Sincerely, Willis Wayde (33 page)

“Then we can walk,” Sylvia said. “Willis likes to walk.”

“The thing for you to remember, Wayde,” Mr. Hodges said, “is that we are only living for a split second geologically. This present interglacial epoch is only fifteen or twenty minutes old geologically. I often find comfort in this fact, and maybe you will too before you return to city life.”

“Don't discourage him, Father,” Sylvia said. “I'll take him to the guest coop now.”

Willis had never thought of Sylvia in this environment; she seemed surprisingly adjusted to it. When they were in the guest coop, she kissed him. It was not much of a kiss because he struck his head against a two-by-four on the roof.

“Just remember,” Sylvia whispered, “it's only a split second geologically.”

Willis always prided himself on being able to get along with people even if their interests were quite different from his own. He liked to think that he had succeeded with the Hodgeses in a measure. But he had never been in a group in which he had felt so inadequate. He would not have minded the simple life if it had been simple, but the Hodgeses neglected the advantages of simplicity and the small creature comforts understood by practical campers. Not one of them knew how to split kindling for the stove properly or how to keep the stove going once it was lighted, and what was more, they honestly did not care. Hardly a breath of air stirred in the pine grove, the sun's reflection glared at them from the glassy surface of the lake, but the Hodgeses did not heed the heat or the gnats.

All the Hodgeses cared about were ideas and talk. One minute they were telling jokes in French and next they were lapsing into German. Then suddenly they would be discussing the immoralities of the Emperor Tiberius and early Christianity in the Roman Empire, which led to the subject of Byzantine influence. The minds of the Hodgeses darted from point to point, like the dragonflies above the lake. They all talked at once—Mrs. Hodges, Sylvia, Mary, Laura, and Tom. It seemed to Willis that Mr. Hodges was the only one who listened, but he too enjoyed every minute of it, and he too would occasionally leap into the discussion. Admitting it was all worthwhile, Willis could find no ending and no beginning.

It seemed that Laura and Tom and Mary had just returned from Europe and they had stayed, as the Hodgeses always had, at a small pension in the rue de l'Université. Remembering what Sylvia had said about this place, Willis glanced at her sympathetically, but Sylvia seemed to have forgotten that she had complained of it. She was listening to Tom give what she called a “free lecture.” Instead of being bored by it, Sylvia exhibited a deep respect for Tom.

The inevitable conflict was starting already, Tom was saying, between Nazism and Communism. A decadent capitalistic system inevitably turned to Nazism as a last resort, like the Franco forces in Spain and the Hitler rule in Germany.

“You agree with that, Willis,” Tom said, “don't you? Intellectually if not emotionally?”

It was very hot, and Willis kept wishing they would go for a swim but no one suggested it.

“I guess this is all a little over my head,” Willis said. “I only know what I read in the papers, like Will Rogers.” He laughed and everyone laughed too, briefly and sympathetically.

It was a great relief when Sylvia finally asked him to go for a walk. It had suddenly dawned on her that Willis had not seen anything of the lake, and this fact seemed to dawn on everyone else too at the same instant.

“Why, Willis has just been sitting here, hasn't he?” Mrs. Hodges said.

“I hate to miss any of this wonderful talk,” Willis said, “but I would like to take a walk.”

Almost the only time the Hodgeses were silent during his visit was when he and Sylvia walked down to the lake path. It was very hot and he stumbled occasionally over pine roots.

“You have to watch where you're going,” Sylvia said. “This is an awfully rough path.”

“You get a beautiful view from it,” Willis said.

“Willis, dear, I'm so proud of you,” Sylvia said. “Everyone thinks you're wonderful. Mother and Laura have said so already, and Mary wishes Tom could be more like you. You're having a good time, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Willis said, “it's great to get away from the city and get some new ideas.”

“Can't you stay for a day or two more and not go back Sunday night?”

“I wish I could,” Willis said, and he stumbled over another pine root. “It's been quite a while since I've been walking in the woods.”

“You have to get used to it,” Sylvia said. “Father's very interested in you.”

“I suppose he is,” Willis said. “I guess I can't blame him much.”

“Oh, dear,” Sylvia said, “I didn't mean it in that way, but he probably will try to draw you out. You don't mind if he draws you out, do you?”

Of course he and Mr. Hodges would have to have a little talk sometime, but Mr. Hodges did nothing about it until Sunday afternoon, and then it happened unexpectedly.

“Say, Wayde,” Mr. Hodges said, “are you any good in a canoe?”

Willis's father had taught him to paddle, one summer when he had been working for paper interests in Ontario, but once you learned a thing like that, you never wholly forgot it. There was another of those silences while Willis and Mr. Hodges stepped off the porch and pushed the Hodgeses' canoe into the water. Willis was feeling tired by then, because he had not slept well in the guest coop, and his muscles were stiff from walking and swimming. You could tell from the moment anyone picked up a paddle whether or not he knew about canoes, and Mr. Hodges must have learned somewhere besides Lake Sunapee.

“You've been with Indians sometime, haven't you?” Mr. Hodges said.

“Yes, sir,” Willis answered, “with my father once in Ontario.”

“You must have watched them,” Mr. Hodges said. “You can always tell. I made quite a study of Indian paddling in Minnesota once.”

Willis was not surprised, because it seemed to him that Mr. Hodges knew something of everything.

“If Horace could ever have been in a canoe, he would have liked it,” Mr. Hodges said.

“Horace, sir?” Willis said. He thought that he must have missed a name somewhere and that perhaps Mr. Hodges had a brother named Horace.

“The Latin poet,” Mr. Hodges said.

“Oh yes,” Willis said, “Horace. I don't know much about him, I'm afraid.”

“Don't be,” Mr. Hodges said. “Never be afraid of Horace. Sylvia tells me you're making ten thousand dollars a year. Do you hope to make some more?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said. “And I think I will, if what I'm doing turns out right.”

“Sylvia says you have something to do with machine belts.”

Seated as he was in the bow of the canoe, Willis could only hear Mr. Hodges without seeing him.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “it's the only thing I really know about. At least I hope I do.”

“I don't,” Mr. Hodges said. “My mind's a blank when it comes to belts.”

“Well, sir,” Willis said, “frankly mine's a blank when it comes to Horace.”

“Dear me,” Mr. Hodges said, “there have to be zeros somewhere. Four zeros in ten thousand dollars, and more in a million. That's the trouble with money, there must be a lot of zeros.”

Willis wished he knew whether Mr. Hodges was being funny or serious, but it was a good remark and one Willis always remembered. Mr. Hodges had been right. You had to sacrifice a lot of things if you made money.

“Last May, sir,” he said, “I met a friend of yours in New York—Mr. Hawley, president of the Hawley Pneumatic Tool.”

“Hawley,” Mr. Hodges said, “Hawley—oh yes. I didn't like him very much.”

“I didn't like him much either,” Willis said, “but I wouldn't like to have him know it.”

“Well,” Mr. Hodges said, “I'm glad you didn't. Sylvia tells me you're reading the Five-Foot Shelf of Books—fifteen minutes a day. Why?”

Willis could not turn around. He hoped that he would never again have a serious conversation with anyone when he paddled bow in a canoe.

“I wonder,” Mr. Hodges said before Willis could answer, “if you're doing that to please Sylvia. I wouldn't if I were you. Women are intellectual snobs, but I wouldn't let that worry me.”

“No, sir,” Willis answered, “I'm doing it for myself.”

“Well,” Mr. Hodges said, “I confess it shows initiative.”

Neither of them spoke for a while, and Willis was glad to listen to the dipping of the paddles in the water.

“I'm afraid,” Mr. Hodges said, “you've taken quite a beating this week end. Do you still like Sylvia?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said. “It's been very interesting here.”

“I've been interested too,” Mr. Hodges said, “but then you'd expect me to be, wouldn't you, in my position? Sylvia's always been an independent girl, and perhaps she needs some zeros.” He laughed so unexpectedly that Willis missed a stroke. “Perhaps I could do with a few myself. I wouldn't mind some electric light and some water here, within limits. If I may say so, if I were you I wouldn't try too hard to be something that I'm not. Perhaps we'd better turn back now, or Sylvia will be wondering where you are.”

That was almost the only serious conversation that Willis ever had with Mr. Hodges, and he always felt that Mr. Hodges had learned more about him than most people did—too much, perhaps. He was glad that he had been able to fix up that camp for the Hodgeses eventually, with electricity and running water, with an electric stove, a refrigerator and a dishwasher and even with a small inboard motorboat, and chairs that you could sit on without pain; yet Willis was never positive that Mr. Hodges had liked these improvements. The last time that Willis ever saw the lake was when he went there with Sylvia, who was settling the estate. It had seemed to him that Mr. Hodges had been watching, and Willis remembered his short laugh when he had spoken about zeros.

The last time Willis Wayde had seen the Hodgeses' house on Craigie Street was when he took Sylvia and their eldest son, Alfred, to the Harvard-Yale game in late November, 1950. The idea had been Sylvia's more than his. He had a business meeting in New York about five days ahead of the game date, and since he was in New York he had planned to stop in Boston to talk over some refinancing ideas with his friend Jerry Harwood, president of the Shawmut Insurance and Accident. They might say he was crazy in Chicago, but he still liked doing business with the Boston crowd.

Then, just when his plans were shaping up, Sylvia had suggested the Harvard-Yale game. She had pointed out that Alfred had started in at Middlesex that autumn and that it would be nice for Willis to show him the Harvard buildings and to let him hear the songs and cheering. It was time for Alfred to get used to the idea that he might be going to Harvard. Also it might be that Tom and Mary and their children would be going to the game too, and Tom and Mary might be able to put them up in Brookline.

Willis had drawn the line at Brookline. At least he could be comfortable when he was making a business trip, and be able to relax between conferences. However, he did want to see Alfred, and he certainly understood how Sylvia felt about Cambridge. He was delighted to have Sylvia make the trip with him and he set up the schedule accordingly. He was able to get a suite for the week end at the Ritz in Boston, and Hank Knowlton, the New England representative, got three good seats on the Harvard side and a Cadillac with a good driver, even though Sylvia had suggested a Drive-Urself car.

The only complication was a small company cocktail party arranged by Hank in the sitting room for late Saturday afternoon so that he could meet a few people whom he really had to see. Otherwise his time belonged to Sylvia and Al, who would stay with them from Saturday noon on through Sunday. He had even agreed with Sylvia to have Sunday lunch with Tom and Mary and their children in Brookline, as long as they drove there comfortably in the rented Cadillac.

He had been in conference for two hours with Jerry Harwood on Saturday morning, and he was feeling pretty tired when he got back to the sitting room at the Ritz and found that Al had already arrived.

“Well, hello, Al,” he said. “How's tricks?”

Al looked as neat as a pin, because Sylvia had given him a good going over in the bathroom. He wore gray slacks and a brown tweed jacket, and he looked like a miniature college boy already.

“Hey, Pops,” Al shouted—he could never keep his voice down when he was excited, “when do we eat?”

“Right here and now,” Willis said. “Lunch is coming right up, and we've got to eat it quick.”

“Jeepers creepers,” Al shouted, “do we have to eat in this dump? Can't we grab a hot dog somewhere?”

“We're going to eat right here,” Willis said, “and the car's coming to take us to Cambridge in half an hour.”

“Jeepers creepers,” Al shouted, “you don't mean we're going to the game in some old Cadillac?”

“Don't shout,” Willis said. “I can hear you perfectly. What other means of transportation would you suggest?”

“Can't we go in the subway,” Al asked, “and push along with the crowd?”

“The subway would take us right to the Larz Anderson Bridge,” Sylvia said.

Willis sighed and sat down.

“Even if it's a hardship we're going in a car,” he said.

As a matter of fact, due to traffic congestion it was advisable to leave the car and to push along with the crowd down Boylston Street and over the Larz Anderson Bridge. Willis felt unusually happy being there with Sylvia and Al. He was particularly glad that Sylvia was wearing her coat of wild mink. It was better-looking than any other coat he observed in the crowd around them.

As they approached the Charles River the landmarks were partly familiar and partly new. On his left the magnificent blocks of brick houses, the gift of the late Mr. Harkness, had become an integral part of the scene. The buildings of the Harvard Business School across the river, which had been aggressively new when he had been there, had been softened by the winters.