I Want to Go Home Page 3

  “A conference, then?”

  She turned on the dressing-table seat, looked up at him. Her face was tired. He looks younger than I do, she thought, and the thought was wry. My boyish, beautiful husband. And he’s twelve years older.

  “Feeling all right, darling?” Elliott asked her. “You look a little—tired.”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “I suppose it’s a conference. Ell—”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Freshen up if you’re going to, dear. We ought to go down.” He started toward the bathroom. “Not that they’ll wait,” she added, only partly to him. He did not answer this, but went on into the bath. He was back in a few minutes, shirtless, muscles moving smoothly under brown skin of chest and back. Anyway, there’s always that, Grace thought, without emphasis, almost with resignation. She watched him pick a fresh shirt from a drawer, knot a blue tie with casual competence. She was standing when he added a tweed jacket, moved toward her.

  “You are handsome, Ell,” she said. “I hope little Silas looks like you when he’s bigger.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Lockwood said. He bent, kissed her lightly. “The way little Susan does like you.”

  “You have such a wonderful memory, too,” she said, and turned away and went ahead of him through the door and down the stairs.

  The rest had not waited. They were having cocktails, except for little Susan and little Silas, who were drinking Coca-Colas. Even Arthur had a cocktail, Grace Lockwood noticed. It would probably make him vaguer than usual.

  “Grace,” Frederick Meredith said. “ ’Lo, Ell. Anything turn up?”

  “Nothing much,” Elliott Lockwood said. “I brought out a few letters your secretary thought you’d want.”

  “Later,” Frederick said. “After dinner. If necessary, you can run in in the morning.”

  Elliot Lockwood’s jaw set for an instant. That was like Frederick. Free with other people’s Saturdays; not giving a damn how—He relaxed his jaw. “O.K., boss,” he said. He was conscious that his wife looked at him, fleetingly, looked away carefully. My God, he’d have to tell her again, it’s a job, isn’t it? It keeps us fed, doesn’t it? Until—Always there was that “until.” Elliott Lockwood realized that he was listening in that instant; listening for sounds from upstairs, for hurried movements, the faint scurrying noises of emergency. He wondered if the others were listening too.

  What a pretty rabbit my brother is, John Lockwood thought, looking at Elliott. What a pretty, scared rabbit. How he jumps for Frederick; how he wiggles his pretty ears.

  “ ’Lo, John,” Elliott said. His tone was different, more confident. After all, he figures he doesn’t work for me, John thought. He said, “Good evening, Elliott.”

  John was standing, a glass in his hand, his back to the fireplace, an elbow on the mantel. He was as tall as Elliott, but here the resemblance ended—the real resemblance. There was, everybody said, something about the eyes. It would have been hard to say what that something was. There was no lack of lines on John Lockwood’s face; no softness, little curve, to his chin and jaw. When the two men stood side by side, there was more contrast than resemblance, and John looked a good fifteen years the elder, although actually the difference was not quite two years.

  John Lockwood looked, standing in front of the fireplace, as if he were a man accustomed to making speeches and about to make one. But instead he looked around the room and said, “Well, since we’re all here, finally,” and then looked at Frederick Meredith and waited. He’s going to be chairman, Alice Meredith thought. Dear John. Then she looked at Frederick, who was sitting, quite relaxed. Dear Frederick, she thought. So competent, really. As competent as John, at least.

  “Get yourself a drink. Ell,” Frederick Meredith said. “Grace.” He waited while Elliott poured cocktails, while they found places to sit. Frederick Meredith looked around at the family, then.

  “Jane’s coming back,” he said. “She expects to get here next week. She has, apparently, suddenly decided she wants to come home.” He paused, then. He watched Grace Lockwood’s brows draw together, making the lines deep between them. He saw the sudden blankness in her husband’s eyes, heard the soft “oh!” which came, involuntarily, from Susan Lockwood’s pretty lips. John Lockwood’s face did not change; it seldom changed, and he had known already. Alice had known. It was characteristic that Frederick Meredith did not look at the face of his own son—and so he missed a quick movement of the features which, for an instant, set a boy’s unformed face into unexpected lines of maturity, and then passed as quickly as it had come.

  “So far as Dr. Hardy can tell,” Meredith went on, “mother is very likely to live at least a week, and to keep entire possession of her faculties. And, of course, she mentions Jane.” He paused again, and looked around. “Quite often,” he said. “With quite the old—fondness.” He stopped again, but no one took advantage of the pause to speak.

  “Not to beat about the bush,” Frederick Meredith said, “mother can always make a new will, going back to the provisions of the old one. It would make a difference to all of us.”

  Dear Frederick, his wife thought. How well he puts things.

  “Jane’s letter came today,” he said. “I opened it, along with the others, as we all agreed I should. Including mother herself, you’ll remember. The letter says she expects to leave Monday, by train, which will get her to New York Thursday—she says. I think that’s right. And, there is a return address on the envelope, so we could readily get in touch with her. I assume she doesn’t know how ill—how near the end—mother is; that if she did she might overcome her reluctance to fly.”

  There was a little pause. Alice Meredith ended it, in her light, quick voice.

  “Dear Jane,” she said. “So many accidents, aren’t there? Poor dear Jane. She’d so feel an obligation, wouldn’t she?”

  There was another little pause. Frederick Meredith looked at his wife. There was the faintest of smiles on his face.

  “As Alice says,” he said, “we would be assuming a responsibility, of course. Jane would feel she ought to come by air. And of course if anything did happen—” He left that one open, and looked around at the others.

  “It isn’t as if we knew,” Grace Lockwood said. “It isn’t at all as if it were certain. Because really, if Dr. Hardy is right, she’ll get here in time anyway. Coming as she plans.”

  Again there was a pause.

  “Well?” John Lockwood said. They all looked at him, then, and waited. He looked at them, and after a moment he half smiled. “Up to me, eh?” he said.

  “To all of us, John,” Meredith said. “It is a family responsibility. A decision to be reached. We are all—concerned.”

  “To the extent of a couple of million dollars,” Arthur Meredith said, suddenly. Again his almost amorphous features were oddly twisted; again he looked much older than his years.

  “Dear Arthur,” his mother said, and her voice sounded sad. “Dear Arthur.” The others looked at him and then, except for Susan, looked away. Susan continued to look at him for a longer moment, her eyes widening, intent.

  “Very well,” John Lockwood said, and it was as if he had not heard young Meredith. “Very well. In my opinion, we should let Jane continue as she plans. We must face the fact it may be a mistake. Aunt Susan may not live a week. But we have the doctor’s estimate to go on. To—er—cite. I am sure Jane would understand.”

  “Dear Jane,” Alice said, and her voice was slower, more abstracted. “So long since she’s been in touch, isn’t it? Not since that note from—Honolulu, wasn’t it?—that she’d arrived safely. So thoughtless toward her poor, dear aunt.”

  There was no direct response to this from any of the others. But there was a longer pause. Again, John Lockwood, the chairman, looking down at the others, ended it.

  “It is obviously desirable that we all agree,” Lockwood said. “Very obviously—Elliott? You and Grace?”

  “Of course,” Grace said, and
Elliott Lockwood nodded slowly. It was a half nod, and his eyes were very intent on his brother.

  John Lockwood looked at Meredith, and said nothing, but waited. Meredith’s drooping eyelids almost hid his eyes. Then he raised his head and looked up at Lockwood from under the heavy lids.

  “I agree, John,” he said, and he spoke rather slowly and with apparent care. He continued to regard the other man for several seconds. “Also,” he said then, “I feel that nothing would be gained by mother’s knowing that Jane is coming home. Until just before she gets here, of course. And that is Dr. Hardy’s advice.”

  “Dear Susan,” Alice said. “It would be so exciting for her, wouldn’t it? Such a strain of waiting. So much better for her just to—rest.”

  “Of course we all—” John Lockwood agreed, and then, rather violently, Arthur Meredith interrupted him. He was gangling as he stood up, pushing back his chair. More than ever his arms and legs seemed to be only partially under control. But there was no such doubt about his voice. It was hard and angry, and although he spoke very fast—spoke as if he felt he had little time to speak—each word was distinct.

  “If you ask me,” he said, “it sticks out a mile. A bloody mile.” He looked around at the older members of the family. “Good God,” he said, “a damn bloody mile.”

  And then, looking straight ahead of him, he walked through the room, obviously trying to walk with purpose, with precision; obviously trying, more than anything else, to get out of the big drawing room, and its deep shadows.

  Nobody said anything while he crossed the room. When he had gone, John Lockwood regarded Alice Meredith.

  “Well, Alice?” he said.

  “Poor Arthur,” she said. “He’s so susceptible.” And then, with a head movement which seemed to flicker, she looked up at the dignified, assured man by the fireplace. “So bright too, John,” she said, and her voice skated lightly on silence. “So very quick, dear boy.”

  Aunt Susan would have got her letter Friday or, at the latest, Saturday morning. She had half expected a wire in answer. But, when no wire came, she had realized that for Aunt Susan to have sent one would have been uncharacteristic. Aunt Susan would have smiled, she thought, and nodded her little head and had the maids begin to get a room ready. Aunt Susan never wasted time, or money for that matter, on the obvious. Jane had made up her mind to come. Very well, Jane would come. She would not need to be encouraged.

  Jane Phillips let herself into the comfortable room she had lived in for several months and smiled as she thought of Aunt Susan. Tomorrow—no, it was already today—she would be on a train and going home. Wheels would be turning under her; a continent would be sliding past windows—mountains, and desert country and plains; little towns and cities. She would be alone in a little box and the ways of the little box, the feel of the little box, would grow hourly more familiar until, when she left it in Grand Central, she would be very glad and still a little sorry, because it would have become a fragment of familiarity, of accustomed things. As now she was glad and sorry at the same time, and at this instant almost more sorry than glad, to leave the familiarity of this comfortable room in the hotel, to leave the known desk clerk, the known bellboy, the waiter captain downstairs, the floor waiter.

  It was late and she was tired. She had planned to stay at home this Sunday evening and “rest up for her trip.” She thought of the phrase and smiled; it was one she had inherited from Aunt Susan, who always “rested up” for trips and then, later, rested up after them. Well, this time she had not rested up. She had gone to dinner with Ray, and danced with him and finally sat with him at a tiny table and drunk the champagne he had felt appropriate and, at the very end, surprisingly, refused to marry him. It was so like Ray, she thought, and now, alone in her room—the room which had been hers and was already almost anybody’s again—she laughed out loud. Her laughter was light and clear, like her voice. So like Ray, this belated, this almost postscripted, proposal of marriage just before she left California for good—for good and all. So unexpected, and still so like Ray Forrest.

  “Look,” he had said, after he had for almost a minute regarded his empty champagne glass with something like affection. “Look, Janey, my darling. We’ve had fun. How’s to get married?”

  It was absurd and rather endearing. She wondered a little whether, if he had said the same thing months ago, before she knew she wanted to go home, needed to go home, she would have said what she had said. “In a word, darling, no.” But she supposed Ray could hardly have made the suggestion months ago, because it had not occurred to him months ago. It was something which had occurred to him only then, while he was looking at the champagne glass, prior to filling it up again.

  She had refused lightly, in the mood of the proposal. And then Ray had turned from the glass and looked at her and said, “Really, darling? Absolutely no?” and, although the words were still in the mood, the tone was not the same. “Because it’s a firm offer, darling. Strictly a firm offer. No option strings.”

  She had been sure, not tempted to change her mind. Even while his left hand covered hers as it rested on the table, even as the warmth and firmness of his hand was pleasant and—yes, reassuring for some reason—she had shaken her head very gently, very finally. But she had not, and this she realized now more clearly than she had at the time, felt he was alien to her or that the suggestion was alien. It was merely too unexpected, too much at the wrong time, too little prepared for. Ray had been somebody to go places with, someone with whom she had not really been bored. But it had seemed unimportant. They had been too light and casual and, most simply, too friendly. This other relationship, never explicitly excluded, had never explicitly been thought of—as little by Ray, she was certain, as by herself. Not, at any rate, on these terms. It would be absurd to think that, kissing now and then, rather lightly, in a sense gently, they had never thought beyond kissing. But such thoughts, with her certainly and with Ray almost as certainly, had been also light and, in the same sense, gentle. It had all been unimportant.

  They had kissed in Ray’s car, before she got out and came into the hotel, and there had been no change in the way they kissed. Ray had not tried to make their kissing any different from the way it had always been. Perhaps it was because he had not, she thought now, that now she was thinking of his proposal and, for the first time, wondering whether she would have answered differently if she had not been so surprised.

  It was odd that this should come up just as she was ready to go home; just when her desire to go home was so strong that it was time to have them get her a cab and take the bags down.

  She was tired but she was not really sleepy and she decided she might as well finish packing the two bags she was taking with her. Then there would be nothing to do the next day but to get up, more or less at any time she chose, and go to the station and get on the Chief. It would be better than having the packing on her mind, and getting up too early to do it, and then, with bags all packed, wandering about the room until it was time to have them get her a cab and take the bags down.

  There was not much to pack, in any event. Almost everything had gone on in the big trunk. Things she might need on the train, possibly for a day or two at home before she got her trunk, would hardly fill the two new cases she had bought for the purpose. An extra dress or two, because she would get tired of the powder-blue suit, some blouses (in case she didn’t), stockings and underwear and shoes in the larger of the two cases; nightgowns and robe and slippers and toilet articles in the smaller. She laid out the suit, chose a blouse. She took off the dress she was wearing and packed it first in the larger case; then she took other things from hangers; then the underwear and blouses and new stockings in cellophane containers. The larger bag was only comfortably full. She looked at it, nodded, and began to check to make sure. She looked around the room to be sure, and there was nothing. She opened the drawer of the writing table, sure there would be nothing, and there was the photograph of the charcoal drawing of Great-grandfather Apple
by. Imagine, she thought. I almost left great-grandfather in California! What a terribly narrow squeak for the old boy!

  Jane looked at the picture. Good heavens, she thought. They used to say, I had great-grandfather’s eyes. She looked again, and hoped not. Great-grandfather’s left eye was appreciably lower than his right, and did not seem to be aimed in quite the same direction. It was also a little smaller. And both the eyes had, somehow, a slightly abnormal relationship to great-grandfather’s nose. Thank heaven, nobody had ever said she had great-grandfather’s nose! Or, of course, his beard, into which his nose seemed to be sinking irretrievably. But, of course, great-grandfather had not, himself, had any of these idiosyncratic features. He was, Great-aunt Susan often told her, a fine-looking man. “Father was such a fine-looking man,” Great-aunt Susan would say, and sigh. “He had such a brown beard.” As a little girl Jane had always seen that beard as a special kind of brown; as something browner than any other brown. When she had water-colors she would try to achieve the kind of brownness it must have been, but it never came out quite right, never quite as she saw it.

  He would he over a hundred—if he were alive now. Great-aunt Susan was eighty; he was, say, thirty when she was born. He would be a hundred and ten. So it must have been, since, he seemed young in the picture, eighty or almost ninety years since some traveling artist—fleeing artist, more probably—had stopped at the farm in Connecticut and drawn a portrait of John Appleby. Doing portraits was, Jane Phillips thought, probably a side line. Probably he really traveled in—what? Wooden nutmegs? Books? She found she could not think what a man would have been selling in Connecticut, near the New York State line, in the time of the Civil War. Certainly drawing—she found that still, in her mind, although never on her lips, it was “drawring”—could not have been a full-time occupation for a traveling man, particularly for this traveling man.

  Great-grandfather isn’t in uniform, Jane thought, so it probably was after the war. About the time the children were being born—Susan, her own paternal grandfather three years later, then the younger sister, Ellen. He must have begun to be prosperous about then, although probably not so prosperous as when, around 1890, he took the somewhat prodigious step of moving across the State line into New York, and into the big, square house. So the big oak must have been planted about that time, as a little oak, or even as an acorn. It was in the prime of life, then.