I Want to Go Home

by Frances Lockridge

  I Want to Go Home

  RICHARD AND FRANCES LOCKRIDGE

  A Captain Heimrich Mystery

  One

  She wrote the words, “Dear Aunt Susan” and put a colon after them and then, meaninglessly, a little dash beyond the colon. Then she stopped writing, because the words, so familiar, so often written, now evoked so many memories that her mind was choked with them. She sat with her long, slim fingers holding the pen ready, but she did not look at the words nor at the paper in front of them. She did not look at anything, and she looked across a continent. She looked back through enough years to add to a quarter of a century. It seemed an incredible time when she thought of it in those terms, in relation to a century. It was hard to believe that the years she had lived had, already, totaled to so considerable, so impressive, a fraction of the period one used in reckoning history.

  It goes so fast, she thought; so desperately fast. It slips away from you, running through your fingers. Now and then you realize how it slips and try to close your hand on time, as I am trying now. However long you live, she thought—even if you live to be as old as Susan—there must be moments, like this moment, when you try to stop the slipping away of time; when, without warning, as now, you find yourself nervously anxious and uneasy, knowing how much you can remember, how far back you can see. Oh, she thought, I do want to go back. I want to go home. She realized, then, how two conceptions, two anxieties, had become identified in her mind, so that, thinking she wanted to return to a place, it was quite as true that she wanted to return to a time. The realization of this, suddenly becoming clear in her mind, as suddenly freed her.

  Well, she thought, I can go back home, and the rest is nonsense. It is the kind of nonsense that gets you when you’re bored. And my God, she thought, have I been bored these last few months! Bored and lost, tied to nothing, not wanting really to do any of the things I’ve done, marking time and standing still. Seeing people who meant nothing, saying things with no meaning, doing work which seemed, even while I was doing it well enough, quickly enough, like occupational therapy. My dear, she told herself, you’ve been in a state. You’ve been a mess, my dear, really and truly a mess. You better had go home; you better had go some place and pull yourself together, and get started again. You had better get back into things, belong to things. What was the phrase they used? “Make a place for yourself.”

  That had been the trouble, here in California. It was not, presumably, a trouble with California. California was fine. California was big and bright and full of big, bright people and all she needed to do to make it her place was to be likewise big and bright. Only, she thought, I’m not. It’s a fine place, but it isn’t my place. It isn’t where I’m home. And, she thought—and now she laid down the pen and stood up and walked, without purpose, over to a window—I was so sure it would be. I went to so much trouble, because I thought it would be.

  The WAVE commander at the separation center had not, she remembered, seemed so sure. The WAVE commander had not, by then, been sure of anything, except, perhaps, that it had been a mistake to agree to stay on until separation was, finally, complete. The WAVE commander had given advice, by then, to a very considerable number of young women who would not, she had begun to suspect, pay much attention to it; she was, herself, beginning to be overcome by a conviction of futility. She had said the prescribed things; listed the rights which, for those discharged under honorable conditions, had become inalienable. She had finished what was prescribed and had then, leaning back in her chair, looked at the slim young woman who faced her—faced her politely, attentively, with blond hair of regulation length and blue eyes which held an odd kind of stillness.

  “You’re from the East, aren’t you, lieutenant?” the commander had said. She picked up a card from her desk and looked at it and put it down. “Three N.D.” she said. “You elected to stay here? In California? Because of friends here, I suppose?”

  The young woman shook her head. There was no emphasis in the movement; there was not even, the WAVE commander thought, quite the certainty she would have expected from a girl who wore her uniform with such confidence, wore human competence so becomingly.

  “I feel like starting over,” the young woman said. “That’s all, commander. Like starting all over.”

  A good many of them felt like that, the WAVE commander thought. The feeling was particularly common among those who were coming through now, so long after the war, so long after they needed to. These were the ones who had not hurried back, almost breathless, to take up familiar lives again. Those who wanted to hurry back had, for a long time now, been able to go back. Most of them could not have stayed in longer even if they had wished; this lieutenant, junior grade, had obviously had some special and needed skill. The WAVE commander looked again at the records in front of her. Oh yes. An aide, attached to the Judge Advocate General’s office. That would account for it. JAG, even JAG’S extension in Hawaii, had had a good many loose ends to tie up. But they would have let this jg go if she had really wanted to go.

  The WAVE commander looked at the younger woman again, and was as nearly interested as her own weariness permitted. Usually if they wanted to stay in there was, to put it bluntly, something wrong with them. They were doing better in the Navy than they would outside the Navy; better than they had done before. They were not attractive, these belated WAVES, nor, commonly, very efficient. They did not anticipate that anything exciting waited to be done outside, or anything exciting to be felt, and most of them were lamentably right. They formed a pallid group. But there was nothing whatever pallid about this young woman, who had nevertheless waited until the early winter of 1947 to accept her assignment to inactive duty in the Naval Reserve. The WAVE commander looked at the young woman sitting across the desk from her and, inwardly, sighed.

  If I looked like that—if I had ever looked like that—I’d be in a hurry, the commander thought. I’d be in a lot of a hurry. If I had been as tall and slim as that, with a face like that and hair like that, with legs that long, as young as that—Boy, the commander thought, they wouldn’t have stopped me! Not SecNav himself. I’d have been up and doing. The WAVE commander sighed, audibly, this time. This damn girdle, she thought. I need a drink, she thought.

  “You know best, of course,” the commander said, doubting what she said. “I can’t advise. You’re a grown woman, obviously. I do think it’s better to—well, to get back to familiar things. Things you had before. When you first get out there’s apt to be a kind of emptiness. You’ve been in four years?”

  “Almost.”

  “A kind of emptiness,” the WAVE commander repeated. “A kind of uncertainty. It’s simpler when you’re home.”

  The jg smiled, but did not say anything. There was no politeness in her silence, no dismissal. She was courteous; she had listened. She merely had no comment.

  Well, the commander had been right after all, the young woman who had been a WAVE lieutenant, junior grade, thought, as she looked out the window at nothing in particular. She didn’t know how I felt, or what it was all about, but she was right. I suppose we’re not really as special as we think we are. I suppose what’s true of most is true of us, too. Because there was an emptiness. God knows there was an emptiness! And the word “uncertainty” was as good as any other, too, if you did not take it too literally. She had done everything with certainty, but she had been uncertain inside. Mr. Burton had paid tribute to the first fact, and had not seemed to suspect the second, when she had said she was leaving. He had put his fingers together, looked at her over them with a judicial expression slightly moderated by an expression of polite regret, and had informed her that they were sorry to see her go.

  “We had plans for you,” he’d told her. “We approved y
our work.”

  She had smiled at him. She was standing, this time, on the other side of a desk. This time her suit was powder blue.

  “I’ve liked it with the firm,” she’d told him. “It’s just—well, it’s just that I want to go home. I don’t know why, exactly.”

  Mr. Burton’s face had been, momentarily, host to an expression of mild disapproval. He had almost indicated that it was nonsensical of people, and particularly of efficient employees, to be uncertain about any of the whys of life.

  “Well,” he’d said, “we do regret your decision. However—”

  He had stood up and shook hands with her.

  Now she left the window, through which she had been seeing nothing, and moved back toward her desk. She paused a moment in front of the long mirror in a closet door. The hair wasn’t regulation length any more, but the smooth tan hadn’t changed. I’ll do, she thought. She turned away. Although I don’t know what for, she thought. It was almost, she realized suddenly, as if George had just died—had just been killed all over again—although it had really been almost four years. It was as if she had been under an anesthetic ever since, and was now coming out, and finding it hurt again. Perhaps that was why it had proved so hard to start over; perhaps even that was why she had been so reluctant to accept inactive duty. As long as she was in the Navy, part of what he had been so much a part of, it was as if she had still, somehow, had him with her. Now she was all alone. Alone and at loose ends and homesick. Maybe that was it; maybe that would work. I want to go home, she thought. I’ve got to get back.

  She sat at the desk again and looked at the words “Dear Aunt Susan.” Aunt Susan, Great-aunt Susan, really would be—she paused to count it up. Great-aunt Susan would be eighty. She hoped the news wouldn’t be too much of a shock.

  “I’ve decided to come home,” she wrote, and now she wrote rapidly, sure of what she wanted to say. “I’ve suddenly realized I’ve been away too long—much too long—that I don’t really belong here. I hope you will be glad. I’m sure you will, because you were always so good to me and I can’t think of your changing.”

  She signed her name. She looked at the letter and suddenly laughed to herself. She wrote the date at the top, Wednesday, September 10. Then, under her name, she wrote: “I’m leaving next Monday, by train. If I’m right about the time-table, I ought to get to New York Thursday morning. I’ll come right out.”

  She looked at the letter now, reading it over. It said very little of all there was to say; less, by far, than the letter she had written months before, telling of her decision to stay on in California, trying to explain how she felt. And that letter had not been answered. It was more than a year, now, since any of her letters had been answered. It was odd, she thought, sitting with the letter held in front of her and now not reading it, how little Great-aunt Susan’s silence had really mattered, when, looked at objectively, it might have seemed to matter so much. She had looked at it objectively, but the conclusions reached so had been almost comically inapplicable. The conclusion was that Aunt Susan was still angry at her; that Aunt Susan did not want to hear from her, or see her; that she had been cast off. The conclusion was neat, demonstrable. And it was untrue.

  She had thought about it when it became apparent that the letter of last winter was not going to be answered. She took into account Aunt Susan’s unquestionable irritation about George—the compounded irritation, which began when she had married George and was augmented when, after George’s death, she had done the only thing which then seemed possible and joined the Navy. Aunt Susan had known, because Aunt Susan knew her very well, that, more than anything else, her enlistment had been an act of loyalty to George—had been a kind of way of carrying on for George, an effort to hold herself and George somehow together. Aunt Susan had realized that, at the time, more surely and deeply than Jane had realized it herself and, because Aunt Susan notably held to what was hers, Aunt Susan had resented it. But Aunt Susan, first and last, had resented many things and none of these resentments had mattered.

  Aunt Susan had felt resentment, had been irritated, because she wanted more, because she wanted everything, because she would not let go. That she had not answered the letter did not mean that she had now let go. It meant that a letter was not enough and that Aunt Susan, knowing what she herself had hardly suspected, had been certain that it would not remain enough. Aunt Susan had smiled over the letter; Aunt Susan had thought, she’ll be coming home whatever she thinks. Oh yes, she’ll be coming home. I can wait. Aunt Susan had always been confident that she could wait, apparently believing herself indestructible. About that, as about so many other things, Aunt Susan looked like being right. She had always been a little woman, never very strong, and now she was eighty. It would have made her very confident.

  Eighty, and probably alone in the big, ugly house. The house would not look ugly next week, next Thursday afternoon. It would be home, then, and would not look anything except familiar. Its gray stone walls would not be bleak then; its unrelenting squareness not pompous and a little absurd. It would merely be home. The square lawn—what a perverted sense of balance old John Appleby must have had, to be sure!—would be again the great and joyful plain on which she had chased Barnacle and been chased by Barnacle as a child. The big oak, so much too close to the corner of the house, would be the friendly tree she had patted gratefully at the age of five because it would let a swing be hung on it. Even thinking of the house made its harsh outlines soften. It’s a beautiful house, she thought; I grew up in a beautiful house. And I’m going home to it!

  She folded the letter quickly, slipped it into an envelope. On the envelope she wrote: “Mrs. Susan Meredith, Appleby Corners, RFD Somers, New York.” She put an air mail stamp in the corner, fitting it carefully into the corner because it was to carry such an important letter. Hatless, happier than she had been in years, she went out to mail the letter to Aunt Susan.

  It was dark in the study, although it was only midafternoon. The big oak which shaded the drawing-room windows had enough heavy shade, enough darkness, to envelop also the adjacent study. Frederick Meredith had turned on a lamp and was reading, with approval, an article in the Reader’s Digest. The article explained that there would be no economic travail in America if everyone—labor and capital—would only be reasonable. The article was entitled: “Don’t Throw That Wrench!” The author of the article was himself entirely reasonable, because he had seen reasonableness work. “I’m a union man,” he wrote, “and I say, ‘Don’t throw that wrench!’” He could be dispassionate about it, he pointed out, because, fortunately he thought, his union was unaffiliated. It functioned in an old family company and he did not think it too much to say that its members, rank and file, felt themselves part of the family.

  Frederick Meredith nodded approvingly. He’d like to show this article to that CIO organizer who was coming around Monday. Maybe it would make him understand something about the real problems of private enterprise. Mr. Meredith put the copy of Reader’s Digest down in his lap and thought about the CIO organizer. Then he shook his head. If the CIO organizer read “Don’t Throw That Wrench!” he would merely say something like “Yah!” Mr. Meredith, who did not long nurture illusions, could almost hear him. Well, if he wanted a fight—

  Dr. Hardy opened the study door and came in. Meredith stood up quickly. He was a big man, sturdy, sunburned. He had thick gray hair. When he looked at someone, as he now looked enquiringly at Dr. Hardy, he unconsciously tilted his head back, because his gray eyes were very heavily lidded. They always had been; it was a Meredith family idiosyncrasy. His father had had the same heavylidded eyes.

  The doctor met the enquiry in Meredith’s eyes with a faint shake of the head.

  “No change,” he said. “I don’t think there will be until—” He left the sentence open, a slight shrug completing it.

  Frederick Meredith nodded.

  “You’ve still no idea how long?” he said.

  “Not long,” Dr. Hardy said. �
��I don’t think it will be long.”

  “A month?” Meredith said. “Two weeks? A week?”

  Dr. Hardy crossed the room. He dropped into a chair. He looked tired; his voice was tired.

  “Really, Meredith,” he said. “Nobody can tell. I might say a week, and it might be tomorrow. All anybody can say, and be certain, is that each day it’s a little nearer.”

  “It is with all of us,” Meredith pointed out. “Surely, between tomorrow, say, and—oh, next month—you must have some guess.”

  “Why?” the doctor said. “Oh—I know. I sympathize, Mr. Meredith. Families always want so much more certainty than there is. Your mother is eighty. She is dying of old age, whatever that means. We don’t really know.”

  “My step-mother,” Meredith said. He said it without emphasis, as if it were something he often said.

  “Your step-mother,” Dr. Hardy agreed. “Call it senility, Mr. Meredith. Nothing specific. A wearing out.”

  “A month?” Meredith said. “Two months?”

  Dr. Hardy sighed. He spread his hands.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll guess for you. A week. I don’t think longer; not much longer, anyway.” He looked at Meredith. “Mind you,” he said, “she doesn’t know.”

  “For God’s sake,” Meredith said. “You think I’d tell her?”

  Dr. Hardy shook his head.

  “She seemed vague this morning,” Meredith said. “Not so sure of things. Did you notice?”

  The doctor shook his head again.

  “It comes and goes,” he said. “Bound to. She was bright enough just now. Clear enough. She wanted to know if the chrysanthemums were blooming.”

  “Too early,” Meredith said. He seemed struck by the idea. “Too early and too late,” he said. He nodded slowly. “For her,” he added.

  “She asked about her niece,” the doctor said. “Or, rather, she said, ‘I wish Jane were here. I want to see Jane.’”