He gazed at them beseechingly, feeling the coldness of their anger and their stunned betrayal sweeping over him. And suddenly, in an agony of awareness, he knew the truth. He was through. It was over, forever. Nothing he could do or say would ever be able to restore the shattered illusion or wipe out the memory of what they had seen revealed to them tonight. He looked out at them with frantic, pleading eyes and saw the answer on their faces, and it was oblivion.
Slowly, hopelessly, he turned and walked off the stage, off all the screens of all the living rooms in the land.
And in a moment, it was over.
I pushed through the solemn crowds, searching for Connie. I found her and took her hand. Together we went outside, into the fresh air.
The Happy Hangover
HE WAS SITTING WITH GINNY AT a back table at Barbetta’s, memorizing the delicate lines around her mouth and the bright fourteen-karat gold of her hair; and later they were window-shopping along Fifth Avenue and it was the kind of summer-scented evening that would have made any couple walk hand in hand; and he was holding her close on a crowded dance floor, making believe they belonged together; and then he was standing on the sidewalk in front of her hotel, clinging to her hand as though she were Juliet, which she was, and he Romeo, which he wasn’t, and parting was such sweet sorrow that even now, as he dream-walked along Forty-sixth Street on the crystal-clear morning after, he could not allow himself to let go of the ridiculous good feeling that still intoxicated him, like a happy hangover.
He strolled west slowly, an immaculate little man in his forties, smiling benignly at the insensitive mobs who rushed about the city on their own dull business, his head held high as though in defiance of anyone who would dare suggest that he really had no reason to hold it high. Paxton always walked slowly. It gave him a feeling of well-being, a sense even of superiority. Only the poor slobs who had to work for a living were subject to clocks. That was one of the things Paxton liked so much about being an actor, about being out of work so often: he seldom had to hurry. Stopping at the florist for his daily cornflower, he was gratified to find that the unsmiling Mr. Lavelle seemed as obnoxious to him as usual, even through the rose-colored glow of his mood. Mr. Lavelle always appeared to be sniffing something unpleasant—a neat trick in a flower shop—and Paxton would not have wanted him to appear any different today. For Paxton had made up his mind what he was going to say to him the instant he had entered the shop, even before Mr. Lavelle accepted his twenty-five-cent piece and tossed it on the till of the cash register with the customary throw-away motion that is reserved by others for a piece of dirt that has adhered to the clothing.
“Mr. Lavelle,” Paxton said, “I shall be placing an order with you sometime next week. An order for a bridal bouquet. Do you suppose that I can count on you for something appropriate?”
Mr. Lavelle, arms folded, was looking blandly out of the window. “Who,” he sighed, without turning to Paxton, “is getting married?”
“I am,” Paxton replied, inspecting his fingernails.
“Oh?” Mr. Lavelle looked Paxton slowly up and down and then turned back to the window. “Something simple and unpretentious, I take it, Mr. Paxton? Something on the inexpensive side?”
“Precisely,” Paxton smiled. “ I knew I could depend on you to understand. I’ll give you the details in a few days.”
Mr. Lavelle made a slight sound that could have been a laugh, or indigestion.
Paxton moved toward the door. “Oh, I almost forgot. The unlucky girl, Mr. Lavelle. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. Ginny Lester?”
He paused just long enough to see the lemon-meringue pie hit Mr. Lavelle squarely in the face. Then he walked out gaily, feeling as though he had just jousted with a brace of Paddy’s incomparable whisky sours.
He would have liked to drop in at Paddy’s for a quick one, but it was too close to the first of the month and too far from the first of last month, and Paddy could be awfully aggravating about a tiny pile of tabs, as though you intended to cheat him out of it. So he didn’t go to Paddy’s but instead went directly to Vito’s to offer his beard to the guillotine.
“The works, Vito,” he commanded, sprawling comfortably in the barber-chair. “Shave, facial, manicure, shine, and anything else you’ve got to make me more beautiful that I am.”
“Ah hah, an auction today, Mr. Paxton?” Vito swabbed the lather on with broad strokes.
“Not auction, dear boy. It’s audition—as in sorry-old-man-butyou’re-not-the-type. No, Vito, no audition today. I am currently on a vacation between layoffs.”
Vito chuckled as though it were the first time he had heard it. He smelled faintly of garlic and curiosity.
“Your picture took, eh?”
Paxton just smiled. They couldn’t rush him. He was waiting for the right moment. He waited until Vito was scraping around the chin, and Oscar was snapping the cloth on his shoes and Irene was buffing his nails. Then he said quietly, “I’m going to get married soon.”
It was perfect. Kazan couldn’t have staged it better. Everything came to a halt at the same moment … the cloth on the shoes, the buff on the nails, and the razor on the chin
“No, now, Mr. Paxton …” Vito spread his palms out in protest at the enormity of the joke.
“Yes,” Paxton said.
“Who?” Vito said, exchanging quick glances with Oscar and Irene.
“Ginny Lester,” Paxton replied, just as though he were saying Jane Doe.
“No!” Vito exclaimed.
“Yes,” Paxton said.
“Such a lovely little girl,” Vito rocked his head back and forth like a metronome. “Such a talented little girl, Mr. Paxton.” He covered Paxton’s face with a hot towel and Paxton could hear him talking excitedly in Italian to Louis, the other barber, and though he could not understand a word he was sure it was something to feel good about, so he relaxed happily under the heat of the towel and let himself feel good about it. And when finally he got out of the chair, he took pains not to look in the mirror because he did not want to waste any part of this lovely day convincing himself that the gray hair was distingué and that the lines near the eyes, where thoughtless crows had dragged heavy feet, lent a certain charm.
He had no trouble borrowing another ten from Vito, and as he walked across town through the noisy streets he said aloud, just to try it on for size: “Ginny Paxton … Genevieve Paxton … Mrs. Horace Paxton … I want you to meet my wife, Ginny … No, my wife, Genevieve … No, Ginny.” Ginny was best. They all sounded wonderful but Ginny was best.
He started humming “People Will Say We’re In Love” as he pushed his way through the lunch-hour throngs on Broadway and crossed through Shubert Alley to the theater. He poked his head through the stage-door entrance, where Charlie was cleaning his nails with a pen knife, and he said to him, “Through these portals you keep out the most beautiful pests in the world.”
Charlie looked up and grunted.
“I know you’re not supposed to permit it, Charlie,” Paxton said, “but I just want to say hello to Sheila Minor. Be a good boy?”
“Why not?” Charlie said, without pausing in his toiletry.
She was sitting before her dressing table, trying to cover as many years as she could with a heavy layer of makeup. Standing in the doorway, Paxton could see the darkening roots of her blond hair and he could tell that she had seen him in the mirror, though she did not speak.
“Hello, Sheila darling,” he said. “I thought you ought to be the first to know.”
He waited, but she did not say a word.
“I’m getting married,” he said, and the powder-puff stopped for an almost imperceptible instant, then resumed.
“To Ginny Lester,” he said.
She began to laugh quietly, staring hard into the mirror.
“… at the Little Church Around the Corner … Next week, pet. I thought you’d like to hear it from me.”
She just sat there laughing, a little louder now, without mirth, sparring with
a powder-puff against the lines of her face. And he could still hear her as he walked down the stairs and it was a strange kind of laughter, like crying with the tears strained out.
“Thanks, Charlie,” he said, as he left the theater.
“Why not?” Charlie said, working on his thumbnail.
He went to the Automat and had a good lunch and over a cup of black coffee he thought for a moment of calling Ginny, but then he decided not to because there was so much he wanted to do. He wanted to drop in on Max at Acme Loan and watch the beads of perspiration start forming on Max’s forehead when he saw him coming. He wanted to go up to O’Keefe’s office and be brushed off by Miss Davenport and be told that O’Keefe was terribly tied up at the moment but they’d get in touch with him if anything turned up, and then he’d say, “By the way,” and tell Miss Davenport, loud enough so that O’Keefe would come running out of his once to follow him to the elevator. Oh yes, and he’d sit in the park for a few hours to get a little sun on his face and think about golden hair and pale blue eyes and the magical sound of “Mr. and Mrs. Horace Paxton,” like lyrics to a beautiful tune. And he would have a fine dinner at Sardi’s and then make the rounds and … oh, there was so much left to do, it would be foolish to spoil a perfectly lovely day by calling Ginny now.
He finished his coffee and left the Automat and walked slowly up Broadway toward the park. There would be plenty of time to call her. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow he’d even get himself to ask her. There was no need to hurry. There never was. That was one of the things he liked so much about being an actor.
Hunsecker Fights the World
THE CAMPUS WAS LOUSY WITH IVY and Gothic architecture and June flies, and the two hundred girls sitting there on all sides of me listening to Hunsecker’s commencement day address were pretty depressing too. College degrees in hand, they still didn’t know any better than to hang on his every word as though he were an oracle with a private pipeline to God, the White House and the Kremlin. They were right in there with the forty million sheep who worshipped him at the altar of their television screens and moved their lips every day while soaking up his syndicated column.
He was coming to the end now, wrapping it up with a string of aphorisms that were nothing more than clichés spelled backwards. The strident voice, loud with authority, rose incongruously from his under-sized body and rang out over the hushed audience.
“… And Reno will have to fold its roulette tables and steal away into the night, if each one of you will remember this.” He paused dramatically. “Home … is where you hang … your heart.
His arms fell to his sides and the silence exploded into shattering applause. He stood there nodding and smiling, unwilling to move away, to end the ovation, his perspiring face suffused with self-love as he allowed the waves of enthusiasm to wash over him again and again.
Then the girls were falling into the arms of their damp-eyed relatives, and up on the platform the faculty and alumnae were clawing at each other to reach Hunsecker and shake his hand, so I drifted over to the buffet-spread to join the flies. I stood there swilling pale punch and watched him autographing engraved programs for anyone who came to him with the magic words: “I always read your column, Mr. Hunsecker.” When I picked up his trail again, after examining the sandwich platters, he was standing under an elm tree holding an animated monologue with a pretty girl in cap and gown. I figured that that must be his sister, Susan, so I ambled over.
He punched my arm lightly. “Well, how did you like it, Sidney? I even had the pigeons on the rooftops listening. I may use it for a Tuesday column, cut down, of course. I think it has something for women everywhere, not just these chicks. Don’t you agree, baby? Too bad the local station didn’t have a network tieup. Damned fools could have had Hunsecker for nothing. Ha. I’d like to have seen Josephson’s face. Josephson signs the checks for my sponsor, honey. Talking outdoors does strange things with my timing. It must be the echoes. Did you notice, Sidney? Take that first pause. …”
He droned on, and the girl stared at him in the strained, self-conscious way people affect as their only defense against the embarrassment of not having been introduced to a newly arrived stranger.
“… may insist on having a studio audience. I find it stimulating to see their faces. To hell with CBC policy on commentators. Which carries more weight, a lousy fifty-grand-a-year vice-president or a twenty-eight-point-six rating? Hunsecker makes Hooper jump through a hoop, doesn’t he? Say, not bad … Hooper through a hoop. Send that to me, will you, baby?”
I took out my Robinson Reminder and jotted it down. The girl didn’t know where to look, and her face was beginning to flush.
“Look,” I said, “you must be Susan. My name is Sidney Falco.”
She nodded gratefully, and Hunsecker stepped between us quickly.
“Sidney’s a tall one, isn’t he? And he’s not bad looking when he isn’t grouchy, but right now he’s got that look on his face. He doesn’t like the heat … do you, tootsie? You’re itching to get back to New York.”
“That’s the general idea,” I said evenly.
“All right, baby.” He took my arm with one hand and Susan’s with the other and steered us across the campus. “Sidney must be obliged because when Sidney isn’t obliged he gets tiresome, and life is difficult enough as it is without a tiresome Sidney.” When we reached the station wagon that was waiting in front of the administration building to take us to the train, Hunsecker turned to his sister. “Give Ma a hug for me when you get home, will you, honey?”
“Of course.” A shadow seemed to pass over her features. “But it would do her so much good … if only you could fly out to see her … even for a day.”
“But, baby doll. …” He extended his hands imploringly. “You know how I want to. But I’m up to here. Why, even this trip—”
“I know, and I’m ever so grateful for today, J. J. … your accepting the invitation and coming up here. It meant so much to Dr. Cardigan and the school and I know how busy—”
“For you, anything, honey,” he said, looking past her and waving to the people who stood huddled in small groups staring at him the way people always did when the voice and the byline appeared before them in the flesh. With a final wave, he got into the car and then, as I began to follow him in, he turned and called out: “Honey, you’ll have to forgive Sidney. He doesn’t mean to be rude. Sidney, say congratulations to Susan.”
I turned and congratulated her, and her eyes were filled with wordless apologies. “Have a pleasant trip, Mr. Falco.”
“I will,” I lied, and stepped into the car.
“Isn’t she a doll?” Hunsecker said, as we pulled away. “If only she’d stop being afraid of me.”
The first ten minutes were bad, but then I began to feel my nervous system getting into rhythm with the rocking and clacking of the train wheels. It was always that way when I started out on a train trip with Hunsecker, whether it was an overnight trip, or a few days, like the jaunts to Hollywood. I would start worrying that something terrible was going to go wrong, and that he and his column would be forever lost to me and my clients, and though nothing had ever gone wrong, it always took at least ten minutes for the inner tension to dissolve.
I sat next to the window of the compartment, staring vacantly at the glittering sheen of the river in the red sunlight of late afternoon. Hunsecker was curled up on the seat opposite me, leafing through Trend to the accompaniment of small, deprecatory grunts. He had never forgiven the magazine for describing him as a “porcine-faced, gimlet-eyed half-pint.”
Suddenly I was aware that he had scrambled to a sitting position and I turned to see him slap the magazine hard across his thigh.
“Oh, no!” he moaned.
I turned back to gaze out of the window.
“No, no, no!”
The river was an unending bore but still it was speechless and undemanding—something you could put an end to merely by closing your eyes.
“Go ahead,”
I said to the window. “I’m listening.”
“You know what I did?” he cried. “I forgot to kiss Susan good-by. I’m all that means anything to her in the whole world and I didn’t even kiss her good-by. Why didn’t you remind me? You had nothing else to do. You were just standing there. If you weren’t so busy worrying about the heat and getting back to New York—”
“New York is even hotter,” I said to the river quietly.
“You know how much I count on you for little things like that!” Hunsecker’s voice rose to a scream. “You were just standing there like a goddam tree! The least you could’ve done—”
“I’m sure she didn’t mind,” I said. “I’m sure she didn’t even notice it.”
“I’m not worried about that!” he cried above the throb of the wheels. “But all those people on the campus standing around watching me … what will they think?”
I turned from the window to say, “They will think that you are an egotistical boor,” but all I said was, “I’m sorry, J. J.”
“I don’t ask much of you, Sidney.”
True, I had never emptied my veins for him.
“I don’t ask you to—”
“J. J., I’m sorry!” I held on tightly to the edge of my nerves.
“You’re sorry,” he muttered, picking up the magazine again and slapping through its pages.
I’m terribly sorry, I said wordlessly to the blur of telephone poles and the swiftly moving trees. I failed to remind J. J. Hunsecker to kiss his sister on a crowded campus so that a handful of his forty million followers might get the impression that he is thoughtful and good and a family man with decent affection for someone other than himself.
The situation called for a burnt offering. “You feel like some gin rummy?”
He grunted approval, and the soft petulance around his mouth tightened into firmness, so I knew it was all right to ring for the porter and order a couple of decks of cards. When they arrived, I moved over and sat down next to him. “The usual? I got a feeling I’m going to beat your brains out.”
Sweet Smell of Success Page 20