So Little Time (34 page)

“Where the hell have you been?” Minot asked him. “My tongue's hanging out.”

It would have sounded petulant and boorish if anyone else had said it, but Minot could give his voice just the proper lilt.

“I didn't want to sit in that stranger's room downstairs,” Jeffrey told him. “That room is like the office of a nose and throat specialist. I wanted to be sure you were here first.”

Minot laughed. “Fuzzy wouldn't have put you in there,” he said. “He'd have let you come up here.”

“Do you call the man at the door ‘Fuzzy'?” Jeffrey asked.

“Why,” Minot said, “everybody's always called him ‘Fuzzy.' George.” He waved his hand to the bartender, and the bartender moved forward, smiling at them informally but respectfully.

“Now, George,” Minot said, “we want two Martinis, and Mr. Wilson is very particular about his Martinis. Do your best for us, will you George?”

If Jeffrey had made that speech to anyone, it would have sounded bustling, but when Minot made it, it sounded right.

“And, George,” Minot said, “the special London gin, and my own vermouth. You still have a bottle, haven't you?”

“Yes, there's still a bottle, Mr. Roberts,” George said.

When Minot smiled, Jeffrey felt like a member for a moment.

“We'll have to drive them the hell out of France,” Minot said, “before we get some more vermouth.”

Jeffrey did not have to answer, because one of the dice players called across the room.

“Drive who out of France?”

Everybody in the Clinton Club knew everybody else.

“Who do
you
think, Bunny?” Minot called. “This is Jeff Wilson. That's Bunny Rotch, and that's Sam Hughes.”

Jeffrey was never sure what to do when he was introduced to anyone at the Clinton Club, whether he was supposed to spring from his chair and shake hands and say that he was pleased to meet them, or whether to nod and smile across the room. He nodded and smiled across the room.

“Hello,” they said, and began shaking dice again, but they were not rude. It showed that he was a friend of Minot's, and that any friend of Minot's was a friend of theirs.

“Bunny Rotch,” Minot said softly, “you know, from Westbury.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “that Rotch.”

A faint wrinkle appeared between Minot's eyes, and then he laughed.

“Jeff,” he said, “you can always dish it out.”

Jeffrey did not answer. He was watching George at the bar pouring the Martinis, not sloppily, like a commercial barkeeper, and not medically, like a chemist, but exactly as he should have poured them.

“It's funny,” Minot said, “I always think of you as knowing everyone.”

“Not around here, Minot,” Jeffrey said.

Minot looked at him again and laughed.

“Don't make fun of us,” he said, “we're just poor boys trying to get along.” And then George brought the Martinis. He placed one before each of them, and stood waiting. Minot looked at his glass carefully before he picked it up.

“Right, Mr. Roberts?” George asked.

“That gin,” Minot said, “is that the special gin?”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts,” George said.

“It's a little pawkish,” Minot said.

“What?” Jeffrey asked him.

“Pawkish,” Minot said.

“Well,” Jeffrey said, “it tastes all right to me.”

“All right, George,” Minot said, “Mr. Wilson likes it.”

“God almighty,” Jeffrey said. “Do you always do this, Minot?”

Minot finished his drink.

“Two more, George,” he called, “and a little more vermouth. And just a little more careful how you stir them, George.”

“God almighty,” Jeffrey said.

“Where were you Sunday?” Minot asked. “I tried to get hold of you Sunday.”

“We were out in Connecticut,” Jeffrey said. “Out at Fred's and Beckie's.”

“God!” Minot said. “What did you go there for?”

“Madge,” Jeffrey said; “you know, Madge loves Fred and Beckie.”

“Who else was there?” Minot asked.

“Some people named Sales. Fred met him in some bank.”

Minot shook his head; clearly the name meant nothing.

“And then Walter Newcombe and his wife.”

“You don't mean,” Minot said, “Newcombe the correspondent? Why didn't you tell me? We could have had him around for lunch.”

“I don't know,” Jeffrey said, “whether you'd like him, Minot.”

“How do you mean I wouldn't like him?” Minot asked. “What's his wife like?”

“I don't think you'd understand her,” Jeffrey said.

“How do you mean I wouldn't understand her?” Minot asked. “You know damned well I can get on with anyone. These correspondents are always at dinners at the speakers' table. I know what they're like.”

George brought the second cocktail.

“Right, Mr. Roberts?” George asked.

“It's better this time, George,” Minot said. “I think the stirring did it. Thank you, George.”

“Thank you,” George said, “Mr. Roberts.”

“All these newspaper men,” Minot said, “are like anybody else who comes from a small town and gets ahead. You can tell them every time.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I guess you can.”

Minot was not embarrassed, because he was too old a friend. His eyes, and his whole face, were kind.

“You were never like that,” Minot said, “and if anybody says you were, he's a God-damned liar.”

“Minot,” Jeffrey said, “do you remember that afternoon when I first came to visit you? Madge and I drove past the station there last Saturday.”

But Minot did not remember, and there was no reason why he should have.

“That time you asked me to visit you,” Jeffrey said. “Well, I was just like that.”

“No you weren't,” Minot said. “Who else was there?”

“Where?” Jeffrey asked.

“For the week end,” Minot said.

“Well, there was Buchanan Greene, the poet,” Jeffrey said, “and then—” He glanced at the dice players in the corner, and then back at Minot—“Marianna Miller.”

Minot set his glass down.

“Did Madge know she would be there?”

“Of course she knew,” Jeffrey said.

“Well,” Minot said, “how did she like it?”

Jeffrey was not as much offended by the question as he was by the simplicity of Minot's thoughts and reactions. It made him impatient, not so much with Minot, as with everyone like Minot. Those people lived according to a book of rules which they had learned by heart without ever stopping to analyze them.

“How do you mean?” Jeffrey asked him. “Why shouldn't Madge have liked it?” But of course he knew what Minot Roberts meant. Minot was a friend of his who knew according to his book of rules that friends could speak about such things.

“You know I'd go down the line for you any time,” Minot said. “You know that, don't you?” And Jeffrey knew it. It was a part of the book of rules. The rules said that you were loyal to your friends.

“Jeff,” Minot said, “I know you're always lunching with her. You don't misunderstand me, do you?”

“No,” Jeffrey said. “I don't, Minot.”

“Just having them both in the same place,” Minot said.

That was what troubled Minot, because it was not in the book of rules. It was hardly necessary to read between the lines to understand what Minot was taking for granted. Minot did not mind his having an affair, because such a contingency was cared for in several paragraphs in the book of rules. He minded because there were also paragraphs laid down as to conduct when one found oneself in such a situation.

“You know,” Jeffrey said slowly, and he found himself speaking patiently, “I've known Marianna for a long while, but you're wrong in your assumptions, Minot.”

But he knew it would have done no good to explain everything candidly to Minot—to tell him that in spite of the week end he was not seriously contemplating such a thing. Minot would have approved of everything he said, for such an explanation was proper in the book of rules. No gentleman in the book of rules would have been expected to have made an admission. Besides, Marianna Miller was on the stage, and stage people did just one thing according to Minot's book of rules.

“Let's have another one,” Minot said. “Oh, George. Front and center, George.”

George entered into the spirit of the thing, not brashly or blatantly but with the kindly smile of one who loved the vagaries of members and who had been through a lot with them. George walked to the table and did a smart right face.

“George was in the old Second,” Minot said. “Continue the exercise, George.”

Jeffrey did not want another drink, but if he had refused one, Minot would have thought he was irritated, since under the circumstances, when friends touched on such a subject, a drink was called for in the book of rules. It meant that everything was over and that you were back to where you were before, that nothing more need be said about it. Yet it made him restless. He had never thought, until Minot mentioned it, that he and Marianna might be talked about.

“I'll tell you who's a guest here,” Minot said. “Sir Thomas—Sir Thomas Leslie.”

But Jeffrey had never heard the name.

“British Information Service,” Minot said. “Just fresh from London. We gave him a party Sunday night. Tommy's quite a boy.”

But Jeffrey was only half listening. They were always giving parties to the British—it was all a part of the British War Relief and Bundles for Britain. They were always making speeches about blood's being thicker than water. They were always reading letters from some cousin in the R.A.F. He knew why the Sir Thomases were over. They were over here to get everything they could, so that they could carry on, and Jeffrey wished that they would tell the truth instead of beating about the bush. They wanted America in the war, and they were right to want it. He wished they would say so flatly instead of asking for tools, so that they could do the job. They wanted America in the war because their backs were to the wall; he wished that he could be sure that America could save them. He wished that someone would tell him how it could be done instead of selling him enamel lions to attach to his lapel. It was going to take more than an enamel lion, and the British and everyone else were talking double talk. Roosevelt was saying that none of the boys would fight in a foreign war, saying it again and again, and asking if it were clear. It was not clear; but Mr. Willkie was saying it, too—that every possible aid must be given England, but we must not get into the war.

“I wish they'd tell the truth,” Jeffrey heard himself saying.

Minot shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“That's too much to ask,” he said. “We should have been in it last winter. If we'd been in it—”

It was an impossibility to have been in it, and Minot should have known. It was all like an old record turning again, whose strains he vaguely remembered—that propaganda of gallant rebuke, as though it were all our fault, as though we were slackers letting our blood brothers down while they were fighting the Hun. They should have known that no people went to war for anything like that except a few like Minot who followed the book of rules.

Jeffrey realized suddenly that he was not at home with Minot, or with any of those people. It was the same mood which had overtaken him there at Higgins Farm, when the voice had said, “This—is London.” He was thinking of Marianna Miller, wondering what Minot had heard, and whether Madge could have said anything.

“Minot,” he asked, “have you seen Madge lately?”

“Madge?” Minot said. “Well, let's see. Why, yes, yesterday. What was it?—something for the British War Relief.”

It all tied up together.

Madge must have discussed Marianna Miller, and it gave Jeffrey a most indignant feeling. Madge might have thought that there was something in it because Madge knew the book of rules. All those people were alike, and no matter how he tried, he could not be like them.

“Jeff,” Minot said, “you're not mad, are you?”

“No,” Jeffrey said, “of course not. You couldn't make me mad.”

“You know, I like you better than anyone I know.”

There was nothing awkward in Minot's statement. Jeffrey could not have said such a thing to Minot or to anyone else, but it was utterly guileless, and natural when Minot said it. It drew them together in the warmth of a friendship which was both very old and extremely valuable. It made no difference to Jeffrey that he felt older and more cynical and more intelligent. All at once the friendship seemed indestructible.

Yet it was hard to keep his mind on what Minot was saying. All sorts of elements seemed to have combined into a sort of chaotic discontent, and even the dining room at the Clinton Club was part of it.

The dining room was Georgian—the chairs and the silver and the soft green paneling all very good, and used by people who understood them. The Sheraton sideboard against the north wall was a fine authentic piece. It was covered with a great mass of non-functional silver—cups, bowls, and urns, such as appear in clubs—but the silver was completely in place, like the few diners at the tables, and like the waiters. There was a watchful dignity in the room and a tacit assurance that there would be no mistake about forks or fingerbowls. It seemed to Jeffrey that he was the only one who was not completely at home, completely a part of it. He had ordered cold guinea hen and lyonnaise potatoes had come with it. When the waiter, whom Minot called Stephen, passed the potatoes, Jeffrey was aware that something was not quite right. When it was too late, Jeffrey saw that he should not have put the lyonnaise potatoes on the cold plate with the guinea hen. There was a warm plate just beside it, and, though Stephen had drawn the silver potato-dish back a hair, maneuvering it nearer the warm plate, Jeffrey had put the hot potatoes with the cold guinea hen. It was a small matter and there was no reason for him to try to convince Stephen, indirectly of course, that he had been aware of the hot plate and that he was simply eccentric and liked hot potatoes with the guinea hen. It showed that he did not belong there.