by Irwin Shaw
“Also,” Scheepers said, “there has been some slipup in the helmets. The amateur team that was supposed to play here this morning and leave the helmets didn’t play on account of the snow, so you will have to play without helmets.”
“Good old Scheepers,” Holstein said, “He thinks of everything.”
“It was an error,” Scheepers said. “An unavoidable error. Lots of guys play without helmets.”
“Lots of guys jump off bridges, too,” Holstein said.
“What the hell good is a helmet anyway?” Scheepers demanded. “Every time you need it, it falls off.”
“Any other little thing on your mind?” Holstein asked. “You’re sure you didn’t want us to play with only eight men because it’s a small crowd?”
The men laughed, and then, one by one, they filed out onto the field, swinging their arms to keep warm in the freezing wind that swept down on them from the north. Scheepers watched them a moment and then he went into the field house and switched on the public-address system. “‘March, march on down the field,’” sang the public-address system as Scheepers’ Red Devils lined up to receive the kick, without helmets.
Free Conscience,
Void of Offence
“To Chamberlain!” one of the women at the bar was saying, her glass held high, as Margaret Clay and her father came into the small, pleasant room, lit by candles, with a big oak fire burning steadily in the fireplace and the glassware and cutlery on the tables winking softly in the firelight. “He saved my son for me,” the woman said loudly. She was a woman of nearly fifty who had obviously been pretty once. “To my good friend Neville Chamberlain!”
The other two women and the three men at the bar drank soberly as Margaret and her father sat down at a table.
“That Dorothy Thompson!” said the friend of Neville Chamberlain. “She makes me so mad! Did you see what she wrote about him? If I had her here!” She waved her fist and the wrinkles in her face suddenly bit deeper. “I won’t read her any more. Not once more. You know what she is? She’s a Red. She’s rabid!”
“This is a nice place,” Margaret’s father said, looking around him with a happy expression. “It has a pleasant atmosphere. Do you come here often?”
“Boys take me here,” Margaret said. “It’s only about ten miles from school, and they like the candlelight and the open fire, even though it costs three bucks a dinner. Boys always think candlelight and an open fire act like heavy artillery on a girl’s resistance. Two hours of that, they figure, and they can just walk in and mop up.”
“Margaret,” Mr. Clay said, like a father, “I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”
Margaret laughed, and leaned over and patted her father’s hand. “What’s the matter, Pop?” she asked. “Your long years at the Stork Club turn you tender?”
“You’re too young to talk like that,” Mr. Clay said, disliking the fact that she had called him Pop, disliking her thinking that he went often to the Stork Club. “A twenty-year-old girl should …”
The owner of the place, a beautifully dressed, pink-faced man of forty who looked like a boy, was standing beside their table, smiling, having come out from behind the bar, where at dinner-time he mixed the drinks scrupulously himself.
“Hello, Mr. Trent,” Margaret said. “This is my father. He likes your place.”
“Thank you,” Trent said, bowing a little, smiling like a little boy. “I’m pleased.”
“It has a very pleasant atmosphere,” Mr. Clay said.
“Mr. Trent has a specialty,” Margaret said. “He makes it with rum.”
“Rum, lime juice, sugar, a little Cointreau in the bottom of the glass.” Trent waved his hands delicately as he spoke.
“It comes out foamy,” Margaret said. “It’s nice on the teeth.”
“I’m making it now with black Jamaica rum,” Trent said. “Myers’ rum, it’s heavier, for the autumn. I make it on the electric mixer. It gives it a nice quality.”
“Two,” said Mr. Clay, wishing he had the courage to order a Martini.
The six people at the bar were singing now. “The old gray mare,” they sang, loudly, consciously having a good time, consciously being gay and lively, and yet singing with a slight touch of burlesque, so that anybody could see these were no yokels. “The old gray mare,” they sang, “she ain’t what she used to be, Oh, she ain’t what she used to be …”
Margaret watched them, grouped at the bar, their heads together—a cluster of men’s middle-aged sparse gray hair, neatly brushed; and carefully curled and elaborately arranged coiffures on the women that in this light, at least, had a last, desperate look of youth. The woman who had toasted Chamberlain had been here once before when Margaret had come for dinner. Mrs. Taylor, Trent had called her, and she’d been in with a man other than her husband, whose hand she was holding now. Margaret had noticed her quick look around the room before she seated herself, her tiny adjustment of her corset, betraying the fact that the achievement of that trim and almost elegant figure came only as a.result of engineering and torture under the smart silk print dress. A man they called Oliver, who looked slightly older than the others, somehow more confident and breezy, as though he had more money in the bank than any of his friends, led the singing with elaborate gestures of his hands, like a burlesque of Stokowski. Mr. Taylor was the least noisy of the three men. He wheezed a little and drank sparingly. Margaret was sure he had a bad stomach and was already looking sorrowfully ahead to the aspirin and Alka-Seltzer the next morning. The third man was fat, and his scalp bloomed through his hair and he had a piped vest, which made him look like a businessman in the movies, except that when he wasn’t singing his face looked intelligent and very cold. The other two women were standard suburban mothers nearing fifty, forlornly carrying on their battle against age, loneliness, and death with powder, rouge, rejuvenating cream, accustomed now to neglect from their husbands and children, full of mild, half-formed regrets for their lives as they drove behind their middle-aged chauffeurs down to New York in the late mornings for lunch and shopping.
“What does that sign say?” Mr. Clay said loudly, over the noise of the singing. He was peering out the window at the large sign on the lawn with the name of the inn on it.
“‘Free conscience, void of offence, 1840,’” Margaret said.
“That’s a queer thing to have on a sign advertising a restaurant,” Mr. Clay said.
Trent had come to their table with the drinks. “It came with the place,” he apologized. “I didn’t have the heart to take it down.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Mr. Clay said quickly, hoping he hadn’t hurt Trent’s feelings. “It’s an admirable sentiment.” He tasted the drink. “Wonderful!” he said loudly, over the singing, to make Trent feel better. “Absolutely wonderful!”
Trent smiled and went back to the bar, where his six customers were calling for more drinks.
Mr. Clay settled back in his chair, savoring his drink, expecting a good dinner. “Now, tell me,” he said, “why you dragged me up here.”
Margaret played reflectively with her glass. “I wanted to ask your advice,” she said.
Mr. Clay sat forward and stared intently at his daughter. Usually when girls that age asked advice in that sober, reflective tone, it was on only one subject. Margaret noticed him leaning forward, staring at her, his handsome gray eyes now full of worry and suspicion.
“What’s the matter?” Margaret asked. “What’re you looking so scared about?”
“You can tell me everything,” Mr. Clay said, wishing she wouldn’t.
“Oh!” Margaret said. “Please sit back. The patient isn’t dying. All I brought you up here for was to tell you I wanted to quit school. Now, take that look out of your eyes.” She laughed, but her laugh was nervous, and over her glass she eyed her father, who ran a great business and paid a huge income tax each year to the government.
“I didn’t have any look in my eyes,” Mr. Clay said, laughing, deciding instantly t
hat that was the way to handle it—gently, with an easy laugh, pretending that it was all light and cheerful, that he was a good fellow, practically her own age, that he understood everything. “Who’s the boy?”
“It isn’t any boy.”
“Now, Margaret,” he said lightly, “your father’s been around …”
“I know my father’s been around,” Margaret said. “The headwaiters’ delight.” Mr. Clay looked hurt, his eyes narrowing, his mouth falling into the straight line Margaret remembered, and she spoke hurriedly. “I don’t mind it,” she said. “In fact, I like it. It makes me feel I come from durable yet light-footed stock. Every time I see your picture with one of those girls in a mink coat, I feel proud. Honest.”
“What I meant to say,” Mr. Clay said coldly, “was that you could tell me the truth.”
“There isn’t any boy.”
“To my daughter!” Mrs. Taylor said loudly, her glass held high. “This is an anniversary. A year ago I gave my pure and beautiful daughter away in marriage. Now I’m a grandmother. To my daughter!”
“To the grandmother!” said Oliver, the one who spoke the loudest and oftenest and with the most assurance. “To the poor, broken-down, pure, and beautiful old grandmother!”
All the people at the bar laughed, as though this was a wonderful joke, and Oliver slapped Mrs. Taylor heartily on the back. “Now, Oliver,” she said mildly, wriggling her back.
“I just want to quit school,” Margaret said, scowling a little at the people making so much noise at the bar. “It bores me.”
“It’s the best school for women in the country,” Mr. Clay said. “And you’ve done very well. And you’ve only got two more years to go.”
“It bores me.”
“I’ve always thought,” Mr. Clay said carefully, “that a good school was the best place for a young and unsettled girl to spend four very important years of her life.”
“I’m in abeyance in school,” Margaret said. “My whole life’s in abeyance. Everything’s happening outside and nothing’s happening inside. A girls’ school is a continual Junior League ball!”
“It seems to me there’re a couple of classes to be attended,” Mr. Clay said with heavy irony. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Remote, remote,” Margaret said dreamily. “Anglo-Saxon literature. The development of the novel. The nervous system of the worm. You look at the front page of one newspaper, you listen to one conversation in the subway in New York, when you go in on a week-end, you see one play, and your mind begins to itch because you’re stuck in that organdie-and-douche-bag nunnery.”
“Margaret!” Mr. Clay said, honestly shocked.
“The French novel, Elizabethan poetry, exclusive of the drama—remote, remote, the world’s racing by. Mr. Trent,” Margaret called, “we want two more.”
“A good college affords protection.” Mr. Clay felt uneasy saying it, but felt he had to say it or something like it, play the father decently and in good form, although he had never played the father with Margaret, had always been friendly and easy with her until the past year, when she had suddenly changed. “It affords protection to a young girl at a time when she’s unstable, easily swayed …”
“I don’t want to be afforded protection,” Margaret said. “I want to be easily swayed.” She looked out at the sign, standing, lit, on the lawn. “‘Free conscience, void of offence, 1840.’ That’s the nicest thing about this whole place.”
Trent came over with the drinks. Neatly and ceremoniously, he cleared away the old glasses, the wet paper napkins, flicked ashes, put down the fresh glasses, smiling admiringly at Mr. Clay, because his suit, shoes, wrist watch, the complexion of his skin were all handsome, expensive, rigorously correct.
Margaret watched the people at the bar while Trent fussed over the table. The men all had on dark-gray or blue double-breasted suits and starched white collars, as sharp and neat as knives, and ties, small, precise, of heavy silk, fitted into the collars so snugly that they seemed to spring from the throat itself. Cuff links, neat but expensive, gleamed at all their wrists, and their shoes, deeply shining and brought from England, made them look as though they were all equipped with exactly the same feet. Their faces, Margaret thought, were familiar, the faces of her friends’ fathers, well barbered, controlled, with not too much fat on them; the lines not deep now but soon to be deep; the eyes, the mouths, assured, arrogant, superior, because the men had never found a place in the last forty years of their lives where they hadn’t made themselves at home, felt themselves superior. They were the faces of businessmen ready to assume responsibility, give orders, watch machines run for them, money be counted for them. They had come from the same colleges, married the same girls, listened to the same sermons, were marked similarly, the way bullets fired from the same gun are similarly marked, can be identified when dug out of walls, picture frames, car moldings, victims.
“I’m going to get drunk tonight,” Mrs. Taylor was saying. “I’m not going to church tomorrow. I prayed all week and I don’t have to go to church tomorrow. I’m going to get drunk.”
“Mrs. Chamberlain prayed every morning,” one of the suburban mothers, a bright blonde, said. “She went in and prayed in Westminster Abbey while her husband was flying day after day to Germany.”
“That’s the sort of wife to have,” Mr. Taylor said.
“It was the old man’s first trip,” the fattest man said. “He’d never been up in an airplane before. Sixty-nine years old. That’s a hell of a first trip!”
“‘Out of this nettle, danger,’” the blonde said, “‘we pluck this flower, safety,’ he said when he came back. It’s from Shakespeare. He’s a well-educated man.”
“All those Englishmen are well educated,” Mr. Taylor said. “The ruling class. They know how to run a country. Not like what we have here.”
“The contacts you make at college,” Mr. Clay said, “are the most important …”
“Sh-h-h.” Margaret waved impatiently at him. “I’m listening.”
“I’m going to get drunk tonight,” Mrs. Taylor said. “I prayed for peace so my son wouldn’t have to go to war, and I got peace. What do I have to go to church for any more? Let’s have another round.”
“‘Peace in our time,’” the blonde said. “That’s what he said when he got off the plane. That old man with the umbrella.”
“Do you want my advice?” Mr. Clay asked.
Margaret looked at him, at the face she remembered as the first thing in her life, deep down at the bottom of memory, the handsome, easy, cheerful face, now troubled, puzzled, in a funny way helpless, loaded tonight with this problem of a twenty-year-old daughter. “Sure,” Margaret said softly, feeling suddenly sorry for her father. “I want your advice. That’s why I asked you to come. You’re dependable,” she said, smiling. “After all, you were the one who advised me to cut my hair the first time.”
Mr. Clay smiled happily. He sipped his drink, spread his beautiful, well-kept hands lightly on the table, talked gently to his daughter. She watched the people at the bar as he talked about the friends you made at college, the people you could live with for the rest of your life, the memories you stored up, the important contacts.
A new party had come in, two men and two women, all of them with cold, red faces, as though they had been riding in an open car. One of the men was just like the other men at the bar—neat, double-breasted in blue, with English feet—and the women, though younger, lived on the same streets as the women already at the bar. The second man was a huge, fat man in a light tweed suit with a black slip-on sweater under it, and a white shirt, very white now under the heavy-hanging, deep-red jowls.
“Roar, Lion, Roar,” the man in tweeds was singing. “Twenty-seven–fourteen.”
“Who won?” asked Mr. Taylor.
“Columbia,” the man in tweeds said. “Twenty-seven–fourteen. Hail Columbia! I’m a Columbia man.”
“Who’d’ve thought that a team from New York City would ever beat Yale?”
Mr. Taylor said.
“I don’t believe it,” Oliver said.
“Twenty-seven–fourteen,” the man in tweeds said. “Luckman ran over them.”
“We’re from Yale,” Mr. Taylor said. “All of us. Yale, 1912.”
“Have a drink on a Columbia man,” the man in tweeds said. “Everybody.” He ordered the drinks and they sang “Roar, Lion, Roar,” the two parties melting happily and naturally together.
Margaret heard her father going on seriously about your needing solid friends to depend on later on, and, by God, the place where you developed them, people of your own kind that you could cleave to through thick and thin.… She watched the huge man in tweeds as he drank, sang out “Roar, Lion, Roar,” his behind quivering deeply under the expanse of heavy cloth.
“Can you sing ‘Stand, Columbia’?” Mrs. Taylor asked. “That’s a Columbia song. You ought to be able to sing it.”
“I would,” said the fat man, “only my throat’s too hoarse for a song like that.”
They sang “Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho, It’s Off to Work We Go,” their voices hearty, full of whisky and pleasure and loud good-fellowship.
“I would like to hear ‘Stand, Columbia,’” Mrs. Taylor said.
“Did you hear this one?” the fat man said. And he sang, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, I joined the C.I.O., I pay my dues to a bunch of Jews, heigh-ho, heigh-ho!”
Oliver, who had been slapping Mrs. Taylor on the back, slapped the fat man on the back in appreciation, and all the others laughed and beat on the bar approvingly, and Trent, who was standing behind the bar, looked out nervously across the room, scanning it for a Jewish face. Seeing none, he permitted himself to smile.
“Once again,” the fat man said, beaming, standing up to lead with large gestures of his arms, “before we leave for Poughkeepsie.”
All the voices, middle-aged, hoarse, joined happily in the chorus, the song more spontaneous, full of more joy and celebration and real pleasure, than any before that evening. “Heigh-ho,” they sang joyously, “heigh-ho, we’ve joined the C.I.O., We’ve paid our dues to a bunch of Jews, heigh-ho, heigh-ho!”
