The New York Stories

by John O'Hara

  “You don’t call this an assistant, what’s in my glass now. Sure.”

  She opened her purse and looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup did not need refreshing, and Jimmy Rhodes had been sitting quite close to her for a good half hour. So long as she held up her chin it did not double up, and all things considered—as she looked around at the other women at the party—she did not have to apologize for her appearance. She had been a star, she had been the wife of the heir to a fairly famous fortune, and in the world in which she lived and even beyond it she did not need an introduction. Everyone knew who she was. Jimmy Rhodes certainly knew who she was; he had been having a ball. It was too bad that there was not more to him. He was masculine enough, with a clear and practically unwrinkled complexion. About half of his front hair was gone, but he had all his teeth and obviously he had used them on many good steaks. He was probably twenty-five pounds overweight. His dinner jacket was not what Robbie would have worn—the lapels too narrow, and touches of satin piping at the pockets and on the sleeve. His shoes were funny; patent leather with tassels. And his shirt was frilled down the middle. The rims of his glasses were just a little thicker than they had to be and the lenses were larger than most. There was thought behind everything he had on, and behind the thought no taste. She had learned, in four years, to look at men’s attire as Robbie’s father or the Robinson butler would look at it, and Jimmy Rhodes was all wrong. Instinctively all wrong. With a great deal of care, all wrong. By the way he had pulled down the jacket when he got up to get her highball, she knew he thought he was all right. He had six Harvard graduates working for him, and nobody to tell him anything.

  “Your assistant,” he said, handing her the glass.

  “Don’t you drink?” she said.

  “Never after dinner,” he said. “I got no taste for it. The same way with smoking. I quit smoking right after I got outa the service. I like to be in good physical condition.”

  “What for?”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m not a weight-lifter. But I can pick up say about a hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “Close,” she said. “I’m a hundred and thirty-two.”

  “I judged you to be somewhere in there.”

  “Do you play the field, or do you go steady?” she said.

  “Oh, the field. No more wedding bells for me.”

  “How do you get away with it?” she said.

  “How do I get away with it? Well, for a while I used to tell them I was carrying the torch for Grace Kelly. I never even met Grace Kelly, but I owe her a debt of gratitude.”

  “Send her a planeload of Texas millionaires.”

  “They don’t gamble,” he said.

  “They don’t?”

  “They spend it, some of them, but not foolishly, like you and I would. A Texan’ll buy a cream-colored Rolls-Royce for $30,000, but don’t forget he has the Rolls after he spent that money.”

  “Who’d want a cream-colored Rolls?”

  “Me. I happen to have one downstairs. Wuddia say we take a ride in it? As soon as you’re finished with your assistant. Don’t hurry.”

  “Where is this ride going to take us?”

  “Well, I have an apartment over on Park.”

  “Not far enough.”

  “All right, where is your apartment?”

  “That’s too far. Much too far,” she said.

  “Like how far?” he said.

  “A lot farther than you’re gonna get,” she said.

  “Do you wanta bet?”

  “Not on a sure thing. I’m not a Texan. I don’t mind betting but not on a sure thing.”

  “Why? Don’t you like me?”

  “The funny thing is, I do,” she said.

  “What’s funny about it? A lot of dames like me.”

  “Well, I like you,” she said.

  “Then what’s funny about it?”

  “It’s kind of hard to put into words,” she said.

  “You’re a good talker. You know how to express yourself. Go ahead.”

  “Well, I like you, but you could never mean anything to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t give out enough. A man has to give out, and you don’t. Didn’t any other girl ever tell you that?”

  “They not only didn’t tell me that, but I never even heard about this giving out. You mean like an extrovert?”

  “That’s a word I never knew the definition of. Try something else.”

  “Well, a guy that’s always giving out, I guess. I give out, but I always keep something in reserve.”

  “That’s what I mean. You keep more in reserve than you give out.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “See, that’s where we differ. I give out. With a song, I always gave out. I couldn’t belt one like The Merm, but in my own style I always gave out like I was never gonna sing another number the rest of my life. They used to tell me to modulate, but I couldn’t modulate. My agents and the a. and r. men at the record companies used to pick numbers for me that I had to modulate, but I gave out anyway. It worked out pretty good on some recordings. Look what Peggy Lee did with ‘Lover.’ A sickly kind of a waltz that she took and just whaled the hell out of it into an exciting number. Peggy and Ella. This new kid, Eydie Gorme, she might make it. Although she isn’t getting to be a kid any more. One more assistant and then I think I’ll cut out of here.”

  “Have it with me, at my apartment.”

  “Now don’t start to be a bore, Jimmy. If you want to take me home, all right. But if you got any ideas about tonight, forget it. I had about seventy-five drinks tonight, and if Richard Burton came knocking on my door I’d send him away. I don’t take anybody to my apartment when I made the load. There’s two things I don’t do. I don’t smoke in bed, and I don’t take strange guys to my apartment when I get saturated. Those are my only two rules, for my own protection. If you would of come over and introduced yourself to me earlier, it might be a different story. But I got a little bell inside of me that says, ‘Maggie, no strange men tonight.’”

  “In other words, if I would of come over when you only had thirty-seven and a half drinks? That’s half of seventy-five,” he said.

  “Maybe. But the little bell rang about two hours ago.”

  “How about if I catch you early tomorrow?”

  “How early?”

  “We have a couple drinks and go some place for dinner,” he said.

  “All right. Why not? You call for me at seven o’clock.”

  He had a cream-colored Rolls. She remembered that, but not much from then on. She got up from the kitchen table and made herself another cup of instant coffee. It was bringing her around. She lit another cigarette and sat down again and as she sipped the coffee she began making plans. Take a shower, and that would bring her to and she could have a vodka after her shower. She would wear her little black dress that actually did more for her figure than the new one with the deep décolletage. She had no idea where he would be taking her in the course of the evening, but she was determined to give him an altogether different impression from the one she had given him last night. The black dress would help there. She would space out her drinks, and if they saw any society people she would be sure to introduce him to them. Society people liked it when she spoke to them, even if they never invited her to their houses. She would show him that she knew how to order a meal—those little questions to the headwaiter, like “Is this hothouse asparagus, or fresh?” She would let him see any number of little things that she had picked up from the Robinsons’ butler during those four years. She would come home sober and early, and if everything went as she planned, she soon would have nothing to worry about the rest of her life.

  It was bad luck to sing before breakfast, but two coffees were all the breakfast she was going to have, and she hummed a tune as she r
insed out the cup and saucer. She went back to the bathroom and put on a rubber cap and took a shower. She toweled herself, put on her bra and panty-girdle and dressing-gown, and now she had earned her vodka.

  The living room was still dark. She switched on the ceiling lights and went to the portable bar. And then she saw him seated in one of the highback chairs. “How the hell did you get here?” she said. But even before she finished the question she knew she would never get an answer from him. He was in an attitude of sleep, an unattractive attitude. His mouth was open, and so were his eyes. The poor slob, in his frilly shirt and tasseled shoes. For all she knew, or would ever know, he had died while waiting for her to call him to her room. The worst was his eyes, seen through those thick lenses.

  She had her vodka, her assistant, and went to the telephone in her bedroom. The logical person to call was her lawyer, and she did not have to look up his number. She knew it by heart.

  (1965)

  AT THE COTHURNOS CLUB

  Although the Cothurnos Club was founded by actors a limited number of writers and painters are taken in from time to time, and that is how I chance to be a member. It is the pleasantest of places; in the reading- and writing-rooms pin-drop quiet prevails, while in the bar and billiard room and dining room there is very little likelihood of a man’s feeling lonesome. Especially is this true of the dining room, where most of the members eat at a large round table. After I had been honored by admission to the club I took to lunching there nearly every day and that was how I happened to notice Mr. Childress. He always ate alone at a small table against the wall. He never seemed to speak to anyone, for surely the nod that he gave the men at the round table could not be taken as a greeting. A few days ago I asked Clem Kirby, who put me up for the club, to tell me about the reclusive Mr. Childress. “Has he been a member long?” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Kirby. “About thirty years, I should say.”

  “But was he always like that? I don’t see why a man like that joins a club, he’s so anti-social.”

  Kirby smiled. “Maybe it’s hard to believe, but up till about ten or twelve years ago George Childress was just the opposite of what you see today. Full of beans. Witty. Here every day, down in the bar, drinking with the boys, and so on.”

  “What does he do?” I asked.

  “He paints, or did. He was what’s commonly called a fashionable portrait painter, and he made a lot of money, and while I don’t think anyone could call George stingy, he took care of his money. He hasn’t done anything in recent years. That’s probably why you’ve never heard of him.”

  “Vaguely I have,” I said.

  “He married Hope Westmore,” said Kirby.

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “That’s where I’ve heard of him. Hope Westmore’s husband. She was one of my all-time favorite actresses. So that’s George Childress. Are they still married?”

  “Married, yes,” said Kirby. “But of course—” Clem did not finish his sentence. His eyes turned sad. “I’ll tell you about George.

  “He wasn’t exactly a practical joker, but he was something of the sort, especially with, well, someone like you, a new member. He’d find out all he could about you, and then before being introduced to you he’d discuss your work, whatever it was, in your hearing, and I may say the opinions he’d come out with would be devastating. He did it, of course, to get a rise out of new members. A cruel trick. What you younger fellows nowadays call a rib. He had several little tricks like that. He also invented another one, with a new twist.

  “He would join a group of fellows in the bar, all old members except one. Everybody was on to the trick but the new member. George would be introduced and he’d be his most charming, affable self. Then slowly he would get the conversation around to the theater and he would say, ‘What was the name of that actress a few years back. Terribly good actress. Beautiful. But drank herself out of every job she had?’ And he’d pretend to rack his brains, trying to recall the name. The fellows who were in on the trick would also pretend to search their memories, and of course what would happen would be that the new member, trying to be helpful, would volunteer a name. Now George’s point was that he never got the same answer twice, or did very seldom.

  “Well, I see you know what happened. You’re right. One day we were down in the bar and there was a new member, a young fellow, and when George couldn’t remember the actress’s name the young fellow popped up with a name, and of course the name was Hope Westmore.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Well,” said Clem Kirby, “there was a stillness that I thought would never end. You’ve seen for yourself, George is a powerfully built man and I’ve never seen anyone exercise such self-control. But he took a deep breath and said, ‘You see, gentlemen, I never get the same answer twice,’ and then he excused himself. As far as I know that’s the last time George has been in the bar.”

  “What about Hope Westmore. Was it true?” I said.

  Kirby looked at me long and steadily. “I don’t see that that makes the slightest difference,” he said.

  (1972)

  THE BRAIN

  A certain type of man gets a certain type of headachey look about him long before his headaches become more or less chronic. In the case of Robert Ammond, vice-president of Ammond & Stepworth, publishers of technical books for the electrical and mechanical engineering professions, the look preceded the incidence of migraine headaches by about fifteen years. In his late twenties Robert Ammond began wearing glasses full-time, but already he had a fixed, intense, squinty look in the triangle between the tip of his nose and the extremities of his eyebrows. He seemed to be concentrating all the time, especially during those moments when it could be presumed that there was no call for concentration. Gazing out a train window, standing on the first tee while the foursome ahead of him got under way, sitting in the company box at the Yankee Stadium while one team was taking the field and the other getting ready to go to bat, Robert Ammond gave every appearance of having his mind on one of the hard problems in an A. & S. textbook. The truth was that Robert had had a liberal arts education and was in the advertising department of A. & S., and he could not have solved a problem in high school physics, although he had passed physics with a little to spare. Nevertheless people gave Robert credit for concentrative powers. He remembered every card that had been played during a hand of bridge, and his post-mortems were exhaustive. He was very good at reciting the complete casts of old movies. No one challenged his memory for baseball statistics. “I wouldn’t take your money,” he would say when someone offered to bet him on who had the record for the most putouts in World Series play. Such demonstrations of a head for figures and a powerful memory were of course supported by the concentrative look, and there was hardly any doubt that Robert deserved the routine promotions that were given him in the A. & S. organization. “Fellow’s smart as a whip,” they said. “His name didn’t have to be Ammond,” the only possible inference being that Robert’s younger brother George was in the organization only because his grandfather was its founder. George was in the production department, with the title of vice-president, but the work was done by a plant superintendent and a couple of foremen. George was a good-time Charley who was always put in charge of the A. & S. exhibits at the engineering conventions and acted as host in the A. & S. suite down the hall. He had early symptoms of emphysema at the age of thirty, but he could stay up all night with the best of them. His untimely death at age thirty-eight left Robert the only direct descendant of the founder still in the organization, and while ownership and control of the company had passed on to the vast Wycherly Enterprises, Robert apparently was set for life, at $30,000 per annum and bonuses. Wycherly Enterprises did not sign that kind of contract, but Robert Ammond and his friends were far from worried. Robert, as well as his friends, took the position that a contract carried with it certain disadvantages for a man who could reasonably coun
t on twenty good years ahead of him. The electrical and mechanical field was wide open, and family pride would not tie him down if for instance a Wycherly competitor should decide to organize a new publishing house. The Ammond name was one of the oldest in the trade, and Robert had no contractual obligations to prevent his going on the board of a brand-new outfit.

  To that extent Robert Ammond did begin to concentrate. That is to say, he began to give a great deal of thought to the possibility of a new publishing firm. Wycherly (which was headed by a man named Dennis Brady, from Chicago) had put all its own men in the top jobs at A. & S., which was to be expected, but at the end of two years Robert Ammond had not been put on the new A. & S. board, which was definitely not expected. During those two years Robert had been bereft—temporarily, he believed—of his vice-presidential title and he had been functioning with the title of advertising manager. He continued to use—and to use up, as he put it—his old stationery, which proclaimed him “Vice-President in Charge of Advertising,” but only in personal correspondence with friends in the advertising business and in such trivial communications as letters to his alumni weekly. He had about a thousand sheets of the old stationery still to be used up when he was visited one afternoon by a fellow called Spencer, who was known as Mr. Brady’s troubleshooter.

  Spencer did not customarily make appointments, nor did he for his visit to Robert Ammond. He opened the door of Robert’s private office—unannounced by Miss Hathaway—and poked his head in and said, “May I come in?” He was wearing his perpetual grin.

  “Why, hello, Spencer. Yes, come right in,” said Robert.

  “Thank you,” said Spencer. He sat down without shaking hands or taking any other notice of the fact that this was his first visit to Robert’s office. “Minor matter, and not important enough to put in an inter-office memo. But Mr. Brady is a stickler for form in some things.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. In as big an organization as Wycherly, the uh, the uh, precise position of one man vis-à-vis the other members of the organization has to be stated and maintained. Do you know how it works in the federal government, for instance?”