by Packer, Vin
Bruce Cadence kept thinking of that as he faced Wally Keene across his desk, after he had come back from lunch. He had come back to find Sandy in tears, with her coat on, and her announcement that she was leaving for the afternoon, “and maybe for good.”
It had upset Cadence enormously. He had followed his secretary to the elevator, attempting to reason with her, or at least discover the reason for her sudden fit; and as she had gotten on, oblivious to his pleas, Keene had gotten off.
The elevator door shut, and Cadence was face to face with Keene, whose countenance was tipped with an amused grin.
“Bull pen hysteria,” Keene remarked. “It’s a form of regression. Take a girl out of the office bull pen and make her an executive secretary, but in times of crisis, she’s still the little file girl who went home in tears because the business manager gave her hell for chewing the erasers off the ends of pencils.”
“This isn’t funny,” Cadence had snapped. He walked ahead of Keene, with Keene following him into his office.
Cadence said, “I wish I knew what upset her so. I think it was my firing Marge.”
“It’s upset everyone for different reasons,” Keene answered. “She’s a great mother figure, and you’re something of a father figure, leastwise where Miss Scott is concerned.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Well,” Keene said cryptically, “would you like it if your father tossed your mother out of the house? It’s a very threatening situation.”
“Are you going to one of those head doctors, Wally?”
“Yes,” Keene said, pulling a leather chair aside and sitting in it as Bruce sat down at his desk, “and it’s amazing how much insight a fellow gets about things … Do you know, Bruce, I was actually feeling guilty about firing old Marge, the office Hecuba. Until I figured out it was simply displacement.”
“I can’t say I felt very happy about it either.”
“Maybe you should visit my doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor to make me happy about something that’s unfortunate.”
“But it might not be as unfortunate as you think. People get pretty much what they deserve in this world.”
Bruce Cadence said, “I don’t believe that, Wally. Particularly in business. I think they often get what they ask for, and they often find out too late that it isn’t what they want — but it doesn’t mean they necessarily deserve it. And that reminds me — ”
Keene interrupted to say, “All philosophy is psycho-semantic; just words. Psychology is tangible, scientific. And I still say, people get what they deserve.”
“All right, as you like, Wally. What’s bothering me is: does Cadence deserve the Vile dummy?”
Keene crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. “The answer is no. That’s why we’re putting it out as a bastard book.”
“But it’s ours.”
“We don’t dignify it with our name.”
“Exactly! It’s a bastard. I don’t know that I approve of being responsible for bastards in any form.” Cadence got up and began his pacing back and forth across the thick maroon rug, an Uppman caught between his chubby fingers. “I kept your appointment with Basescu this morning.”
“And he bothers you. That’s it, eh?”
“The article too. It’ll ruin Avery.”
“He deserves it,” Keene said, sucking in on his cigarette. “Look, Bruce, that guy went after a kid in Chicago! We’ve got proof, right out of police files! You saw it! He got off; beat the rap — like that.” Keene snapped his fingers. “Do you think that’s right?”
“Of course not!”
“Avery’s getting what he deserves!”
“He may deserve some sort of punishment — ”
“Some sort of punishment!” Keene exclaimed.
“Well, he may deserve to be punished, but is it our business to deal it out and capitalize on it? That’s my point, Keene!”
Wally Keene got up and faced Cadence. “Look, Bruce,” he began, “are you proud of Topic?”
“It’s our best book, saleswise.”
“No, I mean are you proud of it?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s done a lot of big things recently. The story on the new vaccine, for example.”
“And how about the one on that ex-Nazi who was working for the occupation forces? The one who ordered his men to save the heads of corpses with good teeth, so he could make paperweights out of their skulls and give them to friends!”
“Y-yes,” Cadence said thoughtfully. “It was a good article. We got newspaper mention on it, world–wide. But that’s a little different, Wally–”
“Wait a minute. Is it?” Keene bent and tamped out his cigarette in the ashtray, then straightened himself, facing Cadence. “We gave that guy exactly what he deserved.”
“Charlie was behind that story. He pushed hard for that one. I remember.”
“Sure, he did!” Keene said. “That article was one of the reasons I wanted to work for Cadence. I thought, ‘There’s a house that has some zeal, not a namby-pamby today-we’ll-make-flower-baskets-out-of-old-straw-hats slick house, but a house with guts! And, Bruce, wasn’t that an exposé? Didn’t we deal out the punishment in that case, too? And sure, we made money on it — but it wasn’t dirty money. That Nazi bastard deserved it!”
Cadence scratched his head, silent as he walked back behind his desk and sank into his leather swivel chair.
Wally said, “What’s the difference between him and Avery?”
“There’s a difference between a homosexual and a murderer, Wally.”
“A pederast is a murderer in a sense. Picking on kids! Do you know what a thing like that can do to a kid? … Sure, there’s a difference in degree, but Otto Avery still deserves to get his tail fixed!”
“Topic wouldn’t touch the story,” Cadence said.
“All right, so what, Bruce? Topic isn’t as hard-hitting a book as Vile … And Topic was in the red last month, wasn’t it, for all its sales-power.”
“Yes,” Cadence said, sighing, rubbing his forehead. “We really need a life saver at this point … I don’t know — ”
“If anyone around here has a better idea,” Keene said, “I’d be interested.”
Bruce Cadence said, “So would I.”
Keene stood up. “Who has the dummy now?”
“Charlie.”
“He hasn’t okayed it yet?”
“I’ve been keeping him busy with the detective line, but he’s promised to shoot it up to me this afternoon … Basescu says Charlie went to school with Avery.”
“I know.”
“I wonder what Charlie’s reaction will be on the story.”
“According to Elliot, Charlie hated him … But remember, Bruce,” Wally said, “whatever his reaction is, that’s our lead story, our cover piece!”
“I know, I know.”
“And anything Charlie has to say will be colored by the little duty he had to perform.”
“Firing Marge, you mean … I don’t even know when he plans to do it.”
“Or if,” Wally Keene said. “People are complicated mechanisms, Bruce. You can’t discount psychology in any circumstance. Charlie’s going to feel very guilty over having to fire a former affair.”
“I should have done it myself,” Cadence said, “only Charlie’s the one who hires and fires. I didn’t want to make a special case out of Marge. That might have been twice as bad.”
“I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Worry is just displacement anyway.”
“I might have to visit your doctor,” Cadence grunted, “just to find out what the hell you’re talking about.”
Wally laughed, and started toward the door. Then he stopped momentarily. He said, “Hope Miss Scott comes back. It’s tough to train a new girl.”
“I don’t understand it at all,” Bruce said.
“Very simple, boss — the child’s in love with you.”
“Hogwash!” Bruce Cadence snorted. “I’m old e
nough to be her father.”
“That’s the point.” Keene laughed.
He waved and went out.
• • •
Bruce Cadence sat thinking, and his thoughts kept returning to Charlie. In a sense, what he felt was that Charlie had deserted him, deserted him from the day he had made him Executive Editor and hired Keene, and Bruce resented it. It made him indignant, not just as an employer who had rewarded an employee for his diligence by promoting him — only to find he rested on his laurels as a result — but also as a colleague of Charlie’s, who found after years of camaraderie, a withholding on Charlie’s part, a tightening, a gradual growing away.
And for what reason, Cadence could not fathom.
He thought of that — and then he thought of Sandy’s running out on him, and the next thought he had was that here he was deserted by the two people he relied on most, and left with a man who trotted off to a head-shrinker three times a week; left, literally, with a nut! A smart nut, no doubt about it, but nevertheless, a nut! … That was exactly how Cadence felt about these couch-goers that were becoming more and more prevalent. It used to be that employees asked for time off to see a dentist, or a doctor (a real doctor, Cadence thought), or to go to a funeral. But in recent years, some of his executives, in particular, began explaining their absence from their offices with the fact they were at their psychiatrists; until Bruce put a stop to it by making it clear in a memo that employees were not allowed time off to see doctors unless it was an emergency, and unless it was a physical sickness, emergency or not.
As a matter of fact, Cadence couldn’t even talk comfortably with Keene — not the way he used to talk with Charlie. Somehow he and Keene would sit down and discuss something like reorganizing distribution in the Southwest, and end up on the subject of incest.
Bruce Cadence wasn’t even sure what the hell incest was. Something about wanting to sleep with your parents, and Jesus H. Christ, what kind of a person wanted to do that!
He didn’t know anyone who did and he didn’t want to know anybody who did, and if Wally Keene did, he didn’t want to know that.
Maybe all the young men today were Keenes. Cadence didn’t know. He only knew he liked the Charlies in this world — the men who wrestled with real problems: how to break off an affair, how to get a raise, how to pay for a house that was more expensive than one could afford, how to improve a bridge game or break 70 on the golf course, where to send his kids to school, how to lose weight, and what the hell to take for a hangoverl By God, Cadence thought, I’m going to call Charlie up here and tell him how I feel, and ask him how he feels, by God. Should have thought of that before.
And first, I’ll get Wadley and Smythe on the phone and send some flowers off to Sandy.
The old ways are the best. I don’t know tricks. Not going to sit here feeling hurt … What would Keene call me? A machinist or masonist or some damn psychological hogwash.
While he was sitting there thinking these thoughts, he suddenly became aware of the noise off in the background outside his office, the persistent clatter of a typewriter which meant Sandra Scott was busy typing up the morning’s dictation.
He threw back the intercom switch and said, “I’m glad you’re back, Sandy.”
“I’m sorry about the temper tantrum, Mr. Cadence.”
“I guess we’re all entitled to one now and then … Now let’s see if we can get Charlie back.”
MARCH 6, 1957
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ON THE way back from lunch, Charlie Gibson got the idea to call Joan and invite her into the city for dinner.
Marge had said something over lunch that was so obvious it was a wonder he had not thought of it himself: that of course Joan should help him decide what to do about Janie, that despite Janie’s fervent request that her mother be left out of the matter, it was Joan’s problem too.
Marge had sounded bored when she had made the suggestion, and an equally obvious fact struck Charlie suddenly — that she was bored, that it wasn’t her province to help him with this sort of problem at all, that she had just faced and solved a problem of her own, and she was probably even a little disdainful of Charlie’s inability to cope with the matter quietly and with orderliness, as she had handled hers.
He had to admire Marge Mann; he did admire her. She was strong and proud and certain; and she rolled with the punch. If there were any lesson in life Charlie would want Janie to learn and learn well, it would be pride — pride in herself, no matter what happened, the pride of independence.
In a sense, Janie’s mother was. But Joan’s confidence was wild and went barreling along on wheels, while Marge’s stood firm on good ground. Joan was a raving optimist; Marge, a pleasant pessimist. Charlie decided the latter needed people less, and he supposed that was one reason Marge had never married anyone and one reason he hadn’t married Marge.
He didn’t want Janie to be the extreme independent spirit Marge Mann was, but he couldn’t help hoping she was a little less dependent than her mother, for Charlie Gibson had always had the misconception that his wife was a vulnerable and fragile, emotionally, as a piece of Chinese porcelain — when it concerned Charlie.
He could remember little things that had happened long ago. A day, for instance, when he sat on the Yacht Club dock up in Auburn, New York, and told her how much he had loved Mitzie Thompson. He could remember glancing down at her once and seeing her face, reading her thoughts, and thinking to himself, The poor kid’s afraid no one will ever want to marry her the way I wanted to marry Mitzie. She was a terribly skinny, bony kid and Charlie felt sorry for her.
Sure, it was ironic; but more than once after they were married, Charlie felt the main reason he had proposed to her was that he felt so bad about taking her out in the car that night and halfway undressing her. He was ten years older than she was, after all; and he had taken advantage of her, scared her silly; because when he’d exclaimed, “What’s happening to us?” her whispered “I don’t know” had haunted Charlie for weeks and weeks after. He felt almost like a child molester, and he was certain she had cried herself to sleep that night after he’d dropped her at her house.
It was hard, after so many years, to think back on things with any real lucidity, but there were two things Charlie had done to Joan for which he never forgave himself.
One was that he had, in his rage at the announcement she was pregnant, accused her of planning the baby. Despite all anyone could tell him about a woman’s diaphragm being, on occasion, not altogether reliable, particularly if it had been a misfit, he had persisted in his accusation for months. It was a wonder to him Janie was born healthy, a wonder and a marvel and a joy. So he never forgave himself that.
The other thing was, of course, Marge.
At least Joan never had to know about it. Thank God.
She would have left him, simply left him, and she wouldn’t have gotten over it, like some women. She wouldn’t have married another man and started all over again; she simply would have grown old, bitter, and probably blighted Janie’s whole outlook. Well, thank God it never happened. It took a war to make Charlie know whom he wanted to go home to and it was an odd thing that, during the war, actually during some of the rough moments when he wondered if he’d come out alive, and whom he’d want to see, Marge would come to mind. He’d think, Marge ought to be here, by rights, fighting for me. She always fought my other battles, and won; bet she’d slaughter these Nips.
And he’d remember the way Joan’s naked body felt, all curled around him, hanging on to him like a tame boa, when she slept. And sometimes she’d whimper in her sleep. And he’d murmur, “That’s all right, I’m here!” He remembered things like that — and then he’d remember the shoes.
They were living on Bleecker Street that Christmas, in the cold-water railroad flat. They were broke — because Charlie’s first job in New York paid next to nothing. He’d just suffered through some preposterous ailment called mononucleosis which had cost them an arm and a leg in doctor’s
bills, and Joan was in her fourth month.
To complicate things, Charlie first fell in love with his wife that month. Before, he had only loved her, but now he was honest-to-God in love with the woman he married, and between them they had four dollars to splurge on Christmas.
They called it their “Gift of the Magi” Christmas afterwards, because Charlie spent his two on a very sexy-smelling cologne from Liggett’s, which gave her hives; and she spent her two getting his best shoes resoled (they were stuffed with cardboard before she whipped them off to the cobbler’s). And she was inordinately proud of the fact she had talked the cobbler, not only into new soles, but also into taps for both the heels and the toes for only two dollars. At the office where Charlie worked, he was known as Mr. Astaire. But he never told her that; he just sat around the house wondering why she didn’t realize men didn’t wear taps on their toes and heels, and wondering, as well, what was making her itch herself all the time.
For a long time he carried in his wallet the note she had written with the shoes: “I’ll never let you touch ground, darling!” until ultimately someone picked his pocket.
And Joan saved the little note he wrote: “To my very sexy mother” until it suddenly dawned on him one day years later, as he was searching through a bureau drawer for a collar button, and came across the note, that it was more odious than facetious — in the light of Freud and the Forties; and he’d put a match to it.
When Charlie stepped into the drugstore on the corner to call Joan immediately, before she called in her market list, he got a busy signal; and he decided something else about the difference between Marge and Joan. Joan was a blabbermouth; God, she blabbed everything! Everything, and to everyone! She was probably on the phone right now blabbing out another installment in the life history of Mrs. Charles Gibson, to Aileen Tullett, her worst competition in the blabbermouth contest. Maybe he’d never get through to her. Not all afternoon. Maybe he should send a wire.
Now Marge Mann was a lot of things, but she was not a sob sister, and she was not a woman’s woman. She was a man’s woman, and the reason was that she could keep her mouth shut and not tell herself all over the place.
