Family Secrets

by Nancy Thayer

  In return, Commander Marshall treated Jean as if she didn’t have a brain in her head. Perhaps she deserved some of that, for her grades in math and science were not sterling, although she still managed to get into Radcliffe. Commander Marshall was not unkind, but he was nearly medieval in his thinking; he believed there was a hierarchy beginning with the Lord and filtering down quite a long way before coming to any female.

  Probably because of that, it never occurred to him that his own daughter would or could betray him, and so it was very soon after they’d moved into Bancroft Place, when Jean was only about twelve, that he asked her to memorize the combination to the small safe in his study.

  There were two shelves in his safe. The lower one held a locked strongbox containing Commander Marshall’s will and other legal papers. The top shelf was a repository for the odd bits of paper on which he scribbled his thoughts. He often brought his work home to do, finding that in an atmosphere of peace and relaxation, problems that had tortured him at his office on Constitution Avenue suddenly presented him with answers. He was not an absentminded man, but he was a very busy one, and so Jean grew quite used to picking up the phone to hear him say, “Jean? Go into my study, dear, open the safe, take out the top sheet of paper, and read it to me, will you? That’s a good girl.” She never tried to make sense out of what she read to her father, never tried to memorize it, for it was always gibberish: a group of numbers and letters, or four names with odd symbols next to them. Once she had asked her father what a certain message meant and he had answered sternly, “Nothing for young girls to bother their pretty heads about.”

  Commander Marshall also told his wife the combination to his safe, and she was the one he first asked to get the information he’d forgotten. He’d ask Jean only if his wife was not at home. He did not tell Stafford or Agate the combination, and he made a point of not telling his son because he did not want Bobby ever to be in the position of having to compromise his principles. He knew his son was going into the navy.

  He was fond and proud of his daughter, but not much more fond or proud than he would have been of a clever dog who had been trained to fetch. His highest hope for her was that she marry a navy man and bring him an interesting son-in-law. Jean would inherit much of her mother’s money, and it was a tradition that navy men marry wealthy young women; just so had Commander Marshall found and courted and married his wife.

  Jean’s life and her brother’s had always been circumscribed by their father’s laws, and that cold December night Jean was filled with dread as she rode home from the Carlton Hotel. Bobby would believe it was his duty to inform their father immediately about her behavior at the Army-Navy Christmas Ball, how she’d ignored a navy man, and flirted with a stranger. Al knew his best friend’s family, and for a while the air inside the cab was chilly as Al and Jean were borne closer and closer to her parents’ home. Jean pulled her fur coat around her and bent over to shake the snow off the hem of her long evening gown. Her feet were frozen. Outside the windows, the snow drifted down in feathery silence.

  “Perfect weather for the holidays, ain’t it?” the cabdriver remarked cheerfully.

  “It is,” Al replied politely, and then it was quiet in the cab until they pulled into the drive.

  “Would you like me to come in with you?” Al asked. “Bobby can drive me back.”

  Jean considered. “That would be great, Al. Thanks. Dad will have to be polite, and he’s always glad to see you. It will at least postpone if not prevent the slaughter.”

  Al paid the cabdriver, put his hand under Jean’s elbow, and helped her through the snow. Agate was at the front door. While she took their coats she looked down at the floor, a sure sign she knew that trouble was brewing.

  The family was gathered in the living room around a silver coffee service. Bobby had reached home before Jean, and when she entered the room, his chin jutted out defensively. That alerted her. Bobby had told.

  “Who’s this strange fellow you spent the entire evening with!” Commander Marshall demanded almost the moment the young people were settled in the living room, with Mrs. Marshall scurrying around giving everyone coffee.

  “God, Bobby, you really are a pathetic old tattletale,” Jean said, glaring at her brother. “It’s too bad your own love life is so boring that you have so much energy and attention to give to mine.”

  “Young lady, it’s no good looking at your brother. I want to know about this man, and I want to know about him now. I won’t have a daughter of mine making a spectacle of herself in public. If you can’t give me a proper account of yourself and your actions tonight, you’re confined to the house for the rest of the holidays, and I’ll have to reconsider whether or not I’ll let you return to Cambridge. It seems a lot of radical ideas have been put in your foolish little head. I knew sending you away to a northern college was a mistake.”

  At this, even Bobby looked appropriately horrified. He had only meant to protect his sister, not to end her college career. Mrs. Marshall kept pouring coffee, handing out napkins, little spoons, offering sugar. Jean did not look to her mother for help; she knew Mrs. Marshall wouldn’t have dreamed of interfering. This was the way of Jean’s mother’s world; this was the way her own father had treated her, threatening her so many years ago with cutting her out of her inheritance unless she married the right man.

  “Daddy, that’s not fair! For God’s sake! Dancing with Erich has no relation whatsoever to Radcliffe!” Jean felt her face redden with the childish pressure of tears.

  “Don’t use that tone of voice with me, young lady, and don’t take the Lord’s name in vain! Who is this man you spent the evening with? How did you meet him? Who introduced you? Does he know anyone?”

  By “anyone,” Commander Marshall meant only and specifically anyone within the elite group of the navy and Washington and Cliff Dweller spheres. In fact, Jean wasn’t sure Erich Mellor did know any of those people. She waited for Bobby to come to her rescue—after all, Erich had been talking to him—and when her brother didn’t speak, she said, “Bobby knows him.”

  “No, I don’t. I chatted with him, but I don’t know him.”

  According to her parents’ rules, girls of Jean’s age and class were supposed to be introduced to the right people by the right people, and dancing all evening with a man who knew “no one” amounted to wantonness deserving of the worst possible punishment. For a long moment, the room was silent.

  “His name is Erich Mellor,” Jean began bravely. “He’s a banker, with the Washington branch of the Upton and Steward Bank. His family lives in New York.”

  “New York,” Commander Marshall said gruffly. New York, as far as he was concerned, was a city full of Yankees, Jews, and liberals. “What kind of a name is Mellor, anyway? Sounds German.”

  The silence in the room deepened ominously.

  “Sir, I believe Erich Mellor was at the dance as the guest of his cousin Jimmy Heflin, who was two years ahead of Bobby and me at the academy,” Al said. Immediately he was rewarded with a look from Jean of such fond gratitude he could almost interpret it as love. He deserved it. He had just altered the truth by elevating Erich Mellor’s relationship with Jimmy Heflin from that of friend to cousin. And after all, Al knew Heflin had brought Mellor to the dance, and no one had told him the two men weren’t cousins, so he hadn’t exactly lied to Commander Marshall.

  “Humph. I suppose he’s all right, then. Still, Jean, I thought you’d been raised with better manners than you’ve exhibited tonight.” Commander Marshall paused to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t scold his daughter for ignoring Al all evening with Al sitting in the living room, yet he couldn’t let Jean’s actions go unpunished. “Go to your room. Now.”

  Jean felt the pressure of indignity push tears behind her eyes and pull down the corners of her mouth, but she rose and politely said good night to Al, then swept from the room without another word to her brother, father, or her hopelessly ineffectual mother.

  Once released from the ove
rwarm living room, however, up in the privacy of her bedroom, she felt free and glad. She hated sitting with her parents and Bobby and Al, everyone so stiff and formal. She was mad enough at Bobby to spit, and she hated her father and pitied her mother. She wanted to get away from them all, but she couldn’t, not now, not tonight. So she hurried through her bedtime ablutions and crawled into bed, gratefully forsaking all considerations of her family and surrendering completely to thoughts of Erich Mellor.

  She remembered the warm, firm pressure of his hand on her back as they danced, how his touch had been guiding but not commanding, and how, over the course of the evening he had gradually, subtly, brought her closer to him, so that finally she had rested her head on his shoulder. At first she’d been embarrassed by the unavoidable knowledge of her breasts pressing against his chest, but before long she’d relaxed and let herself enjoy the full physical geometry of her female shape against his male body.

  Jean forced herself to remember how she felt about Hal Farmer. Erich was every bit as intelligent and fascinating as Hal but much more mysterious, and much smoother. Whatever Hal Farmer had called up in her seemed frivolous, light, in comparison to the torrent of emotions Erich Mellor caused.

  She wanted to go to bed with Erich Mellor.

  Sunday morning Jean went to St. John’s with her parents. In her secret heart she had grown impatient with religion, finding it all too hypocritical to bear, but she had to ingratiate herself with her father and win back his favor if she was going to get his permission to see Erich Mellor again.

  Her parents were pleased by her docile presence in church and later with her running stream of chatter about her friends and courses at Radcliffe as they sat around the dining room table for their formal Sunday dinner. She spoke of tea parties and cotillions, the socially acceptable activities.

  Jean could see the tension drain from her parents’ faces as she blathered on and on. She caught the message her mother flashed her father with her eyes as she asked him if he wanted some more mashed potatoes and gravy: “See, dear, it’s all right; Jean’s learned her lesson.” Could it really be this easy to fool her parents?

  Bobby was spending the day with Betty and her family. After the huge Sunday meal, Commander Marshall retired to his study, closing the door in order to work—or to nap on the leather sofa. Mrs. Marshall sat in the living room listening to a program of classical music on their Philco radio as she wrapped some last-minute Christmas presents. Finally, Jean was free to escape with her best friend from high school, Midge Carlisle.

  Midge honked the horn of her shining gray Nash sedan and Jean yelled good-bye to her parents, then raced out the door and jumped into the car.

  “Oooh, I’m so glad you’re here!” Midge squealed, hugging Jean. Her bouncy blonde curls were tied back with a red-and-green plaid ribbon.

  “I’m so glad to get out of there!” Jean laughed. “And I’ve got so much to tell you!”

  “Shall we go to Bailey’s for ice cream?”

  “All right, as long as there’s no one there we know.”

  “Well, well, well.” Midge rolled her eyes playfully. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve just got so much to tell you, and I don’t want anyone to hear.”

  “You’ve met someone.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, I’m so jealous!” Midge nearly steered the car into a snowdrift in her excitement.

  “Well, there must be hundreds of good-looking men at George Washington!”

  “Yeah, but the only ones who’ve asked me out are boring. I want someone thrilling.”

  “So do I,” Jean agreed. “And I think I’ve met him.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to tell me everything!”

  “Well—” Jean began, and she launched into a detailed description of the night before. They talked about Erich and the dance all through their sundaes and then through coffee, and before they knew it, it was time for them to go back to Jean’s house for the Marshalls’ annual Christmas party.

  It was only two days before Christmas. Mrs. Marshall, with Agate and Stafford’s help, had completed decorating the house, and when Midge drove Jean back home late that Sunday afternoon, they saw the plummy Scotch pine towering in the living room, its lights glittering through the mullioned windows. Tonight the carolers would come, and friends and acquaintances of the Marshalls, and they all would be invited in for eggnog and fruitcake and Christmas cookies as they warmed up by the fire. Mrs. Marshall had always set much emotional weight on the holidays. She liked having the entire family gathered around, and Agate and Stafford there, too, discreetly refilling the crystal eggnog bowl and passing around the cookies and cakes. The more friends who arrived for this ceremony, the happier she was, the more content and optimistic about her own particular slice of the world.

  Midge had been part of this evening ever since she and Jean had become best friends six years before. She parked her car in front of the house and the young women hurried through the cold night and into the Marshalls’ house. They were giddy from ice cream and gossip. They couldn’t stop giggling as they took off their raccoon coats, handed them to Stafford, and went into the living room.

  “We’re not late, are we, Commander Marshall?” Midge asked, all simper and charm. She kissed Mrs. Marshall on the cheek. Her father was an architect, and a Cliff Dweller, so Midge was one of them.

  “We can’t be late. Bobby isn’t back with Betty yet,” Jean said, automatically defensive, her voice already edgy with the exasperation she felt every time she was near her parents. She was so tired of having continually to appease and apologize.

  Then she saw Erich Mellor sitting on the living room sofa. Her mouth fell open in surprise, and she stood just staring at the man.

  Erich rose, moved toward Jean, and offered his hand.

  “Hello, Jean,” he said.

  Numbly, she shook his hand, but she was still too shocked to speak.

  “This young man called me earlier today,” Commander Marshall said, noting his daughter’s discomfiture with amusement. “Called to ask if he could come by and introduce himself. Turns out we have a few friends in common.”

  “Oh,” Jean said. “Well …”

  “Hi! I’m Midge Carlisle, Jean’s best friend.” Midge shook hands with Erich, nudging Jean slightly with her hip as she did.

  Jean sank into a hard wing chair at the side of the coffee table. She smoothed her skirt over her trembling knees.

  “We’ve been so sinful,” Midge gushed. She knew the Marshalls liked an accounting of their daughter’s activities. “We ate so much ice cream we’ll never fit into our clothes. Ice cream in the winter. Brr. I’d love some coffee.”

  As she chattered, Midge settled herself on the sofa next to Erich. Jean’s mother poured coffee for Midge and Jean, then handed Erich a cup. Jean was surprised at how docile he looked, trapped on chintz between females, the dainty cup and saucer in his hands.

  “We’ve found something out about your new friend!” Mrs. Marshall announced.

  “Oh?” The one syllable was all Jean could manage.

  “It just so happens that Erich is a bridge buff!” Her mother beamed, truly pleased, for she loved nothing more than a good game of bridge. “I think we’ve got time for a round or two before the guests arrive!”

  So it was arranged. The card table was unfolded in the living room, the waxy flower-backed cards in their elaborate holder brought out with the score pads and the stubby pencil, and they sat down to play. Erich teamed up with Commander Marshall, Jean with her mother. Midge flitted around the table, looking at their hands. She’d always thought bridge was boring.

  Jean wasn’t crazy about the game herself, but it was a sure way to win over her parents, so she played her hand with the best humor and concentration she could summon while seated so close to Erich. Her hand, arm, elbow were only inches away from his. Now and then she was sure the touch of his knee against hers was deliberate. She wished he wouldn’t do that; she was afraid her face flushed sc
arlet each time she felt the gentle, urgent pressure.

  The sound of his voice aroused her deeply. Yet his words were commonplace, so dishearteningly normal. As they played—Commander Marshall won the bid of four hearts; and Erich laid out his cards on the table—Erich handed out bits of information about his life.

  “Where are you living?” Commander Marshall asked after covering Jean’s jack of spades with his king.

  “I have an apartment in the Wardman Park Hotel,” Erich said. “Several of us New Yorkers call it home. I’m with the bank, Brigham Phelps is with an architecture firm, and two others are with the government.”

  “We’re seeing so many changes in Washington these days, so many new people,” Jean’s mother said plaintively.

  “It’s only just beginning,” Commander Marshall said. “These New Dealers FDR’s bringing in, not to mention all the internationals coming and going with all this fuss Hitler’s stirring up in Europe.”

  “I’d be down here anyway,” Erich told them. “Upton and Steward have had a Washington branch since before the turn of the century.”

  “Do you like it here?” Mrs. Marshall’s voice was coyly suggestive: he should answer yes.

  “Actually, I find it a bit boring compared to New York,” Erich said. Mrs. Marshall’s lips went rigid in disapproval—she hated to have anyone hint that her town was not the ultimate place for life to be lived. But Jean’s heart beat a little faster with relief and excitement: at least Erich wasn’t going to be a yes-man, ingratiating himself with her parents. And she would have been disappointed if he hadn’t liked New York more than Washington.

  When Bobby and Betty arrived, the bridge game broke up. Agate and Stafford brought in the crystal bowl and cups for eggnog, while Mrs. Marshall supervised Jean, Midge, and Betty as they scurried through the kitchen and dining room setting out sandwiches and cookies. Erich went back into the living room to talk with the men. Jean could tell that Bobby was abrupt with Erich; he didn’t like this intruder involved with his sister. Then Al arrived. The guests came in groups, filling the house with rushes of fresh air and laughter. The carolers swept in, sang exuberantly, drank eggnog, greedily devoured the Christmas goodies, and left. Jean didn’t have a moment to talk with Erich, or even to stand near him.