To Sail Beyond the Sunset (26 page)

Through playing chess with my father and, shortly, with Woodrow as well, Mr. Bronson managed to see me, en passant, almost every day. He volunteered as assistant scoutmaster for the troop at our church…then drove Brian Junior and George home after Scout meeting the next Friday night—which resulted in a date with Brian Junior for the following afternoon to teach him to drive. (Mr. Bronson owned a luxury model of Ford automobile, a landaulet, always shining and beautiful.)

The following Saturday he took my five older children on a picnic; they were as charmed by him as I was. Carol confided to me afterward: “Mama, if I ever get married, Mr. Bronson is just the sort of man I want to marry.”

I did not tell her that I felt the same way.

The Saturday after that one Mr. Bronson took Woodrow downtown to a Hippodrome Theater matinee to see the magician Thurston the Great. (I would have been delighted to be invited along; stage magic fascinates me. But I didn’t dare even hint with Father watching me.) When Mr. Bronson returned the child asleep in his arms, I was able to invite him inside as Father was with me, lending his sanction to the meeting. Never once during that strange romance did Mr. Bronson enter our house without Father being there and then publicly present.

Once when Mr. Bronson fetched Brian Junior back from a driving lesson, I invited him in for tea. He inquired about Father. Learning that Father was not home, Mr. Bronson discovered that he was already late for an appointment. Men are more timid than women…at least in my experience.

Brian arrived home on Sunday the first of April, and on the same day Father left on a short visit to St. Louis—to see my mother I assume, but Father never discussed his reasons. I could have wished that Father had stayed home, so that Brian and I could have taken a little journey to nowhere, while Father guarded the teepee and Nancy did the cooking.

But I said nothing about this to anyone, as the children were as anxious to see their father and visit with him as I was to get him alone and take him to bed. Besides—Well, we no longer had an automobile. Before leaving for Plattsburg this time Brian had sold “El Reo Grande.”

“Mo’,” he had said, “last year, leaving in April, it made sense to drive to Plattsburg; I got lots of use out of the Reo there. But only a fool would attempt to drive from Kansas City to upstate New York in February. Last year in April J had to be pulled out of the mud three times; had it been February I simply would not have made it.

“Besides,” Briney had added, with his best Teddy Roosevelt grin, “I’m going to buy us a ten-passenger car. Or eleven. Shall we try for eleven?”

We tried for eleven but failed to ring the cash register that time. Briney went off to Plattsburg by train, with a promise to me that when he got back, he intended to buy the biggest passenger car available—a seven-passenger, if that was the biggest—and what did I think of a closed car this time? A Lexington seven-passenger sedan, for example? Or a Marmon? Or a Pierce-Arrow? Think about it, dear one.

I gave it little thought as I knew that, when the time came, Brian would make his own decision. But I was glad to know that we were going to have a bigger motor car. A five-passenger car is a bit cramped for a family of ten. (Or eleven when I managed to catch.)

So when Brian got home on April first, 1917, we stayed home and did our lovemaking in bed. After all, it isn’t necessary to do it in the grass.

That night, when we were tired but not ready to go to sleep, I asked, “When must you return to Plattsburg, my love?”

He was so long in answering I added, “Was that an improper question, Brian? It has been so long since ’98 that I am unused to the notion of questions that may not be asked.”

“My dearest, you may ask any question. Some I may not be able to answer because the answer is restricted but far more likely I won’t be able to answer because a first lieutenant isn’t told very much. But this one I can answer. I don’t think I’ll be going back to Plattsburg. I’m sufficiently sure of it that I didn’t leave anything there, not even a toothbrush.”

I waited.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“My husband, you will tell me if it suits you. Or when you can.”

“Maureen, you’re too damned agreeable. Don’t you ever have any female-type nosiness?”

(Of course I have, dear man—but I get more out of you if I am not nosy!) “I would like to know.”

“Well—I don’t know what the papers here have been saying but the so-called ‘Zimmerman telegram’ is authentic. There is not a chance that we can stay out of the war more than another month. The question is: Do we send more troops to the Mexican border? Or do we send troops to Europe? Or both? Do we wait for Mexico to attack us, or do we go ahead and declare war on Mexico? Or do we declare war first on the kaiser? If we do, do we dare turn our backs on Mexico?”

“Is it really that bad?”

“A lot depends on President Carranza. Yes, it’s that bad; I already have my mobilization assignment. All it takes is a telegram and I’m on active duty and on my way to my point of mobilization…and it’s not Plattsburg.” He reached out and caressed me. “Now forget war and think about me, Mrs. MacGillicuddy.”

“Yes, Clarence.”

Two choruses of “Old Riley’s Daughter” later Brian said, “Mrs. Mac, that was acceptable. I think you’ve been practicing.”

I shook my head. “Nary a bit, my love; Father has watched me unceasingly—he thinks I’m an immoral woman who sleeps with other men.”

“What a canard! You never let them sleep. Never. I’ll tell him.”

“Don’t bother; Father made up his mind about me before you and I ever met. How are the Plattsburg pussies? Tasty? Affectionate?”

“Hepzibah, I hate to admit this but—Well, the fact is… I didn’t get any. Not any.”

“Why, Clarence!”

“Honey girl, they worked my tail off. Field instruction and drills and lectures in the daytime, six days a week—and surprise drills on Sundays. More lectures in the evenings and always more book work than we could possibly handle. Stagger to bed around midnight, reveille at six. Feel my ribs; I’m skinny. Hey! That’s not a rib!”

“So it isn’t; it’s not a bone of any sort. Hubert, I’m going to keep you in bed until we get you fatted up and stronger; your story has touched my heart.”

“It’s a tragic one, I know. But what’s your excuse? Justin would have offered you a little gentle exercise, I’m certain.”

“Dearest man, I did have Justin and Eleanor over for dinner, yes. But with a house full of youngsters and Father a notorious night owl I didn’t even get my bottom patted. Nothing but a few gallant indecencies whispered into my horrified ear.”

“Your what? You should have gone over there.”

“But they live so far away.” It was a far piece even by automobile, an interminable distance by streetcar. We had first met the Weatherals at our new church, the Linwood Methodist, when we moved into our home on Benton Boulevard. But that same year, after we got on friendly but not intimate terms with the Weatherals, they moved far out south into the new J. C. Nichols subdivision, the Country Club district, and there they switched to an Episcopalian church near their new home, which put them clear out of our orbit.

Briney and I had discussed them—they both smelled good—but they moved too far away for much socializing, and they were older than we and clearly quite well to do. All these factors left me a bit intimidated, so I had moved the Weatherals to the inactive file.

Then Brian ran into them again when Justin tried to get accepted for Plattsburg; Justin had given Brian as a reference, which flattered him. Justin was turned down for officer-candidate training—a damaged foot, an accident that had maimed him before he learned to walk. He limped but it was hardly noticeable. Brian wrote a letter, urging a waiver; it was not granted. But as a consequence Eleanor had invited us to dinner in January, a week before Brian left for Plattsburg.

A fine big house and even more children than we had—Justin had incorporated into the house design an elegant but expensive idea: Justin and Eleanor occupied not just a master bedroom but the entire upper floor of one wing, a master suite consisting of a sitting room (in addition to a formal parlor and a family sitting room downstairs), a huge bedroom with a pantry and wine safe in one corner, a bath broken into units: a tub, a shower, and two closets, one of the latter having in addition to its WC a fixture I had heard of but never seen before: a fountain bidet.

Eleanor helped me try out the latter and I was delighted! Just what Maureen, with her give-away body odor, needed. I told her so, and told her why.

“I think your natural fragrance is delightful,” Eleanor told me seriously, “and so does Justin.”

“Justin said that about me?”

Eleanor took my face between her hands and kissed me, softly and gently, her mouth slack—not a tongue kiss but not totally dry. “Justin said that. He said considerably more than that. Dear, he feels enormous attraction to you”—I knew that—“and so do I. And so I do for your husband. Brian affects me all through. If by any chance you two share our feelings… Justin and I are willing and eager to realize our feelings in acts.”

“You mean a trade off? All the way?”

“All the way! ‘A fair exchange is no robbery.’”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes!”

“Oh, good! Do you want a chance to consult Brian?”

“Not necessary. I know. He wants to eat you, raw.” I took her face between my palms, kissed her deeply. “How do we go about this?”

“Whatever is easiest for you, Maureen little love. My sitting room converts into a second bedroom in only seconds, and it has its own little powder room. So it can be either two couples, or all four of us together.”

“Briney and I don’t hide from each other. Eleanor, I have found in the past that, if I simply take my clothes off, it saves time and words.”

Her mouth twitched. “I’ve found it so. Maureen, you astound me. I’ve known you ten years, I think. Back when we still lived on South Benton and we all attended Linwood Boulevard Methodist, Justin and I discussed you two as possible playmates. I told Justin that Brian had that look in his eyes but I couldn’t see any way to crack your armor. The perfect lady, right out of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
. Since in order to be safe this sort of family seduction has to be negotiated between wives, we simply moved you to the Too-Bad list.”

I was unhooking and unbuttoning, while chuckling. “Eleanor love, I broke my maidenhead at fourteen and I’ve been in heat ever since. Brian knows it and understands me, and loves me anyhow.”

“Oh, delightful! Sweetheart, I gave away my cherry at twelve to a man four times my age.”

“Then it couldn’t have been Justin.”

“Heavens, no!” She stepped out of her drawers; it left her in opera-length hose and evening slippers. “I’m ready.”

“So am I.” I was eyeing her and was sorry Briney hadn’t shaved me, as she was as smooth as a grape—Briney was going to love her! Tall, statuesque, blonde.

A few minutes later Justin placed me on the Persian rug in front of the fire in their upstairs sitting room. Eleanor was beside me, with my husband. She turned her head toward me and smiled and took my hand, as we each received the other’s husband.

I’ve heard formal discussions at salons in Boondock, complete with Stimulator and Interlocutor, debating the ideal number for polymorphous sensuality. There were some who favored trios, each of the four sorts or all four or any, and some who favored high numbers, and some who insisted that any odd number could produce maximum pleasure but no even number. Me, I still think that a foursome of families, all loving and lovable, cannot be beaten. I’m not running down any other combination and I like them all. I’m simply naming what I like best, year in and year out.

Later that night Brian telephoned Father and explained that the streets were getting icy; would he mind being zookeeper for us tonight?

Brian looked down at me. “What was the faraway look in your eye?”

“I was thinking about your favorite girl—”

“You’re my favorite girl.”

“Favorite blonde girl. Eleanor.”

“Oh. Granted.”

“And your favorite oldest daughter.”

“Something ambivalent there. Positional grammar? Oldest favorite daughter. Favorite oldest daughter. Yes, I guess they both mean Nancy. Continue.”

“News I couldn’t put into a letter. Nancy did it.”

“Did what? If you mean she did it with that pimply kid, I seem to recall that you concluded that a year ago. How many times can she stop being a virgin?”

“Briney, Nancy finally decided to tell me. She had a scare and that pimply kid doesn’t come here anymore, because he wouldn’t stop after a rubber broke. So she told Mama. So I douched her and checked her calendar with her and she came around just fine three days later, and she stopped being scared. But at last we were women together and we talked. I gave her some hurry-up Father-Ira instruction, including the lecture that goes with the Forberg etchings—hey, that thing does have a bone in it after all!”

“What do you expect? You’re talking about Nancy’s fancy; did you think I could stay limp? While Nancy’s pretty fancy is
verboten
to me, I can dream, can’t I? If you can dream about your father, I can dream about my daughter. Go ahead, hon; get to the good parts.”

“Nasty man. Lecher. Brian, don’t tempt Nancy unless you mean business or she will turn and sink her fangs into you; she’s in an unstable state.

“And now to the good parts. Brian, as we agreed, I told Nancy about the Howard Foundation, and promised that you would talk to her about it, too…and I telephoned Judge Sperling. He referred me to a lawyer here in town, Mr. Arthur J. Chapman. Do you know him?”

“I know who he is. Corporation lawyer, never goes into court. Very expensive.”

“And a trustee of the Howard Foundation.”

“So I inferred from your remark. Interesting.”

“I called on him, identified myself, and he gave me Nancy’s list. For this area, I mean: Jackson and Clay counties, and Johnson County in Kansas.”

“Good hunting?”

“I think so. On the list is Jonathan Sperling Weatheral, son of your favorite blonde.”

“I’ll be a brass-balled baboon!”