Heart Troubles

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  He couldn’t help thinking of what she had said about geniuses—that they seemed to have, when they needed it, a kind of fool’s luck. It was a shocking thought. But for the first time in his life he began to wonder whether, indeed, he was one.

  BRIGHT, YOUNG FACES

  Acapulco, Mexico, January 29

  Today should have been one of the happiest days of my life. Instead, it has been a jumble. I can’t sleep. Sally is sitting now, tailor-fashion, on one of the twin beds across the room from me. The money, all of it, is still spread out in the folds of her skirt. She can’t sleep either, but for a different reason.

  We have been at this hotel for three days; it was to have been the last stop on our honeymoon. We have come from Mexico City, Cuernavaca, and Taxco. We had planned to fly back home to Chicago tomorrow morning. Next week I was to begin practicing law in Evanston. But tonight the plans have changed.

  We have been married exactly two weeks. This evening, to celebrate our two weeks’ anniversary, we went to the night club in the hotel for dinner. It is a large, pleasant room with a wide outdoor terrace and dance floor. After dinner Sally and I danced for quite a while. We have always danced well together. We are both small. Sally, in high heels, is just a shade shorter than I am, and that is ideal for dancing. Suddenly, the master of ceremonies announced an elimination dance. Throughout the dance, he explained, the poorest dancers would be eliminated one by one by the judges, until finally only the two best couples would be left on the floor. Then, judging by the applause from the tables, the best couple would be selected. The prize was a bottle of champagne.

  Sally and I almost didn’t get involved in it. We started to sit down, but then Sally said, “Oh, let’s do it,” so we did. We danced all our fanciest steps, all our dips and twirls, until finally Sally and I, and one other couple, were left on the floor. Everybody clapped for us and we were given the bottle of champagne.

  They pushed a microphone over to us and asked us to say a few words. But for some reason, instead of saying simply, “Thank you,” Sally began to make a little speech. I don’t know what made her say some of the things she did. Perhaps even then, at that point, she had some uncanny knowledge of what would happen. But she began talking, telling the people in the room that we were just married (“As if we couldn’t guess!” someone shouted), that we were from Chicago, that we wished we could stay forever in Acapulco—it was so beautiful—but, alas, that we had to leave tomorrow for home. She told them that I was just out of law school, that I was going back to start my own practice “in a little cubbyhole of an office,” and that she was going to help me out every step of the way, typing my letters and briefs, answering the phone for me. It was a pretty little speech, and I suppose the way she said it—all breathless from dancing—made everybody shout and clap some more. The orchestra began playing “Here Comes the Bride,” and the people applauded us all the way back to our table. Before we sat down we waved and they clapped some more.

  A few minutes later a tall, heavy-set man came over to our table, “I’m Ed Fenimore,” he said. He was holding a cone-shaped party hat in one hand, with his other hand over the top of it to keep the contents from spilling on the floor. On his finger he wore a big square-cut diamond that caught the lights from the dance floor and sparkled. The red and gold metallic paper hat glittered, and Sally’s giant brown eyes were as bright and glistening as Mr. Fenimore’s ring. For a moment I was conscious only of glittering. Everything seemed to shine, until Mr. Fenimore removed his hand from the top of the hat and revealed the folded and crumpled bills—tens, twenties, even fifties, stuffed up to the very brim of the hat. “It’s for you,” he said.

  I took the hat and stared at it. “We can’t take this,” I said. “We’re not professionals. We were just having fun.”

  “I know you were, son,” he said. “Everybody in this room knows you were having fun. That’s why we all chipped in. We want you to go on having fun.”

  Sally said nothing. She was looking at the money. I kept repeating, “But we can’t take it—we were just dancing.”

  “Look,” he said. “I know it’s a struggle getting started. I’ve been in business myself. Take this—it’ll help. Look at all the old fogies like me in this room. They’re all rich. They’ve made their money. You’re just starting out. The rest of them are too old to enjoy their money—you’re not. It did their hearts good to see the two of you with your bright, young faces, out there, dancing—”

  “But we never dreamed—” Sally whispered.

  Mr. Fenimore pulled up a chair. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked. “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

  “Oh, please sit down,” Sally said.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” I said.

  But Mr. Fenimore insisted. He flagged a waiter and gave him the order. Then he turned to Sally. “I hope you don’t mind an old coot like me sitting down with you.”

  “But you’re not an old coot,” Sally said. “You’re one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met. We’re—well, we’re just overwhelmed!” Her eyes kept returning to the money in the paper hat.

  Mr. Fenimore told us a little about himself. He had retired and was a widower. He loved young people. He liked to see young people having a good time. He spent a lot of time in resorts, in hotels like this one. He traveled a great deal.

  “I’m a resort bum,” he said. “Nothing else to keep me busy.”

  But he was not like the other resort bums, he said, pointing around the room. For one thing, he was not so rich as they. Yes, he said, he had had money once. But he was spending it all. Soon, he said, laughing—he tapped the diamond ring—he’d have to sell that. Then he would be just a bum.

  Being a resort bum was a lonely life, he said. There were seldom any young people in resorts like this, except an occasional honeymoon couple like Sally and myself. That was why we were so refreshing—like rays of sunshine.

  “You kids are a couple of sweethearts,” he said. “You brought back youth to everybody in this room. Take this money. It’s worth it to them. If they can buy back five minutes of their youth with a pathetic ten or twenty bucks apiece, it’s worth it.”

  Sally looked directly at him and smiled. “I guess we’re just a couple of dancing fools!” she said. She leaned over and kissed Mr. Fenimore lightly on the cheek.

  Now we are back upstairs in our room, and Sally has been counting and re-counting the money; there is more than $1,100. I would feel better if we could give it back, but Sally insists that we keep it. “This is more money than you’d make as a lawyer,” she says. “Ed Fenimore is right. Those old fools don’t need it, but we do!”

  It disturbs me to hear her speak this way. It reminds me of the time, before we were married, when I gave a fellow some legal advice at a party. I gave him a hint about setting up a contract, and he called me up later to thank me. My advice had saved him some money. When I told Sally about it, she wanted me to send him a bill. I tried to explain that I couldn’t—that I was still in school, that I didn’t even have a degree. “Pretend you have a degree,” she said. “You can have a phony letterhead printed. Why should he make money, and not you?”

  Behind Sally’s lovely face there is a mischievous streak, something a little daring and wanton. Perhaps that is why I love her so. I feel she needs me to control this in her. I must, by my example, help her to be less reckless, to think more of what is right.

  I have agreed, however, to stay on at the hotel for a few more days.

  Acapulco, January 30

  All day I have been worried about keeping the money. It doesn’t seem honest. But, Sally points out, there is nothing dishonest about it. She reminds me of what Mr. Fenimore said. She reminds me of how much we need the money. And now she has another plan.

  Her plan sounds fantastic. And yet, she explains, it worked once. Why shouldn’t it work again? And again and again? Why shouldn’t every night bring us a thousand dollars, for a thousand and one nights, for as long as we wish? After all, there are hundreds,
thousands of resort hotels like this one all over the world. Places where rich Americans gather to play, to be entertained, and to spend their money. A dance contest like the one last night is not an unusual thing. Aren’t there other hotels—in Cuba, Nassau, Bermuda, France, Italy, Majorca—where the same thing would work?

  For a while I didn’t think she was serious. “Why don’t we just set up a night-club act?” I asked her joshingly.

  But, no, she explained patiently, that would not work. That was not it at all. Didn’t I realize, exactly, what our assets were? We weren’t sleek, polished professionals. Our assets were my boyish face, my crew cut, my fresh-out-of-college look, my Ivy League suits. Her assets were her impish face, her soft brown curls, her tiny waist and feet, her pretty backless cotton dresses, her fresh sun tan.

  “We look well scrubbed,” she said. “We’re attractive, and we’re young, don’t you see?” She tried to find the exact word to describe us. “We’re cute!” she said finally. “We look like somebody’s son and daughter, like Joe Bowler drawings. We look innocent. The dancing we do is fresh and youthful and clean-cut. Don’t you see?” she asked me. “That’s the secret of our appeal. It’s our charm!”

  I asked her if she had always thought of us this way. It surprised me that she could analyze us so objectively. She said that it had just come to her today, when she was thinking about what Ed Fenimore had said. And, of course, her pretty little speech, holding the champagne bottle cradled in her arms like a baby, had been part of it, too, she said. So was her breathless, starry-eyed, deep-in-love look at me.

  “Is that deep-in-love look something you can turn on and off whenever you want?” I asked her.

  She laughed her small, tinkly laugh. “Of course!” she said.

  I am opposed to the whole idea. But it is hard to refuse her. This evening, in the room, she has been rehearsing that little speech again and again. It must always sound spontaneous, she points out. It must always sound innocent.

  I have agreed to try it just once. Tomorrow we are flying to Mexico City. We will try it there.

  Mexico City, February 3

  Last night it worked. We collected $800. It was a smaller room. Sally is beside herself with excitement. Today I have begged her not to make us try it again. I am sure that if it works again she will never let us stop. But she is obsessed with the idea. Tonight I looked at her, and suddenly I didn’t know her. She was a different girl, a girl I’d never met.

  Sally wants to try it once more. She feels—and I’m sure she’s right—that we must not stay in Mexico. We are apt to be recognized. She is busy now with a travel book, figuring out where to go next. I feel that I should take a firm stand.

  Palm Beach, Florida, February 9

  We have done fairly well in Florida. We have covered two hotels, one in Miami and one here. Fourteen hundred dollars altogether. It seems incredible, but it is working. I have never seen Sally like this.

  Sea Island, Georgia, February 27

  The last three places have not been successes. Little things have been going wrong—intangible things that we can’t explain. After each failure we have sat up at night trying to analyze it, trying to put our finger on the mistake. We are dealing in emotions, in moods. Sometimes we simply cannot seem to create the mood we need. Even the little speeches have been going wrong, although Sally has rehearsed and rehearsed. She has hit upon the idea of suggesting, very casually, to the social director or to the orchestra leader that a dance contest be held. But in the last place the orchestra leader refused. Was it because he was suspicious? And even when the leader agrees we’re never sure that the hat will be passed. Last night the hat was passed, but we collected only a small amount, silver and a few dollar bills.

  I had hoped that these failures would persuade Sally to let us give it up. But she is determined now to try the West Coast—California. Fortunately, we still have some money left.

  Tahoe, California, March 3

  Success again here last night. Five hundred dollars, which is really all we ever hope for in one night. Sally’s plan is to go down the California coast—Santa Barbara, La Jolla, Caliente.

  Santa Barbara, California, March 9

  More bad luck today. Last night a newspaper reporter took a picture of us as Sally was making her speech. It is in this morning’s paper. We are ruined now in this part of California. We must cancel La Jolla. Sally has mentioned a hotel in Las Vegas that is supposed to be very expensive, very rich. I am afraid there may be a Chicago crowd there that would recognize us but, as Sally points out, there is no way of knowing that until we get there. We will go and take our chances. I have persuaded her that there will be no more airplane travel for a while. We will go by bus. Funds are getting dangerously low.

  Las Vegas, Nevada, March 12

  Again a failure. I am convinced that our luck is running out. Our money is dwindling, and it frightens me to think of what will happen when it is gone. Sally wants to try Europe next, but it will take many good nights and bad nights. This morning we quarreled badly.

  I begged Sally to let us stop, to let us go home.

  “Just one more night,” she insisted. “I’m sure we’ll hit it the next place we go. There’s a big hotel outside of Phoenix—let’s try that.”

  I asked her to promise that, no matter what, the night in Phoenix would be the last.

  She gave me a small, curious look. “And if I won’t promise?” she answered.

  I said I would go home without her.

  She continued to look at me. “Very well,” she said. “You can go home. I’m going on. Do you think you’re the only man in the world who can dance with me? I’ll find another partner. It won’t be hard.”

  Sally was a poor girl. Perhaps that is the reason. She had no home, really. She had to work for everything she ever had. And now she is possessed by the promise of money. I can’t leave her—I know that. But tonight I realize that in my own weakness I am bound to her forever—but not by love, as I had thought. Our hands and feet are bound together in dance steps, my arm about her waist.

  Phoenix, Arizona, March 15

  It began well last night. An elimination dance was started without, Sally’s suggestion, which is always a good sign. For then it all seems unplanned, spontaneous. The audience enjoys it more. There were perhaps 150 people in the room—women in minks and sables, men in dinner jackets. If it worked, I figured it might be seven or eight hundred dollars. The contest began, and soon, as usual, Sally and I were the only couple left on the floor.

  The music quickened, as it always does when the orchestra catches our tempo and recognizes our skill. It was the most challenging moment of the evening, when the mood had to be right. I tried to do my best. But behind Sally’s smiling, laughing eyes I could see what no one else could see, the dark shadow of fear. I realized we were dancing for our lives now. So much depended on the next few minutes. The next few minutes would tell us whether the audience would be ours, whether the applause would rise. If we succeeded, the future would be passed to us in a paper hat. If we failed, there would be no return. We would have to move on. “Now!” Sally’s voice breathed the signal. And we began our fantastic twirls.

  I suddenly wondered where we were spinning to, with the lights above us whirling like crazy stars. I felt we were on a merry-go-round far out beyond the limits of the night. Would we catch the brass ring? Perhaps, I thought, looking at her, if there was an answer, it lay hidden somewhere behind that impenetrable smile, in that look of fear. But, twirling her faster and faster, the answer eluded me again, as it has before. “Smile!” I heard her say.

  With a burst, the music stopped. We stood, breathless and swaying, clinging to each other in the center of the floor. A spotlight fell upon us. Then the applause rose. It was going to be a good night. The prize—a purple orchid for Sally and a red carnation for me—was ready. The microphone was being moved toward us.

  “I guess—I guess—” Sally began breathlessly. “I guess you’d call us a couple of d
ancing fools!” She laughed her little glittery laugh. She went on with her speech.

  I looked out. Beyond the spotlight the room was dark. I could make out no faces. She came to the part about my going back to Evanston to practice law—how she wished we could stay on here, continue our honeymoon forever, it was so beautiful. But, alas, we had almost no money left. So we would be going home, and she would be helping me out, every step of the way. I already had my law books, she said—most of them. She was adding a little to the speech, but it was essentially the same. I could hear, in the darkness from the tables, the sound, the hushed voices, that told me that the hat was being passed. Sally squeezed my arm. We were both bowing, thanking them, smiling. The lights came up, and we headed toward our table. “Make this the last time,” I whispered. It was then that I noticed a stout man in a white dinner jacket, heading toward us, pushing between the crowded tables, smiling curiously. For a moment I couldn’t place the man’s face. Then, with a kind of horror—I saw that it was Ed Fenimore. And I saw that his diamond ring was gone.

  Montego Bay, Jamaica, April 22

  Tomorrow we move on. There is a new place, a hotel in the Bahamas, that is supposed to be very fancy, very rich. Our reservations were confirmed this morning. After that we may try South America. We have decided that too long a stay in the West Indies would be dangerous; the news of us is beginning to spread. I don’t know how long it will last. Sally says two more years, at least. Perhaps it will. Sometimes, when I remember all the dreams I had for us, I think my heart will break. The dreams I had for me, for Sally. It is hard to believe that the girl I married, and will live out my life with, could have brought us to this. Was I weak? It is too late now to ask.

  Last night was very good. Nearly $1,000. It helps, as Sally knew it would, to have someone in the audience now, to start the hat around. We have worked things out so that Ed Fenimore stays in a different hotel from ours. That way no one suspects that we are traveling, as it were, together.