I went cold at the sound of her voice.
“You,” she said, “and J. J., and the innocent little girl he can’t let go of.” She smiled suddenly. “All of it out the window.”
“What do you mean?”
She went past me toward the door.
“What a terrible, wonderful thing that would be.” She was laughing.
“Susan!” I jumped to her side, but it was too late be cause the door was already closed, and she was turning the key in the lock, and I was tearing at her hands savagely, crying, “What’s the idea?”
She broke away, with the key in her hand, and stood in the center of the room. “Come on, Sidney.” She faced me defiantly. “Let’s see you take it away from me like you’ve tried to take away everything else!”
I ran to the door and fought with the knob, but the door was locked. “Listen now”—I went to her and grabbed her wrists—“What do you think you’re doing?” I tore at her fists and worked them open. The key was no longer in her hand.
“Search me, Sidney,” she said quietly. “Take my clothes off. Maybe you’ll find the key. Maybe you won’t.”
“What’s come over you?” I cried in a hoarse voice.
She laughed a horrible laugh, and ran to the switch, and suddenly the lights were out, and she was moving at me in the darkness, and her arms were encircling my neck, and she was murmuring, “Hold me close, Sidney. I want you to know what Steve will have to wait for. Kiss me, and find out what he’s missing. Go on. Don’t be afraid. Kiss me. J. J. isn’t here yet.”
“Stop it!” I fought to rip her arms from me, but she locked them tighter. “Susan!” She squirmed against me, smearing my face with her lipstick. “Don’t be a fool!”
“This is what you wanted,” her voice stabbed at me in the darkness. “This is what you’ve been moving heaven and earth for, isn’t it, Sidney? You didn’t want Steve to have me. You wanted me for yourself, didn’t you? Isn’t that the truth that J. J. will always believe?”
“My God! No!” I broke her grip and threw her away from me, and rushed to the wall and turned on the lights.
“Oh, yes, Sidney,” she said quietly, smiling and nodding.
“You wouldn’t!” My face blanched. I looked around frantically.
“The window, Sidney,” she said in a voice of iron. “That’s the only way out. But you won’t take it. You don’t want to die.”
“Susan, please.” I reached out a hand imploringly.
“You want to live, and grow fatter, until some day you’ll be so fat with power, you’ll be even greater than J. J. Hunsecker, isn’t that right, Sidney? You don’t want to die. You just want to live so you can kill!” “You wouldn’t lie to him.”
“Of course I would,” she said harshly. “The terrible thing about people like you is that decent people have to become so much like you in order to stop you—in order to survive.” Her voice rang out. “But they always survive, Sidney! That’s the wonderful thing.”
“Give me that key,” I said quickly.
“Steve will be out some day. It doesn’t make any difference when. He’ll be out, and I’ll be there to meet him.”
“I said give me that key!” I moved at her.
She backed away, crying, “But you’re through, Sidney! You’re as finished as a man can be while he’s still alive!”
I grabbed her with one hand and slapped her face hard. “Give it to me, do you hear!”
“You came into her bedroom,” she spit the words at me, “and you ruined the sister of J. J. Hunsecker forever. You destroyed the image, everything that’s dear to him, didn’t you, Sidney?”
“Shut up!” I struck her again.
“Let him live with the memory of what you’re doing to me in this room for the rest of his life!” she cried out. “He’ll love you for it!” She tore away from me and ripped the covers off the bed. “Come on, Sidney. Undress me and help yourself to the key!”
She stopped and turned to listen. I heard it, too. Outside. The noise. The front door …
“Susan,” I moaned.
“Hurry, Sidney,” she whispered.
“Oh, God …”
She was ripping her blouse into shreds, standing in her brassiere now and tearing at her trousers …
I went to her. “Don’t!”
“You’ll need the key, Sidney.”
“Don’t!”
“There, Sidney.” She stepped back and the key lay there on the carpet, gleaming up at me, as the sounds grew louder—the searching voice, frantic footsteps. “You can go now,” she said softly. “It’s over— finished—done with—forever.”
I picked the key up from the floor, moaning quietly to myself, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry …”
“I warned you, Sidney.” Voices echoed out of the past.
“I’m sorry,” I cried softly, as though they would ever hear me— any of them, all of them—to everyone I had ever known I cried, “I’m sorry,” as I walked slowly to the door.
And then, as I knew I would, I heard her begin to cry out behind me. I heard the voice of a girl who would never be a girl again, and she was crying, “Help me, J. J.! Help me, J. J.! Oh, please, J. J., help!” And from the other side, the other voice was shouting hoarsely and the furious fists were pounding against the door, and I went to it, moaning softly, “I’m sorry … I’m sorry,” and I turned the key in the lock and pulled open the door.
And then I saw the face.
“J. J. … Look, J. J. … Wait a minute. … Listen to me. … J. J. … For God’s Sake! … J. J.! … Jesus! … Don’t. …”
The Man Who Liked to Look at Women
FIRST HE GLANCED WITH DELIBERATE unseeing eyes at some of the other passengers in the subway car who were, like himself, aging and work-weary and unbeautiful. Then he panned his gaze slowly across the advertising posters, reading—but not reading—of cough mixtures and hair rinses and headache powders. And finally, like a dog that has circled its bowl of food long enough, he looked directly at the girl, and she was unlawfully beautiful.
She was slender and bare-limbed and very blonde, and she wore a simple black dress and a glowing suntan and the light of youth in her eyes. Lew stared at her above the page of his newspaper and something inside of him made him want to cry, and unaccountably he found himself thinking of the first time he had seen the Grand Canyon on the Greyhound Tour with Martha years ago, when he had felt the urge to jump over the edge.
Suddenly her eyes met his—cool, gray-green eyes—and he looked away quickly, thinking: you too, like all the rest of them … cruel, thoughtless, selfish of your beauty. Impatiently he stared at the blur of print on his paper, and when he looked up at her again, he breathed imploringly: Please let me look at you for more than a few seconds—not furtively but with admiration. I want only to look at you, nothing more, as I would examine anything that is beautiful. Please let me. …
But she wouldn’t. She caught his glance immediately and forced it away, and then the train was at his station and he was out on the platform watching her disappear forever from his sight. It was so little that he asked for, really—and so unattainable: just to be able to look, that was all … without tension, without guilt, without the inevitable reprimand in their eyes. Take away summer sunsets and national parks and paintings that hang in museums, if they must, but let him enjoy the eighth wonder of the world.
He walked home slowly from the subway station, instead of taking the bus, and he was quiet at the dinner table, taking no part in the babble of his wife and the three children. And at precisely the moment he had known she would, Martha asked him if anything were wrong.
“Not a thing, dear,” Lew assured her with a quick smile. “I guess I’m just a little bit tired.”
And so much else, he thought.
“You’ve left some meat on your chops,” Martha said, poking at his plate with her fork. “Look. All this here is meat. If you only knew how hard—”
“I’m sorry. I’ll finish it,” he said quietly
. He gnawed on the bones and watched Martha across the table, telling himself again that he still had a deep affection for her, and wondering for the thousandth time whether his life would have been any different—one way or the other—if she had remained lovely to look at.
Afterwards, he listened while his eldest daughter, Tina, ran through her piano exercises, and when he saw Martha settle down in her chair with a pile of socks in her lap and the needle and thread in her hands, he put on his worn felt hat and announced that he was going out for a walk.
Martha looked up from her darning. “I thought you were tired.” she said evenly.
“Maybe the air will do me some good,” Lew said.
“I see,” Martha said to the heap of socks in her lap. She didn’t say anything for a while, and then she added: “Will you bring me back an ice-cream cone, Lew?”
“All right,” he said.
“Vanilla.”
“Vanilla,” Lew said.
He patted her on the head and left the apartment, but he did not go for a walk. He caught the bus to the subway station and rode downtown as far as Fiftieth Street and Broadway, and when he emerged to the street he crossed over and walked up to a brightly lit drugstore window. It was a balmy Indian summer night and the sidewalks were jammed with gay, pleasure-bound crowds. Lew stood there, bright-eyed, hardly knowing where to look first—a nondescript little man in neatly shabby clothes with his nose pressed up against the windowpane of the world.
… There were so many of them and each of them in her own individual way so wonderful to look at, but they walked too fast and there were too many places to look and only two eyes to see them with and almost before you saw them they were gone from your life forever and you wanted to shout “stop! stop!” and freeze the scene, like shutting off a motion-picture projector, but that would have been worse because so much of the beauty was sheer female movement … the sure-footed prance of long legs in high heels … the gentle up-and-down bobbing of long, shining hair on shoulders … the slow panther gait … the bouncy short steps … hips and arms and calves in a symphony of grace. …
He hardly noticed the redhead in the green dress who had stopped beside him to look at the drugstore window display. She stood there a long time without looking at him, and then after a while she gave him a short side glance and finally, with her face still turned to the window, she said: “When did you get back from Chicago, Mr. Wilson?”
He looked around, startled. “There must be some mistake,” he said. “My name isn’t Wilson. And I haven’t been in Chicago.”
“That’s okay. Don’t let it bother you,” she said to the window. “I’ve met lots of guys who never were in Chicago, and they still liked to have a good time … Mr. Wilson.”
“Look, my name is not—”
“I know,” she turned from the window and smiled at him and he didn’t like her face. “It’s Jonathan Smith and you live in East Orange, New Jersey, and believe it or not you’re waiting for a sidecar. I’m thirsty too. Shall we?”
“Shall we what?”
“Shall we dance?”
He looked at her mutely.
Her smile evaporated. “Am I boring you?”
“Please,” Lew said, looking away.“Well, then, what were you standing here for?” she said in a harsh voice.
Lew looked at her wildly, and then he turned and fled into the drugstore and ordered a small coke at the fountain, and it was several minutes before his hands stopped shaking. They just wouldn’t let him, that was all. It was so little that he wanted of them and they just wouldn’t let—
He sucked in his breath sharply. He hadn’t seen the girl who was sitting diagonally to his right at the side of the fountain … the exquisite cameo face with shining gold hair piled high in a majestic upsweep. He set his glass down slowly on the counter and stared at her in rapt amazement. This was what he needed … as a drunk needs another shot … as a drowning man needs a straw. He began to examine the aesthetic wonder of her features, pleading silently: Please don’t, please don’t, pl—
She turned her head sharply and met his gaze head on, and he felt the impact in the pit of his stomach, and it was so sudden that he dared not avert his eyes too abruptly. And then after horribly eternal seconds he broke and looked down at his glass, feeling the color rising to his cheeks. He hated her. He hated every damned breath-taking one of them. But this one he hated more bitterly than any of them because she was right there now, hoarding herself like a beautiful miser, denying the cool, clear drink to the man who was dying of thirst. Well, she wouldn’t get away with it, damn her. Not this time.
He looked up again, and her eyes were there waiting for him, waiting like a motorcycle cop behind a roadside bush, but he didn’t care now. He stared boldly at her, without wavering, and he kept staring into her eyes even though his heart was beating uncomfortably fast, even though the tension and the awareness of each other made it impossible for him to derive any enjoyment from her beauty. And finally she averted her eyes. Not he. She did. But even as he was bringing his glass to his lips to cover the flush of triumph, he became aware for the first time of the large, florid-cheeked man in the loud sport jacket sitting on the far side of the girl and obviously watching him closely.
Lew tossed a dime on the counter and started to slide from his stool, but he knew it was too late, for the big man was already calling to him: “Is there anything I can do for you, mister?”Lew looked away as though he hadn’t heard, but the red-faced man got up from his seat, patted the girl comfortingly on the shoulder, and walked slowly towards him, swaying slightly as he walked.
“You got something on your mind there, mister?” he said, testily. “Something bothering you?”
Lew laughed nervously. “Why no,” he said.
“Well, whaddaya looking at?” The man towered like a mountain of over-dressed beef.
“I was only … only …” Lew groped for the right words.
“You was only what?”
The big man stepped up to him and Lew could feel heads turning to watch them, and he saw that the girl had a scornful smile on her face and he could smell the liquor on the man’s breath. He felt terribly small.
“You was what?” the man with the loud jacket repeated.
“She’s very lovely,” Lew said suddenly, knowing even as he said it that those were not the right words.
The big man drew in his breath sharply. “All right, c’mon,” he said.
Lew backed away slowly.
“Get moving,” the big man said, his huge bulk shifting forward implacably.
“Now wait a minute,” Lew said hoarsely.
“C’mon. Come on!”
“Where do you get—?” Lew started to protest, but it was too late because the big man was upon him now, and somewhere in the terribly silent drugstore he heard a snicker and he wanted to turn and run. But all at once a wave of hot, blind fury was surging over him and suddenly he was lashing out desperately with his fist at a thousand beautiful faces and a thousand pairs of accusing eyes and it caught the man hard in the pit of his stomach. And in the brief confusion as the big man toppled back stunned against the fountain, knocking over a glass, Lew turned and walked out as slowly as he dared and immediately was swallowed up in the crowds. He didn’t even turn to look back when he heard a voice shouting far behind him, but quickly went down into the subway station and took the local to Seventy-second Street and then changed to an express, and when he found himself standing near an exotic brunette with alabaster skin he pushed his way hurriedly into the next car and waited for the turmoil within him to subside. …
Martha was sitting in the big chair watching television when he got home. She looked up at him as he put his hat away, and the first thing she said was: “You forgot the ice-cream cone again, Lew.”
“Oh, darn it, I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you want me to go back down?”
“No. Never mind.” She looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Lew said again. He walked into the bed
room, undoing his tie, and he really wasn’t sorry, because he knew that Martha was more pleased with his having forgotten than she would have been with the ice-cream cone. That was the way it was with people. Everyone had a hidden source of pleasure. He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and stared dully at his shoes.
Don’t You Like It Out Here?
THE TROUBLE WITH HOLLYWOOD is, no matter how little there is to do at night, the sun is always there in the morning to make the hangover seem worse.
I swung around in the swivel chair, trying to work the glare down onto the trade paper instead of smack into the hot coals I used for eyeballs, and I scanned the rest of the column. But I could have saved myself the eyestrain. We weren’t in Connolly either. I tossed him into the over-flowing wastebasket along with Parsons and Hopper and stared gloomily at the junkpile on my desk.
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Bliss?” my secretary asked.
I just gave her a sour laugh. One of these days I was going to surprise her and answer that question. I would take a few hours off and tell her what was wrong … with me … with everything … and she’d take it all down in shorthand and I’d sell it to the studio for a hundred thousand dollars—and that, of course, would turn it into a lie because then I’d be rich and a successful writer instead of a mediocre studio press agent going nowhere.
The phone rang, and I heard her say, “Right away,” and then to me: “He wants to see you.”
“That’s sweet of him.” I took my cashmere jacket from the back of the chair and walked upstairs to Producers Row to the office with the largest white shingle of all hanging down above it. Mrs. Samuels gave me the nod and I went right into the inner sanctum.
Finn Wildbeck, Norway’s gift to Hollywood, sat slumped in the big wingback chair behind the enormous desk, and I had to look hard to find him. As though to add emphasis to the painful fact of his smallness, he seemed to prefer everything oversize—furniture, cigars, women. … I guess you would call it a form of masochism, like having his wife’s picture on his desk where he’d have to see it.
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