They all trooped back to the parlor, now that supper was finished, and when Charles took part in the conversation it was like speaking a language which he had known well a long time before and which he could still speak, although he was unfamiliar with the latest idioms and his tenses might occasionally be confused. In his absence Clyde, aloof and indestructible, had been drifting through a turbulent sea, but Clyde was made for trouble. Nothing could entirely alter its values. Everyone still knew his place and there was a place for everyone.
Charles had forgotten that everyone went to bed early in Clyde until he saw Mr. Mason yawn and then he said he would have to be getting back to the hotel, he meant the inn, and that he had had a wonderful time; and they all said it was like old times, seeing him, and they would see him again tomorrow.
“I’ll go back to the inn with you,” Jackie said.
“Oh, no,” Charles told him, “don’t bother, Jack. You’d be surprised. I know my way.”
“Why,” Jackie Mason said. “I’d really like to, Charley. You and I have a lot to talk about and there won’t be time tomorrow.”
Charles had begun to speak that forgotten language of Clyde so fluently that he and Jack Mason seemed to have picked up something which they had both dropped years before; when they began walking up Spruce Street, there was that old realization of having been friends, and it was still completely usable. There was a persistent quality in Jackie Mason’s loyalty and he knew that Jackie admired him for the same reasons he previously had, and he liked Jackie, too, with the same old reservations. Their friendship was on a different footing from other, later friendships. It was deeper, it was unavoidable, and he felt very grateful for it. He seldom gave way to impulse. His training was all against it, but almost without thinking he slapped Jackie softly on the back.
“Well, Jackie,” he said, “here we are on Spruce Street,” and he knew that Jack was pleased.
They were walking toward Johnson Street and the houses were growing larger and more imposing. He did not want to see Johnson Street but if he had to he was glad that Jack Mason was with him.
“I guess it’s going to rain,” Jackie said. “We’ve had a lot of rain lately. It’s nice to see you again, Charley.”
“The same here,” Charles said, and they walked for a while without speaking, now that each had said what he had meant to say.
“The old place hasn’t changed much,” Jackie said. “It’s still about the same. Charley, I wish you’d never gone away.”
It was not what Charles would have wished and he thought of what might have happened if he had stayed in Clyde. They had turned right at the corner of Spruce and Johnson streets and there was the Hewitt house, all dark, and the Lovell house diagonally across from it. He made a deliberate effort not to look at it, though common sense and his knowledge of human relationships told him that he could not blame the Lovell house or Johnson Street for what had happened to him and Jessica. Still he did not want to see it.
“I couldn’t have stayed,” he said, and it was a great relief that he had not a single doubt about it.
“Of course, it might have been a little difficult at first—” Jackie Mason hesitated—“but nothing would have affected your position. For instance, take the library,” but he did not go on about the library.
It was very natural to be walking down Johnson Street with Jack Mason talking about position. Jackie did not mention that his grandfather had been a druggist but it was still on Jackie’s mind.
“Or take the bank,” Jackie said. “You would have been in just the right position, the first time there was a vacancy on the board.”
If he had stayed in Clyde, he might certainly have been a director of the Dock Street Bank. He might even have been president of it if he had done the right things at the right time.
“Well, never mind it,” he answered. “You’re the one who’s got position now.”
“Oh, I haven’t done anything much,” Jackie Mason said, “except in a small-town way.”
A sad note in Jackie’s voice made Charles realize that Jackie wanted him to be impressed with everything he had done, and, after all, he was a trustee of the public library and a director of the bank. He had gone a long, long way.
Charles had to answer properly and he could not sound patronizing.
“Everything you do depends on where you are,” he said. “Do you remember what Julius Caesar said”—he was like his own father, groping for an apt quotation—“about preferring to be the first man in Ostia to the second man in Rome? I’m sure it wasn’t Ostia but let’s call it Ostia.” He could not see Jack Mason’s face in the dark but he was sure that he had said the right thing, neither too little nor too much.
“That’s awfully nice of you to say that, Charley,” Jackie said.
“It isn’t nice,” Charles said quickly, “it’s the truth,” and he thought of something else, because it was an occasion when one could say anything. “What is that line in the Declaration of Independence—or is it the Constitution? ‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ Well, I suppose everybody’s pursuing happiness, and you usually lose your liberty when you do, and the best part of your life. Maybe that’s what everything’s about. Maybe. I don’t know.”
They had turned down Dock Street and it was a radical statement to have made in front of the Dock Street Bank and it had no reference to anything except that he was thinking of Jackie Mason and also of himself.
“I know what you mean,” Jackie said. “You mustn’t try to crowd your luck.” It was not what he had meant but he was glad that Jack had misunderstood him.
“Maybe I am crowding my luck a little but everything does seem to be coming my way all of a sudden.” Jackie stopped and sighed. “But it’s taken a lot of time, a lot of time. Maybe it’s just that somebody has to take hold and I seem to be elected … let’s see, did I tell you I was in the Tuesday Club?”
“Why, no,” Charles said, “you didn’t. That certainly is something, Jack.”
“It isn’t anything really,” Jackie said. “Everybody’s dying pretty fast, but it’s funny, isn’t it, being in the Tuesday Club with Mr. Stanley and Mr. Lovell and everybody? I thought you’d be amused.”
“It isn’t so funny,” Charles said. “You have what it takes, that’s all.”
They had crossed the street and they were in front of the Clyde Inn before Jackie spoke again.
“Don’t think I look on myself as the first man in Ostia. I’m a long way from it—er—Charley, do you mind if I come up to your room with you? There’s something else I want to tell you.” Jackie looked worried again. “Something I hope you won’t mind.”
“Of course I won’t mind,” Charles said. “What is it, Jack?”
“I’ll get it off my chest in just a minute,” Jackie said, “but I can’t tell it in front of everybody.”
There was no one to tell it in front of at the inn except the clerk, who still sat behind the desk and who looked surprised to see them enter the place together.
“Oh, hello, Edgar,” Jackie said. “Mr. Gray wants his room key. I hope you’ve given Mr. Gray a good room.”
“Good evening, Mr. Mason,” the inn clerk said. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr. Gray.”
“It would have made all the difference, wouldn’t it?” Jackie said, and he laughed. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me, Edgar. Just get me a bottle of rye, the kind I bought for Mr. Jaeckel, and put it on my bill. You like rye, don’t you, Charley?”
Charles said that it did not matter, he did not care for anything particularly, and Jackie may have been sorry for his impulse, because he was careful to conceal the bottle beneath his overcoat as they walked upstairs.
“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” he said. “I’m afraid Edgar was a little surprised. I don’t do this sort of thing very often except in a business way, but seriously, it does mean a lot to the town having an inn like this, and this isn’t a bad room, is it? I’m glad you have a quiet one that opens on
the back.”
Charles’s room had a country, chintzy look, and was furnished in yellow Colonial maple, with an imitation spool bed and a bedside table with a telephone on it, a writing table, one small upholstered chair and one straight chair. The room was stifling hot. He had forgotten that the heat was on, and when he opened the window he found himself looking over the old back gardens toward the houses along Fanning Street.
“Yes, it’s going to be quiet here,” Charles said.
Jackie had put the bottle of rye on the writing table.
“Here, let me pour the drinks,” he said. “This is my party, Charley. There ought to be some glasses in the bathroom. Dear me, I should have ordered up some ice.”
“Oh, never mind the ice,” Charles said.
It was rather like the war, sitting in an unfamiliar room with a bottle of rye whiskey and tepid water. It was not at all like Clyde.
“Well, now we’re here,” Charles said, “what is it you want to tell me, Jack?”
Jackie cleared his throat and his worried look returned.
“Well,” he said, “all right,” and he cleared his throat again. “Charley, I think I ought to talk to you about Jessica Lovell.”
Charles knew, of course, that he could not erase his memory of Jessica Lovell and that at some time while he was in Clyde he would have to meet the past face to face, but so far he had heard nothing except that talk about cocktails and the remaining ingredients which had been left at the Masons’ when Jessica and Mr. Lovell had been entertained. He was seated on the stiff chair by the writing table and he was conscious of many little things, of a draft on the back of his neck from the open window, of a soft hiss from the valve of the radiator. He had leaned forward as though he wanted to hear better and now he leaned back because he did not like that display of eagerness. Still the palms of his hands were moist and the room felt very stuffy. Mentioning Jessica was like opening a box filled with things you would never use again but which could not be thrown away.
“I’m glad you brought up Jessica,” he said. There was nothing revealing in his voice. It had just the right note of friendly interest—exactly as he wished it. “I’ve been meaning to ask about her. How is Jessica?”
“Oh, she’s very well,” Jackie said. “Very well and busy. She has that same interest in things, but then you know Jessica.”
“I don’t know her now,” Charles said, and he smiled agreeably at Jackie and everything he said was just as he wanted it. “I’ve been pretty busy, too.”
“I know how you feel,” Jackie said. “I don’t want to bring up any painful memories.”
“Oh, my God,” Charles said. Jackie’s manner made him impatient. “Don’t call them painful memories, Jackie. They’re too old.”
“I’m awfully glad you take it this way,” Jackie said, “but of course I know how you must feel.”
“No, you don’t,” Charles said, “because I don’t feel anything,” and he smiled. He was saying just what he wanted to say. “I hope Jessica’s well and happy and I’m glad we didn’t get married because it wouldn’t have worked—and that’s all there is to it, except I always supposed she’d find someone else. Why didn’t she ever marry?”
Jackie looked at him reproachfully as though he had not assumed the serious attitude the circumstances demanded.
“She just never did, Charley,” he said, and his voice was reproachful, too.
Charles rubbed his hands softly on his knees and he had an absurd notion that Jackie Mason was blaming him for Jessica’s being unmarried. It was like those stories of old Clyde spinsters keeping a night light always burning in the spare-room window for lovers who had disappeared at sea.
“Well, I don’t see why she didn’t,” he said, “unless it was her father again.”
“No,” Jackie said, and he sighed. It seemed to Charles an elaborate, over-dramatized sigh. “I don’t think it was entirely that.”
Charles did not answer. Instead he stared at the yellow maple bed with its bright chintz cover. The conversation was reminiscent of a weeping willow above a suitably inscribed tombstone in an old memorial print.
“I think she always hoped that you’d come back sometime.”
He could see that Jackie Mason believed it and he almost believed it too, because at one time she must have thought of him often—but it was not the way things were. There were no lights nowadays burning in lonely windows. The room was very hot and there was still that draft on the back of his neck.
“Maybe she did for a year or two,” Charles said. “She knew I’d married, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Jackie said. “Jessica’s a wonderful girl. She’s always wanted you to be happy, Charley. She’s always wanted to hear about you.”
“Well,” Charles said, “I think I’ll have another drink.”
When Charles went into the bathroom to fill his glass with tap water he glanced at himself in the mirror above the washbasin, as he did usually at the bank. His tie was straight, his soft collar was smooth. He looked as he should have, like someone from New York, and suddenly he realized as sure as fate that he could have come back to Clyde, he could have married Jessica Lovell. Her father could not have stopped them, nothing could have stopped them if he had come back, but until this moment the idea had never crossed his mind. He walked out of the bathroom holding his glass and sat down again in the uncomfortable chair.
“Well,” he said, “I never did come back.”
He never would have. He would have been too proud.
“I thought I ought to tell you, Charley,” Jackie said. “I thought you ought to know.” He still could not understand why Jackie thought he ought to know except that Jackie had always found it hard to keep things to himself.
“Did Jessica tell you this?” he asked. “It doesn’t sound like Jessica”—and for a moment he had a proprietary feeling, as though Jessica still belonged to him.
“Well, you see—” Jackie Mason looked too large for the small upholstered chair in which he sat. His face looked moist and he pulled out a neat handkerchief from his breast pocket. “It’s awfully hot in here, isn’t it, but it will cool off given time.… You see, Jessica had to talk to someone and I suppose I was elected—just because I knew you. She still talks a lot about you, Charley. Jessica was in love with you for years. She really was.”
“I wonder if I could have another of your cigarettes?” Charles asked. He did not want to consider Jessica Lovell’s having been in love with him for years.
“Oh, excuse me,” Jackie said, and he snapped open his silver cigarette case. “You know, there’s something about women—” his face was redder—“I think that women seem to stay in love longer than men, once they fall in love.”
“Maybe they do,” Charles said. “It’s possible.”
It was possible but not probable. Jessica Lovell, as Jackie Mason saw her, was an unreal character. Girls did not stay in love indefinitely unless there was some outside compulsion. He was glad that he was able to tell himself that this was so.
“You see”—Jackie was still speaking—“I thought you ought to know this so that you won’t misunderstand Jessica.”
“My God, Jackie,” Charles said, “I don’t misunderstand Jessica. It’s all over and, I told you, I’m glad I didn’t marry her and that’s all there is to it”; but Jackie was going on.
“I’m glad you take it this way, Charley. You see, I’ve been seeing a lot of Jessica.” He laughed deprecatingly. “I guess Mr. Lovell thought I was pretty harmless, but things can’t help changing and that’s what I want to tell you. I want to tell you that Jessica and I are engaged and are going to be married in June.”
Somehow Charles had thought of everything else but not of that. He was reconciled to Jackie’s being a library trustee, a director of the bank, a member of the Tuesday Club, but he had never thought of his marrying Jessica Lovell. He could not think that he resented it or that it was jealousy he felt, or envy. He was mainly disturbed because of something in the w
hole picture that was malformed, something that should not have been. He was thinking of what Jessica used to say about Jackie Mason, but as Jackie said, things changed if you saw someone long enough—and it had taken a long, long time. It was all as dry as dust, almost repellent, and for once he did not say the proper thing.
“Why, Jackie,” he said, “it looks as though you have everything,” and he heard Jackie’s nervous laugh.
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way,” Jackie said, “and I know that Jessica and I are a little old to take this step, but then we’ve known each other so long.”
The radiator hissed again and Charles still did not know how he felt.
“I wish you’d tell me,” he asked, “how Mr. Lovell took it.”
“Well, I was a little surprised,” Jackie said. “He didn’t seem to mind. It’s funny, when I had my talk with him, he kept calling me Charles. Of course, his mind isn’t what it was before he was ill last winter, but he’s really a grand old gentleman, and we’ll all be living there together. He couldn’t live without Jessica.”
At last Charles said the right thing. He said he thought it was splendid and he knew they would be happy.
“I’m awfully glad you think so, Charley,” Jackie Mason said, “and now there’s one thing more. I hope you’ll call on Jessica tomorrow. She knows you’re here, you know.”
Charles picked up his glass and was surprised to find it empty. He set it carefully back on the writing table and rose.
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so, Jack. It—” His voice was unexpectedly hoarse. “It wouldn’t help anything.”
“But, Charley”—Jackie looked deeply hurt—“I wish you’d think of Jessica. Everyone will know you didn’t see her.”
It was that old phrase again, everyone would know, but it was something he could not do, something he would not do, even though everyone would know.
“I can’t,” he said, and his voice was still hoarse. “I suppose I ought to, but I can’t … I’m sorry, Jackie.”
No matter what Jackie Mason said, he would not go to the Lovells’. Jackie Mason was still his friend and Jackie was always loyal, but he did not have to see Jessica or Mr. Lovell or the Lovell house again.
Point of No Return Page 56
