H. M. Pulham, Esquire

by John P. Marquand

  “I suppose that’s true,” I said. I was thinking of Marvin Myles.

  “Harry,” she asked, “don’t you like us any more?”

  “Now, what under the sun,” I said, “makes you say a thing like that?”

  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her knees and clasped her hands behind her head.

  “I wonder,” she said, “if you and I will ever be the way we used to be? We don’t know what to say to each other, do we?”

  I walked over to her and patted her hair.

  “That’s silly,” I said. “We’re just the same as we ever were.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, we’re all grown up,” she said. “It’s like finishing the Little Colonel books and going downstairs to the library and reading something you shouldn’t read.”

  “Do you do that?” I asked.

  “Of course I do,” she answered. “Not that there is much that I shouldn’t read in the library, except the Bible.”

  “Now, look here, Mary,” I said. “There’s no use being cheap. When Sir Walter Scott was dying he said, ‘Bring me the Book.’ He meant the Bible.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Mary said. “If you knew me—really knew me—you wouldn’t have to talk like that. There’s a lot of rough stuff in the Bible, and you know it. Shall I quote you some?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s all right,” she told me. “You were Big Brother and I was Little Sister. That’s the way I felt when you went to the war, and even when you got back.”

  “You’re still my little sister,” I said.

  “Don’t be so mid-Victorian,” she said. “I wonder if you’re really stuffy. I wonder what you’re like.”

  I saw what she meant, but somehow her point of view did not seem correct.

  “Maybe a brother and sister never can know each other,” Mary said. “They’re all so tangled up. But it would be fun if we knew each other—if I could talk to you about boys and you could talk to me about girls. Perhaps if we got drunk together we could say what we really thought.”

  “Now, look here, Mary—” I began.

  “There you go,” Mary said. “It isn’t any use. And I keep wondering about you. You’re able to do what you want, and I sit cooped up here. Do you think I like it? Harry, won’t you tell me things?”

  “What sort of things?” I asked.

  “You know,” she said. “Almost anything that you don’t ordinarily talk about. It would do you good, because you’re so damned tied-up.”

  “Don’t swear, Mary,” I said. “Tell me how everyone is,” and I tried to think of someone in particular. “How’s Albert Oliver?”

  “He’s in love with me,” Mary answered.

  “What?” I said. “Do you mean to say that good-for-nothing little squirt is hanging around here?”

  “I know you don’t like him,” Mary said, “but he’s told me a lot about you—a lot that you’ve never told me.”

  “What’s he told you?” I asked.

  “Oh, never mind,” said Mary. “But there’s one thing. Mother’s going to try to make you stay here.”

  She must have seen some change in my expression, because she continued before I could answer.

  “And don’t you do it if you don’t want to,” she said. “She makes everybody do everything she wants.”

  “Now, Mary,” I said, “that’s no way to talk about Mother.”

  She got up and tossed her cigarette into the fireplace.

  “Just please don’t keep correcting me,” she said. “There comes a time when I can’t stand it. Has Father talked to you yet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “He’s probably afraid to,” Mary said. “She has him running around in circles, and he’s so sweet about it. God, what a life he’s led!”

  “Now, look here, Mary—” I began.

  “Stop it,” said Mary, “for God’s sake! I know it isn’t any way to talk. You don’t know anything about any of us. You’ve always been away from home, except for vacations, and then everyone’s been lovely to you. ‘Harry must have a good time. We mustn’t bother Harry.’”

  There was a knock on the door and we both looked startled. It was Father.

  “What are you two talking about?” he asked.

  “Oh,” said Mary, “everything.”

  “Well, come out of here and let Harry get dressed,” he said. “We’re going to play golf and you can walk around with us.”

  “All right,” said Mary, “if you want me.”

  “When can I see Mother?” I asked.

  “Not for quite a while,” said Father. “Not till twelve. We can go around and go to the beach for a swim. There’s lots of time. And, Harry—”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Don’t do anything to disturb her. She isn’t very well.”

  That golf game was one of the pleasantest I ever had with Father. For a while it got me back into the swing of things more than anything else. I had almost forgotten what a good time we could have taking a shot and walking and talking. I was ragged for the first six holes, but we were even on the fourteenth tee and even again on the eighteenth. He was very pleased when he won that hole.

  And then at eleven o’clock we went down to the beach where the whole community always gathered at the latter part of the morning. There was the same hot glare and the same whiteness of the sand and that same smell of wood and bathing suits. The people that were not swimming were in the rocking chairs along the Beach Club veranda, just as though they had never moved from their places. There was Mrs. Frear and Mrs. Frear’s sister, each with a good book from the lending library, and old Mr. Jellison was there, in his white flannel suit, waiting until the clock struck twelve so that he could have his whisky and water, and there was old Mrs. Simms talking about her chauffeur, and there was Mrs. Motford, telling, as she always did, what Cornelia had been doing the day before, and there was old Sir Henry on his vacation from the British Embassy in Washington. They were all there, those older people who had been the landmarks of my childhood, but I saw them with a new distinctness, as though my eyesight had altered.

  Down on the beach all the kids I had known, who used to run around throwing things, had grown up into what I had been when I was there last, and all the boys and girls I had known were pushed into a different category—two of them with babies capable of crawling in the sand. There was Louise Mitchell, for instance, who had married Wally Joyce and she smiled at me just as though marriage made no difference. They were all glad to see me, but everyone asked the same question—how long I was going to be there, and when I said only until tomorrow night I was conscious that it was a little hard to go on with the conversation. It gave me a feeling that I did not really belong with them any more, that I did not belong anywhere.

  Kay Motford was sitting on the sand with Joe Bingham. She jumped up when she saw me and I remember noticing that she was not wearing bathing stockings. Her face was tanned and she gripped my hand hard, almost like a man.

  “Gosh,” she said, “it’s nice to see you, Harry!”

  “You’re looking fine,” I said.

  “I’ll say she’s looking fine,” Joe said.

  “I’m getting old,” Kay said. “Don’t you feel old with everybody growing up? You’re coming up for lunch, aren’t you? One-fifteen sharp.”

  “That’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s awfully nice of you to ask me, Kay.”

  “Where’s Bill King?” she asked. “Why didn’t you bring him too?”

  “I asked him but he was too busy,” I said. “Bill’s pretty important now. He’s worrying about soap.”

  I was not sure whether Kay wanted me to sit there with them, or whether she wanted Joe Bingham for herself. There was something curious in the way she looked.

  “I haven’t seen you since the war.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is hard to settle down,” she said.

  “
Oh, he’ll settle down all right,” Joe said. “It just takes time. Have you seen any of our crowd, Harry?”

  “Only you and Bo-jo Brown,” I said.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself?” Joe asked. “Do you mean to say you haven’t seen Sam Green, or Steve, or Bob, or Pinkey? Haven’t you been up to School?”

  Joe looked hurt and it was hideous in a way that everyone except myself was acting properly.

  Miss Percival, Mother’s day nurse, was standing in the hall in front of Mother’s door.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” Miss Percival said. “We’ve had our nap, but we mustn’t talk about anything too exciting.”

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “We are really doing very well,” Miss Percival said. “We’ve been talking about our boy ever so often, our soldier boy, and we’ve been waiting for his visit, but we must only discuss happy things.”

  Mother was on her chaise longue and dressed in a lavender negligee fastened by her diamond and sapphire brooch. Her hair was done in the old intricate way she wore it when I was very young—a knot made of careful little braids. It was still dark and beautiful without a touch of gray in it; her skin was as clear as ever, a little too clear, I thought, for it had that half-transparent quality of someone who is not well. On her dressing table, with all the little vases and ornaments she had collected, I saw the callow photograph which had been taken of me in my first officer’s uniform.

  “Darling,” she said, and she held out her arms to me. “Isn’t he beautiful, Miss Percival? Now do you see why I am proud of my boy?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Percival. “We are very proud of our boy, but we must only talk to him for a few minutes.”

  “Darling,” Mother said, “are you having a good time?”

  “I am having a fine time,” I said. “I have been playing golf with Father and then I have been down to the beach.”

  “And then you are going down to Kay’s for lunch, aren’t you, dear?” Mother said.

  “Yes,” I said. “You mustn’t worry about me. I’m having a fine time. It’s—”

  She raised her hand and touched my head very softly.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s what, dear?”

  “It’s just as though I had never been away.”

  It was hard to talk with Miss Percival sitting in the corner watching us, but her presence prevented our saying too much or thinking too much.

  “That’s just the way I want it to be,” Mother said. “You never have really been away, darling. You are still my little boy. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I know.”

  “Because we always understand each other, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” I said. I was thinking as I sat there beside her how little words meant. We never had understood each other, and I wondered if she did not know it and if it did not hurt her just as it hurt me.

  “You must have such a good time that you won’t go away.”

  I saw Miss Percival move uneasily.

  “I’ve got to go back tomorrow night,” I said.

  Mother’s hands dropped in her lap.

  “Darling,” she said, “I never thought that you were selfish.”

  “Now,” said Miss Percival, “we mustn’t have the doctor angry with us, must we? We must only talk about happy things. We must be glad that our Big Boy is with us today and tomorrow.”

  “Mother,” I said, “any time you really want me—”

  “I want you now, now, always,” Mother said.

  “It is time for our boy to be going now,” Miss Percival said. “We’ll see him in the afternoon.”

  I closed Mother’s door behind me. It had been a good deal worse than I had expected. Mary was waiting for me in the hall.

  “Was that old bitch, Percival, in there?” Mary whispered.

  I started as though she had stuck a pin in me.

  “Where did you pick up that word?”

  “Well,” Mary answered, “it’s what I mean. Did Mother try to make you stay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can’t. I’m going back tomorrow night.”

  Then I forgot that she was my little sister. I suppose that I had to speak to someone.

  “My God, Mary, I can’t stay,” I said.

  At lunch I sat at Mrs. Motford’s right, and I listened to everyone talking. First we talked about the new Prohibition Amendment and about repression of the rights of the individual. Then we talked about the Bolsheviks and the bombings and about the British dirigible that had crossed the ocean.

  “You ought to be staying here,” Mrs. Motford said. “Guy is up here every week end. Families should be together.”

  The men stayed around the table after lunch, and Guy and Joe Bingham began talking about the war.

  “You got over, didn’t you?” Mr. Motford asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “I got over.”

  “Did you see any fighting?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “some.”

  “It’s too bad we didn’t smash the German Army while we had the chance. Don’t you feel that way?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You don’t know?” Mr. Motford repeated.

  “It’s hard to tell, sir,” I said. “I don’t know whether it would have been worth while to have killed anybody else.”

  “You sound like a Pacifist,” Mr. Motford said. “The only thing to do with a nation like the Germans is to whip them. That’s what they expect, and what they understand.”

  I always seemed to say something that was disturbing. Out on the piazza afterwards, while the sun was glittering on the sea and the air was pleasantly cool and fresh, they were discussing Woodrow Wilson, who was dragging us without our knowing it into new commitments in Europe.

  “I don’t see how there can be any possible peace,” I said, “if we don’t enter the League of Nations.”

  Everyone looked at me as though I were willfully being difficult. At any rate it was quite plain that no one else believed in the League of Nations. I had a feeling that I did not belong there any more.

  I had forgotten how pretty all the girls were. They still wore long dresses at the Club that night, but their dresses had more color to them, and the beat of the music was more pronounced. Instead of all the faces being familiar, there were all sorts of new ones, all sorts of strangers who knew everyone except me.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “can’t you keep time to the music?”

  “I am keeping time,” I said.

  “You’re not,” said Kay, “and you’ve been drinking.”

  “Not any more than anyone else,” I said.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “You aren’t the way you used to be at all,” she said. “Has anything happened to you?”

  “It isn’t me,” I answered. “It’s everything else. Everything—”

  Then Joe Bingham cut in on us, and Kay’s whole expression changed. Her eyes and mouth were no longer critical. I stood near the wall, watching them dance away, to lose themselves among the other couples. I was thinking that it was about time to cut in on the youngest Frear girl, when Guy Motford came up to me.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Guy asked me.

  “I don’t know why everybody asks that,” I said.

  “Well, you don’t act as though you were having a good time,” Guy said. “There’s a girl that wants to meet you. Did you ever hear of her—Emmy Kane?”

  “What’s the matter with her?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Guy said. “She’s one of the best little neckers you ever saw. Come on.” He pulled me a few steps across the floor and stopped a couple that were coming toward us. “Here he is, Emmy. Emmy Kane, this is Harry Pulham.”

  She was one of the new people at the Club, from one of those families that had come there in the war years. She was thin and her dress was a yellowy green. Her hair and
eyes were dark.

  “I saw you on the beach,” she said. “You looked awfully cute in a bathing suit.”

  Her speech showed that she came from New York or Philadelphia or Baltimore or Washington. Certainly no one nearer home would discuss the way I looked in a bathing suit, and when I put my arm around her I must have hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “I’ll bet you’ve got an awfully good line,” she said. “I wish you’d hold me a little closer. I can dance better and it’s more cozy.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “You act so young,” she said. “Is that your line?”

  I must have been a good many years older than she. I had been to the war, where I had seen sights which were unbelievable. The bewildering part was that she was a girl in my own social class and I did not know what she expected, or what to do.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” she said.

  “All right,” I answered. “That would be fine.”

  We walked out on the veranda with the music playing behind us, and I was thinking of the time long ago when I had walked out there with Kay, when Bill King was visiting us.

  “Have you got a car?” she asked. “Let’s drive somewhere.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that would be fine—if it’s all right.” I had never heard of taking a girl out in a car in the middle of a dance, and I was wondering what people would say if we were noticed. I could still hear the music above the crunching of our feet on the blue gravel. The orchestra was playing “Madelon” and “Good-by Broadway, Hello France.” The music was all around us in the cool darkness and the stars were out very clear and bright.

  “Have you got any rye?” she asked. “I always like rye.”

  “You mean whisky?” I asked. She began to laugh.

  “You have the cutest line,” she said. “We’d better go in our car. There’s some in the side pocket.”

  Her car was a new open Cadillac, and she asked me to drive it. She sat close to me, leaning lightly against my shoulder.

  “Where shall we go?” I asked.

  “Somewhere where we can park,” she said. “Out along by the sea. I love the sea, don’t you? You’re Mary’s brother, aren’t you? Mary’s awfully cute.” It was a new word to me—“cute.” I wished that I felt more familiar with this sort of thing, and that I knew what to do. I remember thinking that Bill King would have known. We drove through the village along the shore road, past the cottages to the drive along the cliffs where you could hear the sound of the waves coming through the dark. She sat leaning against me, and began humming beneath her breath.