Private Life

by Jane Smiley

  She could not resist. She said, “Andrew, just one question.”

  “What would that be, my dear?” Of course, he thought she was going to ask the plagiarism question, but she had answered that herself. The question she asked was “How has Len supported himself here for all of these years?”

  His shoulders began to shrug, but she held up her hand. She said, “Did you pay for the publication of that book?”

  “Well, I did. Yes.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Possibly the publisher let that slip at some point.”

  “Does anyone else know that?”

  He didn’t answer, and perhaps he didn’t know.

  After a moment, he said, “He was a stranger. Coming here was his idea.”

  “But it turned out that he couldn’t find a publisher, and so …”

  “We put years of work into his book.”

  She heaved a sigh, that was all. It was not in her to say, “Serves you right,” or even to reflect more soberly that Andrew had reaped what he had sown, or received a just and fitting punishment. All she could do was wonder what there was in him that had to persist. And what came first, the persistence or the orphaned ideas? Astronomers all over the world, she gathered, had moved on, and been thrilled to do so. But this was what marriage was, wasn’t it? A wife could know that her husband was thoroughly wrong, but the last thing on earth she could do was say so. Andrew got up and went out. About two weeks later, after sorting papers furiously, he did the only thing he knew how to do, which was start writing another book. When he showed her the first pages, when she saw the first mention of the Aether, she said, “You had better learn to type.” She was firm. She thought that would slow him down, but he bought a more modern typewriter, and she could hear him every day, behind the door of his spacious study, tap-tap-tap.

  1933

  PART FIVE

  1937

  IT WAS TRUE, as Margaret remembered Lavinia saying, “Habit proves stronger than passion.” What really happened, she came to believe, was that those nights when she lay awake wondering what it would be like to move back to Missouri (and would she live with Beatrice, whose letters were litanies of complaint or suffering, depending upon Margaret’s mood, or Elizabeth, who had become so thoroughly reticent that Margaret had no idea at all of her true state of mind?) were remembered but no longer felt. Those mornings when she arose trembling with dread at the idea of hearing his first “my dear” came to be lived through—what seemed a horror was endured and then buried in the routine of daily activities. Andrew seemed to have learned a lesson, finally, and become merely himself—no larger than life-size. She took some deep breaths, planted a rose garden, did most of what was asked of her. Philosophy intruded—she looked around and compared her condition with the general run of things and was grateful for continuing good health. Most important, she became adept at the neutral smile, the moment of patient silence, the arrangements of the day and the night that kept order around the house (no stacks of papers in the front hall or the kitchen, the dining room neat). She remembered Lavinia saying that a wife only has to do what she’s told for the first year, and wondered why she had forgotten that piece of wisdom. All of these efforts were small, and yet a balance was maintained—past episodes of imbalance became not present, and that was enough. It was akin to giving up a corset, perhaps, or buying a larger girdle, or forgetting notions of sin and retribution. Andrew, as far as she could tell, had learned the lesson of mortality, too—he was seventy-one now, and he knew he had missed many enjoyments over the years. Mostly, she had learned from watching Mrs. Tillotson that certain dramatic steps required an imperviousness of character that she did not possess; she came to be relieved that she hadn’t taken them. She let it go at that. He had not committed adultery, or a felony, or abandonment. It was simple in its way.

  One day, Margaret came home from a morning visit to Mrs. Wareham to find newspapers laid out on the dining-room table—the Examiner and the Chronicle, the Vallejo paper, and the Sacramento Bee. Andrew was proceeding around the table, reading every word about an unfortunate incident outside of Nanking. The incident looked quite straightforward to Margaret—the Japanese army had taken Nanking, which Chiang Kai-shek then had to abandon. In the course of this, Japanese planes sank an American boat because the pilots didn’t see American flags. Though lots of men were wounded, only three were killed, and most of the sailors were rescued by nearby British boats. Roosevelt complained, and some admiral apologized. By the next day, the Japanese had offered to pay for the sinking of the boat, and the Foreign Minister himself apologized.

  Andrew decided to go over to the island (he hadn’t been there in months) and hear what they were saying in the Officers’ Club and anywhere else he could manage to eavesdrop or to get someone into conversation. He was alight with investigative purpose. Margaret was glad to get him out of the house. At the end of a week, he even put in a call to Pete. Andrew wasn’t the only person interested, of course—the ladies at the knitting group had talked about it for an hour. When he hung up, she reported what they had all agreed upon: “But, Andrew, when most governments make a mistake like that, they cover it up for weeks, and then go for more weeks insisting that there was provocation, and then wait to be sued for years after that. I think this incident speaks well of the Japanese.”

  “Perhaps it does. But it’s a mystery. The sailors on the boat said that the flags were completely visible.”

  “And, anyway, it seems outside of your usual area.”

  “It is an interesting event, in and of itself.” He paused. “And I have been feeling of late that I’ve let the world get away from me. What did I come across the other day? Oh yes, my bird list, from so long ago. Remember how we walked about the island and looked at gulls and hawks? I realized that I haven’t always been a dull boy.”

  She thought, What harm can come from his getting out of the house and diverting himself with this? She said, “It’s worth looking into, then.”

  She said reassuring things like this all the time now, while she was going about her own business, passing in and out of the rooms he was in on her way to shop or weed or visit someone or go knitting or work with the aid society she collected for. Though her happiness had taken a while to set in, she traced it directly to this house Andrew had purchased. It was pleasant to wake up in, convenient to all of Vallejo, and quite suitable for hosting her share of knitting circles and get-togethers. After a few days, she quietly put the newspapers away, and in fact forgot the whole thing until she ran into Mrs. Kimura around Christmas.

  They talked about Naoko, Margaret asked after Mr. Kimura, and Mrs. Kimura asked after the captain; then Mrs. Kimura declared that she had just heard from Joe that morning. Joe had moved to Japan as a dentist, thinking there would be more opportunity there, but in the three years since going had never made up his mind whether to stay in Japan or to come home. Lester could not make up his mind whether to join his brother or to continue working for the Pacific Trading Company. Mrs. Kimura, Naoko, Cassandra, Mrs. Wareham, and Margaret had been over the pros and cons of all the choices—it was one of their standard topics of conversation. Now Mrs. Kimura reported that Joe and two of his friends were planning to go to the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo before Christmas, to leave off a letter of sympathy, and also a monetary contribution toward the medical and dental needs of those wounded aboard the boat in China.

  Margaret exclaimed, “That’s very kind!”

  Mrs. Kimura said, “Many have done same thing, wealthy businessmen down to simple schoolgirls. American ambassador wife doesn’t have moment to herself from receiving wives of high families. I admit Joe not think of this, but two friends ask him.”

  “Even so—”

  “They agree to donate two weeks from their employment to this.” She gave Margaret a happy smile. “And Joe says he found bride from good family, twenty-six-year-old. She has business sewing Western-style dresses for wealthy Japanese wives.”

  “Two weeks�
�� pay, though!”

  “To me, I see because of this that Japanese people will prevail over the warriors of the army. Emperor is being pulled in two. He knows that Japanese people don’t like war in China, but the army foils their wishes every time. Two weeks’ pay for this is how much Japanese people want to live in peace.”

  Later, Margaret wished she had not mentioned this encounter at supper. Andrew was skeptical, and Margaret was rather sharp when she said, “They’ve been very forthcoming.”

  “Well, my dear, there is literally always more to everything than meets the eye. The eye is a very poor instrument for seeing anything. Over on the island, they are very, very suspicious.”

  “Of what, though?” Her voice was rising. She inhaled deeply. What did it matter, really? She adopted a neutral expression. It helped.

  “Of some sleight of hand. The orange will be pulled out from behind the ear, big as life, and how did it get there when the magician was wearing short sleeves?”

  She laughed. It wasn’t very often that Andrew made her laugh, and he gave her a gratified smile.

  And then the incident of the boat (the Panay) was resolved, and the papers completely stopped talking about it.

  WITHOUT the universe, the big house was too small for him—the steep steps too shallow, the high ceilings too low, the spacious rooms only a stride or two long. Whatever she was doing, knitting or reading or cleaning or cooking, there was the constant drum of footsteps—boot steps, really—so she was happy when he went out, dressed nicely, always in a suit and well-shined shoes. He carried a walking stick and wore a hat to keep off the sun. He walked fast, and he was healthy for a man of his age. He would never be mistaken for a bum or a ne’er-do-well, she thought.

  It was Officer Napolitano and Officer Kelley who stopped by one day and told her that once in a while he would flag down someone driving a car; once in a greater while, that person would stop, no doubt thinking that Andrew was an old man in distress. Andrew would open the passenger door and get in, telling the driver (almost always a woman) to drive him over the causeway to the island, or perhaps somewhere downtown. One poor girl took him about for an hour and a half, while he did various errands. The girl thought he was lost, and didn’t want to “abandon” him. The girl didn’t even know what the Panay was—she thought he was saying “Panama.”

  Margaret said, “I thought he had forgotten about the Panay. But is he in some sort of danger? Or is he a danger to others, stepping to the street suddenly? Is that the problem?”

  “Ma’am, it is that he is relentless in engaging people in conversation. He won’t let them turn away or refuse to answer, and when they do answer, he hooks his finger in their buttonholes and won’t let them get away. Then they complain to us. Personally, ma’am, I’m afraid someone is going to pop him in the nose one day.”

  “Are his opinions that controversial?”

  He said, “No, ma’am, it’s not that. Here’s an example. He flagged down Officers Lugano and Moore, who brought him here the other day—you were out, ma’am. He sat in the car with one foot in the street and the door open for forty-five minutes before they could get rid of him.”

  Margaret chuckled and said, “They should have taken him to jail.”

  “Would that frighten him, ma’am?” Officer Napolitano looked very earnest and young. She guessed he was about twenty-five or-six.

  She shook her head, her tone still light. “From what you say, he would just engage everyone at the station in conversation and ask for rides here and there.”

  “I don’t doubt it, ma’am. But—”

  “Do these young women seem to feel threatened in any way?”

  “No, ma’am. Not in the usual way. They seem to feel that it is rather like being with an elderly eccentric relative, but—”

  “Captain Early has old-fashioned, courtly manners.”

  “All of the young ladies say that, ma’am. But one young woman had a job to get to, and he made her two hours late.”

  “Oh dear.” They were smiling, but making it clear that this could not go on. She said, “Officer, I do apologize, but my husband is frustrated in his work.”

  “We know that, ma’am. We know that Albert Einstein has balked him at every turn and now comes to Vallejo to spy on him.”

  Actual alarm displaced the confusion she had been feeling. “Einstein!”

  “Yes, ma’am. He told Officers Lugano and Moore that he saw Einstein on Capitol Street. He thought maybe Einstein had come to Vallejo to see him, but he wasn’t able to make himself known to Einstein on that particular occasion.”

  They all three sighed at the same time. Finally, she said, “I see what you mean, Officer Kelley. I’ll talk to him.”

  But first she called on Mrs. Wareham at the hotel. The Warrington was a good business and a respected establishment. Over the years, with her multitude of boarders and guests, many or most of whom were men, Margaret suspected Mrs. Wareham had seen a great many things.

  Andrew, it turned out, came in there every day and had a cup of coffee. Mrs. Wareham said, “Margaret, I thought you were sending him to me. He’s here promptly at nine-thirty. He gives me your best greetings, then drinks a cup of coffee with a lump of sugar and reads his paper. He stays about an hour, and then says goodbye and goes out. Rain or shine, really.”

  “But haven’t you heard about his activities?”

  “Not at all, dear.”

  She told her friend what the police had told her, then said, “Does he talk all the time and make people discuss the war in China?”

  “He never says a word about anything. He just nurses his cup of coffee and then pays and goes. He always leaves the girl a nice tip, too.”

  “But what should I do?”

  “Well, Margaret, first you must inform him in no uncertain terms that these girls aren’t sailors, and he can’t be commandeering their services as he once did those young men. They all did that. It was part of being a captain.”

  “That’s true. I should have remembered that.”

  “And you must say that it looks very strange to the police. That will catch his attention. You and I know Captain Early. He is the most reticent of men, but he’s very large also.”

  This thought made her nervous.

  Mrs. Wareham leaned toward her and said, “I see you are shaking your head, as you always do.”

  Margaret hadn’t realized that she was shaking her head. She made herself sit still.

  “For once in your life, Margaret, you must take charge of the situation. Take charge of him, I have to say. I—”

  In spite of her best efforts, Margaret must have continued to look dismayed.

  “I mean this kindly, dear. You are who you are….”

  “Who is that? Who is that?” Margaret found herself saying.

  There was a long pause; then Mrs. Wareham looked a little embarrassed. She said, “Everyone knows you’re a good woman, Margaret. Everyone knows that.”

  It sounded like an insult, but it had the desired effect. That evening, she cooked Andrew’s favorite supper dish and also made a pie, since there was some nice rhubarb in the market. Not quite sure how to broach her subject, she hemmed and hawed about the weather, but finally she said, “Andrew, I understand you have met Officers Lugano and Moore of the Vallejo Police Department.”

  “Indeed I have. They were most interested in my investigations.”

  “I didn’t know you were pursuing any investigations, Andrew.”

  “Well, of course I am. Into the Panay incident. Surely you haven’t forgotten that?” His tone was affable.

  “You mean that boat that was sunk in China. The reparations were paid—”

  He took a last bite of liver, set down his fork, and carefully wiped his mustache with his napkin. He shook his head. “Yes, they were. A clever gambit, and cheap in the long run.”

  “Do you think so? Mrs. Kimura told me how generous the Japanese people have been.”

  “Yes, yes. No denying that. But, my de
ar, I am now free to tell you that I have solved the mystery.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, I have. And I have informed the Vallejo Police of my views, and I have sent letters to the Commandant of the Base, to the Secretary of State, and, of course, to the New York Times. I mailed them yesterday. I feel that I can talk more freely about this, even to you, having committed my ideas to paper. And I certainly hope, though I have no assurance, that the Times will publish my conclusions. I believe that we would all be safer in the end were they to do so.”

  “What did you, did you … discover, Andrew?”

  “Well, my dear, there has been a terrible massacre at Nanking, beginning the day after the Panay was attacked, and the Panay attack was cynically designed by authorities in the higher echelons of the Japanese military, and, I believe, the Foreign Service, to drive off the Americans and the British from the area, and to divert official American attention from the atrocities that the Japanese intended to commit. Not to mention, of course, the attention of the American public.”

  “But I read the paper every day, Andrew, and there hasn’t been any mention of Nanking or anything—there’s a war in China, but I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

  “According to those I’ve talked to, many tens of thousands may have been killed by such methods as drowning and decapitation and bayoneting and, of course, shooting, and others have not been so lucky, I may say, especially the women and girls, thousands of whom have suffered the most terrible sorts of degradation before being murdered in cold blood.” He said this with a grave and sorrowful demeanor, but his words were measured, as if he were giving a report. These phrases were the very ones that he must have used in his letters.