The Last of Philip Banter

by John Franklin Bardin

  Jeremy threw his cigarette into the fireplace. ‘I know you’ve been busy. I can understand that. I’ve been busy myself. If Dorothy hadn’t –’

  ‘Philip! Jeremy!’ cried Dorothy. ‘What on earth are you talking about over there by yourselves? Brent and I feel we’ve been deserted!’ Dorothy’s manner was very bright and gay, but her eyes glittered at Philip. Why is she so intent on having me make up with Jeremy? he wondered. Why did she interrupt us like this? Did she think we were having a row?

  Jeremy crossed over to where Brent and Dorothy sat; Dorothy moved to make room for him on the sofa. ‘Why don’t you get us some of that precious brandy of yours, Phil?’ she asked.

  ‘I offered some to Jerry, but he tells me he has stopped drinking,’ Philip replied. He walked over to the credenza and began to fumble with the bottles. He had. almost forgotten about the ‘Confession’ again, and he was certainly not thinking of Brent at that moment. But before he found the bottle of cognac he had been saving since before the war, the telephone began to ring.

  He ran into the foyer and answered it himself. At least that much of the prophecy would not come true, he told himself as he picked up the receiver; Dorothy would not answer the ’phone. And if it were for Jeremy, he would make sure the call was genuine and not tricked-up. ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘I’m trying to reach Mr Jeremy Foulkes,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Is he available?’

  ‘Who is this calling?’

  ‘This is Mr Foulkes’ studio calling. Can you ask him to come to the ’phone, please. It is urgent.’

  Philip started to ask what was so important, but then he realized that Jeremy was standing beside him. ‘Is that for me, Phil?’ he asked.

  Philip handed him the telephone. ‘It’s your studio,’ he said. He walked back into the other room.

  Dorothy and Brent looked up at him expectantly. ‘Philip,’ Dorothy asked, ‘what was the name of the awful book you were telling me about the other day? The one you said I should read? Was it by Henry Miller? I can’t remember.’

  Philip sat down on the edge of the sofa. He tried to make his face blank. He did not want to show the sudden panic that had again seized him. ‘What book?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know what one you mean.’

  ‘You know the one I mean, Philip – I’m sure you do. It had something to do with an American living in Paris – it was Bohemian, I think.’

  Brent smiled archly at Philip. He had not noticed that he had sat down beside her, that she was close to him – that if he leaned forward he could touch her shoulder. ‘Dorothy was telling me that she found the modern novel difficult, Mr Banter, and often revolting.’ Brent’s tone indicated that she wanted Philip to help her deride his wife’s opinion. What bothered Philip most was that what Brent had said did not sound like Dorothy’s opinion of contemporary writing. Dorothy liked most modern novels.

  Philip’s mind was whirling. He was afraid to speak or to try to answer Brent’s question. The ‘Confession’ had predicted that Jeremy would be called to the telephone after dinner, and the prediction had come true. It had also predicted that the conversation would turn to Henry Miller, and that Philip would venture an opinion which Brent would attack – but what the devil was the opinion he was supposed to come out with? He could not remember. Did that mean that anything he said might be what the ‘Confession’ had predicted he would say? How could he keep this part of the prediction from coming true, if he could not remember what he must not say? He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and patted at his damp forehead.

  Brent was puzzled by his silence. Dorothy was smiling at him vacantly. Philip tried again to speak, but all he managed was a mumble. He saw Dorothy frown. Then, before anything else could happen, Jeremy came back into the room.

  ‘Sorry folks, I’ve got to go to work. One of the boys has reported sick and they’ve got no one to do his trick for him.’

  Brent was dismayed. ‘Oh, Jerry, again? Why don’t they leave you alone one evening in the week, at least? We haven’t had an entire evening together for a month!’ She stood up to go.

  ‘You don’t have to leave, do you, Brent?’ asked Dorothy. ‘Why don’t you stay and talk for a while?’

  Jeremy patted Brent on the shoulder. ‘That’s right, honey. I don’t want to break up the party. Why don’t you stay with the folks?’

  Brent was watching Philip. She was smiling the way she had at dinner, baring her teeth at him. He heard himself saying, ‘Yes, Brent, why go now? I’ll be glad to see you home, if that’s what’s bothering you.’ It was the polite thing to say.

  Still Brent was undecided. She looked at Jeremy again. ‘I don’t see why you should leave if you want to stay,’ he said. ‘I could only take you home, you know.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘No, I don’t even have time for that. I’d have to leave you in the taxi – you might as well stay and get to know these good people.’ He started for the door; obviously he did not have much time.

  Dorothy went after him. Philip heard her saying, ‘You will come again, won’t you, Jerry?’ Brent sat down on the sofa beside Philip. Whether by chance, or because she wanted it that way, she sat uncomfortably close to him – he could sense her body next to his. ‘I don’t think your wife likes me,’ she said.

  Philip was startled. The ‘Confession’ had not predicted this remark. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked. ‘I don’t think it’s true, you know.’

  ‘May I have a cigarette, please?’ Philip handed her his case and held a light for her. She inhaled, then blew out the lighter’s bluish flame with a harsh exhalation. Her eyelids lowered as she looked at him through a brief cloud of smoke. ‘Oh, I can tell. She’s jealous of you. I don’t think it’s just me she’s jealous of. I think she doesn’t like any woman near you.’ Perversely, she leaned against him. He could hear the cloth of her tunic rustle as she breathed.

  ‘I think you’re imagining things,’ he said. He stood up to get away from her, although escape was not what he most wanted. ‘Dorothy isn’t like that at all. She hasn’t a jealous bone in her body.’

  He went over to the credenza, found the brandy and poured three glasses. As he was carrying a glass to Brent, he happened to glance at the mirror above the fireplace. He saw Jeremy and Dorothy standing by the door in the mirror. He saw Jeremy take Dorothy in his arms and begin to kiss her. Then Philip was past the mirror. He gave the brandy to Brent, and went back for his own – passing the mirror twice and twice glancing at it. The first time Jeremy was still kissing his wife. The second time he had released her and was opening the door to go.

  Brent raised her glass for a toast. ‘To us,’ she said softly. Philip did not understand what she had said.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘To us,’ said Brent, her glass still raised, a tempting smile on her lips. ‘To you and me.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Philip.

  4

  It had been inconceivable to Philip that Dorothy might ever be unfaithful to him; it had not occurred to him that other events, aside from those specified in the ‘Confession’, might take place on the same night that the ‘Confession’s’ predictions came true. Seeing Dorothy kiss Jeremy came as a double shock to him. Not only was this an event that had not been foretold, but it was also one he had not thought possible. Of course, if he wished, he could excuse Dorothy’s conduct on the grounds that she had known Jeremy for many years and could kiss a good friend if she so wanted. But he did not find himself wanting to excuse Dorothy. Instead he found himself wanting to kiss Brent.

  He did not kiss her then. Dorothy came back into the room before they had finished their brandy, a moment after Brent had repeated and clarified her toast, in fact. Philip discovered that it was difficult for him to look at his wife. He gave her a glass of brandy, and then sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace.

  ‘What sort of a job has Jerry got that he has to run off to it at all hours?’ Dorothy asked Brent.

&n
bsp; Brent was sipping the last of her brandy. ‘He’s the head announcer at one of those small stations that play records all night,’ she explained. ‘They’ve had a run of illness lately, and he has been having to substitute for somebody almost every night. Then, sometimes, he has a half-hour show at one of the big stations.’

  ‘He must work awfully hard.’

  ‘That’s not like Jerry,’ said Philip.

  Dorothy glared at her husband. ‘Philip, what’s come over you? Whatever made you say a thing like that? ‘

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it? Did he work in college? You ought to know about that, you wrote as many of his papers for him as I did. Did he work when he was a reporter? How many times times did I file his stories for him when Jerry had a little too much party? It just seems damn queer to me that all of a sudden he should develop into such a hard worker!’ Philip gulped the rest of his brandy and banged the empty glass down on the table.

  ‘Philip, I don’t understand you. I watched you all evening, and I saw you were as unpleasant as you could be with Jerry. It seemed to me that you were deliberately trying to pick a fight with him.’ Dorothy was angry. Brent was amused. She kept sniffing her empty glass of brandy and glancing from one to the other of them.

  Philip did not know what to say. He could not remember having tried to pick a fight with Jeremy, although – since what he had said to Jeremy had not been uppermost in his mind – he realized that his actions might have been taken that way and even, possibly, his words. But why did Dorothy come out with all this in front of Brent?

  ‘I wasn’t impolite to Jeremy,’ he said. ‘If anyone was impolite it was he. I tried my best to get him to talk after dinner. I was as pleasant to him as I could be.’

  Dorothy was quietly indignant. ‘Philip, that’s not true and you know it. I watched you all evening and I know.’

  Brent stood up to find an ashtray. Philip and Dorothy were oblivious of her in their concern for each other. After she had extinguished her cigarette, Brent walked over to Philip and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘What do you think of Henry Miller?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you find his work exciting?’

  Philip was hurt and angry at Dorothy’s unfounded accusation; he answered Brent’s attempt to change the subject without thinking about what he said. ‘Miller’s just a little old-fashioned, isn’t he? Rather an overdue romantic, I think.’ Not until he had spoken, did he begin to wonder if what he had said had comprised what the ‘Confession’ had predicted he would say. He kept his eyes on Dorothy. She had withdrawn, as she usually did after losing her temper, and was affecting to ignore him.

  ‘At least, he’s honest,’ Brent pressed him. ‘He says what he thinks.’

  Philip gave his attention to her. He had to keep his wits about him, he reminded himself. Or else he might say something that would lead to disaster. ‘He makes a cult of it, doesn’t he?’ he asked. That had not been in the ‘Confession’ he was sure.

  ‘A cult of what?’

  ‘Of saying what he thinks. Of calling a spade a spade. I’ll admit that he’s thought out his position, and I’ll admit that his position may be a sound one for him, personally. But I rather resent having him shout his invective at me at the top of his lungs. I’m an American. I live in America. I like it. If he doesn’t, that’s all right with me. I don’t go shouting at him!’

  Brent was leaning against the fireplace, her head tossed back, her dark hair falling crookedly against the mantel. ‘Why do you American business men insist that the artist sing your praises? America is business. That’s all we have. Is it surprising that Miller doesn’t like it – that he refuses to pay lip service to your phony values?’ Philip could see that she was not angry; instead she was enjoying the argument. He felt as if she were slicing away at him, peeling him to ribbons with the cutting edge of her tongue. Queerly enough, he enjoyed being attacked.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I read Miller,’ he said. ‘I still can’t remember the title of the book Dorothy asked me about. You may be right. I’d have to read more of him to tell.’

  Brent smiled, allowing him to elude her. But he knew she was aware of the full measure of her victory. She advanced to the sofa triumphantly. ‘May I have another cigarette, please?’

  Philip offered the case to both Dorothy and Brent, and then he got some more brandy for the three of them.’ Why don’t you see what’s on the radio, Phil?’ Dorothy suggested. ‘You might be able to get some music.’

  Philip turned on the set and they listened to the last movement of Brahms’ Fourth. This monumental music seemed absurdly incongruous to Philip amid the confusion of his thoughts, which called for cacophony and a mixing of tongues. As the mighty chords of the passacaglia died away, Brent stood up. ‘I think I had better go,’ she said. ‘I want to get some work done tomorrow.’

  Dorothy did not rise. ‘You will persuade Jerry to bring you again, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘And I hope your novel turns out well.’

  Philip escaped to the foyer to get Brent’s coat. After he had found it he stood watching the duel of platitudes between his wife and Brent: the spectacle of two women who dislike each other yet are intent on maintaining the pretence of sociability. The sight disgusted him.

  Brent finally completed her good-byes and came into the foyer. He helped her on with her coat. They went out the door. He tried to kiss her in the hallway, but she evaded him. He succeeded in the taxi.

  Dorothy waited ten minutes after Philip and Brent left before she put on her old tweed coat and a mannish hat that made her look drab and different and went out herself. While she waited, she drank two brandies and paced the room. When she reached the street, she set off westward, walking swiftly. She walked with her head down, her hands thrust into her pockets, blindly. She ignored traffic lights and several times bumped into other pedestrians. By the time she had gone four or five blocks, her pace had quickened to a rapid trot. When she reached the stone steps of her father’s house, she fled up them as if she were pursued.

  The butler let her in and told her that her father was still in the library. Dorothy did not wait to let him take her coat and hat, but pushed past him and walked down the high-ceilinged hall, her heels clattering on the tile floor. She threw open the heavy oak doors of the library and strode into the large, comfortable room. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and Steven Foster sat beside it in a high-backed chair. His hand clasped a book, by his side was his glass of port. His posture was as rigid, as uncompromising, as ever. He did not lift his eyes from the page he was reading until Dorothy stood before him, her breasts rising and falling from the exertion of her pell-mell haste, her breathing sibilant.

  ‘What have you done to Philip, father?’ she demanded.

  The old man returned his attention to the book. The gilt letters on its spine glinted in the firelight. She could read the first words of its title, Statistical Report on –

  ‘I’ve discharged him. Gave him a month’s notice this afternoon.’

  Dorothy paled. ‘Oh, father, why?’

  ‘He lost the Peabody account today. His work has been going steadily downhill. There was nothing else I could do.’

  ‘I asked you not to… I knew at lunch that you were going to do this… I begged you not to… ‘

  Foster glanced up again. His mouth curved slightly. ‘Why are you so concerned? You know I’ll take care of you. Philip can very well get himself another job.’

  ‘But to do a thing like this… now.’ Dorothy’s voice trailed off. She put her hand to her mouth, pressed it hard against her colourless lips. Her body wilted. She crumpled and fell at his feet.

  Foster looked down at his daughter. He laid aside his book and mumbled, ‘Damn!’ Then, he knelt stiffly beside her, put his arms carefully under her, picked her up and, carrying her high against his breast, walked over to the leather couch. He laid her down gently, bending his body until his face was close to hers; his lips lingered over hers. He stayed this way for a lo
ng moment, before he crushed her mouth with his own. ‘He never deserved you!’ he muttered savagely.

  Later, after the butler had brought smelling salts and brandy, Dorothy was able to sit up. Her father sat beside her for a long time, holding her hand, imploring her to stay with him and not to go back to Philip.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she said.

  ‘Where is he now? Is he waiting for you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Has he gone off again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean “you don’t know”? Either you know where your husband is or you don’t.’

  ‘We had people in tonight. Jerry and a friend. Jerry was called away unexpectedly and Philip promised to take his friend home. Her name is Brent. They left just before I did.’

  ‘He’s coming back?’

  ‘He said he would.’

  ‘But you don’t believe him?’

  Dorothy stared at her father, then, putting her hands to her eyes, she stood up. ‘I don’t know, I tell you. I don’t know!’

  Steven Foster clenched his fists. ‘If you tell me where he went, I’ll go fetch him myself!’ he cried.

  Dorothy backed away from him. Now her face was determined, her mouth set, her body as straight and as unyielding as her father’s. ‘No, I know what to do. And I have to do it myself. There is no other way out.’ She walked resolutely to the door.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Foster asked, running after her.

  ‘Oh, father, I’m going home, of course. I’m going to wait for him like a good wife. What else can I do?’

  And she slammed the heavy door in her father’s face. Foster gazed at it and smiled. Things were working out uncommonly well.

  Brent’s apartment was on Jones Street in the Village, a street that exists for one short block between Bleecker and West Fourth and is lined its entire length by six-storey tenements only occasionally interspersed with newer, efficiency apartment buildings. Philip was panting before he had finished climbing the five flights that led to three small rooms on the top floor of the newer buildings; he was glad for the pause outside the door of her apartment while Brent fumbled with the lock; he sank down on the studio couch by the window as soon as they were inside. Brent went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with two highballs.