by Sloan Wilson
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE NEXT DAY Ken conferred with his lawyer and discovered that to get a marriage license, John and Molly would have to get either the written consent of the parent in whose custody they had been put, or a waiver. “Under the circumstances,” the lawyer said delicately, “the probate judge would readily grant a waiver. Such cases are far from uncommon, and the State makes legal provision for them, but it might be wiser and more dignified to keep this a family affair. Let’s get consent if we can.”
When Molly talked to her mother over the telephone, Helen was still so groggy from drugs that she only mumbled incoherently, but her lawyer got her to give her legal consent to the marriage. John sent Bart a short note. “Dear Dad,” he wrote, “As I told you, I want to get married. Mother and Mr. Jorgenson are helping us. I can get a legal waiver of the age requirement, but I would much prefer to have your permission. If you would sign the enclosed papers, I would be grateful. If you would care to come to the wedding Friday morning, we would like to have you.”
Arrangements were made for this letter to be delivered to Bart by Herb Andrews. Bart’s reply came three days later. It was a long one.
DEAR SON,
Your letter reached me just as I was preparing to go to the hospital in Portland. I don’t know how long I’ll be there-weeks or months, I guess, for the ulcers have kicked up worse than ever. My hand shakes as I write this, and I realize there is a certain irony in any advice from my pen, but I shall persist.
You say you want me to consent to your marriage, and in the same sentence you point out that you will get married anyway. All right. I give my legal consent, and I’ve signed the enclosed papers simply because there’s no point in making things difficult for you if you have unalterably made up your mind. But I don’t give my approval.
As I dimly remember the marriage ceremony, the minister at one time or another says, “If anyone here knows just cause why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him now speak or forever hold his peace.” I shall speak now in this letter. And I’m a sober wedding guest, Johnny, cold sober.
I feel it is my obligation to point out that at the age of eighteen you have made a serious mistake which cannot be whitewashed by a lot of foolish sentimentality. You have, if you will forgive a rather nauseous phrase, got a girl into trouble, but more than that, you have got yourself into a great deal of trouble, all the worse because you don’t appear to realize it. There are of course many ways in which you can explain away your mistake; it is, undoubtedly, a logical outcome of your heredity and environment. You are suffering the sins of your fathers and also repeating them. Regardless of that, I beg to point out, your mistake exists, and your only choice is whether to minimize it or to compound it.
Now let us try to look at this thing rationally. Superficially marriage may appear to be a practical solution. I suppose that Ken Jorgenson can easily support you, and he is the cheerful type who would probably do so without complaint. When you get into college, you will also have the small trust fund which we discussed. There is, I admit, no economic barrier here, but don’t imagine for a minute that this will make things easy.
Statistically, the odds against very youthful marriages are not encouraging—that’s a matter of record. You don’t know your own minds at your age, nor what sort of adults you and your girl will become. Being supported by others will be a corrosive experience. Beyond that, I think you’re going to miss a lot of fun by accepting responsibilities so early. Youth is supposed to be a carefree time. It hasn’t been for you, but that is all the more reason why you should be free to relax and enjoy life in the next three or four years. You should be going to dances and football games next year, not helping to hang out diapers. That probably sounds frivolous to you, but some of the best parts of life are frivolous.
If you persist in getting married, there are strong currents you will have to swim against. The tradition of delaying marriage until one can support a family is most respected in the richest nations, especially among those families who don’t really have to worry about money. That may not make sense, but it’s a fact: only poor people marry young. Your segment of the world will raise an eyebrow at you, and more than that, you will incur scorn.
I have not even touched yet upon the question of morality, a word which you may think odd to come from this shaking pen. Even so, I have observed that there is some rough moral law at work in the world, that sinners generally pay, in one way or another. As I write this, I have the most fearful pain in my belly, so I speak with authority on the theme of punishment. Anyway, the point is, Johnny, that according to any obvious ethic, you have committed a sin of fairly generous proportions. It is not right for young boys to fall into bed with young girls while they are not yet out of preparatory school, and I suspect that no matter how tolerant and sophisticated we all are, there is a punishment awaiting you somewhere along the line. Even if there really is no inflexible moral law at work in the world, we have all had morality dinned into our ears through so many generations that psychological laws have been created which operate with all the rigor of an Old Testament God. You have sinned, or at least at heart you think you have sinned, and if God does not punish you, you will punish yourself. Here is the great danger, I think, for I fear that your desire to get married, and probably your girl’s desire, is simply a wish to punish yourselves, “to do the right thing,” to seek absolution, and these are not mature motives for marriage.
You may think that the solution I posed to you when I last saw you would be the ultimate crowning of immorality, but in all honesty, I don’t. This is a pretty hard-boiled world, Johnny, and the good or evil of any action can be judged only by the long-range effect it has on everyone concerned. If you and your girl get married for largely neurotic reasons and have a child and, perhaps only a few years later, get divorced, you will have added greatly to the sum of the world’s unhappiness, and will have set the whole wheel of our misery spinning for yet another generation. I say stop this affair now, as, after all, can rather easily be done. Acknowledge your mistake, erase it. If you and your girl are actually fond of each other, you can get married at the proper time, when you’re both old enough to know what you’re doing.
Before you make any final decision, I think you would be wise to show this letter to your mother, and to get her opinion. Regardless of the differences which existed between us, I never accused her of being anything but practical.
And now I must change the subject and conclude not as an adviser, but as a supplicant. I’m sick and I need your help, Johnny. I have no idea how long I will have to be in the hospital, and the island should not be left untended. It has been necessary for me to give notice to poor Hasper—he’s too old now to do any real work, and I really think that with senility, he has become unhinged. He’s had notice for some time now, but he’s given no sign of preparing to go. This is simply more than I can handle in my present condition, and I’d appreciate it if you’d take charge.
What I’m really asking, Johnny, is that you come here. The inn will be yours some day, perhaps not too far in the future. You have received many bad things in your inheritance; the island is one good thing. I hope you can devise a way to keep it.
I must go now, for Herb Andrews is waiting. I do not look forward to the hospital, but oh, God, my belly is aching, and I have not been able to hold food since you left. There! To my other sins, I have added self-pity—I did not mean to do that. Visit me if you can, and take care of the island, at least until July, when the others come. Life is a battle against great odds. I profoundly hope you do not get married, but if you do, I wish you happiness. Maybe life is only a dice game, after all. If so, our family is due for a winner.
Hastily,
DAD
Sitting on the couch beside Molly in Ken’s living room, John read the letter slowly. The muscle under his cheek flickered. When he was through, he handed the letter to Molly. “I guess we better go out to the island
as soon as we’re married,” he said.
Molly showed no sign of emotion while she read the letter, except that she kept opening and closing one hand. Giving the five sheets of paper back to John, she said, “I’m sorry he’s sick. Of course we’ll go.”
John passed the letter to Sylvia. Her lips tightened when she read it. A reply to Bart cried out in her mind: I’ve learned from Ken that this is more than a question of right and wrong, she wanted to say. It’s a question of meeting a problem and solving it with love, and we all have at least a fighting chance! Handing the letter back to John, she said, “Don’t let it discourage you,” and was about to attempt a whole counter argument to Bart when she realized that words wouldn’t help. Molly and John were looking at each other with mute intensity. The letter had shocked Molly, Sylvia realized, and they could not talk about it with her there. John was trying to be matter-of-fact and calm, but with his eyes he was trying to reassure Molly. They should be alone, Sylvia thought, and glancing at her watch she said, “I’ve got to meet Ken,” a sentence which made no sense, for Ken had gone to New York on business and was not expected back for three hours. Quickly she left the room.
Damn Bart, Sylvia thought as she got into her car and slammed the door. What a fine wedding present he had to give: a prophecy of doom, a glib espousal of defeat, a charming display of confidence in the probability of disaster. Damn him, she thought, he should not have sent such a letter now —that is not at all what the children need.
Driving without any particular destination, Sylvia found that reply after reply to Bart kept forming in her mind. How strange it is, she wanted to say. A father can buy his daughter fur coats and automobiles without much criticism, and he can allow her to spend any amount on parties, but to help her to marry is considered somehow immoral. Parents can give a son a big enough allowance to permit all kinds of hell raising; they can pay his liquor bills and directly or indirectly they can subsidize the entertainment of every harlot in town, but they cannot help him to get married young; no, there is something especially wicked about that.
The difference between this and the sordid little case history you make it, she imagined herself continuing in an impassioned speech, the difference is something Ken taught me about. It is summed up in the one small word, love. That one word which you, Bart, never mentioned in all your long letter, that invisible quality of which you have such small knowledge can change all this from defeat into a kind of triumph.
Yes, triumph, she thought of herself saying, a triumph against loneliness, a triumph for the children and a triumph for Ken and me, a triumph for love, both the love they have for each other and the love Ken and I have for them.
Sylvia found she was driving too fast. Deliberately she slowed down. Bart would consider her fancy rhetoric silly, she reflected ruefully, and she could imagine his reply: Why Sylvia, how cheerful you have become!
Yes, I am cheerful, she would reply, and that is a beautiful word when correctly used.
Even in her imagination this sounded hollow to Sylvia, and with a sinking sensation she realized why: she was not feeling particularly triumphant or cheerful at the moment. On the contrary, she was full of apprehension, and dreaded Friday, the day of the wedding. Since the children had returned, she had been trying to imagine how it would be. There would be few guests, for they had no friends nearby who were capable of attending such a short-notice wedding without embarrassment. Old Bruce, Molly’s grandfather, had said he would come from Buffalo and Helen planned to attend “if she were well enough.” Those two would certainly do little to create a joyous atmosphere, Sylvia thought grimly. Carla would be full of innocent excitement about serving as a bridesmaid again, and Ken would be hearty. Sylvia could picture him passing out glasses of champagne, trying to change an atmosphere of pathos to one of celebration. And even the children might not appear happy. Sylvia imagined them standing together before the minister looking subdued, even scared, babes in the woods, not figures of triumph. Luckily Bart would not be there, for he almost certainly would be drunk, but his sober self which had arrived by mail was even worse, Sylvia thought. Now Bart would be an invisible presence as soon as the wedding march began, even if she did get the minister to omit from the ceremony the passage inviting objectors to speak now.
It is up to Ken and me to prevent this from being a pathetic affair, Sylvia thought with determination, and on impulse turned her car toward Stamford. Perhaps it was silly, but she had a sudden desire to buy a new dress to wear at the wedding, and some clothes to add to the already elaborate trousseau she had ordered for Molly.
When she got to the dress shop, Sylvia’s enthusiasm ran away with her. She bought armfuls of lingerie and dresses of many colors for Molly, and a pale yellow dress with a widely flared skirt for herself. In a curious way, anything that enhanced the beauty of women seemed an answer to her worries, a reply to Bart, a refutation of despair. This thought confused her, for it did not seem reasonable, but it persisted. As though arming Molly, she continued to buy her clothes. A flowing afternoon dress of pale blue silk might be suitable for Molly to wear at her wedding, she thought, for the child had said she didn’t want a formal white gown. A black evening dress with a gold belt, a pair of red leather pumps, a chaste housecoat of cream-colored satin—all these Sylvia bought as a surprise for Molly. When the bill was presented, it was enormous, and Sylvia suffered a twinge of guilt, but then she thought, this is ridiculous; Ken is the last person who would ever resent my buying clothes for Molly. He can easily afford them, and when am I going to quit questioning good fortune?
Wealth should not be ostentatious and beauty should not be flaunted, she thought, imagining with pleasure how Molly’s youthful figure would look in some of the clothes she had bought her, but they also should not be buried; yes, they are fundamentally gifts from God which should be appreciated. Feeling more lighthearted, she filled the back seat of her car with packages and drove to the station to meet Ken. When he came toward her, standing well above the crowd, she had the curious sensation of seeing him for the first time. How big he looks, she thought, how incredibly strong! That too seemed an answer to her worries: the fortunate possession of such a powerful ally. Of course the children have a fight ahead of them, she thought, but they have on their side the beauty and the strength of youth, love and a sense of humor, and those are the weapons of the angels. They go well-armed with strong friends.
She kissed Ken with unusual warmth when he climbed into the car. “Wow!” he said, smiling. “What’s that for?”
“Gratitude,” she said.
That night Sylvia asked Molly to her room and presented her with her new clothes. Molly seemed pleased and smilingly tried them on, but there was still a reserve about her, a sort of melancholy lurking just beneath the surface which worried Sylvia. In her new blue silk dress Molly pirouetted with a curious combination of youthful grace and dignity before Sylvia’s full-length mirror. “It’s beautiful,” she said in a soft voice. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Molly!” Sylvia said suddenly, almost without thinking. “Don’t be afraid!”
“Afraid?” She made the word barely audible.
“I didn’t mean to be abrupt.” Sylvia brushed her hand over her forehead in confusion. “I want you to be happy,” she said, feeling that the words sounded ridiculous. “You have a wonderful father and you’re about to be married to a fine young man. There isn’t anything for you to fear.” That wasn’t at all what she had meant to say. Molly’s peculiarly direct way of looking at her was disquieting. Sylvia paused in confusion.
“I know,” Molly said.
“It’s just that I don’t want you to worry about anything,” Sylvia continued, making her voice sound down-to-earth, and then she added, “Does the idea of having a baby scare you?”
There was a moment of silence. “A little,” Molly said. Her tone was precise, as though she had just measured her fear with a scientific instrument.
“It’s nothing to b
e scared of. You’re lucky to be so young. Ken and I would like to have a baby, but sometimes it’s not so easy to get pregnant when you’re older.”
“Yes,” Molly said, and glanced down. “I can’t thank you enough for the clothes,” she added.
“It’s a pleasure to give them to you, darling,” Sylvia replied, and wished she had not started the conversation.
Downstairs Sylvia found John talking earnestly with Ken about arrangements which were being made to enable him and Molly to take special examinations in the summer. If they passed these, they could graduate from their schools, and it was probable that John could enter college in the fall as had been planned. “Even if I can’t go to Harvard, there are plenty of other places,” John said. He sounded anxious.
“I don’t think marriage will prejudice any university against you,” Ken replied. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
But John continued to sound and to look worried. He had worked out a budget which he wanted to go over with Ken, and he had already made inquiries about apartments in Cambridge for the following fall. He should be this practical and this responsible, Sylvia thought. I should be grateful for that. What celebration do I expect of the children? Do I want them to go madly dancing about the house singing a hymn to Hymen? Do I want John to lie with Molly in the garden feeding her grapes? I have become a fool.
Yet the children did not seem happy while they prepared for the wedding, Sylvia thought, and there was nothing to joke about in that. Trying to understand this, she prepared for bed. When Ken came upstairs a few minutes later she said, “Ken, do you think there’s anything troubling the children that they haven’t told us?”
“No. What makes you think so?”
“I can’t explain it. They seem so sort of joyless.”
“They’ve been through an awful lot. It takes time for that sort of thing to wear off.”
