Time Enough For Love

DA CAPO-V

MARCH 3, 1917: KAISER PLOTS WITH MEXICO AND JAPAN TO ATTACK USA-ZIMMERMANN TELEGRAM AUTHENTIC

APRIL 2, 1917: PRESIDENT ADDRESSES CONGRESS-ASKS WAR

APRIL 6, 1917: AMERICA ENTERS WAR-CONGRESS DECLARES "A STATE OF BELLIGERENCY EXISTS"

Lazarus Long was as taken by surprise by the date of the outbreak of war with Germany as he was unsurprised by the fact itself. He was caught so flat-footed that it was not until later that he analyzed why the "hindsight" he had relied on had proved even more myopic than foresight.

The resumption of unrestricted U-boat warfare early in 1917 had not surprised him; it fitted his recollections of his earliest history lessons. The Ziminermann telegram did not disturb him even though he did not remember it; it matched a pattern he did remember-again from history, not the direct memories of a very small child-a period of three years, 1914 to 1917, when the United States had inched slowly from neutrality to war. Woodie Smith had been not yet two when the war started, not yet five when his country got into it; Lazarus had no firsthand memories of foreign affairs of a time when Woodie had been too young to grasp such remote improbabilities.

The timetable Lazarus had fixed on, once he discovered that he had arrived three years early, had worked so well that he did not realize that its "clock" was wrong until the event slapped him in the face. When he was able to take time to analyze his mistake, he saw that he had committed the prime sin against survival: He had indulged in wishful thinking. He had wanted to believe his timetable.

He had not wanted to leave his newly found first family so quickly. All of them. But especially Maureen.

Maureen- Once he decided to stay on till July 1 as originally planned, after a long night of wrestling with his troubled soul-a night of indecision and worry and letters written and destroyed-he discovered that he could stay and treat Mrs. Brian Smith with friendly but formal politeness, avoid any sign of interest in her more personal than the mores permitted. He managed to shift to his celibate mode- happy to be near her when it was possible to be so without causing Mrs. Grundy's nose to twitch-or the even sharper nose of his grandfather.

Lazarus had indeed been happy. As with Tamara-or the twins-or any of his darlings-coupling was not necessary to love. When it was expedient, he could bank the fires and forget it. He was never for one instant unaware of the tremendous physical attraction of this woman who had been his mother more than two thousand years ago (in some odd direction)-but the matter was shelved; it did not affect his manner or lessen his happiness when he was permitted to be near her. He believed that Maureen knew what he was doing (or refraining from doing) and why, and that she appreciated his restraint.

All during March he sought approved ways to see her. Brian Junior wanted to learn to drive; Gramp ruled that he was old, enough, so Lazarus taught him-picked him up at the house and returned him there-and often was rewarded with a glimpse of Maureen. Lazarus even found a way (other than chess) to reach Woodie. He took the child to the Hippodrome Theater to see the magician Thurston the Great-then promised to take him (when it opened for the summer) to "Electric Park," an amusement park and Woodie's idea of heaven. This consolidated a truce between them.

Lazarus delivered the child home from the theater, sound asleep and with no more than normal wear and tear, and was rewarded by sharing coffee with Gramp and Maureen.

Lazarus volunteered to help with the Boy Scout troop sponsored by the church; George was a Tenderfoot, and Brian was working toward Eagle. Lazarus found being an assistant scoutmaster pleasant in itself-and Gramp invited him in when he gave the boys a lift home.

Lazarus gave little attention to foreign affairs. He continued to buy the Kansas City Post because the newsboy at Thirty-first and Troost regarded him as a regular customer- a real sport who paid a nickel for a penny paper and did not expect change. But Lazarus rarely read it, not even the market news once he completed his liquidations.

The week starting Sunday the first of April Lazarus did not plan to see his family for two reasons: Gramp was away, and his father was home. Lazarus did not intend to meet his father until he could manage it naturally and easily through Gramp. Instead he stayed home, did his own cooking, caught up on chores, did mechanical work on his landaulet and cleaned and polished it, and wrote a long letter to his Tertius family.

This he took with him Thursday morning, intending to prepare it for Delay Mail. He bought a newspaper as usual at Thirty-first and Troost; after he was seated in a streetcar, he glanced at its front page-then broke his habit of enjoying the ride by reading it carefully. Instead of going to the Kansas City Photo Supply Company, he went to the Main Public Library's reading room and spent two hours catching up with the world-the local papers, the Tuesday New York Times where he read the text of the President's message to Congress-"God helping her, she can do no other!"-and the Chicago Tribune of the day before. He noted that the Tribune, staunchest foe of England outside the German-language press, was now hedging its bets.

He then went to the men's toilet, tore into small pieces the letter he had prepared, and flushed it down a water closet.

He went to the Missouri Savings Bank, drew out his account, went next to the downtown office of the Santa Fe Railroad and bought a ticket for Los Angeles with thirty-day stopover privilege at Flagstaff, Arizona, stopped at a stationer's, then on to the Commonwealth Bank and got at his lockbox, removed from it a smaller box heavy with gold. He asked to use the bank's washroom; his status as a lockbox client got him this favor.

With gold pieces distributed among thirteen pockets of his coat, vest, and trousers Lazarus no longer looked smart-he tended to sag here and there-but if he walked carefully, he did not jingle. So he walked most carefully, had his nickel ready on boarding a streetcar, then stood on the rear platform rather than sit down. He was not easy until he was locked and bolted into his apartment.

He stopped to make and eat a sandwich, then got to work on tailoring, sewing the yellow coins into one-coin pockets of the chamois-skin vest he had made earlier, then covered it with the vest from which it had been patterned. Lazarus forced himself to work slowly, restoring seams so neatly that the nature of the garment could not be detected by anyone not wearing it.

About midnight he had another sandwich, got back to work.

When he was satisfied with fit and appearance, he put the money vest aside, placed a folded blanket on the table where he had been working, placed on it a heavy, tall Oliver typewriter. He attacked the clanking monster with two fingers:

"At Kansas City, Gregorian 5 April 1917

"Dearest Lor, and Laz,

"EMERGENCY. I need to be picked up. I hope to be at the impact crater by Monday 9 April 1917 repeat nine April nineteen seventeen. I may be one or two days late. I will wait there ten days, if possible. If not picked up, I will try to keep the 1926 (nineteen twenty-six) rendezvous.

"Thanks!

"Lazarus"

Lazarus typed two originals of this, then addressed two sets of nesting envelopes, using different choices on each and addressing the outermost envelopes one to his local contact and the other to a Chicago address. He then wrote a bill of sale:

"For one dollar in hand and other good and valuable considerations I sell and convey all my interest, right, and title to one Ford Model-T automobile, body style 'Landaulet,' engine number 1290408, to Ira Johnson, and warrant to him and his successors that this chattel is unencumbered and that I am sole owner with lull right to convey title.

(s) Theodore Bronson

"April 6, 1917 AD."

He placed this in a plain envelope, put it with the others, drank a glass of milk, went to bed.

He slept ten hours, undisturbed by cries, of "Extra! Extra!" along the boulevard; he had expected them, his subconscious discounted them and let him rest-he expected to be very busy the next several days.

When his inner clock called him, he got up, quickly bathed and shaved, cooked and ate a large breakfast, cleaned his kitchen, removed all perishables from his icebox and emptied them into the garbage can on the rear service porch and turned the ice card around to read "NO ICE TODAY" and left fifteen cents on top of the icebox, emptied the drip pan.

There was a fresh quart of milk by the ice. He had not ordered it, but he had not specifically not ordered it. So he put six cents in an empty bottle, with a note telling the milkman not to leave milk until the next time he left money out.

He packed a grip-toilet articles, socks, underwear, shirts, and collars (to Lazarus, those high starched collars symbolized all the tightminded taboos of this otherwise pleasant age), then rapidly searched the apartment for everything of a personal nature. The rent was paid till the end of April; with good luck he expected to be in the Dora long before then. With bad luck he would be in South America-but with worse luck he would be somewhere else-anywhere- and under another name; he wanted "Ted Bronson" to disappear without a trace.

Shortly he had waiting at the front door a grip, an overcoat, a winter suit, a set of chessmen in ivory and ebony, and a typewriter. He finished dressing, being careful to place three envelopes and his ticket in an inner pocket of his suit coat. The money vest was too warm but not uncomfortable; the distributed weight was not bad.

He piled it all into the tonneau of the landaulet, drove to the southside postal substation, registered two letters, went from there to the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor. He noted with wry amusement that "The Swiss Garden" had its blinds down and a sign "CLOSED."

Mr. Dattelbaum was willing to accept the typewriter against a gun but wanted five dollars to boot for the little Colt pistol Lazarus selected. Lazarus let the pawnbroker conduct both sides of the dicker.

Lazarus sold the typewriter and the suit, left his overcoat and took back a pawn ticket, received the handgun and a box of cartridges. He was in fact giving Mr. Dattelbaum the overcoat since he had no intention of redeeming it-but Lazarus got what he wanted plus three dollars cash, had unloaded chattels he no longer needed, and had given his friend the pleasure of one last dicker.

The gun fitted into a left-side vest pocket Lazarus had retailored into a makeshift holster. Short of being frisked- most unlikely for so obviously respectable a citizen-it would not be noticed. A kilt was better both for concealment and for quick access-but it was the best he could manage with the clothes he had to wear, and this gun had had its front sight filed off by some practical-minded former owner.

He was now through with Kansas City save for saying good-bye to his first family-then grab the first Santa Fe rattler west. It distressed him that Gramp had gone to St. Louis, but that could not be helped, and this one time he would bull his way in, with a convincing cover story: The chess set as a present for Woodie was reason enough to show up in person, the bill of sale gave an excuse to speak to his father-No, sir, this is not exactly a present...but somebody might as well drive it until this war is over...and if by any chance I don't come back-well, this makes things simpler-you understand me, sir?-your father-in-law being my best friend and sort of my next of kin since I don't have any.

Yes, that would work and result in a chance to say goodbye to all the family, including Maureen. (Especially Maureen!) Without quite lying. Best way to lie.

Just one thing- If his father wanted to enlist him into his own outfit, then one lie must be used: Lazarus was dead set on joining the Navy. No offense intended, sir; I know you're just back from Plattsburg, but the Navy needs men, too.

But he would not tell that lie unless forced to.

He left his car hack of the pawnship, crossed the street to a drugstore, and telephoned:

"Is this the Brian Smith residence?"

'Yes, it is."

"Mrs. Smith, this is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to Mr. Smith?"

"This isn't Mama, Mr. Bronson; this is Nancy. Oh, isn't it terrible!"

"Yes, it is, Miss Nancy."

"You want to speak to Papa? But he's not here, he's gone to Fort Leavenworth. To report in-and we don't know when we'll see him again!"

"There, there-please don't cry. Please!"

"I was not crying. I'm just a teensy bit upset. Do you want to speak to Mama? She's here...but she's lying down."

Lazarus thought fast. Of course he wanted to speak to Maureen. But- Confound it, this was a complication. "Please don't disturb her. Can you tell me when your grandfather will be back in town?" (Could he afford to wait? Oh, damn!)

"Why, Grandpa got back yesterday."

"Oh. May I speak to him, Miss Nancy?"

"But he's not here, either. He went downtown hours ago. He might be at his chess club. Do you want to leave a message for him?"

"No. Just tell him I called...and will call again later. And, Miss Nancy-don't worry."

"How can I help worrying?"

"I have second sight. Don't tell anyone but it's true; an old gypsy woman saw that I had it and proved it to me. Your father is coming home and will not be hurt in this war. I know."

"Uh...I don't know whether to believe that or not-but it does make me feel better."

"It's true." He said good-bye gently, and hung up.

"Chess club-" Surely Gramp would not be loafing in a pool hail today? But since it was just across the street, he might as well see...before driving out to Benton and waiting in sight of the house for him to return.

Gramp was there, at the chess table but not even pretending to work a chess problem; he was simply glowering.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson."

Gramp looked up. "What's good about it? Sit down, Ted."

"Thank you, sir." Lazarus slid into the other chair. "Not much good about it, I suppose."

"Eh?" The old man looked at him as if just noticing his presence. "Ted, would you say that I was a man in good physical condition?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Able to shoulder a gun and march twenty miles a day?"

"I would think so." (I'm sure you could, Gramp.)

"That's what I told that young smart-alec at the recruiting station. He told me I was too old!" Ira Johnson looked ready to break into tears. "I asked him since when was forty-five too old?-and he told me to move aside, I was holding up the line. I offered to step outside and whip him and any two other men he picked. And they put me out, Ted, they put me out!" Gramp covered his face with his hands, then took them down and muttered, "I was wearing Army Blue before that snotty little shikepoke learned to pee standing up."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"My own fault. I fetched along my discharge...and forgot about its having my birth date on it. Look, Ted, if I dyed my hair and went back to St. Looie-or Joplin-that would work...wouldn't it?"

"Probably." (I know it didn't, Gramp...but I think you did manage to talk your way into the Home Guard. But I can't tell you that.)

"I'll do it! But I'll leave my discharge at home."

"In the meantime may I drive you home? My Tin Lizzie is around in back."

"Well...I suppose I've got to go home-eventually."

"How about a little spin out Paseo to cool off first?"

"That's a n'idee. If it won't put you out?"

"Not at all."

Lazarus drove around, keeping silent, until the old man's fuming stopped. When Lazarus noted this, he headed back and turned east on thirty-first Street, and parked. "Mr. Johnson, may I say something?"

"Eh? Speak up."

"If they won't take you-even with your hair dyed-I hope you won't feel too bad about it. Because this war is a terrible mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said." (How much to tell him? How much can I get him to believe? I can't hold back altogether-this is Gramp...who taught me to shoot, and a thousand other things. But what will he believe?) "This, war won't do the slightest good; it will just make things worse."

Gramp stared at him, under knotted brows. "What are you, Ted? Pro-German?"

"No."

"Pacifist, maybe? Come to think about it, you've never had one word to say about the war."

"No, I'm not a pacifist. And I'm not pro-German. But if we win this war-"

"You mean 'When we win this war!'"

"All right, 'when we win this war,' it will turn out that we've actually lost it. Lost everything we thought we were fighting for."

Mr. Johnson abruptly changed tactics. "When are you enlisting?"

Lazarus hesitated. "I've got a couple of things I must do first."

"I thought that might be your answer, Mr. Bronson. Good-bye!" Gramp fumbled with the door latch, cursed, and stepped over onto the running board, thence to the curb.

Lazarus said, "Gramp! I mean 'Mr. Johnson.' Let me finish running you home. Please!"

His grandfather paused just long enough to look back and say, "Not on your tintype...you pusillanimous piss-ant." Then he marched steadily down the street to the car stop.

Lazarus waited and watched Mr. Johnson climb aboard; then he trailed the trolley car, unwilling to admit that there was nothing he could do to correct the shambles he had made of his relations with Gramp. He watched the old man get off at Benton Boulevard, considered overtaking him and trying to speak to him.

But what could he say? He understood how Gramp felt, and why-and he had already said too much and no further words could call it back or correct it. He drove aimlessly on down Thirty-first Street.

At Indiana Avenue he parked his car, bought a Star from a newsboy, went into a drugstore, sat down at the soda fountain, ordered a cherry phosphate to justify his presence, looked at the newspaper.

But was unable to read it- Instead he stared at it and brooded.

When the soda jerk wiped the marble counter in front of him and lingered, Lazarus ordered another phosphate. When this happened a second time,. Lazarus asked to use a telephone.

"Home or Bell?"

"Home."

"Back of the cigar counter and you pay me.'~

"Brian? This is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to your mother?"

"I'll go see,"

But it was his grandfather's voice that came on the line: "Mr. Bronson, your sheer effrontery amazes me. What do you want?"

"Mr. Johnson, I want to speak to Mrs. Smith-"

"You can't."

"-because she has been very kind to me and I Want to thank her and say good-bye."

"One moment-" He heard his grandfather say, "George, get out. Brian, take Woodie with you and close the door and see that it stays closed." Mr. Johnson's voice then came back closer: "Are you still there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then listen carefully and don't interrupt; I'm going to say this just once."

"Yes, sir."

"My daughter will not speak to you, now or ever-" Lazarus said quickly, "Does she know that I asked to speak to her?"

"Shut up! Certainly she knows. She asked me to deliver that message. Or I would not have spoken to you myself. Now I too have a message for you-and don't interrupt. My daughter is a respectable married woman whose husband has answered his country's call. So don't hang around her. Don't come here or you'll be met with a shotgun. Don't telephone. Don't go to her church. Maybe you think I can't make this stick. Let me remind you that this is Kansas City. Two broken arms cost twenty-five dollars; for twice that they'll kill you. But for a combined deal-break your arms first and then kill you-there's a discount. I can afford sixty-two fifty if you make it necessary. Understand me?"

"Yes."

"So twenty-three skidoo!"

"Hold it! Mr. Johnson, I do not believe that you would hire a man to kill another man-"

"You had better not risk it."

"-because I think you would kill him yourself."

There was a pause. Then the old man chuckled slightly. "You may be right." He hung up on Lazarus.

Lazarus cranked his car and drove away. Presently he found that he was driving west on Linwood Boulevard, noticed it because he passed his family's church. Where he had first seen Maureen- Where he would never see her again.

Not ever! Not even if he came back again and tried to avoid the mistakes he had made-there were no paradoxes. Those mistakes were unalterably part of the fabric of space-time, and all of the subtleties of Andy's mathematics, all of the powers built into the Dora, could not erase them.

At Linwood Plaza, he parked short of Brooklyn Avenue and considered what to do next.

Drive to the station and catch the next Santa Fe train west. If either of those calls for help lasted through the centuries, then he would be picked up on Monday morning-and this war and all its troubles would again 'be something that happened a long time ago-and "Ted Bronson" would be someone Gramp and Maureen had known briefly and would forget.

Too bad he had not had time to get those messages etched; nevertheless, one of them might last, If not-then make rendezvous for pickup in 1926. Or if none of them got through-always a possibility since he was attempting to use Delay Mail before it was properly set up-then wait for 1929-and carry out rendezvous as originally planned. No problem about that; the twins and Dora were ready to keep that one, no matter what.

Then why did he feel so bad?

This wasn't his war.

Time enough and Gramp would know that the prediction he had blurted out was simple truth. In time Gramp would learn what French "gratitude" amounted to-when "Lafayette, we are here!' was forgotten and the refrain was "Pas un sou a l'Amérique!" Or British "gratitude" for that matter. There was no gratitude between nations, never had been, never would be. "Pro-German"? Hell, no, Gramp! There is something rotten at the very heart of German culture, and this war is going to lead to another with German atrocities a thousand times more terrible than any they are accused of today. Gas chambers and a stink of burning flesh in planned viciousness- A stench that lasted through the centuries- But there was no way to tell Gramp and Maureen any of this. Nor should he try. The best thing about the future was that it was unknown. Cassandra's one good quality was that she was never believed.

So why should it matter that two people who could not possibly know what he knew misunderstood why he thought this war was useless?

But the fact was that it did matter-it mattered terribly.

He felt the slight bulge against his left ribs. A defense for his gold-gold he did not give a damn about. But a "termination option" switch, too.

Snap out of it, you silly fool! You don't want to be dead; you simply want the approval of Gramp and Maureen-of Maureen.

The recruiting station was under the main post office, far downtown. Late as it was, it was still open, with a queue outside. Lazarus paid an old Negro a dollar to sit in his car, warned him that there was a grip in the back, promised him another dollar when he got back-and did not mention ' the money vest and pistol, both now in the grip. But Lazarus did not worry about car or money-might be simpler if both were stolen. He joined the queue.

"Name?"

"Bronson, Theodore."

"Previous military experience?"

"None."

"Age? No, date of birth-and it had better be before April 5, 1899."

"November 11, 1890."

"You don't look that old, but okay. Take this paper and through that door. You'll find sacks or pillow cases. Take your clothes off, put 'em in one, keep 'em with you. Hand this to one of the docs and do what he tells you."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Get moving-next."

A doctor in uniform was assisted by six more in civilian clothes. Lazarus read the Snellen Card correctly, but the doctor did not seem to be listening; this seemed to be a "warm body" examination. Lazarus saw only one man rejected, one who was (in 'Lazarus' horseback judgment) in the terminal stages of consumption.

Only one physician seemed at all anxious to find defects. He had Lazarus bend over and pull his buttock cheeks apart, felt for hernias and made him cough, then palpated his belly. "What's this hard mass on the right side?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Have you had your appendix out? Yes, I see the scar. Feel the ridge, rather; the scar hardly shows. You had a good surgeon; I wish I could do one that neat. Probably just a mass of fecal matter there; take a dose of calomel and you'll be rid of it by morning.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't mention it, Son. Next."

"Hold up your right hands and repeat after me

"Hang onto these slips of paper. Be at the station before seven tomorrow morning, show your slip to a sergeant at the information desk; he'll tell you where to board. If you lose your slip of paper, be there anyhow-or Uncle Sam will come looking for you. That's all, men, you're in the Army now! Out through that door."

His car was, still there; the old Negro got out. "Eve'ything's fine, Cap'm!"

"It surely is," Lazarus agreed heartily while getting out a dollar bill. "But it's 'Private,' not 'Captain.'

"They took you? In that case, I cain't hahdly take youah dollah."

"Sure you can! I don't need it; Uncle Sam is looking out for me for the 'duration,' and he's going to pay me twenty-one dollars a month besides. So put this with the other one and buy gin and drink a toast to me-Private Ted Bronson."

"Ah couldn't rightly do that, Cap'm-Private Ted Bronson, suh. Ah'm White Ribbon-Ah took the plaidge befoah you was bohn. You jes' keep youah money and hang the Kaisuh fo' us."

"I'll try, Uncle. Let's make this five dollars and you can give it to your church...and say a prayer for me."

"Well...if you say so, Cap'm Private."

Lazarus tooled south on McGee feeling happy. Never take little bites, enjoy life! "K-K-K- Katy! Beautiful Katy-"

He stopped at a drugstore, looked over the cigar counter, spotted a nearly empty box of White Owls, bought the remaining cigars, asked to keep the box. He then bought a roll of cotton and a spool of surgical tape-and, on impulse, the biggest, fanciest box of candy in the store.

His car was parked under an arc light; he let it stay there, got into the back seat, dug into his grip, got out vest and pistol, then started an un-tailoring job, indifferent to the chance of being seen. Five minutes with his pocketknife undid hours of tailoring; heavy coins clinked into the cigar box. He cushioned them with cotton, sealed the box and strengthened it by wrapping it with tape. The slashed vest, the pistol, and his ticket west went down a storm drain and the last of Lazarus' worries went with them. He smiled as he stood up and brushed his knees. Son, you are getting old-why, you've been living cautiously!

He drove gaily out Linwood to Benton, ignoring the city's seventeen-miles-per-hour speed limit. He was pleased to see lights burning on the lower floor of the Brian Smith residence; he would not have to wake anyone. He went up the walk burdened with the candy box, the case for chessmen, and the taped cigar box. The porch light came on as he reached the steps; Brian Junior opened the door and looked out. "Grandpaw! It's Mr. Bronson!"

"Correction," Lazarus said firmly. "Please tell your grandfather that Private Bronson is here."

Gramp appeared at once, looked at Lazarus suspiciously. "What is 'this? What did I hear you tell that boy?"

"I asked him to announce 'Private Bronson.' Me." Lazarus managed to get all three packages under his left arm, reached into a pocket, got out the slip of paper he had been given at the recruiting station. "Look at it."

Mr. Johnson read it. "I see. But why? Feeling the way you do."

"Mr. Johnson, I never said I was not going to enlist; I simply said I had things to do first. That was true, I did have. It's true also that I have misgivings about the ultimate usefulness of this war. But regardless of any opinion-which I should have kept to myself-the time has come to close ranks and move forward together. So I went down and volunteered and they accepted me."

Mr. Johnson handed back the recruitment form, opened the door wide. "Come in, Ted!"

Lazarus saw heads disappearing as he came in; apparently most of the family was still up. His grandfather ushered him into the parlor. "Please sit down. I must go tell my daughter."

"If Mrs. Smith has retired, I would not want her to be disturbed," Lazarus lied. (Hell, no, Gramp! I'd rather crawl in with her. But that's one secret I'll keep forever.)

"Never you mind. This is something she will want to know. Uh, that piece of paper-may I have it to show her?"

"Certainly, sir."

Lazarus waited. Ira Johnson returned in a few minutes, handed back the proof of enlistment. "She'll be down shortly." The old man sighed. "Ted, I'm proud of you. Earlier today you had me upset-and I spoke out of turn. I'm sorry-I apologize."

"I can't accept it because there is nothing to apologize for, sir. I spoke hastily and did not make myself clear. Can we forget it? Will you shake hands with me?"

"Eh? Yes. Surely! Mrrph!" Solemnly they shook hands. (Maybe Gramp could still straight-arm an anvil-my fingers are crushed.)

"Mr. Johnson, would you take care of some things for me? Things I didn't have time to do?"

"Eh? Certainly!"

"This box, mainly." Lazarus handed him the taped cigar box.

Mr. Johnson took it, his eyebrows shot up. "Heavy."

"I cleaned out my lockbox. Gold coins. I'll pick it up when the war is over...or if I don't, will you give it to Woodie? When he's twenty-one?"

"What? Now, now, Son, you'll come through all right."

"I plan to, and I'll pick it up then. But I might fall down a ladder in a troopship and' break my silly neck. Will you do it?"

"Yes, I'll do it."

"Thank you, sir. This is for Woodie right now. My chessmen. I can't pack them around. I'd give them to you except that you would- think up some reason not to take them but Woodie won't."

"Mrrph. Very well, sir."

"Here's one thing that is for you-but it's not quite what it seems." 'Lazarus handed over the bill of sale for the landaulet.

Mr. Johnson read it. "Ted, if you're trying to give me your automobile, you can think again."

"That's only a nominal conveyance of title, sir. What I would like is to leave it with you. Brian can drive it; he's a good driver now, he's a natural. You can drive it; even Mrs. Smith might want to learn. When Lieutenant Smith is - home, he may find it convenient. But if they send me for training anywhere near here and I get time off before I'm sent overseas, I'd like to feel free to use it myself."

"But why hand me a bill of sale? Sure, it can sit in the barn and no doubt Brian-both of them-would drive it. Might learn to herd it myself. But no need for this."

"Oh. I didn't make myself clear. Suppose I'm off somewhere, say in New Jersey-but want to sell it. I can drop you a penny postcard, and it's easy, because you'll have that." Lazarus added thoughtfully, "Or I might fall down that ladder...in which case the same reasoning applies. If you don't want it, you can sign it over to Bran Junior. Or whatever. Mr. Johnson, you know I don't have any relatives--so why not let it run easy?"

Before Gramp could reply, Mrs. Smith came in, dressed in her best and smiling (and had been crying, Lazarus felt certain). She extended her hand. "Mr. Bronson! We are all so proud of you!"

Her voice, her fragrance, the touch of her hand, her proud joy, all hit Lazarus in the gut; his careful conditioning was swept away. (Maureen beloved, it's lucky that I'm being sent away at once. Safer for you, better all around. But I did it to make you proud of me, and now my cup runneth over-and please ask me to sit down before Gramp notices the tilt of my kilt!)

"Thank you, Mrs. Smith. I just stopped by to say thank you and good-bye-and good night, too, as I'm shipping out early tomorrow morning."

"Oh, do please sit down! Coffee at least, and the children will want to say good-bye to you, too."

An hour later he was still there and still happier-happy all through. The candy had been opened after he had presented it to Carol for all of them. Lazarus had drunk much coffee thick with cream and sugar and had eaten a hefty slice of home-baked white cake with chocolate icing, then accepted a second while admitting that he had not eaten since breakfast then protested when Maureen wanted to jump up and cook. They reached a compromise under which Carol went out to make a sandwich for him.

"It's been a confusing day," he explained, "and I haven't had time to eat. You caused me to change plans, Mr. Johnson."

"I did, Ted? How?"

"You know-I think I've told you both-that I planned to make a business trip to San Francisco leaving the first of July. Then this happens-Congress declaring war-and I decided to make the trip at once, settle my affairs there-then enlist. When I saw you I was all set to leave, packed and everything-and you made me realize that the Kaiser wouldn't wait while I took care of private affairs. So I joined up at once." Lazarus managed to look sheepish. "My packed grip is still out in the car, going nowhere."

Ira Johnson looked pained. "I didn't mean to rush you, Ted. 'Twouldn't have hurt to take a few days to wind up your affairs; they can't organize an army overnight. I know, I saw 'em try, in 'Ninety-eight. Mrrph. Perhaps I could make the trip for you? As your agent. Seeing that- Well, doesn't look like I'm going to be too busy."

"No, no! A million thanks, sir-but I hadn't been thinking straight. Thinking 'peacetime' instead of 'wartime' until you got me back on the rails. I went to Western Union and wrote a night letter to my broker in Frisco, telling him what I wanted him to do; then I wrote a note appointing him my attorney-in-fact and got it notarized and went to the downtown post office and registered it to him. All done, everything taken care of." Lazarus was enjoying the improvisation so much he almost believed it. "Then I went downstairs and enlisted. But that grip-Do you suppose you could put it in your garret? I won't be taking a grip to soldier. Just a few toilet articles."

"I'll take care of it, Mr. Bronson!" said Brian Junior. "In my room!"

"In our room," George corrected. "We'll take care of it."

"Hold it, boys. Ted? Would it break your heart if you lost that grip?"

"Not at all, Mr. Johnson. Why?"

"Then take it with you. But when you get back to your flat tonight, pack it differently. You put in white shirts and stiff collars, no doubt. You won't need those. If you've got any work shirts, take those. Be sure to take a pair of well-broken-in high shoes you can march in. Socks-all you own. Underwear. It's my guess-based on sad experience-that they won't have enough uniforms right away. Confusion, and lots of it. You may be soldiering for a month or more in what you carry with you."

"I think," Mrs. Smith said seriously, "that Father is right, Mr. Bronson. Mr. Smith-Lieutenant Smith, my husband- was saying something like it before he left. He left without waiting for his telegram-it came hours later-because he said he knew that there would be confusion at first." Her mouth twitched. "Although he said it more forcefully."

"Daughter, no matter how Brian put it, it wasn't forceful enough. Ted will be lucky if his beans are on time. Any man who can tell his right foot from his left will be grabbed and made acting corporal; they won't care how he's dressed. But you care, Ted-so take along clothes you might wear on a farm. And shoes-comfortable shoes that won't put blisters on you the first mile. Mmm- Ted, do you know the coldcream trick? To use on your feet when you know you might have your shoes on for a week or more?"

"No, sir," Lazarus answered. (Gramp, you taught it to me once before-or maybe "after"-and it works, and I've never forgotten it.)

'"If possible, have your feet clean and dry. Smear your feet all over and especially between your toes with cold cream. Or Vaseline, carbolated is best. Use lots, a thick layer. Then put on socks-clean if possible, dirty if you must, but don't skip them-and put your boots on. When you first stand up, it feels as if you'd stepped into a barrel of soft soap. But your feet Will thank you for it and you won't get jungle rot between your toes. Or not as much. Take care of your feet, Ted, and keep your bowels open."

"Father."

"Daughter, I'm talking to a soldier-telling him things that may save his life: If the children can't hear such things, send them up to bed."

"I think it is time," Maureen answered, "to get the younger ones quieted down, at least."

"I don't have to go to bed!"

"Woodie, you do exactly what your mother tells you to and no back talk-or I'll bend a poker over your bottom. That's standing orders until your father gets home from the war."

"I'm going to stay up till Private Bronson leaves! Papa said I could."

"Mrrph. I'll discuss the logical impossibility of that with a club; it's the only way to make you understand it. Maureen, I suggest that we start with the youngest, let 'em say good-bye in turn, and then march straight up to bed. Which winds up in due course with me walking Ted to his streetcar stop."

"But I was going to drive Uncle Ted home!"

Lazarus judged that it was time to speak up. "Brian, thank you. But let's not give your mother something extra to worry about tonight. The trolley takes me almost straight home and from tomorrow on I won't even have streetcars; I'll walk."

"That's right," agreed Gramp. "He'll march. 'Hay foot, straw foot!-heads up and look proud!' Ted, his father made Brian Sergeant of the Guard until he gets back, charged with internal security of this household."

"Then he can't leave his post of duty to chauffeur a mere private, can he?"

"Not in the presence of the Officer of the Guard-me-and of the Officer of the Day, my daughter. Reminds me- While the young 'uns are kissing you good-bye, I want to dig out a couple of my old Army shirts; I think they'll fit you. If you don't mind hand-me-downs?"

"Sir, I will be proud and honored to wear them!"

Mrs. Smith stood up. "I have something I must get for Mr.-Private Bronson, too. Nancy, will you bring down Ethel? And Carol, will you fetch Richard?"

"But Private Bronson hasn't eaten his sandwich!"

Lazarus said, "I'm sorry, Miss Carol. I've been too excited to eat. Uh, would you wrap it for me? I'll eat it the minute I'm back in my apartment-and it will make me sleep soundly."

"Do that, Carol," decided her mother. "Brian, will you fetch down Richard?"

After more backing and filling Lazarus told them all goodbye, in reverse order of seniority. He held Ethel for a moment and grinned at her baby smile, then kissed the top of her head and handed her back to Nancy, who took her upstairs and hurried back down. To kiss Richard, Lazarus had to get down on one knee. The child seemed unsure why this was happening but knew that it was a solemn occasion; he hugged Lazarus tightly and smeared his cheek with a kiss.

Woodie then kissed him-for the first and only time, but Lazarus no longer felt bothered by touching "himself" as this little boy was not himself but simply an individual from whom he derived some scattered memories in an odd concatenation. He was no longer tempted to strangle him-or not often.

Woodie used the unaccustomed intimacy to whisper: "Those chessmen are really ivory?"

"Really truly ivory. Ivory and ebony, just like the keys on your Mama's piano."

"Gee, that's keen! Look, when you come back, Uncle Private Bronson, I'll let you play with them. Anytime."

"And I'll beat you, Sport."

"Says you! Well, so long. Don't take any wooden nickels." Little Marie kissed him with tears in her eyes, then fled from the room. George kissed him on the cheek and muttered, "You be careful, Uncle Ted," and left also. Brian Junior said, "I'll take real good care of your automobile-I'll keep it shined just the way you do," then hesitated-suddenly kissed his cheek and left, leading Richard.

Carol had his sandwich, neatly wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a ribbon. He thanked her and put it into an outer coat pocket. She placed her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoes and whispered, "There's a note in it for you!"-kissed his cheek and left quickly.

Nancy took her place and said quietly, "The note is from both of us. We're going to pray for you every night when we pray for Papa." She glanced at her mother, then put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth, a firm peck. "That's not good-bye but au revoir!" She left even more quickly than her sister, head high and moving like her mother.

Mrs. Smith stood up, said quietly, "Father?"-and waited.

"No."

"Then turn your back."

"Mmrph. Yes." Mr. Johnson studied the pictures on the wall.

With a soft rustle Mrs. Smith came close to Lazarus, looked tip at him, held up a little book. "This is for you."

It was a vest-pocket New Testament; she held it opened at the fly leaf. He took it and read the original inscription, somewhat faded:

"To Maureen Johnson, Good Friday 1892, for perfect attendance. Matthew vii 7"

And under this, in fresh and crisp Spencerian script:

To Private Theodore Bronson

Be true to self and country.

Maureen J. Smith

April 6, 1917

Lazarus gulped. "I will treasure it and keep it with me, Mrs. Smith."

"Not 'Mrs. Smith," Theodore- 'Maureen." She put up her arms.

Lazarus stuffed the little book into his breast pocket, put his arms around her, met her lips.

For a long moment her kiss was firm and warm but chaste. Then she moaned almost inaudibly, her body softened and -came strongly against him, her lips opened, and she kissed him in a fashion that Lazarus could barely believe even as he answered it in kind-a kiss that promised everything she could give.

After some uncounable eternity she whispered against his lips: "Theodore...take care of yourself. Come back to us."