H. M. Pulham, Esquire

by John P. Marquand

  “Well, I wish you had a business like that,” George said. “He knows Dragonette. He takes her out to dinner. And he knows Rudy Vallee. That’s more than you do, boss.”

  “I don’t want to know Rudy Vallee,” I said.

  “You ought to get out more,” George said, “like Uncle Bill. You don’t understand my generation.”

  “Rudy Vallee isn’t your generation, and neither is Mr. Bergen.”

  “That may be,” George said, “but they interpret my generation.”

  “To hell with your generation,” I said.

  “I guess you’re feeling pretty sick, aren’t you, boss?” George asked. “Well, I’ll be going now. You don’t want the radio, do you? Maybe you want to listen to the news.”

  I pulled myself up straight in bed. I had forgotten about the news, and now it was all mixed with Charlie McCarthy and George’s generation. The war was all starting again, just as it had started twenty years ago. They were all saying the same things and none of it made sense.

  “Take your tie and go away, George,” I said, “and try not to spill ice cream on it.”

  “The Germans are going into Poland,” George said.

  “Yes,” I said, “I suppose they are. Go on out, George, and have a good time. I’m sorry I was cross.”

  It was always like that with George. I always wanted to have a good talk with him, but somehow one of us was always in a hurry. If I had told him what I thought about the war or about the Goodwin girl, George would not have listened. If I had tried I could not have explained to him why the war made me feel futile and empty. If it lasted for four years—and it might—George would be able to go.

  I was annoyed by something almost patient and patronizing in his manner, and I tried to think whether my attitude had been the same toward my own father. I certainly would not have borrowed his necktie. I certainly would not have spoken so familiarly, and yet I must have felt about the same toward him as George did toward me. I had also treated him with a patient tolerance, secure in the knowledge that he did not understand me, confident that he was a stuffed shirt. It was all repeating itself—another war and another boy. I closed my eyes, and my stomach and my head felt empty. I wondered if Father’s thoughts had been the same as mine, if when people reached a certain age all points of view were not alike. Yet Father had led a secure and certain life. He had not lived through the panic of ’29 or the depression. He had not lived to see Smith and Wilding sink into almost nothing, like so many old banking houses. He had not lived to see what old Pritchard had done to the trust estate, but I had been all through it. I still was going through it, and if my guess was right worse times were on the way. I lay there now, as I did sometimes at night, piecing facts together. Following this war, whether we were in it or not, there would inevitably be inflation. Taxes could not be raised to pay the national debt. The whole thing had started when I was nearly George’s age and it still was moving. In their own small ways Bergen and Dragonette were a part of it, a part of peculiar new ideas, of peculiar humor. It was amazing how many unpleasant things you could think of when you lay in bed. I must have dozed off thinking of them, because they all were vague. Then before I opened my eyes I knew that someone was watching me. I opened them and saw Gladys. She must have entered the room on tiptoe and perhaps she had been there for quite a while. She was holding a letter in her hand.

  “Look,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  She thrust the letter toward me and I knew from her expression that it contained something wonderful, because her face was exalted and completely happy, like the face of a dreamer who has seen the vision of another world.

  “Look,” she said. “It just came this morning.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Look,” she said again. “It’s from Uncle Fuzzey.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “From Uncle Fuzzey,” she said, “Uncle Fuzzey on the radio. I wrote him and he answered it.” It was a typewritten form letter with a printed signature.

  “Dear Little Tuffy-Eater,” I read, “I am so glad to welcome you with all the other boys and girls into the club that eats a big hot plate of Tuffies every morning. On another sheet of paper you will find the club password and enclosed also is your Uncle Fuzzey button. When you see other boys and girls wearing it you will know they are in the Tuffy Club and you can give them the password. With all best wishes—Uncle Fuzzey.”

  “I thought you’d like to see it,” Gladys said.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m awfully glad to see it. It makes me feel better.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’d better be going now,” and she turned and ran away.

  It must have been a good deal later when I opened my eyes again. Kay was back in front of her bureau, brushing her hair and putting some powder on her nose.

  “We’re just going out to lunch,” she said. “You’re going to have some clear broth and a glass of milk and some dry toast. You’re looking better.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Kay, you’re looking awfully well.”

  Kay turned and examined herself in the mirror and then glanced back at me and smiled.

  “Bill’s really a lot of fun,” she said.

  “I can see Bill later this afternoon, can’t I?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Kay said, “late. Have your lunch and try to take a nap. The doctor says you’ll be better if you sleep.”

  “I can’t keep awake,” I answered. “I’m all full of dope. Kay, I’m awfully glad you’re having a good time.”

  She bent over and kissed my forehead.

  “I’ve got to go. Bill’s downstairs waiting. We’re taking the Packard.”

  “You drive,” I said, “if Bill starts drinking.”

  “Now, don’t keep worrying,” she said. “Have the children been bothering you?”

  “Not much,” I told her. “Gladys is in the Tuffy Club.”

  “What in heaven’s name,” Kay asked, “is the Tuffy Club?”

  I found it a little difficult to tell her; she was not listening carefully, because she was in a hurry to go out.

  “That’s awfully childish for a girl her age,” Kay said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe everything that you and I do is childish. I don’t know.”

  Kay turned toward the half-open door, but her mind was somewhere else. She still looked awfully pretty.

  “Don’t try to generalize,” she said. “You’re always so awfully obvious.”

  I was feeling sleepy again, but it seemed to me that I had never seen her look so pretty.

  “Maybe everyone’s obvious,” I said.

  She was moving toward the door, but when I spoke she turned around as though I had startled her.

  “Now, what on earth are you trying to say?” she asked.

  “Why, nothing,” I said.

  “Harry,” she asked, “you’re not being jealous, are you?” Kay smiled.

  “Jealous?” I repeated. “Jealous of what?”

  “Why, of Bill and me, of course,” she said. “You’re not being silly, are you?”

  “Of Bill and you?” I repeated. “Why, I wasn’t even thinking of Bill and you. I was thinking about my intestines, if you want to know.”

  “Oh,” Kay said.

  “And what’s more,” I told her, “why should I be jealous of Bill and you? Have I ever been jealous?”

  “No,” Kay said, “of course you haven’t. It was just something in your voice, but as long as it was just your stomach … You don’t think we’re mean to leave you here, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t,” I said. “I want Bill to have a good time.”

  XXVIII

  It All Adds Up to Something

  Bill came in to see me at five o’clock when the sun was soft on the sea outside the window. He had been out in the boat with Kay and his face was sunburned, but the burn was becoming. He was dressed in tan-colored flannels and a gabardine coat and an odd sort of shirt, and he was wearing c
anvas shoes with rope soles. I told him he looked like a picture in a movie magazine and Bill laughed.

  “You hit it that time, boy,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I bought this outfit when I was out on the Coast. I wore it when I was photographed with Myrna Loy.”

  “Well, it looks that way,” I said.

  “I knocked their eyes out on the beach,” Bill said. “Do you see this shirt? It’s what they call a rogue shirt.”

  “A rogue shirt?” I repeated.

  “No buttons on it,” Bill said. “It just folds around you. You can relax in it. They wear them on the Coast. How are you feeling, boy?”

  “I’m feeling better,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”

  Now that I saw Bill there was something gay about him that made me want to have a drink myself, even though the doctor had forbidden it.

  “Where’s Kay?” I asked.

  “Kay?” Bill said. “Why, I’ve worn Kay all out. She’s taking a nap in the guest room or something. We’re going to the dance tonight.”

  “Then I guess I can have a drink too,” I said, and I rang for Ellen and told her to bring up some Scotch and ice and glasses.

  Bill began talking about everybody he had seen on the beach, while we waited, and about George and Gladys and about everyone he had seen at lunch, and when the whisky came he poured himself a stiff drink and a smaller one for me. He said never to mind what the doctor said, that a drink would do me good, and he was right—I felt a whole lot better. I told him about the crabs and about all the things the doctor had done to me the night before and that morning.

  “If it’s that way,” Bill said, “maybe you ought not to be drinking whisky.”

  I told him never to mind about it. I wanted to make the effort to talk to Bill. It took my mind off my own troubles. That was the way it always was with Bill. As soon as I began talking about the doctor and the nurse, Bill started thinking it was funny, and I saw it was amusing too. I began to forget the impression that Bill’s espadrilles and rogue shirt had made upon me. No matter how Bill dressed he was always just the same.

  “I don’t know why it is you make me laugh,” Bill said, “because, frankly, you’ve always been a straight.”

  “What’s a straight?” I asked.

  “A straight,” Bill said. “Don’t you know what a straight is? A straight’s someone in a skit who has all the jokes thrown at him. I start to tell you a joke. I say, ‘I was walking down the street the other day,’ and you say, ‘Yes, you were walking down the street? Go on.’ And I say, ‘I met a dame,’ and you say, ‘Oh, you met a dame, did you?’ That’s what a straight is.”

  Bill always had something to say that was new and interesting.

  “I see,” I said. “I guess I’ve always been a straight.”

  I thought Bill would laugh, but instead he finished his drink and poured out another one.

  “Maybe, but maybe it’s better than being the smart man. He’s mighty lonely and there’re lots and lots of straights.”

  I could see that something was bothering him. I did not like to bring the matter up, but I knew I should, because I was his friend.

  “Bill,” I said, “I’m awfully sorry about Elise.”

  Bill shook the ice in his glass. I could not tell whether he wanted to talk about her or not.

  “Elise,” he said, “oh, yes. We never should have got married in the first place. I don’t know whatever got into me to marry her.”

  “She was awfully pretty,” I said. “I know I never got along very well with her the few times I saw her, but I always liked her.”

  Bill sat scowling into his glass.

  “She was spoiled,” he said. “She couldn’t understand that I had my work. Oh, hell. What’s the use of going over it? All these bust-ups are alike. Boy, if I started to tell you about Elise—do you know what she did? She tried to stab me with a paper knife.”

  “Why, Bill,” I said, “why did she do that?”

  Bill took several swallows of whisky and looked more cheerful.

  “We were just talking,” he said. “It didn’t really mean anything. It was just the way we were—and the things I used to do for Elise! Palm Beach! Hollywood! She’s an artist—a great artist—you wouldn’t understand.”

  “She must have been awfully selfish, Bill,” I said.

  “Naturally,” Bill said, “but then look at me—I’m selfish. The best way to treat those things is to laugh at them. It’s like what happened to you, only you ate crabs and me—I married Elise!”

  Bill looked at the ceiling and smiled, but I could see that he was hurt and I hoped that he would change the subject.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “She was a nice girl. She is still. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

  “I don’t suppose those things ever are,” I said.

  Bill sat for a while without speaking, but I knew he was thinking about it. In spite of his sunburn he looked thin and tired, completely sick of himself and sick of everything.

  “Bill,” I said, “you’d better get it off your mind.”

  Bill shook the ice in his glass and set his glass down. Then he pulled a gold cigarette case out of his pocket, looked at it and put it back in his pocket again.

  “Hell,” he said, “she gave me that. That’s the trouble with it, things keep coming up—what she did, what I did, what we used to do.”

  “Bill,” I said, “you know Kay and I are right behind you.”

  Bill looked as though he did not hear me and took another drink.

  “She never understood me,” he said, “but everyone says that. Maybe I never understood her either. I’m damned if I know what it was all about. Maybe I’m just a plain heel. I don’t know.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “It just didn’t work. That isn’t anybody’s fault.”

  Bill took another drink and smoothed his coat.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, “that always comes out of a mess like this. There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who isn’t happily married. He just goes around getting into trouble. Boy, the trouble I’ve been in the past two years! You wouldn’t believe it,—” and he began to smile,—“and the trouble Elise’s been in!”

  “I suppose,” I said, “if you’d ever had a baby—” Bill looked startled.

  “A baby! For God’s sakes, why a baby?”

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t know.” Bill was staring at me and I was glad to see that he was looking better.

  “Go ahead, boy,” Bill said. “Why a baby?”

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t know. Of course I suppose everyone has difficulties. I know I do lots of things that make Kay mad. I suppose I’m awfully stupid sometimes, but after Kay had George, why, everything was a whole lot better. And I think Kay and I are pretty happy. We’ve always been happy.”

  Bill lifted up his glass and set it down without drinking.

  “Would you mind saying that again?” he asked.

  “I don’t see what’s so queer about it. Taken all in all, Kay and I have really been happy.”

  “All right,” Bill said gently. “Just tell me how you and Kay have been happy.”

  Bill had a way of being amused by things which I could not understand.

  “It’s a little hard to explain,” I said. “It’s like taking a lot of numbers that don’t look alike and that don’t mean anything until you add them all together.”

  I stopped, because I hadn’t meant to talk to him about Kay and me.

  “Go ahead,” Bill said. “What about the numbers?” And he began to smile.

  “I don’t know why you think it’s so funny,” I said. “All the things that two people do together, two people like Kay and me, add up to something. There are the kids and the house and the dog and all the people we’ve known and all the times we’ve been out to dinner. Of course Kay and I do quarrel sometimes, but when you add it all together, all of it isn’t as bad as the parts of it seem. I mean, maybe that’s all there is to anybody’s life
.”

  Bill poured himself another drink. He seemed about to say something and checked himself. He kept looking at me.

  “Well,” Bill said, “maybe you’re right, but you sound like the Oxford Group.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m awfully sorry, Bill. I didn’t mean to talk about Kay and me. I was just thinking of it this morning when Kay was putting powder on her nose.”

  “What?” Bill said.

  “When Kay was fixing herself over there by the mirror,” I said, “before she took you down to the beach.”

  “Hell’s bells!” Bill said, and he ran his hand over his hair. It was still blond and curly. “What time is it?”

  I looked at the watch on the table by the bed.

  “It’s two minutes after six.”

  “Good,” Bill said. “Have you got a radio?”

  “Yes,” I said, “right on the table over there. Do you want to listen to the news? The Germans are going into Poland.”

  “News?” Bill said. “To hell with the news. It’s the Coza hour. We’re putting on Bill Bingo and his new swing orchestra and Larry Leach is the new host and I want to hear how that damned fairy comes across.”

  “Who’s Bill Bingo?” I asked.

  “What?” said Bill. “Haven’t you heard of Bill Bingo? He’s top on the KC rating, and costs us five thousand dollars for half an hour and he has blackheads and wears smoked glasses. Wait a minute. Here he is. There goes Larry. I wrote the continuity.”

  Bill stood by the radio holding his whisky glass with one hand and raising the other hand so that I would not speak. A mellifluous voice filled the room, against a background of soft music.

  “And now once again,” the voice was saying, “Cozaland greets you.”

  “It’s better,” Bill said, “without any plug for the soap. It’s proved on the KC rating. Just music from Cozaland.”

  “And as we sit and watch the sunset, Bill Bingo and the Bingo Boys swing it for you, with the compliments of the manufacturers of Coza Soap.”

  “No more plug than that,” said Bill, “and it pulls. That voice has personality, hasn’t it? There they go.”