Park Avenue Tramp

by Flora, Fletcher

  “Were they interesting people?” Oliver said.

  “No, they were very dull. They were bores, as a matter of fact. Especially her. A number of years ago she won several of these beauty contests you are always reading about in which someone becomes Miss something-or-other, and she seemed to think this was important. Everyone knows perfectly well that such contests mean hardly anything, but she kept referring to them all the time as if having won them was an exceptional accomplishment”

  “I’m sorry you were bored. Was the other guest any better?”

  “Yes, he was. He was much better, He’s a professor in a university somewhere and is apparently quite poor, but he’s writing a book that may make some money for him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Clyde Connelly. I don’t remember what university he teaches in, but I believe it’s somewhere in the Middle West, like Ohio or Illinois or somewhere, and if I’m not mistaken he is on sabbatical leave next year and is going to Europe. He came to New York to see a publisher about the book and met Samantha at a party they had both gone to with someone else. You know Samantha. She is always picking someone up and cultivating him for a while and then dropping him. This professor is good-looking and not very old, and it’s probable that they’re having an affair.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do. I think it’s probable.”

  “Are all your friends always having affairs?”

  “Oh, no. Not always. I didn’t intend to give that impression at all. If you think they are, you’re mistaken.”

  He laughed and reached over and squeezed her nearer knee in a sudden warm gesture.

  “My dear,” he said, rising, “I know practically nothing about your friends, and I think about them just as infrequently as I can.”

  He stood looking down at her, smiling, and her feeling of uneasiness returned and grew, not because of what he had said or the way in which he had said it, but simply because his geniality was rare and excessive and therefore suspect.

  “I must go change,” he said. “Are you going out this evening?”

  “No. I thought I’d stay in and go to bed early. I’m rather tired after the weekend and all.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll not disturb you when I come in.”

  When he was gone, her uneasiness began to diminish slowly and after a few minutes was gone. There had simply been no evidence at all that he was informed on her affair, and it was impossible to believe that he was capable of such convincing and monstrous deception. Besides, what would have been the point of it? It was obvious that everything was all right, that there was nothing to worry about, and she began to regret, now that she had convinced herself of this, that she had not planned to go see Joe Doyle tonight instead of tomorrow night. She was tempted to go tonight anyhow, regardless of plans, but perhaps it would be wiser, since she had committed herself to staying in and going to bed early, to wait another twenty-four hours.

  The time would pass. Tomorrow she would find something to do, though she didn’t know what, and tonight she would have a simple dinner alone and two or three Martinis afterward, and then she would watch television in bed. Television was commonly so utterly dull that it would probably put her to sleep after a while without the help of soporifics.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tuesday was a day that was somehow spent.

  In the afternoon, the gown and other things were delivered, and she tried on the gown in her room to be sure that it was actually as exciting as she had thought it was in the salon, and it seemed to her that it was. Often she would get enthusiastic about something that she saw and bought, and then later, when she saw it again in different circumstances, she couldn’t understand how she had been so mistaken as to have wanted it, but this time, to her relief, the gown was still right and exciting and just the thing to wear when she went to see Joe Doyle.

  After trying it on and looking at herself for a long time in a mirror, she took it off again and laid it across the bed in readiness for later, and then there wasn’t a thing left to do that was tolerable, but it was essential to do something, for doing nothing was most intolerable of all. In this kind of situation, she usually ended up doing things to herself, brushing her hair and trying new effects with her face and fixing her fingernails and toenails, things like that, and she started now doing all these things. Fortunately, this was all meticulous work that required careful attention and had the incidental result of making time pass quickly, and she had just finished with the nail of the little toe on her left foot, the last thing to be done, when Oliver came home and knocked on her door, and she was genuinely astonished to realize that it had become so late so soon.

  But there was something terribly wrong. She felt it the moment Oliver came into the room. He closed the door behind him and stood leaning against it, watching her, and the wrongness was immediately present and felt and growing to such enormous dimensions that it seemed to fill the room and press in upon her from the walls. Not that he said anything or did anything or appeared to be in the least angry. He appeared, in fact, to be unusually congenial, as he had been yesterday, and he smiled and nodded his head, watching her, as if he approved of what he saw.

  It was strange and irrational how the feeling came over her. One moment she was doing things to herself to pass the time until she could do what she really wanted to do, and everything was all right and getting better, and the next moment everything was all wrong and getting worse, and there didn’t seem to be any reason for it or anything she could do to stop it. She had experienced the same feeling before, however, the sudden terrible conviction of imminent disaster that had no apparent relationship to circumstances as they were at the time, and a doctor at one of the parties where she got most of her spiritual and psychiatric guidance had told her, after an intimate consultation in a corner over several cocktails, that it was a kind of free-floating anxiety that occasionally attached itself to a specific incident or person. This was nice to know, of course, but it wasn’t very effective as therapy and did little or nothing to alleviate matters whenever the free-floating anxiety attached itself afterward to something or someone specific, as it was now attached to Oliver at the door.

  • • •

  What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Wrong?” He straightened and walked three steps into the room. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. What makes you think there is?”

  “I don’t know. I just had a feeling when you came in that something was.”

  “You’re mistaken. Everything is fine. Are you planning to go somewhere tonight?”

  “I was thinking that I might. I went to bed early last night, you know, and now I’d like to go somewhere and do something.” “Do you have something definite arranged?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing special at all. There’s always somewhere to go that doesn’t require special arrangements.”

  “That’s good. It’s good, I mean, that you haven’t committed yourself to anything definite, for I’ve planned a little surprise for you.”

  “Surprise? What kind of surprise?”

  He smiled, tracing with the tip of an index finger the thin scar along his mandible, and she watched him with a conviction of personal peril growing stronger and stronger in her morbid certainty of all things going wrong, It was surely a kind of minor revolution when Oliver disrupted his schedule for anything whatever, and it raised the question of whether the disruption was a sign of a change in their relationship which he intended to be good or was, on the other hand, a development of the danger she had sensed and believed, and in either case it threatened to spoil the night she had planned and was therefore bad.

  “Dinner and dancing to begin with,” he said. “Afterward I have something rather unusual in mind. I think it will amuse you.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I told you now it would spoil the surprise. I want you to anticipate it, my dear.”

  “Well, I know you don’t really like to do things like this and are o
nly doing it now for my sake. It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, but it isn’t necessary.”

  “On the contrary, I’m quite enthusiastic about it. Do you think I’m incapable of enjoying anything out of the routine?” “You’ll have to admit that you always plan things ahead very carefully and hardly ever deviate from them.”

  “That’s true. I like an ordered life, as you say, but I’ve been thinking that perhaps you should be included more often in the order. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you shamefully, my dear, and you’ve been exceedingly generous and understanding about it.”

  This remark seemed to indicate that he was only trying to alter their relationship with good intentions, which was a relief from fear but would certainly become a great nuisance if she permitted it to continue, for it would prevent her from going places and doing things as she pleased, or at least as frequently as she pleased. It was extremely unlikely, however, that Oliver would deviate from his established order for any length of time, and the acute problem now was tonight, how she could possibly go to Joe Doyle while Oliver was imposing himself upon her in this extraordinary way, and her going, which had up to now been no more than desirable, became imperative as it became imperiled.

  “Thank you very much,” she said, “but I don’t think I’d care to become part of an order. I prefer to do things more spontaneously.”

  “I know. We are quite different in that respect. An adjustment will demand concessions from us both. Is that a new gown on the bed?”

  “Yes, it is. I bought it yesterday, and it was delivered this afternoon.”

  “It’s nice. I’m sure you’ll look charming in it. Were you planning to wear it tonight?”

  “Yes. I was trying it on before you came.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. No matter, though. I’ll see it on you later when we go out together.”

  “Are you certain you want to go? If you prefer, we could go another night when you have more time to prepare for it.”

  “No, no. It’s all arranged. We’ll go to the Empire Room for dinner and dancing, and later we’ll have our little surprise.”

  He moved toward her suddenly and took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the mouth with a lightness and tenderness that were rare and would have been deeply moving in the kiss of anyone else. In his, they were somehow frightening, the qualities of mockery. She was ravished by the kiss as she had never been by his occasional brutality, and at the same time, paradoxically, she felt far more rejected than all his customary coldness had ever made her feel. Worst of all, she was compelled to recognize with an exorbitant sense of loss and despair that he was determined to take her with him to the Empire Room and wherever else afterward he had planned, and there was nothing, nothing at all, that she could do to prevent it.

  “We’ll leave at a quarter to eight,” he said.

  He released her and went out, and she sat on the edge of the bed in her despair and tried and tried to think of something she could do to save the night, to make it possible still to go to Joe Doyle, but she could think of nothing, and she knew that there was nothing to be done by her or anyone else in the world. It would be necessary, then, to call Joe and tell him that she couldn’t be there, and why she couldn’t, and how terribly sorry she was, and that she would surely come as soon as she could, which would be tomorrow if she could possibly manage it.

  Having decided to call, she tried to remember if there was a telephone in his room, and she couldn’t remember any. If there had been one she would certainly have remembered it, and so she concluded that there wasn’t, which meant that there was a house phone in the hall that would probably be listed under the name of whoever owned the house, and the trouble was that she didn’t know who owned it. Then it occurred to her that he might be at Duo’s already, where he worked, and that she could at least leave word for him there if he wasn’t actually there himself to be talked to.

  She turned in the classified directory to the nightclubs and found Duo’s number and dialed it, and while she was doing this she kept hoping very hard that Joe would be there to be talked to, for she wanted to tell him personally how much she wanted to come and how sorry she was that she couldn’t. It was imperative that he understand this and believe it, for he was inclined to lack faith in her anyhow, and he might decide that she had simply had enough of him, which wasn’t, surprisingly enough, yet true. After she had finished dialing, she waited and waited while the phone rang in long bursts at the other end of the line, and she had about concluded in despair that Duo’s was one of those places that absolutely ignored telephone calls whenever it suited them, but then, just as she was preparing to cut the connection, someone answered. It was Yancy.

  “Duo’s,” he said. “Yancy speaking.”

  “Hello, Yancy,” she said. “This is Charity Farnese. You know. The dry Martini.” “I know.”

  “Where in the world have you been? The phone rang and rang, and I was about to hang up.” “I was here all the time. I was busy.”

  “Well, I’m glad I waited. It just shows you that it doesn’t pay to give up too soon, doesn’t it?”

  “Not always. Sometimes it pays to give up as soon as possible.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean, and I don’t think I want to know. What I do want to know is, is Joe there?”

  “Joe Doyle?”

  “Of course Joe Doyle. You know perfectly well I mean Joe Doyle. Please don’t be so evasive, Yancy.” “Sorry. He isn’t here.” “Do you suppose he will be there soon?”

  “I don’t think so. Not soon.”

  “Do you know his telephone number?”

  “It’s a house phone. I don’t know the number.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me the name the number is listed under.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know it.”

  “Are you merely being contrary, Yancy?”

  “No. If I knew I’d tell you.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Will you please give him a message from me when he comes in?” “I might.”

  “What do you mean, you might? Will you or won’t your?” “It depends on the message.”

  “Please tell him that I won’t be able to come tonight. Something has developed that makes it impossible.” “I’ll tell him.”

  “Tell him also that I’m truly sorry and will see him as soon as I can. Will you tell him that?” “Reluctantly.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Yancy? Do you still think it’s wrong for me to see him and that no good will come of it?” “You know what I think. I told you.”

  “Well, in the beginning there may have been an excuse for your scepticism, but now there is none whatever, and you are only being stubborn and unpleasant. I can tell you that some good has already come of it, and Joe will tell you the same if you will only ask him.”

  “Not me. What’s good or what’s bad is for you and Joe to figure, and you don’t owe any accounting to anyone but each other and maybe your husband. I just decided. Good-by, now. I’ve got customers.”

  He hung up without giving her a chance to say good-by in return, and she listened for a few moments to the humming of the wire and hung up too. It was still earlier than she needed to start dressing for the evening, but she started anyhow, because there was nothing else to do and doing something was a necessary defensive mechanism, taking a long bath and brushing her hair for a long while deliberately. Finally, after everything else was done, she took the new gown off the bed and hung it in a closet and selected another, which she hardly looked at, and put it on. She was compelled under the circumstances to go out with Oliver if he demanded it, but she was not compelled to wear the gown she had bought particularly to wear for Joe Doyle, and she was not going to do it. She would think of something to say in explanation if Oliver noticed it was not the new gown and said something about it, and that, of course, as it happened, was the first thing Oliver did when he knocked on the door at a quarter to eight and entered.

  “I thought yo
u were going to wear the new gown,” he said. “Or did you buy it for a special occasion?” “No,” she said. “I decided it isn’t suitable for the Empire Room, that’s all.” “Really? I thought it looked quite suitable.” “No. It’s not suitable at all.”

  “Whatever you think, of course. The gown you’re wearing is nice. You look lovely in it.” “Thank you.”

  “It’s time to leave now. Are you ready?” “Yes, I’m ready.”

  • • •

  Edith let them out of the apartment and closed the door silently after them, and they went down to the Avenue and found Oliver’s Imperial, which had been ordered around, waiting for them at the curb. They drove on the Avenue to the Waldorf-Astoria and went immediately to the Empire Room and were shown to the table that Oliver had reserved. She should have known, of course, that he had made a reservation, but she had not considered the details of the situation that carefully, and now that they were exposed and she was compelled to consider them in spite of herself, she was possessed by a most terrible feeling of absolute impotence. Without consulting her or conceding anything whatever to her rights or wishes, he had reserved the table and the night and her, and all the time that she had been planning to make certain things happen, quite different things had actually been happening already and were still happening, and there had been nothing she could have done to change the order of events then, before she even knew about it, and there was nothing she could do to stop it or change it now. Nothing at all. What she had hoped and almost believed yesterday and earlier today, that Oliver’s unusual geniality was only a sign that he might become a nuisance and not a menace, she no longer hoped or believed in the least. She was resigned to disaster, and as her resignation increased, her fear diminished. She hardly cared what the form of disaster might be precisely, or when, exactly, it might come.