And they do know. They know who he is, and they know how he feels about them. They would be extremely obtuse not to know. In times past John Barton Rosedale, making use of his professional reputation and of the energy available to him in his thirties, could be enormously persuasive in club affairs. He led the demand for better food and more efficient operation of the telephone switchboard, and his electioneering defeated Earl Stafford for a fifth term as club president. John Barton Rosedale denied having anything personal against Earl Stafford, but he argued that Earl had been in office too long and would be fifty on his next birthday. High time, in other words, for Earl to make way for younger blood.
In times more recent, John Barton Rosedale has not been in the diningroom and he rarely receives telephone calls. But he has tried to interest his friends in a tightening of the eligibility rules that will keep out people like Norman Bahs. He had paid no attention when Norman Bahs’s name appeared on the list of candidates for membership. Later he vaguely recalled having seen the name, the designation “theatrical manager,” and the names of two actors as proposer and seconder. Six months passed, and Bahs’s name now appeared among the list of the elected.
John Barton Rosedale was introduced to Bahs at the bar. He was a bright-eyed, tooth-flashing, fat little man in a blue serge suit, white shirt, and plain blue silk tie with a Windsor knot. “I’ve always wanted to meet John Barton Rosedale,” said Bahs.
“Well, he’s usually around here somewhere. I’ll see if I can arrange it,” said John Barton Rosedale.
Bahs laughed. “Say, you’re quick, Mr. Rosedale. Somehow I always thought of you as—I don’t know. More like the parts you play.”
“This is one place where we let down our hair. Impossible to maintain one’s dignity among these ruffians. Look at some of these scoundrels. Ed Minzer. Harry Hafey. A den of thieves if ever I saw one. Let me buy you a drink, Mr. Bahs.”
“I’d consider it an honor and a pleasure,” said Bahs.
“And well you might. What will you have?”
“Same thing. Bourbon on the rocks,” said Bahs. “Do you mind if I ask, are you reading any plays for next season, Mr. Rosedale?”
“What a question to put to an actor. Of course I am. Why? Have you got one you’d like me to read?”
“Yes I have.”
“Then why haven’t you sent it to me?”
“I did, but I never got any answer.”
“What was the play?” said John Barton Rosedale.
“It’s a play called Perihelion, by an unknown. I guess you never got around to reading it.”
“Tell me a little bit about it,” said Rosedale. “Maybe it will refresh my memory. I have a stack of plays I’ve been meaning to send back to my agent.”
“It’s modern. Time, the present. This young fellow has come back from the war. World War Two. Switches around from job to job and doesn’t find anything to interest him. Then he meets this Japanese girl—”
“She was in one of those internment camps during the war. I remember that much of the play. I thought it was sent to me by mistake. Nothing in it for me. I have as much vanity as any middle-aged actor on Broadway, but I didn’t see myself playing a twenty-five-year-old veteran. I’d have to stretch my imagination and my skin.”
“Oh, you didn’t read the second act?”
“As far as I know, there is no second act. No, when the curtain falls for the end of the first act, that’s as far as I got. Don’t tell me there’s a fat juicy walk-on in Act Two for a man in my age bracket.”
“Well—you don’t know about the judge?”
“The judge? He’s mentioned in the first act. That one?”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes, I could see that coming. When you’ve read as many plays as I have you can spot a planted character immediately. Your judge is going to be very intolerant of the young Japanese girl. Am I right?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Is there any other way? Yes, I could see that coming. But why did you send me that play? Do you need backing?”
“The money is raised, Mr. Rosedale.”
“Sometimes—too many times—a manager will send me a play and then put out an announcement that I’m reading it. That’s in the hope of raising money.”
“I don’t operate that way, Mr. Rosedale. I have the backers for my next two plays.”
“Have you indeed?”
“I wish you’d read the second act before you send it back.”
“What for? I can guess what’s going to happen. You admit that yourself.”
“I said the judge is intolerant, yes. But there’s a lot more to it than that. This play could do a lot of good for an actor like yourself, Mr. Rosedale.”
“How?”
“Well, it’s a strong dramatic role.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, too, isn’t it? And you still don’t answer my question. How would it do a lot of good for an actor like me, as you put it?”
“It just would. Any good part is good for an actor.”
“That’s a very sweeping statement, isn’t it? But let’s pass it for the moment,” said John Barton Rosedale. “Roughly, what sort of money were you thinking of offering me?”
“Seven-fifty. I know it’d be no use trying to get you for less.”
“You never said a truer word. Do you realize that what you’re offering me is less than a hundred dollars a performance?”
“Well, I could go to eight.”
“My dear fellow, you can go to hell. What do you mean by coming to this club and using your brand-new membership to chisel on actors’ salaries? Is that why you joined? I’m going to find out who put you up, and have a little talk with them.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way about it, Mr. Rosedale.”
“I’ve never done this before, but I’m going to let it get around how much you offered me, and then everybody will have a pretty good idea what you’re paying the poor slob that takes the part. You may have a hard time getting a three-hundred-dollar actor.”
“No I won’t,” said Bahs. “But don’t you start fouling up my business, Mr. Rosedale. Don’t you do that. Maybe I’m not big yet, but I had as good actors as you in a couple my plays. Don’t you start fouling me up.”
“If you’re threatening me, that’s a chance I’m going to have to take.”
“You’re the one that threatened. You threatened me.”
“Oh, you’re tiresome, really you are, old boy,” said John Barton Rosedale.
He went home that day—it was easily ten years ago—and was so unaffected by the encounter with Bahs that he neglected to give a report of it to Millicent. She was in the midst of preparing onion soup, which took a while the way she made it, and until eight o’clock he occupied himself with his wardrobe, rehanging his suits so that they would not get that closet look; polishing his shoes, which he called boots; inspecting his shirts for signs of fraying. Millicent, in and out of the kitchen, had the radio tuned in on an FM symphony program. Both of them were looking forward to eight o’clock and dinner, and conversation was not necessary or even especially desirable, since she enjoyed her cooking to a musical accompaniment, and he liked fussing around with his clothes, every item of which was associated with starring roles in plays that had paid him well.
It was a little past eight when they sat down in the dining alcove, with the entire meal on the table and Millicent’s candles the only light. The onion soup and scallopini were kept warm in glazed earthenware containers; the Rosedales owned sets of Limoges and Meissen china and an assortment of solid silver, and the only concession they made to modern living was in the use of paper napkins, and even that was elaborately justified by pointing to the work it saved Millicent and the avoidance of wear and tear on the good napery. They had a bottle of wine—the musical friends of Millicent always brought more win
e than they drank, and tonight’s bottle from the surplus was a Riesling that went well with the veal.
“Who did this come from?” said John Barton Rosedale.
“This was from Lenny Giordano. He brought three bottles that night and we didn’t open a one. But this is the last, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The last of the Riesling. We’re getting low on wine. Maybe we ought to have another party soon.”
“All right. I’m willing. I want to try out some new recipes. Eddie Petruccini found me an old Italian cookbook, in Milano last summer.”
“Mee-lann-no! Fee-renn-zeh! Love to hear old Eddie pronounce those Italian names. Mee-lah-no! And he sure does love to eat.”
“So do you. I just wish I could eat what you eat and stay thin.”
“Baby, you’re going to eat, so why torture yourself about it.”
“I know, but to think that when I was twenty years old I only weighed a hundred and thirty. And five feet seven and a half.”
“Well, you’re still five-seven-and-a-half.”
“It was Zumbach that made me eat. Eat, eat, eat, he used to tell me. You’ll sing it off in one performance, he’d say. And sometimes I did. But you, you bastard, you let me go on eating. You should have stopped me.”
“Don’t blame it on me, baby. You were a food addict before I came along.”
“I know, but you could have made me stop.”
“Well, you were a nice bed-full. I’d had enough of scrawny dames, onstage and off. In bed and out. My mother, my sisters, my first wife, and Diana. All built like boys.”
“Diana wasn’t built like a boy.”
“Pretty near. You ready for espresso? I want to take a look at a TV show. Jack Masters particularly asked me to watch a show he’s on. It goes on at nine o’clock. Channel Two.”
They cleared the table and left the dishes in the sink, and were seated comfortably with a bottle of grappa when the television program began. “I have no idea what Jack’s doing,” said John Barton Rosedale. “I don’t even know when he comes on. But he particularly asked me to watch this show, so he must be good in it.”
The first twenty minutes passed and Jack Masters had not yet made his appearance, but during the commercial interval John Barton Rosedale had little to say.
“What do you think of it so far?” said Millicent.
“Good,” he said. “The sets are awful, and the lighting is something fierce. Did you notice those shadows in the hospital room? Somebody ought to be shot for that. But the play’s all right—if they can keep it up. This is only the first act.”
Halfway during the second twenty minutes Jack Masters came on the screen. He played the proprietor of a Mexican cantina.
“Good heavens,” said Millicent. “Jack’s as fat as I am.”
“Sh-h-h.”
At the end of the second act John Barton Rosedale refilled his glass. “Now I know why he wanted me to watch,” he said.
“Yes. He’s good,” said Millicent.
“He’s better than good, baby. This is the best he’s ever been. Jack Masters, Jake Moscowitz, playing a Mexican saloonkeeper. I wonder how much the Hollywood people watch these things? They pretend they don’t, you know, but I hope for Jack’s sake they’re watching tonight. I wonder if Bogey ever watches these things?”
“Which Bogey? Humphrey?”
“Naturally. He has his own company now, and he used to be a friend of Jack’s. The play isn’t holding up very well, but they sure are getting a performance out of old Jack.”
The play resumed, and they remained silent through the third act, to the very end. “Shall I turn it off?” said Millicent.
“Wait a second, I want to see the credits. This is what they call the crawl, or the crawler, I’m not sure which. Sometimes the names go slow, sometimes fast, depending on how much time they have left. There we are. Pedro Gomez, Jack Masters. Now let’s see who directed it. That usually comes last on a movie. Here we are. Produced by—Norman Bahs. For Christ’s sake. Directed by—Norman Bahs! No! I don’t believe it.”
“Who is that? I never heard of him.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you about him later. Now I have to call Jack and congratulate him.” John Barton Rosedale telephoned the broadcasting company, asked for the studio, and learned that the play he had just seen was on tape. “I’ll call him at his house,” he said, and did so.
The line was busy.
“You were going to tell me about the director. I’ve forgotten his name already.”
“Producer and director. His name is Norman Bahs. Over there in the light blue envelope on my desk is a play he wanted me to do. I just got finished telling him to go to hell.”
“Oh, Rosey. Again?”
“What do you mean again? I only met him this afternoon.”
“You know what I mean. Was it money again? What did he offer you?”
“He offered me seven-fifty. That’s not even a hundred dollars a performance. Then he said he might go to eight, and I said he might go to hell, too. And don’t you start on seven-fifty is better than nothing.”
“It is, though. It’s seven hundred and fifty dollars a week better than nothing. I know that much. What’s better? Waiting a year for a thousand and then maybe working four or five weeks, or getting seven-fifty while we’re waiting?”
“I’m not broke. We have enough to eat—even enough for you.”
She had her glass in her hand. She looked at it, quickly raised it to her lips and drank, and got to her feet and went to the kitchen. He waited for her to turn on the FM radio, with one of her musical programs, but the only sounds that came out of the kitchen were the small noises of china on china, water running out of the sink, closet doors closing. Then the barely audible click of the light switch.
She walked through the livingroom. “Goodnight,” she said, as she passed him. He could tell by the later sounds that she was preparing to sleep in the guest room, and then he heard the guest room door pulled to.
(1963)
LATE, LATE SHOW
Sherman Gallagher got up and turned off the TV. “I just wanted to see how he got out of it,” he said.
“Our hero?” said his wife.
“Our hero? No, not our hero. Any time Ronald Colman was in a picture he was a sure bet to emerge triumphant, with not a hair out of place. Dashing, debonair. All the rest of it. Oh, they had him up a tree for a while. Sure. But somehow you always knew that dear old Ronnie would come through unscathed.”
“Then I don’t get it,” said Mary Gallagher. “Who were you worried about?”
“I wasn’t worried about anybody,” said Sherman Gallagher. “What I meant was, I wanted to see how Ralph P. Stimson was going to get out of it.”
“Ralph P. Stimson? Which was he?” she said.
“You just saw his name. Do you mean to say you’ve forgotten already who Ralph P. Stimson was?”
“Was he the friend? No, he couldn’t have been. He gave his life to save Ronald Colman. Come on, Sherry, tell me. Who was Ralph P. Stimson?”
“Only the man that was responsible for the screenplay. Screenplay by Ralph P. Stimson.”
“I don’t see why you cared about him,” said Mary Gallagher. “You mean to say you sat there rooted to your chair, for almost two hours—do you know Ralph P. Stimson?”
“Of course I know him,” said Gallagher.
“I’ve never heard you speak of him,” she said.
“Oh, yes. A long time ago, you did. Twenty–twenty-five years ago. I guess it was more like thirty years ago.”
“Where did you know him? Under what circumstances?”
“Well, as a matter of fact I used to have lunch with him almost every day for a while,” said Gallagher.
“When you were with McClanahan and Souder, that must have been. Did he work there, this man?”
“
He sure did,” said Gallagher. “He was an absolute ball of fire. They took him on right after he got out of Harvard. I think actually he was related to Ted Souder in some way or other. Anyway, they found a spot for him as a junior copywriter. Junior meant that he had to be satisfied with a hundred dollars a month, but I guess he must have had some money of his own, because the son of a bitch certainly wasn’t living on any hundred-a-month scale. The rest of us usually had lunch at Childs. That was when they gave you all you could eat for something like eighty-five cents, but they were on some kind of a health-food kick. Do you remember that? They were pushing some vegetable diet or something.”
“I do remember, yes,” she said.
“And it almost broke them. But if you wanted to stuff yourself, you could. You could eat enough to do you all day, provided you weren’t carnivorous. If you were herbivorous, Childs was the place to go. A full meal for the price of a Clover Club.”
“Oh, Clover Clubs! How long has it been since I’ve heard anyone order a Clover Club. They were quite wicked. Not as bad as a Martini, but much more deceptive. I’m going to have one the next time we go to a restaurant. Excuse me. You were saying?”
Her tangential remarks did not bother him. “He was known as Rafe Stimson, which is English, of course. I think he may have given himself that name. He was very English in a lot of ways. The Harvard fellows I knew all wore Brooks Brothers Sack Suit Number 1, and the white shirt, and quite a few of them wore black knit ties. But I never saw Stimson dressed that way. Double-breasted gray flannels. Homburg hats. Tab collars. Not the slightest trace of the Harvard Yard, sartorially speaking. A lot of us carried canes, but he carried a brolly. An umbrella. And, horror of horrors, he wore a moustache. Not a full-thickness Brigade-of-Guards moustache, but not one of your thin little lines of hair either. It was a proper moustache, and it did what he wanted it to. It made him look older. Consequently, it embarrassed Ted Souder to have Stimson a junior copywriter, and he was promoted out of the junior class.”