Melville Goodwin, USA

by John P. Marquand

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t see how doing nothing will help either, sir.”

  “All right,” I said, “then you’d better talk to her. She always likes verbiage.”

  “Sir, would you consider going with me?” he asked.

  “I think she’d like it better,” I answered, “if you went alone.”

  “Would you mind telephoning her and telling her I’m coming over?” he asked.

  There were a number of things I might have said about Dottie Peale, but somehow they seemed to have all been spoken, wordlessly, already, and I asked Miss Maynard to get Mrs. Henry Peale for me at her private number. It was five o’clock, and she would probably be at home, and it turned out that she was.

  “Why, Sid darling,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the office,” I said.

  “Well, it’s a good place for you to be, under the circumstances,” she said.

  “What circumstances?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she answered, “not over the telephone, darling, but there is something I’d like to tell you someday soon.”

  “Well,” I said, “Robert Goodwin’s here with me right now. You know, Melville Goodwin’s son.”

  There was a slight pause before she answered, which I rather enjoyed.

  “Damn it,” she said, “don’t always explain everything with diagrams.”

  “There’s no need for a diagram,” I said. “He’s here and he’d like to see you.”

  There was another pause.

  “Why, I’d love it,” she said. “I think it’s awfully sweet of him to want to see me. Tell him to come right over if he’d like to … and, Sid?”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Does he look like Mel?”

  “Yes,” I said, “quite a lot.”

  “Then tell him to hurry over,” Dottie said.

  “It’s all cleared,” I said to Robert Goodwin, “… and you know if there’s anything else I can do …” but of course there was nothing that anyone could do, and I had my own life to lead. Besides being concerned about Mel Goodwin, I found myself wondering why Dottie had said it was nice I was in the office and what it was that she could not tell me over the telephone.

  If I was disturbed after Captain Robert Goodwin had left, it was an indefinite sort of disturbance, not a single element of which could be isolated. Uncertainty had begun to lurk in the background of everything I touched. You could start with all the world events which I was trying to put, with the aid of Art Hertz, into an agreeable, intelligent capsule to fit within the limits of fifteen spoken minutes. Nothing was secure in the world any longer, where balances and beliefs were shifting and settling like the foundations of a badly constructed building. I had only to look at that broadcast script to observe how those one-world theories, once so eloquently outlined by the late Wendell Willkie, had flown out of the window. They reminded me of a balloon given me as a child, the string of which had been whisked out of my fingers by an unexpected gust of wind. I could remember staring in pained unbelief after that balloon, watching it rise and rise until it was only an unattainable speck. Europe was in a state of imbalance, and a single push could topple over governments and traditions. Asia was weltering in revolution, and at home our own government was seething with its own involutions. You could gloss over the details, but the facts remained. Once there had been a logical blueprint for the defeat of despotism, and now there was not even a plausible plan. The world itself was like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and so was my own future.

  Once I had been able to view all these matters detachedly, but that was before I had stakes in the future and before I had become involved with studios and contracts and people like Gilbert Frary. Now my thoughts moved like a modern statesman’s, in all directions, facing a half dozen unpleasant eventualities. I did not like the broadcast and I did not like Art Hertz or anything in the studio. The work had amused me once, but not any longer. If I had been alone, I should have known exactly what to do and I should have enjoyed doing it, but I was not alone. I remembered what Gilbert Frary said about pinching myself to be sure it was not a dream, and it was not a dream. There was no sense of euphoria any longer.

  I was not even alone with my own problems—there was also Melville A. Goodwin. When I toyed with the idea of reaching Gilbert Frary on the Coast and asking him a few curt questions about this Alan Featherbee, who had popped suddenly into the office, along came the shades of Melville Goodwin and Dottie Peale. Again, when I had almost decided to call in Art Hertz and have a frank, tough talk, I found myself wondering about Robert Goodwin and Dottie Peale. Then I began thinking of Melville Goodwin in Washington struggling with his own uncertainties. I was reminded that before long I would be going down to Washington myself to give the broadcast there, thus creating the customary illusion that I was in close touch with the nation’s capital. The details had all been arranged six weeks before. I was enmeshed in personalities and details.

  Before I was aware of the time, Art Hertz came in with the final script, walking very softly considering his weight. It seemed to me that Art was more sure of himself and more aggressive than he had been a day or two before. I believed that he was looking at me in a speculative way, as though, like Miss Maynard, he knew something. At any rate, it was six-fifteen, too late for any alterations in the script. While I was reading it and Art was sitting waiting, I still felt that he was watching me, though every time I looked up from the boldly typed and spaced pages he was looking carefully at his hands or playing with a pencil.

  “That’s fine, Art,” I said.

  “I’m glad if you like it,” Art said.

  “I always like what you do, Art,” I told him, “but no two minds ever think exactly alike. You mustn’t worry if I intersperse a few ideas sometimes.”

  “Oh, no,” Art said, “that’s all right. I always liked working for you, Sid.”

  At certain times you noticed small details if you knew what was good for you. Art had used the past tense when he said he liked working for me, and the disturbing thing was that he noticed it, too.

  “And I still like it, Sid,” he said.

  He sat waiting as if he expected me to continue on the subject.

  “Has Frary called up today?” I asked.

  Art Hertz put his pencil in his pocket and smiled to show that we both understood all about Gilbert.

  “Oh, yes,” Art said, “he was on the telephone about half an hour ago. He was in a cabaña at some swimming pool. He just wanted to hear the lead of the script. He said the sun was shining and he must leave for his massage in the solarium. You know how Gilbert likes the sun. I could do with some of it myself.”

  “Did you tell him I was here?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Art answered, “but when Miss Maynard said you were in conference, he just said give you his love. I guess he was in a hurry to get to the solarium. You know how he is about the sun.”

  “Oh, Miss Maynard was in your office when he called, was she?” I asked.

  “She just dropped in,” Art said. “You know Maynard; she’s always around everywhere.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “everywhere.”

  I felt like a sultan in a palace, carefully guarded and yet aware of a palace revolution, and the feeling was all around me.

  “You know we’re going down to Washington on the thirteenth,” I said.

  “Yes,” Art answered, “everything is set. Someone from the State Department is going to use three minutes, but we don’t know who he is yet. Well, if you haven’t got anything else on your mind …”

  Art stood up and took his pencil out of his pocket.

  “No, my mind’s a perfect blank,” I said, and I smiled at him.

  He knew it was time for him to leave because I wanted to go over the script again by myself.

  “By the way, it’s going to be in Studio C,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, Sid.”

  You noticed small details if you knew what was good for you. It was the fi
rst time I had ever broadcast from Studio C.

  “No,” I said, “I don’t mind. I’d just as soon not have a crowd watching me.”

  I should have gone over the script again, but instead I began thinking about my contract and I remembered how hurt Gilbert had been when I had shown it, before signing, to a law firm I had selected myself. The firm was Frankel and Jacobs, well known for literary and theatrical work, and as a matter of fact Dottie Peale had introduced me to them. The contract was a long document which I had never read carefully, seeing that I had paid the Frankel firm to read it, but I did remember a clause over which there had been argument, called a mutual dissatisfaction clause, permitting a termination of the contract by either party. The part about either party had been inserted by Mr. Frankel instead of simply applying to the sponsor, as Gilbert Frary had suggested. The clause was number twenty-eight in the contract, and I wanted very much to read it just then. I even thought of asking Miss Maynard for a copy until I thought that this might arouse needless suspicions. Instead I asked her to get me Mrs. Henry Peale again on the telephone.

  “Darling,” Dottie said, “I thought you might be calling me. Is anything the matter?”

  It went to show that she knew too much about my voice and behavior. I was going to ask her if I might drop over later, and now I hated to ask, simply because she had thought I would call up.

  “I was just wondering whether young Goodwin had gone,” I said.

  “He just left a minute or two ago,” Dottie said. “He was so sweet. Don’t you think he’s sweet?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “sweet.”

  “And he does look like Mel, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “he looks like Mel.”

  “Why don’t you stop in for a minute on your way home?” she said. “I could give you a bite of supper, darling, up in the study. I haven’t anything to do until nine o’clock.”

  I was very glad that she had asked me, and then before I could get to the script again, Helen called me.

  “Sid,” Helen said, “is anything the matter?”

  I wished that the women in my life did not understand all the inflections of my voice. I told her that of course nothing was the matter.

  “Camilla has a temperature,” Helen said, “and Dr. Gordon’s just been here. It’s only a cold, but she’s been asking for you.”

  It was not one of my better days. Yet I was surprised by my own voice when I sat in Studio C and said “Good evening, friends.” It sounded as though I did not have a care in the world and as though the world were going on delightfully for everyone.

  Everything at Dottie’s always ran like clockwork, although this may have been an archaic way of putting it. Albert, that butler of hers, greeted me like an old family friend and asked whether he should take me up in the lift or whether I cared to go by myself. When I told him that I would try to run the thing alone, he showed me which button to press.

  “The doors open and close automatically, as you may remember, sir,” he said.

  Automatic elevators always reminded me either of the Arabian Nights or of a journey to a hospital operating room. When I pressed the button and when the doors closed, they physically shut out the immediate present and I seemed to have committed myself to a transition from one phase of life to another. When the elevator doors opened, I could see Dottie, across the entry to her study, sitting there on the sofa. Her feet were curled under her in that manner she had never outgrown, and it was easy to forget all the years and events that had separated us.

  She wriggled off the sofa when she saw me, just as she would have years before. There was always something youthful about the way Dottie got herself off a sofa. She was dressed in a greenish afternoon frock which she had undoubtedly hurried into directly after I had told her about Robert Goodwin. In fact Dottie and that whole study hinted at the ending of a little scene. There was still a trace of cigarette smoke in the air and almost the echo of voices.

  “Hi, Dot,” I said.

  She held her hands out to me, but before I could take them she threw her arms around me and kissed me. It was utterly unexpected, but I could not say I minded it.

  “Well, well,” I said, “say I’m weary say I’m sad, but Jennie kissed me.”

  “Darling,” she said, “your feathers are all ruffled. You look upset.”

  There was no use concealing my feelings, and as I stood with my arm around her, I had to admit that I felt happy, because I suddenly realized that she and I were friends in spite of all our quarrels and competitions. I have never been able to understand exactly what constitutes a friendship between a man and a woman. There were still some echoes of old emotion, but they were not disturbing then. I only knew that Dottie would not go back on me, and that it was safe to tell her anything that worried me.

  “Well,” I said, “perhaps I am.”

  “Do you want a drink?” she asked me.

  “No,” I said, “not right now, thanks.”

  “All right,” she said, “if you want to be strong-minded. I had Albert bring up chicken sandwiches and milk. Do you still like chicken sandwiches?”

  It was kind of her to remember that I liked chicken sandwiches, but then if she wanted she could remember everything.

  “Darling,” she said, “I’m ever so glad you called me up.”

  There was no need to make any conversation. I felt again as I had in the elevator, the same sense of motion without my own volition. I was conscious of her possessive instincts. I knew that she always liked to run things, but I did not mind this then. She was back on the sofa again with her feet curled under her.

  “Oh, hell,” she said, “why not face it? It’s awfully nice to know you still belong to me a little.”

  “I don’t mind it either right now,” I said.

  I knew this was one of her moods, but then perhaps it was valid.

  “We needn’t be so damned strait-laced about it,” Dottie said. “If two people have ever been in love with each other, they always do belong to each other a little, whether they approve of it or not. It isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It’s only an obvious sort of fact. I don’t even mean that we were very much in love, because we always knew too damn much about each other … and now you’d better pull up your socks and tell me what’s the matter.”

  “It’s nice to be on such a friendly basis, Dottie,” I said.

  “God, yes,” she said, “it’s nice we’re grown-up, darling.”

  Now that she mentioned it, I was almost sorry we were grown-up, which was probably exactly what she wanted. I did not love her any longer and she did not love me, but at the same time I could tell her some things about myself which I could not have told Helen.

  “Well,” I began, “this afternoon at the office …”

  And there I was, telling Dottie Peale about Alan Featherbee and Gilbert Frary and Art Hertz, moving back and forth, mixing the end with the beginning.

  “I know,” Dottie said, “they’re all sons of bitches, darling.”

  I had always known they were, but it was very comforting to hear Dottie say so and to feel that I was talking to an expert.

  “I don’t want Helen to be disturbed,” I told her. “I suppose I ought to do something. What alarms me is that I don’t seem to care.”

  “Don’t you care at all?” she asked.

  “Frankly, no,” I said. I would not have dreamed of telling anyone except Dottie that I did not like broadcasting the news and that I welcomed any opportunity of walking out and leaving it.

  “God damn it,” Dottie said, “it’s just like you, after you’ve made a success of something. It’s just the way you left and went on that Paris Bureau. God damn it, I suppose I’ll have to make you do something.”

  She was delighted, trying to run someone’s life again. She got off the sofa and mixed two highballs and while I watched her I was very glad that we were not married.

  “You’re so clever in some ways and so dumb in others,” she said.
“Seriously, darling, haven’t you known that Gilbert was out to knife you? I’ve known it for the last six weeks.”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “Because I’m not a chump like you,” Dottie said. “You’ve got to start pulling up your socks. You’ve got Helen and Camilla.”

  “I know,” I said, “I’ve given that a little thought.”

  “You always were so damned irresponsible,” she said. “If you can’t think of Helen and Camilla, I suppose I’ll have to. There’s plenty you can do about Frary. You’re as important as Frary. What are you thinking of doing?”

  I took a sip of my highball. I was perfectly glad to drink it, because I was not upset any longer.

  “Frankly, I’m thinking of collecting my year’s salary and getting out for good,” I said.

  “And then what’ll you do?” she asked.

  It was a pleasure to have her ask me instead of asking myself.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe I might do some writing.”

  “Oh, my God,” Dottie said, “what sort of writing? Dog stories?”

  “I’ve a poodle named Farouche,” I said. “I might do poodle stories.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Dottie said, and then she saw that I was laughing at her. “It’s just the way it was on the paper. All right, I’ll go around myself and see someone tomorrow. You can forget about it now and let me run this.”

  It did sound exactly like old times.

  “Well, that’s fine,” I said. “You sound exactly like Mrs. Melville A. Goodwin.”

  I had never considered the consequences when I mentioned Mrs. Goodwin until I saw Dottie’s face redden and there was a moment’s silence.

  “Now just why did you bring her up?” she asked, but now that she was brought up, we both must have realized that the Goodwins had been with us all the time.

  “Now, Dottie,” I said, “I didn’t mean to, but how did you like the soldier boy?”

  Dottie sighed impatiently and picked up a cigarette and lighter from the table and balanced the lighter on the palm of her hand, as though it were the scales of justice.

  “One of your worst troubles,” Dottie said, “is that you never face up to anything. First you come here and tell me all your difficulties and then when I’m considering them, you ask about something else. What’s the matter? Don’t you want to have me help you?”