From the Improvement Era, September 1940 –

Can This Be Love?

By Estelle Webb Thomas

Cuthbert began to run as he neared the gate and burst into the hall with his usual effect of knocking down the walls. “Hi, Mom, here’s your lost long son!” he shouted, shedding hat, coat, and knapsack as he came.

“Hi, Mom, where you at?”

It is a peculiarity, not confined to Cuthbert, that a man or boy can remain happily away from home for almost any length of time, but if “Mom” is not visible the instant of his return, his entire universe is suddenly awry.

“Coming!” Mrs. Carroll hastened from the upper floor, to be enveloped in a bear hug that smelled collectively of dust, pine boughs, and wood smoke.

“Why aren’t you in the kitchen cooking the fatted calf? The prodigal son’s been living on camp cooking for a month, remember.”

“Hush! Not so loud, Aunt Evie’s taking a nap! Never fear, the fatted calf is in the oven. I know my Boy Scouts, I hope!”

Arms about each other, they walked toward the kitchen, as if drawn by a magnet.

“If I’m just on the outside of half a pie, or a big bowl of bread and milk, I can wait dinner till Dad gets home!” Cuthbert said, with noble self-sacrifice.

This had been one of the eventful months of his life. He had fished, hiked, swum, and scaled mountains to his heart’s content. Richard Brandon was a great guy, a real Scout Leader, and Old Tubby was a regular human when there were no girls around. Yes, everything had been perfectly okay, and now, tired, dirty, and hungry, he was ready for a hot bath in a real tub, a big meal of Mother’s cooking, and an early drop into his own clean, comfortable bed.

“Oh, darling, your nose! It’s all peeling off! And look at your ears, absolutely cooked!” His mother stared at him in dismay.

“Just when did it get to be a tragedy for my nose and ears to peel?” demanded Cuthbert, through a mouthful of pie.

“But the dance — you’ll look so — ”

“Woman, if there’s a dance, Cuthbert Carrol will be counted among the missing! Want to hear my program for the evening? A boiling hot scrub, a full, square, all-around meal, a jar of your cold cream, topped off with twelve hours of heavy sleep!”

“But, Cuthbert, I haven’t had time to tell you- — but I’m afraid you’ll just have to go — Marilyn’s here!

“Marilyn?” Cuthbert looked as blank as only he could look. “Who’s Marilyn?”

“Oh, Cuthbert, you remember your cousin Marilyn? You used to play with her, you know, every summer at Grandmother’s!”

“Aunt Evie’s taking a nap.” This statement had failed to register when his mother made it, but the speech came back to his mind now, and he asked, aghast, “You don’t mean Mamie, Aunt Evie’s kid, do you? That — that freak!”

“We did call her Mamie, yes.”

“An age of miracles!” muttered Cuthbert, skeptically.

“Now, listen, dear, don’t be difficult. Aunt Evie is here for a month’s visit before school starts, and they are counting on you to show Marilyn a good time!”

“They are, eh?” Cuthbert pushed his pie away, looking actually sick. “So, the jinx is still on me, is it? I been knocking on wood all summer ’cause it didn’t seem natural to have such a good old peaceful summer, and not be playing Cupid or showing somebody else’s girl around. And now this Calamity shows up! Well, I hate to hurt your feelings, Mom, but I’m not elected! Or, if I am, I choose to run! Where is she now?” he finished, in a more normal tone of voice, drawing his pie toward him again, morosely.

“Hush, Aunt Evie will hear you! Marilyn’s out with some of the girls. She said she could hardly wait to see you.”

A high cacophony of girlish giggles interrupted her.

“Oh dear, there she is now! Cuthbert, you — ”

But Cuthbert, with one mighty leap, was in the bathroom, with a shouted, “Oh, Mom, would you mind bringing my clothes and hanging them on the bathroom door?” The same request he had made practically every time he had taken a bath in his life.

Aunt Evie kissed Cuthbert and said he was a big boy, now, and how did he like school, and she hoped he was doing better than he used to do. She went on to say to Mrs. Carroll that it was surprising how they grew, but she believed girls acquired polish younger than boys. She then remarked, in a slightly lowered tone, as though Cuthbert was deaf, what a pity it was he had the Carroll ears, and how glad she was that Marilyn had not inherited any of those objectionable features.

Cuthbert stood during these observations, with the set, dogged expression he always assumed for such round, blue eyes heavenward, exclaimed, languidly, “Bertie! In the flesh!”

Cuthbert dropped the hand — he had been holding it as one holds a dead fish with no place to park it — as if it had suddenly turned red hot, and grunted. Bertie, eh? So that’s how it was! He glued his eyes to his plate and lost his tongue for all but eating purposes. Sullenly aware of his mother’s entreating, his father’s stern glances, he ate stolidly through every course, though his pleasure in this long-anticipated meal had turned to ashes of bitterness.

All the ignoring in the world, however, could not put off the evil hour forever. As they rose from the table, Marilyn said, in that maddening worldly and amused tone some people affect with a little child or a moron, “Well, Bertie, are we off to the dance?” And under the battery of stern, parental eyes, Cuthbert made strangled sounds signifying that such, unfortunately, was the case.

“Well, there’s this about it!” he muttered, viciously, jerking clothes off hangers with a reckless disregard for creases. “She better be popular — or else! I got it coming to me! I’m not going to struggle ordeals. The flood of comments had ebbed long enough for those present to get seated about the table, before Marilyn appeared. Cuthbert thought, with abhorrence, that she had delayed for the purpose of making an impressive entrance. He very pointedly failed to notice her until his mother’s sharp, “Cuthbert, here’s Marilyn!” brought his eyes from his plate in simulated surprise.

Then, he had to acknowledge, mentally, the truth of Aunt Evie’s proud statement. Undoubtedly, Marilyn had changed. The cottony, straight hair, which Mamie was always pushing impatiently out of her eyes, had been transformed into shining golden curls in a coronet above the pert face. The bounteous crop of yellow freckles was replaced with a glowing complexion which Cuthbert hoped, cynically, was real.

She put out a white, soft hand, with ghastly red nails and rolling her through the rest of the summer with a flop hung around my neck.”

Wrathfully, he began tearing open a dress shirt, stripping off a couple of buttons as he did so. “I’ll tell Old Tubby a thing or two! I’ve got him outa more than one tight hole! He can dance with her and take her off my hands once in a while, or can pay up in cold cash for some of the favors I’ve done him!

“And old Butch! He’s a good dancer — all he is good for!” Cuthbert stared at his image in the mirror, arms suspended, an end of tie in each hand, “He’s not exactly obligated — and I couldn’t lick him — but Butch is always broke — if worst comes to worst, I’ve got most of last month’s allowance saved up!”

Mentally he reviewed the rest of the gang. Some of them he could lick, some might be bribed, nearly all were indebted for some past favor, for Cuthbert was a “kind-hearted guy.” “And this is the payoff!” he gritted, giving his tie such a vicious jerk that his eyes popped.

In this mood he descended to the living room to await the fair Marilyn, braced for the ordeal of presenting her to Pleasantville junior society, and prepared to insure her popularity by bribes, blackmail, or brute force.

He had not long to wait. Marilyn floated down the stairway in a cloud of filmy pink, with what seemed to Cuthbert an unnecessary amount of yardage about her feet and an embarrassing shortage about her shoulders. Lips, cheeks, and nails were a sanguinary red and points of light glittered and twinkled from the many facets of bracelets, necklace, and ear-drops.

“Hel-lup!” groaned Cuthbert to himself, “Picture me prancing into the dance with that Christmas tree! I’d rather be shot!”

Marilyn rolled her eyes alarmingly and pretended to be overwhelmed at Cuthbert’s elegance. “Why, Bertie! Do my old eyes deceive me, or is it the Barefoot Boy himself, hiding behind that tux?”

“You’re somewhat disguised, yourself, Mamikins!” drawled Cuthbert, smiling, dangerously. “Haven’t you combed out your back hair, or something — ”

“Cuthbert Carroll, don’t you dare! If you ever get me tagged with that horrid name here, I’ll — I’ll be ruined! Don’t you dare ever call me Mamikins again!”

Gone were Marilyn’s sophisticated smiles and poses and all her carefully acquired poise. Her face was red and her eyes glared as in the old days when he hid her doll or pulled her sash.

“Well, I’ll make a bargain with you,” said Cuthbert, coolly; “I’ll try to remember ‘Marilyn’ so long as you stick to my name. But any more of that ‘Bertie’ stuff, and you’re Mamikins from now on!”

Cuthbert could have wished the walk to the Social Hall to last all evening, although Mamie’s society was something he craved not at all, and his feet hurt. Yes, his feet felt just as outraged as they always did when he crammed their noble dimensions into dancing pumps, but he knew, instinctively that Marilyn was not a girl who would consider for a moment, riding to a dance in his car.

When, all too soon, they reached the hall, he paused, closed his eyes, gulped, and braced himself visibly for the ordeal of running the gauntlet with the glittering ‘Christmas tree.’ If she just looked a little less conspicuous! But Cuthbert was to learn that Marilyn would rather be dead than inconspicuous. He delayed as long as possible in the cloak room, though there was nothing to dispose of but her light summer wrap. But in the entrance hall they had a bit of luck. They ran smack into Butch and Elaine.

Swallowing his windpipe, Cuthbert announced, loudly, “Hi, ladees and gents, I wish to introduce the greatest cousin in captivity, Marilyn Carroll!”

Having got out this grandiloquent introduction by sheer bravado, he furtively administered a warning kick on Butch’s nearest shin, as a hint it would be well to pretend pleasure.

“Ouch! Pleased to meetcha!” gasped Butch, a look of anguish tempering his smile of greeting. But if Marilyn noticed anything odd in his salutation, she made no sign. She turned the full battery of her smile on him, unaware, apparently, of any undercurrents.

The combined brilliance of eyes, teeth, and jewelry, seemed to leave poor Butch a bit bewildered. While he gazed and stammered, Cuthbert turned to Elaine, standing silently on the outer fringe of the fireworks, which were directed solely at Butch.

“I’m s’posed — I-er, I sure hope she has a good time!” he said apologetically.

“She will!” Elaine looked as if she could say a lot more with a little encouragement. Instead, she turned and began to walk swiftly toward the ballroom door. Butch, still a bit bedazzled, stumbled after her, stepping on his own feet in his efforts to follow and still keep his eyes glued to Marilyn’s scintillating face.

“Good Friday!” thought Cuthbert, incredulously, “I believe the poor sap fell for her! Well,” he comforted himself, as he piloted her about the crowded floor, “there’ll be Butch to change off with. And there’d better be Tubby!” he continued, balefully eyeing the unconscious back of his friend’s head, over Marilyn’s shoulder. “The things I’ve done for that bird!”

But to his surprise, before he could search Tubby out, there was the boy, himself, draping his arm lovingly around Cuthbert’s shoulders and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Cuthbert wondered vaguely, how Tubby had got rid of his partner so quickly. A vicious pinch from the loving hand on his arm, brought back his wandering thoughts with a start.

“Introduce me, you mug!” gritted Tubby, his affectionate smile undimmed.

“Oh, you mean?” quietly Cuthbert reached out and knocked on a convenient window frame. This was too good to be true. Dear old Tubby! Coming like a lamb to the slaughter, without a bit of coercion! Who said gratitude was an empty word! Quickly he stumbled through the introductions before Tubby could change his mind, and then slipped away to marvel at the Damon-like quality of his friend’s love.

He wandered back into the ballroom presently, still in an uplifted mood, engendered by the loyalty of Tubby and Butch and the unexpected request of two insignificant members of the crowd for introductions to the new girl. His contentment was short-lived. Even as he entered the door, the floor manager was loudly announcing that Miss Marilyn Carroll had consented to favor with a tap dance at the insistence of her friends. Miss Carroll had studied dancing under — the raucous voice faded out of Cuthbert’s consciousness, and he stood rooted to the spot with horror.

Oh, why had he left the room? He might have known Mamie would manage to disgrace him, if he relaxed vigilance for a minute! He felt horribly conspicuous and unprotected, and slunk back into the shadows of the doorway. He kept the spotlight in view, however, for the sight of Marilyn, already posturing and posing in preparation for her dance, held his eyes with a morbid fascination.

The music started and she began her agile gyrations, a performance whose artistic perfection was entirely wasted on at least one writhing observer. After what seemed ages, she came to rest like a poised butterfly, outspread hands daintily holding the wide skirt, bowing and flashing her brilliant smile about the room in acknowledgment of the thunderous applause.

With a hunted glance about, Cuthbert ducked his head and prepared to creep from the scene of his shame. A solid bank of pushing people blocked his way. “Hey, introduce us, Coopy.” . . “Where’d you find it!” . . . “Boy, can that baby dance!” He was propelled gaily toward the corner where Marilyn, her animation even more exaggerated than before, held hilarious court.

Tubby, reluctantly handing back her program, with his scrawl repeated a mere five times, again flung a comradely arm about Cuthbert.

“Those eyes!” he murmured, watching jealously, while later comers squabbled over the precious program.

“Don’t worry, they won’t roll clear out; they never have!” said Cuthbert, consolingly.

“Did you ever see such a smile before?” Tubby asked, dreamily, merely a rhetorical question, but Cuthbert obligingly agreed, “Not all at once!”

“Those curls — pure gold!”

“Used to be pure cotton!”

Tubby, waking from his enchanted revery, caught this last remark and turned a glance of such unmitigated horror on Cuthbert, that scoffer made haste to fade out of the picture.

“Well, here I am, with time to burn!” he thought, surprised. He felt singularly deflated. The ordeal of launching Marilyn into society, for which he had rallied all his courage, seemed to have been taken completely out of his hands.

Through a swarm of eager swains he glimpsed his cousin, curls tossing, eyes rolling, putting on a tooth display that would have driven a dentist’s model mad with envy. Above the clamor and through the rhythmic beat of the music, came the high tinkle of her laughter and the gay staccato of her happy, excited voice. Yes, it was very evident that Cuthbert’s grudging services were no longer needed.

Aimlessly, he stared about, and presently his eyes came to rest on a little figure in blue, seated quietly on the far side of the room. Helen Ward! Why, how come Helen was sitting alone? Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to dance with the little thing. She was looking at him now; she probably expected it. He had thought he would just kind of rest, after the strain of Mamie’s debut. But Helen had seen him now, no chance of backing out. Oh, he supposed one dance wouldn’t hurt anybody. Helen had done plenty of things for him. Just a good little old scout, she was, no more like Mamie than if she didn’t belong to the same race. He was certainly in no mood for dancing, but if he had to dance, Helen would be just about the least objectionable partner he could find.

He reached Helen and the end of his philosophizing at the same moment. She looked up with her clear, straight-forward smile, and Cuthbert’s disillusioned countenance brightened in response.

Later, dancing, he was surprised to discover he was actually enjoying himself. A strange admission for a confirmed womanhater! Well, he defended this spineless attitude to himself, “It’s kinda restful. She hasn’t got a line. You don’t have to be wise-cracking back all the time!”

So absorbed was he in this deep analysis that Helen had to speak twice before he heard her.

“Hey?” Cuthbert stumbled, as always ‘when his partner essayed conversation. “What say?”

“I said you’ve got to be an awfully good dancer, Cuthbert. I like to dance with you!”

“You do!” To his surprise, Cuthbert felt highly gratified at this com- pliment. He had supposed girls danced with him from a sense of duty, as he did with them; or perhaps a desire for exercise, or to help fill up their programs, certainly not for any more personal reason. Well, Helen always had been a funny kid.

He glanced down and met her upraised, serious eyes. Good Friday, she did have pretty eyes! No rolling here! No tossing of these smooth, brown curls! Why, he bet Helen would sooner die than get out and make an exhibition of herself like Mamie had, tonight! A guy could certainly trust himself out with her, without being afraid she’d embarrass him to death!

A wonderful sense of well-being began to permeate Cuthbert’s soul. He was at peace with all the world. A warm, enveloping friendliness for all mankind swelled his heart, almost to the bursting point.

Mamie, flitting past with Tubby, waved an airy hand, “Hi, Bertie!”

“Hi-yah, Mamikins!” Cuthbert answered, but without rancor. Poor old Mamie! She couldn’t help being like she was! Some liked jitter-bugs. Tubby, for instance. The poor sap seemed completely overboard. But not him ! Not C. Carroll! No sir! Jitter-bugs were just not his dish! Now, with a girl like Helen, a fellow knew where he was at!

He glanced down again to make absolutely sure her eyes did not roll — and experienced considerable difficulty in looking away. Instead, he seemed to fall deep, deep into their leaf-brown depths, and sink without a struggle.

Like one coming up for air, a moment later — or was it an hour? — he looked about, bewildered. Who was that couple coming toward them? The guy sure looked a sap. Why — it was — it couldn’t — yes, it was— a full-length mirror! That slim little, blue-clad figure and trusting, upraised face belonged to Helen Ward! That sap was C. Carroll, in person! And his face wore the same fatuous expression he had so often deplored and dreaded on that of old Tubby!

“Why, Good Friday!” thought Cuthbert, appalled, “Am I — is this — can I really be falling in love?”