John D. MacDonald

There Comes a Time

The father was a portly, big-shouldered man with a bluff, hearty manner, and yet with something indefinably uncertain about him. It was almost, the son thought, as though a small, frightened man sat back out of sight and guided the splendid exterior, marching it about and making it laugh on cue. The son was eighteen. The bones of cheek and jaw were heavy and good. He was quiet, polite, and with a look of awareness.

They had lived in Mexico for three years. Their name was Porter. The boy’s grandfather had made, and lost, a great deal of money. At the time he died, a small fortune was left. The father had tried to take over the management of the money and, in a frighteningly short time, had lost almost half of it. He placed the balance in the hands of a conservative investment house. The income, after taxes, was six thousand dollars a year. They lived very comfortably indeed in Mexico City. The apartment in Chapultepec was bright and airy and new. The son attended the English school. There was a small, sturdy sedan of French make. Rosita, the fat, elderly cook, kept the apartment spotless.

Now they walked side by side in the thin sharp February sunshine, on Juarez, on a Sunday afternoon. Their long legs scissored in exactly the same way, and the arms swung in cadence. Often the son felt that there was something ludicrous about this similarity of almost every action.

“I met her while you were in Acapulco,” the son said. The father gave no sign that he heard, but the son knew he was listening intently. “It was at a party. Benjamin’s party, and we went to El Parador. Betty and her mother were there and Benjamin knew them, so we all sat at the same big table. She was across from me. That was the way it started.”

“It wasn’t like you, Mark, to keep it from me for so long.”

“I know that,” the son said humbly.

“I’m certain she must be a very pleasant girl, Mark.”

“Oh, she is, Father! You’re going to like her a great deal, and Mrs. Ryan, too.”

“They are not like our... other friends, I gather,” the father said carefully.

“More alive, somehow. They seem to have more fun.”

“Mark, you’re far too young to think of this young lady in any serious fashion. I hope you realize that.”

“We’re both eighteen, Father.”

“That means, emotionally and biologically, that she is the older. We’ve always talked frankly, Mark. There is something to be said, of course, for young marriages. But you aren’t a man yet. Doesn’t that limit the extent to which you could love her?”

“I don’t think anyone could love her more than I do, Father.”

“We can’t discuss this rationally if you’re going to make statements like that. I loved your mother with all my heart, Mark. She died when you were too young to remember much about her. I know what she would have wanted for you: The best education, and then some travel. I had hoped we would travel together. By then you would know what you want to do with your life. An affair like this... it disrupts everything.”

The son looked at his watch, lengthened his stride. “We’re due there now.”

The father shrugged. The Del Prado was in the next block. They walked up the wide steps and into the lobby. Mark used the house phone and turned, smiling, to his father. “She said we could come right up.”

As the father waited for the suite door to open, he realized that he was tense, that the first impressions he received would be strong. A tall woman with tanned arms, iron-gray hair and vivid lips opened the door.

“There you are! Come in. Sunday is our day of sloth. Climb over the debris, men, and see if you can find a chair. We’re fond of Mark, Mr. Porter. It’s so nice to know you. Betty will be out in a minute.”

Her voice was husky-hoarse, her personality as vivid as her lips and nails. They were California people, and the father saw why Mark was attracted to them. There was an expansiveness there that was lacking in the small circle of their friends who lived in Mexico City.

Betty appeared. The father saw, with a twinge of fear, that the girl was exceedingly lovely — slim, tall, with a face in which there was both delicacy and strength. Her black brows were beautifully arched, and the mouth was wide and firm. Her gray eyes were startling duplicates of Mark’s, even to the quick glance she gave him as they were introduced. Her hand, in his, was thin and brown and warm-dry.

The awareness of each other between Betty and Mark was tangible, visible. When he lit her cigarette, it was as though in some odd way they were dancing. Together their consciousness of self and each other caused a coltish awkwardness that was more indicative than any grace could have been.

Betty and Mark had soft drinks. Mrs. Ryan made generous bourbon highballs for the father and herself. She said, “You kids go for a walk or something and give us old parties a chance to get acquainted.”

Mark glanced at his father. The father gave a slight nod. They laughed as they went out the door. The door cut off the laughter and left the room in silence that was, at the moment, oppressive.

She said, “A first-name basis will make this go faster. I’m Jenny. Mark said your friends call you Charles.”

“I don’t know how this all happened so fast, Jenny. My boy met your daughter not over ten days ago.”

“Cards on the table. Charles?”

“Of course.”

“We’ve got to be very, very bright, you and I. If we try to hamper them, it will just create a revolution.”

Charles Porter caught the meaning behind the words and was filled with an enormous sense of relief. This woman was on his side. She, too, wished to split up the budding romance.

“I don’t know as we have to be quite that delicate. Mark will do as I say.”

“How can you be certain of that, Charles?”

“He always has.”

She frowned. “I’d hesitate to give Betty a direct order in a thing like this.”

“Willful?”

“I wouldn’t use that word. She has spirit, certainly. Frankly, I’ve done as good a job on her as any one parent can do, Charles.”

“How old was she when your husband died?”

“Eight.”

“Mark was three when my wife died. Well, I can see that you feel as I do on this matter. They’re far too young.”

Jenny Ryan gave him an odd stare. “Too young? Of course they’re not too young! What an absurd idea! I want Betty to be married young.”

“But to someone older, of course.”

“To someone her own age, Charles. That’s the best way.”

He finished his drink. He felt puzzled and a bit irritated. “I appreciate your wanting to break it up, Mrs. Ryan. But I’m a little baffled by what you just said. With those ideas of youthful marriages, I don’t see why you wouldn’t consider Mark to be ideal.”

“Mark is a very sweet boy, Charles.”

“Then why—”

“I should want Betty to marry a man her own age.”

“I should like to have you explain that, please.”

“You won’t care for the explanation, Charles. I think your boy would be an unsuitable husband for Betty. Why don’t you just accept that statement and we’ll start our plotting from there?”

“It’s a pretty critical statement to accept that flatly.”

“What do you do with yourself, Charles — with all the time you have?”

“Why... I’m quite busy, really. Some translating. And the pastels I’m doing. And the committees at the club and all. What has that got to do with my son?”

“I’ll take another tack. Why have you become immigrantes here in Mexico?”

“With the income we have, we can live better here than—”

“Oh, come off it, Charles. What do you take me for? A turista card can be renewed almost indefinitely.” Her tone was quite rude. “You’re all over that boy like a tent. If you hadn’t applied as an immigrante, Mark would be drafted into the Army, wouldn’t he? You’ve snatched him away from that, and you’ll snatch him away from any girl he takes an interest in. You’ll keep him right in your pocket as long as you live. The way he looked at you for permission to go out for a walk was pretty indicative.”

“Now see here, Mrs. Ryan.” Charles Porter said angrily. “Mark and I have gotten on very well with each other for a long time.”

“Too well. You forget I’ve talked with the boy. I know what weapons you use. You tell him his mother would have wanted this and his mother would have wanted that. Mark is a sweet boy, and I suspect he is quite sound, basically. But there doesn’t seem to be much spirit left in him. I imagine you think you’ve been a ‘good pal’ to your son. You don’t seem to realize that such a relationship isn’t exactly healthy.”

“Are you quite certain, Mrs. Ryan,” Charles asked evenly, “that this critique of my son isn’t, in a way, an attempt to justify your own lack of control over your daughter?”

She stared at him. “Say, you can he pretty sneaky!”

“We aren’t getting anywhere. What do you suggest we do?”

“It’s simpler than I thought, Mr. Porter. Much simpler. I didn’t realize just how heavy a hand you have. I think you better get up on your hind legs and tell that sweet boy of yours to stay to hell away from Betty. That will solve it.”

“I’m quite certain it will, Mrs. Ryan.”

She raised her glass in a mocking toast. “Here’s to authority, my friend.”

“I can drink to that.”

The father and the son walked slowly hack to where they had left the car. The son hummed softly to himself. “Isn’t she wonderful, Father?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Tomorrow I’m taking her to the frontón. Maybe you and Mrs. Ryan would like to come, too.”

“I want to have a talk with you when we get home, Mark.”

The son gave him a wary look. “Yes, Father.”

The son drove with casual skill through the frantic traffic of Reforma, back to the Chapultepec section.

They went up the stairs to their apartment. The father hung his hat in the closet and went on into the living room. The son was standing by the fireplace, hands in the side pockets of his tweed jacket.

“Is something wrong, Father?”

“Sit down, Mark. I don’t exactly know how to say this. I’m very anxious for you not to misunderstand. The girl is very pretty. Her mother is... almost spectacular. But you must see that they’re not... our sort.”

“How do you mean that? What is our sort?”

“Don’t speak so sharply to your father!”

Mark stood up. “What are you trying to say?”

“Dammit, listen to me! They’re cheap people. Noisy, loud people. Anyone could see that. Do you want your friends laughing behind your back because you’re snuffling after that girl?”

“Don’t talk that way, Father!”

“I have to talk that way to shock you out of this trance you’re in. Puppy love, they call it. Infatuation. Physical attraction. A thing like this isn’t going to upset our plans. I won’t permit it. You will not see that girl again.”

“But you can’t possibly mean that, Father. You can’t! Why, she’s the most... I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“You will not see her again. Is that quite clear?”

“You can’t stop me from seeing her!”

The father altered his tone. “Now, Mark. Listen to me. This defiance isn’t like you. It’s not you talking to me this way. If your mother were still alive, what would she think of the two of us? Bickering over that... that girl.”

“What makes you such an authority on what she’d think? Maybe she’d think it was a good thing, my knowing Betty.” The father shook his head sadly. “Your mother was a sensitive, wise and perceptive woman. She would see through that precious pair just as readily as I did. Believe me, Mark. After a few months you’ll come to me and you’ll thank me for putting my foot down this way.”

Mark stared at him. The father could see the shock, the disbelief in the boy’s eyes. Mark turned toward the windows, stumbling against a chair in the process.

The father said softly, going over and putting a hand on the son’s shoulder, “Come on now, Mark. This isn’t the end of the world. We’ve had good times. We’ll continue to have good times. I know you’re a little disappointed right at this moment. In a month you won’t be able to remember what she looked like.”

Mark didn’t speak.

“I know what’s best for you, Mark,” the father said insistently. “Answer me. Promise you won’t see her again.”

“I’ll have to explain to her.”

“No, you won’t. You just won’t show up. She’ll be a little annoyed. Her mother will be the angry one. Her mother is just the type to try to grab off someone like you for her daughter.”

“I’ll have to explain to her,” the boy said stubbornly.

The father thought for a minute. The son was agreeing on the basic point, so perhaps it would be best to make the minor concession.

“Perhaps it would be better manners at that, Mark.”

The boy walked from the room without a word. Charles Porter heard the door of the boy’s room shut gently. The liquor had given him a dull headache. He called Rosita and had her bring him the aspirin and a glass of water.

At breakfast, as Rosita brought in the coffee, Charles asked, “Marco ’sta dormiendo?”

“No, Señor,” she said quietly. “He is not here.”

“What do you mean? Where has he gone?”

“That I do not know, Señor. Much of his clothes are gone, also.”

Charles leaped to his feet, the napkin wadded in his hand, his heart thudding with a wild fear. He ran to Mark’s room. All his best clothes were gone. The note was pinned to the spread over the pillow. The bed had not been slept in. “I’m sorry, Father.” That was all it said.

Rosita came up behind him and said, with an expressive shrug, “All small birds must one day leave the nest, Señor.”

He doubled up his fist and came close to striking her. She guessed his intent and stepped back, unafraid, smiling...

Jenny Ryan opened the door after his loud knocking. “Oh, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Where is my son, Mrs. Ryan?”

“Don’t snarl at me, my good man,” she said in a good-humored way. “He’s not hiding under my bed.”

“Where is he?”

“You better come in and sit down. You’re pale as death.”

“Please, Mrs. Ryan. Do you know where he is? I beg of you.”

“He’s in good hands, Charles. He’s with Betty.”

“But where are they? How soon will they be back?”

“That’s a bit hard to say. You see, they’ve got my car. They planned to drive all night. They might be as far as Victoria by now. That means that they’ll reach Brownsville late this afternoon.”

Charles Porter sat down and covered his face with his hands. He took a deep shuddering breath. “Oh, my God,” he said softly.

“The sun isn’t exactly over the yardarm, my friend, but this will help.” She thrust the glass into his hand.

He stared up accusingly at her. “Why are you acting so unconcerned?”

“It’s just an act. I’m trying to figure out what my life is going to be like without Betty under foot. From where I sit, things look a bit empty.”

“We can stop them, you know. I have a friend. He can wire customs at Matamoros.”

She shook her head sadly. “That won’t do a bit of good. Believe me, it won’t.”

“What will they do for money?”

“Betty has a little. Mark had some. I loaned them some more. He explained that returning to the States would foul up this immigrante deal of yours. I rather imagine that eventually they’ll be living on Army pay.”

“He can’t do this to me!” Charles said heavily.

“Oh, but he has.”

“You explained why you didn’t want him to many your daughter. Why didn’t you stop them?”

“Please try to understand. He was a sweet boy all the other times we talked. When he came here last night he was very much a man. He grew up very quickly, Charles.”

“Does running like a thief make a man of him?”

“He told us that he wanted to tell you to your face, but he was afraid of the habit patterns of so many years. He said that soon he would be strong enough to talk to you about it, and that he would talk to you.”

“I can stop them, you know.”

She smiled at him. “But you won’t. You know why? Because in your heart you know that already he’s grown too strong for that. There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Stopping them will only delay them, and it will make them both resent you. Both of us, my dear Charles, are in the unhappy position of having to make the best of it.”

“So many things were planned.”

“I’m afraid Mark would have considered them pretty empty plans. I wish you could have seen them as they left. A kind of beauty that’s too rare. They’ll be married in Texas. Charles, don’t brood about it. If you love your son, you must know in your heart that this is a good thing.”

He did not want to meet her glance. A certain strange pride was stirring in him. He looked at her. She was a long-legged, handsome woman. Her eyes were kind and good. He forced a smile. “I’m going to be pretty difficult for a while.”

“Expected.”

A thought struck him. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“Because somebody had to stay here and keep you from making a darn fool of yourself, Charles. If I’d gone, too, you would have had everything out but the Mexican Air Force. And your son would have ended up hating you.”

“I... I had better keep busy for a while. Maybe you could use a guide. Have you been down to Cuernavaca and Taxco?”

“Not yet.”

“It will keep us from feeling too lonesome, Jenny.”

He had lunch with her in the hotel. He was silent during much of the meal. She talked charmingly. At last he said, “Do you know where they’ll be staying?”

“I have the name of the Brownsville hotel written down, Charles.”

“I imagine there’s a waiting period.”

“Are you trying to say what I hope you’re trying to say, Charles?”

“My little car will make it. Aren’t there supposed to be, by law, two witnesses at every wedding?”

She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. Her fine eyes were misty. “If we try real hard, Charles, we may turn out to be pretty acceptable in-laws, after all. I detect something under that shirt of yours besides stuffing.”

Then they laughed, and it was warm, fond laughter. They left the table hurriedly, because there was a great deal to do, and the first one of these things was the wire which would carry both their names.

Content

John D. MacDonald
There Comes a Time