by Ira Levin
‘I’m not,’ she said softly.
‘That’s all I want.’
Marion stared out the window. ‘Why do you dislike him?’ she asked.
‘I don’t dislike him. He – I don’t know, I—’
‘Is it that you’re afraid I’ll go away from you?’ She spoke the question slowly, as though the idea surprised her.
‘You’re already away from me, aren’t you? In that apartment.’
She turned from the window and faced Kingship at the side of the room. ‘You know, you really should be grateful to Bud,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you something. I didn’t want him to have dinner here. As soon as I suggested it, I was sorry. But he insisted. “He’s your father,” he said. “Think of his feelings.” You see, Bud is strong on family ties, even if I’m not. So you should be grateful to him, not antagonistic. Because if he does anything, it will be to bring us closer together.’ She faced the window again.
‘All right,’ Kingship said. ‘He’s probably a wonderful boy. I just want to make sure you don’t make any mistakes.’
‘What do you mean?’ She turned from the window again, this time more slowly, her body stiffening.
‘I just don’t want you to make any mistakes, that’s all,’ Kingship said uncertainly.
‘Are you asking other questions about him?’ Marion demanded. ‘Asking other people? Do you have someone checking on him?’
‘No!’
‘Like you did with Ellen?’
‘Ellen was seventeen at the time! And I was right, wasn’t I? Was that boy any good?’
‘Well I’m twenty-five and I know my own mind! If you have anyone checking on Bud—’
‘The idea never entered my mind!’
Marion’s eyes stung him. ‘I like Bud,’ she said slowly, her voice tight. ‘I like him very much. Do you know what that means, to finally find someone you like?’
‘Marion, I—’
‘So if you do anything, anything at all, to make him feel unwelcome or unwanted, to make him feel that he’s not good enough for me – I’ll never forgive you. I swear to God I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live.’
She turned back to the window.
‘The idea never entered my mind. Marion, I swear—’ He looked futilely at her rigid back and then sank into a chair with a weary sigh.
A few minutes later the chimes of the front door sounded. Marion left the window and crossed the room towards the double door that led to the foyer.
‘Marion.’ Kingship stood up.
She paused and looked back at him. From the foyer came the sound of the front door opening and the murmur of voices in conversation.
‘Ask him to stay a few minutes – have a drink.’
A moment passed. ‘All right,’ she said. At the doorway she hesitated for a second. ‘I’m sorry I spoke the way I did.’ She went out.
Kingship watched her go. Then he turned and faced the fireplace. He took a step back and regarded himself in the mirror tilted over the mantel. He looked at the well-fed man in the three-hundred-and-forty-dollar suit in the seven hundred dollar-a-month living room.
Then he straightened up, put a smile on his face, turned, and walked towards the doorway, extending his right hand. ‘Good evening, Bud,’ he said.
FIVE
Marion’s birthday fell on a Saturday early in November. In the morning she cleaned her apartment hastily. At one o’clock she went to a small building in a quiet tributary of Park Avenue, where a discreet silver plaque beside a white door confided that the premises were occupied, not by a psychiatrist nor an interior decorator, but by a restaurant. Leo Kingship was waiting within the white door, sitting gingerly on a Louis Quinze sofa and scanning a management-owned copy of Gourmet. He put down the magazine, rose, kissed Marion on the cheek, and wished her a happy birthday. A maître d’hôtel with fluttering fingers and neon teeth ushered them to their table, swooped away a Reserved placard and seated them with Gallic effusion. There was a centrepiece of roses on the table, and, at Marion’s place, a small box wrapped in white paper and clouds of gold ribbon. Kingship pretended not to be aware of it. While he was occupied with the wine card and ‘If I may suggest, Monsieur’, Marion freed the box of its gold entanglement, excitement colouring her cheeks and shining her eyes. Nested between layers of cotton was a golden disc, its surface constellated with tiny pearls. Marion exclaimed over the brooch, and when the maître d’hôtel had gone, thanked her father happily, squeezing his hand, which lay as if by chance near hers on the table.
The brooch was not one which she would have chosen herself; its design was too elaborate for her taste. Her happiness, however, was genuine, inspired by the giving if not by the gift. In the past, Leo Kingship’s standard birthday present to his daughters had been a one hundred dollar gift certificate redeemable at a Fifth Avenue department store, a matter automatically attended to by his secretary.
After leaving her father, Marion spent some time at a beauty salon and then returned to her apartment. Late in the afternoon the buzzer sounded. She pressed the button that released the door downstairs. A few minutes later a messenger appeared at her door, panting dramatically, as though he had been carrying something much heavier than a florist’s box. The receipt of a quarter soothed his respiration.
In the box, under green waxed paper, was a white orchid arranged in a corsage. The card with it said simply, ‘Bud’. Standing before a mirror, Marion held the bloom experimentally to her hair, her wrist, and her shoulder. Then she went into the kitchen and placed the flower in its box and in the waist-high refrigerator, first sprinkling a few drops of water on its thick-veined tropical petals.
He arrived promptly at six. He gave the button next to Marion’s nameplate two quick jabs and stood waiting in the stuffy hallway, removing a grey suede glove to pick a speck of lint from the lapel of his navy blue coat. Soon footsteps sounded on the stairs. The dingily curtained door opened and Marion appeared, radiant, the orchid bursting whitely on her black coat. They clasped each other’s hands. Wishing her the happiest of birthdays, he kissed her on the cheek so as not to smudge her lipstick, which he noticed was of a deeper shade than she had worn when first he met her.
They went to a steak house on Fifty-second Street. The prices on the menu, although considerably lower than those on the one from which she had selected her lunch, seemed exorbitant to Marion, because she was seeing them through Bud’s eyes. She suggested that he order for both of them. They had black onion soup and sirloin steaks, preceded by champagne cocktails – ‘To you, Marion.’ At the end of the meal, placing eighteen dollars on the waiter’s salver, Bud caught Marion’s faint frown. ‘Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it?’ he said, smiling.
From the restaurant they took a taxi to the theatre where Saint Joan was playing. They sat in the orchestra, sixth row centre. During the intermission Marion was unusually voluble, her doelike eyes glittering brightly as she talked of Shaw and the acting and a celebrity who was seated in the row in front of them. During the play their hands were warm in each other’s.
Afterwards – because, she told herself, Bud had already spent so much money that evening – Marion suggested that they go to her apartment.
‘I feel like a pilgrim who’s finally being permitted to enter the shrine,’ he said as he slipped the key into the slit of the lock. He turned the key and doorknob simultaneously.
‘It’s nothing fancy,’ Marion said, her voice quick. ‘Really. They call it two rooms but it’s more like one, the kitchen is so tiny.’
He pushed the door open, withdrawing the key which he handed to Marion. She stepped into the apartment and reached for a wall switch beside the door. Lamps filled the room with diffused light. He entered, closing the door behind him. Marion turned to watch his face. His eyes were ranging over the deep grey walls, the blue and white striped drapes, the limed oak furniture. He gave an appreciative murmur.
‘It’s very small,’ Marion said.
‘But nice,’ he sai
d. ‘Very nice.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned away from him, unpinning the orchid from her coat, suddenly as ill at ease as when they first met. She put the corsage on a sideboard and started to remove her coat. His hands helped her. ‘Beautiful furniture,’ he said over her shoulder.
She hung their coats in the closet mechanically, and then turned to the mirror over the sideboard. With fumbling fingers, she pinned the orchid to the shoulder of her russet dress, her eyes focused beyond her own reflection, on Bud’s image. He had walked down to the centre of the room. Standing before the coffee table, he picked up a square copper plate. His face, in profile, was expressionless, giving no indication whether he liked or disliked the piece. Marion found herself motionless. ‘Mmmm,’ he said at last, liking it. ‘A present from your father, I bet.’
‘No,’ Marion said into the mirror, ‘Ellen gave it to me.’
‘Oh.’ He looked at it for a moment and then put it down.
Fingering the collar of her dress, Marion turned from the mirror and watched as he crossed the room with three easy strides. He stood before the low bookcase and looked at the picture on the wall above it. Marion watched him. ‘Our old friend Demuth,’ he said. He glanced at her, smiling. She smiled back. He looked at the picture again.
After a moment, Marion moved forward and went to his side.
‘I never could figure out why he called a picture of a grain elevator “My Egypt”,’ Bud said.
‘Is that what it is? I was never sure.’
‘It’s a beautiful picture, though.’ He turned to Marion. ‘What’s the matter? Have I got some dirt on my nose or something?’
‘What?’
‘You were looking—’
‘Oh. No. Would you like something to drink?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘There’s nothing but wine.’
‘Perfect.’
Marion turned towards the kitchen.
‘Before you go.’ He took a small tissue-wrapped box from his pocket. ‘Happy Birthday.’
‘Oh, Bud, you shouldn’t have!’
‘I shouldn’t have,’ he mimicked simultaneously. ‘But aren’t you glad I did?’
There were silver earrings in the box, simple polished triangles. ‘Oh, thank you! They’re lovely!’ Marion exclaimed, and kissed him.
She hurried to the sideboard to try them on. He came up behind her, looking at her in the mirror. When she had fastened both earrings, he turned her around. ‘Lovely is right,’ he said.
When the kiss ended he said, ‘Now where’s that wine we were talking about?’
Marion came out of the kitchen with a raffia-covered bottle of Bardolino and two glasses on a tray. Bud, his jacket off, was sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of the bookcase, a book opened on his lap. ‘I didn’t know you liked Proust,’ he said.
‘Oh, I do!’ She set the tray on the coffee table.
‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the bookcase. Marion transferred the tray to the bookcase. She filled the two glasses and handed one to Bud. Holding the other, she worked her feet out of her shoes and lowered herself to the floor beside him. He leafed through the pages of the book. ‘I’ll show you the part I’m crazy about,’ he said.
He pressed the switch. The tone arm swung slowly and dipped down to touch with its serpent’s head the rim of the spinning record. Closing the cover of the phonograph, he crossed the room and sat beside Marion on the blue-covered studio couch. The first deep piano notes of the Rachmaninoff Second Concerto sounded. ‘Just the right record,’ Marion said.
Leaning back against the thick bolster that ran along the wall, Bud scanned the room, now softly lighted by a single lamp. ‘Everything’s so perfect here,’ he said. ‘Why haven’t you asked me up before?’
She picked at a filament of raffia that had got caught on one of the buttons on the front of her dress. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I – I thought maybe you wouldn’t like it.’
‘How could I not like it?’ he asked.
His fingers worked dexterously down the row of buttons. Her hands, warm, closed over his, restraining them between her breasts.
‘Bud, I’ve never – done anything before.’
‘I know that, darling. You don’t have to tell me that.’
‘I’ve never loved anyone before.’
‘Neither have I. I’ve never loved anyone. Not until you.’
‘Do you mean that? Do you?’
‘Only you.’
‘Not even Ellen?’
‘Only you. I swear it.’
He kissed her again.
Her hands freed his and rose to find his cheeks.
SIX
From the New York Times; Monday, 24 December 1951:
MARION J. KINGSHIP TO BE WED SATURDAY
Miss Marion Joyce Kingship, daughter of Mr Leo Kingship of Manhattan and the late Phyllis Hatcher, will be married to Mr Burton Corliss, son of Mrs Joseph Corliss of Menasset, Mass., and the late Mr Corliss, on the afternoon of Saturday, 29 December, in the home of her father.
Miss Kingship was graduated from the Spence School in New York and is an alumna of Columbia University. Until last week she was with the advertising agency of Camden and Galbraith.
The prospective bridegroom, who served with the army during the Second World War and attended Caldwell College in Caldwell, Wis., has recently joined the domestic sales division of the Kingship Copper Corporation.
SEVEN
Seated at her desk, Miss Richardson stretched out her right hand in a gesture she considered quite graceful and squinted at the gold bracelet that constricted the plumpness of her wrist. It was definitely too young-looking for her mother, she decided. She would get something else for mother and keep the bracelet for herself.
Beyond her hand the background suddenly turned blue. With white pin-stripes. She looked up, starting to smile, but stopped when she saw that it was the pest again.
‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully.
Miss Richardson opened a drawer and busily ruffled the edges of some blank typing paper. ‘Mr Kingship is still at lunch,’ she said frigidly.
‘Dear lady, he was at lunch at twelve o’clock. It is now three o’clock. What is he, a rhinoceros?’
‘If you wish to make an appointment for later in the week—’
‘I would like an audience with His Eminence this afternoon.’
Miss Richardson closed the drawer grimly. ‘Tomorrow is Christmas,’ she said. ‘Mr Kingship is interrupting a four-day weekend by coming in today. He wouldn’t do that unless he were very busy. He gave me strict orders not to disturb him on any account. On no account whatsoever.’
‘Then he isn’t at lunch.’
‘He gave me strict orders—’
The man sighed. Slinging his folded coat over one shoulder, he drew a slip of paper from the rack next to Miss Richardson’s telephone. ‘May I?’ he asked, already having taken the paper. Placing it on a large blue book which he held in the crook of his arm, he removed Miss Richardson’s pen from its onyx holder and began to write.
‘Well I never!’ said Miss Richardson. ‘Honestly!’ she said.
Finished writing, the man replaced the pen and blew on the paper. He folded it carefully into quarters and handed it to Miss Richardson. ‘Give him this,’ he said. ‘Slip it under the door, if need be.’
Miss Richardson glared at him. Then she calmly unfolded the paper and read it.
Uncomfortably, she looked up. ‘Dorothy and Ellen—?’
His face was expressionless.
She hoisted herself from the chair. ‘He told me not to disturb him on any account,’ she repeated softly, as though seeking guidance in the incantation. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Just give him that, please, like the angel you are.’
‘Now look—’
He was doing just that; looking at her quite seriously, despite the lightness of his voice. Miss Richardson frowned, glanced again at the paper, and refolded it. She moved to a heavily panelled
door. ‘All right,’ she said darkly, ‘but you’ll see. He gave me strict orders.’ Gingerly she tapped on the door. Opening it, she slipped in with the paper held appeasingly before her.
She reappeared a minute later with a betrayed expression on her face. ‘Go ahead,’ she said sharply, holding the door open.
The man breezed past her, his coat over his shoulder, the book under his arm. ‘Keep smiling,’ he whispered.
At the faint sound of the door closing, Leo Kingship looked up from the slip of paper in his hand. He was standing behind his desk in his shirt-sleeves, his jacket draped on the back of the chair behind him. His glasses were pushed up on his pink forehead. Sunlight, sliced by a Venetian blind, striped his stocky figure. He squinted anxiously at the man approaching him across the panelled and carpeted room.
‘Oh,’ he said, when the man came close enough to block the sunlight, enabling Kingship to recognize his face. ‘You.’ He looked down at the slip of paper and crumpled it, his expression of anxiety turning to relief and then to annoyance.
‘Hello, Mr Kingship,’ the man said, offering his hand.
Kingship took it half-heartedly. ‘No wonder you wouldn’t give your name to Miss Richardson.’
Smiling, the man dropped into the visitor’s chair. He settled his coat and the book in his lap.
‘But I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it,’ Kingship said. ‘Grant?’ he ventured.
‘Gant.’ The long legs crossed comfortably. ‘Gordon Gant.’
Kingship remained standing. ‘I’m extremely busy, Mr Gant,’ he said firmly, indicating the paper-strewn desk. ‘So if this “information about Dorothy and Ellen”’ – he held up the crumpled slip of paper – ‘consists of the same “theories” you were expounding back in Blue River—’
‘Partially,’ Gant said.
‘Well, I’m sorry. I don’t want to listen.’
‘I gathered that I wasn’t number one on your Hit Parade.’