"Yes."
"I've never done anything to embarrass him socially, and that's all he cares about really. There's a certain woman at the club I wish he'd married. Her life is entirely filled with giving exquisite little dinner parties and being carried out of the best bars feet first--She's made her husband's advertising business a great success, so he smiles on her little faults. Harge wouldn't smile, but he'd have some definite reason for complaint. I think he picked me out like a rug for his living room, and he made a bad mistake. I doubt if he's capable of loving anyone, really. What he has is a kind of acquisitiveness, which isn't much separate from his ambition. It's getting to be a disease, isn't it, not being able to love?" She looked at Therese. "Maybe it's the times. If one wanted to, one could make out a case for racial suicide. Man trying to catch up with his own destructive machines."
Therese said nothing. It reminded her of a thousand conversations with Richard, Richard mingling war and big business and Congressional witch-hunts and finally certain people he knew into one grand enemy, whose only collective label was hate. Now Carol, too. It shook Therese in the profoundest part of her where no words were, no easy words like death or dying or killing. Those words were somehow future, and this was present. An inarticulate anxiety, a desire to know, know anything, for certain, had jammed itself in her throat so for a moment she felt she could hardly breathe. Do you think, do you think, it began. Do you think both of us will die violently someday, be suddenly shut off? But even that question wasn't definite enough. Perhaps it was a statement after all: I don't want to die yet without knowing you. Do you feel the same way, Carol? She could have uttered the last question, but she could not have said all that went before it.
"You're the young generation," Carol said. "And what have you got to say?" She sat down on the glider.
"I suppose the first thing is not to be afraid." Therese turned and saw Carol's smile. "You're smiling because you think I am afraid, I suppose."
"You're about as weak as this match." Carol held it burning for a moment after she lighted her cigarette. "But given the right conditions, you could burn a house down, couldn't you?"
"Or a city."
"But you're even afraid to take a little trip with me. You're afraid because you think you haven't got enough money."
"That's not it."
"You've got some very strange values, Therese. I asked you to go with me, because it would give me pleasure to have you. I should think it'd be good for you, too, and good for your work. But you've got to spoil it by a silly pride about money. Like that handbag you gave me. Out of all proportion. Why don't you take it back, if you need the money? I don't need the handbag. It gave you pleasure to give it to me, I suppose. It's the same thing, you see. Only I make sense and you don't." Carol walked by her and turned to her again, poised with one foot forward and her head up, the short blond hair as unobtrusive as a statue's hair. "Well, do you think it's funny?"
Therese was smiling. "I don't care about the money," she said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that," Therese said. "I've got the money to go. I'll go."
Carol stared at her. Therese saw the sullenness leave her face, and then Carol began to smile, too, with surprise, a little incredulously.
"Well, all right," Carol said. "I'm delighted."
"I'm delighted."
"What brought this happy change about?"
Doesn't she really know, Therese thought. "You do seem to care whether I go or not," Therese said simply.
"Of course I care. I asked you, didn't I?" Carol said, still smiling, but with a twist of her toe, she turned her back on Therese and walked toward the green room.
Therese watched her go, her hands in her pockets and her moccasins making light slow clicks on the floor. Therese looked at the empty doorway.
Carol would have walked out exactly the same way, she thought, if she had said no, she wouldn't go. She picked up her half-finished demitasse, then set it down again.
She went out and across the hall, to the door of Carol's room. "What are you doing?"
Carol was bending over her dressing table, writing. "What am I doing?"
She stood up and slipped a piece of paper into her pocket. She was smiling now, really smiling in her eyes, like the moment in the kitchen with Abby. "Something," Carol said. "Let's have some music."
"Fine." A smile spread over her face.
"Why don't you get ready for bed first? It's late, do you know that?"
"It always gets late with you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I don't feel like going to bed tonight."
Carol crossed the hall to the green room. "You get ready. You've got circles under your eyes."
Therese undressed quickly in the room with the twin beds. The phonograph in the other room played "Embraceable You." Then the telephone rang.
Therese opened the top drawer of the bureau. It was empty except for a couple of men's handkerchiefs, an old clothesbrush, and a key. And a few papers in the corner. Therese picked up a card covered in isinglass. It was an old driver's license that belonged to Harge. Hargess Foster Aird.
Age: 37. Height: 5'8". Weight: 168. Hair: blond. Eyes: blue. She knew all that. A 1950 Oldsmobile. Color: dark blue. Therese put it back and closed the drawer. She went to the door and listened.
"I am sorry, Tessie, but I did get stuck after all," Carol was saying regretfully, but her voice was happy. "Is it a good party?... Well, I'm not dressed and I'm tired."
Therese went to the bed table and got a cigarette from the box there. A Philip Morris. Carol had put them there, not the maid, Therese knew, because Carol remembered that she liked them. Naked now, Therese stood listening to the music It was a song she didn't know.
Was Carol on the telephone again?
"Well, I don't like it," she heard Carol say, half angry, half joking, "one damn bit."
. it's easy to live... when you're in love...
"How do I know what kind of people they are?... Oh-ho! Is that so?"
Abby, Therese knew. She blew her smoke out and snuffed at the slightly sweet smelling wisps of it, remembering the first cigarette she had ever smoked, a Philip Morris, on the roof of a dormitory at the Home, four of them passing it around.
"Yes, we're going," Carol said emphatically. "Well, I am. Don't I sound it?"
... For you... maybe I'm a fool but it's fun... People say you rule me with one... wave of your hand... darling, it's grand o o o they just don't understand...
It was a good song. Therese closed her eyes and leaned on the half-open door, listening. Behind the voice was a slow piano that rippled all over, the keyboard. And a lazy trumpet.
Carol said, "That's nobody's business but mine, is it?... Nonsense!" and Therese smiled at her vehemence.
Therese closed the door. The phonograph had dropped another record.
"Why don't you come say hello to Abby?" Carol said.
Therese had ducked behind the bathroom door because she was naked. "Why?"
"Come along," Carol said, and Therese put on a robe and went.
"Hello," Abby said. "I hear you're going."
"Is that news to you?"
Abby sounded silly, as if she wanted to talk all night. She wished Therese a pleasant trip, and told her about the roads in the corn belt, how bad they could be in winter.
"Will you forgive me if I was rude today?" Abby said for the second time.
"I like you O. K., Therese."
"Cut it, cut it!" Carol called down.
"She wants to talk to you again," Therese said.
"Tell Abigail I'm in the tub."
Therese told her, and got away.
Carol had brought a bottle and two little glasses into the room.
"What's the matter with Abby?" Therese asked.
"What do you mean, what's the matter with her?" Carol poured a brown colored liquor into the two glasses. "I think she's had a couple tonight."
"I know. But why did she want to have lunch with me?"
"Well--I guess a lot of reasons. Try some of this stuff."
"It just seems vague," Therese said.
"What does?"
"The whole lunch."
Carol gave her a glass. "Some things are always vague, darling."
It was the first time Carol had called her darling. "What things?"
Therese asked. She wanted an answer, a definite answer.
Carol sighed. "A lot of things. The most important things. Taste your drink."
Therese sipped it, sweet and dark brown, like coffee, with the sting of alcohol. "Tastes good."
"You would think so."
"Why do you drink it if you don't like it?"
"Because it's different. This is to our trip, so it's got to be something different." Carol grimaced and drank the rest of her glass.
In the light of the lamp, Therese could see all the freckles on half of Carol's face. Carol's white looking eyebrow bent like a wing around the curve of her forehead. Therese felt ecstatically happy all at once.
"What's that song that was playing before, the one with just the voice and the piano?"
"Hum it."
She whistled part of it, and Carol smiled.
"'Easy Living,'" Carol said. "That's an old one."
"I'd like to hear it again."
"I'd like you to get to bed. I'll play it again."
Carol went into the green room, and stayed there while it played. Therese stood by the door of her room, listening, smiling.
... I'll never regret... the years I'm giving... They're easy to give, when you're in love... I'm happy to do whatever I do for you...
That was her song. That was everything she felt about Carol. She went in the bathroom before it was over, and turned the water on in the tub, got in and let the greenish looking water tumble about her feet.
"Hey!" Carol called. "Have you ever been to Wyoming?"
"No."
"It's time you saw America."
Therese lifted the dripping rag and pressed it against her knee. The water was so high now, her breasts looked like flat things floating on the surface. She studied them, trying to decide what they looked like besides what they were.
"Don't go to sleep in there," Carol called in a preoccupied voice, and Therese knew she was sitting on the bed, looking at a map.
"I won't."
"Well, some people do."
"Tell me more about Harge," she said as she dried herself. "What does he do?"
"A lot of things."
"I mean, what's his business?"
"Real estate investment."
"What's he like? Does he like to go to the theater? Does he like people?"
"He likes a little group of people who play golf," Carol said with finality. Then in a louder voice, "And what else? He's very, very meticulous about everything. But he forgot his best razor. It's in the medicine cabinet and you can see it if you want to and you probably do.
I've got to mail it to him, I suppose."
Therese opened the medicine cabinet. She saw the razor. The medicine cabinet was still full of men's things, after-shaving lotions and lather brushes. "Was this his room?" she asked as she came out of the bathroom.
"Which bed did he sleep in?"
Carol smiled. "Not yours."
"Can I have some more of this?" Therese asked, looking at the liqueur bottle.
"Of course."
"Can I kiss you good night?"
Carol was folding the road map, pursing her lips as if she would whistle, waiting. "No," she said.
"Why not?" Anything seemed possible tonight.
"I'll give you this instead." Carol pulled her hand out of her pocket.
It was a check. Therese read the sum, two hundred dollars, made out to her. "What's this for?"
"For the trip. I don't want you to spend the money you'll need for that union membership thing." Carol took a cigarette. "You won't need all of that, I just want you to have it."
"But I don't need it," Therese said. "Thanks. I don't care if I spend the union money."
"No back talk," Carol interrupted her. "It gives me pleasure, remember?"
"But I won't take it." She sounded curt, so she smiled a little as she put the check down on the table top by the liqueur bottle. But she had thumped the check down, too. She wished she could explain it to Carol. It didn't matter at all, the money, but since it did give Carol pleasure, she hated not to take it. "I don't like the idea," Therese said. "Think of something else." She looked at Carol. Carol was watching her, was not going to argue with her, Therese was glad to see.
"To give me pleasure?" Carol asked.
Therese's smile broadened. "Yes," she said, and picked up the little glass.
"All right," Carol said. "I'll think. Good night." Carol had stopped by the door.
It was a funny way of saying good night, Therese thought, on such an important night. "Good night," Therese answered.
She turned to the table and saw the check again. But it was for Carol to tear up. She slid it under the edge of the dark-blue linen table runner, out of sight.
CHAPTER 12
JANUARY. IT WAS all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: the woman she saw peering anxiously by the light of a match at the names in a dark doorway, the man who scribbled a message and handed it to his friend before they parted on the sidewalk, the man who ran a block for a bus and caught it. Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester's bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define.
A young man named Red Malone and a baldheaded carpenter worked with her on the Small Rain set. Mr. Donohue was very pleased with it. He said he had asked a Mr. Baltin to come in and see her work. Mr. Baltin was a graduate of a Russian academy, and had designed a few sets for theaters in New York. Therese had never heard of him. She tried to get Mr. Donohue to arrange an appointment for her to see Myron Blanchard or Ivor Harkevy, but Mr. Donohue never promised anything. He couldn't, Therese supposed.
Mr. Baltin came in one afternoon, a tall, bent man in a black hat and a seedy overcoat, and looked intently at the work she showed him. She had brought only three or four models down to the theatre, her very best ones. Mr. Baltin told her of a play that was to start in production in about six weeks. He would be glad to recommend her as an assistant, and Therese said that would work out very well, because she would be out of town until then, anyway. Everything was working out very well in these last days. Mr. Andronich had promised her a two-week job in Philadelphia in the middle of February, which would be just about the time she would be back from the trip with Carol. Therese wrote down the name and address of the man Mr. Baltin knew.
"He's looking for someone now, so call him the first of the week," Mr.
Baltin said. "It'll just be a helper's job, but his helper, a pupil of mine, is working with Harkevy now."
"Oh. Do you suppose you--or he could arrange for me to see Harkevy?"
"Nothing easier. All you have to do is call Harkevy's studio and ask to speak to Charles. Charles Winant. Tell him that you've spoken with me.
Let's see--call him Friday. Friday afternoon around three."
"All right. Thank you." Friday was a whole week off. Harkevy was not unapproachable, Therese had heard, but he had the reputation of never making appointments, much less keeping them if he did make them, because he was very busy. But maybe Mr. Baltin knew.
"And don't forget to call Kettering," Mr. Baltin said as he left.
Therese looked again at the name he had given her: Adolph Kettering, Theatrical Investments, Inc., at a private address. "I'll call him Monday morning. Thanks a lot."
That was the day, a Saturday, when she was to meet Richard in the Palermo after work. It was the seventh of January, eleven days before she and Carol planned to leave. She saw Phil standing with Richard at the bar.
"Well, how's the old Cat?" Phil asked her, dragging up a stool for her.
"Working Saturdays, too?"
"The cast didn't work. Just my department," she said.
"When's the opening?"
"The twenty-first."
"Look," Richard said. He pointed to a spot of dark-green paint on her skirt.
"I know. I did that days ago."
"What would you like to drink?" Phil asked her.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll have a beer, thanks." Richard had turned his back on Phil, who stood on the other side of him, and she sensed an ill-feeling between them. "Did you do any painting today?" she asked Richard.
Richard's mouth was down at both corners. "Had to pinch hit for some driver who was sick. Ran out of gas in the middle of Long Island."
"Oh. That's rotten. Maybe you'd rather paint than go anywhere tomorrow."
They had talked of going over to Hoboken tomorrow, just to walk around and eat at the Clam House. But Carol would be in town tomorrow, and had promised to call her.
"I'll paint if you'll sit for me," Richard said.
Therese hesitated uncomfortably. "I just don't feel in the mood for sitting these days.
"All right. It's not important." He smiled. "But how can I ever paint you if you'll never sit?"
"Why don't you do it out of the air?"
Phil slid his hand out and held the bottom of her glass. "Don't drink that. Have something better. I'll drink this."
"All right. I'll try a rye and water."
Phil was standing on the other side of her now. He looked cheerful, but a little dark around the eyes. For the past week, in a sullen mood, he had been writing a play. He had read a few scenes of it aloud at his New Year's party. Phil called it an extension of Kafka's Metamorphosis. She had drawn a rough sketch for a set New Year's morning, and showed it to Phil when she came down to see him. And suddenly it occurred to her, that was what was the matter with Richard.
"Terry, I wish you'd make a model we can photograph from that sketch you showed me. I'd like to have a set to go with the script." Phil pushed the rye and water toward her, and leaned on the bar close beside her.
"I might," Therese said. "Are you really going to try to get it produced?"
"Why not?" Phil's dark eyes challenged her above his smile. He snapped his fingers at the barman. "Check?"
"I'll pay," Richard said.
"No, you won't. This is mine." Phil had his old black wallet in his hand.
His play would never be produced, Therese thought, might not even be finished, because Phil's moods were capricious.
"I'll be moving along," Phil said. "Drop by soon, Terry. Cheerio, Rich."
She watched him go off and up the little front stairs, shabbier than she had ever seen him in his sandals and threadbare polo coat, yet with an attractive nonchalance about his shabbiness. Like a man walking through his house in his favorite old bathrobe, Therese thought. She waved back at him through the front window.
"I hear you took Phil sandwiches and beer New Year's Day," Richard said.
"Yes. He called up and said he had a hangover."
"Why didn't you mention it?"
"I forgot, I suppose. It wasn't important."
"Not important. If you--" Richard's stiff hand gestured slowly, hopelessly. "If you spend half the day in a guy's apartment, bringing him sandwiches and beer? Didn't it occur to you I might have wanted some sandwiches, too?"
"If you did, you had plenty of people to get them for you. We'd eaten and drunk everything in Phil's house. Remember?"
Richard nodded his long head, still smiling the downward, disgruntled smile. "And you were alone with him, just the two of you."
"Oh, Richard--" She remembered, and it was so unimportant. Dannie hadn't been back from Connecticut that day. He had spent New Year's at the house of one of his professors. She had hoped Dannie would come in that afternoon at Phil's, but Richard would probably never think that, never guess she liked Dannie a lot better than Phil.
"If any other girl did that, I'd suspect something was brewing and I'd be right," Richard went on.
"I think you're being silly."
"I think you're being naive." Richard was looking at her stonily, resentfully, and Therese thought, it surely couldn't be only this he was so resentful about. He resented the fact that she wasn't and never could be what he wished her to be, a girl who loved him passionately and would love to go to Europe with him. A girl like herself, with her face, her ambitions, but a girl who adored him. "You're not Phil's type, you know," he said.
"Whoever said I was? Phil?"
"That twerp, that half-baked dilettante," Richard murmured. "And he has the nerve to sound off tonight and say you don't give a damn for me."
"He hasn't any right to say that. I don't discuss you with him."
"Oh, that's a fine answer. Meaning if you had, he'd know you didn't give a damn, eh?" Richard said it quietly, but his voice shook with anger.
"What's Phil suddenly got against you?" she asked.
"That's not the point!"
"What is the point?" she said impatiently.
"Oh, Terry, let's stop it."
"You can't find any point," she said, but seeing Richard turn away from her and shift his elbows on the bar, almost as if he writhed physically under her words, she felt a sudden compassion for him. It was not now, not last week that galled him, but the whole past and future futility of his own feelings about her.
Richard plunged his cigarette into the ash tray on the bar. "What do you want to do tonight?" he asked.
Tell him about the trip with Carol, she thought. Twice before she had meant to tell him, and put it off. "Do you want to do anything?" She emphasized the last word.
"Of course," he said depressedly. "What do you say we have dinner, then call up Sam and Joan? Maybe we can walk up and see them tonight."
"All right." She hated it. Two of the most boring people she had ever met, a shoe clerk and a secretary, happily married on West Twentieth Street, and she knew Richard meant to show her an ideal life in theirs, to remind her that they might live together the same way one day. She hated it, and any other night she might have protested, but the compassion for Richard was still in her, dragging after it an amorphous wake of guilt and a necessity to atone. Suddenly, she remembered a picnic they had had last summer, off the road near Tarrytown, remembered precisely Richard's reclining on the grass, working ever so slowly with his pocketknife at the cork in the wine bottle, while they talked of--what? But she remembered that moment of contentment, that conviction that they shared something wonderfully real and rare together that day, and she wondered now where it had gone to, on what it had been based. For now even his long flat figure standing beside her seemed to oppress her with its weight. She forced down her resentment, but it only grew heavy inside her, like a thing of substance. She looked at the chunky figures of the two Italian workmen standing at the bar, and at the two girls at the end of the bar whom she had noticed before, and now that they were leaving, she saw that they were in slacks. One had hair cut like a boy's.
Therese looked away, aware that she avoided them, avoided being seen looking at them.
"Want to eat here? Are you hungry yet?" Richard asked.
"No. Let's go somewhere else."
So they went out and walked north, in the general direction of where Sam and Joan lived.
Therese rehearsed the first words until all their sense was rubbed out.
"Remember Mrs. Aird, the woman you met in my house that day?"
"Sure."
"She's invited me to go on a trip with her, a trip West in a car for a couple of weeks or so. I'd like to go."
"West? California?" Richard said surprisedly. "Why?"
"Why?"
"Well---do you know her as well as that?"
"I've seen her a few times."
"Oh. Well, you didn't mention it." Richard walked along with his hands swinging at his sides, looking at her. "Just the two of you?"
"Yes."
"When would you be leaving?"
"Around the eighteenth."
"Of this month?--Then you won't get to see your show."
She shook her head. "I don't think it's so much to miss."
"Then it's definite?"
"Yes."
He was silent a moment. "What kind of a person is she? She doesn't drink or anything, does she?"
"No." Therese smiled. "Does she look like she drinks?"
"No. I think she's very good looking, in fact. It's just damned surprising, that's all."
"Why?"
"You so seldom make up your mind about anything. You'll probably change your mind again."
"I don't think so."
"Maybe I can see her again sometime with you. Why don't you arrange it?"
"She said she'd be in the city tomorrow. I don't know how much time she's got--or really whether she'll call or not."
Richard didn't continue and neither did Therese. They did not mention Carol again that evening.
Richard spent Sunday morning painting, and came to Therese's apartment around two. He was there when Carol telephoned a little later. Therese told her that Richard was with her, and Carol said, "Bring him along."
Carol said she was near the Plaza, and they might meet there in the Palm Room.
Half an hour later, Therese saw Carol look up at them from a table near the center of the room, and almost like the first time, like the echo of an impact that had been tremendous, Therese was jolted by the sight of her. Carol was wearing the same black suit with the green and gold scarf that she had worn the day of the luncheon. But now Carol paid more attention to Richard than to her.
The three of them talked of nothing, and Therese, seeing the calm in Carol's gray eyes that only once turned to her, seeing a quite ordinary expression on Richard's face, felt a kind of disappointment. Richard had gone out of his way to meet her, but Therese thought it was even less from curiosity than because he had nothing else to do. She saw Richard looking at Carol's hands, the nails manicured in a bright red, saw him notice the ring with the clear green sapphire, and the wedding ring on the other hand. Richard could not say they were useless hands, idle hands, despite the longish nails. Carol's hands were strong, and they moved with an economy of motion. Her voice emerged from the flat murmur of other voices around them, talking of nothing at all with Richard, and once she laughed.
Carol looked at her. "Did you tell Richard we might go on a trip?" she asked.
"Yes. Last night."
"West?" Richard asked.
"I'd like to go up to the Northwest. It depends on the roads."
And Therese was suddenly impatient. Why did they sit here having a conference about it? Now they were talking about temperatures, and the state of Washington.
"Washington's my home state," Carol said. "Practically."
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