Walker Percy - The Last Gentleman

“What?” Through two doorways he could see Lugurtha handle the dough up into the air, fingers dancing under it, giving way, yet keeping it up, setting gravity at nought.

“Jamie has decided not to go until after Christmas.”

“Why?”

“Then he will have his semester credits and can transfer without losing a month’s work.”

“Where is he?”

“In the sun parlor. Darling, don’t you see what this means?”

“Yes, but—”

“What’s the matter?” Swaying, her hands clasped in the small of his back in a new conjugal way, like a French girl saying farewell to her poilu, she squeezed him close and leaned away from him.

“I am afraid he might be doing it for me. Us.”

“He wants to!”

“I’m afraid you talked him into it.”

“It was his idea!”

“Who talked to him?”

Her eyes sparkled triumphantly. “Rita!”

“Rita?” He pondered. “Did Rita know that you and I might be leaving with Jamie today?”

“Yes!” Swaying triumphantly.

“And she talked Jamie into staying?”

“She didn’t talk him into anything. It was his idea. In fact, he wants more time to plan the trip.” Her tongue hollowed out her cheek and made a roguish joke. “What a nut! Imagine the three of us wandering around Arkansas in the middle of the winter like a bunch of Okies.” She shook her head at him fondly, wifely. “I’ve got news for you, you big dope.”

“Eh?”

“You’re among friends here, you know.”

“Yes.” What he could not tell her was: if I can marry, then you can travel. I can even stand this new horsy conjugal way, this sad poilu love with you, if you will hit the road with me. Jamie is dying, so he needs to go. But I need to go too. Now the pantry’s got us, locked in, with a cold potato love, and you the chatelaine with the keys at your belt. “I’d better go see Jamie.”

“He’ll tell you. What’s the matter?” Her fingers touched his sweating forehead.

“I’m hot.”

“It’s freezing in here.”

His eyes were caught in a stare. Lugurtha’s working of the biscuit dough, the quick kneading gathering movement of her hands against the sifted marble, put him in mind of something She sang:

Up in an airplane

Smoking her sweet cigarette

Keeping his hand clasped in hers, Kitty led him to the sun parlor and showed, not him to them but them to him, as if they were trophies, the articles of her proof: Jamie stretched on the sofa with a wet handkerchief across his eyes; Mrs. Vaught waiting, hands outstretched to them: a new Mrs. Vaught, too, a genial little pony of a lady, head to one side, pince-nez flashing quick family love-flashes, Rita in a wide stance, back to the coal fire. Mrs. Vaught gave him a quick press of her hand and a kiss, a dismaying thing in itself. She said nothing, but there was an easement in the air, the tender settled sense of larger occasions. The sun parlor itself was an unused ceremonial sort of place. He had only been inside it once before, when Mr. Vaught showed him his old Philco, a tall console glistening with O-Cedar. It had a tilted sounding board and it still worked. Mr. Vaught turned it on and presently the tubes heated up and put out regular 1932 static and the smell of hot speaker-silk such as used to attend the broadcasts of Ben Bernie and Ruth Etting and the Chase & Sanborn hour.

The cold wind pressed against the old-style double-hung windows, leaked through and set dust devils whirling along the tile under the wicker. There were lacquered Chinese boxes and miniature chests of drawers, a mahjong set, and a large gonglike table; the brass coalbox was stamped with a scene of jolly Dutch burghers. The coal grate, which had not been used, gave off a smell of burnt varnish. In one corner stood a stork five feet tall with a hollow eye and a beak which cut off the ends of cigars.

Mrs. Vaught twined her arm in his and, rocking slightly, held the two of them by the fire. “Did I tell you that I knew your mother very well one summer?”

“No’m.”

“It was at the old Tate Springs Hotel. Lucy Hunicutt was the prettiest little thing I have ever seen — all dark hair and big violet eyes. And beaus! They swarmed around her like flies. She was a demon tennis player and wore a little cap like Helen Wills. In fact, everyone called her ‘Little Miss Poker Face.’ But there was one boy who was hopelessly in love with her — Boylston Fisk from Chattanooga (Boylston is now chairman of the board of Youngstown and Reading) — and he was the handsomest man I ever saw. But he could never dance more than three steps with her before somebody would break. So she told him if he could ever find out the name of her favorite piece she would dance it with him. Well, somehow he did. It was ‘Violets.’ And don’t you know, he asked the orchestra to play it, not during the dance but while everyone was still at dinner. And he came across the room to her table with every eye on him and bowed and said: Miss Hunicutt, I believe this is our dance. It was like a dare, don’t you see, but she got up! And they danced the whole piece out on the floor by themselves. I swear it was the most romantic thing I ever saw in my life!”

It was as if the memory of this gentler age had dispensed Mrs. Vaught from the terrible quarrels of the present. She softened. His radar sensed it without quite defining it: the connection between the past time and the present insane quarrel over fluoridation. For him it was the other way around! It was the olden time with its sweetness and its great occasions which struck a dread to his heart! It was past fathoming.

Jamie lay with the handkerchief across his eyes and said nothing. When Mrs. Vaught let him go, the engineer went over and sat on the sofa beside him.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened?” said Jamie irritably.

“I thought we were leaving.”

“I don’t mind waiting a while. After all, what’s the big hurry?”

“But it was not your idea, the postponement.”

“Sure it was!”

“I’m packed and ready to go.”

“I know you are.”

“If you want to go, all you have to do is to get up and we’ll leave. And I think Kitty will go with us. But even if she doesn’t, I’m ready.”

“I know you are.” Jamie looked at him curiously. The engineer blushed.

“If you are staying on my account, then I don’t want it. I’d truly rather leave. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“So I am putting you on your honor to say whether it is on my account or anyone’s account that you are staying. If it is, then let’s go.”

Jamie took away the wet handkerchief and wiped his mouth but did not reply. As the engineer waited, the cold air seeped into his shoes. The jaybirds called in the ragged garden outside. Above the Philco hung a great gloomy etching of Rheims cathedral depicting 1901 tourists with parasols and wide hats and bustles strolling about its portal. The three women in the parlor, he suddenly became aware, had fallen silent. Turning his head a degree, he saw that they were watching the two of them. But when he arose, Kitty and her mother had put their heads together and were talking in the most animated way, Mrs. Vaught counting off items on her fingers as if she were compiling a list of some sort. Jamie put the handkerchief across his eyes.

Rita still stood in front of the fire, feet wide apart, hands locked behind her. She watched ironically as the shivering engineer came up to get warm.

“What’s the problem?”

“Ma’am?”

“You and Jamie don’t seem to be very happy about things.”

“Jamie told me this morning he wanted to take a trip out west — and leave immediately. I told him I would. Now I’m afraid he’s delaying the trip on my account. Don’t you think the trip would be a good idea?” He watched her closely.