B.F.’s Daughter, page 17
“Listen, Poll,” he said. “I’m just not up to a scene. I should have met you at the train with orchids, and so what? My God, you know me well enough.” He pulled his right hand from his pocket and rubbed the back of his head. She even knew what he would say next. “My God, Poll, I didn’t ask you to come down here.”
She turned her head away from him.
“All right,” she said. “That’s about enough.” And she stood up. What he had implied was perfectly true. She had pursued him down to Washington.
“Oh, my God,” Tom said. “Don’t be mad, Poll. I said I didn’t ask you. I didn’t say I didn’t want you.”
“Don’t be so damned smooth,” she sobbed. “You don’t want me.”
It was as completely conventional as the structure of a Greek tragedy. Tom was beginning to pace about the room, picking up ash trays and books and setting them down again, and at the same time reaching the inevitable stage of being very, very tired.
“I certainly don’t want you,” Tom said, “if it’s necessary for you to go into one of these emotional, compensative tailspins. I should just like to point out to you, if you’ll give me a minute without implying that I’m a heel, Poll … For God’s sake, will you stop crying?”
“Never mind me,” Polly heard herself saying. “Go ahead and point it out.”
“All right,” Tom said. “Go ahead and keep on bawling then, if it gives you any emotional release. It’s too much to ask you to see yourself logically. Oh, my God.”
“Go ahead,” Polly said, “go ahead. I’m listening.”
Tom drew a deep, patient breath.
“Of course, I should have met you,” he went on, and his voice was very patient, elaborately controlled. “I should have dropped everything. I should have made my mind a perfect blank. I should not have expected you to understand, and, by God, I won’t again, that all life is not a duel between the sexes. It just happens that there’s a damn tough situation here, and I’m right in the middle of it. I can’t tell you what’s been going on. I can’t tell you who’s trying to upset the apple cart. There were some meetings this afternoon that just happened to be scheduled before you decided to come down. There was a call from the White House at three o’clock.”
“Oh, you’ve been at the White House, have you?” Polly said.
“No, no, no,” Tom answered. “I wish you’d try to keep your mind on what I’m saying. I said there was a call from the White House. The chief had to go, and I had to get all his papers together and write a memorandum and refresh his mind. I had to stand by. They’re always losing papers.”
“Well, why couldn’t you stand by here?” Polly asked. “There’s a telephone right here. Were you standing by in your office?”
“Oh, my God,” Tom said. “It’s something that we just can’t discuss. There were a lot of us who had to stand by and wait.”
“Well, what happened?”
Tom drew another patient breath.
“I’m trying to tell you if you’ll only listen. Nothing happened. I said the chief went to the White House.”
“I know you did,” Polly said.
“I said the chief went to the White House.” Tom paused and then he spoke more patiently. “It happens that a great many other people go to the White House too. General Marshall goes, and so does Admiral King, and Senator Barkley.”
“How about Winston Churchill?” Polly asked.
“What?” Tom asked. “What has Winston Churchill got to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Polly said. “I just brought him in.”
Tom looked startled.
“Did anybody tell you that Churchill was over here?”
“No,” Polly said. “I just happened to mention him.”
“Well, don’t talk about things you don’t know about,” Tom said. “Nothing happened. There wasn’t any decision, but the chief went to the White House.”
“Why did he go if nothing happened?”
“Never mind,” Tom said. “Never mind all that, Poll.” And he began weaving back and forth about the room.
She knew that Tom could have explained the whole thing if he had wanted. She knew that he was not explaining because he was annoyed.
“Well, where were you all afternoon and evening?” Polly asked. “Or is that a secret?”
“I was in Georgetown,” Tom said., “Does that answer your question?”
“Georgetown?”
“A number of people live there,” Tom said. “I had to go up there to get this settled.”
“What was it,” Polly asked, “a cocktail party?”
“I supposed that was coming,” Tom said. “All right, it was a cocktail party. I went there for the chief. He had to be at the White House.”
“Oh,” Polly said. “That makes it perfectly all right, and then you stayed to dinner.”
“We were all waiting,” Tom said. “We were waiting for the chief.”
“It must have been very hard on you, darling,” Polly said. “I suppose you were too busy to telephone, was that it?”
“Now look here,” Tom said. “I should have telephoned and I didn’t, and so what? I had other things on my mind.”
“Yes,” Polly said. “I know. I suppose it would have broken the balance of everything if you had telephoned. I suppose that would have lost the war for us.”
Tom sat down and played with his Phi Beta Kappa key. He did not answer.
“Who did you go to see in Georgetown?”
Tom did not answer.
“Was she animal, vegetable or mineral?”
Tom’s lips twitched. It was all ending in an anticlimax. He was not even angry. He was completely, wearily indifferent.
“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s skip it, Poll. I guess I’ll go to bed.”
“That’s what I told you to do,” she answered, but he sat there without making any reply.
“Tom,” she began, “isn’t there anything …” and then she stopped. The truth was that there was not. Everything was entirely empty, entirely futile, and everything that had been seemed to have gone. Tom stirred uneasily.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Isn’t there anything I can do,” Polly asked, “about anything?”
Tom looked worn out. She was almost frightened as she watched him sitting there considering her question.
“Not at the moment, Poll,” he said. “I’m awfully tired.”
“But, Tom,” she asked, “what are we going to do?”
Tom did not answer immediately, and the worst of it was that though they were unexpectedly on the edge of something terrible and important, her question did not appear to disturb him.
“Poll,” he said, “I’m damned tired, and I simply can’t go over everything. Let’s skip it. I’m going to bed.”
Tom rose. Then he bent over her and kissed her.
“All right,” she said, “let’s skip it, darling.”
“Have you heard anything from Harry?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “not since his last letter.”
“Then don’t worry about him,” Tom said. “He’s all right. You see …” He began pulling off his tie, and his mood had changed, and everything seemed a little better. “You see, this damned war mixes everybody up.”
“That’s a very interesting thought,” Polly said. “It ought to be in an anthology.”
“Those kids in the other room—” Tom said, “nobody makes sense. You and I don’t. Let’s blame it on the war.”
“As long as you don’t blame it on me,” Polly said.
“That kid”—Tom was pulling off his waistcoat—“that lieutenant in the other room—? I suppose you noticed he was crazy about you, didn’t you? Poor kid.”
“Why do you say ‘poor kid’?” she asked.
Tom began to smile.
“Just the effect you have on people. He looked like Tasmin—just the way he used to look. Oh, my God, I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?”
“Don’t,” Tom said, “please, Poll, don’t begin to cry again.”
“I’m not,” she said.
“Well, that’s swell,” Tom said. “I’m going to bed.”
“It seems to me you’ve said that before.”
“Well, I mean it this time,” he told her. “You’d better turn in, too, and maybe the situation will look better in the morning.”
“I’m going to read for a while,” Polly said.
She could hear him moving about in the bedroom, and he was even whistling. He was whistling with relief as though he had been let out of school. It was almost as though she were sharing the hotel suite with a stranger. There was something unbearable in the idea of undressing in the bedroom and of crawling into that other twin bed, because too much had happened, and yet nothing at all had, actually—nothing, at any rate, that affected him in any way. He was still whistling, and she recalled the tune: “Don’t Change Horses.” It had been written especially for the election last autumn.
You always understood, at odd moments, the things you should have known for a long while, and they usually became clear for no apparent reason. You would cling to illusions and reservations and make allowances as long as possible, and then suddenly the magic would be gone, and you would be awake, looking at all those things in the cold north light. She had wondered at other times why she had ever married Tom, but she had never wondered in just this way—now that she heard him whistling. All at once enthusiasms and loyalty and beliefs became very tiresome. The intelligentsia, the bright planners, working on those streamlined blueprints for the brave new world, were always repeating themselves. She had heard enough of the coined jargon that was all mixed up with cheap synonyms. It made no sense. There was something mechanical about Tom and all those boys with minds like steel traps, minds equipped with dogmatic lucidity. There was some basic lack of understanding in spite of all their aptitudes. They had convictions, but they still seemed to be working out just what the war was all about. They stood for freedom of speech, except for disloyal fascist columnists, freedom from fear, except that Tom was going to put the fear of God into certain industrialists who still lived in the Dark Ages, and freedom from want, except for the obstructionists who could not see the light. Or you could turn to the other side, to the ones who said the country would be ruined by inflation, and that it was being run by crackpots and Communists. It made her sick to death to hear those people talk, too, because they also had their own jargon and their own intellectual foibles. There was no common understanding any longer, no patience or tolerance—nobody even wanted to understand.
“Tom,” she called.
“Yes,” Tom called back, “what is it?”
“I wish you’d please stop whistling.”
Tom came to the door of the bedroom in a suit of silk pajamas.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve stopped.” And everything had stopped. “Anything else on your mind?”
“Yes,” Polly said. “How’s the C.I.O.?”
“The C.I.O. is swell,” Tom said. “I thought you wanted to read.”
“I thought I did,” she said. “How’s industry?”
“Listen,” Tom said. “What’s all this about?”
“Nothing,” Polly said. “I’m just thinking about the world.”
“Which world?”
“I thought it was all one world,” Polly answered.
“All right, it’s one world, and so what?”
“I don’t know what,” Polly said. “It ought to be one world, but it isn’t. There are lots of little worlds like soap bubbles.”
“I don’t know what, either,” Tom said, “but in my opinion this is getting a little corny, Poll.”
“It sounds about like everything else.”
“You go ahead and read,” Tom told her.
“I can’t read,” Polly said, “I’m thinking about all the worlds. Who’s going to write the directive that puts them all together?”
“My God,” Tom said. “I wish you’d read. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.” He yawned, and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. “All right, maybe you’ve got something. Maybe there are too damned many worlds. Maybe we’ve been through too many of them, but I can’t help it personally. You stay in your world until tomorrow morning and let me stay in mine.”
“To hell with your world,” Polly said.
“O.K.,” Tom said. “To hell with yours too. Good night, Poll. We’ll co-ordinate them in the morning.” And he closed the bedroom door.
The room was filled with the echoes of their words. Loose thoughts began to move languidly about, running through her mind and out into the room again. She was wondering why she went on with it, but it did no good to try to find the reason for anything. She had married him to get away, and now where was she? Where was she, and just why?
Polly was already telling herself it was only a mood, and that if she were back in New York she could have skipped it. There she would have to be worrying about the Russian War Relief or the inheritance taxes, maids who gave your sugar stamps to their relatives, or the meat and clothing shortages. But here in this synthetic hotel room there seemed to be no demands upon her, nothing she could give any longer. It was dreadful, she was thinking, for a woman to be empty, without the power to give. Men could handle the problem better. At least, she knew a great number of useless men who seemed to be happy and adjusted, but it was terrible for a woman. It was terrible to sit and add things up and to have the net result before you equal zero.
Tomorrow she knew that she would think of something, of some new way to amuse Tom, of some new design. If Tom liked Georgetown, they could close up New York and get a house there, one of those old houses with a walled garden, and she could plant it with two-hundred-year-old boxwood, and she could fix a writing room for Tom. There would be the usual discussion about having things simple, but actually he liked good food and elaborate parties.
She might make another suggestion tomorrow. They could go away somewhere for a while to Mexico or Arizona or somewhere. Tom would go into the usual routine about being a gigolo, but he would like it when he got there. There had been a time when the same sort of restlessness would come over them at the same moment, and all you had to do was to ask that man who worked for Raymond Whitcomb to come around, or Tom would know someone who knew something about the Amazon or Haiti. Or they would get out the books on Egypt or Persia. All you had to do was to buy a ticket in order to get away. They had gone somewhere every year before the war, and Tom had loved it.
They had been able to make fun of the same things and the same people once, and they had loved to stay in queer and uncomfortable places, and make queer friends. It all answered his intellectual curiosity, and it was something she had been able to do for him; and, indirectly, she had taught him a good deal too. Once they had been restless in exactly the same way but now there was nothing left but restlessness.
“Say, Poll.” It was Tom’s voice calling from the other room.
“Yes,” she called back, “what is it?”
“Are you going to sit there all night? Why don’t you come to bed?”
“Why?” she asked. “I’m not keeping you awake.”
“It gives me the heebie-jeebies. Can’t you be normal and go to sleep?”
She rose and walked into the darkened bedroom, and she could see the glow of his cigarette. That habit of his of smoking before he went to sleep was something that she had never been able to break. No matter how many stories she had told him of people who had died from falling asleep with a cigarette, it made no difference. Tom was propped up against the pillows, smoking.
“Just as a personal favor,” he said, “can’t you try to go to sleep?”
“Tom,” she said.
And he sat up suddenly in bed.
“Oh, my God, Poll,” he said. “What is it now?”
“Tom, can’t we go away somewhere?”
“Oh, my God,” Tom said. “We’re here, aren’t we?”
“Away somewhere,” Polly said, “where there isn’t anything else.”
“Now, listen, Poll,” Tom said. “Let’s not have a travel talk.”
“And let’s not have you tell me there’s a war on,” Polly said. “There’s always Florida.”
“Florida,” Tom said, and he made an uncomplimentary sound. “Have you tried lately to get into a train to Florida?”
“We could find someone,” Polly said, “who could get us something. Tom, can’t we go away somewhere?”
She waited in the silence, and then his voice sounded gentle and completely final.
“You and I can’t get away from anything by going anywhere,” he said, “unless we go to sleep.”
Other women she knew had their troubles, and spilled them all over the place like leaky pots and pans. They were brave little women, all coping with ogres who had undergone some complete change due to certain characteristics concealed before marriage. All those husbands sounded about the way Tom sounded now. If she were to confide in anyone, she would be saying that Tom was not even agreeable any more, that somehow they never did anything together, that nothing she did about the house amused or interested him, that he just came home and read a book and did not want to be interrupted, that she could not get a single thing out of him about himself, that something must be worrying him, and she did not know what. There were a lot of friends with whom she could have talked about Tom, and she even felt that some of them were waiting to have her begin. She had also suspected that some of those psychiatrists and analysts whom you were always meeting at dinner parties, and who knew all the rules of happy marriage, though often they could not practise them themselves, were looking at her in a hopeful, professional way. Even her mother, who seldom noticed anything, was aware that things weren’t right, but Polly was damned if she would say anything to anyone alive, even if it were true. There were only two people to whom she had ever talked much about herself. Bob Tasmin had been very kind and had tried to understand without ever being able to, and Tom had understood perhaps, but he had not been kind.
“And then the limousine called,” Tom used to say, “and I suppose Meadows and the second man were waiting at the door. Just get this through your head, Poll. Nobody cares what happens to a girl if she’s on a yacht.”
