Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

“Look, son—if you need a father confessor, I can tell you where to find one. I am not one.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Didn’t meant to be blunt. But you do have something on your mind.”

  “Uh, nothing much perhaps. It has to do with having no background. None. So I go to church—to meet people. To meet nice people. Respectable people. People a man with no background otherwise could never meet.”

  “Mr. Bronson, everybody has some background.”

  Lazarus turned down Benton Boulevard before answering. “Not me, sir. Oh, I was born—somewhere. Thanks to the man who let me call him ‘Grandfather’—and his wife—I had a pretty good childhood. But they’re long gone and—shucks, I don’t even know that my name is ‘Ted Bronson.’ ”

  “Happens. You’re an orphan?”

  “I suppose so. And a bastard, probably. Is this the house?” Lazarus stopped one house short of his-their home.

  “Next one, with the porch light on.”

  Lazarus eased the car forward, stopped again. “Been nice meeting you, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Don’t be in a hurry. These people—Bronson?—who took care of you. Where was this?”

  " ‘Bronson’ is a name I picked off a calendar. I thought it sounded better than ‘Ted Jones’ or ‘Ted Smith.’ I was probably born in the southern part of the state. But I can’t prove even that.”

  “So? I practiced medicine down that way at one time. What county?”

  (I know you did, Gramp—so let’s be careful with this one.) “Greene County. I don’t mean I was born there; I just mean I was told I came from an orphanage in Springfield”

  “Then I probably didn’t deliver you; my practice was farther north. Mrrph. But we might be kinfolk.”

  “Huh? I mean ‘Excuse me, Dr. Johnson?’ ”

  “Don’t call me ‘Doctor,’ Ted; I dropped that title when I quit delivering babies. What I mean is this: When I first saw you, you startled me. Because you are the spit ‘n’image of my older brother, Edward . . who was an engineer on the St. Looie and San Francisco . . till he lost his air brakes and that ended his triflin’ ways. He had sweethearts in Fort Scott, St. Looie, Wichita, and Memphis; I’ve no reason to think he neglected Springfield. Could be.”

  Lazarus grinned.“Should I call you ‘Uncle’?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh, I shan’t. Whatever happened, there’s no way to prove it. But it would be nice to have a family.”

  “Son, quit being self-conscious about it. A country doctor learns that such mishaps are far more common than most people dream. Alexander Hamilton and Leonardo da Vinci are in the same boat with you, to name just two of the many great men entitled to wear the bend sinister. So stand tall and proud and spit in their eyes. I see the parlor light is still burning; what would you say to a cup of coffee?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you—or disturb your family.”

  “It’ll do neither. My daughter always leaves the pot on the back of the range for me. If she happens to be downstairs in a wrapper—unlikely—she’ll go flying up the back stairs, then reappear instantly down the front stairs, dressed fit to kill. Like a fire horse when the bell rings; I don’t know how she does it. Come on in.”

  Ira Johnson unlocked the front door, then called out as he opened it: “Maureen! I have company with me.”

  “Coming, Father.” Mrs. Smith met them in the hall, moving with serene dignity and dressed as if she expected callers. She smiled, and Lazarus suppressed his excitement.

  “Maureen, I want to present Mr. Theodore Bronson. My daughter, Ted—Mrs. Brian Smith.”

  She offered her hand. “You are most welcome, Mr. Bronson,” Mrs. Smith said in warm, rich tones that made Lazarus think of Tamara.

  Lazarus took her hand gently, felt his fingers tingle, had to restrain himself from making a deep bow and kissing it. He forced himself to give only a hint of a bow, then let go at once. “I am honored, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Do come in and sit down.”

  "Thank you, but it’s late, and I was merely dropping your father off on my way home.”

  “Must you leave so quickly? I was simply darning stockings and reading the ‘Ladies’ Home Journal’—nothing important.”

  “Maureen, I promised Mr. Bronson a cup of coffee. He fetched me home from the chess club and saved me a soaking.”

  “Yes, Father, right away. Take his hat and make him sit down.” She smiled and left.

  Lazarus let his grandfather seat him in the parlor, then took advantage of the moments his mother was out of sight to quiet down and to glance around. Aside from the fact that the room had shrunk, it looked much as he remembered it; an upright piano she had taught him to play; fireplace with gas logs, mantel shelf with beveled mirror above; a glass-fronted sectional bookcase; heavy drapes and lace curtains; his parent’s wedding picture framed with their hearts & flowers marriage license, and balancing this a reproduction of Millet’s “Gleaners,” and other pictures large and small; a rocking chair, a platform rocker with a footstool, straight chairs, arm chairs, tables, lamps, all crowded and in an easygoing mixture of mission oak and bird’s-eye maple. Lazarus felt at home; even the wallpaper seemed familiar—save that he realized uneasily that he had been given his father’s chair.

  An archway, filled by a beaded portiere, led into the living room, now dark. Lazarus tried to recall what should be in there and wondered if it would look just as familiar. The parlor was immaculately neat and clean, and kept that way, he knew, despite a large family, by the living room being used mainly by children while this room was reserved for their elders and for guests. How many kids now? Nancy, then Carol, and Brian Junior, and George, and Marie—and himself—and since this was early 1917 Dickie had to be about three, and Ethel would still be in diapers.

  What was that behind his mother’s chair? Could it be?—Yes, it’s my elephant! Woodie you little devil, you know you aren’t supposed to play in here, and everything must go back into your toy box before you go up to bed; that’s a flat rule. The toy animal was small (about six inches high), made of stuffed cloth, and gray with much handling; Lazarus felt resentment that such a treasure—his!—was entrusted to a young child . . then managed to laugh at himself even though the emotion persisted. He felt tempted to steal the toy. “Excuse me. You were saying, Mr. Johnson?”

  “I said I was temporarily delegated in loco parentis; my son-in-law has gone to Plattsburg and—” Lazarus lost the rest of the remark; Mrs. Smith returned in a soft rustle of satin petticoats, carrying a loaded tray. Lazarus jumped to relieve her of it; she smiled and let him.

  By golly, that was the Haviland china he had not been allowed to touch until after he got his first long pants! And the “company” coffee service—solid silver serving pot, cream pitcher, sugar bowl and tongs, the Columbian Exposition souvenir spoons. Linen doilies, matching tea napkins, thin slices of pound cake, a silver dish of mints—how did you do this in three minutes or less? You’re certainly doing the prodigal proud! No, don’t be a fool, Lazarus; she’s doing her father proud, entertaining his guest—you are a faceless stranger.

  “Children all in bed?” inquired Mr. Johnson.

  “All but Nancy,” Mrs. Smith answered, serving them. “She and her young man went to the Isis and should be home soon.”

  “Show was over half an hour ago.”

  “Is there any harm in their stopping for a sundae? The ice-cream parlor is on a brightly lighted corner right where they catch their streetcar.”

  “A young girl shouldn’t be out after dark without a chaperon.”

  “Father, this is 1917, not 1890. He’s a fine boy . . and I can’t expect them to miss an episode of their serial—Pearl White and very exciting; Nancy tells me all about it. With a William S. Hart feature tonight, I understand; I would have enjoyed seeing that myself.”

  "Well, I’ve still got my shotgun.”

  “Father.”

  Lazarus concentrated on remembering to eat cake with a f
ork.

  “She’s trying to bring me up,” Gramp said grumpily. “Won’t work.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Bronson is not interested in our family problems,” Mrs. Smith said quietly. “If they were problems. Which they are not. May I warm your coffee, Mr. Bronson?”

  "Thank you, ma’am.”

  “That’s right, he isn’t. But Nancy should be told soon. Maureen, take a close look at Ted. Ever seen him before?”

  His mother looked over her cup at Lazarus, put it down and said, “Mr. Bronson, when you came in, I had the oddest feeling. At church, was it not?”

  Lazarus admitted that such could have been the case. Gramp’s brows shot up. “So? I must warn the parson. But even if you did meet there—”

  “We did not meet at church, Father. What with herding my zoo I barely have time to speak to Reverend and Mrs. Draper. But now that I think about it, I’m sure I saw Mr. Bronson there last Sunday. One does notice a new face among old familiar ones.”

  “Daughter, as may be, that wasn’t what I meant. Whom does Ted look like? No, never mind—doesn’t he look like your Uncle Ned?”

  His mother again looked at Lazarus. “Yes, I see a resemblance. But he looks even more like you, Father.”

  “No, Ted’s from Springfield. All my sins were farther north.”

  “Father.”

  “Daughter, quit worrying about me rattling the family skeleton. It’s possible that—Ted, may I tell it?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Johnson. As you said, it’s nothing to be ashamed of—and I’m not.”

  “Ted is an orphan, Maureen, a foundling. If Ned weren’t warming his toes in hell, I’d ask him some searching questions. The time and place is right, and Ted certainly looks like our kin.”

  “Father, I think you are embarrassing our guest.”

  “I don’t. And don’t you be so hoity-toity, young lady. You’re a grown woman, with children; you can stand plain talk.”

  “Mrs. Smith, I am not embarrassed. Whoever my parents were, I am proud of them. They gave me a strong, healthy body and a brain that serves my needs—”

  "Well spoken, young man!”

  "—and while I would be proud to claim your father as my uncle—and you as my cousin—if it were so—it seems more likely that my parents were taken by a typhoid epidemic down that way; the dates match well enough.”

  Mr. Johnson frowned. “How old are you, Ted?”

  Lazarus though fast and decided to be his mother’s age. “I’m thirty-five.”

  “Why, that just my age!”

  “Really, Mrs. Smith? If you hadn’t made clear that you have a daughter old enough to go to the picture show with a young man, I would have thought you were about eighteen.”

  “Oh, go along with you! I have eight children.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Maureen doesn’t look her age,” agreed her father. “Hasn’t changed since she was a bride. Runs in the family; her mother doesn’t have a gray hair today.” (Where is Grandma?—oh, yes, so don’t ask.) “But, Ted, you don’t look thirty-five either. I would have guessed middle twenties.”

  "Well, I don’t know exactly how old I am. But I can’t be younger than that. I might be a bit older.” (Quite a bit, Gramp!) “But it’s close enough that when I’m asked I just put down the Fourth of July, 1882.”

  “Why that’s my birthday!”

  (Yes, Mama, I know.) “Really, Mrs. Smith? I didn’t mean to steal your birthday. I’ll move over a few days—say the first of July. Since I’m not certain anyhow.”

  "Oh, don’t do that! Father—you must bring Mr. Bronson home for dinner on our joint birthday.”

  “Do you think Brian would like that?”

  "Certainly he would! I’ll write to him about it. He’ll be home long before then in any case. You know Brian always says, ‘The more, the merrier!’ We’ll be expecting you, Mr. Bronson.”

  “Mrs. Smith, that’s most kind of you, but I expect to leave on a long business trip on the first of July.”

  "I think you have let Father scare you off. Or is it the prospect of eating dinner with eight noisy children? Never mind: my husband will invite you himself—and then we will see what you say.”

  "In the meantime, Maureen, stop crowding him; you’ve got him flustered. Let me see something. You two stand up, side by side. Go ahead, Ted; she won’t bite you.”

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  She shrugged and dimpled, then accepted his hand to get up out of her rocking chair. “Father always wants to ‘see something.’ ”

  Lazarus stood by her, facing his grandfather, and tried to ignore her fragrance—a touch of toilet water, but mostly the light, warm, delicious scent of sweet and healthy woman. Lazarus was afraid to think about it, was careful not to let it show in his face. But it hit him like a heavy blow.

  “Mrrrph. Both of you step up to the mantel and look at yourselves in the glass. Ted, there was no typhoid epidemic down that way in’eighty-two. Nor ’eighty-three.”

  “Really, sir? Of course I can’t remember.” (And I shouldn’t have tossed in that flourish! Sorry, Gramp. Would you believe the truth? You might . . out of all the men I’ve ever known. Don’t risk it, Bub, forget it!)

  “Nope. Just the usual number of dumb fools too lazy to build their privies a proper distance from their wells. Which I feel certain could not describe your parents. Can’t guess about your mother, but I think your father died with his hand on the throttle, still trying to gain control. Maureen?”

  Mrs. Smith stared at her reflection and that of their guest. She said slowly, “Father . . Mr. Bronson and I look enough alike to be brother and sister.”

  “No. First cousins. Although with Ned gone there’s no way to prove it. I think—”

  Mr. Johnson was interrupted by a yell from the front staircase landing: “Mama! Gramp! I want to be buttoned up!”

  Ira Johnson answered, “Woodie, you rapscallion, get back upstairs!”

  Instead the child came down—small, male, freckled, and ginger-haired, dressed in Dr. Denton’s with the seat flapping behind him. He stared at Lazarus with beady, suspicious eyes. Lazarus felt a shiver run down his spine and tried not to look at the child.

  “Who’s that?”

  Mrs. Smith said quickly, “Forgive me, Mr. Bronson.” Then she added quietly, “Come here, Woodrow.”

  Her father said, “Don’t bother, Maureen. I’ll take him up and blister his bottom—then I’ll button him.”

  “You and what six others?” the boy child demanded.

  “Me, myself, and a baseball bat.”

  Mrs. Smith quietly and quickly attended to the child’s needs, then hurried him out of the room and headed him up the stairs. She returned and sat down. Her father said, “Maureen, that was just an excuse. Woodie can button himself. And he’s too old for that baby outfit. Put him in a nightshirt.”

  “Father, shall we discuss it another time?”

  Mr. Johnson shrugged. “I’ve overstepped again. Ted, that one’s the chessplayer. He’s a stem-winder. Named for President Wilson, but he’s not ‘too proud to fight.’ Mean little devil.”

  “Father.”

  “All right, all right—but it’s true. That’s what I like about Woodie. He’ll go far.”

  Mrs. Smith said, “Please excuse us, Mr. Bronson. My father and I sometimes differ a little about how to bring up a boy. But we should not burden you with it.”

  “Maureen, I simply won’t let you make a ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ out of Woodie.”

  “There’s no danger of that, Father; he takes after you. My father was in the War of ’Ninety-eight, Mr. Bronson, and the Insurrection—”

  “And the Boxer Rebellion.”

  "—and he can’t forget it—”

  “Of course not. I keep my old Army thirty-eight under my pillow, my son-in-law being away.”

  “Nor would I wish him to forget; I am proud of my father, Mr. Bronson, and hope that all my sons will grow up with his same spirit. But I want them to learn to
speak politely, too.”

  “Maureen, I would rather have Woodie sass me than be timid with me. He’ll learn to speak politely soon enough; older boys will take care of that. A lesson in manners punctuated with a black eye sticks. I know from experience.”

  The discussion was interrupted by the jingle of the doorbell. “That should be Nancy,” Mr. Johnson said and got up to answer. Lazarus heard Nancy say good-night to someone, then stood up himself to be introduced, and was not startled only because he had already picked out his eldest sister at church and knew that she looked like a young edition of Laz and Lor. She spoke to him politely but rushed upstairs as soon as she was excused.

  “Do sit down, Mr. Bronson.”

  "Thank you, Mrs. Smith, but you were staying up until your daughter returned. She has, so I will leave.”

  "Oh, there’s no hurry; Father and I are night owls.”

  "Thank you very much. I enjoyed the coffee and the cake, and most especially the company. But it is time for me to say good-night. You have been most kind.”

  “If you must, sir. Will we see you at church on Sunday?”

  “I expect to be there, ma’am.”

  Lazarus drove home in a daze, body alert but thoughts elsewhere. He reached his apartment, bolted himself in, checked windows and blinds automatically, stripped off his clothes, and started a tub. Then he looked grimly at himself in the bathroom mirror. “You stupid arsfardel,” he said with slow intensity. “You whirling son of a bitch. Can’t you do anything right?”

  No, apparently not, not even something as simple as getting reacquainted with his mother. Gramp had been no problem ; the old goat had given him no surprises—other than being shorter and smaller than Lazarus remembered. He was just as grumpy, suspicious, cynical, formally polite, belligerent —and delightful—as Lazarus had remembered.

  There had been worrisome moments when he had “thrown himself on the mercy of the court.” But that gambit had paid off better than Lazarus had had any reason to hope—through an unsuspected family resemblance. Lazarus not only had never seen Gramp’s elder brother (dead before Woodie Smith was born), but he had forgotten that there ever was an Edward Johnson.