Swensen was smiling almost coyly at the girl; his pink cheeks had become pinker. He shook a finger at her and said, “Lorry, I’m hearing stories about your last visit to New York.” His eyes pointed at her, and gleamed like bits of granite.
“What?” she said. Her voice was amused.
“Aha,” said Swensen, and wagged his head. “Shall I name names?”
“Do,” she replied indifferently.
Swensen hummed a new gay tune from the latest New York musical. “I was there only three days,” added Lorry. “I had dinner at one club, danced at another, and saw a show. Each time with a different escort, all very respectable.” She laughed. Her laugh was not sweet or musical, but strangely like a short bark.
“I have my spies,” said Swensen archly. So you have, thought Lorry with anger.
“A very good-looking dark young feller took you out on a Tuesday night. To a place in the Village, all nice dark intimacy and good drinks. Why, Lorry, I saw you there, myself!” He grinned at her delightedly. “Who was the chap?”
“I’d have introduced you if you had come over,” said Lorry carelessly.
“Who was he?” asked her father.
She shrugged. “A man I’d met at a cocktail party. He writes books on travel. We were discussing some of my photographs of Norway. His name isn’t important.” She added, “Robert Corde. You’ve heard of him.”
“Your brother publishes his books, doesn’t he?” asked Swensen, with idle interest.
Summerfield’s face changed again, and this time to a heavier sadness. He rarely saw his son Barry, whom he loved deeply; Barry who was invariably cold and polite to him, and who had taken his stepfather’s name, not as a child, but as a young man then twenty-one. Why? He had never explained adequately. Probably, Summerfield would think with hatred, because Ethel had lied to him, turned him against his father.
“Yes,” said Lorry. “But you’ve always known that, Lars. Bob Corde was thinking of a bigger publisher, and Barry asked me to do some work on him to get him to stay with the Lowell Publishing Company. I did.” She smiled charmingly.
“You couldn’t fail, Lorry,” said Swensen, entranced.
She changed the subject adroitly. “Staying long in Barryheld, Lars?”
The two men exchanged glances. Summerfield had insisted, for a long time, that Lorry could be trusted.
“But she drinks heavily. Sorry, Mac. You know we never trust drinkers, or have anything to do with them. They’re unstable,” Swensen had said.
Summerfield’s face had darkened, becoming charged with grief and bewilderment. “Yes, I know Lorry drinks excessively. But I’ve never once seen her out of control. Frankly, I think she does her heaviest drinking at home, so I can see it. Why, I don’t know. Even then she never loses control of herself. Besides, she writes some of our best editorials. I tell you, some of her things are prophetic.”
“Let’s keep her prophetic just in the newspapers,” Swensen had replied. “We need all the liberals we can get—millions of them. But let them into the inner circle and they’ll lose some of the stars in their eyes!” And he laughed. He had added, “Besides, there is her brother, your son.”
“But Lorry reports she is winning him over.”
Swensen was thinking of this conversation with Summerfield now. It had taken place three months ago. He said to the girl, “How’s Barry doing with that latest book he published, The Sleepless Enemy, by Francis Connell?”
Lorry’s full mouth thinned, became a sneer. “I asked Barry about it. I think he’s exaggerating. He says it had sold forty thousand copies up to a month ago. Of course you can sell anything these days, especially if it’s written in a sensational way. And it’s all blood and thunder. The Sleepless Enemy! As if American Communism had any purpose at all but to alleviate racial discrimination, discrimination in employment, and to protect civil liberties and support labor!”
She looked full into Swensen’s eyes and smiled deeply, a wise and subtle smile. The man was startled. He stared into the strange, blue-green eyes, which had become warm and intimate and knowing, and he was taken aback. Perhaps Summerfield was right about his daughter after all. His expression became grave. He coughed softly. “Well, has it?” he asked.
Lorry laughed her oddly harsh laugh, and did not answer.
“I myself think the American Communist Party is part and parcel of an international conspiracy,” said Swensen, with more gravity. His smooth cheeks flattened, as he stared at Lorry. “I think it is an even graver menace than fascism was, for it is at once more concentrated and more universal, and has a greater appeal for the ignorant masses.”
Out of the corner of her eye Lorry could see that her father had bent his head. A flash of hot sunlight turned the strands of his thin hair to gilt. He was preoccupied with listening, and, in his usual fashion, restless while outwardly composed, he was printing something on a sheet of white paper, abstractedly. She said, “I don’t agree with you, Lars. I think we can fully integrate the American Communist Party into our system of government, for it is not a conspiracy at all, but an extension of liberalism. But then, you were always a conservative,” and she gave him a mocking glance. “I don’t see how you and Dad get along, he being such an ardent liberal.”
She stood up suddenly, whisking out the back of her skirts, and put the morning newspaper down on her father’s desk, leaning forward to do so. Her sharp eye, from long training, could read his words inverted on the sheet of paper. “Win—Peace—Win—rPeace.” She was disappointed. Then, as her father, coming to himself like a disciplined sportsman in a tense moment, crumpled the sheet swiftly in his hand and did not drop it into the wastebasket, her disappointment disappeared. “Win—Peace.” Then that is what they had been discussing, this last hot August Saturday in 1946. But the words expressed what everyone was hoping, believing. Nothing sinister in them—except for that swift crushing of the paper in Mr. Summerfield’s long and aristocratic hand.
“I’ve got to get back to my desk,” she said. “Dad, read this story about the minister and his adopted European waifs. I think we have a big story here.”
He pushed the crushed sheet carefully into his pocket and took up the newspaper. Swensen got up to stand behind him, to read also. Mr. Summerfield read rapidly. “Well,” he murmured. “It’s an unusual thing, for Barryfield. The UNRRA must have been supporting that mob—hmm. ‘Victims of Nazism.’ I don’t know.”
But Swensen said with enthusiasm, “A wonderful story! People keep forgetting about Nazism, though the war has been over only a year. We shouldn’t let them forget. Now an editorial about fascism, or a featured article, with photographs if possible, embodying a story about this minister and the children will have a profound effect. Aren’t we in danger of neofascism? Perhaps you could arrange an interview with him, and let him tell the story of fascism and how he rescued those children from it himself. Then it could be arranged for the United Press and the Associated Press to pick up the story.” His face seemed to shimmer with his excitement. “Lorry, what do you think?”
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” she said. “And if Dad wants. I’ll do the story myself. Fletcher delivers his first sermon tomorrow.”
Mr. Summerfield looked up alertly. “Isn’t that church McManus’s?”
“Yes.” Lorry laughed. “You’ve always called Uncle Al a reactionary and even hinted he was a fascist. Yet he, as President of the Board, let them come here.”
Mr. Summerfield and Swensen exchanged a long, hard glance. Lorry saw it; she pretended to be busy with rearranging her dress. She asked, “Does the name Fletcher mean anything to you, Dad?”
Her father considered. “No, I don’t think it does. It’s a common name. I don’t remember any Fletcher in particular. Why?”
“I don’t know. It struck me in some way—Fletcher—a minister—a chaplain. Well, never mind. It’ll come to me, I suppose. In the meantime, shall I attend that church tomorrow and arrange an interview with Fletcher? Maybe I can get some
pictures of him. Good. I think we can do something about it. And now, back to the salt mines. See you tonight, Lars.” She gave him another of her seductive smiles, to which he responded satisfactorily. He watched her leave the room, noting, as always, the incredible slenderness of her long waist, the set of her beautiful shoulders, the gleam of her legs. And Summerfield watched him watching, and drew in his lips.
An hour later Lorry ran into the drugstore again, and hurried into the telephone booth. Her brother was waiting for her call. “I don’t know if it means anything, Barry—couldn’t get anything from their conversation when I was there—but he wrote something on a sheet of paper while I was talking to Swensen—abstractedly. He wrote—‘Win—Peace.’”
The hard, quick voice became slightly excited. “It’s very important, Lorry. It fits in. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. We’ve heard it from two other sources. Now we know. That’s their new line, without question.”
A few days later Mr. Summerfield’s lead editorial was headed, “We Must Win the Peace!” The body of the editorial urged all American mothers to demand the return of “your boys” from Europe, immediately, and an end to armaments, and the restoration of “normal life in this country.” A diatribe on war followed, scornful and bitter. Mr. Truman was accused of desiring, not peace, but “a prolonged, victorious war at the expense of American misery, and the suffering of American wives and mothers, for the benefit of a few who profit by the manufacturing of munitions.” The world longed for peace, for security, for an end to bloodshed. America must lead the way to this glorious fulfillment of man’s real destiny.
They were fine words. They were used, these days, by Generals MacArthur and Eisenhower, and by the President. They were used by good and decent men everywhere. But, more significant, they were used by evil men for evil and chaotic ends, who hated the President and the generals, and all mankind, and who loved, not peace, but revolutionary war.
11
“I’ve been reading the Press these last few days,” said Johnny coldly. He looked at Lorry as she sat in his combination living room and study. He had seated himself behind the shabby desk, and his strong hands played with a pen. He thought, as he studied her, that she resembled a shining white butterfly momentarily pausing in a jungle of faded and decaying vegetation, so radiant did she seem in her white silk suit in that dismal parlor. He rarely disliked anyone; he had come to the conclusion, regretfully, that he disliked this bold and beautiful young woman with her aquamarine eyes and air of hard and cynical sureness. He noted the string of fine pearls about her milky throat, her expensive hat, her excellent slippers, the diamond on her right hand.
“You don’t like the Press?” asked Lorry, with an acid sweetness.
“No,” said Johnny bluntly. He fixed his eyes on her, and they hardened. “You see, I always recognize the—dangerous—line under noble, humanitarian phrases. I recognized it first in Europe. I discovered it in New York. And now, I see, it’s even in places like Barryfield.”
There was cold repudiation in his voice, and he looked away from her with sad disdain. He added, “They’re old phrases. Tyrants have used them from the very beginning of time. I’m sorry. I can’t give you a story. I don’t want my children exposed either to ridicule or sensationalism; I don’t want any more attention brought to them.” He turned his eyes on her again, and they threatened her, denied her, rejected her, in one long understanding glance. “They can’t stand it, you see. Too much has been done to them. Let them have peace.”
“But the Press is a liberal, antifascist paper,” said Lorry. “I think that in the service of American democracy you ought to let us have the story.”
“Do you?” said Johnny. “I told you, I’ve read your newspapers, Miss Summerfield. I don’t think you’re interested at all in American democracy. I’m not, then, going to let these children be used for what you really have in mind.”
Lorry leaned toward him. “And what is that?” she asked.
He smiled at her wearily. “You know, of course. I’m not very naїve.”
Lorry lifted her voice and shouted, without looking away from Johnny, “Uncle Al! Come on in here!”
During the time she had been talking with Johnny she had been conscious of the happy murmur of children’s voices in the rear of the house, a loud but tender woman’s voice, and the homely clatter of dishes and silver. The miserable house was very hot and the sun lit up the grim furniture. But there was a good smell of roasting meat in the air, and the fragrance of soup.
But she had been more conscious of Johnny. His dark face, strong-boned, lighted by his unusually blue eyes, had moved her mysteriously. He sat behind his desk, in his very shabby, very worn, black clerical clothing which no amount of brushing or pressing could improve. He leaned his arms on his desk, as if utterly tired and despondent, and she saw the marks of grief and strain about his mouth. All at once, to her angry astonishment, she was flooded with a tenderness for him so intense that her eyes watered and her throat tightened. His face, the cropped black hair, the sharply marked black brows, floated before her, and she was conscious of nothing else until she saw Dr. McManus.
“Well, what’s the matter, Lorry?” he demanded. “Parson here giving you a rough time? He don’t want a story about his kids. He don’t want anything from you. What’s the matter, Lorry?” he added, with quick and affectionate concern, and took her chin in his fingers and turned her face roughly to him.
She pulled away from him impatiently. “Oh, Uncle Al. I thought you’d help me. What harm can a good story do?”
“You know damn well. Most of the people in this town don’t like your dad’s papers. They read ’em because of some of the good woman’s features, and local news, and the comics, and because they’re the only papers, but they don’t read the editorials much. And what they do read makes ’em mad. They’d be suspicious of our parson if you said anything good about him, and if you said your nice vitriolic things they’d despise him. That’s human nature. Loves to read viciousness in the papers about anyone, and wants to believe it. No matter what kind of a story you’d write the parson’d be in a mess. Leave him alone, Lorry.”
He looked at Johnny. “Don’t worry about this girl, son. Known her all her life. Things I can’t tell you, or anybody else, about her—yet. She just has a job to do on her father’s papers. Not what you think, though. Never mind. Just don’t give her anything.”
Johnny listened with surprise and bewilderment. He looked at Lorry with some speculation and curiosity. What did the old doctor mean? Dr. McManus, with an expression of affection on his face so grotesque that it resembled a softheaded smirk, was lighting a cigarette for Lorry, and she was smiling up at him. What a really beautiful face she has, Johnny thought, with a lessening of his hostility. Yet when a shaft of sun struck it sideways it was not a gentle face. It might, thought Johnny, be called disillusioned and embittered and despairing. Then she turned her head and the swift revelation, if it was a revelation, had disappeared, and only ivory smoothness was there, and carved, full lips, and grace.
“You’re a wonderful help, Uncle Al,” said Lorry. She patted his arm. “Sit down there, right next to me.” He sat down on the chintz sofa beside her, and the springs wailed. “All right,” she said. “I won’t touch your precious parson. Oh, I’ve seen your famous interest in him. He must be quite a boy to do that to you. Look, Mr. Fletcher, let’s be friends. I won’t even mention you and the children, if that is the way you want it. I can see your point. Uncle Al briefed me about the children before we went into church, and perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to bring them more notoriety. By the way,” she went on, gazing at the tip of her cigarette, “I gathered that the congregation, except for a militant minority in the front pews, wasn’t exactly friendly to you. The church was crowded; that’s because you’re a freak. But they’ll tire of you; that’s the way it is. You’ll have lots of empty pews in the immediate future. And—perhaps worse.”
She raised her eyes to his silent
face, and again that most unfamiliar sensation of passionate tenderness came to her, filled her with deep warmth, and a kind of yearning which she could not recognize. An obscure, shabby young parson, with a bizarre family of children from the ends of the earth—how could such a man, poverty-stricken, unknown, stir her so keenly, so passionately? Then, like a faint call from her childhood, she heard in herself: “Nothing good can come from Galilee!” Who had said that, and about Whom?
Don’t be fanciful, she warned herself sharply. This fellow here is nothing but a parson with a collection of waifs who has come to a dreary small city to preside over a drearier church and congregation—who don’t want him. He has only one friend, and a capricious one at that, who could turn against him at an instant’s notice or whim. Remember his sermon today—only fifteen minutes. Whom did it stir? Who listened to him, breathless? Nobody, not even me. Eloquent? Yes, he was, but he was also anachronistic. Everybody thought he would deliver brimstone after the assault on his child. Or talk about intolerance or the underprivileged or social conditions. But nothing like that at all! I can’t even remember any telling phrase of his, though he has an excellent voice. What, now, was the subject of his sermon? Yes—silly idea—repentance. Repentance for what? Our sins! No wonder even the most stupid there was baffled. If he were one of those howling evangelists who go storming around the country, frothing, one could understand. But he isn’t. Our sins, for God’s sake!
She said briskly, “Well, I can at least give you a few lines under our church notices. Let me see: you talked about sin,” She gave him an arrogant smile. “Americans don’t sin. We’re the most idealistic nation in the world. We’re preparing to flood the whole world with our milk and honey, literally as well as figuratively. We love everybody. We’re virtuous, childlike, simple, kind, generous, brimming with earnest faith.”
A Tender Victory Page 19
