Sincerely, Willis Wayde (14 page)

Alfred Wayde snorted and looked through the windshield as though he were driving the stationary car.

“You're trying to be something you aren't,” he said. “You watch it, Willis. You keep on trying to be something you aren't, and you'll end up a son of a bitch. You can't help being, if you live off other people.”

“I don't get your point. I honestly don't,” Willis said.

Alfred Wayde shifted his weight and leaned his elbows on the wooden steering wheel.

“Listen, boy,” he said. “People are divided into two parts—people who do things and the rest, who live off those who do things. Now I may not amount to much, but I've had a pretty happy time, because I can turn out something. I can do anything in that damn mill that anyone else can do, and they all know it, boy. Well, maybe you'll spend your life living off other people's doings, but if you have to, don't fool yourself. Maybe you'll end up like Harcourt. I don't know. But you'll never
be
like Harcourt.”

There was a good deal in what his father had said, and Willis realized it even then. He was listening to the age-old definition of management and labor, to a description of the chasm that always divided the creator and the entrepreneur, and of course his father had been right, but Willis could only put his thoughts in a single awkward question.

“But you like Mr. Harcourt, don't you?” Willis asked.

“Hell, yes,” Alfred Wayde said. “All his moving parts are greased. He knows what he is, and we get along, but he lives off me just the same.”

“Well, you live off him, too, don't you?” Willis said.

“All right,” Alfred Wayde answered, “all right. There always has to be a boss in the front office. I only say, don't try too hard, Willis, or else you'll end up a son of a bitch.”

Alfred Wayde was a realist who always told the truth. He was simplifying the Harcourts in exactly the same way he could simplify the explanations of a complicated process.

“Sometimes,” Alfred Wayde said, “I wish I'd never brought you here. By God, I should have stayed out West. It's time we started moving, but now, by God, old Harcourt's got us, and he isn't going to live forever either.”

Alfred Wayde pushed himself away from the wheel and kicked open the door of the Ford.

“Well, I guess that's about all I've got to say, Willis, and now I'm going in to get a rye and ginger ale and you better have one too, but just remember what I said. Look around for some reciprocating girls.”

Cynthia Wayde opened the door of the garden house just as they were getting out of the car.

“What have you two been talking about,” she asked, “out there in the sun?”

“I've just been telling Willis a few facts,” Alfred Wayde said, “and now I'm going to give him a drink.”

“Oh, Alf,” Mrs. Wayde said, “you know Willis hardly ever takes anything.”

“It's time he started,” Alfred Wayde said.

“Well, Willis isn't like you, Alf,” Mrs. Wayde said, and she stood in front of Willis in the parlor while Alfred Wayde went to get the glasses and ginger ale. “Willis, I wish you knew some nice girls.”

“Gosh,” Willis said, “do you wish that too? Reciprocating girls, not pack-rat girls?”

But he was not obliged to explain what reciprocating girls meant, because the telephone rang in the hall.

“I'll go,” he said, and it was Bess Harcourt calling.

“Is that you, Willis?” she said. “How about coming over after you've had your supper. The family's gone away to the shore, all except me, and Daddy forgot and left the liquor closet open. We can have some Scotch if you come over.”

“Why, thanks,” Willis said, and in spite of everything he did not feel tired at all. “I'd like to very much.”

Perhaps in some ways Bess was a reciprocating girl.

Bess was waiting for him on the driveway outside the Bryson Harcourt house. The brick Georgian house which Bryson Harcourt had built was still untrammeled by tradition and it always looked to Willis rather like a country club, with its tennis court and its swimming pool. The last of the evening light was still in the sky that evening, and the scene remained in his memory as a sort of dream of wish fulfillment.

Like the house, Bess in her cool silk summer dress was a part of that dream, but he was familiar with her too. In fact they knew each other better, perhaps, than either of them knew anybody else. Nevertheless he could never tell when he met her whether she would have good manners or none at all. She seemed almost shy that night.

“I feel awfully lonely tonight,” she said. “It's too hot in the house. Let's go and sit by the swimming pool. It's awfully nice of you to come over, Willis.”

“I always do, when you ask me,” Willis said.

“Yes,” she said, “I know.”

The pool was near the woods, and its water reflected the dying light in the sky. The pool was far enough away from the house so that no one could see them, and both of them must have known that this was their reason for going there.

“If you're lonely,” Willis asked her, “why didn't you go to the shore with your family?”

“You know why perfectly well,” Bess said, and she laughed. “Don't you miss me sometimes?”

“Yes,” he told her, “sometimes.”

“It's nice to have a secret sin,” Bess said, “and you're my secret sin. Well, what are you waiting for?” She had stopped in front of the pergola at the end of the pool, where the reclining chairs were. There was no reason to wait any longer, and of course he kissed her.

“I'm awfully glad you're here,” she said, “even if it isn't sensible. I've been in and out of the water all day, but I'll watch you if you want to swim.”

“No thanks,” Willis answered. “It's getting pretty cool.”

“All right,” she said. “I've sneaked out the soda and the ice and everything. You can pour me a small drink if you want to.… Bill says it's time I learned to drink a little, and it's part of the secret sin.”

“That's just what my father was saying,” Willis answered, “that I ought to take a drink occasionally.”

“It tastes horrid, doesn't it?” she said, and Willis silently agreed with her. “Your father's a funny man. Sometimes I think he never notices me.”

“Everybody always notices you,” Willis said.

She sat down on one of the reclining chairs.

“Move over close to me,” she said. “I wish I didn't always like it when you're with me, and we can't go on like this indefinitely, can we? Or people will begin to talk.”

“Yes, I guess that's so,” Willis said, “but then, you asked me over, didn't you?”

She reached out her hand toward his.

“You wanted to come, didn't you?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “I wanted to.”

“All right, as long as you wanted to,” and she held his hand tighter. “I wish you could always be around when I want you.”

He did not answer.

“Willis,” she said, “I've felt queer all day. I've felt awfully old.”

“Why do you feel queer?” he asked.

“I don't know why,” she said, “and I don't know why I can talk to you better than anyone else. Maybe I love you. But that would be awfully silly.”

His common sense made him agree with her. Both he and Bess Harcourt always had the gift of knowing exactly where they were.

“I've been wondering all day what's going to happen to us all,” she said. “Daddy's nice but he's a rather stupid man, don't you think so? Willis, I have the queerest feeling.” Her voice choked suddenly. “Promise me you won't go away.”

“You don't want me around,” Willis said, “not really.”

“I half want you,” she said, and then her voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. “There's got to be someone to look after us, Willis.”

It was a preposterous remark, and his own answer was equally preposterous.

“You know I love you, Bess,” he said.

“All right,” she told him, “I wanted you to say that, but it's utterly ridiculous.” She stood up suddenly. The afterglow had left the sky and the stars were out.

“I know you can't change anything any more than I can,” she said. “If we have to be ridiculous, let's go walking in the woods.”

Willis was sure that something serious was facing him when he received a typewritten memorandum brought up by one of Miss Jackman's typists to the sales department late one afternoon a few days after his evening with Bess. The name of the girl who brought it was Nellie Bailey, he remembered. She had been in the class ahead of him at high school, not that that detail mattered, except to show that he still recollected every circumstance surrounding that message.

“Mr. Harcourt,” the memorandum read, “wishes to know if it is possible for you to call on him at the House at eight o'clock this evening. Please answer by bearer. Edith Jackman. Confidential.”

The memorandum was characteristic of Miss Jackman's style, even down to spelling house with a capital. Willis picked up a pencil immediately and wrote, “Yes,” on the square piece of paper and handed it back to Nellie Bailey. Then he had a physical sensation that bordered on nausea. He was almost sure that the summons had something to do with Bess, because in the end Mr. Harcourt always heard and noticed everything. There was one thing he did not want and this was for his father and his mother to see that he was worried. Lately he suspected that his parents had been discussing him, and his mother had brought up the subject of nice girls several times.

“Willis,” she said, as soon as he got home, “is anything the matter?”

“Why, no. What makes you think so?” Willis asked.

“Because you don't look happy.”

“I'm perfectly happy,” he told her.

“No,” she said. “You look drawn around the eyes. Can't you tell your mother what's the matter?”

“It isn't anything, Mom,” he said, “except Mr. Harcourt wants to see me at the big house at eight o'clock.”

“Alf,” she called. “Alfred, come in here out of the kitchen.”

His father came from the kitchen holding a Stillson wrench.

“You told me to fix the sink trap, didn't you?” he said. “What is it, Cynthia?”

“Mr. Harcourt wants to see Willis at the big house.” She spoke slowly and carefully, as though he might find the statement difficult to understand.

“Is that so?” Alfred Wayde said. “I told you we ought to have moved out of here before this, Cynthia.”

“I hope he isn't going to try to do something for Willis,” she said.

“Willis is working for him, isn't he?” Alfred Wayde said. “Just the same as I am.”

“I know,” she said. “I don't know why it should bother me when Mr. Harcourt gets talking about Willis, but it's sort of as though he owned him.”

“He owns everybody,” Alfred Wayde said.

“Well, he doesn't own me,” Cynthia Wayde said. “It isn't as though he isn't very kind, but I hope he isn't going to do too much for Willis. If he wants to do anything, he could raise your pay, Alf.”

“I could make him easy enough,” Alfred Wayde said, “if I wasn't too much obliged to him.”

“There,” she said, “there! That's exactly what I mean.”

Willis later often gave talks to chosen young men in his office on the subject of the successful interview. Actually there were only two things to remember, and the rest would look out for itself. You had to bear constantly in mind exactly where you stood and where the other person stood. It helped to think of yourself as playing a hand of bridge. When the dummy was on the table, you could judge with fair accuracy what your opponents held, if you recalled the bidding and the conventions. It was even easier when there was only one opponent.

When Willis walked from the garden house to the big house to call on Mr. Harcourt, he had already developed some adroitness. It was Stevenson, he believed, who once had said that a young writer must learn to play the sedulous ape, and the same thing was true with a young man who tried to get on in business. Willis had never been wholly sedulous but he was proud of the model he had chosen, and he liked to think that evening that he had been a little like Mr. Harcourt. He had brushed his hair carefully and had put on his best suit and he had shined his shoes down cellar, but he had been careful to wrinkle his coat slightly and also to disturb the slickness of his hair with his fingers. No matter what happened he was going to be as much as he could like Mr. Harcourt and in a smaller way like Bill.

“Good evening, Mr. Willis,” Selwyn said. “Mr. Harcourt's waiting for you in his study off the library.”

Willis felt a pulse beating in his throat.

“Selwyn,” he said, and he smiled. “Do you notice anything about me?”

“No, Mr. Willis,” Selwyn said.

“No handkerchief in my breast pocket.”

“No one has to tell you anything twice,” Selwyn said, “as I heard Mr. Harcourt say this evening, Mr. Willis.”

It was the way Selwyn might have spoken to Bill. There was no wonder that he always had a warm spot in his heart for Selwyn.

Mr. Harcourt was in his small study with piles of papers in front of him.

“Oh here you are, Willis,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I hope this does not keep you from some more agreeable engagement.”

Willis could not be sure, but it seemed to him that Mr. Harcourt had underlined the last phrase slightly.

“Sit down,” Mr. Harcourt said, “but close the door first.”

Willis crossed the small room while Mr. Harcourt was speaking and seated himself in the caller's chair facing Mr. Harcourt, trying neither to slouch nor to sit too stiffly. The single casement window of the study was closed when he came in, and with the door closed the study was cool and so quiet that he could hear the ticking of Mr. Harcourt's gold watch in his waistcoat pocket. Mr. Harcourt looked smaller and frailer than usual and his face looked paler and the lines deeper, but the silent room continued to exaggerate his careful detachment and the slow, deliberate motions of his hands.