My American

by Stella Gibbons

  Then it rang, making her start violently. It sounded actually beautiful to her, and she had come so far in self-examination that she thought how strange that was, as she took up the receiver, clumsily, because she was trembling.

  “Hullo there?” said a young man’s voice, unrecognizable.

  “Hullo?”

  “Is that—? This is Bob.”

  “Oh, yes! Your voice sounds different.”

  “So does yours.”

  “Are you—how do you feel now?”

  “Much better. I’ve been—”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. I was—what did you say?”

  “I only said I’ve been asleep ever since I left you.”

  “I’m glad. That’ll do you good.”

  Pause.

  “I called up my mother. I’m going home to-morrow morning.”

  “Oh. I’m—that’s good. Isn’t your mother glad?”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. I was just writing.”

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  “Oh, no! I wasn’t really doing much—only just—”

  “Have you got the lamp on the table?”

  “Yes. Oh—and the roses! Oh, I meant to thank you! Thank you very much. I never saw anything so beautiful!”

  “I’m glad you liked them.”

  “The stems are so long! I never saw—”

  “Listen, I want to ask you something. Will you come and stay with us?”

  “Stay—?”

  “At home. In about a week? Lou says you’re going to Marydale. That’s only fifty miles from Vine Falls. I could come and meet you.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll have to come by the bus. I mustn’t drive a car, you know.”

  “I don’t mind a bit. It would be simply lovely.”

  “All right, then. I’ll write to you as soon as I get home and fix it up.”

  “Wh—what time are you going to-morrow?”

  “Half after seven.”

  “Oh. That’s very early, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Maybe I could call you up at six, if that isn’t too early? Just to say good-bye.”

  “Yes. I was hoping—”

  “I will, then. Just to say good-bye.”

  “Yes.”

  Pause.

  “Amy.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve said your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say mine.”

  “Bob.”

  “Amy, I only wanted to tell you that all the things we said were real.”

  “Oh, I am glad you said that! I’ve been feeling bad, because—”

  “I know, so have I. I’m glad you felt like that too. When you come to visit, we can talk.”

  “Yes.”

  Pause.

  “Amy.”

  “Yes … yes, Bob.”

  “I—you’ve made me much happier. I’m feeling better about things—you know.”

  “I’m so glad. You—you’ve made me much happier, too.”

  “I wish I could see you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’ll call you up at six to-morrow.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll be awake.”

  “Well. Well, good-night.”

  “Good-night.”

  “Good-night, darling.” The word came softly over the wires.

  “Good-night. Oh—good-night—” She heard a faint click.

  Slowly, as if it were something sacred, she replaced the receiver.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE LONG, LOW, cool house—how pleasant it was, with the country silence that was half-wild, the sharp silence of American woodlands, all about it and the killdeer’s clear note coming from the woods! Bob leant out between the gently-moving white curtains at his bedroom window and looked at the familiar view; the lawn and the old elm and the tennis court and beyond the trees, the glimpse of blue hills. Then he turned back and looked at his room, where the textbooks from his chambers in Morgan had been hastily piled. It was familiar yet strange, like the photograph of a room he used to know; and as he surveyed it he felt like two people; the happy young man who had slept here for twenty-two years and taken the whole of life for granted, and the dishonoured coward who could never as long as he lived take anything for granted again.

  It was his first evening at home, and he had already realized that it was going to be very difficult to get back on his own side of the fence.

  His mother was so glad to have him back that she could not be angry with him (a state of affairs which made him feel worse than if she had been) but his father was very angry, and hardly attempted to hide his bitter disappointment. Bob was wondering how he and his father were going to live in the same house together for the next two years without continual quarrels.

  I was a kid when I went away; I’m a man now, he thought, sitting on the window seat and staring out at the distant woods. Mother can see that, but Dad can’t. I know it’s tough on him; he’s lost a packet, and can’t afford to send Lou to New York, and he’s had to sell the old newspapers, and he’s seen men who’ve worked for him and his father before him sacked by this syndicate. I guess the state of the country must seem like the end of the world to him—all this unemployment and the New Deal and everything—and then I go crazy and ruin my career and come back different—and he’s got to keep me for two more years! I don’t wonder he’s bitter. And he can’t understand how I feel, and why I don’t hate Dan and despise all the bums I ran around with because they’re “failures.” You can’t get his generation to see that hard work and putting money by isn’t enough nowadays. Something’s slipped, but they can’t—or won’t—see it. And why should they? They’ve always been on the right side of the fence.

  He stood up, sighing, as his mother came into the room.

  “Bob, I was wondering—I think we’ll have a little party on the day Miss Lee comes down, just a few old friends for cocktails. I just want people to know you’re back from the South.”

  “Myron will have told them, don’t worry,” he said dryly. “He’s had his ears buttoned back ever since I got here.”

  “He’s very inquisitive, but he’s been with us for twenty-seven years,” she reminded him, coming across and fondly putting her hands on the lapels of his old jacket as if she must touch her regained treasure. “He’s very fond of you, in his way. Vermont people aren’t like other people, you know. He knew you were with Dan, but he won’t talk, I’m sure.”

  “Everybody here’s lovely,” he said suddenly, bending his head to kiss her. “You can’t possibly know how lovely you all are.”

  “I’m so glad to have you back, son,” she answered softly. “I’ve been praying and praying ever since you went away; and ever since you called up yesterday I’ve been thanking God.”

  He patted her hands as they lay on his shoulders, studying her face that had been an elegant middle-aged woman’s when he went away, and now was old.

  “Bob, I’m sure your father’s come round,” she said next, confidently. “He feels bad now, but he’s glad to have you back.”

  “Is he?”

  “Surely, son! Only you must give him time; the last few years have been so hard for him.”

  “Things won’t ever be the same again,” he suddenly warned her, turning to look out of the window at the darkening garden, where the morning glories were closing for the night. “Maybe we’ll all be happy again some day, but not like we used to be.”

  “Oh—I think everything’s going to be fine,” she said, with the unconquerable Southern optimism, lazy and sweet like that of a flower which cannot tell it is dying. “Irene’ll have a baby, maybe, and you’ll get through your examinations and get your degree, and Lou’ll marry Stebby—”

  “Will she?”

  “Surely she will,” said Lou’s mother tranquilly. “I’ve planned the grandest apartment for them on Sunset Heights—just a small one, at first, until Stebby g
ets on and they can afford a house in Golden wood.”

  “Stebby likes women,” said Bob abruptly.

  “All boys like girls; it’s natural. He’ll be just fine when they’re married,” said Mrs. Vorst, dismissing Stebby’s weakness with an indulgent smile.

  “Not just girls, Mother; women. And they like him. That doesn’t matter, of course, unless he marries Lou, but I can’t see her standing for that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he and Lou’ll be wonderful together. He’ll settle down when they’re married. Now I was wondering—who shall we ask on Friday? Miss Cordell and Amalie (Lou said Miss Cordell has a real crush on Miss Lee since the reception) and Judge Van Damm—”

  She stood by the door for a moment, looking down at him as he knelt beside his textbooks and sorted them into order, but for the first time since his return she was not thinking about him. She had a dreamy manner, but she had the natural cunning in the management of emotional affairs that belongs to very feminine women, and at that moment she was thinking about this Miss Lee.

  Lou and her mother had had a long talk on the telephone about Amy, before the cousins left New York to visit Irene at Cape Cod. Lou had explained that Amy had let Bob stay the night at the flat, trusting to her mother’s common-sense as well as to her habitual delicacy of thought to avoid suspicions that a coarser mind might have felt. She had ended her story by warning her mother that Bob had fallen heavily for Amy and she for him. It’s a case; let’s face it, had been her last words. We’ll just have to see how it turns out, thought Mrs. Vorst, soothing herself. I wish she was an American girl, but maybe she’s not so starchy as most of the British. And Lou said she has some money. I don’t want Bob to live on his wife (American boys don’t do that) but it’s better that she should have some money of her own. Maybe she’s a sweet girl. Anyway, I’m glad she’s coming on a visit; I can make up my mind about her then.

  “Miss Lee’ll be here to lunch on Friday, Bob?”

  “No, I guess not; I’m going into Marydale to meet her and we shan’t be back until afternoon.”

  “Just as you like, son. I’m always glad to see your friends.” And she smiled absently at him and glided from the room, leaving him feeling soothed, he did not know why.

  He finished arranging his books, then rolled up a stained windbreaker jacket and a pair of trousers ragged at the hems and some broken white shoes. He could burn those in the furnace, one day when Myron was out. His mood as he did so was neither depressed nor exalted, but only dogged. Everything was the same at home; and yet all was changed; it was like living with dearly loved ghosts in a dream. Nothing was real to him now, except memories of the broken luckless people on the other side of the fence, and the faint sweet smell of Amy’s hair.

  When Amy climbed down from the train at Marydale on Friday morning, looking eagerly around for Bob, her first impression was that the tall young man striding towards her with a light belted coat flying and one hand up, saluting her, was a stranger. She had not, of course, ever seen him in a hat and a collar and he looked younger and less pale than she remembered him. Deep shyness overcame her.

  “Hullo!” he said, taking off his hat with exactly the same gesture he had made on that first evening, and coming to a halt in front of her.

  “Hullo,” she said faintly.

  “Let me have your grip.” He took her case and they began to walk down the platform towards the exits. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Oh, yes, very, thank you.”

  “The bus is waiting over there. It’s hell, my not being able to drive a car. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t mind buses at all. I quite like riding in them, as a matter of fact.”

  “Do you? I certainly am glad to hear that. Mother suggested Myron driving us back, and I said no.”

  “Who’s Myron?”

  “Myron Blodgett, our handyman. He’s a character; comes from Vermont. He’s the original sourpuss, I should say. He’s been with us twenty-seven years.”

  “Before you were born.”

  “Yes. He was a printer out of a job, and he walked across three States (they didn’t hitch-hike in those days) to get away from his folks; said they plagued him. Dad hadn’t a job on any of the papers but he took him on at home to drive the buggy and cut grass and run errands. And he’s just stayed.”

  They climbed into the bus, and as he followed her up the steps he could not take his eyes off the upward sweep of her dark hair on the white nape of her neck. He liked to look at it in exactly the same way that he liked watching the katydids when he was a boy; they had their own way of doing things; cunning and quite different from humans, and Amy’s hair, on the head of a girl, a creature so different from himself, had just the same look of demure yet abundant life and fascinated him in the same way. He wanted to take it down and play with it and kiss the back of her neck, but there was more than this in the charm it exercised over him, and he knew it.

  They sat down in the front part of the bus.

  “It’s funny,” he went on after a pause, “I never think about Myron, but it wouldn’t be the same at home without him and his old hickory rocker, croaking and creaking round the place and saying, ‘So-and-so hain’t got no fa-a-a-culty’.” (Bob drawled it through his nose, New England fashion).

  “What’s faculty?”

  “New England for doing a thing the best way possible.”

  Amy thought for a moment.

  “Horse-sense, would it be, in English?”

  He laughed.

  “That’s about it.”

  The bus was slowly filling up behind them, and as Amy still felt painfully shy, she listened for some time without speaking to the unfamiliar buzz of conversation, quicker and higher-pitched than that of an English bus-load. She heard the thick, slow, flattened tones of a Pole talking English, striking heavily across the piercing chatter of women; and she remembered how beautiful the negro voices had sounded to her in the streets of Harlem, the only voices she had heard in New York that seemed to come straight from the humanness of the speakers; sounding as the voices of Adam and Eve might have sounded as they talked in the Garden of Eden. De goole bug, she thought, imagining Jupiter saying the words in the negro voice that was now familiar to her, de purty goole bug.

  It makes a difference, having heard and seen and smelled things, she thought. Books come more alive. Now I know what a drug store is like and a porch, where Meg used to “rest and read.”

  But her thoughts were only half with the voices in the bus, for she was so strongly aware of the young man sitting beside her that she could not go off into the dreamy state of mind that usually crept over her in public places; she could see his big hand (the nails were clean now) lying across his knee, the fingers impatiently rolling their tickets into a tiny baton, the knee-cap itself under the grey flannel trouser leg, a few inches of blue sock and a long shapely foot in a subtly but completely unEnglish brown shoe. I don’t know any of his clothes to-day, that’s why I feel he’s a stranger, she thought. I got to know that old jacket and those white shoes and I miss them.

  He turned suddenly to her and, catching her gaze fixed curiously on his shoes, went a little red.

  “I wish all these people weren’t here,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never been so sorry I mustn’t drive a car. I didn’t hire one, because the driver’d be there all the time, and—”

  “Please don’t mind. I would rather have had a car, of course, because—” And then she stopped, realizing what her words implied, and unable to continue because of her shyness.

  “If you’d rather, that’s enough—well, not quite enough, but it’s pretty good.”

  At that they both laughed a little, the first time they had ever laughed together, as the bus moved off through the pleasant uptown district.

  Amy was very happy. She always enjoyed riding in buses, and with Bob sitting beside her, looking happier and healthier than when she had last seen him, she felt she had very little left to wis
h for. It was not quite true that she would rather have had a car, for she was so shy of him, in spite of her delight in being with him, that the prospect of a ride alone with him was alarming. It was only a week since their first meeting, and in that time she had exchanged two telephone conversations with him (one a mere murmur of “Good-bye, then” at six o’clock in the morning), and had received one letter, chiefly concerned with arrangements for their meeting on Friday. But although it had begun “Dear Amy,” it had ended (as if the short sentences found it difficult to leave the pen because they meant so much to the writer) I am getting a little better. You have helped me so much. I think about you all the time. I hope you do sometimes about me. And then some words tantalisingly scratched out and the signature “Bob.”

  If she had been violently and consciously in love this letter would have been disappointing to her. But she was not consciously in love, and in her complete inexperience of men she took the letter to mean exactly what it said. I think about you all the time. I hope you do sometimes about me. Sometimes! She never stopped thinking about him except when she was asleep, and then she dreamt about him. And, as he said as much, she took it that that was how he thought about her. Even at this moment, as he sat beside her while the bus moved past vacant lots towards the open country, he must be thinking about her—just as she was thinking of him!

  Bob was thinking about her. He was as bewitched as she was, but his reason for not writing a letter saying: “I love you” was a simple one: he had realised after some conversation with Lou that Amy must make a large income from her writing, and though his reason told him that money should not keep a man and a woman apart when they loved one another, his natural American instinct to “make good” and not to offer marriage until he could offer a sufficient income with it made him hesitate to write, “I love you”—although he longed to write it, and even more to say it.

  That was how he had felt before he saw her again; but he had not been with her for more than ten minutes before he was once more under that peculiar, unspoken, intimate spell which had held them both in the flat; that feeling of belonging which made the question of money seem unimportant. Of course she’ll understand, he found himself thinking, what am I worrying about?