100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

by Lorrie Moore

  1942

  NANCY HALE

  Those Are as Brothers

  from Mademoiselle

  NANCY HALE (1908–1988) was born in Boston, the daughter of two renowned painters. She studied as a painter but also pursued writing and published her first story in the Boston Herald when she was only eleven. After she married, she moved to New York and became a writer and editor for Vogue. She later became the first female news reporter for the New York Times. At the same time she wrote the novel The Young Die Good, as well as short stories, some about women struggling to maintain their independence. She divorced and moved with her new husband to Charlottesville, Virginia. At this time she wrote her best-known novel, The Prodigal Women. She also published many stories in The New Yorker; in 1961 alone, she sold the magazine twelve stories.

  Hale’s husband taught at the University of Virginia while William Faulkner was writer in residence there, and Hale and Faulkner socialized frequently. In an essay she described meeting Faulkner for the first time at a cocktail party and saying to him, “The first sip of whiskey is much the best, isn’t it?” to which he replied, “Uhh-huuh . . . Why, down home, when I come in of an evenin’, and walk in by the fire, and sit down there with a drink of whiskey in my hand, I tell you there’s nothin in the world like that first sip runnin down my throat.’” She wrote, “We were off. After that we never had any silences when we met at parties. Simple, sensuous experience was what Faulkner wanted to talk about . . . the sounds of tree toads at night in summer, the way it smells when you wake up to fine snow.”

  Hale, the founder of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, won a Benjamin Franklin Award for short story authors, an O. Henry Award, and a Henry H. Bellamann Award for literature.

  ★

  THE LONG, CLEAR American summer passed slowly, dreaming over the Connecticut Valley and the sound, square houses under the elms and the broad, living fields, and over the people there that came and went and lay and sat still, with purpose and without, but free; moving in and out of their houses of their own free will, free to perceive the passage of the days through the different summer months and the smells and the sun and the rain and the high days and the brooding days, as was their right; without fear and without apprehension.

  On the front lawn of the white house on the riverbank, the two little boys came out every morning and dug holes and hammered nails into boards and pushed around the express-wagon filled with rocks. Their skins were filled with the sun, with the season, and they played all day, humming tuneless songs under their breath.

  Up the road at the gardener’s cottage of the big house where nobody lived, the gardener, who was unmarried, a short stout man who was a Jewish refugee, tended the borders of the garden and painted the long white fence and worked on the driveway; in the summer-morning sun he sang, too, in German, as he did his slow, neat work. In the evenings after supper when it was dusk and the only light left was in the red sky on the other side of the river, he would come walking down the road to the house on the riverbank, to call on the German governess who took care of the two little boys. His footsteps could be heard walking, hard and quick, down the road. Fräulein would be sitting on the stone front steps. He would stop short in the road in front of her, dressed in his clean clothes, his body round and compact, and his black hair brushed down, and bow. “Good evening,” he said. Fräulein said, “How are you?” Then he would come and sit beside her on the steps and the conversation would continue in German, because although he could understand sufficient English, Mr. Loeb could talk hardly any.

  Fräulein was friendly to him because she was a friendly woman, but always a little superior because he was a Jew and she belonged to a family of small merchants in Cologne. She was sorry for him because he was a refugee and because he had been in a concentration camp in Germany, and it was necessary to be kind to those who had suffered under that Hitler, but a Jew was a Jew; there were right German names and wrong German names; Fräulein’s name was Strasser. She did not mind speaking her mind to him on the subject of the Nazis who were ruining Germany. There were no other Germans about, in this place, as there were in the winter in New York, who might be on the other side; to them she had only praise to speak of Hitler, for her family was still in Cologne and people suffered at home for what was said by their relatives in America—if it came to the wrong ears. But Mr. Loeb was a Jew and safe to talk to, to tell exactly what she thought of those people, those Nazis. He never said anything much back, just listened and nodded; his face was round and florid.

  In the evenings Mrs. Mason, the children’s mother, sat in a garden chair out on the lawn and listened to the crickets in the marshes and watched the red fade beyond the river. Or, if it was one of the nights when she could not enjoy the evening sounds, the smells, when a little of the tension and fear clung to her mind and twisted it about, she would sit inside the living-room, on one of the chintz-covered chairs under a light with a book. She read all sorts of books—novels, detective stories, and the papers and magazines that were full of the news about Europe. On the bad nights, the nights when peace was not quite at her command, she noticed that whatever she read seemed curiously to be written about her . . . to fit her situation, no matter what it was meant to be about. And especially all the books, the articles, about the Nazis. She did not know if it was morbid of her, but she could not help feeling he had stood for the thing that was the Nazis, that spirit, and she had been a country being conquered, a country dominated by those methods. It was so like; so very like. When she read of those tortured in concentration camps, of those dispossessed and smashed to the Nazi will, she knew she felt as those people felt. She had been through a thing that was the same in microcosm. Her life was a tiny scale model of the thing that was happening in Europe: the ruthless swallowing the helpless. By a miracle, by an overlooked shred of courage, she had escaped and was free here. She was a refugee like that man out there talking to Fräulein who had escaped, too, by another miracle, for only miracles saved people from that spirit. In refuge, peace and assurance were coming back slowly like strength to a sick body, and the fear, the terror that was once everything, was draining away drop by drop with the days of safety. The same thing must be happening to him, the man out there; confidence and a quietly beating heart, in this calm summer country where there was nothing any more to fear.

  Only the habit of fear; only the uncontrollably quickened pulse for no reason, the fear that came out of nothing because fear was a poison in the blood and passed in and out of the heart again and again and again before it was finally worked out, if it ever was. Perhaps, she thought, it never was. If you were infected virulently enough with that poison perhaps it never left you, but recurred forever like some tropical fevers, forever part of you and in your blood though you were a thousand miles away from the source. He was nearly a thousand miles away, too, and there would be no reason, no need, ever to see him again; but perhaps the fear would stay with her though there was nothing left to fear.

  As the summer wandered by, the young man from across the river came over more and more often to see Mrs. Mason. He had a boat with an outboard motor; she would hear it buzzing across the water, and the sound of the motor cut as he drew near to the dock; there would be silence while he tied up, and then he would come walking up the lawn, very tall with his fair hair cut short all over, catching the light from the sunset in the quiet dusk.

  “Hello, Fräulein,” he would say as he came up the steps. “Hello, Mr. Loeb.”

  Mr. Loeb always got to his feet and bowed smartly. Fräulein said, “Good evening, Mr. Worthington.” Then the screen door would slam and the sound of German being spoken quietly would begin again and he would walk into the living-room and grin at Mrs. Mason.

  He used to sit in the chintz-covered chair with his long legs stuck out in front of him, smoking cigarettes. Sometimes he took her out on the smooth, dark river in his boat. Once they struck a log in the darkness on the water and she started violently and cried out. “What
are you afraid of?” he asked her. “You’re so lovely, I don’t see why you should ever be afraid of anything.”

  It was impossible to explain to him that she was not afraid of the log, nor of the water, nor of anything; that it was only a reflex which she was helpless to control, without reason; just fear. “You know I’d take care of you, if anything ever happened, don’t you?” he said. “If you’d just let me.” And she knew he would, but that did not make any difference. Nobody could help because nobody could possibly understand the irration­ality, the uncontrollability, of fear when it was like this, in the blood. Any help had to come from within, the self-learning through days, perhaps years, of peace: that nothing of all that which was over would ever happen again. Talking to it was no good; no young man’s protectiveness penetrated to it; it had to learn slowly by itself.

  The young man was falling in love with Mrs. Mason through that long summer. But it was inconceivable that she should fall in love with him. No matter how kind and strong he was, no matter how much more often she saw him each day—how good he was, how there was none of that spirit in him—it was inconceivable that her muscles could ever grow slack enough for her to look at him quietly, a man, and fall in love with him. She had been naked once, and vulnerable to everything that had happened to her; now, and perhaps forever, something in her clutched the coverings of tension, of reserve, of aloneness, having learned what happened when they were dropped. Her mind could say that it would not happen with this young man, who was all gentleness and generosity; but the inner thing did not believe that; it believed nothing except what it had learned.

  When they sat on the lawn, smoking in the twilight, or inside in the big cool living-room, the German talk went on quietly on the front steps. Mr. Loeb was a quiet man, and Fräulein did most of the talking. When she had said her say about the Nazis, Fräulein told him about the children—how Hugh was as good as an angel and Dicky was just so different, a sweet child but always up to something. The big June-bugs and the moths banged against the screen door, and the light from the house came soft and yellow through the door and lay upon the stone slabs of the steps.

  After a while, when she knew him pretty well, Fräulein told him about that Mr. Mason, what a bad man he was and how glad she was that they did not live with him any more.

  “That poor lady,” she said. “She took plenty of unhappiness from him, I can tell you. My, what a place! I can’t tell you what a man he was. You wouldn’t believe it. She never said anything, but I knew what went on. I don’t mean maybe beating her, I know husbands get mad sometimes and beat their wives, that’s all right, but that man! I tried to keep my babies from seeing the things that used to happen, and she helped me to do it. Not that I ever discussed it with her. She’s that kind of lady, very proud, and I never saw her cry, only heard her sometimes, nights when he was very bad. She had such a look in her eyes in those days; she doesn’t have it any more. I can tell you I’m glad she got rid of him. In this country it’s very easy to divorce, you know.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Loeb said quietly, in the darkness.

  “Well, she’s got rid of him now and I’m glad. It would have killed her, a life like that, and my poor babies, what would have happened to them? She’s got rid of him, thank God, and now she can just forget about him and be happy.”

  Mr. Loeb said nothing. He didn’t smoke because he was saving money out of what he earned as a gardener. He just sat there in the darkness, and he smelled a little of sweat. Fräulein made allowances for his smell, knowing that he was a laborer.

  In the middle of the summer Hugh had a birthday and there was a big cake with seven candles, and one to grow on. Mr. Worthington came across the river for the little party, and both children were allowed to sit up till ten. After supper Mr. Loeb came walking down the road as usual, and Mrs. Mason called him in.

  “Won’t you have a piece of cake,” she said, holding out a plate to him. “Here’s a piece with a candle.”

  Mr. Loeb made his bow and took the plate. Mrs. Mason smiled at him and he smiled at her and they did not say anything.

  “We’re going to play games in the living-room,” Mrs. Mason said. “Do you know any games, Mr. Loeb?”

  The children were wild with excitement and ran round and round the room. Mr. Worthington showed Hugh a game with a piece of paper and a pencil, where he could guess any number of a total if he knew the right-hand numbers of the other lines. It was very mysterious. Dicky didn’t understand it at all, and stamped and yelled to make them stop and do something else.

  “I show you,” Mr. Loeb said and hesitated. He asked Fräulein how to say something in English.

  “He shows you a card-trick,” Fräulein said. Mr. Loeb’s face was round and red and smiling. He took the pack of cards Mrs. Mason held out to him and drew out two aces.

  “You see,” he said to Hugh. “This is the farmer’s cow.” He pointed to the ace of hearts. “And this is Mrs. Sisson’s cow.” Mrs. Sisson owned the big place where Mr. Loeb was gardener. The card was the ace of clubs.

  “Now I put them back again,” Mr. Loeb said, shuffling the pack. “Now. Which cow you want to see? The farmer’s cow? Mrs. Sisson’s cow?”

  Hugh deliberated, standing on one leg.

  “Mrs. Sisson’s cow,” he decided.

  “Then go to the barn and look for it!” cried Mr. Loeb.

  The children were enchanted. They screamed and rolled on the floor; Dicky kept crying, “Go to the barn and look for it!” Everybody was laughing.

  “That was a very nice trick,” Mrs. Mason said when the laughter stopped.

  The children, after a while, fell to playing with the cards on the floor. Their two little round butts stuck up in the air, and their two little boys’ heads were close together.

  Mr. Loeb finished his cake and took out a folded handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He put the plate down carefully on the desk near him.

  “Thank you very much,” he said to Mrs. Mason. He was still standing up, politely. Now he moved toward the door.

  “Don’t go away,” she said. “Stay and talk. Sit down, please. You’re part of the party.”

  “Thank you very much,” he said.

  “Understand you had a bad time with those Nazi fellows,” Mr. Worthington said, being very friendly. “Were you really in one of the concentration camps?”

  “Yes, I was. It was very bad.”

  “I was in Germany once,” Mr. Worthington said. “The thing I kept noticing was, they were such damned bad losers. One night I went out drinking beer with a lot of fellows, me and a Frenchman I knew. They seemed all right guys. But about two in the morning when we’d all drunk a lot of beer one of them said, ‘Let’s have a foot-race.’ Down the main street there, it was all quiet. Well, we started, and in a minute or two the Frenchman was way in front, and I was just behind. They just quit. Started walking along. Wouldn’t admit they’d been racing. But if they’d been ahead, you can bet they’d have rubbed it in. They want to be on top, that’s it, and they take it out on the fellow underneath. If they get licked, they won’t admit they were playing at all.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Loeb.

  “You’d see fellows pick fights all the time, late at night, but you never saw them pick a fight unless they thought they could win. I played a lot of tennis over there and, of course, you know, American tennis . . . They just wouldn’t play again. Fellow over here would say, ‘Let’s play a return match and I’ll lick you.’ Not them.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Loeb.

  “Those concentration camps, now. Just the fellows on top doing it to the fellows underneath . . . It must have been a job keeping your courage up.”

  “I did not keep my courage up,” Mr. Loeb said.

  Mr. Worthington looked embarrassed.

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “The things you hear about those places; they break your spirit, I guess.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Loeb said.

  Fräulein sat under the light with her hair parted smo
othly from the middle. She looked from Mr. Worthington to Mr. Loeb with self-assured eyes, not entirely understanding nor especially interested. Mr. Worthington twisted his long legs around one side of his chair.

  “Anyway,” he said, “it’s all over for you and I bet you’re damned glad. You can just forget about all that stuff. This is a free country and you can do what you please and nobody can hurt you. It’s all over now and finished for you.”

  “For many it is not,” Mr. Loeb said after a few moments.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Poor devils.”

  “But,” Mr. Loeb said hesitantly, “I have thought, I do not know how you say it; the more and more that are all the time—surrendered?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He means oppressed,” Mrs. Mason said. Mr. Loeb bowed to her.

  “The more and more that are oppressed all the time, the more there are who know together the same thing, who have it together. When it is time and something happens to make it possible, there is something that all of these have had together and that will make them fight together. And now Frenchmen, too, Belgians, too, Flemings. If you have been in a concentration camp, it is more together than that you might be of different countries. I speak very badly,” Mr. Loeb said.

  “No,” Mrs. Mason said. “A common cause.”

  “Please?” Mr. Loeb asked. Fräulein spoke to him in German.