by Max Shulman
“No deal,” said Oscar flatly. “I just finished spending a quarter of a million dollars on a survey of viewing habits. I am up to my belly-button in charts and graphs—including graphs on what happens to the time between shows. I mean those three minutes when you get the closing commercial on one show, the station break, and the opening commercial on the next show. You know what happens during those three lousy minutes? We lose 71% of the audience, that’s what! Where do they go? I can tell you that too: 24% of ’em go to the can, 21% go to the icebox, 19% go see if their kids are covered, 16% nap, 9% read two pages in a book or magazine, 7% play a hand of gin rummy, and 4% just stand like idiots and spin the goddam dial … So don’t tell me about beginning and end commercials, buddy. I want ’em smack in the middle when we got the yucks glued to the chair!”
The intercom buzzed again. Oscar slapped down the key. “Who now, for Christ’s sake?”
“It’s Mrs. Hoffa, sir.”
“Here?”
“No, sir. On the phone from Putnam’s Landing.”
“Tell her to wait.”
Oscar swung back to the agent. “That’s the deal, buddy. Take it or leave it.”
“I will talk to my client,” said Mr. Hemming, “but I’m afraid the answer will be no.”
“We’ll survive,” said Oscar. “Goodnight.”
The agent went off to kick somebody smaller, and Oscar lifted the phone to speak to his wife. “Angela? What do you want? … What do you mean, why ain’t I home? I’m flying to Hollywood tonight, didn’t I tell you? … Well, didn’t anyone tell you? … All right, I forgot … Of course, I have to go. That Ivy League idiot out there is going to put on Oedipus Rex if I don’t stop him. Always some sonofabitch trying to drip culture into the network … No, it can’t wait … What the hell do I care about a goddam town meeting in Putnam’s Landing? … Can’t you go without me? … Okay, baby, I’ll see you in a few days … No, I don’t know just when. As soon as I fire a few of them college bastards who keep trying to tone up the industry … All right, Angela. Goodbye.”
Angela Hoffa hung up her pink telephone and muttered a blue word. She walked over to the bar, poured herself a shot glass full of White Label, and tossed it off. Then she sat down, unclenched her fists, and with a conscious effort of will, forced the anger to subside within her. “You get mad, you get lines around the mouth,” she told herself. “And lines around the mouth, I got enough.”
There were, it is true, a few lines around her mouth and also some vague crow’s feet at the eyes, but nothing that would not yield to Max Factor. At 38, Angela was a tall, white-skinned, black-haired, ripe beauty. A bit of the bounce had gone out of the pectorals, and there was an extra handful around the hips, but she could still count on a gratifying response when she appeared on Ram’s Head Beach in the summer.
But it was not summer; it was winter. And she was not on the beach being ogled; she was at home being stupefied by boredom. Out of the last thirty nights, Oscar had been home exactly six; the rest of the time he had been away swelling the unemployment rolls in Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. And even when he was home, he was not exactly what you would call company. An evening with Oscar was seven straight hours of television, with an occasional break to fetch him a new belt for the dictaphone beside his chair.
“Do you want a divorce?” Oscar would ask when she made one of her frequent complaints. “If you do, you can have it. I got no time to argue.”
But Angela did not want a divorce. Or, to be more accurate, she did want a divorce. She would have been tickled pink to get rid of Oscar and wall up the television set. But then what? Then she would be a 38 year old woman living in Putnam’s Landing without children and without a husband. There could be no more extraneous condition. In a town like Putnam’s Landing, fiercely dedicated to the perpetuation and protection of the home, only wives had status. Widows and divorcees were tolerated, provided they had children, but a childless, unfettered adult female was regarded, at the very best, as a second class citizen, and, in the case of one as decorative as Angela, as an enemy agent.
No, she could not stay in Putnam’s Landing, not unless she was looking to get her eyes scratched out. Nor could she move back to New York. This, for her, would be like Joe Louis returning to the ring when he didn’t have it any more. New York had once been Angela’s arena, and she had been a champ. She had touched cheeks with Mr. Billingsley, Mr. Perona, and several Mr. Kriendlers. She had sat between Row C and Row J at all the openings and against the wall at Sardi’s afterwards. She had sighed to Piaf, hummed to Dyer-Bennett, clicked to Greco. She had done the champagne-and-stout bit, the Westhampton bit, the French poodle bit. She had even had the accolade: Joe E. had sniped her drink during his act at the Copa.
But that was long ago. Other, younger, firmer buttocks nested on the zebra-covered banquettes today; prettier faces twinkled back from the bar-mirrors; springier arches cha-cha’d till the small hours. At 38 years of age Angela was not fool enough to come back into the ring against such young, tough, heartless competition.
And, anyhow, she had her fill of New York. The reason she married Oscar in the first place was that she had been bored silly with the flits and lushes of cafe society. She had wanted to find a man—a hard working, hard bearded, woman-oriented, honest-to-God man—and live with him in a country house and be his country wife. Oscar had been, beyond cavil, a man, and she had managed after some difficulty to get him into a country house, but then television came along and pulled him right out again, and that was the end of Angela’s sweet dream of domesticity.
But the dream did not die. Angela still wanted to be a wife—a full time wife with a full time husband. But where would she find one? Not in New York, where the pickings were too slim and the competition too heavy. And not in Putnam’s Landing, where bachelors were as rare as unicorns.
Married men, on the other hand, were plentiful in Putnam’s Landing, and Angela had often toyed with the idea of picking off one of the more loosely-attached specimens. But she had always rejected the notion. It was, she told herself, not neighborly.
Tonight, however, sitting on a chintz love-seat in a pecky cypress living room, looking out a picture window at two acres of closely barbered lawn, thoughtfully sipping another hooker of scotch, Angela began to wonder whether her ethics might not be misplaced. Here she was, a woman with a great untapped reservoir of wifeliness. And around her were dozens of discontented husbands, men who found their wives inadequate, unsympathetic, even hostile. What was Angela’s higher duty in these circumstances? To stay aloof and let the poor souls suffer? Or to choose the most deserving, take him to her bosom, and be to him wife, helpmeet, tender comrade, guiding star, and all the other things he had so poignantly been longing for?
Angela rose and paced. She had never before analyzed things in quite this way. It sure put a new face on the situation. Taking somebody’s husband—somebody’s discontented husband, that is—was not thievery; it was liberation! Like John Brown going into Harper’s Ferry, kind of. Angela smiled, pleased with the notion of herself as Old Pottawatamie. And it wasn’t so far-fetched either, thought she with a righteous nod. Wasn’t she, too, going on a slave raid? Wasn’t she going to find a man in bondage and set him free? Of course she was. That was exactly what she was going to do—release a poor captive, sever his shackles, unyoke his shoulders, heal his welts, and guide his faltering feet down Freedom Road!
Satisfied that she was doing the Lord’s work, Angela got down to details. Who in Putnam’s Landing needed liberating? Well, the closest was Willard Beauchamp, who lived just a quarter of a mile down the road. Willard was in thrall to his wife, Laura, a broth of a woman standing just under six feet high, weighing a rock-hard 160 pounds, and filled with energy in the megaton range. This energy was directed chiefly into amateur theatricals. Currently she was rehearsing A Sleep of Prisoners at the Congregational Church, The Dybbuk at Temple Israel, Dear Ruth at Webster High School and A Kiss for Cinderella at Nathan Hale Elementary
School—and, at the same time, making preparations for a Fourth of July folk-drama, a re-enactment of the landing of the Redcoats on Ram’s Head Beach. To cast her plays, Laura roamed Putnam’s Landing like a one-woman press gang, collaring anybody who did not see her first, dismissing their objections with jovial thuds on the back, dragging them into rehearsals by main force. Willard, being ready-to-hand and a good deal smaller than she, was, of course, an actor in all her productions. With a rush of pity, Angela remembered the last time she had seen him perform. It was an outdoor production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in which Willard, wearing a short Grecian tunic, came cavorting miserably across the village green in the teeth of a crotch-frosting March wind, brandishing a lath sword, and declaring that he was Oberon, king of all the fairies.
Yes, thought Angela, Willard definitely needed liberating. But, after brief consideration, she dismissed him and went on to the next prospect. After all, Willard was sixty years old, and who knew what shape his heart was in after all those theatricals? No use liberating a man if he’s going to fall dead at your feet.
Angela now turned her thoughts to David Coleman. David drew a comic strip called Pudgy and Spot which ran daily and Sunday in 210 newspapers. He was young, handsome, strong, and clearly a discontented husband, as anybody could testify who had heard him make his “Anchor” speech. In this speech, which was delivered whenever David was drunk, he developed the interesting thesis that his wife was an anchor. He, on the other hand, was a ship—specifically, a four masted schooner. Once upon a time he had sailed the ocean bravely and freely, charting no course, heading only for the horizon. Then he got married. His wife, with her insatiable demands for luxuries—like three meals a day and a dry bed—had forced him to give up painting true and beautiful pictures (the proof of it was that nobody would buy them) and instead pervert his talent into making a living. The ship, in other words, had acquired an anchor—an anchor that moored him to the slimy shoals of success. More anchors accrued to him—children, a house, cars, furniture, maids, cooks, gardeners—and now, his talent betrayed, his soul besmirched, he was stuck with $80,000 a year instead of decently starving to death.
No, thought Angela, passing him by. Not David. People who wear cashmere jackets shouldn’t beat breasts.
She turned next to Henry Steinberg. Henry had been a perfectly contented husband until his wife insisted on breeding their harlequin great Dane bitch. “It will be so wonderful for the children, watching the miracle of birth,” declared Henry’s wife, and he had allowed himself to be persuaded. So the children had watched the miracle of birth, and had gone promptly into traumatic shock. Two of them were still under treatment. And the pups—eleven of them—were now going on four months old, without one single buyer having appeared in spite of ads every week in the Putnam’s Landing Gazette and every day in the New York Times. So there was Henry, stuck with eleven great, clumping, spotted, ungainly creatures, eating their own weight daily, knocking over priceless vases, teething on the Chippendale, crying all night long, and making a stench that beggared Air Wick.
Yes, Henry was discontented. But it was not really serious. All he needed was eleven escaped lunatics to come around and buy his great Danes, and his marriage would be as good as new.
Angela riffled through some more names, rejecting each in turn. One was a drunk, one liked sports cars better than girls, one lived on blackstrap molasses, one was a television producer.
Then she came to the name of Harry Bannerman.
She grew very, very thoughtful. This, now, could be pay dirt. Harry Bannerman was without doubt a discontented husband. He had all the earmarks—the stricken face, the glazed eyeballs, the dragging feet. And, if she needed any more evidence, his lushing on the 5:29 was a matter of record.
Discontented he surely was. Now to the next question: was he worth liberating?
Yes. Indeed, he was. Wasn’t he personable? Presentable? Intelligent? Trustworthy? Employable? Certain of his gender? Yes! To all of these, yes. Harry Bannerman was a good man, and good men do not abound.
Angela picked up the pink telephone. She put it down again, struck by a sudden flurry of conscience. A picture of Grace Bannerman came into her mind—sweet, decent Grace. Was this a friendly thing to be doing to Grace—honest, seemly Grace?
But, thought Angela, probing deeper, that was not the point at all. This had nothing to do with Grace; this had only to do with Harry. He was a good man; he deserved to be happy; Grace had failed him; now Angela must try. That was the American way.
Angela picked up the pink telephone and dialed resolutely. “Hello, Grace? … Grace, honey, this is Angela Hoffa … Are you and Harry going to the town meeting tonight? … I know this is too tiresome of me, but would you mind picking me up? Oscar’s off on one of his things again … Thank you, lamb. Just honk. I’ll come a-running … Bye.”
Angela put down the pink telephone and went to gird up her loins.
7
Grace Bannerman hung up the phone. “That was Angela Hoffa,” she said to Harry. “We’re picking her up on the way to the meeting.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Harry. “She’s ’way to hell over on the other side of town.”
“Now, dear,” said Grace reprovingly.
“All right, all right,” he sighed. “Let’s get going then. You ready?”
“In a minute. You go say goodnight to the children.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry.
He hung up the towel with which he had been helping Grace dry the dinner dishes. He walked out of the kitchen area, around the breakfast bar, through the utilities area, across the dining area, past the activities area, over the family area, and up the stairs. The Banner-mans lived in a modern-type house in which the first floor was one single sweep, divided only by waist-high counters, planters, and shelves. This arrangement saved steps, increased space, promoted cleanliness, and made it flatly impossible for a man to hide from his family.
This progressivism did not, however, obtain on the second floor. Here walls decently separated the four bedrooms and two baths. Harry walked into the bedroom of his eldest son Dan. He found all his sons seated on the floor listening to Maggie Larkin, also seated on the floor, reading to them from The House at Pooh Corner.
Dan, Bud, and Peter Bannerman, aged respectively eight, six and four years, were three of a kind; each was sweet, soft, round, trusting, and vulnerable. Sometimes Harry would look at them, and his heart would be so full of love that tears would rush to his eyes. Other times he would look at them and gnash his teeth and wish fervently that there was just a little touch of guile about them, just a soupçon of meanness. Every child, including Harry’s, needed a firm hand from time to time, but how do you apply a firm hand when your kids look like three Kewpie dolls wearing “KICK ME” signs?
“Goodnight, boys,” said Harry. “I’m going now.”
Dan leapt up and kissed his father’s cheek. “Goodnight, Papa,” he cried.
Bud kissed the other cheek. “Goodnight, Papa,” he cried.
Peter kissed him full on the lips. “I love you, Papa,” he cried.
Maggie Larkin observed this demonstration closely. There was not, as you might expect, an approving smile on her face; instead there was a small frown. “Mr. Bannerman,” she said, “I wonder if I might talk to you for a minute.”
“Certainly,” he said.
Maggie rose and went out in the hall with him, closing the bedroom door behind her.
“Yes?” said Harry.
“I hope you won’t think I’m interfering,” said Maggie earnestly. “It really isn’t any of my business, and if you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll surely understand.”
“Talk about what?”
“Your children.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Let me ask you the same question, Mr. Bannerman. What is wrong with them?”
“Why, nothing,” said Harry uneasily. “Nothing that I can see.”
“Do they tel
l lies?” asked Maggie. “Do they steal? Do they bully other children?”
“Certainly not!”
“Aha!” said Maggie wisely.
“What do you mean—aha?” demanded Harry.
“Mr. Bannerman,” said she, laying a hand on his sleeve and looking frankly into his eyes, “do you think that’s normal? Don’t you realize that in this stage of their emotional growth, they are primarily interested in themselves? All that matters is to gratify their own wishes, their own desires. In this period children are normally selfish, normally inconsiderate. They see nothing wrong in lying, cheating, stealing, if it helps them gratify their desires.”
“I see,” said Harry, running his finger nervously inside his collar band. “Well, that’s very interesting, Miss Larkin. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
Maggie’s grip tightened on his sleeve. “That’s what worries me about your children, Mr. Bannerman. They are too good, too honest. Something has repressed their natural, normal drives.”
“Yeah. Well—”
“But you can’t bottle up things like that,” continued Maggie, holding tight. “They’re bound to come out somewhere—maybe as hay fever or asthma, maybe as migraines, maybe as colitis. When a child feels something he cannot express, his body will express it for him!”
“Oh, come now, Miss Larkin—”
“No, Mr. Bannerman, it’s a fact! It’s a scientific fact. Why, only last month Sigafoos at Johns Hopkins proved that 87% of arthritis patients first suffer the symptoms in the hand they used to masturbate with.”
Harry gulped. “Is that so?” he said weakly.
“So you see, Mr. Bannerman, this is a very serious thing. I hope you won’t resent my saying it, but your children need help.”
“Yes, Miss Larkin,” said Harry, removing his sleeve from her grasp. “I’ll get help for them first thing in the morning … But let’s not try anything tonight, okay? I mean, for tonight, could you just kind of leave ’em alone? Okay, Miss Larkin? Huh?”