So Little Time

by John P. Marquand

  “What’s the matter, big boy?” he heard Mrs. Newcombe ask.

  “Nothing,” Jeffrey answered, “nothing, sweet.”

  “Take it easy, big boy,” he heard Mrs. Newcombe say. “You don’t like it, do you?”

  “It’s a picture,” Jeffrey said, “a picture in a nutshell.”

  “Not rahlly,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “not rahlly, Mr. Bones.”

  The group had broken up. The voices were rising again, joining the other voices in the room. They sounded like those of an audience leaving a very worth-while lecture, and Jeffrey knew that the party was what Sinclair Merriwell would call a party that had meat in it and one you would not forget. Any gaiety Jeffrey had felt previously was entirely gone. He was taking another cocktail, although he knew he had had enough of them.

  “Buchanan Greene?” he heard someone say. “Yes, the tall one with the bald head and glasses—Buchanan Greene, the poet.” And sure enough, Jeffrey was in another little group, and Buchanan Greene was talking to a middle-aged lady who kept nodding.

  “That’s what I meant to say,” the middle-aged lady kept saying; “why couldn’t I have said it? Why?”

  And Buchanan Greene also was speaking of the war. It was not like other wars, Buchanan Greene was saying. This was a war of revolution, a war of absolutism against democracy. They were fighting our fight—they were fighting for our beliefs. It was for our writers to define those beliefs of ours, and why could they not define them?

  Once more Jeffrey seemed to have heard it before. It was another part of that chorus chanting the chant of democracy. Buchanan Greene was saying democracy was not easy to define, for it was less of a fact than an essence.

  “Why couldn’t I say that?” the lady said. “Why couldn’t I?”

  “We all say it,” Buchanan said, “again, and again, and again. Franklin Roosevelt says it, and the little man on the subway says it. It’s in the shuffling of a thousand feet. It’s in the motor horns.”

  “In the motor horns?” the lady said.

  “It’s Greene,” Jeffrey heard someone say. “Buchanan Greene, the poet.”

  “It’s everywhere implicit in our way of life,” Buchanan Greene was saying. “It’s the dust from the highway. It’s the tractor, plowing out its furrow. It’s the motor tire being pressed out in Akron. It’s what we live for and what we die for. It’s the little funeral winding to the graveyard.”

  Jeffrey moved away slowly. He felt cold sober, and he had heard that all before too. Buchanan Greene had written it for the radio, and he was simply reciting it all again—the First Voice, and the Second Voice—meaningless, but all the more tragic for its very lack of meaning. Walter, Buchanan Greene and the rest of them were trying to explain why people killed each other, and to endow hideousness with some sort of rational beauty. You always tried to in war, that is, if you weren’t in the front line, and God knows, perhaps you tried it then.

  The people in that room were another page of history. They were the polite people, the intelligentsia on the verge of crisis, drifting toward it with the sensitive awareness of intelligentsia but without the power to change their course one whit. They were the salon group in War and Peace, they were Thackeray’s dancers before Waterloo; they were the dinner guests of Petronius in Quo Vadis. When Jeffrey thought of them in that light, it no longer mattered what they said. All the catchwords of the time, Fascist, Communist, Trotskyist, New Dealer, Conservative, Right Wing, Left Wing, Interventionist, Isolationist, Defeatist, Appeaser, Anglophile, America First, Defend America by Aiding the Allies, Lend-Lease, Lend Your Neighbor a Hose When His House Is Burning, Way of Life, the Yanks Aren’t Coming, Keep America Out of War—all these smooth phrases failed to change the basic outline of the picture. They were the intelligentsia, drifting inevitably toward an unknown fact, and their awareness filled them with a dread which they did not admit. They made half-articulate the mass realization growing up about him that nothing would be the same again—no matter what might happen, nothing. They were in a barrel, going over Niagara Falls, and they could not help it, because they were a page of history.…

  Jeffrey did not want to be on that page. He wanted to be himself again, managing as best he could in the limits of the social system he had known. He wanted to get out of there, and to find Madge, and to get his coat and hat, and to get into the elevator, and into the open air.

  “Where are you going, big boy?” Mrs. Newcombe asked.

  “It’s time to be getting home,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve got to find Madge. She’s around somewhere.”

  “Well, hi ho to you, big boy,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “It isn’t getting you down, is it, rahlly, rahlly?”

  “No,” Jeffrey answered, and he laughed, “not rahlly.”

  “Well, hi ho to you,” Mrs. Newcombe said again, “and thumbs up and V for Victory with your fingers. Three dots and a dash to you, and they say it with apples in the restaurants, and a dear, sweet kick to everybody; that puts it in a nutshell, rahlly.”

  He began seriously looking for Madge. It was later than he thought—and there was another of those phrases. The Filipinos were still passing cocktails. More and more guests had flowed out of the big room of the penthouse into the dining room and the library and the bedrooms. Jeffrey could not find Madge, and it was later than he thought. All at once he was face to face with Marianna Miller. She was dressed very quietly, as though she were making an effort to be severe and plain and to show that she was not preoccupied with her looks.

  “Why, hello,” Jeffrey said.

  His momentary surprise at meeting her made him forget everything else around him. He was completely himself again, just as he had wanted to be, with desires and wishes that were entirely his own property.

  “Hello,” she said, “are you going to take me home?”

  “I wish I could,” he said. “I’ve got to find Madge. She’s around here somewhere.”

  “You’re looking well,” Marianna said.

  “So are you,” Jeffrey answered, “very well.”

  “Do you like my hat?” Marianna asked.

  “Yes,” Jeffrey said, “it’s a nice hat.”

  Marianna smiled.

  “I wondered if you’d like it when I bought it.”

  “I like you better without a hat,” Jeffrey said. “Even a little hat covers up your hair.”

  Marianna smiled again.

  “Well,” she said, “good-by.”

  “Well,” Jeffrey said, “good-by, Marianna.”

  “Jeff,” Marianna said, “you’re going out to the Coast?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “I’ve got to pay the bills.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “I don’t know just when,” he answered. “The last of March or early in April, I think.”

  “I’ve rented a house on the beach,” she said.

  “Where,” he asked her, “Malibu?”

  It was time to be going, later than he thought.

  “Call me up as soon as you get there,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered, “of course I will.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he answered.

  “Well,” she said, “good-by, darling.”

  “Good-by,” he said.

  Then he saw Madge. Their glances met across the room and he knew she had been looking for him too, wondering where he was.

  “Where have you been?” he asked her.

  “I’ve been right here,” she said. “I haven’t seen you anywhere. Did you see Marianna Miller?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “She always looks so plain,” Madge said, “doesn’t she, in the afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Jeffrey said, “let’s be going now.”

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Madge said. “It’s late. Did you forget that Ethel was coming?”

  “Good God!” Jeffrey said. “Yes, I forgot about that.”

  “Well, it’s your fault we’re late,” Madge said. “Don’t
say it’s my fault. And she’s your sister. She isn’t my sister.”

  30

  But When It Comes to Living

  Once Jeffrey had hoped that his life would become simpler as time moved on. When the children were able to dress and undress themselves and when there were no more nurses around, he had believed that there would be less disorder at home, but it did not work that way. Each winter he would hope that he and Madge would not have to go to quite so many first nights or have quite so many obligations, but it never worked out that way. He knew too many different people, each connected with a different side of his life and all unconnected with each other. There was Jesse Fineman, and the theater. There were writers whom he knew, and entrepreneurs, like Sinclair Merriwell, and friends from the Air Corps, and old friends like Minot Roberts and friends of Madge’s like Beckie and Fred, and then his own children and his children’s friends, boys whom Jim knew and boys Charley’s age and queer callow youths who were beginning to call on Gwen. It was like juggling balls and plates and knives to keep them all in their places and keep any continuity in his own life. He was obliged to shift his point of view so often that he was not sure he had any of his own. Sometimes he did not seem to belong to himself because he had seen too much and done too much. Madge used to say she did not mind variety because it kept her young, but after all, Madge had not seen as much of it as he had.

  As Madge had said, Ethel was his sister, not hers. Madge did not have to drop one chain of relationships and pick up another when she saw Ethel—she did not have to go back to a half-forgotten life. It was hard to realize that Ethel was his sister, but she was, and not Madge’s sister—coming out of nowhere, like a thought in the night. Now, without any real preparation for it, he was obliged to adjust himself. When he would have liked to sit quietly and read the paper, he was juggling balls and knives.

  It was not half-past seven, it was nearly eight o’clock and Ethel and Gloria and his daughter Gwen would all have been waiting without any supper, wondering what had happened to him and Madge, and what was more, Ethel would notice his breath when he kissed her, and she would think that he was getting more and more like Alf.

  “Hello,” he called when they got home, “hello, are you there, Ethel?”

  Her coat of worn black broadcloth trimmed with gray squirrel was there in the hall and her sensible, backwoodsy sort of hat, also trimmed with gray squirrel, was on top of it.

  “Hello,” he heard Ethel call, “hello, Jeffie.” It was like the hall in Lime Street when she called him “Jeffie.” He was Jeffie again and she was Ethel, his sister, not Madge’s sister.

  He always hoped whenever he saw Ethel that he did not look quite as old and settled as she did, but it was comforting to remember that, after all, Ethel was four years older than he. She wore a dark blue serge suit, which he imagined she must have cut herself from a Butterick pattern, because Ethel loved her electric sewing machine as much as she loved her washing machine that washed and dried everything in a twinkle, or her electric stove, or her electric mangle, or any of those other appliances which she and Wilbur had been buying on installments—and Wilbur could get them at special rates, because he was a salesman for General Electric. Ethel, seated in one of the armchairs, seemed to have let herself go more than Jeffrey remembered. She had a middle-aged spread; her hair was comfortably gray and she was wearing a cameo brooch which had belonged to their mother, and this made her look a little like a Grant Wood canvas. Beside the brooch was pinned an enamel American flag. Somehow the sight of Ethel made Jeffrey feel that it was absurd for him to try to be young and keep his figure; he became convinced that he and Madge must be like old people whom he used to know who insisted on going to dinner dances, instead of recognizing sensibly their infirmities.

  “Hello, dear,” Madge said, “we’re awfully late, but you know the way Jeffrey is at cocktail parties.”

  Jeffrey watched them kiss each other. Whenever Madge saw Ethel she said something like that.

  “He always says he’s coming home,” Madge said, “until he’s had a drink or two, and then he stays and stays.”

  “Now, Madge,” Jeffrey found himself saying, “I’m not as bad as all that.”

  “Don’t scold him, Mother,” Gwen said, “it’s nice for Daddy to have a drink.”

  His niece, Gloria, was looking at him through her horn-rimmed spectacles and so was Ethel, in a fascinated way, as though they both were trying to measure the effect of alcohol upon his system.

  “Well,” Jeffrey said, “let’s forgive and forget. Hello, Ethel.” He bent down and kissed her cheek in a restrained manner and patted her on the shoulder.

  “What’s the American flag for?” he asked.

  “It’s for America,” Ethel said, “America First.”

  “Oh,” Jeffrey said, “have you got that up there?”

  “Yes,” Ethel said. “Now, don’t make fun of West Springfield, Jeffie. We’re just as American in West Springfield as you are, and perhaps a little more so.”

  “You must be starving,” Madge said. “Jeffrey, take the girls and get the salad out of the icebox and be useful. The table’s set in the dining room. Ethel, have you and Gloria been upstairs?”

  “Yes”—he heard Ethel lower her voice—“thank you, Madge, dear.”

  “Well, well,” Jeffrey said, “how’s Gloria? How’s Miss America?”

  From the way Gloria glanced at him, and from the tittering sound she made, he was afraid Gloria thought that he was drunk.

  “I’m fine, Uncle Jeff,” she said.

  “And you’ve never been to New York before, have you?” Jeffrey said. “How do you like New York?”

  “It’s fine,” Gloria said.

  “Now you’re here,” Jeffrey said, “we’ve got to be sure you see everything.” He found it difficult to work out what a girl like Gloria ought to see in New York, but he wished to be clear about it so that neither Gloria nor her mother would think he had been drinking too much. “What do you think Gloria would like, Gwennie?”

  Gwen uncrossed her legs and smoothed her skirt.

  “I don’t know, Daddy,” she said. “There’s so much.”

  He could see that she was not going to try to help him. There was no use pretending that Gwen and Gloria could get on together.

  “Well,” Jeffrey said, “there’s the Aquarium.”

  “Daddy,” Gwen said, “have you ever seen the Aquarium?”

  Gloria turned in her chair and tittered.

  “No,” Jeffrey said, “not lately, but it’s a fine place. There are penguins in the Aquarium, some of Admiral Byrd’s. Well, there’s the Aquarium, and then there’s the Planetarium and the African Room in the Natural History Museum and the Art Museum. Well, you two girls go out in the kitchen and get the salad. Gwen can tell you all about what to see, Gloria.”

  “Yes,” Madge said, “let the children work. Ethel, why didn’t you tell us sooner you were coming? How long are you going to be here?”

  “Just until Saturday afternoon,” Ethel said. “Gloria and I are just here on a spree.”

  “Oh, dear,” Madge said. “I know just the way you feel. It’s so nice to get away from your own kitchen. I wish I could get away from mine.”

  Jeffrey stirred uneasily. Now that Gwen and Gloria had gone it was quieter. He wished that Madge had not said that about the kitchen, although Ethel smiled.

  “I love my kitchen,” Ethel said. “I’d rather do my own work than have someone do it for me. I wouldn’t want any cook ruining my electric stove. I wish you could see it. It’s a 1941.”

  “I know, they can do everything but talk,” Madge said. “Jeff, what’s the name of the stove we have in the country?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeffrey said.

  “Oh, yes you do,” Madge said, “just try to think. You talked to the electric man about it.”

  “Jeffie always used to be in the kitchen,” Ethel said. “He had to bring the coal in. Do you remember Tilly in Lime Street, Jeffie?”
<
br />   “Oh, yes,” Jeffrey said, “Tilly. You used to dry your stockings over the stove.”

  “Oh, Jeffie,” Ethel said, “I don’t see how you remember.”

  “It’s easy,” Jeffrey said. “You used to have big legs. We used to call you ‘Piano Legs,’ do you remember?”

  “Jeff!” Madge said. “Don’t mind him, Ethel.” It was like juggling plates and knives again.

  “Where’s Wilbur?” Jeffrey asked her. “I hoped Wilbur was coming.”

  “Wilbur wished he could,” Ethel said, “but just Gloria and I came, on a spree—well, not a spree, exactly. I’ve come down to a meeting of Chapter Chairmen of the America First Committee.”

  Jeffrey looked quickly at Madge.

  “Let’s not talk about the war,” Jeffrey said.

  Madge laughed, with a controlled inflection in her merriment. It was the way Madge laughed when she wanted to show that she could be very gracious, very gracious, even if other people weren’t.

  “Isn’t that just like Jeff?” Madge said. “He’s always afraid of any difference of opinion. You might think we were going to bite each other’s heads off because we look at things differently.”

  “Madge,” Jeff said, “do you think the girls know where the salad is?” Madge laughed again.

  “Darling,” she said, “we’re all grown-up, really. I think it’s fun, don’t you, Ethel, when people have two opposing points of view, to compare them? If you could only stay here a little longer, I know you would see it the way we do. You’d know that England is fighting our fight, and that it’s suicide for us not to help.”

  Jeffrey saw his sister fold her hands carefully on her lap.

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “It isn’t that I don’t love England. I’ve never had the chance to see foreign places as much as you and Jeffie have, and so they’re not as dear to me, but I did go to England and to France too, and to Italy for six weeks when I was teaching at Springfield High. We went on a Colpitts teachers’ tour.”

  “That must have been wonderful,” Madge said, “but it must have been hard to get any impression. You move about so fast on a tour.”