“If I were you, I’d comb my hair, for it’s not straight this minute.”
When Grant came out to breakfast, this was done. Said the son, “I’ve heard you splashing and spouting for a bloody two hours in there, like a bloody porpoise.”
The older man grinned, “Did you find the missing sheet with the scalloped hem?”
This led to a rediscussion of Gilbert’s peculiar capacities. Grant let him talk, his anxious mind floating restfully on this vacuity. Presently he snapped his fingers: “Gilbert, I want you to meet Livy and Mrs. Lawrence at the Little Bar for me. I have an appointment with—” he muttered a name like “Rasselas.” He went for his coat, “Stay here, rest a bit, come down for luncheon, we’ll go to the Italian’s, then you can go to the movies, and meet the women—”
“You would go to the Italian’s—I hate the Italian’s. Why? But I know why. It is because—”
“Come down, come down, we’ll see—”
He rushed out.
Gilbert felt new strength since he had gone to the farm. He had acquired bad habits since his discharge from the Army; his waistband seemed a little tight. It was a bright morning, though cold. He decided as soon as he was dressed to walk all the way downtown to Hanover Square, to the Cotton Exchange. He stepped along, admiring the town. He took pleasure in thinking of the things he yet did not know. Everything that happened to him was different from his expectations and changed his views, even reversed them. With each new event he felt his hold on life firmer. At times he felt like gasping with the shock and the joy.
He loved Celia. This sound, strong, handsome, golden-skinned woman, by accident, was able to bring out in him a frank voluptuousness, which she satisfied. He did not notice the miles he was walking. Celia seemed to arise from him and floated beside him, golden, lying on her back among grasses.
He reached his father’s offices much before he expected. The offices were on the ground floor, small, gloomy, sparely furnished but paneled in wood, and with a family air because the real living place of two old people, Grant and his secretary, who had been associated with him for twenty-five years. Miss Robbins was nearly fifty. Gilbert had known her for twenty years. For twelve years she had been his mother, sending him to boarding schools, meeting him at stations, counting his laundry, attending to all his wants, privately handing him a little change, finding places for him to stay in the holidays (quite often with Grant’s favorites of the day), and sending letters to him. She had done it all without selfishness, as part of the duty of a good employee. She wrote for Grant the letters that no one else was allowed to see, and kept his accounts. Her low pay, common sense, and firmness of character had prevented her from ever loving him, ever admiring him; but she spoke about him to no one. She had conceived, also, no maternal feelings toward Gilbert, and she still believed that Mrs. Grant was as Grant described her to others, “—an angel, a wonderful wife and mother, a sweet, pure woman, an angel.”
The light fell through a high, dirty window on Miss Robbins’ yellow hair, which was piled high in the then fashion. Her hat with roses and her blue suede gloves lay on a steel filing cabinet in the corner. A dusty ray lighted up the blonde fur on her tweed coat with a dogtooth check. A lizardskin bag stood against the wall. Gilbert saw all this—a woman and kind—blonde woman. He smiled at Miss Robbins and pointed to the inner room.
“You’ll have to wait a bit while the fit’s on him,” said Miss Robbins, and pointed to a chair. Grant was talking in the inner room, his voice hurried, clear, singing. The door stood open. He leaned against his desk with his back to Miss Robbins’ office.
Gilbert sat down in the sunlight behind Miss Robbins. She turned about to say something, saw his shining hair and face, shook her head, and went back to her typing. From where he sat, Gilbert could not be seen by his father. Miss Robbins paused a moment over her typewriter before she went on with her letters. Her thoughts were a calm argument, “Gilbert is entirely a man now, let him know everything that comes his way.” It had often come to her since Gilbert was eighteen that the youth was grown and could take care of himself, but she had continued to look after him. A moment ago it had come to her, but this time, with the force of the physical presence, that Gilbert was a man, and of an age that women marry. She knew what his new pleasantness meant, she knew him so well.
Grant talked continuously, urgently, into the phone, and at first Gilbert heard nothing, thinking once more automatically, Then she came away from the door and came toward me—what happened then?—there’s a blank there—and after, I stood still a moment; I went toward her and put my hands—The incident unrolled itself before him, fixed forever in attitudes, unexpected sentences, silences, and the beauty of many absences. The past day and the present clung to each other. He thought, Then she put out her hand to the lamp—And one of those pauses came: what then? What then? He knew what came after. At this moment, he tried to shake off the enchantment and listened to his father’s voice, which was saying, “Yes, darling, I am back in New York. I left about those muskrats that Goodwin had warehoused on a wrong certificate. Don’t know the business. I’m very sorry, sweetie, couldn’t get you the lambskins, got held up, all sold. I hardly had time to pack, go there, come back. Only a grip—well, you know, sweetie, I never take a train without having you to tea and a little chat, I don’t like to be separated—”
To whom was he speaking, Gilbert thought, Livy or Mrs. Kent? Not his mother? The incident began again of itself in his head. “Then she came away from the door—” in the same words, the same vision. He forced himself to listen to his father’s voice irritably asking the telephone girl for a number…Then she put out her hand to the lamp. “You are so late,” she said—He listened to his father, “My dear Barb, and now I hear from a third party there is a div—a private matter, and I know nothing of it…From the Goodwins…You told them two months ago, but not me…But, sweetie, you told me you were busy all the time, I didn’t see how I could get in touch with you, I thought you were trying to shake me…But at four o’clock, Barb, darling, I met you and you told me nothing. Two hours later I hear this news and it was a terrible shock to me…I’m very, very sorry, darling, but I couldn’t get to Saratoga and besides you were very cold to me…I have been very busy all the summer and needed consolation and—I’m sorry about the bank, darling, but I dropped fifteen thousand dollars last week, Sam did, I mean, and those muskrats were no good and Goodwin is head over heels in sheepskins, no good. I paid out five thousand dollars and there was the lawyer too…I want to see you this afternoon and you must tell me all about it; it’s not fair to leave me in the dark…I’m not scared, sweetie. What can they say, I was your friend? That’s no dishonor, is that wrong, I helped you when you were down and out—bah! those fellas have nothing on—I am not taking a run-out powder—I must see you, Barb; you’re not fair to me…Some hocus-pocus. I know you’re not to blame; at the White Bar, darling, and don’t bring Paula, I want to speak to you alone. I’m sure you are worried, darling—I’ll see that there’s money in the bank, Barb, tomorrow—good-bye, then—oh!”
It was evident that the woman kept plaguing him, for he went on, “You shouldn’t have got an overdraft, I didn’t make a deposit this month because—I know it’s the fifteenth of the month—and Christmas coming—I’m twenty thousand behind at the moment! You remember that deal with that bloody Percival? Goodwin’s mistake with the muskrats looks like it’s going to be a big mistake, cost me four or five thousand at the beginning and now—and he’s quarreled with his brother, who can get him in the jug if he wants to and I’m telling him, don’t have any family quarrels, the family is made to stick together; and such fights cost money. Those are the fights I hate, darling, where love is involved—” He listened; proceeded in a languorous listening voice, “You must get another lawyer besides Walker—I don’t like that fella—I know you’re operating on a narrow margin, I am too, you know my expenses and how hard it is for me to get exchange through, but I’ll look through my accounts ton
ight and try to give you a check tomorrow—I know you can’t fight it without money—of course, fight it, that’s my advice—fight it—get another lawyer, not Walker, he looks like a shyster—I’ll be at Manetti’s—by myself—don’t worry about blondes, sweetie, I got one blonde on my hands, that’s trouble—I don’t mean that—of course, reverse the charges—good-bye, yes, I’ll give you a check—good-bye—yes, I’ll send you the gloves—good-bye—I know your lawyer’s in Florida, reverse the charges—good-bye, sweetie!”
There was silence for a moment, in the friendly green-painted room, then Gilbert heard his father giving a telephone number. The sun streamed in…Gilbert thought, I said, “Do you really like this tie?” and she came nearer and—He heard his father saying, “Wright’s Agency? Miss Wright? Livy darling, when do you get in? How are you, darling? I miss you, sweetie! I wanted to go to Philadelphia right away after your sweet call the other night. I feel just the same about you, Livy. I met the right woman. You’re the woman for me…Never mind about the oasis. You’ll be glad to be here, so will I. I couldn’t be too busy—we’ll make the wires hum—on Sunday? I had no one with me, I swear, Livy. If you heard a woman’s voice, it was a cut-in. I’m very tired, pooped-out, no interest in women, but you…I would lie to you, Livy, otherwise I’d feel like a schoolboy, but this time no need to. I lie when I have to, but this time, not. You know I don’t say I don’t like women when I don’t have to. I’m a terrible liar but not to you. Well, Philadelphia doesn’t give me a pickup; nowhere to go and no beautiful woman—I mean, except the one I have with me. Or perhaps it’s the effect you have on me…Barbara?”
His voice changed and went lower, “Bloody ’ooman—is there of course, got back from Saratoga only to plague me. She’s getting a divorce. I heard some ugly rumors. I’m glad you brought it up. Livy, I must see my lawyer this evening. I’ll meet you at ten o’clock at the White? I told you all that was through and now, by heavens, I have the proof. She thought she had me round her little finger, and now when she’s lost me, she gets a divorce—I’ll tell you. I gave you a true account of all that. Now she thinks she has me where she wants me. But let’s forget her. Don’t ever want to see the bloody ’ooman again. She went through my pockets and did me no good. Never loved me. She’s not even dangerous any more. I’m easing her out—and she knows it and I think she’s pulling something—Not me, sweetie…Not now…She was on the phone just now asking for some money…I only heard yesterday that she’s got into a mess and trying to drag me into it—though she can’t, I’m pure, I swear it—wouldn’t bathe in a muddied pool—I swear it—and this morning, she knows I know it—and she coolly asks me to pay into her bank account two thousand dollars to pay her lawyer—No sense and no manners, eh?…On the phone this morning, asking for money for her divorce! She took me for a ride. No sense and no manners and she’s looking washed out too. Eh?…”
At the word “check” Miss Robbins had paused in her typing and written the words, “Mrs. Downs—check; at Manetti’s tonight” in her notebook. Grant had gone into his gallopade, marking the end of a phone call, “I miss you, sweetie, you liven things up. Well, I can be quiet too. With the right woman—no, not cocktails. Not taking cocktails, not good for me, too. I like Sue, but too staid, eh? A bit old-fashioned, you’re very modern, like me. You’re like me; that’s it, you’re like me. Everyone here is anxious to see you. Told them all, that’s the woman I should have known years ago. Gilbert thinks a lot of you. Boy has a lot of character, go by his opinion. He told me, ‘Dad, that’s the kind of woman who would understand you and put you straight.’ Bit of a mentor with me. Means very well. Honest boy. He thinks a lot of your ability, too. Like me, he likes a fine woman. You’re beautiful, too. I better watch my step. Better watch myself! Dangerous ’ooman—but you like me, sweetie? Don’t you? Only a little? Don’t believe it. Can’t credit it. I know better. Made for each other, that’s the word. Well—”
He listened and continued with immense bravura—“I always said, ‘Livy, all I want is a woman’; and now it looks like I got her! Looking for her, I got into those messes, that’s all…Eh? That blonde cow? Don’t laugh at me, Livy. I’ve been hurt too much by that blonde. Besides, that was so long ago I forgot her. She’s through. She’s not a nice woman, not like you…Doesn’t care for me, personally, always thinking of going through my pockets…Do you know what she just asked me? Not to forget to keep the Coca-Cola bottles…And she used to take the half-empty liquor bottles out of my closet so her girl friend could give parties when she was broke…She takes trading-stamps, yes. She’s a one-way girlie. Didn’t remember my birthday. Well, wants too much, selfish. No way to get a man. Well—don’t let’s talk about her…Gilbert will meet you five-thirty at the Ritz and I’ll see you at ten at Manetti’s; right?”
He did not put down the telephone but asked for another number and almost immediately said, “Miss Holloway, please? Hello, Katie! Yes, I’m in New York. Got in last night. Philadelphia is all right—”
Gilbert started and looked apprehensively at Miss Robbins, who, however, went on with her typing.
Gilbert’s father chattered away, “When do I see you, sweetie, for a little tea, a little chat? I want to ask your advice about something that’s bothering me! We’ll have tea tomorrow sometime? My boy’s here and I’m not altogether free. I’ll be alone for a while tomorrow and I want cheering up. Had a bad time in Philadelphia, bloody ’ooman let me down. I want to see you, sweetie…I mean it. Well, I got to be careful: your family might get the wrong impression. Like your mother, very fine woman. Never forget the dinner she made me. Wonderful cook. Can you cook like that? You have to if you want to get married some day. I can’t tonight, dearie. Tired out with traveling. Train was late, didn’t sleep all night, wishing I had asked you to meet me. Then I got here, lots of trouble, big surprises, big blows, blows below the belt, unpleasant things, quite a shock, that bloody blonde ’ooman, I told you. Thought she had me round her finger like a piece of string. Made a mistake for once. Tomorrow, four, at my place. The Pickwick—my housekeeper’s there. I want to give you a little business for your store. Bring me ten pairs of nylons at two dollars…But you can get them for me at two dollars, like last time, eh? Want them for my business friends’ wives. Christmas coming, they all got their mouths hanging wide open. Surprising how you can get a hundred dollars’ worth of business with a two-dollar pair of stockings…The wives are cheaper than the husbands, my sweetie; take ten dollars apiece to buy a Christmas present for the husbands!…Don’t say that, sweetie; we understand each other, we’re friends—no, we’re comrades. I’m a liar sometimes but I tell you when I am, and never to you. Why should I? I like you too much. I respect you. I rely on you, Katie, don’t forget, ten pairs. Bye-bye.”
He at once asked for another number. Gilbert glanced in astonishment at the muscular busy back of Miss Robbins, who went on typing, when they heard quite clearly, “Is Miss Sapper there? Hello, Violetta! Hello, sweetie, well, when you are free are you going to come and cheer me up, have tea, a little chat? I had a big shock, hit below the belt, and want to take your advice. A woman hurt me. I had a lot of shocks lately and I’ve been out of town and couldn’t see you. There was no oasis in my desert; now I found you and I have an oasis. My wife hasn’t any backbone, can’t look out for herself, and is no good to me. But I have to go to Boston just the same. I regret it. Not like you. I’m very busy now, darling, tonight I’ve got to see a lawyer about getting rid of my business here—I want to settle down and have a good time with the right woman. Come to my place day after tomorrow. My housekeeper’ll make us tea. Can’t see you before, sweetie, because my son’s here and I want him to have a good time. I respect him; want him to respect me. I don’t mean the wrong thing. Wait till I get him settled out on the farm, then I’ll see more of you…”
Gilbert took out a vest-pocket notebook and wrote down Katie, Violetta (Miss Sapper). He had not finished when he heard his father speaking to another girl and he wrote within the
next quarter-hour—Bernice, Janet, Helen.
Suddenly Robert Grant yelled savagely, “Miss Robbins!”
The woman with golden hair got up, went placidly toward the door. At the door, she turned and smiled at Gilbert. Grant said, “Someone there?”
“Gilbert!”
“Come in, come in, son.”
The young man went in and sat down by his father’s desk.
“You look well this morning, Gilbert.”
“Wasn’t that Mrs. Downs you were talking to before, Dad?”
The three old acquaintances looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Grant said, “Good God!”
He frowned, fiddled with the paperweight, began dictating, interrupted it to say quietly, “Well, son, it’s no good pretending I’m a monk. I’m no angel and it clears the air if you know it.”
“You don’t know me, Dad. I—”
“Your mother’s an angel, a perfect mother and wife, but I’m not good enough for her, that’s all. And she never did me any good. Well—better go outside while I finish the letters, ‘Dear Spatchwood, About the house on Owl Island, let him show me my signed order for the bronze bell.’—Flack will sign it, Miss Robbins.”
He lowered at Miss Robbins and by the time he had finished his letters, was in a roaring temper. He yelled, “Get all those off before you go to lunch, don’t delay.”
Miss Robbins put her book down on her desk, sat and stared for a long while at the partition. Then she got up, put on her hat and coat. Grant looked at her through the glass, “Do those letters for me first, like a good woman.”
A Little Tea, a Little Chat Page 27