by Max Shulman
After tossing for an hour, she abandoned the pursuit of sleep, switched on the bedlamp, lit a cigarette, and gave herself up to despair. A fine kettle of fish, thought she blackly. Here she was—38 years old and stuck in Putnam’s Landing with no husband nor prospect of any. Oscar was gone and Harry was unavailable, and it was nobody’s fault but her own. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have made such a thundering booboo as to cut Oscar loose before she had Harry properly hooked?
And now what to do? Go back to Oscar? It was, she supposed, not impossible, but what sense did it make? Does a butterfly go looking for a lepidopterist? Does a cow run to Swift and Co.? Does the Count of Monte Cristo tunnel back into the Chateau d’lf?
No, she’d had Oscar—ten grinding years of him—and she wanted no more. What she wanted was Harry Bannerman. This, too, was not impossible. In fact, it was downright easy—if she could only get him alone long enough to apply a few elementary holds.
But how in the world could she get Harry alone? The way he clung to Grace these days was positively marsupial! Each night he ran right from the office to Grace, got a firm grip on her, and never let go until he went back to the office the next day. Phone calls from Angela were ignored, notes were unanswered. And it was no use following him around Putnam’s Landing; if he didn’t actually have Grace by the hand, she was always within hailing distance.
No, there was no way to pry Harry loose from Grace … But, thought Angela, suddenly sitting up straight in bed, there was a way to pry Grace loose from Harry. Not a pleasant way, to be sure, but neither was Angela in a pleasant situation. Her bridges were burned, her back was against the wall, her clock was running out, and her canoe was up the well-known creek. Was this a time to think of pleasantries?
Of course not. She must use the remedy which had now occurred to her—a drastic measure, but a sound one: She must go to Grace and confess that she and Harry had become lovers.
Yes, thought Angela with a determined nod, that was the ticket. That would surely drive a wedge between Grace and Harry—if not permanently, at least for a little while. And that’s all Angela wanted: a little while. Just a short time in which to catch Harry away from the pouch and twine herself around him and show him where his happiness truly lay.
Angela glanced at her watch. Six-thirty; a trifle early for phone calls. She switched off the bedlamp and slipped back under the covers. She lay awake refining her plans until eight o’clock. Then she picked up the pink telephone and dialed.
“Grace? … I hope I didn’t wake you, sweetie. It’s Angela … Yes, I’m afraid there is something the matter … Honey, I don’t mean to sound mysterioso, but could you come over here for a few minutes? It’s terribly important … No, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you about it now … Thank you, dear. Oh, one more thing: please don’t tell Harry you’re coming over. Okay? … That’s a lamb … I’ll make some coffee. How do you like it? … Black and bitter? That’s how you’ll get it … I’ll be waiting …”
At 8:34 A.M. on the Fourth of July there was a practice alert on the Nike base. It was a routine training exercise, such as were carried on at unspecified hours every day in order to keep the men on their toes. Captain Walker Hoxie pressed a button, a siren started screaming, troops poured out of the mess hall, barracks, and orderly room and ran on the double to their battle stations. Walker sat at a control board in the darkened BC van with Guido di Maggio by his side. Radarscopes scanned the skies endlessly. A panel of lights told the state of readiness of each missile at the launching pits a mile away. Guido watched the panel. When the lights along the top were all red, he consulted his wrist watch. “Fourteen-oh-nine, sir,” he said to Walker, meaning that in fourteen minutes and nine seconds from the time of the alert, the launchers were all in firing position.
“Gotta do better than that,” growled Walker, but since he did not swear, Guido knew he was satisfied.
Walker secured the troops from alert and, with Guido, went out of the gloomy van and into the bright sunshine.
“Beautiful day for the Fourth of July celebration,” said Guido, cocking an eye at the cloudless sky.
“I’m going with you,” said Walker.
“It usually rains on the Fourth and—You’re what?” cried Guido, doing a double-take of almost professional quality. Walker was going to the Fourth of July celebration? Walker, who had not set foot on the civil soil of Putnam’s Landing since the Welcome Nike party; Walker, who had instructed his sentries to shoot to kill if anyone in mufti came within ten feet of the gate; this same Walker was now voluntarily going out to mingle with civilians?
“Sir!” said Guido. “Why?”
“A good question,” Walker allowed. “I’ll answer it. I’m going because Colonel Thorwald called this morning and said he’s coming up from Fort Totten.”
A hot, expanding ball of fear was suddenly born in Guido’s stomach. So it had arrived at last. D-Day. H-Hour. The moment of truth. Today the Colonel would come and inspect and decide: Guido warm in the arms of Maggie Larkin, or Guido frigid on the trackless tundra. Which?
“What time will he be here?” asked Guido anxiously.
“This afternoon around two or three. He’s got to review a parade at Fort Totten at noon, and then he’s driving up here.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Guido and saluted and got into the jeep and drove to the apartment of Maggie Larkin.
“Maggie,” he said, mopping his brow, “Colonel Thorwald will be here today.”
“Is that bad?” she asked.
“It could be fatal,” he replied grimly. “However, there’s one very big thing in my favor. Today is the Fourth of July and everybody will be loaded with patriotism. I wouldn’t think they’d pick a day like this to gripe to the Colonel.”
“So what are you worried about?”
“One thing—and that’s why I’m here … Maggie, the Rockets have a Little League game this afternoon, and I want to make it perfectly clear to you right now that I am not sending my scrubs in after the third inning. I am keeping them on the bench all through the game.”
“What?” she cried, aghast.
“Today,” said Guido, “we are playing the Cougars, who are in second place, just a half game behind us. If I blow this game, then the Cougars are in first place and the Rockets are in second place, and the parents of the Rockets will come to the dugout and stone me … Now, Maggie, how is that going to look to the Colonel?”
“Guido, I am shocked!” she declared. “Today—the Fourth of July—the stands jammed with people—the most important game of the year—and you are going to keep those poor little boys on the bench? How can you, Guido? How can you? Why don’t you just take a hot iron and brand them ‘Inferior’—‘Second-rate’—‘Unworthy!’”
“Maggie—”
“Today, of all days, you must not reject those children!”
“Maggie, sweetheart, lover,” he pleaded, “the Colonel will ship me to Alaska!”
“Oh, pish!” scoffed Maggie. “Certainly a man who reaches the rank of colonel in the United States Army must have a high degree of intelligence.”
“Hah!” said Guido.
“Just you stop worrying about Alaska. Remember that you have souls in your care. You cannot fail them now!”
“This, I suppose, is your last word?”
“Yes, Guido.”
“Well, goodbye,” he sighed and started away.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” said Guido, “to pack my longies.”
At nine-fifteen A.M. on the Fourth of July, Harry Bannerman came downstairs, walked into the kitchen area, and found his three sons seated at the breakfast bar with three empty bowls in front of them and the table covered with spilled milk, bits of cereal, and various gooey substances.
“Good morning, Papa!” they cried and kissed him from three sides.
“Good morning, boys. Where’s your Mother?”
“She had to go out for a little while,” said Bud.
&nb
sp; “We fixed out own breakfast,” said Peter.
“I had Sugar Pops with chocolate chips and brown sugar,” said Daniel.
“I had Rice Krispies with honey and after-dinner mints,” said Bud.
“I just had a Hershey bar with jelly,” said Peter.
“On behalf of our family dentist, I thank you,” said Harry.
“Do you want us to fix your breakfast, Papa?” said Dan.
“No, thanks,” said Harry hastily. “I’ll get it myself.”
He found the Chemex coffee pot and a box of paper filters. He took out a filter and folded it as he had seen Grace do a thousand times. For him, however, it came out more like a paper hat. He shrugged and tried another. This time he got a paper airplane. A third attempt produced something roughly in the shape of a Maltese cross.
“Ah, the hell with it,” said Harry and went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk.
Grace came into the house.
“Good morning, dear,” said Harry cheerfully. Then he saw her face. A spot of color burned high on each cheek; the rest was dead-white. Her lips were drawn tight. Her eyes were narrow and strange.
Harry rushed to her side. “What’s wrong, Grace?” he said in alarm.
She turned away, eluding his grasp. “Children,” she said in a strained voice, “I want you to go outside and play.”
“But, Mama, I want to read my history book,” said Bud. “It’s the Fourth of July.”
“Outside!” snapped Grace. “All of you! Now!”
The boys looked at her in bewilderment. “Yes, Mama,” they whispered and padded quickly out, casting nervous glances over their shoulders.
“Grace, for God’s sake, what is it?” demanded Harry.
She faced him. Her eyes bored into his. “I’ve just come from Angela Hoffa’s house,” she said.
A sadness descended on Harry—a sadness such as he had never known. “What did Angela say?” he asked, and his voice seemed to be coming from far away.
“She told me she has been having an affair with you,” replied Grace evenly. “She said it has been going on for several weeks and in several places. She said that you and she were in love and that you wanted to divorce me and marry her.”
“That’s a lie!” shouted Harry.
“What’s a lie?”
“Grace, I don’t want to divorce you! I wouldn’t dream of divorcing you. I love you!”
“And the rest?”
“The rest?” he said, not comprehending.
“The rest of Angela’s statement. Is that a lie too?”
He looked into Grace’s hard, searching eyes. He turned up his palms helplessly.
“I see,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
“Grace, I can explain.”
“I hope so. I devoutly hope so.”
Harry paused, thought how to begin, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can’t explain. I thought I had some justification, but it’s no good.”
“May I hear it?”
“It’s childish. I got sore because of all your activities—the house, the kids, the clubs, politics. Maybe I was jealous. Or maybe I had to prove I was still a man, even if you didn’t seem to need me. I don’t know … Anyhow, it’s no justification.”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” said Grace. “I can’t say that I approve it, but I certainly understand it. I pushed you too far, and you felt you had to do something. All right I accept that.”
“You do?” said Harry, hope returning.
“I do once!” she replied sharply. “If this had happened only once, well, I guess I’d just lick my wounds and try to forget it. But we’re not talking about once, are we? We’re talking about habitual and systematic adultery—and that, Harry, I have not got coming!”
“Grace, I swear it!” cried Harry. “After the first time, I never intended to come near Angela again. I swear it! But somehow I just couldn’t get away.”
“I see,” said Grace coldly. “What did Angela have? A gun? An ether cone? What?”
“Please listen to me. No matter how bad things look, you’ve got to believe I love you. Believe me, I take my oath, I love you, only you, nobody but you, and never for one minute have I stopped loving you!”
“Even in Angela’s arms?”
“You’re making it awfully tough, Grace.”
“Did you expect a gold watch?”
“Let me say it once more: I love you. This business with Angela, I regret more than you will ever know. I can’t justify it, not in any particular. I can only hope that you will forgive me. I love you, Grace, with all my heart. I’ll never give you cause again to doubt it.”
“Now I’ll make my speech,” said Grace. “It’s a simple one. Small matters are sometimes complicated, but fundamental things like this are always simple. When Angela told me the news this morning, I knew immediately what had to be done. It came almost like a reflex: first the problem; then, automatically, the solution. There’s only one, you know—only one solution.”
“Yes?”
“You are leaving here, Harry,” said Grace steadily. “I don’t want to be married to you any more.”
“Grace! In God’s name, what are you saying? I love you!”
“I can’t believe that—not ever again—and if I can’t then I can’t be your wife. You see? I told you it was simple.”
“Grace, listen to me!”
“No. This is nothing we can patch up with promises. There’s no trust left. It’s gone.”
“If you’ll only listen—”
“Harry, please! I have somehow managed to hold myself together, but one more second of this and I am going to fly into hysterics! Now please, please for the sake of the children, will you leave quickly and quietly and without another word?”
He stood rooted for a moment, looking into her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered.
He nodded and left by the kitchen door, taking care to stay out of sight of his sons.
Grace stood quite still, squeezing her hands together hard, clenching her teeth.
Peter came bursting in from outside. “I gotta wee,” he announced.
“All right, dear,” said Grace.
“Where’s Papa?”
“He—he had to go to New York.”
“Oh,” said Peter. “But we’re going to the beach anyhow, aren’t we?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Poor Papal He’ll miss everything.”
Grace turned her back abruptly on the boy. Her shoulders were perfectly still, her head was erect, her arms were at her sides, not a sound came from her throat. Only her eyes were weeping.
At 2:59 P.M. on the Fourth on July, Guido di Maggio’s Rockets were tied 0—0 with the Cougars at the end of three innings of a hard fought ball game on the Little League Field at Ram’s Head Beach.
Guido, sighing, went into the dugout to bench his regulars and send out his scrubs for the beginning of the fourth inning. It meant, of course, throwing away the game because the Cougars were a tough and determined team. But so was Maggie Larkin tough and determined, and she was sitting right now in the nearby bleachers fixing Guido with an implacable eye. Well, thought Guido, clinging to any consolation however tiny, at least Colonel Thorwald had not yet arrived, and it was conceivable that the Cougars could make such short work of his bench-warmers that the game would be over before the Colonel got there … On the other hand, thought Guido with a sudden trembling in the extremities, it was equally conceivable that the Cougars could bat all night.
Guido dragged himself over to his bench. “Boys,” he said, looking without joy at the collection of puny limbs, baby fat, and spongy tissue there assembled, “go on in and play.”
The scrubs, their heads averted, remained seated.
“Didn’t you hear me?” said Guido. “It’s time for you to go in.”
Daniel Bannerman, smallest of the scrubs, rose. “Sir,” he said, “we’ve been talking it over. We don’t want to go in. We want to win the g
ame and stay in first place.”
A wave of exultation came over Guido—came and went. Naturally he wanted to win the game—for the sake of the team, for the sake of his job. But he could feel Maggie’s eyes drilling into his back. “Sorry, fellows,” he said. “You have to go in.”
“Please!” begged Daniel. “Please don’t make us play!”
“You have to,” said Guido. “You’ll get your psyche all scarred.”
“Oh, sir, please, please, please!” cried Daniel, his eyes filling with tears. “It’s so wonderful to be in first place!”
And Guido—Maggie Larkin to the contrary notwithstanding—saw clearly in which direction lay mental health. “Okay,” he said, coming to a decision. “You guys stay on the bench. Regulars, go back in!”
The first team ran happily out on the field. Guido shot a look at Maggie in the stands. He saw her eyes and mouth widen with stunned disbelief; then he saw them narrow with rage. She rose and started walking out of the ball park with wrathful, rapid strides.
“Hey, Maggie!” Guido shouted after her. “It was the kid’s idea, not mine. Honest to God, Maggie, I didn’t do it on account of the Colonel. He isn’t even here!”
But Maggie was not able to hear Guido because the parents of Guido’s regulars, who were under the bleachers forming a lynching party in case Guido benched their sons again, were splitting the air with great, joyous cheers.
“Play ball!” called the umpire.
Guido squatted by his dugout and watched Maggie’s stiff back retreating in the distance. Mad again, thought he morosely. And when she got mad, it took forever to make her glad.
Oh well, he thought, brightening somewhat, at least he would be in Putnam’s Landing to carry on the gladdening of Maggie. Because he was going to win today’s ball game; of that he was confident. And at the end of the game—by which time the Colonel would certainly have arrived—the parents of the Rockets would come rushing to Guido to clasp his hand and pound his back, and the Colonel, observing this touching scene, would surely conclude that Guido was the right man in the right place!
