Corporation Wife

by Catherine Gaskin

  Harriet understood why Laura’s tone sounded aggrieved; it was the difference between the box travelling sixty miles and six city blocks. It epitomised the petty annoyances and frustrations a woman like Laura would find in country living. ‘I’ve discovered,’ Laura said, in a rare moment of bluntness, ‘that you can have everything in Burnham Falls that you have in New York ‒ but it’s just a little more difficult.’ Then she checked herself. ‘Of course, there are compensations …’ she added quickly.

  The next coach was the club car; it was already more than half full. Harriet still followed Laura, hoping she would quickly choose her seat and sit down; she could feel the weariness of the city pavements in her whole body, the struggle against the heat, the determination to get through a whole day’s shopping before train time. She felt ragged at the edges, her nerves too tight, and craving relief. She wished now that Laura would decide on the club car; it would be wonderful to sit and sip a long drink gently. Harriet half-opened her mouth to suggest it, and then, with great deliberation, made herself remain silent. It was hard to keep remembering that she could no longer do exactly what she wanted in matters like these.

  Laura stopped in front of one of the tables, and put her box on the floor. Harriet sighed with relief. For a second she hardly felt the hand that reached out and took her arm, giving it a little, urgent shake.

  ‘Harriet!’

  She knew the voice; she believed she had forgotten it, but it was there, as familiar as a part of her everyday life, belonging to her, and well-remembered. She turned slowly, reluctantly.

  ‘Mal …’

  He got to his feet. She hadn’t forgotten, either, how tall he was ‒ as tall as Steve. She looked up into his face, that ugly-attractive face, too harsh and closed still, the blue eyes alert and shrewd; she looked at him, and all her careful preparations for this moment were suddenly vanished.

  ‘I …’ she began helplessly. ‘They told me you were coming, Mal. It’s good to see you.’

  Her voice was all right, she decided ‒ but toneless, too dead. He would know what was wrong with her, of course, and perhaps he would think her unsophisticated because she couldn’t play this scene better. But why did it have to be here, unexpectedly, in the midst of strangers? In all the months of picturing how their first meeting would be, she had never seen it quite as bad as this. She was completely off-balance, stupid with weariness and, now, this terrible sense of panic. It was thirteen years since she had laid eyes on Mal Hamilton, and now they stood next to each other, like every-day commuters, on the 4.25 from Grand Central.

  ‘It’s been a long time.’ Hearing his ordinary, conventional words, she knew that he had been shocked also, and the tight evenness of his face was disturbed.

  ‘Sit down, Harriet!’ he said suddenly. ‘For God’s sake, sit down!’ She experienced the intense familiarity of him again ‒ here was his old, peremptory impatience, his refusal to stay long in the mould of convention. They were not strangers, and never would be. He lifted his hat and briefcase from the seat beside him. ‘Here! Sit Down!’

  She could have smiled at him then ‒ Mal, who hadn’t changed very much. But she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t … I’m with someone.’

  ‘Oh, to hell with that! You can see her some other time. Tell her you met an old friend.’

  ‘It isn’t quite as easy as that, Mal. She’s Laura Peters ‒ married to Steve’s boss.’

  He looked at her closely. ‘Does it matter?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, it does. I’m sorry, Mal ‒ but it does.’ She gestured clumsily, impeded by the boxes. ‘You know these things well enough, Mal. It does matter.’

  He shrugged. ‘All right, then. I’ll join you. She can’t object to that, since I suppose I’m working for Amtec too.’

  Harriet ran her tongue over the dry lips. Suddenly the air-conditioning seemed too chill; the weariness was in her bones and she felt that she couldn’t continue this fight with herself for the next hour and twenty minutes until the train pulled into Burnham Falls. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ she said quietly. ‘As you said, it’s been a long time … I need a breathing space to get used to it.’

  ‘You’ve had all the time you’ll ever have to get used to it,’ he said roughly. ‘I’m here, Harriet ‒ and that’s all there is to it.’ He jerked his head towards the end of the car, where Laura had seated herself and was looking at them. ‘Mrs. Peters seems to be waiting …’

  Harriet was afraid that her uneasiness was too visible as she introduced Mal to Laura, but he took over for her, and covered her silence with his own talk. He put Laura’s box and Harriet’s two on the rack, along with his hat and briefcase, settled himself in the seat between them, and ordered drinks. The pause gave Harriet a chance; she took several deep breaths, and felt the tightness in her throat relax somewhat. It was almost like a return to life after it had stopped momentarily. She hoped that her face and voice were more normal now, that Laura would put her silence down to fatigue.

  But she saw then she almost need not have worried. The drinks arrived, and the event hardly interrupted the talk between Laura and Mal. She realised that this did not seem strange to Laura; she was accustomed to taking the full attention of most men she encountered, but it went further than that, for Laura was plainly interested in what Mal was saying, and in him as a person.

  ‘… and this is the first time,’ Mal was saying, ‘that I’ve been to Burnham Falls since before the war.’ He added, smiling a little, ‘Now I’m working as a very expensive consultant for your husband’s company, Mrs. Peters.’

  ‘And are you worth it?’ Laura said.

  ‘I make them believe I am.’

  She laughed, throwing back her head a little in that strangely graceful way she had. ‘Well ‒ good for you! They’ll always pay for what they believe.’

  Harriet cleared her throat then, and said quickly, ‘I think a lot of people believe what you say, Mal. I’ve been reading about you over the years … Fortune and Time …’

  He looked pleased. ‘I have a good public relations man.’

  Laura leaned across to look at Harriet. ‘Have you two known each other long?’

  Mal spoke for her. ‘The last summer I was in Burnham Falls Harriet was still in high school, and I was feeling the weight of my Ph.D. Then Steve and I were in the same outfit during the war … we were doing research in a lab at U.C.L.A. Harriet came out to be with Steve, and she had a job at Lockheed …’

  The talk went on, but for Harriet it had stopped at ‘a job at Lockheed.’ He had said it, had spoken of it, naturally and calmly. They had not looked at each other’s face since that morning they had sat outside the drive-in, and read in the newspaper about Hiroshima; she had been afraid to bring that memory out clearly, but he had done it for her. By preference he had told her that it was with him too. What kind of a memory it was for him, tender or bitter, she could not tell. She began to pay strict attention to him then, to search for indications of what the years between had been to him.

  Superficially she knew what they had been. Mal had been very successful in what he had chosen to do, which was, in effect, to play a lone hand and steer clear of complete commitment to any one company. The early years must have been hard ones, Harriet thought … the waiting to be called in as consultant on technical problems and turning down the offers to remain permanently with the company, maintaining an office and staff in the hope that they would be needed, keeping the contacts open with the experts in the different fields while still not able to bring work to them. But he had held out somehow, and it had paid off. His main office was still in Los Angeles, but there was now a small New York office. He had kept his success on his own terms. Within certain loose limits, he was free to do as he wanted ‒ which was why he talked to Laura as if she was a woman first, and not only the wife of the president of an Amtec subsidiary.

  ‘Exactly what is a consultant supposed to do?’ Laura had taken a cigarette from the case Mal offered to her and Harriet,
and she was bent a little towards him now as he lighted it.

  ‘Well ‒ he never knows until he gets to see the problem. Mostly what I do is look over the project, think of all the companies and individuals who’ve done work along those lines, and go and buy some information from them ‒ for which I charge firms like Amtec twice as much.’

  ‘You’re much too honest,’ Laura said.

  He shook his head. ‘The funny thing is that the more I disclose of my methods of gathering information, the less I’m believed. No one thinks for a moment that I’m telling the truth. No single man could possibly have time or opportunity to go deep into all the projects I’m asked to look over. My main concern is to know who does know.’

  ‘Have you done work for Amtec before?’

  ‘Yes ‒ in Culver City and Tulsa ‒ some in New York. I’ve been working with them on and off for years.’

  ‘What do you do when it’s “off”?’

  ‘When no one wants to pay for my services I take myself off to South America, or Europe or Africa … or try to persuade someone that they need me to work there. I once spent four months in Venezuela getting paid barely more than my keep in a second-rate hotel. But I thought it was worth it …’

  ‘Are you married, Mr. Hamilton? What does your wife think of all this?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  He was not exactly as he had been thirteen years ago.

  A few more of the sharp edges had worn away; he kept his direct, no-nonsense manner, but he was more subtle with it. It was the relaxation of a man who has been successful, who can now afford not to hit so hard to make his point. He was used to women ‒ the way he talked to Laura told Harriet that. She did not cherish any foolish thought that he had remained faithful to the memory of what they had been and said to each other thirteen years ago. He could never have known, as she had not, that one day they would sit together in the 4.25 for Burnham Falls, and even if he had known, it would have been no reason for a man like Mal to keep aloof from other women. He had been a lot of places in the world, and he carried the aura and tang of it; he was attractive ‒ she knew now that he was very attractive to women. His gaunt, rugged face was the stamp of the life he led. He was not cast of the mould of the conventional world, and you knew, just by looking at him, that if the conventional world had not given him success, he would have found his own form of it in Brazil or the Belgian Congo, or the middle of Australia. It was this quality in his face and speech and movements that made Laura fix her eyes on him in absorbed attention, that made Harriet recall vividly that incredible car drive into the desert, the manner of his taking her. There was no fumbling with Mal ‒ he was sure, and quick, and needle-sharp.

  He glanced at Harriet. ‘Europe gave me some of that culture you were always urging on me.’ Then he turned to explain to Laura. ‘Harriet used to worry because back before the war I never took my nose out of a lab long enough to read a book or look at a piece of sculpture. Later I took time … for that and a lot of other things I hadn’t been able to afford before. But I found the farther from civilisation the statues and paintings, the more primitive, the better I like them. I’m really not much for standing in a gallery in Florence.’

  He continued to talk, keeping Laura’s attention away from Harriet. They had a second drink, and outside the windows the city had given way to the long spread of the suburbs and the commuter towns. Harriet registered the normal things of this trip ‒ the supermarkets, the cluster of stores about each station, the flow of traffic on the highways, the early-evening exodus, the cars in long lines in the shimmering heat. This was normal, but Mal’s presence here was not. Hungrily, carefully, she took in each detail of him ‒ his clothes were expensive, and not too new; he wore them with ease. The scuffed brief-case on the rack above was made of coach hide. It pleased her that he had learned to carry material success well, but not too obviously. It hardly seemed possible that this was Charlie Hamilton’s son, this assured man holding with such ease the interest of a beautiful, restless woman. Mal must know that the eyes of every man in the coach had rested on Laura with approval and admiration; and he also knew that so far she had not looked away from him.

  Outside the windows there was open grazing to be seen now, and some orchards. They were coming close to Burnham Falls.

  That Harriet thought was what thirteen years had done with Mal. And herself ‒ what had he seen when he had looked up at her coming along the coach? A hot, rather crumpled woman, with a nose shiny from the heat, a dispirited housewife, energy drained from her walk on the burning pavements, carrying the awkward dress boxes and her gloves clutched in a ball in her hand. But it was worse than that ‒ he had witnessed her fumble this situation when she should have been ready for it, seen the way she had left him to carry a conversation with Laura while she sat here in stupid silence, twisting her glass slowly, and watching the moisture condense in damp rings on the table. He must have known, in that very first minute, what thirteen years had done to her. She felt the tight ache in her throat again, a sense of failure and disappointment in herself.

  Far up ahead she heard the whistle blow as the diesel approached the level-crossing on the outskirts of Burnham Falls.

  They got off the train together, Mal now carrying the suitcase he had left in the rack at the end of the coach. Mal said nothing as they walked along the platform. Harriet was trying to see it with his eyes, and yet she knew there would not be too much changed in this part of town, and in any case, Mal had seen too much change, had been part of too much change himself, to feel any surprise in it. Here were the lake, and the courthouse, the old churches and the new one, the old stores with the new fronts, and the new neon signs. The big changes in Burnham Falls were not immediately obvious. Then she wondered painfully if he had not got his first intimation of change when he had looked at her.

  ‘Where are you staying, Mr. Hamilton?’ Laura asked. ‘Could I give you a lift?’

  ‘Thank you ‒ but I’m picking up a rental car from Morton’s. I’ll be staying at a motel over on Route 40. I’m only here for three nights this trip.’

  They were standing by the parking lot, where Laura’s Thunderbird seemed to dominate all the other cars. Laura turned to Harriet. ‘No need to take a taxi … I’ll drop you by your house.’

  ‘Oh … please don’t bother. It’s out of your way.’

  ‘No bother at all,’ Laura said, and her tone settled the matter. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  Harriet got herself into the front seat with Laura, but she seemed to herself to be hardly part of the scene. The usual things went on, Laura settling herself at the driver’s seat, Mal stowing the boxes in the back. She heard her own voice telling Mal to come over to the house, and thinking that he probably wouldn’t. Then Laura raised her gloved hand in a brief salute, and they were out of the parking lot. Harriet glanced behind her as they started along Main Street, and Mal was still standing there, astride the suitcase, his hat pushed a little to the back of his head, staring after them. She felt a great sense of loneliness.

  When the Thunderbird had finally disappeared, Mal picked up his suitcase, and started to cross the road. It was about ten degrees cooler here than in New York. There was activity around the station ‒ the arrival of cars to pick up passengers from the 4.25, the efforts of the owners of the two taxi services to fill up their cabs before sending them out. The school summer vacation had started, and the street was crowded with young people ‒ girls in shorts swinging their pony-tails as they walked, boys in T-shirts. Carter’s drug store was remodelled, Mal noticed. He glanced inside, thinking about buying some cigarettes, and maybe finding someone he recognised; the soda fountain was lined with teenagers. He walked on. He knew none of the faces of the people he passed ‒ the young matrons in sleeveless cotton dresses, the men with sports shirts out over their pants. He passed the courthouse, and then suddenly he turned and retraced his steps. He walked until he was back past the station again. At the traffic light, new since his time
, he crossed the road. The Burnham Falls First National Bank looked as always, the ivy-covered grey stone suitably conservative among all the new shop fronts.

  It was after banking hours, and he rapped on the glass doors, where the shades were pulled half-way down. It was possible there was no one there. He waited a while, and then rapped again. He saw feet and trousers on the other side of the glass, and then the blind was raised. A tall young man, dark haired and good looking, mouthed to him that the place was closed. Then, when he saw that Mal wasn’t going to go away, and perhaps reassured by his appearance, he opened the door a little way.

  ‘Is George Keston here?’ Mal said. ‘My name’s Hamilton ‒ Mal Hamilton. I just got into town.’

  The young man hesitated, then his eyes widened with a kind of recognition. ‘Mr. Hamilton? … Why, yes ‒ I guess he’ll see you.’ He stepped back from the door and opened it wide.

  Afterwards George Keston told everyone he met that he had been the first person Mal Hamilton came to see when he came back to Burnham Falls. It gave George a lot of satisfaction to say that.

  Two

  Sally wiped the back of her hand across her brow, and noticed then that the perspiration had run off her hands a little, and had smudged the ink on the paper. It was a day at the end of June, and the whole valley lay in a humid bath of heat and moisture. There had been a lot of rain early in the month, and the valley was green and pleasant; under the trees the shadows were deep and cool-looking, like the still green water in the shallows of the lakes. But they were deceptive; there was no relief from the heat in the whole valley, except in the air-conditioned super-market, and the few stores in the town that were struggling to compete with it ‒ only those and the soft, muted laboratories and offices, where no human discomforts could be permitted to disturb the efficient progress of the work.

  She took her eyes reluctantly away from the scene before her ‒ the gentle trees, the green lawns, the gay, pretty houses of Amtec Park ‒ and tried to concentrate on the paper on the desk before her. The heat seemed to form a kind of mist between her and the smudged paper, something she wanted to push away physically. It would have been quicker ‒ and neater ‒ of course to use the typewriter, but when the words came slowly, grudgingly, like this, she felt a greater sense of movement and progress if she wrote in longhand; it was a closer, more real contact with the elusive thoughts, and with the words by which she tried to express them. She sighed, wrote down half a sentence, then struck it out. It was a struggle to put an idea on paper, and to develop it ‒ or not even to develop, just to get it down, crudely and nakedly, and when it was down it usually proved not to have been worth the struggle. A heaviness and lassitude possessed her whole body, and she wasn’t making much of a fight against it. Suddenly, in a rage of frustration, she crumpled the paper, with its dull, useless words, into a ball in her hands, and tossed it into the waste basket.