The New York Stories

by John O'Hara

  “Forget it. I’m sorry I wasted your time, but it wasn’t all my fault. Daddy’s a powerhouse, and when he gets an idea he keeps after you till you give in.”

  “Shall we sit down? Why don’t you sit there, and I’ll sit here,” said Theresa.

  They took their places at the table, but the girl obviously had no intention of touching her melon. “Would you rather have something else?” said Theresa. “Tomato juice, or something like that? We wouldn’t have to send downstairs for it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “We’re having eggs Benedict,” said Theresa.

  “Eggs Florentine, ma’am,” said Irene.

  “Don’t worry about me,” said the girl.

  “Have you had any breakfast, other than a vodka martini?” said Theresa. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee?”

  “Where’s the bathroom?” said the girl.

  “Will you show her the bathroom, Irene?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Just tell me where it is, don’t come with me,” said the girl.

  “Through that door, which leads to the bedroom. And the bathroom you can find,” said Theresa.

  “The eggs Florentine,” said the girl. “Eggs anything.” She left the room quickly.

  “I hope she makes it,” said Irene.

  “Yes,” said Theresa. “I think you’d better move this table out in the hall. Leave the coffee. I’ll have some myself, now, and you might make some fresh, Irene.”

  “You’re not gonna eat any lunch?”

  “No.”

  “Nine dollars, right down the drain.”

  “I know, but I’m not hungry, so don’t force me.”

  Theresa had two cups of coffee and several cigarettes. “I think I ought to go in and see how she is,” she said.

  “You want me to?” said Irene.

  “No, I will,” said Theresa.

  She went to the bedroom, and the girl was lying on the bed, clad in her slip, staring at the ceiling. “Do you want anything, Evelyn?”

  “Yes,” said the girl.

  “What?”

  “Can I stay here a while?”

  “Child, you can stay here as long as you like,” said Theresa Livingston.

  (1964)

  ELLIE

  Although my sister and I were born in Texas, we have lived most of our lives in the North, from the time our father and mother were killed in a railroad accident, about twenty-five years ago. We were brought up by an aunt and uncle who lived in Westchester. I was eleven and Caroline was seven when Father and Mother died, and I never went back to Texas except briefly, on business. Our aunt and uncle sent me to camp in New Hampshire in the summer, and I went to boarding school when I was fourteen. Caroline, however, did go back to Texas several times and kept up a few friendships there. She was always lavishly entertained, and, naturally, when her Texan friends came to New York, she did her best to show them the town. This was simple enough; it usually involved one big evening of dinner at “21,” the theatre, and supper at Larue’s. Caroline lives her own life and I live mine, in apartments in different parts of town. Her job is in the midtown district, and I work downtown. For a sister and brother who are quite fond of each other, we are together infrequently, and it is unusual for her even to ask me in for a cocktail when she has some Texans to entertain.

  When she telephoned me that Ham and Ellie Glendon were in town, I had to ask who they were. “He’s a lawyer in Dallas, and they’ve never been to New York before,” said Caroline. “They’re about my age, a year or two younger, but they were awfully nice to me the last two or three times I was down there.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, waiting.

  “She’s very pretty and quiet. He’s—well—more Texan. He likes to get tight, and I thought—well—you know more places than I do. They’ll want to go to ‘21,’ but that won’t be all. I mean he will . . . You’re not being very helpful.”

  I laughed. “I get it. Colonel Glendon wants to raise a little hell. O.K. Does he carry a gun?”

  “Probably,” said Caroline. “They all do.”

  “Well, tell him to check the gun and I’ll take you around. What did you have in mind?”

  “Nothing in particular, but I just know he’ll want to go someplace where I don’t know the proprietor. Night-club kind of place. And it’s my treat. You don’t have to spend any money. I just want you to sort of steer us around. Black tie. My place at seven.”

  • • •

  Ham Glendon was a rather large man with red hair and a red face, the kind that does not tan. In Caroline’s hall, I saw one of those cream-colored hats with a half-inch band and I heard his voice, soft and for the moment not unpleasant but likely to become tiresome. He was wearing a double-breasted dinner coat and new patent-leather shoes and diamond-and-onyx studs. He called me Jim right off the bat, when he introduced me to his wife. She was something.

  She was standing when I entered, Caroline having gone to the kitchen. As I shook hands with her, I was surprised that I so quickly had to change my first impression of her height. She was not nearly as tall as I’d thought when I came into the room. She held her head back, but the top of it did not reach my chin. “I’m happy to know you,” she said, and turned and sat down. Her figure was beautiful, and Neiman-Marcus had done their best by it—or probably had been delighted to clothe it, as much of it as was clothed. When she was turning to sit down, I caught her taking a quick look at me; she was trying to see what effect she had had on me, and when she found out, she dropped her eyes and reached for a cigarette.

  We went to “21” and to “Oklahoma!,” which Caroline and I had seen three times. At dinner, Ham and Caroline did most of the talking, about Texas friends whom I barely remembered or did not know. Ham would ask Ellie to fill in details on some of the people, and that was about all of her contribution to the conversation. I contributed even less, but I knew I wasn’t bored and I was sure Ellie wasn’t, because every once in a while she would look at me and smile. I remembered that Caroline had said she was quiet, and she didn’t seem to expect much talk from me or to want to converse with me herself. In fact, she seemed to be quite happy just knowing that she had had an effect on me. At the restaurant and at the theatre other men looked at her too, and their admiration was something she breathed in.

  • • •

  When we came out of the theatre, Caroline suggested going back to “21” for a drink while we decided where we wanted to go. I wanted to go someplace where we could dance; there were some things I wanted to say to Ellie. But when we got to “21” Ham fixed that. “Jim, I raickon from here on we’re in your hands.” He laughed and I laughed.

  “A pleasure,” I said. “What kind of a place did you have in mind?”

  “Well, more or less leave that up to you, Jim,” said Ham.

  “No, be frank, Ham,” said Caroline. “My ne’er-do-well brother knows them all.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, Harlem is one place. We heard a lot about that Dorchester Ballroom.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, and thought of the way we were dressed. “You’ll see some of the best dancing up there you’ll ever see in your life. Of course, the smaller places don’t begin to open up for quite a while, and if we wanted to go to one of them, I think we ought to change our clothes.”

  “Tell you the truth, Jim, we more or less had our hearts set on the Dorchester. You asked me to be frank.”

  “By all means,” I said. I had the waiter bring a telephone to the table, and I called the manager of the Dorchester, a white man, whom I had known for many years. I was very careful to emphasize that I was with my sister and some friends from Texas. Max, my manager friend, was not obtuse and he promised he would save a box for us.

  More than that, when we arrived at the Dorchester, he was waiting for us on the curb, and I was grateful, f
or there was a long queue of Negro boys and girls at the box office. Max took over and led us past the box office, and when we were inside, we were accompanied by Al Spode, the old-time Negro heavyweight who was head bouncer at the Dorchester, another old friend of mine.

  They usually don’t serve hard liquor at the Dorchester, but Max put a couple of coke bottles filled with bourbon on the table, and I thanked him and he went on about his business.

  Ham turned out to like jazz and Caroline is a minor authority, so they were entertained by the two good bands. Our box, which was on the level of the dance floor and quite near the bandstand, was conveniently situated for me, or so I thought; the noise of the bands and the dancers would cover up the questions I was going to ask Ellie once we got settled. For the time being, we watched the superb dancing and drank our drinks. It was that way until one band finished a set. The dancers stood where they had stopped, waiting for the other band to start, and when it did, and the noise began again, I spoke to Ellie: “You know, if I’d had my way, we’d be where we could be dancing without being conspicuous, which we certainly are now.” And she knew I meant the way we were dressed.

  “Would we?” She half sneered and raised her eyes and let them indicate the dancers.

  “Maybe Ham and Caroline will get bored soon and we can go someplace else. I don’t think you’re having too good a time.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me.”

  “But I want you to have a good time. Do you like to dance? Because if you do, there are a few places where there’s tea dancing. Now, for instance, if you were going to be free Saturday afternoon.” I came down heavy on “free,” so she would be sure I meant her, alone, without Ham.

  “Saturday I was planning to have lunch with an old school friend I went to Randolph-Macon with.” She paused and shifted in her seat. “But who ever heard of two girls just sitting around all afternoon in New York City? I imagine we’ll have said all we have to say to each other by three, and after that I’ll just saunter down Park Avenue in the direction of the Vanderbilt, and if I happened to meet somebody . . .”

  “That’s exactly the vicinity I was going to be in,” I said. “Walking up Park Avenue around three.”

  I poured her a drink and one for myself, and I had that moment of peace when you know everything is settled and nothing much has been said. For all I know, Ham had been conversing in like manner with Caroline. Presently the set ended and the bands were changing again. The dancers slowed down, then stopped while the outgoing musicians left the bandstand and the incoming group took their places.

  A boy and girl whom I had been half observing came over to the railing near our table. The girl leaned against the railing, her back toward us. The boy, who was very black, was facing in our direction. They had the confidence of artistry; they were surely the best dancers in the ballroom, and it may be that I myself showed applause by my facial expression. It doesn’t much matter.

  “Ham,” said Ellie.

  “Yes, honey,” said Ham.

  “Ham, that niggah’s lookin’ at me,” said Ellie.

  I looked at her and at her husband. “Now, wait a minute,” I said.

  “Which one, honey?” said Ham.

  “Oh, God,” said my sister, appealing to me.

  I rose. “Up! Up, everybody! Come on!” I put a bill on the table and took Ellie’s wrist. “We’re getting out of here now, this minute.”

  “Not before I—” said Ham.

  “Listen, you silly son of a bitch,” I said. I pulled Ellie along with me, counting on Caroline to grab hold of Ham, which she did. We got out fast and stepped right into a taxi.

  The ride downtown through the Park was a silent one until we were among the buildings south of Fifty-ninth Street. “Jim,” said Ham, “you hadn’t oughta called me a son of a bitch.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then, if you apologize.” He grinned. “Now wuddia say we all go over to the El Morocco club?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “It’s all right, Jim,” said Ham. “All’s forgiven. I take into consideration you been living with Yankees too long.”

  “That may be,” I said.

  They dropped Caroline and then me. I went to bed with my mind made up that that was the last I’d ever see of Missy Ellie, but when Saturday came, I got out my car and at three o’clock I was cruising along lower Park Avenue, excited as a kid. But when I saw her, actually saw her, walking down Park, keeping her date with me, I grew old and cautious, and I drove away from her and trouble, her kind of trouble.

  (1946)

  ENCOUNTER: 1943

  Allen was standing near the curb, waiting with the other people to cross Forty-sixth. He was glad he wore his muffler and he wished he knew where his gloves were. The last cheating taxi whizzed past and the cops’ whistles blew and Allen was ready to move when he got the little punch in the ribs. It wasn’t a hard punch, feeling it, but it must have started as a pretty hard punch to feel as much of it as he did through his overcoat, and without looking he knew who it was all right.

  “Hey,” she said, and he looked down and around, and it was Mildred all right. She was grinning.

  “Hyuh,” he said.

  “Didn’t they get you yet?” she said.

  “Didn’t who?” he asked, then, “Oh. No, I’m too smart for them.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” she said. Somebody bumped her. “Which way you going, I’ll walk along with you.”

  “Just uptown,” he said. “I’m not headed anywhere in particular.”

  “Well! Then we could go some place and have a beer or something. I’d like to talk to you.”

  They were walking slowly uptown. “What about?”

  “What about?” she said. “Anything. Mutual acquaintances. Or maybe you do’ wanna sit and talk and have a drink with me.”

  “I do’ wanna sit and have a fight with you,” he said.

  “Why do we have to fight? We don’t have to fight if you control your temper and so forth. Let’s go down the street to Eddie Spellman’s.”

  “All right,” he said. They turned at Forty-seventh.

  “Now don’t do me any favors,” she said. “If you rather not go, say so now but don’t act disagreeable when we get there.”

  “They’ll think I’m Victor Mature,” he said.

  “Yeah? They will, but I won’t. Oh, you mean polite. Victor Mature isn’t polite. He’s a blabber-mouth.”

  “I jist mentioned the first name of an actor that came into my head,” he said.

  “Well pick one that’s polite if that’s what you mean. Herbert Marshall. Ronnie Colman. But don’t pick Victor Mature if you’re picking a person for their politeness. My God! Victor Mature polite! Anybody as dumb as you I’m surprised you had the sense enough to wear an overcoat if you’re that dumb. You’d be more typical if you came out in a bathing suit.”

  “All right,” he said. They turned in at Spellman’s and went straight back to a booth. A bald-headed Irishman came to them before they had sat down.

  “Well, here’s a couple of strangers for you,” he said.

  “Hello, Eddie,” they said.

  “But don’t go start getting ideas,” said Mildred.

  “Now I wasn’t getting no ideas, Mrs. Allen. I only made the statement that it was a pleasure to see a couple of old customers.”

  “That’s all right, Eddie,” said Allen. To her: “A rye?”

  “No,” she said. “Why do I have to have a rye? Because it’s cheaper? I think I’ll have a Ballantine’s and soda and with some lemon peel in it.”

  “I’ll have a rye,” said Allen.

  “Right,” said Eddie, and went away.

  “That Mick will have us in bed by five o’clock,” said Mildred.

  “You never liked him,” said Al
len.

  “He never liked me, so why should I like him?”

  “You’re crazy. Eddie likes everybody,” said Allen.

  “All right, he likes everybody, then I don’t want to be everybody and be liked by Mr. Spellman.”

  “Well, only—you suggested going here,” said Allen.

  “Because I assure you only because I ran into you. I assure you I didn’t give him or his lousy joint a thought since the last time we were here together two years ago, and I never would of given it another thought for another two years if it wasn’t that I ran into you.”

  “How are conditions at the 21 and the El Morocco?” said Allen.

  “If that was intended for sarcasm it just shows how wrong you are. I was at Elmer’s twice last week if you want some information.”

  “Who said anything about Elmer’s?”

  “See? That’s how much you and your sarcasm. Elmer’s is what they call the El Morocco.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I believe you go to them places. Once in a while I read the papers.”

  “When somebody leaves them on a subway train,” she said.

  “When somebody leaves them on a table at the Automat,” he said. A waiter, not Eddie, served their drinks. They drank. She drank about half of hers and looked at him, at his face, his hair, his tie, both shoulders.

  “Did I ever sleep with you? I can’t believe it,” she said.

  “No, it was two other fellows,” he said. “Or twenty.”

  “I’ll hit you right across the mouth with this bag, you talk like that to me. You started it, you with that little bum off the streets from Harrisburg.”

  “All right, I apologize. Only I don’t know what you expect me to do. Sit here and take it while you look at me like I was a ghost and then come out with ‘Did I ever sleep with you?’”

  “I shouldn’t allow myself to even get mad at you.”

  “Then why do you?”

  “Oh, it isn’t because I’m still in love with you. Don’t think that, for God’s sake. I don’t even get mad at you. I get mad at myself. My God, seventeen years old . . . Say, I voted.”