H. M. Pulham, Esquire Read online

  “Hello, Tilly,” I said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pulham,” Tilly said. “It’s a nice morning, or afternoon—rather.”

  “That’s so,” I said. “It is afternoon.”

  “I see you and Mrs. Pulham was in Cohasset for the week end,” Tilly said.

  “How did you see that?” I asked.

  “In the paper,” Tilly said. “I always follow all the tenants in the building in the paper. It’s like a game, kind of.”

  Outside on State Street it was warm and the traffic was thick. Washington Street was the way I had always remembered it, except for the jam of automobiles. There were a great many newsboys calling out headlines about Czechoslovakia and the crowd moved very slowly, as it always did when I was in a hurry. Out by the Common an old lady was feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons out of a paper bag and some sailors were standing by the subway entrance. As long as I could remember there had always been someone standing watching someone feed the pigeons.

  I was not a member of the Downtown Club, but the doorman seemed to be expecting me.

  “Mr. Brown is in the back room,” he said, “he and his party.”

  This was a little surprising, because I had understood that Bo-jo and I were going to have lunch alone. I walked past the cigar counter and past the billiard room, which had been redecorated since the days of Prohibition, and down at the end of the back room I saw Bo-jo Brown, sitting at a table with four other people. At first I thought he must have met them there accidentally, and then their faces took on a sort of pattern. They were all members of our Class at Harvard, but not the ones whom Bo-jo Brown would ordinarily have asked to lunch. They were Curtis Cole, who was in his father’s law office down on State Street, and Bob Ridge, who sold life insurance, and Chris Evans, who I had heard was on the Boston Globe, and Charley Roberts, who had something to do with the Eye and Ear Hospital. Bo-jo saw me right away and got up.

  “Harry,” he said, “it’s swell to see you.”

  “It’s swell to see you, Bo-jo,” I said.

  “You know all these boys, don’t you?” Bo-jo asked me.

  “Yes,” I answered, “I’ve known them for quite a while.”

  “For damned near twenty-five years,” Bo-jo said.

  “How do you mean?” I asked. Bo-jo began to laugh.

  “Now, listen!” he said. “Did you boys hear that one? Harry doesn’t know what’s going to happen a year from June.”

  Then everyone else began to laugh.

  “Oh,” I said, “you mean it’s our Twenty-fifth Reunion.”

  “What you need is a drink,” Bo-jo said. “What do you want—an old-fashioned or a Martini?”

  “I’ve got to get back to the office after this,” I said, “but you boys go right ahead.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Bo-jo. “Forget the office. This is an occasion—an important occasion. We don’t see much of each other, do we—not nearly as much as we ought to. William, get Mr. Pulham an old-fashioned. I remember how you used to drink them at the Westminster, Harry. Do you remember downstairs in the Westminster freshman year?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “the Westminster.”

  “William,” Bo-jo said to the club attendant, “get two old-fashioneds for Mr. Pulham, and then a round of the same for everybody else. Harry had better start catching up with us.”

  “That’s right,” said Curtis Cole. Bo-jo sat down again and I drew up a chair between Curtis Cole and Chris Evans, and no one spoke for a moment.

  “Have a cigarette?” Chris asked me, and he glanced at me sideways. The sleeve of his coat was frayed and his forehead was lined with wrinkles, and I tried to think of something to say to him. I tried to pick up some thread of the past, but I could not remember much about him.

  “I haven’t seen you for quite a while,” I said.

  “No,” Chris said, “not for quite a while. How’s it been going, Hugh?”

  “Harry,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” Chris said, “Harry. God, I must be losing my mind! How’s it been going, Harry?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Well, that’s great,” said Chris, and I turned to Curtis Cole.

  “Curtis,” I asked, “do you still play golf at Myopia?”

  “Myopia?” said Curtis.

  “Yes,” I said. “I always associate you with golf at Myopia.”

  “It must be someone else,” said Curtis. “I don’t play golf.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  “I sail,” said Curtis, “whenever I have any time. In the S Class. I wish you’d come out in the boat someday.”

  “That’d be swell,” I said. “What do you suppose we’re here for?”

  “Damned if I know,” said Curtis.

  “Well, it’s swell to see you,” I said. “I haven’t seen you for quite a while.”

  “Hurry up there, Harry,” Bo-jo called. “You’re one behind us.”

  I turned back to Chris again, trying to think what it was I remembered about him.

  “Chris,” I said, “what’s the latest news from Europe?”

  “It looks bad,” said Chris, “but you can’t tell.”

  “Do you think there’s going to be a war?” I asked.

  “What’s that?” called Bo-jo. “What are you saying, Harry?”

  “I was asking Chris if he thought they were going to fight,” I said.

  “Now, listen,” said Bo-jo, and he moved his hands quickly. “I can tell you something about that. I had New York on the private wire just before we came up here. We’re nearer peace this moment than we have been for the past five years. Sorry that’s all I can tell you, fellows, but you remember what I said. Peace nearer than it’s been in the last five years.”

  “I suppose you mean that Chamberlain’s going to welsh again,” Charley Roberts said.

  Bob Ridge looked across the table at me. There was one thing about Bob Ridge: being in the life insurance business, he knew who everybody was.

  “Harry,” Bob said, “did you get that little thing I sent you on your birthday?”

  “My birthday?” I said. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, of course it wasn’t anything much,” Bob said. “Just a letter-opener.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I remember now.”

  “Of course it wasn’t anything much,” Bob said, “but I thought you’d like it on your desk, just to remind you you’re a year older.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Bo-jo called. “Nobody here is going to sell anything to anybody, and nobody’s going to talk about bonds or the European situation. That isn’t what we’re here for. We’re just here to get together, because we ought to see more of each other. And now that we’re here, I want to propose a toast.” Bo-jo slapped his hand on the table and stood up.

  “Do we all have to stand up, Bo-jo?” I asked.

  “Everybody who hasn’t got the guts to stand up,” said Bo-jo, “can just roll under the table. I’m proposing a toast to the Class—the best damned Class there ever was—and to the Class that’s going to have the best damned Twenty-fifth Reunion there ever will be, because you and I and all of us are going to make it that way. And that’s what we’re here for, because we want ideas about it. Now, toss the drinks off, fellows, and let’s go up to lunch.”

  Bo-jo walked upstairs ahead of us in quick springy steps, head up, shoulders back. Chris Evans, who walked beside me, slouched as though he were still bending over a desk. His eyes behind his glasses had a pinched, tired look. I was quite certain that I did not look as old as Chris or any of those others, and neither did Bo-jo. Bo-jo and I had kept ourselves more fit.

  “I don’t see what Bo-jo wants me for,” I said to Chris, “if he is looking for ideas. I have never had ideas.”

  The lenses of his glasses glinted as he turned toward me. Chris had that sour look worn by most newspapermen and writers.

  “We’ll find out,” Chris said. “I can’t recall that he ever spoke to
me in college.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, “you know the way things are, Chris. You make friends later.”

  “You’re damned well right you do,” Chris said.

  “This way, boys,” Bo-jo called. “The first door on the right—unless anybody wants to get washed first. Does anyone want to wash?”

  No one wanted to wash.

  “It looks as though we’re in a private dining room,” I said to Chris.

  “Come on, boys,” Bo-jo called. “Come on. First door on the right.”

  “The voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,” Chris said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,” Chris repeated. “Play up! Play up—and play the game! By Sir Henry Newbolt. God’s gift to the British Empire.”

  “Newbolt?” I said. “I never heard of him.”

  “Well, you hear him now,” Chris said.

  In front of us Bob Ridge was speaking to Curtis Cole.

  “Curtis,” he was saying, “that specimen—”

  “What specimen?” Curtis asked.

  “The one you gave us at the office,” Bob Ridge said.

  “Well, what the hell about it?” Curtis asked.

  “You must have been drinking water beforehand, weren’t you?” Bob Ridge asked. “You were, weren’t you?”

  “God almighty,” Curtis said, “what’s the matter with drinking water?”

  “The doc said we’ll have to do it again, Curtis.”

  “We?” said Curtis. “Where the hell do you come in?”

  “Well, I know it’s silly,” Bob began, “but some representative of the company must be present. It’s just a regulation.”

  “Come on, boys,” Bo-jo called. “Come on.”

  II

  Mr. Hilliard Tells All

  The private dining room contained an oval table. There was a picture of the Grand Canyon on one wall and a yellowed photograph of Boston after the fire of 1872 on the other.

  “All right, boys,” Bo-jo said. “Sit down anywhere. And get the soup on. We’re all hungry.”

  First there was oxtail soup, and then came breaded veal cutlets, and then came a choice of blueberry pie or ice cream—a heavy lunch, more than I was used to eating, more than any of us wanted to eat—except Chris Evans, who looked hungry. The conversation was scattered as though we had come to realize that we were not there to talk. Curtis was telling me about his boat. Bo-jo was talking to Charley Roberts at the end of the table.

  “Charley,” he said, “what do you do for exercise these days?”

  “I think about it mostly,” Charley said.

  “That’s the way it is,” said Bo-jo. “Doctors never take care of themselves.”

  “There isn’t any time,” Charley answered.

  “Now, don’t pull that on me,” Bo-jo said. “Every doctor I know is always on a cruise or amusing himself whenever someone is having a baby. You doctors always consider yourselves as a class apart.”

  “We don’t,” Charley said.

  “You doctors,” Bo-jo told him, “always pretend you know everything. Now, actually, there are just as many boneheads in the medical profession as there are in business. Why, I damned near went to the medical school myself.”

  “That ought to bear your statement out,” said Charley.

  “I’m just saying,” Bo-jo said, “that doctors don’t know everything.”

  “Well, they don’t,” Charley said.

  “They either assume they know everything,” said Bo-jo, “or else they take the other tack. They say they just don’t know.”

  “Well, what do you want us to do?” Charley asked.

  “Now, that’s begging the question,” Bo-jo said. “And you’ve got plenty of time to exercise if you want to. Look at me. Sometimes I don’t get home till ten o’clock, but I always have time for exercise. If I can’t do anything else I get on the rowing machine.”

  “Whose rowing machine?” Charley asked.

  “My rowing machine,” Bo-jo said. “I have one in my dressing room in town and one out in the country. If all you boys had rowing machines you’d be better off. Every morning of my life I get on it for half an hour before breakfast, and when I get home I get on it and get up a good sweat before I change, and frankly I’m just as fit as I ever was. Do you know what I did last night?”

  Faces turned toward him. No one knew what he had done.

  “I was up at Joe Royce’s for dinner, and I don’t know how it came up, but somehow he bet me that I couldn’t walk downstairs on my hands. I walked down two flights of stairs on my hands.”

  “Did you get corns on them?” Charley asked. Bo-jo began to laugh, and he beckoned to the waiter.

  “You can pass around the Scotch-and-soda now,” he said. “We’ll have brandy with the coffee.”

  Curtis Cole had stopped talking about the boats, and Bob Ridge leaned across the table.

  “Curtis, before we forget it we might make an appointment.”

  “What for?” Curtis asked.

  “What we were talking about, Curtis. It’s just a formality. What time do you get up in the morning?”

  Curtis Cole’s eyes opened wider.

  “Now, look here, Bob,” he said. “I know you’ve got to make a living—”

  “You just tell me what time you get up in the morning,” Bob said, “and I’ll be right there.”

  “What the deuce are you boys talking about?” Bo-jo asked.

  “Nothing,” said Bob. “It’s just a business matter, Bo-jo.”

  “Well, what are you going to do to Curtis in the morning?”

  Curtis Cole pushed back his chair.

  “He isn’t going to do one damned thing to me in the morning.”

  “It’s just a matter of business, Bo-jo,” Bob said.

  “Now, we’re not here to talk business,” Bo-jo said.

  “I’m glad to hear you say it,” Curtis said.

  “What are you so sore about?” Bo-jo asked. “What’s the matter with you, Curtis?”

  “We’d better skip it,” Curtis said. “But I’m just tired of having my classmates try to sell me things.”

  “Now, listen, boys,” said Bo-jo, “let’s not talk about business.”

  After the dessert was taken away we had coffee and brandy and cigars. I looked at my watch. It was two o’clock.

  “Bo-jo,” I said, “this has been perfectly swell, but I ought to be getting back.”

  “Now, listen,” said Bo-jo, “no one has to go back for a while, anywhere. If you boys just relax and lean back and listen, I’ve got something to say that’s important. We’ve got to put aside personal matters. We’ve all got to do something for the Class.”

  Bo-jo leaned his elbow on the table. He passed one of his hands over his close-cropped head and his eyebrows drew together.

  “I don’t know how it is,” Bo-jo said, and he gave a quick short laugh, “that I always get things put over on me. I’m always the one who has to do all the work. Now when we have to get ready for the Twenty-fifth here I am and everybody comes around to me and says, Well, go ahead, get it started, you’re elected. Well, all right. I’m going to get it started. There’ll be a lot of committees before we get through—entertainment committees and God knows what; but in the end it’s going to come down to the graduates who live around here. It’s up to us whether or not our Twenty-fifth is going to be something to remember, and when I thought it over I wondered how it would be if we started with just a small, informal committee, made up of people who didn’t want to blow their own horns, but who are loyal to the Class, and who aren’t afraid to work. That’s why I picked you men. We’re just our own little committee and by God we’re going to take our coats off and pitch in.” No one said anything.

  “Now, don’t look so blank,” Bo-jo said. “It isn’t going to be tough when we get started. We’re all going to get right behind this and push it through, and we’re all going to have a damned good time. Of course the whole s
ystem is pretty well worked out. The classmates and their wives and kids arrive and we put them into dormitories. But then the wives have to be entertained, and the kids have to be entertained, and we have to be entertained. Someone’s got to see that the kids don’t all get mixed up. Well, the wives can do that. But the thing that’s bothering me is the big final entertainment, the one the whole class takes part in, the wives and kids and everybody. Now, last year they had a band playing popular tunes and the kids sang the old songs. Everybody had a good time except some of the kids got lost. Now, has anybody got suggestions about an entertainment?”

  There was another silence.

  “Come on—come on,” Bo-jo said. “Naturally there’ll be a ball game and a men’s dinner and an outing at some country club or else at someone’s place at Brookline, if anyone at Brookline has a place big enough. But what worries me is what about the entertainment. How about it, boys?”

  “Someone might write a show,” Curtis said. “I hear they did that once.”

  “All right,” said Bo-jo. “Who can write a show? Can anyone here write one?”

  No one seemed able to write one. Bo-jo’s glance, level and confident, turned diagonally across the table toward Chris Evans.

  “How about it, Chris?” he asked. “Can’t you write a show?”

  Chris put both his elbows on the table.

  “I don’t know how, and besides I haven’t got the time.”

  “Well, go ahead and try,” Bo-jo said. “That’s the least anyone can do.”

  “I haven’t got the inclination,” Chris said, and his voice grew edgy. “And I haven’t got the time because I work for my living.”

  “Well, we’ve all got to take a little time out and work for this,” said Bo-jo, “and it’s going to be like a vacation. We’re all going to recapture something of the old days. Frankly, now, doesn’t everyone agree that the happiest time he ever spent was those four years back at Harvard?”