“Darling, I might be a bit late.” He always recognized her voice even if she spoke only one syllable.
“Hello, Jas, happy birthday to you. It doesn’t matter; don’t hurry too much.”
“It’s not so happy so far,” he said. “All hell’s bust loose on a big deal.”
“Oh, darling, not seriously, not that you can’t fix?” Anxiety was in her quick voice. Anxiety not only for him over whatever had gone wrong, but also that his mood would be ruffled, angry, and that therefore the birthday evening would be strained, disappointing. She wanted so much that nothing should mar it.
“I guess I can swing them around again,” he said. “The swinish opportunists. Never mind that now, though, I’ve only a minute. I left them just to phone you—might be half an hour late. That O.K.?”
“Oh, of course. Really, don’t rush yourself and be all frazzled.”
“Right. I’ll make it as fast as possible.”
He hung up; a moment later Vee did so too and then sank back onto the bed. She thought of the beribboned package and the flowers and the candles on the birthday cake, and a sudden wave of embarrassment went over her that she had spent so much care over getting them just so. As if Jasper Crown, busy with global networks, busy with raising the last three of his ten million capitalization, busy with interstation deals, with intercontinental contracts—as though that man could really care about a birthday cake’s perfection or whether his present was to be opened before dinner, or during dinner, or only, with delicious suspense a-building all the time, after dinner…
She went out to the kitchen and told Dora that dinner would not start until eight. Dora’s face twitched disapproval, but she only nodded.
“Has the paper come, Dora?”
“Yes, ma’am. Over there.” Vee took it in to her room, headline-reading. She was uninterested in everything—June 30, 1938, was an uneventful and unimportant day except that it was Jasper’s birthday and she wanted to make him feel planned for, and pleased and contented. She tried to read. The time passed heavily.
The telephone rang again. This time she reached for it quickly; her heart jumped a beat. Let it not be Jasper again, saying…
“Darling, listen, this is getting nowhere,” he began. His voice, always deep and big, was now fined down with exasperation. “I wondered if you’d mind if I stayed right with it till it was done.”
“Oh, Jas.” She simply could not keep the hurt tone out. He shouldn’t—he oughtn’t to have asked it.
“Wait a minute, I just thought I’d ask if you’d mind…”
“Well, you know, I’ve planned…o” She broke the sentence. The hurt or disappointed voices of women—how men hated them. How “married” they sounded, and so, how binding and possessive. Yet this was unfair, that she should have to guard her very voice from displeasing him when it was a situation of his own doing that—“It’s nothing, really. Of course, go ahead if it’s important.”
“You mean you’ve planned anything that won’t keep till later? I thought we were going to be alone, so it wouldn’t matter if—”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just—oh, you know, a special sort of dinner and a gadget for a present and—but never mind. About when do you think…?”
There was silence. Maybe he would understand that she wasn’t just lacking in sympathy for the pressure he was under, but that any woman, indeed any human, who had planned a special evening would feel a wound of disappointment if at the last moment…
The silence continued. “Jas, are you still there?” she asked at last.
“Yes, sure.” His voice had changed; it was deeper again. “Look, darling, I’m a thoughtless pig, I guess. I get so damn wound up, you know. Of course I’ll quit this and be along right off.”
“Darling, oh, how nice.” Warmth rushed back into her voice. He didn’t mean to hurt her, probably he never meant to.
“Well, don’t think I wanted to sit around with these three babies.” He laughed coldly. “I’ve been nursing them for weeks, anyway. But if they come through with a million, it’s over the hump and I could practically forget the rest of the financing.”
“A million? Oh—well maybe—”
“No, no—it’s out. Tell you what—Vee, maybe we could meet them again about eleven. You might like to sit in on one of these sessions I have.”
“Yes, I would, I’ve never seen you in action, Jas. It’d be excit—”
“O.K., that’s the way. We’ll have all the birthday stuff, and we can maybe wind this up, too. I’m on my way.”
In less than an hour he was there, shaved and changed. He came in to her in the living room, not looking about him, seeking only her face. He took her into his arms, wordless, held her so long without kissing her, held her so near to him, his face down against her hair, that she was moved by the strangeness and silence of him.
“Happy birthday again,” she finally said.
“Thank you, Veery.” He called her that when he was most drawn to her. Did he, secretly know that he loved her, too? Was this thing between them deeper than either of them would or could confess to the other?
“Come, have a birthday drink,” she said, and she pointed to the coffee table.
“I want thirty-six in a row,” he answered. “Hey, look at it.”
In a silver bucket, ice-filled, stood Moët et Chandon ’28. It was his favorite champagne, and she had remembered that. One handle of the bucket had an exaggerated large red satin bow; to the other was fastened, with a small length of picture wire, a single large red rose.
“You darling,” he said. “It looks like a party, all right.”
“It is a party,” she said happily.
He opened the champagne.
“ ‘Pling’ is what it says,” he told her, “not ‘pop.’ ”
She laughed. He poured the wine into the two crystal glasses, offered her one, raised his own. He made a swift gesture to the silver bucket.
“My love is like a red, red rose,” he said gravely.
“Oh, Jas. How sweet of you, how unexpected—to—to drink to me on your birthday…”
“You’re my love, aren’t you?” he replied.
He put his glass down, took hers, and set it down beside his own. He kissed her, softly, lightly. She felt that he was trying to say something and waited. But he remained silent.
At last he emptied his glass of champagne, set it down satisfiedly on the table, and looked all about the room.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “Who you looking for?”
“Whom.”
She laughed. This was one of their small jokes, intimate, confident. Whenever either of them made any grammatical gaffe, no matter how knowingly, the other coldly corrected it, like an ever-watchful schoolteacher.
Now Jas began prowling about the room, ostentatiously hunting, lifting magazines, opening cigarette boxes, even raising the piano lid and peering in at the strings.
“Where is it?” he said. “The gadget. I want it now; I can’t wait.”
This delighted her. He was acting up to the situation, to please her. He was making the business of his birthday gift loom larger than it would have normally; he was a playwright putting his minor characters through unimportant lines over the teacups to prepare for the entrance of the star. He knew there would be “the star” presently, and he was contriving extra importance for its appearance.
“You can’t have it, not now,” she said severely. “You mustn’t be so rude, either, asking for your present. You’re supposed to wait politely and see if there is one.”
‘Want it now.”
“Can’t have it. Here’s another glass of champagne instead.”
This raillery, this lightness, was the nearest he ever came to offering her an inner understanding, apart from the primitive understanding of passion. When she needed tenderness, warmth, when she reached toward him for the sustaining quality of deep emotion, she was always balked by the essential coolness of him—the tranquil eye, the calm voice. Then she
knew loneliness, even lying at his side, then she was clutching for something that was not there to take.
But when she herself was festive and light, and when he, by some luck of timing, was also in the same mood, then she found Jas everything she could hope for. Like now. This boyish act of impatience for his gift, her prim scolding to subdue him—how light-hearted, how merry, it made her feel.
He accepted the second glass of champagne and for a moment seemed docile about waiting. Then he was off again. This time he went to the door of the dining room, poked his head inside.
“Whee. There it is. And it’s mine.”
“Jas, now really. Not till dinner.”
“Not a chance. It’s mine, isn’t it?” He lifted it. “Hey, it’s heavy as hell.”
She gave up. His impatience delighted her. He brought the package back into the living room with him, set it respectfully down on the low table, examined its wrappings minutely. Vee watched him. All her dilemmas and trilemmas were useless, as they always, with Jas, would be. In the end, it would be he and he alone who would decide the outcome of any problem that ever rose in their lives.
In a moment he looked at her questioningly, began tentatively undoing the package as he watched her. He looked young, relaxed, responsive. He could be such a happy person, if he could let himself—
He was taking the wrappings off carefully, handling the heavy package with gingerly regard for its unknown contents. She watched his face eagerly. Now he could see it under the sheets of tissue, could see the simple lines, the plain fine leathers…
He took one look at it, set it down, looked at her.
“Vee, no one but you would have understood how it would please me.”
“Oh, Jas, really? Honestly, do you—I couldn’t help feeling it was a foolish idea, but it made everything seem so real.”
‘That’s what it does—you darling, you very darling, to make the network come alive right this moment.”
It was only a clock, but within the large dial of it were four smaller dials. Under one, small gold letters said, LONDON—5 hours forward. Under another, BERLIN—6 hours forward. The third, Moscow—8 hours forward; and the fourth, HAWAII—51/2 hours backward.
Jasper had it in his hands again, examining it, fondling it.
Just now the large dial showed it was nearly eight o‘clock in New York. The smaller dials showed nearly one in London, nearly two in Berlin, nearly four in Moscow, nearly two-thirty in Hawaii.
“Vee, you said ‘a gadget.’ This is—this—”
“Oh, Jas, I’m so happy. I thought and thought—”
“But how ever—what made you decide on those cities? How right—”
“Well, they said one dial would do for London and Paris—the time’s the same there. And another for Berlin and Rome—it’s the same there, too.”
He laughed delightedly at this explanation. “Yes, darling, it is.”
“Then Moscow seemed essential, and Pacific time, too.”
“You darling, you brilliant darling. Christ, it makes me feel like a radio network, just to look at it. It makes me feel that maybe tomorrow we’ll, be on the air. What a birthday you thought up!”
“It’s wonderful that you really want it.”
“Where’d you ever find it? I’ve never seen a desk one like this. I—”
“I had a grand old clockmaker make it for you. It took a long time.”
He turned to her, took her into his arms again, kissed her his thanks. But this time, as though he were ashamed to seem moved, his mouth upon hers was violent, driving, almost angry.
Then in another moment, his mood again changed. He began to whisper to her threats of the physical, sexual violence he would do to her. This was one of the faces of their relationship, too, and she was too at ease with sex to feel or to pretend that she was embarrassed or offended. This half-felt, half-feigned bawdiness had its place, too.
After a moment, Vee shoved away from him.
“Dinner must be ready,” she said.
“The hell with dinner—let’s go to bed—”
“Jasper Crown, you are impossible. Let’s do nothing of the kind.”
“Vee—”
“No, absolutely, definitely no.”
“But I can’t help—”
There was a stir behind them.
“Dinner is served.”
Vee laughed in his face. “Thank you, Dora,” she said over her shoulder.
“O.K., O.K.,” Jasper said cheerily.
Dinner was superb. He praised everything, he exclaimed over the birthday cake, he was at once the most grateful of guests and, curiously, the most watchful of hosts as he kept her wineglass full, her cigarettes instantly lighted.
Over their coffee and brandy, they each were quite suddenly silent. They sat near each other on the sofa. Jasper stared at the face of the clock. Occasionally he took it into his hands, winding it, listening to it. Vee felt at peace. Her planning and searching and fussing over details had been worth while. The evening had pleased him, and she had arranged the evening.
“You know, Vee,” he said slowly. She looked up attentively. “I meant it when I said you are my love. I’ve never felt so right with anybody else.”
She said nothing. He reached for her hand, without looking, found it, took it in his own. He held it closely; from his tight-clasped fingers her own fingers learned that now again he was the fighter, the man of driving, restless energy. The boyish, easy happiness was gone from him now. She waited.
“I told you once that marriage isn’t really for me—what with the company—and—and especially since things are as they are about—about the other thing.”
“I know.”
“But I feel, you don’t realize it, but something in you makes me feel that you don’t really know—” He searched for words. She let him search. He turned his face so she could not see it.
“All I do feel is that you’d fight harder for anything else,” she said. “I can’t understand you when you’re beaten by something that may not even be true.”
“It is true. You’re unable to face it about me.”
“No. That’s not s. I’d face it, if it is true. I told you back in April, I’d heard vaguely that there’s a lot of new medical…”
“They’re quacks, half of them, and knaves.”
“Oh, Jas, that’s ridiculous, coming from a man like you. I’m not talking of quacks and villains, I’m talking of scientists. I asked Dr. Burton…”
He made a sharp gesture of impatience. He didn’t want to hear. Dr. Burton’s old, reasonable voice came back to her. “Well, maybe they don’t want children as much as they say they do.” She looked at Jas carefully.
“Jas, listen to me,” she said. “You have the courage to go through it again, and see whether or not it is true, or whether it was only true because ten years ago it seemed true. There’s a man named Gontlen, Dr. Martin Gontlen, he’s spent years on these things, he’s had terrific results with about thirty per cent of his cases.”
“Thirty per cent?”
“That’s a three-to-one chance against you; but that wouldn’t stop you if it was about the network.”
“Were.” But he said it absently; she knew he wasn’t joking now.
“Were. All right, don’t josh me off this. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, been holding myself back, telling myself that it’s your life and your problem—but oh, darling, when I know what torture it is for you to go on believing in this damn sterility that may not even be true? Can I just keep polite and silent? I don’t care, I have to try…”
“What’s this Dr. Gontlen’s theory, do you know?”
“It isn’t theorizing. He’s worked with thousands of actual cases. He’s found that sometimes when people can’t have children, it’s only that their systems are slowed down, sluggish, or else some minor block somewhere. And they’ve learned so much in ten years about things like thyroid and pituitary—oh, Jas, if you had low hemoglobin or a sluggish liver you’d go and g
et it stepped up, wouldn’t you?”
He began to pace the room. Under the strange, strong forehead, the heavy brows, his eyes were dead and cool. But the way he paced, the energy in his stride, in his closed hands, told her there was nothing remote and distant in his feelings.
“I can’t tell you how I hate all this,” he burst out at last. “The tests, the waiting, the hope, then the terrible, hideous answer, and the God-damned doctor smirking sympathy at you. I’ve been through it, and I’m not going to tear up that old wound again.”
“All right, Jas. I don’t see why you should, if it’s that tough.”
He looked at her quickly. Suspicion shone in his glance. But her face wore only a hurting because he suffered.
He came to her then, dropped down beside her, leaned his massive body over, and rested his head in her lap.
“I’ll go and see this God-damned Gontlen tomorrow,” he said. “It’s not too tough.” She made no comment.
“But that’s the end. If he says the same, and he will, that’s the end of it forever. I can’t stand this every five minutes—but once more can’t kill me.”
“At the worst, it can’t be any worse than it’s been these ten years, darling,” she said. She kept her voice level, forced it not to pounce on a new tone of exultation and relief. “And if the three-to- one shot should happen to work for you, it might make you very happy.”
“And you?”
“Oh, God…”
There was silence. He had promised to go tomorrow. He would go, and there would be the waiting.
Jasper stretched out his left arm, looked at his wrist watch, then at the clock. He stood up at once.
“We’re late,” he said, and the two words snipped off their talk and the birthday celebration without ado.
They took a cab to the Plaza. Jasper’s “three babies” were to meet them in the Oak Room. Vee was excited in a close, personal way at the notion of going along on so important a thing as a big meeting. It was another step of intimacy, somehow, that he should let her.
The three, in business suits, were clearly surprised to see her with him. They sprang up in unison and seemed ill at ease. As Jasper introduced Mr. Stark, Mr. Friedman, Mr. Conerhan, Vee saw each of the three eye her with special interest. She was Jasper Crown’s girl, their eyes said, and a heady pride rose in her.
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