by Packer, Vin
5:45
TO SUBURBIA
Vin Packer
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
March 6, 1957: Chapter One
March 6, 1925: Chapter Two
March 6, 1925: Chapter Three
March 6, 1957: Chapter Four
March 6, 1926: Chapter Five
March 6, 1957: Chapter Six
March 6, 1939: Chapter Seven
March 6, 1957: Chapter Eight
March 6, 1957: Chapter Nine
March 6, 1957: Chapter Ten
March 6, 1957: Chapter Eleven
March 6, 1957: Chapter Twelve
March 6, 1957: Chapter Thirteen
March 6, 1957: Chapter Fourteen
March 6, 1917: Chapter Fifteen
March 6, 1957: Chapter Sixteen
March 6, 1957: Chapter Seventeen
March 6, 1957: Chapter Eighteen
March 6, 1957: Chapter Nineteen
March 6, 1957: Chapter Twenty
March 7, 1957: Chapter Twenty One
March 7, 1957: Chapter Twenty Two
March 7, 1957: Chapter Twenty Three
March 7, 1957: Chapter Twenty Four
March 7, 1957: Chapter Twenty Five
Something in the Shadows
Also Available
Copyright
MARCH 6, 1957
CHAPTER ONE
“EVER HEAR of a C-cup bitch before?” Wally Keene had asked Charlie once.
“She’s the worst kind of bitch there is, Charlie! She’s as power-happy as she is top-heavy. Our business is brimming over with them — ours and advertising. Her bosom bosses her body and she bosses you…. Hell, you know the type, Charlie. Tell her a joke and she heard it last February; but she knows ‘a new one’ you haven’t heard. Take her to lunch and she sends back the Gibson, because the onion isn’t crisp. In a conference room when you try to win a point by throwing in a random statistic to make it more effective, she’s the one who sends out for the World Almanac, and finds out there were nowhere near 7,140 automobiles stolen in Houston in 1955…. Just imagine Scarlett O’Hara playing Kitty Foyle, and you got a C-cup bitch. Better still, Charlie, take a look around you … at Marge Mann, for instance.”
• • •
Charlie had seen her in the back of the elevator as he had come in that morning; and for some reason as he stood pressed against the other passengers and rode in gloomy 8:55 A.M. silence to 16, he was reminded of Wally’s description of her. Reminded of how he had hated young Keene for saying it (Keene had made the remark about a year ago in the bar at the Commodore, where they were both waiting for the 6:30 to Greenwich); and how he had hated him for being so amusingly accurate about Marge. About her type; about his own effortless admission to himself that she was a type; so what, Charlie had thought, who isn’t…. Still, it had made him angry; and he realized rather uncomfortably, it had made him feel some vague sense of guilt too.
He had seen her standing back there with the feather in her hat; smiled at her, and wished he had winked instead; and after he had thought of Wally’s year-old remark, he had recalled one of his own, years and years older; one of his own to Marge: “Wear a hat with a feather on it, and meet me at the Fiftieth Street Entrance to Saks.”
It sounded oddly prosaic to Charlie’s memory; sounded more like two old ladies off on a shopping spree than lovers bent on a clandestine rendezvous; but even so, Charlie knew he still couldn’t pass Saks without flinching; couldn’t look at one of Marge’s hats without telling himself, too often and too insistently, that he had really been in love wih her; my God, he had even considered divorcing Joan. Seriously considered it; hadn’t he?
When the elevator came to a stop he did an awkward thing that turned out to be pointless. Before he got out he looked back at Marge, wanting perhaps to improve on his initial greeting, wanting to add more to it, to make it less incidental; and instead, as he looked around, the man behind Charlie moved forward abruptly, so that both bumped noses; and the collision resulted in clumsy apologies, muttered as the two men stepped quickly out of the elevator, and in Charlie’s not having a second glance at Marge. He was sorry about that, particularly sorry about it because of the past month’s tension around Cadence Publications; and because somehow he wanted to reassure Marge that he was pulling for her. Pulling for her against Wally Keene.
Wally had said something else to Charlie about Marge once, not very long ago. A week or two ago. Wally had said, “Charlie, you want to hear something funny? This will break you up! The other night that bitch offered herself to me. That’s right, she offered herself to me! That wizened old bitch stretched herself out on a hide-a-bed like a slab of white lamb sacrificed on an altar! And you know what she said, Charlie, you know what she had the nerve to say? She said, ‘All right, you can have what you want. All right, take me!’” Wally had held his sides laughing. “I mean, God, can you picture it!”
Charlie didn’t believe it; didn’t believe for a minute Marge Mann would do anything like that — not for anyone, not even for her job. She used to tell Charlie, back when they were close, “The reason I like you, Charles, is that I like myself when I’m with you. I think that’s important.” That was like her; that was the way she was…. So Charlie didn’t believe Keene’s story.
• • •
Pushing through the wide glass doors, Charlie entered the reception room of Cadence Publications.
He looked right for these surroundings; at home in them. For a middle-aged man who lived well and was unlikely ever to become calorie-conscious (just on principle) Charlie Gibson had a good strong body that was tall and broad; and could still carry a single-breasted suit well enough to make many of his chunky colleagues envious.
He dressed that body well too. He had a feel for style and taste in his wardrobe; and a manner in his bearing, his stance and his gait, that announced he was right. Distingúe, some would have said of this man in the dark blue suit, with the thick crop of coal-colored hair streaked thinly with gray. Seeing him on this morning, some would have insisted handsome as well. For when Charlie’s round face was sullen in thought, with the wide deep brown eyes somber, he seemed almost handsome; seemed, ironically, younger too, and not as average of countenance. Nor as shy and vulnerable as he did when he had nothing bothering him.
As he strode across the thick gray carpet, passing the plush red leather couches and round white oak tables, one of the Cadence magazine covers stared up at him from a table top. It was their mystery magazine, The Suspects, one of the twenty magazines Cadence published.
A picture of a semi-nude blonde with blood running from her mouth, rushing down a rickety staircase, adorned its front. Charlie winced, made a mental note to get a memo off to the editor, and thought, as he mumbled a “morning” to the receptionist, of what Bruce Cadence had said yesterday.
“Look, Charlie, I don’t like it either. We’ve always had a good name in our field — always — except for that incident with our comic line. But that incident cost us plenty, Charlie. Now we’ve got to recover.”
Charlie had argued, “But we won’t recover making the same mistake we made with the comics. Sexy covers, lurid blurbs. Is this how we’re going to recover? … And a brand new exposé magazine we’re ashamed to put the Cadence name on!”
“The heat was on comics, Charlie. That’s all.”
“And it won’t be turned on our other books?”
“No, Charlie, it won’t be. Providing we stay in bounds, of course. It’s different with a children’s audience, you know that. They’re always worrying about what Johnny should read, when they’re not worrying about if Johnny can read.”
“Still and all, Bruce
, Cadence doesn’t have to cheapen the line to sell!”
“Not cheapen the line, Charlie. You know I don’t mean that. Just make it less staid, as Keene says.”
“By exposing people?”
“Charlie, I know you’re opposed to the new magazine. I know! But do you have a better suggestion? … We’re in a hole, Charlie. We’re in a canyon!”
Before Charlie had left Cadence’s office, Bruce Cadence had added: “You’ll get the dummy tomorrow. After you make any corrections, rush it up to me. Okay, Charlie?”
• • •
It wasn’t okay. A lot of other people at Cadence felt the way Charlie did. No one — not even Charlie — had gone on record as being fighting-mad-vehemently-opposed to the new magazine; but even as it went around in dummy form, the nickname for it which someone had thought up, stuck…. Unofficially, it was called Vile.
Vile was Wally Keene’s brainchild. Bruce Cadence had hired young Keene as a troubleshooter, telling Charlie that he was convinced that the organization needed “new blood. Fresh blood, Charlie, young blood!”
Vile was the fruit of the new, fresh, young blood.
• • •
Down at the end of the long corridor on the 16th floor was the pine-paneled office of the Executive Editorial Director at Cadence. This was Charlie’s office, and the panoramic view of West Manhattan midtown to the Hudson, from its windows, was one Charlie never tired of seeing as he walked in there every morning; a scene he never failed to appreciate — the same way he was aware of and warm toward the fragrance of his secretary’s perfume at the beginning of a work day. Bonnie sat just outside his door and she always wore Arpege. She always looked up just as he passed the row of telephones on her desk; always smiled; always said, “Good morning, Mr. Gibson. I’ll be right with you,” and always appeared five minutes from the time she said that.
So ten minutes after Charlie had hung up his coat, without having yet seen her, he began to suspect that something was wrong; that perhaps she was sick (she never was); or that perhaps there was some new intrigue transpiring, a situation that invariably seemed to decimate the normal routine in the office, because usually the secretaries were the first to know, and the last to savor the enjoyment. Haphazardly he glanced through the pile of mail on his desk, at the same time pressing the buzzer which would call Bonnie, if she were near enough to be called. As he was doing this, some slight resentment starting to rise in him, as it always did when his meticulous sense of organization seemed threatened, a newspaper clipping fell from an envelope he held in his hand.
It was clipped from the Times; a brief write-up of the dinner a charitable organization had given in Charlie s honor several weeks ago, in appreciation of his capabilities as a fund-raiser. Above the write-up, there was a rather poor photograph of Charlie, a shoulders-up, smiling shot. Across his face was scribbled something Charlie did not have time to read before he heard the sound of the singing.
He looked up, puzzled at Bonnie; puzzled and then bemused. He had forgotten all about it.
“Happy Birthday,” she said, holding the tiny cake out to him; grinning; a slim, baby-faced girl, not too much older than Charlie’s daughter, but less spoiled than Jane — and wiser, Charlie had a hunch; quicker. “And many happy returns, Mr. Gibson.”
She set it on his desk; a candle sagged in the icing, dripping and flickering.
“Forget?” she asked him.
“I sure did.”
“Well, make a wish and blow it out.”
It was uncanny that at the same time she said that to him, Charlie’s eyes fell for a slow second to the sealed interoffice memo that was lying beside his mail pile; and that he thought as he looked at it: I wish that weren’t on my desk; wish I didn’t have to read that; uncanny, because Charlie had no real idea what the memo contained.
“Did you make a wish?”
“Yes,” Charlie said, deciding good health was a sound one, then blowing the candle out. “There!”
“I won’t ask how old you are.”
“Fifty.”
“You didn’t have to tell, Mr. Gibson. I wasn’t fishing.”
“I suppose that sounds old, hmm, Bonnie? To you?”
Charlie glanced up at her. She said, “Yes, frankly … Want a piece with some coffee, or is it too early?”
“Much too early. Can we save it until after lunch?”
“Sure. Here, I’ll take it.” She leaned across for the plate, and her eyes fell to the sealed memo. “I suppose you saw that.”
“Yes. Any idea what it’s about?”
“I wouldn’t like to speculate,” she told him. She looked suddenly serious. “I just wouldn’t like to.”
“Did Keene’s secretary leave it?”
“Uh-huh.”
Charlie felt something sink inside of him; then again remembered the curl to Keene’s lips that evening at the Commodore when he said, “Ever hear of a C-cup bitch before?”
As though she were reading his thoughts, Bonnie said, “You don’t think Mr. Cadence would demote her, do you, Mr. Gibson?”
“You think that’s what it’s about, too?”
She nodded.
“I don’t know, Bon,” he answered. “I hope not.”
“I think it would-kill her,” the girl said. She lifted the cake plate from his desk, frowning. “I wish you’d open it now.”
“After I’ve gone over all my mail, I will,” Charlie said. “That’s the only safe rule when it comes to these things. Open them last; that way the immediate business gets done before I blow my top.”
“I know, Mr. Gibson.” Bonnie sighed. “By now I know.”
She started across the office toward the door. Charlie let himself enjoy her legs before he looked up and said, “Bon? By the way, you’ll see that the dummy gets into me right away, won’t you? I want it checked and upstairs by four.”
“It’s on your desk now,” she answered. “Over on the left … And, Mr. Gibson, there’s a letter from your daughter in the pile.”
“Oh? Good!”
“Happy birthday again, Mr. Gibson.” She smiled in the doorway. “You don’t look fifty at all.”
When she had gone, Charlie sat momentarily to wonder how he had managed to forget that it was the 6th of March; and then, vaguely pleased in imagining Jane had remembered it, he fumbled through the letters on his blotter to find hers, but stopped abruptly when he came across the newspaper clipping he had put aside. He picked up the envelope it had come in, saw no return address, and when he shook it saw no other clue as to its sender. Then he took the clipping and read the legend written there across his face.
It said simply: YOU SURE TURNED OUT TO BE AN UGLY S. O. B. — CLASS OF ‘28.
For the first time that morning, Charlie Gibson began to laugh.
MARCH 6, 1925
CHAPTER TWO
ON THE afternoon of Charles Gibson’s 18th birthday, someone down the hall in the DKE house was playing Second Hand Rose on the phonograph; and Charlie was at his desk, bent over a composition for Poli. Sci., which began: “A year and three months ago today Lenin died at Gorki. It is appropriate to pause and remember — ”
Whatever it was that was appropriate to pause and remember, Charlie had forgotten, for lately his mind was a jumble of tangled thoughts. He was a sensitive, serious sophomore who wanted to be a writer (a poet, preferably; except it didn’t pay a goddam thing), and therefore a good 70% of his thoughts were centered on sex; a good 10% on sex with Mitzie Thompson (though Charlie switched the noun to ‘love’ in his mind where she was concerned); and the remaining percentage on what a bastard his old man was, what a crashing bore it was to be broke all the time, and what an effort it was to concentrate on anything “important” (meaning his writing) in a fraternity house at the University of Missouri.
Currently Charlie was under the influence of E. E. Cummings and Ezra Pound, when he was not under Mitzie’s spell; and this afternoon he was coping with all three, as well as Lenin and Second Hand Rose, so that b
eside the composition, on a scrap of yellow second sheet, there was scribbled the beginnings of a poem entitled simply: mitzie before breakfast. So far there was only one verse:
tell me how you like to see morning
come for us, say it sleepily
the way you said it then
we’ll cuss awakening out of night
i love you when your arms hold me
so tight.
“What’re you doing, Chazz boy?” a voice called from the doorway.
“Not too much.” Charlie wouldn’t have to look up to know it was Otto Avery speaking. He detested the way Avery persisted in calling him Chazz boy. But he did look up. He watched Avery saunter toward him, and thought, God, he’s suave; he really is — no matter the rest, he really is, and said blandly: “What was the name of that revolutionary journal?” deftly pushing the yellow second sheet under his arm and out of sight. But Avery had noticed. Would he do anything?
“Which one?” Avery sat on the edge of the desk.
“The one Lenin edited. I’m writing a composition.”
“Iskra,” Avery answered, filching the piece of yellow paper with a sudden jerk of his hand. “Meaning ‘The Spark’.” A grin came to his lips.
“Give it back,” Charlie said.
“Mitzie before breakfast, eh?”
“Oh, come on now, damn it!” Charlie stood up and made a grab for his poem, but Avery was taller and quicker; he held it out of Charlie’s reach.
“Chazz boy,” he said, “is there something you ought to tell Uncle Otto?”
“Go to hell, for one thing.”
“I’d had no idea the affair’d been consummated.”
“Did you want something when you came in?”
“Really, Chazz boy, I think you should have at least confided in me. I’m quite hurt, Chazz. You know, I’m offended.”
“Are you through with it?” By now his face felt hot, and he was sure it was very red; but his voice sounded only sullen, slightly bored.
“Mitzie rates some sort of punctuation, don’t you think?” Avery chuckled. “A semicolon, or a dirty old comma, or something, Chazz boy?”