“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
“Why do you let them get away with it?”
“With what?”
“I’m sure everybody else goes home at five, but they don’t seem to care how long they make you stay. God knows they don’t pay you enough.”
She smiled. “The last two weeks they didn’t pay me at all,” she said.
“The next thing will be when they try to get you to put money in the business.”
“They’ve already asked me to,” she said.
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know. I might. It wouldn’t be a lot. Where are we going?”
“Giuliano’s,” he said. “Shall we go?”
“Could we wait a few minutes? Mother phoned and I wasn’t here, and I think she may call back. I’d like to find out how Father is.”
“Is he home from the hospital?”
“He got home yesterday, but they’re keeping two trained nurses.”
“He must be a lot better or they wouldn’t have let him go home from the hospital.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” she said. “We can have a cocktail here. Will you mix me a Martini? And what are you having? No drink?”
“Don’t pretend, Gretchen. You know I’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything. How did you happen to break the glass in the fireplace?”
“I was drinking a silent toast to Mary and Billy Walton.”
“Oh, she told you? How can you worm those things out of her? She hasn’t even told her family.”
“She hasn’t told me, either. I just guessed.”
“She must have told you something,” said Gretchen. “What did she tell you?”
“She told me I ought to start saving money.”
“Well, I’m sure you had a good answer for that. She worries about you, you know. She really likes you.”
“Am I supposed to jump for joy because Mary Brown likes me?”
“You could be more agreeable. Whenever you have any conversation with her you always manage to somehow hurt her feelings. You say things.”
“Yes, damn near every conversation I have with anybody, I say things.”
“Oh, don’t start picking on me. It doesn’t get you anywhere. I know your ways. But Mary isn’t used to having people make her feel like an absolute dumbbell. And she’s not, either. She’s very bright. But you’re always so condescending with her, trying to trip her up on everything she says.”
“How long are we going to have to wait for your mother’s call?”
“Why? Are you in any particular hurry?”
“I don’t want to go an hour without a drink.”
“Well, have one. It’s there. And I told you, I asked you to fix me a Martini. What’s got into you tonight?”
He started the business of making her cocktail. “Money.”
“Money?”
“The whole damn subject of money. Your cousin got me started on it, and before I knew it I was telling her all about my finances.”
“Well, she understands.”
“Understands? Who gives a damn whether she understands? I wasn’t trying to make her understand anything. But it made me realize what a hell of a state my finances are in. I hadn’t stopped to think about it lately.”
“Then maybe it’s time you did. You have a good job—”
“A good job—and I make less than you get for spending money. You have a job that’s supposed to pay you twenty-five dollars a week, and when they don’t pay you, you can laugh it off as a joke.”
“It’s not a joke, and I don’t laugh it off. Neither do they. These two boys are trying to publish good things, not just mystery stories and trashy novels. But all the good authors are signed up by the big publishers. These boys are trying to keep their heads above water until they discover someone that hasn’t been published before, and that’s not easy, because the literary agents, if they find somebody good but without an established reputation, they take their discovery to one of the big publishers like Scribner’s. Doubleday. I’m in favor of what we’re doing, and I wish I could help.”
“They’ll give you your chance to help.”
“Well, I’d rather put my money in that than in a lot of other things I could think of.”
“Such as?”
“What other things? Well, museums, for instance. Grandfather put a lot of money into the Museum, and we’re all expected to contribute once a year. But I’m not going to this year. I’m going to put my money into Whitehill and Grimes.”
“The boys.”
“Well, they’re not boys any more. Both over thirty. But they’re young in the publishing business. What I can give them, or lend them, is only a drop in the bucket, but they need all the help they can get. And I’d get much more satisfaction out of helping them than just writing a cheque to the Museum and then forgetting about it. Wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not faced with any such dilemma.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t you agree with me? Isn’t it better to do what you can to help develop new writers than—excuse me. I’m sure that’s Mother’s call.” She went to the telephone.
“Hello . . . It’s all right, Mary, I’ve got it . . . Mother? How are you, dear? . . . How did it go? . . . Oh, they did? . . . Well, how is he now? . . . Oh, dear. That’s not very good, is it? . . . Oh, you poor dear . . . Who else is there with you? . . . That’s good . . . What does Dr. Brady say? . . . Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yes . . . Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mother. I’ll take the midnight . . . Well, I’ll sit up in the day coach if I have to. But I think I ought to be there, knowing Dr. Brady. He isn’t prone to exaggerate . . . I hope you’re getting some rest, but I suppose you’re not . . . Well, I’ll take the midnight, and don’t have anyone meet me. I’ll get a taxi . . . I know, dear, and all we can do now is hope . . . Goodnight, Mother.”
She hung up and sighed. She lit a cigarette. “Not so good. Not so damn good. He had a hemorrhage this afternoon and he’s been in a coma ever since. Wonderful Dr. Brady, I adore that man. He said we’ll know tonight, but I think he knows already. He’s trying to spare Mother. Poor Daddy. Strange. Calling him Daddy. We stopped calling him Daddy when my brother was born. He didn’t want his son calling him Daddy, so we all changed to Father. I hope he is in a coma, a real one. He couldn’t stand to have people fuss over him.”
“What can I do, darling?”
“Oh—sit with me. Put your arms around me, and if I cry, let me, a little. I don’t think I’m going to, but yes I am.” She began to weep quietly and he sat with her. “I want to see him once more,” she said.
Mary Brown stood in the doorway, unseen by Gretchen and Jack, and she quickly vanished.
2
It is two years later. A Sunday at lunch time, the apartment of Jack and Gretchen on Park Avenue. Jack was reading the Sunday paper when the doorbell rang, and he went to admit Billy and Mary Walton. He kisses Mary on the cheek, shakes hands with Billy.
“Look at you two,” said Jack. “You look as if you were all set to pose for the rotogravure.” He inspects Bill Walton, who is attired in short black coat and striped trousers and has a bowler in his hand.
“I’ve always been meaning to get one of these outfits,” said Jack.
“Adore them,” said Mary. “They make any man look distinguished.”
“Well, I’d put that to a severe test, but damn it, I’m going to order one tomorrow,” said Jack. “You two been to church?”
“Not only to church, but you made a good guess,” said Billy. “About the rotogravure.”
“I was going to wait and tell Gretchen,” said Mary.
“You’ve been posing for the roto section?” said Jack.
“For the Herald Tribune,” said Mary. “It’s linked up with some charity. Mr. and Mrs. Williamso
n Walton, and I think Borden’s Milk.”
“I don’t think we are Borden’s Milk, Mary. Didn’t the man say that that had been a mistake? I know he did, as a matter of fact. He said we were Hellman’s Mayonnaise. The Borden’s Milk people have the Schermerhorn twins.”
“Oh, I didn’t hear that part of your conversation.”
Gretchen came in. “Hello, my dears,” she said. “Did you have your picture taken?”
“In front of St. Bartholomew’s,” said Mary.
“And I happen to be a member of St. Thomas’s. We are,” said Billy.
“Was it bad? Mary was dreading it,” said Gretchen.
“It wasn’t really so bad,” said Mary.
“Except having people stop and stare at us. I felt like a model,” said Billy.
“And you look like one—I mean that as a compliment. Do you want to see the baby, Mary?”
“Of course,” said Mary.
“Billy, I won’t subject you to that,” said Gretchen.
“Oh, why I’d love to—”
“No, you stay and talk to Jack,” said Gretchen. She and Mary left the room.
“You’re a coward,” said Jack. “I don’t know how many times I’ve had to say goo-goo to your kid. And frankly, she isn’t half as good-looking as my young man.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Billy. “What’s new at Harrington, Whitehill and Grimes?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“I think so,” said Billy.
“I’m buying out Grimes. We’re going to keep his name for a year, but only a year. Next year it’ll be Harrington and Whitehill.”
“Congratulations,” said Billy.
“Thank you.”
“Did you have to pay Grimes a lot of money?”
“Quite a lot. Or at least let’s put it this way. It wasn’t a very large sum, but it had to be cash. He wouldn’t agree to any other terms. But it worked out all right. When he insisted on cash, that made it just that much easier to tell him that we weren’t going to carry his name. And therefore, if we were not going to carry his name, he wasn’t entitled to very much money for good will. He outsmarted himself.”
“I think you probably let him outsmart himself,” said Billy. “Frankly, Jack, I have more and more respect for you as a business man. There was a time when I didn’t think you had it in you, but I was good and wrong about that. I used to think you were one of those Greenwich Village Bohemian types, but I take it all back now.”
“I thought I was, too.”
“By the way, I spoke to Harry Judson. Your name comes up on the fifteenth, I think it is, and according to Harry you can start wearing the hatband as soon as you send them your cheque. In other words, you’re in.”
“Well, thank you for that, too, Billy. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
“You’re damn right you wouldn’t. Because three years ago if your name had come up, and anyone asked me about you, I’d have said no. Shows how wrong you can be.”
“No, three years ago you’d have been right. But three years ago I wouldn’t have been up for any club.”
“I suppose a lot of fellows go through that phase. I never did. I know it sounds stuffy, but I never felt that I had to rebel against my mother and father. I don’t know of two finer people in the world. I liked Harvard and my friends there. I didn’t like everybody in prep school, and I got into a few scrapes there, but nothing very serious. So I never went through that phase. As a matter of fact, the rebellious ones always struck me as a bunch of soreheads. I don’t mean you necessarily, but yes, I do. You were sore at something.”
“I was sore at everything.”
“Well, you have the courage to admit it, and it takes courage. What were you sore at, if it’s any of my business?”
“I was adopted. My father and mother both died in the flu epidemic in 1918, and my aunt and uncle adopted me.”
“Were they nasty to you?”
“Not a bit. But I was sixteen years old when my parents died, and at that age you don’t grow a new set of parents. They’re not the same as your own father and mother, and no matter how much they did for me, and it was as much as they could afford, I resented it because I felt they were doing it out of a sense of duty.”
“Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you sound as though you were already a bit of a sorehead when you were sixteen.”
“Maybe I was. But let’s not go into this too deeply or I may find out that I’m still a sorehead.”
“No, I don’t think you are any more. You’ve had a change of heart, and Gretchen’s responsible for that. That’s a girl I think the world of, and so does everybody else. Mary feels much closer to her than if she were her own sister. She’s often said so to me.”
“Well,” said Jack. “How about a drink?”
“Can’t. We have to go to Mother’s this afternoon, and she just hates it when Father or I have a drink in the middle of the day. Her brother, my Uncle Phil Williamson, was a notorious rumpot. Died of it in his early thirties. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but when you’ve been to Mother’s for lunch, you’re offered one sherry. One sherry, and that’s all.”
“I’ve never been to your mother’s for lunch.”
“Yes you have, haven’t you? Well, anyway, now you’re forewarned. Don’t ever go there with a hangover and expect the hair of the dog. My father wasn’t very much of a drinker, either.”
“Mine was. Periodic benders. And I guess that’s why we never had very much money. But my uncle didn’t drink at all, and he wasn’t exactly rolling in wealth.”
“Your father was a lawyer. Why do so many lawyers like the booze? I should think you’d have to have a pretty clear head to be a lawyer. But some of the hardest drinkers I know are lawyers, and yet it doesn’t seem to affect their work. One of the most brilliant lawyers I know makes absolutely no bones about it. I’m not telling tales out of school. It’s George Wingman, partner in Mortimer and Miller. I’ve seen him in his own office, put the bottle right up on the desk, and slug away at it. But when you know the tax laws as well as he does, you don’t have to worry about where your next job is coming from.”
“I know George Wingman,” said Jack. “Some day you’re going in his office and it won’t be a bottle on the desk. It’ll be a dame.”
“So I’ve heard. A tail hound. That’s something I never could see. I don’t say I was a purity boy, but this thing of chasing one woman after another—I just don’t see it. Do you?”
“I suppose I’ve done my share of it.”
“Well, maybe in your Greenwich Village days. But George Wingman, for instance, he’s married.”
“Yes, I know his wife. She’s from my home town, or one of my home towns.”
“How does she put up with it? She must know.”
“She knows, all right,” said Jack.
“Oh. Meaning that what’s sauce for the goose and so forth?”
“They seem to have some kind of an arrangement.”
“What a way to live. What a way to live. Why be married if that’s all it means? Whenever I hear of friends of mine considering getting a divorce—I think you can solve any problem except that one. Unfaithfulness. Infidelity. I’d never try to help out two friends of mine if I knew for sure that one of them had been unfaithful. I have helped one or two, when there were financial problems. And one guy that let his wife sit at home while he went to the hockey matches or the ball game. You know, sometimes just a word will do the trick. But not when—” he interrupted himself as Gretchen and Mary returned to the room “—you have that other problem.”
“Problem? Problem? What other problem?” said Gretchen.
“Oh, we were discussing a legal problem,” said Billy. He looked at Jack, rather proud of his half-truth and quick thinking.
“Oh, yes,” said Gre
tchen. “Jack’s been spending a lot of time with lawyers lately. Did you tell him, dear?”
“Yes, I did,” said Jack.
“Everybody’s in on this but me,” said Mary.
“You tell her, Jack,” said Gretchen.
“Simply that I’ve bought out Grimes.”
“Grimes?” said Mary. “Oh, your partner, Grimes. Why, that’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“We think so,” said Gretchen. “Next year the firm will be known as Harrington and Whitehill, without the Grimes.”
“Well, didn’t you tell me that Grimes was more or less of a weak sister?” said Mary to Gretchen.
“She shouldn’t have said that, if she did,” said Jack. “He after all was one of the original founders of the firm.”
“Well, heavens, I don’t go around repeating everything Gretchen tells me.”
“I’m sure you don’t, Mary. But—”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” said Gretchen. “I was the one that originally said Stanley Grimes was a weak sister. Long ago. When I was still working for Whitehill and Grimes. Stanley was a nice, ineffectual boy. He was supposed to be the one that would discover new authors, and Ray Whitehill would manage the business end. But Stanley would take the authors to lunch and make all sorts of promises, then Ray would have to repudiate the promises. If Stanley Grimes had had his way, the firm would have gone bankrupt. Five-hundred-dollar advances for little slim volumes by unknown poets. Nobody has to feel sorry for Stanley. When Jack decided to buy him out, Stanley suddenly developed a very keen sense of the value of money. He insisted on cash. Thirty-five thousand dollars cash.”
“Wow!” said Billy.
“I should say so,” said Gretchen.
“But we got rid of him,” said Jack.
“And it was Jack, not Stanley, that discovered the only two authors on our list that have made money, so far. Jack discovered Julian Joplin and Serena Von Zetwitz.”
“Hot stuff, that Von Zetwitz woman,” said Billy. “Is that her real name?”
“Yes, why?” said Jack. “Doesn’t it sound real?”
“It sounds real, but I’ll bet she never goes back to that town in Iowa, not after that book.”