by John O'Hara
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Hello. Hello, is that you, Harry?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Listen, Harry. Julian English killed himself last night.”
“He what?”
“Killed himself. He took some kind of a poison in his garage. Carbon oxide.”
“You don’t mean carbon monoxide?”
“That’s it. It’s a poison.”
“I’ll say it’s a poison, but he didn’t take it. It comes out of the motor.”
“Is that it? Well, I didn’t know that. I just knew it was some kind of a poison and he took it in his garage.”
“When? Who told you?”
“Last night. Everybody in town knows it by now. I heard it from four or five different people and I didn’t leave the front porch all morning. I went to seven o’clock Mass, but otherwise I haven’t been—”
“How do they know it’s suicide? Who said so? It could happen to anybody. Was he drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, he might of fell asleep or something.”
“Not at all. He went in the garage and closed the door. He had a bottle of liquor with him, I heard. The way I heard, Caroline was going to leave him. She was at her mother’s.”
“Oh.”
“That’s why I called you, Harry. You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”
“Christ, no!”
“Well, you know how people are—”
“I know how you are.”
“Never mind the insults. I’m trying to do a favor for you. You know what people are apt to say. They’ll say you had something to do with it, because English threw that drink in your face the other night. They’ll put two and two together and get five.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you dumb or what? They’ll say he was sore at you because you have a crush on Caroline.”
“Aw, where’s it eatin’ you, for God’s sake, woman. English was in my office yesterday. He came to see me. He was in my office twenty-four hours ago and I talked to him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I didn’t have time to talk much. I was hurrying to catch the train to New York. You’re trying to make trouble where none is. Is that all you wanted to talk about?”
“Isn’t it enough? You wanted to know about English, didn’t you?”
“Only so I could go right out and send some flowers right away, that’s all. I liked English and he liked me, or otherwise he wouldn’t have borrowed money from me. I know that type. He wouldn’t borrow a nickel from me if he didn’t like me. Calm yourself, honey, don’t got excited about nothing. That’s your trouble. You have nothing to do any more so you sit home and worry. What will I bring you from New York?”
“I don’t want anything, unless you want to go down town to Barclay Street. I notice this morning Monsignor needs a new biretta and it might make a nice little surprise for him, but remember. Purple. He’s a monsignor.”
“Don’t you think I know that? All right, I’ll buy him one and have it sent in your name. Anything else? Because I have a lunch appointment any minute now.”
“No, I guess that’s all.”
“Everything all right otherwise?” he said.
“Yes, everything’s all right. So I guess I’ll hang up. Good-bye, Harry.”
“Good-bye.” He hung up slowly. “He was a real gentleman. I wonder what in God’s name would make him do a thing like that?” Then he picked up the telephone again. “I want to order some flowers,” he said.
* * *
The girl stood waiting while the man checked his hat and coat. She was tall and fair and had been told so many times she looked like a Benda mask that she finally found out what it was. The man was tall and stoop-shouldered and expensively comfortable about his clothes. He took her elbow and guided her to a tiny table across the room from the bar. They sat down.
A young man who had something to do with the place stopped and said hello, and the other man said, “Hello, Mac, nice to see you. Mary, this is Mac, Mac, Miss Manners.” They smiled, and then Mac went away, and the man turned to Mary and told her Mac was the brother of one of the men that owned the place and what would she like or a Martini?
“A Martini, rather dry,” she said.
“Two,” said the man, and the waiter left them.
They lit cigarettes. “Well,” said the man, “how do you feel?”
“Hmm,” she said, with a smile.
“Ah, you’re darling,” he said. “Where do you come from?”
“Originally I came from Pennsylvania,” she said.
“Why, so do I. Where are you from? I’m from Scranton.”
“Scranton? I’m not from there,” she said. “I live in a little town you never heard of.”
“But what part of the State? What’s it near?”
“Well, did you ever hear of Gibbsville?”
“Sure I heard of Gibbsville. I’ve visited there often. Are you from Gibbsville?”
“No, but near there. A place called Ridgeville.”
“I’ve been there. Just driven through, though. Who do you know in Gibbsville? Do you know Caroline Walker? That’s right, she’s married. She married Julian English. Do you know them?”
“I know him,” she said.
“Do you know Caroline at all?”
“No. I never met her. I just knew Julian.”
“Well, I didn’t know him very well. I haven’t seen either of them in years. So you’re from Pennsylvania.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mary Manners,” he said, “you’re the prettiest girl I ever saw.”
“Thank you, kind sir, she said,” she said. “You’re all right yourself, Ross Campbell.”
“I am now. I will be if you go away with me this afternoon.”
“Not this week-end.”
“But next week-end I won’t have Ed’s car.”
“You can hire one. No, I have to watch my step. We shouldn’t of come here, Ross. Rifkin comes here sometimes and his friends, a lot of movie people, they all come here.”
“Come on, while I have the car.”
“No, positively not. Not this week.”
* * *
“Lute, give me five dollars. I want to pay the garbage man.”
Lute Fliegler was lying on the davenport, his hands in back of his head, his coat and vest on the chair beside him. He reached in his trousers pocket and took a five dollar bill from a small roll. His eyes met his wife’s as the money appeared, and she was grateful to him for not saying what they both were thinking: that maybe they had better be more careful about money till they saw how things were. She went out to the kitchen and paid the garbage man and then came back to the living-room. “Can’t I make you a sandwich, Lute? You ought to have something.”
“No, that’s all right. I don’t feel like eating.”
“Don’t worry. Please don’t worry. They’ll make you the head of it. You know more about the business than anybody else, and you’ve always been reliable. Dr. English knows that.”
“Yeah, but does he? What I’m afraid of is he’ll think we were all a bunch of drunks. I don’t mean that against Julian, but you know.”
“I know,” she said. If only daytime were a time for kissing she would kiss him now. All this, the furniture, the house, the kids, herself—all this was what Lute was worrying about. She was almost crying, so she smiled.
“Come here,” he said.
“Oh, Lute,” she said. She knelt down beside him and cried a little and then kissed him. “I feel so sorry for Caroline. You, I—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I still get my check from the government, and I can get lots of jobs—” he cleared his throat “—in fact, that’s my trouble. I was saying to Alfred P. Sloan the other day. He called me up. I meant to tell you, but it didn’t seem important. So I said to Al—”
“Who’s Alfred P. Sloan?”
; “My God. Here I been selling—he’s president of General Motors.”
“Oh. So what did you say to him?” said Irma.
