Gentleman's Agreement (4 page)

Everything between them came to differences. Not everything. They both loved their apartment, their week-end cottage in Darien, tennis, dancing, the unessentials. But everything else came to differences. Isolationism for him; intervention for her. A loathing of Hitlerism for her; a loathing of “those Heinies” for him. A disgust with Pegler for her; a “well, he sure gets the goods on those racketeers” for him. McCormick, the
Daily News,
the poll tax, Lindbergh, even books, plays—always he was for and she against or she for and he against.

“Any writer can just put dirty words in a book . ..”

“It’s time this country showed those unions …”

“I see where Eleanor’s on the go again …”

“Big deal on foreign exchange. Let me spot in some background …”

The boredom, the boredom, the screaming boredom.

It was strange, sad, that a marriage could ratchet apart the way theirs had. There’d never been much overt quarreling. But for their last two or three years, they’d been inching further and further apart from each other, like hostile lovers under the shared and pleasant blanket.

Of all this she’d given Phil no account. She’d seen from his eyes that he’d felt no conviction behind what she did say. But that she couldn’t help.

Phil chucked his hat and overcoat at the day bed in the living room and then went over to the fireplace. He had no intention of going to bed. He was keyed up, but not with the old tight restlessness. Meeting Kathy, having her accept his suggestion for dinner tomorrow night as he left her at the door of her apartment house—the whole evening had shot a tingling expectancy into him. He glanced speculatively at the piled logs below him. He felt luxurious; he struck a match and lit the paper under them. Then he stood back and regarded the flames.

In a way, it was Katherine Lacey who had handed him his first assignment on the new job. Obscurely, that pleased him. People who “thought up ideas” for books or articles always felt themselves the ultimate proprietors of them; she would watch for his series as if she, not Minify, were his editor.

A drive of aggression uncoiled in him; he would find the way to do this series well if he had to pick at his brains with tweezers. There must be some compelling lead, some dramatic device to humanize it, so it would be read. He went to his desk. The logical start was to make notes of whatever general knowledge he had of anti-Jewish feeling in America. Under separate headings, he began to block out the segments he knew would need research:

Antisemitism in Business

antisemitism in Labor

antisem—social

antisem—housing, hotels, clubs

a.s.—violence, hoodlums, etc.

a.s.—schools, professions

a.s.—growth, counter-efforts like anti-bias bills.

Link up with growth of anti-alien feeling, anti-Negro, anti-Catholic, all minority. (Threat to U.S. most serious, not to Jew.)

He sat back and looked at the list. This was already quite a revelation. That he, before special inquiry, should carry in his mind enough information, fact, rumor, to be able to make so comprehensive a list was proof that antisemitism was seeping into all the arteries of daily life. Right there, jotted down in a few minutes, waiting only for documentation, was a picture of the scope and depth of the thing. If he failed, it would not be for thinness of material. Two or three weeks of research would swamp him.

And swamp the readers of
Smith’s Weekly
as well? He was back again at his own barricade. But this time, confidence was in him.

He let his mind wander easily. He might take some anti-semitic community and angle everything he wrote to show the damage, not to the Jews in it, but to the community itself —a sort of psychiatric approach about the effects of hatred on the hater. No, that was even worse than the idea he’d had in the afternoon—preachy, hortatory, even surer to bore the reader.

Cheerfully he abandoned the notion and let his mind explore further, as a general on the winning side examines the terrain of a future operation, weighing this point of attack against that, balancing the virtues against the faults, estimating the desire against the probable outcome.

It was two-thirty when he gathered his notes together and gave up. His list made a good start; he’d get the angle soon and show Miss Lacey a thing or two about journalism.

In bed, he lit one last cigarette and thought about her. She was interesting; with other girls he had met, he always sat stiffly through the inevitable anecdotes of family and childhood, but with her he’d really wanted to hear, to visualize everything. He tried now to remember each thing she’d said and to equate his opposed emotions about her.

But soon his thinking moved away from her and became only the unnamable longing which had been the steady accompaniment to his last seven years. It was an unprecise need, to which the specifics of sex and companionship were only tangential. Partly it was hunger for a tightly shared life once more with a woman he trusted and admired; it was also an uneasy sadness that Tom should be an only child without brothers and sisters; in it, too, was sharp distaste for the picture of himself as “a bachelor.” A reaching toward the future stirred him. Sometime he might again find the continuing pattern he’d known with Betty. There’s always a chance, he thought, and switched off the lamp clamped to the headboard of his bed.

With the dark, long-dulled memories of Betty stood instantly about him, like watchdogs snarling off this new hope, ready to set upon it, tear it, shred it, should it really move forward to claim him.

Phil lay motionless and was again back across the massive distance of seven years and the stretch of a continent. In California, in December of 1938, Betty had died; the whole month had been a time of her dying. The baby was already a year old; all the associative fears of childbirth pain and possible death had long been washed clear of his mind. And then the hemorrhaging had suddenly started, the endless transfusions, the pinker cheeks of one day yielding to the waxy ones of the next. The pendulum of hope and fear had swung deeper and deeper in his heart, grooving it forever in the nameless arc of loss.

“Quit it, quit it.” The words gritted in his mind, as they used to grit through his throat when he said them half aloud in those first weeks after her death. His own voice, sounding suddenly in his ears, would shock him, yet there had been a physical need, apparently, to break the unending silence of his bed, where they had lain together, talking, laughing, making love, making long plans. That wide bed had been a focal point of his torment, and, for a long time, each night he would become obsessed with his awareness of the empty half of it. Then he would angrily plan to order a new bed the very next morning, a narrow bed, a single bed. His mother had come to live with him and the baby, and unknowingly she had blocked this simple escape. He could never manage to announce, “I’m ordering a new bed; it’ll be delivered in a couple of days; it’s for my room.”

His mother, his sisters, his friends, praised him for “bearing up so well.” The truth had been that he was charged with a grief so raucous that he’d had to silence it complete or yell all of it to the world. He had worked harder than he had ever done, had started a new article the day he turned in a completed one, had traveled, read, told himself a thousand times that “time heals everything.” Endlessly time had mocked him. But at last the first savage grief and longing had given way to a pain more patient. In a sense this new pain had been more frightening because of its quieter, more durable characteristic.

The evenings had continued, each of them, to be an assault on his decent courage. That moment when the house had quieted down, Tommy long since asleep and his mother finally through with the clatter of dishes and soft slapping of the refrigerator door—that moment still had remained the signal of the empty time ahead before he could say good night and go off to his room. That necessary empty time to be got through—it seemed a
thing,
tangible, a chunk of time sitting there in the room, an obstacle and an offense. As he forced himself to make talk with his mother, about the baby, about books or politics, the knowledge that it was his mother, and not Betty, who was there to share his house and his evenings would rasp through his nerves until he hated her unruffled gentleness.

Unconsciously perhaps, he had begun frittering away his daytime working hours, so that he should be forced to write at night. It was a good plan. The manuscript in his typewriter became a reliable contrivance, a mechanism down which, each evening, he could cram that offensive chunk of time as into a meat grinder. The thin ribbons of typed words were the end products of that grinding down. As the chunk grew steadily smaller, he would feel less afraid of it, and when his mother would say good night and leave him, he could feel a gratitude that she had been unresentful at being ignored.

“It’s harder for people like us, Phil,” she had once said, without preamble. “Because there’s no loophole.”

“I know.” He did, exactly and without discussion. The softening of the blow that was for people who believed in some reunion after death was not for him. He never felt that he was an irreligious man, for he had too much sureness that somewhere, still beyond the reach of pondering and searching minds, must lie the great synthesis of life and all its forces. But like his agnostic father and mother, he had always held all organized religions to be wistful evasions from the loneliness and insecurity of that pondering. When the first hours of Betty’s death encircled him, he had known she was gone from him finally and forever, with no reprieve.

“Well, quit it, come on, quit it
now.
” This time he sat up, switched on the light. He was not in California seven years ago; he was here in this small New York room, in this new narrow bed (bought so many years after the need for it had left him). He gazed about him; he reached out and touched the wall with his elbow. But the old space was in his mind again, the vastness and emptiness and loneliness.

He lit another cigarette and steered his thoughts back to the list he’d made. But the assignment was dead now; he could not force it alive. He put the cigarette out, turned out the light again, and was at once asleep.

Rain was blowing against the tall gray window in the dim room as he woke. For a moment he felt he had only dozed; then he saw that it was morning. Eagerness washed along his nerves, as last night when he had left Kathy. For a moment he could not characterize this unfamiliar mood. He regarded the inner quality of this waking as if it were something in a showcase before him. Good Lord, he thought, imagine waking up feeling
good.

Ignoring slippers and bathrobe, he went to the bathroom for his shower. The full-bodied rush of city water was still new and pleasing; its battering left him brisk. He was glad to be alive.

While he shaved, Tommy came in, perched on the edge of the bathtub, and began his usual chattering. From time to time Phil glanced down at him. This tall thin boy was such a good-looking kid. He had Betty’s cleft chin and small even teeth, but his height, his dark eyes and straight nose were Phil’s.

“How old will I have to be, Dad, before I can start shaving?” But before Phil could answer, Tommy was considering how old he’d be before he could fly a plane, then how old before he’d be in the Air Corps. In mixed amusement and surprise Phil listened to the tumble of technical talk about firing power, flying range, rockets, radar. Were all boys like this today, he wondered. In 1917, when he himself was eight, had he had so lethal a vocabulary, been so conscious of the other war? He decided not. There were no radios then, no
Lifes
and
Looks
—no newsreels, no avalanche of comic books about martial daredevils. For him during that war there had been only his parents’ talk about it, and the newspaper which came each morning. He’d had none of this war’s incessant instruction in the very sounds and colors and sights of killing and dying.

“Couldn’t we, Dad?” Tommy’s voice was insistent. Phil had missed something and tried to remember what it had been.

“Couldn’t we what?”

“Buy a secondhand jeep when they’re really demobilized? Jimmy Kelly says his dad’s going to.”

Phil thought, And the words they use! When I was a kid that age, did I know half the big words he does? Aloud he said, “It’s an idea, anyway, Tommy.”

“Tom.”

“Tom. Sorry.”

At breakfast he caught himself just as he was going to remind Tommy not to read the comic strips at the table. It was hopeless. Better to retire with dignity than go on at the boy. His mother’s face told him she had watched this change of heart.

“Nice time last night?” she asked, and waited for his nod. “That’s good. You really need new people as much as new places. I mean everybody does, not just you.”

“It was a good bunch to start on. We talked some about the articles; I moseyed around making some notes when I got in.”

He told her about the list he had jotted down. They often talked about his work, and generally he valued their discussions as a good sounding board. He respected her opinions about something he’d written. She never said anything was a failure, but when she remained calm and judicious after finishing a manuscript, he knew that it would leave others cold, too. For when his stuff was really moving, her whole manner told him so before she spoke. He would steal quick looks at her while she was reading, and know. Sometimes she would chuckle and shake her head, sometimes her eyes would fill, sometimes she would wince and say, in a half voice, “It’s impossible,” or “Imagine!” Then her face would express so much pride in him as a son and so much response to him as a writer that there was no room for doubt about whether he had written well. Now he was not watching her reactions. They were simply talking at the level of preliminaries.

“What’s antisemitism?” Tom asked, without looking up from the comics.

“It’s—” Phil was taken aback by the size and casualness of the question. Tom finished the last strip and shoved the paper aside.