B.F.’s Daughter, page 43
“I ordered a thinning lunch,” Polly said. “I hope you like chicken and asparagus.”
“Oh, I adore them,” Miss James answered. “You guessed just right.”
That was what it was, comfortable mediocrity. It would not be long before Winifred James would have to be careful of her figure.
Instead of keeping her mind clear and alert, instead of manipulating the conversation, Polly was obsessed by details. She observed with intent, academic interest the manner in which Miss James’s blunt little fingers grasped her soup spoon. Tom had once said that the hands of a good portrait were more important than the face, and she wondered whether Tom had ever noticed Miss James’s hands. There was nothing wrong with the way she held the spoon, no stylized crooking of the little finger, but at the same time the way she held it competently and firmly evoked a picture of Winifred James stirring things in pots over a cute little gas stove in that cute little house in Georgetown; and loving to cook for a man.
But then Polly herself could cook when she had to. She could have made a better soup than the hotel consommé, and she could have done better with the asparagus and the chicken. There was no great mystery about cooking if you worked at it, and it was ridiculous how a little plain cooking could impress a man, particularly Tom, when he was in a certain mood—but this was not the time to be going off on tangents. The main thing was not to let emotion get the upper hand, but to be aloof and relax, the way everyone relaxed nowadays—at parties, in chairs, and with Camel cigarettes. All the girls like Apples Sandler were always saying, “Darling, just take your hat off and relax.” That was how Winifred James looked holding her spoon, relaxed, and she even looked relaxed when she nibbled at her asparagus.
“I envy your being in Washington all the time,” Polly said. “It must be so exciting.”
Winifred James looked up from her asparagus and smiled.
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else for all the world,” she said.
“There must be so much going on, so much you can do to help. I wish you’d tell me exactly what it is you do—that is, if it isn’t a secret.” She was wondering how much Tom had told her about their marriage, and she wished that her voice did not sound nervous and edgy. “But then it must be nice to know secrets.”
“Not if you know too many,” Winifred James said. “When I was in the War Department, I knew too many. I like working for Army officers. Of course, what I do now is mostly screening.”
“Screening?” Polly repeated. “Is that hard?”
“Not if you’re used to it,” Miss James answered. “I was in Personnel before the war. It’s largely a matter of learning who the Chief needs to see and who he doesn’t, and how long he needs to see them.” Miss James laughed, though it was more of a giggle than a laugh. “You know how Mr. Brett is.”
“Yes, I ought to,” Polly said, “but don’t you call him Tom? You must if you’ve been—thrown with him so much.”
Winifred James’s curls bobbed alluringly as she shook her head.
“Not in office hours. Everything is strictly formal in the office. But you know the way Mr. Brett is. He gets talking with everyone who comes in. He likes to hear himself, and he hasn’t any sense of time, especially when he’s tired. It’s all we can do to keep him quiet.”
“Can you keep him quiet?” Polly asked. “I never could.”
Then the room waiter was back.
“I forgot to ask,” he said, “if you care for coffee with your lunch.” He was late in asking because they were finishing the mixed green salad, and there was nothing left but a compote of fruit.
“Oh, I’d love some coffee,” Miss James said. “A large cup, please. I’m a great coffee drinker. That’s what comes of having been mixed up with the Navy. You know in the Munitions Building they have coffee cooking all the time just like the wardroom of a ship. I’ve introduced it in our office. Of course, it’s nothing but tea with the British on Lend Lease.”
Polly nodded to the waiter.
“If you’ll just clear away everything but the dessert,” she said, “and the coffee, that will be all for now.”
When the dishes and the portable oven were gone, Polly sighed, leaned back deliberately and lighted a cigarette. She had learned all she wanted about Winifred James. She had caught enough little glimpses of her daily life. She had concentrated on her so hard that she felt tired. If Tom wanted mediocrity and efficiency with a touch of pedestrian obtuseness, there it was, and Polly could not give it to him. There it was, and she did not know why he wanted it, and to her astonishment she no longer particularly cared. He could have her and that cute little house in Georgetown too. Holding Tom any longer did not seem worth the struggle or in the least rewarding. As she leaned back in her stiff, straight chair and looked at Winifred James across the table, she had a complete sense of severance. She could no longer understand what Tom had meant to her, or why she had put up with him so long; Winifred James had made her sick of the effort—she simply did not care.…
“We’ve said a lot without saying anything, haven’t we?” Polly said. “Just seeing you explains so much. I suppose we ought to get down to brass tacks.”
She watched Miss James and waited, but Miss James did not reply. Perhaps her personnel and screening experience enabled her to sit so quietly. Or it may only have been that she had Tom.
“You’ve known my husband quite a while, haven’t you?”
At least the girl did not shift ground, and she was not a little bitch. She folded her hands efficiently on the table as though it were an office desk.
“Oh, yes.” She spoke like a clever schoolgirl who knew her homework. “I’ve known Mr. Brett for three years.”
“Let’s call him Tom,” Polly said, “just as a point of convenience. Don’t you think it would be easier?”
“Why, yes,” Miss James answered, “if you want me to, Mrs. Brett.”
Polly coughed a little. She smoked her cigarette too fast, and she dropped it in her coffee cup, an unpleasant habit she had learned from Tom.
“I don’t suppose I’ve done all I could about Tom,” Polly said, “but I’m not entirely sure. I’ve been rather out of touch with him these last three years—necessarily. I’ve lost my influence, haven’t I? There isn’t much chance for a wife when there’s a war on. Perhaps you’ve noticed—I mean in other cases.”
“Yes,” Miss James answered. “I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Brett.”
She reminded Polly of that girl at the reception desk in B. F.’s office long ago. She had the same detachment, the same impersonal kindliness.
“Of course,” Polly said, “he’s particularly attractive when he’s working; so you’ve seen the best of him, and he’s seen the best of you, while he and I have been having the worst of each other. I don’t know how it could have been helped, and I admit there must have been something else wrong between us—I don’t know what—but you’ve helped me realize it.”
Miss James unclasped her hands and examined the red manicure on her fingers.
“How did you know?” she asked.
That direct question was disconcerting because it cleared away all pretense and verbiage, and nothing was civilized any longer. Miss James seemed to have surprised her half-dressed.
“Know what?” Polly asked, and her voice was very sharp.
“About Tom—and me.”
“Because I’m not a fool,” Polly said. “Any wife knows when there’s someone else if she isn’t a fool.”
“Did Tom tell you?”
“No,” Polly said, “he didn’t have to.”
Miss James raised her hand daintily and pushed a curl from her forehead.
“Then I don’t see how you knew, I mean who it was—about me.”
“I don’t suppose Tom’s very clever about these things,” Polly answered, “and maybe you aren’t either. People are always stupid when they’re in love.”
When she said the last word, her voice broke, in spite of every effort. Her eyes were smarting because she was thinking of the time when she and Tom were in love. She pulled another cigarette from the pack on the table, and picked up a paper of matches. She could read on the paper, when she lighted the match, For Sea Food—Go to Jack’s. Tom must have left those matches.
“He should have told you,” Miss James said.
Polly blinked and lighted her cigarette.
“Yes,” she said, “he should have, if he’d had the guts.”
“I told him he ought to,” Miss James said. “I’m awfully sorry.” And then her own voice was uncertain. “You see I’m good for him, I’m what he needs … but that sounds mean, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me,” Polly said. “How long has this been going on?”
“I wish you wouldn’t ask,” Miss James said. “It’s been going on so long that we’re both sure. I only wish he’d told you.”
“He’s absent-minded sometimes,” Polly said.
She was thinking of that afternoon in front of the apartment on Park Avenue, that cold afternoon when Tom Brett had waited for her. She could see his hat and that thin overcoat with its turned-up collar. She could even remember exactly the way his hands were jammed into his pockets.
“It doesn’t mean he isn’t very fond of you,” said Miss James. “He really is, and he has such respect for you. He knows you’ve done so much for him. We both know.”
“Oh, stop it,” Polly said.
What she had done for Tom belonged to her, and it was none of this girl’s business.
“I’m awfully sorry—” Miss James began again.
“There’s no use being sorry,” Polly answered, “no use at all. Do you want to marry him?”
Miss James nodded, and Polly wished that she would not speak in that kind, consoling way.
“I wouldn’t want to if I wasn’t positive I could make him happy … You’re being so nice about it, Mrs. Brett, so adult, so integrated.”
“I’m old enough to be,” Polly said, “and please don’t say you’re sorry again, if you don’t mind, because I’ve stopped being sorry. Why do you think you can make him happy?”
She told herself she did not care. She did not want to show how upset she was. She told herself she did not care.
“I hate to be personal, Mrs. Brett,” Miss James was saying. “I know you once meant so much to each other, and you still do in some respects. It seems wrong of me to say anything, but I think …” At least Miss James was not enjoying it. She clasped her hands and unclasped them, and her face looked flushed and mottled. “… I think he needs someone to look after him … in an unpossessive way, I mean.”
“That’s true,” Polly said. “He isn’t the lone wolf type. He’s always been a … sort of sophisticated Peter Pan.”
“That’s it,” Miss James said. “That’s what I thought when I saw him first. There’s something in him that’s still so—so fresh and boyish. He so needs someone who—well, appreciates him.”
“That’s true,” Polly said. “I suppose I’ve got out of the habit of long-term appreciation.”
“Someone,” Miss James was speaking more eagerly, “duller than you, Mrs. Brett, who doesn’t—well, keep him stirred up. Someone not quite as lovely—without as many definite ambitions for him. I mean someone common. That is what he needs.” She raised her hands and dropped them gently on the table. “Like me.”
It was so embarrassing, that self-portrait of Winifred James, that Polly could find no answer.
“You see, Tom’s common, too,” she went on “… in a nice way, I mean. He’s just from the Middle West like me. He needs someone he doesn’t have to compete with. You’re so brilliant, so charming, such a rare and lovely person, Mrs. Brett. I think you’re too good for him really. I know I’m saying this badly, but he just needs someone who loves everything he does without so many perfect standards. I do hope you know what I mean.”
The words of Winifred James kept buzzing around Polly’s head like flies in meaningless, distracted parabolas … those Midwesterners always got back to that Midwest.
“I suppose he’s always had an inferiority complex,” Polly said, “but I’ve never thought of his feeling that he had to compete with me. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’ve said it badly,” Miss James answered. “It’s so hard to say, and no one knows what there has been between two people, does one? Competing isn’t the right word really. I suppose I mean living in a certain—well, atmosphere, according to high standards, with so much money.”
“Money?” Polly frowned. “Did he mention money?”
“Only to say you were very sweet and generous,” Miss James said. “Why, once he said—” She stopped.
“Please go on,” Polly told her. “You’re the only one who can tell me these things. Aren’t you?”
At least Miss James looked hot and unhappy.
“Once he said that he was the boy in the toy store and that you would buy him an electric train when all he wanted was marbles. You know the way he says things … but he’s so fond of you, Mrs. Brett.”
Polly felt her face growing red. She was tired of being adult and tired of being a sweet, generous person.
“Does he want to marry you?” Polly asked.
Miss James was silent for a second. Perhaps because she had started being frank she could not help but continue.
“I don’t know,” she said. “You know how indefinite he is. It’s hard for him to make decisions.”
For an instant a bright light of elation burned in Polly. It was just like Tom, and if she wanted, she knew that she could take him by the ear and lead him back. She knew that she still had a stronger hold on Tom than Winifred James, and she would always have it. Polly dropped her second cigarette in her coffee cup and stood up.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “you can have him if you want him. I’ve tried it long enough. Take him away if you want him.” And then she laughed. “And good luck and happy landings.”
She had not known what she was going to do that afternoon until she had done it—she had not realized how close it all was to irrevocable. Winifred James had begun to cry and it was a horrid, sticky little scene—those last minutes. Winifred James had been so surprised and then so grateful in a doglike way, although she was not a bitch. There was something cloying and mawkish in the way she had said thank you, that Mrs. Brett had been so generous, so adult and understanding. Miss James had never known that anyone in the world could be as wonderful as Mrs. Brett, and Polly had told her that she had better go to the bathroom and wash her face and stop crying. Polly had finally accepted the conclusion, but she still could not grasp its implications. When she was alone all she wanted was to forget those final minutes.
“Room Service,” she said over the telephone. “You can clear away the luncheon now.”
You could clear away dishes and empty ash trays, but you could not clear away years of living with a man. You could not close off those years as if with a closet door because parts of the years, in shreds and tatters, would always be drifting through the cracks. There was bound to be reaction, and she was facing it already. The best thing was to put it off as long as possible. All that she was sure of was that she was quite alone and that she had arrived on some new plane.
She must think as hard as she could of other things and of what she had been going to do before That Thing had happened. There was the appointment at the beauty parlor at three o’clock—her hair did need attention—and afterwards there was tea with Mildred Tasmin at Scott Circle. That was almost too much to go through with, but it was better to go through with it for just this reason. It was one of those tatters of all she was leaving behind, and it was time to learn how to behave with them.
“Is this the Bell Captain?” she was asking over the telephone. “My bags will be ready in twenty minutes. Will you have them taken to the Check Room?”
XXIX
Dear, I’m Dying for a Drink
The apartments that had been built in Washington shortly before the war had always confused Polly because their glass doors and plate-glass corner windows made them modern, and so did the air-conditioning in summer; but once you were inside, they had the overcarpeted corridors, the smell of cooking, the stodgy atmosphere of a family hotel. She was sure that the Tasmins would not have stayed at Scott Circle if they could have found something more like them.
An Army officer living in one of those apartments could always make arrangements with another officer who had a car to drive out to the Pentagon, or to Gravely Point if he was in the Chemical Warfare Service, and Scott Circle was within walking distance of most places, a great advantage with the gas rationing. Mrs. Tasmin was on the fifth floor, the girl at the telephone switchboard said. Just push button Five on the elevator—the doors would open automatically when it reached its destination—and then turn to the left and take the second corridor to the right.
The second corridor to the right was painted a seasick beige. A colored girl, that wonderful girl whom Mildred had found but who did not look wonderful to Polly, opened the door. The apartment must have been rented furnished, for the Tasmins would never have owned a hat rack or a carved Chinese camphor chest. An Army officer’s overcoat was hanging on one of the hat-rack pegs, with a boy’s overcoat beside it, and some rubbers and a pair of roller skates were on the floor beneath. The roller skates raised a lump in Polly’s throat. They made her wish, now that it was too late, that she and Tom had had children.
“Just rest your coat on the rack, ma’am,” the colored girl said, “and step right in.”
It was not very far to step. There were two doors on the left leading to the bedrooms, and the living room was right ahead, a smallish room with plate-glass windows and Venetian blinds and furniture that must have been collected quickly from secondhand stores—a studio couch, a bookcase with glass doors, some easy-chairs with chintz covers, and some small Oriental carpets. There was a painted table in a dining nook near the kitchenette. The only traces of Bob Tasmin that Polly could observe were some pipes in a brass bowl beside a tobacco jar.
