“Let’s sing,” she said, and we sang “Madelon.”
“Let’s stop here,” she said, and when I stopped the car at the edge of the road near the cliff, she leaned over to the switch and shut off the engine.
“The lights are over there,” she said. “You’d better turn them out or we’ll burn down the battery.” Then she reached into a pocket in the door. “Here it is,” she said, and she unscrewed the stopper of a silver flask, and took a drink and handed it to me. I took a drink too because it seemed to me exactly what I needed, and it made me feel a good deal better.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“I was thinking,” I said, “that I had never done anything like this.”
She laughed at me through the dark.
“Go ahead,” she said, “but don’t rumple up my hair.”
She put her arm on my shoulder, and I saw her face turned up toward mine, white and hazy in the dark, and I bent down and kissed her. I felt her arms tighten about my neck.
“Darling,” she whispered, and I kissed her again.
“I’ve been wondering,” she said, “ever since I saw you on the beach what you were like.… Do you like it?”
“Yes,” I told her. “Very much.”
“You’re so funny,” she said. “You act as though you were worried.”
“Look here,” I asked her. “Does everyone do this now?”
She pushed herself away from me and looked at me.
“What ever are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A lot must have happened since I’ve been away.”
“I guess we’d better go back,” she said.
“Oh, no,” I said, and I unscrewed the stopper from the flask and took another drink, as long as it was the thing to do. Then I tried to kiss her again.
“No,” she said, “you act—” her voice broke, “as though—”
“As though what?” I asked.
“As though I was immoral.”
“I didn’t mean to act that way,” I said. “I’m awfully sorry.”
“We’d better be going back,” she sobbed. “No, don’t touch me.”
I was sorry and at the same time I was angry at myself, because I knew I had not behaved properly.
“Please listen to me,” I said. “I don’t know what I did, but I want to beg your pardon.”
But she only blew her nose and sobbed.
“Please don’t,” I said, “please.”
“Oh, shut up,” she sobbed. “You’ve spoiled it all. We’d better go back.”
“All right,” I answered.
I was thinking that had I asked Marvin, if it had been Marvin and I on that road by the sea, whether everyone did that sort of thing, she would have laughed. There was never anything to worry about with Marvin.
“Aren’t you going to talk?” Emmy asked at length. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
I have thought often enough of all the things I could have said to her. I suppose everyone has some awkward moment in his life which keeps cropping up uncomfortably through the years, and my ride in the car has always been like that. I have explained to her in my thoughts everything about myself, very volubly and convincingly, but I only said at the time:
“I’m not really as bad as you think I am.”
Yet it was true that everything was spoiled.
Father was sitting in the parlor, nodding over his paper, and his head straightened up jerkily when I came in.
“Oh, there you are,” he said. “Did you have a good time?”
I wished that they did not all keep asking me the same question.
“Yes, a fine time,” I said.
Father sat up straighter.
“You’re not serious about going back tomorrow, are you?”
As I stood there looking at him I felt absolutely certain that if I stayed something terrible would happen to me, although I could not tell what.
“I’ll have to be there Monday morning,” I said.
Father tossed his paper on the floor.
“Harry, when are you going to stop all this damned nonsense?”
“Father,” I said, “it won’t do any good to argue.”
I have never forgotten the way he looked at me, as though he saw something that he could not entirely believe. First his eyes were hard and incredulous, and then he looked older than I had ever seen him. It made me feel that we had met in actual physical collision, and that I had been stronger because I was young. It made me feel sorry for both of us.
“All right,” he said. “We won’t go over it again, but I’m damned if I know—” He stopped and glanced away from me while I waited for him to go on. “I’m damned if I know what’s getting into everybody. I wish you’d talk to Frank Wilding.”
He got up stiffly out of his chair and walked over to me.
“Perhaps around October,” he said, “you’ll feel differently. If you’re back around October, and if your mother is feeling better, maybe we could go out after woodcock. When you were born I thought there’d be someone I could take shooting. It’s funny, isn’t it? Nothing turns out the way you think.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that, sir,” I said.
“Well, it’s true,” Father said. “All the things you take for granted—there they are, and then they’re gone. There you were, and now you’re gone, and I don’t know how it’s happened.”
He stood there staring at the carpet. “We had a good time playing golf, anyway, didn’t we? I don’t know, Harry, I don’t suppose I know much about anything, but just remember I have sense enough to realize it. That’s why I’m not arguing with you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” I said. “You make me feel—”
“I can’t help the way you feel,” Father said, “and you can’t help the way I feel. I guess neither of us is very bright, Harry. We just have to worry on as best we can. Good night.”
“You’re not angry with me, are you?” I asked.
“No,” said Father. “What’s the use of talking? I never could talk.” He reached out his hand and we shook hands.
I know now why everything went wrong at North Harbor. I did not want to stay there, because I was in love with Marvin Myles.
XVII
When the Girl You Love Loves You
I was back at the Bullard office at nine on Monday morning. Once I heard the typewriters and saw everyone working, it was just as though the week end and everything in North Harbor had been part of a bad night. Early as it was, the day was stifling hot, and the warm air and the noises from the street came through the open window; but I did not mind it because I seemed to be wide awake again. Bill King’s and Marvin’s desks were still vacant and I hoped that Marvin would get there before Bill, and when she did I realized how much I had wanted to see her. I had not thought much about it—until the light struck her hair when she took off her straw hat.
“Hello, Marvin,” I said.
“Why, hello,” she said, and then we both laughed. “Well, here you are.”
“Yes,” I said. “It seems so.”
“And you don’t look any different,” she said. “I kept thinking you’d look different. Did you have a good time?”
I don’t know why everyone kept asking me that.
“Where’s Bill?” I asked.
“They sent him out to Chicago,” Marvin said, “to see the distributors. Never mind about Bill. We have to see Kaufman at nine-fifteen. What did they do to you up there?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Everyone—the butler and everyone. Did he unpack your things? Did he say anything about them?”
“Why, no,” I said.
“Oh, he didn’t, didn’t he?” Marvin said. “He might have said I packed your bag all right.”
“Never mind him,” I said.
“I do mind,” Marvin answered. “Someday I’m going to have a butler and I want to know how they work. Harry, did you miss me?”
�
�Yes,” I said.
“All right,” Marvin said. “Now we’ll go in to see Kaufman, and remember he’s always bad on Monday mornings. Get some paper and pencils. Come along.”
“Marvin,” I said, “I want to tell you something.”
“Well, tell it quickly,” Marvin said.
She was bending over her desk, picking up some pencils and copy paper, and everything seemed absolutely natural, absolutely simple. I could hear the typewriters going in the outside office and the motor horns on the street. For once in my life I knew about everything. It was like looking at an examination paper and being prepared for all the questions. It was like hitting a ball exactly right. I had read about such moments, but this was not like anything I had read.
“What are you looking at?” Marvin asked.
“Marvin,” I said.
“What is the matter with you?” Marvin asked. “Is it the heat?”
“Yes, it is pretty hot,” I said, “but it was cold enough for blankets at North Harbor. It’s funny that nothing turns out the way you think it’s going to.”
“What are you talking about?” Marvin asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Marvin, I love you.”
She turned around very quickly, and at first I thought she was annoyed from the way her forehead wrinkled.
“Well,” she asked, “whatever put that into your head?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “just now when I saw you I wanted to tell you.”
“Why, darling,” Marvin said, and then she stopped. “Well, that’s all right. I love you too, but we can’t do much about it right now, can we? Come ahead. Kaufman’s waiting.”
There were a lot of details about that period which I thought I would never forget, yet now that I try to recall them, they are all lost. I was perfectly sure that they were somewhere, just the way we were sure last week that the silver cream-pitcher was somewhere in the house, because it had been put away for the summer, and the chore-man would not be apt to get into the third-story cupboard, and the maids would certainly not take it. It would certainly turn up sometime. And that is what I keep thinking of those days that are lost; but they have never turned up. It was the first time that I had ever told a girl that I loved her, and the first time that the girl that I loved loved me. I believe there was a popular tune that went that way in those days.
I know that I was happy, very happy, but there was more to it than that. I was not sure that she really meant it, for she gave no further sign of it, and we were awfully busy that day, so busy that it all became a sort of background. All the time that I was thinking that Marvin had said she loved me, we were discussing the emulsifying properties of soap. My suggestion to Mr. Kaufman that a simple home test could be made to show the powers of Coza was considered a real contribution, and Mr. Bullard paid serious attention to it. I remember now that my love for Marvin Myles was a good deal mixed up with pictures of people washing themselves and with pictures of intimate, filmy garments.
We worked on rough layouts with Mr. Kaufman all that morning and all that afternoon while the perspiration poured down Mr. Kaufman’s face, for the office was as hot as a Turkish bath, but the heat stimulated Mr. Kaufman’s energy. He sat there, mopping his forehead and tearing things to pieces, looking at roll after roll of drawings.
“The basic idea is all right,” Mr. Kaufman said, “but the trouble is there isn’t any sex in it.”
“Sex?” I remember that I repeated after him.
“Sex,” said Mr. Kaufman, and he slapped his hand on the desk. “You can’t have a soap campaign without sex appeal. You get my idea, don’t you, Miss Myles?”
“Yes,” said Marvin, “I know what you mean.”
“Well, that’s what you’re here for,” Mr. Kaufman said. “I’ve watched Mrs. Kaufman with soap. It’s intimate.”
Marvin glanced at me across the room and then looked out of the window. It was the first time that I had heard of Mrs. Kaufman, and I wondered if Mrs. Kaufman loved him. If I were ever married I would certainly not bring my wife’s name into conversations about soap. If I were ever married … It was the first time that I had ever thought about it that way. If I loved Marvin and she loved me, we would get married.
“Daintiness,” I heard Marvin saying, “is that what you mean?”
“Daintiness,” Mr. Kaufman said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Wait a minute. I’ll see if Mr. Bullard is out of conference.”
Mr. Kaufman hurried out of the room, bouncing on his toes, and for the first time that day Marvin and I were alone.
“Marvin,” I said, “maybe I didn’t understand you when you said—”
“Of course you did,” Marvin answered. “How do you think I’ve been feeling since I first saw you? Here comes Kaufman. Isn’t he terrible?”
“All right,” said Mr. Kaufman. “We’re going to see Mr. Bullard now.”
Mr. Bullard was sitting at his desk with the tips of his fingers pressed together.
“Miss Myles,” he said, “I hear you have found a word. I want you to tell it to me. I didn’t want Mr. Kaufman to spoil it.”
“How do you mean I’d spoil it?” Mr. Kaufman asked.
“Now, Walter,” said Mr. Bullard, “you know how it was about that lubricating oil. Occasionally you mangle words. You mangle the very web and woof that we’re weaving.”
“Come off it, can’t you, J. T.?” said Mr. Kaufman. “You’re not talking to a client. We’re trying to get somewhere with that soap and they’re screaming for copy.”
“Now, Walter,” said Mr. Bullard, “what is copy but words? Every word in perfect balance with another.”
“Oh, God,” said Mr. Kaufman, “come off it, J. T. You’re not trying to sell anybody anything.”
“What is the word, Miss Myles?” Mr. Bullard asked.
“The word is daintiness,” Marvin said.
“Wait,” said Mr. Bullard. “Wait, don’t speak again. I don’t want anyone to speak.”
The room was silent.
“Daintiness,” Mr. Bullard said softly. “Don’t interrupt me. Loveliness. Sheer glowing loveliness. Filminess. Evanescence. Dawn. Mistiness. Don’t interrupt me.”
Mr. Kaufman stood looking stonily out of the window, his face red and glowing, his shirt sodden and limp. I looked at Marvin. She stood looking straight ahead of her, like a registered nurse in an operating room.
“Daintiness,” said Mr. Bullard. “All right. Use it in all the women’s copy. Don’t plug it too hard. And use all the rest around it. That’s fine, Miss Myles.”
Mr. Kaufman sighed noisily.
“We can go ahead, can’t we?” he said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bullard, “we can go ahead. I think it might be better to put Miss Myles in charge of the women’s copy. I’ll edit it myself.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Kaufman stiffly, “if that’s the way you want it.”
That was all they said, but I had been there long enough to realize it meant that Marvin would no longer have to defer to Mr. Kaufman. Her expression did not change, but there was a change in the way she looked. Somehow, something Mr. Kaufman had said had offended Mr. Bullard. Once I heard Bill King say that he would rather be in a cage with a tiger than be too long with J. T.
“You’ve got to butter him up,” Bill had said. “Watch him when he gets poetic. That’s the time when he may do anything, and if he starts to cry you’d better cry too. I had to do it once.”
It was after five o’clock when we got back to the room where we worked and Marvin put her hand over mine for a moment.
“God, what a day! Everything’s happened—everything. I’ve got to go home and get a bath. Do you see what happened? He told Bullard to come off it, do you remember? He might as well resign.”
“Marvin—” I began.
“Darling,” she said, “you’ve got to learn to keep everything in its place. Go home and put on a dinner coat and stop for me at seven. We’re going to the Plaza and we’re going to have champagne. Go
home now and get dressed. I look awful and so do you.”
“No, you don’t,” I said.
Marvin was putting on her hat.
“Don’t you see,” she said, “we’re in the office now? Don’t look that way. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I was not really bothered, because there was never anything to worry about with Marvin Myles.
It was only when I stood in that rented room of mine with the pictures of the family on the bureau that I thought the whole thing through. I had never considered until then what the family would say or what Marvin would say about the family. I did not hesitate about anything for a single instant, and I did not have a moment’s regret, but I knew that we would have to think about plans.
I expected her to come downstairs to meet me, but instead the front door clicked and I walked up three flights to her apartment, a furnished one which she had sublet—a bedroom and a sitting room and a little kitchenette. The door was open and Marvin called to me from the bedroom to wait.
“I’ve got a new dress,” she called. “Wait till you see it!”
I sat there in the sitting room waiting, thinking of the times I had been there before; for I had spent a good many evenings there that summer. The furniture, the chairs, the lamp and the studio couch were chintzy and overdecorated—not connected with Marvin. The only things that were hers were the books on the shelves—a row from Everyman’s Library, and the Bible and Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, and Roget, and a dictionary, and Bulfinch’s Mythology, and the Oxford Book of English Verse. Then above them were some of the newer books—The Spoon River Anthology, two of Dreiser’s novels, Mr. Britling Sees It Through, The Harbor, a volume of Cabell, and Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams. Marvin had read a great deal more than I had, and most of those books were strange to me. Now they seemed like my books, simply because they belonged to her. I heard the swish of her dress in the bedroom. I heard her putting things to rights, for she always wanted things in order, and then the door opened. I don’t remember what the dress was like, because I can never remember about clothes, but she was beautiful.
H. M. Pulham, Esquire Page 19
