Downstairs, the streets were jammed with people rushing for subways, people like myself who couldn’t wait to get away from the places in which they spent most of their waking lives. The difference between them and me was: someday soon, I’d get away for good.
I saw him standing there on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, but I didn’t duck away fast enough. Henry De Witt caught up with me.
“Hello, Roy,” he said in that soft, weary voice of his. “I knew if I waited, I’d find you.”
“What’s up, Henry?” I kept moving in the direction of Broad.
He cleared his throat as he fell in step with me. “It’s—it’s about Ursula. You know … the girl at the party.”
“What about her?” I walked faster.
“Well, nothing really.” He hesitated. “I just wanted to … that is, Marsha told me you … Well, I mean, thanks for being such a good sport.”
“Forget it.”
“It was awfully decent of you to come through for me in a pinch and take her home the way you did.”
“I said forget it!” I felt like slugging him.
“She wasn’t angry with me, was she?” His eyes blinked with anxiety.
I stared at the pale face. “Why? Haven’t you spoken to her?”
“I … I’m afraid to call.” He grinned sheepishly. “I thought I’d give her time to cool off first.”
I had to laugh to myself. I was never going to let her cool off.
“No,” I said, “she wasn’t angry.”
He sighed gratefully. “You’ve got to let me buy you a drink.”
I shrugged. “If you insist.”
We went into Schuyler’s and stood at the bar. The martini felt good going down, but I had to listen to Henry with it. He was gabbing about Ursula, stammering out the details of his first date with her, and I tried not to hear him but he kept moving closer. Then he lowered his voice confidentially.
“You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
I looked at my watch, bored. “Anytime … anyplace.”
“She didn’t … I mean …” He lowered his eyes in confusion. “Ursula didn’t tell you, did she?”
“Tell me what?” I picked idly at the olive in my glass.
“That … well, about our getting married next week.”
The bartender jumped forward with the rag. “Oops! Here, let me get you another.”
“No,” I said hoarsely, “that’s all right.”He wiped up the drink. “Don’t be silly. It’ll only take—”
“I said no!” I turned. “I’ve got to run, Henry.”
“Wait a minute,” Henry said, “I haven’t even—”
“I’m getting out of here.” I moved for the door and he ran after me.
“You’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you?” He held my arm.
“Let go, will you?”
He followed me to the sidewalk, talking fast. “She doesn’t wear the ring at parties. It’s a week from Saturday. No ceremony. Mother doesn’t know yet. She wouldn’t approve, so we’re not going to tell her until it’s too late for her to do anything about it. You won’t say anything?” He clung to me. “Roy …?”
“Don’t worry,” I snapped, brushing him aside. “Now will you lay off? I have to get uptown.”
But fast. Suddenly I felt as though I’d stop breathing if I didn’t see her right away, laugh about all this right away …
He said, “Can I give you a ride in my car?”
I turned to him with a sick look. “Your … car?”
“Yes. I just got it. A Caddy. Come on, it’s just up the block.”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, thanks.” And I fled up the street. A great kidder, that Henry. He was going to marry Ursula Wynant a week from Saturday. Ha!
Uptown, I ran the two blocks from the subway station. I pushed her bell and banged on the door for five minutes, but it was no use. She wasn’t home.
There was a restaurant on the corner, and because it was dinnertime, I went in and ordered a meal, but all I could do was stare at the food and watch the clock. It was almost eight o’clock when I returned. The light was on in her window and my heart leaped.
“Who is it?” I heard her voice, muffled behind the closed door.
“Roy,” I sang out.
“Who?”
“Roy Samson.” Was she kidding?
The door swung open and I choked up at the sight of her loveliness.
“Hello,” I said airily. “May I?”
“This is a surprise.” She wasn’t smiling. “Come in.”
The living room wasn’t quite the way I had remembered it. Somehow, it seemed just a little smaller and a little plainer. I threw my hat and coat on the sofa and took her hands in mine.
“Ursula, honey.” I examined her face. Then I kissed it. Her lips were cold. “Baby,” I said, “how I’ve missed you. It’s been almost two whole days.”
She looked at me uncertainly. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes,” I said. “I sure would.” All at once I needed one desperately. The coldness of her lips … the look on her face.
She came back and I took the glass eagerly. “I called you so many times yesterday,” I said.
She nodded. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I heard the phone ringing.”
I set the glass down. “But, honey, why didn’t you answer?”
“Because—” She averted her eyes. “Because I knew it would be you.”
I stepped to her quickly and took her arm. “Ursula, look at me.”
“Please, Roy.” She pulled away.
But I wouldn’t let go. “Honey,” I said softly. I drew her to me and held my lips to hers, feeling her stiffen, then relax in my arms. “Why didn’t you want it to be me?”
She didn’t answer.
My voice rose to a shout. “Why didn’t you want it to be me?”
She broke away and went to the window. “Please go, Roy. Please. I don’t … I don’t want …”
“You don’t want what?” I cried out.
She turned and I saw the anguish on her face. “I don’t want to fall in love with you!”
The words hit me in the pit of my stomach—I don’t want to fall in love with you—and all I could do was stand there dumbly as the truth crept over me like a sickness, knowing all at once that that was what I had wanted, really, more than anything else in the world.
“Jesus, honey,” I groaned, “but what about—what about the other night?”
“It was wonderful … a treasure …” I heard her voice. Her face was turned to the window again. “I’ll always remember it. Don’t spoil it, Roy.”
And the bitterness was upon me. “He was right, then,” I sneered. “He wasn’t kidding.” I grabbed the glass from the table.
She turned. “Who?”
“I saw Henry this afternoon.” I drained the glass. “He told me everything. You are to be congratulated.” My face twisted. “Con grat - ulations. Here comes the bride—all dressed in a Cadillac.”
She came over to me. “Please, please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry,” I snapped, shoving her hand away. “What have I got to be angry about? I hardly know you. I’ve got no claims. You said it yourself, didn’t you? Let’s not talk about love, that’s what you said. Okay. Let’s not talk about love.” I moved for my hat and coat. “Let’s not talk about anything. Let’s especially not talk about Henry De Witt.”
“Roy—wait a minute!” She held on to my arm, and something in her voice cried out to me.
“All right.” My lips trembled. “I’m waiting.”
She buried her face on my chest, and I knew then that she was crying. “I’m so sorry, Roy, but please try to forgive me. I guess I was hoping you’d be as casual as most men are. Maybe I was selfish, but when you feel you’re going under the waves for the last time you want to take one last look around at all that you’ll never have again. …”
“What do you mean?” I pull
ed her face up angrily. “Why never again? Why does it have to be a lifetime with Henry De Witt? Why?”
“Look at me,” she pleaded. “Can’t you see it written all over my face? Look around at this shabby apartment. Can’t you understand how it can be that there are too many things I want too much because I never had them at all? They’re the things that money can buy, Roy— not love—and I can’t help myself any more for wanting them. Didn’t you ever want the things that money can buy?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” I cried out in sudden fury. … “Never mind what I want!” … Knowing that my anger had betrayed me.
She regarded me for a moment. “We’re so much alike, aren’t we? We’d never have been right for each other anyway. We need the Henrys … and the Marshas …”
“Marsha?” I grabbed her wrist. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“They’re always there waiting for us,” Ursula went on. “The submissive, who have to buy what they want, waiting for the dominant to come along and swallow them up. It’s something like your Stock Exchange, Roy. Always sell in a rising market, before you get too old or too unattractive to find a buyer.”
“No,” I cried, turning away. “It’s not true.” The words sounded hollow to my ears. “That isn’t the way it is.”
“It is for me, Roy,” she said quietly.
“No.” I shook my head weakly, trying not to see the clock on the bookcase, silent reminder of a waiting card table, a hopeful father and a girl who wanted me to gaze into her wounded eyes for the rest of our natural lives.
“I know what I want out of life!” Ursula was saying, “and I’m not going to trade it in for love.”
“Honey, please!” I took her in my arms.
“It’s no use.” She struggled. “I could love you … much too easily, Roy. But it’s too late.”
“You’ve got to listen to me!” I pleaded with her, holding her close and seeking her lips as though to still her protests, knowing that I wasn’t really fighting for her —I was fighting for myself. “Listen to me now!” I shouted.
“No!” She broke away with a desperate cry and ran to the door. “Oh God, please get out, Roy!”
“Honey—”
“Get out!” She tore open the door and stood there tensely. “Can’t you see?” she implored. “It’s got to be good-by.”
I stared at her. I watched her until the crumbling face was no longer beautiful, and a sneer managed to find its way to my lips. She was just another girl, that was all … a girl who couldn’t stop knowing what she wanted out of life long enough to give me a reprieve … a stay of execution.
“Okay, baby,” I said quietly. “Anything you say.” I went past her and took up my hat and coat.
“You’re not angry, Roy?” Her voice reached out to me hopefully.
“Angry? No.” I smiled a crooked little smile. “Just bored.”
“Roy—”
I sauntered out without even looking back.
What the hell … you can’t have everything. Maybe it was time I stopped trying. I glanced at my watch. I was late. The old man would be fretting and Marsha would be sitting there on the sofa biting her stubby fingernails. Maybe it was time to get down on one knee, mouth a few pretty words and begin to cash in on a life time of ease. The field was getting dull, anyway.
“The field is for suckers,” I said to myself in the darkness of the cab. I stopped off on the way and bought a box of candy.
And then I was strolling through the lobby, past the gold-braided doorman and the plush, unused furniture and the picture windows that looked out upon useless, well-manicured gardens. I caught sight of myself in the mirror-lined walls of the elevator, and I saw that my face was pale and thin. I had been trying too hard. The rest would do me good. A nice long lifetime of rest. …
Mr. Cornell answered the door.
“I’m late,” I said, breezing past him into the foyer.
He shuffled the unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Give me your hat and coat, Roy.”
“Candy, too.” I put the package on the sideboard. “Sweets for the sweet. And where is my little sweetie?”
I went into the living room, drinking in the soft, rich glow of its dimly lighted splendor. It was a beautiful room, the kind of room that made you wonder what you could have been seeking in the tawdry flats of the Ursula Wynants. This was it. This was what I wanted and this was what I was going to have.
I sang out, “Marsha?” waiting for the archway to spew her into my arms.
Mr. Cornell came in. “Have a drink, Roy?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Where’s everybody?”
“Mrs. Cornell is in her bedroom. She doesn’t feel well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I sank comfortably into a club chair. “You want to tell Marsha I’m here? Tell my little—”
“Marsha is out.”
I looked up at him, blinking. “Marsha? Out?” I laughed.
“She is out … with a young man. …” He picked the words carefully. “Out for the evening … on a date … with a boy from my office … who … who is very much interested in her.”
I chuckled. “Really?”
“Is there a joke, Roy?” His lips began to quiver. “Is it so strange and humorous that men should be interested in a lovely … charming young creature …” He sounded as though he were going to cry. “A sweet … intelligent girl who … who …”
I got up from the chair and went right past him. I went down the long hallway straight to her bedroom and tried the door. It was locked.
“Marsha?” I rattled the knob.
I heard the muffled sob on the other side.
“Honey,” I called out, “come on now—stop acting foolish.”
No answer.
“Marsha!” I shouted, pounding on the door. “Do you hear me?”
I went back to the living room, to the old man. “What’s this all about?” I demanded.
He looked at me with haggard eyes. “My daughter is out for the evening,” he said in a proud, hollow voice. “She is out on a date. …”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“She asked me to give you a message.” He seemed to straighten up as he spoke. “She doesn’t care to have you call her any more. She doesn’t want to see you. That was what she told me to tell you before she went out with the boy from my office.”
I licked my dry lips. “We’ll see about that.” I started for the foyer.
He came after me. “Wait a minute—”
I stopped and looked down at his hand on my arm. A smile came to my face. “You didn’t let me get very far, did you?”
“Where are you going, Roy?” he asked quietly.
“You said she was out.”
“That’s right.” He began to lead me back. “But you came to see me, remember? We’re going to play a little gin rummy tonight. No?”
He led me across the living-room carpet.
“Fifty cents a point, Roy.”
“But, Mr. Cornell—”
“Isn’t that what we agreed?” His grip tightened.
I nodded dumbly. “Yes, but—”
“All right, then.” He opened the library door. The card table was all set up, waiting for me. “Take off your jacket, Roy. Make yourself comfortable.”
He sat down at the table and began to shuffle the cards with swift, practiced skill.
I stood there, feeling my hands growing cold.
“Mr. Cornell—” I began in a feeble voice.
He was gazing at the score sheet. “Twenty-three hundred dollars,” he said softly. “And all I ever wanted for her was happiness.”
“Mr. Cornell—can’t we—?” I swallowed.
“Sit down, Roy.” He brought a flame to his cigar.
“Can’t we talk this over?”
He looked up at me.
“Sit down,” he said, “and cut the cards.”
He Brung Happiness to Millions
YEP. KNOW WHATCHA MEAN. Seems I lik
e a long ride but ackshelly it’s nearer Mr. Hackett’s place this way than if I would of met your train at L.A. what with that downtown traffic, oh brother. So jus’ relax. Sit back and enjoy the scenery. You already come three thousand miles, this is oney a drop in the bucket and you’re there. This your first trip out here, Mr. Talbot? …
I thought so. Knew I never seen you at Mr. Hackett’s or at the broadcast. Welp, all I can say is, you’re gonna like it out here. This is God’s country and Mr. Hackett is a fine man. Fourteen years now I been with him and ain’t got a cause for complain. Except maybe those jokes he tells about me on the air, about Willy the chauffeur, that’s me natchelly, but hell, I don’ really mind. It’s jus’ my missus nags me I oughta get paid extra if he’s gonna make fun of me and call me a punchy stumble bum over the television. She didn’ even want me to sign no release, you know how women are. You ain’t married, are you? …
Di’n’ think so. I can always tell. Suppose you’re the new gag writer for the program, huh? …
Uh oh. Strike one against Willy. Not that you sound like no gag writer, don’ get me wrong, Mr. Talbot. It’s jus’ that there’s usually quite a few of ’em comin’ and goin’ and as a matter of fac’ oney las’ week when I’m drivin’ Lenny Stack to the station and tellin’ him how sorry I am the boss don’ renew his contract he says to me: “Don’ worry, Willy” he says. “There’ll be another one jus’ like me before long.” So you see I figure you was it, ‘cause you’re a young, good-lookin’ guy like Lenny Stack (you’re welcome) and you look like a writer too. I could of sworn—
A what? …
Ha ha. You’re a mighty healthy-lookin’ ghost there, Mr. Talbot. Yes, sir. Stop me if I ast too many questions. The boss always says I ast too many questions. But jus’ exackly what is the ghost gonna ghostwrite? Ha ha …
Ya don’ say? An autobiography book. The Life of Monty Hackett. That’s grand. Wonnerful. You’re gonna have a mighty fine book there, Mr. Talbot, and you wanna know somethin’? It’ll make a mighty fine movin’ pitcher too, and that sure would make the boss happy ’cause I know how much he wants his life story in pitchers, ever since that Al Jolson pitcher ten, twelve years ago. Mr. Hackett seen the Jolson pitcher three times and I hear him tell Manny Zack, that’s his agent, I hear him tell Manny that Jolson’s life’s not half as inarresting and inspirational as the life of Monty Hackett, but of course he’s too modest to come right out and do somethin’ about it. And believe me it’s about time they done a pitcher about Mr. Hackett’s life. Ain’t he a great name in show business for years and aln’t he a fine, outstandin’ example of a good man? Look at all them charities he works for and what a fine family man he is and how he keeps sendin’ food and clothes to his folks in the old country every Christmas and how good he is to Clarabelle. …
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