“Louis tells me we should have a permanent staircase instead of this ladder. I’m investigating the cost. Now, here you see, the air vent is being transformed,” he continued as he stepped from the ladder to the floor of the attic. “It’s going to become a round casement window. And we’re putting in furniture. Your mother is making a rug of colorful scraps. Louis helped the carpenter. He’s an expert with tools and comes over every afternoon soon after leaving the bank, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sandals. Hephzibah tells us Ilya is pleased with what we’re doing, and is hopeful there’ll be a rocking chair beside the window. She likes to peep through the branches of the trees at the children playing. I’m getting a rocking chair. Hephzibah has been decorating.” He pointed to a beaverboard wall covered with decals—pirates, maps of states, ducks, rabbits, steamships, hula dancers, and row after row of pink flamingos. They had not been skillfully transferred; many had slipped and wrinkled, or had been torn and were crookedly pieced together.
“Every morning at the ten-cent store she is waiting when the doors open. Buying gilt-edged stationery, marbles by the sack—look in the chiffonier, marbles in the top drawer. However, I’m not interfering. Buy everything, I say to her, and give her the money. Fortunately she prefers to shop in the ten-cent store, the drugstore, the supermarket. It could be worse.”
Melvin recognized the chiffonier; it used to be in his room. He opened the small drawer where he had kept his handkerchiefs and a collection of arrowheads. The arrowheads were still there, together with hundreds of the marbles Hephzibah had bought. He opened another drawer and saw first of all the green wool garrison cap with the cadet insignia; it was the cap he had been issued at Albuquerque. He tried it on; it seemed a trifle tight, and there was a mustard-colored stain on one side. Also in the drawer were a pair of woolen athletic socks with holes at the heel and toe, a khaki shirt with a frayed collar, a broken hockey stick with electrician’s tape wound around the handle, a pair of leather moccasins, some faded pajamas, and a stiff-ribbed tuxedo shirt and a crimson sash he used to wear to dances before the war. He had completely forgotten the sash and tuxedo shirt, and the hockey stick he had not thought of in years. He stared at the moccasins; he knew they had once belonged to him, but he could not remember anything else about them, except that they were so worn he must have liked them and valued them. There were a few other items of greater or lesser consequence, but what interested him most was a spiral notebook: it was his logbook from the airport at Albuquerque. The binding had been crushed and there was a sticky residue inside the front cover, a mashed jellybean or gumdrop.
He placed the logbook on top of the chiffonier and looked at the first page. There was the name of his instructor, Mr. Collins—he remembered this name but nothing else—and the date, the amount of time spent in the air, the velocity and direction of the wind that day—the wind had been important and they had discussed it seriously—and finally, concluding the data, the serial number of the airplane. He read what he had written after coming down from his first flight:
Expected to get airsick, but didn’t. Instructed in general plane management under normal flight conditions. Preliminary routine of dives, right and left hand banks, and got to hold the stick a little while on straight and level course. Horizon looked actually curved, and Rio Grande like melted lead with slag on the surface, or aluminum, instead of water. Could see airport move slowly underneath the tire on my side of cabin. Very strange. Mesa covered with snow in every direction. Beautiful winter sunlight on city of Albuquerque. Columns of smoke from chimneys. Saw Flying Fortress (B-17) from Army Kirtland field pass us at terrific speed, below us! and could see tail gunner sitting in plexiglass blister. Air smooth during flight, except one big bump near canyon. Mr. Collins says it was caused by updraft, says many updrafts during summer months and can be dangerous. Got foot accidentally caught under rudder pedal during spin demonstration. Didn’t hurt, but Mr. Collins very upset. Will be careful in future. Was hungry, maybe because of altitude and plan to bring candy next flight. Like nothing ever experienced.
The next afternoon when he returned to the university he took the logbook with him, and now and then while he was working on the ice truck he would think of Albuquerque. The truck stimulated his imagination, his ability to recall what he had done and even what had passed through his mind years before. He concluded this was because of certain similarities: he was at work on the truck well before dawn, it bounced and swayed along the streets with a motion very like that of the bus to the airport, he was always sleepy, and the huge misty cakes which rumbled and skidded across the bed of the truck and bumped against the sideboards, however unrelated to any sound or movement or substance he had known in the Navy, nevertheless contributed to his mood, with the result that he sometimes discovered himself fast asleep when the truck jolted to a stop. This never failed to embarrass him; he suspected the driver resented his dozing in the cab. Yet it was so satisfying, so restful, that he could not bear to keep his eyes opened, and continued to indulge himself. He would wake with a start, wrench open the door, leap to the ground and rush around to the rear of the truck, unhook the chain, and spring aboard with the tongs in hand just soon enough that he could not be criticized.
One morning while he was bouncing monotonously on and on, comfortably damp and cool beneath his old cadet coveralls and a brown rubber vest, his head nodding to every bump in the street, he was able to hear, as loudly, as imperatively as though he were still asleep in the depths of the stadium, the blaring notes of the bugle reverberating through that ice-cold concrete-and-iron dungeon an hour before dawn; and it seemed to him that he swiftly rolled from his bunk, put on his clothes in the sudden electric light, and was marching across the gravel parade ground toward the mess hall while Sam Horne sang cadence and snowflakes whirled around the streetlights. Overhead, through rifts in the clouds, the constellations appeared like problems in celestial navigation.
The methodical chip-chip-chip of a pick penetrated his reverie; desperately he flung open the door and leaped out. The iceman did not say a word, but with a melting milk-gray cake on his shoulder he bowed his head and strode away. Then Melvin reflected that he was probably going to be fired unless he could find some way to redeem himself, and remembering that in a few minutes they must deliver a bushel basket of shaved ice to a cocktail lounge he set to work with a basket, a cake, and his trident. Very rapidly he shaved down the end of the cake so that an almost constant stream of shavings for cocktails arched into the basket, and when the driver reappeared Melvin gave the basket a casual tap with his trident to demonstrate his knowledge of the route. The expression on the iceman’s face puzzled him; he could not imagine what he had done wrong, and then he remembered that the lounge was closed for alterations.
That evening, after telling Jo Flanagan what had happened, Melvin sighed and added despondently, “He even made me buy it. He took fifty cents out of my wages.”
“Well, where is it?” said Jo Flanagan. “I certainly hope you didn’t leave it there.”
“What could I do with a basket full of ice?” said Melvin.
“What did he say when he fired you?” she asked a moment later.
“Oh, not much,” he answered thoughtfully, gazing incuriously and with no great enthusiasm at the way she was dressed. She was wearing lederhosen and a pleated blouse, red canvas tennis shoes and ribbed wool stockings up to her knees, and there was a beret on her head and a bulging alligator-yellow handbag slung across her shoulder.
“Have you just come back from a hike?” he asked. “Or were you playing tennis?”
“There was a folk dance this afternoon. Tell me more about the iceman.”
“Oh. Well, where was I? Oh, yes! He wasn’t especially sarcastic the way you’d expect. He simply told me frankly he’d have to report me to the plant manager. Actually, I think, it was the company that fired me. I can appreciate the driver’s side of the matter. He has all this ice to deliver and it’s true I did loaf. I was doing just enough to get
by.”
“You were doing just enough to get by. Is that what you said?”
“Yes. Why do you look surprised? I was paid by the hour, so it didn’t make any difference.”
“I know. But for some reason I didn’t think you—oh, never mind.”
“I was meeting the minimum standard. At least until I fell asleep.”
“The minimum standard.”
“That’s right,” said Melvin.
“So you’re becoming one of those people.”
“Should I do more than I’m paid to do? The company doesn’t pay extra for good workmen. The iceman was explaining all this to me one time about a month ago. He wanted me to join the union, and he pointed out that the stronger the organization is, why then the more demands it can make. There are all kinds of advantages to being a union member.”
“And you joined.”
Melvin remained silent for a while and gazed around uncomfortably. At last he said, “No, no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I suppose I should have. It would have been to my advantage, there’s no question about it. Even after I fell asleep, if I belonged to a union—I don’t know exactly how it operates, but I gather they’d make certain I was hired by somebody else, so I guess it would have been smart for me to join.”
“But why didn’t you?”
Again Melvin fell silent and looked away.
“Once you told me,” she said after a little while when he had not answered, and yet had seemed to be struggling to find words, “you told me not long after I came to help you move away from the fraternity that I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. You’ve probably forgotten, you forget the things most people remember, but once you did say that to me, and I was so puzzled. You were stubborn, I knew—oh, anyone could tell that!—but you were quiet so often, as though you were worried about something, and I couldn’t imagine what you meant. But now I think I’m beginning to see why you get into these situations. I only wish I knew of some way to prevent it.”
“If you know how it happens you know twice as much as I do,” Melvin said gloomily. “That iceman was suspicious of me right from the start. He noticed the paint on my coveralls and asked if I was a painter, so I said yes, but then I realized he meant a house painter, so I had to go and tell him I didn’t paint houses, I painted pictures. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why I never learn. It’s happened to me about a dozen times. Anyway, when I said that he gave me the queerest look and never mentioned it again.”
They had been wandering across the campus as they talked and had come onto a promontory from which the hill dropped away steeply toward the south. They stopped and gazed across the fields, where clouds were mounting and lightning flashed through the twilight. A distant rumble of thunder sounded from the green depths of summer.
“You want to marry me. Is that so?” she asked, and went on without waiting for an answer. “I’m not sorry, for I love you. I’ve loved you longer than you know. And when the minister asks if I will take you for better or worse I will say I do.” She paused. “It’s only that better would be so much nicer than worse.”
Melvin was embarrassed, and said awkwardly, “I can’t help it.”
“I know you can’t,” she replied, and then suddenly cried, “Oh, I can’t stand this!” and turned and flung herself into his arms and began kissing him passionately. Just as quickly, then, she quit and pushed him away, but held tightly to his hands.
“I’m afraid there’s something I must tell you,” she said.
He was struck by her tone and stared at her in alarm. He had no idea what she meant, but then he understood. She was pregnant.
Soon the breeze was upon them, bringing the odor of lilacs and rain and the fecund valley beneath the hill.
26
It seemed to Melvin that surely his fortunes had now come to their lowest ebb, not excluding those days on the Texas prairie when he had been reduced to the status of an accomplished gopher. Then, at least, life lacked its present convolutions; it had been, in its way, simple enough, curiously blissful, inasmuch as the prairie had been expansive and he had responded to it. He had not had much to worry about, although at the time he had not been convinced of this, whereas now there was little question but that he and destiny were opposing one another with sinister finality and he was not altogether certain he would emerge victorious. It seemed to him that despite all prudence, temperance, and the most honorable intentions—reasonably honorable at least—in some mysterious fashion life was running away from him. Things were totally out of hand. He had fallen into disgrace as an artist, lost his job, confounded his parents, and impregnated his fiancée. Besides all this he had difficulty breathing and would sometimes remain utterly quiet with a distant expression and with one hand pressed to his heart, which he thought was starting to palpitate.
He resolved to approach his problems systematically and with the same high, serious sense of purpose with which he had approached a number of lesser problems, because, after a great deal of admonitory rumination, he was unable to come up with a better idea. The unsatisfactory state of his career, however threatening, and however contemptuously he was regarded by the other students, was not immediate; to be in disgrace was to be in disgrace, he reasoned, and was essentially nothing more. Secondly, he had lost his job on the truck. This was serious, but there was nothing to be gained by lamenting it; the only thing to do was to hunt for another job. Possibly he could deliver newspapers, or packages if he had a motorcycle—in any event, look for a job.
As for the disappointment and bewilderment his parents must be feeling, well, that was regrettable but he did not know what to do about it.
And so, having mollified his conscience, he was free to brood on the topic that obsessed him.
Having asked Jo Flanagan with a certain desperate levity if she could not be mistaken, and, being told there was no mistake, having argued for some minutes more that there must be a mathematical possibility that she was mistaken—an argument she did not bother to answer—he reluctantly came to a decision.
So it was that, approximately three weeks after learning he would soon be the head of a little family, he caught the bus to Kansas City in order to have a talk with his father, and began this talk by saying that he intended to get married.
“You’re too young,” his father replied firmly. “I didn’t dare to get married when I was your age. Unthinkable.”
“Yes, well, if you’ll let me expl—”
“In marriage there are children. Have you thought of this? No. You think to yourself: I want to get married. That’s all. Fantastic!”
“That’s wh—”
“Without a job—impossible! Have you considered? I have money, yes. Naturally I wouldn’t see you starve. But you are not being sensible. Not sensible. You should use your head, that’s your trouble. Such a situation calls for judicious consideration. Time to consider. You should sit down and ask. Say to yourself with arms folded: Am I in such a rush? I will wait a little while, say to yourself.”
“But I don’t think you—”
“Who’s speaking? You or me? Who is trying to say something? Your trouble is you don’t listen. You keep trying to interrupt, I don’t know why. In the Navy, did you listen? The officers were trying to assist you, but you were trying to talk, to tell them how to run their business, as if you were the admiral. I never could understand it. The first lesson you should learn is, listen carefully and so discover how to keep out of difficulty. Does that make sense? Am I being unreasonable? What is the name of the young lady?”
“Jo Flanagan.”
“A very nice name. You’ve mentioned it before, but I didn’t realize you were serious.”
“Look, going back for a minute because you brought it up, I never thought I was an admiral. It was just that once or twice things didn’t make much sense, so I—oh, well,” he muttered, “it was a long time ago. Let’s forget the whole business. The war’s over.”
“The wise man does not say: It
was a long time ago. He doesn’t say: Let’s forget. The wise man observes: Remember what occurred! I shall profit by my experience. Frankly, do you profit?”
“Well,” Melvin answered after thinking it over, “I don’t know. As a matter of—”
“Next there was the painting. Abstract. It was a good thing. The money was rolling in. Not enormous sums, granted, yet surprising. I am the first to admit I was amazed. We were all somewhat baffled, but happy that you were a success. So what happened? Where are the customers? Disappeared! I would like to ask a simple question: What happened to the customers? A direct answer, please.”
“Well, in a sense, you could say, I supp—”
“Exactly!” his father cried. “Evasion! How does somebody talk to you? I question you regarding sticks; you answer in regard to stones. Why is this? Since you were one day old I have been puzzled by you. A Hindu—I would have more topics in common with a Hindu wearing a turban than with my own son. If, twenty-five years ago, someone had told me this I would have laughed. I’m not laughing now.”
“I don’t know anybody who is,” Melvin said, and then, as his father had momentarily stopped talking, he went on to explain that Jo Flanagan was pregnant. “I was certainly surprised,” he said. “You can’t imagine. When she told me I could hardly believe it. I thought she was joking, but she wasn’t. Well, anyway, I suppose it’s sort of in the natural order of things, if you consider the situation objectively. And the statistics about how frequently this occurs are incredible. So that’s more or less how things stand at the moment. Actually what it means,” he added with an attempt at joviality, “is that you’re going to be a grandfather!”
There was a long silence.
“Objectively,” said Jake Isaacs at last. “Statistics. What next?”
But Melvin had begun to feel more confident; he felt immensely relieved that he was no longer burdened with a secret. All his affairs now seemed to him less disorganized than he had assumed; with persistence, intelligence, a modicum of decent luck, and adequate cooperation from other people there was no reason he should not be able to restore his foundering vessel to a state of fair equilibrium and sail on, as it were, toward calm seas and that prosperous voyage which surely must be the appanage, the immemorial legacy, of any man.
The Patriot Page 41