After the War (2 page)

And then there was Derek, with whom anything at all could happen, or, just as possibly, nothing.

Russ Byrd was leaving for New York tomorrow, and then for Hollywood, on a plane. Marvelous, the flights they have these
days, he thought, remembering terrible drives back and forth across the country, ten or so years ago, with all the children fighting and poor SallyJane trying as best she could to control them. And he was always thinking then of Deirdre, who sat beside him at this moment, now his wife. Still a beauty but now she weighed too much, and tended to drink. Russ wondered if there was something in himself that brought that out, some germ he carried. Was it all his doing that SallyJane too got fat and took to drink? And then there was his daughter, Melanctha, sitting across the pool in a pretty blue flowered suit that hid those breasts, thank God. SallyJane’s breasts. And his face. No wonder the poor child is confused.

In a movie, a long shot could take in Melanctha, across the pool, and Deirdre, her dark curls that now were touched up a bit. And near Deirdre’s long white delicate feet was their own baby girl, his and Deirdre’s, whom Deirdre unaccountably had named SallyJane. Still less accountably the baby was the dead spit of dead SallyJane, to whom she was in no way related.

So much for genes, Russ thought as he shook his head to refuse cheese biscuits from his hostess, Cynthia Baird, to whom, today, he had not paid much attention. She was beautiful still, with her green eyes and long blond hair—but could he ever have thought he loved that woman, with her sharp tongue and Yankee ways? (Well yes, he did, he loved her wildly for a couple of weeks, or months, a few years ago.)

Genes do not mean a thing, he thought, it’s all in the name. And Adam’s task of naming the animals was every man’s task. SallyJane the baby looked like SallyJane the woman, his wife, because of that name. And his attempt to change the name of SallyJane, his wife, to “Brett” probably
was what made her crazy, finally. And maybe her spirit has come back to haunt him in this round golden baby, this new SallyJane. Who has the disposition that SallyJane, not Brett, was meant to have; she was sweet and peaceful and loving, and always loved.

Melanctha was named by her mother, the original Sally-Jane, although most people assumed that it was Russ’s idea, it being a “literary” choice. A lovely book, Russ thought, the best of Gertrude Stein, whom almost no one had read, although some of them knew the book was about a colored girl, and they used to tease his poor daughter: “named for a nigger,” although that word was strictly forbidden. SallyJane/Brett had read the book and she loved it; she was the one who made Russ read it. Deirdre splashed her feet in the water; playfully she splashed Russ, who pretended not to feel it.

Jimmy Hightower, the once very successful Oklahoma oilman, then best-selling (one book) novelist, and now, he would have said, lonely bachelor (he hopes temporarily), misses Esther and his daughters, especially Esther. His brilliant beauty. His
wife
.

He could probably write another book, but he really doesn’t want to, not at all. Things were so different when he wrote that first one: he had just come to Pinehill, and partly because Russ Byrd was there, Russ, the famous poet-playwright. And, as he had hoped, he and Russ had got to be friends, or whatever they were, and then Russ helped him with his book, and his book was a big success. Those were the facts, the story, but underneath was another story, one that Jimmy certainly did not write about, even if he
was certain how it went. But for starters, he and Russ were not exactly friends anymore, and Russ was not really a poet-playwright anymore, but a sometime screenwriter. And Russ’s wife SallyJane was dead, and he had this new wife, Deirdre, who used to be his girlfriend. And Jimmy’s wife, his beautiful Esther, was living in New York.

Jimmy did not really understand a thing that had happened, or was happening, any more than he or anyone understood the war.

Abigail thought that this typical grown-up party was really one of her mother’s dumber ideas, although generally Cynthia was much better than the other mothers around. Certainly nicer than Archer and Billy Bigelow’s mother, that awful little Dolly; or poor Betsy Lee, with that dopey Irene for a mother (Betsy’s father had died, some folks said, while he was drunk and off necking that silly Dolly, which is what he usually did when he was drunk). And Deirdre: a long time ago, when Abby and her parents first came to Pinehill, Abigail and Deirdre were sort of friends; they used to take walks in the woods together with Deirdre’s little brother, Graham (who later everyone said was her son, by Mr. Byrd, whom later she married). But now they are not friends, and Deirdre is just like all the other grown-ups, drinking too much, and fat. Cynthia at least stays thin and she doesn’t drink a lot; she just gets silly, sometimes.

But how can she even get silly, how can she think of anything else when her husband, Harry, Abigail’s father, is off in London, in danger, in the
war
? Abby is frightened for her father; it is something she should never think of, and yet
she thinks of it all the time. Terrible things that could—not impossibly—happen to Harry, in London: bombs and fires, midnight invasions by German soldiers, all shouting and stamping boots and shooting guns and tanks killing everyone in sight. All the Americans there. Harry. The whole U.S. Navy and the Army too.

Those were her darkest, blackest midnight obsessional thoughts. Another, only slightly less terrible, was that Harry would fall in love with some English lady, someone tall and thin with rose-petal English skin. Good at riding and gardening, cooking roast beef and puddings, all those English things in novels. Harry could fall madly in love with this English woman, and they could kiss a lot, and neck, and end up going the whole way, actually doing it. And then Harry would be more in love than ever, he’d forget all about his wife and his daughter, and never come back to them but just stay in England, maybe sometimes inviting Abigail to come and visit, by ocean liner or maybe a plane. But the idea of sailing or even flying did not cheer Abigail much. The thought of Harry living over there was much too terrible, almost as bad as Harry dead.

And then: suppose we didn’t win the war after all? Suppose Hitler won, beat our Navy and Army, and Mr. Roosevelt?

Melanctha Byrd, sitting on the edge of the pool, her bare feet cooling in the water, imagined falling in. How cool, how lovely it would be, all over her body. And then into the silence Melanctha heard (probably everyone else there did too) the overloud, still girlish voice of Deirdre, who was saying, “Derek McFall? But I knew him, he went to Pinehill
High one year. He was really cute, real blond and tall, with this accent, from somewhere up North. New England, somewhere like that. He was nice but not one bit friendly. A lot of the girls had these real big crushes on him, but he would never ask them out or anything. He played basketball real well but he kept pretty much to himself, and got terrific grades.”

“And then he went to Hilton and played more basketball and got straight A’s there too.” Melanctha’s father, Russ, said this. He always knew everything, or else he said he did.

“Well, I think he’s the best correspondent we’ve got in this war,” said Jimmy Hightower. “He’s always done his homework.” Jimmy went on to talk about this Derek McFall, whom Melanctha of course had heard on the radio, seen pictures of. “He’s even more impressive than Murrow,” Jimmy said.

Several grown-up voices from all around the pool disagreed with Mr. Hightower. Including Russ’s. “For my money, or what’s left of it,” said Russ, “I’ll take Murrow. There’s something too, too Vermont about McFall. Too Yankee.”

Cynthia Baird sounded mad at Russ as she said, “Oh come on now, Russell.” (Is that what she called him, always?) “I can’t stand this professional Southerner stuff. And what on earth do you mean, ‘too Vermont’?”

Deirdre interrupted all this to say, “And if our little baby SallyJane had’ve been a boy, we would’ve named her Derek. I mean him. I always said that, didn’t I, Russ? And I was thinking of Derek McFall, the very same one. Russ, didn’t I always say?”

“You sure did, darling,” said Russ, in his softest, meanest voice.

Oh God! to be away from all these people, these grownups
with their preening, knowing Southern voices, their drinks and their silly quarrels. Their secret kissing, their necking behind everyone’s back, thinking nobody knew. God, how she hated them all, but soon she would be away, far away. In Boston. In Cambridge, Mass. Melanctha thrilled to those names.

“… home for Thanksgiving?” Archer Bigelow, beside her, was anxiously asking.

Thanksgiving? In a blind way, she looked at Archer. “I really don’t know,” she told him, untruthfully; she had already promised Russ and Deirdre that she would. Pullman tickets were bought, hard to come by these days.

Suddenly, into another heavy heated silence, no one talking, no breeze to stir the leaves, from up at the house came the sound of the telephone. Very loud, everyone could hear it.

Cynthia and Odessa reacted instantly; simultaneously they both rushed toward the house.

Cynthia was going too fast, though, in her flimsy green sandals. She skidded on the gravel path and slid to her knees. Looking up, unhurt, for a second she saw Odessa’s terrified face, and she knew that the terror was not for her, but it had to do with the phone, whoever, whatever. But why? It must be, must be Derek, for
her
. Or just conceivably Harry, somehow wangling a cable call. Can Odessa possibly be that worried about Mr. Harry, as she calls him?

Getting to her feet, not hurt except for a little stinging on the palms of her hands, Cynthia followed Odessa, who had turned again and was racing for the still loudly ringing phone.

And then Cynthia heard Odessa’s voice, very clear. “Yes’m.
Yes’m.” And then a pause during which Cynthia just stood there, outside the kitchen door. Unable not to listen, although by now she knew that the call was not for her.

“Unh-hunh. It
you
. I might’ve knowed. You think call from California
free
?” (A longer pause.) “That so? That true? You telling me
award
? Well now, that just mighty fine.
Mighty
fine. Horace, you done me proud. And yourself too. You a fine man, you know that? You all right now, you tell me true? You not hurt? Yeah, we do that.” She laughed, a small rich intimate laugh. “You get on home, you hear?”

By the time Cynthia walked into the kitchen Odessa had hung up the phone and was just standing there, brown and radiant, shiningly happy. She seemed to feel some explanation due, or maybe she simply wanted to tell her news. “That Horace, he in the Navy, San Diego, in California. Say there been an accident, and he pull some mens out the water. Horace always did swim real good. And they give him some kind of a prize. Some medal. The Navy do—”

“Odessa, that’s wonderful! How terrific—oh, I’m so pleased—”

Cynthia took both Odessa’s hands in hers, saw tears on Odessa’s face, and then moved to her, gave Odessa a tight warm hug. But then she had no idea what to do, and she had in that instant to abandon a momentary impulse, which was to lead Odessa back down to the pool to announce the news, to celebrate, to make toasts. But Odessa would hate that, what a totally bad idea. Instead she said, “Odessa, wouldn’t you just like to go rest for a while, in your room? Please, I can handle the party. Abigail can help me, and Melanctha.”

“Oh, no’m, I jus’ keep on—”

“No, Odessa, please—isn’t there something you’d like to do? I mean—”

For a moment they stared at each other, helplessly, lacking a common vocabulary or common habits.

But Odessa seemed to read at least good intentions from Cynthia. She told her, “I truly like to go to church now, just for a little?” She glanced at her watch (the watch that Harry gave her, and Harry also taught her to read the time from). “I just make it,” Odessa said, “and Nellie be there, I tell her.”

The Negro church is less than half a mile away, since this house that Cynthia and Harry bought from Deirdre (the house that Russ bought for Deirdre, long ago) is in a “bad” neighborhood, near “colored people.” Still, Cynthia asked, “You want me to drive you? It’s so hot. Come on, I will.”

“Oh, no’m. And I be back, time to help you with all the cleaning up.”

“Odessa, please. I can handle it. Really. Please stay as long as you want.”

They were standing there staring again, caught in good intentions, when the phone rang loudly—again.

Cynthia became decisive. “I’ll get it, you go on.” And then, to the long-distance operator, “Yes, this is Cynthia Baird.” And then, “Oh—Derek!”

“Well, I caught you at home.” His quick, harsh laugh. “I was wondering,” he said. “Any chance of your getting over to Hilton at Thanksgiving? Turns out I have to be down there, some goddam award. It’s what they call their Homecoming Game that weekend. How’re you fixed for gas—got enough coupons?”

“Oh sure, I think I could arrange that.” Cynthia heard her own careless, light laugh, even as she thought, I’ll steal some coupons if I have to, or get some black-market gas. And thinking too, I’ll take him the Scotch I’ve saved (not letting
herself add: saved for Harry). Thinking: Whatever did Russ mean by “too Vermont”? His voice is ravishing.

“Well okay then.” Businesslike, efficient, thrifty Derek, though it’s been less than three minutes. “Okay, I’m glad you can make it. Or you think you can. We’ll be in touch.”

Only then, walking slowly back down to the pool, did Cynthia think of other things that she did not say to Derek: Suppose Abigail wants to come back from Swarthmore, or, suppose Harry gets a sudden leave home for Thanksgiving?

But she was then struck with a stronger, compelling thought: For God’s sake, she thought, what’s important at this moment is Odessa—this is Odessa’s moment, and everyone should know.

And so she paused at the end of the path to the pool, and standing there she clapped her hands for attention—an unlikely gesture for Cynthia, who is generally shy (for a Yankee).

Unlikely too are her first words, when she has everyone’s attention. “You all, listen,” she says, with a tiny laugh; Cynthia never says “you-all.”