Melville Goodwin, USA

by John P. Marquand

  There was no reason for him to have said anything and of course he should have known better. Perhaps, I began to think, there was a difference between civilian and military love.

  “Could you make them understand about the Battle of the Bulge?” I heard Phil Bentley ask. “It must have been a pretty complicated subject.”

  “General,” Colonel Flax said, “there’s only a quarter of an hour before lunch, sir.”

  I was not in the least surprised to hear from Dottie Peale. After she had called me at the studio, I knew that I would hear from her again, because persistence was one of Dottie’s greatest assets, and if she wanted something, she could never exercise the virtue of patience. Obviously she wanted to find out what the General was doing and how he looked and what was happening and how much he still remembered about everything. It was impossible to prevent her from gathering this information. It was inevitable that she and the General would meet eventually, now that he was on her mind again. There was no way of explaining the forces that drew two people together, but I did wish she could have waited for what might have been a more decent interval, and I wished that I were not the catalytic agent.

  I decided to call Dottie from the privacy of the upstairs dressing room, and when I got there and closed the door, I found myself thinking again of the completeness with which General Goodwin and his interests had taken over the house since he had entered it. It was not my house any longer but a temporary headquarters in a theater of operations. In fact I should not have been in the least surprised, on looking out of the window, to see a headquarters company parking jeeps and command cars on the lawn and a signal detachment taking over the stables and an antiaircraft outfit digging slit trenches and gun emplacements in the garden. The past and the present and the future of General Goodwin had completely engulfed the place, and Helen and I were like a bewildered French couple I had once seen in a commandeered château just behind the Seventh Army. All at once the General’s problems outranked my own. Instinctively I was snapping into it again, becoming a cog in the machine, although I owed him nothing, and there were no longer any army regulations to govern my behavior. He had asked me to be his aide once, and now I was in exactly that position, diplomatically and adroitly protecting the interests of my chief. I was devoted to those interests, or to put it in another way, if you had once been in the army, perhaps you always were.

  It was five minutes to one when I called Dottie Peale at her publishing company office. She must have delayed one of her inevitable luncheon engagements to wait for the call. Dottie liked to transact the more critical angles of her business at lunch, and she must have had to rearrange her whole day’s schedule, since she customarily left for lunch at half past twelve. She had undoubtedly told them at the switchboard to put the call through to her directly because the operator said, “Oh yes, Mr. Skelton, just a moment please,” and then I was connected with Dottie rather than with her secretary first.

  “Darling,” Dottie said, and her voice sounded a little edgy, “are you in any sort of trouble?… Then what have you been doing that you couldn’t take a minute all morning to answer a telephone call?”

  It was exactly like her to take such a thing personally. Women in business were always personal.

  “I’ve been busy all morning, Dot,” I said.

  “I suppose so,” Dottie said, and she laughed gently. “You’re such a VIP now, darling, that you forget that other people may sometimes be busy, too. It just happens that we’re giving an authors’ luncheon today at the Waldorf, and I ought to be at the head table right this minute.”

  “Well, well,” I answered.

  “Don’t say ‘Well, well’ in that disagreeable way,” Dottie said. “What in hell have you been doing all morning, darling?”

  “It’s nice of you to ask,” I said. “I’ve been locked up all morning in the library.”

  “Oh, in the library,” Dottie said. “Don’t tell me you’re writing a book or something, and you haven’t told me about it, darling.”

  “No, no,” I said, “I was just in there.”

  “Hell,” Dottie said, “you were in your library and you know I don’t give a damn.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I know.”

  “At least not much of a damn,” Dottie said. “I wish I could ever remember that you’re a VIP and that I ought to have my party manners with me. You know what I want, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I know what you want—in a general way.”

  “You’re getting so cryptic and so very funny, dear,” Dottie said. “All right.… Is the General still with you—in a general way?”

  “You don’t mean General Melville A. Goodwin, do you?” I asked.

  “Oh, please shut up, Sid, and pull up your socks,” Dottie said. “How is he, darling?”

  “He’s fine. He looks about the way he did in Paris,” I said. “They don’t change the way other people do. We’ve been in the library all morning, working on that profile.”

  “How’s Phil Bentley doing?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m a little afraid he’s going to be funny with it.”

  “Darling, you know what friends I used to be with Phil. Do you think it would do any good for me to have a talk with him?”

  “No, I think it would be a very bad idea,” I said.

  “Oh dear, do you think he …?”

  She did not finish the question, and she did not need to.

  “Yes,” I said, “I do. You know Phil.”

  “Oh dear,” Dottie said, “I don’t see how things get around the way they do. Has Mel asked about me, darling?”

  “Yes, he’s asked about you.”

  “Well, give him my love and tell him I can’t wait to see him, will you?”

  I did not answer. There was nothing I could do about it. It was not even worth while to tell her that it would not be a very good idea.

  “Well, darling,” she said, “you know I never want to interfere with anything, and I suppose you’ll all be working on the profile all afternoon, but it’s such a nice day. How do you think it would be if I motored out and we all had tea at five o’clock? I haven’t seen you and Helen for such a long while, and I’d love to see Camilla, and I’m dying to see the new house.”

  If Dottie wanted something, she could never wait.

  “You stay right in town,” I said. “There isn’t any reason for you to mix things up, Dot. Mrs. Goodwin’s here.”

  “Oh dear,” Dottie said, “oh dear. Sidney you don’t think she …?”

  Again there was no reason for her to finish the question.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “and I can’t very well ask her.”

  “Oh dear,” Dottie said. “Sidney, what is she like, darling?”

  “Mrs. Goodwin’s very nice,” I said.

  “Hell,” Dottie said, “do you know what you sound like? You sound like one of those general’s aides, trying to cover up.”

  Dottie was always very quick, but it was disconcerting that anyone else should have thought that I sounded that way.

  “Listen, Dot,” I said, “what do you care about Mel Goodwin? Why don’t you run along to that luncheon? You know this isn’t a good time to see him, don’t you?”

  “Darling,” Dottie asked, “how do you know whether I care?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I said.

  “Well, darling,” Dottie said, “I’ve got to see you. If I can’t see Mel, I’ve got to see you, and there’s something I want to see you about besides Mel.”

  It was impressive that Dottie could shift so rapidly from one thing to another, but I knew that she would find out everything by hook or crook, and it was better to tell her personally than over the telephone.

  “Well, all right,” I said.

  “We never seem to see each other any more, do we, darling?” Dottie said. “How would it be—if you won’t let me come out to tea and of course I wouldn’t dream of doing that if Mrs. Goodwin’s there—how
would it be if you met me at the office and we had lunch quietly tomorrow, just you and I? We haven’t seen each other for a long while.”

  They would be working on the profile, but after all, Colonel Flax was there.

  “All right,” I said, “I’d like to have lunch, Dot.”

  “You don’t think you could bring Mel, too, do you?”

  She never could drop anything once she had started.

  “No, Dot,” I said, “no, no,” and she laughed as though I had said something very funny.

  “Darling, I do love you, you know,” she said. “Come at half past twelve, and please come promptly. It will be heavenly to see you.”

  Then before I told her that it would be heavenly to see her, too, I thought of something else.

  “What was this other thing you wanted to see me about?” I asked.

  “Well, darling, I don’t suppose it’s any of my business. It’s just a little something that worries me about you and Gilbert Frary.”

  My own voice had changed. I was no longer General Goodwin’s aide.

  “What about Frary and me?” I asked.

  “It isn’t anything. It’s just something that worries me a little bit, darling. You’re so obtuse about some things and so trusting, dear, but I can’t tell you over the telephone.”

  I tried hard to believe that she probably had nothing to say about Gilbert Frary and that it was only her way of making sure that I would come for lunch—and yet I remembered certain aspects of my last conversation with Gilbert. Occasionally I was not as obtuse as Dottie thought I was.

  Helen and I never took cocktails before luncheon except on non-working days. In spite of my having spent years in a rigorous newspaper environment, I had never learned to handle liquor in the daytime, and cocktails invariably made me sleepy in the afternoon. Nevertheless I was very glad that day to see standing in front of the living room fireplace one of Helen’s latest and more dubious purchases—our new bar table, with wheels instead of legs. Apparently Miss Fineholt and Colonel Flax and Phil Bentley and the General had enjoyed the sight of it, too, because they had all gathered around it, and their voices had the merry note of children’s after school. General Goodwin himself was mixing Martinis, and Phil Bentley was trying to help him.

  “No, no, son,” the General was saying, “put that jigger away. I like to play this sort of music by ear. That’s the way a good bar-keep does it. He listens for the glug in the bottle and he judges strength by color. Do you remember Corporal Jones at the officers’ club at Leavenworth, Muriel, and the night Jonesy taught old Bish and me how to mix them at that dance we threw on Effie’s birthday? Why, Bish and I ended by chucking the corporal out and running the bar ourselves, and I’ve never gone wrong on a Martini since. Move to one side, son, and give me room.”

  The General waved the bottles expertly but not like an ordinary barkeeper. Instead he mixed the Martinis in a military way, moving by the numbers.

  “That’s the way,” he said, “glug, glug, one, two, three. Now front and center with the vermouth. There’s nothing as formal as a good Martini.”

  “The General is very fussy about his cocktails,” Mrs. Goodwin said to Miss Fineholt. “He always goes by the color, and the color’s getting lighter every year.”

  Mrs. Goodwin shook her head as though she were watching a small boy’s antics, and Miss Fineholt laughed.

  “Phil,” Miss Fineholt said, “did you hear what Mrs. Goodwin said? The Martinis are getting lighter every year. When the photographers come, we might have a candid shot of the General stirring. It would make a lovely caption—‘The color’s getting lighter every year.’”

  Colonel Flax laughed heartily, and the General joined in the mirth.

  “Flax,” he said, “there doesn’t seem to be any lemon peel. Run out, will you, and see if you can get somebody to cut off the outside skin of a lemon.”

  Helen indicated with raised eyebrows that she wanted a word with me alone.

  “He suggested the drinks,” Helen said softly. “I wasn’t planning for them—and we were having a soufflé for lunch!”

  “Well, that’s fine,” I said heartily, “I’m glad he asked for them.”

  “Did you hear him send out for lemon peel?” Helen said. “It’s just as though you and I didn’t live here any more.”

  She smiled at me in a Mona Lisa way, and we stood there like maladjusted guests, somewhat apart from the group around the bar on wheels.

  “It means that he feels at home, Helen,” I said. “He’s trained to take control. You want him to feel at home, don’t you?”

  “It’s funny,” Helen said, “I keep thinking we’re in some sort of war. Do all generals act like General Goodwin?”

  “Some do more than others,” I said. “They can’t help it.”

  “I wish you’d wait on me sometime,” Helen said. “You run after him as though you were Oscar.”

  “You don’t understand, Helen,” I said. “It’s a sort of reflex. You can’t help running around when you see a general. Look at Flax.”

  “Well, how far is the General in his life now?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep asking, Helen,” I said. “He’s moving right along. He’s somewhere in West Point.”

  “Hasn’t he even got out of West Point?”

  “Maybe he has never really got out of it,” I told her. “Lots of those regulars never do, any more than All-Americans ever get off the football team.”

  “Darling,” Helen said, “it’s awfully nice when we see things the same way, and I’m glad you got out of the army while there was still time.”

  “He said I might have got through the Point,” I told her.

  “And then I’d have watched you, like Mrs. Goodwin,” Helen said. “Look at the way she’s watching him.”

  “She’s proud of him,” I said. “Maybe it’s nice to have someone to be proud of.”

  “Well, I’m glad I don’t have to be as officially proud of you in public,” Helen said. “Sid, we really ought to have another baby.”

  “Not right now, Helen,” I said, “not right at this very moment.”

  The General was about to tell a story. I was sure of this from the intent expression that Mrs. Goodwin and Colonel Flax both wore. If he were to tell a story, it had to be good and they had to help make it good.

  “Speaking of liquor,” the General said, “do you remember Svenson, Muriel?”

  “Svenson, dear?” Mrs. Goodwin said. “Let me see, was he an officer or an enlisted man?”

  “Svenson …” The General spoke more loudly, welding us all into an audience. “You remember Svenson at Schofield, the one who was my orderly, Muriel, who used to play catch with Bobby out in front of the house. Don’t you remember the day we found that prisoner who should have been mowing the lawn knocking out flies to Svenson and Bobby?”

  “Oh yes, Svenson,” Mrs. Goodwin said, “the one you were always going to give a court to and never did. Melville is always indulging his orderlies.”

  “Say, Sid,” the General called, “didn’t I ever tell you about Svenson? I have a lot of Svenson stories. There’s nothing like those old goldbrickers who have served five or six hitches. They’re sagas in themselves.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think you ever told me about him,” I answered, and I found myself moving nearer the cocktail table, smartly and almost without my own volition.

  “I thought maybe I told you some Svenson stories in Paris at the Ritz.” The General checked himself and cleared his throat and laughed at his memory of Svenson while we all waited to hear the anecdote. We had to wait. General Goodwin was in control of the situation.

  “Well, there was still Prohibition back at Schofield,” the General said, “at least in the first year of my tour there, but just the same, they used to turn out a fine native beverage in Honolulu. If it was aged, it could be as good as bourbon. The native name for it was ‘Okulehao.’ You remember that Oke, don’t you, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir,” the co
lonel said, and both he and the General smiled.

  “Flax has been there,” the General said. “Five dollars for a one-gallon jug—but you didn’t want to get fooled on your Oke. Do you remember when General Hanson asked where I got my Oke that time we had them to dinner, Muriel?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “Tom was so sweet when you got to know him, but of course we didn’t have the rank to know him very well at Schofield.”

  “Do you remember what I told him about that Oke?” General Goodwin asked. “I said, ‘Sir, if you want my brand, you’ll have to take over Svenson,’ and old Hanson said, ‘If I have to do that, Mel, I’d rather choke on my old brand. You keep Svenson and your Oke.’”

  The General grinned at that ancient quip of General Hanson’s. Heaven only knew who General Hanson was, but we all laughed, knowingly, as though we, too, had done our duty tour at Schofield.

  “The main thing in dealing with enlisted men is to know how far to let them go and just when to pin their ears back. That’s all there is to it, isn’t it, Colonel?” the General asked.

  “That’s about it, sir,” the colonel said. “It isn’t all regulations, it’s the human touch. Now when I was a kid I used to have a striker named Judkins when I was serving with the Tenth Cavalry at Bliss …”

  Colonel Flax stopped abruptly because it was clear that the General did not want to hear about Judkins at Fort Bliss. He wished to continue the subject of Svenson at Schofield Barracks.

  “You know the way an old soldier is, Flax,” the General said. “Keep on his right side and he’ll do anything for you. Old soldiers can get you anything. When they like you they show it in little ways. Svenson didn’t have to get me that Oke. He just said one day standing at attention—he always stood at attention when he was going to get off something good—‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we ought to have better Oke at your quarters. I don’t think that stuff you have is good for Mrs. Goodwin.’”

  “Oh, Mel,” Mrs. Goodwin said, “you never told me that Svenson said that. I never did like Oke.”