Rally Round the Flag, Boys!

by Max Shulman

  “Gee, Ma, this is great,” he said, touched, “but you didn’t have to go to all this trouble just for me.”

  “Who says itsa for you?” asked Vittorio.

  The others thought this was a mighty fine joke and laughed and winked and nudged each other with great gusto.

  “Is somebody else coming?” asked Guido.

  This, too, was considered wildly hilarious. At length Vittorio raised his hand for order. When all was still, he called, “Okay, surprise. You come out now!”

  The swinging door to the kitchen opened slowly. Out stepped Maggie Larkin, demure in a navy blue dress with a little white collar and little white cuffs. A pretty blush was on her cheeks, a tentative smile on her lips.

  “Hello, Guido,” she said shyly.

  “But—” said Guido. Then he said, “What—” and “Er—” and “But—” a few more times.

  “Hey, dumb!” said Vittorio, giving him the elbow. “Go kissa you girl!”

  “But I don’t understand,” said Guido. “I mean, what—when—how—”

  “Don’t talk so much,” said Serafina.

  “Yes,” said Maggie Larkin. “Come kissa you girl.”

  She held out her arms and, trancelike, he walked into them. He gave her a timid kiss, but she pulled him close and made a job of it.

  “Brava!” cried the di Maggios, applauding thunderously. “Bis! Bis! Brava!”

  “Okay!” called Serafina. “Everybody sit down. Eat, eat, eat!”

  Anna and Teresa went into the kitchen with Serafina to fetch the dinner. Maggie tried to go along to help, but Vittorio grasped her firmly and put her in a chair. “You sit,” he said.” You guesta honor. Guido, you guesta honor too. Sit.”

  “Yes, Pa,” said Guido, still in a daze. He took a chair on Maggie’s right, Vittorio sat on her left, and the brothers took their accustomed places.

  “Shesa good girl, you Maggie,” said Vittorio, giving her round young arm an affectionate tweak. “She was a pretty craze, but she’s a all right now.”

  “Look,” said Guido to Maggie. “I don’t want to pry, but what happened?”

  “Well,” said Maggie, but she got no further because the women came out of the kitchen staggering under an assortment of platters, bowls, tureens, and serving dishes. Fragrant clouds of steam rose from each plate and merged into a single heady effluvium of pepper, garlic, oregano, olive oil, and parmesan. “Ah!” said the di Maggio men, their nostrils widening with honest appreciation.

  Vittorio filled glasses from a wicker-covered bottle of chianti. “To the guestsa honor!” he said raising his glass.

  Maggie looked into Guido’s eyes and smiled and squeezed his hands as the others drank the toast.

  “You gonna tell me what happened?” asked Guido.

  “Have some scungilli,” said Teresa, passing a plate to Maggie.

  Maggie took some. “Delicious!” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

  “Snake,” said Bruno.

  The smile left Maggie’s face; the fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

  “Itsa not snake!” said Serafina indignantly.

  The smile came back to Maggie’s face; the fork continued upward.

  “Itsa conch,” said Serafina.

  The smile went away again, but she chewed bravely.

  “Try some frittura piccata,” said Anna.

  “What is it?” asked Maggie warily.

  “Cat,” said Carmen.

  “You shut up!” said Serafina. “Itsa veal and ham.”

  Maggie took a helping. “Oh, divine!” she cried. “But it must be terribly hard to make.”

  “Nah,” scoffed Serafina. “You take a nice veal cutlet, see, and you slice him very thin and—”

  “Ma,” said Guido, “do you think you could give Maggie a cooking lesson some other time? I’m trying to find out what happened.”

  “Well,” said Maggie, “do you know Mrs. Bannerman?”

  “Harry Bannerman’s wife?” asked Guido.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, I know her. Funny you should mention her. I ran into Harry Bannerman only yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “At Fort Totten.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Maggie. “He spent the night there last night.”

  “He did?” said Guido skeptically.

  “Yes,” said Maggie. “You see, I was supposed to sit with the Bannerman children last night—the Bannermans were going to a hospital fund meeting—but after I got over there, Mr. Bannerman phoned and said he had to spend the night at Fort Totten.”

  “I see,” said Guido, shrugging. None of his business where Harry Bannerman spent his nights.

  “Well,” continued Maggie, “Mrs. Bannerman decided not to go to the meeting, but she asked me to stay anyhow because she wanted to talk to me. So we made coffee and had a long, long talk, and Guido, it was one of the most wonderful experiences of my whole life!”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Children … And do you know what, Guido? Mrs. Bannerman knows more about child psychology than I do!”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Why, she made me feel like a neophyte. I believe I learned more child psychology last night than I learned in the whole rest of my life put together!”

  “Have some gnocchi,” said Pete.

  “No, thank you,” said Maggie.

  “So where do you stand now?” asked Guido.

  “I stand corrected,” replied Maggie. “Oh, how wrong I’ve been—how foolishly, ridiculously wrong!”

  “You was a pretty craze, all right,” said Vittorio.

  “Yes, I was,” said Maggie forthrightly. “But no more. As I told Mr. Vandenberg this morning, from now on I am going to be completely sensible and practical about children. No more wild theories!”

  “Mr. Vandenberg, the principal?” asked Guido. “You mean you’re back at school?”

  “That’s right. I had a good, frank talk with him this morning, and he was perfectly wonderful about it, and tomorrow I start teaching again.”

  “Maggie,” cried Guido, his face luminous with joy, “I love you!”

  “And I love you,” said Maggie simply.

  “Atsa nice!” said Vittorio, and then everybody sighed and blinked back a tear and finished the scungilli and frittura piccata and gnocchi and manicotti and zucchini parmesan and finocchi and red bean salad and garlic bread and maritozzi and bocca di dama and coffee and Strega.

  Then Guido took Maggie away and drove with her to a public park called Tall Walnuts—a lovely spot with lovers’ lanes and secret glades and towering walnut trees as ancient as the hills. He parked the car upon a moon-bright knoll and took his soft and ample true-love in his arms—not fat, you understand; plumpish—and kissed her lips and throat and hair and two blue eyes.

  “Dear God,” he said, “if I gotta go, take me now because I’ll never be this happy again.”

  “I love you,” said Maggie.

  “And I you,” said Guido.

  “And you forgive me for being such a fool?” she asked.

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” said Guido generously. “The important thing is that you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Yes, dear. And we’ll never, never fight again.”

  They kissed happily for a spell.

  “But we haven’t talked about you yet!” exclaimed Maggie suddenly. “Oh, darling, I think it’s just wonderful that you’re going to be stationed here in Putnam’s Landing.”

  “It’s only on a trial basis,” cautioned Guido.

  “Oh, pooh!” said Maggie lightly. “You’ll make good.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” said Guido devoutly.

  “Tell me all about your job,” said Maggie.

  “Well, I’m the executive officer, but my particular field is public relations.”

  “Gee!” said she, impressed.

  “What I’m going to do is call a special town meeting, make contacts with all the important organiza
tions, and generally establish a good relationship with the town.”

  “My goodness, it sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, smiling bravely. “But there’ll be some fun too. For instance, we’re going to sponsor a team in Little League, and I’m going to manage it.”

  He felt her plumpish body stiffen.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She broke out of his embrace and faced him with shocked eyes. “Guido, you’re not serious?”

  “Serious about what?”

  “Managing a Little League team.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I’ll tell you why not,” she said vehemently. “Because Little League is the greatest single menace to the mental health of America’s children, and I am not going to let you be a party to it!”

  “Oh, no!” groaned Guido. “Not again! Not so soon!”

  “All that emphasis on winning!” cried Maggie. “All that tension! All that pressure! Never mind playing the game. Just win! Let the nerves crack. Let the heart break. But win!”

  “Maggie—”

  “And the bleachers full of parents acting out their thwarted aggressions, screaming at their children—Fight! Fight! Win! Win! Never mind the trauma. Never mind the—”

  Guido banged the horn of his car, stopping Maggie in mid-sentence. “Damn it, Maggie,” he said sternly, “didn’t you just finish telling me you were all through with your crazy theories about child psychology?”

  “But—”

  “But nothing! You’re starting all over again, aren’t you?”

  Maggie fell silent. She nodded sheepishly. “I guess I am,” she said in a tiny voice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  “Okay … But let’s don’t let it happen again, huh?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “All right. Now where were we?” He resumed his embrace. He sought her lips. But she was talking.

  “You go right ahead with your Little League team,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “And I’ll help you,” she said.

  Guido felt a warning tremor. A simple equation came to mind: Maggie plus children equals trouble. “Oh, that’s all right, honey,” he said, patting her shoulder. “I can manage.”

  “No, dear. I’ll help,” she insisted.

  “But what can you do?”

  “Keep score. Encourage the boys. Arrange little picnics. Things like that.”

  “I see,” said Guido glumly. “Well, that’s very nice, dear, but, honestly, you don’t have to.”

  “I want to, darling.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, talk, talk, talk!” said Maggie. “Come kissa you girl!”

  And placed her palm on Guido’s nape and pulled him to her red, red lips, and there all doubts were stilled, all misgivings softly laid to rest.

  12

  Harry Bannerman, boy adulterer, sat in the smoking car of the 7:37 and pressed his fevered forehead against the cold window. More than a week had passed since his night of candlelight and yum-yum with Angela Hoffa at the Hotel Miramar, and there had not been the slightest repercussion. Grace had never questioned his explanation that he had stayed overnight at Fort Totten; nobody had recognized him at the hotel; Angela had discreetly kept her distance afterward.

  Why then, wondered Harry, should he feel so miserable? In the first place, it was Grace’s fault, not his, that he had strayed from righteousness. In the second place, the session with Angela, once he had ingested enough champagne to still his fluttering ganglia, had been a jolly amalgam of lyricism and know-how. And in the third place, he had gotten away with it clean as a whistle. He should be congratulating himself, not sitting around with a conscience like a big, steaming rock.

  All this he told himself as the 7:37 pulled out of the Putnam’s Landing station and headed toward New York. All this he had told himself hourly since he broke the Commandment. But it failed signally to help. He still felt an excoriating rush of guilt every time he looked at Grace, and when he saw his children, their faces turned up like three fat roses dewy with love, he felt positively leprous.

  Now as he sat and rolled his hot brow against the cool window pane, his Angst was suddenly interrupted by a voice in the seat beside him saying explosively, “Jesus H. Christ!”

  A few minutes earlier when somebody had taken the seat next to his, Harry had not turned to see who it was. Now he did. The blood rushed out of Harry’s head. His sweat ducts opened and his salivary glands closed and his heart banged crazily against his ribcage. “Hello, Oscar,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Look at this!” cried Oscar Hoffa, pointing with his clear Havana at the obituary page of the New York Times. “Same goddam thing every morning! Guys dropping dead like flies. And look how old they are!” His Upmann stabbed around the page as he picked out various obituaries. “Wilson T. Fleming, broker—52. Morris Rosenthal, ladies’ ready-to-wear—45. Ancel Drobny, composer—49. William J. Klein, lawyer—48. Grayson Wing, actor—54. T. O. McFetridge, publisher—61 … Wonder what the hell kept McFetridge alive so long?”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Harry, wildly uncomfortable. It seemed to him that horns twelve feet long were jutting out of Oscar’s forehead. Could it be possible that Oscar didn’t notice them?

  “I defy you!” cried Oscar, his Upmann coming within an ace of setting the Times on fire. “I defy you to find one woman on this obit page. Go ahead. Just find me one stinking woman who let herself get pried loose from life!” He thrust the paper at Harry, but yanked it back immediately. “Don’t waste your time. You won’t. I been reading the obit page for twenty years, and I haven’t found one yet.”

  “Really?” said Harry, licking his dry lips. Oscar apparently did not know he had been cuckolded, but Harry felt no relief. In fact, he felt worse than ever. In his current state of guilt, pistols at sunrise would have seemed a welcome out.

  “No, I’m wrong,” said Oscar. “I did see a woman’s obit last week. I remember it clearly: ‘Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes, widow of the nineteenth president, died yesterday at the age of 174 while topping a Douglas fir in North Conway, New Hampshire. She is survived by six daughters, 88 granddaughters—and her mother.”

  “Ha, ha,” said Harry with a sickly grin.

  “Why the hell should they die?” asked Oscar. “They’ve got it licked. They’ve turned the goddam country into a goddam matriarchy. All they need from a man is money and stud. You take the average slob on this train. What’s his day like? He crawls out of bed at six A.M., goes to New York and works his tail off all day, comes stumbling home at seven o’clock, more dead than alive, and then his wife tells him he’s going to have to work a little harder because she’s decided to put a new wing on the house. No wonder the poor bastards drop dead at forty! And I’ll tell you something else: half the guys who keel over dead aren’t even sick; they’re just taking the easy way out.”

  “Very interesting,” said Harry. “Would you excuse me, please? I’d like to get a drink of water.”

  “You take television,” continued Oscar, unheeding. “When I plan a program, do you think I even consider what men want to look at? Like hell I do! What for? From six P.M. to nine P.M. a man looks at the programs his kids want to see. From nine to midnight, the wife picks the programs. And at midnight the poor sonofabitch has to go to bed because at six in the morning he’s got to get up and go to work and make some more money so she can build another wing on the goddam house!”

  “If you’ll just kind of move your legs a little so I can squeeze by—”

  “Television! Christ, what a way to make a living! I bet I’ve got more flying time than Rickenbacker. I just came back from Hollywood last night, and where do you think I’m going this afternoon? That’s right—Hollywood! Just keep watching the obit page, pal. I’ll be there soon!”

  “Oscar, I hate to be a bother,” said Harry, laying a firm hand on his knee, “but I really do have to get a drink of water.”

  “Why didn’t y
ou say so?” said Oscar and moved his legs.

  Harry went to the cooler and had four quick glasses of water, but his throat was still parched. Then he went out on the platform and gulped air all the way to Grand Central, but his chest was still tight. Nor did his throat get moister or his chest get looser or his conscience get easier all that day. Not until he boarded the 5:29 back to Putnam’s Landing and belted down his first I. W. Harper did a semblance of calm return to him.

  He took his second drink to a quiet corner, sat down, and did some strong thinking. One thing was perfectly clear: infidelity was not his kind of work. Never again would he wander off the reservation. Never!

  Next question: should he make a full confession to Grace? Answer: no. Why confess? It would only give Grace a lot of grief, and he had wronged the poor woman quite enough already.

  The way to make things up to Grace was not by confession, but by trying to be the kind of husband she wanted him to be—mature, responsible, family-oriented, civic-minded. He highly resolved that starting today he would be precisely such a husband.

  Correction: not starting today. Starting tomorrow. Before he put his feet on the straight and narrow path, he wanted one more whirl around the Maypole. With Grace, of course. Only with Grace. Tonight when he got home he would say to her, “Honey, you see before you a new man—mature, responsible, family-oriented, civic-minded. Let us celebrate this reformation. Let us go tonight to a country inn and have a bird and a bottle. Then let us go upstairs and spend the night. Let us hold each other very tight and look upon the moonswept lawn and declare our love. Let us store up precious memories to sustain us in the busy days ahead.”

  Yes, thought, Harry, nodding his head energetically, that was exactly what he would do—one last romantic fling at a country inn and then a lifetime of earnestness. And he would insist on a country inn tonight. No matter what plans Grace might have made, he would force her to cancel them. There would be plenty of other nights to be mature, responsible, family-oriented, and civic-minded. This night was for love, and love alone.

  He had one more drink to shore up his determination, and then the train arrived at Putnam’s Landing, and he got off, and it was pouring rain, and Grace was not there to meet him.