Ethel: a heavenly smile at one end and a wet diaper at the other. Short on conversation.
That’s my (our) family in 1917. I expect to stay in K.C. until Papa returns—soon, now—then leave; some of this is a strain on me, pleasant as most of it is. I may look them up when this war is over—but probably not; I don’t want to crowd my welcome.
To make the above clear I should explain some of the customs here. Until Papa gets home, my status has to be through Gramp as a friend he plays chess with; it can’t be anything else even though he—and perhaps Mama—believe that I am Uncle Ned’s son. Why? Because I am a “young” bachelor, and by the local rules a married woman cannot have a young bachelor as a friend, particularly when her husband is out of town. The taboo is so firm I don’t dare give even the appearance of violating it . . on Mama’s account. Nor would she encourage me to. Nor would Gramp permit it.
So I’m welcome in my own home only if I go there to see Gramp. If I telephone, I must ask for him. And so on.
Oh, it’s permissible, on a rainy day, for me to offer a ride home to members of the Smith family at church. I am permitted to do almost anything for the kids as long as I don’t “spoil” them—which Mama defines as spending much more than five cents on one of them. Last Saturday I was allowed to take six of them on a picnic in my automobile carriage. I am teaching Brian to operate it. My interest in the kids is considered understandable by Mama and by Gramp because of my “lonely” and “deprived” childhood as an “orphan.”
The one thing I must never do is to be alone with Mama. I don’t go inside my own home unless publicly accompanied by Gramp; the neighbors would notice. I am meticulous about it; I won’t risk causing Mama trouble with a tribal taboo.
I am writing this at my apartment, on a printing machine you would not believe, and must stop in order to take it downtown and photoreduce it twice, then etch it and laminate it and seal it for Delay Mail and deliver it to a drop—which kills a whole day, as I must use a rented lab and destroy intermediate stages as I go; this is not something I dare leave in an apartment to which a janitor has a key. When I get back from South America I’ll make my own lab setup, one I can carry in an automobile. Paved roads will be more common this coming decade and I expect to travel that way. But I want to continue sending these letters and by as many Delay Mail drops as possible, in hope that at least one will last through the centuries and reach you. As Justin put it, the real problem is to get one to last through just the coming three centuries—I’ll keep trying.
All my love to all of you,
Lazarus
V
MARCH 3, 1917: KAISER PLOTS WITH MEXICO AND JAPAN TO ATTACK USA—ZIMMERMANN TELEGRAM AUTHENTIC
APRIL 2, 1917: PRESIDENT ADDRESSES CON-GRESS—ASKS WAR
APRIL 6, 1917: AMERICA ENTERS WAR—CON-GRESS DECLARES “A STATE OF BELLIGERENCY EXISTS”
Lazarus Long was as taken by surprise by the date of the outbreak of war with Germany as he was unsurprised by the fact itself. He was caught so fiat-footed that it was not until later that he analyzed why the “hindsight” he had relied on had proved even more myopic than foresight.
The resumption of unrestricted U-boat warfare early in 1917 had not surprised him; it fitted his recollections of his earliest history lessons. The Zimmermann telegram did not disturb him even though he did not remember it; it matched a pattern he did remember—again from history, not the direct memories of a very small child—a period of three years, 1914 to 1917, when the United States had inched slowly from neutrality to war. Woodie Smith had been not yet two when the war started, not yet five when his country got into it; Lazarus had no firsthand memories of foreign affairs of a time when Woodie had been too young to grasp such remote improbabilities.
The timetable Lazarus had fixed on, once he discovered that he had arrived three years early, had worked so well that he did not realize that its “clock” was wrong until the event slapped him in the face. When he was able to take time to analyze his mistake, he saw that he had committed the prime sin against survival: He had indulged in wishful thinking. He had wanted to believe his timetable.
He had not wanted to leave his newly found first family so quickly. All of them. But especially Maureen.
Maureen—Once he decided to stay on till July 1 as originally planned, after a long night of wrestling with his troubled soul—a night of indecision and worry and letters written and destroyed—he discovered that he could stay and treat Mrs. Brian Smith with friendly but formal politeness, avoid any sign of interest in her more personal than the mores permitted. He managed to shift to his celibate mode—happy to be near her when it was possible to be so without causing Mrs. Grundy’s nose to twitch—or the even sharper nose of his grandfather.
Lazarus had indeed been happy. As with Tamara—or the twins—or any of his darlings—coupling was not necessary to love. When it was expedient, he could bank the fires and forget it. He was never for one instant unaware of the tremendous physical attraction of this woman who had been his mother more than two thousand years ago (in some odd direction)—but the matter was shelved; it did not affect his manner or lessen his happiness when he was permitted to be near her. He believed that Maureen knew what he was doing (or refraining from doing) and why, and that she appreciated his restraint.
All during March he sought approved ways to see her. Brian Junior wanted to learn to drive; Gramp ruled that he was old enough, so Lazarus taught him—picked him up at the house and returned him there—and often was rewarded with a glimpse of Maureen. Lazarus even found a way (other than chess) to reach Woodie. He took the child to the Hippodrome Theater to see the magician Thurston the Great—then promised to take him (when it opened for the summer) to “Electric Park,” an amusement park and Woodie’s idea of heaven. This consolidated a truce between them.
Lazarus delivered the child home from the theater, sound asleep and with no more than normal wear and tear, and was rewarded by sharing coffee with Gramp and Maureen.
Lazarus volunteered to help with the Boy Scout troop sponsored by the church; George was a Tenderfoot, and Brian was working toward Eagle. Lazarus found being an assistant scoutmaster pleasant in itself—and Gramp invited him in when he gave the boys a lift home.
Lazarus gave little attention to foreign affairs. He continued to buy the Kansas City Post because the newsboy at Thirty-first and Troost regarded him as a regular customer—a real sport who paid a nickel for a penny paper and did not expect change. But Lazarus rarely read it, not even the market news once he completed his liquidations.
The week starting Sunday the first of April Lazarus did not plan to see his family for two reasons: Gramp was away, and his father was home. Lazarus did not intend to meet his father until he could manage it naturally and easily through Gramp. Instead he stayed home, did his own cooking, caught up on chores, did mechanical work on his landaulet and cleaned and polished it, and wrote a long letter to his Tertius family.
This he took with him Thursday morning, intending to prepare it for Delay Mail. He bought a newspaper as usual at Thirty-first and Troost; after he was seated in a streetcar, he glanced at its front page—then broke his habit of enjoying the ride by reading it carefully. Instead of going to the Kansas City Photo Supply Company, he went to the Main Public Library’s reading room and spent two hours catching up with the world—the local papers, the Tuesday New York Times where he read the text of the President’s message to Congress—“God helping her, she can do no other!”—and the Chicago Tribune of the day before. He noted that the Tribune, staunchest foe of England outside the German-language press, was now hedging its bets.
He then went to the men’s toilet, tore into small pieces the letter he had prepared, and flushed it down a water closet.
He went to the Missouri Savings Bank, drew out his account, went next to the downtown office of the Santa Fe Railroad and bought a ticket for Los Angeles with thirtyday stopover privilege at Flagstaff, Arizona, stopped at a stationer’s, then on to the
Commonwealth Bank and got at his lockbox, removed from it a smaller box heavy with gold. He asked to use the bank’s washroom; his status as a lockbox client got him this favor.
With gold pieces distributed among thirteen pockets of his coat, vest, and trousers Lazarus no longer looked smart—he tended to sag here and there—but if he walked carefully, he did not jingle. So he walked most carefully, had his nickel ready on boarding a streetcar, then stood on the rear platform rather than sit down. He was not easy until he was locked and bolted into his apartment.
He stopped to make and eat a sandwich, then got to work on tailoring, sewing the yellow coins into one-coin pockets of the chamois-skin vest he had made earlier, then covered it with the vest from which it had been patterned. Lazarus forced himself to work slowly, restoring seams so neatly that the nature of the garment could not be detected by anyone not wearing it.
About midnight he had another sandwich, got back to work.
When he was satisfied with fit and appearance, he put the money vest aside, placed a folded blanket on the table where he had been working, placed on it a heavy, tall Oliver typewriter. He attacked the clanking monster with two fingers:
“At Kansas City, Gregorian 5 April 1917
“Dearest Lor and Laz,
“EMERGENCY. I need to be picked up. I hope to be at the impact crater by Monday 9 April 1917 repeat nine April nineteen seventeen. I may be one or two days late. I will wait there ten days, if possible. If not picked up, I will try to keep the 1926 (nineteen twenty-six) rendezvous.
“Thanks!
“Lazarus”
Lazarus typed two originals of this, then addressed two sets of nesting envelopes, using different choices on each and addressing the outermost envelopes one to his local contact and the other to a Chicago address. He then wrote a bill of sale:
“For one dollar in hand and other good and valuable considerations 1 sell and convey all my interest, right, and title to one Ford Model-T automobile, body style ‘Landaulet,’ engine number 1290408, to Ira Johnson, and warrant to him and his successors that this chattel is unencumbered and that I am sole owner with full right to convey title.
“(s) Theodore Bronson
”April 6, 1917 A.D.”
He placed this in a plain envelope, put it with the others, drank a glass of milk, went to bed.
He slept ten hours, undisturbed by cries of “Extra! Extra!” along the boulevard; he had expected them, his subconscious discounted them and let him rest—he expected to be very busy the next several days.
When his inner clock called him, he got up, quickly bathed and shaved, cooked and ate a large breakfast, cleaned his kitchen, removed all perishables from his icebox and emptied them into the garbage can on the rear service porch and turned the ice card around to read “NO ICE TODAY” and left fifteen cents on top of the icebox, emptied the drip pan.
There was a fresh quart of milk by the ice. He had not ordered it, but he had not specifically not ordered it. So he put six cents in an empty bottle, with a note telling the milkman not to leave milk until the next time he left money out.
He packed a grip—toilet articles, socks, underwear, shirts, and collars (to Lazarus, those high starched collars symbolized all the tightminded taboos of this otherwise pleasant age), then rapidly searched the apartment for everything of a personal nature. The rent was paid till the end of April; with good luck he expected to be in the Dora long before then. With bad luck he would be in South America—but with worse luck he would be somewhere else—anywhere—and under another name; he wanted “Ted Bronson” to disappear without a trace.
Shortly he had waiting at the front door a grip, an overcoat, a winter suit, a set of chessmen in ivory and ebony, and a typewriter. He finished dressing, being careful to place three envelopes and his ticket in an inner pocket of his suit coat. The money vest was too warm but not uncomfortable; the distributed weight was not bad.
He piled it all into the tonneau of the landaulet, drove to the southside postal substation, registered two letters, went from there to the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor. He noted with wry amusement that “The Swiss Garden” had its blinds down and a sign “CLOSED.”
Mr. Dattelbaum was willing to accept the typewriter against a gun but wanted five dollars to boot for the little Colt pistol Lazarus selected. Lazarus let the pawnbroker conduct both sides of the dicker.
Lazarus sold the typewriter and the suit, left his overcoat and took back a pawn ticket, received the handgun and a box of cartridges. He was in fact giving Mr. Dattelbaum the overcoat since he had no intention of redeeming it—but Lazarus got what he wanted plus three dollars cash, had unloaded chattels he no longer needed, and had given his friend the pleasure of one last dicker.
The gun fitted into a left-side vest pocket Lazarus had retailored into a makeshift holster. Short of being frisked—most unlikely for so obviously respectable a citizen—it would not be noticed. A kilt was better both for concealment and for quick access—but it was the best he could manage with the clothes he had to wear, and this gun had had its front sight filed off by some practical-minded former owner.
He was now through with Kansas City save for saying good-bye to his first family—then grab the first Santa Fe rattler west. It distressed him that Gramp had gone to St. Louis, but that could not be helped, and this one time he would bull his way in, with a convincing cover story: The chess set as a present for Woodie was reason enough to show up in person, the bill of sale gave an excuse to speak to his father—No, sir, this is not exactly a present . . but somebody might as well drive it until this war is over . . and if by any chance I don’t come back—well, this makes things simpler—you understand me, sir?—your father-in-law being my best friend and sort of my next of kin since I don’t have any.
Yes, that would work and result in a chance to say good-bye to all the family, including Maureen. (Especially Maureen!) Without quite lying. Best way to lie.
Just one thing—If his father wanted to enlist him into his own outfit, then one lie must be used: Lazarus was dead set on joining the Navy. No offense intended, sir; I know you’re just back from Plattsburg, but the Navy needs men, too.
But he would not tell that lie unless forced to.
He left his car back of the pawnship, crossed the street to a drugstore, and telephoned:
“Is this the Brian Smith residence?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mrs. Smith, this is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to Mr. Smith?”
“This isn’t Mama, Mr. Bronson; this is Nancy. Oh, isn’t it terrible!”
“Yes, it is, Miss Nancy.”
“You want to speak to Papa? But he’s not here; he’s gone to Fort Leavenworth. To report in—and we don’t know when we’ll see him again!”
“There, there—please don’t cry. Please!”
“I was not crying. I’m just a teensy bit upset. Do you want to speak to Mama? She’s here . . but she’s lying down.”
Lazarus thought fast. Of course he wanted to speak to Maureen. But—Confound it, this was a complication. “Please don’t disturb her. Can you tell me when your grandfather will be back in town?” (Could he afford to wait? Oh, damn!)
“Why, Grandpa got back yesterday.”
“Oh. May I speak to him, Miss Nancy?”
“But he’s not here, either. He went downtown hours ago. He might be at his chess club. Do you want to leave a message for him?”
“No. Just tell him I called . . and will call again later. And, Miss Nancy—don’t worry.”
“How can I help worrying?”
“I have second sight. Don’t tell anyone but it’s true; an old gypsy woman saw that I had it and proved it to me. Your father is coming home and will not be hurt in this war. I know.”
“Uh . . I don’t know whether to believe that or not—but it does make me feel better.”
“It’s true.” He said good-bye gently, and hung up.
“Chess club—” Surely Gramp would not be loafing
in a pool hall today? But since it was just across the street, he might as well see . . before driving out to Benton and waiting in sight of the house for him to return.
Gramp was there, at the chess table but not even pretending to work a chess problem; he was simply glowering.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”
Gramp looked up. “What’s good about it? Sit down, Ted.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lazarus slid into the other chair. “Not much good about it, I suppose.”
“Eh?” The old man looked at him as if just noticing his presence. “Ted, would you say that I was a man in good physical condition?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Able to shoulder a gun and march twenty miles a day?”
“I would think so.” (I’m sure you could, Gramp.)
“That’s what I told that young smart-alec at the recruiting station. He told me I was too old!” Ira Johnson looked ready to break into tears. “I asked him since when was forty-five too old?—and he told me to move aside, I was holding up the line. I offered to step ouside and whip him and any two other men he picked. And they put me out, Ted, they put me out!” Gramp covered his face with his hands, then took them down and muttered, “I was wearing Army Blue before that snotty little shikepoke learned to pee standing up.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“My own fault. I fetched along my discharge . . and forgot about its having my birth date on it. Look, Ted, if I dyed my hair and went back to St. Looie—or Joplin—that would work . . wouldn’t it?”
“Probably.” (I know it didn’t, Gramp . . but I think you did manage to talk your way into the Home Guard. But I can’t tell you that.)
“I’ll do it! But I’ll leave my discharge at home.”
“In the meantime may I drive you home? My Tin Lizzie is around in back.”
Time Enough for Love Page 61
