Free The Pledge by Howard Fast Page A

become slithery. There was the matter of his friends. Before the war he had friends all over the place, people on the newspaper, leftovers from college, magazine people he dealt with, older people who were family friends. Of course, some of them were in the service, but they were starting to trickle back. The trouble was that after he had shared lunch with them, with one or another, and occasionally double-dated, he had no desire to see them again. What had happened to him?
    He brought the matter up with his father. He had always been close to his father, and after three years of separation, he found they could talk together as grown men. His father, Dr. William Bacon, sixty-three, had aged noticeably during Bruce’s absence. He was a tall, slender man with a rather forbidding face that melted under a smile. His smile made his patients adore him, and his unsmiling face, when the need arose, made them follow his orders.
    â€œYou’ve undergone what might be called,” his father said to him, “the ultimate experience that anyone could endure on this earth. You would have to be either a fool or pathological not to be affected by it, and you are neither.”
    He recalled it this fine October day, walking uptown along Madison Avenue and wondering why Jack McGregor’s rejection of the story he had worked on so carefully had not devastated him. Yet it had not, and perhaps the reason was that somewhere down deep he had expected precisely that kind of response. What do you do? he asked himself. He had entertained some thoughts of doing the Indian experience as a book, fleshed out perhaps by his prior experience in the European war. Of course, a slew of books about the war, fiction as well as nonfiction, would be pouring into the bookstores. Every correspondent had a story to tell, yet his own story would be different. Insofar as he knew, no one else would be telling it. On the other hand, if he sat down to write a full-length book, he would have to ask for a leave of absence from the Tribune , and then it was a question of money. He and Prudence had a joint account for the money gifts that had come with their wedding, but as far as the earnings of each was concerned, they kept separate accounts. The twelve thousand dollars they had received as gifts, Prudence had split evenly between them, and in his own account, almost thirty-six thousand dollars had accumulated during the years abroad. The way he lived, Bruce decided, forty-two thousand would see him through the next five years, and he was young enough not to worry about what would happen after that. The thing to do now was to get home, take a shower, change clothes, and meet Sally. Tomorrow was time enough to start talking to publishers.
    Sally was a model, sport clothes. She worked for Hillsdale Fashions, a very large garment company on Seventh Avenue, and at nine thousand dollars a year, she was well paid indeed. This was information conveyed to Bruce at their first date after meeting her in church, and after having told him this, Sally observed that he appeared surprised if not shocked.
    â€œYou aren’t shocked, really, are you?”
    â€œNo. Oh, no.”
    â€œThen why so surprised?”
    â€œWell, you know —”
    â€œI don’t know,” Sally said. “Tell me.”
    We’re starting off on the wrong foot, Bruce decided, and what can I say that won’t make it worse? The truth of the matter was that after the church meeting, Mrs. Pringle, a widow, and her daughter were asked to tea at the Bacons’. In one corner of the room, Bruce chatted away with Sally, and his impression was of a very bright, well-informed young lady. They talked about a number of things, but mostly it was directed toward Bruce, and while he was very impressed with her, he didn’t learn that she was a model until he took her to dinner two nights later.
    â€œWell, you know, one —”
    â€œYou said that before.”
    â€œDid I? I