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.”