Corporation Wife

by Catherine Gaskin

  She dropped Marcia Webster at her house, and went on to the Laboratories. She knew very well that they would already have all the help they needed, and that there was something rather ludicrous about a woman as heavily pregnant as herself hanging about all day just to serve a few cups of coffee. But her need now was for some reassurance of action, a knowledge that other people beside herself cared what happened to Chrissie Talbot.

  She made her way into the cafeteria of the Laboratories, whose glass walls gave a view over the whole valley. Women sat about at the tables, smoking, knitting ‒ the talk among them seemed only fragmentary, as if they had long ago exhausted their conversation. Out in the parking lot she had seen one of the Civil Defence mobile units, but the driver had sat in it quite passively. She guessed the real action was taking place upstairs in Ed Peters’ office, and at the switchboard off the entrance foyer. Here in the cafeteria the lack of activity was anti-climax; they were all just waiting.

  Suddenly Alan Taylor’s wife, Barbara, got up from one of the tables and came towards her. Sally watched her approach with confidence. Since Tom had taken Alan Taylor’s offer and become his chief assistant, and since she, Sally, had taken over the bigger share of the clerical work for Barbara’s Cancer Fund Committee, there had been no lack of graciousness from the older woman. The hostility over the luncheon she and Tom had backed out of on the day of the golf tournament had been put in the past.

  ‘My dear,’ Barbara said. ‘What are you doing here? You shouldn’t really have come …’

  Sally shrugged. ‘Oh, I knew there’d be more helpers here than you need, but I’ve had enough of moping about home worrying. I just thought I’d come here and wait until Tom came in …’

  Barbara laid her arm about Sally with a gesture that had just a suggestion of gush in it. ‘Why … you poor thing! Of course you must have been feeling blue …’ Her voice had risen enough so that the small groups of women about the tables glanced over at them. She led Sally forward. ‘Come and sit down ‒ you don’t want to be on your feet too much just now.’

  Someone thrust a chair forward, and Sally found herself at the table where Barbara Taylor had been sitting. Barbara leaned towards the others confidingly.

  ‘Mary, Nancy … have you met Sally Redmond? Her husband, Tom, is Alan’s assistant. This is Mary Sommers and Nancy Harvey.’

  Mrs. Harvey smiled. ‘Are you the Sally that Jane Humphries raves about ‒ the one she says does so much work for her Republican committee?’

  Sally smiled demurely. ‘Oh ‒ I don’t do anything important. Just address some envelopes ‒ that’s about all it amounts to.’

  ‘Sally’s a very good worker,’ Barbara Taylor said, with a proprietary air. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her now on this Cancer Drive. You know, our latest figures are going to …’

  As Barbara Taylor launched into her favourite topic, Sally sat back and prepared to listen. She knew that suddenly something important had happened. She was seated at a table with the wives of three of the most important figures in the hierarchy of the Laboratories; it was true that they were treating her with the faintly condescending air of one very much their junior, but yet definitely one of them. They were acknowledging that she belonged ‒ even if only by reason of the fact that she desired to belong, and was willing to work for her place. Although they wouldn’t be prepared to acknowledge quite so much, Sally knew that the line of succession started right here.

  But there was one other thing that was also important. A little away from the group, but still attached to it, on a chair that had been half-swivelled to the view of the valley, sat Laura Peters. Sally felt a sense of excitement as she became aware of the other woman. It was possible that she would be introduced. In the eighteen months of living at Amtec Park, this was the closest she had ever come to the wife of the president.

  The thought of Chrissie slipped further from her mind as she stared at Laura Peters. Finding Chrissie had ceased to be such a personal, individual responsibility. She was reminded by the sight of all these women sitting in this room that her single effort was insignificant beside the combined one. She could permit herself now the wonderful distraction of her first close, long look at Ed Peters’ wife.

  She was truly as beautiful, Sally decided, as she appeared on television ‒ but somehow the quality of this face was altered. It was graver, a trifle more hollow-cheeked. Then she reminded herself that it was some years since Laura Peters had made her last television appearance. To Sally, the face she looked at now seemed more human, more aware; it had come to life in an odd way even though it was less youthful. Her figure, in a sweater and skirt, was lovely ‒ slim and pliant; her hands were graceful and tapering ‒ and of course, exquisitely manicured. Sally was a little in awe of the perfection of the whole turn-out, the attention to detail that made the whole. For the first time it occurred to her that being a beautiful woman must be a full-time job.

  Laura was reading a fresh copy of the New York Herald Tribune, and so Sally was free to study her without any embarrassing meeting of their glances. She seemed completely absorbed in the paper, as if the rest of the room, and the low undertone of conversation didn’t exist. For the president’s wife, Sally thought she seemed strangely solitary; she didn’t pay the least attention to Barbara Taylor’s talk about the Cancer Fund, and no one seemed to expect her to. That was perhaps strangest of all, Sally thought; the women who saw her most often expected nothing more from her than they got now. It was as if they were used to having her physical presence, but of receiving no contribution from her. Then Sally realised that it didn’t matter now whether or not she was introduced to Laura Peters, because, good or bad, Laura would remember nothing about her. Deciding that, Sally gave her full attention back to Barbara Taylor.

  It was only about a minute later that the interruption came ‒ the sharp scraping of the chair as Laura Peters stood up, the slap of the folded newspaper as it hit the ground. Immediately those closely by her turned to look. Her face was twisted and savage, it had turned a chalky white colour on which the careful make-up for the first time looked garish. Without a word she strode past the women at the tables and left the room.

  Mary Sommers glanced at her companions. She said in a low tone. ‘Well! What’s the matter with her?’ She looked towards the blank glass door where Laura had disappeared, and then back at Barbara Taylor and Nancy Harvey. Her eyes moved a little self-consciously to Sally, as if she wasn’t quite sure that it was right to speak this way before her.

  ‘Do you suppose she’s not well? She looked sick. Do you think one of us should go out and see if there’s anything …’

  Mrs. Harvey interrupted her. ‘I’ll tell you why she looked sick.’ She indicated the entertainment page of the Tribune. ‘Listen to this item … “Phil Conrad back from London with beauteous Katryn Francis, whom he will star in The Right Kind for the Amtec Playhouse”.’

  Outside in the parking lot the driver of the mobile unit straightened with a little show of interest as the blonde came out of the building almost at a run and headed for the white Thunderbird. He expected other people to follow her ‒ it seemed as if there must be some news of the kid ‒ but nothing happened. The Thunderbird roared into life and came out of the line of parked cars at a reckless speed. The tyres squealed as it took the bend outside the parking lot.

  The driver shook his head slowly. ‘You sure are going to get nowhere, lady, in as big a hurry as that.’

  IV

  Harriet stayed at the fishing cabin all day Saturday. It was the least busy of the centres because it was the smallest, and there was no telephone to connect it with the other three. But one of the young doctors from Newark and a mobile unit stood waiting ‒ from the truck she could hear from time to time the garbled voices on the walkie-talkie sets. There was still much traffic on the road to Downside, and every few hours fresh supplies of food would arrive from the country club. There were a few other wives from Amtec Park with her; they came and went as the day wor
e on. The ones who left were always relieved promptly by someone else. Others, who had no children to tie them down, had arrived early in the morning, dressed in slacks and warm jackets, and joined the searchers. The waiting seemed endless, and as the day wore on, no one seemed hopeful enough to talk much about Chrissie. As the early October dusk came down, a young woman, only married a few weeks and a newcomer to Amtec Park, started to cry, with gentle, timid sobs, as if she wasn’t sure how everyone else would take the disturbance. Some one of them patted her on the shoulder, soothed her for a few minutes, and then drove her home. When she had gone someone else wondered aloud if she were pregnant.

  The silence after that seemed worse than before. Harriet wished that one of the groups would come back, even to report lack of success, because there would be the bustle of giving them coffee and sandwiches, and then sending someone to report to Downside that another area had been thoroughly searched.

  Beside her on the sofa the young doctor stirred, produced the pack of cigarettes which he was chain-smoking, and offered one. Then he lighted them both.

  ‘Must be a lovely spot here ‒ when it’s normal,’ he added. He indicated the lake. ‘I’ll bet that’s great fishing.’

  The lake was still dotted with small boats, and it seemed unfamiliar to Harriet. She nodded. ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘Very good fishing. The trouble is that we don’t get time to use it much.’

  The doctor nodded understandingly. ‘It’s always the way … the thing you like best you hardly get to. I like to go fishing along the Jersey shore, but it’s surprising how few times in a season I get there. My wife always needs something done, or the kids have to be taken some place. I tell you its the greatest thing when I’m there …’

  Harriet let him talk on, let him think she was listening, because it was a blessed cover for the silence, and it let her pursue her own thoughts without anyone noticing that they were disturbing ones. She felt ashamed and guilty that so few of them were directly concerned with Chrissie. The inner, private part of her mind saw nothing but Mal, the beloved shape and image, the voice, the words she heard again, she felt the passion and tenderness. And all the time her heart was crying because to-day Mal was on a plane flying towards Caracas.

  She looked out towards the lake, to the jetty where she and Mal had kissed for the first time, when it was many years too late. Mal, you fool, she told him silently. You fool ‒ it should have happened the first summer. You should have taken what I was offering, you shouldn’t have mistrusted me. You shouldn’t have mistrusted youth, nor believed your own toughness. We should have been together all these years; they shouldn’t have been missed and wasted ‒ because it is probably too late now.

  He had left the choice to her ‒ as hard on her as he had always been, demanding honesty, not sentiment. He had told her to choose first and then together they would solve the difficulties ‒ not to ponder the difficulties and by them decide that what they wanted was impossible. She wondered if it took more courage than she had, more strength. Did Mal see her as a different kind of woman from the one she really was? The thought struck her that by one single action she would become the kind of woman he wanted her to be, or at least he would help her to become it. But the first choice was hers, and she had to make it alone. If she did nothing, if she allowed the passive acceptance of all these years to hold and keep her, she would never see Mal again.

  It was very simple. All she had to do was nothing.

  The young doctor realised at last that she wasn’t listening to him. He didn’t mind, really. He kept on talking, so that he wouldn’t break the reverie that made her calm face a quiet study of beauty.

  V

  In the end Laura didn’t even see Phil Conrad. All that passed between them was a telephone call.

  She had had no real plan in mind when she sped down the parkway to New York. All that mattered was to see Phil and hear directly from him a denial of the item in the Tribune. It was as simple as that, but the thought that urged her to a frenzy of speed and reckless driving was that he wouldn’t deny it at all. But she couldn’t permit herself to believe that even Phil, for all his casual ruthlessness, would choose to break with her in this fashion, and in doing it would snatch away from her the last chance to get back into the only world she knew or wanted. She couldn’t believe that it would be as brutal a rejection of love as this.

  She checked in at the Plaza. The desk clerk, who recognised her, seemed surprised at the absence of luggage. ‘My husband has it with him,’ she said. ‘He’s checking in later.’

  The man nodded. ‘Oh ‒ I didn’t expect to see Mr. Peters to-day. Not with all he has on his hands. Been reading about it in the paper.’ From under the desk he produced the newspaper and showed her the small item on the bottom of the fourth page. It was a short account of Chrissie’s disappearance, and mentioned that the state and local police had received valuable assistance from Amtec Industries. Edward Peters, President of the Research Division, was personally organising and directing the operation.

  ‘Oh, but they’ll find her before night,’ Laura said quickly. ‘There’s no doubt at all about that.’

  ‘I guess so,’ the man said. ‘Seems like they got the whole state out looking for her.’

  Laura took the key from him and almost ran towards the elevator. It was no use letting herself think about Ed now, or to wonder what his reaction would be to her absence at this time. She didn’t pretend that it would affect the organisation at all; she was useless, and most people knew it. Chrissie wouldn’t be hurt; all that would be hurt was Ed’s prestige.

  Once she was in her room she started telephoning. Phil wasn’t at his hotel, though they had confirmed that he had returned yesterday from London. She called his office, but no one answered there. After that there was only the dismal attempt to locate him at one of the restaurants he used frequently. She drew a blank at all of them.

  There was nothing to do then, but to wait, telephoning his hotel every fifteen minutes, because now she didn’t trust him to respond to the message she had left asking him to call her at the Plaza.

  It was a very long afternoon. There was no call from Ed, and she didn’t think there would be until very late. If he missed her at the Laboratories, he would assume she was at Downside or the club. It would be a long time before he learned that she was not in Burnham Falls at all.

  About five she rang room service for some gin, vermouth, ice and a pitcher. She mixed the martini very carefully, letting the glass chill well. It consumed some time, gave her some little distraction. But eventually she had to start drinking it, and eventually it was finished and there was nothing to do but mix the second one. About this time she started calling the restaurants again. At seven she ordered some dinner. That, too, was more of a distraction than a need, for when it came she ate hardly any of it. She had asked for the evening newspapers, but it had become an enormous task to concentrate; the only nerves that seemed to function for her were the ones that strained towards the telephone, that pleaded for the silence to break with its ring. All she wanted to hear was Phil’s voice on the other end.

  At eleven she began to debate going to Phil’s hotel and waiting for him there. But she was afraid to ‒ she was afraid of his cold anger at what he would regard as an invasion. Between her and Phil love had no privileges.

  It was almost one o’clock before she reached him.

  ‘Phil? … It’s Laura.’ Her own voice surprised her; it was weak and pale. Phil’s was light, easy.

  ‘Why, baby! Nice to hear from you! I’ve just got in ‒ just got your message.’

  ‘I’ve been calling all day.’ She rushed on. ‘Phil, it isn’t true, is it?’

  ‘What isn’t true? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You didn’t give The Right Kind part to Katryn Francis, did you?’

  There was a short pause. ‘Oh, now look, baby ‒ we talked this thing all through before. I said I’d like you to read for the part. Nothing else. Even with that I was straining
because you know very well it wasn’t exactly your sort of role. Katryn Francis happens to fit it perfectly. I’d be a fool not to cast her.’

  Laura licked her lips desperately. ‘Please reconsider it, Phil. Please do it, for my sake.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Laura. I never compromise with my work, you know that. For no one’s sake. Katryn is best for the part, and she’ll play it.’

  She hesitated for a moment in silence, trying to adjust to the brutal reality of the words. She had to tell herself that this couldn’t mean the end of everything; this was only one part of their relationship, and that so long as there was Phil, she could manage to get past this. And she would find other parts, even without his help. Just so long as there was Phil. He was all the more necessary now, to give her even a reason for going on.

  ‘All right,’ she said. The words were an acceptance of his decision. ‘We won’t discuss it any more.’ Then she added, lightening her tone with deliberate effort, so that he should not feel reproached. ‘I can come to see you, can’t I ‒ now?’

  ‘Now? … Why, Laura, it’s late!’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Well, I mean … I’m still short of sleep from that flight. We were delayed …’

  ‘Please let me come, Phil. I promise you I won’t talk any more about the part. I just want to see you. It’s very important.’

  ‘Can’t it keep?’

  She said slowly, ‘Phil ‒ I love you. I love you very much. You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to love in my whole life. You’ve sort of … made me come alive. Please don’t take it away now ‒ please don’t!’