F. Scott Fitzgerald: Complete Works. F. Scott Fitzgerald
into the conversation? But you’ll never get a place anywhere unless you go out and hunt for it.”
“Go where? You say ‘go out and hunt for it,’ but where?”
With dignity Maury waved his hand paw-like about the room.
“Out anywhere. Out in the country. There’re lots of places.”
“Thanks.”
“Look here!” Richard Caramel brought his yellow eye rakishly into play. “The trouble with you two is that you’re all disorganized. Do you know anything about New York State? Shut up, Anthony, I’m talking to Gloria.”
“Well,” she admitted finally, “I’ve been to two or three house parties in Portchester and around in Connecticut—but, of course, that isn’t in New York State, is it? And neither is Morristown,” she finished with drowsy irrelevance.
There was a shout of laughter.
“Oh, Lord!” cried Dick, “neither is Morristown!’ No, and neither is Santa Barbara, Gloria. Now listen. To begin with, unless you have a fortune there’s no use considering any place like Newport or Southhampton or Tuxedo. They’re out of the question.”
They all agreed to this solemnly.
“And personally I hate New Jersey. Then, of course, there’s upper New York, above Tuxedo.”
“Too cold,” said Gloria briefly. “I was there once in an automobile.”
“Well, it seems to me there’re a lot of towns like Rye between New York and Greenwich where you could buy a little gray house of some—”
Gloria leaped at the phrase triumphantly. For the first time since their return East she knew what she wanted.
“Oh, yes !” she cried. “Oh, yes ! that’s it: a little gray house with sort of white around and a whole lot of swamp maples just as brown and gold as an October picture in a gallery. Where can we find one?”
“Unfortunately, I’ve mislaid my list of little gray houses with swamp maples around them—but I’ll try to find it. Meanwhile you take a piece of paper and write down the names of seven possible towns. And every day this week you take a trip to one of those towns.”
“Oh, gosh!” protested Gloria, collapsing mentally, “why won’t you do it for us? I hate trains.”
“Well, hire a car, and—”
Gloria yawned.
“I’m tired of discussing it. Seems to me all we do is talk about where to live.”
“My exquisite wife wearies of thought,” remarked Anthony ironically. “She must have a tomato sandwich to stimulate her jaded nerves. Let’s go out to tea.”
As the unfortunate upshot of this conversation, they took Dick’s advice literally, and two days later went out to Rye, where they wandered around with an irritated real estate agent, like bewildered babes in the wood. They were shown houses at a hundred a month which closely adjoined other houses at a hundred a month; they were shown isolated houses to which they invariably took violent dislikes, though they submitted weakly to the agent’s desire that they “look at that stove—some stove!” and to a great shaking of doorposts and tapping of walls, intended evidently to show that the house would not immediately collapse, no matter how convincingly it gave that impression. They gazed through windows into interiors furnished either “commercially” with slab-like chairs and unyielding settees, or “home-like” with the melancholy bric-à-brac of other summers—crossed tennis rackets, fit-form couches, and depressing Gibson girls. With a feeling of guilt they looked at a few really nice houses, aloof, dignified, and cool—at three hundred a month. They went away from Rye thanking the real estate agent very much indeed.
On the crowded train back to New York the seat behind was occupied by a super-respirating Latin whose last few meals had obviously been composed entirely of garlic. They reached the apartment gratefully, almost hysterically, and Gloria rushed for a hot bath in the reproachless bathroom. So far as the question of a future abode was concerned both of them were incapacitated for a week.
The matter eventually worked itself out with unhoped-for romance. Anthony ran into the living room one afternoon fairly radiating “the idea.”
“I’ve got it,” he was exclaiming as though he had just caught a mouse. “We’ll get a car.”
“Gee whiz! Haven’t we got troubles enough taking care of ourselves?”
“Give me a second to explain, can’t you? just let’s leave our stuff with Dick and just pile a couple of suitcases in our car, the one we’re going to buy—we’ll have to have one in the country anyway—and just start out in the direction of New Haven. You see, as we get out of commuting distance from New York, the rents’ll get cheaper, and as soon as we find a house we want we’ll just settle down.”
By his frequent and soothing interpolation of the word “just” he aroused her lethargic enthusiasm. Strutting violently about the room, he simulated a dynamic and irresistible efficiency. “We’ll buy a car to-morrow.”
Life, limping after imagination’s ten-league boots, saw them out of town a week later in a cheap but sparkling new roadster, saw them through the chaotic unintelligible Bronx, then over a wide murky district which alternated cheerless blue-green wastes with suburbs of tremendous and sordid activity. They left New York at eleven and it was well past a hot and beatific noon when they moved rakishly through Pelham.
“These aren’t towns,” said Gloria scornfully, “these are just city blocks plumped down coldly into waste acres. I imagine all the men here have their mustaches stained from drinking their coffee too quickly in the morning.”
“And play pinochle on the commuting trains.”
“What’s pinochle?”
“Don’t be so literal. How should I know? But it sounds as though they ought to play it.”
“I like it. It sounds as if it were something where you sort of cracked your knuckles or something…. Let me drive.”
Anthony looked at her suspiciously.
“You swear you’re a good driver?”
“Since I was fourteen.”
He stopped the car cautiously at the side of the road and they changed seats. Then with a horrible grinding noise the car was put in gear, Gloria adding an accompaniment of laughter which seemed to Anthony disquieting and in the worst possible taste.
“Here we go!” she yelled. “Whoo-oop!”
Their heads snapped back like marionettes on a single wire as the car leaped ahead and curved retchingly about a standing milk-wagon, whose driver stood up on his seat and bellowed after them. In the immemorial tradition of the road Anthony retorted with a few brief epigrams as to the grossness of the milk-delivering profession. He cut his remarks short, however, and turned to Gloria with the growing conviction that he had made a grave mistake in relinquishing control and that Gloria was a driver of many eccentricities and of infinite carelessness.
“Remember now!” he warned her nervously, “the man said we oughtn’t to go over twenty miles an hour for the first five thousand miles.”
She nodded briefly, but evidently intending to accomplish the prohibitive distance as quickly as possible, slightly increased her speed. A moment later he made another attempt.
“See that sign? Do you want to get us pinched?”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” cried Gloria in exasperation, “you always exaggerate things so!”
“Well, I don’t want to get arrested.”
“Who’s arresting you? You’re so persistent—just like you were about my cough medicine last night.”
“It was for your own good.”
“Ha!