“Not a bit. I’d rather hear what you have to tell me first,” said Robertson. “Unless you’re hungry.”
“I can wait,” said Kemper. “It won’t take much longer.”
“I can probably hasten things a bit. You want me to be the substitute for George in Operation Mae.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s fairly obvious,” said Kemper.
“Why me?”
Kemper smiled. “Well, why any of us? Why George? Why me? Why Bob Webster?”
“And why not a half a dozen others that we could mention?” said Robertson.
“I suppose there were as many as that,” said Kemper.
“You don’t only suppose, do you?”
“If we counted every time Mae disappeared from a party with some young man. Oh, I don’t know. But I was given to understand that you and I and George and Bob Webster were the ones she liked best.”
“Who told you that?”
“George did, and so did Mae. When George came to her rescue and told her that he and Bob and I were setting up this arrangement, she said, ‘What about Al Robertson?’ She seemed to think you belonged in the group. But if you feel otherwise, we can drop the whole matter. That’s why I was so mysterious in my letter.”
“What does it amount to, annually?”
“In money? Fifteen hundred a year, apiece. Since George died Webster and I’ve been making up the difference. If you want to look at it strictly from the money angle, George contributed for ten years. Not to mention what he put out in the beginning. But Mae isn’t going to last ten years. A year would be more like it.”
“Then I don’t really see why I should come into it at all. That is, if you and Webster can do it without me.”
“I guess we can. I know we can,” said Kemper. “But if anything happens to me, I’m not sure Webster could assume the whole thing. There’s quite a difference between fifteen hundred and forty-five hundred. If anything happened to Webster I might have a little difficulty making up his share and George’s. On the other hand, if Bob and I were to kick off in the same year, you could handle the whole thing without a noticeable dent in your income.”
“You seem pretty sure of that,” said Robertson.
“Well, I read the papers, too, you know. Your granddaughter’s coming-out party was supposed to’ve cost over a hundred thousand.”
“It probably did, but I had nothing to do with that.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, but the girl’s mother is your daughter,” said Kemper. “Mr. Robertson, you’re one of the four or five richest men in the Middle West. I read Fortune, too.”
“Mr. Kemper, I haven’t said I couldn’t afford to make a contribution to this fund. What I’ve been trying to say, without actually saying it, is that I don’t see why I should. It’s at least forty years since I’ve seen or heard from Mae MacNeath. I never saw her after I went back to Chicago, although I’ve been to New York hundreds of times since then. I daresay I could have seen her, in that time, but I didn’t much want to.”
“Oh, well then I got a completely wrong impression.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you did. To be perfectly candid about it, I never slept with Mae.”
“Oh, then I did have the wrong impression. From what she told me, and the impression she always gave George, you were the love of her life.”
“I wonder why she’d want you to believe that.”
“Well, because you were Alvin Robertson, the tycoon. The only one of her old friends that made it big, as they say.”
“Inheritance played a rather large part in that, as you no doubt know. The Robertson money was made by my grandfather. He was the one that got all those land leases from the government. My father and I had that to start with.”
“Aren’t you being a bit over-modest?” said Kemper.
“Not at all. I’m not inclined to be over-anything. Over-modest, or over-sentimental. My granddaughter speaks of me as a cold fish, and I’m not that either, but it’s very disturbing to hear that Mae MacNeath has been giving the completely opposite impression.”
“Well, she’s certainly done that, I must say,” said Kemper.
“It could be part of her—schizophrenia. They have a way of remembering things that never happened.”
“No, apparently Mae had this thing about you long before she began cracking up.”
Robertson was silent for a moment. “Mr. Kemper, you don’t know the precise moment when she began cracking up. No one does. She may have started when she was fourteen.”
“Yes, that’s possible,” said Kemper.
“Even earlier, in some cases. In any event, by the time she was eighteen, and began cutting up at those tea dances we used to go to at the Plaza and the Lorraine, she was well on the way to some kind of breakdown, and don’t you agree?”
“She was never Alice-sit-by-the-fire, I admit that,” said Kemper.
“You see, if I had never known Mae at all, and someone came to me for help—I have helped out in cases that were somewhat similar. But if I agreed to help Mae MacNeath now, you and Webster would be convinced that all she ever implied about me was true. How shall I say this without giving offense? Mae MacNeath, the crazy side of her, is attempting to black-mail me. Do you consider that an unfair statement?”
“Unfair, and inaccurate,” said Kemper.
“I was afraid you would. But let me try again. When I was a young man and being invited to the coming-out parties, I could enjoy myself up to a certain point. I’ll tell you what that point was. As long as they thought I was somebody named Al Robinson, I was allowed to have a good time. But you have no idea how many times a girl or her mother would get a certain look in her eye when she found out I was Alvin Robertson, from Chicago. ‘From Chicago?’ they’d say, and their whole manner would change. Some of the mothers would want to be sure, and they’d say, ‘Oh, you must be Angus Robertson’s grandson,’ as though they knew the old boy. My grandfather never knew their kind of people, and my grandmother, who wanted to know them, could barely read and write. So that generation were never in society, even Chicago society. My father and mother were. They’d both been East to school and my mother’s father was a bishop. An Episcopalian bishop, originally from Massachusetts. I grew up with no illusions about my own personal charm. My father had been all through it, and my bishop’s-daughter mother saw to it that I was always on my guard. If you ever want to know where anyone stands socially and financially, ask a bishop’s wife. My maternal grandmother had it all at her fingertips, and my mother had too. She never had to warn me in so many words about those Eastern girls and their mothers. I’d been warned since birth. Consequently, I learned to look out for that certain look when they found out my name was Robertson and I came from Chicago. And unfortunately, Mae MacNeath gave me that look. As long as she thought I was Al Robinson, down from New Haven, we had fun together. But she wanted to invite me to some party and I had to write out my name and address. ‘Rob-ert-son?’ she said. ‘From Chicago?’ Then it dawned on her. But it also dawned on me, Mr. Kemper. She stopped being fun, and I’m afraid she became a little too obvious. She tried to vamp me. Do you remember that expression?”
“Oh, yes. There was a song called ‘The Vamp.’”
“And the original vamp came from Chicago. Theda Bara. I didn’t happen to like Theda Bara, and I liked her even less when she called herself Mae MacNeath. A girl that had been fun, suddenly became rather nasty. In my opinion, that is. So I even stopped cutting in on her at dances. I didn’t like the way she danced, if you know what I mean. It embarrassed me. Now I believe, Mr. Kemper, that as far back as that Mae convinced herself that there’d been something romantic between us. In actual fact, there never had been, you see. I liked Mae as long as she was fun, but when she began vamping me, I didn’t like her at all. But you can see how she might build that up to a sort of frustration, so that as the years passed, I becam
e something I never really was. Do you know that I never even kissed Mae?”
“Yes, I believe you,” said Kemper. “I do now.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Robertson. “Do you think you could convince Webster of that fact?”
“Yes, I think I could.”
“Good. In that case, I’ll assume George Mulvane’s share, but you must give me your word of honor that you never tell Mae. I won’t have her think that I was such a weakling.”
“I promise you, Mae will never know,” said Kemper. “We can order lunch here, you know, and have another drink before we go upstairs.”
“Let’s do that, shall we?” said Robertson. He sat back in his chair and looked around the room. “This is a rather nice place. I think I might join. There’s old Tom Conville. I think I’ll go over and say hello to him, if you’ll excuse me. Only be a minute.”
(1966)
WE’RE FRIENDS AGAIN
I know of no quiet quite like that of a men’s club at about half past nine on a summer Sunday evening. The stillness is a denial of the meaning and purpose of a club, and as you go from empty room to empty room and hear nothing but the ticking of clocks and your own heel taps on the rugless floor, you think of the membership present and past; the charming, dull, distinguished, vulgar, jolly, bibulous men who have selected this place and its company as a refuge from all other places and all other company. For that is what a club is, and to be alone in it is wrong. And at half past nine on a summer Sunday evening you are quite likely to be alone. The old men who live there have retired for the night, sure that if they die before morning they will be discovered by a chambermaid, and that if they survive this night they will have another day in which their loneliness will be broken by the lunch crowd, the cocktail crowd, and the presence of a few men in the diningroom in the evening. But on a summer Sunday evening the old men are better off in their rooms, with their personal possessions, their framed photographs and trophies of accomplishment and favorite books. The lounge, the library, the billiard and card rooms have a deathly emptiness on summer Sunday evenings, and the old men need no additional reminder of emptiness or death.
It is always dark in my club at half past nine in the evening, and darker than ever on Sunday in summer, when only the fewest possible lights are left burning. If you go to the bar the bartender slowly folds his newspaper, which he has been reading by the light from the back-bar, takes off his glasses, says “Good evening,” and unconsciously looks up at the clock to see how much longer he must stay. Downstairs another club servant is sitting at the telephone switchboard. There is the spitting buzz of an incoming call and he says, “ ’Devening, St. James Club? . . . No sir, he isn’t . . . No sir, no message for you . . . Mr. Crankshaw went to bed about an hour ago. Orders not to disturb him, sir . . . You’re welcome. Goodnight.” The switchboard buzzes, the loudest, the only noise in the club, until the man pulls out the plug and the weight pulls the cord back into place, and then it is quiet again.
I had been a member of the St. James for about ten years, but I could not recall ever having been there on a Sunday until this night a year or so ago. I was summoned on the golf course by an urgent message to call the New York operator, which I did immediately. “Jim, I’m sorry to louse up your golf, but can you get a train in to New York? I don’t advise driving. The traffic is terrible.”
“There’s a train that will get me to Penn Station about eight-thirty,” I said. “But what’s this all about?”
The man I was speaking to was Charles Ellis, one of my best friends.
“Charley? What’s it all about?” I repeated.
“Nancy died this afternoon. She had a stroke after lunch.”
“Oh, no. Charley, I can’t tell you—”
“I know, and thanks. Are you still a member at the St. James?”
“Yes, why?”
“Will you meet me there? I’ll tell you why when I see you.”
“Of course. What time will you get there?”
“As soon after eight-thirty as I can.”
For a little while the stillness of the club was a relief from the noise and unpleasantness of the train, which was filled with men and women and children who had presumably been enjoying themselves under the Long Island sun but were now beginning to suffer from it, and if not from the damage to their skin, from the debilitating effects of too much picnic food and canned beer. At Jamaica there was an angry scramble as we changed trains, and all the way from Jamaica to Penn Station five men fought over some fishing tackle on the car platform while three young men with thick thatches and blue jeans tormented two pansies in imitation Italian silk suits.
The bartender gave me some cold cuts and bread and cheese and made me some instant coffee. “How late do you work, Fred?” I said.
“Sundays I’m off at ten,” he said, looking at the clock for the fifth or sixth time. “Don’t seem worth the while, does it?”
“I’m expecting a friend, he’s not a member.”
“Then if I was you I’d make sure Roland knows about it. He’s just as liable to fall asleep. You know, asleep at the switchboard? You heard the old saying, asleep at the switch. That fellow can go to sleep with his eyes open.”
“I’ve already spoken to him,” I said. I wandered about in the lounge and the library, not to be out of earshot when Charley Ellis arrived. As all the clocks in the club struck ten Fred came to me, dressed for the street, and said: “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“Can you let me have a bottle of Scotch?”
“I can do that, and a bowl of ice. You want soda, Mr. Malloy?”
“Just the Scotch and the ice, thanks.”
“About the only place you can drink it is in your room, if you want water with it. I have to close up the bar.”
“It’s all right if we sit here, isn’t it?”
“Jesus, if you want to,” said Fred.
At that moment Charles Ellis arrived, escorted by Roland.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Ellis,” said Fred. “Remember me? Fred, from the Racquet Club?”
“Yes, hello, Fred. Is this where you are now?”
“Six and a half years,” said Fred.
“Thanks very much, Fred,” I said. “Goodnight.”
“I’ll bring you the bottle,” said Fred.
“I don’t want a drink, if that’s what you mean,” said Charles Ellis. “Unless you’ve fallen off the wagon.”
“Then never mind, thanks, Fred. Goodnight.”
Fred left, and I switched on some lights in the lounge.
“You saddled with that bore?” said Charley.
“I don’t see much of him,” I said.
“I’m sorry I’m so late. I got here as soon as I could. I called this number but it didn’t answer.”
“That’s all right. I guess Roland had the buzzer turned off.”
“Hell of an imposition, taking you away from golf and so forth. How is Kay?”
“Very distressed, naturally. She said to give you her love.”
“I almost asked her to come in with you.”
“She almost came,” I said. “But she has her grandchildren coming tomorrow.”
He was silent, obviously wondering where to begin.
“Take your time,” I said.
He looked up at me and smiled. “Thanks.” He reached over and patted my knee. “Thanks for everything, Jim.”
“Well, what the hell?”
“First, why did I want to see you here? Because I didn’t want to ask you to come to the apartment, and I didn’t want to go to the Racquet Club.”
“I figured something like that.”
“How did it happen, and all that? Nancy and I were spending the weekend at her uncle’s. We went out to dinner last night, and when we came home she said she had a headache, so I gave her some aspirin. This morning she
still had the headache and I asked her if she wanted me to send for a doctor, but she didn’t. She said she hadn’t slept very well, and I probably should have called the doctor, but I didn’t. Then there were four guests for lunch and I didn’t have a chance to speak to her. In fact the last thing I said to her was before lunch, I told her that if she didn’t feel better after lunch, she should make her excuses and lie down. And that’s what she did. She excused herself, shook her head to me not to follow her, and about twenty minutes later the maid came and told us she was dead. Found her lying on the bathroom floor. I can’t believe it. I can’t be devoid of feeling, but I just can’t believe it.”
“Did the doctor give you anything?”
“You mean sedative? Tranquilizers? No, I haven’t needed anything. I guess I must be in some sort of shock.”
“Where are the children?”
“Well, of course Mike is in Germany, still in the Army. And I finally located Janey about an hour ago, at a house in Surrey where she’s spending the weekend. She’s been abroad all summer. She’s flying home tomorrow and Mike has applied for leave. The Army or the Red Cross or somebody will fly him home in time for the funeral.” He paused.
“Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock. Church of the Epiphany, on York Avenue. I decided Wednesday so that Mike could be here, in case there’s any hitch.” He looked about him. “You couldn’t ask for a gloomier place than this, could you?”
“No, it’s certainly appropriate.”
“Well, what do I do now, Jim? You’ve been through it.”
“Yes, I’ve been through it. The answer is, you’re going to be so damn busy with details the next few weeks that you won’t have too much time to know what hit you. You’re going to find out how really nice people can be. Maybe you haven’t thought about that lately, but you’re going to find out. You’re also going to find out that some people are shits. Real shits. I’ll give you the two worst. The old friend that won’t make any effort at all except maybe to send you a telegram, if that. You’ll be shocked by that, so you ought to be prepared for it. I mean very close friends, guys and women you grew up with that just won’t come near you. Then there’s the second type, just as bad. He’ll write you a letter in a week or two, and it’ll be all about himself. How sad he is, how well he knew Nancy, how much he appreciated her, and rather strongly implying that you didn’t know her true worth as well as he did. You’ll read one of those letters and reread it, and if you do what I did, you’ll throw it in the wastebasket. But the next time you see the son of a bitch, he’ll say, ‘Hey, Ellis, I wrote you a letter. Didn’t you ever get it?’ So be prepared for those two. But against them, the nice people. The kind people, Charley, sometimes where you’d least expect it. A guy that I thought was about as cold a fish as there is in the world, he turned out to have more real heart than almost anybody. In my book he can never do another wrong thing. The third group I haven’t mentioned. The lushes. But they’re obvious and you can either put up with them or brush them off. The only advice I can give you—keep busy. Don’t take any more time off from your work than you absolutely have to.”