Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “What happened to Schwartz?” Archer asked, looking over his shoulder at the reflection of his back in the mirror. Schwartz, a pale little man with bifocal glasses and a silent, swift, loving manner of touching cloth, had been with Teague Brothers for more than thirty years. He had made perhaps ten suits for Archer without speaking more than a hundred words to him.

  “We buried Schwartz last week,” Mr. Teague said, sighing. “He had cancer of the lungs for two years. Worked until the end. We closed the shop for the morning and all went to the funeral. Have you ever been to a Jewish funeral?”

  “No,” Archer said.

  “Barbaric,” Mr. Teague said. “They all keep their hats on. And the women scream like banshees. He was a good tailor, Schwartz. Irreplaceable. Ah, Mr. Spinelli,” Teague said to a tall dark-faced man with white hair who came in from the back room. “This is Mr. Archer. I’d like you to take a look at the jacket, if you will.”

  Mr. Spinelli walked consideringly around Archer, as though he was contemplating buying him. “The shoulders,” he said finally, “perhaps a little low. …”

  “Mr. Archer likes the shoulders low,” Mr. Teague said rebukingly.

  “In that case,” Mr. Spinelli said, retreating, “the garment is just about right.” Archer felt a momentary touch of pity for the new master tailor, competing with the perfect ghost of the silent Schwartz. Mr. Spinelli, with a little bow, went back to the bench in the rear of the shop.

  “You see what I mean,” Mr. Teague said. “And it will get worse. The suits will get uglier and more expensive every year.” He sighed. “Everything goes up but quality. In ten years we’ll be lucky to be able to make a suit to order. The custom trade is dying. People are reconciling themselves to be dressed by machines. In your lifetime, Mr. Archer, I am afraid you will see every man on the street looking as though he has been manufactured by the same company. And it is impossible to find tailors any more. Only old men, who are dying off. And there are no new ones coming up. All the Polish Jews who knew how to sew and who used to immigrate here have been killed off by the Germans. The English …” Mr. Teague stared unhappily up at the ceiling, thinking about the English. “They do not immigrate—and at home—a Socialist government. What does a Socialist care about a fine seam or a good piece of cloth? And young Americans …” Mr. Teague sighed, reflecting upon his youthful compatriots. “They scorn the trade. They’d rather work in a garage or in a factory for less money than sit down and learn tailoring. They turn their backs on the opportunity. They think there’s something degrading about sitting in a nice, warm, comfortable shop sewing on a gentleman’s garment. Sometimes, Mr. Archer,” Mr. Teague said soberly, “I must confess I am tempted to retire once and for all. The suit will be ready next week. I’ll send it down.” He smiled bleakly at Archer and turned toward the front of the shop, where a retired Regular Army colonel was waiting, staring patiently at English magazines from 1925 that were carefully placed each morning on a big oak table.

  Archer went into a cubbyhole and dressed slowly, thinking of the silent Mr. Schwartz, only slightly more still now than in life, and of massacred tailors, of stubborn young Americans in workman’s overalls, and of the gloomy, ill-clothed future of the world. I’d better be careful with this suit, Archer thought, taking a last look at the jacket hanging on its hook, who knows when I’ll be able to afford another one?

  It was getting late now, and he hurried over to the skating rink at Rockefeller Center, where Alice Weller was waiting for him.

  She had arranged the usual disaster with her clothes. A bright red skirt that was too short for her long, thick legs made her seem very wide and it was topped by a bulky jacket of nondescript fur. She had put on red wool socks over her stockings to keep her feet warm, and they made her look like a sorrowful parody of a bobby-soxer. Squarish and sagging, she suffered in contrast to the swift and charmingly dressed girls swooping around the ice with quick swirls of their short skirts. As usual, Archer felt a pang of guilt for noticing these things. She was standing at the railing, peering out at her son Ralph, who was slowly and clumsily making his way around the rink. Ralph was a gangling and serious-faced boy, very pale, and with one look at him you knew that the easy and instinctive movements of an athlete would be forever beyond him. The loud-speaker was blaring a waltz and Alice didn’t hear Archer come up behind her. Archer watched her for a moment, the loving, aging, proud, anxious face below the massive flying gold figure of Prometheus in his ring across the rink. Whatever happens, Archer thought, before touching her shoulder, it is necessary to protect this decent and wavering woman and her awkward, serious child.

  “Alice,” Archer said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

  “Oh, no.” She turned, smiling her soft, uncertain smile. “I love to watch Ralph anyway. Wave to him.”

  Archer waved to him. With a great look of concentration, Ralph waved back, once, almost upsetting himself with the movement.

  “He’s getting much better,” Alice said, looking fondly at her son. “He’ll be a wonderful skater by the time he grows up.”

  “I’m sure,” Archer said.

  “He has weak ankles,” Alice said. “The doctor said this would be very good for him.”

  “Alice,” said Archer, “let’s go in and get a drink there. We can sit at the window and watch just as well. It’s cold standing down here.”

  Alice looked worried, as though even putting just a pane of glass between her and Ralph was a problem. “Ralph,” she called, as the boy scraped slowly toward them, “we’re going in for a minute. We’ll be right at the window, so we can see you.”

  “All right, Mother,” Ralph said. “Hello, Mr. Archer,” he said, holding onto the railing.

  “Hello, Ralph,” Archer said. “Your mother says you’re improving wonderfully.”

  “I have weak ankles,” Ralph said.

  “Be careful now, darling,” Alice said. “Don’t try anything too hard.”

  Archer watched the boy push cautiously away from the railing, No, Archer thought as he and Alice walked toward the entrance to the cafe that lined one side of the rink, there’s a boy you can depend upon will not try anything too hard. If our new child is a boy, Archer thought unreasonably, I will brain him if he has weak ankles.

  They found a table at the large plate-glass window and Archer helped Alice off with her fur jacket before taking off his own coat. They both sat facing the rink. The skaters sailed silently up to the glass, brightly colored figures in a fluid winter mural, making a charming quarter acre of holiday in the heart of the city, young, playful, and oblivious of the world’s work being conducted in the gray buildings which surrounded them. Archer ordered tea for Alice and a whiskey for himself.

  “I love this spot,” Alice said. “It’s so—faraway.”

  Archer nodded at the strange word. “I know what you mean.”

  “It’s extravagant for us to come here twice a week,” Alice said, “but I can’t resist it.” She turned her eyes away from the figure of her son on the ice and looked at Archer worriedly. “Clement,” she said, “have you any news for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good or bad?”

  Archer hesitated. “Good,” he said. “Pretty good.”

  “What does that mean?” Her voice was immediately fearful, the voice of a woman for whom all modification of the word good had inevitably been disastrous.

  “I got a promise out of the sponsor,” Archer said. “Or at least a half promise. After awhile you can work again. …”

  “After awhile?” Alice’s voice sank. “How long?”

  “Three, four weeks.”

  “Is that definite?”

  Archer looked out the window. A girl in a flying pale-blue wool skirt was doing intricate figures on the center of the ice, exultant, effortless, beyond the fear of gravity or failure. “It’s almost definite, Alice,” Archer said gently, still watching the girl, who was down on the point of one skate now, in a tight, whirling dance. In th
e foreground, just in front of the window, Ralph plodded past. He waved soberly at his mother. Alice made herself smile and waved back at her son.

  The waiter came over with Alice’s tea and the whiskey. Archer measured the soda into his glass, glad to have something to occupy his hands.

  “What does it depend on?” Alice asked. “Can I do something to help myself?”

  “I’m afraid not, Alice. I think the sponsor wants to wait and see how much of a fuss is kicked up in the next couple of weeks.”

  “It’s not fair,” Alice said. She was nearly sobbing, and her lined, tragic face was incongruous over the gay skating sweater that she had worn under her fur jacket. “I ought to be allowed to do something, say something … They don’t understand. They don’t care. Nobody cares.”

  Archer put his hand over hers in sympathy, hoping to keep her from crying. “I care, Alice,” he said lamely. “I’m doing my best. We live in queer times. We just have to hope we can weather them. Honestly, I think you’ll be back at work within a month and this whole thing will have blown over.”

  “A month,” Alice said, trying to control herself. “How am I going to live for a month without working? Why couldn’t they have told me about this three weeks ago when I was offered that job on the road? Why did they have to wait like this? Why is everybody so mean?”

  “Look, Alice,” Archer said, “I’ll help you. Do you need money?”

  “I can’t take money from you,” Alice said brokenly. “What right have I to take money from you?”

  “Don’t talk like that. How much do you need?”

  “I have a hundred and sixty-five dollars,” Alice said, “and the rent hasn’t been paid yet this month and. …”

  “Is that all you have?” Archer asked incredulously, sickened at the thinness of the shield between Alice and extinction.

  “What did you think?” Alice asked with a flat attempt at irony. “Did you think I had a million dollars hidden away in bonds?”

  “I’m sorry.” Archer reached into his pocket and took out his check book and pen. He wrote out a check for a hundred dollars. “Here.” He put it in her hand. “This’ll help for awhile.” Alice looked down dazedly at the check in her hand, as though she couldn’t quite make out the handwriting. “It’s not much,” Archer said, quickly, anxious to forestall thanks, “but it may tide you over. And if you need more, call me.”

  “Oh, Clement …” There was no stopping the tears now, and people at other tables looked over curiously at the large, gaily dressed woman, weeping and clutching a check among the tea things. “I don’t know how I can do it. And I have to do it. I have to … I’m so afraid. I haven’t been able to go to sleep since you came up to my house last week. There’s no one I can turn to. You’re the only one. No one is interested. Except Ralph. And I have to pretend to him that everything is fine. It’s so lonesome … lonesome …” She choked up and bowed her head. Her hands, with their inaccurate polish on the uneven nails, worked convulsively, crushing the check. Sniffing, she spread the check out on the table, smoothing it. Then she folded it neatly and put it in her bag.

  The girl in the pale wool skirt swept past the window. She had short black hair and blue eyes and her face was young, empty, almost bored with her proficiency.

  “You don’t have to sit here with me,” Alice said after awhile. “I’m sure you’re busy.” She was embarrassed now and didn’t look at Archer. She stared at the girl making her lazy perfect circle of the rink. “When I was young,” she said, “I had legs like that. Go ahead, Clement.” There was sudden pleading in her voice. “Please go.”

  “You’ll call me if you need me, now,” Archer said.

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Archer put down some money for the drinks and stood up. “And I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening, Alice,” he said. “Don’t worry,” he said, knowing that it sounded inane, but not having any other comfort to offer. He patted her shoulder and went out, leaving Alice at the window, watching her awkward son among the lilting figures of the swift, brightly colored girls.

  17

  “COME ON, GIRLS,” ARCHER CALLED UPSTAIRS, “let’s try to get there before the beginning of the third act.”

  Kitty was still getting dressed, with Nancy assisting. There was a giggle from above and then Nancy came to the head of the stairs. “Don’t be a tyrant,” she said. “Your poor pregnant wife is struggling with a stuck zipper.” She smiled down at him. She was dressed in a plain black dress that Archer had seen on her before and thought very becoming. But tonight it somehow seemed too severe. Nancy looked tired and her hair, which was usually fluffed out and full of life, looked stringy and dull. Never a plump woman, she seemed to have lost weight in the last few weeks, too, and her face, under the clever makeup, looked drawn. Archer stared up at her, as she stood at the head of the short stairwell, leaning on the newel post. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face, because Nancy stopped smiling and said, “What’s the matter, Clement? Is anything wrong?”

  Archer shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He was old enough to know that you never told a woman, no matter how friendly you were with her, that she was not looking her best. “I just don’t want to be late. Jog my wife a little, like a good girl.”

  “Don’t be mean to her,” Nancy said. “You’ve got to pamper a lady at a time like this.” She went into the bedroom.

  We’re getting old, Archer thought, remembering what Nancy had looked like when he had first seen her in the Indian summer classroom so many years ago. Old.

  He went slowly into his study, where Vic was lounging in the easy chair.

  “Don’t worry, Clement,” Vic said, “we’ve got plenty of time.” He stood up. “Do you mind if I make a call? I promised young Clem I’d call him after he had his supper.”

  “Go ahead.” Archer sat down wearily.

  Vic went over to the telephone at the desk. He picked it up and dialed swiftly and carelessly. In the middle of the process, a strange expression came over Vic’s face. He listened intently, holding the instrument close to his ear, his eyes downcast and serious. Briefly he glanced at Archer and opened his mouth, as though he wanted to say something. But the phone was answered before the words came out.

  “Hello,” Vic said into the phone. “Clem? How’re things?” He held the phone a little away from his ear and Archer could hear the high, shrill, excited voice of the child at the other end of the line. “That’s good,” Vic said. “How was the lamb chop? Nice and rare? That’s it. Never let them get away with it. The world is full of people who’ll try to cook a man’s lamb chop to death if you’re not careful. Apple sauce, too. Oh, that sounds delicious. That’s just what I’m going to have for dinner, myself. Have you been nice to Johnny and Miss Tully? Remember, I’m depending on you, Clem.” Vic smiled gravely into the phone at the boy’s answer. “OK, son. I’ll tell her. Good night. I’ll be home early. No, not that early. I’ll read to you tomorrow night. Tell Johnny I said to behave himself. Cheers.” He put the phone down slowly, staring at it. “Ever since Saturday afternoon,” Vic said to Archer, “he insists that everybody say ‘Cheers’ to him at least once every fifteen minutes.” Vic didn’t move away from the desk. “Clement,” he said, “did you know your phone was tapped?”

  Archer was staring at the evening paper on his lap. He looked up. “What was that?”

  “Your phone is tapped,” Vic said. “Did you know it?”

  “What?” Archer said dazedly.

  “Your phone is …”

  “Yes. Yes. I heard you.” Archer stood up and went over to the desk. He looked down stupidly at the black plastic instrument with the white divided dial. 1, ABC 2, DEF 3, 0, at the end, all by itself, to call the Operator. “No, I didn’t know. How do you know?” He looked sharply at Vic to see if he was joking.

  Vic wasn’t joking. “During the war,” he said, “I had a friend in the OSS. They showed him how to r
ecognize it by the tone. He let me listen in on a telephone booth in Washington that was tapped. In a restaurant frequented by certain gentlemen from governments in exile.”

  Archer looked down incredulously at the innocent-seeming piece of machinery, no different from ten million others all over the country. He picked it up and listened. It sounded like every other telephone he had ever put to his ear.

  “Dial a few numbers,” Vic said in a low voice. “You’ll hear a kind of echo after each click.”

  Archer hesitated a moment. Then he dialed four times, at random. The echo was there. He put the phone down. His first emotion was anger. “God damn it,” he said. “God damn it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Vic said carelessly. “There’re probably fifty thousand taps on at this minute in this country. Maybe a million. You’ve got a lot of company. Tribal custom of the people.”

  “Who does it?” Archer asked. He was surprised at the thickness of his voice and the difficulty with which he formed the words. “Who the hell does it?”

  Vic shrugged. “The FBI, most likely. They’re busy little boys.”

  “You mean to say they have a man sitting somewhere all day and all night just listening to my phone?” Ludicrously, as he said it, he thought of the money it would cost the Government, three shifts a day, three men, with a fourth one for relief. How much did an FBI agent get? Four thousand, five thousand a year? Multiplied by four.

  “No,” Vic said. “I don’t imagine so. They have recording sets. It all goes onto wax and somebody collects them and listens at his leisure.”

  Helplessly, Archer thought of a hard-faced young man in a slouch hat, like the ones you see in the movies, sitting alertly in an official-looking room, listening to Kitty ordering roast beef and lettuce from the market; to Gloria, in the slack part of the day, calling her niece in Harlem, complaining about finding Mr. Archer’s pipe ashes all over the tables; to Jane agreeing to attend a football game with Bruce and going over the date the next day with her best friend, giggling icily and heartlessly about the transparency of the male sex; to Archer talking to O’Neill, asking him if he had a hangover, too, after the last night’s drinks at Louis’ bar. And to what other invitations, purchases, secrets, expressions of hope, of weariness, weakness, intimacies?