So Little Time

by John P. Marquand

  She held his hand.

  “Oh,” Madge said, “poor darling.”

  “For God’s sake,” Jeffrey said, “don’t call me ‘poor darling,’” and then he was sorry about it and he held her hand tighter. “I didn’t mean exactly that,” he told her. “You see when I saw the boys down there, I mean the young officers, there didn’t seem to be much I could do right now. Madge, I’ll tell you what—”

  “What?” she asked.

  “We’ll call up Jim tonight. Somebody ought to see him, Madge. I ought to get out there for Christmas.”

  “Jeff,” Madge said, “can’t you do it later? You’re running everywhere, lately.”

  “I can take a plane,” Jeffrey said. “I’m not in a wheel-chair yet.”

  It was a question of mathematics again. If he were to call Jim at eight it would only be five out there. A young officer would not be in his quarters by five, particularly in wartime. It would be near the time for Retreat and though he had never seen the camp where Jim was, it would be like all those other camps, or forts, or whatever they called them now. There would be the same monotonous rows of barracks with their Battery streets and the Company streets. There would be the same dull hum of voices and the stamping of feet on the wooden floors, and the Companies, and the Batteries, coming out to form their ranks, in the evening light. The officers who would take Retreat would be moving out to their places, and there would be the commands and the Batteries would be present or accounted for, and the senior officer would take over. There would be parade rest and the bugles would be blowing, and their thin notes would fill the silence. Retreat, he had often thought, was the closest thing to prayer in war; and Jim would be at Retreat, but he might be in his quarters later, say at eight o’clock his time.

  It was after eleven in the East when the operator said that the party was ready. Jeffrey and Madge were sitting in the upstairs study. He first thought he could get it all into three minutes but of course Madge would speak to him too. After all Jim was her son as much as his son. He had to say it all very quickly, and there was too much to say, for the time in which to say it. He always seemed to be talking to Jim across vast spaces, both of distance and of time. He was always trying to bridge those unbridgeable gaps, and as long as he lived, or Jim lived, he would always be trying. Jim would not care so much because he would never perceive those distances. He was too young. He was so young that he would think, no matter what might happen, that it would not be he—it could not be he—that he would live forever; and Jeffrey had thought that once.

  “Hello,” Jim was saying, and he sounded impatient, as though he had been on the line for a long while.

  Usually the sound of Jim’s voice brought Jim back as though he were right there, but it was different this time. In spite of the clearness of the connection, Jim was very far away.

  “Hello,” Jeffrey said, “Jim.” He had to speak fast because there was not much time. “How’s everything out there?”

  “Fine.” Jim’s voice was louder. “Everything’s fine. We’re—” Jim seemed to hesitate. “We’re pretty busy now. How’s everything back home?”

  “Fine,” Jeffrey said. “Your mother’s right here. She’s going to speak to you in a minute. Jim, I’m calling about Christmas. I think I can make it. I’ve got reservations …”

  There was a slight pause and Jeffrey was very conscious of the pause.

  “I wouldn’t try that,” he heard Jim say. “It—Well, put it this way. Sally will be back East by Christmas.”

  It seemed to Jeffrey that his heart had stopped, that everything had stopped, but his own voice was measured. He knew there were things you could not say.

  “Suppose I put it this way,” he said slowly, “suppose I come tomorrow.”

  There was another pause and he knew that Jim was thinking.

  “I don’t think so,” Jim said. Jim was being careful, but he knew exactly what Jim meant. “It wouldn’t be worth your while.”

  It hurt Jeffrey at the moment and he could not hide his hurt.

  “I think you might have told me, Jim,” he said.

  “There are some things you don’t know until just about the last minute. You ought to know.”

  The time was running short and he was sitting there. There was nothing he could do—nothing he could say. He felt that his voice was choked and hoarse and he cleared his throat.

  “If you get the chance—” he was speaking very slowly—“call me again, Jim. Will you do that, please?”

  “Yes,” Jim said, “if I get the chance. You know how it is, but it’s fine out here. I wish to God that you were here.”

  Jeffrey cleared his throat again.

  “Well, keep your shirt on,” Jeffrey said, “and don’t take any wooden money. Your mother wants to speak to you.”

  He handed Madge the receiver and nodded. He noticed the mark on it from the perspiration on his hand.

  “Hello, darling,” Madge was saying, but Jeffrey was not listening. He knew that Jim would not tell her and there was no need of telling Madge—no need to worry her because Jim was going overseas. Out there on the Pacific Coast, it would be the East Indies, or Australia, or Hawaii—he hoped to heaven it might only be Hawaii, but there was no way of telling.

  “Darling,” Madge was saying, “are you warm enough? Is it raining all the time?”

  But Jeffrey was only half listening. Jim was going and he knew that feeling because he had gone out once. He had left from old Camp Merritt just across the river, with perhaps two hundred other casual officers; and that was a queer word when you thought of it—“casual.” You never knew when it was coming. You were only told to have everything ready, not to leave, to be there waiting. They had been awakened at four in the morning, he remembered, and by daylight they walked in columns of twos along the road to Fort Lee where an old ferryboat was waiting. They were going and there was no way of going back. He had seen the buildings of New York, but they were not going there. They were as good as gone already. They were on the pier and he remembered the sound of the donkey engines. He remembered the lines of troops waiting with their duffel bags to go aboard and to take their places below. He remembered the side of the transport painted crazily in the camouflage that they did not use any more. He remembered the voices of the troops. They were on the pier but they were as good as gone already. Good-by Broadway, hello France. You were as good as gone already and no one ever knew. That was the way you went to war.

  Then he was thinking about Madge. He must think of some excuse as to why he was not going out to the Coast after all. There was no need to tell her yet that Jim was going. It was something you did not shout all over town.

  “Jeff,” Madge was saying, “do you want to speak to him again?”

  “No,” Jeffrey said, “that’s all right. There’s no use talking to him any more.”

  “Well, dear,” Madge was saying, “give my love to Sally, dear. I didn’t say I was worried. I mean we miss you dreadfully.”

  Then Madge turned to Jeffrey and sighed.

  “Jeff,” she said, “he sounded awfully happy. He sounded as if he were really interested and having a good time.”

  “What?” Jeffrey said.

  “He sounded as if he were having a good time,” Madge said. “Didn’t he sound that way to you?”

  “Yes,” Jeffrey said, “he did. He’s having a swell time, Madge.”

  51

  Forgive Us Our Debts

  Some chain of circumstances, some familiar aspect connected with another time, made Jeffrey half remember something that next morning. It was one of those things that you would half remember and then lose before it assumed any concrete shape. It had something to do with his study, where he and Madge always had breakfast when they were in the city. The table was placed in front of a window which looked south over the chimneys and skylights of old brownstone houses. The sun was breaking through the December haze which so often obscured the city on those mornings. He could see the geometric bulk of a
partment houses and the pointed top of the Chrysler Building and the shadowy forms of other buildings farther in the distance. The shifting light, caused by the sun breaking through the haze, changed the texture of all those buildings from minute to minute so that they seemed to have a life of their own.

  The breakfast trays were on the table and the morning paper and the mail were with them. He could see Madge’s orange juice and her Melba toast and her black coffee, which she always took without any cream or sugar. Madge was wearing her blue kimono with the white bamboo design on it. The thought that it was Japanese annoyed Jeffrey, but still it half reminded him of something. Jeffrey was wearing the Burgundy silk dressing gown which he always felt he had to wear because the children had once given it to him for Christmas and that also half reminded him of something.

  He was back there in the study which he had thought yesterday he was going to leave for good, and he and Madge were having breakfast just as though the world were on its way in peace. He had never realized before that externals could be so stubborn or persistent, but this was not what disturbed him. He was disturbed because he could almost remember something which had happened when he and Madge had been having breakfast some other time, but he could not quite remember. He could remember the orange juice and the way the buildings had looked from the south window on another morning. It was like one of those interminable rehearsals where someone said, “All right. Take it up and run it through again.” It was just as though he and Madge were repeating something. It could not have been very important, because he could not remember what it was they were repeating.

  “Darling,” Madge asked, “is that a letter from Alf?”

  “What?” Jeffrey asked. He had been looking at the Currier and Ives prints and the books in the study.

  “Is that a letter from Alf?” She was pointing to a letter beside his plate, and he looked down at it and picked it up. It was an Air Mail letter and the postmark was San Bernardino, California. When he opened it, it was just as if he were doing something over again, but he could not remember what.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s from Alf. He’s back from the hospital again and he wants five hundred dollars.”

  “Oh,” Madge said, “I hope he’s better.”

  “He must be better for a while,” Jeffrey said, “if he wants five hundred dollars.” And then he thought of something else. “You ought to see that orange grove,” he said. “It’s called Rednow. That means Wonder spelled backwards. Alf was going to put in a bathroom.”

  But Madge’s mind had moved away from it. She was seldom interested in anything she had not seen herself.

  “Darling,” Madge said, “did you sleep well? You look rested. You looked so tired last night after Washington.”

  “What?” Jeffrey asked her. He was thinking of all sorts of things and none of them came together.

  “You looked so tired after Washington,” Madge said.

  “Yes,” Jeffrey said, “yes. I guess I was pretty tired.”

  “Jeff,” Madge said, “you mustn’t let it worry you. You did everything you could.” And she patted the back of his hand and he held hers for a moment.

  “All right,” he said, “it doesn’t worry me.”

  Her voice came through his thoughts as though she were a long way off even when he held her hand. He was looking out of the window again at the buildings, watching the brightening sunlight. He was thinking of something that Jim had said once—it must have been quite a while ago—“New York has everything, there’s everything in New York.” And it sounded like a line in a song. Then suddenly he remembered exactly what it was that disturbed him. It had been another morning when they had been having breakfast, and everything about that morning came back. Madge was speaking, but he could not give her his full attention. She must have said something which he only half heard, because she spoke again.

  “Darling,” he heard her say, “what are you thinking about?”

  All at once he was glad that she had asked him. It was much better to have her with him than to be alone. He saw that the line between her eyebrows had grown deeper.

  “I was trying to remember something,” he said, “and I just remembered it. We were having breakfast, Madge, and I was telling you a story. It wasn’t so long ago, either. It was only a year ago last October but it seems like quite a while ago.”

  “A year ago last October?” Madge repeated. After all there was no reason why she should have followed his thoughts.

  “Before the whole show started,” Jeffrey said, and his mind was back there on that October morning. “You’d never have guessed that things would be like this. We were just sitting here and you were saying that I never told you anything.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Madge said, and she smiled. “You never do tell me anything, Jeff, dear, I wish you would. You’re worried about something. Are you worried about Jim?”

  “No,” Jeffrey answered, “not Jim exactly.” He had not been thinking of Jim, but now that his name was mentioned he began to think of him. He would have to tell her that Jim was going, but he did not want to tell her until he was sure, absolutely sure.

  “I was just thinking,” he went on, “we were having breakfast, and you said I never told you anything, and then I told you about a time when I was coming in on the train from Bragg; and a little man sat next to me with a purple shirt. He gave me a drink out of a bottle. Do you remember?”

  The line between her eyebrows grew deeper.

  “A little man?” she repeated. “What little man?”

  “You said he was funny,” Jeffrey said, “and I said he wasn’t. I said he was sad.”

  “I said he was funny?” Madge repeated, but he saw she did not remember.

  “It isn’t anything,” Jeffrey said, “not anything, really. It’s just one of those things that come into your mind. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t so sad.”

  “Darling,” Madge said, “I wish you’d tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “It isn’t anything much,” Jeffrey said again. “It was just that he said he could lick any So-and-so his weight in the world.”

  “Oh,” Madge said, “yes, I remember. Why, darling, what ever made you think of that?”

  Jeffrey did not answer for a moment because there was no way of telling her exactly why he had thought of it.

  “You know, maybe it’s a good idea,” he said, and then he stopped.

  “What?” Madge asked him. “What’s a good idea?”

  “Maybe it’s a good idea,” Jeffrey said, “even if you know you can’t, to go on thinking that you can. Maybe that’s what everybody ought to do.”

  But Madge was no longer interested. Her mind had moved back to the present.

  “Darling,” she said, “I’m awfully glad you’re not going out there.”

  “Out where?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Out there to see Jim.”

  “Oh,” Jeffrey said, “yes, it’s just as well.”

  “Darling,” Madge said, “are you going to be in for lunch?”

  “No,” Jeffrey answered, “not today.”

  “Oh,” Madge said, “where are you going?”

  “I’m just going out,” Jeffrey said, “to lick anyone my weight in the world. Jesse Fineman’s got another play.”

  “Darling,” Madge asked him, “what about that play of your own you were writing out there in California? You’ve never told me anything about it. You never tell me anything.”

  Jeffrey pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “I know,” he said, “it wasn’t any good.”

  “But darling,” Madge asked, “how can you possibly know? I wish you’d read it to me sometime.”

  Jeffrey walked over to her chair and bent down to kiss her.

  “All right,” he said, “sometime. But I can lick anyone my weight in the world.”

  Those words were back in his mind when he was in the front hall of the apartment putting on his hat and coat. That apartment had always seem
ed to him too large for their furniture, and now the hall seemed to stretch into new angles of ungainly space. The living room door was open and shafts of sunlight came through the windows, throwing bright squares on the carpets and on the Georgian chairs and on the sofa. Everything was in its proper place exactly as it should have been, but the room was completely empty. He could think of it as waiting for something, not for people to fill it, not for voices and laughter, but for something else. It was as ephemeral that morning as a well-planned stage set that was waiting for the stagehands and the vans to cart it all away. It conveyed no impression of permanence, nothing that Madge called security, perhaps because there had ceased to be security the way the world was going. It made him think for some reason of that trip that he and Madge had taken down the Post Road a little more than a year ago. He was thinking of those houses along the Post Road which no one wanted now, but which had been built to last almost forever. He was thinking of the house where Madge’s Uncle Judson lived with its mansard roof and its golden oak hallway. There was no security there either. He was thinking of Fred and Beckie and of Higgins Farm in Connecticut. Nothing was meant to last forever, and now everything in the world which he had known, living and inanimate, seemed to have come to a momentary stop. Everything was waiting for the stagehands and the vans.

  The elevator was decorated with laurel and hemlock and holly as it always was at Christmas time. The boy who ran the elevator was the one who liked Jim.

  “It’s a nice day, Mr. Wilson,” the boy said, and he pulled at his white cotton gloves and smiled, “a little snappy outside, but it’s a nice day.”

  “Yes,” Jeffrey answered, “it’s a fine day.”

  That boy would be in the army in a very little while, and nearly all the other employees in the building would be too, and they must have all been thinking of it. They must in their own ways have been thinking all the thoughts that he was thinking, but they gave no sign.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wilson,” the doorman said, and he would be going too. “Taxi, Mr. Wilson?”

  “No, thanks,” Jeffrey said, “I’ll walk.”