Tomorrow Is Forever

by Gwen Bristow

  “Why Dick, there are some ideals in this war!” Julia protested. “You know, the Four Freedoms and all that.”

  Dick was too polite to contradict her at once, but Cherry was not. “Oh Julia,” she said, “don’t be so sentimental. You don’t really believe anybody in the United States cares whether the Croatians and people like that have any Four Freedoms, any more than they care about us. Nobody fights for anything like that. They just pretend they do while it’s going on.”

  “She’s right, Julia,” Dick argued. “What they really fight about is property and power. They always talk pretty while it’s going on, and then when it’s over they get realistic. But as soon as a new war starts they say, ‘Oh yes, we know, all the other wars were fought for crass reasons, but this one’s different, boys, this one’s different.’” He became vehement. “Well, this one’s not different and I’m thankful we know it. I’m plenty tired of everybody pretending to believe what everybody knows isn’t true.”

  “I wonder what your mother and father would say,” Julia suggested, “if they could hear you talk like that.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t mind,” said Cherry. “They’re very intelligent people, really.”

  “They’ve got some old-fashioned ideas,” said Dick, “like everybody their age, but generally speaking they’re very liberal for older people. They don’t go around being always shocked about things.”

  Outside, on the balcony, Elizabeth stood with her hands gripping the rail. She was thinking, “Every word they are saying is my fault, mine and Spratt’s. They’re our children and we taught them to think this way. Or at least, if we didn’t teach them to be cynics, we didn’t do anything to stop it. We ran away from the last war as fast as we could. In what Spratt called the world’s hangover, we didn’t say anything but ‘never again.’ And now there’s another war, and Dick will have to fight it—and listen to him! Is that how they all feel? If it is, their children will have to do it again. Oh my God, what have I told him? What can I tell him now?”

  Little as she liked to admit it, she knew she had been a coward and that she was still a coward. She had refused to face what was there, and she still lacked the courage to face it. Could she go into the house right now and say to Dick, “This war is a glorious crusade, and you must get into it now. Why wait till next year? They will take you at seventeen. Oh yes, I know, thousands of men have already been killed, but go ahead. What are you waiting for? It’s worth it.”

  No, she could not say it. If she believed this war was worth winning, that was what she ought to say, but the truth was that she simply did not believe it that much. That was what had held them all back during the accumulating horrors of the past twenty years. They knew what war was like, they could let anything happen in the world if only they could keep out of another. She need not blame herself, Elizabeth thought, as though she was the only one. She stood there on the balcony, epitomizing her country.

  Turning around, she walked into the house, entering through a hall so as to avoid meeting the children in the den. With the disappearance of the sun the air had grown chilly. A fire might be welcome. She stood by a window in the living room, looking at the darkness as it gathered swiftly over the lawn. A maid came in to turn on the lights.

  “Don’t you want me to draw those curtains too, Mrs. Herlong?” she asked.

  Elizabeth turned. “Why yes, I’d forgotten them. I’ll do this window.” She pulled the cord that drew the curtains together, and as the maid went out she turned from the window. How well-ordered everything looked, and was. Nothing had happened this afternoon. Nothing had happened except within herself. Everything that had made her feel so strong and happy as she drove home through the canyon was still there. A voice in the doorway startled her.

  “Say, mother, we’re getting famished. Isn’t the boss home yet?”

  “Not yet, Dick. He’s very busy these days, you know, on the new picture.”

  “I know, but I’m starving.”

  “If the boss isn’t here by seven-thirty, we’ll sit down without him,” she promised. “It’s getting cold, Dick, will you light the fire?”

  “Sure will.” Dick knelt down and applied a match to the gas rod under the logs. He glanced at the cocktail tray. “Want me to mix the Martinis?”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Okay.” He went first to the door and called the others. “Want to come in here? Fire going.”

  “In a minute,” Cherry called back. “Got to wash our hands first—those magazines were so awfully dusty. Is the boss in?”

  “Not yet, but mother says we can have dinner at seven-thirty anyway. So hurry up.”

  The gas flame sparkled up to ignite the logs piled in the grate. Dick swished the gin and vermouth. Though he was not allowed to drink cocktails himself, he enjoyed the feeling of adulthood it gave him to play bartender. What a nice boy he was, Elizabeth thought as she watched him. Dick asked,

  “Like a drink now?”

  “I believe I would. I’m a bit tired.”

  He poured it out for her, and watched while she tasted it. “How’s that?”

  “Very good. You could get a job.”

  “I’ll be needing one if that physics guy gets much tougher. —Oh hello there,” he said as Cherry and the two others came in. They greeted Elizabeth, and Julia said,

  “That fire looks wonderful. I wish we had those gas lighters at our house, they start the fire with no trouble at all. You have just everything here, Mrs. Herlong.”

  “Why thank you, Julia.”

  “This is the most comfortable house I was ever in. We’ve been having such fun all afternoon.”

  “I’m getting weak in the middle,” said Dick. “I wish you’d ordered some crackers or something.”

  “I’ll have hors d’oeuvres tomorrow night. We’re having a guest for dinner—I mean an older guest, from the studio.”

  “We were all going to ride down to the beach tomorrow night,” said Dick. “It’ll be all right if Cherry and I leave right after dinner, won’t it?”

  “For Cherry, but I’m afraid there’s another prospect for you.”

  “For me? What?” he asked in alarm.

  Elizabeth gave him an urgent smile. It was a relief to turn her attention to her ordinary day-by-day affairs, to observe her children as normal healthy youngsters hungry for their dinner, to reach for a cigarette and have both Dick and Pudge strike matches for her. She accepted the light from Pudge, and smiled across it at Dick as he blew out the match he had struck.

  “Dick, our guest tomorrow night is a Mr. Kessler, from Germany. I’ve never met him, but he’s working on the picture.”

  “Another refugee?” inquired Cherry.

  “Yes, but you’ll both please remember not to call him that. Simply say ‘German,’ if you have to call him anything.”

  “I get it,” said Dick, “but what have I got to do about him?”

  “He has a daughter—”

  “Oh my Lord!”

  “I’m sorry, Dick,” Elizabeth continued with sympathy. “But the boss wants to talk pictures with Mr. Kessler after dinner, and you’ll have to take care of the girl.”

  Cherry and the two guests were already beginning to laugh at Dick’s woebegone face. Dick groaned.

  “Can she talk?”

  “I don’t know, Dick, but there’s a musical show downtown—”

  “Mother, please! Honestly, I—what does she look like?”

  Elizabeth started to say “I’ve never seen her,” when Cherry put in,

  “I bet I know. Two yellow braids around her head—”

  The others joined,

  “Maybe you could play some Wagner records for her.”

  “What about Faust?”

  “Silly, Faust is sung in French.”

  “I bet she’s fat and has apple-cheeks.”

&nb
sp; “She’s probably intellectual. Lots of refugees are.”

  “Talk to her about food. They all like to eat.”

  “I can’t talk to her about anything,” stormed Dick. “Mother, I’ve got a date! Why can’t the boss tell Mr. Thingum to leave his daughter at home? Why do I have to—and shut up, all of you. I think you’re being unsympathetic and awful.”

  “Dick, please be a good sport,” Elizabeth urged. “This doesn’t happen often.”

  “It does too. You remember that horrible girl from New York who was all teeth that I had to take out when her family had dinner here? But this is worse. A foreigner who can’t even talk except to say glub-glub!”

  “How do you know she can’t talk? Her father speaks English.”

  Dick groaned.

  “Be nice about it, Dick,” pled Elizabeth. “She’ll probably have a very good time if you’ll let her. Remember she’s in a strange country, and most of those refugees have had some very unpleasant experiences. Can’t you be sorry for them at all?”

  “It’s easy to be sorry for refugees,” said Dick, “when you don’t have to put up with them.”

  Torn between a desire to laugh and tell him he needn’t do it, and a realization that Mr. Kessler’s daughter must be taken care of somehow if he and Spratt were to have a chance to talk business, Elizabeth did not answer immediately. She was glad to hear the sound of a key in the front door.

  “There’s the boss,” said Cherry, getting up.

  “Now we can eat!” Dick exclaimed as though glad to have something to rejoice about. He got up to pour a cocktail for his father.

  Spratt came in and greeted them all. “You’ve no idea what a comfortable picture you make around the fire,” he remarked as Elizabeth took his coat and Dick gave him the Martini. “Where’s Brian?”

  “Having dinner with Peter Stern. Cherry, go to the kitchen and tell them the boss is here.”

  “What have you been doing?” asked Spratt. “Listening to the radio?”

  “No, what’s going on?”

  “The same, only worse. All hell’s loose in Russia. Come on upstairs with me while I get cleaned up,” he invited Elizabeth. “Cherry, tell them I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “Wait a minute, boss,” exclaimed Dick. “I’ve got something important to ask you. Do I have to take that refugee girl on a date tomorrow night?”

  “What refugee girl?”

  “The one who’s coming here to dinner-with her old man. Can’t she possibly—”

  Spratt drew a long breath and started to laugh. “I forgot to tell you. Kessler’s daughter,” he said, “is eight years old.”

  The four youngsters gave long simultaneous whistles. “Oh joy, oh rapture unconfined!” sang Dick. “My life is renewed. I don’t have to! Did you hear, everybody? She’s eight years old! Why didn’t you tell me? What were you doing talking about Russia when all the time you knew that girl was eight years old? Me sitting up here dying and you’ve got to bring up Russia!”

  Elizabeth got out of the room ahead of Spratt and ran up the stairs. He followed her. When he came into his bedroom he found her crumpled up in his reading chair. She was laughing uncontrollably.

  Spratt stood watching her in amazement. “Elizabeth, what in the world is the matter with you?”

  For a moment she could not answer. With an effort she caught her breath, saying, “N—nothing. Only I think—I think that for the first time in my life I’ve nearly had hysterics.”

  “Elizabeth, what—”

  “Please don’t pay any attention to me. I’m behaving like a moron. But it is funny, Spratt. We’re sitting on the edge of a volcano dangling our legs over the crater, and Dick knows it—I’ve just heard him talking, so grim and hard he frightened me, and in fifteen minutes nothing was important to him except that that German girl was eight years old and he didn’t have to take her out. Oh, that resilience! Did I ever have it, I wonder?” She began to laugh again, this time more softly. Spratt shrugged, went into the bathroom and turned on the water. When he came out Elizabeth, having made herself be quiet, was wiping her eyes.

  Spratt stood over her, shaking his head in confusion. “Did anything happen this afternoon, Elizabeth? You can tell me.”

  “Not a thing. I came home and got dressed for dinner and lay on the chaise-longue in my room till it was time to get out the cocktails.” She stood up. “I’m sorry for being so foolish, Spratt. But every now and then—well, maybe sometimes you’ve got to laugh so you won’t scream.”

  “All right,” said Spratt, “leave it at that.” He never pressed her for explanations, knowing if there was anything she intended to explain he would get it eventually without asking. “You’d better go and do something to your face. You’ve laughed and cried it streaky.”

  “All right, I will.” Slipping her hands into his, she stood up. “And thank you for being such a calm person. Most men would either have called me a fool or asked a thousand questions.”

  With an expression of mingled sympathy and amusement, Spratt kissed her. “You’re not a fool. Incidentally, you look mighty well in that outfit.”

  “It’s the hostess-gown you gave me,” Elizabeth reminded him as she went into her room to obliterate the tracks on her face.

  Spratt was waiting at the head of the stairs. She smiled at him reassuringly and they started down, and he smiled back. They went in to dinner with the others.

  “Oh boy,” said Dick as they sat down. “Shrimps to start with. I love ’em.”

  “So do I,” said Spratt, and ate the first one. “Quite a sauce, Elizabeth,” he observed. “A decent writer on that picture for a change, and a good dinner—” He grinned at his offspring. “What have the millionaires got that we haven’t got?”

  “Dyspepsia,” said Dick.

  5

  At half-past four the following afternoon, Spratt was winding up another conference with the new writer who had come from Germany. Spratt pushed his chair back from his desk and grinned at his colleague.

  “That’s all for the present, Kessler. We can go into more detail tonight after dinner. And you’ll start writing the story treatment in the morning?”

  “Yes, Mr. Herlong.” The new writer smiled back, and though his heavy dark beard emphasized his foreignness to this American office and his customary dignity was such that his smile, unlike Spratt’s, could hardly be called a grin, he conveyed his acknowledgment of the comradeship that springs up swiftly when two workers discover they can work together. “When you read the synopsis—I am sorry, the treatment—you will forgive my awkwardness with the language?”

  Spratt chuckled. “In the first place, your language is very rarely awkward, and in the second place I can get a dozen writers who know English grammar for one who can tell a story. I don’t mind saying, Kessler, you took a load off my shoulders in our conference yesterday. You understand stories—I wish you could tell me how to make all these English grammar writers understand them.”

  “Perhaps it is only sometimes viewing situations as other people would view them, and not entirely from the unchanging viewpoint of one’s self.”

  “Am I supposed to tell that to the inhabitants of this ego-ridden capital?” Spratt laughed ruefully and shook his head. “Yes, Lydia?” he said as his secretary came in.

  “The art department has sent down the sketches of the bedroom and living room sets. Do you want to see them now or are you and Mr. Kessler still in conference?” She glanced toward Spratt’s visitor with the respect she gave anybody whose ideas came to the rescue of a befuddled script.

  Spratt’s visitor answered for him. “He wants to see the sketches, and we are no longer in conference, Miss Fraser.” He moved forward in his chair, placed his heavy hand on the head of his heavy cane, and pushed himself into a standing position. It was not an easy movement, but he accomplished it with the skill of long pr
actice. Lydia opened the door for him. A clever girl, she managed to make it look like a gesture of deference instead of necessary aid. Their new writer could not stand without the support of his cane, and since he had only his right hand this made it impossible for him to open a door without pushing a chair toward it so he could sit down. Spratt had risen too, and walked over to the entrance.

  “Then I’ll pick you up at your office this evening, as close to six-thirty as I can, and we’ll go to my home for dinner.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Herlong.” He smiled courteously at Lydia. “And thank you, Miss Fraser.”

  Lydia went with him to the outer door of the bungalow, then returned to Spratt’s inner office with the set sketches in her hand. “A remarkable man, Kessler,” Spratt observed as he took the sketches.

  “Isn’t he? To sink into that script forty-eight hours and come up with a solution. And him half dead, too. Did the Nazis beat him up, or was he in the war, or what?”

  “I’ve no idea. You don’t ask about those things, though you can’t help wondering. Maybe nothing but an auto accident.”

  “He does manage to bow from the waist in spite of it. Do you suppose he’s going to continue forever calling everybody around here Mr. and Miss?”

  Spratt laughed a little, and shrugged. “Probably. Germans are very formal. Never mind. I like him.”

  “So do I,” said Lydia.

  Meanwhile the subject of their conversation walked to his own bungalow, which was conveniently located next door, since his power of walking was limited to very short distances. Explaining to his secretary that Mr. Herlong was to call for him later, he went through the reception room into his private office beyond.

  Alone, he glanced around the room with approval. It was furnished with only the necessities of his work—a desk with pencils and stacks of paper, a working-chair and an easy-chair, a case holding reference books, a typewriter that wrote only capital letters and required no shift key. He had taught himself years ago to operate such a machine with his one hand. Bare as the room was, he liked it, for it had wide windows bringing in abundant light, and giving a view of the vast hills beyond the studio lot. A mirror on the wall reflected the hills, producing an impression of space and peace. Space and peace, he reflected as he looked around; this was what he wanted now, this was what they still had in America. The Americans took them both for granted. Even now there were some Americans who did not realize how precious they were, and how rare.