Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  “All right,” Sylvia said, “I don’t mind suggestions, if they’re sensible, darling.”

  After all, it was nice to be home, even if everything was in disorder.

  “You’ll be crazy about this one, honey,” Willis said, “and it’s very simple too. Before we do anything more about supper you take off that apron, go and get the cocktail things and I’ll get some ice and we’ll have a quiet Martini just to celebrate.”

  “To celebrate what?” Sylvia asked.

  “Why, my being vice president of Harcourt Associates, darling,” Willis said, “and several other things. Just take off that apron.”

  “I don’t know whether it would be very good for Paul,” Sylvia said.

  “Just exactly what has Paul got to do with it?” Willis asked.

  “I wish I didn’t have to underline everything,” Sylvia said. “I told you I was giving Paul his supper at seven o’clock, and I don’t know whether a Martini would be good for him.”

  Willis had to laugh in spite of himself.

  “Listen, honey,” he said, “have you asked Castlebar whether Paul will get soused because you take a Martini? I’d really like to know, honey.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking Dr. Castlebar,” Sylvia said.

  Willis could not help laughing again.

  “But, honey,” he told her, “we’ve asked Dr. Castlebar a whole lot more embarrassing questions.”

  “Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “I suppose I’m silly, but it doesn’t seem decent to take a Martini and then go up to little Paul with liquor on my breath.”

  It was funny, but it was advisable to be serious.

  “Now, honey,” Willis said, and he took her firmly by the shoulders and pushed her playfully out of the kitchen. “Let’s compromise on half a Martini. I certainly don’t want to get Paul into trouble any more than you, only let’s see if we can’t forget him for about ten minutes. I’ve really got something to tell you. You get the shaker and the glasses, and powder your nose while I do the rest.”

  “What’s the matter with my nose?” Sylvia asked.

  “Your nose is very cute, honey,” Willis told her. “I just said that as a joke.”

  It was always sad when one person was in a happy mood and another could not get the contagion. Sylvia had simply not realized, as he had, that a maid-of-all-work was not important any longer, or that they could keep Miss Farquahr permanently, if they wanted her.

  If Willis did say so himself, he had been learning lately to mix a rather good Martini. He had learned long ago from old Mr. Harcourt that it was not how much one drank but how a beverage was prepared that gave lasting satisfaction, and now he further realized that if you were fussy about a Martini cocktail, you were apt to be remembered—and with respect if you turned out a good product.

  Making a Martini that afternoon was a capstone to his day. It was a pleasure to get everything in order, the shaker and the glass stirrer, the bowl of ice—they could easily, now that he came to think of it, afford an ice thermos now—the lemon peel and the sharp little vegetable knife, because he was not of the school of thought that believed in having a lemon peeled out in the kitchen. He was of the school of thought that did not believe in measuring either, except by eye and ear. The results were excellent this afternoon—two glugs from the gin bottle and only enough dry vermouth to make a faint discoloration.

  “You act exactly like an old maid making tea,” Sylvia said. “You didn’t use to fuss about a cocktail.”

  He had not intended to be conspicuous. He had simply arranged everything thoughtfully beforehand, and not fussily like an old maid either. Actually he had made the Martini very quickly, and it was excellently blended.

  “I don’t care how long it takes you to make Martinis usually, dear,” Sylvia said, “but right now we’ve got to get supper—and then there’s Paul.”

  “Now just relax a minute please, Sylvia,” Willis said. “I haven’t told you anything about what happened up in Boston, or anything else.”

  “I know you haven’t,” Sylvia said, “and I’m dying to hear.”

  “Well, in the first place, honey,” Willis said, “let’s you and I be frank, shall we? I wouldn’t talk this way to anybody else, because it might sound boastful. The first thing is that it’s all sewed up. As of yesterday noon, you became the wife of Mr. Willis Wayde, executive vice president of a very streamlined and aggressive concern known as Harcourt Associates, who now has a salary of twenty-five thousand a year, and any time Mrs. Willis Wayde wants she can get new drapes for the living room.”

  The moment he used it, he remembered that Sylvia disliked the word drapes.

  “Darling,” Sylvia said—her voice rose, but he felt that there was something restrained about her enthusiasm—“I’m glad, but then you’ve been talking about twenty-five thousand a year for weeks.”

  “Well, it’s in the bag now, honey,” Willis said. “And that isn’t all, honey. As a special inducement to retain my services they loosened up and let me have fifteen per cent of the stock. They were really rather fine about it. I was willing to settle for ten, but there it is, fifteen.”

  “Why, Willis,” Sylvia said, “I think that’s perfectly wonderful.”

  He did not know why he should have been annoyed, because it was exactly what Sylvia should have said.

  “It’s going to be a lot more wonderful,” Willis said, “when that common stock begins paying dividends. You wait. It won’t be long, honey.”

  Now that Willis had finished his Martini he knew it was not going to be long at all before they began retiring some loans and paring down on the preferred.

  “You remember that speech I was working on, honey?” Willis said.

  “Oh, yes,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure it went wonderfully.”

  There was no reason, under the circumstances, why he should not have another Martini. Willis smiled at her and lifted up the gin bottle, listening for the requisite two glugs.

  “I wish you’d been there,” Willis said. “That speech really got them, honey. I never knew that I could be so good.”

  “I knew you’d be,” Sylvia said, “because you’re good at everything, dear, but now perhaps if you’ll take your cocktail into the kitchen, we might start getting things organized. I don’t want Miss Farquahr to be cross and hungry.”

  “Now, just a minute, Sylvia,” Willis said. “Let me make my point. They were all behind me when I made that speech. It had just the right amount of sentiment, now I come to think of it, and just the right amount of humor, not that I mean I’m a funny boy, exactly.”

  “You’re pretty funny sometimes,” Sylvia said. “Please finish your Martini, Willis.”

  “I don’t know whether you remember that part where I defined an idea, honey,” Willis said. “It went this way, just in case you’ve forgotten. ‘There is one thing of which I am sure, and that is that no idea is original per se. It is nothing but a minted coin with an imprint similar to that of a million other coins, but it is never a counterfeit.…’”

  It sounded exactly as well as it had up in Boston, and he was sure now that he had written that part himself.

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “don’t you think you could tell me the rest of it in the kitchen while I start supper? Would you like an omelet?”

  “Why, certainly,” Willis said, “I should enjoy an omelet very much, and pardon me for inflicting my speech on you. I only had the idea you’d be interested. Shouldn’t married people share each other’s interests?”

  “Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “please don’t be huffy.”

  “I’m not huffy, honey,” Willis said. “I merely said I should be very interested in having an omelet for supper.”

  “Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “I’m awfully sorry, but I just can’t seem to keep my mind on your speech, what with one thing and another.”

  Of course he realized that she had been working hard all day and was tired. He could see it clearly—the drudgery of the little house, the babies,
and then that scene with Margaret. He felt a deep tenderness and sympathy for Sylvia.

  “Now, honey,” he said, “forget the old speech. In just a second flat we’ll go out in the kitchen, where you can watch me make that omelet—but there’s something else I haven’t told you, honey, that’s just so wonderful that I think maybe I’ll have one more tiny bit of Martini, and won’t you join me so we can drink together to it, honey?”

  “But, Willis,” Sylvia said, “so many wonderful things have happened already that I don’t see how any more can.”

  It was something to laugh about, the way Sylvia put it. He lifted up the gin bottle and listened. One glug was enough, because it was a good idea never to carry anything too far.

  “I guess you’re right,” he said. “It certainly looks as though we’ve hit the jackpot today. Now give me your attention, honey. Are you listening, sweetness? I think we’ve got a real chance to accumulate some property, and somebody else can make your omelets in the future, Mrs. Wayde, and it isn’t going to be Mr. Wayde either.”

  It should have been a moment that made life worth living. The only real purpose in working and striving was to be able to say at home that you were really getting somewhere. This was like the redemption of a vow, and also it was a rededication. It was more blessed to give than receive, as the Bible said. It was a wonderful thing to be able to tell Sylvia that all sorts of little hardships were about to become matters of the past. It was no wonder that he could hardly blame himself for being depressed by her vagueness.

  “Well, it certainly will be nice to be rich,” she said, “and I’m dying to hear all about it, dear, but right now it’s a quarter past six.”

  Willis felt a touch of honest indignation.

  “And suppose it is six-fifteen?” he asked. “What of it, honey?”

  “Willis, dear,” Sylvia said. “There is supper for Miss Farquahr, and then there’s Paul. Can’t the rest of it wait till later, when we have more time?”

  Willis paused before he answered, because he wanted to be absolutely fair.

  “All right, honey,” he said, “let’s skip the whole thing, and we’ll go into the kitchen and make that omelet. I guess you’re right—the rest of it can wait.”

  “Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said, “you’re not angry? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  The last thing he wanted was to have Sylvia think that she had hurt his feelings, and consequently he laughed in what he hoped was a light, friendly manner.

  “Of course I’m not mad,” he said.

  “Then don’t try to look like Ronald Colman,” Sylvia said.

  “Honey,” he said, and he tried to measure his thoughts and words, “I can’t help feeling offended when you think an omelet is more important than our acquiring a new block of common stock in Harcourt Associates.”

  “I said the omelet was more immediate—not more important,” Sylvia answered.

  There was a sharper note in Sylvia’s voice. Willis stood up straighter by the empty fireplace and looked at his half-empty Martini glass. The high spirits and elation with which he had faced the future were diminishing, like the Martini.

  “Skip it,” he said. “I just came to tell you what I thought you would think was good news, but let’s skip it.”

  “No,” Sylvia said, “of course I won’t skip it, Willis. I didn’t know we were going to have such an important conference, but now you can sit right down and tell me about this common stock, as long as it makes so much difference.”

  Sylvia rose from the sofa as she spoke, and neither of them had the slightest inclination to sit down again.

  “There’s no use talking to you about plans, when you take this attitude,” Willis said, and he spoke very carefully. “I’d prefer to delay our conversation until you are in a happier mood.”

  “There isn’t anything wrong with my mood,” Sylvia said, “except I don’t care to have you address me as if you were speaking to the Rotary Club.”

  Willis drew a deep breath. Strangely, a number of small things had become large. It was Sylvia’s remark about the Rotary Club, of course, which had achieved this unhappy result. It was a fine organization, in spite of the jokes that people like Sylvia made about it. He finished his Martini and placed the glass on the mantelpiece beside him, where it balanced for a moment before it fell to the hearth.

  “Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said.

  “Don’t say it,” Willis said. “I know I’m clumsy, because I did not come from a professor’s family in Cambridge. I’m a crude fellow who tries to get a little culture by reading Dr. Eliot’s—excuse me, Sylvia, President Eliot’s—Five-Foot Shelf of Books. Wait, don’t interrupt me, honey.”

  “Then don’t call me honey,” Sylvia said, in a strained voice. “I can’t stand it.”

  “All right,” Willis said, “I won’t, Sylvia. Please let me make my point. I’ve called you honey because I’ve loved you. I didn’t know you couldn’t stand it. Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you that there are some things I can’t stand either. I can’t stand—” he had to raise his voice to drown out Sylvia’s—“I can’t stand being laughed at because I can’t quote Keats and Shelley. Maybe you didn’t marry me for that. I know why you married me—and don’t interrupt me, please.”

  “I married you because I thought you had a little common sense,” Sylvia said.

  “Oh no,” Willis said, “that wasn’t why you married me. You’re not as dumb as that, Sylvia.”

  “Won’t you please keep your voice down?” Sylvia said. “Miss Farquahr can hear every word you’re saying.”

  “Miss Farquahr is at perfect liberty to hear every word,” Willis said. “You married me because you wanted dresses and a comfortable home and because you like new cars and the country club and Chanel 5 and Paris underclothes, and don’t you tell me any different. I’ve been aware of that from the beginning, Sylvia, and I haven’t demanded very much personally, except for a little peace and quiet in the home, which I have never got. There is, however, just one thing that I think I have a right to ask.”

  He paused. He was amazed and appalled that he should have said so much, because he had never before dreamed of having such a scene with Sylvia.

  “Don’t interrupt me, Sylvia,” he said, “please. I want to make my point. I think I have a right to ask, when I come home tired, after working my fingers to the bone for you and your two children, that you might at least listen to me politely when I am trying to explain to you how I am trying to make the money that you married me for. Does that or does it not seem reasonable?”

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “you’re being ill-bred and insulting. All you ever think about is money, but that doesn’t mean I do, too.”

  “You have not answered my question,” Willis said. “Does the point I am trying to make, or does it not, sound reasonable?”

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “please don’t shout at me. I’m not used to it.”

  Willis found himself answering with elaborate gentleness.

  “My dear Sylvia,” he said, “I had not the slightest intention of raising my voice, but now that I have made my point I will not bother you any longer. I will go to the country club and have a quiet dinner, and when I return I should like to spend the night in the spare room.”

  “Miss Farquahr’s in the spare room,” Sylvia said.

  Willis ignored the fact, and it was not a time to take up Miss Farquahr.

  “I presume you have no use for the car this evening, Sylvia,” Willis said.

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “do you think you’re in any condition to drive a car?”

  It was a question which did not require an answer. Willis turned on his heel and walked into the front hall.

  “Willis,” he heard Sylvia call.

  Willis picked up his hat and topcoat and slammed the front door behind him. He had never said so much before to anyone in anger. That question of Sylvia’s about his being able to drive a car was ridiculous. After his apprenticeship at entertaining Beakne
y-Graham customers, he could drink six Martinis, if necessary, without showing it.

  Yet there was always a reaction to everything, and reaction came as soon as he reached the country club. There was no one in the bar. He was entirely alone except for Joseph, the steward, who sat behind the cigar counter.

  “Everyone’s off tonight, Mr. Wayde, sir,” Joseph said, “but I can fix you a lamb chop and some French fries.”

  “I’m sorry I came so suddenly, Joseph,” Willis told him. “A lamb chop and some French fries would be excellent, and I wonder if I might have a dry Martini? If you’re too busy, I should be glad to mix it personally.”

  He was certain he had been right in everything he had said to Sylvia, and on the whole he was glad that he had stated his position, but, in spite of his conviction of having been absolutely right, Willis had a sense of remorse as he absently stirred his third cocktail.

  Perhaps he had been too hard on Sylvia, although he had been absolutely right. While he had been away making his speech at the Boston dinner and negotiating with Gil Bakeliss what had Sylvia been doing? She had been performing what to him were horrors of household drudgery, wiping purée of beets and spinach from the chin of little Al, ordering the meals, answering the telephone. He should have had a more sympathetic understanding.

  “Your chop is ready, sir,” Joseph said. “I can serve it right here, if you’d prefer it, sir.”

  “Thank you, Joseph,” Willis said. “If it is not too much trouble, I should appreciate it very much.”

  The truth was that he must do something for Sylvia. She and the children needed a home that would afford a truly permanent background, and in that home they could gradually make a good collection of antiques. There would be a note of happiness and order, a nurse for Al and Paul, and a good couple—a cook and a houseman—and a two-car garage with a chauffeur’s quarters over it.

  Willis did not want to stay at the club too long, because that might have given Sylvia the impression that he was seriously angry, but he was sure that Sylvia would be in bed and asleep by the time he did return. Instead, to his surprise, she was sitting in the living room knitting on a sweater for little Paul.