To the End of the War (10 page)

Sandy never drank at all, the way the rest of the crowd did. Sometimes the crowd would spend the whole night down at the Caribou Grille and then end up at somebody’s house for breakfast. Sandy and Eddie would go occasionally, and Eddie would drink like everybody else, but Sandy would just sit, and maybe talk a little. She’d stay until the end of the night’s party and yet she never did anything. She’d take them all down to her house and cook a huge breakfast, and yet she never ran around anymore or made calls or spent much time with the other women. And half of the time, she would disconnect her phone and not even try to answer it. This last was not even explainable.

Fanny couldn’t figure her out at all. She and Eddie were always running off somewhere for a vacation before the war. To Europe or to the Bahamas or Mexico. Fanny, who was a native of Texas, could never see anything in going to a dirty filthy place like Mexico. And sometimes Sandy would take her car and go off for months at a time alone, leaving poor Eddie to take care of himself the best way he could. Leaving him to eat his meals out or cook them himself and with nobody but himself living in the house for months at a time. And yet Eddie never seemed to mind; he took it all in his stride and even seemed to like being alone. If Fanny or any of the other women she knew did things like that, their husbands would kick them out in a minute.

Yet people always liked Sandy, liked her immensely. When she gave them the chance. She was always the life of any party; she always made people feel like they were having an exceptional time. People seemed drawn to her, and yet she hardly ever said a word. She’d just sit, and smile, and when someone asked her, she’d talk, but she didn’t talk much and seemed reluctant to talk the little she did. For months now, she hadn’t gone out to any parties at the Country Club or the Caribou; if Eddie went anywhere, he went by himself. It was a terrible way to treat Eddie. Fanny considered Sandy and Eddie a strange couple. She could not imagine spending so much time by herself. It would drive her mad.

Yet a lot of the young ones hung out down there. There was something about her that seemed to attract people, but for the life of her Fanny could not figure out what it was.

Fanny got up and mixed herself a quick drink and drank it. She had got so she usually needed a toddy in the afternoon, especially now that Johnny was here to worry her.

She had the glass washed and put away when Johnny came in with Wilson, and she told them about going down to Sandy’s.

“She called up and wants me to bring you down,” Fanny said.

Johnny, in the kitchen mixing himself a drink, grinned to himself. “I’ve done all my social duties today,” he said. “I need some time to catch up on my drinking.”

Wilson Carpenter grinned a slow easy grin; he felt a strange affection for Johnny’s sarcasm. Wilson sat down in a wicker chair, looking out of place in his private’s uniform.

“She’s a very fine person,” Fanny said, wishing Johnny would not drink so much so soon. “And she’s very influential. Eddie is one of the biggest men in Endymion. And Sandy has several influential friends. She’s got famous friends all over the country. A couple of writers come and stay with her.” Fanny racked her brains to find something that would make some impression on Johnny.

“No thanks,” said Johnny. “I know those. Women with no brains to speak of and too goddam much time on their hands. They review books. I’d rather stay here and talk to Will. I have no desire to meet the president of the Endymion Literary Guild.”

“Oh, she’s nothing like that,” said Fanny, taking another tack, and not mentioning that she belonged to the Tuesday Literary Guild herself. “She’s really a queer character. You might get a kick out of her. She’s got a fellow visiting her who lost a leg on Attu. You could talk to him.”

For the first time, Johnny showed a little interest. “Who is he?” he asked, coming out of the kitchen. “Is he from Endymion?” Before Fanny could answer, he turned to Wilson who was sitting easily in his chair, enjoying the conversation. “I’ll go up and get that thing and show it to you, Will,” Johnny said. “It explains how a lot of the guys I’ve met feel about the whole thing.” Without waiting for Fanny to answer his question, Johnny turned and went upstairs, leaving his drink sitting on the table. Fanny decided to wait until he came back down. Johnny upset her with his abrupt manner, and she felt indignant, but she decided to say nothing about it, because he would only look at her in that expressionless way. She debated asking Wilson what he thought of Johnny, but before she could speak, Johnny was back, down with a paper in his hand. He handed it to Will, who began to read it.

“What about this guy?” Johnny asked her.

Fanny told him about George Schwartz who had just come to stay at Sandy’s. George was from Vincennes, Sandy’s home. He was a couple of years younger than Sandy and had gone to high school with her. They were old friends. George was engaged to Sandy’s sister, Riley. It had struck Fanny that George was awfully old for the Infantry.

Johnny snorted. “If a man’s got two legs and two arms, he’s fit for the Infantry. Anybody that can carry a pack and rifle is an Infantryman. If he can’t carry them, they give him a carbine and make him a runner. Unless he raises so much hell they transfer him to get rid of him.” Johnny looked at Fanny for a moment, intending to say more, but he decided he might as well quit wasting his breath. The ways of the Infantry and the army were the same as another world to Fanny. He looked over at Will and winked sourly at him.

Fanny looked at Wilson, wondering what he was reading. She waited for Johnny to offer some explanation. When he didn’t, her curiosity got the better of her.

“What’s the paper you brought down?”

Johnny looked at her for a moment with his dull flat expression. “It’s nothing, much,” he said.

“It’s a poem,” Wilson said in his deep rich voice, looking up. He handed the paper back to Johnny. “I like it,” he said. “I don’t know anything about poetry.”

“Neither do I,” Johnny put in with a laugh. Wilson smiled. “But whether it’s good poetry or not, the thought ought to be given to people. Did you ever try to have it published?”

“Tom did,” Johnny said. “When I was on furlough. He sent three of them to
Esquire
, but they turned them down.”

“Did you write it?” asked Fanny.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“May I see it?”

“Sure,” he said, “If you want to.” He handed her the poem. He looked at Will. “That’s the way it is,” he said. “I just fiddle around with the stuff for fun, but someday somebody ought to write it up. There is too much crap out about this war, and people are beginning to believe it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s all such a bitched-up mess.”

“I know,” said Will, with an understanding smile. “I can’t put it into words, either.” Johnny grinned suddenly. Wilson’s long supple fingers lay relaxed on the arms of his chair. He seemed calm and steady beside the erratic Johnny.

Fanny handed the poem back to Johnny. “It’s very nice,” she said. “Are you going to go down to Sandy’s with me?”

Johnny looked at her and grinned again. He folded the paper and jammed it into his hip pocket. “What do you say, Will?” he asked. “You want to go along and watch the hero show off? I’d just as soon stay here.”

“I’d like to go,” Will said. “I’ve heard all kinds of strange stories about Sandy Marion, but I’ve never met her, I’d like to see what she’s like.”

“Has she got any liquor, Fanny?” Johnny asked, grinning.

“I imagine so,” said Fanny, not seeing the joke. “Eddie drinks,” she went on. “He’s a good host. They’ve probably got plenty of liquor.” She paused. “If George Schwartz is anything like you,” she added, “they’ll need a lot of it.” She laughed her low throaty Southern laugh, trying not to show her anxiety over Johnny. Wilson politely laughed with her; Johnny only flashed a taut grin.

He downed his drink without taking the glass away from his mouth. “Let’s go, then,” he said. “Let’s get the show on the road. I don’t suppose we should begrudge Sandy a chance to do something for the returned heroes.”

Fanny breathed an inward sigh of relief. She felt for some reason that if she could just get him down to Sandy’s, everything would be all right. She rose and went quickly to the door, and Wilson followed her. Johnny turned to the kitchen to rinse out his glass.

As Johnny went out the door, Wilson, tall and straight, so straight he looked to leaning over backward, was standing beside the car door waiting for him. Seeing him standing there in the sunlight, in the uniform that looked so out of place on him, Johnny’s throat constricted affectionately. As kids, he and Will had been out from the same mould, although for different reasons. They had both been lonely youngsters, set apart from the other kids in town, and they had formed a sort of alliance and friendship.

Now Will had developed from the skinny terribly self-conscious boy of then. He had become tall and filled out. His voice was deep and rich and easy, filled with some inner self-confidence he had not had the last time Johnny had seen him. He had a tremendous poise that seemed to say he was capable of taking almost any situation in his stride. He was self-contained and relaxed and easy. He had a strong belief in himself; he knew what he wanted to do and knew he could do it once this war was out of the way. The thought of a person with Will’s sensibilities and talent being drafted into the army sent a deep hatred coursing through Johnny. Like any great artist, Will was good at one thing and one thing only; he could only be a complete loss as far as the army was concerned. There were some men who just weren’t born to fight—if any of them were. Johnny laughed at the thought of Wilson Carpenter playing piano in a GI band.

“I ran into Edith Wainwright yesterday,” Johnny said when Will had climbed into the car after him. “That’s how I found out you were home.”

“Oh, did you?” Will laughed easily. “How’s she getting along? She had a baby, I heard.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “She invited me down to see it.”

In high school, Edith Wainwright had been the nearest thing Wilson Carpenter had ever had to a girlfriend. She and Will had been the child prodigies of the town. Edith had a wonderful soprano voice, and the band director and her voice teacher had prophesied great things of her.

“Did you go?” Will asked.

“No,” Johnny said, “She was too fat, and besides, she insisted on telling me about how she was trying to sing and work on her voice but couldn’t, on account of washing diapers and feeding the kid. I told her I better not come with her, because little babies always made me want to bash their heads against the wall.”

“My God!” Will exclaimed, laughing. “You’re a crazy bastard. What did she say to that?”

Johnny grinned his tight grin. “She didn’t say much of anything. I think it scared her a little.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “I shouldn’t have said that, I suppose, but she was so damned smug and she got on my nerves. She was supercilious and matronly, you know? This ‘I’ve-got-a-man-look-at-me-now-I-can-relax’ stuff.”

Will laughed and shook his head with mock disapproval. He was pleased with the way Johnny had developed from the skinny kid who was always in a fight. There was an impelling drive about him that made people look instinctively to him for the first move. He generated and threw off nervous energy like a dynamo. Will figured Johnny was the kind of man who would have made a
good
officer. But that kind of man never became officers, unless they started out as officers, and few of them did.

Edith Wainwright had stopped Johnny on the street to welcome him home. She asked him how he liked the army, asked him how he liked being home, asked him if he was going to be discharged and, if not, if he was going back overseas, told him he probably had the time of his life fighting the Japs, and proceeded to talk about herself, her baby, her singing, and why she wasn’t. Johnny’s answers were either not noted or unsatisfying or puzzling to Edith.

“I hear Wilson Carpenter’s back in town,” Edith said, elevating her eyebrows with a knowing look. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” said Johnny. “I haven’t yet.”

“I don’t blame you,” Edith said with a sweet self-righteous look. “There was always something funny about old sis, even in high school. He was so girlish.”

“I didn’t mean I wasn’t going to see him,” Johnny said. “I intend to see him as soon as I get the chance. I didn’t know you disliked Will.”

“Oh, I don’t dislike him,” said Edith hastily. “He’s a very fine pianist, as small towns go. And I guess he’s nice. But he’s so effeminate that it disgusts me.”

The smug self-righteous look on her face did not completely cover the avidity in her eyes. Johnny watched her and felt a swift red of anger rising in him.

“You mean you think he’s a queer, a homosexual?” he asked easily.

Edith was shocked. “Why, no! Of course not,” she exclaimed. “I never said any such thing.”

“You implied it,” said Johnny flatly. He was mad. “It looks to me as if your sex life is suffering from lack of satisfaction. Half the people who are accused of being queer are done so to provide food for somebody else’s mental perversion, which is never guessed at, let alone discussed. What you like to see as Will’s effeminacy is really almost perfect coordination. Will has practiced coordination so much it’s become a part of him. He reminds me more of a panther than a woman.”

Edith’s little face was white, and her mouth pinched up into little wrinkles.

Johnny relented. “Of course, you probably never thought about it. You just listened to what other people said and picked it up. You ought to think more before you go around implying things like that.”

Edith’s composure had been badly mangled, but she managed to go on talking for a while and then invited Johnny up to see her baby, which kept her from continuing with her voice.

In the car, Fanny drove without hearing the voices of the boys. She was thinking she must remember to ask Sandy for her recipe for making cherry chiffon pie with canned fruit. She also wanted to stop at O’Mara’s and get some of those new winter sausages that Agnes Camelot had told her about. Pork was getting scarcer every day.