“But …”
“Don’t you agree?”
“Well … I suppose so … but …”
“All right, then.” He saw the silent metronome across the room beating ever faster. “I’ll have to hang up now.”
“Oh … I see … well.” The voice clung to his ears desperately. “Can’t you even—?”
“Good-by, Donald.”
It was almost inaudible when it finally came. “Good-by, Dr. Trask. I’m sorry.”
Good-by, Donald. Good-by, Paula …
His palms were damp as he replaced the phone on the table. No time to mourn, not now …
“Forgive me,” he said to Keppler, taking up the notebook and pen. “You were saying …?”
“Listen,” Keppler exploded, “why can’t you conduct your business some other time and give me your undivided attention? If your patients are so damned smart they should know enough not to call and bother you when you’ve got somebody else here. And you could have said: ‘I’ll call you back later.’”
“The call was important,” Trask explained quietly, “and the person was in a public phone booth.”
“Important. I’m just as important. More important—to me, anyway. I know you don’t think so. I know just how—”
“Shall we continue?”
“—just how you feel about me. Anything you do is all right. Anything I do is wrong. I have a right not to be interrupted in here.”
“You have,” Trask agreed. “It was unavoidable. I’m sorry. It doesn’t happen often.”
“Once is enough.”
“Let’s get on.” Trask looked down at the pad in his lap.
“Why don’t you have a secretary to answer your phone?”
Trask glanced at the clock. “I don’t think we’re here to concern ourselves with that right now, are we?”
“I’m concerned with it!” Keppler shouted. “I’m asking a question. I’d like an answer. I don’t see why I can’t get an answer to any legitimate question I ask in here. I’m asking you again: why don’t you have a secretary outside to answer your phone?”
Trask regarded him closely, observing the twitching lips and the hands gripping too hard on the arms of the chair. Then he said quietly, “Because I can’t afford it.”
“Hah!” Keppler snorted. “Please …”
“I’d have to raise my fee still higher and it would be that much more difficult for people to seek help. I don’t think the few interruptions we suffer in here are worth that, do you? Now—shall we continue with yesterday?”
Keppler’s face twisted into a mirthless grin. “You’re angry, aren’t you?” he sneered, nodding. “I know. I can tell.”
Trask watched him silently.
“You’re burning up and there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing! So you’re just sitting there hating me more than usual, isn’t that right? Isn’t it?”
“Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough time already?”
“You hate me, don’t you?” Keppler shrieked. “Go on, why don’t you say it? Why don’t you hit me?” He sprang from the chair so suddenly that Trask barely had time to throw pen and pad to the carpet and rise to a half-crouching position before the flailing arms were upon him and the first wild swing went past his head. “Hit me! Hit me!”
And then all at once Keppler’s face was there before him, unguarded and shatterable, and Trask straightened up, muscles flexing, and his hands became fists to smash that face and they shot out fiercely in a burst of power, but the fists were opening and grabbing Keppler’s thin, bony wrists and holding them in a viselike grip as they struggled for freedom like dying fish. And he was aware of his own voice hoarsely crying, “No … don’t …”
He clung to the wrists, as though to imprison his own hands too, and held them tightly until he saw the contorted face begin to dissolve in tears and he felt the violence ebb from the captured arms. He released them, and Keppler fell back into the chair, his body shuddering convulsively.
“I didn’t …” Keppler’s voice was a strangled cry in his throat. “I’m … forgive …”
“I understand.” Trask fought for breath.
“I didn’t …”
“I know.” He sank into his chair, feeling the wild pounding of his heart. He looked down at his hands, the ones which had just been fists, and the twisted face rose before him again in all its awful vulnerability. The whole procession of naked, unguarded souls marched swiftly through his mind, courting these hands, this heart … and once again Phillip Sebastian was standing there in the kitchen, mouth smeared with lipstick, arms still around Paula in a tableau of surprised discovery.
Had Sebastian seen his eyes dart to the kitchen knife that lay on the sideboard? Had Sebastian sensed the flash of murderous intent in the never-before-seen expression of face and the swift movement of that hand, escaping its owner and reaching out toward the sideboard, and recaptured just in time to be moved past the knife to a harmless paper napkin? Had that wild instant actually existed, or had it just been a figment of his own fears?
“Perhaps you’d better wipe your lips, Sebastian,” he said, offering him the napkin. “The others inside might not understand.”
And Paula was saying, “I think I’m just a wee little bit tight, Arthur, but not too tight …”
Sebastian took the napkin, swaying slightly. “Thanks, old boy. Wish I could think of something properly dramatic to say under the circumstances, but—”
“Hurry,” Trask said.
“I’m in no hurry.” Sebastian showed his white teeth in a smile. “I’ve nothing to hide. I’m fond of Paula. I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
“You’re both drunk,” Trask said.
“… But not too drunk to speak the truth. Right, Phillip?” Paula laughed giddily. “In vino veritas. Is that Latin, doctor? Vino is wine, and I’ve been drinking champagne. Veritas is truth, like, for example, he makes me feel alive, don’t you, Phillip? He’s full of sharp edges, not all sandpapered down like you, Arthur. And he kisses me in my own kitchen and he even knows three little words, don’t you, Phillip? All I have to do is ask him and he kisses me. Kiss me, Phillip.”
“Better go inside,” he said quietly to Sebastian.
“It’s your house.” Sebastian shrugged and went to the living room.
Paula’s voice became shrill, and he was glad that the others inside had the music turned up. “You weren’t even angry, were you, Dr. Trask? You didn’t raise your voice or your fist. I don’t think you even raised an eyebrow, in defense of your happy home.”
“You’ve had too much again, Paula. I keep warning you.”
“You love me so much that you struck Phillip down, didn’t you?” She began to weep. “With that calm, cool and collected voice of yours you punched him right in the nose. Some day, Dr. Trask … some day you’ll let yourself go. Some day you’ll get so damned mad or so damned happy that you’ll lose that precious control of yours. But you want to know something? I won’t be there, Dr. Trask. I don’t think I can wait that long!”
And after she had stumbled to the bedroom, he had stood there in the kitchen with the music and laughter from the next room beating at his ears, staring down at the kitchen knife and wondering how long he could go on escaping the unguarded moment, wondering what form it would take when it finally caught up with him …
An impatient cab-horn sounded. A train rumbled distantly below Park Avenue, perhaps on its way to Grand Central Station, and in this room there was only Justin Keppler’s muffled sobbing and the pounding of his own heart, becalming now that another test had been met and won.
He watched the twisted figure before him clutching at his face as though with his hands he could press the tears back into his eyes and deny the whole sorrow of his life. He waited patiently for the anguish to spend itself. The minutes fled, and finally he could wait no more.
He spoke gently. “In a way, it was good,” he said. “Some of it is out now, where it won’t bother you as much.”
Keppler nodded, weeping behind the screen of his hands. “There was good in it,” Trask said again. For me too, he thought, in a way that you will never know.
Keppler choked back a sob.
“Do you feel you can talk?” Trask inquired.
Keppler shook his head wordlessly.
“That’s all right,” Trask said. “We can go into the whys and wherefores another day. Time’s about up now, anyway.”
Keppler arose, face averted to the wall, and hurried to the door.
Trask said, “See you tomorrow, Justin.”
The fleeing figure paused for a moment at the door, as though striving to say something. But all he could do was nod his head and then he was gone, and Trask was alone.
He sat in the soft, deep chair, allowing thoughts which had been pushed aside to crowd in upon him now. His gaze wandered to the other door, the one that led to the waiting-room, and he had to look away. It was twelve o’clock now, and the day was Tuesday. As long as he sat in this chair and did not open that door, the fact was not yet a fact, the eight months of heartache and hope had not yet been rendered futile, and a weak, struggling boy with wide, apprehensive eyes had not yet gone down for the third time, crying, “What shall I do?”
He sat there thinking, too, of the nine years with Paula, not of the recent days of her doubt, but of the years filled with wonder and happiness and sorrow, all of it meaningful because they had shared it together. And suddenly sitting there became more than he could bear. He forced himself from the chair and went reluctantly to the door to open it and meet head-on the silent emptiness on the other side, a magazine-strewn table and the blankly staring cushions of an unoccupied sofa.
He opened the door, and his heart leaped.
The boy was there, looking up at him and smiling shyly, and in his soft voice saying, “I … I’ve decided to continue.”
Trask gazed down at him and did not know how he would ever be able to hide the joy that was within him. He wanted to put an arm around those shoulders and grasp them tightly. He wanted to cry out, to say something like “Thank you! Thank you!” But instead he heard himself saying, “I’ll be with you in a moment,” and he was backing into his chamber and closing the door, because the telephone had just begun to ring.
Even as the boats on the distant river were whistling the exact hour of noon, the telephone had begun to ring.
He walked toward the table slowly, trying to get control of his voice, trying to choke down the lump that was rising in his throat. But the tears were welling up in his eyes now, and the tightness was growing in his chest, and suddenly the whole day was too much for him, and as a wave of emotion rose to engulf him, he knew all at once that this was to be the moment, and it was going to be a fine moment, not like anything he had feared, and he would give himself up to it wholeheartedly. And he was glad that no sound could escape the room because he had an idea he’d be saying some strange and wonderful things, and it was not yet time for Donald to discover that he was so much more like everyone else than otherwise.
He picked up the phone and took her in his arms.
Clear Havana Filler
HARRY CRAMER WAS SMILING expansively as they rose from the table after lunch. “Really a stroke of luck, running into you this way, Arnold. New York is almost too damned big for friendships. Have a cigar?”
He had stuck a large Havana filler between his thick lips and was holding one out to Gregor.
“No, thanks.” Gregor’s delicate features wrinkled with distaste. “I don’t smoke.”
Harry eyed him quizzically as he put the cigar back in his vest pocket. “That’s right, you never did smoke, did you? I almost lost Louisa because of it. She hated my cigars … still does. Very fastidious girl, you know. I always said you would have been better suited to her.” He managed a laugh that would pass as hearty.
“Don’t be silly, Harry.” The other man looked away uncomfortably.
“I don’t dare smoke the damned things around the house. Not worth the hell to pay. Well …” They were out on the sidewalk now. “It’s been nice, Arnold, after twelve long years. You won’t forget now, Friday night at seven?”
Gregor hesitated. “Are you sure …?”
“Of course I’m sure. She’ll be delighted. I insist.”
“Friday it is, then.”
In the cab back to the office, Harry sucked on the big cigar with audible satisfaction. It had taken him only eight days to find Gregor. …
He waited until she had finished picking at her shrimp cocktail with finicky distaste and then he said: “Who do you think I ran into today, Louisa?”
“Must you talk with food in your mouth?” Her forehead split into well-grooved frown lines. “And you know I’m not good at guessing-games.”
And that’s not all, he thought.
“Arnold,” he said casually.
Her face didn’t register.
“Gregor,” he said. “Arnold Gregor.”
“Oh?” But there was too little interest in her voice. After all, she had almost married him.
“Bumped into him on the street. He insisted I have lunch with him. I hate to admit it but he’s handsomer than ever, and still a bachelor. Of course, all he wanted to know about was you.”
“Don’t drip on the tablecloth, Harry.”
“You’d think the guy had never gotten you out of his mind. Twelve years is an awfully long time to carry a torch.”
Her colorless cheeks flushed faintly. “What nonsense.”
He paused for a moment, rehearsing the sentence in his mind carefully before coming out with it. “Maybe so, but he did practically invite himself over for dinner Friday night.”
“Arnold is coming here for … for dinner?” Her lips seemed to tremble.
“I couldn’t very well say no.” He shrugged. “He’d only think I was being petty and ungracious.”
“Ridiculous,” she snorted.
But she didn’t tell him to cancel it. …
He listened to them trading reminiscences while he mixed cocktails at the portable bar, Louisa’s flat voice rising with a strange new eagerness, Gregor’s tone properly restrained. And at the dinner table he continued to scrutinize them from behind his curtain of hearty affability, watching Louisa’s appraising glance taking in with obvious approval Gregor’s well-cut clothes, and the lean, smoothly shaven face with its crown of blond hair still thick and unmarred by time.
Gregor’s pale blue eyes followed every move of Louisa’s as she prodded the maid through her paces, and his face was as inscrutable as it had always been. You had to guess what was going on in his mind. Probably that was what had excited Louisa in the old days—and worried her just enough to leave her wide open for his own bulldozing proposal.
The telephone rang in the foyer and Harry glanced quickly at his watch as Louisa got up to answer it. She returned with an annoyed expression. “It’s for you. The office. Don’t they ever go home?”
He went to the phone. “Yes?”
“Mr. Cramer, you asked me to call you at eight-thirty.” It was his secretary, probably at home by now.
“Yes,” Harry said flatly. “Thank you.”
“But … was there anything … I mean, is that all?”
“Yes.” He waited, until finally she hung up, and then he raised his voice at the dead phone: “Roy, this is a damned outrage. We have a guest for dinner and … Yes, but … All right, Roy, all right. … Yes … in a half hour.”
He returned to the table with an apologetic shrug.
“What can I do?” he said. “I’ve got to go down there or the whole case will fall apart. Will you ever forgive me, Arnold?”
Gregor eyed him steadily. “Well, if you really must …”
“Aren’t you even going to wait for dessert?” Louisa sounded unsure of her reaction.
“Can’t. Got to run. Be back as soon as I can. See you later, fellow.”
He could feel Gregor’s eyes following him as he hurried from the room. …
There’d be the occasional extra ticket to the theater (“You two sit together. I’ll take the odd seat.”)… the bar meetings for the three of them to which he’d come late (“That damned Stillwell case.”)… the nights when Gregor would have to take her home alone because he’d have passed out … and there’d be the times when he’d have to bow out of the evening completely and Gregor would fill in. It would take a lot of doing, but he was ready.
After the divorce there would be so many things he’d want to do. But first he would just sit around all by himself in a nice quiet room, free at last of the carping voice and the critical eyes and the confining straitjacket of her eternal fussiness. There would be plenty of time later for the other things—for travel, the races, and of course, for women, new and exciting and as unlike Louisa as possible. No more mistakes like Louisa. Let Gregor make that mistake now. …
It was past midnight, and the apartment was silent as he let himself in. For a moment he thought they might have gone out. But then he saw the light in the living room, and Louisa sitting there in the green club chair glaring at him.
“Don’t tell me you’re home.” Her voice rose testily.
His eyes searched the room. She was alone all right. But there was something strange about the apartment, something he could not quite define.
“Did Arnold just leave?”
“No.” She got up abruptly from the chair and started to fuss with the glass figurines on the coffee table.
He said: “Next time, I’ll tell Roy to go to the devil if he calls here when—”
She wheeled around. “There won’t be any next time.”
He dared not breathe. “What do you mean?”
Sweet Smell of Success Page 24