Эд Макбейн: Mothers and Daughters

“We picked a spot, didn’t we?” Devereaux said, grinning. “Let’s just walk, shall we?”

He handed David a cigarette and then lighted it for him. The two began strolling up the starboard side of the ship. It was a beautiful night. The mountains of Kauai nuzzled against a soft wheeling black sky.

“Is something wrong, sir?” David asked. The gun, he thought. He knows about the gun.

“No, Regan, nothing at all. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“What about, sir?” David asked apprehensively. This had to be about the gun. Somehow Devereaux had learned about the .45. I should have turned it in, David thought; I should have turned it in long before this. He had acquired the automatic shortly after the engagement in the Santa Cruz Islands, quite by accident, a simple matter of having the side arm strapped to his waist during small-arms instruction, and hearing chow-down being piped, and absent-mindedly wearing the gun into the mess hall. And afterward he had looked for the gunner’s mate who’d served as instructor and had not been able to find him, and had been called to stand his own watch, and had put the gun into his locker for safekeeping. And then, somehow, it had been too late to turn the gun in. It was government property, and he was afraid they’d think he’d stolen it. That would mean a captain’s mast, at least. Besides, there was something reassuring about the presence of the gun in his locker, resting in lethal power under his handkerchiefs.

“As you must realize,” Devereaux said, grinning, “I am the newest officer aboard in the communications division. Technically, I outrank the four ensigns in the division, but tenure and longevity seem to be on their side — so I’ve been assigned the somewhat distasteful task of censoring the men’s mail.”

“Yes, sir?” David said, and felt instantly relieved. This wasn’t about the gun, then; the gun was safe. But what... and he thought of some of the letters he’d sent to Ardis Fletcher. Was that what this was all about? Were the letters...?

Devereaux laughed suddenly. “I’m an English instructor by trade, Regan. I teach at U.C.L.A. when I’m not nursing radar. You should see some of the letters that come through. Unbelievable. Positively unbelievable.”

“Yes, sir,” David said. “Sir, if my letters—”

“Especially some of the Southern boys. Not that I’m in any way prejudiced against our Dixie brethren, but they use the language as if it were a foreign tongue. It rankles. I respect English. It’s my trade.”

“Yes, sir,” David said. He wet his lips. That’s what Devereaux was getting at, the letters to Ardis. He’d used some pretty strong language in those letters. Well, what the hell, he was writing them to Ardis and not the whole damn Pacific fleet! He was beginning to resent the idea that letters written to a girl, personal letters written to a girl with whom a fellow had been, well, intimate , could be read by some jerk from U.C.L.A. just because he had a silver bar on his shoulder. He knew his mail was censored, of course, but the censor had been someone faceless up to now. How could he ever write another personal letter, knowing that Mr. Devereaux with his crooked chipmunk smile was going to read it before it got mailed?

“Your letters are refreshing, Regan,” Devereaux said suddenly.

“Sir?”

“Your letters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I enjoy them.”

“Yes, sir,” David said, and he thought, You son of a bitch, you’ve got a lot of gall reading my personal mail and then telling me you enjoy it. “Yes, sir, thank you,” he said coldly.

“Oh, say,” Devereaux said, “I didn’t mean...”

“What did you mean, sir?”

“I wasn’t interested in content, Regan. I was only interested in style.”

“I thought the two were inseparable, sir,” David said, and Devereaux studied him appreciatively for a moment. The night was still. They could hear the water lapping against the steel sides of the ship.

“Ever tried any real writing, Regan?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Stories? A book?”

“No, sir.”

“Ever felt like it?”

“No, sir.”

“You should.”

“Why?” David asked flatly.

Devereaux shrugged. “I think you’d be pretty good.”

“Thank you, sir, but—”

“Regan, I teach creative writing, and I read a great deal of student material, and I think you have potential. I’m sorry if you felt I was intruding on your privacy by reading your mail. I have to read it, anyway. It’s my job. I didn’t ask for it, but I’ve got it. I only wanted to say that if you ever did decide to try your hand at a short story or anything else, I’d be happy to look at it and offer my suggestions and criticisms, for whatever they’re worth.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Devereaux threw his cigarette over the side. It arced toward the water, its tip glowing, and then suddenly hissed and went out.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but some of those letters were pretty personal.”

“Of course, Regan.”

“And I guess I felt a little funny, knowing you’d read them.”

“Of course.”

“And thank you, sir, for your interest, but I don’t think I’d like to be a writer.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t think I would, sir, that’s all.”

“What does your father do, Regan?”

“He’s dead, sir.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What did he do?”

“He was an art director, sir. With an advertising agency.”

“Well,” Devereaux said. “That’s very creative work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should think—”

“No, sir, thank you. Is that all, sir? I’m pretty tired. I’d like to hit the sack.”

“Sure, Regan, go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night.” He nodded and began walking aft in the darkness.

“Regan?”

David stopped.

“Think it over,” Devereaux said.

When Gillian Burke got home for the Christmas vacation, the first thing her mother said to her was “Well, how’s the big actress?”

“Just fine, thanks,” Gillian said quickly. “I’ve been offered a part in a Broadway show. I’m replacing Helen Hayes.”

“I asked a serious question,” her mother said.

“It sounded just about as serious as hell. I’m tired, Mom. I’ve been on trains for the past two and a half hours.” She paused. “I want to go to bed.”

“It’s only five o’clock.”

“Are there laws about when a person can go to bed?”

“Of course there aren’t laws!”

“Then, would you mind? I’m exhausted, and I’m about to get the curse, and I feel—”

“I see your language hasn’t improved now that you’re a serious student of the drah-mah,” her mother said.

“I am a serious student,” Gillian answered heatedly. “And, Mother, I think you should know that ridicule isn’t going to help one damn bit. I’m enrolled at Talmadge, and I’m going to keep studying at Talmadge, so why don’t you just get used to the fact that—”

“Your father spoiled you,” Virginia Burke said.

“I thought he spoiled Monica.”

“He spoiled both of you. She isn’t even coming home for the holidays, your charming sister.”

“She’s in California, Mom,” Gillian said wearily. “Do you want her to spend her entire vacation on a train?”

“There are planes,” Virginia said flatly.

“Servicemen are traveling home.”

“What do I care about servicemen? Monica’s my daughter.”

“Servicemen are very sweet-oh,” Gillian said. “I’m going to bed. Wake me when Dad gets home, will you?”

“Very what? ” Virginia said.

“Sweet-oh,” Gillian replied, and she went into her room.