The Last of Philip Banter

by John Franklin Bardin

  I don’t mean to imply that our marriage hasn’t been a happy one; I think it is as happy as most. We are kind to each other. I believe I have worn worse with Dorothy than she has with me (isn’t this the way it should be?). I left the newspaper business at her father’s suggestion and became a copywriter in his agency; it wasn’t long before he gave me several accounts to handle and I found my salary in five figures. We would be completely happy if I could only be a little more circumspect about my personal affairs. The trouble is I don’t try. Dorothy might never know of my flirtations, if I didn’t insist on flaunting them in her face.

  Or if she learned, I know she would be proud enough to pretend ignorance – if I allowed her the pretence.

  But she can’t overlook an event that happens before her eyes: the way I made up to Jeremy’s ‘friend’ last night, for example.

  Why couldn’t I have waited?

  Our guests arrived while I was still dressing. Dorothy had left the room earlier to see how things were in the kitchen; I heard her go to the door when the bell rang and then I heard muffled conversation. I knew Jeremy and his ‘friend’ had arrived.

  It has been a long time since I last spent an evening with Jeremy. Until about a year ago he was my closest friend; then we had a falling out. Nothing dramatic occurred, no quarrel, not even a disagreement. We just stopped seeing each other. Several months passed before I realized what had happened, and then when I thought about it I knew that our estrangement had been progressing gradually for years. Our community of friends was dispersed by the war, for one thing; I believe that Jeremy and I were the only 4-F’s in the group. We might have had the newspaper business in common if I hadn’t left it, and Jeremy, too – he went into radio shortly after I married Dorothy. I know nothing about radio, and I must confess I dislike most radio people. They’re queer. I’ve noticed Jeremy growing queer since he has become an announcer. He wears hand-painted ties now, and Irish linen shirts – that sort of thing. I suppose it is another reason why we have drifted apart.

  Dorothy might have kept us together. She was our last link. Jeremy had known Dorothy before I knew her, and he had liked her a lot at one time. They were great friends and it was good to see them together. Jeremy was the only one of Dorothy’s friends that I did like, for that matter. But then that might have been because he was my friend, too; I don’t know.

  Thinking back over it I can’t understand why I was surprised to learn that he was coming to dinner. As Dorothy said, I should have been pleased. And I was, after awhile, yet at first it was a shock and almost disagreeable.

  It was as if I had a premonition.

  She was the first person I saw when I entered the living-room. To that moment I hadn’t thought about the ‘friend’ Jeremy was bringing around. If I had been asked, I should have guessed that Jeremy’s companion would be a man. I seldom think of Jeremy with women, principally because he doesn’t often have a feminine friend. Jeremy is something of a lone wolf, or he used to be. He had a girl with him last night, though.

  I could not take my eyes off her. She was small and slim, and she stood very straight. Her eyes were brown, flecked with a lighter shade that changed from hazel to green and back again within the duration of a glance. She wore a severely simple suit of black broadcloth set off by a tailored shirtwaist. Her hair was darker than her enigmatic eyes and it fell to her shoulders in soft abundance. There was something taut and alive about the way she held her head, something imperious and demanding about the quick, restless gestures of her hands…

  Jeremy came over and introduced us. He looked well, if a little fat; he had been one of those small, compact men who seem to take the highest gloss, but now his clothes bulged slightly and there was a fold of flesh at his collar.

  ‘This is – –, Philip. She’s going to be a writer, too.’ (I do not want to write her name. It’s not that I have forgotten it – how could I? – indeed, I have been saying it over and over to myself all the while I wrote this, as if it were an incantation. But I refuse to set it down in black and white. A silly quirk, perhaps… or a sensible caution?)

  I looked away from her to see if he had said this last with malice. But Jeremy was smiling in the best of nature. I tend to remember insults and to cherish resentments, to be sensitive about wrongs long after others have forgotten them. Once Jeremy had lashed out at me unmercifully for taking a job in advertising. He had called me a parasite. But, of course, he no longer remembered that, even if I did.

  ‘What sort of thing are you going to write? ‘I asked her, sitting down beside her on the sofa. Dorothy had moved over to make room: ‘Stories, or something serious?’

  Her eyes glinted and changed colour. ‘Can’t stories be serious?’ she asked.

  I felt foolish. I had made a snide remark that had turned out to be anything but clever. I had asked a meaningless question, been guilty of an inanity, and her manner let me know she knew it.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course, they can. I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘What did you mean?’

  ‘I meant are you going to write fiction, or – or something more serious?’ As soon as I said this, I marvelled at my own stupidity in repeating the very remark I had wanted to efface. Now I wanted to add something else, quickly, that would bury it. But she did not give me the chance.

  ‘I can’t understand the typical American business man’s attitude that art, writing in particular, is an intricate game, a child’s play. I think I detect that in you. And I want you to know that I resent it!’ She licked at her lip with her tongue as if a drop of the acid that formed her words had fallen upon the sensitive membrane and must be expunged.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ I protested. ‘I wish I could write fiction, good fiction. I admire an honest writer.’

  She stared at me incredulously. And then she smiled and looked away. I knew that it had begun all over again.

  We went in to dinner soon after that, but before we did Jeremy came over to talk to me. He didn’t have much to say, just asked the usual questions about business and my health; but he gave me the opportunity to ask him about her.

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘At a party in the Village a while back,’ he said. ‘We’re pretty good friends. What do you think of her?’

  I looked at her again. She was sitting back on the sofa talking to Dorothy (I had walked over to the fireplace with Jeremy). She held her drink in one hand and was gesturing with it, the other hand was poking indefatigably at her long bob. I thought to myself, I’ve never seen a person who was so alive…

  ‘She’s attractive,’ I answered Jeremy, ‘and she’s got spirit. I like the way she stands up and fights when she talks.’

  Jeremy nodded soberly, but I could see he was pleased. His next words proved it.

  ‘I’m in love with her, Philip. I’m going to marry her.’

  ‘Are you? Congratulations!’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t asked her yet,’ he said, and his face flushed. ‘She may not want me…’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I said.

  He was asking for it, but then Jeremy always asks for it and thanks you afterwards.

  I said earlier that this time it wasn’t my fault. That isn’t true. I don’t know whose fault it could be except mine. If I had said I couldn’t help myself, that would have approached the truth.

  All through dinner I could not keep my eyes off her. She noticed my continued attention, and Dorothy noticed it; only Jeremy seemed to be unaware of what I was doing. I don’t think I was conscious of the food I was putting into my mouth; I know I paid only enough heed to the conversation to keep up my end. She had pre-empted my mind.

  And I could tell that she favoured my attention. Sometimes when you look at a woman she pretends to ignore you – that can be either good or bad; but if she shows you by returning your look that she knows you are watching her – that can be only good. During dinner I think that she returned my gaze as often as I
regarded her – that’s what I mean when I say I couldn’t help myself. I’ll admit that I didn’t have to look at her… that was where I was to blame. But once I had begun our wordless exchange, the only thing either of us could have done to have stopped would have been to leave. And I don’t believe that she ever thought of that – I know I didn’t.

  There was a telephone call for Jeremy about nine o’clock. We had been talking about the modern novel: I remember having said something rash about Henry Miller, only to feel her eyes on me again, to hear her soft, harsh voice challenge me.

  ‘At least, he’s honest!’

  ‘I didn’t say he wasn’t. I said only that his books were execrable, his hatred of America and things American old-fashioned and absurd.’

  She was half-smiling. There was a pleasurable antagonism between us. ‘I don’t believe you’ve read him!’ she exclaimed.

  She was right, I hadn’t. Although I believe I did read a review of his latest book.

  That was where we were when the ’phone rang. Dorothy answered and said it was for Jeremy. We could hear him out in the hall, arguing. ‘But I can’t. I’m at a party,’ I heard him say. And then later, ‘Well, all right. If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped. But I do think that you could plan these things better. Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll be over right away. Yes, I’m leaving this minute.’

  And while this was going on, I was acutely conscious of her and she was comparably aware of me. Each time we spoke we were at each other’s throats, but it was a different kind of aggression we intended. This verbal sparring was a substitute; even when we were silent we were at war, the oldest, most fought and best war of them all.

  Jeremy returned to find three people with that look on their faces that says, ‘We didn’t mean to, but we couldn’t keep from listening.’ He stood in the doorway and made his excuses.

  ‘That was the station. One of the men is ill and I have to fill in unexpectedly. I tried to beg off, but I couldn’t.’

  ‘You don’t have to go right away?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Jeremy walked away from Dorothy and over to her. She stood up – it seemed reluctantly. She looked at me, then shook her head and looked away.

  ‘You don’t have to leave, darling,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’d only have to take you home anyway. And I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

  She hesitated. She looked from Jeremy to me, ignoring Dorothy. I wondered if she realized how obvious this all was. There was no reason why she could not accomplish the same end more subtly.

  Jeremy, the fool, was throwing her at me. There is an example of why he never has a woman of his own. He knows nothing about them. He should not be trusted with them.

  ‘Why don’t you stay, darling?’ he was saying. ‘Phil will take you home, won’t you, Phil?’

  She was watching me again, this time eagerly. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble,’ she said.

  ‘Of course it’s no trouble.’

  Jeremy seemed relieved. ‘Then I’ll be going. I’ve really got to dash! Thank you, Dorothy, for a magnificent dinner.’ He waved his hand at us and was gone – an absurd little man in a shirt too big for him.

  As soon as he left, she sat down beside me. I was uncomfortably aware of Dorothy, standing by the fireplace, too pointedly paying us no attention.

  ‘Dorothy,’ I asked, ‘what do you think of Henry Miller?’

  ‘I haven’t read him either,’ she said. ‘I’ll reserve my opinion.’ I could feel —’s leg against mine.

  There are times in my life that I remember well and of which I can recall every detail, yet I have to force myself to think of them at all. The rest of last night is such a time. Until about eleven o’clock we sat and listened to the radio and talked. I think I can remember every word that was said, but I cannot make myself put that conversation down. What we said had no relation to what was happening. Last night was an emotional crisis, a conflict between three people that existed by itself without the aid of words or overt action.

  I believe we talked about the plight of the American writer, of his peculiar homelessness and the strange feeling of futile striving you get from our fiction – as if the author were inarticulate. Actually, it was ourselves who were inarticulate. We felt a need to talk, as if our talk clothed and made decent our naked emotions, but what we said was frustrate. There seemed no end to it.

  At times I felt myself to be a bystander; these were the times when Dorothy and – were concerned only with each other in their contention over me. And there were other times when Dorothy must have felt herself excluded – when – and I were alone despite her presence. (I still cannot bring myself to confide her name to paper.) Yet no anger was expressed. No words of love were spoken. We talked about Cain and Dos Passos and Wolfe; it was all very intellectual and civilized like a scene from a bad play.

  About eleven o’clock, she stood up abruptly. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘It’s early yet,’ I said. At that moment I wanted to delay the inevitable. I believe I would have backed out if I could.

  Dorothy yawned. ‘You might as well take her home, Philip.’ Dorothy wasn’t being impolite; she was acknowledging defeat, and letting me know that it would be an armed truce. ‘I’d like to get to bed, too,’ she added.

  I went out to get our coats. She was standing in front of the mirror over the fireplace fussing with her hair, and I saw that Dorothy was watching her. Dorothy was looking at her the way she would inspect an obstacle in her path, coldly, dispassionately – but the emotion she was hiding was hatred instead of annoyance.

  I brought her coat back into the room and helped her into it. In the mutual struggle with the fur she brushed against me more than was necessary. Dorothy saw this as well. I felt I had to say something to take the curse off the silence.

  ‘I’ll be back within the hour,’ I said. Dorothy smiled at me, and then looked at her. ‘You know you won’t,’ she said.

  I turned around to look back at Dorothy as we left. She had craned her neck to watch us leave. She was still smiling, but that was because she had forgotten to stop.

  I looked down at the woman beside me. I resolved that I would take her to her house and leave her. I told myself that I would really come back to Dorothy within the hour. I was married. I loved my wife. I was getting too old for this sort of thing. And I believed myself for the moment it took to shut the door on Dorothy.

  She stood still beside me, her eyes answering my look, her lower lip trembling. After acting like that all night, now she was shy…

  But I tasted blood when she kissed me in the taxi.

  Later, while I was dressing, she asked, ‘Why did your wife say that?’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘What she did just before we left. When you said you would be back, and she said you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh yes you do, Philip.’

  ‘But I don’t.’

  ‘It’s because this happened before, isn’t it? Many times before?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh yes you do!’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I mean – this isn’t the first time you’ve been unfaithful to Dorothy, is it?’

  There was no use lying. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘You do it all the time, don’t you?’

  ‘Not quite “all the time”.’

  She threw me a strange look and ran into the bathroom. ‘Why does she put up with it, Philip?’ she called to me over the sound of running water.

  ‘I suppose she loves me.’

  ‘If I loved you… and you did that to me… you know what I’d do?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘I’d kill you, Philip.’

  I didn’t say anything. I finished brushing my hair. I was ready to leave.

  ‘Philip.’

  ‘Yes.’

&nb
sp; ‘I wouldn’t try her too far, Philip. She might kill you, too… sometime.’

  ‘I know. I’m leaving now.’

  She came to the bathroom door. She had thrown a rough, terry-cloth robe over herself.

  ‘You have my number, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Good night.’

  She was smiling at me, imitating the way Dorothy had smiled. She mimicked Dorothy’s voice. ‘Go straight home, Philip. Don’t stop at any bars.’

  ‘Good night,’ I said, and slammed the door.

  The manuscript ended there without reaching a conclusion. As if there would be more – later.

  Philip threw it down on the desk and reached for the calendar pad. He sat staring at it, fingering its leaves. The ‘Confession’ purported to be written by himself about events that had occurred the night before. But the date given in the manuscript was Tuesday, December 1 – today. Did that make the ‘Confession’ actually a prediction?

  He had thought while he was reading it that he might possibly have written it himself, and the thought still plagued him. He had also thought that the ‘Confession’ might be a distorted account of what had happened last night, what he could not remember. Of course, if he had written it himself, he might have mistaken the date – that would account for the discrepancy. But if he had written it himself, when had he had the opportunity? Had he returned to the office to record the details of his latest conquest before he went home to bed? Hardly. He had been drunk the night before, but not that drunk. Nor had he ever been inclined to keep a diary. No, this must have been written by someone else and was intended as a prophecy.

  But by whom? Dorothy? Dorothy would not stoop to so cunning a device; besides, hadn’t he always been most cautious to be at all times discreet? He was sure Dorothy suspected nothing, but even if she did she would have too much good sense to jeopardize her own happiness by threatening him. For that was what the ‘Confession’ did – there was no escaping this conclusion – it constituted a threat.