“Nothing, Rox,” Neil tells her. “Just swapping filthy stories—man-talk, you know.” He winks at Manning.
She lets the comment pass, not believing a word. Instead, she strikes a pose and asks, “Well, what do you think?”
She has chosen a cream-colored suit of soft merino wool. Under the jacket she wears a tight black sweater and a fine gold chain that hangs in a single loop, narrowing as it descends between her breasts. The only other jewelry is a similar gold chain looped many times around one wrist as a bracelet. Her hair flows over her shoulders, framing her head like a veil. Her feet are virtually bare, guiding a pair of thin-strapped sandals with short spiked heels that would never be worn on the street.
Neil simply eyes her and nods his approval. Manning attempts—with only partial success—a wolf whistle.
“You guys are impossible,” she says, dismissing the fished-for compliments.
In that instant, Manning recognizes that Roxanne, who is one of the most seductive women he has ever known, is at the same time the least flirtatious. She is unquestionably attractive, poised, and worldly, yet she dampens her glamour with a wearied indifference to her own physicality. What, Manning wonders, does that signal—confidence, or insecurity?
“Hey,” says Manning, “here’s an idea. Let me repay your hospitality and invite you two over to my loft—you’ve never seen it, Roxanne, and I’ve been there almost a year. How about dinner next Friday, a week from tonight?”
“Great!” says Neil.
“I’ll have to check my calendar,” says Roxanne, hesitating. She pours herself a drink. “I think I’m clear. I’ll let you know.”
The door knocker sounds from the other room. As Roxanne turns to leave the kitchen, she tells them, “Curtain going up, gents. Take charge of the booze, please—I’ll meet and greet.”
As Manning and Neil refill their glasses and do some last-minute arranging of the cocktail cart, they hear voices raised in greeting. Manning swings the door open and follows Neil, who wheels the cart into the living room. Roxanne has escorted her guests to the window, where they marvel at the view. Lightning flares in the clouds beyond the horizon.
Roxanne waves Manning and Neil forward to meet the new arrivals—a couple, apparently married, sixty or so, both comfortably overweight.
He wears a nubby tweed jacket with leather buttons and elbow patches, a wrinkled white shirt, and a bulky knit necktie with a knot that is far too big for the day’s fashion. The overall impression is decidedly academic, though the unpolished image is flawed by his dashing silver hair, professionally styled, swept back, blow-dried, and lacquered.
The woman at his side wears a serviceable, matronly suit, also tweed. Beneath the jacket is a brown turtleneck sweater with a collar that rises in many folds, mimicking the layers of her chin. From the ripples of the collar hangs an oversize primitive necklace composed of beads, feathers, and what appear to be painted bones. Her hair—once black, now dull gray—is braided and coiled atop her head in a style that befits the necklace.
Manning vaguely recognizes the man—his crackly voice is familiar too. Then Roxanne introduces the couple as Bud Stirkham, the author and radio commentator, and his wife, Clarice. The Stirkhams exchange handshakes with Manning and Neil. Offering drinks, Neil is asked to pour straight bourbon for both. Still pumping Manning’s hand, Bud Stirkham puts aside the opinions he expressed on the air earlier in the week, telling Manning, “Mighty fine job you fellas are doing with the Carter caper over at the Journal. You’re one hell of a reporter, sir.”
Manning says, “Thanks, Bud. I’m glad to tell you how well acquainted I am with your books.” He doesn’t mention that he finds their underlying philosophy reprehensible. “And I hear your program all the time.” He doesn’t mention that he usually switches it off the moment he hears Stirkham’s voice. Stirkham beams in response to the presumed flattery.
“Perhaps, Mr. Manning,” suggests Clarice Stirkham, “you could appear on my husband’s program. I’m sure the public would be keen to hear your thoughts on the Carter case.”
“I’m sorry,” says Manning, “but the public has already read everything I have to say about the case.”
“No, Mr. Manning, you misunderstand me,” she persists. “I’m not talking about the facts you’ve reported—that’s all so dry and tedious. Many people would like to know how you feel about what’s happened.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “but that wouldn’t be appropriate to my role at the Journal. My speculation as to Helena Carter’s fate would do nothing to solve the mystery. I’m a reporter, Mrs. Stirkham, not a detective or a mystic. Thank you for your offer, but I must decline.”
“Now, Clarice …” says Stirkham through a soothing chuckle, trying to unruffle his wife, who is visibly irritated by the lack of enthusiasm for her proposal. Then to Manning, “I’m sure you know your business better than we do, but if you ever change your mind …” he trails off suggestively.
“Mark,” says Neil, bouncing to the rescue, “can you give me a hand with something?”
Manning nods a temporary farewell to the Stirkhams and follows Neil to the kitchen. “Thank you,” he says as Neil begins garnishing a tray of appetizers, “I was getting annoyed.” He gives Neil’s shoulder a squeeze that says, But I’m better now.
“God, they’re awful—and did you catch that neck-piece? Who are they?”
Manning sips his vodka and lets himself relax. “Bud Stirkham,” he explains, “is the most overrated and—I feel—misunderstood writer in this city.” He doesn’t bother to hush his words, for the music from the other room covers their conversation, and the rain now beats loudly against the big windows. “He’s written a half-dozen books and a couple of plays that have received respectable critical acclaim and—for reasons that escape me—tremendous public success. He identifies himself with workers, union movements, the common man, that whole bit. In short, he’s a knee-jerk egalitarian of the most senseless and rabid variety.”
Manning stops talking and drinks. He stares over his glass at Neil, who looks back at him. Manning’s words have revealed opinions not often expressed, and he finds it unexpectedly important that this young man should grasp and share his thinking.
“You handled yourself beautifully,” says Neil. He hands Manning a tray of crudités and picks up a second platter, heaped with cheese. As they return to the living room with their bounty, the knocker raps.
Roxanne takes leave of the Stirkhams, crossing the room to fling open the door, revealing a short middle-aged couple who stow their dripping umbrellas in a stand near the elevator. The man wears a business suit, proper but blah, and carries a bottle of wine with a ribbon around its neck. The woman beside him wears a simple evening dress of deep blue, embellished with a strand of pearls. She has clearly spent the afternoon with her hairdresser, as her meticulous coif is done up with a tiny velvet bow that matches her dress. She smiles eagerly, suggesting she does not spend as many evenings out of the house as she would like.
“Jerry!” says Roxanne warmly. It is Jerry Klein, chief operating officer of CarterAir, and his wife. Roxanne feels the onset of panic as she struggles to remember the wife’s name; this lapse has plagued her before.
As the Kleins cross the threshold, Jerry thrusts the bottle toward Roxanne, telling her, “Oh, Roxy, it’s such a pleasure to see you outside the office for a change.”
“Jerry and I were thrilled to be invited to your party, Roxanne,” says the wife with obvious sincerity, a twinkle in her eye.
My God, what’s that damned woman’s NAME! screams Roxanne’s inner voice. She says calmly, “It wouldn’t be the same without you, my dear.” The women lean toward each other, clasp hands, and peck cheeks.
“Mary’s been talking about this party for a week,” says Klein.
Roxanne asks herself, Mary? Why the hell can’t I remember a name like Mary? Jerry and Mary—what could be simpler? “I hope the evening lives up to your expectations, Mary,” says Roxanne while lea
ding the woman by the arm into the living room. “Now, you two, do meet our little crowd.”
Just as Roxanne completes the round of introductions, there is another knock at the door, requiring another round. These guests are a senior partner in Roxanne’s law firm and his wife. The new arrivals know the Kleins well, and Manning speculates that they have been invited to keep Jerry and Mary company. Roxanne crosses the room to boost the volume of the music, asking over her shoulder if Neil could get drinks for the four newcomers. “But you’ll have to mix your own refills,” she cautions them with a wink.
The guests cluster near the window to chatter an awed commentary on the view while Neil begins pouring their drinks. As he distributes the glasses, the law partner says, “Tell me, Neil—just what is it that you do? Roxanne says you’re involved with the arts.”
“The arts?” asks Neil. “That’s stretching things a bit. Roxanne!” he calls across the room. She looks over from the bookcases that house the sound system, where she shuffles CDs in search of her next sonic barrage. He asks her, “What have you been telling these people?” She breaks into a wide grin, then resumes her search.
Neil explains to the circle of faces around him, “Roxanne finds it fashionable to have artsy friends, but I’m no artist—at least I don’t try to pass myself off as one. I’m an architect. The purest aesthetic ‘calling’ within my profession is residential work, and I do as much of it as I can. But the truth is, like most architects, I spend the bulk of my time on mundane, artless buildings—anything from factories to shopping centers—because they’re the projects that pay the bills.”
One by one, his listeners cast disappointed glances across the room toward Roxanne. The women seem especially deflated; their image of Roxanne’s exotic friend has been dashed. Manning, however, is not the least disappointed, crediting Neil for his practical attitude. He has a string of questions he would eagerly ask about Neil’s work, but another rap at the door signals an abrupt end to the topic.
Roxanne excuses herself and soon reappears with the next guest. In the singsong tone of giving a cookie to a child, she announces, “Look who’s here, Neil.” At her side stands a young man, tall and thin, with long fingers and pointed features. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, bleached to nothing of a color. The bib of his white painter’s overalls, perfectly clean, covers the front of a red silk shirt. He wears too much jewelry—a necklace not unlike Clarice Stirkham’s, a bracelet not unlike Roxanne’s.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Neil asks the ladies, “You wanted an artist?” Turning to the man in overalls, he says flatly, “Hello, Howard.”
“Neil! You look fabulous!” says Howard, rushing across the room, necklace rattling. “I can’t believe it’s been a full year.” He grabs one of Neil’s hands with both of his own and leans forward, kissing him squarely on the lips. Mary Klein gasps. The others aren’t sure how to react. Roxanne flashes a satisfied smile, then steps forward to help acquaint everyone, introducing the lanky arrival as Howard Q, a noted Chicago illustrator.
“Q?” repeats Manning, making sure he heard the name correctly.
“That’s right,” says Howard with a laugh that suggests he is asked the question continually. “In the art game, a gimmick goes a long way to help you stand out from the crowd. So I changed my name. It’s official. Just Q.”
“I see you need a drink, Howard,” says Neil. “Rum and Coke, right?”
“You’re a dear to remember.”
Howard turns to the Stirkhams and dives into an animated conversation with Clarice, who displays an adventurous, cosmopolitan interest in the illustrator. Roxanne, feeling her liquor by now, searches for still more raucous music, as if to signal that the “color” of the party has arrived. Neil, passing Manning on his way to the kitchen for the cola, says, “Could you come here, Mark?”
Arriving at the refrigerator, Neil says, “I’m sorry, Mark.” The swift, careless manner in which he mixes Howard’s drink reveals anger not apparent in his voice.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Manning assures him. “That guy is no reflection on you. There must be quite a few like that in the ‘art game.’”
“Howard is a reflection on me,” Neil tells Manning, looking him in the eye. “I think his whole act is tasteless, and I would never carry on like that, but we’ve slept together—once. He and I may seem like very different people, but we’re both gay. Lots of folks can’t handle that.”
The words have caught Manning off guard. “Neil,” he begins cautiously, “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this, and I don’t know what you expect me to say. If you’re afraid I’ll think less of you because of Howard or because of your sex life—don’t. This is a big town”—Manning allows himself a little laugh—“and I’ve been around it awhile. I hate to sound jaded, but I’m not easily shocked.”
Neil smiles with the confidence that a potential crisis has passed. “Thank you, Mark. Guess I’m not ‘conditioned’ to presume open-mindedness in others.” Then, dropping the serious tone, he asks, “I gave quite a performance, though, didn’t I?”
After a moment’s reflection, they share a loud laugh.
Roxanne pokes her head through the door to tell them, “If you two could break up your private party, there are other guests who might enjoy your company.” And she is gone—her testy tone suggesting that Neil and Manning have hit it off better than she planned.
“Oops,” says Neil. “We’d better get back. Howard Q must be getting thirsty.” He finishes mixing the drink and plops a wedge of lime into it.
They rejoin the group in the living room, where the babble has grown louder to compete with the music. Rising above it all are Howard Q’s sporadic shrill outbursts. Neil delivers the rum and Coke, letting the glass hang from two fingers as if it held something rancid. Handing it over, he says, “I don’t know how anyone over twelve can drink this craw rot.”
“You’re just too proper to be seen drinking something you like,” counters Howard. “But thanks anyway, love.” He purses his lips and blows Neil a kiss.
The group is engrossed in a conversation dealing with the need for increased public funding of the arts—because “beauty belongs to everyone” and “artistic expression is an inalienable right.” Clarice Stirkham proposes a constitutional amendment to that effect. Her husband nods gravely, agreeing in principle, but he points out that mounting support for it among the labor bloc might be difficult. He hastens to add that the working man is not intrinsically insensitive to the arts, but has simply never had the opportunity to taste life’s finer fruits.
Manning listens quietly and lights a cigarette, annoyed. Neil eyes him with concern, detecting his distaste for the conversation. Howard Q greets Clarice Stirkham’s proposal with enthusiasm, pouting that lack of opportunity in the real arts has forced him to prostitute his talents and “go commercial.” Roxanne surveys the cross dynamics of the room and glows with the satisfaction of a contented hostess.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Neil finally says, feigning boredom with the conversation.
“Like what?” asks Howard, mildly indignant.
“Well, how about the Carter case? After all, we’ve got an expert,” says Neil, deferring to Manning.
“What would you like to know?” Manning asks him. “Not that there’s much to tell. I hit another dead end on the phone this week.”
“I have a question, Mr. Manning,” says Mary Klein, her timidity overcome by curiosity. “I read something last week about psychics being brought in to help on the case. That sounds terribly exciting. What have you learned from them?”
“That wasn’t my story, Mrs. Klein; it was in the Post. I think it’s nonsense. I’ve dealt with many of these mystics, and I’ve yet to see evidence of any ‘powers’ whatever.”
“Oh, evidence,” says Howard with a smirk. “What’s ‘evidence’?”
“Mr. Q is quite right,” Clarice Stirkham butts in. “Things aren’t always so cut-and-dried as we might like. So
me things are simply beyond human comprehension and will forever remain so. There are forces—there are powers—that cannot be subjugated to the evidence of our five feeble senses.”
“Really?” asks Manning. “Like what?”
“Come now,” she sniffs. “Surely you don’t possess a complete understanding of the world around you. Does life hold no mysteries at all?”
“Many, indeed,” he answers, “but I look upon any mystery as a question that man has simply not yet been able to answer. I do not think that the unknown should be revered as unknowable.”
“Do you mean to tell us, Mr. Manning, that you acknowledge no force in the universe beyond the perceptions of your own mind?”
“That is precisely what I am telling you. To deliberately cloud, to negate the working of your mind, which is your ultimate weapon for survival, is both irrational and self-destructive. Submission to forces that display their power is only that—submission. And submission to imagined powers is worse yet—it is folly. What ‘force’ are you speaking of, Mrs. Stirkham? Is it God?”
“Not exactly,” she says warily, guessing the direction of his logic. “Some may wish to think of a spiritual power as ‘God.’ It’s a handy label. But no, I am simply referring to any manifestation of the unknown or the unknowable—clairvoyance, death, dreams, and such.”
The conversation stops. The listeners have been engrossed in the volley of dialogue, and they now wag their heads indecisively, waiting for someone to clinch the last word.
No longer argumentative, but genuinely inquisitive, Manning says, “Mrs. Stirkham, you mention dreams. Do you know anything about their interpretation?”
“A bit.” Her tone is guarded.
“I had a dream last night,” Manning continues, “totally unlike any I’ve had before. It’s been on my mind all day.”
Neil’s gaze is fixed upon Manning’s green eyes. He commands gently, “Tell us about it.”
“This may sound a little crazy,” Manning says with an apologetic laugh, “but I dreamed that I flew.”
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