“Did you buy it, Lou?”
“None of your business.”
He wanted to know if my girls would make the phone contacts for him.
“That would be unethical, Lou.”
Lou got hot. “What business isn’t unethical?”
“My business, and I’m surprised at you.”
“Don’t give me that, Eli. I’m as ethical as the next man.”
“That’s what’s starting to worry me.”
“I’ve always been an honest man – but I CAN’T KEEP UP! You can’t keep up being an honest man all your life.”
I stared at him. I really was surprised. But who was I to judge? Who wrote the pitch about a once-a-year sale – that went on year-round? What about the salesmen who discounted the carpet $700 and then tacked that same amount to the cost of installation before the customer knew what hit him or her? You committed larceny all the time but you didn’t even know it because they called it doing business.
“I need this,” Lou said.
He needed it, he said, if for no other reason than to show the world that he was still Lou Emmett, the Lou Emmett of old. Lou Emmett wasn’t dead yet. He said he knew the talk that went on behind his back. He knew the pity. He knew the ridicule. He knew the “dead salesman walking” joke and even knew that he was a stand-in for Willie Loman. “Nobody does a man any favors,” he said. “A man has to do for himself. That’s my philosophy.”
“Or your life.”
“So you won’t do it for me?”
“Do me a favor, Lou. Give that list back.”
“All right. I’ll make the calls myself. They don’t even have to be verified they’re so good.”
“Give it back, Lou.”
“I can’t. I’ll do what I have to do. No hard feelings,” he said, getting up. “Pals?”
“Pals,” I said as he shuffled out.
Mona said, “What was that all about?”
“Lou is going into business for himself.”
“What kind of business?”
“The suicide business.”
Chapter 11
Fat Jack was on the phone. I could tell by his voice he had big bad news for me.
First I asked him if he had shut off the air conditioner, which he had, not to save money, but as punishment.
“It’s ninety-five degrees up here and my girls are melting.”
The walls were sweating, the floors were buckling and the phones were beginning to soak.
“Let them get me leads for my starving men and I’ll turn it back on.”
“You shut the air off for that?”
“I can’t afford the air your girls are costing me, Eli. Air costs money.”
“Air?”
But true, air costs money. Breathing is expensive.
“The accountant was just here. Harry Himself is on my back. He’s thinking of bringing in an efficiency expert to take inventory of people like you.”
Life, breath by breath, pound for pound, is measured on the scales of finance.
“That wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“No, but it might be the end of your job.”
“That still wouldn’t be the end of the world. Listen Fat Jack, turn the air back on or I’m coming down.”
I heard him regaling and then I heard the air click back on.
“Happy now?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s about to get hotter for you, Eli.”
“I’m not in a good mood today, Fat Jack.”
“Oh, so I guess you don’t care that a silver Jaguar just pulled up in front of the showroom. My, my. I wonder whose car that could be!”
Of course it was Stephanie’s.
“Getting hotter, Eli?”
So he wasn’t kidding after all? Can it be? No, I refused to get snared in. Ever since it sort of ended with us – her going off to California – Fat Jack had me running to the windows and to the phones at least once a week to chase after a phantom Stephanie, so that by now I was immune to the trick, practically. He loved to play tricks, Fat Jack did, and he also loved Stephanie, in a brotherly way, and had worked very hard, in his clumsy manner, to bring us together, and now that we were apart he blamed the whole thing on me, frequently saying, “Stephanie Eatons don’t grow on trees.”
Which I already knew.
“That could have been you in that Jaguar,” he said, “and everything that goes with it – and I mean everything. She could have BOUGHT you Broadway.”
True.
“I know you’re pulling my leg.”
“Oh yeah? Look out the window. I told you she was coming. Go on, you yutz.”
“You want leads? Let me get back to work.”
“You mean back to sleep.”
“Up here it’s the same thing.”
“Eli, you really blew it with her. You could have been a KING.”
“Goodbye.”
“What a waste!”
“Goodbye.”
“I ought to come up there and slap you around.”
“Goodbye.”
“Here she comes now. God she’s gorgeous. A yutz like you doesn’t deserve this.”
“Goodbye.”
“I’ll send her up soon as I’m done talking to her. I’m gonna tell her how sick you’ve been since she left.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“You mean you believe she’s here?”
“No,” I said.
“Goodbye,” and he hung up.
“You two,” Mona said. “You’re like a couple of kids.”
“He says Stephanie’s here.”
“Is she?”
“Of course not.”
Of course I wasn’t about to look out the window, either.
Chapter 12
But here she was, Stephanie Eaton, debutante, heiress, princess, gorgeous as ever, stunning as always, dark hair gloriously wild, shaggy, untamed, face full of that big warm smile that ignited those steamy eyes. Tall, erect, elegant, even majestic, leaning somewhat stylishly on her shoulder bag. Whispery in that High Society way of hers; what breeding! Long but soft strides as though always treading on velvet. Hers was a life of grand entrances. Spiral staircases followed her around. Yachts were in dock for her, limos waiting, jets revved up, sought by poets, favored by kings, pursued by princes. But here, she was my Stephanie. She was Fat Jack’s Stephanie. She was Mona’s Stephanie. She was our Stephanie.
Stephanie Eaton – there was nothing like her today. Go back to Bathsheba or Ava Gardner to find her equal.
She and Mona fell into an embrace, Mona exclaiming, “I knew you’d come back.”
“I’ve missed you.”
She looked around.
“Nothing’s changed,” she said.
Mona took that as an affront. What did Stephanie think we were: quaint?
“Oh much has changed since you were here last,” Mona said.
“I’m sure. What I meant was – it’s still here. Everything’s still here.”
What she meant was, I was still here, not exactly a compliment.
* * *
We got into her car. She drove as if she owned the roads. She shifted gears – up, down, sideways – with the gusto and expertise of a Mario Andretti and asked me if I wanted to take the wheel. “I love to shift gears,” she said, casting me a naughty side-glance, which turned my heart.
“You love to shift gears?”
“It’s so sensual.”
She’d never talked like that before…before California.
They loved to shift gears out there because it was so sensual. Hmmm.
We headed for a “quick bite” to Sugar n’ Spice on Reading Road, quick because she didn’t really have too much time. (Even when the going between us was good she always had places to go. The rich always have places to go. The rest of us stay put.) Sugar n’ Spice was more than just a restaurant; it was now a nostalgic monument to our romantic past, for it was here, eight months ago, a few weeks before she took off for Cal
ifornia – here she had proposed marriage, and here I had declined.
I had wanted to marry her, of course, more than anything, except for the terms, which were not to my liking in that I’d end up having to work for her father, who owned half of Cincinnati through inheritance alone. Very old money. I’d have to give up my independence, my individuality, my freedom, my dreams of returning to New York and becoming an actor. I’d be suffocated, trapped, caged. The socialite Stephanie Eaton – I could always keep track of her by simply turning to the Society Pages of The Cincinnati Enquirer – would not countenance a boiler room manager for a husband. A carpet salesman. That was not only embarrassing for a future, but also humbling for a past. What would the neighbors – the Pews and Vanderbilts – say?
Eight months ago, right here, in perhaps the same booth we were now sharing at Sugar n’ Spice, she had sighed: “Oh Eli, let’s get married.” This was some moment. We had spent a hot night in her apartment, no outright lovemaking of course, but she had gone down to her bra and panties and almost let me touch her here and there, Brahms and Beethoven for the music. I’d gotten her into classical music as she got me into painting.
“Married?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s get married.”
“You and me?”
She laughed.
“Let’s do it right now, before other things get in the way.”
Such as her parents sending her off to California, which they were proposing to do, possibly to get her away from me. Her parents, mother especially, was no fan of mine. Stephanie could do better, and actually I agreed. She could do much better. Of all her suitors, surely I ranked at zero. Stephanie had said they were serious about shipping her off to college. Marriage would beat them at their game. Headstrong as she was, she was always in conflict with them. I figured she had set her mind on marriage merely to get even with them.
“This minute?” I said.
“Don’t let it pass,” she said.
“Elope?”
“Blood test – everything! Tonight. Now.”
She had a life. I had nothing but dreams. I’d only be bringing her futility. That wouldn’t be fair.
“Don’t let it pass,” Stephanie repeated, back then, months ago at Sugar n’ Spice.
I was about to say yes, in fact I did say yes in my head, but instead this came out:
“Only to have your dad go chasing after us, maybe annul the marriage.”
“Oh they’ll be angry at first. But they’ll come around. They’ll have to forgive me. I’m their daughter.”
They’d come around all right, put me to work in the COMPANY BUSINESS.
“My career?”
I meant acting, not boiler room.
“Daddy will help.”
Exactly what I was afraid of. What about my freedom of choice?
“Eli. I love you.”
Again I said yes, but this came out: “Let’s give it a few days.”
She leaned back and the warm gaze left her eyes.
“So I guess it’s California,” she said.
She was using me to keep from going to California?
“I didn’t say no. I just said let’s think about it,” – but she wasn’t listening anymore.
Later that night I thought about it and realized my mistake, an enormous once-in-a-lifetime blunder.
A few days later we were back at Sugar n’ Spice and I said, “Let’s get married, Stephanie. Now.”
Did she get a kick out of that one!
“Oh, Eli,” she sighed, “that moment has passed.”
* * *
So that was eight months ago and, except for night and day, I never brooded about it again.
* * *
“Why do you call him Fat Jack?” asked the new Stephanie Eaton, who had gone to California and come back.
“Because that’s his name.”
“I think he’s sweet.”
“Fat Jack?”
“You know he means well.”
“You look terrific, Stephanie.”
“I do? You’ve never told me that before.”
“Sure I have.”
“You’ve never told me I was beautiful.”
“I thought you knew.”
She smiled that sensational smile and touched my hand. “Women have to be told. At least once a day, if possible.”
“That wouldn’t be too hard,” I said.
She shot me a look of surprise. “You’ve changed.”
“How?”
“You’ve become more romantic. I like it.”
She had ordered her usual toasted English muffin; I was having the apple pie a la mode.
“Same apple pie a la mode,” she said.
“Same English muffin for the lady,” I said.
We were getting along, but there was always something else…something sure to come.
I asked how long she’d been back from California, expecting something like hours, a day at the most.
Obviously she had rushed here straight from the airport.
“Two weeks,” she said blithely.
I gulped and said, “I can’t blame you for not calling sooner. I know how difficult it is to pick up a phone.”
“Oh, Eli. We’re not going to quarrel, are we? Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Thrilled.”
“You can be so exasperating,” she said. “Why do women always have to prove themselves to men?”
She sighed. One thing about Stephanie Eaton. Nobody could sigh like her. In a sighing contest she was the one to put the money on.
Now she sighed – “Eli, I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“I need your advice. You’ve always been so good with advice.”
I could feel something coming.
“I have?”
“Yes. You’ve always been so sensible.”
Oh. Like when I refused to marry her that very instant?
That moment has passed.
How many times a day had I lived that line?
“I’m not so sensible,” I insisted.
“Eli,” she sighed. “I may be in love again.”
I tried to hide back a smirk, though I deserved one for winning her back. I congratulated myself on my patience.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” I asked, barely suppressing my delight.
“A professor I met at UCLA.”
Was that a Sherman tank that had just crushed over me, or could mere words crush you like that?
“What’s wrong, Eli? You look sick.”
I said nothing for about five minutes.
“You want my advice?” I finally said.
“Why yes.”
“Now I’m your brother? Your FRIEND?”
“Oh forget it, Eli,” she huffed. “Forget I said anything. Who’s that new girl in the boiler room by the way?”
“I’m FLABBERGASTED,” I said, borrowing one of her high class phrases.
“No you’re not.”
“What sort of advice did you want?”
“Are you sure?”
“WHAT SORT OF ADVICE DID YOU WANT?”
“Don’t shout,” she said, and then, remembering she was back home in Cincinnati, she added the “please.”
“What sort of advice did you want?”
“Well…he’s nice and all that, a PhD, but he’s so wild.”
“A wild college professor.”
“Yes.”
“A wild PhD.”
“Yes.”
“You used to say I was wild.”
“Well you are. But not like him.”
“Amazing how you rich girls go for WILD.”
“Please don’t shout.”
“I’m not wild enough? You want wild? I’ll show you wild.”
“You’re making a scene.”
“Well that’s wild, isn’t it?”
“That’s not what I mean, now please stop it,” she said.
“What does he do that’s so WILD? Does he drive
fast? Does he PEEL RUBBER?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Does he pick you up and throw you into the pool? At parties does he put a lampshade on his head?”
“I want to leave. People are staring.”
“Does he lap up food like a dog? Watch me.”
“Don’t. Please.”
But I had already bent down gobbling the ice cream off the apple pie.
“That’s enough, Eli. Now we can never come back.”
And maybe that’s what I was trying to do, put a period at the end of a sentence that refused to quit. A thousand times we had ended it, and that many times she had done something, said something, whispered something, SIGHED something, to offer a flicker of hope and that’s what I had been living on, and dying on. After I calmed down, and we were waiting for the check, I told her about the new girl.
“Sonja’s her name.”
“She gives me the willies.”
“Join the club.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s psychic.”
“Well she gives me the creeps.”
“How? Did she say anything to you? Look at you funny?”
“That’s the point. She didn’t look at me at all.”
“Hmm.”
“Usually, when a person walks into a room, you look. It’s instinct. But she didn’t look. At least not with her eyes. But I felt her.”
So I told her all about Sonja, and about how Sonja might be a danger to her.
“What can she do to me?”
“I don’t know. But she may be insane.”
“I’m not going to worry about it,” Stephanie said.
“But it’s something to think about.”
“So why don’t you fire her?”
“She knows where I live.”
“She probably knows where I live, too,” Stephanie said, showing a trace of concern. “What’s her problem?”
“She hates the fact that I’m in love with you. At least she thinks I’m in love with you.”
Now Stephanie softened. She smiled.
“Are you?” she sighed. “Fat Jack thinks you’re still in love with me.”
“What does he know?”
“Fat Jack said you were sick while I was gone.”
The Girls of Cincinnati Page 6