Women and Thomas Harrow

by John P. Marquand

  He stopped, arrested by recalling the phrase in that overheard conversation of Emily’s about his having “a little-boy quality.” He could not help it if he instinctively dressed well and still had a trace of the outmoded Scott Fitzgerald youthfulness, but he did not have a little-boy quality. He may have been a product of the Twenties, but his thinking had not stopped with bathtub gin or the American Mercury. It was true that he could not write a piece like Death of a Salesman or A Streetcar Named Desire, but by the same token, neither Miller nor Williams could have written his own last play which had closed a year before, after two years on Broadway.

  “It’s impossible not to be spoiled,” he said, “if you achieve any sort of artistic success. You’re like a college freshman at his first cocktail party. It’s impossible to stop with one Martini unless you have character. It would have been better if I hadn’t had a success so young. Maybe there ought to be a law against college experimental theatres. Well, I had to talk to someone; and I know you’re paid to listen, but thanks.”

  “I’d do it for nothing most of the time,” Miss Mulford said.

  “Now listen,” he said, “let’s get this straight. I enjoy it, but you must get over this spirit of dedication.” He smiled at her and he was acutely conscious that his smile was theatrical. “There’s nothing really valid to be upset about. There isn’t any plot in it. An old man in his fifties, who has let himself get into a lot of unnecessary trouble, all at once discovers that he’s going to lose his lifetime savings. This doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to eat, or that the little wife will have to scrub floors to support him. It doesn’t mean that his earning power is gone. It doesn’t even mean that he’s going to be without a motor car. Who cares about an old guy in that situation? He isn’t Miller’s salesman. There’s nothing poignant about him except for just one small thing—and maybe you’d better give me one more small drink.”

  “You won’t be able to work this afternoon,” she said.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “And I am going to work this afternoon.”

  He thought the conversation was over, and it should have been.

  “What’s the one small thing?” she asked.

  He stared into his glass before he answered.

  “When you get a kick in the pants like this,” he said, “if you have any sense, you know you’ve deserved it, and you begin wondering what you could have done differently. You begin wishing you could have the whole film played back. You’d like to know what started the trouble that got you where you are, but you can never watch the reel again. You can see little pieces, but you can’t feel them as you did once. You can’t live life over, and for God’s sake, don’t ever try.”

  He wondered why he had never spoken such thoughts out loud before. He was still wondering when Miss Mulford spoke again.

  “I know what you mean,” she said, “about not being able to live life over.”

  It was characteristic, in such a relationship, that in spite of all the years they had been together he should have known surprisingly little of her outside life. She had not wanted him to know, and if she had, the relationship would have changed. Her background was as good as his and her education, he had often thought, was considerably superior, but he could not have mixed successfully with her friends and family. He had always considered it his duty to respect her other life, but it had never worried him that she knew all about his. Her saying that she knew what he meant about not living life over marked one of those rare times in their years together when she was thinking of herself and not of him.

  “Are you thinking of that boy friend you had ten years ago?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “But as you would say, you can’t do it over again. I just wanted you to know I know exactly what you mean.”

  He had only seen the man once, one evening in the city when her friend had called at the office to take her to the theatre. He had been an awkward man in his late thirties, with dark hair receding at the temples and very dark brown eyes. He had looked thin and nervous, probably because Miss Mulford had obviously instructed him to wait downstairs by the elevators. His blue serge suit did not fit him.

  “You can’t live it over and I’m glad he didn’t take you away,” he said. “You see, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ve said that to a good many women, but I’ve never meant it so completely as I do when I say it to you. And now let’s change the subject, shall we?”

  “Yes,” she said, “let’s.”

  “And I’ve got another suggestion,” he said. “Suppose you call up the house and tell Alfred to say I’m busy and have him bring my lunch out here with yours.”

  “Madame isn’t going to like it,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I just don’t feel like going in there for lunch.”

  There was a knock on the door and she stood up quickly.

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s Harold. I’ll let him in; and I’ll order lunch sent over in half an hour.”

  “You’d better bring the Scotch and another glass,” he said.

  The incident was over. The time lapse had not been so great, but he had been through a good deal, and he was right about one thing. It did not make a good script—even in synopsis form.

  VIII

  Don’t Change a Barrel on Niagara Fall

  Ever since Harold as a little boy was brought down at cocktail time by one of a series of governesses to say good night to Mummy and Daddy, everybody including Rhoda had always said that Harold was the image of his father, It was sidesplitting to see him assume the postures and expressions of his father; and when it came to features, they had the same florid skin that tanned beautifully, the same eyes and forehead, and the same left-sided way of smiling. All of this may have been true, and it was natural that little boys should attempt to imitate their fathers; but still it had always seemed to Tom, when he had seen his son running toward him across the beach or across the drive at boarding school, that Rhoda was the one who had left her mark. Harold’s sudden brightening of expression that was never time-worn was Rhoda’s. And so was the color of the eyes—or a series of colors that could vacillate according to mood like flames in an open fire. And there were other subtle resemblances, each small in itself, but together capable of making him remember Rhoda through a glass seen darkly.

  “Hi, Nance,” he heard Harold say.

  He had never dreamed of calling Miss Mulford by her first name, but if he had done so, he would certainly have called her Nancy and not Nance; but it sounded correct coming from Harold.

  “Your father was saying he’d like to have a drink with you,” Miss Mulford said, “but don’t let him have too much. He wants to work this afternoon.”

  “Well, well,” Harold said, “so that’s what you’ve been doing with him, drinking Scotch while Madame and that old Price are waiting for him on the terrace. Jesus, Nance, have you seriously ever listened to Price?”

  Harold was a man now, and there was no reason not to feel a sense of achievement. There might be points about him that were better changed, but things had not gone so badly, in spite of the maladjustments that came from a severed home. He was a man, and it was possible not only to take pride in him but to envy him. He had passed the mark of maladroitnesses and he was nearly past the age of arrogance and conceit. There were aspects in the trying present that produced certain latent advantages. The boy had completed his years as a Naval officer only a week or so before, finishing one of those Dr. Faustus-like compacts that youth made with the armed services, and the hitch had done him good. In fact, Tom Harrow found himself wishing that the opportunity had existed for him also. It might have stopped his precocity when he was Harold’s age. When he was Harold’s age, he had finished the play that Arthur Higgins had taken. It was better to let success like that come later; but then, perhaps if you waited too long it might never arrive at all.

  The Navy had left its own peculiar young officer’s stamp on Harold—a combination of
authority and respect, watchfulness and patience. It was an attitude with which Tom Harrow had never been entirely at home, which he had respected ever since North Africa. Harold was almost Annapolis—almost, but there was no subsititute for the Annapolis patina.

  “Sit down and pour yourself a drink,” Tom Harrow said, “and make me a very small one. Please sit down. When you stand up you make me think I’ve joined a Joint Civilian Orientation Course.”

  Harold laughed. It was the laugh he had inherited from Rhoda.

  “Is it really still as bad as that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Tom Harrow said, “but I rather enjoy it. It’s nice to see you on board, Harold, to use a nautical expression, if time-worn.”

  “Maybe I haven’t made it clear enough to you,” Harold said, “how glad I am to be on board.” His hand that held his glass was large and competent. He had inherited his mother’s rather long fingers. His voice was easy and, thank heaven, it was not an actor’s voice. “You know, I’m beginning to like this place. When you bought it I thought you were out of your head. You weren’t. It’s the first time I ever felt that you and I belonged anywhere.”

  There were times when it was rewarding to have a son and their very unexpectedness made such occasions stand out in a jewel-like way. Now and then you felt such a keen gratitude having had a son that instead of counting costs and interruptions, conscience would bring up the question of whether the reward was not too great for the casual hours expended in parenthood. This was one of those moments. He knew that it would not last and that it would be succeeded by grief or exasperation, but the moment was still there.

  “I appreciate your saying that,” Tom said. “It means quite a lot when your child understands what you’re doing, and tells you so. You’ll know what I mean someday.”

  He was watching for that Annapolis manner that both flattered and implicitly acknowledged the correctness of a commanding officer, but instead, Harold (and it was Rhoda’s idea, not his, to name him Harold) had a shy, embarrassed look. He picked up his glass and rotated the scotch and water in it in an annoyingly expert manner. There was no ice in the glass and the rotation could not cool the drink.

  “You know,” Hal said, “there’s another thing about this place. I hope you won’t get mad if I mention it. Promise me you won’t get mad.”

  It was a conversational gambit that disturbed Tom Harrow more than any other. It was another of those vestiges of the nursery that must have come from the time when Rhoda used to tell Hal he must not do that or he would make his father angry.

  “Listen,” Tom said, “you ought to know by now that I don’t get mad without a reason. You’re two inches taller than I am and if I started anything, you could throw me out the window. Well, just get it through your head that I’m not anything to be afraid of, physically, mentally or morally.”

  When he saw that Hal was smiling it meant the chances still were that Hal had grown up after all.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Hal said. “Let’s get this straight, Pops. You know you’ve got a quick temper. Everybody says so.”

  “I suppose you picked up that Pops business overseas,” Tom Harrow said. “Who says I have a bad temper?”

  “Why, everybody says so, Pops,” Hal said.

  Tom Harrow nodded toward Miss Mulford’s closed door.

  “Suppose you step in there and ask Miss Mulford,” he said. “She’s the one who ought to know.”

  Hal laughed. It was a relaxed laugh that seemed to diminish their age differential.

  “Who? Nance?” he said. “Why, Nance wouldn’t be reliable.”

  “What was it you were going to say,” Tom said, “that you thought might make me mad?”

  “Oh, that,” Hal said. “I was just going to say that when you bought this place, Pops, and began fixing it up like a Jo Mielziner stage set, I was afraid it was going to be a sort of literary shrine or something. And the funny thing about it—it ought to be, but it isn’t. I don’t know how it is, but everyone around town is natural about you. There isn’t any of this Mr. Harrow, the playwright, business. I’m not a great man’s son here, and boy do I enjoy it!”

  In spite of experience, one never could tell exactly how one would react to any remark. He should have been pleased by what Hal had said, but instead he was disturbed.

  “You ought to get over the vestiges of childhood,” he said. “Don’t let them cling to you in a Wordsworthian way. You ought to have sense enough to know by this time that you’re not a great man’s son. You ought to know I’m not as good as that.”

  “The hell you’re not,” Hal said. “Just because that musical was a flop doesn’t mean a thing.”

  For a moment it was like playing over the reel again in a lonely projection room.

  “Let’s face it, Hal,” he said, “there was a time when I might have been good, but I’ve never been, not really.”

  It was pleasant to observe that Hal was a loyal boy.

  “Say, you’re in a sort of a low mood this morning, aren’t you?” Hal said.

  “I wouldn’t call it low exactly,” Tom Harrow said. “I’ve just been facing a few home truths this morning and I have never known them to give anyone euphoria. Don’t let me give you an inferiority complex. I repeat: I might have been good once, but I never have been really.”

  “That isn’t what they say in drama courses,” Hal said. “You’re the great American playwright, now that O’Neill is dead. That’s what they say in the drama courses. As a matter of fact, they even say it in the Navy.”

  “In the Navy?” Tom repeated. “Not really in the Navy.”

  He was thinking of Walter Price and of the value of a psychological lie. It was better to feel that you were good instead of facing facts. It was the only true road to survival, and he was following it instinctively; but he did wish that he could make Harold understand.

  “Everybody knows who you are,” Hal said.

  Tom Harrow wished that the conversation did not disturb him.

  “Everybody knows how famous he feels inside himself,” he said. “As a matter of fact, that’s going to be the subject of next Sunday’s sermon at the First Congregational Church. The topic is going to be, ‘How Happy Are You Inside?’”

  “How do you get around and find out things like that?” Hal asked. “I never do.”

  It was the way your mind worked and if Hal’s mind worked on different lines, it was probably just as well. It was simple enough to say that he happened to see Mr. Godfrey when he was going for the mail.

  “He took me inside the church,” he said, “to the little room beneath the pulpit where he customarily sits and thinks. I hadn’t been there for a long while. I hadn’t been there, as a matter of fact, since I married your mother and I couldn’t notice very much change.”

  He made the last remark only to make things sound easier. As always, there was an air of restraint when Rhoda came into their conversation.

  “Say,” Hal said, “that reminds me why I’m here. My mother called up this morning.” His voice was elaborately careless, as it always was when he spoke of Rhoda, and it was impossible to tell, when he referred to her as “my mother,” whether he was being thoughtful or intended a mild reproof. “She called up when you were down there in the church, I guess, learning how you felt inside.”

  He felt the muscles of his shoulders tauten. The reaction was purely instinctive and so was the new care with which he spoke.

  “She didn’t want to speak to me, did she?”

  “Oh, no,” Hal said, and his voice was elaborately carefree, “nothing like that, Pops. She wanted to speak to me, and Emily answered the telephone. They still don’t get on well, do they?”

  “I don’t know why they shouldn’t,” Tom said. “They both have been faced by the same tough problem. How is your mother?”

  He laughed, although the laugh was unnecessary.

  “Oh, she’s fine,” he said. “She’s motoring with Presley in his new Bentley—you know the way Presley
is about motoring. If he gets a new car, nothing relaxes him more than driving it five or six hundred miles a day, and his new Bentley is quite a car if I do say so. Its instrument panel is made of real inlaid wood. The factory only turns out about a dozen of those Bentleys every year and you know how Presley reacts to a thing like that. You know Presley.”

  Tom Harrow cleared his throat.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t know Presley so very well,” he said. “You see, he appeared in the picture very seldom and was kept away from me after one or two rather formal meetings. On the whole, I should almost say that I don’t know Presley, but I’m glad he can afford to have a good time with Bentleys.”

  “I’ve often thought you’d get quite a laugh out of Presley,” Hal said. “I imagine you’d say he’s kind of naive, but at the same time, seriously, he means well.”

  Tom Harrow laughed and the internal tension had left him.

  “You’ve got to be simple and mean well,” he said, “to acquire that kind of money. And you’ve got to have something else, I don’t know what it is, but maybe you’ve come somewhere near it when you say it relaxes him to drive five or six hundred miles in a day. I wonder how your mother likes it. She always used to be exhausted when we drove from New York to Boston. But then, of course I never went in for Bentleys.”

  “Gosh,” Hal said, “you have a funny way of putting things. Hearing you is almost as good as a show.”

  He had to be as good as a show. Hal’s laughter all at once had the gratifying sound of an appreciative audience.

  “What’s so funny now?” Tom asked.

  “About my mother,” Hal said. “She says she doesn’t care how many miles she drives as long as it’s a Bentley and as long as Presley’s driving.”

  It was better instead of answering to keep a straight face or to be only silently amused. That last remark of Hal’s was not a bad description of everything that Rhoda had wanted, and now Rhoda had it. There was Presley and there was the Bentley with a real wooden inlaid instrument panel. It was hard to think of a better picture of solidity in a changing world.