

  “Say,” George said, “I wish you could have some ties like Uncle Bill’s.”

  “I’m not in the advertising business.”

  “He knows everybody on the radio,” George said. “Do you know he knows Bergen?”

  “Who’s Bergen?” I asked.

  “Bergen? You don’t mean you don’t know the Charlie McCarthy hour? I wish we knew interesting people like Uncle Bill does.”

  “I wish you’d learn to speak grammatically,” I told him. “Maybe they’re not so interesting. Why should a ventriloquist be interesting? It’s Uncle Bill’s business doing those advertising hours on the radio.”