“That’s nothing,” Hugo would say. “I saw Grantland Rice at the National the other day.” He was in his thirties, and he was free.
He was not a very complicated man, and he was married to a woman who did not search for complexities in him. They lived, moreover, in a time when the headshrinker was a South American Indian who had mastered the art of reducing the size of a human skull, posthumously. Gladys Tompkins Rainsford was the well-educated granddaughter of an English immigrant who had established one of the great American fortunes. Her father had gone to Princeton, taken a degree, and was easily persuaded to stay out of the way while Tompkins Iron & Steel was operated by an efficient regency, headed by an uncle. Tommy Tompkins sent his daughter to Foxcroft, and she chose to go on to Bryn Mawr and then chose to resign in the summer before her senior year, when she met Hugo Rainsford. Her mother was a lumpy little woman who traveled to Palm Beach and Bar Harbor by private car, was seldom without her parasol, and paid considerable sums in a hopeless effort to improve her negligible skill at auction bridge. She said that champagne made her acid, but she drank it anyhow. Gladys loved her ineffectual father and from a distance could pity her vulgar, lonely mother; but her feeling for the positive young man with the football reputation and the hinted-at notoriety was never in doubt. He was to be hers on any terms that were necessary, and it happened that he wanted her too. They were very nearly asked to leave the dude ranch where they met, and all parties were greatly relieved when Gladys, on the last night of a pack trip, announced their engagement.
Through the early years of their marriage Gladys frequently observed Hugo’s indifferent attitude toward football, which she put down to boredom. He had played it well, but since he could no longer play it, he had lost interest; he was the victim of bores who wanted to talk about something he had graduated from; he wanted to get away from football and make a career for himself in the financial district. But she was not convinced that she had come upon the true reason for his increasingly perfunctory attention to the devotees of the game and the game itself. After his first show of petulance on the Piping Rock golf course she commenced to wonder how important his antipathy to the game had become. His subsequent experience with the Cleveland interview revealed—or so Gladys believed—a sardonic and deep disgust with the game or some aspect of it.
It took patience, but she finally got the story, and like everything else about him, it was simple enough. “You’re wrong about my not liking the game,” he said. “I loved it, and I still do. If I had to do over again I wouldn’t take back a minute of the playing, or the business of learning the plays, or getting hurt. I didn’t like getting my teeth knocked out, but I honestly didn’t feel that till the half was over. You don’t, very much. You should have seen my leg when that son of a bitch jumped on me. The skin damn near came off with my stocking. But don’t forget, I was dishing it out, not just taking it. A lot of fellows will tell you that they get the lump before the game starts, and they’re all right after the first scrimmage. I don’t think I ever did. The only thing I was afraid of was doing something stupid, made to look silly by the opposing end, for instance. And that happened more than once. But the physical part didn’t bother me, because I figured I was pretty strong and at least an even match for most of the fellows on the opposing teams. Also, generally speaking, a tackle is more out in the open than the guards and the centers, and he’s usually pretty big, so he’s easier to keep an eye on. That means he can’t get away with as much dirty stuff as some of the others, and I never liked to play dirty. Oh, a little holding, maybe, but that wasn’t dirty. If you get away with it, fine. If not, 15 yards. And if you got away with it too often the other team’d run a couple of plays at you to keep you honest. That was how I lost my front teeth. ‘Let’s get Rainsford,’ they said. And they did. Their end, their tackle, and their fullback hit me all at once. Two straight plays. I must have been pretty groggy, but I can remember that referee looking at me. O’Ryan, his name was, and he was a dentist. Little fellow with a moustache, from Tufts. I realized later that he was looking at me professionally. My mouth. Oh, it was a lot of fun, and some of the guys I know through football will be friends of mine for the rest of my life.
“But not all.
“A name you never heard me mention was George Carr. I only mention his name now because I have to. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to understand how I feel about football. I haven’t mentioned George Carr’s name since the year you and I were married. He was a classmate of mine, both at St. Bartholomew’s and Harvard. He came from Philadelphia. His father was and probably still is a corporation lawyer, one of those Philadelphia Club-Fish House-Rabbit Club types, and a Harvard man himself. He was very anxious to have George become a good football player, but George never quite made it. He played in prep school, but at Harvard he didn’t get his freshman numerals, and in sophomore year he was dropped from the squad before the first game. I suppose that was a great disappointment to his old man, and George took it out on all athletes, but particularly football players and most of all, me. I didn’t sweat over that. He bothered me about as much as a gnat, a flea. Athletes were guys with strong backs and weak minds, and I was the prime example. Well, after we were married and I went to work downtown someone repeated a remark that George made. He told somebody that I’d do very well in Wall Street as long as I wore my sweater with the H on it. But that if I had to depend on my brains, I’d soon be like your father—sponging off Tompkins Iron & Steel.
“Now you know how I’ve always felt about your father. A very sweet man, who couldn’t possibly duplicate what your grandfather’d done. In a way, your father was licked from the start. If he went out and made a pile of money on his own, people would still say he hadn’t made it on his own. That he had fifty million to begin with. On the other hand, if he made a botch of it, he’d be blamed worse than a man that started with nothing. So your father did what he did and let your uncle take over, and I’ve never known a nicer man than your father. Therefore, when George Carr made that crack I called him up and told him I wanted to see him. He suggested having lunch, but I said I preferred to call on him at his apartment, which I did. Much to my surprise he had another fellow with him. His lawyer, he said, but if he was a lawyer he must have earned his way through law school by prizefighting, judging by his appearance. He looked plenty tough. His name was Sherman. I said I didn’t think it was necessary to have Sherman hear what I had to say, but George insisted that it was. So I asked him if the cracks I heard were accurately quoted, and he said they were. He repeated them, and included what he’d said about your father. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to make sure. Now do I take on Mr. Sherman first, or both of you two at a time?’ Sherman said I’d better not start anything, and while he was still saying it I hit him. I went at him as hard as I ever hit anybody. He was used to getting punched, not to being tackled. I drove him against the wall, so he got it both ways. The impact of the tackle, and the impact of the wall. Then I did hit him with my fist and he went down, all the fight was out of him. Then I went to work on George, with my fists, and I said ‘See how your brains get you out of this.’ You know, I’d been used to that kind of mixing it. Sixty minutes a game, and this wasn’t Marquis of Queensberry rules. We wrecked some furniture, but I came through practically unscathed, and when I saw that the game was over for that day, I put on my hat and coat and went down to the Harvard Club and had a shower and a rubdown and a few drinks. Nothing ever came of it. Obviously George Carr wasn’t going to go around town and tell people that I’d beaten up him and his bodyguard singlehanded. And I didn’t tell anybody either.”
“That must have been the first time you didn’t show up for dinner,” said Gladys.
“It was. I don’t remember what excuse I gave, but you accepted it,” said Hugo.
“But why did it turn you against football? I don’t quite see that,” said Gladys.
“I never did turn against football,” he said. “But I wan
ted to get away from football, and people wouldn’t let me. In other words, I didn’t want George Carr to be right. You know I’ve never worn my sweaters.”
“Oh, yes you have,” said Gladys. “On the pack trip in Wyoming.”
“Oh, did I? I guess I did,” said Hugo.
“I know you did,” said Gladys.
“Yes, it got quite cold at night, as I remember,” said Hugo.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
(1964)
THE WEAKLING
Robertson was a stranger to this club. He had played squash here many years ago, during his New York years in the financial district, and he thought he could find his way to the squash courts and the bar, but that was about all. “I am meeting Mr. J. L. Kemper,” he said to the club attendant. “I’m Mr. Robertson.”
The man looked at a small slip of paper. “Yes, Mr. Robertson. Mr. Kemper is expecting you. Will you go right upstairs and turn left? He’s in the lounge.”
“Thank you,” said Robertson. He was far from sure that he would recognize Kemper, but Kemper seemed sure he would recognize Robertson.
It was early for the lunchtime rush and there were only a scattered few men in the lounge. Robertson stood in the doorway, and immediately a man got up and came toward him.
“Mr. Robertson? I’m Jack Kemper,” said the man.
Robertson remembered him. He was changed greatly after nearly forty years, but the area above his mouth and below the hairline was still identifiable. He was of medium height or a trifle less, had put on weight, and had a good tailor. He was wearing the club tie, with its tiny embroidered insignia, and a white broadcloth shirt with a large gold collar-pin. He had a strong handshake.
“I’d have recognized you after all,” said Robertson.
“I knew you right away. Shall we have a drink in here? The bar is going to be crowded in a few minutes, and these young fellows make a lot of noise. What would you like?”
“A very light Scotch on the rocks, if I may,” said Robertson.
“Let’s sit over here,” said Kemper. They sat at a small table, with its inevitable kitchen matches and bowl of salted peanuts, and Kemper tapped the bell and gave the order. “It was very nice of you to come,” said Kemper. “I had to be deliberately vague in my letter, for reasons that will become apparent.”
Robertson smiled. “Well, you piqued my curiosity,” he said. “A matter of some urgency, you said, but I couldn’t imagine what.”
“I’m sorry about that, but you’ll see why,” said Kemper.
“Where did we meet? I couldn’t even remember that very well, although I knew you and I were contemporaries.”
“I’m not sure where we met, but we went to a lot of the same parties and just for the hell of it I looked you up in one of the old newspaper files and discovered that you’d played squash in this club. In fact, you played me.”
“Oh, did I? Who won?”
Kemper smiled. “I did. I creamed you. Actually, we had a pretty good team that year. We won our class. Do you still play?”
“Not squash, but I occasionally play tennis. Lawn and court. I just barely manage to get around, but I still keep at it.”
“You look in fine shape,” said Kemper. “I’ve become a golfer, which they say isn’t much exercise but I don’t know what the hell makes me so tired if it isn’t exercise. That brings up the subject of my mysterious letter.”
The waiter set down their drinks and when he was gone Kemper resumed. “Did you happen to see that George Mulvane died? You knew George, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I did see that. I read the New York papers. At my club they get the airmail editions and I saw about George. I used to see him a fair amount in the old days, but when I went back to Chicago we lost touch.”
“One does,” said Kemper. He took a sip of his drink. “See if that’s all right. Is it light enough?”
Robertson tasted his drink. “Fine, thanks,” he said.
“Then you saw that George died on the golf course. At least that’s where he had his attack. I didn’t happen to be there, but I’ve always seen a lot of George. We were at school together, and during our college years we saw each other during the summers. I may have met you through George, I’m not sure.”
“Possibly. I’d known him in college for three years. He was a class ahead of me.”
“Yes, I know,” said Kemper.
“And through him I met a lot of people in New York.”
“I know that, too,” said Kemper.
“Oh, do you?” said Robertson.
“One of them being Mae MacNeath.”
“Yes, it was George that introduced me to Mae MacNeath,” said Robertson.
“It was through George that I met Mae,” said Kemper.
“Well, I daresay there were quite a few people that would have met her in any case, with or without George. She was extremely popular. Is she still alive?”
“Yes, she’s alive. Living in a sort of nursing home out in New Jersey. Near Summit, it is.”
“Oh, dear,” said Robertson. “I don’t imagine she likes that much. Not Mae. Do you ever see her?”
“Once or twice a year. George and I and Bob Webster more or less took turns going out to see her.”
“That’s damn nice of you. What is her condition?”
“Not very good, actually. Mentally or physically. She fell and broke her hip about five years ago, and it’s very difficult for her to move around. Mentally—well, she has her good days and her bad days. Sometimes I’ve gone out to see her and the doctor that runs the place won’t let me see her. Other times we’ve gone out there and she’s been absolutely delightful.”
“It’s Mae you want to talk to me about, isn’t it?” said Robertson.
“Yes,” said Kemper. “Thanks for making it easier for me.”
“All right,” said Robertson.
“About ten years ago, I don’t know if you heard about it, but Mae was arrested for some bad cheques. She was living then at a cheap hotel in the Forties. Oddly enough, a place I’d never heard of, but it was a regular hotel. None of us had seen Mae in recent years, but when she got in this jam she told her lawyer to get in touch with George Mulvane. Which he did, and George went to her rescue. He made good on the cheques—seven or eight hundred dollars, it amounted to. And he got his own lawyers to persuade the people to drop the charges, including the district attorney’s office. One smart little son of a bitch, probably a commie, wanted to crucify her and get his name in the paper because Mae was still in the Social Register. But he was talked out of it. Lawyers have their ways.”
“Yes, they certainly have,” said Robertson.
“Then George told me about it. He did everything through his lawyers, but he went to see Mae in her hotel and she was pitiful, in dreadful shape. Terrified of going to jail, and drinking like a fish. Here she was, you know, living a few blocks from all her old friends, but most of them didn’t even know if she was alive. She had some money. An income of about three thousand a year, but almost half of that went to pay her room rent at the hotel, and she actually wasn’t getting enough to eat. And of course food wasn’t what she cared about. She stayed in her room most of the time, getting drunk and watching TV. When George went to see her the first time she was getting drunk with a Porto Rican, the elevator operator or bellboy or whatever he was.”
“Oh, dear,” said Robertson. “A familiar story, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but not when it happens to someone you know,” said Kemper. “Someone like Mae, at least.”
“Oh, of course not,” said Robertson. “I was only referring to the downward progress.”
“Well, downward is downward. The details vary from one case to another, but it’s always essentially the same story,” said Kemper.
“I daresay,” said Robertson.
“In any event, George fe
lt he had to do something, and he talked to me about it and then Bob Webster, and we all agreed to contribute a certain amount to take care of Mae. We couldn’t have her committed or certified incompetent, because none of us were related to her and we didn’t want to do that anyway. George and I finally dug up a cousin of Mae’s, a nice young woman that lived on Staten Island, who had never known Mae but agreed to act as next of kin. She signed her in at the nursing home, after being assured that we were taking all the financial responsibility. And so that’s where Mae has been these past ten years. Freshen your drink?”
“No thanks,” said Robertson.
“Unfortunately, George left no provision in his will to continue paying his share of Operation Mae, as we called it.”
“Funny. May Day is what they use instead of S.O.S.,” said Robertson. “May Day, May Day.”
“We made a few jokes about that,” said Kemper. “Very appropriate. But as I was saying, Gèorge didn’t specify in his will that he wanted any money earmarked for Mae’s upkeep. Quite understandably, as a matter of fact. Do you know Marjorie, George’s wife?”
“I may have met her.”
“Not exactly the type that throws her money around on philanthropies. And I always took for granted that George had never said anything about it to Marjorie. Knowing Marjorie, I would say that if he ever mentioned our little fund, she would threaten him with divorce. Marjorie wouldn’t believe that George or anyone else would be that sentimental about an old girl friend. Even if she went and had a look at Mae in her present state. I don’t think Mae’s been to a dentist in at least fifteen years, and—well, her looks are gone, forever. You must be getting hungry. Shall we go in?”