Heinlein, Robert A - Time Enough for Love, page 61
Carol: Laz and Lor again but two years younger than Nancy. She is as interested in boys as is Nancy—but frustrated; Mama has her on a. short leash. Quivers her chin, which Mama ignores.
Brian Junior: Dark hair, looks more like Papa. Rising young capitalist. Has a newspaper route which be combines with lighting gas streetlamps. Has a contract to deliver advertising handbills, for the local moving-picture theater which he farms out to his younger brother and four other boys and pays them in tickets to the theater and keeps some for his own use and sells the rest at a discount (four cents instead of five) at school. Has a vending bar for soda pop (a sweet, bubbly drink) on the corner in the summers but plans to franchise this to his younger brother this coming summer; he has another enterprise lined up. (As I recall, Brian got rich quite young.)
Let me explain something about our family. They are prosperous by here-&-now standards—but do not show it except that they live in a large house in a good neighborhood. Not only is Papa a successful businessman, but also this is a time when the Howard endowment of babies is substantial in terms of buying power—and Mama has had eight already. To all of you, being a “Howard” means a genetic heritage and a tradition—but here-&-now it means cash, money for babies—a stock-breeding scheme and we are the stock.
I think Papa must be investing the money Mama makes by having Howard babies; they certainly are not spending it—and this accords with my own dim memories. I don’t know what was done for my siblings, but I received getting-started money when I first married— money I had not expected and which had nothing to do with the Howard endowments my first wife earned by being fertile and willing. Since I married during an economic stalemate, this made a big difference. Back to the kids— The boys not only do work; they have to work—or they have nothing but clothes and food. The girls receive very small cash allowances but are required to do housework and to help with the younger children. This is because it is very difficult for a girl to earn money in this society—but a boy who will get out and try has endless opportunities. (This will change before the century is over, but in 1917 it is true.) All the Smith kids work at home (Mama hires a laundress one day a week, that’s all), but a boy (or girl) who finds outside cash-money work is relieved of housework to that extent. Nor does he have to “pay back” this time off; he keeps what he earns and spends it or saves it, the latter being encouraged by Papa matching such savings.
If you think Papa and Mama are intentionally making moneygrubbers of their offspring, you are right.
George: Ten T-years old, Brian Jr.’s junior partner, shadow, and stooge. This will end in a few years with George busting Brian one in the mouth.
Marie: eight and a freckled tomboy. Mama is having a difficult time trying to make a “lady” out of her. (But Mama’s gentle stubbornness—and biology—will win. Marie grew up to be the beauty of the family, with beaux underfoot—and I hated them as there had been a period when I was her pet. Marie was the only one of my siblings I was close to; it is possible to be lonely in a large family, and I was—except for Gramp, always, and Marie, for a short time.)
Woodrow Wilson Smith—still short of five by several months and as offensive a brat as was ever allowed to grow up. I am appalled to be forced to admit that this stinking little snot is the weed which grew up to be humanity’s fairest flower, namely, Ol’ Buddy Boy himself. So far he has spat in my hat when it was presumably out of his reach on the cloak rack in the hail, referred to me with various disparagements, of which “Here’s that dude in the derby again!” is the mildest. He kicked me in the stomach when I tried to pick him up (my error; I didn’t want to touch him but thought I should break myself of irrational queasiness), and accused me of cheating at chess when in fact he was cheating—he called my attention to something out the window, then moved my queen one square, and I caught him at it and called him on it. And so on, ad nauseam.
But I continue to play chess with him because: (a) I am determined to get along with all my first family for the short time I will be here; and (b) Woodie will play chess at any opportunity, and Gramp and I are the only chessplayers around who will put up with his poisonous ways. (Gramp clobbers him as necessary; I have no such privilege. But if I were not afraid to find out what would happen, I might strangle him. What would happen? Would half of human history disappear and the rest be changed beyond recognition? No, “paradox” is a null word; the fact that I am here proves that I will keep my temper long enough to get shut of the little beast.)
Richard: three and as affectionate as Woodie is difficult. Likes to sit on my lap and be told stories. His favorite is about two redheaded twins named Laz and Lor who fly a magic “airship” through the sky. I feel a tender sadness about Dickie, for he will (did) die quite young, assaulting a place called Iwo Jima.
Ethel: a heavenly smile at one end and a wet diaper at the other. Short on conversation.
That’s my (our) family in 1917. I expect to stay in K.C. until Papa returns—soon, now—then leave; some of this is a strain on me, pleasant as most of it is. I may look them up when this war is over—but probably not; I don’t want to crowd my welcome.
To make the above clear I should explain some of the customs here. Until Papa gets home, my status has to be through Gramp as a friend he plays chess with; it can’t be anything else even though he—and perhaps Mama— believe that I am Uncle Ned’s son. Why? Because I am a “young” bachelor, and by the local rules a married woman cannot have a young bachelor as a friend, particularly when her husband is out of town. The taboo is so firm I don’t dare give even the appearance of violating it…on Mama’s account. Nor would she encourage me to. Nor would Gramp permit it.
So I’m welcome in my own home only if I go there to see Gramp. If I telephone, I must ask for him. And so on.
Oh, it’s permissible, on a rainy day, for me to offer a ride home to members of the Smith family at church. I am permitted to do almost anything for the kids as long as I don’t “spoil” them—which Mama defines as spending much more than five cents on one of them. Last Saturday I was allowed to take six of them on a picnic in my automobile carriage. I am teaching Brian to operate it. My, interest in the kids is considered understandable by Mama and by Gramp because of my “lonely” and “deprived” childhood as an “orphan.”
The one thing I must never do is to be alone with Mama. I don’t go inside my own home unless publicly accompanied by Gramp; the neighbors would notice. I am meticulous about it; I won’t risk causing Mama trouble with a tribal taboo.
I am writing this at my apartment, on a printing machine you would not believe, and must stop in order to take it downtown and photoreduce it twice, then etch it and laminate it and seal it for Delay Mail and deliver it to a drop—which kills a whole day, as L must use a rented lab and destroy intermediate stages as I go; this is not something I dare leave in an apartment to which a janitor has a key. When I get back from South America I’ll make my own lab setup, one I can carry in an automobile. Paved roads will be more common this coming decade and I expect to travel that way. But I want to continue sending these letters and by as many Delay Mail drops as possible, in hope that at least one will last through the centuries and reach you. As Justin put it, the real problem is to get one to last through just the coming three centuries—I’ll keep trying.
All my love to all of you,
Lazarus
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.
