… But here is the challenge to our democracy: In this nation I see tens of millions of its citizens — a substantial part of its whole population — who at this very moment are denied the greater part of what the very lowest standards of today call necessities of life.
I see millions of families trying to live on incomes so meager that the pall of family disaster hangs over them day by day.
I see millions whose daily lives in city and on farm continue under conditions labeled indecent by a so-called polite society half a century ago.
I see millions denied education, recreation, and the opportunity to better their lot and the lot of their children.
I see millions lacking the means to buy the products of farm and factory and by their poverty denying work and productiveness to many other millions.
I see one-third of a nation ill-housed, ill-clad, ill-nourished.
It is not in despair that I paint you that picture. I paint it for you in hope — because the Nation, seeing and understanding the injustice in it, proposes to paint it out. We are determined to make every American citizen the subject of his country's interest and concern; and we will never regard any faithful law-abiding group within our borders as superfluous. The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little.
—Franklin D. Roosevelt's Second Inaugural Address, January 20, 1937
*
… The money was all appropriated for the top in the hopes that it would trickle down to the needy. Mr. Hoover didn't know that money trickled up. Give it to the people at the bottom and the people at the top will have it before night, anyhow. But it will at least have passed through the poor fellow's hands.
—Will Rogers, comedian and aviator, 1932
* * *
Friday, April 9th, 1937
9:30 a.m.
The Hotel St. Francis
San Francisco, California
"May I help you, sir?"
"Yes, please. Mail for Mister Williamson, in the Sequoia Suite?" I casually placed my room-key onto the desk, to establish my bona-fides; and I smiled one of my more ingratiating smiles up at him. "Mister Rhys Williamson — ?" I emphasized my Christian name, just slightly.
A quick, neutral glance from the desk-clerk; first at me, and then at my room-key.
"Yes, sir," he said at last; his face as composed as the carefully-lacquered hair, sweeping back from his forehead. "Just one moment."
He turned, and consulted the warren of cubbyholes, on the wall in back of the front desk.
"Yes sir," he said, turning back at length; "Here is your mail." He slid a small packet carefully across the polished desktop towards me.
I picked it up. Three familiar, pale-green envelopes with glassine address-windows; telegrams for Father from the Bank, none of them urgent, or they would have been hand-delivered —
And one regular envelope, hand-addressed; which meant everything, to me.
I sighed to myself; although I didn't let my expression change.
"Thank you, very much! Oh, and I nearly forgot — " I reached into my inside coat pocket, and brought out the packet I'd prepared. "Could you see that this gets in the mail, for me?" I slid it back across the desk towards him, my heart beating just a little faster, in my chest.
"Of course, sir." He began to reach for it —
I kept my hand on the packet.
"And, one last thing, please. If it's possible, I would like my mail to be held separately, from my father's mail; and I'd like to come collect it in person, please. Mr. Rhys Williamson," I said, with another slight emphasis on my Christian name, and another bright smile; and I withdrew my hand.
On the desk was a sealed, stamped letter; and on top of the letter was a five dollar bill.
It was a ridiculous amount of money, an absurd amount of money, to leave as a tip. Five dollars was a day's wages for a factory worker; or an expensive night-out-on-the-town for two, with a fine meal, and wine. It might even have been more than the desk-clerk himself earned in a day; I didn't know.
But I had the money to spend. And the issue was important to me.
Plus, I was very aware of what the desk-clerk was seeing as he peered down at me; a fresh-faced, smiling, slender, sixteen-year-old boy, with dark brown hair under a cloth cap, who looked altogether younger than his years; a boy neither tall, nor muscular, nor imposing. In fact, I'd only recently ceased receiving that dreaded, quick, up-and-down flick of the eyes from strangers in his position, looking to see if I was still wearing short pants …
Money, I've found, has a way of compensating for first impressions.
As it did, here.
I watched the desk-clerk blink; and I felt a little twinge of guilty satisfaction, at having broken his facade of imperturbability, however slightly. Then, with a swift, smooth gesture, the letter and the banknote disappeared.
"Yes, sir. Mail for Mister Rhys Williamson is to be held separately, for his personal retrieval." He then looked down at me, directly; and I had the distinct impression that he was seeing me, actually seeing me, for the first time. "And if there is anything else we can do, sir, to help make your stay more comfortable — anything at all — please don't hesitate to ask any of us at the front desk?"
I believed he actually meant it.
"I will. Thank you, very much!" And I beamed my sunniest smile up at him, before turning away.
*
I did not go directly back up to our suite. I'd heard Father stirring in his bedroom before I came down … and I wanted the chance to open my letter, to savor it, really, alone.
I wandered, instead, into the hotel lobby, looking for a place where I could sit, and read, in peace.
The Hotel St. Francis was the finest in San Francisco; or so my father had said.
Well, I could believe it; the lobby was opulent, with black marble columns, topped with gilt Corinthian capitals, and gilt trim on the railings of the mezzanine, which overlooked it. Plush, red-velvet settees were scattered about the vast expanse; against one wall, important-looking men in hats and overcoats were entering and exiting a row of wooden telephone-booths. The air was heavy with smoke; much of it, I thought, from expensive cigars.
I found a seat on a sofa, facing an enormous case-clock; which was obviously an important local landmark of some kind; people seemed to be clustered around it, as if waiting to be met.
I looked down, at the letter in my hands.
I wondered if I'd made a mistake, just now, with the desk-clerk. Drawing attention to myself, unnecessarily.
After all; there wasn't any real risk, in mixing our mail. Father would never open a letter addressed to me, except possibly by mistake … Although, Father received quite a lot of business correspondence; and mistakes do happen …
Still. Jack would never be indiscreet, in a letter, in anything written down; it was one of the rules we lived by, hard and fast.
Well, except for that one time; in the woods, near school. But we'd burned what we'd written, almost as fast as we wrote it, feeling a daring thrill at the whole business … No; no. We were careful.
I gazed at the envelope, that familiar handwriting, for just a moment more; and then, I carefully, carefully slid my finger under the flap, tearing the paper, opening it as neatly as I could.
Inside was another, smaller envelope. It was superscribed, 'Mr. Rhys Williamson. Personal and Confidential.'
Uh, oh.
I opened the second envelope; and I pulled out the several sheets of ruled notebook-paper, and I began reading.
Dear Rhys:
Welcome to San Francisco!
And of course, as you've already guessed — I'm writing this before you've even left, yet; so I can post it in time for it to be on the train ahead of yours, and in San Francisco, waiting for you.
So, I can't really, honestly, say, I miss you, yet. In fact, you're about fifteen feet away from me, right now, packing, as I write this. And in a little while, we'll go down to dinner together, just the same as we do, every night; and it's entirely possible that during dinner, I'll fart, or say something spectacularly inappropriate to someone, and you'll get that bland expression on your face that means you're determined not to react; and that will make me laugh. The way it always makes me laugh.
But at the same time — I know, for a certainty, that by the time you read this, you'll be three days gone. And the bed down the row from mine will be empty, for the rest of the term. And I'll be missing you, with a pain that words cannot describe …
I gaped down at the words.
The fool. The idiot.
I looked up from the letter, blinking, shocked, actually; my eyes moist.
The wondrous, glorious fool; this was far, far beyond our agreed-upon rules, far beyond what we should be setting down on paper; even in a private letter. It was the kind of thing that courted disaster, for us, for the both of us. What was he thinking — ?
But the thing that makes it all hurt the worse, R., is knowing you. Knowing how sensitive you are, how you feel things, so much. I know however much I miss you, you'll be feeling the pain of it the more; and there won't be anything I can do, to take away that pain.
I so wish I could.
I had to look up.
Well, he was right about that, I thought; blinking back tears, a little wildly. Just at that moment, the loneliness, the longing for him, was such an ache, such an acute ache … just reading his words brought him so close, and still, he was so far away …
All of this, combined with the shock, the visceral shock of his naked candor — on paper! In his own handwriting! Oh, the fool …
And then, there's the special guilt of knowing that I'll have our friends here at school, and of course our Charles, for comfort and companionship, while you're away; and that you'll be alone, except for your father.
Please know — I know you do, but I want to say it — know that I would gladly trade them all, for the chance to be with you. In a heartbeat. Even for just a day.
And now, as I write this, you're almost done packing — most of what you're taking, is books; I could have predicted that! — and it's almost time for our last full night at school, of the year, together.
In a flash, the memory of that moment — that exact moment — came to me. Me, straightening up from putting a copy of 'Pickwick Papers' in my steamer-trunk; Jack, looking up from the desk at the window, the pale afternoon sunshine making his fair hair glow; our eyes, meeting —
I'd thought he was writing a paper for our English class. And I'd been so grateful, so unspeakably grateful, for his silent company, as I packed, unwillingly —
I felt a 'thump'.
I looked to my left; a matronly woman in a fur stole and a conservative hat, was sitting next to me, prim, and upright, and close. She opened the large handbag in her lap, and extracted a compact, and opened it, and began examining her face …
I could not read on. I could not possibly read on; my eyes were brimming, and bright crescents distorted the words in front of me.
I re-folded the pages, as best I could; feeling naked, in public, knowing I was flushed, and blinking. I put them away, into the smaller envelope; and then I returned that, in turn, into the larger envelope …
Which I carefully stowed into the left, inside breast-pocket of my tweed jacket; the pocket nearest my heart.
I stood up, remembering at the last moment to take Father's telegrams; and I began wandering aimlessly about the lobby, my face turned up, as if I were fascinated by the ceiling. Blinking, breathing out heavily; trying to regain my composure. I even straightened my tie, which would have made Jack laugh; since I loathe neckties, and at school I wear mine as loose as I can, without risking demerits — and that thought, in turn, made me blink all over again, and so I wandered a bit more —
Until at last, I felt composed enough; and I headed towards the elevators, careful not to meet the discreetly-curious gaze of my desk-clerk.
"Floor, sir?" from the operator, as he closed the inner door with an elegant, white-gloved sweep of his arm.
"Twelve, please."
"Twelfth floor." He moved the lever. "Going up."
I wished I wasn't going anywhere.
* * *
I'd been right about Father stirring in his bedroom.
"Good Morning, Father."
"Good Morning."
"Are you feeling any better?" I asked it with real sympathy, in spite of everything.
A quick, wry, flick of an eyebrow, at me. "The patient has decided that he's going to live. Probably."
He was ensconced in a comfortable chair in our shared sitting room; in a dressing-gown, over his shirtsleeves. His straight, dark hair was neatly combed, his face still youthful, and clean-shaven. He was reading a newspaper, the 'San Francisco Chronicle', I could see, and smoking his pipe; the smoke was sweet, and pleasant.
On the front page of the newspaper I could see the headlines, 'Spain; Nationalists Advance On Broad Front', and in smaller type underneath; 'New Appeal for League Action'.
"Here's the mail, sir." I handed him the telegrams.
"Thank you." He put aside the paper, and glanced quickly at the envelopes. "Is this all we received?" He seemed disappointed.
"Yes, sir."
There was no good reason for him to know, that Jack had written me.
There was no good reason for him to know, how often we would be writing each other. There was every good reason for him, not to know.
"Very well. Thank you for bringing them up." He set the telegrams aside, and looked at me. "Sit down. I take it you haven't breakfasted, yet?"
"No, sir, not yet." I lowered myself into the chair facing his.
"Very well. I'll bathe; and then we can have breakfast together, downstairs." He paused to pull out his handkerchief, and apply it; then he went on. "After that, I will be engaged, for the rest of the day, on Bank business; but I'd like to meet back in our rooms for an early dinner, if possible. Say, five o'clock — ? We'll be up before dawn, tomorrow."
"Yes, sir. You won't be needing me, today?"
A quick flick of the eyes, from him; looking for adolescent irony on my part, I guessed. But I'd asked it seriously; and for a very good reason.
"Not today. Your responsibilities will begin tomorrow, when we board. And that reminds me … I'll need to have our tickets sent over from the steamship company's office. Remind me to arrange that with the concierge, will you? This damned cold has made me stupid."
I could hardly say, 'Yes, Father', to that double-barreled statement; instead, I just lifted an eyebrow —
And saw an answering twitch, of his own. A reassuring eyebrow-twitch.
Which was good, actually; finally. Even the tiniest hint of a return of our customary back-and-forth, dry humor, was welcome.
Things had been — tense — between us, during the three-day, cross-country train trip; first on the Twentieth Century Limited, then continuing on from Chicago in the City of San Francisco.
Through no real fault of my own; I'd been horribly grief-stricken, and unhappy, and I couldn't entirely hide it, I couldn't help showing it, on some level. But at the same time, the full blame for the situation couldn't really accrue to Father, either; he could hardly know how things stood between Jack and myself.
Or so, at least, I hoped.
I certainly took pains, to keep it that way.
"So," Father continued. "You will have a free day, today. You're old enough to decide how to spend it; I would imagine you would like to go sight-seeing."
"Yes, sir, I would. Very much."
He took another puff of his pipe, releasing some more aromatic smoke. "I don't blame you; I wish I could accompany you. It would be like old times." He sounded a little wistful.
"I do too, Father."
Another couple of puffs. "I could arrange a guide for you, through the concierge … "
I kept my expression neutral, indifferent, and my voice steady. "I don't think that's necessary, Father; I expect I can borrow a guide book at the front desk. That should be sufficient."
Just the hint of a smile, at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose an escort isn't really necessary. Very well." Another two draws on his pipe; then he set it down carefully, in the ashtray. He looked at me, closely, and cleared his throat.
"One more thing, son: I would very much prefer that you should not discuss our business, or our destination, with anyone you might meet, today. I would particularly appreciate it if my name was not mentioned."
I just looked at him; astonished.
Father picked his pipe up again, and began knocking it, gently, into the ashtray; he seemed slightly embarrassed.
"I am not entirely unknown, in the business world; and if it became common knowledge that I — that we — were undertaking this journey, some might draw the wrong conclusions about the financial health of our correspondent banks in the Far East. It might even have an unwanted impact upon their share prices. And," he added, setting his pipe down again, "we certainly don't want to draw attention to the shipment we're accompanying."
"No, sir, " I said, at last.
"Good," he said. A pause, while he found somewhere else to look. "That's settled. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get ready, and we can go down to breakfast." He rose, in his usual brisk, decisive way, and went into his bedroom, closing his door.
Leaving me still sitting, looking at his pipe, and the ashes in the ashtray, for a moment.
Because — I knew my father. I knew him, in all likelihood, better than anyone else — we are each other's only surviving family, after all.
And while everything he'd said was reasonable, and plausible, and made perfect sense — he was dissembling. He was dissembling; or at the very least, there was something that he was keeping from me, something important. I knew it.
Well, I thought, he is an important man; an Officer, and soon-to-be Director, of one of the largest banks in the United States. Of course he would have secrets, of course he'd have confidences he would not wish to share with me.
Still, I felt — something. A twinge of disappointment, perhaps. And perhaps apprehension, to go along with it; we were only just starting out on a very long journey, and this seemed an unfortunate way to start.
And at the same time, a little ironically, as someone who was rather good at prevarication, himself — I found myself wishing, that he were just a little bit better at it.
* * *
But I had more to think about, just then. Considerably more; and closer to my heart.
I went back into my bedroom, and closed the door; and turned the key, to lock it.
I pulled Jack's letter from my inside breast pocket, and looked at the outer envelope, for just a moment; and then, after glancing around my bedroom, I made my way to the high-backed, ornate armchair by the window, and settled into it.
I pulled the sheets out of their envelopes, and began reading the rest of the letter. Feeling the words beginning to wash over me, again.
It was an almost frighteningly intimate experience.
I wish I were going with you, Rhys. I so wish it had all worked out, the way we wanted, and I were accompanying you.
But you know me; I'm an optimist, I'm an incorrigible optimist, it's simply who I am.
So, I have to believe, that you'll come back earlier, rather than later; and that we'll have at least part of our summer together; at my family's place, at your grandparents' place; swimming, hiking, sailing, and doing all the other things we love to do, together. Living, together.
And I firmly, firmly believe, you'll be back by the beginning of term in September; you must be. Your father is much too important to his bank, to stay away from New York for even that long.
I winced, as I read this. It hadn't proven true, for a long period in my life; I could only pray, that it was, finally, true now.
So, Rhys, old man. I know how painful this separation is, for both of us; today, at this moment, and for the tomorrows to come. I know how much I hate it.
But, for both our sakes — try to treat it as an adventure, a good thing; please?
Write to me, tell me what you see, what you're experiencing; all right? Make it an adventure for the both of us; one we share.
And for my part, I'll help keep you abreast of our pathetic doings, here at school. Small compensation, as it might be.
And know that, wherever you are, wherever you go — my soul goes with you. My body will be here, but my soul will be with you.
Those crescents of tears, in my vision, again.
The fool. Didn't he know, that my soul had stayed behind, with him — ?
Well, that's about it for my first letter, old man. You're done packing, now; and I'm trying not to get all weepy, even though you're still here, and so close. It wouldn't look good at table, would it?
One more letter to come, from me, while you're still Stateside; if all goes well. And then, Overseas Airmail to Hawaii — and then, beyond.
Please don't stay too angry with me, for the honesty of this letter, Rhys. I promise I'll be dull, and careful, and circumspect, in all of my letters to come; starting with the next one. I promise.
But, this trip came upon us so quickly, we didn't really have the time and privacy to talk things through. And I just couldn't let you go, without telling you my feelings, and fears, and hopes.
(But please, for God's sake — don't write me back, in the same vein! You know this place is a fishbowl. And in any case, I know you're better at expressing yourself, discreetly, than I am. How I'm going to miss that devious mind of yours, these next few months!)
Bon Voyage, Rhys.
Wire me, any time, if I can do anything for you; anything at all.
Travel safely. Come back to me.
Your
Jack
(P.S. — Do you remember that blaze of starlight, on the snow, that night on Oakley Commons? I do. I'm thinking about it, now.)
My eyes closed; and those bright, watery crescents disappeared. I felt two warm tears track down my cheeks.
I stayed like that, my eyes closed, for some moments.
It was an absurd risk for Jack to have taken, writing me like this; an absurd risk, and I would have to burn the letter, of course.
After I'd read it over. After I'd memorized every word.
Still; for all of the risks — it was a magnificent thing to have done, and it meant everything to me, here in this strange hotel room, in a strange city, facing an uncertain future. It meant the whole, entire world to me.
I felt Jack's presence very closely, just then; I could almost feel him next to me, I could almost see his smile — and my eyes closed once more, and two more tears trailed down my cheeks.
*
In the end, however, I knew that I didn't have that long before Father was ready to go down to breakfast. I needed to compose myself.
I re-folded the sheets, blinking, still —
And then, all at once, I stopped.
You see — Jack and I have a habit, when we write to one another, of adding enclosures to our messages. Little things; New Yorker cartoons, often enough; we're both fond of cartoons, we've even tried our hand at creating our own, with very limited success.
But sometimes, also, we add surprise enclosures; such as the foil glitter which had erupted from Jack's last Christmas card to me, covering me, my desk, and much of my grandparents' guest-bedroom in shiny, minute, almost-impossible-to-clean-up, red and green and silver specks —
I first examined the outer envelope; carefully, in detail. Nothing.
Then I peered inside the inner-envelope, the one marked, 'Personal and Confidential' —
And I found it. Or rather, them.
I carefully upended the envelope, and shook them into my hand.
I had to give him credit; no one would have found them, without a careful search. Or paid much attention to them, even if discovered.
In my hand were three blond hairs.
Two were longer, soft, silky, light-blond, the color of the sunshine, on a late-autumn day —
The third was shorter; and coarser, and a little darker; and, it was curly —
I spluttered, with an explosive little hiccup of laughter, even as I blinked back new tears.
I knew that shorter, curly hair; very well. I'd picked many of its cousins from my tongue, from my mouth, these last two years. I knew its feel; I knew its taste. And Jack's inclusion of it, with the other two, was so classically like him; a deeply poignant gesture, combined with, wrapped up within, a joke —
Jack and I are lovers. Not Best Friends; not Chums; not Like Brothers, although we are all of those things, too.
No; we are lovers, in every sense of the word; the physical, the emotional, the spiritual. We are lovers, as were Achilles and Patroclus; as were Harmodios and Aristogeiton; as were the pairs of lovers who comprised the crack fighting force of the Sacred Band of Thebes. We have been lovers for two years, now; and we both know we shall be lovers, for the rest of our lives.
And tomorrow I was leaving on a months-long, perhaps even years-long, voyage to Shanghai, China; thousands and thousands of miles away from him, with no certain return date.
And I very, very deeply did not wish to go.
Comments are always welcome, at dlgrantsf (at) yahoo (dot) com.
And, please consider donating to Awesomedude, by clicking on the yellow button on the main page? Even the smallest contributions are very welcome, and will help keep this priceless resource online.