20
In August the war with Japan concluded. As soon as the news was announced Melvin hurried to the administration building to see about obtaining his release from the Navy. A number of weeks went by, however, before his application was finally approved, and not until one evening in late autumn did he arrive in Kansas City.
With his duffel bag balanced on his shoulder and his sailor cap on the back of his head he made his way through the crowd in the Union Station and out the door by which he had entered three years previous. Across the street and up the hill, on top of the fluted column of the Liberty Memorial, the traditional fire was burning, the flames bending in the night wind like the beard of Barbarossa. He stopped a moment to look at the Memorial, and wondered if another shaft would be erected at the opposite end of the mall to honor those who died in the Second World War. With two additional wars the mall could become a rather attractive quadrangle.
The city, as he gazed around, seemed unchanged: the billboards overlooking every corner, the barren park, the streetcars and automobiles passing continually over the bridges that spanned the railroad pit. The streetcars were olive green, he noted, looking at another. He tried to recall whether they had been painted that color before the war, or whether someone in the family had written about it; they had been a cheerful orange-yellow when he was a boy, and he had been quick to see them when they came rocking around a bend. These had a wartime look, as though they belonged in England or Germany.
In the taxicab on the way home he could not get over a feeling of discontent, which seemed to grow stronger as he came nearer. He tried to distract himself by observing the city, and noticed that the elm trees which lined the boulevard were nearly devoid of leaves. This, too, this knowledge of the long, impending winter, disturbed him and contributed to a sense of dissatisfaction.
There was a light in the kitchen. He was surprised by this, because it was almost midnight, and concluded it might be Leah home from a movie. But it was his father who answered the door, a newspaper clutched in one hand, very much startled to see him there. And within a few minutes Melvin understood why he had not notified anyone that he was arriving, and why he had been ill at ease during the journey. The reason was that he dreaded the conflict with his father.
“Your application for admission to the University of Missouri is in my office,” his father said. “Tomorrow at ten in the morning come downtown, sign it, and I will personally take care it is mailed to the registrar. We will send it special delivery. In addition I happen to have a client, very influential in these matters, who will be delighted to write a recommendation to the chancellor.”
“You’re too late,” Melvin replied, shaking his head and clasping his hands behind his back.
“Too late? For what, if you please?”
“While I was in Texas I sent for an application form to the University of Kansas. I filled it out and I sent it in. And what’s more, they’re going to accept me.”
“The school of law at the University of Kansas, I don’t—”
“I’m not going to law school. I’m entering the art department.”
“Department—what? Of what? What did you say?”
“That’s right,” Melvin said. “I’ve decided I’d like to be an artist. I have the GI Bill and I’m going to study art.”
“So you have decided you would like to be an artist! Excuse me, nothing is so simple as a decision. I could decide I would like a seat on the Supreme Court. Perhaps I am mistaken, but would you be good enough to explain to me what you know of the fine arts?”
“I don’t know anything about them and I don’t want to discuss it. I made up my mind, that’s all.” He had been walking nervously back and forth while they talked, and now went to the window where he peered out into the night. “How is everybody? The last letter from Mother said you’re worried about Leah.”
“That’s a fact. Where is your sister at this moment? Out. Out where? She doesn’t tell. I should be firm, she is too young to be out so late. She gets around me, wheedling, pleading, then at times a furious temper. She should be spanked, but she is too big. I don’t know what to do.” All at once he fell silent as though struck with an idea, walked rapidly out of the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with an old, warped, black buckram scrapbook with D.W. ISAACS stamped in gold on the binding. The scrapbook was packed with clippings from local newspapers. The pages were dry and brittle. The penciled dates were scarcely legible.
“I’m not attempting to give orders, Melvin. Do whatever you wish,” he said, turning through the scrapbook. “It’s your life. Nobody is more aware of this fact than I am, however I am hoping you will become an attorney. I’ve been planning on that, but do whatever you wish. It seems to me you have never been conscious of the past, of history, obligations. Ah—here’s a sketch of your grandfather as a young man, wearing a wing collar. Notice the pearl stickpin, which was the fashion in those days. He was going to Jefferson City on this occasion to speak to the governor. I might as well be frank—nothing would please me half as much as knowing that one day you would join me in the office. I haven’t mentioned it, because I wanted you to make your own decision, but I’ve been planning on this for years. I’m positive, too, that your grandfather, if he were still alive, would be pleased to know the tradition would continue. I’ll never forget how proud I was the day my name was lettered on the door beneath his. In a few years we could put your name beneath mine. What would you think of that?”
“I’m sorry,” Melvin said. “I’ve already decided. There’s no point in talking about it. When do you think Leah’s going to get home?”
“I told her to be home early. I was expecting her two hours ago. She has begun to imagine she is the queen bee. And I’m putting a stop to this soldier she writes to. He’s now in France, and letters are flying back and forth. I don’t like it. He’s old enough to be her father. What does he intend to do—stroll into my home, tip his hat, and stroll away with my daughter? He is in for a surprise. I am going to have him arrested! I’ve warned her that’s what I’ll do. She should be interested in a boy her own age.”
“Won’t she listen to you?”
“To be perfectly honest about it, Melvin, no.”
“What does she say? What sort of argument does she give you?”
“There’s no argument. She’s like her mother. Neither of them argue with me. They do as they please. It’s amazing! I can’t believe it. Both of them ignore me. It’s too much! I’ve been thinking I might go away on a little trip and see if they appreciate me then.”
“They’d love you in Baghdad.”
“It amuses you to tease people. I don’t mind. Except that there are times to be serious. Fine arts, what kind of a life is that, will you be good enough to explain? Artists starve to death. Think of all the starving artists. Think of Millet living in a little hut. During the first war in France I took a Sunday trip to see the hut where Millet lived. It was awful. Think of that.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Melvin said. “The last year or two I’ve had plenty of time for thinking.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I never was any more than I am now.”
“I refuse to believe you! Years ago your grandfather said, ‘I am not a very good liar myself, but I appreciate good lying when I hear it.’ What makes you think you could succeed as an artist? Do you have any talent? So far you haven’t shown it. Nothing but difficulty would result from attempting to become an artist!”
“You’ll wake up not only Mother but all the neighbors if you keep talking that loud.”
“Your mother, whom I love very much, would sleep through an air raid. As for the neighbors, who cares? Painting pictures, everyone will think you are too lazy to work!”
Overhead the floor was creaking. In a little while Melvin’s mother solemnly entered the kitchen. She was hunched and wrinkled. Her gown had come open at the throat; the folds of her skin filled Melvin with deep surprise. She was trembling. He se
nsed that the obstinate, relentless nature of his father had all but consumed her and that she would not live many more years. For the first time he wondered what she had been like when she was young. “How have you been, Mother?” he asked, pressing her hands. Then he looked away from her and could not think of anything else to say.
“Mama, run back to bed, it’s late. Your son will be here in the morning. We are discussing matters which would not interest you.”
“I’m interested,” she replied, without taking her eyes from Melvin, “in whatever concerns my son.”
Jake Isaacs shrugged and resumed walking back and forth with quick, stooping steps. He looked at the floor as though searching for something. He shook his head with a birdlike jerk and stopped at the back door to try the latch. Melvin, watching these nervous, anxious movements, realized that this was his father’s home and that he himself could no longer live in it.
“Naturally we were disappointed by the unfortunate conclusion of your career in the Navy. However, that is all in the past. It was a disappointment, frankly. All the same, the war is over.”
“That’s probably the only thing we agree on,” Melvin said. “Because I’m going to study where I want, and what I want to.”
There was a long silence while his parents stared at him.
“Buy a new sweater before you go,” his father said in a strange voice, and tucked several bills into his breast pocket, “leather patches on the elbow don’t look good. The porch light I’m leaving on—your sister will turn it off when she comes home.”
“I know. I remember. I haven’t been gone that long.”
“Some things are easy to forget. Good night. We are pleased you are home.”
Melvin remained at the kitchen table with his head in his hands until he could no longer hear his parents moving around upstairs. Then, without paying much attention, he began to turn the pages of the scrapbook, but gradually he became interested in it. He remembered that when he was very small he used to enjoy sitting on his grandfather’s foot, with both arms tightly wrapped around his grandfather’s leg and his face pressed to his knee; in this position he would be taken for a ride, backward, through the rooms of the great red brick house in Lexington with a curiously comforting motion unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Up, over, and down he had gone; up, over and down, through one room after another, and it now seemed to him that his entire life had been like this.
All at once a draft of night air swept through the kitchen. He smelled perfume and heard the rustle of a woman’s clothing. Leah, carrying her shoes in one hand, bending down to kiss his forehead, was drunk, silken and plump, almost fat, with a moist warm mouth and mascaraed green eyes as feline and meaningless as the eyes of a lynx. She had grown several inches taller and her body gave an impression of massive delicacy, and of immense depth and weight which reminded him of sculpture. He noticed that she was eying him speculatively, with an intelligence born of some vegetative instinct but nothing more; she seemed to be trying to locate his thoughts, with no effort, like fungus seeking the dark.
“Oh!” she murmured, “why, you nasty creature!” and blinked, ducked her head with an expression of low cunning, breathing through her mouth. She straightened up with the clumsiness peculiar to her and stared at him vacuously, smiling a little, blinking stupidly and swaying in voluptuous pleasure. All at once she gave a wild, hissing noise and reeled across the kitchen to look into the cookie jar. She stood there on one foot, enjoying her drunkenness, trying to balance her unfamiliar woman’s body by wiggling her toes, clutching a large woman’s shoes with the dimpled hand of a child, and leaned forward and plunged the opposite hand into the milk-blue cloisonné jar, but it was empty, except for some crumbs. She muttered unintelligibly, tossing her hair over her shoulders, and licked her fingers, then dipped into the jar again with an intent smile, her fingers scratching the enamel as though there were a squirrel inside.
“Dear brother!” she announced. “Louis is coming home! Christ, help me! Sweet God!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She gasped and bit into her lower lip and collapsed on the floor with the full, harsh length of her unbound hair dragging over one fat, taut, glossy knee; she lay on the floor as though she had just been beaten, shaking her head and sobbing. Melvin had jumped up, shocked, and did not know what to do; he gazed down on her with a feeling of awe and dread. One of her shoulders had slipped out of her dress. He was fascinated by the cool platinum sheen of her skin, and the swarthy gold and olive shadow the dress cast over her breast. He discovered that she was looking at him with no expression.
“You’d better go to bed,” he said, turning away from her. “You drank too much. You aren’t old enough to drink.”
She yawned noisily and he had the feeling that she was amused. He sat down at the table and rested his chin on his fist.
“Tell me about this sergeant,” he said, turning the pages of the scrapbook. Leah did not answer or make any sound and the silence filled him with alarm, so that he continued speaking, teasing her; but then, thinking she must have fallen asleep, he glanced around. She was watching him through narrowly glittering eyes, and there was still that ominous absence of any human expression.
“Get up!” he said urgently, and he himself got up. “You can’t lie on the floor.”
She tumbled heavily, luxuriously, with her hair drifting across her face, but would not get up. It occurred to him that for some reason he did not understand she wanted to remain on the floor at his feet. He stepped back, sat down uneasily, and could not prevent himself from staring at her. He recognized her as his sister, and yet she was someone he had never known. She was wearing a sheer crimson dress of silk or satin or jersey—he did not know what it was, except that it had a liquid appearance and had been very popular with the prostitutes in the French Quarter of New Orleans who would wear a black velvet choker for emphasis. Now the dress was twisted around her body, strained until he could make out the indentation on her protruding belly. She had grown so large that her head looked a trifle small; her neck too long and thick, yet the disproportion was alluring, and the quick enormous swell of her thighs amazed him steadily. He thought of an afternoon several years before when he had been looking down at her in this same position. They had gone swimming together and she had been sleeping in the sun when he came to tell her it was time to go home.
“Please don’t lie there,” he said, and nudged her with his foot.
“I despise you,” she murmured, and thrust out her tongue.
But in a little while she got up and tiptoed out of the kitchen; soon she was back, leaning through the doorway to pick up her shoes. She hesitated, sucking her lip and looking at him with a crafty, petulant expression as though she were about to play a trick; then she giggled, patted his cheek, and disappeared.
Later, as he was about to replace the lid of the cookie jar, which she had left overturned on the stove, he became aware of the persistent hum of the electric clock on the wall and he glanced at the pointer sweeping inexorably around the dial. It reminded him of the altimeter needle which marked his descent before the crash—so rapidly and convincingly it moved. He recalled how he had folded his hands in his lap while the Dauntless plummeted toward the earth, and how extraordinarily difficult it had been to rouse himself even though he had known his life depended on it. He watched the pointer sweeping around, and fell to thinking of Elmer Free, whose life had been stopped with such curt brutality, and how, on a tropical morning, he had vanished forever into the depths of the water, and how quickly the explosion subsided and the whitecaps jigged along toward the distant shore. Now, at the bottom of the Gulf, bright striped fish were swimming through the half-opened cockpit of the SNJ, streaming by the engine, while primitive, spiny sea creatures crawled laboriously over the wings, scuttled between the cylinders, claws rattling in the midnight as though to communicate with whatever remained of him, these mindless ancestors—a few scraps of still brilliant orange rubber and a metal valve, some nylon webs, a buckle, a f
ractured length of mossy human bone. So he is gone, he is gone, Melvin reflected. So many have gone and disappeared, and have no life but that life imparted to them by the sea and the jungle.
Becoming conscious that he had repeatedly and painfully pinched his lip, he jerked his hand away with a distraught expression; yet soon, subdued as deeply by the long night silence as by his own meditations, his fingers strayed nervously forward, crept over and around his lips as if to pluck forth some secret knowledge; and it appeared to him that life might not be a transitory thing, as he had always supposed it was, and he was greatly puzzled by this. He remembered how, at Albuquerque, and at Pensacola, at all the various stations where he had been, he had contemplated his life and had attempted to solve the problems that bewildered him, to perceive what he ought to do in order that his life should be full and satisfactory, and how it ought to be done. And he recalled how he had become disheartened by the immensity and the complexity of life, and had been unable to justify the simplest opinion, so profound and disturbing were the considerations involved. Now he thought about these matters again, these questions which had beleaguered him and left him helpless with doubt, and they did not seem so formidable; perhaps, after all, there was at work in the universe a divine purpose, some ineffable moral providence or law. If so, if this was true, then whatever happened must be worth while. War, for instance, which appeared so catastrophic, was not that at all.
He stirred uneasily and discovered that he had been listening, but for what he did not know. He cupped his hands like seashells beside his ears and was able to hear, as plainly as ever, the revolution of the earth, and another noise to which he listened a while and found to be the warm, positive beat of his own heart. It seemed to be delivering a message of tremendous importance.
21
Shortly after Christmas the new semester opened at the University of Kansas, in the town of Lawrence about forty miles from the city, and Melvin registered for as many courses as he was allowed in the Department of Fine Arts. He noticed that the students who had not been in military service were younger than he was; they looked very young indeed, the more he looked at them. This surprised him because he was not aware of having grown any older, only that he now shaved every day. But still, if he studied himself closely in a mirror, provided the light was unflattering, he perceived a few fine lines, like threads or the structural veins of a leaf, at the corners of his eyes. At the same time, despite these proofs of age, he experienced a curious feeling of youth, as though he had somehow regressed, and concluded this was because he was surrounded by students. In the Navy he had belonged to a more factual world where the fundamentals were men and women and death and business as usual.
The Patriot Page 34