I’m buying us dinner, Feathers says. You don’t have to talk.
I shouldn’t be hungry.
Of course you should, you’ve had a shock. Let’s go.
You never talk about your father, Tommy says, devouring steak Oscar.
What’s to say? He’s dead. Even when he was alive he hadn’t much . . . force.
Your mother wore the pants?
Still does. But let’s not talk about me. Why didn’t you go to the cathouse?
Tommy looks away. Insult to injury, I guess.
That’s interesting. Who to?
His wife. All wives. My mother.
You’re such a romantic.
I just like women.
So do I, but I know how tough they are. You want to protect them.
Isn’t that a man’s job?
Your job. I supply other things.
What?
Adventure. Memories.
And you never break hearts?
People break their own hearts, Mr. Atkinson. They expect things. You, now, you’re a man who meets expectations. At least as soon . . .
He trails off. Tommy’s gazing over Feathers’ left shoulder and looks like he’s been coshed. Feathers swivels and sees a young woman walking, flowing, past the dining room doorway. Tennis whites, short skirt, chestnut bob, five-three and legs to here. Tommy stares at her like a bull moose encountering a doe.
Exhibit A! says Feathers, laughing. You should stay aloof at first encounter, but you’ve already surrendered. Hey, where are you going?
To meet her. Stay put, Mason.
We’re having dinner, mister!
You’re having dinner, Tommy says, and takes off in pursuit. Feathers puts out a hand; Tommy half turns and stares at him. Feathers recoils as if he’s touched a flame. The inside of his skull feels scorched.
It’s driving me crazy, Tommy tells Mabel next week. I ransacked that club, I looked everywhere. She just disappeared.
Don’t fret, you’ll find her.
Mabel’s an older woman, a banker’s wife who’s moved down from Ontario.
Tommy wipes the counter, shakes his head. I’ve asked around. She’s not a member. There was a big group and she tagged along. Friend of a friend.
Love at first sight! Lucky you.
I feel awful. I can’t sleep.
One day you’ll see how precious that is. I remember when I fell in love. You’ll walk the floor and wear out your shoes —
Great. Cheer the man up with a song.
It’s not the end of the world. People survive this sort of thing. Oh! Thank you.
Obejoyful, Tommy says automatically.
You be joyful, Tommy Atkinson. At least try.
Tommy buffs glasses in silence.
Tommy? Come visit tomorrow, meet my family. They’ll like you. I’ll have Mary make something special. Show up at seven.
I don’t eat any more. Food tastes like plaster.
Not when Mary cooks. Jim Browers — you know him, he’s my nephew — he works for Gene. Jim will give you directions. Now, for goodness’ sake, cheer up!
Looking less bedraggled, Tommy finds the stated address. His socks match, the ends of his tie are equal, and his collars don’t curl. He holds carnations in one hand, and with his other he presses the doorbell.
He turns to gaze out over Puget Sound. He wonders what he can possibly say to Mabel’s husband, whose house sits atop the ritziest hill in Seattle and has a view straight to Japan. Its entrance has stained-glass sidelights and a thick oak door, which now opens. And Tommy instantly forgets house, food, neighborhood, view, and conversation.
It’s her.
I can’t get over it! Mabel says over coffee. Your mystery woman is my daughter! She’s laughing so hard she’s shaking. There’s a lot of Mabel to shake.
Tommy’s gone from Pain I to Pain II. He’s completed his quest but is now in torment that he has made, is making, and will continue to make an all-time fool of himself. Mabel hasn’t a mean bone in her body, but her hilarity makes Tommy squirm. She’s oblivious to the pain she’s causing.
Mr. Atkinson? the daughter asks. She’s amused too, but does a better job of hiding it. Her name is Elizabeth and she’s as arresting in a pink cotton sundress as she was in a tennis skirt. Tommy’s brain is melting.
Yes, Miss Illsey.
Betty, please.
You call him Mister, Eugene Victor Illsey says.
Of course I do, Daddy. I don’t know his first name.
It’s Archibald. Tommy’s a nickname.
Oh yes? Then what should I call you?
Mr. Atkinson sounded fine. Tommy’s smiling; impossibly, she’s putting him at ease.
Oh, that’s too formal. Mother, stop. Betty turns back to Tommy. Which name do you prefer?
Arch. Or Tommy. Either.
You must have a preference.
My close friends call me Tommy.
A look, the look. Then, says Betty Illsey, I’ll just have to be one of those.
Eugene Victor Illsey does not like any of this. Most fathers of girls are protective. All fathers of pretty girls are protective; and wealthy, connected, high-society fathers of green-eyed, drop-dead, accident-provoking, fry-your-brainstem knockouts make cornered wolverines look calm. Eugene Victor Illsey is an experienced professional and has done his homework. Tommy has confided in Mabel, who would never dream of concealing anything from her husband. Divorce and poverty, shabby clothes and failure: Eugene Victor presides at his table fully briefed.
Tommy glances at his host and snaps to high alert. Eugene Victor’s glare makes the air above the table crackle and hum. Tommy can’t imagine what he’s done to piss off the old man.
Eugene Victor, spoon poised, hears his name and looks over at Betty. Her eyes are dancing and his rage softens into grief.
Daddy? I said, wasn’t dinner good?
Wonderful, dear, Eugene Victor Illsey says.
July 2, 1939
Gene, Mabel says, this won’t do. You have to speak to me.
Fingers to forehead. Why wasn’t I told of this!
Oh, Gene. Young people fall in love, they always have.
But him! Of all the people in the world to marry!
What’s wrong with Tommy! Tell me what’s wrong with him!
Eugene Victor Illsey looks up, puzzled. His wife has never spoken sharply to him before.
What’s right about him, Mabel? No money, no family, no career . . .
Answer me this. Where did the man I love come from?
Come from?
That’s what I said, where did you come from? Picton, Ontario, little flyspeck of a place, three hundred people and two shabby churches. You didn’t let that stop you, you joined the bank and worked your way up. You’re smart, you’re kind, you work hard. And I love you for it. But Tommy’s smart and works hard, too.
I —
I won’t hear anything more. Tommy’s a commissioned naval officer. Are you? He’s a graduate of mit. Are you? Bet says he’s late at the office most nights — that means he’s going places. And if you’re too d— stupid or too d— jealous or too d— pigheaded to see it, you’re not the man I took you for. He loves her and she loves him and they’re going to live together as man and wife and give us dear little grandchildren and you’re going to smile and pay for their honeymoon and invite them over for Christmas and Easter dinner for as long as you live. And I, says Mabel, hooves striking sparks as she rides over top of her husband, I will be mother of the bride!
A month after the engagement, Betty Illsey, her parents, and her fiancé huddle around a console radio listening to the King. The voice is tinny, His Majesty fights his consonants, but the message is clear and strong. And grave, for he is declaring war on the Third Reich. Two minutes, three. It is a short speech. God bless
you all.
Mabel weeps silently and Eugene Victor Illsey looks grimmer than usual. War again, he says. My God.
Will the United States come into it, Tommy? Mabel says.
Tommy shakes his head. I don’t know. Roosevelt sees the fascists for what they are. But a lot of Americans are convinced we shouldn’t get involved.
Eugene Victor Illsey looks at him. What’s your position?
We have to help. Hitler’s far worse than the Kaiser. Britain could go under if the States doesn’t weigh in.
Should we go back? says Mabel. To Ontario? All of us, I mean?
There’s a silence.
We can’t stay here, Mabel adds. Could we? Could we stay here?
I’m sure you could, Tommy says. He feels cold. The move hasn’t occurred to him.
Eugene Victor is shaking his head. My duty lies at home.
You’re a banker, Tommy says. What could you do there that you can’t do here?
Sell bonds. Finance factories. You know I’m right.
You’d accomplish more here persuading us to fight alongside you. You know senators and state senators, you belong to the same club as the governor . . .
The decision is made. Betty and I will return as soon as we can pack. Mabel will stay here and settle up the house.
Gene, no. You can’t separate the youngsters.
That’s right, they are youngsters. They’re not married. And until they are, my daughter will live under my roof according to my governance. I’m responsible for her till a husband takes my place.
Daddy, I’m an adult, a grown woman. I’m almost twenty-four.
And still unmarried. You will come with me.
Gene, do you want them to elope? Mabel says. Her delicious vision, the tailored mauve two-piece skirt suit with matching pillbox and veil, is fading.
They won’t elope, Eugene Victor says, dropping his manners and flashing his contempt. The man can’t afford it.
Tommy locks eyes with him. It’s true.
For eight months the world seems to slumber. It’s the Reluctant War, the Phoney War. But in May 1940 a long-delayed hell breaks loose. The Germans are better trained, equipped, and led than anyone they face. Their morale is sky-high and they are inexorable. The master race is revenging the Treaty of Versailles. By mid-1940, Holland and Belgium have fallen and the British Expeditionary Force has been outfought, outflanked, and pinned against the sea. By a miracle the men escape, but at the cost of their equipment. The bef returns home beggared. France’s Maginot Line seems impregnable, but Hitler’s Panzerkorps end-run it and destroy the French Army in six weeks. Marshal Pétain collaborates and sues for peace, and the nation that twenty-five years earlier proclaimed They shall not pass is beaten. Hitler is master of Europe.
Half a world away, the fascists are just as successful. The Japanese declare war on China and invade Manchuria. They enter Nanking and despite its surrender rip it to shreds.
Tommy reads the reports. The Japanese warrior code compels a soldier to fight to the death: surrender is the ultimate dishonor. It follows that enemies who let themselves be captured have forgone not simply their honor but their humanity as well. They have no more rights than a farm horse.
The barbarity in Nanking is beyond compass. For a full week, the Japanese generals switch off discipline and let their troops, normally imprisoned in a cage of rules so strait that it prohibits thought, go berserk. Bound prisoners are used for bayonet practice. Women are gang-raped, shot in the belly, and left to die. Houses are filled with children and then set afire. Nippon Army Unit 731 deliberately infects prisoners with bubonic plague, then investigates the effects by strapping down the infected prisoners and slicing them open while they’re still alive, conscious, and not anesthetized.
President Roosevelt requests a moral embargo, asking U.S. companies to stop selling tools, copper, iron, and aviation fuel to Japan. The companies ignore the president and continue a brisk and lucrative business with the Japanese. Twenty years later, President Kennedy will call all businessmen sons of bitches.
Roosevelt does what he can. In September 1940, he sends Britain fifty old destroyers in defiance of U.S. neutrality. Four months later, re-elected and more confident, he adds hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of war materiel. He smuggles the plan through Congress under the bald-faced misnomer Lend-Lease, presenting it as a simple credit advance. It cheers Tommy somewhat, but there’s still no declaration of war.
The U.S. media are complicit. The Hearst newspapers are not just rabidly isolationist, they’re pro-fascist, since fascists are anti-Communist and Communists like unions. Hearst has convinced America that the war is Europe’s problem. Congressmen and senators, beholden to the people for votes and to Hearst for campaign funds, heed his message. Roosevelt grinds his teeth but is powerless. Congress adjourns to watch the 1941 World Series. Not our fight, it says.
Nights, Tommy goes to sleep with his head in his hands. It’s so clear, he thinks: the world is slipping into a new dark age. Yet nobody in America seems to see it but the president and Tommy Atkinson.
This will all change on a December morning.
November 7, 1941
Sadie Hawkins Day
I’m the groom, Tommy thinks, and the cook is more important. Everyone hovers over Bet. She glows, shines, bubbles. She’s the perfect bride. Tommy doesn’t bubble. He feels the way he felt when he sat the Academy entrance exam. No — worse. In 1929 he had calculus down cold, and today he’s good for nothing. Tommy feels like a rock in a river. Friends, acquaintances, and a nameless mob he’s never seen before swirl past without a glance.
Tommy drifts to the one truly central individual at the party, the man behind the bar. Feathers takes a look at him and conjures a double Manhattan.
For this relief much thanks. Good of you to sling for us today.
Feathers shrugs. Couldn’t turn you over to one of those idiots the caterer supplies. Most of them couldn’t mix two hydrogen with one oxygen and get water. You look a tad raddled.
Why the hell do they have grooms anyway? It’s not like we’re needed.
You’re asking me? Too profound a question. Another?
Better not. I have a cake to cut.
See? You’re needed after all.
Tommy and Bet are ready to depart when Eugene Victor Illsey approaches his daughter. He gazes at her deeply; then she’s in his arms.
Goodbye, Daddy! Goodbye!
If he mistreats you, Eugene Victor says, come home. Come home to me.
Tommy’s standing sixteen inches away.
Bet laughs. He’s not going to starve and beat me, Daddy.
Tommy’s hands itch for his father-in-law’s neck, its veins and dewlaps. He can hardly see for the red wave. Mabel saves him from the electric chair.
Are you lovebirds still here? Away! Away! She kisses her daughter and the lovebirds leave.
December 7, 1941
The Day of Infamy
Here’s a news shop, Tommy says, I’ll get a paper. He pulls their rusty Ford to the curb.
What’s so important? Bet asks.
Roosevelt’s told the Japs no U.S. oil. No iron, no aluminum, no more anything, and they don’t like that. This time it’s law, not optional, and things are pretty tense. Right back, honey.
Bet smiles, leans back in the passenger seat, and looks out the window at the rain. Their apartment in Tacoma is small but it’s theirs, and Betty Illsey — no, Betty Atkinson — has made a nest of it. Mother calls every day to chat, and Daddy hasn’t been too prickly. What a fine man she has. How lucky she is.
She glances at the dashboard clock. Fifteen minutes. She waits another five, then enters the shop. Tommy’s standing with four other men, leaning on the counter and listening to the radio. Bet hears a voice she knows, a cbs announcer.
Confirmation! We have confirmation that the Japanese
have attacked the U.S. naval base in Pearl Harbor with two waves of planes . . . This just in, this just in: the battleship USS Arizona has been destroyed by Jap torpedoes. Her magazine has exploded and she has sunk with all hands. Casualties are in the thousands. The president will speak at eight o’clock tonight to the American people . . .
Bet clutches her husband’s arm. Dear? What does it mean?
It means, Tommy says, that I’m back in the Navy.
It’s tough to re-enlist, so many thousands pack the recruitment depots. Tommy muscles into the State Street office brandishing his Annapolis commission. They promise they’ll call, yet months go by. One Saturday the phone rings.
Hello? Speaking . . . What? Michigan? Yes, of course. I understand. I’ll report first thing tomorrow.
He replaces the receiver, turns to his wife.
It’s not active service. My math’s too good. They’re sending me inland, to the University of Michigan. Teaching navigation.
Bet says all the right things.
Ann Arbor is a joy. It’s lily-white and quiet, treed and gracious; Betty wants to stay there forever. Tommy’s an adjunct professor and Mrs. Tommy is instantly an adjunct professor’s high-status wife. His nominal superior is James K. Cassidy, who after a week sees he can trust his new prof with whatever he assigns. Captain Cassidy is relaxed and affable and Mrs. Cassidy is instantly maternal.
It doesn’t seem like wartime, it’s like Seattle five years ago. Tennis and outings and drinks by the fire, with the immeasurably pleasant addition of an attentive husband. Bet is the colonel’s lady, or rather the lady of the lieutenant commander, which is what Tommy has become. There are moments when she positively envies herself.
LCDR Atkinson rises early and has coffee while Mrs. LCDR sleeps in. He walks half an hour to his office, returns for lunch at half-past eleven, and is back home by six unless she joins him for cocktails in the officers’ mess. He looks wonderful in the uniform, black-blue with gold braid and one and a half gold stripes on the sleeve. Bet has interesting new friends and a cozy bridge club. Best of all, as the terrible news crowds in, is that her brand-new, handsome, successful, well-dressed, well-groomed husband isn’t being shot.
Tommy Page 4
