So Little Time (70 page)

You entered the room from the back hall and there was also a door that opened out on the back lawn. It had been muggy and sultry all day, as days so often were in early September. He could hear the notes of the crickets on the lawn outside, but this was the only sign that another autumn was coming. Jeffrey looked at his wrist watch and saw that it was half-past three. It occurred to him that he had not been by himself that day or for a good many days before.

He and Madge had been going out a good deal lately to parties at Westport and Greenwich and Stamford and Long Island. They both must have had the same desire to see other people. He could not get it out of his head that they might not see their friends in quite that way again and that there might not be the same food and wine on the table, and he believed that everyone else must have had the same idea. A suspense had been in the air all summer and it was here now with the humming of the crickets. It aroused a desire for human companionship and familiar faces. There was a curious consolation in other people's confusion because the truth was that no one knew anything, although everyone tried to know. There was always someone who had been to Washington, who would say it was a madhouse and that all the new bureaus were clogged with red tape, and the army was using trucks instead of tanks, and the morale of the draft troops was very low; and they were chalking up a mystic sign on the barracks, O.H.I.O., which meant, in case you did not know it, “Over the Hill in October.”

There was always someone who knew someone in the State Department or who knew someone who had seen the President or who had a friend who was back from England or the Orient. The news had ceased to be reliable so that everyone listened avidly for such bits of gossip, all of which added up to nothing. The only tangible fact seemed to be that, although it was September, the Russian armies were still fighting. There was still an unreality about the war. It seemed to Jeffrey that very few people that summer understood that war was a matter of killing. Everyone seemed to think that you could win a war by a few quick moves. He and everyone else were pathetically grasping for fact, and the only fact was death.

There was always someone who had been on a tour to Japan, or someone who knew someone in the navy. The Japanese would make no trouble unless it came to a matter of face. The Japanese were bogged down in China. They were a third-rate military power and now that we had cut off shipments of gasoline and oil, they knew that we meant business. We were drawing a ring around them, now that the Philippines and the East Indies were being reinforced, and there was always the British base at Singapore. Japanese air power was nonexistent and when it came to the Japanese Navy, someone always knew someone who had been talking with one of our Admirals. And the Admiral had said that the American fleet could meet the Japanese fleet any morning and it would all be over in time for lunch. Then there was the other story, the one about those blueprints of a battleship. The Japanese had negotiated with a British company for the building of a battleship and had stolen all the plans, but the British understood their Japanese, and you know what happened. When the battleship was launched in Yokohama, or wherever they did launch battleships, it was top-heavy and turned right over. That was Japan for you. They were funny little people.

Then the conversation would shift back to home. There would be no new automobiles next year, and no new washing machines or electric refrigerators or radios. If you were short of any of these things, you had better buy them quickly. The French vermouth was going.

There was only one thing that was obvious, and everyone must have seen it. They were living in a sort of peace which was no longer peace. There was no longer neutrality. There might not be a war, but it was time to be ready for war, the way the world was going, and nothing would ever be the same again. He could feel it in the house that afternoon. Outside there was a stillness in the air, as though it were about to rain. Through the open windows he could hear the birds and he could hear the couple quarreling in the kitchen. You could not run away. It was necessary, instead, to cultivate the illusion that there would be the same amount of money, the same cars in the garage, the same oil burner in the cellar and the same electric water system, and the same schools for the children, and there was still Mr. Gorman. Jeffrey had almost forgotten Mr. Gorman until he heard him knocking at the door.

Instead of wearing work pants and a khaki shirt or overalls, Mr. Gorman was wearing seersucker trousers and a blue shirt with the sleeves cut off like a tennis player's. Mr. Gorman's mustache was freshly trimmed, his face was very smooth, and his hair was newly cut and shaved in a fresh arc in the back so that there was a white space between the hair and the heavy tan on his neck. Mr. Gorman was holding a small bottle, and Mr. Gorman was smiling.

“It's a mean kind of day, isn't it?” Mr. Gorman said. “It makes you sweat like a horse.”

“Where have you been?” Jeffrey asked. “I've been looking for you everywhere.”

“Oh-oh,” Mr. Gorman said, and he looked concerned. “Why didn't you tell me you were going to be looking for me, Mr. Wilson? I'd have been right here.”

In a way it seemed as though Mr. Gorman were right. It would have been easier if Jeffrey had told him that morning that he would be looking for him that afternoon.

“Well, where were you?” Jeffrey asked.

Mr. Gorman shook his head and Jeffrey was aware of a heavy odor of hair tonic pervading the room.

“I told 'em in the kitchen,” Mr. Gorman said, “or else, did I tell 'em? I don't remember. I've been working like a one-armed paperhanger, and maybe I forgot. I had to get downtown. It was the hose.”

“What's the matter with the hose?” Jeffrey asked.

“Well, I thought we ought to lay in some,” Mr. Gorman said. “So I just hopped in the station wagon and got us two hundred feet at Maxon's Store. It was lucky I did, too, Mr. Wilson. Hose is going to be as scarce as hen's teeth and that's something else I want to take up with you.”

“What?” Jeffrey asked.

“It don't seem worth while bothering you about it,” Mr. Gorman said, “and you know me. I always want to run this place without making any bother for Mr. Wilson because I know that you don't want to be bothered, but it just seems to me we ought to stock up a little. I was saying it to Maxon downtown and Maxon says it, too. Tom Maxon's quite a card, but he knows his business.”

Mr. Gorman rubbed the back of his head.

“You got a haircut down there, didn't you?” Jeffrey asked.

“Oh-oh,” Mr. Gorman said. “Yes, sir, I just snatched off a quick one at Tony's while they were getting out the hose. My God, Mr. Wilson, there's never time these days to get a haircut or anything. But what I say is, when you have a moment, you and I ought to go out to the barn and get together. We've got to make a project of it, and look at all the tools.”

“What's the matter with the tools?” Jeffrey asked.

“I'll tell you,” Mr. Gorman said. “Frankly, tools don't last the way they used to when we were kids, Mr. Wilson, and I give 'em wear. I'm not hard on them, you understand. I get more out of tools than anybody, but I give 'em wear and they don't stand up like they used to. Now the lawn mower, she's on the blink again, and that hand cultivator and the pruning shears. We just ought to stock up while there's anything to stock.”

“Didn't we buy a lot of tools this spring?” Jeffrey asked.

“Sure,” Mr. Gorman said. “Don't think I'm coming in here and begging you for tools. I'm only saying we ought to get some while there's anything to get. You can't keep this place the way you want it unless you get some tools. Now take the lawn. I'll tell you something. Mrs. Wilson was out this morning complaining about the lawn again. You know what women are, you can't do with them, and you can't do without them. Now I didn't want to say anything. You know me. Do your work and shut up, is what I say. I didn't talk back, but it's the lawn mower. It isn't me, but the mower and the bearings are acting up again.”

“I thought it was a new mower,” Jeffrey said. “Didn't I buy you a new one?”

“Oh-oh,” Mr. Gorman said, “the new mower. Oh-oh. That was one on you that time, Mr. Wilson. Didn't I tell you about that mower?”

“I don't remember,” Jeffrey answered, “what about it?”

“It isn't your fault, Mr. Wilson,” Mr. Gorman said. “I always do what I'm told, don't I? You wanted a cheap mower, and we got it, didn't we? Well, at the time I thought maybe I was wrong, but I wasn't wrong.” Mr. Gorman laughed. “It's one on you, Mr. Wilson, that mower.” Mr. Gorman lowered his voice to a whisper. “A bunch of junk. My God, just junk.”

“It can't be junk,” Jeffrey said, “it cost twenty-five dollars in June.”

Mr. Gorman nodded.

“I know,” he said, “I know. It isn't your fault, Mr. Wilson. You ought to get a good mower for that price. Anybody ought to, but they don't make them like they did when we were kids, Mr. Wilson. And it isn't I haven't worked on it. I've babied it. I've coddled it. I've been out here until eight in the evening taking her to pieces.”

“Now wait a minute,” Jeffrey said. He knew it was time to say something and it was very difficult to interrupt Mr. Gorman. “I've been wanting to have a talk with you.” Jeffrey cleared his throat. “It just seems to me—perhaps I haven't been around as much as I should have, but it seems to me the whole place looks like hell.”

Mr. Gorman uncrossed his knees and leaned forward.

“Well, now,” he said gently, “in what way, Mr. Wilson?”

Jeffrey wished that he had the list which Madge had spoken of. Now that he was face to face with Mr. Gorman, there seemed more ways than he could specify.

“You ought to know,” Jeffrey answered. “The lawn, the paths, the flower beds—they don't look right, Gorman. I suppose you've been pretty busy. I'm just asking you what the matter is.”

Mr. Gorman nodded slowly.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said, “may I ask you a question? Do I love this place, or don't I?”

Jeffrey looked at Mr. Gorman. There was personal hurt and earnestness and real sentiment on Mr. Gorman's face.

“I'll answer it for you,” Mr. Gorman said. “A fellow can't help loving something he's sweated over, Mr. Wilson. He can't help loving the flowers he's planted. I love this place better than you do, Mr. Wilson. Now, let me ask you another question. Has Mrs. Wilson been saying this about the place?”

The moment Mr. Gorman mentioned Madge, Jeffrey realized that Mr. Gorman had overstepped himself, but under the spell of Mr. Gorman's personality he felt himself being pushed onto the defensive. Mr. Gorman had put his finger upon the crux of the difficulty, and Jeffrey knew that Mr. Gorman would keep his finger there.

“There's no reason to bring Mrs. Wilson into this,” Jeffrey said. “It isn't only Mrs. Wilson. Anyone can see that things look run-down, Gorman.”

Mr. Gorman was momentarily silent. He sat looking at Jeffrey with a new sort of understanding that was kind and companionable.

“Women,” Mr. Gorman said, “these women.”

“Never mind about women,” Jeffrey said. “We aren't talking about women, Gorman.”

Mr. Gorman nodded. His face grew more somber but he was very kind.

“Now you and I,” Mr. Gorman said, “you and I know this place is as sound as a nut underneath, don't we, Mr. Wilson?”

“How do you mean it's as sound as a nut?” Jeffrey asked.

“You know,” Mr. Gorman said, “and I know. It's the good stuff that goes into it underneath. It isn't the little doodabs that count. Not all-the-same thingumajigs that women see. It's what's down there under it.” Mr. Gorman lowered his voice. “I'll tell you what I mean, Mr. Wilson. Frankly, I mean manure.”

Jeffrey was unable to follow Mr. Gorman's train of thought, but he knew that everything that Mr. Gorman said was true, or that it would turn out to be when Mr. Gorman finished.

“I don't quite see what you're getting at, Gorman,” Jeffrey said, but he knew he was going to see, and Mr. Gorman knew it.

Mr. Gorman was nodding slowly and smiling at him kindly.

“I'm coming at it hind side before, Mr. Wilson,” he said, “but I'm getting up to it. What I mean is no woman understands manure, Mr. Wilson, and why should she? It isn't up to them to know it. Oh-oh, you can't get along with 'em and you can't get along without 'em.”

“All right,” Jeffrey said, “you said that.”

“Now,” Mr. Gorman said, “you're going to get my point, Mr. Wilson. There's no reason why you should have thought of it because I'm paid to do that thinking for you and you're busy and you come down here to rest, and I don't want to bother you. But when you put manure down on a place, good well-rotted manure like the kind we buy, Mr. Wilson, things grow, don't they? By jinks, they can't help growing—every kind of thing! Now that's why the place sometimes looks a little raggedy.” Mr. Gorman's eyes widened and he pointed his finger slowly at Jeffrey. “It's because the soil is rich. The dressing is down there underneath.”

Jeffrey did not answer. He was thinking that Mr. Gorman was a type, and he was not entirely amused by him.

“Every danged thing grows when you put down good dressing,” Mr. Gorman said. “That's why the lawn keeps shooting up and why you can't keep it down with a twenty-five-dollar mower.”

Jeffrey listened. Mr. Gorman was going on. It was why the paths got weedy. By jinks, you couldn't kind of help things getting away from you when there was good stuff underneath. And there was one example that Mr. Gorman wanted to bring up particularly and that was those young apple trees in the orchard on the hill. Mr. Gorman loved good apples, and Mr. Wilson loved them too because they made—oh-oh—hard cider. Now when you had good stuff around little apple trees they put on big soft juicy foliage and bugs and caterpillars knew good stuff. By jinks, you couldn't blame the bugs and caterpillars for knowing good stuff when they saw it and kind of settling in on that orchard on the hill more than they did on other people's orchards. Now Mr. Gorman didn't mind seeing them there. In fact, just between himself and Mr. Wilson it made him feel easier when there was a good crop of tent caterpillars. Now you couldn't have things both ways. If you had good ground everything would grow—weeds and bugs and everything. You couldn't have it both ways, and Mr. Wilson could see that. You could either starve the ground and not have so many weeds and just have everything mean and stringy, or else you could have it nice and rich and kind of let it get away from you. Mr. Wilson could see that.