Point of No Return (27 page)

“Oh,” John Gray said, “I'm sorry. You know, Esther, I was thinking, coming back on the train, that it's time we got away from the heat. How would it be if we went for two weeks to Poland Spring?”

“You know how it would be,” his mother said. “What would they say at the mill?”

Groton school and China were gone, but Poland Spring was there.

“Never mind the mill,” John Gray said. “We could go there and sit quietly and drink Poland water. Rocking chairs, soft music, a little golf.”

“But I can't play golf,” his mother said, “and you can't play it very well.”

“That's just it,” John Gray said, and his mind had moved from Poland Spring. “There isn't a golf course here, but there's the Shore Club.”

“But we don't belong to it,” his mother said, “and if we did, it's twelve miles away.”

“We ought to belong to it,” John Gray said, “and we ought to have a car. Nothing expensive, Esther, but what would you say if we bought a small car? Then we could drive to the Shore Club. It's about time Sam saw some different people, and Dorothea, too—instead of Frank Setchell and his socks.”

“And learn how to play golf?”

“And why shouldn't we play golf?” John Gray answered. “Sam ought to learn a few skills before he goes to Dartmouth. It's nice of Jane to do this for us, but I don't know why she insists on Dartmouth.”

“Well, as long as Jane's doing it,” his mother said.

John Gray stared at the end of his cigar.

“Dartmouth,” he said. “It is, sirs, a small college, and yet there are those who love it. His marks are bad enough and he likes football, but if he can't get into Harvard or Yale, why not Amherst or Brown?”

“I'd better help Mrs. Murphy set the table,” his mother said.

John Gray began to laugh.

“All right,” he said, “we can talk about the Shore Club later. Dear me, I'd better get washed.”

After his father left the room, his mother still lingered in the parlor and her hesitation was novel and disturbing. She looked at the open parlor door and smiled. She looked younger and prettier than she usually did when she came home from a meeting of the Women's Club.

“Charley,” she said, and she lowered her voice as though they were discussing something secret, “did he promise you anything?”

“No,” Charles answered, “he didn't exactly promise anything.”

She moved nearer to him and touched the back of his head gently.

“What were you talking about?”

“About a lot of things,” Charles said. “School, and I guess about China.”

“Oh dear,” his mother said. “Did he get as far as China?” She did not want him to answer and she had something else to say. “Charley, we both love him very much, don't we?”

There seemed to be no reason for her question, since Charles had always believed that loving one's parents very much was an accepted principle, like asking God to bless them in one's evening prayers. She touched his head again and her voice was slower and softer.

“I want to tell you something about him, dear, something I think you're old enough to understand.” She stopped and he could still feel her fingers stroking the back of his head very gently. “You mustn't feel hurt when he promises you something and then forgets. When he makes a promise and doesn't keep it, it means that he wants us to have the things that he wants us to have. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” Charles said, “I guess I see.”

It was the first time that his mother had ever spoken to him in that way about John Gray or had ever admitted that in any way his father was different from other people. It was not a bad apology, either, for John Gray. Yet there was one thing that Charles could not understand then or later. Why should anyone promise something unless the means were there for making that promise good? That was the weakness behind it all, the insidious, deceptive plank which destroyed all the rest of the structure.

“You see we've got to believe in him,” his mother said. “It would hurt him so if we didn't.” John Gray was always escaping from hurts, he was expert at it. “My, it's getting late. I'd better set the table.”

“Do you want me to help you?” Charles asked.

“Oh, no,” she said, and she rumpled his hair. “Your fingers are all thumbs, Charley. And here's Sam. Sam always knows when it's mealtime.”

Sam had attained his full growth when he was seventeen and he already had the build of an athlete. Instead of working that summer, Sam had been playing ball in the Twilight League, on a team made up of employees from Wright-Sherwin and boys who hung around the news store. He had barely passed his college board examinations and Charles had heard his father say that at least Sam might have done a few hours of daily reading instead of fishing or taking girls to the movies or lining out flies. Yet when Sam came in that evening before supper he was like a younger and slightly larger replica of John Gray. He had the same swinging walk, the same quick smile, the same sharply defined features and the same brown hair, though there was more of it and it was not as carefully brushed. He had his mother's brown eyes but Charles was the one who had inherited her auburn hair. Sam had his father's neatness, too. His suit was not well pressed, his tie was knotted carelessly, his soft shirt was rumpled, his low tan shoes were scuffed, but still in some way he looked neat.

“Why, Sam,” Esther Gray said, “where have you been?”

“Oh,” Sam said, “just wandering around, over at the Masons'.”

“Oh. Seeing May?”

“That's right,” Sam said. “I wouldn't be seeing Jackie or Old Man Mason, would I?”

“Well, I think that's very nice,” Esther Gray said.

“What's there for supper?” Sam asked. “Fish?”

“Cold roast beef,” Esther Gray said, “and we have ice cream.” Then she left for the dining room.

Sam sat down slowly in the wing chair, raised his left ankle over his right knee and began tying his shoe.

“Hi, kid,” he said.

“Hi,” Charles answered.

“What you reading?”

“
The House of the Seven Gables,
” Charles answered.

Sam let his foot drop limply to the floor.

“That's about those old women,” he said. “You're always boning up on books, aren't you, just like the Old Man?”

“I can read if I want to,” Charles said.

“Sure you can if you want to,” Sam answered, “but where does it get you? Look at the Old Man.” Sam yawned and pointed at the ceiling. “Up there reading Boswell. Is the Old Man back from Boston yet?”

“Yes, he's upstairs,” Charles said.

“How's he acting?”

“What?” Charles asked.

“How's he acting? Is he happy or is he sad? Is he sorry or is he glad?”

“He's happy, I guess,” Charles answered.

“Oh, he's happy, is he?” Sam said. “Well.”

“Well, what?” Charles asked.

“Well, nothing,” Sam answered. “Listen, kid, you ought not to be sitting here alone pounding books. Get around and know people.”

“I'm not snooty,” Charles said.

“Well, that's fine.” Sam leaned down and retied his other shoe. “There are a lot of snooty people in this town and there are a lot of guys here driving dumpcarts and clamming who are just as good as anybody else and nobody's going to tell me different.”

“Who's been telling you?” Charles asked.

“Never mind who's been telling me. I stick by my friends.”

“Has May Mason been telling you?”

“Listen, kid,” Sam said, “there are lots of other girls around besides May Mason.”

“Did you and she have a fight?” Charles asked.

“Who said May Mason and I had a fight?” Sam asked. “Did Jackie tell you that?”

“You just act mad about something,” Charles said. “That's why I asked you.”

“Well, it would be nice,” Sam said, “if you and Jackie Mason didn't hang around and listen so much. I'm not mad. I'm feeling fine. And the next time you go over to the Masons' and you see May, tell her if she wants someone in lace drawers it's all right with me.”

“So you did have a fight with her,” Charles said.

Sam pushed himself out of his chair.

“Listen, kid,” he said, “don't knock yourself out talking. That's all everybody does around here, talk, talk, talk. You shoot off your yap and then Dorothea and then the Old Man—everybody except me.”

“What do you think you're doing now?” Charles asked.

“Listen, kid,” Sam said, “you think you're funny as hell, don't you? I'm not going to sit around here all my life. I might go up to Canada.”

“What would you do in Canada?” Charles asked.

“I'll tell you what I'll do,” Sam said. “I'll join the Canadian Army and go overseas. You don't know there's a war, do you?”

Everyone knew there was a war in Europe and that Pancho Villa had been making trouble in Texas, but Charles knew that Sam was only angry about something May Mason had said.

“You're not old enough.”

Sam laughed airily.

“That's the boy, kid,” he said. “Go on and talk. It's catching”—but neither of them went on because they heard their father on the stairs.

“Hello, Sammy,” John Gray said, and then he raised his voice. “Esther,” he called, “is supper nearly ready?”

Supper would be ready now in just a minute.

“What are you two boys talking about?” John Gray asked.

“Nothing much,” Sam answered. “Just talking.”

“It seemed to me that I heard your voices raised in some sort of altercation. There's nothing more futile than shouting in an argument, Sam. It betrays a lack of intellectual resource.”

“All right,” Sam said, “maybe I haven't got any intellectual resource.”

“That's the awkward thing about being seventeen,” John Gray said. “Now when I was seventeen—well, I suppose I was like you. Well, it doesn't seem possible, Sammy, but I suppose I was.”

Charles saw Sam's face grow red.

“I was madly in love when I was seventeen,” John Gray went on, “and that may have made me worry about my personal appearance. Now, Sam, that suit you're wearing—it's time we began thinking about your clothes. I'll have to take you in to Boston, Sammy, and get you something new.”

“When?” Sam asked.

“When?” John Gray repeated, and he raised his eyebrows. “Oh, almost any time. We've got to get you looking right for college, Sammy. I don't know exactly what the well-dressed young man wears at Dartmouth but we ought to be able to inquire.”

“What's the matter with Dartmouth?” Sam asked.

“Nothing,” John Gray answered. “It is, sirs, a small college, yet there are those who love it”—and then Charles heard his mother calling. Supper was on the table.

Charles wanted to say something that would break the sense of strain around him. He wished that his father would understand that Sam was hurt about something and that it was no time to make fun of him or to call him Sammy; but his father was in no mood, then, to notice anything but his own swiftly running thoughts. Sam sat down quietly at the table and every now and then Charles stole a glance at his face. Sam was looking stolidly at his plate.

John Gray was talking about the Poland Spring House again. He was saying that everyone was getting too much in a rut, and that was the trouble with Clyde. At the same time, his mind was back again on what had happened to him when he was seventeen. They used to have two horses then, he was saying, and one of them was a dappled gray named Skip. It was a pity they had no horses now, but it was about time he bought the boys a boat.

“Well, why don't you get one?” Sam said. “Joe Stevens's catboat is for sale.”

“Is it?” John Gray asked. “I didn't know it was, but then I don't see as much of the Stevens boys as you do, Sammy. How much do they want for it?”

“I don't know,” Sam said. “Around three hundred dollars.”

“Well, Sammy,” John Gray said, “you might go around and look at her and if she looks all right find what they're asking.”

“You mean you'll buy her?” Sam asked.

“I don't see why I shouldn't,” John Gray said. “We'll let Sammy negotiate it for us. It's about time Sammy learned a little about business.”

“John,” Esther Gray said, “three hundred dollars is a lot of money. Let's get the house painted first. Don't you think we ought to, John?”

The boat was safe at its moorings, and now the house was there.

“I'll have a little more cocoa, Esther,” John Gray said. “I wish you'd tell Mrs. Murphy the cocoa's very good tonight. I don't know whether it's worth while painting the house. We ought to have a larger house—further back from the street, like the Weaver place, or something further out in the country. Do you know, I heard the other day that Lyte's Castle is for sale.”

“Oh, John,” Esther Gray said, and she laughed. “For mercy's sake, not Lyte's Castle. Why, it takes two men to take care of the garden and the lawns.”

“Now, Esther,” John Gray said. “Those things have a way of looking out for themselves. Dorothea needs a place to see the boys, and Sammy will be bringing friends from college, and Charley ought to have a pony. He ought to learn how to ride.”

“Oh, John,” Esther Gray said, and she laughed again, “let's try not to think of everything at once.”

Then Charles heard Sam make a choking sound.

“What's the matter, Sammy?” John Gray asked.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “I was just thinking about the pony.”

“What about the pony?”

Sam looked carefully at his plate but his voice was hoarser.

“Nothing, except it's the same old pony I was going to get.”