Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse

by Faith Sullivan

  “It does make you wonder about God, doesn’t it?” Eudora said. “All I could think was what if it were my son or my grandson Neddy?” Word had come that the new librarian’s son had been killed in the South Pacific.

  Nell stirred sugar into her cup and nodded. “As I grow old, I think about God a good deal, Eudora. And not with great favor.”

  “It’s my opinion that we give God too much credit,” said Eudora. “How old was this boy? Eighteen? Nineteen? What kind of godly thing is it to kill a nineteen-year-old boy?”

  “Won’t you take half my doughnut?”

  “No, thank you. It’d rile my stomach.”

  “Will they want you back at the library while the mother’s in mourning?”

  “I doubt it. I’m too old.” Eudora pushed a ketchup bottle back and forth. “I feel guilty about her.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “I’ve held it against her for taking my job.”

  “You didn’t show it.”

  “Inside, I was loathing her. Now you know how petty I am.”

  Nell laughed and placed half her doughnut on Eudora’s saucer. “Confession is good for the stomach.”

  “Now Mr. Roosevelt’s never gonna see the end of the war,” Beverly grieved, once inside the apartment. “That’s so unfair. Who’s gonna look after us?” Weeping, Beverly and Sally had climbed Nell’s stairs, seeking comfort.

  Franklin Roosevelt was the only president they’d ever known, a second father. On the radio, the day after Pearl Harbor, it was Roosevelt who’d assured them that we would win the war, that they must have faith. And they did.

  “Mr. Truman’s the new president,” Nell told the girls.

  “I know, but what’s gonna happen? Are the Japs gonna win now?” Beverly pressed.

  “Heavens, no.”

  “This Truman guy looks kinda puny, don’t you think?” Beverly observed.

  On May 7, following Beverly’s concerns, Germany surrendered. Folks danced in the streets of Harvester and lifted their glasses in Reagan’s. And on August 15, President Truman announced the end of the war. In Harvester, the news arrived at 6:00 p.m.

  Nell called Eudora. “When you’ve finished supper, come for a drink.” When her friend appeared, a golden sunset was throwing a benediction over the town. The brick wall of Kolchak’s Chevrolet and Oldsmobile glowed as if from within. “All I have is a bottle of scotch that Agatha Nightingale left here,” Nell told her friend.

  “I’m a sherry drinker myself,” Eudora said, entering and producing a bottle from a knitting bag. “I was glad when you called,” she continued, pouring sherry into a glass and sitting back in the rocker. “Neddy’s at a friend’s, and Ed and Brenda went over to the Legion Hall. Well, you know what a bacchanal that’ll be. Too noisy for me.”

  “Maybe it’s my age, but I didn’t want to be in a crowd tonight,” Nell said. “Life is hurtling by the way the last grains of sand in the hourglass seem to run out more quickly than the first.”

  “I know. It’s too much, too fast. I keep thinking of the librarian—they say she’s rocky, and Brenda says she’s drinking. But that’s my daughter-in-law for you.” Eudora pursed her lips. “Ever the Pollyanna.” She sipped sherry.

  “And now we have to think about those poor people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. So many innocents.” Nell poured two fingers of scotch into a glass.

  “Be careful who you say that to,” Eudora warned. “I said something like that in Lundeen’s, and another customer nearly took my head off. ‘Those damned Japs?’ she said, ‘How can you feel sorry for them? Think of Pearl Harbor and all our boys that’re dead.’”

  “How would she feel if the bomb had dropped on us? And maybe some day it will.” Nell studied her scotch against the light. “The atom thing isn’t going away.”

  “Don’t you wonder how the folks who invented it feel? All those souls simply liquefied, for God’s sake. Mothers with babies in their arms, little boys on their way to school. One minute they’re joking and the next minute, their atoms are floating off in that, whad’ya call it, that firestorm.”

  Nell shivered. “I’m glad Hilly’s gone.”

  “Still, no more boys will die in this war,” Eudora said, raising her glass.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  The following day, one last grubby note waited for Nell at the post office. “Good-bye.” One learned that some mysteries are never resolved. Still, she’d been haunted by this unseen enemy for many years; in some ways she’d changed because of him or her. The poison pen had made her examine herself closely. She would not of course have hesitated in her affair with John—nor even in the bobbing of her hair—but in other ways she doubted the pen had intended, she’d found herself wanting and tried to improve. She’d learned to forgive “enemies,” for example, imagining that they too suffered hidden torments. In coming to the end of the notes, she felt a peculiar sense of loss.

  But the most surprising piece of mail addressed to Nell Stillman in 1945 was this:

  Dear Nell,

  Forgive my presumption in addressing you in this personal manner, however I feel that we are old friends.

  Your letter’s delay in reaching me, for reasons too complicated to retail—except to say that they involved a ship propelled by Pigmy oarsmen, a poste restante operated by escapees from a home for the violently illiterate, a tropical storm, and a three-legged dog with a taste for proper English—was a great misfortune for myself. I have needed just such kind assurances.

  But, early or late, your letter is cherished.

  My life’s companion, Ethel, seated in the armchair nearest, wept when she read your words. My own vision dimmed, nor do I credit that it was due to the spotty electricity of our present accommodations.

  Nell, I enclose a copy of Money in the Bank, a paltry thanks. You write that my words on occasion have provided allayment from grief, but I truly hope that henceforth you will read them free of that need.

  Your servant,

  P. G. Wodehouse

  A first edition!—and it was signed, “To Nell, jewel among women, in whose debt shall always be found yours truly, P. G. (Plum to you) Wodehouse.”

  With the letter tucked inside, Money in the Bank was placed on a pretty doily atop the corner table, beside photos of Hilly, John, and Silly. The book felt like a trophy, though she had done little to earn one. Still, her breast heaved with expansive contentment whenever her eye fell upon it.

  My darling Mr. Wodehouse, where should I be without you?

  Eudora ignored the book entirely.

  chapter sixty

  NELL LOOKED DOWN AT STELLA WHEELER, dead of a ruptured appendix. Made up and hairstyled, Stella no longer resembled the distracted, disheveled, and undeniably beautiful woman Nell had known—the woman who, even in the depths of her unhappiness, had come to Nell to confess her grief over the attack on Hilly.

  Nell spoke her condolences to Sally and to her father. Hearing the inadequacy of her own words, she winced, and went on to say, “Stella was good to my son. Many people weren’t. But she understood him better than most. I wish I could thank her again for her kindness.” Sally sat beside her father, staring at some distant place where all of this would be a memory. At thirteen, she had inherited her mother’s beauty and maybe whatever went with it.

  The room was crowded and overheated, and Nell left after speaking with Sally’s grandparents. Stella’s mother was talking nonsense, insisting that Stella had been nearly ready to resume a normal life. But how do you fault a woman who has lost her only child? Would it be presumptuous, Nell wondered, to send her a Wodehouse?

  Much of the next two years passed with barely a murmur. Life was quiet and days evaporated. What would Nell remember of this time? She thought of Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, set in a tuberculosis sanatorium. Mann made the point that it is the year empty of event that in memory seems to have passed quickly, since it contains no mileposts of occurrence to give it substance. On the other hand, a year full of event see
ms longer in memory because of its many mileposts.

  However, one thing Nell would remember from the spring of 1946, after Stella’s death, was Sally blowing into the apartment, slamming the door behind her, and throwing herself on the daybed in a pose to do Sarah Bernhardt proud. At thirteen, she was coming into womanhood, growing into the person she would be: beautiful, theatrical, insecure, and vulnerable.

  “Now what?” Nell asked as Sally tossed her arms about in a fit of frustration.

  “Beverly’s mother’s getting married! Some yokel farmer named Elwood Hanson!”

  “Well, good for her, if he’s a decent man. Why should you care?”

  “Because Beverly’ll be stuck in the country.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It’s tragic. My God, she’ll be out on that farm, a million miles from anywhere.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I doubt that it’s a million miles from Harvester but, in any case, let’s wait and see.”

  Sally sprang up and paced the room, turning dramatically. “I say she’s betrayed me.” And that was that.

  Sally did not soon forgive Beverly her mother’s marriage. Life was full of betrayals: first, Stella; then, her best friend. And since angry girls do foolish things, Nell was not surprised when Beverly revealed that now-fourteen-year-old Sally had dated and then dismissed young Gus Rabel’s son, Billy.

  That particular threat blew over, however, according to Beverly. “When Sally saw how ignorant he was, she gave him his walking papers.”

  No longer quite the ragamuffin, Beverly had paused and sipped her tea. “Being a football hero wasn’t enough when she found out he didn’t even know who John Steinbeck was.”

  Nell suppressed a smile.

  Beverly set her cup down. “’Course he was mad. Girls don’t break up with him! He went around school telling everybody that Sally was easy, if you know what I mean.”

  Nell nodded

  “Which she’s not. At least, not yet.”

  “What does that mean? My word, she’s just a child.”

  “Since her mother died, Sally’s gotten, I don’t know—reckless? She doesn’t know where she’s going, and she doesn’t care. Something bad could happen to her, just because she’s not paying attention. I’m afraid.”

  Nell would later remember Beverly’s fear.

  From a chair drawn up to her bedroom window, Nell watched the 1949 Harvester Days throng wander up and down Main Street, where the carnival was spread out. The sound of the calliope evoked memories of John, who had always been in town for the Harvester Days, shaking hands, asking questions, laughing and escorting Nell on the merry-go-round.

  In front of Lundeen’s Dry Goods stood Larry Lundeen in his vanilla-colored suit and Panama hat, elegant and cool despite the heat. How like his father he looked. Nell watched him nod and tip his hat to the librarian.

  And there, waving and shouting to Nell, were her girls, steady Beverly and mercurial Sally, friends once more, summer tanned and lovely. Nell blew them kisses and they blew them back. Then they meandered toward the Ferris wheel, careening through the crowd, throwing off sparks.

  Nell remained at the window, trying to keep Sally in her sight, feeling unreasoned anxiety. For several minutes she lost the girl in the crush, then spied her on the Ferris wheel with a boy, no one Nell recognized.

  The sun was lowering behind the buildings on the west side of the street, and stars were breaking through the thin cloth of early evening. At length Nell drew her chair away, but left the curtain pulled aside so that any breeze stirring the thick August air would find its way into her bedroom.

  In the twilit living room, she poured a finger of scotch over ice cubes and sat down among the shadows. How many years since John had died? Twenty-seven? She sat in the accumulating darkness, waiting for him. He came often. Perhaps tonight he’d assure her that she was unduly anxious about Sally.

  A week or so later, the front page of the Standard Ledger featured an article about a new high-school faculty member: Drew Davis, a Minnesota native who had taught for five years in California, served a stint in sales, and was returning to the teaching profession and to his home state to enjoy “real winters” once more. Mr. Davis would be responsible for senior English, speech, and the class plays.

  His photo was sophisticated, a studio portrait. With a strong chin, deep-set eyes, and a shock of what would turn out to be auburn hair, he appeared forty-five at the outside. Nell hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed by the town’s lack of worldliness.

  On the way to her after-school job at the soda fountain in Egger’s Drug Store, Beverly pulled to the curb in the car she now drove to and from town.

  Climbing out, she hailed Nell, who was leaving the grocery store. “Mrs. Stillman!” As Nell drew near, “You’ve got to meet the new English teacher, Mr. Davis. He’s a book person, like you.”

  Nell followed Beverly into the drugstore, setting her bag of groceries on the marble counter of the soda fountain and climbing onto a swiveling stool. No mean feat at seventy-four. When Beverly had donned an apron, Nell ordered a Coke. “You’re enjoying English?”

  “He’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. He gives the greatest assignments. For instance, we write funny skits in English class and then we act ’em out in speech class. Sally’s really good at that stuff. But . . . well, never mind.” Leaving something unsaid, Beverly hurried away to take orders.

  Days later, Eudora phoned. “You’re friends with that little Wheeler girl.” At seventy-nine, Eudora regarded any woman under the age of fifty as “little” . . . whoever.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I for one am worried about her.”

  “How do you even know her?”

  “My grandnephew Cole, from over in St. Bridget, has been taking her out.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “For her. He’s trouble, real trouble. I hate to say it about family, but Hal Barnstable and his wife, Denise, are monied trash. They’ve neglected Cole until he’s ruined. He’s a senior now, but in tenth grade, he got a girl pregnant. Tenth grade! Hal paid her family off. Tell Sally Wheeler that he’s a bad lot.”

  But one who knows who John Steinbeck is.

  Days later, confirmation of Eudora’s worries came from Beverly at the drugstore. “This Cole guy is bad news.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, Mr. Davis gave Sally the lead in the senior class play. And Cole told her to quit.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Some sort of test. If she loves him, she’ll quit. If she doesn’t quit, well . . .”

  “She’s not going to quit, is she?”

  “No. But that’s the scary part. She’s crazy about this bum, and now he’s broken up with her. Remember how I said something bad could happen? I think he’s it.”

  “Is it so awful, this boy breaking it off?”

  “She thinks so. Plus . . .” Beverly lowered her voice. “I think he’s nuts. I mean really nuts. I’m afraid he’ll do something. . . .”

  “Why would she go out with someone like that?”

  “He’s one of those crippled dogs you take home and try to fix. Then they end up giving you hydrophobia.”

  chapter sixty-one

  NELL HAD NO IDEA HOW TO INTERVENE in Sally’s problem. She couldn’t say, “I’ve been hearing stories.” Sally would hike a shoulder and flounce away.

  Meanwhile, Nell was curious about Drew Davis, the teacher directing the girl in Our Town. So curious, she decided to sneak into a rehearsal. Luckily, she still had a key to the side door of the school.

  The door opened into a dark passage leading to the auditorium balcony. But where was the light switch? As she inched along, at the far end of the hall, the balcony door clicked open and a dim, hurrying figure brushed by, nearly colliding with her full on.

  After the outside door slammed, Nell stood still, her heartbeat surprising her with its ferocity. When it calmed, she crept into the balcony, sat down, and slipped out of he
r coat. No one noticed her, as they doubtless had not noticed the previous trespasser.

  The rehearsal paused, while the director sprang to the stage and spoke words Nell couldn’t hear. He was motioning, giving a direction to Sally, who nodded.

  As the action proceeded, he called to Sally, “Yes. That’s it.”

  Drew Davis was dramatically attractive. Not handsome, but compelling, his features intense. His voice was cultured, and Nell wondered whether his California years in “sales” had been spent trying for a movie career.

  She remained for half an hour, admiring the sure, patient way he handled the cast. Sally shone as Emily, each line ringing true. And Eudora’s grandson, Neddy, was as convincing as a teenager could be in the mature role of Stage Manager.

  Returning home, Nell banked the fire in her little stove and prepared a cup of hot chocolate. Setting it on the bedside table, she began undressing, all the while pondering her fellow interloper.

  Of course it could have been a curious parent—but surely a parent would have spoken when they’d actually touched her in passing.

  On the first Sunday afternoon in April, with a temporary softening in the weather, Nell walked across town to return copies of the Saturday Review of Literature to Larry Lundeen. She hadn’t called ahead; if he wasn’t home, she’d leave them inside the storm door. But his Chrysler was in the drive, and when she rang the bell, he answered. “Nell. Come in, come in.”

  “I won’t stay. I just wanted to return these,” she said, handing him the magazines.

  “Of course you’ll stay.” Tossing the magazines down on a bench, he helped Nell out of her coat.

  “Oh, dear, you have company.” Drew Davis was sitting by the fire, a glass in his hand. Setting it down, he rose.

  “Please seat yourself, Mr. Davis. I’m Nell Stillman, and I feel as if we’ve already met.”

  Larry pointed her toward an Edwardian chair.

  “I remember first admiring this chair nearly forty years ago, in your mother’s living room on Catalpa,” Nell said.