Point of No Return (72 page)

“There's a good country day school for the children, but I want Bill to go to boarding school next year. And then there's a good country club; and then there are, well, my business associates. Nancy and I have a lot to keep us busy.”

“We have a picture of the house,” Mrs. Mason said. “It looks so new and lovely with your car standing in front of it on the driveway.”

“Of course, there was that gap while I was away.”

“You mean at the war?” Jackie Mason said.

All at once his going to the war was an action which he wanted to explain and justify. The Masons were almost the only people who could have understood all his reasoning.

“I shouldn't have gone,” he said, “at my age and with a wife and two children. It's the sort of thing that doesn't help you in a business way. Nancy didn't like it and I don't blame her much.” He was not sure himself why he had gone to the war but he was almost sure. “Sam went, and you know I always thought a lot of Sam. And then—well, maybe I was tired of beating the system.” He laughed, but only because he felt it would be a good idea to laugh. “When I got there it was just the bank all over again with a different set of rules.”

He had dealt the cards of his little game and they were in order on the table.

“Well,” Mr. Mason began, “I think it was a mighty fine thing,” but he did not finish because the doorbell rang.

“That's May and Jeffrey,” Mrs. Mason said. “I guess they thought we'd be finished supper.”

“Charley,” Jackie Mason said, “would you care for a cigarette? Or would you rather have a cigar? They're right in the sideboard.”

“No, thanks,” Charles said. “Just a cigarette.”

May and Jeffrey Meader came into the dining room and everyone was standing up and the room seemed very crowded, with those who were there and those who were not. The moment he saw May Mason he thought of the summer afternoon when May had been sitting alone in the back room trying to play “The Pink Lady” on the old upright piano and he had brought her that note from Sam; and he knew that May, stoutish, middle-aged and gray-headed, remembered, too.

“Charley,” she said, “I guess I've got to kiss you.” He could tell from the way she spoke that it was an impulsive break from what she had planned to do or say. “You look like Sam.”

“I've thought of you a lot, May,” he said. It had a brittle, banal sound and he wished he could have thought of something better. “I'm awfully glad if you think I look like Sam.” It was a very public, awkward moment, because everyone was listening.

Jeffrey Meader was pudgy, with horn-rimmed spectacles, and almost bald. He looked like someone in a small real estate and insurance office, but then this was exactly the way he should have looked.

“Why, Charley looks like a good prospect,” he said. “Hi, Charley.”

“Hi, Jeffrey,” Charles said.

“And here's Edwina,” May went on, as though she had not heard Jeffrey. “You remember Edwina, don't you? She was Dorothea's flower girl.” May's daughter was standing in the doorway, looking just as May had once looked except that her blond hair was cut in a page boy bob instead of being long and tied up in a knot, and she, too, must have been the prettiest girl in her class at high school.

“Why, I'd know Edwina anywhere,” he said. “She hasn't changed at all.”

“Malvina's married,” May said. “She's living in Brockton and as long as we're just the family I'll tell you Malvina's news. What do you think—she's expecting, Charley.”

“May means Malvina's going to have a baby,” Jackie said. “I wish you wouldn't put it that way, May. It sounds local.”

“All right, all right,” Jeffrey Meader said. “No matter how it sounds May's going to be a grandmother any time now and that sounds pretty funny, doesn't it?”

“Now you're here,” May said, “how long are you going to be here, Charley?”

He was a visitor again, that successful visitor from the city who had left them long ago, and his voice sounded polite and assured when he answered.

“Only over tomorrow, I'm afraid. I'll have to be taking the midnight from Boston tomorrow. I'm sorry I can't stay longer but perhaps some other time—”

“There are certain people that Charley ought to see before he goes back,” Jackie said, “and there'll be talk if he doesn't. I'll make a list and go over it with Charley.”

They all trooped back to the parlor, now that supper was finished, and when Charles took part in the conversation it was like speaking a language which he had known well a long time before and which he could still speak, although he was unfamiliar with the latest idioms and his tenses might occasionally be confused. In his absence Clyde, aloof and indestructible, had been drifting through a turbulent sea, but Clyde was made for trouble. Nothing could entirely alter its values. Everyone still knew his place and there was a place for everyone.

Charles had forgotten that everyone went to bed early in Clyde until he saw Mr. Mason yawn and then he said he would have to be getting back to the hotel, he meant the inn, and that he had had a wonderful time; and they all said it was like old times, seeing him, and they would see him again tomorrow.

“I'll go back to the inn with you,” Jackie said.

“Oh, no,” Charles told him, “don't bother, Jack. You'd be surprised. I know my way.”

“Why,” Jackie Mason said. “I'd really like to, Charley. You and I have a lot to talk about and there won't be time tomorrow.”

Charles had begun to speak that forgotten language of Clyde so fluently that he and Jack Mason seemed to have picked up something which they had both dropped years before; when they began walking up Spruce Street, there was that old realization of having been friends, and it was still completely usable. There was a persistent quality in Jackie Mason's loyalty and he knew that Jackie admired him for the same reasons he previously had, and he liked Jackie, too, with the same old reservations. Their friendship was on a different footing from other, later friendships. It was deeper, it was unavoidable, and he felt very grateful for it. He seldom gave way to impulse. His training was all against it, but almost without thinking he slapped Jackie softly on the back.

“Well, Jackie,” he said, “here we are on Spruce Street,” and he knew that Jack was pleased.

They were walking toward Johnson Street and the houses were growing larger and more imposing. He did not want to see Johnson Street but if he had to he was glad that Jack Mason was with him.

“I guess it's going to rain,” Jackie said. “We've had a lot of rain lately. It's nice to see you again, Charley.”

“The same here,” Charles said, and they walked for a while without speaking, now that each had said what he had meant to say.

“The old place hasn't changed much,” Jackie said. “It's still about the same. Charley, I wish you'd never gone away.”

It was not what Charles would have wished and he thought of what might have happened if he had stayed in Clyde. They had turned right at the corner of Spruce and Johnson streets and there was the Hewitt house, all dark, and the Lovell house diagonally across from it. He made a deliberate effort not to look at it, though common sense and his knowledge of human relationships told him that he could not blame the Lovell house or Johnson Street for what had happened to him and Jessica. Still he did not want to see it.

“I couldn't have stayed,” he said, and it was a great relief that he had not a single doubt about it.

“Of course, it might have been a little difficult at first—” Jackie Mason hesitated—“but nothing would have affected your position. For instance, take the library,” but he did not go on about the library.

It was very natural to be walking down Johnson Street with Jack Mason talking about position. Jackie did not mention that his grandfather had been a druggist but it was still on Jackie's mind.

“Or take the bank,” Jackie said. “You would have been in just the right position, the first time there was a vacancy on the board.”

If he had stayed in Clyde, he might certainly have been a director of the Dock Street Bank. He might even have been president of it if he had done the right things at the right time.

“Well, never mind it,” he answered. “You're the one who's got position now.”

“Oh, I haven't done anything much,” Jackie Mason said, “except in a small-town way.”

A sad note in Jackie's voice made Charles realize that Jackie wanted him to be impressed with everything he had done, and, after all, he was a trustee of the public library and a director of the bank. He had gone a long, long way.

Charles had to answer properly and he could not sound patronizing.

“Everything you do depends on where you are,” he said. “Do you remember what Julius Caesar said”—he was like his own father, groping for an apt quotation—“about preferring to be the first man in Ostia to the second man in Rome? I'm sure it wasn't Ostia but let's call it Ostia.” He could not see Jack Mason's face in the dark but he was sure that he had said the right thing, neither too little nor too much.

“That's awfully nice of you to say that, Charley,” Jackie said.

“It isn't nice,” Charles said quickly, “it's the truth,” and he thought of something else, because it was an occasion when one could say anything. “What is that line in the Declaration of Independence—or is it the Constitution? ‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' Well, I suppose everybody's pursuing happiness, and you usually lose your liberty when you do, and the best part of your life. Maybe that's what everything's about. Maybe. I don't know.”

They had turned down Dock Street and it was a radical statement to have made in front of the Dock Street Bank and it had no reference to anything except that he was thinking of Jackie Mason and also of himself.

“I know what you mean,” Jackie said. “You mustn't try to crowd your luck.” It was not what he had meant but he was glad that Jack had misunderstood him.

“Maybe I am crowding my luck a little but everything does seem to be coming my way all of a sudden.” Jackie stopped and sighed. “But it's taken a lot of time, a lot of time. Maybe it's just that somebody has to take hold and I seem to be elected … let's see, did I tell you I was in the Tuesday Club?”

“Why, no,” Charles said, “you didn't. That certainly is something, Jack.”

“It isn't anything really,” Jackie said. “Everybody's dying pretty fast, but it's funny, isn't it, being in the Tuesday Club with Mr. Stanley and Mr. Lovell and everybody? I thought you'd be amused.”

“It isn't so funny,” Charles said. “You have what it takes, that's all.”

They had crossed the street and they were in front of the Clyde Inn before Jackie spoke again.

“Don't think I look on myself as the first man in Ostia. I'm a long way from it—er—Charley, do you mind if I come up to your room with you? There's something else I want to tell you.” Jackie looked worried again. “Something I hope you won't mind.”

“Of course I won't mind,” Charles said. “What is it, Jack?”

“I'll get it off my chest in just a minute,” Jackie said, “but I can't tell it in front of everybody.”

There was no one to tell it in front of at the inn except the clerk, who still sat behind the desk and who looked surprised to see them enter the place together.

“Oh, hello, Edgar,” Jackie said. “Mr. Gray wants his room key. I hope you've given Mr. Gray a good room.”

“Good evening, Mr. Mason,” the inn clerk said. “I didn't know you were acquainted with Mr. Gray.”

“It would have made all the difference, wouldn't it?” Jackie said, and he laughed. “I'll tell you what you can do for me, Edgar. Just get me a bottle of rye, the kind I bought for Mr. Jaeckel, and put it on my bill. You like rye, don't you, Charley?”

Charles said that it did not matter, he did not care for anything particularly, and Jackie may have been sorry for his impulse, because he was careful to conceal the bottle beneath his overcoat as they walked upstairs.

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” he said. “I'm afraid Edgar was a little surprised. I don't do this sort of thing very often except in a business way, but seriously, it does mean a lot to the town having an inn like this, and this isn't a bad room, is it? I'm glad you have a quiet one that opens on the back.”

Charles's room had a country, chintzy look, and was furnished in yellow Colonial maple, with an imitation spool bed and a bedside table with a telephone on it, a writing table, one small upholstered chair and one straight chair. The room was stifling hot. He had forgotten that the heat was on, and when he opened the window he found himself looking over the old back gardens toward the houses along Fanning Street.

“Yes, it's going to be quiet here,” Charles said.

Jackie had put the bottle of rye on the writing table.

“Here, let me pour the drinks,” he said. “This is my party, Charley. There ought to be some glasses in the bathroom. Dear me, I should have ordered up some ice.”

“Oh, never mind the ice,” Charles said.

It was rather like the war, sitting in an unfamiliar room with a bottle of rye whiskey and tepid water. It was not at all like Clyde.

“Well, now we're here,” Charles said, “what is it you want to tell me, Jack?”

Jackie cleared his throat and his worried look returned.

“Well,” he said, “all right,” and he cleared his throat again. “Charley, I think I ought to talk to you about Jessica Lovell.”

Charles knew, of course, that he could not erase his memory of Jessica Lovell and that at some time while he was in Clyde he would have to meet the past face to face, but so far he had heard nothing except that talk about cocktails and the remaining ingredients which had been left at the Masons' when Jessica and Mr. Lovell had been entertained. He was seated on the stiff chair by the writing table and he was conscious of many little things, of a draft on the back of his neck from the open window, of a soft hiss from the valve of the radiator. He had leaned forward as though he wanted to hear better and now he leaned back because he did not like that display of eagerness. Still the palms of his hands were moist and the room felt very stuffy. Mentioning Jessica was like opening a box filled with things you would never use again but which could not be thrown away.