The jump from the mind of Melville Goodwin to the mind of Gilbert Frary was as long as a passage by plane across an ocean. It was like moving from a temperate to a tropic zone, and it was no help, as I was preparing for the meeting, to encounter Farouche bounding toward me on the green carpet of the upstairs hallway. His smoke-gray coat was unsnarled and magnificent, and a bright new bow gathered the fur together on the top of his cranium. His dark eyes were limpid and thoughtful, and when he saw I was not interested in his ring, he accepted my reaction in a gentlemanly way and stood quietly beside me as I knocked on Gilbert’s door. Inside I could hear Gilbert shut off his portable radio.
“Come in, come in,” he called, and when Farouche and I entered he smiled at us. “Oh, excuse me, Sidney,” he said, and he rose hastily from an easy chair. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was Oscar. That makes a very pretty entrance, you and the poodle. It makes me want to pinch myself to be sure that I’m awake.”
“He often makes me want to pinch myself, too,” I said. “Did you have a good night, Gilbert?”
“A very restful night as always, in your home, Sidney,” he answered, “though frankly I am not a country person and I miss the street noises—but I took half a grain of Luminal, not that I believe in sedatives, and then I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, until I was awakened by the sunlight on these delightful chintzes. It’s an adventure, waking up in a strange and lovely room. All of this seems such a part of you and Helen, Sidney, that I cannot help but love it.”
Except for his coat, Gilbert was fully dressed, but he still wore his silk dressing gown. His pigskin fitted suitcase on its stand by the foot of his bed, though open, was already packed. He only had to remove the dressing gown and fold it, put on his pin-striped coat, leave a bill on the bedside table, and there would be no trace of him left in the guest room except for the odor of his shaving and hair lotions.
“Why do you have to go to town?” I asked.
“I wish I might stay longer,” Gilbert said. “There is nothing I would like better than to sit here all day dreaming dreams as I have this morning. I’ve been lounging in this easy chair since eight o’clock, toying with my breakfast, mulling over the papers and turning the radio dial. Have we time to sit down for a moment? I don’t have to leave for another half hour, and we haven’t had a talk for a long while. No, you sit in the comfortable chair.”
“No, you sit in it,” I told him. “This house is full of comfortable chairs,” and I pulled a chintz chair closer to his. “What have you been dreaming about, Gilbert?”
Gilbert sighed and sat down in his armchair again and placed the tips of his long fingers together.
“Frankly,” he said, “I’ve been dreaming a little about you, Sidney, not actively, just letting my mind run vaguely.”
“I hope they were sweet dreams, Gilbert,” I said.
Gilbert smiled at me affectionately.
“That dry humor of yours always pulls me together, Sidney,” he said. “Frankly, without the least ambiguity, it makes me very happy to think that you and I are both here and both in a position where we can love people without being relentless. Come here, you smart doggie.” He snapped his fingers playfully at Farouche. “Does it want to play with its ring?”
Farouche moved toward him in a dignified, impersonal manner. I liked to think that Farouche was somewhat bored and that he preferred me to Gilbert, though I could not be sure of this—but I also liked to think that Farouche, along with Gilbert and me, knew where his bread was buttered.
“All right,” I said, “what were you dreaming about, Gilbert?”
“Nothing definite,” Gilbert said, “but frankly I was dreaming somewhat about the program and a stray remark that George Burtheimer passed the other day and about a slight reservation of George’s, not adult, just a stray remark. George is whimsical sometimes.”
Gilbert shook his head and smiled at his memory of the whimsey, but I felt a slight uneasiness. There was obviously something definite on Gilbert’s mind which he knew I would not like and which he desired to present to me in a sugar-coated way.
“Go ahead, Gilbert,” I said. “What is it about the program?”
I felt the gentle impact of something being dropped on the toe of my shoe. It was Farouche’s rubber ring, and I gave the ring a kick and Farouche bounded after it, and Gilbert laughed.
“Oh, oh,” Gilbert said, “you might think it was a rat or something. I wish I might have a dog, but they hardly fit at the St. Regis, although I do encounter them occasionally in the elevators.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “What’s the matter with the program?”
“Now, Sidney,” Gilbert said, “if I have disturbed you, please forgive me. It’s only a whimsical idea of George’s. You and I know there’s nothing the matter with the program, and I told George, quite caustically, to look at the rating—but you know a sponsor’s line of thought, and the little restivenesses they sometimes have when they sign the checks for a million-dollar appropriation.”
I found myself dropping automatically into Gilbert’s own vernacular.
“And if they have, so what?” I said.
“It’s just a little matter,” Gilbert said, “but I have been dreaming over it for several days, and this morning at nine I checked myself by turning on ‘Alan Featherbee and the News,’ because George has been mentioning him a little wistfully lately. There may be something in the voice that has escaped me up to now, not that it compares with yours for an instant, Sidney, but frankly I was impressed by Alan.”
One of the reasons I have always hated show business is the jealousy that it engenders; and now, when Gilbert mentioned another commentator named Alan Featherbee, I actually felt a sharp, half-hysterical twinge of anxiety. Subtly, indirectly, this unknown Featherbee was rising as a threat to my existence, merely because he had been noticed by my sponsor and because he had attracted Gilbert’s attention. It did no good to tell myself that morning commentators, especially nine-o’clock ones, were worth nobody’s attention. I still knew that Gilbert would not have mentioned Featherbee without a definite purpose. I was sure of it when I noticed Gilbert’s hard and studious look. He was mentally comparing me with this Mr. Featherbee, weighing us in his mind as competing pieces of property.
“Well …” I said, “what the hell about him?”
Gilbert laughed in a merry, controlled way, as though we had been telling each other droll stories.
“Oh, oh,” he said, “Sidney, don’t tell me you’re acting like a prima donna.”
“Well, what the hell about him?” I asked again.
“Absolutely nothing about him,” Gilbert answered, “and please believe I’m being candid. He has no future, no build-up possibilities at all, and no color or stature, as I explained to George very definitely and unambiguously. Yet he does do one thing which is conceivably interesting, and that was all that George was speaking about.”
“What does he do,” I asked, “bird calls?”
“Sidney,” Gilbert said, “please understand me and please forgive me, without showing pique or employing persiflage.”
“God damn it,” I said, “let’s get on with the situation, Gilbert!”
Gilbert made an eloquent soothing gesture with both hands.
“There is but no situation,” he said, “or only the merest touch of a situation. George is merely wondering about the high price of the program, the same old conventional complaint.”
“Well, the customers listen to it, don’t they?” I asked.
“Of course they listen to it,” Gilbert said, and his voice had a wounded note, “but do they buy the product after listening? That’s what seems to be worrying George, and he has simply advanced an idea, very tentatively, and humbly.”
“My God,” I said, “are you and he going to start monkeying with the program again?”
Gilbert moved his hands upward this time, in a comical manner, as though warding off an unexpected blow, and then he pulled his flowered dressing
gown into place.
“Sidney,” he said, “I know you know me well enough to be sure I’ll never let you down, with loyalty the keystone of our relationship. I am with you in the final decision, Sidney, but I honestly think we should entertain a sponsor’s suggestion. I was speaking of it to Art Hertz yesterday, and Art thinks we should entertain it.”
He intended his remark to be deliberately disturbing: he should not have spoken to the script-writer about the program before discussing it with me. I was almost sure that his speech contained a hint that I was not wholly indispensable, and I found myself speaking more carefully.
“All right,” I said, “what is it you want me to entertain?”
“Well,” Gilbert said, and his words also were more measured, “it falls into the commercial category. It is no reflection on your work. Everyone is immensely happy with your work. George himself was speaking of your mail only yesterday, but there is frankly a little feeling in the sponsor’s office that not quite enough emphasis is being placed upon the commercial side of the program.”
“God damn it,” I said, “we’ve been through all that before. If they had their way they’d put the whole fifteen minutes into advertising.”
“Sidney,” Gilbert said, “I love it when you speak your mind, but after all, we live by the program, Sidney. We live by it, and so does the doggie here. What is your name, Doggie?” and Gilbert snapped his fingers. “You know that I love everything about you, Sidney—you and Helen and Camilla and your intemperateness. They don’t want more commercial time, Sidney. George has merely advanced a little thought, and I promised that you would consider it. It is suggested that you should speak the commercials yourself, weaving them in with the news, as Alan Featherbee does.”
“My God,” I began—“wait a minute, Gilbert!”—but Gilbert interrupted me, speaking very quickly.
“Now, Sidney,” Gilbert said, “you and I possess exactly the same variety of integrity. It shocked my integrity just as it does yours when I first faced it. In fact, I was almost rude to George; but as you consider the suggestion, Sidney, in an unbiased way, it is not so bad, basically. Please give me just a moment. I’ve made a few notes … oh, here they are.” Gilbert picked up a piece of paper from the breakfast tray. “You see, Alan Featherbee does this commercial thing and he does it very adroitly with a real ring of conviction. Will you please, Sidney, not assume a nauseated look until I have finished? These notes are merely a little dream, not in your words but merely in mine. But just suppose you were to open this way.…”
Gilbert cleared his throat, drew a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from his waistcoat pocket even more ponderously heavy than those of Philip Bentley, and began to read:
“Good evening, everybody. The news is very important and very critical tonight, but first, before I give it to you, let me tell you a little personal adventure of mine that was news to me. Sitting in my Connecticut home this evening, I was faced with a plate of onion soup. Its very aroma reminded me of the restaurant near the Rue de la Paix where I love to dine when I am gathering news in Paris. Its taste conjured up the vision of old Pierre, the chef, whom I had congratulated on his onion soup when I was last in Paris at the time of the breakup of the cabinet. Its stock had that same full-bodied, that same invigorating authority.…”
Gilbert took off his glasses and put them back in his pocket and waved the sheet of paper in an expansive fanlike motion.
“That’s my dream, Sidney,” he said, “a commercial with news action in it. It needs hours of careful thought, but you understand it, don’t you?”
I could understand it and I sat for a moment without speaking. At least I was considering it. I was considering roughly what I had lived for and what everything had meant and when it was time to start and when it was time to stop.
“How serious are you about that, Gilbert?” I asked.
“Why, not serious at all,” Gilbert said. “I was merely advancing the idea.”
“Well,” I said, “why don’t you get Alan Featherbee to do it?”
“Now, Sid,” Gilbert said, “don’t take it that way. It was merely a suggestion—but there is Clause 28 in the contract.”
“What the hell is Clause 28?” I asked.
“George considers it an escape clause,” Gilbert said, “though frankly I consider this legally debatable.”
“Well,” I said, “then why do you bring it up, Gilbert?”
Savin Hill and my present situation had never seemed so ephemeral. I could imagine the house and everything being carted away in box cars as I sat there contemplating Gilbert Frary. He was like a magician holding an object in his hand. It had been there for one instant and now it had completely vanished and you could not be sure whether it had ever really been there. I had felt that Gilbert Frary and I had been about to reach the cleavage point that we probably would reach someday, but now magically there was no cleavage point and no tension between us. It was all very confusing, but then, Gilbert always loved confusion.
“Sidney,” he said, “I have brought up absolutely nothing.”
There had been something and now there was nothing. Gilbert looked hurt and reproachful, and I even had a feeling of remorse. I realized again that he was fond of me in a certain way.
“Gilbert,” I said, “I don’t understand all this.”
“Sidney,” Gilbert said, “I have to say something very humbly. I have been very devious with my very best friend. Forgive me, please forgive me, Sidney.”
It was still hard for me to tell exactly where we were, and I could never be as good as Gilbert at playing out a scene.
“I don’t see that there’s anything to forgive,” I said.
There were tears in Gilbert’s eyes and Gilbert cleared his throat, and I had a sickening dread that Gilbert was going to cry.
“Sidney,” he said, “I should have known before I started what your reaction would be. I should have known that this was a suggestion that could have never stood before integrity. Forgive me and let’s forget it, Sidney.”
“All right,” I said, “let’s forget it, Gilbert.”
“The cheapness of it …” Gilbert said. “I feel indignant about it myself. When I get to the office I shall call up George and tell him so personally. I’m completely with you, Sidney.”
“Well, that’s fine,” I said.
“Sidney,” Gilbert said, “I won’t be devious again.”
“That’s all right,” I said, “you can’t help it, Gilbert.”
“I always feel better when we’ve had a talk,” Gilbert said, “and you do forgive my crudeness, Sidney?”
“Don’t ever worry about being crude, Gilbert,” I told him.
“When you and I are together,” Gilbert said, “I have no sense of time. It’s actually a quarter before eleven. I must be leaving, Sidney, and please let me steal downstairs—without fanfare—and give my love and thanks to Helen, and I’ll be in touch with you later in the day.”
Gilbert whipped off his silk dressing gown and snatched up his pin-striped coat.
“No, no,” he said, “I’ll fold the dressing gown. Isn’t it a nice piece of silk? I’ll have one like it made up for you if you think Helen would appreciate it. By the way, how is everything going with the General?”
“They’re working on him downstairs. I suppose I’d better go back,” I said.
“Well, don’t waste too much time,” Gilbert said, “although it is nice to keep in well with the magazines. I think we ought to go to the Coast next month, but we can chat about it later—and, Sidney—”
“Yes?” I said.
He held out his hand and we shook hands.
“Don’t worry about Clause 28. There’s absolutely nothing in it. George only mentioned it playfully.”
“I’m not worried about it as long as you’re not,” I said.
“And you feel happy about everything?”
“Yes,” I said, “absolutely happy.”
Gilbert snapped his suitcase shut and pi
cked it up before I could reach it.
“Oh,” he said, “I nearly forgot. Here’s a little something for Oscar,” and he dropped a five-dollar bill upon the bedside table.
I felt weary when I stood outside the house watching the Cadillac leave with Gilbert for the city, though our talk had been no more disturbing than other talks with Gilbert. I was a valuable piece of property and in a sense a negotiable security, and a contretemps like this was all a part of the climate in which I lived.
When he was gone I remembered Melville A. Goodwin in the library, but returning to him seemed to involve a considerable effort, including the process of getting rid of Gilbert Frary mentally, now that he was gone physically, and to manage this I needed a few minutes to myself. It was this need that made me wander into the living room. I had forgotten that Mrs. Goodwin might be there, and I had already walked past her when I heard her voice behind me.
“Good morning, Mr. Skelton,” she said.
She was sitting on the corner of the long sofa crocheting a washcloth, just as Helen had said. She was wearing her useful traveling suit minus the orchids. Her soft, plump hands moved deftly and noiselessly.
“Oh,” I said, “good morning, Mrs. Goodwin. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I didn’t see you.”
“Were you looking for something?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “I was just walking around.”
“Perhaps you are thinking of something to write about,” she said.
“No,” I said, “I was just seeing Mr. Frary off and then I was walking around. The General is in the library.”
Melville Goodwin, USA Page 22
