Bill was like an old friend. He was a great relief. We began to go out a bit, and I was so calmed down by my misfortunes with De Groot and the Philip tragedy that I behaved better than usual.
All one summer night in 1945 we walked the streets, talking about our lives and what a mess we had made of them, and how we could do better. We didn’t think of our parents. Our lives stretched behind us, for aeons, without parents or anything, just the extraordinary tangle we had invented for ourselves. It was one of those nights when everyone is out.
The brats were walking the streets on the East Side and in Chelsea till four in the morning. People were making love in corners of loft buildings, or on the steps of churches, anywhere where it was dark, and a bit cool, and I knew there would be thousands sleeping on the beaches.
It was pretty cool and we thought of going back to my place; and then Bill said, his parents were out of town and we’d go to his. I’d never been to the Van Week mansion in the skies. But just as we came to the door, I said, “Let’s not go up, Bill, let’s go somewhere and get a drink, or sit by the lake, and see the dawn rise, or let’s go to Staten Island, or get a taxi and just rove a bit; I just don’t feel like going up to any more apartments, no matter how gilt-edged, with any more men, no matter how nice; I’m tired, or something. You know me, I’m frank. I’m Letty-say-it-with-nuts. Don’t tell me I’m like Cornelis de Groot. I am, like the King of Siam. I want to get married. I’m off the town.”
Bill put his arm round me and said he felt pretty much like that, too. We walked about a bit more; morning came; we had breakfast and people started to go to work. I said I couldn’t go. Bill said he had a job as counterman, since he quarreled with Edwige and his parents, but he’d give it up, too.
We walked for a bit, the sun got good and hot; we sat in the park, and then we went to my place to get washed up. When we had had baths, we came out again and went into Stuyvesant Park.
There were children from the East Side playing in the sand pit, and mothers with their baby carriages, children round the statue of Stuyvesant the Peg-leg, and a woman, with a big tummy, waiting for her big pains, near the hospital. There were old men and old women. Everyone seemed rested. We came back to the children.
“Why shouldn’t you have one like that one of these days,” said Bill, pointing out one that appealed to him.
“You can’t pick ’em; it’s a grab-bag,” said I.
“Well, take us, for example; we’re not so bad. You’re good-looking and I’m a moneymaker.”
“Anyhow, I’m not going to make that old crack from Bernard Shaw.”
He said, “I’m serious, Letty, it’s time to settle down. We’ve been through hell together, as they say in the Grade B war movies, even if it wasn’t hell in the same spot. I’m fed up.”
“Well,” I said, much surprised, “if I thought for a minute that you were serious, and you meant me, I’d certainly take your name and address and let you know if anything turned up.”
“Don’t be so wise.”
I blushed, “Well, I hate to make a fool of myself. I’ve been taken for a ride so often—” and I went on, blushing, thinking to myself, “I’ll never meet a man who’ll make me an honest proposal in plain terms.”
“Sure! Let’s get the damn papers, and get looked over and all that, and we’ll go down to City Hall and you can have champagne cocktails at that place opposite.”
“Well,” I said, “excuse me taking a seat, Bill, I’m overcome. I won’t fool you. This is the first honest-to-god proposal I’ve ever had, whatever I may say when I’m an old married woman about the youths formerly clustering round my pearly feet. Well, sure, Bill. I’m willing.”
He threw his arms round me, and raised me off my feet, kissed me in his resounding way, and said to everyone near us, “We’re going to get married.”
“This calls for a celebration.”
“We’ll have a real little drink, to prove we’re serious about married life.”
“Good Gosh!” I kept saying, as I walked along the street. “I can’t believe it. I’m going to get married. Bill, let’s do it before we tell. How long does it take? I’ve cried Wolf so often, I mean that, literally, I’m ashamed to turn up once more before the ring is on. But who’ll we get to witness us?”
I went home alone and spent the next few days in a cloud. I was obliged to go to my father and say: This time I had to have a reckoning, and to my sad astonishment found I had only nine hundred dollars left of all my grandmother’s money.
My father couldn’t get over the fact that I was actually marrying a multi-millionaire, but I had known Bill so long and was so sure there’d be a slip between the cup and the lip that I didn’t dare think of that aspect of it.
My father was enthusiastically anxious to meet what he called his new “co-paternals,” but gave up this idea with humorous grace when I explained that Bill was usually at loggerheads with his family, for one thing; that they still expected him to marry Edwige Lantar (now divorced), for another; and last, that he was a skeptic and they were strong for divine service; that they believed God had given them their millions because they were so devout. They were near the head of the procession on Easter Sunday in Fifth Avenue, and they sincerely thought it a religious duty to have their pictures in the paper on that occasion. “The only place you could meet them, Papa,” said I, “is in the comic strip, and then—” and I could not help saying good-naturedly, “even in the comic strip they only read Mr. and Mrs., if you get what I mean.”
Persia raised her eyebrows and said idly, “Well, I hope you won’t cut your father and me, when you’re an honest woman.”
I blushed, “I admit I don’t care whether I am or not; I think Bill and I will go to it anyway; but it would be better if—”
I told them Bill was even then with his papa and mamma, going into things thoroughly with them; he expected the worst. Persia said, “I knew you must have been stood up when you telephoned to say you could come.”
“Shut up!”
We laughed; it was good for me to be treated so unceremoniously, and I noticed it each time as I felt the stiffening beginning to dampen; for I was obliged to have some self-respect, except at my father’s, or I could not have kept going; and really, what did I do that was wrong? I lived the best way I could; I could not see how to manage any other way. Nevertheless, I thought it best to say, “You know, the reformed rake—I’m going to be a decent woman, I must tell you, so that we may avoid the grisly reference, and you ought to burn your card-catalogue on my past, I mean, in your memories which appear to be unnecessarily good; of course, Bill knows all, or about all, but sensible couples, as far as I have heard, clean up after each other’s crimes; and that’s what we’ll do, Bill and I.”
I saw my father and Persia took this very well, and Persia came and shook my hand. “I’ll be a sister to you,” said she, “hypocrite, ma sæur, mon semblable: does that satisfy you?”
“I’m a new woman! That isn’t even supposed to be funny.”
At that moment Bill telephoned and told me that he had blown up his family, told them exactly what he thought of them, and that they had reciprocated. His father was particularly peeved and said he would cut him off without a dollar. All the fireworks were for that little what-have-you, Edwige, whom his poor innocent parents found captivating. They had settled it between them that Edwige was to reform him, teach him how to make a profit, and that he would become a deacon and hand round the plate on Sundays to begin with. This Age of Innocence was rudely broken into by Bill, going up there fortified by several Martinis, to tell them that I was his prairie flower. I could tell by his curiously extravagant and witty style that it had been a serious blow-up and that my papa’s picture of holding Mr. Van Week’s hand, was a pipe dream. I rushed out of the house and met Bill in our bar at the corner of Gramercy Park, a subdued gentlemanly place with Venetian blinds, and we talked it over. He said, “The old man was not ashamed to trot out the old one about cutting me off; he might d
o it at that; a life in business breeds the unfortunate habit of rapid decision. They learn it in the Pelman course or perhaps just in business. I never did like business for that: human relations are not a matter of rapid decision. However, to streamline my conversation, Toots, we are out in the cold, cold world with the wolf howling at the door.”
“I’ve been through this before, Bill,” said I; “but frankly I do want to settle down. Do you mean I must work and keep you and do my own housework? I’ve cleaned up so often after my casual boy friends, who believe cigarette ash is good for the rug, that I don’t want to do it for you and harbor the sentiments I do harbor against them.”
“I hope you have sent a circular to those boy friends, by the way,” said Bill, solemnly, “for I have done the right thing by you, Letty. I went to a printer’s today to get the announcements printed—I had gold print, I suppose it’s bad taste, but what fun—and I will make three long-distance calls five minutes after we are married.”
“Fear not,” I dropped the tone of banter and kissed him. “Bill, it’s all over, I didn’t like it; but I had to; I told you before. I was looking for a husband; honestly I was. I was going to marry ever so many boys, just because I wanted to do the right thing. Now I’ve got a husband, touch wood, why should I break the Seventh Commandment? I have no leftovers from corn-syrup days; I like men but I’m done with them. It was fun while it lasted. I’m going into this in a businesslike way—oh, do I have to be so emphatic? I’m serious.”
“I know; I was kidding. We’re made for each other.”
“I know. This is it.”
“How do you like that what-is-it Edwige winding my two old-timers round her finger? You’d think they’d have had more sense,” he said testily; “I’d like to skin her alive.”
“You liked her once, didn’t you?”
“Let us now solemnly swear, dear, that never again will either one of us refer to our pasts; let us bury them in a common grave.”
“So help me God.”
“So help me God.
“Well, that’s that,” he said; “since we’re being decent, I’ll take you home and later we’ll look for a hotel room, for I think we’ll have to pig it for a bit,” and gallantly, gaily he brushed me off at my Eleventh Street flat, and went into the night. I looked after him with satisfaction and thought of all his attractions, precisely that, his gaiety, gallantry, fits of irritation when Tories blustered (and he did not pussyfoot but came out at them starkly, since he was richer than they), his ease of living and his simplicity which enabled him to live for months at a time in a slum or in a ship’s galley, just in order to assert his independence. He had been bankrupt and had fled the city, had come back in state, had had mistresses and easily dropped them, he dressed well and had no hokum in his make-up; he was better than I, in this respect. He worked continually, if not always successfully, and he was a sensible fellow, when he married he expected to have a home; a decent fellow, when he married he expected to love me and to see me love him. This was the best bargain I could have got out of life, with my frowsy, lazy and yet ignorant ways. Add to this his excellent good looks, his delightful build—he had that hairless, delicate, and sinewy shield-shape from shoulder to waist which sculptors like to show, those bronze plates bearing small nipples and bronze plates at the shoulders; fine muscles in the small of the belly and the back, long, graceful muscular thighs and long arching hands and feet. If his face was a little too small and boyish for his age, he had a good short nose and pleasant blue eyes, perhaps at times a little empty. He had few faults—he could be dragged into a discussion or a drinking party; he had a hot temper. Well, still, it is by the merest, rankest luck that I, Letty Fox, could find a man like that; and I went upstairs to my lonely flat, this time with a full heart and good will toward everyone. “I will try to do something for others,” I thought, “not fritter away my days,” and this was Bill’s feeling too. One can’t make a great stir, but one can be on the side of the angels. This was the modest program we set out for ourselves.
Mr. Van Week died soon after our marriage and died unrelenting, to our great surprise. Bill saw the notice of the funeral in the papers; this was the first intimation of his father’s death. The next morning a letter came from the lawyer, which said Bill was totally disinherited by his father—the money went to some institution. There was his mother left, and Bill had some faint hopes of receiving something from her relatively small personal estate; but at present his mother was bitter with sorrow and would not see her son whom she accused of hastening his father’s death. People always say this, and we did not feel ourselves guilty. However, there was no help from others coming to us and we had to set to and think about getting ourselves a home. I was still at work, but was sure by this time that I was going to have a baby; and as I had been through a disappointment of this nature several times, when I was not able to support a baby, and as I was obscurely, painfully jealous of all good women who have received their inheritance from nature, I explained to Bill that, whatever our circumstances, I would not let this chance slip by. “Who knows?” Bill was a little downcast at the idea that the future was taking toll of us so soon, but fairly soon showed the usual pleasure and we made what plans we could. This still left us, however, sitting in a Twenty-eighth Street hotel. But I did not need money. I did not need society. I was never alone and never despaired. What else can one hope for?
This is exactly where this finds me now, except that I am getting a little satisfactory embonpoint in Anita’s style and at last feel I have something to live for. I always did, but not in this way. I can see now why society is organized in ways that seem so strange to youngsters. It is, of course, organized to a certain extent for babies. Another thing is that all this mad and rowdy time of my misguided youth I was looking for something—union with something, an ideal, a lover; but I have a different sort of union now, and this, I believe, is it.
We had not been in our hotel more than two or three days before Mother, who now took an extraordinary pride in me, told me Grandma Morgan had nearly died of a heart attack when she heard of the suicide of her son, Philip. Dora Morgan was staying indefinitely at Green Acres. Said Grandma, “Poor woman! Why not! She is a mother; poor woman.”
Grandma was now convalescing in a small suite at the Coverley.
“That’s a hell of a sanitarium,” said Bill; “half the theatrical profession hangs out there.”
“That’s why Grandma picked it,” said I. It came to me suddenly that Grandmother regularly promised a suit of furniture to whomever got married in the family; and when I telephoned her suite, which I did at once, naturally, I told her that if she was well enough I would bring my new husband with me.
“Well enough? What are you talking about?” cried Grandma. “Come at once, my darling; don’t keep me waiting; take a taxi—at my expense.”
I could hear a vast murmur of gay voices as she was speaking, and I said to Bill, “This is a very bad wire, but all the wires in New York tick now.”
“They’re all tapped, because they trace racing bets placed in New Jersey.”
“That’s so.”
Bill knew the ins and outs of the fascinating worldly life which never came close to our petty interests. Every day I felt more exhilarated as I learned more from my husband. We set off that same afternoon to visit Grandma, and when we tapped at the proper door were surprised to hear the same joyous buzzing behind it. Someone ran to open the door to us, with a loud squeal, but seemed surprised to see us. It was Aunt Phyllis, overdressed as usual and too fleshy. She hung herself upon my neck and kissed Bill too fondly. I became cool and went in, taking off my gloves. The suite had an entry, with kitchenette, sitting room, and bedroom. The whole apartment was jammed with women, among whom one could see one or two graying clipped cadaverous heads—their husbands, one supposed. The women had all had facials and reeked of perfume. After a moment, we battled our way through to the bedroom, which was full of doors, gadgets, and mirrors, and in the midst of which
was a grand bed. There was Grandma, her thick white hair shining, newly marcelled, rings on her fingers, and a white fox fur round her shoulders. She looked radiant. I threw myself upon her bosom and knees, crying, “Grandma darling,” and there was a long deep embrace full of the joy of life which bubbled in us both. Grandma then threw herself upon Bill with as much enthusiasm as upon me, and I felt rather indignant at the bright, lustful twinkle in the old lady’s eye. I, however, could do nothing. I murmured, with dignity, that I hoped Grandma was not overdoing it; it did not seem to me that she was resting, and my eyes swept the room. She had been showing off some new clothes, for boxes with tissue paper were lying about, silks and rayons trailing out of them. A box of powder had been spilled on the dressing table. Seven bottles of perfume stood on the white mantelpiece. The remains of a card game were on a card table pushed into one corner. There was a tray full of bottles, and cocktail glasses were all over the room.
“My darling Letty, married at last,” said Grandmother affectionately, and inviting me once more into her arms. This remark chilled me, but I felt obliged to lend myself to her rapture again. At this moment, looking over her plump shoulder, I perceived one of the grayheads approaching; it was Percival Hogg himself; he kissed me, was very pleasant indeed, and avuncular to Bill. Then Grandmother began laughing heartily and saying that Uncle Perce was off to Paraguay, because of all the women there. About this time one of the women came running with a flower in her hand, plucked from one of the hastily assembled vases in which their bouquets were choking to death, and crying, “Oh, Dr. Hogg, what is the name of this flower; we are having a little discussion—”
He said severely, “Ma’am, I’m a plant physiologist, not a seedsman’s catalogue,” at which the poor old thing looked quite chapfallen, or she did not understand him. She continued to look sadly at him, so that he continued, “I am P. Hogg, ma’am, I have published several monographs on plant physiology; I sell microscopes to study cell structure, I don’t know their damn names: I would scorn to.” He then turned his attention back to Bill and me and told us he had chartered a ship, for quickest sailing; that the ship’s name was the U.S.S. Sons of Liberty. It was a former war freighter now idle, of about four thousand tons; he had a crew, for men in the N.M.U. were already looking for jobs, and he had a passenger list of the martyrs of alimony; he had acquired it as he chugged over the roads of the U.S.A. selling his scientific instruments. He had a captain, and he and they all would sail “without a woman aboard” to Paraguay, there to set up his colony, Parity, Paraguay.
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