Should Old Acquaintance..

‘HELLO,’ you splutter, having slipped on the sample of Cashmere Bouquet in your hotel shower, grabbed a towel, and rushed to the telephone, carrying enough water with you to make you welcome in the Dust Bowl.

‘Hello, John,’ a friendly voice answers. ‘This is Tom.’

‘Who?’ ‘Tom.’

Although Raymond Gram Swing, bidding the world ‘Good evening,’ could not be more distinct, you say, ‘I’m awfully sorry. The connection’s so bad I can’t quite hear.’

‘Hello —John?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Hello, John. This is Tom.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘John, this is Tom Hewlett.’

‘Oh. Hello, hello. How are you?’ You hear these words as you speak them, but more plainly you hear a voice within you saying, ‘Tom Hewlett, Tom Hewlett, Tom Hewlett,’ as if by repeating the name enough the proper associations will follow, just as a whole poem can sometimes be recalled by doggedly resaying its first words.

‘Remember?’

‘Of course. Don’t be silly.’ This is not a lie. You do remember. Rather you will remember if only someone prompts you —just a little. It’s not your fault if you can’t remember names. It in no way means you dislike the person whose name you have forgotten. You didn’t ask to be born this way any more than Josephine desired to fail Napoleon dynastically or than Jack petitioned prenatally to be a Ripper. Your wife would know, bless her. She never forgets a name; your long suit is faces. Together you do quite nicely. Even single-handed you don’t abandon hope. It will come back to you — in a very short time. Meanwhile trial balloons are in order.

‘How are all of you?’ ‘What?’ asks Tom. ‘I say, how are all of you?’ ‘We?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why, the gang’s fine.’ ‘Oh — that’s good.’

The gang. Is this a clue? Or a red herring? Of course. Tom Hewlett was the fellow who was orphaned when you were both at college, and who has been living out here ever since in a proud state of bachelorhood. Or was that Frank Nevins? No, it must have been Tom. Frank Nevins went into the diplomatic service. He’s been in China. No, Nicaragua. Or was that Eddie Behn?

‘What?’ asks Tom, wondering what could have happened during the pause.

‘I say, “That’s good.’”

‘When did you blow in?’

‘Early this morning. At six-thirtyseven,’ you add, delighted to be definite about something.

‘When are you pulling out?’

‘Twelve-eleven,’ you continue, gaining confidence by the minute.

‘Evelyn wants you to come out to the house for dinner when you’re through this afternoon.’

‘Evelyn?’ you ask, applying the towel to the forehead, this time to perspiration.

‘Yes, Evelyn.’

‘Oh. That is nice of her. How is Evelyn?’

‘She’s fine.’ ‘Good.’ ‘And Dan sends his best.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Dan.’ ‘How is Dan?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘That’s good.’

‘By the way, John, can you come tonight?’

‘I’d like nothing better.’

‘Francis and Freddie will be waiting, too.’

‘Frances and Freddie? How nice.’

‘And Susie’s looking forward to seeing the Ole Massa.’

‘Is he coming too?’

‘Well, you said you were, didn’t you?’ Tom asks with just the smallest show of impatience. By now you are in an indigo funk. ‘Incidentally,’ Tom adds, ‘can you be in the lobby at sixthirty? It takes quite a while to drive out to Cherrywood. Either Dan or I will come by for you.’

‘Fine,’ you reply, pausing for a moment in an attempt to summon enough courage to ask Tom for a bill of particulars. But, just when you think your courage is about to find its voice, to your horror you hear Tom say, ‘Okay,’ and hang up.

You go back to your shower, your heart heavy, your head reeling. Perhaps the hot water will help, you think, exposing yourself to a lobster’s fate. No, the cold. But neither the hot nor the cold comes to the rescue. Then you dress hurriedly, and descend to the dining room for a solitary luncheon. Although people seated at near-by tables may think you are chewing your consommé, soft boiled eggs, and tea with odd vigor, what you are really doing is muttering to yourself the names of Tom Hewlett and his gang.

During the lecture that afternoon you have to fight against calling William Saroyan Tom Hewlett. You ask the chairlady if by any chance she has seen Tom Hewlett lately.

‘Tom Hewlett? ‘ She is obviously puzzled.

‘Yes. We went to college together, I think.’

‘Sorry. Never heard of him,’ is her answer. ‘They must be newcomers. You see, a lot of people have moved here since the defense program got under way.’

Returning to the hotel, you write your wife a long letter asking her who Tom Hewlett is. You know your itinerary makes it impossible for you to get an answer for three days. Still, you convince yourself it would be nice to know even by then.

At six-twenty-five, as promised, you go downstairs and wait so long at the desk that the clerk finally begins to eye you with suspicion. Just when you are about to explain your mission, a ruddy, dark-eyed man walks into the lobby. Yes, the face is familiar. You would spot it anywhere. The only question to be decided is whose face it is.

‘Hello, John,’ says the owner of the ruddy complexion. ‘Good to see you. How the hell have you been?’

‘Fine, and it’s good to see you.’ ‘Henry’s out front.’ ‘Henry? How is Henry?’ ‘Hitting on all fours.’

By now your friend with the ruddy face has led you to his car. To your surprise no one is in it.

‘Well, we better push off,’ says he.

‘Oughtn’t we wait for Henry?’ you ask timidly.

‘Henry’s waiting on us,’ he laughs.

‘Where?’

‘You’re riding in him, you nut!’

‘Oh,’ you say, wondering to yourself why there are people who can’t be content to call a Buick a Buick or a Ford a Ford.

For the next few minutes Henry requires so much manipulation through traffic that there is very little talk.

Being a Southerner, and therefore hating a pause in a conversation as much as a Vermonter can resent an interruption to a pause, you again send out your antennae.

‘You’re looking well.’ This seems a safe way of breaking the ice.

‘Never felt better.’

‘How’s Dan?’

‘Dan? What’s the matter with you tonight, John? Do you feel all right?’

‘Why, yes.’ By now your heart is using your shoe as a retaining wall.

‘Don’t you mean Tom?’

‘Yes, Dan, I do. You know, your tongue gets so tired lecturing you can say almost anything when you’re through.’

A great weight is off your mind. You are really happy at last.

‘How’s Tom’s business?’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ Dan replies.

‘Has the defense program boomed it?’

‘Not exactly,’ Dan answers, glancing at you quickly to see if you are joking. ‘Obstetricians haven’t yet had the time to receive any benefits.’

‘That’s right,’ you say, laughing uproariously. ‘Oh, by the way, speaking of obstetricians, are Tom and Evelyn happy?’

‘Tom and Evelyn?’

Although something tells you this is the wrong question, a strange stubbornness manifests itself. ‘Yes. All I said was, are they happy?’

‘Tom seems so.’

‘And Evelyn?’

‘Gay as always.’

‘Any children yet?’ You are really very proud of this question, thrown out as it is at the world in general.

‘Well, I guess Tom hopes not,’ is Dan’s reply.

‘Yes, I guess he does,’ is all you can think of saying, wondering what could be the matter with Tom anyway.

‘You know bachelors,’ Dan chuckles. ‘Tom’s a great fellow, though. He’s been awfully nice to us. Does things for us all the time. Like telephoning you this morning when Evelyn was down at the paper and I was tied up at the office. The children are crazy about him.’

The children! Suddenly the clouds begin to lift. ‘How are the children?’ you ask, still afraid of making a misstep.

‘Oh, Freddie and Francis are grand.’

‘Freddie must be pretty big by now.’

‘Growing bigger all the time, but Francis is still much taller.’

‘Where are you going to send Freddie to college, Dan ? ‘

‘Smith.’

‘Smith?’

‘Yes. You see, Evelyn went there, and Frederica’s heart is set on it.’

‘I see. Time certainly does change things, doesn’t it?’

‘Yep. Just think, she was only in the eighth grade when you saw her last, and in another year she’ll be in college.’

‘And Frances, Dan. Where are you sending her?’

‘Harvard.’

‘Oh. Let’s see, now. What class will he be in?’

‘Class of ‘45.’

‘Well, well. Just imagine.’

By now Dan has driven Henry up the driveway to a very pleasant white colonial house with green shutters.

‘Here we are!’ cries Dan.

‘My, how good it is to be here again!’ you exclaim, because after all you have seen this house before.

‘Not here!’ Dan answers. ‘We just moved in last spring.’

‘But it is like the old place, isn’t it?’ you hear yourself insisting with unfortunate pertinacity.

‘Not quite. You see, we were in an apartment downtown.’

‘That’s right. But it was an awfully nice one, wasn’t it?’

‘We hated it,’ says Dan with wonderful amiability. ‘So did black Susie. Oh, by the way, Susie’s having fried chicken for you tonight. Remember how you liked it before? The night you ate so much of it we called you Ole Massa, Susie said she knew you would be as starved for Southern cooking up here as she is. She’s got a wonderful memory.’

Once inside the front door, you see two nice children you could swear you have never seen before, inasmuch as they have shed their former selves since last you saw them. You recognize Evelyn, and are delighted to see her. Furthermore, you have no difficulty in telling her from Susie. For this you are profoundly grateful.

Now the whole happy experience of three years ago comes back to you. Everything except Dan’s and Evelyn’s last name. You become panic-stricken as you realize you can’t possibly express the gratitude you know you are going to feel by sending a bread-and-butter letter addressed to ‘Mr. and Mrs. Dan.’ The children offer no help. They only say ‘Mother’ and ‘Daddy.’ Although you hope Susie will come to your aid, she limits herself to a very occasional ‘Mr. Dan’ and ‘Miss Evelyn.’ When cocktails are served you take a peek at the napkins, but the ‘H’ with which they are marked keeps its secret. Finally, in desperation you begin to slip books out of the bookcase. But as these either are uninscribed or have their flyleaves covered with inscriptions reading, ‘Merry Christmas to dear Evvie, from Dan,’ or ‘Merry Christmas to Dan darling, from Evvie,’ they do not help.

The telephone rings and Evelyn answers it. ‘Tom’s so sorry. He can’t come,’ she says, returning. ‘He was counting on seeing you. But he’s been called over to West Arden on a case.’

‘I’m sorry, too,’ you reply. ‘Awfully sorry. I’d like to see Tom.’ What is more, you mean it. Tom Hewlett has begun to arouse your curiosity. You have earned a view of him.

Just as dinner is announced, you spy a framed picture on the hall table. The face looks vaguely familiar. By now everything seems so safe that you are sure you are taking no chance at all.

‘That’s a good picture of Tom,’ you say, with great aplomb.

‘Tom?’ asks Dan with some surprise. ‘Why, John — that’s Frank Nevins.’