In spite of the years that had passed, in spite of all he had done and thought, he was still the likable Smith boy in the Bryant Yankee Persepolis striving to move on from the lower-upper, and still in mortal danger of dropping, of going down instead of up. He was still Charley Gray gazing wistfully at Johnson Street.…
“Charley.” It was Nancy again. She was standing in the doorway in her quilted-silk wrapper. “It’s two o’clock.”
Her tone was definite, telling him that really this nonsense must stop, and he was very glad that she was there. He closed the book and pushed himself out of the leather armchair.
“All right,” he said. “All right, Nance.”
“Come on,” Nancy said, “put out the light.”
When he snapped off the light by the chair everything was pitch black for a second and then he saw her shadow against the dim light from the hall.
“The Martins will think we’ve been having a fight,” Nancy said, “with a light on downstairs at two in the morning.”
“All right, Nance,” he said, and he put his arm around her and she raised her hand and touched his cheek.
“You shaved before the dance, didn’t you? At least you won’t need to shave again in the morning. If you’re going to take that plane, I’ll drive you to La Guardia.”
“It’s a pretty long way,” Charles said.
“That’s all right,” Nancy said. “I’m going to miss you.”
PART TWO
1
The Clyde of Alice Ruskin Lyte
Charles had never thought of Clyde as having proud traditions of its own—it had only been a place which one accepted naturally because one lived in it and knew nothing else—until his mother, one hot August afternoon, read a paper before the Clyde Historical Society entitled “The Clyde of Alice Ruskin Lyte.” Charles’s hair had been brushed and his sister Dorothea had seen to it personally that he wore a clean white shirt and a bow tie. He had left the house with Dorothea and his Aunt Jane at ten minutes before three o’clock. His mother had left earlier. He was told that he must be quiet and must not fidget and that perhaps he would not understand all about Mother’s paper but it would be a nice thing for him to remember. Actually, he was struggling with a keen sense of personal embarrassment, arising from his knowledge that no one else of his age was going to this gathering and that he might be singled out as a mother’s boy and a sissy. He felt better when he found that his father would meet them there. All the family was going to hear Mother read that paper, except Sam, who was away on a visit.
He did not understand Alice Ruskin Lyte’s significance, though he had heard her name mentioned more and more frequently in the evenings after supper. It was only later that he knew that Alice Ruskin Lyte was a poetess who had lived and died in Clyde and that she had been a dear friend of his mother’s Aunt Sally Marchby. These two had, in fact, both been teachers at the Bedlington Academy in Lawrence. It was called the Bedlington Female Academy then. It seemed that Miss Lyte had corresponded freely with his Great-aunt Sally Marchby, after Miss Lyte had left her position at the Academy to live at her estate on the river, called Lyte’s Castle. Those packets of letters from Miss Lyte were now in his mother’s possession and formed the basis of the paper.
Though Charles was not intelligently aware of these details, he had not missed the growing tension at home while the paper was being prepared. His mother had brought from the library a number of bound magazines in which Miss Lyte’s verses had appeared, and also a small volume called Stardust by Alice Ruskin Lyte. Then he was told not to play catch with Jack Mason in the back yard because the noise disturbed his mother when she was writing. Then his mother began to worry about the paper. She did not know why she had ever said that she would do it. She never would have thought of doing it if Margaret Mason had not particularly asked her. She did not know a thing about writing.
“I wish you’d do it for me, John,” she said. “You always write such nice papers.”
“Now, Esther,” Charles’s father said, “if I were to do it, everyone would know.”
“But they’ll think so anyway,” his mother said. “They’ll know you helped me. You’ve got to help me.”
“Esther, dear,” his father said, “I wish you would try to be realistic. Let’s grant that Miss Lyte was a dear friend of your Aunt Sally’s. Let’s go further and grant that she was a sweet old lady who never did anyone any harm intentionally except by writing jingles.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you thought that in the first place,” his mother asked, “and I wouldn’t have said I’d do it? I wish I’d never promised, and now it’s been announced.”
“Poor Esther,” his father said. “You’ll get through with it. Your conscience will get you through.”
“John, don’t you think the idea’s worth while?” she asked. “I mean—quoting from those letters?”
His father put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the parlor mantel. “This puts me in an embarrassing position,” he answered. “I know your veneration for Miss Lyte and how your family have always felt about her. I have said she was a dear old lady. I can shut my eyes and see her now”—he made a gentle, expansive gesture as though he were conjuring up Miss Lyte—“sitting there under an oak tree, looking at the river that she no doubt loved, with that niece of hers. What’s her name?”
“Priscilla,” his mother said. “And don’t make fun of Priscilla. She was always sweet with her.”
“I’m not making fun,” his father said. “I’m only thinking of the old lady’s bright character. As a human being she was intriguing because, given an ego and the industry to drive a feeble talent to the limit, she contrived to make something out of nothing,” and John Gray cupped his hands together and gazed at the nothing his hands were holding. “It all goes to show what can be done if only you have a deep belief in self. That’s what I would say if I were writing the paper. Think of her as a determined, industrious human being with charming intentions, but don’t quote a line of her poetry, Esther. It would be unfair to her memory. She wrote like the sweet singer of Michigan.”
Charles heard Dorothea giggle, and Sam was smiling. The gentle, precise way in which his father spoke was what made it funny, and he could see that his mother was only pretending to be annoyed.
“But, John,” she said, “they published her poems in Harper’s Magazine.”
“And in the Youth’s Companion,” his father said. “Don’t forget that mentor of our childhood, Esther, the dear old Youth’s Companion. I tried to earn a pony by selling subscriptions for it once. Charles ought to have a pony.”
“You used to say I ought to have one,” Sam said.
“Well, well,” John Gray said. “The main thing is thinking about ponies, Sam. Life is a series of ponies. I remember a story in the Youth’s Companion, a Christmas story. A little boy wanted a Shetland pony more than anything else in the world. A little girl, a friend of his living in the big house on the hill, had one but his family was very poor, just like our family, Charles. His father, though he was hard working, was harassed by debts, just like your father, Charles, and Christmas was coming.” John Gray spread out his arms. “Christmas was coming, and the shop windows were full of ponies.”
“John,” Esther Gray said, “what am I going to do about that paper?”
“Oh, yes, the paper.” John Gray crossed the room to where she was sitting and put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll go through with it. We can’t let the Historical Society down, can we? You and I will write that paper.”
Everyone must have felt the same relief that Charles felt.
“John,” his mother said, “are you going to be serious about it?”
John Gray laughed.
“You children go into the other room and close the door,” he said, “and you read me what you’ve written, Esther.”
Charles had already begun to mark off Dorothea’s life into cycles identified with young men who appeared at the house, much as historians marked
off eras by the names of monarchs. There was good reason for adopting this chronology because Dorothea’s tastes, dress, and inclinations changed as her boy friends changed. At this time Frank Setchell was the most important figure in Dorothea’s life. He was the eldest son of Mr. Setchell who owned Setchell’s store, which sold ready-made clothing and haberdashery. Frank was hollow-chested, suffering from acne, and his appearance was never helped even by matching ties and socks.
Frank was going to take Dorothea to the beach that evening. She was to meet him at the corner of Meade Street because John Gray, whenever he saw Frank, asked him about his tie and always wanted to know whether he could get one like it, which was embarrassing to Frank and Dorothea. So Dorothea ran upstairs to get ready, and Sam went to the movies, leaving Charles to read Guy Mannering by the lamp on the dining room table, and it was difficult to read because he could hear his mother’s and father’s voices behind the closed door of the parlor. It seemed that whatever his mother had written was painful to John Gray.
“No, no, no,” he could hear his father groan. “Oh, please, Esther, please.”
“Can’t you tell me what’s wrong with it?” he could hear his mother ask. “It doesn’t do any good to roar at me, John.”
“I’m sorry,” his father answered. “Go ahead and read it. I’ll try to be quiet, Esther.”
Then his mother’s voice would go on half audibly, and then he could hear his father groan again.
“Oh, no, no. Why do you split infinitives? Why do you do it, why?”
“Because I thought it sounded better,” his mother said. “How can I read if you roar at me, John?”
Then their voices died down again.
“John,” he heard his mother say, “don’t look as though you were swallowing castor oil.”
“Go on,” he heard his father say, “and don’t start crying, Esther. Tears won’t help it. Now don’t interrupt me. Give me that paper.”
Every evening for a week or so they all ate supper in strained silence and directly after supper the parlor door would close. His mother began to look pale and sleepless. She began to forget about the marketing, and when Dorothea broke the pressed-glass butter dish with the hen on top of it, she did not say a word—but finally the paper was finished. One evening after supper, his father rubbed his hands.
“Tonight Mother has a little surprise for us,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve gathered that we’ve been working together. Come into the parlor and sit down and listen to Mother.”
“John,” his mother said, when Dorothea and Sam and Charles sat down in the parlor, “I feel so awfully silly.”
“Of course you do,” John Gray said, “and so do I. Now remember what I told you. I’m timing you. Stand up and look around, and don’t keep looking at the pages. Look up at the audience and then find your place again.”
“But I’ll lose my place,” his mother said.
“Not when you’re used to it.” John Gray set his watch on his knee. “We’ll go over it and over it.”
His mother looked red and hot and worried.
“Well, will everyone promise not to laugh?” she asked.
“It only makes it worse to talk, Esther,” his father said.
“All right,” his mother said. “Are you going to introduce me, John? Are you going to pretend to be Mr. Lovell?”
“I could if I wanted,” his father answered, “but I don’t want to be like Laurence Lovell, even in the realm of fantasy.”
“Well, if you were more like Laurence Lovell—” his mother began.
“Don’t get off the subject.” His father tapped his watch with his forefinger. “I’m not like Laurence Lovell.”
“Well,” his mother began, and there was a silence. “Well.” She looked at them over the top of her papers and began to read. “Every one of us here, I am sure, has seen a certain gray stone house with a mansard roof, known as Lyte’s Castle. It does not in the least resemble a castle.” She looked up. “I still don’t see why you put that in, John. Everybody knows it.”
“Everybody will know all the rest of it, too,” John Gray said, “and it has to last for half an hour. Now you’ve spoiled it. Start all over.”
“Every one of us here, I am sure, has seen a certain gray stone house with a mansard roof, known as Lyte’s Castle. It does not in the least resemble a castle, but its name has been accepted through custom like so many names in Clyde and now no one would think of calling it anything else. No one would think, either, of calling its former chatelaine, known and revered by so many of us present, anything but a poetess, and the verse of Alice Ruskin Lyte, so much of which was penned within the gracious walls of Lyte’s Castle, now stands to confirm our opinion of its writer.”
His mother looked up again. “John, it doesn’t mean what it says. It still doesn’t.”
“Esther, dear,” his father said, “I’ve always loved your literal mind. It doesn’t mean anything and yet it means everything, and you can go on from there. It’s all you need to say about her until the very end. Now start it all over and don’t interrupt again.”
One thing was gained by all that preparation. All the Grays would always remember Alice Ruskin Lyte. Charles could see his mother standing straight and alone in the flowing dress of the period, looking like a full-length Sargent canvas. Her auburn hair was coiled and pinned together at the nape of her graceful neck. Her thin, eager face and her wide brown eyes were stamped with honest anxiety, because she wanted everyone to like her and that paper; and Charles could tell when the hard parts were coming from the way his mother swallowed and tossed up her delicate chin. John Gray must have enjoyed it all. Her words, the dress she wore, her pauses, and even the way she did her hair, were parts of his own creation.
It was one of those hot afternoons when the leaves on the trees were almost motionless and when everyone in Clyde hoped that a sudden east wind off the ocean might change the weather. One of the great beauties of summer in Clyde lay in that ever-present hope. The day might be stifling hot and suddenly the east wind, gratefully damp and cold and redolent of ocean salt, would make everything too cold—but in summer no one in Clyde ever believed this until faced by accomplished fact.
On his way to the Webster Grammar School, Charles always walked past the building of the Clyde Historical Society on Johnson Street, and he had often paused to admire the green brass cannon on the lawn, which had once been part of the battery of the Revolutionary War privateer Eclipse, built in Clyde and owned by Nathaniel Lovell, who had built the Lovell house. He had never been inside the building because when Charles had once tried to visit it, with his friend Jack Mason, Miss Hannah Smythe, the custodian, had told them that they had better run along. Little fingers had a way of getting into things, and little feet were always muddy. Nevertheless, he was already learning about Clyde, by listening to the words of elders. He already knew that the Historical Society had once been the Gow house, left to the Society by the will of old Mr. Francis Gow. He knew that the brick ell which had been added had been built by a contribution of Mr. Francis Stanley, who had come to Massachusetts to be the president of the Wright-Sherwin Company, and it was nice to have some money for an ell no matter where it came from. He also knew that the Historical Society was the repository of many valuable things left to it in wills and that it contained the collections of the Poseidon Society and the Captains’ Club, passed on to the Historical Society when those organizations had closed their doors forever.
“Charley,” his Aunt Jane said, when they reached the corner of Spruce and Johnson Street, “remember not to touch anything.”
She reminded him not to touch anything again as they crossed Fanning Street, where the iron horse fountain used to stand; and when they passed the Episcopal Church, with its carefully tended graveyard, Aunt Jane said she was glad she was a Unitarian.
“I hope your mother didn’t eat much lunch, Dorothea,” she said. “Your grandfather never liked to go to court on a full stomach.”
“You mean sh
e might vomit?” Charles asked.
“That’ll be about enough from you, Charley,” Aunt Jane said.
“My,” Dorothea said, and she adjusted her butterfly bow, “isn’t there an awful crowd. Poor Mother.”
There was, indeed, an unusual number of people about the old Gow house, and it seemed that the history of Clyde’s brave old days must have had a peculiar appeal for women, generally beyond the first bloom of youth. Only an occasional reluctant male was visible, except for three ministers, whose presence gave the gathering the appearance of a childless Sunday School picnic. As Charles, his aunt and Dorothea neared the tar path leading to the front door, these three members of the clergy were standing outside on the lawn, each surrounded by the loyal members of his congregation. Dr. Morton Berry, from the Smith Square Baptist Church, stood in the shade of a catalpa tree, fanning himself with his straw hat. The Episcopal clergyman, the Reverend Gerald Pond, looked better fed and more professional in his lightweight black suit and reversed collar. In fact, Charles had heard Aunt Jane say that if he wanted to look like an Irish priest, he would do better to be a Catholic. The group around him also exuded an air of prosperity. Miss Lovell stood near him with her niece Jessica, a thin little girl in a white party dress, white socks and patent leather shoes. Mrs. Stanley was there, too, and old Miss Sarah Hewitt in purple crackling silk, and Mrs. Thomas. Dr. Pond bowed and smiled placatingly and cordially when he saw Aunt Jane, but Aunt Jane only nodded curtly. Dr. Pond had made the mistake that spring of stopping Charles on his way to school and asking him whether he would not like to be a choir boy, and his Aunt Jane had not forgotten. Standing nearer the doorway, still lingering before entering and looking more like Puritans who had crossed the sea for faith, were the ladies of the Unitarian Women’s Alliance, supporting their pastor, Mr. Henry Crewe, whose hair was not carefully trimmed and who looked like a pale ascetic compared to Dr. Pond.
Point of No Return Page 17
