In a Yellow Wood

by Gore Vidal

  The entrance hall was modern and dignified. The walls were clean and white and there was a thick carpet on the floor. Two heavy leather couches furnished the entrance. A dark genteel girl sat behind a reception desk.

  “Good morning, Caroline,” she said in a nasal voice. “Good morning, Bob.”

  “Hello, Ruth,” said Robert Holton, and Caroline Lawson smiled at her.

  “Anything new?” asked Robert Holton.

  “Not a thing, Bob, not a thing. Everything’s just as dull as ever. Of course, it’s still early.”

  “Sure,” said Caroline, amused at the thought of anything interesting happening to them, “the day’s just started.”

  “Is the boss in yet?” asked Robert Holton. He was terribly afraid of getting in bad, thought Caroline, looking at him. He was rather cowardly but nice. Perhaps having been in the war had changed him. Perhaps he would improve.

  Ruth shook her head. “No, he’s not in yet. He hasn’t come in yet. He’s always late, Mr. Murphy is.” Mr. Murphy was the head of the Statistical Section where Robert Holton worked. Caroline was Mr. Murphy’s secretary.

  “Well, I’m glad,” said Robert Holton.

  “You certainly are eager,” said Ruth, looking up at him, her head slightly to one side: the way that movie actresses looked.

  Robert Holton laughed. “I guess I am.”

  “And after all you’ve been through, too! Why, if I’d seen what you’ve seen I wouldn’t worry what nob...anybody thought.”

  “That’s what I used to say,” said Robert Holton.

  “Come on, Bob,” said Caroline. “Let’s get back to the salt mine.”

  Ruth nodded to them and they walked into a long room. On one side of the room were the doors of offices; the other side was covered with tremendous pictures of factories and ships and railroads. The pictures were Mr. Golden’s idea. He wanted to explain to customers the real meaning of the stocks they were buying. Mr. Golden always wanted people to feel that the stock market was a creative, a productive thing.

  Women of all ages sat typing at small desks in the long room. The light was indirect and modern and very even. One could see that Heywood and Golden was a well-organized house.

  People murmured good mornings to Caroline and Robert Holton as they walked together between the desks. At the end of the room there was a glass door behind which were a large blackboard, tickertape machines, and men recording the prices of the various stocks.

  “Look busy, don’t they?” commented Caroline.

  “They certainly do. I wouldn’t have that job for anything.”

  “I think it’d be sort of exciting.”

  “Too much running around for me. I like to sit still.”

  “It takes,” said Caroline, “all kinds to make up a world.”

  “Isn’t that lucky?” said Robert Holton and Caroline didn’t know whether he was laughing at her or not. Sometimes he bothered her. She liked him. Almost everybody did because he was nice-looking and quiet. He was weak, though, she thought. She didn’t like a man to be weak. She wanted someone that she could lean on. Caroline Lawson was one of those pretty girls who could never bear weak men and yet, by nature, hated those who were stronger.

  They stood and watched the tickertape machines through the glass door. A tall white-faced boy was slowly marking figures on the blackboard. He stood on a small stepladder and as he wrote the figures his left foot tapped regularly and rhythmically on the top step of the ladder. Caroline wondered what tune he was making.

  “You like to dance, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

  “What? Dance? Sure, I like to dance. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking, that’s all. I like to dance a whole lot. When I was at college we used to have wonderful dances.”

  Robert Holton laughed. “That wasn’t so long ago, when you were at college. Don’t you go out any more?”

  “Of course I do. You know I do, all the time, and I’m not trying to get you to ask me out either.”

  He laughed at her and that was all.

  Caroline looked at him and tried to guess what he was thinking. He was probably thinking that she was very pretty and that he would like to ask her to go out with him. She wouldn’t go out with him, he knew. Not now, not after she had said these things. Later, perhaps, when they had forgotten the words she had said. Caroline sighed as she thought of her own strength and of his weakness.

  “Let’s get back to the office,” said Holton.

  They walked down a short corridor. At the end of the corridor was the Statistical room. Here a dozen men and women worked at desks. They compiled figures for the executives and the customers and everyone else in the house.

  Through a noise of automatic welcomes, Caroline and Robert Holton went into the office. Most of the desks were on the side of the room away from the windows. The windowed end of the room was protected by a railing; behind the railing was Mr. Murphy’s desk and at a respectful distance from his desk was Caroline Lawson’s.

  “See you later, Bob,” said Caroline and she opened the door of the railing and went into the windowed section of the room. She let the door swing creakily shut and went to her desk. Glancing sideways, she watched Robert Holton go to his desk at the other end of the office. Then she sat down.

  The desk was neat. A new blotter was in the center. An inkwell, without ink in it, and a penholder, without a pen in it, held the top of the blotter down. A slim imitation silver vase sat on one corner of the desk. Occasionally Mr. Murphy would put a flower in the vase and she would smile at him when he did that and Mr. Murphy would wink at her.

  One of the two phones on her desk rang. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Someone asked for Mr. Murphy. “He isn’t in right now; shall I have him call you? You’ll call back later? Thank you.” She cleared her throat, cleared her professional telephone voice away.

  She moved the blotter to one end of the desk. Then she lifted the front of her desk and a typewriter appeared. She ran her fingers over the keys, professionally, like a pianist before he begins to play.

  She opened the left-hand top drawer of the desk. This was her personal drawer. Here were several compacts in various stages of use. A slightly crushed box of pale green Kleenex, a carton of cigarettes, and a box of fairly expensive candy. The lid of the candy box was off and Caroline Lawson decided that, since her breakfast had been small, a little candy wouldn’t hurt her. She picked the largest piece and put it in her mouth.

  “Good morning, Caroline. How’s the girl?” It was Mr. Murphy.

  Caroline swallowed quickly. “Fine, fine, Mr. Murphy. How’re you today?”

  “Me? I’m just fine today. Certainly is a wonderful day today. Makes you feel like going out in the country somewhere. Out to Long Island or some place like that. Go some place to get away from the city.” Mr. Murphy sighed. He had spent all his life in the city and he wanted to go live in the country. He would not like the country, of course, but then he would never leave the city and it made no difference.

  “Look what I brought you,” said Mr. Murphy. He pulled a slightly rumpled white carnation from his buttonhole. “We had a big blowout at the Astor last night. It was quite a show we had.”

  “Thank you,” said Caroline, smiling at him. She smelled the white flower; a strong odor of cigar smoke spoiled the scent. “Thank you,” she said again and she put the white flower in the tall vase.

  “Any calls? Anything new?”

  “You had one call. No message, though. The man said he’d call back later.”

  “Good.” Mr. Murphy sat down at his desk.

  There was a pile of letters on his desk. Very precisely he cut the letters open one by one. Caroline watched him with a mixture of admiration and dislike.

  Oliver L. Murphy was a tall man. He was heavy but not in the usual manner. His arms and legs and neck were long and thin and his hips were narrow; his stomach and chest, however, were massive. He held himself erect. His face was red as all Irishmen’s
faces are supposed to be. His eyes and hair were dark and he had a thick curved nose. Mr. Murphy’s clothes fitted him well. They were usually of a somber color and always correct. His cuffs were beautifully starched.

  For five years Caroline Lawson had been his secretary. Her first job had been as his secretary; her last job, too, she thought to herself: she would be married soon and that would be the end of typing and putting cigar-scented flowers in fake silver vases. Caroline Lawson was not sure whom she would marry but she would certainly get married to someone soon.

  Mr. Murphy finished reading his letters.

  “Anything important?” asked Caroline.

  Mr. Murphy shook his head. “Not much of anything. We got one letter here I ought to answer.”

  “I’ll get my pad.” Caroline picked up a lightly ruled pad of paper from her desk. Then she went over and sat down in a chair beside Mr. Murphy’s desk. She sat close to the window so that the morning sunlight would warm her. As she sat down bits of dust vibrated up into the sunlight from her chair seat. The motes of dust danced and glittered and then slowly sank along the beams of light to the floor.

  “I’m ready,” said Caroline Lawson.

  Mr. Murphy cleared his throat and looked helplessly about him. It was his usual beginning. Then he picked up the letter he was to answer. He waited a moment for the words to come to him.

  “Dear,” he began. She made the figure for the word. He paused, studying the ceiling. He began again, “Dear Mr. Lachum, In reply to your letter of the 16th, etc., etc....” He stopped and closed his eyes; this seemed to help. “I cannot, I fear, agree with you in your analysis of certain trends now at work...no, now abroad...in the financial world.” His voice became firm and concise, “Although I have the greatest personal esteem for the opinions of yourself and associates, uh, in re to the stock market, I must, in this instance, disagree with you, for I am of the opinion that this is a rising market and will continue to be so. All statistics at hand...no, available, point to just that. Hoping to hear from you again, and so on.” Mr. Murphy stopped and opened his eyes. He looked pleased and exhilarated.

  “That’s a very nice letter, Mr. Murphy. Knowing Mr. Lachum, I think you were certainly nice to him.”

  “Well, it never does to offend people, Caroline. That’s a rule with me. That’s something I’ve always followed. I wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t been that way.” He paused and they both thought of a world where there was no Mr. Murphy because he had offended people.

  “All right, let’s hear that letter back.”

  Caroline read the letter. Mr. Murphy listened, pleased.

  “That’s fine,” he said when she had finished. “Type it up please.”

  Caroline went back to her desk. The sunlight and the glittering dust were almost out of the room now. Soon they would turn on the fluorescent lights over their desks. Caroline sometimes wished that the morning would last all day.

  Caroline put a piece of paper in her typewriter. She started to type; then she remembered that all letters must be done in triplicate. She pulled the sheet of paper out of the machine. Wearily, enjoying her weariness, she arranged more paper in the typewriter.

  Her fingers moved swiftly over the keys. She made rhythms as she typed, as the keys clattered on the white paper.

  In a few minutes she was finished.

  “Very nice,” said Mr. Murphy, looking over her shoulder. “Very nice, indeed. I’ll sign that now.”

  “O.K.” Caroline took the papers out of the typewriter. She removed the carbon. Mr. Murphy signed the letter carefully. During the last five years Caroline had watched Mr. Murphy’s signature change. It was becoming more original; the upstrokes were stronger and the “M” was becoming regal.

  She blotted his signature. “What’ll I do next?” she asked. “I expect you’d better get on those reports for Mr. Golden. He was asking for them yesterday.”

  “What does he think we are? We were only told to do those reports last week. That takes a lot of time. I don’t see what he’s always in such a rush for.”

  “Well, you know how some people are,” said Mr. Murphy, meaning much more than he said.

  Caroline nodded wisely. Mr. Murphy was often opposed to Mr. Golden’s business ideas. Mr. Heywood, who had inherited a lot of money and never bothered much with business, was Mr. Murphy’s friend. Mr. Golden was a promoter who had become a partner several years before. The conservative element of the house stood firmly against him but his hold over Mr. Heywood was equally firm.

  “I’ll get to work on it right away,” said Caroline.

  “Good, I think I’ll go up to the front office. If there’re any calls tell them I’ll call back.”

  “Yes, Mr. Murphy.”

  Smoothly Mr. Murphy moved across the room. All of his movements were smooth and swift. He opened the swinging gate that separated him from his staff. They didn’t look up from their work as he walked between the desks toward the hall.

  Caroline took more paper out of her desk and put it in her typewriter. She opened a black notebook. Slowly she began to copy. After a minute or so she stopped. She wasn’t concentrating and she didn’t know what was wrong.

  Caroline Lawson leaned back in her swivel chair and her arms dropped limply at her sides. The sunlight was gone out of the room and she could no longer see the dust in the light.

  Far away she could hear the sounds of automobile horns blowing, of newsboy shouts in the street; and, from time to time, their building would rumble as a train passed underground.

  Closer to her were the sounds of the office. The clattering of typewriters, the constant low buzz of voices; these were the sounds of her days. Caroline was dissatisfied.

  Across the room she could see Robert Holton writing something in a black book. She pitied him because he seemed to really like what he was doing. But then it was better than being a soldier: probably anything was better than that. But then Robert Holton wasn’t a woman. That made a lot of difference, thought Caroline. He couldn’t be depressed by things the way she was. Men were never sensitive about such things. She had a malaise. Having thought of this word, she was pleased with it. The word described her sudden fits of depression.

  Robert Holton closed the book on his desk. He looked about him uncertainly. Then he stood up and walked toward her. He was presentable, she thought. Certainly better looking than anyone else in Heywood and Golden, but he was not what she wanted at all. Also, there was some doubt in her mind that Robert Holton was interested in her.

  “How’s it going, Caroline?”

  “I’m slowed up.” She sighed loudly and wilted in her chair.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. She didn’t answer. She was quiet for a moment. He watched her and she enjoyed his watching her. Finally he said, “Murphy’s in a good mood today.”

  Caroline nodded. “He’s real happy today. He wants to go out in the country. He always wants to do that when he’s feeling good.”

  “He’s some character,” said Robert Holton. He sat down on the railing.

  “It would be nice,” said Caroline thoughtfully, “to go out in the country; have a picnic maybe.”

  “Sure, that would be nice, but you couldn’t do that.”

  “No, I guess you couldn’t.” Caroline was contemptuous but because she was a very pretty and popular girl she didn’t show it. She was sensitive herself and that was what she wanted in life: a man who was as sensitive as she, someone who would respond to her moods. She looked at Robert Holton. He was sitting uneasily on the railing. No, he could never understand her great sadness. Perhaps no one would ever understand her. Caroline was sad, for it is a sad thing to be both pretty and sensitive.

  “You’re going out tonight, aren’t you?”

  Robert Holton nodded. “I’m going to a cocktail party; I’m going to Mrs Raymond Stevanson’s.”

  “Oh, is that so? You’re really going around in high circles. I guess I shouldn’t be associating with high society like you.” She had meant
to speak lightly and humorously but somehow the words had come out all wrong and there was a bitterness in her voice that embarrassed her.

  Robert Holton looked surprised; he smiled finally. “Well, it never hurts to know these people. She was a friend of my mother’s,” he explained, trying to explain these things, to make himself appear like her; she hated him for his kindness.

  “Those people are O.K., I guess,” said Caroline. She started to say something about her own family, some improbable but soothing lie, something to prove to herself that she was the same as Mrs Stevanson whose picture was so often in the papers. But she said nothing. She played with the ribbon of her typewriter.

  “I hate staying in one place,” said Caroline, after a moment of silence.

  “It’s no fun traveling,” said Robert Holton. “Moving around all the time; that’s what I didn’t like in the army. No, traveling’s pretty lousy.”

  “That kind is, but I mean to go...well, you know...where you want to go, that’s what I mean. I don’t like sitting around here day after day. I want to go some place.”

  He shrugged. “A lot of people do, I guess. Marjorie, you know, the waitress, she wants to go to Sicily.”

  “Well, that’s different. I mean she’s not...well, you know what I mean, she’s probably happy doing what she’s doing.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Robert Holton. They thought of Marjorie Ventusa for a moment then they didn’t think of her again.

  Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline looked about the familiar room. The older women were typing and using their adding machines; the younger women were watching Robert Holton; and the younger men (there were three of them) looked up occasionally to see what Caroline was doing. She posed a little for them. She didn’t pose haughtily, though. Caroline was too clever for that. She just looked girlish and rather innocent. None of them could understand her sadness and her longing. It pleased her to think how well she hid herself. Not even Robert Holton, talking to her now, could realize these things.

  “No,” said Robert Holton, “no, I want to stay in one place.”