On the morning of September 2nd, Charles called Phyllis. All at once, he wanted to see her. She would speak of nothing he wished to avoid speaking of, he knew. She would understand everything without a single word. She would be the very essence of comfort and serenity and consolation. He had anticipated hearing her voice with pleasure. When he actually did hear it, over the telephone, he was filled with wonder and a quick, releasing delight. He had not known how much he had missed her, and how much he loved her, until he heard her say: “Charles! Oh, Charles.”
“Phyllis, I’m coming up to have dinner with you tonight. Alone. I want to talk—talk—”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course. Oh, Charles.” Had her voice always been so sweet, so alive, and had it always struck at his heart like this, with such tenderness? He was sure it had not. He called his son and told him where he was going. Jim was enthusiastic. “Give Aunt Phyllis a kiss for me, Dad,” said the boy. “And tell her to hurry up and marry you.” He hung up, chuckling.
Phyllis was waiting for him at the gate where he had once left her. He saw her long before he reached her, a slender figure in mauve voile, waving to him. The early September evening flooded the mountains with warm blue light, and it seemed to Charles that the last sun was all concentrated on Phyllis’ hair. He had walked, for in walking he had found some escape from his awful and harassing thoughts, and now he walked faster, waving his straw hat at her, and she waved again and took a few steps into the road. Behind her, the white house stood bright against the green slope, silent but no longer mysterious and retreating.
Charles looked for some change in Phyllis, and found it. Her face was not so tense, now, and not so thin, and there was a vividness in her eyes and in her smile which he had not seen since she had been very young. She appeared very beautiful to him, and all that he had ever wanted; her blue eyes shone at him with unspeakable love. She gave him her hand, and, as she had done the last time he had seen her, she put her head on his shoulder, simply and naturally. There was just one moment when he glanced discreetly at the house, then he recklessly put his arms around her and held her to him. They said nothing. They stood like that for a long time, and Charles knew the first peace he had known for more than a year. She was living and slender in his arms; he kissed her hair, and touched it with his hand. The memory of Wilhelm and Mary was the memory of friends, affectionate and devoted, mourned and loved. But only friends.
They went up the private road to the house, hand in hand, as they had often walked when they had been engaged, swinging their locked hands a little, and smiling at each other. They did not look at the staircase where Wilhelm had fallen to his death. There were no ghosts here, watchful and unfriendly. Just friends. Charles did not glance around instinctively for his brother, as he had done before. Still, Charles was sad, and for an instant or two he could feel a sudden hatred for Jochen, who had caused Wilhelm such suffering.
They went into the music room, and Charles remembered: Etude. Yes: finished, fulfilled, complete in itself. The flowerbeds outside glimmered with color in the first twilight; the trees stood still in silence. A few birds were drinking from the white baths on the heavy green grass. The doors were open to the freshness of the evening, and the faint sound of the mountain breeze. Charles and Phyllis lingered on the threshold and looked at the garden. He had his arm about her, holding her close to him, and his tension went from him completely.
Phyllis brought his favorite whiskey and soda, and a glass of wine for herself. They sat near the doors and studied each other, smiling. Charles thought: It’s a lovely place, up here, but I don’t think she’d mind leaving it. We’ll build somewhere. We’ll start out fresh, new. He said: “When are you going to marry me, Phyllis?”
She laughed gently. “Next summer. Jimmy will be home then, from Harvard.”
Of course. A year must go by. Willie had been dead hardly four months. Charles looked at his glass. He wanted to say: “Not next summer. Now. My son’s going away. How can I be alone—with everything?” Then some of his pain came back.
“Yes. Jimmy’s going away. I know it’s just to school. But it’ll be the first time he’s left me. Yes, he’ll be back for vacations, and in the summers. But it’s a going away, after all. It’s a change, and even though he’ll come back, he’s really on his way out of my life. It’s nothing to him; it’s a beginning. For me, it’s an end.” He added: “All summer, we’ve been making plans, and being glad that he’s been accepted, and we thought it’d be all right. Perhaps it is, for Jimmy. I wish I’d had more children.”
Phyllis regarded him with compassion. “Yes, I know,” she said. Then she colored brightly. He wondered at this. Then he thought: I’ve forgotten. Phyllis is still a young woman. There could be children. She’s always wanted them, I know. We can have them. I’m not so old, after all. I’m only forty-one. Lots of men have children in their forties. I could have another son, and perhaps a daughter. He looked at Phyllis shyly. She put out her hand and he took it. The pain retreated.
“This seems—just right. You and me, here,” said Charles hopefully.
“Of course, Charles.” Her fingers were warm and firm in his. She smiled.
Two years from now, I could have another son, Charles thought again. He drank his whiskey, to hide his elation. He was conscious of an unfamiliar recklessness. He wanted to say, again; Not next summer. Now. Afraid that she would know what he was thinking, he asked her about California, and all the other places where she had been, and she told him some amusing stories about Mrs. Holt in Hollywood, and how Mrs. Holt was so gratified that her friend, Cecil deMille, had allowed her to be part of a mob scene. They said nothing about the war; they did not speak of Jochen, and what had happened during those terrible months Phyllis had been away.
Charles found that Phyllis expected him to sit in Wilhelm’s place. He hesitated only briefly, then felt once more that this is what his brother would have wished. The dinner was good and simple, with no wine sauces, no lobster, no consommé. Charles said, as he carved the roast beef: “Willie never liked what he called ‘raw blood.’” They laughed. Charles thought: We’ll call the boy Wilhelm. Willie’d like that.
Later, Charles asked: “We’ll find a place to build, Phyllis? A nice house. Solid. Substantial. We’ll look around, very soon, so the house will be ready for us.”
Had he said something wrong? For Phyllis was looking troubled and uncertain. She lifted her eyes, and they were blue light in the glow of the candles. “Charles, I’ve thought I’d like to live in your house. I like it. I couldn’t imagine you—us—anywhere else.”
“That house?” said Charles, amazed. He glanced about the beautiful dining-room. “You can’t really mean that, Phyllis.” He hardly believed it, and he wondered why he should feel so relieved, so delighted.
“I do mean it. Honestly, my dear. You are part of the house; you were born there. Jimmy was born there. I’ve always loved it. No, it isn’t ‘ugly.’ It’s kind and old. It’s a home. Oh, I’ll do all sorts of frightful things to it, of course! Fresh bright paper, and new rugs and quite a lot of my furniture and pictures, and things. You’ll be horrified.” She laughed at him, gayly. “But we’ll keep the house, and all those old apple and peach trees, and the garden. I’m homesick for it.”
He knew now that it would have been unbearably painful for him to leave his home. He wanted to stay there, to wait for Jim to come back from school. He wanted to sit on the wide verandah, with Phyllis, and hear the summer voices passing in the street. There was so much in that house, so much of his life. He knew, all at once, that Phyllis had never really lived in this lovely house which his brother had built. She had never been happy here. He said: “Has there ever been any time when we haven’t loved each other, Phyllis?”
Yes, she thought. There were years when you hardly thought of me. You had Mary, and Jimmy, and you were contented. But I always loved you. She said: “I can’t think of a time when we didn’t love each other.” And she smiled, sadly.
They went to sit on the terrace in the still darkness. A moon stood over the great trees. Charles was drinking another whiskey and soda. He had not wanted to talk of what had happened in the last months. But she was sitting close to him, and their hands were together, and he began to talk. The moonlight lay on her quiet and listening face. Charles talked on and on, as he had never talked to anyone before. He could not help himself. Sometimes he clutched Phyllis’ hand so that her fingers were bruised. But she said nothing, and only listened.
“I wouldn’t be able to stand it, if we got into this war—Jimmy’d be just old enough—they’d take him—I don’t understand, Phyllis—I’ve seen the photographs of the English and French and Russian and German troops—boys—laughing, singing, shouting—I don’t understand—I suppose I never understood anything—the boys don’t know either—”
He went on and on, at times incoherent, passionate, and desperate. He could hide nothing from her now. He could not control himself. He found words, stumbled over some, shook his head numbly. The moon rode higher over the trees, brilliant, swimming in its own light. Crickets were shrilling in the grass. Phyllis listened, aching, but still silent, sometimes putting her head on his shoulder, sometimes watching his face in the white radiance, sometimes sighing. Was this frantic man, speaking so loudly, so bitterly, so despairingly, the old stolid Charles, the “sensible” Charles of the Wittmann Machine Tool Company, the “reliable” and moderating Charles everyone knew? No, this was the real Charles, the Charles kept hidden for over forty years. She lifted his hand to her lips, to comfort him, but he only looked at her for a moment, dazed, then went on talking.
Then he was talking about Jochen, and she shrank a little. “I’ve been hearing reports,” he said, and there was nothing in his voice but misery and gloom. “He’s wretched. In our company, he was a big man, a man of consequence, a man who knew his business. What is he now? Assistant to that little black rat Brinkwell! Someone who could be replaced. What does it matter that he gets a large salary, and is Brinkwell’s friend, and visits Brinkwell’s country house near Philadelphia, and knows so many ‘important’ people? What does it matter if Isabel is mentioned daily in the newspapers; and goes to New York with Brinkwell’s wife, and is reported ‘dining’ with famous people, and is accepted socially everywhere? I saw Joe, once or twice, at a distance, and he’s a broken man—”
You’re sorry for him, even if you hate him, even if you wanted to kill him, as he really killed Wilhelm, thought Phyllis. Something ended for you when you forced him out, my poor dear. You are so afraid of things ending. You like the world to stay unchanged.
She said, very gently: “Jochen did these things to himself, dear Charles. You can’t control peoples’ lives.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose you’re right, Phyllis,” he said. He put his glass to his mouth. It was empty, now, and he stared at it, helplessly. Then he added: “It’s this feeling I have, that I can’t control anything, no matter how I try—I always thought one could—Things get away from you—Things happen—You try to think what you should have done, and then you know that nobody can do anything. Phyllis, I can’t stand this war.”
She felt his huge dread, his active terror. She knew the war had just one face, and that was the face of his son. He talked of the Connington Steel Company; he talked of everything. But always, everything was Jimmy. The moon was overhead, and the leaves of the trees were blazing silver, and the mountains were black against a dark blue sky. It is so peaceful here, thought Phyllis, but it is an illusion. I don’t suppose there was ever really any peace any time in the world, or in men.
She looked at the moon, and said in herself: Our Father, Who art in Heaven—Man passed in a bloody dream, but God remained. She wanted to tell this to Charles. It might help him. But she could say nothing, and could only think: Deliver us from this evil.
It was almost midnight before they went back into the house. Charles was quieter now. He held Phyllis to him, and his arms were tired. He said, trying to smile: “I had to talk to you, Phyllis. It hasn’t solved anything. But it was a relief.”
She put her hand to his haggard face, and kissed him. “My poor darling,” she said. That was all any woman could ever say to any man. He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. “It was a relief,” he repeated.
He found Jimmy waiting for him, and he was glad, though it was very late. He said: “It’ll be next summer, son.” They shook hands solemnly. They went upstairs together, and for the first time in many months Charles fell asleep instantly. Something had happened to him, was his last thought. Something had comforted him. Perhaps things might not be so bad as he had thought.