been easy on me. It’s been a strain. Sometimes I think marriages for
practical reasons aren’t much good. People should feel more than we do
if they’re going to stay married. I worry that if Arthur and I go on as
we are, I’ll wake up someday and find my real feelings shriveled up. I
want to keep on feeling alive, Larry, and how can I if we try to go on
living the way we are?”
“You know I encouraged him to take the job in Washington,” Larry
acknowledged, none too pleased with himself at the moment.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t sure you were enough woman for him. Right from the beginning
I was afraid of it. I don’t think I was fair to you. You’re plenty
of woman, or you wouldn’t be willing to put his interests first.” He
refilled her tea cup from a green china pot, anxious through some small
act to make it up to her.
“Even if you’re willing to go on with him, I think it’ll backfire,”
Larry told her.
“How?”
“You’ll get tired of it. You’ll be giving up your life for his, and in
the long run you’ll expect payment. Even if you think you won’t. He’ll
never be able to give it to you, of course, not ever enough, anyway,
and in the end you’ll feel cheated.”
“You don’t have to find excuses, Larry,” she comforted him. “You didn’t
break us up. He never would have gotten through his trouble without
you; I don’t think he would have wanted to make the effort if you
hadn’t been around giving him a boost. I don’t think any friend could
have done more. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Lucy’s fingers trailed tentatively along his sleeve. “You helped me,
too. I want you to know about it. Do you remember before he got
sick? I always thought it was my fault. I didn’t understand, and he
frightened me. You never said anything, but you were around, and I knew
I could count on you. You mustn’t blame yourself, Larry. You’ve helped
both of us.”
“You understand about it now, I suppose,” he told her. “You know that
it wasn’t you he was fighting in those days, it was himself.”
“I just happened to be the nearest person,” she agreed. “I was there,
and when he was angry with himself----”
“That’s it. He took it out on you.”
“Janice had more sense, don’t you think so?”
“Why?”
“Because she went away. She wasn’t around. He couldn’t blame her when
he was in trouble. He couldn’t possibly. He couldn’t even pretend she
was to blame.”
“Maybe she didn’t care for him enough to hang around,” Larry suggested.
“Maybe it didn’t mean enough to Janice. She didn’t want to try and help
him.”
“I think she cared, Larry. I think she’s in love with him.” Lucy’s
hands lay white and unstarched in her lap, as if in resignation.
“Love’s a big word,” Larry warned. “Right now, I’ll admit that she’s
sorry for him. She sees that he’s sick and having a tough time, and she
wants to do everything to make him comfortable. She’s lucky that she
has a big house, and can. And don’t forget. She has a fine time when
Arthur’s around. She’s not being any martyr. I wouldn’t be surprised if
she were pretty selfish----”
“Does Arthur think so?” Lucy immobilized him with her calm, gray eyes.
“Did he say she was selfish?”
“He’d never bring it up,” Larry said. “You know Arthur about things
like that. You can get as much conversation out of him as out of a
tomb. He did tell me to be sure and report to you first hand that
he was getting along fine, and he gave me another message--” Larry
unpinned the wilted carnation in his lapel and put it on the red
leather seat of an empty chair next to her. “He wants to know when
you’re planning to come down. Is Marge well enough for you to leave?”
The spoon trembled in Lucy’s hand. She might be fairly objective
in discussing Arthur, but Marge’s name set off a different set of
emotions. Marge must be mother to Lucy, Larry figured. Throughout her
tempestuous marriage to Arthur, Marge had remained the dependable
hearth, the secure shelter. Maybe when she married Arthur, Lucy had
expected him to supply the parental love and security. But of course
he hadn’t. She had never been able to count on his approval. At best
he was kindly and tolerant. He had refused to be her father, her
mother, and in any deeply emotional sense, her husband. Meanwhile,
the bond with Marge held. Larry could see that any danger Marge might
be in would upset her. She could talk calmly about Janice because the
tie with Arthur was, in a sense, secondary, not her basic drive or
consideration.
“You know yourself what it means to have a first baby at forty-two,”
Lucy said. “The doctor keeps saying she’ll get along all right, but
she’s been wretched. Simply wretched. Do you remember how she used to
giggle?”
The hysterical cackle that broadcast Marge’s unfulfillment with Ed rang
now in Larry’s ear.
“She never does any more. She doesn’t even smile.”
“Wait until the baby comes. She’ll feel better. By the way, how’s Ed?”
“Having labor pains,” Lucy smiled. “He hasn’t slept eight hours any
night in months.”
“He’ll lose his jitters outside the delivery room. When is the baby
due?”
“In a few more weeks. The doctor doesn’t know exactly. I can’t leave
her. You see why, don’t you, Larry?”
“I see some things,” he admitted cautiously. “How about Phil? Does he
look after you?”
She fondled the rim of the thick white cup with her finger. “He trots
me over to Marge’s every night, and on weekends he makes me get away
and go to the movies.”
“He’s been around for a long time. He must mean it. Nice boy, Phil.”
Larry hadn’t intended the remark to sound patronizing. A nice boy was
what Lucy needed, someone to be young with.
“What do you think I should do, Larry? If Arthur decides to stay down
there? You’re _his_ friend, of course, and it isn’t fair to ask your
advice, but I can’t go to Marge and Ed. They’re too upset right now,
and anyway I’m not sure they would understand.” Lucy dropped her hands
limply into her lap. “It’s a strange thing, Larry, considering how he
used to act around them, but do you know they’re fond of him? Ever
since Arthur took sick and started to be a little more considerate.
When I spoke to Marge this morning, she asked me if I’d had a letter
from Washington. She asks me almost every day. I think Arthur means a
great deal to her.”
“Don’t they care for Phil?”
“They take him for granted. You see, to them, he’s not special like
Arthur. Just because he’s nice to all of us and never raises a fuss--”
She paused thoughtfully. “Arthur takes him for granted, too. Phil’s
that kind of a person, easy going, no trouble to be with.”
“You don’t take him for granted, do you?”
“I feel comfortable with him, and you were right before, Larry.
I’m tired. I’d like to forget problems and fussing. If I could sit
somewhere quietly with someone who likes me for myself----”
Larry looked at the gray-blonde lashes, quiet on her cheek, and felt at
peace, the way he had a year ago at the funeral of a friend. It was as
if he had witnessed the death of her turmoil and sharp emotions. It was
a kind of amen to the small, ignoble discords between the Bemroses.
“Phil can’t advise me. He’s too mixed up in it. Tell me what you
think,” Lucy urged.
“How can you be sure what to do? Washington may not work out,” Larry
reminded her. “In a month or so--” He shrugged. “There may be a
blow-up. You can’t tell about a woman like Janice.”
If they clashed, it would be a good, earthy blow-up that let off steam,
Larry knew, not a nagging quarrel, but because Arthur and Janice cared
enough for it to matter. The thought comforted Larry.
“All right.” Lucy sighed. “I know you can’t be sure, and anyway you
don’t want things spoiled for him. You’re afraid someday he’ll want to
come home, and you think the place should be there waiting for him.
There’s no rush about deciding, and of course it always will be there.”
She tidied the wisps of hair under her nursemaid bonnet of blue ribbon.
“I better go. I promised Ed that I’d help fix Marge’s supper.”
On the way to the Broadway car she promised to go to Washington, since
Arthur insisted, as soon as Marge was out of the woods. Although Larry
knew it wouldn’t repair the frayed moorings of their marriage, he felt
better for having obtained her word. Bemrose was almost certain to
question him.
The trolley was a good four or five blocks away, and they stomped on
the corner to keep warm. “Does Phil want babies?” Larry asked her.
“Why?”
“You ought to have some. You’d be good for them.”
She touched the back of his thick, lined glove. “Poor Larry,” she
sympathized.
* * * * *
While he was brushing his teeth that evening, he realized what she had
meant. Poor Larry. No kids of his own. Poor Larry, an inveterate father
hen with no babies. Poor Larry, fussing over Bemrose because there was
no one else to fuss over.
_Chapter 27_
The day Larry picked to see the O.P.A. in Washington was the day after
a Federal grand jury indicted the twenty Nazi sympathizers Arthur had
been investigating. In the New York morning papers the story was front
page. Larry had never gathered from talking about the case to Bemrose
that they were sensational enough to be featured in the paper. Arthur
had apparently established the fact that the crowd under indictment
organized Nazi groups and distributed subversive literature, but he
hadn’t been able to uncover definite acts of espionage. Since war news
crowded the front page, and the story hardly seemed headline material,
it was surprising that both papers gave it a feature box with more than
a column carry-over. The _Tribune_ even ran Bemrose’s picture. The
story wasn’t page one. It must be Arthur’s connection with the case
which made it news.
At the railway station a stockingless girl with waved platinum bangs
teetered past Larry on strapped, platform soles, and he smiled at her.
The greenish platinum face spat her annoyance-- Papa-out-for-a-Pickup.
He didn’t care about the girl, although she was pretty enough in the
artificial new way of the young. He was grinning because Bemrose--damn
it, you couldn’t keep him anonymous--had hit the jackpot again. So he
was going to hold an inconspicuous place in Tom’s office, a number, not
a name any more, a forgotten bureaucrat, a group man. This pat idea
of disposing of the old Bemrose had lasted--how long?--about three
months, and today he was back on page one. Maybe it was going to be
more difficult to live down the Haynes tradition of individualism than
Bemrose thought.
For humid minutes Larry hopped from island to island on the ramp
outside the station trying to squeeze into a cab headed Northwest, and
at last was assigned to one. He talked steak with a Navy man just back
from Guadal, turned down the driver’s offer of an old Ingersoll for
twenty-five dollars, grabbed his briefcase as they pulled up in front
of the Department of Justice building, and shoving a generous tip into
the driver’s hand, made a dash for Bemrose’s office.
Larry used his elbows to get through an impatient crowd of reporters
and photographers spilling from the door. He found the Dale Carnegie
secretary who remembered his name and face from the last trip, and was
promptly shown in.
Arthur had on a conventional blue business suit that fitted him. The
absence of his loose, conspicuous tweeds jolted Larry. In smooth cloth
which hugged his shoulders, neck, and waist, Arthur looked like a
drawing in crisp line instead of crayon, a man unblurred by the loose
evasiveness of the tweeds.
Seated next to his desk, Larry saw Davis Shore nervously raveling the
corner of a used envelope. Shore jumped to his feet. “Why, Mr.----”
“Frank,” Larry assisted. “How you doing?” he asked Bemrose.
“Frank. Frank. My memory for names--” Shore sat down, confused. “I wish
you’d give the boy a try,” he said to Arthur.
“We have a strict rule in the Department,” Bemrose explained. “We don’t
hire sons, relatives, or friends of friends. If you start that kind of
thing in Washington, there’s no end to it, Davis. A man comes along
with the right experience, someone you really want to hire, and there’s
no line for him in the budget.”
“But the boy has a fine record. He was in the Corporation Counsel’s
office for three years. He did an outstanding job and has wonderful
letters----”
“4F?”
Shore nodded. “He’d like to be closer to the War. His mother says it’s
having a bad effect on him, seeing all his friends in uniform. She’s my
only sister, and----”
“Too bad he’s your nephew, Davis,” Arthur said. “He sounds like we
might be able to use him.”
“You can’t hold that against him,” Shore protested.
“Strict rule of the Department. If he wants to come to Washington,
I’ll give him a card to Don Richberg. There’s a shortage of good young
lawyers down here in the private shops.” He took a card out of his
wallet and scribbled on it. “There, that will get him in to Richberg.”
“That’s the third time I’ve turned him down,” Arthur said, when Shore
had left. “This time I hope he stays turned down.”
“He looked like his grandmother kicked him in the stomach.”
“---- his 4F nephew.”
“I remember when you used to crawl for the guy.”
“I’m trying to forget it,” Arthur said. “How’s Bessie?”
Larry offered to clear out and make room for the reporters, but Arthur
was wound up. He wanted to talk about the indictments. Janice’s old
suspect, Richter, had given him the clue which helped crack the cases.
Bemrose had sent to the F.B.I. for the art dealer’s file, and on a
hunch, wired him to come down. Sure enough. Before the War, Goering’s
agent in Berlin had ordered Richter to negotiate for a Titian. Richter
located the painting but lost money on the exchange. This must have
turned him against the Nazi gang in Germany, and he had been looking
for a chance to get even. During the thirties he had met some of their
sympathizers in this country, and knew where many of them hung out.
Nervous because the F.B.I. had a file on him, Richter was willing to
tell what he could and clear himself.
Bemrose promised him immunity if he talked, and immediately put a staff
to work on the leads he gave them. In a couple of months they had
rounded up enough facts for the indictments, and the rest was window
dressing, building the evidence into a story.
“So Janice was on the right track all the time when she suspected
Richter,” Larry said.
“I don’t think he had any paintings with him on the boat that time,”
Arthur said. “Once the War started he was too smart to be caught. But
he’s a bad egg. She was right about that.”
The buzzer sounded, and it was Newton on the phone, asking Arthur to
see the reporters. Bemrose insisted to Tom that he was the chief and
ought to see them, but Newton argued that the case belonged to Arthur.
Since he had the details, he ought to hand out the story.
“What’s the use, Tom? There aren’t any new angles,” Bemrose protested.
“I gave them a complete release.”
Newton, from what Larry could gather, must have urged him to see the
photographers, even if he wouldn’t bother with the reporters.
“How about that picture in this morning’s _Tribune_?” Arthur objected.
“Just a minute, Larry’s saying something.” He covered the mouthpiece
with his hand.
“Refusing fees again. Don’t spend the rest of your life refusing fees,”
Larry repeated.
Arthur uncovered the receiver. “Okay, Tom. I’ll see them.”
“I thought I was through with that baby stuff,” he told Larry.
“I suppose you want Tom to be grateful to you the rest of his life.”
“Putting myself in solid,” Arthur admitted.
He sent word to his secretary to let the photographers in, and asked
Larry to stick around. “They’ll fuss with the lights for a while. We’ll
have time to talk.”
Luckily the man Larry was supposed to see at the O.P.A. agreed to put
off his appointment. Arthur seemed relieved that he could stay. While
the photographers slid their plates into position and changed their
flash bulbs, he inquired about Lucy.
“Fine,” Larry assured him. “Better looking than ever.”
Tensely Bemrose rubbed his palms along the leather arms of his chair.
“Did she say anything about coming down?”
“As soon as Marge is straightened out.”
“Is Phil around?”
Larry nodded toward the photographers who were getting ready to shoot.
When they finished, a kid with fresh blue eyes turned as he was
leaving, and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Thanks, Mr.
Next-Attorney-General.”
“The rumor mill,” Bemrose explained. “They have Tom running for the
Senate, and they have me his successor. I doubt if the voters in Tom’s
district know about it.”
“Mr. Attorney-General. Wouldn’t Janice like that.”
A flash of red came through the door, and Janice stood astride before
them, both hands planted in the patch pockets of her bright coat. “What
would I like?”
Larry nodded toward Bemrose. “The next Attorney-General.”
“Not according to my sources. That’s a job for a good party man.”
“Why can’t I go into politics without a party?” Arthur asked.
Larry appealed to Janice. “He’s been telling me to get out of politics
for twenty years, and now he wants to know why he can’t get in. A few
months ago he was going to be a cog in a machine----”
“What machine?” She rocked on her heels. “Tom Newton’s? Ed Flynn’s?”
“Not a political machine,” Larry explained. “One of Henry Ford’s. He
was going to be one of those pistons that go up and down like every
other piston, doing a job, not bothering the other pistons----”
“When was all this?” The straight mouth broke in a dozen delighted
places.
“And today when I walked in here, the Nobody had locked out a crowd of
reporters and was fighting to keep his name out of the papers.” Larry
shrugged. “I don’t know what it proves. Maybe that you can’t keep a
good piston down.”
Arthur faked his distaste. “Let’s get out of here, Jan, before he
starts making bad puns.”
“There’s no reason why he shouldn’t go into politics, even if some
smart reporter did make a crack. He can’t be the next Attorney-General
because the incumbent has been picked, but how about making him a
Judge? What’s wrong with that?” Janice bore down on her pockets,
balancing on the soles of her feet.
“A fine group activity for a group man,” Larry scoffed. “Our friend,
Bemrose, alone behind the bench, and the group out in front pleading
for justice.”
“Shut up, both of you. Hand me my crutches, and let’s get out of here.”
He hooked Janice affectionately by the neck when she came over to help
him. “We’ll take him along. He came down to see the O.P.A. and put off
his appointment for us. We’ll have to do something nice for him. How
about the car? Did Jim fix you up with gas?”
“He left a press car in front, and I’ll get a ticket if we don’t hurry.
Come on, Larry.”
She had arranged a consultation for Bemrose with a new specialist
at Johns Hopkins. The ride to Baltimore, impregnated with their
happiness, with Arthur’s recent success, and with the warmth of late
May, offered reprieve for an hour from the anxieties, frustrations, and
inconveniences of wartime. Larry leaned back and enjoyed the luxury of
riding again in a private car. Most of his friends’ automobiles were
in storage. The taxis were rattletraps. Riding in something that had a
decent pair of springs was a pre-War treat. Larry withdrew to a corner
of the back seat and let the spring afternoon chatter to him. He must
have dozed off because the next thing he knew, the car had stopped and
Janice was climbing over him to help Arthur get out.
In the hospital waiting room, while Arthur was in with the doctor,
Janice had a chance to talk to Larry. An ugly niche at one end of the
white corridor, some hard chairs, and the inevitable tired plant that
lives in public rooms at hospitals, supplied the setting. Larry had
noticed before that people waiting in hospitals, drawn together by the
proximity of pain, felt free to unburden themselves as Janice did now.
“His real sickness is over,” she asserted. “This other is inconvenient
and makes it hard for him to get around, but it’s not as serious.
Inside he has started to heal. The cancer that used to eat into him
seems to be under control.” She hesitated. “At least I think it is.
I think he’s over that crazy desire to own other people. I hope I’m
right, Larry, and don’t wake up someday to find myself in a trap he
has camouflaged to catch me in. I don’t want to be hopelessly--” She
walked to the window, and the structure of her profile had the strength
of an ancient coin. Larry tried to imagine a trap powerful enough to
hold her.
“It’s been hopelessly for a long time, hasn’t it?” He rested his hands
next to hers on the high white sill. “I wouldn’t worry too much about
the change being temporary if I were you,” Larry cautioned. “I don’t
think it was a cancer. A cancer spreads. Call it a tumor that’s been
removed. I’d go ahead and make some plans now.”
She had been staring, trancelike, at the clouded window glass, but now
her head tilted toward him. “Make personal plans today? How can we?
They’d have to be changed a thousand times. I can’t think of any plans,
including some of Eisenhower’s, that will stand up. There’s too much in
the air that’s unpredictable. Of all the times in history to make plans
for the future----”
“War maneuvers are unpredictable,” Larry agreed. “But people don’t have
to be.”
“That’s heretical. It’s absolutely against the belief of our times,”
Janice protested. “Don’t you know it’s things, _things_ that don’t
change? We haven’t faith in human beings. It’s things that stand up.”
“All right, but I’d make some plans just the same,” Larry insisted.
“Soon. While he’s down here and happy with his job.”
“What about New York? What about her?” Janice asked.
“It’s okay with her. I’ve talked to her and I’m sure.”
Janice slipped her hand into the loose sleeve of her coat and pulled
down her heavy bracelet. “The man you told me about?”
“Yes. He seems more for her. If she married him, they’d have children
by now. I don’t think he’s rushing her into anything. He seems to
understand about Arthur. But just the same I guess he’d be happy if she
made up her mind.”
Janice rested a foot on the radiator pipe and turned away from Larry.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “What’s the matter? Scared?”
“He hasn’t asked me. I can’t even tell whether he wants to.” She
twisted away. “He talks about Lucy coming down. When I tell him I may
have to go overseas, he doesn’t object. He probably doesn’t want to
commit himself.”
“Maybe he thinks you know your mind, and when you’re ready, you’ll
say so,” Larry suggested. “It’s one of the prices you pay for being
independent. He’s probably waiting for some sign from you.”
Her jaw set stubbornly. “I don’t want to crowd him. I want him to be
sure about us. As long as there’s a war, I don’t know how he can be.
It’s like planning a future home in a trailer. I may feel permanent
about Arthur and he may feel a little like that about me, but these
aren’t permanent times.” She dug her soles into the rubber-matted
floor. “We’re feeling the blast of blockbusters that are three thousand
miles away. The ground is shifting under us. Washington, New York and
Des Moines are as thoroughly bombed as London. Not that many people
realize it now----”
Larry shook his head.
“You can put buildings together again, but you don’t hear of any
post-War plans for restoring hopes,” Janice continued. “All you see
and feel is the disintegration. If Arthur doesn’t want to pretend a
permanence he can’t feel, I don’t blame him. He tried to use marriage
for ballast once, when he was restless before the War, and what
happened? The ballast turned into dead weight. That mustn’t happen to
him again. I won’t let it. I’ve waited all this time, and I can wait
another few years to see what comes out of the mess. If he and I have
anything in the way of happiness that will help give it meaning--
Meaning!” She shrugged. “That’s too much to expect. Survival is what
I’m trying to say. Freedom to enjoy parts of some days, the feeling
that it’s good to be together, and when we’re apart it stays good--I’ll
settle for that. He doesn’t have to sign any papers.”
“But you have waited,” Larry insisted. “Supposing you _do_ make plans
and have to tear them up. You’d have the satisfaction now of making
them. I wouldn’t let things ride. I’d have a talk with him,” he told
her.
“I’m going to wait and I’m going to be patient,” she decided. “This
time there’s something to wait for. This time, if he’ll have me----”
She flung herself on Larry, sobbing, and an elderly woman with a
line-ridden face, who slumped heavily in her chair across the room,
leaned forward startled. He stroked Janice’s smooth dark head, mumbling
comfort into her hair. When she lifted her face, he dried her off with
a fresh handkerchief. The tears stopped, and she brightened. “This time
I’m going to hold out for the big thing. I want him to marry me.”