by Max Shulman
Once, on a dullish afternoon at the office, Harry set down a time-table of a typical day in his life. It looked like this:
6:30 A.M. Rise, shave, shower, breakfast.
7:00 Wake Grace to drive me to station.
7:10 Wake Grace again.
7:16 Grace starts driving me to station.
7:20 Grace scrapes fender on milk truck.
7:36 Arrive station.
7:37 Board train for New York.
8:45 Arrive Grand Central.
9:00 Arrive New Yorker Magazine.
5:18 P.M. Leave New Yorker Magazine.
5:29 Board train to Putnam’s Landing.
6:32 Arrive Putnam’s Landing. Grace waiting at station.
6:51 Traffic jam at station untangles. We start home.
6:52 Grace tells me sump pump broken.
6:56 I ask Grace what is sump pump.
6:57 Grace tells me sump pump is pump that pumps sump.
6:58 I say Oh.
7:00 Grace tells me Bud swallowed penny.
7:02 Grace tells me Dan called his teacher an “old poop.”
7:04 Grace tells me Peter is allergic to the mailman.
7:06 Grace tells me she signed me up to work all day Saturday in Bingo tent at Womans Club Bazaar.
7:12 Arrive home.
7:13 Dan, aged 8, Bud, aged 6, and Peter, aged 4, looking at television. Dan and Bud want to look at Looney Tunes. Peter wants to look at John Cameron Swayze. (?) Grace rules in favor of Peter. Bud swallows another penny.
7:30 Grace puts children to bed. I go out on lawn to pick up toys.
7:38 Dinner.
8:01 Mrs. Epperson, baby sitter, rings doorbell. I ask Grace what we need with baby sitter. Grace says tonight is PTA meeting. I remind Grace we just went to PTA meeting three days ago. Grace says that was regular meeting, tonight is special emergency protest meeting. We go to special emergency protest meeting.
8:32 Arrive special emergency protest meeting. Special emergency protest seems to be about a hole in the school playground. Chairman of Board of Education, a conservative Yankee type, says no appropriation in budget for fixing hole. Grace rises and demands special appropriation. Chairman of Board calls this creeping socialism. I doze off.
9:51 Grace jams elbow in my ribs, wakes me to vote on motion to refer hole to Special Committee to Study Hole in Playground. Motion carried.
9:52 Meeting adjourned.
9:53 Grace and I go to Fatso’s Diner with O’Sheels and Steinbergs, fellow PTA members. Women discuss hole further. Men yawn.
10:48 Leave Fatso’s Diner.
11:25 Arrive home. Grace asks Mrs. Epperson, baby sitter, if everything all right. Mrs. Epperson says Bud woke up once and started crying but she gave him some pennies and he went back to sleep.
11:58 Grace and I go to bed.
12:04 Grace says she hears animals around garbage can. I go out.
12:05 Grace is right. There are animals around garbage can. I go back in.
12:53 Animals finish garbage.
1:10 I sleep.
And so passed the days of Harry Bannerman’s years. If it wasn’t a meeting, a caucus, a rally, or a lecture, then it was a quiet evening at home licking envelopes. Or else it was a party where you ate cubes of cheese on toothpicks and talked about plywood, mortgages, mulches, and children. Or it was amateur theatricals. Or ringing doorbells for worthy causes. Or umpiring Little League games. Or setting tulip bulbs. Or sticking decals on cribs. Or trimming hedges. Or reading Dr. Spock. Or barbecuing hamburgers. Or increasing your life insurance. Or doing anything in the whole wide world except sitting on a pouf with a soft and loving girl and listening to Rodgers and Hart.
It was more and more on Harry’s mind—the pouf, the phonograph records, the long, languorous nights. He would look at Grace in a nubby tweed skirt and a cardigan with the sleeves pushed up, rushing about dispensing civic virtue, wisps of hair coming loose, her seams crooked—and he would remember another Grace in pink velvet lounging pajamas, curled up like a kitten next to him on the pouf, in one hand a cigarette lazily trailing smoke, the other hand doing talented things to the back of his neck.
He would look at his house—the leaks, the squeaks, the chips, the cracks, the things that had to be repaired, recovered, rewired, replaced, remodeled—and he would recall the days when all you did when something went wrong was phone the landlord.
He would look at his children. He would watch them devouring sides of beef and crates of eggs; poking toes through stockings and elbows through sweaters; littering the yard with balls, bats, bicycles, tricycles, scooters, blocks, crayons, paints, tops, hoops, marbles, bows, arrows, darts, guns, and key bits of jigsaw puzzles; trailing mud on the rugs; breaking off the corners of playing cards; eating watermelon in bed; nailing pictures of athletes to walls; leaving black rings in the tub; getting carsick—he would observe this arresting pageant and he would think, “Yes, they are fine children, they are normal, I love them very much, and I will guard and keep them always … But, oh, how sweet and satisfactory those golden days on the pouf!”
Sighing, Harry ordered another bourbon. “You know something?” he said to the bartender. “You know who saved more marriages in Fairfield County than the church, the state, and the psychiatrists all put together?”
“Who?” asked the bartender.
“Pat McGinnis,” said Harry.
The bartender looked at him incredulously. “You mean the Pat McGinnis who used to run the New Haven Railroad?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry vehemently. “Oh, I know he ran a godawful railroad. The trains were late and the cars were filthy and the service was miserable. But, by God, he did one thing that every wife in Fairfield County ought to get down on her knees and thank him for every night!”
“What’s that?”
“He put club cars in the commuter trains,” said Harry. “Do you think us poor slobs could face what’s waiting for us at home if we had to get off this train sober?”
“Putnam’s Landing!” called the conductor, opening the door of the car. “This stop is Putnam’s Landing.”
Harry tossed off his bourbon and, less anesthetized than he would have liked, walked slowly toward the door.
3
Grace Bannerman had been sitting in her station wagon beside the platform for ten minutes before Harry’s train arrived. She always got there ten minutes early; it was her only chance during the day to enjoy an uninterrupted cigarette. As she had recently written to her mother, “What with cooking and keeping house and shopping and chauffeuring the children all over town and trying to stay abreast of current affairs and going to meetings and helping out at the Red Cross, the hospital, the school cafeteria, etc., it seems as though I just don’t have a second to myself any more. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t cut down a little.”
“NO!” her mother had written back in underlined capitals. “Don’t you cut down one tiny bit! Just remember that we women have to make a life of our own, because men are only interested in ONE THING!”
Grace had laughed at first, but now she was beginning to wonder whether there might not be a trace of truth in her mother’s contention. Harry was, of course, interested in many other things besides sex (they did not, for the moment, leap to mind) but it had to be admitted that his advances were as hot and importunate as ever. In fact, they seemed to be coming these days even when circumstances were most unpropitious—like when there was a turkey to baste or a meeting to attend or a child in the tub.
Grace did not, mind you, find Harry’s attentions a cause for complaint. She was a smart girl—smart in her slim, mature good looks and smart in her head—and she recognized that after ten years of marriage, ardor in a husband was no small tribute. Moreover, when there were no turkeys to baste or meetings to attend or children to bathe, she had a good strong honing for Harry too. She was a woman of robust appetites, responsive and inventive, and she loved her husband very much.
But everything in its place. Love to G
race was not something that had constantly to be demonstrated. Love was basic, that is, it was the base, the foundation. As such, it had to be firmly established. But once established, as Grace’s and Harry’s was, it could thereafter be safely ignored. It required no further fussing, tending, or bolstering. The time had come to turn the attention away from love and concentrate instead on love’s accretions—the children, the home, the community.
Grace had often developed these views to Harry, and though he had not argued, he had yawned rather a lot. But Grace had not been dismayed. She knew there was nothing fundamentally wrong with Harry; he was just a little slow to mature, that’s all.
As the years flew by and maturity continued to elude Harry, Grace was still undismayed. Annoyed—yes. Piqued, vexed, chagrined, furious, rabid, homicidal—yes. But not dismayed. He will grow up, she kept telling herself. He is a good man, an intelligent man, and some day soon he is bound to realize that he is no longer Childe Harold, nor I Pola Negri; that it is just as important to know the annual budget of the school board as the lyrics to My Funny Valentine; that making love on a pouf gives you a very sore back.
And when maturity overtakes him at last, when that blessed day comes, we will be husband and wife again, just as we were in the early days. We will recover the togetherness that has been so long, so painfully, missing … Yes, I have been unhappy. Too often I have seen the stamp of boredom on Harry’s face—at meetings, at parties, even at home—and my heart has grown heavy. Why, I have wondered, can’t he enjoy the same things I do? Have I made a mistake? Have I pushed Harry into a kind of life that is wrong for him?
But how can that be? How can anything be wrong which is so solid, so basic, so full of real, lasting values? Can good, healthy, happy children be wrong? Can a fine, well-kept house be wrong? Can an alert, enlightened community be wrong?
No, of course not. All these things are right. The fault is in Harry, and time will cure it.
He will grow up. He will lose the silly, romantic notions that still plague him. He is sad now because he thinks youth and adventure and love have gone out of his life. How foolish he is! His youth still lives in his children. Adventure—great adventure—can still be found in building a better community, a better world. And love—doesn’t he understand that he has more love now than he ever dreamed of? My love! The children’s love! The love of the community, if he will only make an effort to earn it!
He will grow up, my darling Harry, because he is good and kind and intelligent. Meanwhile, I will be patient. I will continue to love him, continue to expose him to the true, the important, the abiding things—home, family, community. I have led my horse to water; he will drink.
Grace’s horse, having drunk six ounces of I. W. Harper, cantered slowly off the train, spotted his 1954 Plymouth station wagon alongside the platform, whinnied softly, and headed toward it with a hobbled gait. Grace, watching him from behind the wheel, was filled with a sudden surge of affection and pity. How bedraggled he looked! How glassy! How brackish! How unloved! “Hello, darling!” she cried as he stepped into the car. “Hello, sweetieface!” she cried and threw her arms around him and gave him a long, lush, passionate kiss.
“Well!” said Harry, registering surprise and delight.
“I missed you,” said Grace, nuzzling his cheek.
“Well!” said Harry again.
Grace started the car and joined the traffic moving sluggishly out of the station parking lot. She took Harry’s hand, squeezed it lovingly. “Did you have a good day, honey?” she asked.
“Fair,” he replied, removing his hand, suddenly wary. “Is there something on your mind, Grace?”
“Not a thing,” she said. Then, suddenly, she corrected herself. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, there is something on my mind and I just thought of it this minute … Harry, how would you like to go away for a couple of days—just the two of us?”
His face lit up like a sunburst. “Great idea! Great! Let’s leave right away. You get a sitter. I’ll call Sig Harris to take over for me tomorrow. We’ll start driving about seven-thirty, go over the Bear Mountain Bridge to the Catskills, check into the Concord Hotel, then tomorrow morning we’ll have one of those wonderful Concord breakfasts, and then—”
“Oh, no, darling,” she interrupted. “We can’t leave tonight.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. There’s a town meeting.”
“Let’s skip it.”
“I wish we could, dear, but tonight we’re voting on the garbage disposal plant.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” snarled Harry. “I talk about the Concord, and you talk about garbage!”
“I’m sorry, dear, but it’s terribly important. Betty O’Sheel has been slaving for months on this project, and she needs every vote she can get.”
“We’ll give her our proxies.”
“You can’t do that, Harry. And, besides, I have to be there tonight. I’m speaking for the Committee to Reinstate Maggie Larkin.”
“Who?”
“That school teacher who got fired for giving a sex talk to the second grade.”
“Well, I should think so!” he said indignantly.
“Now, darling, don’t be medieval.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “So we can’t leave tonight. How about tomorrow morning?”
“Fine!” said Grace.
“Tell you what,” said Harry, cheerful again. “We’ll get to the Concord around noon, have one of those wonderful Concord lunches, then spend the afternoon skiing, and then have one of those wonderful Concord dinners. How’s that sound?”
“Oh-oh!” said Grace.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just remembered. Tomorrow I’m in the Blood-mobile.”
“The what?”
“The Red Cross mobile blood unit. I can’t very well skip that, can I?”
Harry sighed once more. “I guess not … How about Saturday?”
She looked at him with utter horror. “You’re not serious?” she whispered.
“Huh? What’d I do?”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know what Saturday is?”
“No. What?”
“Only your son’s birthday, that’s all!”
“Which one?”
“Oh, Harry, you’re awful! Just awful!”
“Which one?” he insisted. “I’ve got a right to know.”
“It’s Bud’s—and I’m thoroughly ashamed of you!”
“Okay, I’m a no good rat … What about Sunday?”
“Sunday’s the birthday party.”
“But you said his birthday was Saturday.”
“I know, but Dickie Sutphen and Billy Nye have a dancing lesson Saturday, so we decided not to have the party till Sunday.”
“I see,” said Harry tonelessly. “Now tell me why we can’t go on Monday.”
“Oh, Harry, you know Peter’s getting his bite-plate fitted on Monday.”
“Listen,” said Harry, his voice rising several decibels, “I want to ask you just one question: Since you know we’re never going to get away, why the hell did you bring up the idea in the first place?”
Stung by Harry’s tone, Grace wheeled and replied in kind. “I’ll tell you why: because you looked so mangy and pathetic coming off the train that I felt sorry for you.”
“I see,” said Harry through tight lips. “Throw the poor dog a bone.”
“Exactly!” snapped Grace.
They drove for awhile in silence, each stoking his anger. Grace opened up first. “And I’m getting damn good and sick of it!”
“Of what?”
“Of you staggering off that train drunk every night. Don’t think I don’t know why you do it. It’s because you can’t face what’s waiting for you at home … Well, the hell with you, Harry Bannerman!”
“Thank you!”
“What are those terrible, dreadful things you can’t face?” she demanded. There were tears in her eyes, and her voice was quavering. “Wha
t evil, awful things are waiting for you at home? Three beautiful, bright, sweet, good children. A house that’s clean and comfortable and snug and homey. A fine lawn. A wonderful garden … And a wife—” she was sobbing now—“a wife who tries her best to take care of you and the house and the children, who tries her very, very best!”
Weeping openly, copiously, piteously, she sprawled across the steering wheel, her eyes blind with tears, her body racked. “Oh, God, what more can I do?” she wailed, pounding the wheel with both fists. “In Heaven’s name, what more can I do?”
“You can pull over to the curb,” suggested Harry, “before you get us both killed.”
She headed the car into the curb and cut the ignition. Turning away from Harry, she collapsed in the corner of the seat, tears flowing undiminished, shoulders heaving erratically.
Harry looked on for a moment, troubled and indecisive. Tears were not Grace’s weapon. He had seldom seen her cry, except during pregnancy, but then, as everyone knows, all women are unhinged. “Honey,” he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Honey, please.”
Angrily she shrugged off his touch.
He tried again, more firmly this time. He gripped her arms and turned her around. Murmuring softly, he laid her face on his shoulder, kissed her hair, her brow, her salty cheek. “Don’t cry, darling. Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said over and over.
The tears ebbed. The shoulders were still. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right.” He smiled, then kissed her tenderly on the lips. “I love you,” he said quietly.
“And I love you,” she answered. “That’s what’s so frustrating. Why can’t I make you happy?”
“I’m happy. Honest!”
“No,” she insisted. “Not until you grow up.”
“That again.”
“Yes, that again. You’ve got to get rid of those romantic fancies of yours.”
“Why?”
“Because you and I, let’s face it, are not newlyweds any more.”
“I see. We’re decrepit. It’s impossible that romance would still dwell in a couple of old wrecks like us.”
Grace grinned. “It dwells,” she said. “But not on the main floor. Up in the back bedroom maybe.”
