After the War

by Alice Adams

  A horrible-looking man, maybe older than her father, even, with his cigar all wet in one hand and his glass of bourbon in the other—this man came up to her, standing much too close and breathing everything into her face, and he spoke right at her: “I just wanted to tell you, honey, that you’re the prettiest, sweetest, freshest young thing in this room, and don’t let anybody tell you different, ever. Those other gals, they’re faded, and jaded—faded and jaded, now there’s a good one, ain’t it? We live over to Winston-Salem, we’re all in big tobacco over there, and don’t get back to cheer the Tarheels but about once a year. But you’re so young, little honey, I’m not sure you’re even old enough to be here!”

  Melanctha smiled, hiding her teeth as she has learned to do (as she hid her breasts with big sweaters), and wishing him dead, this minute.

  “You from around here, sweetheart?” His breath was violent as his big red face leaned toward her.

  “No. Pinehill.”

  “Oh, Pinehill. Well, now—” His face was redder yet as he leaned still closer, until quite suddenly in slow motion, seemingly, he had toppled to the floor—shoving against Melanctha on his long way down. She clutched her breasts (had he meant to touch them?) and gasped aloud at the color of his face, the paralyzed remains of his grin—as people all over the room turned to look, the record stopped, and several girls screamed.

  “Someone call an ambulance! He’s passed out, he looks terrible! No need for an ambulance, the infirmary’s right there. Does anybody know who he is? Is he anybody’s daddy? Sick! Drunk! Is anybody here a doctor? Is there a doctor—?”

  Archer Bigelow, Melanctha’s date, who had come with her from Pinehill, appeared beside her, his face spotted with acne (being in college had wrecked his skin), tall and thin and chivalrously concerned. A Deke pledge. “Oh, Melly, whatever—? Oh, you poor darlin’—”

  Melanctha thought several things at once, a bad tendency she had; she was almost always confused. The oddest thought was that Archer sounded a lot like his mother, Dolly Bigelow, whom Russ, Melanctha’s father, did not like. Another was that she hated being called Melly, and Archer knows that; it sounds like that dopey woman in GWTW. Another thought, which is less a thought than a vision, a quick hot dream—she thought of kissing Archer (probably) later, pushing and twisting together, parked somewhere in the dark, in Archer’s car.

  She thought and felt all that, as yet another stern voice within her demanded: You wished he was dead, that old man—did you kill him? Mean bitch. Mean Melanctha. Wicked girl.

  To drown out that last voice, she said to Archer very loudly, “I’m all right, really I am. I just need another drink.” And she smiled up to him.

  As it turned out, some old grad in the room who was a doctor pushed through the crowd and squatted down beside the fallen man. The doctor said, “He’s just passed out. Hey, help me get him out of here.”

  Archer, because of a weak leg, did not go over, but five or six big husky Navy boys did, and the still unconscious man was carried out and across the street to the infirmary, which was handily right there, on the corner opposite the Deke House.

  Where, still unidentified, he was pronounced dead of unknown causes—but among them booze. When his billfold was found at last, dropped and trampled on the Deke House floor, it turned out that he was someone very important in Winston-Salem, in the R. J. Reynolds Company. Big tobacco.

  The dance was held in the gym, which was called the Tin Can, now lavishly filled with flowers, giant pink and white roses everywhere, and rich loops of satin ribbon. No one could call it a tin can now.

  At one end, the big band was up on its stand, all the men in cream-colored suits and dark green ties, not quite right with the decorations but never mind, the music was marvelous, everyone thought, throbbing with trombones and trumpets, and aching violins. And everyone was out there dancing now, the most beautiful small powdered blondes in white chiffon or pink satin, and tall handsome smooth-skinned boys, though some were drunk, just barely on their feet. In tuxedos or dress uniforms, mostly Navy, which everyone knew was the best.

  Melanctha, although she was wearing her aqua taffeta, with wine-colored velvet bows (a leftover high-school dress), still felt herself merged with the crowd. She was part of the beautiful dancers; she was what she saw.

  And she was merged with Archer, a part of him, as they danced very slowly, beyond the lights. It was possible not to think about the terrible phone call, in Cambridge, or the old dead drunk in the Deke House.

  Was Archer drunk? Was she? Melanctha had no way of knowing, although she had known Archer all her life. But not in this way, this sexy-dancing way.

  At some point, Melanctha thought that she saw Mrs. Baird—again, with that tall famous Derek McFall. Not dressed for a dance, still in their football-cocktail party clothes, tweeds and sweaters; they could not be chaperons, if that’s who it really was. Cynthia Baird in her New York—looking red tweed suit, Mr. McFall in dark gray flannel; he carried his dark felt hat. But when Melanctha looked again they were not there. If they ever were.

  Softly breathed, persistent rumors, like smoke, circulated through that room, among the dancers—concerning the old man who died.

  He had never been a Deke, and had no business at the party there in the first place. He had wanted to be a Deke, but the only bid he got was from the Sigma Nus (far down the desirable list in anyone’s reckoning).

  He had given a million dollars to the Sigma Nu House, for redecoration, and had just strolled up to the Deke House to check out their shabby furniture.

  His wife was a Reynolds, maybe a distant cousin of R.J., and that’s how come he had got so high up in the company.

  He had four daughters—two at St. Mary’s in Raleigh, one at Sweet Briar, and one at Sophie Newcomb—but no sons. No Dekes anywhere in the family. So it was funny, sort of, that he should die there, after all.

  He was not really dead when they got him to the infirmary, and he said he wanted to leave a million dollars to the Deke House, which he had thought was in shocking shape.

  Rumors about the war were even fainter, and less persistent, and they too had the sound of gossip, mostly—people moving about, taking trips: someone going to Italy, to London, or Pensacola, Biloxi, or, close to home, Fort Bragg. Even the words “overseas” or “Pacific” had glamorous, exotic sounds, though with slight—and thrilling!—overtones of danger.

  Archer parked his car, after a long bumpy ride that seemed to be through woods—tall black trees on either side, trees part of the night—and jolting ruts. The car was really Russ Byrd’s car, James Russell Lowell Byrd’s big Hollywood Cadillac, loaned to Archer for the night; Archer’s brother Billy had the family car, a Buick, but did Russ do that against the wishes of Deirdre, his wife—so generously loan his big expensive car to Archer, who might have got drunk, the way boys do?

  They were parked in a thicket of pine boughs and honeysuckle vines, a cave, with no visible stars or sky.

  But when Archer’s hand went down her skirt and reached up slowly, started stroking her leg (her leg!), and then went on up, Melanctha squirmed and reached for the hand, to push it away. She had to: suppose he touched the hot wet that she knows is there? Revolting! He would know how disgusting she is, and not even want to kiss her anymore, much less to be in love.

  He whispered, “But, honey, I want to so much—”

  “Oh, no, I can’t—”

  He removed his hand, and after a pause he whispered into her ear, “I respect you for that, Melanctha. And I love you too—”

  She was right! He didn’t even want to touch her there, not really—and no one would, if they knew.

  Melanctha suddenly felt very drunk—“I’d better get home,” she whispered, thinking of the long drive back to Pinehill, with nothing to say.

  Melanctha woke the next day, back in Pinehill, in her own bed—in a state of more consuming shame than she could bear. She could not, could not, could not face anyone—not Archer, who had spent the night at the Bi
gelows’ house, with his parents. She could not face her father or Deirdre, her brothers and that baby. No—no, never—all those faces in Harvard Yard, all over the Square. One of whom was the one who had called her and said that about her breasts. Whoever that was—and she vaguely knew that he could have been anyone, or everyone—that person might know about wetness too, it may have something to do with breasts, maybe everyone with big breasts (too big breasts, that is, not like Rita Hay-worth, Ann Sheridan)—maybe all huge-breasted women are disgusting in that way.

  All the way back from Hilton to Pinehill, Melanctha had pretended to be asleep, so that when they got to her house she could just get out and go inside, as though still half asleep. No need to say, I’ll never see you again—go away.

  And since some of them, her family, must have heard her come in, no one would think it was strange that she would sleep almost all the next day.

  Although she was not asleep. She was lying there in the cold smoky gray November light. She would never be able to sleep again, probably. Her head ached as it never had before, her mouth and her throat were dry. She wanted to throw up, but she could not—she was much too sick to do anything, ever.

  That old man, the ugly tobacco man who came up to her at the Deke House, the man who died—that man haunted Melanctha. She saw him still, so clearly—not remembering, but seeing. He was there, he was permanently there, within her brain. She saw the pores in his big red bulbous nose, she smelled his aggressive foul breath. She thought, He can’t be dead, I can see him still, and smell him. Half-consciously she felt that he and the man who had called her in Cambridge were the same; they were the terrifying Other, whom she might stay in bed forever to avoid.

  She closed her eyes, but quickly opened them again: what lay behind her eyes was far too dangerous. She was visited then, as she lay there, by a curious wish; she wished that Odessa were there with her, not necessarily lying beside her, warmly, in the large bed—but just there in the room. Odessa could comfort her and make her safe, Melanctha thought, and then she thought, This is crazy, Odessa has never even worked here, what’s the matter with me? I am truly crazy.

  Until at last she slept.

  3

  “I DON’T fall in love,” Derek told Cynthia after making love to her for the third or fourth time that night, in the Carolina Inn. In Hilton. Naked, propped up on one elbow, he lit a cigarette, and continued, “I never fall in love. I’m not a romantic like you, I try hard for realism, I think. You’re very beautiful, your beauty pleases me enormously—and in a sexual way you please me, terrifically. Your skin, and all your tastes, really marvelous. And I like you, I think you’re interesting and funny, I like some wit in a woman. Also you’re nice, that’s important. But none of that means ‘in love.’ Or not to me it doesn’t. If I didn’t see you again I’d be very, very sorry, but I wouldn’t die, I wouldn’t even think of dying.” And then, moving closer, he said, “Now come on, Cynthia, don’t look so hurt. Even in this light I can see your hurt. For Christ’s sake, try to take it for what it’s worth. Which is quite a lot, in my book. It just isn’t ‘love,’ it isn’t some wailing horn off in the distance. Some bad music. The very idea of that kind of love makes me nervous. When you say you love me, I feel scared.”

  “Could I have a cigarette?” Cynthia too was propped up on an elbow, the top sheet modestly pulled up to cover her breasts. Her nightgown, her best black lace (Harry loves it), was wadded in a corner of the room. (Derek: “Black lace! Cynthia darling, what on earth do you think we’re doing?” She wasn’t sure, but obediently she discarded the gown.) She had not thought she looked hurt, she thought she had smiled with pleasure and, yes, with love, but since she was in fact more than a little hurt, very likely it was true, she did look hurt. He said that he doesn’t love her: how could she not be hurt? She said, “Thanks,” and drew on her cigarette. She said, “I’m not hurt. Really.”

  Disregarding her, Derek continued. “I’m a realist. A practical man. You notice I’ve never married? I know myself pretty well, and I’m not good husband material, although”—he laughed to himself—“who knows? I might be better in some nice sensible marriage than as a so-called lover.”

  Cynthia felt a cold drop in her spirits: Did he mean that he knew someone he wanted to marry “sensibly”?

  He went on talking. “But I know you don’t want to marry me, you know you’re better off with Harry. Besides, he might be a war hero, and you couldn’t divorce a hero. But seriously, we both know that in your way you’re perfectly happy with Harry. In your way you’re a practical person too, that’s one of the things I like. You just have this large itch for romance—in which you’re not exactly alone, of course. But sometimes I wonder, why me?”

  She managed to laugh at him. “You’re fishing,” she told him. “In very shallow water.”

  He too laughed, briefly and modestly. “Oh, well, you could do worse, I know. But you’re so romantic about—everything. A man like Russ Byrd, didn’t he used to be a poet? Wouldn’t that be more your style? A romantic poet?”

  Cynthia would have very much liked to say, I tried that. I was in love with Russ Byrd, my crush on him was really why I talked Harry into moving down to Pinehill, and we finally had this big love affair, Russ and I. All of that is the absolute truth, is what she would have liked to say, what she would have said if she were the modern, sophisticated woman that she tried to see herself as. Sometimes. But Cynthia could not say all that (although she had a dim sense that Derek would have liked it if she did); she only laughed softly, Southern style, and she told him, “I’ll think about it.”

  She also would have liked to go to sleep, all the drinks and then so much strenuous love have exhausted Cynthia, but as she hardly needed to remind herself, both drink and amorous activity had an opposite effect on Derek; he became energized, intensely communicative. He could talk all night, and sometimes he almost did. Cynthia had learned not to listen but to doze; an occasional murmur took care of Derek’s response requirements.

  Dozing, then, she thought of Harry, and the unreality to her of his life in London. He wrote often but very briefly, little V-mail letters, and he had never had the gift of putting his own voice into letters; his were dry, almost formal. Harry’s letters could be from anyone to anyone, Cynthia thought. She sometimes felt that she was hearing from some other man, some “naval officer” in “wartime London.” She tried to imagine the sound of sirens, the crowds in air-raid shelters, but they remained for her as abstract, as unreal as newsreels. Harry signed off always saying, “I miss you, I love you,” but even those words seemed not to get through in a personal way; they too were abstract, anonymous. The Harry that she most readily recalled was actually the Harry Baird from a long time ago, whom she fell so wildly in love with, and sneaked off to see on her weekends home from Shipley; her father liked him but her mother disapproved. (Her father, a proud, intelligent “self-made” man, a highly successful engineer, may have seen something of his own early self in Harry, the ambitious charmer from Westerly, Rhode Island—from, as Cynthia’s mother put it, “no background.”) Cynthia easily remembered Harry from back then, the sexiness of all that kissing in cars, late at night. Worries about coming in late with her lipstick gone and twisted stockings, not to mention certain possible smells and stains that Cynthia would only remember too late, at the door. Then, sneaking upstairs, for a short time she would be successfully quiet, until she would hear, Cynthia, why are you taking a bath at this hour?

  Oh, I just felt like it.

  May I come in?

  As though she could say no to her mother, in her pin curls and unstained pink chenille robe.

  Cynthia crazily tried to hide herself in the clear, clean water, to hide beneath bubbles—when another voice intruded, and recalled her to the present, to now:

  Derek. “Cynthia, have you gone to sleep? Come on, you can’t be tired.” But he laughed.

  Outside their wide-open window, the November night was windy and black. Still not entirely awake,
Cynthia saw dark torn clouds entangled in the branches of tall and leafless trees, and an edge of moon. She thought how in London it was already tomorrow, and Harry was—but she could not imagine Harry, or London. Or the war.

  Unlike Harry, Abigail wrote long, infrequent letters that were very much in her own voice. Often they arrived just as Cynthia was telling herself that she must not call, she must not intrude on Abigail’s new, busy, and apparently very happy college life. But Swarthmore, near Philadelphia, seemed so very far away from Pinehill.

  “New York was terrific,” Abby most recently wrote. “I went up with Susan Marcus, this really neat girl I wrote you about. Her brother goes to Swarthmore too. Her parents live down in Greenwich Village, near Washington Square, on West 11th Street. The neatest apartment, really huge! Her father does something in Los Angeles in the movies. He knows Russell Byrd, isn’t that amazing? He asked me if I knew him too, when I said I was from Pinehill sort of, and so I said of course I knew Mr. Byrd, and Melanctha. Susan’s mother is really pretty and she works full-time for Russian War Relief.

  “They took me to this play, The Voice of the Turtle, that I thought was pretty dumb. I can’t stand that Margaret Sullavan, so phoney, I don’t care if she is an actress. And all that stuff about being a professional virgin—no one talks that way. We wanted to see Watch on the Rhine but we couldn’t get tickets.”

  At which Cynthia had chillingly wondered: was Abigail herself still a virgin? She had not before, in a conscious way, thought about her daughter, Abigail, making love. The idea made her extremely uncomfortable.

  “But the Marcuses are all so nice,” Abigail continued. “They didn’t like that dumb play either, even if they said it did get great reviews. Mr. Marcus said Margaret Sullavan is not at all his favorite actress, but then he wouldn’t say who was. I don’t think he likes Mr. Byrd very much, but I don’t know why. He is what you would call très discret. Did I get the accent right? They’ve invited me to come back for Thanksgiving. Will that be all right with you? I hadn’t really planned on coming home then. Had you?