Mollie was on the best of terms with the head men in various publicity departments. The quid pro quo arrangements were satisfactory to the press agents, who valued her name, and to her for the free tickets and a suitable escort. When it was suggested, timidly, that Don Tally was available to take her to the new Nigel Whaley film, she exclaimed: “But divine! I saw the picture the other night at a private screening, and I love him with a passion!”
Accordingly Don Tally appeared at her Seventy-first Street duplex at seven on the dot, and they had a cup of soup and tidbits of steak together, just the two of them. He did not know that the bright smile was not for him alone, that it was Mollie’s opening-night enthusiasm. “This’ll be my second time for your picture, you know,” she said.
“It is? When did you see it?”
“Sunday night at some friends of mine,” said Mollie.
“You mean friends with a private projection room?”
“Yes, they show pictures almost every Sunday.”
“Yeah, the only trouble with that is, you don’t get the audience reaction in a projection room,” said Don Tally.
“Oh, but you do. As much as you would in a small theater. It isn’t just five or six people, and it isn’t only the rich bastards. All the servants and the servants’ families. They play to fifty people or probably more. They call it Loew’s Locust Valley.”
“Say, you’re pretty hip,” said Don Tally.
“Am I? Thanks. But what I wanted to say was, why haven’t you been in movies before? I know I’ve seen you in musical comedy, on Broadway, but I can’t understand why you haven’t been in movies forever. Is it true that Nigel discovered you in Sardi’s and had never seen you before?”
“Just about, yes. Do you know Nigel Whaley?”
“Oh, forever. I met Nigel—oh, dear. He wasn’t still at Oxford, but very soon after. My ex-husband and I used to spend a lot of time in England, but he didn’t care much for the theater and I adored it. Cons’quently, I had a lot of friends like Nigel. A grand gang, they were, and it was such fun knowing them before they became globally famous.”
“Like Gertie Lawrence and Noel Coward?”
“Oh, sure. Gertie and I go back to Charlot’s Revue. And Bea. And of course Noel was a dear, dear friend and I hope still is. I didn’t see him last trip, he was so busy with television. I wish he wouldn’t do television. Are you going to do television? Don’t let them sign you up for that rot. You must be very careful what you do next, Mr. Tally. If I were you, I wouldn’t work with anyone but Nigel, at least for a while.”
“I’ll settle for that, but I’m not in his next picture and he only does one or two a year, if that.”
“Well, after tonight they’ll all be knocking at your door. Just don’t take the first thing that comes along. I’ve had so many friends that grabbed the first thing that came along after one big success. Especially be careful of those people in Hollywood. I’m sure they’ll all want you to play this same part over and over again, and over and over and over.”
“There aren’t that many fat villains,” said Don Tally.
“But look at Sydney Greenstreet. Good heavens.”
“You really dig show business?”
“Oh, I dig. Yes, I dig,” she said. “I’m getting the signal. The car is waiting for us, and we can’t possibly be late.”
“What signal?”
“The butler. Very unobtrusive but firm. Nigel is one of the few directors that doesn’t think every butler has to be Arthur Treacher, by the way. Wasn’t it fahn working with Nigel?”
In the reports of the premiere two of the society columnists had the same thought; that chic, soignée Mrs. Townsend (“Mollie”) Bishop had stolen a march on Broadway and Hollywood by having as her escort the actor who scored the greatest personal triumph in the Nigel Whaley picture. The photo editors were especially grateful for pictures that had some novelty to them, and the pictures got a big play in all the papers. There were shots of Mollie Bishop and Don Tally getting out of her town car, and of them leaving the theater, and of them dancing together at the posh party at the St. Regis after the premiere.
With the late editions of the morning papers and the early editions of the afternoons scattered about his bedroom, Don Tally remembered that he had not asked Mollie Bishop for her phone number. But he remembered the address of her apartment, and he sent her twenty dollars’ worth of flowers. In little more than an hour she telephoned him. “Thank you ever so much for the blooms,” she said.
“I wanted to call you up, but I didn’t know your number,” he said.
“Why didn’t you try looking in the book?” she said.
“I would of bet you’d have an unlisted number,” he said.
“I have, but I’m in the book, too,” she said. “Would you like awfully to come for dinner next Tuesday? Eight o’clock, black tie, and I think sixteen all told. Nigel is coming, and Sir George and Lady Repperton, and some strange friends of mine that I don’t think you’ve met. You may not like them, but I can have your friends another time. Do say you can come.”
“Try and stop me,” he said.
The party was a dud, a mistake just short of catastrophe. Most of the men were there because their wives had wanted to see Don Tally close to or had been bullied into coming by Mollie Bishop. The women did not respond to Don Tally, and they seemed to have made a tacit agreement that if Mollie Bishop planned to sponsor the fat actor, she could expect no cooperation from them. At midnight the only guests remaining were Don Tally, Nigel Whaley, and a woman who was amorously inclined toward Whaley and making no effort to hide her impatience. “Nancy, you don’t have to make the party any worse than it was,” said Mollie Bishop.
“I’d have to try awfully hard,” said Nancy.
“Oh, go on home,” said Mollie Bishop. “Goodnight, Nigel. If you want to push this creature in front of a taxi, it’s perfectly all right with me.”
“Goodnight, Mollie dear. Goodnight, Tally. Don’t s’pose I’ll see you before I shove off for the homeland. Good luck to you.”
“Thanks, Nigel,” said Don Tally. “Thanks for everything.”
“Notta tall, old boy,” said Nigel Whaley.
When they were gone Don Tally looked at Mollie. “Well, I was a big fat bomb.”
“You never know,” said Mollie Bishop. “Sometimes a party like this turns out beautifully. If I’d kept it to ten. But Tuesday isn’t a good night to have too many Wall Street types. They’re all intent on business and they become simply deadwood.”
“It wasn’t only Wall Street. Nigel Whaley was here because he thought he had to come. Not on account of me, but because of you.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. His nose may be a little out of joint because you got such good notices. I never saw that side of him before, but if I were you I wouldn’t count on working for him again. Did anything happen while you were making the picture?”
“Yes. I got good. I guess I got too good.”
“Yes, I guess you did. I imagine there are several other noses out of joint besides Nigel’s. When a member of the supporting cast steals the notices from two quite big stars.”
“Well, I had my big moment,” said Don Tally.
“Do you think that’s the way it’s going to be?”
“Could be. I’ve seen it happen, so have you, you told me. But I was thinking, how would it be if you and I got married?”
“If you and I got married? To each other?” she said.
“That’s right.”
“But what on earth for?”
“Aren’t you lonely?”
“Not that lonely,” she said.
“Wait’ll you hear my argument. The way you live now, you go around to all these shows, opening nights and so on, and every time you do you have to get somebody to go with you. Usually some fag that everybody knows is a fag. Well, on
e thing I’m not is a fag, I guarantee you.”
“But what you are isn’t necessarily what I want, is it?”
“Now wait a minute, hear me out. I’m a fat slob of an ex-vaudeville actor. In show business all my life. No education. No family connections good or bad. If you looked all over the United States you wouldn’t find anybody that was wronger for you to marry. But that’s my big pitch.”
“Why? How?”
“Well, on the other hand, take you. You’re a society dame with a zillion dollars and a lot of friends in society and show business that honestly don’t give a God damn about you. I watched them tonight. You think they’re your friends, and they think they’re your friends. But they’re not. And down deep you know it, kid. The guy you were married to, Bishop, he gave you a large bundle of dough because you were a nice girl that came from the same strata of society, but he couldn’t stand the life you like. So now he’s married to some dame that likes dogs as much as he does. I know. I asked around. Which leaves you where? Which leaves you all alone and rich, and you have to get movie press agents to find a fellow to take you out. Or else you get one of your fags. The way I see it, sex don’t interest you. Just getting all gussied up and going to all these opening nights. I won’t even make a guess how long it is since you went to bed with somebody. But that’s all right. You don’t want to. You don’t have that problem. I do, but you don’t. So therefore, if you married me, I’d come and live here and every night you wanted to go out, I’d be here instead of you having to comb the woods for somebody. The rest of the time I wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
“It sounds like sheer heaven,” she said.
“You’re getting sarcastic but wait till I finish.”
“Oh, there’s more?” she said.
“Yeah. I only know you a week and I only saw you twice in that time, but I think I got you pretty well figured out. You’re what they call an exhibitionist. You go to all these parties and spend all that dough on clothes because you want to attract attention. But you don’t want guys making passes at you. You like to have your picture taken and see it in the papers, and all that business of women staring at you to look at your new evening gown. That’s where you get your kicks. But if you wanted to get a real charge every time you went out, it’d be if you married me. Previous to this they look at you because you’re a big society dame and spend a lot of money on clothes. But if you want to get them to really gawk at you, marry me. All those people, the society people and the hoi polloi that stand around at opening nights, when they see you and I together they’ll think, oh, boy, look at those two sex monsters. That society broad with her cheap fat ham actor. They don’t do that now, because you’re always with some fag. But I got one of the worst reputations in show business. A decent woman, if there is any such thing, won’t go out with me. I had that reputation since I was sixteen years old, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I had it the rest of my life. All your society friends’d be trying to pump you and you’d just look wise and have the laugh on them. And meanwhile some of those dames would be making a pitch for me, just out of curiosity. So there’s my argument. If you want to get a real charge out of life, you and I ought to veil up.”
“Now can I take a deep breath?”
“Go right ahead,” he said.
She tapped a cigarette so hard that it bent. He held up his lighter for her, but she shook her head. “As a matter of fact,” she said. “A great deal of what you said is true. I wouldn’t be so ready to admit it if I didn’t know how true it was. You were rather rough on me, but no rougher than I’ve had to be myself. And it would be rather fun to lead you around like a centaur and catch the reactions of my friends. I’ve heard about your reputation, too. I don’t see how you’ve kept out of prison. But why wouldn’t it be much simpler if we omitted the marriage part?”
“The idea’s no good if I have to go home at night,” he said. “I have to live here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Otherwise it’d be no different than what you have now.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right,” she said.
She was silent and remained silent so long that he wanted to speak, to say anything at all, but a soft sadness had come into her face that he wanted to respect, and did. In spite of the markings of the years about her eyes and under her chin, he could see how she had looked as a girl of twenty. She was breathing regularly if shallowly, and a couple of times she moistened her lips with her tongue. At last she spoke. “You see,” she said. “I’m still in love with my husband.” She turned to him beseechingly. “And I think you understand that.”
“Yes, God damn it, I do,” he said. He went to her and let her put her head on his shoulder. Very delicately he patted her coiffure.
(1966)
THE PRIVATE PEOPLE
The doorman, being a man in his late fifties, still gets a small charge out of uttering the name. “Good morning, Mr. Dorney,” he will say, and if anyone happens to be nearby and asks the doorman if that was the Mr. Dorney, Jack Dorney, the doorman is very pleased.
“He must be—what? Sixty-three?” the other person may say.
“Sixty-three on the second day of last February,” the doorman will say. “An Aquarius. You’ll find that Fritz Kreisler and Havelock Ellis had the same birthday. The violin player and the, uh, the famous author. Also born the second of February. Will you be wanting a taxi, ma’am?”
Down the street goes Jack Dorney, headed toward Fifth Avenue. Seldom does anyone under thirty give him a second look; his image was, as it were, frozen by the makeup people in the movie studios so that it remained an indeterminate twenty-five to thirty-five until he was actually in his forties. His biggest pictures were made after he had ceased to be a juvenile and before the slightly protruding lower lip, the tentative frown, the almost vanished chinline, the free-growing eyebrows that now act as a disguise. Some people of a certain age will vaguely recognize his walk; he still walks like a dancer, briskly and rhythmically, as though he were going to be joined by Ruby Keeler at the corner of Seventy-ninth and Fifth.
But at Seventy-ninth and Fifth he is not going to be joined by anyone. He crosses Fifth to the west side of the Avenue and turns southward, and as he proceeds to Sixtieth he could be any carefully dressed man to most of the people who see him. He wears crushable but never crushed English hats with narrow bands, dark blue or light gray topcoats, brown suede or black calf shoes, and regardless of the weather he carries an umbrella, tightly furled. At Sixtieth he has walked nearly a mile, and he hails a taxi to take him the rest of the way, even when it is only a few blocks. He has learned that between Sixtieth and Forty-second, from Sixth Avenue to Second, he risks chance encounters with old acquaintances, old friends, old girls, who want to borrow money or get drunk or grip his arm or reminisce. They are the ones who never fail to recognize him, who know that he made some good investments, who want to rewrite history so that a weekend in Palm Springs becomes a never-to-be-forgotten romance. Once there was a time when he could tell them he was stopping at the St. Regis, but now they all know he has settled in New York. They are bores, and even the genuinely pathetic ones can be mean. “Why, you stuck-up son of a bitch, you washed-up ham, don’t give me that nice-to-see-you bit,” one woman had screamed at him in front of the Pavillon. She wanted him to come to dinner with some of the old bunch and have their pictures taken for Life. She had this young photographer friend that . . .
At Sixtieth he takes a taxi to one of a few restaurants, one of his two clubs, places where people behave themselves. In these places he is known to all the staff, from busboy to manager or owner, and in most of them he knows their names. In the restaurants especially he goes back with a few of the waiters to the speakeasy days, when he would come to town from Hollywood and spend his money, as they used to say, like it was going out of style. With waiters he was always generous, not only at the end of an evening but in times of financial emergency; he gave them money for
their children’s tonsillectomies, for their schooling, and in several instances, for the burial expenses of the waiters themselves. One day he looked down from a box at Belmont and saw a waiter to whose funeral bills he had given a hundred dollars during a previous visit to New York; that night in his favorite speakeasy a waiter handed him an envelope containing a hundred dollars in fives and tens. “We understand you ran into Julio today,” said the waiter.
“I didn’t run into him. I just saw him,” said Jack Dorney. “He looked pretty good for a dead man.”
“Anyway, he asked us to give this back to you,” said the waiter.
“If I remember correctly, it was you that took up the collection for Julio.”
“I guess it was me,” said the waiter.
“You know God damn well it was you,” said Jack Dorney.
“You gonna say anything to the boss?” said the waiter.
“I might, and I might not,” said Jack Dorney.
“It’s worth my job, Mr. Dorney.”
“Don’t think I don’t know that,” said Jack Dorney. “You could have asked me for the money without playing me for a chump.” He did not expose the waiter, but the next time Jack Dorney came to New York the waiter was working elsewhere. He never knew what happened to Julio.