As far as Patterson could tell, they were very much in love with each other, although Lucy was modest and undemonstrative in public, again the polite child into whom it has been drilled that it is bad manners to draw attention to oneself. As for Oliver, he had always been humorously offhand and reserved, an attitude which had been intensified by the rituals of the pilots among whom he had been thrown, and it was only because Patterson knew him so well that he could see in the way he behaved toward Lucy a steady tenderness and delight.
All in all, they were tall, shining, innocent young people, and if, later on, looking back at it, it had turned out that they had not been as shining as all that, seeing them standing gravely together at the altar (in New York—Oliver said he didn’t want to blight his marriage by starting it off in Hartford) made Patterson feel that of all the marriages taking place on that June day in the nation, this certainly must be numbered among the fairest.
At the reception, at which Patterson got a little drunk on the champagne that old man Crown had put away before Prohibition, Patterson had said, looking a little maliciously around the room, “This is a damned peculiar wedding. There isn’t a guest here who has slept with the bride.” The people who heard him laughed, and it added to his reputation as a wit and as a man in whom it was dangerous to confide too much.
When Patterson took the train home for Hartford the next day, with Catherine, his wife, he sat, leaning against the window, conscious of his head, and conscious, too, that his own marriage, now thirteen months old, was a mistake. There was nothing to be done about it, and it wasn’t Catherine’s fault, and Patterson knew that he wasn’t going to do anything about it, and that he was going to make Catherine suffer as little as possible from it. Sitting there, closing his eyes against the last fumes of the wedding champagne, he knew that it was going to be a long, quiet, submerged mistake. At that period he was a cynic and a pessimist, and he felt that it was quite normal to realize, about the age of twenty-seven, that you had made a mistake that you would have to live with for the rest of your life.
When they got back from their honeymoon, Oliver and Lucy Crown lived, for a while, exactly as they had planned. They had an apartment on Murray Hill, with a large living room, which, more often than not, was full of the kind of ambitious young people who were flooding into New York at the time. Oliver went every morning to the little factory outside Jersey City and crashed occasionally in meadows and salt flats in the planes that he and his partners manufactured and Lucy took the subway five days a week to the laboratory and the algae on Morningside Heights and came home to make dinner or give a party or go to the theatre, or, more rarely, to work on the thesis she was preparing for her Ph.D. She no longer wore her aunt’s clothes, but it turned out that her own taste was uncertain, or perhaps deliberately plain, out of some adolescent concept of modesty, and she never really looked as though she belonged in New York.
Patterson came to the city as often as he could. He came without Catherine when he could manage it, and always made the Crown apartment his headquarters, adding to the long list of things he envied Oliver Crown, the place he lived in and the friends he saw. It occurred to Patterson at that time that although Lucy looked quietly happy, she seemed almost to be visiting the marriage rather than being a full partner in it. This was in some measure due to her shyness, which had not yet left her, and Oliver’s quality of dominating and directing, cheerfully, politely, without effort and often without desiring it, whatever company he was in.
After one of Patterson’s visits to New York, Catherine asked him if he thought Lucy was happy. Patterson hesitated, and then said, “Yes, I think so. Or almost happy. But she expects to be happier later on …”
Oliver’s father drowned off Watch Hill and Lucy gave birth to a son in the same year. Oliver went up to Hartford, looked at the books of the printing company, talked to his mother and the plant manager, then came home and told Lucy to start packing. They were going to have to live in Hartford, for a long time. Whatever regrets he had about giving up the airplane business, and giving up New York, he swallowed on the trip back in the train and never mentioned them either to Lucy or to Patterson, or, as far as Patterson knew, to anyone else. Lucy packed the notes that she had collected for the thesis that she was never going to write, had a farewell lunch with the researcher in single-celled marine life, closed the apartment and followed her husband to the big Crown house in Hartford in which he had been born and in which he had grown up and which he had tried, for so long, to leave.
Selfishly, Patterson was pleased to have Lucy and Oliver living just a half-dozen streets away from him. They were a center of gayety and life in a way that Patterson and his wife never could be, and in his role of old friend and then family doctor, Patterson was in and out of the house three or four times a week, sharing impromptu meals, invited to all parties, acting not only as a doctor to the little boy, but appointed uncle, the recipient of confidences, giver of advice (to Lucy only; Oliver never asked anyone for advice), planner of vacations and week-ends, bridge partner and privileged philosopher around the family fire. The Crown house became the center for a good many of the more attractive younger married people of the city, and it was at their dinner table that Patterson met, in different years, two pretty ladies with whom he later had affairs.
Whether Oliver and Lucy knew about the two ladies or about the other liaisons, secret and not so secret, that were inevitable in a circle like that in the 1920s and early 1930s, Patterson never knew. Neither of them gossiped or encouraged gossip and neither of them, in all that time, ever showed, for a moment, any interest in anybody else. It was a little surprising in Oliver, who before his marriage had been an easy and equal companion to the pilots and other jovial thugs with whom he had come out of the war. But with each passing year, he seemed to become more singly and happily devoted to his wife, not sentimentally or cloyingly, but with a frank gift of virility and confidence that made Patterson’s marriage, when he thought of it, which was as seldom as possible, seem barren and without purpose.
As for Lucy, the move to a smaller city and the preoccupation with the child made her seem more adult and at ease, and it was only at rare moments, at big parties, when Oliver would be, as usual, the center of a group and she found herself half-neglected in a corner, that the old impression that Patterson had had of her—that she was a visitor to the marriage, not a half-owner of it, would occur to him again.
They only had the one child. Tony was a bright and handsome little boy with very good manners, whose only disability from being an only child seemed to be a too nervous attachment to his mother. When Lucy was not in the house when he came home from school, or was late in returning from shopping, the boy developed the habit of waiting for her, sitting on her bed, and calling, on the bedside telephone table, the various friends at whose houses he felt his mother might be found. His grave, soft voice, saying, “Hello, this is Tony Crown. I wonder if my mother happens to be with you. Thank you. No, there’s no emergency,” became familiar over the telephones of ten different houses. Oliver, who, naturally, was displeased with the habit, spoke of him, half-fondly, half-annoyed, as “The Caller.”
As Patterson pointed out, there was nothing wrong with the little boy that a few brothers and sisters wouldn’t cure, but for some reason Lucy never conceived again, and by the time Tony was ten, the Crowns had given up hope o£ ever having any more children.