Tomorrow Is Forever

by Gwen Bristow

  Elizabeth began to laugh. “You’d better send Brian home, Irene. He’ll be a distressing influence on Peter.”

  “But when they’re mounting bugs together they’re so happy. I can’t bear to separate them. So let him stay for dinner, Elizabeth. We’ll bring him home by nine.”

  “All right then, and thank you for being so good to him. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you—I’m going to ring you one day this week for lunch.”

  “Do. I’d love it.”

  They said goodby and Elizabeth put back the phone. She laughed to herself as she did so. Everything was back where it ought to be. Her friends, her children, the warm security of her life. Going over to the desk, she took up Spratt’s picture and kissed him through the glass.

  As she went downstairs she heard a babble of young voices and a sound of laughter. Dick and Cherry had evidently come indoors with their friends, and the four of them were making quite as much noise as might have been expected if they had been greeting one another after years of separation. “Doesn’t their energy ever give out?” Elizabeth asked herself with fond wonder as she heard them. She glanced into the dining room to make sure the table had been set with two extra places, made ready the cocktail tray in the living room, and then went to the balcony that ran along the back of the house, to observe the state of affairs around the pool.

  The children had hung their suits and towels on the line provided, leaving the place quite tidy after their swim. They were really very good about that, except now and then when they had something important on their minds and forgot to clear up. What a good time they were having now! They had gone into the back den, the windows of which opened on the balcony where she was standing, and she could hear them as they discussed something that must be excruciatingly funny, for the conversation seemed to consist less of words than of laughter. Not wanting to interrupt whatever it was they were enjoying so much, Elizabeth sat down in a deck-chair on the balcony to wait for the appearance of Spratt’s car in the driveway.

  The shadows of the lemon trees were like dark lace shawls lying on the grass. A little wind rumpled the surface of the pool and moved gently past her, bringing odors of damp grass, lemon blossoms, torn geranium leaves. The air was full of the twittering of birds making farewell to the sun as joyfully as the children were laughing within.

  Elizabeth leaned back, wrapped in a warm glow of pleasure. What a lucky woman she was, she reflected, and how much she had—a beautiful home, a husband who loved her, such charming, happy children. In the midst of all this, how foolish it was ever to remember anything else. It was good to have a few minutes alone, like this, to look at all of it and know she had a right to be proud because she had created it; good to take pleasure in her children’s laughter and know they were so happy because of the love and security she had given them. No matter what might happen to them in the coming years they would have this to remember.

  She found herself laughing too, in echo of the four mirthful youngsters in the den. They were reading something, for she could hear the rustle of pages—no doubt those dusty old magazines they had brought in from Julia’s mother’s attic—and their voices came through the window to her, breathless with merriment.

  “Go on, Cherry—” it was Dick speaking—“what have you got now? Read it.”

  “This one’s wonderful,” exclaimed Cherry. “Listen.” She read, grandiloquently. “‘In these days of bitter strife, when the earth shakes with the force of battle, a new future is being born. We make sacrifices gladly, for we know we shall be richly repaid with the glory of Universal brotherhood. The world must be made safe for democracy! In this magnificent hour—’”

  Another shout of laughter interrupted her. Cherry announced,

  “That’s an advertisement for raisins!”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Pudge.

  “It certainly is, here’s a picture of a loaf of raisin bread to go with it.”

  “Did they have to eat raisin bread to get universal brotherhood?” Julia asked merrily.

  “Oh, I get it,” exclaimed Dick, as though looking over Cherry’s shoulder. “It’s easier to persuade the children to eat bread without butter if the bread has raisins in it. Butter is grease, grease makes explosives, and explosives make brotherhood. Very simple in that magnificent hour. Oh look,” he continued, with a sound of turning pages, “here’s a better one than that. They were having a campaign to sell Liberty Bonds—”

  “What were Liberty Bonds?” asked Julia.

  “Government bonds to pay for the war, like the War Bonds we buy now. Here’s a question-and-answer department, and somebody writes in to ask if it’s quite fair to sell long-term bonds to be paid for by future taxpayers. He asks, ‘Isn’t that making future generations pay for this generation’s war?’ and the editor answers—this’ll kill you—he answers, ‘Exactly so, and this is one of the best reasons for buying Liberty Bonds today. For the fruits of this war will be enjoyed by the generations yet unborn.’”

  “Jumping Jupiter!” Pudge exclaimed as the four of them went off into another paroxysm of mirth.

  “Generations yet unborn!” Cherry repeated. “That’s us.”

  “And aren’t we enjoying the fruits of that war!” said Julia. “Let me see that one, Dick. I wonder if this editor is still alive.”

  “If he is,” said Cherry, “I bet his face is red. Oh do look, here’s a beauty. A picture of a lot of babies, and the title is, ‘The America of tomorrow, for whom the world is being made safe today.’”

  “I bet every one of ’em’s in the army now,” said Dick. “Take a peek at this. A picture of a lot of soldiers ready to go abroad, and the line under it says, ‘A payment on our debt to France.’”

  “Any time France feels like making a payment on their debt to us,” said Cherry, “I’m agreeable.” There was another sound of rustling pages, and she burst out laughing again. “Listen, everybody. One of our greatest aims in this war is the reconstruction of Europe on such a basis that future holocaust like this one will be impossible. Out of the world’s anguish must be born a new Germany, a nation in which democracy shall rule, where no tyrant and no group of bloodthirsty lunatics shall ever again have the power to plunge a whole continent—’” The rest of her words were lost in a confusion of laughter.

  “For the love of Pete,” murmured Pudge, incredulously.

  “It’s right here in print, only you didn’t let me finish and the last sentence is the funniest of all. ‘Germany will be defeated, but their defeat will bring the German people one tremendous gain: it will mean for them the complete and final overthrow of autocratic government.’ How do you like that?”

  “I get it,” said Pudge. “We were just fighting the Germans for their own good, were we? Gee, when they look around they must be so grateful.”

  “I see by this paper,” said Julia, “that the International Sunday School convention planned for 1916 has just been called off because the delegates are too busy shooting each other to attend this year.”

  “Where were they going to hold it?” asked Cherry.

  “Don’t look now, dear. In Japan.”

  They began to laugh again. Pudge exclaimed, “Be quiet and let me read you something funnier than that. These editorials about the first air raid on an open city. It seems the Germans had things called Zeppelins—that’s a kind of blimp—and they sent some of these Zeppelins over Antwerp and dropped a few bombs, and here’s what the American papers were saying about it. The attack upon Antwerp, made without warning to its innocent population, is completely contrary to all rules of civilized warfare—’”

  “Rules?” Dick interrupted mirthfully. “You’d have thought it was a football game.”

  “‘Zeppelins have dropped bombs on an undefended city!’” Pudge continued reading with mock horror. “‘This is not only contrary to the laws of war, but can serve no legitimate military purpose—
’”

  “What is a legitimate military purpose,” Dick inquired, “unless it is to kill everybody you can?”

  “Shut up and let me read this. ‘As those who were killed or injured by the bombs were women and male non-combatants, the airship attack was nothing but a plain act of savagery. This is not war, but murder!’”

  “Did you ever hear anything so naive?” asked Cherry.

  “Was that first attack a bad one?” asked Dick.

  “I was saving that for the last,” answered Pudge. “If you can believe it, that first air raid, that dastardly, bloodthirsty, savage raid that made everybody sit back and yell with horror—that raid killed ten people and wounded eleven.”

  “Holy smoke!” exclaimed Dick, and the others joined in his derision. A moment later Dick added, “Here’s a swell side-angle on the air raids. It says the men in London were taking to wearing pajamas instead of nightshirts because when the blimps came over everybody ran out into the streets, and they wanted the neighbors to see them running around in something more becoming to British dignity than nightshirts.”

  They chuckled joyfully. Cherry exclaimed, “I wish you’d look at these recipes for war-meals. ‘Freedom Meat Loaf,’ made out of peanuts and cornmeal.”

  “Peanuts do have Vitamin B in them,” suggested Julia.

  “They’d never heard of Vitamin B,” Dick said scornfully. “They had to eat peanuts and call ’em meat because our brave allies were buying up all the meat with the money they borrowed and didn’t pay back and never did intend to pay back. Do look at that headline—‘Every housewife who saves meat and flour in her home is bringing nearer the day of universal democracy!’”

  “Do you suppose they really believed all that?” Cherry asked in wonder.

  Outside, on the balcony, Elizabeth lifted her hands from the arms of the chair and saw that each of the bright blue cushions was stained with a round spot of dampness where she had gripped them. On the other side of the window the children made some fresh discovery and went off into another peal of laughter, gay, mocking, and terrible because it was so utterly innocent. Elizabeth stood up, her muscles tense with impulse. Then she stopped, standing motionless because she did not know what the impulse was. To do something to them—but what? She could not walk in upon them white with anger and cry out, “Yes, we believed it! You inhuman young wretches, we believed it!”

  She could not say that because they were not inhuman, and they were not wretches; they were young and well-bred and intelligent, and they would hear her with a pained bewilderment, and answer with the cool logic of their years, “Aren’t you ashamed that you did, when you look at the world we’re living in?”

  And her son—who was seventeen and who did not look at all like Arthur, since he bore no more relationship to Arthur than to the policeman on the corner—her son would ask her, with the same cool logic, “Do you want me to believe it this time?”

  How strange it would be if she should try to tell them anything about Arthur. With what incomprehension they would hear her. Her children knew—that is, if anybody had asked them, they could have answered after a moment’s reflection—that their father was their mother’s second husband. She was not sure they had ever been told their mother’s first husband had lost his life in that war they were laughing at. If they had ever heard this, evidently they had forgotten about it. How fantastic it would seem to them if she broke now into their jolly chatter to say, “I know all about that war you find so absurd, and that sentimental nonsense that sent men out to die. I loved a man who died for it.”

  They would be shocked into uncomfortable silence. Or they might, as they had a right to do, stare at her and ask, “For what?”

  This she could answer, for they had told her themselves. He had died for the generation of her own children, to give them the right not to believe in anything. They had told her, as clearly as they could tell her, the futility of his sacrifice. She remembered what he had said to her. “If we win this war, you’ll have your children. If we don’t, you won’t want them.” Her children could answer her now, but as she stood within sound of their healthy, laughter-laden voices, Elizabeth knew that she could not answer them.

  Indoors the children came across some new monstrosity and broke into laughter again. Cherry finally gasped, “I tell you, my ribs hurt. I haven’t had so much fun for ages.”

  “Oh boy,” exclaimed Pudge, “here’s another of these things. ‘Today, filled with hope and trust, we proudly look upon our great army and our noble allies. Through their sacrifices we are moving toward the victory that will bring triumphant peace to all the world. Bring this glorious day nearer! Work for victory as you never worked before! America is destined to be—’”

  “—the prize sucker of all time,” Dick finished the sentence for him, with sudden disgust. “Did you ever hear such tripe? Couldn’t you throw up?”

  “Well—we really ought not to laugh,” Julia admitted. “The poor things, they took it so seriously.”

  “If we don’t laugh,” said Dick, “we’ll all sit down and cry. We’ve got the mess they made.”

  “Oh Dick,” Julia admonished him, “but really, this war is different!”

  “Different? Tell that to the Marines. Sure, the Marines who got stuck on Wake Island with a lot of popguns because the Japs were such good customers and they might have got their feelings hurt if we’d fortified it.”

  “We’re a swell bunch of suckers, aren’t we?” said Cherry. “To get ourselves born in these times!”

  “Well, we couldn’t help it,” Dick remarked. “But I guess nobody who had anything to say about it would have picked out the twentieth century, any of it.”

  Cherry gave a low ironic chuckle. “They’ll have an easy time remembering the twentieth century when they study it in the history books. A pre-war period, a war, an inter-war period, another war, a post-war period—”

  “Don’t say post-war too soon, you wishful thinker,” Pudge admonished her lazily. “How do you know it won’t be just the second inter-war period?”

  There was a shuffling sound as they began to restack the magazines, evidently concluding that these had provided as much amusement as they could afford. “This is a fine way for two fellows to be talking,” advised Julia, “who’ll probably be in the army this time next year.”

  “No, you don’t get it, Julia,” said Dick. “I’m not as pessimistic as Pudge, I think the next inter-war period is going to be a lot longer than this last one, why it’s got to; by the time this war is over everything will be blown to powder and there’ll be nothing left to fight with. But we’re a lot better off than those moony-faced laddies who went marching off full of molasses about the brotherhood of man and all that. We won’t be disillusioned when it’s over because we haven’t got any illusions. We know it’s all a bloody mess and we’re in it because our elders didn’t have sense enough to keep us out of it. Well go into the army and they’ll train us to be killers whose business it is to shoot other killers before they have a chance to shoot us first. And that’s that.”

  “But my Lord, Dick!” Julia exclaimed in a shocked voice. “We’ve got to fight! Don’t you hate the Japs?”

  “Of course I hate them. I’d like to wipe every one of their monkey faces off the earth. Oh, that’s okay by me, I’ll shoot ’em and be glad to do it. But that’s not the idea. I meant the difference between this war and the last one is that this time we know what we’re doing. We’re fighting to stay alive, period. We don’t expect any brand-new world.”

  “Lucky we don’t expect it,” observed Pudge, “because it’s a cinch we’re not going to get one.”

  “Mr. Wallace,” Cherry said wisely, “thinks we’re fighting to provide milk for the Chinese coolies.”

  Pudge chuckled at her. “Without even asking the coolies if they want any milk.”

  “You know,” said Cherry, “it’s really pathe
tic the way some of the propaganda leaders are trying to sell us on that idea of a brand-new world. Just get this over with, and the Russians will love the Chinese and the Chinese will love the British and the British will love the Italians—”

  Pudge interrupted, still chuckling, “Just picture anybody actually loving the Italians.”

  “Oh, but they will,” Cherry assured him cynically. “Haven’t you read some of these post-war planners? Everybody is going to get along with everybody else, even the Spaniards.”

  “The State Department,” Dick reminded her, “gets along beautifully with the Spaniards.”

  “Now that Chamberlain is dead,” said Cherry, “somebody really ought to send the State Department a lot of umbrellas for Christmas. Oh, it really does make you tired, doesn’t it? Ever since I can remember, people have been talking about the next war, and nobody did anything about it except to go on selling the Japs and Germans things to blow us up with. And now that we’re in it they’re trying to hand us that same old fluff.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Julia admitted. “It’s—shivery, isn’t it?”

  “It would be,” said Dick, “if anybody believed it.”

  “Some people do believe it, Dick,” Pudge told him seriously. “Nobody our age, of course, but a lot of older people do.”

  “I don’t see how they can. They fell for it once, it doesn’t make sense for anybody to fall for it twice.”

  “Well, does any of it make sense, I ask you?”

  Dick retorted, “It doesn’t make sense except the way I said it the first time. The Japs and Germans say, ‘We’re going to kill you and take what you’ve got.’ We say, ‘Like hell you are.’ So we get up and bang it out. We keep banging till they’re so slugnutty they have to let us alone.”

  “That’s not the way it turned out last time,” Julia reminded him.

  “No it didn’t,” Dick agreed, “because last time everybody was so full of phony ideals and doubletalk. Why, to read this stuff we’ve been reading, you’d think the army was a lot of social workers sent out to uplift the community. Those fellows didn’t know what they were fighting for. No wonder they left everything in such a muddle. Nobody ever fought a war for any ideals.”