But despite all, I-I with wide-eyed idiocy keep making it even worse.
Why did I have to storm out of the apartment that first time? We'd argued, sure, but we'd argued before. Vanity, that's all. After seven years-seven!-of writing I've made only $316 from it. And I'm still working nights at the lousy part-time typing job. And Mary has to keep working at the same place with me. Lord knows she has a perfect right to doubt. A perfect right to keep insisting I take that full-time job Jim keeps offering me on his magazine.
All up to me. An admission of lack, a right move and everything would be solved. No more night work. Mary could stay home the way she wants to, the way she should. The right move, that's all.
So, I've been making the wrong one. God, it makes me sick.
Me, going out with Mike. Both of us glassy-eyed imbeciles meeting Jean and Sally. For months now, pushing aside the obvious knowledge that we were being fools. Losing ourselves in a new experience. Playing the ass to perfection.
And, last night, both of us married men, going with them to their club apartment and…
Can't I say it? Am I afraid, too weak? Fool!
Adulterer.
How can things get so mixed up? I love Mary. Very much. And yet, even loving her, I did this thing.
And to make it all even more complicated, I enjoyed it. Jean is sweet and understanding, passionate, a sort of symbol of lost things. It was wonderful. I can't say it wasn't.
But how can wrong be wonderful? How can cruelty be exhilarating? It's all perverse, it's jumbled and confused and enraging.
Saturday afternoon
She's forgiven me, thank God. I'll never see Jean again. Everything will be all right.This morning I went and sat on the bed and Mary woke up. She stared up at me, then looked at the clock. She'd been crying.
"Where have you been?" she asked in that thin little girl's voice she gets when she's scared.
"With Mike," I told her. "We drank and talked all night."
She stared a second more. Then she took my hand slowly and pressed it against her cheek.
"I'm sorry," she said and tears came to her eyes.
I had to put my head next to hers so she wouldn't see my face. "Oh, Mary," I said. "I'm sorry too."
I'll never tell her. She means too much to me. I can't lose her.
Saturday night
We went down to Mandel's Furniture Mart this afternoon and got a new bed."We can't afford it, honey," Mary said. "Never mind," I said. "You know how lumpy the old one is. I want my baby to sleep in style."
She kissed my cheek happily. She bounced on the bed like an excited kid. "Oh, feel how soft!" she said.
Everything is all right. Everything except the new batch of' bills in today's mail. Everything except for my latest story which won't get started. Everything except for my novel which has bounced five times. Burney House has to take it. They've held it long enough. I'm counting on it. Things are coming to a head with my writing. With everything. More and more I get the feeling that I'm a wound-up spring.
Well, Mary's all right.
Sunday night
More trouble. Another argument. I don't even know what it was about. She's sulking. I'm burning. I can't write when I'm upset. She knows that.I feel like calling Jean. At least she was interested in my writing. I feel like saying the hell with everything. Getting drunk, jumping off a bridge, something. No wonder babies are happy. Life is simple for them. Some hunger, some cold, a little fear of darkness. That's all. Why bother growing up? Life gets too complicated.
Mary just called me for supper. I don't feel like eating. I don't even feel like staying in the house. Maybe I'll call up Jean later. Just to say hello.
Monday morning
Damn, damn, damn!Not only to hold the book for over three months. That's not bad enough, oh no! They had to spill coffee all over the manuscript and send me a printed rejection slip to boot. I could kill them! I wonder if they think they know what they're doing?
Mary saw the slip. "Well, what now?" she said disgustedly.
"Now?" I said. I tried not to explode.
"Still think you can write?" she said.
I exploded. "Oh, they're the last judge and jury, aren't they?" I raged. "They're the final word on my writing aren't they?"
"You've been writing seven years," she said. "Nothing's happened."
"And I'll write seven more," I said. "A hundred, a thousand!"
"You won't take that job on Jim's magazine?"
"No, I will not."
"You said you would if the book failed."
"I have a job," I said, "and you have a job and that's the way it is and that's the way it's going to stay."
"It's not the way I'm going to stay!" she snapped.
She may leave me. Who cares! I'm sick of it all anyway. Bills, bills. Writing, writing. Failures, failures, failures! And little old life dribbling on, building up its beautiful, brain-bursting complexities like an idiot with blocks.
You! Who run the world, who spin the universe. If there's anybody listening to me, make the world simpler! I don't believe in anything but I'd give… anything. If only…
Oh, what's the use? I don't care anymore.
I'm calling Jean tonight.
Monday afternoon
I just went down to call up Jean about Saturday night. Mary is going to her sister's house that night. She hasn't mentioned me going with her so I'm certainly not going to mention it.I called Jean last night but the switchboard operator at the Club Stanley said she was out. I figured I'd be able to reach her today at her office.
So I went to the corner candy store to look up the number. I probably should have memorized it by now. I've called her enough. But somehow, I never bothered. What the hell, there are always telephone books.
She works for a magazine called Design Handbook or Designer's Handbook or something like that. Odd, I can't remember that either. Guess I never gave it much thought.
I do remember where the office is though. I called for her there a few months ago and took her to lunch. I think I told Mary I was going to the library that day.
Now, as I recall, the telephone number of Jean's office was in the upper right hand corner of the right page in the directory. I've looked it up dozens of times and that's where it always was.
Today it wasn't.
I found the word Design and different business names starting with that word. But they were in the lower left hand corner of the left page, just the opposite. And I couldn't seem to find any name that clicked. Usually as soon as I see the name of the magazine I think: there it is. Then I look up the number. Today it wasn't like that.
I looked and looked and thumbed around but I couldn't find anything like Design Handbook. Finally I settled for the number of Design Magazine but I had the feeling it wasn't the one I was searching for.
I… I'll have to finish this later. Mary just called me for lunch, dinner, what have you? The big meal of the day anyway since we both work at night.
Later
It was a good meal. Mary can certainly cook. If only there weren't those arguments. I wonder if Jean can cook.At any rate the meal steadied me a little. I needed it. I was a little nervous about that telephone call.
I dialled the number. A woman answered.
"Design Magazine," she said.
"I'd like to talk to Miss Lane," I told her.
"Who?"
"Miss Lane."
"One moment," she said. And I knew it was the wrong number. Every other time I'd called the woman who answered had said, "All right" immediately and connected me with Jean.
"What was that name again?" she asked.
"Miss Lane. If you don't know her, I must have the wrong number."
"You might mean Mr. Payne."
"No, no. Before, the secretary who answered always knew right away who I wanted. I have the wrong number. Excuse me."
I hung up. I was pretty irritated. I've looked that number up so many times it isn't funny.
Now, I can't find it.
Of course I didn't let it get me at first. I thought maybe the phone book in the candy store was an old one. So I went down the street to the drugstore. It had the same book.
Well, I'll just have to call her from work tonight. But I wanted to get her this afternoon so I'd be sure she'd save Saturday night for me.
I just thought of something. That secretary. Her voice. It was the same one who used to answer for Design Handbook.
But… Oh, I'm dreaming.
Monday night
I called the club while Mary was out of the office getting us some coffee.I told the switchboard operator the same way I've told her dozens of times. "I'd like to speak to Miss Lane, please."
"Yes sir, one moment," she said.
There was silence a long time. I got impatient. Then the phone clicked again.
"What was that name?" the operator asked.
"Miss Lane, Miss Lane," I said. "I've called her any number of times."
"I'll look at the list again," she said.
I waited some more. Then I heard her voice again.
"I'm sorry. No one by that name is listed here."
"But I've called her any number of times there."
"Are you sure you have the right number?"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure. This is the Club Stanley, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Well, that's where I'm calling."
"I don't know what to say," she said. "All I can tell you is that I'm certain there isn't anyone by that name living here."
"But I just called last night! You said she wasn't in."
"I'm sorry, I don't remember."
"Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"
"Well, if you want, I'll look at the list again. But no one by that name is on it, I'm positive."
"And no one by that name moved out within the last few days?"
"We haven't had a vacancy for a year. Rooms are hard to get in New York, you know."
"I know," I said, and hung up.
I went back to my desk. Mary was back from the drugstore.
She told me my coffee was getting cold. I said I was calling Jim in regard to that job. That was an ill-chosen lie. Now she'll start in on that again.
I drank my coffee and typed a while. But I didn't know what I was doing. I was trying hard to settle my mind.
She has to be somewhere, I thought. I know I didn't dream all those moments together. I know I didn't imagine all the trouble I had keeping it a secret from Mary. And I know that Mike and Sally didn't…
Sally! Sally lived at the Club Stanley too.
I told Mary I had a headache and was going out for an aspirin. She said there must be some in the men's room. I told her they were a kind I didn't like. I get involved in the flimsiest lies!
I half ran to the nearby drugstore. Naturally I didn't want to use the phone at work again.
The same operator answered my ring.
"Is Miss Sally Norton there?" I asked.
"One moment please," she said, and I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. She always knew the regular members right away. And Sally and Jean had been living there for at least two years.
"I'm sorry," she said. "No one by that name is listed here."
I groaned. "Oh my God."
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No Jean Lane and no Sally Norton live there?"
"Are you the same party who called a little while ago?"
"Yes."
"Now look. If this is a joke…"
"A joke! Last night I called you and you told me Miss Lane was out and would I like to leave a message. I said no. Then I call tonight and you tell me there's nobody there by that name."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I was on the board last night but I don't recall what you say. If you like I'll connect you with the house manager."
"No, never mind," I said and hung up.
Then I dialled Mike's number. But he wasn't home. His wife Gladys answered, told me Mike had gone bowling.
I was a little nervous or I wouldn't have slipped up.
"With the boys?" I asked her.
She sounded kind of slighted. "Well, I hope so," she said.
I'm getting scared.
Tuesday night
I called Mike again tonight. I asked him about Sally."Who?"
"Sally."
"Sally who?" he asked.
"You know damn well Sally who, you hypocrite!"
"What is this, a gag?" he asked.
"Maybe it is," I said. "How about cutting it out?"
"Let's start all over," he said. "Who the hell is Sally?"
"You don't know Sally Norton?"
"No. Who is she?"
"You never went on a date with her and Jean Lane and me?"
"Jean Lane! What are you talking about?"
"You don't know Jean Lane either?"
"No, I don't and this is getting very unfunny. I don't know what you're trying to pull but cut it out. As two married men we…"
"Listen!" I almost shouted into the phone. "Where were you three weeks ago Saturday night?"
He was silent a moment.
"Wasn't that the night you and I bached while Mary and Glad went to see the fashion show at…"
"Bached! There was no one with us?"
"Who?"
"No girls? Sally? Jean?"
"Oh, here we go again," he groaned. "Look, pal, what's eating you? Anything I can do?"
I slumped against the wall of the telephone booth.
"No," I said weakly "No."
"Are you sure you're all right? You sound upset as hell."
I hung up. I am upset. I have a feeling as though I'm starving and there isn't a scrap of food in the whole world to feed me.
What's wrong?
Wednesday afternoon
There was only one way to find out if Sally and Jean had really disappeared.I had met Jean through a friend I knew at college. Her home is in Chicago and so is my friend Dave's. He was the one who gave me her New York address, the Club Stanley. Naturally I didn't tell Dave I was married.
So I'd looked up Jean and I went out with her and Mike went out with her friend Sally. That's the way it was, I know it happened.
So today I wrote a letter to Dave. I told him what had happened. I begged him to check up at her home and write quickly and tell me it was a joke or some amazing set of coincidences. Then I got out my address book.
Dave's name is gone from the book.
Am I really going crazy? I know perfectly well that the address was in there. I can remember the night, years ago, when I carefully wrote it down because I didn't want to lose contact with him after we graduated from college. I can even remember the ink blot I made when I wrote it because my pen leaked.
The page is blank.
I remember his name, how he looked, how he talked, the things we did, the classes we took together.
I even had a letter of his he sent me one Easter vacation while I was at school. I remember Mike was over at my room. Since we lived in New York there wasn't time to get home because the vacation was only for a few days.
But Dave had gone home to Chicago and, from there, sent us a very funny letter, special delivery. I remember how he sealed it with wax and stamped it with his ring for a gag.
The letter is gone from the drawer where I always kept it.
And I had three pictures of Dave taken on graduation day. Two of them I kept in my picture album. They're still there…
But he's not on them.
They're just pictures of the campus with buildings in the background.
I'm afraid to go on looking. I could write the college or call them and ask if Dave ever went there.
But I'm afraid to try.
Thursday afternoon
Today I went out to Hempstead to see Jim. I went to his office. He was surprised when I walked in. He wanted to know why I'd travelled so far just to see him."Don't tell me you've decided to take that job offer," he said.
I asked him,
"Jim, did you ever hear me talking about a girl named Jean in New York?"
"Jean? No, I don't think so."
"Come on, Jim. I did mention her to you. Don't you remember the last time you and I and Mike played poker? I told you about her then."
"I don't remember, Bob," he said. "What about her?"
"I can't find her. And I can't find the girl Mike went out with. And Mike denies that he ever knew either of them."
He looked confused so I told him again. Then he said, "What's this? Two old married men gallivanting around with…"
"They were just friends," I cut in. "I met them through a fellow I knew at college. Don't get any bright ideas."
"All right, all right, skip it. Where do I fit in?"
"I can’t find them. They're gone. I can't even prove they existed."
He shrugged. "So what?" Then he asked me if Mary knew about it. I brushed that off.
"Didn't I mention Jean in any of my letters?" I asked him.
"Couldn't say. I never keep letters."
I left soon after that. He was getting too curious. I can see it now. He tells his wife, his wife tells Mary-fireworks.
When I rode to work late this afternoon I had the most awful feeling that I was something temporary. When I sat down it was like resting on air.
I guess I must be cracking. Because I bumped into an old man deliberately to find out if he saw me or felt me. He snarled and called me a clumsy idiot.
I was grateful for that.
Thursday night
Tonight at work I called up Mike again to see if he remembered Dave from college.
The phone rang, then it clicked off. The operator cut in and asked, "What number are you calling, sir?"
Nightmare At 20,000 Feet Page 9
