Now, Voyager

by Higgins Prouty, Olive

  It was the second time he had referred to her perfumery. She must be reeking with it! At home when one of her tormentors, June or Nichols or any of the older nephews and nieces, made fun of some obvious defect (“razzing Aunt Charlotte,” they called it), she was always in mortal terror that one of those humiliating floods of blood would rise up from her depths and dye her face a deep red. Sarcasm had proved the most effective defense against it, so now she resorted to it.

  “I suppose that is meant to be funny,” she said, conveying by tone and posture all the contempt of which she was capable.

  The merriment fled from his eyes as quickly as if she had clapped her hands and frightened away a bird that had perched upon her window sill. He didn’t reply immediately. There was a tall glass, half-full of beer, on the table in front of him. He drew it toward him, gazing down into it, turning it slowly round as he spoke.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I did intend it as humor. Evidently it struck you as extremely fresh. I’m sorry.”

  Instantly Charlotte regretted her derision. Oh, she always alienated people. She couldn’t keep the goodwill of even a stranger for longer than one day. She longed to burst out, Forgive me, please. I didn’t mean that, but the words stuck. She was a New Englander and a Vale. She had been taught to conduct herself so that it would never be necessary to say, Forgive me (except occasionally to God in the self-respecting privacy of silent prayer). So now she said nothing. There was a tall glass in front of her, identical to her companion’s, except the foam was nearer the top. Charlotte hadn’t liked her first glass of beer. But she now raised it and took several long swallows of the bitter stuff.

  “My wife calls my lighter moods trying to be funny,” Durrance went on. “She, also, finds them extremely trying at times. So I can’t blame you for feeling the same way.” It was the first time he had referred to his wife.

  Charlotte wanted to reply, Your wife sounds as disagreeable as myself, but instead she changed the subject. “Do you live right in New York?” His reference to his wife implied he was living somewhere in orthodox fashion.

  “No. In one of the suburbs.”

  “Which one?” she pursued, to keep the ball of conversation rolling until she could leave him without adding insult to injury, go to her room, and endure alone the familiar pangs of failure and regret.

  “Mount Vernon.”

  “I know someone who used to live in Mount Vernon,” eagerly Charlotte informed him. “A girl I knew at boarding school. But her family has moved further out now, to some place in Connecticut.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Why naturally?”

  “Most people’s destination is ‘farther out, to some place in Connecticut,’ if they once start in that direction. That is, if they’ve got the gas to get there.”

  His voice had a mocking intonation. It might easily have been herself speaking, when someone had inadvertently touched a sensitive spot. She leaned across the table. “I didn’t mean what you thought I did, a moment ago. I didn’t think you were fresh. I like your lighter moods.” She stopped abruptly. She had never so completely thrown herself on another person’s mercy.

  Looking up from the glass which he was still turning, he replied, “You mean you forgive me for acting like such a bull in a china closet? Making things difficult for you on a cruise? And then trying to be funny?”

  “You haven’t acted like a bull-in-a-china-closet. You haven’t made things difficult! The fact of the matter is I don’t know how to take a joke. I was as aware I’d put on far too much of that strong perfume, and was too poor a sport to take a little razzing about it.”

  “You didn’t put on too much for my taste. I think it was awfully nice of you to put on any. How do you think we got along at bridge?” he broke off amiably. “Was I pretty bad?”

  “Bad! You were wonderful!”

  “Isobel—my wife, doesn’t think I ought to impose my game on anybody but children.”

  “Is she awfully good?”

  “Oh, no. Isobel doesn’t play at all. You know I let you down that time that woman told me I ought to have taken you out of your opening bid of two spades.”

  “It was none of her business! You weren’t her partner!”

  “It was mighty nice of you to stick up for me, and tell her you didn’t expect me to take you out.”

  “It was the truth. I didn’t expect you to.”

  And she hadn’t. They had already played several hands, and he ignored all conventions with the imperturbability of one so at ease at a dinner table that it didn’t embarrass him if he chanced to use the wrong fork. He had what is called instinctive card sense. Also instinctive card manners—playing quickly, quietly, and with no comments. She told him so.

  “Well, I certainly wish Isobel could hear you!”

  “And I wish Doctor Jaquith could hear me! I am not given to making pretty speeches. I wish he could see me too.”

  “Oh! Doctor Jaquith is the nice rich old gentleman, isn’t he? When are you going to tell me the rest of that story about Sara Crewe?”

  “Well, not tonight. But Doctor Jaquith is not the nice rich old gentleman!”

  A waiter approached with a slip of paper. Durrance signed it and gave him a fee. Then, “Where do you live in Boston?” he inquired. “It’s all right for me to ask, I hope, seeing you asked me a similar question.”

  “You’re awfully afraid I’ll snap at you again, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not! Not a bit! Tell me where you live. On the Hill? In the Back Bay? On the Avenue? On the Esplanade? Or are you a suburbanite like me?”

  “I live in the Back Bay. On Marlborough Street. I see you know Boston.”

  “Well, better than Gibraltar,” he acknowledged. “I ought to. I’m a New Englander. Vermont is my native state.”

  “Are all Vermonters so familiar with Boston?”

  “Oh, I’m not really familiar with it. I know Boston only from the Cambridge side.”

  “I see. Harvard, I suppose.”

  “Wrong. Sorry. M.I.T. But only for one year.” Then abruptly, “I’ve got an idea!” he announced. “What would you think of letting the Ricketts tie up with someone else tomorrow, and you and I hiring a car of our own, meeting our cruise-mates at Söller for lunch, of course,” he hastened to assure her, “but taking our own time about getting there.”

  “The Ricketts didn’t look so very promising, but I was told to be nice to everybody on this cruise who was a human being, so—”

  “Well, concentrate on being nice to this human being tomorrow.”

  “Do you dare run the risk? There’s no telling how long I can keep up being nice. I have a reputation at home for a sharp tongue. You’ve had one example of it.”

  “I’ll take the bitter with the sweet.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Look at the time!” she exclaimed, and stretched out her left hand toward him. He took hold of her wrist as impersonally as if it were made of wood, and drew the watch nearer his eyes.

  “Only twelve thirty! That isn’t so bad. Let’s look in at the dancers on our way down.”

  There were only three or four couples in the small cleared space in the center of the Grand Salon when they arrived. The orchestra was playing a vague droning wail in a minor key, accompanied by a monotonous tomtom. They sat down on a sofa just inside the door. The music paused, seemed to take a long breath, and then broke out in a different mood—as refreshing as an east wind at home, thought Charlotte, at the end of a hot spell. The opening measures of a familiar waltz fell upon their ears.

  “The ‘Vienna Woods,’” Durrance murmured, his face lightening with pleasure. By the time the music had expanded to the full beauty of its theme, the dancing space was crowded with couples swinging and swirling. “Shall we try it?”

  “I don’t dance,” said Charlotte. He caught the bitterness in her tone.

  “I’m glad of it. It lets me out. I don’t dance either, according to my daughters. Let’s take a walk on the deck
instead.”

  Charlotte had one of those uncanny sensations that this had all happened before. The next instant Leslie Trotter flashed before her vision. It had happened before!

  “No, thanks. I think I won’t,” she said, her eyes on the dancers.

  “Oh, there’s Thompson!” exclaimed Durrance. “Guess I’d better speak to him now about our car tomorrow. Back in a minute.” He disappeared.

  Charlotte continued to keep her eyes on the dancers.

  She and her mother had been taking a cruise to Norway and Sweden that summer. Her mother had been confined to her stateroom with a cold the night she met Leslie. Leslie was a young officer on the boat. The young officers were allowed to dance with the young lady passengers, so as to increase the popularity of cruise travel, her mother said. Her mother highly disapproved of it. Charlotte had been sitting on a sofa, just inside the door of the ballroom in the same location as now, watching the dancing. Alone as now. The sofa was so far away from the dancers that she was in no way a candidate for a partner. When she saw the tall handsome young officer coming straight toward her, she looked away. Experience had taught her that approaching young men were never headed for her, so when the young officer stopped and asked her formally if he could have the pleasure of this dance, she was wholly unprepared. “I don’t dance,” she had said brusquely.

  As a débutante two years before, she had not proved successful on the ballroom floor, and had given up struggling with the art. The young officer had suggested that they take a walk on the deck instead, exactly as had this stranger tonight—this man with an odd surname which she’d never heard before—Durrance, J. D. Durrance. She didn’t even know what J. D. stood for. Leslie, too, had been a stranger, with an odd surname which she’d never heard before. Why, it was just as if life were repeating an old pattern. She must see to it it didn’t repeat the whole pattern!

  Leslie had taken her up to the top deck that first night, in search of a breeze, he said. It was a hot night, too hot for dancing. They had sat down in the black shadow of a ventilator. After about 20 minutes, he had casually slipped his arm around her waist. She hadn’t objected. She hadn’t wanted the young officer to think that she was afraid of a man’s arm around her waist, even if she didn’t dance. She had suggested that he return to the ballroom and find another partner, but he had said he preferred her company and wasn’t going to dance again that evening.

  It wasn’t often Charlotte could be absent long from her mother without being questioned, or, worse, followed and found. She and Leslie had sat there in the dark for over an hour. He had kissed her finally. Her response had been quite different from what he had expected. Charlotte hadn’t been sure what he expected. In the novels she’d read, men didn’t like prudes. She wasn’t a young girl any more. She had been out two years. Then Leslie had kissed her again. And still again. The third time Charlotte had felt the response which the first time she had only pretended. By the end of the fourth day she was deeply in love with Leslie Trotter.

  “THOMPSON SAYS IT’S ALL RIGHT. He’ll fix it with the Ricketts.” Durrance’s bright voice exclaimed triumphantly as he sat down on the sofa beside her. “He says we ought to get off by nine thirty, so if that’s not too early for you—”

  “O-oh!” It was Miss Demarest’s squeal. “I’ve found you again! Why aren’t you dancing, Mr. Durrance? Last night I saw you waltzing simply divinely. And, Miss Beauchamp, why aren’t you dancing too? Come on and join us.”

  “Not tonight,” said Durrance, rising. “We’ve decided to call it a day. And by the way about the Ricketts tomorrow. We think that—”

  Charlotte glanced toward the door. This was her chance to escape. His back was toward her, the door was close at hand. She had only to step across the threshold.

  “O-oh!” another squeal. “Here come the Millers. Such a charming couple. I promised to introduce them to you. Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Mr. Durrance and—why, where’s Miss Beauchamp?”

  She was halfway down the first flight of stairs. Her room was two decks below. It wasn’t until she had reached the hall outside the corridor that led to her room that she heard Durrance’s hurrying footsteps behind her. “Wait a minute,” he called.

  She stopped then and turned around, facing him as he approached. “What is it?” she asked, as if at a loss to know why he had followed her.

  “What is it!” he repeated in a tone that reproached, condemned, and sentenced all at once. “What is it! You run off like that without even saying goodnight, and leave me stranded with Miss Demarest—Miss Damn Pest, I call the woman, and then ask me, What is it? Look here. What do you mean by playing a trick like that on me?”

  “Well, I thought—I heard her say you were dancing divinely last night, and I thought if I just quietly disappeared that you’d be free to dance tonight, so—”

  “I don’t want to dance. I told you so.”

  “Well, it was getting awfully late. It’s long after my bedtime.”

  “Is it? Have I tired you all out? Please forgive me if I have.” (Forgive me caused this New Englander no effort. Nor I forgive, either, as his next words proved. Even her unceremonious departure was already wiped off the slate.) “I’ve had a wonderful day, and all due to you,” he went on; “you’ve been very kind to a boring first tripper.”

  Such goodwill, so spontaneously and so unstintingly offered to her, was a new experience to Charlotte. The contagion of goodwill was also a new experience to her.

  “You haven’t been boring,” she heard herself replying. “You see, I’m a sort of first tripper myself in some ways. The fact is—I mean—” She stopped, horribly aware of her inadequacy. “I’ve had a wonderful day, too,” she finished lamely.

  He didn’t seem to be aware of her confusion. “Have you? Really?” he exclaimed eagerly. “Thanks for saying so. Let’s have another wonderful day tomorrow. Remember, nine thirty. Goodnight.” He put out his hand. She put hers in it. He gave it a firm quick shake. Then, still holding it, “Goodnight, Camille,” he said, his eyes twinkling, his head cocked on one side. The bird had returned to her window sill again, trusting and unafraid.

  A rush of gratitude welled up in Charlotte, and with it courage and self-confidence. If she only knew his first name she’d show him she was not beyond response to such friendliness.

  “Goodnight—” She paused. Well, his initials were less formal than his surname. “Goodnight—J.D.,” she added, then pulled her hand free, turned, and hurried down the corridor.

  5

  WHAT OUR MEMORIES ARE

  Durrance stood staring after Charlotte for at least a half a minute, his face lit up with an expression of surprise and pleasure. He used to be called “J.D.” in college. At least by his most intimate friends. It was seldom that he saw any of his old college crowd, except at reunions. He didn’t go to reunions often now, but when he did, being called “J.D.” warmed his heart more than all the hearty exclamations and vigorous handclasps put together.

  In college he had had a knack for dialect—Scotch and Irish, chiefly. At reunions the old crowd were constantly calling for his Harry Lauder stunt, or for his “Mack and Mike.” When Buck, who was now a famous surgeon, or Josh, who had become a potentate in the banking world, or Dutch, who had gone to the top as a lawyer, or any of the other top notchers, put their heads together and sang out in rhythmic unison, over and over again, “We want J.D., we want J.D.,” it never failed to leave the barriers between himself and those who had made outstanding successes. It seemed, too, to obliterate the years since they all had been starting at scratch.

  As he descended the several flights of stairs to his inside stateroom on Deck E, the glow of pleasure still lingered on his face. He felt twenty-five years younger! But he didn’t look it! Once inside the room he gazed at himself critically in the mirror. Then, with a grimace, “Hell,” he murmured and turned away.

  He shared his inside stateroom with a married man whose wife and two daughters occupied a room on a deck above. The married man, w
hose name was Littlejohn, had explained that his family split up this way because he was a heavy breather and kept his wife awake. Mr. Littlejohn was already in bed, and already heavily breathing. The breathing did not disturb Durrance if the air-conditioner was emitting its roaring blast. Mr. Littlejohn found the roaring of the air-conditioner so annoying that he couldn’t get to sleep unless it was closed. However, Durrance had discovered that after Mr. Littlejohn began to roar himself he didn’t object to it. So now he turned it on, and quickly proceeded to undress.

  After clamping his trousers, nicely folded, upside down in the top of the small cupboard door, and stretching his coat on one of the six hangers (from which he had to remove Mr. Littlejohn’s overcoat, as he had appropriated more hangers than his share), he slipped into blue chambray pajamas and climbed nimbly into his upper bunk.

  No sooner had he arranged himself for sleep in its narrow confines than it occurred to him that he hadn’t finished his letter to Isobel. From a rack on the wall he produced a pad and pencil. The first sheet of the pad was covered with his fine writing. He had started a letter to Isobel mid-ocean.

  He always found it difficult to write Isobel. He must never say anything to make her feel he was enjoying himself. For she would wonder how it was possible, while she was at home enacting the role of a drudge. If he could succeed in giving the impression that he was bored and anxious for the disagreeable ordeal to be terminated, his letter would be a success. Propped against his two pillows he re-read what he had written:

  Dear Isobel:

  So far the trip has been extremely disagreeable. Rain and fog all the time and no interesting people.

  I was sorry to leave you with one of your sick headaches coming on. I know you need a change more than I, and realize how much travel means to you. But remember if I can pull off this deal in Milan you and Beatrice and Muriel are just so much nearer your “so-you’re-going-to-Southern-Italy” trip. You’ve done fairly well in checking off your list most of the other “so-you’re-going-to” countries over here.