XVII

As John Grandin was getting into his blue suit just before dinner—the suit would have to take the place of a uniform that evening—he saw from the bedroom window that a fog had begun to gather on the flat sandy waste between the bluff and the sea. It moved along the sand like a low smoke, like vague amorphous vapor as yet unformed into clouds. It was like watching from the rim of a nearly extinct crater the little emanations of steam or gas arise faintly from its depths and float aimlessly about somewhere near the bottom. Yet the fog, unseen, had come from the upper air or from over the sea, drifting unseen toward the flat waste in the late afternoon, to take shape and become visible with the passing of the warm sunlight.

Ethel, her hair freshly set, her mouth touched up with the lipstick she so rarely used, was ready. She wore a long dark-­blue dinner gown with short sleeves, silver sandals, and no jewelry. She looked younger than at any time since they had come to the island; her figure was easily a match for the figure of any woman he would be seeing that evening; certainly more than a match for Billie’s broad hips and short stature. They went down to dinner early.

They had finished before the Haumans came in. Billie had on a short dress of shiny changeable silk, neither blue nor green, very bouffant and very young. Hauman was dressed as always in khaki; the only concession he seemed to have made to the evening was a clean shirt and an immaculate field scarf.

“We’ll be on the veranda,” Ethel said.

“I know,” Billie said; “you want to watch the moon rise.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t come up till much later,” Grandin said.

“Goodness, I hope we won’t miss it at the dance. It’s full tonight. Isn’t it thrilling?”

They sat on the porch just outside the half-­open window beyond which the Haumans were still at dinner. A heavy mist had gathered on the flats below; it was now almost certain that the evening and the night were to be obscured by a real Nantucket fog.

“I’m sorry, Ethel, but I hate dancing, as you know. However, I’ll try it once or twice, if you like.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He glanced at her, saw again how attractive she looked, and wanted to say something about it. But all he could bring out was: “In any case, I’m glad we decided to go. I’ll do my damnedest, Ethel, to see that you have a good time.”

“John,” she said, “I’m trying to forget that dreadful first night, I truly am. But it would be awful if we forgot it entirely and just let ourselves slip back into the—the nothing we’ve had for so long. . . .”

“O lord.”

“Very well, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel.” Then he added, suddenly very angry: “Jesus Christ, the way women can hang onto these things . . .”

“I’m afraid I’m not hanging onto very much at all. . . .”

Infuriated he turned away and lighted a cigarette. It was a fine start for an evening he hadn’t been looking forward to in any case. Through the window at his back he heard the Haumans talking to the Howards, who had stopped at their table. As he took in the conversation, he was almost shaken out of his chair with astonishment.

“Hey, Bill,” Hauman said gleefully, “I want you to lay off that pretty boy over there, the fag. You can’t have him—he’s mine!”

Howard laughed, while the women tittered. “The blond with his mother? Now, Cliff, I marked him for my own the first time I saw him, so you’re a little late.”

“Want to lay any bets about who makes him first?”

Hauman’s laugh, then, was so hearty and good-natured that John Grandin was nonplused. Considering Hauman’s embarrassment the first time the subject came up, he was totally unprepared for the little exchange. In spite of his own reaction against Arne Eklund on the beach, it seemed to him outrageous and cruel; and bitterly he wished he had not heard it. . . .

The Haumans joined them on the porch. “Say, Johnnie, that’s a nice topcoat you’ve got there.” He picked up the coat from the arm of a chair and fingered it admiringly. “My daddy would look nice in a coat like that. He loves good tweeds and things, and so do I. Mind if I try it on?”

It was an English Burberry in the full loose raglan style, the kind of coat that would fit anyone, even the wide shoulders of Hauman. He had bought it in London many years ago and expected or hoped to have it for the rest of his life, for he was very fond of it.

Hauman put on the topcoat and turned to see the reflection of himself in one of the windows. Standing profile to Grandin, he buttoned it down the front. The sleeves were a good four inches too short, but it fitted his shoulders and back very well. He held his arms straight and admired himself in the glass of the window.

John Grandin looked at the reflection too, and at the figure itself. He had a curious prevision of the future. It wasn’t Captain Hauman of the Marine Corps who stood here but a young roughneck in a borrowed topcoat.

Above the reflection of his shoulders, Hauman caught Grandin’s­ glance. He pulled off the coat at once and said no more about it.

The boy from the desk came along the veranda. “There’s a car here from the Coast Guard, sir, for Captain Hauman and party.”

“My, aren’t we grand,” Billie said, getting up. “Will you call Mr. and Mrs. Howard, Joe? They’re in the dining room.”

Suddenly Hauman said: “You go along, Billie, and I’ll follow in a few minutes. Something I want to do first—just an idea.”

“But how will you get to Nantucket?” she asked querulously.

“Ever hear of a serviceman not being able to pick up a ride? I’ll be there soon, but I know you’re anxious to see Toni Lansing.”

“Clifford Hauman, what are you up to? I want to know!” But he had already gone in. Pleased, she turned to the Grandins. “Now isn’t that sweet. I’ll bet he’s going to get dressed up after all.”

The Howards came out and the five of them got into the dark sedan that waited at the steps, with a young man in Coast Guard blues at the wheel. He was very polite and reserved, and greeted them with succinct military formality. Grandin sat in front with him while the others arranged themselves in the back seat. As the car pulled away, they heard the harpist begin her evening recital.

Leaving Sconset behind, the car was soon rolling over the moors toward Nantucket. The night wind was cold and damp with fog.

“I guess we’re going to have a real blackout,” Grandin said.

“I believe so, sir,” the driver replied. “But the fog might lift if the wind changes.”

In the back seat he heard Billie and Mrs. Howard talking.

“Is your name really Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you let him call you Sadie?” Billie asked, almost petulantly.

“Because I love it. I insist on Sadie.”

“Why not Sally? That’s so much nicer.”

“Sally, my god. Makes me sick. Sadie is much more sophisticated. All those names are coming back, didn’t you know? Libby and Annie and Maggie and— They’re fashionable again.”

“I think they’re horrid!”

“Why are you called Billie?”

“Well you see, my mother’s mother was named Bertha—”

“Oh, my god.”

“Well, I can’t help it.”

“You can and did,” Sarah Howard said with a laugh. “I guess I can’t blame you much for Billie. But Bert would have been much more chic. . . .”

As they reached the outer streets of Nantucket, there were signs that it was to be a gala evening for the island. Many people moved in the direction of the steamer pier; when the car turned the corner by the Whaling Museum and drove on toward the White Elephant, it became apparent that the destination of the crowd, old and young alike, was the Yacht Club. The clubhouse was lighted up festively without regard for the dimout, which apparently had been lifted for that evening.

Groups of townspeople, mainly women and young girls, lined the canopied walk that led into the club, waiting to see Toni Lansing arrive. As the car pulled in under the portico and John Grandin stepped out to assist the women to the curb, the faces of the crowd fell with disappointment; an actual moan of dismay and reproach went up from the women and girls. It was, of course, though on a much smaller scale, a down-­East variation of the well-­known Hollywood phenomenon—the frenzied “preem” of Sunset Boulevard—transferred for the evening to this small New England island, in tribute to the visiting movie star.