Tomorrow Is Forever (7 page)

The following Sunday, as they were driving home, after a brisk day of sun and water, she leaned back in the car, saying drowsily, “I'll probably be asleep by eight o'clock tonight. I'm so tired!”

“I am too,” said Spratt, “fun-tired. Let's do this often.”

“I'd like to. But I thought you worked most of your weekends.”

“So I do, but that's been because there was nobody interesting to play with. I work too hard.”

“Are you just beginning to realize that?” she asked.

“Not exactly, but I'm just beginning to admit it. Work can be like liquor sometimes, an escape from too much of one's own company.”

She glanced up, expecting him to go on, but Spratt remarked on the coloring of the desert hills in the sunset and said no more about himself. Remembering his remark later, however, she thought she should have expected it. She might have realized long ago that like so many other brilliant and ambitious men, Spratt was essentially lonely. Yet she had not realized it, and she was glad to do so now. She needed his friendship; it was good to know that in spite of his self-assurance Spratt also had need of her.

When he asked her to marry him she was not surprised. She did not answer him at once. Spratt had given her so much, more than she knew until now, when she had to consider the possibility of letting him go. But she wanted to be fair, and in fairness there were matters that had to be explained.

She explained them on an evening when they were in her apartment, Spratt listening with quiet attention while she spoke. She told him how she had loved Arthur, and how she had suffered at being told he was dead. “It can't be easy for you to hear this,” she said.

“It's easier now than it'll ever be again,” he answered. “Go on.”

Elizabeth stood up. Moving around behind her chair she put her hands on the back of it and held it while she talked.

“Spratt, you told me to take this out and face it. I've tried to. I've tried to be practical, to tell myself everything I might tell somebody else. I've said to myself that maybe Arthur wasn't worth what I gave him, maybe nobody ever born could deserve so much. Maybe it was just a young girl's infatuation, taking all the romantic heroes of her dreams and embodying them in the form of a handsome lover. I can say all this, I can accept it with the cool reasoning part of my mind, but beyond that it doesn't go. My emotions, my spirit—what the poets would call my heart—simply­ won't accept it. Because I had what I had. The simple truth is that for the year we were married Arthur gave me an experience of ecstasy. If he had lived I might have been disillusioned. But what I'm trying to tell you is that I wasn't disillusioned, and now I never will be. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Yes. But you haven't said whether or not you want to marry me.”

“I do want to. But I'm not sure you're going to want to marry me. If you don't want to, say so. You're too fine and honest to have anything less than the truth from me, or to let me have anything less than that from you. Spratt, when Arthur died something died in me. What I feel for you—it's strange to call it love, because it's so different. It's not adoration that sees no faults. It's thoughtful and realistic. I like you, I admire you, I have tremendous respect for you. I trust you completely. I'd tell you anything. I know you'll never fail me. But I can't give you what I gave Arthur, because I haven't got it to give. It's just not there any more.”

She looked across the room at him, listening steadily in the half-glow of a reading lamp some distance away. She concluded,

“It would hurt me terribly to lose you. But it would be worse to know I had been less than completely honest with you. There may be another woman who can give you what I can't, and if that's what you want, please, please tell me so.”

She heard a soft, smothered little sound from his direction, and saw to her amazement that Spratt was laughing. He stood up and came over to her.

“My darling girl, you told me I was honest. I am, and I'm going to prove it. If any woman offered me the sort of total worship you're talking about, she'd throw me into a panic.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them as he continued, in comradely fashion. “Forgive me for laughing. I wasn't laughing at you, but at the idea that anybody could possibly think I might want to be adored like that, which you'll have to admit is ridiculous. Elizabeth, if I may be brutally frank—if that's what you were when you were a young girl I'm glad you got rid of it before I met you. I want you the way you are.”

Quite suddenly, she began to laugh too. This way of talking about marriage was so different from the shining rapture with which she and Arthur had talked about it.

“Then you do want me, Spratt?”

“You bet I do.”

“You're not going to be sorry for what's past?”

“I should say not. You see, Elizabeth, it's really quite simple. I love you as you are. What you are must be the result of what's happened to you before. If it had happened differently, you'd have been a different sort of woman now, and I shouldn't have loved you. It makes sense.”

“You're the only man I know,” said Elizabeth, “who always makes sense.”

They were married soon after that. She had never had reason to be sorry. Spratt had been brilliantly successful in his work, they had their three children, their long unbroken affection, and the peace of mind that came from knowing themselves of supreme importance to each other. It was a good life.

4

I
t was a good life—then what was she doing here, curled up on the chaise-longue in a tight little knot of pain? Elizabeth sat up and looked around the room. A bar of sun had moved a little way across the rug. There on the table was her desk-calendar, open to the page for tomorrow, with. “Kessler to dinner 7:30” scribbled across the bottom. No more than half an hour had passed since she wrote it, but half an hour of her old torture had been enough to make her feel now that she had waked from an intolerable nightmare.

But she had waked from it. Like its predecessors, this period of recollection had gone as abruptly as it had come. Elizabeth pushed a lock of hair off her forehead and reached for a cigarette. “What a fool I am,” she said, her eyes on the picture of Spratt that was standing on her desk. She had a picture of Arthur packed away somewhere in the back of a closet, but it had been years since she had looked at it. She wanted Spratt there, Spratt whom she loved, her children's father. Spratt and her children were what she lived for. They filled up her thoughts—except for these rare minutes of agony, minutes that were more cruel because they had to be borne in silence. She could tell Spratt anything on earth but this. She could mention Arthur to him without self-consciousness, as she did sometimes—“There was a man like Mr. So-and-so in the company Arthur worked for in Tulsa, one of those pseudo-intellectuals who bought first editions for no reason but to show them off. I remember one day Arthur said he …” Just as simply as that. And they would chuckle over Arthur's wisecrack and go on talking. But no matter how seldom they occurred, she could not tell Spratt that there ever did occur such experiences of black anguish as the one she had just passed through.

And why in the world should she, Elizabeth asked herself now. It was over, gone completely until the next time, if there ever should be a next time. By tomorrow she would have forgotten it. Already the fact that she had been powerless to escape it was making her ashamed of herself, and glad to ignore such absurdity. The air was growing chilly. The children should have come in from the pool by now, and she hoped they had hung up their suits properly. It was about time she went downstairs and got out the cocktail tray to have it ready when Spratt came in.

The telephone rang again, and when she answered it she felt pleasure at the normal steadiness of her voice.

Her caller greeted her cheerfully. “This is Irene Stern, Elizabeth. How are you?”

“Fine, never better.”

“And Spratt?”

“Working himself to death and flourishing on it.”

“Any news on the picture, or do I dare ask?”

“Good news, I hope. Anyway, a new writer who seems to have ideas.”

“Anybody I know?”

“I don't think so. He's just off the boat.”

“Oh dear. Spikka da Inglis?”

“Fairly well, I believe. They're better at languages than we are.”

“They should be, can't go a hundred miles over there without needing a new one. Elizabeth, I called to ask if it's all right for Brian to stay for dinner with Peter.”

“Irene, you're an angel about that child, but are you sure it's no trouble? Brian takes half his meals with you as it is.”

“It's no trouble and I wish you'd let him stay. He and Peter are upstairs getting starry-eyed over a new collection of bugs—Elizabeth, is it really necessary for the Scouts to encourage such a fearful interest in natural history? Peter does nothing these days but mount insects.”

“I know, Brian's room looks like all I've ever heard about delirium tremens. There's nothing we can do about it.”

“It must be a recent craze,” said Irene Stern. “I remember Jimmy—” she was referring to her older son—“Jimmy was an enthusiastic Scout, but he never had this passion for creeping things.”

Elizabeth began to laugh. “You'd better send Brian home, Irene. He'll be a distressing influence on Peter.”

“But when they're mounting bugs together they're so happy. I can't bear to separate them. So let him stay for dinner, Elizabeth. We'll bring him home by nine.”

“All right then, and thank you for being so good to him. It's been ages since I've seen you—I'm going to ring you one day this week for lunch.”

“Do. I'd love it.”

They said goodby and Elizabeth put back the phone. She laughed to herself as she did so. Everything was back where it ought to be. Her friends, her children, the warm security of her life. Going over to the desk, she took up Spratt's picture and kissed him through the glass.

As she went downstairs she heard a babble of young voices and a sound of laughter. Dick and Cherry had evidently come indoors with their friends, and the four of them were making quite as much noise as might have been expected if they had been greeting one another after years of separation. “Doesn't their energy ever give out?” Elizabeth asked herself with fond wonder as she heard them. She glanced into the dining room to make sure the table had been set with two extra places, made ready the cocktail tray in the living room, and then went to the balcony that ran along the back of the house, to observe the state of affairs around the pool.

The children had hung their suits and towels on the line provided, leaving the place quite tidy after their swim. They were really very good about that, except now and then when they had something important on their minds and forgot to clear up. What a good time they were having now! They had gone into the back den, the windows of which opened on the balcony where she was standing, and she could hear them as they discussed something that must be excruciatingly funny, for the conversation seemed to consist less of words than of laughter. Not wanting to interrupt whatever it was they were enjoying so much, Elizabeth sat down in a deck-chair on the balcony to wait for the appearance of Spratt's car in the driveway.

The shadows of the lemon trees were like dark lace shawls lying on the grass. A little wind rumpled the surface of the pool and moved gently past her, bringing odors of damp grass, lemon blossoms, torn geranium leaves. The air was full of the twittering of birds making farewell to the sun as joyfully as the children were laughing within.

Elizabeth leaned back, wrapped in a warm glow of pleasure. What a lucky woman she was, she reflected, and how much she had—a beautiful home, a husband who loved her, such charming, happy children. In the midst of all this, how foolish it was ever to remember anything else. It was good to have a few minutes alone, like this, to look at all of it and know she had a right to be proud because she had created it; good to take pleasure in her children's laughter and know they were so happy because of the love and security she had given them. No matter what might happen to them in the coming years they would have this to remember.

She found herself laughing too, in echo of the four mirthful youngsters in the den. They were reading something, for she could hear the rustle of pages—no doubt those dusty old magazines they had brought in from Julia's mother's attic—and their voices came through the window to her, breathless with merriment.

“Go on, Cherry—” it was Dick speaking—“what have you got now? Read it.”

“This one's wonderful,” exclaimed Cherry. “Listen.” She read, grandiloquently. “‘In these days of bitter strife, when the earth shakes with the force of battle, a new future is being born. We make sacrifices gladly, for we know we shall be richly repaid with the glory of Universal brotherhood. The world must be made safe for democracy! In this magnificent hour—'”

Another shout of laughter interrupted her. Cherry announced,

“
That's
an advertisement for raisins!”

“I don't believe it,” said Pudge.

“It certainly is, here's a picture of a loaf of raisin bread to go with it.”

“Did they have to eat raisin bread to get universal brotherhood?” Julia asked merrily.

“Oh, I get it,” exclaimed Dick, as though looking over Cherry's shoulder. “It's easier to persuade the children to eat bread without butter if the bread has raisins in it. Butter is grease, grease makes explosives, and explosives make brotherhood. Very simple in that magnificent hour. Oh look,” he continued, with a sound of turning pages, “here's a better one than that. They were having a campaign to sell Liberty Bonds—”

“What were Liberty Bonds?” asked Julia.

“Government bonds to pay for the war, like the War Bonds we buy now. Here's a question-and-answer department, and somebody writes in to ask if it's quite fair to sell long-term bonds to be paid for by future taxpayers. He asks, ‘Isn't that making future generations pay for this generation's war?' and the editor answers—this'll kill you—he answers, ‘Exactly so, and this is one of the
best
reasons for buying Liberty Bonds today. For the
fruits
of this war will be enjoyed by the generations yet unborn.'”

“Jumping Jupiter!” Pudge exclaimed as the four of them went off into another paroxysm of mirth.

“Generations yet unborn!” Cherry repeated. “That's us.”

“And aren't we enjoying the fruits of that war!” said Julia. “Let me see that one, Dick. I wonder if this editor is still alive.”

“If he is,” said Cherry, “I bet his face is red. Oh do look, here's a beauty. A picture of a lot of babies, and the title is, ‘The America of tomorrow, for whom the world is being made safe today.'”

“I bet every one of 'em's in the army now,” said Dick. “Take a peek at this. A picture of a lot of soldiers ready to go abroad, and the line under it says, ‘A payment on our debt to France.'”

“Any time France feels like making a payment on their debt to us,” said Cherry, “I'm agreeable.” There was another sound of rustling pages, and she burst out laughing again. “Listen, everybody. One of our greatest aims in this war is the reconstruction of Europe on such a basis that future holocaust like this one will be impossible. Out of the world's anguish must be born a new Germany, a nation in which democracy shall rule, where no tyrant and no group of bloodthirsty lunatics shall ever again have the power to plunge a whole continent—'” The rest of her words were lost in a confusion of laughter.

“For the love of Pete,” murmured Pudge, incredulously.

“It's right here in print, only you didn't let me finish and the last sentence is the funniest of all. ‘Germany will be defeated, but their defeat will bring the German people one tremendous gain: it will mean for them the complete and final overthrow of autocratic government.' How do you like that?”

“I get it,” said Pudge. “We were just fighting the Germans for their own good, were we? Gee, when they look around they must be so grateful.”

“I see by this paper,” said Julia, “that the International Sunday School convention planned for 1916 has just been called off because the delegates are too busy shooting each other to attend this year.”

“Where were they going to hold it?” asked Cherry.

“Don't look now, dear. In Japan.”

They began to laugh again. Pudge exclaimed, “Be quiet and let me read you something funnier than that. These editorials about the first air raid on an open city. It seems the Germans had things called Zeppelins—that's a kind of blimp—and they sent some of these Zeppelins over Antwerp and dropped a few bombs, and here's what the American papers were saying about it. The attack upon Antwerp, made without warning to its innocent population, is completely contrary to all rules of civilized warfare—'”

“Rules?” Dick interrupted mirthfully. “You'd have thought it was a football game.”

“‘Zeppelins have dropped bombs on an undefended city!'” Pudge continued reading with mock horror. “‘This is not only contrary to the laws of war, but can serve no legitimate military purpose—'”

“What is a legitimate military purpose,” Dick inquired, “unless it is to kill everybody you can?”

“Shut up and let me read this. ‘As those who were killed or injured by the bombs were women and male non-combatants, the airship attack was nothing but a plain act of savagery. This is not war, but murder!'”

“Did you
ever
hear anything so naive?” asked Cherry.

“Was that first attack a bad one?” asked Dick.

“I was saving that for the last,” answered Pudge. “If you can believe it, that first air raid, that dastardly, bloodthirsty, savage raid that made everybody sit back and yell with horror—that raid killed
ten
people and wounded
eleven
.”

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed Dick, and the others joined in his derision. A moment later Dick added, “Here's a swell side-angle on the air raids. It says the men in London were taking to wearing pajamas instead of nightshirts because when the blimps came over everybody ran out into the streets, and they wanted the neighbors to see them running around in something more becoming to British dignity than nightshirts.”

They chuckled joyfully. Cherry exclaimed, “I wish you'd look at these recipes for war-meals. ‘Freedom Meat Loaf,' made out of peanuts and cornmeal.”

“Peanuts do have Vitamin B in them,” suggested Julia.

“They'd never heard of Vitamin B,” Dick said scornfully. “They had to eat peanuts and call 'em meat because our brave allies were buying up all the meat with the money they borrowed and didn't pay back and never did intend to pay back. Do look at that headline—‘Every housewife who saves meat and flour in her home is bringing nearer the day of universal democracy!'”

“Do you suppose they really
believed
all that?” Cherry asked in wonder.

Outside, on the balcony, Elizabeth lifted her hands from the arms of the chair and saw that each of the bright blue cushions was stained with a round spot of dampness where she had gripped them. On the other side of the window the children made some fresh discovery and went off into another peal of laughter, gay, mocking, and terrible because it was so utterly innocent. Elizabeth stood up, her muscles tense with impulse. Then she stopped, standing motionless because she did not know what the impulse was. To do something to them—but what? She could not walk in upon them white with anger and cry out, “Yes, we believed it! You inhuman young wretches, we believed it!”