A Special Providence

And hefting their suitcases they set off again, Bobby in the lead. Watching his narrow back as he moved ahead of her in the whiteness, she knew it was a sight she would never forget. An ordinary boy might have complained, might have whined and lagged behind and been a hindrance, but Bobby was no ordinary boy. He was brave and lighthearted and imaginative; he was her own.

  “How you doing?” he called back.

  “All right, dear.” And she was able to smile. “I’m doing fine.”

  Pretend it isn’t happening! And the funny part was that it almost worked. Dizzy and nearly suffocating, with sweat running in streams down her back, she did her best to imagine she was cold, and it almost worked.

  One lane of the highway was open for traffic; a steady stream of cars moved eastward, and then, after an interval, the westbound traffic came through. She was afraid that each westbound car would be Owen Forbes on his way back from town, but the cars all proved to contain strangers, some of whose heads swiveled around to stare at the odd spectacle of a woman and a boy toiling along with suitcases in the blaze of afternoon.

  “Bobby,” she called. “I’m going to have to stop again.”

  “Okay.”

  She sat on one of the bags to rest her aching feet. “I think we’ve come about two miles,” she said, “don’t you?”

  “I don’t know; it’s so cold it’s hard to tell.”

  “Oh, Bobby, you’re wonderful. How would I ever get through this without you?”

  “Aren’t you freezing?” he said. “Let’s get moving again.”

  And they did. They passed very close to one of the workmen and he stopped his terrible automatic hammer to stare at them: a Mexican or a half-breed of some kind, short and brutal-looking, his face and clothes powdered white. She knew that she herself must be coated white by now – she could taste the dust and feel it in her eyes and nostrils – and when Bobby turned back to call “You okay?”, she saw that his face and hair were white too.

  She always said afterwards that God was watching over her that day, giving her the strength to go on; and it was certainly true that she prayed as she walked. “Oh, please, dear God,” she said aloud against the noise of the jackhammers. “Please, dear God, help me through this.” And with her teeth clenched tight against the dust she recited: “Oh God, who has prepared for those who love thee such good things as pass man’s understanding …”

  The noise gradually diminished and the dust began to clear: they had come to the end of the excavation. The road ahead had turned into a street now, with close-set houses and shops on either side. They were still far from the center of town, but they were within its outskirts.

  A sign a block ahead – CAFÉ – made her wonder if they dared to stop there: they would at least be able to sit down, and to drink cold Coca-Colas. But her purse contained exactly seventy-five cents; they had better save it.

  Then another sign drew her attention – TEXACO – because there would be toilets there. “Bobby,” she said. “Let’s stop at the gas station. We can at least get some water.”

  The eyes of the Texaco attendants followed them with curiosity and perhaps suspicion as they trudged around to the back of the station toward the two white “rest room” doors, MEN and LADIES.

  The ladies’ room stank and was unbearably hot, but she stood at its dirty sink for a long time, cupping up handfuls of warm, sweet water and drinking it down as if her thirst could never be slaked. There was no soap and the paper-towel dispenser was broken, but she managed to wash her face anyway, getting rid of most of the dust, and dried it with toilet paper. Her face, in the spattered mirror, was a shocked and wild-eyed ruin.

  When she picked up the suitcases and pushed out into the sunshine again she had a dizzy spell and nearly fell down. Bobby was waiting for her, his face gleaming and his wet hair sticking up and out at all angles.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “Yes, dear. I was just dizzy there for a minute. I’ll be all right. It can’t be very much farther, do you think?”

  “Probably not. Let’s get going.”

  But there was no way of telling, as they labored down block after block, whether they were heading for the center of town or only moving around its periphery. Sometimes there were glimpses of distant tall buildings ahead; sometimes not.

  “I think we must be going in the right direction, don’t you?” she said. “Do you remember any of this part of town?”

  “No. Let’s just keep going, though.”

  And at last, as they reached the end of still another block, they came upon three taxicabs parked at the curb around the corner. “Oh, look, dear,” she said. “Taxicabs!” She scuttled ahead of him, wrenched open the passenger’s door of one of the cabs, dropped her suitcases, and crawled, nearly collapsing, into the wide back seat. The driver, hustling around from the front of the cab, looked worried.

  “You all right, Ma’am?”

  “Yes. Will you help me with these bags?”

  He took them and stowed them briskly in the front seat; then he took Bobby’s two bags and put them in the trunk of the car.

  Bobby was still standing on the sidewalk, looking doubtful. “Get in, dear,” she said, and he climbed in beside her, sitting stiffly erect as if he were afraid to relax in the upholstery.

  “Driver,” she said. “Can you recommend a hotel?”

  “Well, Ma’am, there’s the old Stephen F. Austin, that’s supposed to be the best, but if I was you I’d try the Hilton. That’s brand new, and it’s air-conditioned.”

  “All right, fine,” she said. “Take us there.” Air-conditioned! She had thought only movie theaters were air-conditioned. Imagine a whole hotel! “But wait,” she said.

  “Ma’am?”

  She closed her eyes. “Can you tell me approximately how much it will cost you to get there?”

  “Well, Ma’am, I figure that’ll run you about thirty-five cents.”

  And she had seventy-five. That meant she could tip the driver fifteen cents and still have a quarter left for the bellhop at the hotel. “Fine,” she said. “That’ll be fine.” And she lay back and closed her eyes again.

  At the elegant entrance of the hotel a uniformed doorman sprang forward to seize all four suitcases, leaving her with nothing to carry but the twenty-five cents change she had received from the driver. She felt that everyone on the sidewalk was looking at her – were her clothes all right? was her slip showing? – and she wished there were some way of improving her appearance before she went into the lobby. But then they passed through a heavy plate-glass door, and the cold air enveloped them like water.

  “Wow!” Bobby said, and his exhausted face broke into a smile of pure delight. “Isn’t this something?”

  They seemed to float as they walked across a great expanse of deep, soundless carpet to the front desk, where a kindly gentleman stood waiting to bid them good afternoon.

  “And how long will you be staying with us, Mrs. Prentice?” he asked when she’d filled out the registration form.

  “A few days – I don’t know. We haven’t made definite plans.”

  Then they were riding in a big, silent elevator, and then they were being shown into their suite, which was blue and unbelievably sumptuous. “Don’t open the windows,” the bellhop told them, “or you’ll interfere with the air-conditioning. And look here.” He pointed to the bathroom sink, which had three instead of two faucets. “That middle one’s for your ice water. You’ve got a continuous supply.”

  The first thing she did when they were alone was to draw two glasses of ice water. “There,” she said, handing one to Bobby. “Now let’s just relax.”

  And that was all they did for nearly an hour. Lolling in the deep cushions, they kicked off their shoes and laughed together in an ecstasy of rest and relief.

  “Will you ever forget that awful caliche road?” she asked him. “Wasn’t that just the most dreadful experience you can imagine?”

  “Well,” he said. “At least we made it.”

/>   “We certainly did. And do you know something? I never would have made it without you. You were wonderful.”

  They both took long baths and changed into the best clothes they could find. Then, feeling fresh and clean, they went without haste to the dining room. In the first shock of reading the menu she thought she’d better caution him to order only the least expensive things, but then it occurred to her that this would be a false economy. If they were going to run up a bill here it might as well be a big one. “You have anything you want, dear,” she said. “Doesn’t it all look good?” And she started the meal off on a festive note by ordering two Manhattans for herself.

  “Are you going to call Daddy now, or what?” Bobby asked when they were back in their blue suite.

  “Yes, dear; there’s nothing else we can do.”

  But she knew it would be an unpleasant telephone call, and she didn’t want Bobby to hear it. She sent him down for a walk around the lobby before she picked up the phone and asked for the long-distance operator.

  George’s voice sounded very far away. “Alice? Did you get my letter?”

  “Your letter? No.”

  “Are you all right? Is the boy all right?”

  “Yes, we’re fine; no thanks to you.”

  He sighed into the phone. “Alice, I was following my lawyer’s advice. I followed his advice because frankly I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “So you jumped at the chance to punish us. You took advantage of a legal loophole to rid yourself of all responsibility.”

  “Alice, it wasn’t like that at all. If anything, I simply wanted to teach you a lesson.”

  She gripped the phone with both hands. “What lesson?”

  “That people have to live within their means. Alice, after your behavior up there in Riverside I felt I was entirely justified. Do you know how much I’ve paid out in excess of the agreement over the past two years?” His voice had taken on a rich and familiar texture now. It was the voice of exasperated reason, of aroused common sense. It was the voice of people who said “No, I’m afraid that’s not practical,” or “You should have thought of that before you got into this trouble” – the voice she had been hopelessly contending with all her life, and which promised, always, that it would have the last word.

  “My lawyer couldn’t believe it,” the voice was saying. “He said I must be crazy. And even at that you ended up with a lawsuit for more than you’ll ever be able to pay. Have you heard from your friends the Vander Meers, by the way?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re lucky. They could easily serve you a judgement through the Texas courts, if they wanted to. Anyway, you’ll probably get my letter tomorrow. I’ve offered to send you enough to get back to New York, providing that we have a clear and definite understanding from now on. No more nonsense, Alice. No more exorbitant rents; no more private schools. I want you to read it very carefully and think about it.”

  “All right. But I won’t get it now because we’ve moved out. We’re not living at Eva’s any more.”

  “You’re not? Why?”

  In the end she persuaded him to telegraph enough money to settle the hotel bill and buy train tickets, and she listened patiently while he explained once more about the clear and definite understanding they would have from now on.

  When Bobby came back, looking worried, he said, “Is it all right?”

  “Yes, dear. It’s all right.”

  But she couldn’t sleep. For an hour or more she turned and twisted in the cool hotel sheets; every time she drifted off there was a terrible vision of Eva’s weeping face, or of Eva saying “I’ll not allow you to speak that way,” or of Eva bringing glasses of milk with ice cubes in them.

  At last, sitting up and smoking a cigarette, she decided it would be possible to apologize to Eva one day. Not now, not soon, but sometime in the future she could write a letter of apology – a letter thanking Eva for her kindness and asking her pardon for the way things had worked out. It wouldn’t be easy and it might not be a very good letter, but it would probably be good enough for Eva.

  She stole softly into Bobby’s room and sat beside his bed for a while, watching his sleeping face. The awful events of the afternoon seemed far away now, far in the past. Nothing had ever been that bad before, and nothing would ever be that bad again. For years, whenever they were faced with any ordeal, she would gain strength from saying “Remember the Caliche Road?” And if anything ever did turn out to be that bad, or worse – if even “Remember the Caliche Road” should fail as a rallying cry – she could fall back on Bobby’s advice for enduring the intolerable: “Let’s pretend it isn’t happening.” She felt quiet and brave and well armed for the future.

  Bobby turned and thrashed his limbs in his bed, and his face was contorted as if he were having a nightmare. Then his eyes came open.

  “It’s all right,” she said, and his eyes closed again. “Just rest now, Bobby. Just rest.”

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  It was diagnosed as pneumonia, and it took five weeks to cure. After the first few days of pain and drugged sleep it became an exquisitely peaceful time for Prentice, a time of warm sponge baths and clean sheets, of low, courteous voices and regular meals. The hospital, miles farther back from the line than evacuation hospitals for the wounded, was set up in an old stone building that had once been a Catholic school for girls, and its pneumonia ward overlooked a scene of gently rolling hills, gray and brown in the February thaw.

  Very soon after his arrival, on the first day he was truly awake, he lay propped up in bed to watch an endless convoy of muddy Army vehicles crawl past beneath the window, and the news spread quickly through the ward that this was the 57th Division, relieved from the line in Colmar. They were going up to Holland, where they would rest and take on new replacements until they were restored to combat strength; and this meant there need be no sense of guilt about lying here, clean and warm and sipping hot chocolate. By the time they were restored to combat strength, Prentice would be too.

  Meanwhile he could devote whole mornings to the delicate task of finding the most comfortable arrangement of his feet, which burned in the aftermath of a mild case of frostbite; he could read Armed Forces Edition paperbacks until the effort of reading became tiresome; he could strike up listless, casual friendships with the other patients; he could write letters.

  He explained to his mother, several times, that he was hospitalized but not wounded and not really very sick, and he devoted much of one letter to a conscientious description of how the Normandy countryside had looked from the train.

  He wrote a very different kind of letter to Hugh Burlingame, full of cryptic references to snipers and death and heavy shellings, managing to imply that he no longer had time for the gentle boyish pursuit of intellectual abstractions; and at the end he made a pointed remark to the effect that the V-12 Program must be tough.

  And he wrote to Quint, hesitating for a long time over the salutation “Dear John.” It wasn’t an easy letter to write.

  Sorry I didn’t get to see you again that day in Horbourg, before I went back to the medics …

  But in his revision of the letter he changed that sentence to read “before they took me back to the medics.” It wasn’t really a lie – they had taken him back. Besides, hadn’t Lieutenant Agate made two separate offers to let him go back earlier that day? And hadn’t he refused them both?

  It proved to be pneumonia, just as you predicted. Guess you probably had it too, and hope they’ve taken care of you. I’ve been sort of expecting to see you turn up here, but am told there’s more than one hospital in the area, so maybe you went somewhere else. Or maybe you stuck it out until the outfit pulled back to Holland, as I’m told they did a few days later. Anyway I hope you’re well again, wherever you are. We both probably should have gone back when you first suggested it, before the Horbourg business.

  After that ticklish part of the letter was written, it was hard to think of anythin
g else to say. The last few sentences had a falsely hearty sound, like some civilian’s idea of the way old Army buddies ought to talk, and he concluded it with: “Regards to Sam R., if you see him, and the best of luck.” It was as strange to sign “Bob” as it had been to write “John.” Then he put:

  P.S. – There seems to be an unlimited amount of your damn Bond Street tobacco in the PX supplies here. Soon as I’m out of bed I’ll try to grab as much as I can for you.

  He got four packages of the stuff and tied them up with a strip of red ribbon torn from the Catholic girls’ school curtains, and he wrote out a little card that said “Merry Christmas.” By that time, when he was padding around in a bathrobe and cotton slippers, the news commentators on the ward radio had begun to talk about a Marine Corps landing on an island called Iwo Jima; and not long after that there was another news item that set off whoops and hollers throughout the ward: the First Army had found a German bridge intact and had crossed the Rhine. There were giddy predictions that the European war might be over in a matter of weeks, and this was a little troubling. What if it ended before he got back to the line? Would he then be able to say he’d been in the war, or not?

  But there still seemed to be plenty of war left on the day he got his discharge and his clothes. Saying goodbye to his ward acquaintances, and later as he rode in a truck to the Seventh Army Replacement Depot, it pleased him to know that he looked like a combat man: his boots looked used, his field jacket and pants were still stained with the mud and the brick and plaster dust of Horbourg – even the toothpaste stain on his breast was faintly impressive – and Quint’s blanket scarf gave the whole costume a rakish, nonregulation touch. He felt healthy, if still soft and weak from the hospital, and the smell of spring in the air was exhilarating.

  At the depot he learned that the 57th had finished its spell of limited duty in Holland: they were now in the Ninth Army, in Germany, holding a long defensive or “screening” position on the west bank of the Rhine, and they were expected to make their own crossing soon.