To Sail Beyond the Sunset

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “It’s a tragic one, I know. But what’s your excuse? Justin would have offered you a little gentle exercise, I’m certain.”

  “Dearest man, I did have Justin and Eleanor over for dinner, yes. But with a house full of youngsters and Father a notorious night owl I didn’t even get my bottom patted. Nothing but a few gallant indecencies whispered into my horrified ear.”

  “Your what? You should have gone over there.”

  “But they live so far away.” It was a far piece even by automobile, an interminable distance by streetcar. We had first met the Weatherals at our new church, the Linwood Methodist, when we moved into our home on Benton Boulevard. But that same year, after we got on friendly but not intimate terms with the Weatherals, they moved far out south into the new J. C. Nichols subdivision, the Country Club district, and there they switched to an Episcopalian church near their new home, which put them clear out of our orbit.

  Briney and I had discussed them—they both smelled good—but they moved too far away for much socializing, and they were older than we and clearly quite well to do. All these factors left me a bit intimidated, so I had moved the Weatherals to the inactive file.

  Then Brian ran into them again when Justin tried to get accepted for Plattsburg; Justin had given Brian as a reference, which flattered him. Justin was turned down for officer-candidate training—a damaged foot, an accident that had maimed him before he learned to walk. He limped but it was hardly noticeable. Brian wrote a letter, urging a waiver; it was not granted. But as a consequence Eleanor had invited us to dinner in January, a week before Brian left for Plattsburg.

  A fine big house and even more children than we had—Justin had incorporated into the house design an elegant but expensive idea: Justin and Eleanor occupied not just a master bedroom but the entire upper floor of one wing, a master suite consisting of a sitting room (in addition to a formal parlor and a family sitting room downstairs), a huge bedroom with a pantry and wine safe in one corner, a bath broken into units: a tub, a shower, and two closets, one of the latter having in addition to its WC a fixture I had heard of but never seen before: a fountain bidet.

  Eleanor helped me try out the latter and I was delighted! Just what Maureen, with her give-away body odor, needed. I told her so, and told her why.

  “I think your natural fragrance is delightful,” Eleanor told me seriously, “and so does Justin.”

  “Justin said that about me?”

  Eleanor took my face between her hands and kissed me, softly and gently, her mouth slack—not a tongue kiss but not totally dry. “Justin said that. He said considerably more than that. Dear, he feels enormous attraction to you”—I knew that—“and so do I. And so I do for your husband. Brian affects me all through. If by any chance you two share our feelings… Justin and I are willing and eager to realize our feelings in acts.”

  “You mean a trade off? All the way?”

  “All the way! ‘A fair exchange is no robbery.’”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Yes!”

  “Oh, good! Do you want a chance to consult Brian?”

  “Not necessary. I know. He wants to eat you, raw.” I took her face between my palms, kissed her deeply. “How do we go about this?”

  “Whatever is easiest for you, Maureen little love. My sitting room converts into a second bedroom in only seconds, and it has its own little powder room. So it can be either two couples, or all four of us together.”

  “Briney and I don’t hide from each other. Eleanor, I have found in the past that, if I simply take my clothes off, it saves time and words.”

  Her mouth twitched. “I’ve found it so. Maureen, you astound me. I’ve known you ten years, I think. Back when we still lived on South Benton and we all attended Linwood Boulevard Methodist, Justin and I discussed you two as possible playmates. I told Justin that Brian had that look in his eyes but I couldn’t see any way to crack your armor. The perfect lady, right out of Godey’s Lady’s Book. Since in order to be safe this sort of family seduction has to be negotiated between wives, we simply moved you to the Too-Bad list.”

  I was unhooking and unbuttoning, while chuckling. “Eleanor love, I broke my maidenhead at fourteen and I’ve been in heat ever since. Brian knows it and understands me, and loves me anyhow.”

  “Oh, delightful! Sweetheart, I gave away my cherry at twelve to a man four times my age.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been Justin.”

  “Heavens, no!” She stepped out of her drawers; it left her in opera-length hose and evening slippers. “I’m ready.”

  “So am I.” I was eyeing her and was sorry Briney hadn’t shaved me, as she was as smooth as a grape—Briney was going to love her! Tall, statuesque, blonde.

  A few minutes later Justin placed me on the Persian rug in front of the fire in their upstairs sitting room. Eleanor was beside me, with my husband. She turned her head toward me and smiled and took my hand, as we each received the other’s husband.

  I’ve heard formal discussions at salons in Boondock, complete with Stimulator and Interlocutor, debating the ideal number for polymorphous sensuality. There were some who favored trios, each of the four sorts or all four or any, and some who favored high numbers, and some who insisted that any odd number could produce maximum pleasure but no even number. Me, I still think that a foursome of families, all loving and lovable, cannot be beaten. I’m not running down any other combination and I like them all. I’m simply naming what I like best, year in and year out.

  Later that night Brian telephoned Father and explained that the streets were getting icy; would he mind being zookeeper for us tonight?

  Brian looked down at me. “What was the faraway look in your eye?”

  “I was thinking about your favorite girl—”

  “You’re my favorite girl.”

  “Favorite blonde girl. Eleanor.”

  “Oh. Granted.”

  “And your favorite oldest daughter.”

  “Something ambivalent there. Positional grammar? Oldest favorite daughter. Favorite oldest daughter. Yes, I guess they both mean Nancy. Continue.”

  “News I couldn’t put into a letter. Nancy did it.”

  “Did what? If you mean she did it with that pimply kid, I seem to recall that you concluded that a year ago. How many times can she stop being a virgin?”

  “Briney, Nancy finally decided to tell me. She had a scare and that pimply kid doesn’t come here anymore, because he wouldn’t stop after a rubber broke. So she told Mama. So I douched her and checked her calendar with her and she came around just fine three days later, and she stopped being scared. But at last we were women together and we talked. I gave her some hurry-up Father-Ira instruction, including the lecture that goes with the Forberg etchings—hey, that thing does have a bone in it after all!”

  “What do you expect? You’re talking about Nancy’s fancy; did you think I could stay limp? While Nancy’s pretty fancy is verboten to me, I can dream, can’t I? If you can dream about your father, I can dream about my daughter. Go ahead, hon; get to the good parts.”

  “Nasty man. Lecher. Brian, don’t tempt Nancy unless you mean business or she will turn and sink her fangs into you; she’s in an unstable state.

  “And now to the good parts. Brian, as we agreed, I told Nancy about the Howard Foundation, and promised that you would talk to her about it, too…and I telephoned Judge Sperling. He referred me to a lawyer here in town, Mr. Arthur J. Chapman. Do you know him?”

  “I know who he is. Corporation lawyer, never goes into court. Very expensive.”

  “And a trustee of the Howard Foundation.”

  “So I inferred from your remark. Interesting.”

  “I called on him, identified myself, and he gave me Nancy’s list. For this area, I mean: Jackson and Clay counties, and Johnson County in Kansas.”

  “Good hunting?”

  “I think so. On the list is Jonathan Sperling Weatheral, son of your favorite blonde.”

  “I’ll be a brass-ball
ed baboon!”

  Later on that night Brian said, “So Ira thinks this city slicker is his brother’s woods-colt?”

  “Yes. You will think so, too, when you see him. Dear one, he and I look so much alike that you would swear that we are brother and sister.”

  “And you have an acute case of flaming drawers about him.”

  “That’s a mild way of putting it. I’m sorry, dear.”

  “What is there to be sorry about? If your interest in sex were so mild that you never thought about any man but your poor, old, tired, worn out—Ouch!”—I had pinched him—“husband, you wouldn’t be half as good tail as you are. As it is, you are quite lively, Mrs. Finkelstein. I prefer you as you are, good points and bad.”

  “Will you sign a certificate to that effect?”

  “Certainly. You want it to show to your customers? Darling girl, I slipped the leash on you years ago, as I knew then and know now that you would never do anything that could risk the welfare of our children. You never have, you never will.”

  “My record isn’t all that good, dearest. What I did with the Reverend Doctor Ezekiel was stupidly reckless. I blush whenever I think of it.”

  “Zeke the Greek was your rite of passage, my love. It scared the hell out of you and you’ll never take a chance on a second-rater again. That’s the acid test for adult adultery, my true love: what sort of person you select with whom to share your escapades. All other factors follow naturally from that choice. This Bronson who may or may not be your cousin: Would you be proud to have him here in bed with us tonight? Or would it embarrass you? Would you be happy about it? How does this bloke measure up?”

  I thought about Briney’s acid test and checked over Mr. Bronson in my mind. “Brian, I can’t pass judgment. My head is spinning and I haven’t any sense about him.”

  “Want me to talk to Father Ira about him? Nobody can pull the wool over Ira’s eyes.”

  “I wish you would. Oh, don’t suggest that I want to go to bed with Mr. Bronson; it would embarrass Father and he would say Mrrrph! and grunt and stalk out of the room. Besides, he knows it. I can feel it.”

  “I can understand that. Of course Ira is jealous of this city slicker, over you. So I’ll stay away from that aspect of the subject.”

  “‘Jealous’? Father? Over me? How could he be?”

  “My love, your great sweetness makes up for your slight stupidness. Ira can be—is—jealous over you for the same reason that I can be jealous over Nancy and her little pink fancy. Because I can’t have her. Because Ira wants you himself and can’t have you. Whereas I have no need to be jealous over you as I do have you and know that your riches are an inexhaustible bonanza. That beautiful flower between your sweet thighs is the original horn of plenty; I can share it endlessly with no possibility of diminishing its wealth. But for Ira it’s the unattainable, the treasure that can never be reached.”

  “But Father can have me any time!”

  “Wups! Did you finally get past his guard?”

  “No, damn it! He won’t give.”

  “Oh. Then the situation is unchanged; Ira won’t touch you for the same reason I won’t touch Nancy—although I’m not dead sure I’m as noble as Ira. You had better warn Nancy to stay covered up and downwind when dealing with her poor, old, frail pop.”

  “I’m damned if I’ll warn her, Briney. You are the only male in the whole world I am absolutely certain would not hurt our Nancy in any way. If she can get past your guard, I’ll cheer her on—I might learn something from her about how to cope with my own chinchy, impossible-to-seduce father.”

  “Okay, you redheaded baggage—I’ll sniff Nancy and jump you. That’ll larn yuh!”

  “I’m skeered. Want a giggle? Brian Junior wanted to look. Nancy let him.”

  “Be damned.”

  “Yes. I kept my face straight; I neither laughed nor pretended to be shocked. B. Junior told her that he had never had a chance to see just how girls are different from boys—”

  “What nonsense! All our kids have been naked in front of each other from time to time; we brought them up that way.”

  “But, dear, he really did have a point. A boy’s differences hang right out where they can be seen; a girl’s girlishness is mostly inside and doesn’t show unless she lies down and makes it show. That is what Nancy did for him. Lay down, pulled up her robe—she was just out of her bath—spread her thighs wide, pulled her lips apart and showed him the baby hole. Probably winked at him with it. Probably enjoyed it herself. I would have—but none of my brothers asked me to.”

  “Wench, we haven’t found anything yet that you don’t enjoy.”

  I thought about that. “I think you’re right, Brian. Some things hurt a little but mostly I have a wonderfully good time. Even this frustration over Mr. Bronson pleasures me more than it hurts…since I can tell my beloved husband all about it without causing him to stop loving me.”

  “Do you want me to tell Ira to lay off? Ask him to give you the shuteye chaperonage that I would give you?”

  “Uh, let’s wait until you have sized up Mr. Bronson. If you approve of him, I’ll have my drawers off in a jiffy. If you don’t, I’ll continue my best Vestal Virgin act, which is what he has been getting. But, as I told you, my head is in a whirl and my judgment is no good. I need your cool head.”

  On Tuesday the Post and the Star each reported that President Wilson had asked the Congress to declare that a state of war exists between the United States of America and the German Empire. Wednesday we waited for the shout of “Extra!” in the street, or for the telephone to ring, or both—and neither happened. We required the children to go to school although they did not want to, Brian Junior especially. Woodrow was utterly unbearable; I had to refrain from switching him too often.

  On Thursday Father returned home, in a state of tense excitement. He and Brian kept their heads together, and I stayed with them, mostly while delegating all that I could. Woodrow demanded that his grandfather—or someone—play chess with him, until Father turned him over his knee and walloped him, then made him stand in a corner.

  On Friday it happened. War. The extras were on our street just before noon, and my husband was on his way almost at once, after telephoning a brother officer, a Lieutenant Bozell, who picked him up and off they drove to Fort Leavenworth, their M-Day assignment. Brian did not wait for his telegram.

  Brian Junior and George were home for lunch, waited until their father left—then were late for school for the first time ever. Nancy and Carol came home from their school—Central High School, just a few blocks away—just in time to kiss their father good-bye. I did not ask if they were cutting classes or school had closed early; it did not seem to matter.

  Father exchanged salutes with Lieutenant Bozell and with Brian, then headed straight for the streetcar line without coming back into the house. He said to me, “You know where I’m going, and why. I’ll be back when you see me.”

  I agreed that I knew. Father had been increasingly restless ever since his request for active duty had been turned down.

  I turned everything over to Nancy and went back to bed…for the second time, as I had impressed Father as baby watcher earlier, so that Brian and I could go back to bed after breakfast; we both guessed that this would be Der Tag.

  But this time I went to bed just to cry.

  About three I got up and Nancy served me tea and milk toast, I ate some of it. While I was fiddling with it, Father returned home in the most towering rage I have ever seen him in. He offered no explanation. Nancy told him that Mr. Bronson had called and had asked for him…and that brought it out of him in a flood.

  I think “poltroon” was the mildest term that he used about Mr. Bronson. “Pro-German traitor” may have been the bitterest. He did not use profanity, just words of rage and disappointment.

  I had great trouble believing it. Mr. Bronson a coward? Pro-German? But Father was detailed in his account and broken-hearted in his response. In my own confused grief—my beloved
country, my beloved husband, my secret lover, all the same day—I had to force myself to remember that Father was hit just as hard. His brother’s boy—or was Theodore Bronson his own son? Father had hinted at the possibility.

  I went back to bed, cried some more, then lay there, dry eyed, with this triple ache in my heart.

  Father tapped on my door. “Daughter?”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Mr. Bronson is on the telephone, asking for you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him! Must I?”

  “Certainly not. Is there anything you wish me to say to him?”

  “Tell him…not to call me. Not to come here. Not to speak to any of my children…now or ever.”

  “I’ll tell him. With a few words for myself, too. Maureen, his sheer gall amazes me.”

  About six Carol brought me a tray. I ate some of it. Then Justin and Eleanor came to see me and I cried on my big sister and they consoled me. Later—I don’t know the time but it was after dark. Eight-thirty? Nine? I roused at some commotion downstairs. Shortly my father came up, tapped on the door. “Maureen? Mr. Bronson is here.”

  “What?!”

  “May I come in? I have something to show you.”

  I didn’t want to let Father in; I hadn’t cleaned up and I was afraid Father would notice. But… Mr. Bronson here? Here? After what Father had said to him? “Yes, Father, come in.”

  He showed me a piece of paper. I read it; it was a carbon copy of an Army enlistment form…which stated that “Bronson, Theodore” was enlisted at the rank of private in the National Army of the United States.

  “Father, is this some sort of bad joke?”

  “No. He’s here. That’s authentic. He did it.”

  I got out of bed. “Father, will you start me a tub? I’ll be down quickly.”

  “Certainly.”

  He went into my bath; I peeled off my gown, went in after him, thanked him. I didn’t realize that I was naked in front of him until he looked at me and looked away. “Ask Nancy to serve him something, please. Is Nancy still up?”