Cleveland ran the program with smooth foxy charm; Pug realized now that Madeline had latched herself to a comer. But the show disgusted him. One amateur identified himself as a line repairman. Cleveland remarked, “Well, haw haw, guess they could use you in France right about now.”
“France, Mr. Cleveland?”
“Sure. On that Maginot Line.”
He winked at the audience; they guffawed and clapped.
“Does this amuse you?” Pug said across Rhoda, in a low tone, to Palmer Kirby.
“I never listen to the radio,” said the engineer. “It’s interesting. Like a visit to a madhouse.”
“That Cleveland’s cute, though,” Rhoda said.
Madeline came to them after the show, as the audience swarmed on stage around Hugh Cleveland seeking his autograph. “Damn, two of our best bits got cut off the air by news bulletins. They’re so high-handed, those news people!”
“What’s happening?” Victor Henry asked.
“Oh, it’s the war, naturally. Just more of the same. The Germans have overrun some new town, and the French are collapsing, and so on. Nothing very unexpected. Hugh will have a fit when he hears they cut the butcher with the zither.”
“Miss Henry?” A uniformed page approached her.
“Yes?”
“Urgent long-distance call, miss, in Mr. Cleveland’s office, for Miss Lacouture. From Puerto Rico.”
On the flying bridge of the fishing boat Blue Bird, rocking gently along at four knots in the Gulf Stream, Byron and Natalie lay in each other’s arms in the sun. Below, the jowly sunburned skipper yawned at the wheel over a can of beer, and the ship-to-shore telephone dimly crackled and gabbled. From long poles fixed in sockets at the empty fighting chairs, lines trailed in the water. Sunburned, all but naked in swimming suits, the lovers had forgotten the fish, the lines, and the skipper. They had forgotten death and they had forgotten war. They lay at the center of a circle of dark blue calm water and light blue clear sky. It seemed the sun shone on them alone.
The deck echoed with loud rapping from below, four quick knocks like a Morse code V. “Hey, Mr. Henry! You awake?”
“Sure, what is it?” Byron called hoarsely, raising himself on an elbow.
“They’re calling us from the beach. Your father wants you to come on in.”
“My father? Wrong boat. He’s in Washington.”
“Wait one—Hello, hello, Blue Bird calling Bill Thomas—” They heard the squawking of the ship-to-shore again. “Hey, Mr. Henry. Your father—is he a naval officer, a captain?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, the office has your girl’s mother on the telephone. Your father’s at her house and the message is to get back there pronto.”
Natalie sat up, her eyes wide and startled.
Byron called, “Okay, let’s head back.”
“What on earth?” Natalie exclaimed.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
The boat, scoring a green-white circle on the dark sea, picked up speed and started to pitch. The wind tumbled Natalie’s long free black hair. She pulled a mirror from a straw basket. “My God, look at me. Look at that mouth. I look gnawed. As though the rats had been at me!” She put the back of her hand to her lips. “Well, no use trying to patch up this Gorgon’s head till we come in. What can your father want, Briny?”
“Why are you so alarmed? Probably he’s here with my mother, and she wants a look at you. I can’t blame her, the way I shot down here. If so, I’m going to tell them, Natalie.”
Her face turned anxious. She took his hand. “Angel, there’s some Jewish law about not getting married too soon after a parent dies. Possibly for as long as a year, and—good heavens! Don’t make such a face! I’m not going to observe that. But I can’t distress my mother at this point. I need some time to figure this out.”
“I don’t want you violating your religion, Natalie, but lord, that’s a blow.”
“Sweetie, I wasn’t planning on marrying you until about an hour ago.” She shook her head and ruefully laughed. “I feel weird. Almost disembodied. Too much sun, or maybe I’m just drunk on kisses. And now your father suddenly showing up! Isn’t it all like a fever dream?”
He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close as the boat pitched and rocked more. “Not to me. It’s damned real, and the realest thing of all is that we’re getting married. Reality just seems to be starting.”
“Yes, no doubt. I certainly don’t look forward to writing to Leslie—Jehosephat, that scowl again! You put it on and off like a Hallowe’en mask, it’s unnerving—Briny, he came down to see me right after Papa died. He was remarkably helpful and kind. A new Slote, just a bit too late. He’s been writing to his university friends to find me a teaching job. I wish I knew what your father wanted! Don’t tell him about us, Byron. Not till I’ve talked to my mother.”
“You’d better talk to her right away, then. My father has a way of getting at the facts.”
“Oh! Oh!” She put both hands to her hair. “I’m so happy, and so confused, and so upset! I’m dizzy. I feel sixteen, which I’m not, God knows! Better for you if I were.”
When the Blue Bird drew closer in, Byron got the binoculars and scanned the ragged row of skyscraper hotels along the beach. “I thought so. There he is, waiting on the pier.”
Natalie, lounging in one of the chairs, sat bolt upright. “Oh, no. You’re sure?”
“Right there, pacing back and forth. I know that walk.”
She seized her basket and darted into the cabin, saying to the skipper, “Slow down, please.”
“Right, miss.” The bewhiskered man, with a grin, pulled back on the throttle.
She closed the little door to the forward cabin. Soon she emerged in a cotton skirt and white blouse, her black hair brushed gleaming and loose to her shoulders. “I’m seasick,” she said to Byron, wanly smiling. “Try putting on eyebrows and a mouth sometime in a rocking boat, in a hot little cabin. Whew! Am I green? I feel green.”
“You look wonderful.”
The boat was wallowing half a mile from the pier. Natalie could see the man in blue walking up and down. “Full steam ahead,” she said shakily. “Damn the torpedoes.”
Victor Henry, leaning down from the tar-smelling pier, held out a hand as the boat stopped. “Hello, Natalie. This is a helluva thing to do to you. Watch it, don’t step on that nail.”
Byron leaped ashore. “What’s up, Dad? Is everybody all right?”
“Have you two had lunch?” Pug said.
They looked at each other, and Natalie nervously laughed. “I did pack sandwiches. They’re in this basket. We, well, I don’t know, we forgot.”
An amused look came and went in Victor Henry’s eyes, though his face remained stern. “Uh-huh. Well, the smells from that joint there”—he pointed with his thumb at ‘a dilapidated clam bar on the pier—“have been driving me nuts, but I thought I’d wait for you. I haven’t eaten yet today.”
“Please come to my house. I’d love to fix you something.”
“Your mother was kind enough to give me orange juice and coffee. D’you mind if we go in here? These waterfront places can be pretty good.”
They sat in a tiny plywood booth painted bright red. Byron and his father ordered clam chowder. “I’ve never learned to like that stuff,” Natalie said to the waiter. “Can I have a bacon and tomato sandwich?”
“Sure, miss.”
Victor Henry looked oddly at her. “What’s the matter?” she said.
“You’re not fussy about what you eat.”
She looked puzzled. “Oh. You mean the bacon? Not in the least, I’m afraid. Many Jews aren’t.”
“How about your mother?”
“Well, she has some vague and inconsistent scruples. I can never quite follow them.”
“We had quite a chat. She’s a clever woman, and holding up remarkably, after her loss. Well!” Pug put cigarettes and lighter on the table. “It looks like France is really fol
ding, doesn’t it? Have you heard the radio this morning? In Paris they’re burning papers. The BEF is high-tailing it for the Channel, but it may already be too late. The Germans may actually bag the entire British regular army.”
“Good God,” Byron said. “If they do that the war’s over! How could this happen in three days?”
“Well, it has. While I was waiting for you I heard the President on my car radio, making an emergency address to a joint session of Congress. He’s asked them for fifty thousand airplanes a year.”
“Fifty thousand a year?” exclaimed Natalie. “Fifty thousand? Why, that’s just wild talk.”
“He said we’d have to build the factories to turn ‘em out, and then start making ‘em. In the mood I saw in Washington yesterday, he’s going to get the money, too. The panic is finally on, up there. They’ve come awake in a hurry.”
Byron said, “None of this can help England or France.”
“No. Not in this battle. What Congress is starting to think about is the prospect of us on our own, against Hitler and the Japanese. Now.” Pug lit a cigarette, and began ticking off points against spread stiff fingers. “Warren’s thirty-day leave has been cancelled. The wedding’s been moved up. Warren and Janice are getting married tomorrow. They’ll have a one-day honeymoon, and then he goes straight out to the Pacific Fleet. So. Number one: You’ve got to get to Pensacola by tomorrow at ten.”
With a hesitant look at Natalie, who appeared dumbfounded, Byron said, “All right, I’ll be there.”
“Okay. Number two: If you want to get into that May 27 class at sub school, you’ve got to report to New London and take the physical by Saturday.”
“Can’t I take a physical at Pensacola?”
The father pursed his lips. “I never thought of that. Maybe I can get Red Tully to stretch a point. He’s already doing that, holding this place open for you. The applications are piling up now for that school.”
“May 27?” Natalie said to Byron. “That’s eleven days from now! Are you going to submarine school in eleven days?”
“I don’t know. It’s a possibility.”
She turned to his father. “How long is the school?”
“It’s three months.”
“What will become of him afterward?”
“My guess is he’ll go straight out to the fleet, like Warren. The new subs are just starting to come on the line.”
“Three months! And then you’ll be gone!” Natalie exclaimed.
“Well, we’ll talk about all that,” Byron said. “Will you come with me to the wedding tomorrow?”
“Me? I don’t know. I wasn’t invited.”
“Janice asked me to bring you.”
“She did? When? You never told me that.”
Byron turned to his father, “Look, when does the submarine course after this one begin?”
“I don’t know. But the sooner you start, the better. It takes you thirteen more months at sea to get your dolphins. There’s nothing tougher than qualifying in submarines, Briny. A flier has an easier job.”
Byron took one of his father’s cigarettes, lit it, inhaled deeply, and said as he exhaled a gray cloud, “Natalie and I are getting married.”
With an appraising glance at Natalie, who was biting her lower lip, Victor Henry said, “I see. Well, that might or might not affect your admittance to the school. I hadn’t checked that point, not knowing of this development. In general, unmarried candidates get the preference in such situations. Still, maybe the thing to do—”
Natalie broke in, “Captain Henry, I realize it creates many difficulties. We only decided this morning. I myself don’t know when or how. It’s a fearful tangle.”
Looking at her from under his eyebrows as he ate, Pug nodded.
“There are no difficulties that can’t be overcome,” said Byron.
“Listen, darling,” Natalie said, “the last thing I’ll ever do is stop you from going to submarine school. My God, I was in Warsaw!”
Byron smoked, his face blank, his eyes narrowed at his father.
Victor Henry looked at his wristwatch and gathered up his cigarettes and lighter. “Well, that’s that. Great chowder. Hits the spot. Say, there’s a plane to Pensacola that I can still make this afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you just telephone all this?” Byron said. “It would have been simple enough. Why did you come here?”
Victor Henry waved the check and a ten-dollar bill at the waiter. “You took off like a rocket, Byron. I didn’t know your plans or your state of mind. I wasn’t even sure you’d agree to come to the wedding.”
“Why, I wouldn’t have heard of his staying away,” Natalie said.
“Well, I didn’t know that either. I thought I ought to be available to talk to both of you, and maybe answer questions, and use a little persuasion if necessary.” He added to Natalie, “Janice and Warren do expect you. That I can tell you.”
She put a hand to her forehead. “I just don’t know if I can come.”
“We’ll be there,” Byron said flatly. “Or at least I will. Does that take care of everything?”
Pug hesitated. “What about sub school? I told Red I’d call him today.”
“If Captain Tully has to know today, then I’m out. All right?”
Natalie struck the table with her fist. “Damn it, Byron. Don’t make decisions like that.”
“I don’t know any other way to make decisions.”
“You can talk to me. I’m involved.”
Victor Henry cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve spoken my piece and I’ll shove off. We can pick this topic up tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Byron’s tone was acid. “Then you don’t really have to call Captain Tully today, after all.”
Victor Henry’s face darkened. He leaned back in the hard seat. “See here, Byron. Hitler and the Germans are creating your problem. I’m not. I’m calling it to your attention.”
“Well, all this bad news from Europe may be highly exaggerated, and in any case, no American submarine will ever fail to sail because I’m not in it.”
“Oh, be quiet, Briny,” Natalie said in a choked voice. “Let your father catch his plane.”
“Just keep remembering I didn’t start this war, Byron,” Victor Henry said, in almost the tone he had used on the waiter in Wannsee, picking his white cap off a peg while looking his son in the face. “I think you’d make a good submariner. They’re all a bunch of goofy individualists. On the other hand, I can’t hate you for wanting to marry this brilliant and beautiful young lady. And now I’m getting the hell out of here.” Victor Henry stood. “See you in church. Get there early, you’ll be best man. Wear your dark suit.—Good-bye, Natalie. Sorry I broke up your day on the boat. Try to come to Pensacola.”
“Yes, sir.” A sad little smile lit her worried face. “Thank you.”
When he went out, she turned to Byron. “I have always loathed the smell of cooking fish. Let’s get out of here. I was half sick during all that. God knows how I’ve kept from shooting my cookies.”
Natalie strode seaward along the wharf, taking deep gulps of air, her skirt fluttering on her swinging hips, the thin blouse wind-flattened on her breasts, her black hair flying. Byron hurried after her. She stopped short at the end of the wharf, where two ragged Negro boys sat fishing, and turned on him, her arms folded.
“Why the devil did you treat your father like that?”
“Like what? I know why he came here, that’s all,” Byron returned with equal sharpness. “He came to separate us.” His voice rang and twanged much like Victor Henry’s.
“Oh, take me home. Straight home. He was utterly right, you know. You’re blaming him for the way the war is going. That’s the essence of immaturity. I was embarrassed for you. I hated that feeling.”
They walked back up the pier to her father’s new blue Buick sedan, glittering and baking in the sun, giving off heat like a stove. “Open all the doors, please. Let some air blow through, or we’ll die in there!”
> Byron said as he went from door to door, “I have never wanted anything before, not of life, not of him, not of anybody. Now I do.”
“Even if it’s true, you still have to look at reality, not throw tantrums.”
“He did quite a job on you,” said Byron. “He usually gets anything done that he intends to.”
They climbed into the car.
“That’s how much you know,” she said harshly, slamming her door as he whirred the motor. “I’m coming to Pensacola with you. All right? I love you. Now shut up and drive me home.”
26
WITH a groan, to the clatter of an old tin alarm clock, Lieutenant (jg) Warren Henry woke at seven on his wedding day. Until four he had been in the sweet arms of his bride-to-be in a bedroom of the Calder Arms Hotel, some twenty miles from Pensacola. He stumbled to the shower and turned on the cold water in a gush. As the needling shock brought him to, he wearily wondered whether spending such a night before his wedding morning hadn’t been somewhat gross. Poor Janice had said she would have to start dressing and packing as soon as she got home. Yes, certainly gross, but ye gods! Warren laughed aloud, held up his face to the cold water, and started to sing. It was rough, after all—a rushed wedding, a one-night honeymoon, and then a separation of thousands of miles! Too much to ask of human nature. Anyway, it wasn’t the first time.
Still—Warren was drying himself with a big rough towel, and cheering up by the minute—there was such a thing as propriety. Such doings on the wedding eve were ill-timed. But it was rotten luck to be torn away from her like this. It was just one of those things, and Hitler’s invasion of France was the real cause, not any looseness in himself or Janice.
Truth to tell, the prospect of parting from Janice was not bothering Warren much. She would be coming along to Pearl Harbor in due course. The sudden orders to the Pacific had put him in an excited glow. Cramming in a premature night with Janice had been an impulse of this new bursting love of life he felt. He was rushing to fly a fighter plane from the U.S.S. Enterprise, because war threatened. It was a star-spangled destiny, a scary ride to the moon. For all his mental motions of regret at leaving Janice, and remorse at having enjoyed her a little too soon and a little too much, Warren’s spirit was soaring. He called the mess steward, ordered double ham and eggs and a jug of coffee, and gaily set about dressing for his nuptials.