So besotted that—a month after we met—he asked me to marry him.
Did I ponder this decision? Did I ask for time to reflect, contemplate, or muse about the ramifications of this momentous question?
Of course not.
I said yes. Without a moment’s thought.
TEN
EVERYONE WAS SURPRISED by my news. No one more so than me.
“You’re actually marrying a man named Grey?” Eric asked me when I told him about the engagement.
“I knew this is how you’d react,” I said.
“I’m not reacting. I’m just asking a question.”
“Yes, Eric. His name is Grey. Happy now?”
“Thrilled. And . . . let me work this out . . . the first time you mentioned him to me was around two weeks ago. At that point you’d been seeing him for . . . how long was it exactly?”
“Around two weeks,” I said sheepishly.
“So—just one month from the first date to the engagement announcement. He’s obviously a fast worker . . . though nothing compared to the Brooklyn Boy.”
“I was just waiting for you to bring him up.”
“That’s because he’s still lurking around . . .”
“That is not true, damn it.”
“Of course it’s true. Why else would you be marrying this other guy?”
“Maybe because I am in love with him.”
“You’re talking crap—and you know it. You are not the sort of woman who falls for an investment banker named Grey.”
“I wish you would please stop telling me my own mind. George is a wonderful man. He will make me very happy.”
“He will turn you into somebody you don’t want to be.”
“How the hell can you say that, when you’ve never even met him?”
“Because he’s called George Grey, that’s how. It’s a name that conjures up a pipe and slippers . . . which he’ll be asking you to fetch before you know it.”
“I am not a dog,” I said, my voice tightening. “I fetch things for no one.”
“We all end up doing things we vow never to do . . . especially when we’re chasing the illusion of love.”
“This is not a goddamn illusion, Eric!”
“Illusion, delusion, confusion—you could describe your condition in any number of ways . . .”
“I am not suffering from a condition . . .”
“Yes, you are. And it’s called ‘trapping yourself . . . in the name of security.’ ”
“Thank you for crediting me with knowing my own mind.”
“No one knows their own mind, S. No one. It’s the main reason why we all make such an ongoing mess of things.”
Well, I certainly knew why I was marrying George Grey. Because he was so decent, so dependable, and so enamored of me. We all adore being flattered. Or—better yet—being told that we are special, unique, the best thing that ever happened to somebody. George did this constantly. And I couldn’t resist it. Because it was exactly what I wanted to hear.
He was also supportive—especially when it came to the issue of my stalled writing career. Shortly after our engagement was announced, we went out one night with Emily Flouton—who had become one of my good friends at Saturday/Sunday in the wake of Nathaniel Hunter’s departure. Emily had just been dumped by her boyfriend of two years—and when I mentioned to George that she was feeling a little fragile, he insisted that she join us for a concert at Carnegie Hall and a late supper afterward at the Algonquin. Emily and I spent much of the meal discussing Mr. Hunter’s replacement—a small, angular woman in her early forties named Ida Spenser. She’d been hired away from Collier’s as our new boss, and quickly established a reputation within our department for deporting herself like a perpetually inflexible headmistress (of the old-maidish variety), and for slapping down anyone who dared to contradict her rigid way of doing things. We all hated her. As we waited for our food in the Grill Room of the Algonquin, Emily and I engaged in an extended rant about Miss Spenser. George listened with rapt attention . . . even though our office politics were of absolutely no interest to him. But he was always solicitous.
“. . . and then she told me that I had no right to encourage any new authors without her approval,” Emily said. “Only she can decide whether or not a writer gets a personalized letter of encouragement.”
“She must be a very insecure woman,” George said.
Emily looked at him admiringly. “How did you know that?” she asked.
“Because George is very insightful about people,” I said.
“Stop flattering me,” he said, squeezing my hand. “You’ll give me a swelled head.”
“You with a swelled head?” I said. “Not a chance. You’re far too nice for that.”
“Now you are going to really make me feel stuck up,” he said, lightly kissing me on the lips. “Anyway, the only reason I said that your boss might be insecure is because I used to work for someone like that at the bank. He had to control everything. Every letter to a client, every interdepartmental memorandum had to be personally vetted by him. He was obsessive. Because he was about the most scared person I’d ever met. He lived in terror of delegating to anyone; he felt he could trust no one. And for a very simple reason: he couldn’t trust himself.”
“That’s our Miss Spenser to a T,” Emily said. “She’s so uncertain about herself that she thinks we’re all out to get her. Which, of course, now we all are. What eventually happened to your boss?”
“He was kicked upstairs, and made a director of the company. Which was a blessing—because, quite frankly, I was on the verge of quitting my job.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” I said, nudging him playfully. “You’d never quit a job. It would contravene every notion you have about duty and accountability.”
“Now you’re making me sound all stuffy, darling.”
“Not stuffy. Just responsible. Very responsible.”
“You make it sound like a personal defect,” he said with mock melodrama.
“Hardly, my love. I think responsibility is a great virtue—especially in a husband.”
“I’d drink to that,” Emily said grimly. “Every guy I get involved with seems to have been born with the irresponsibility gene.”
“You’ll get lucky,” I said.
“Not as lucky as you,” Emily said.
“Hey, I’m the real lucky one here,” George said. “I mean, I’m marrying one of the most promising writers in America.”
“Oh, please . . .” I said, turning beet red. “I’ve only published one story.”
“But what a story,” George said. “Don’t you agree, Emily?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Everyone in the department thought it was one of the top three or four stories we published last year. And considering that Faulkner, Hemingway, and J. T. Farrell were the other three writers . . .”
“Stop!” I said. “Or I’ll crawl under the table.”
Emily groaned. And said, “What this woman needs, George, is a massive dose of self-confidence.”
“Well, I’m the man for the job,” he said with a smile.
“And you must convince her to leave Saturday/Sunday before it kills her talent.”
“It was just one damn story,” I said. “I doubt I’ll ever write another.”
“Of course you will,” George said. “Because after we’re married, you won’t have to worry about paying the rent anymore, or even having to put up with the dreadful Miss Spenser at Saturday/Sunday. You’ll be free of all that, and able to concentrate full time on your fiction.”
“Sounds great to me,” Emily said.
“I’m not at all sure if I’ll be leaving Saturday/Sunday right away,” I said.
“Of course you will,” George said sweetly. “It’s the ideal moment to make the break.”
“But it’s my job . . .”
“Writing’s your real job . . . and I want to give you the opportunity to do it full time.”
He lean
ed over and kissed me on the forehead. Then he stood up and excused himself.
“Nature calls,” he said with a chuckle. “How about getting another couple of drinks. Being in love is thirsty work.”
I smiled. Tightly. And found myself thinking, what a dumb line. Instantly, my mind replayed some of our lovey-dovey conversation (“Hey, I’m the real lucky one here . . . I mean, I’m marrying one of the most promising writers in America”). I couldn’t believe that we were already exchanging “settled married couple” epithets like darling and my love. I felt myself flinch. It was just a minor contraction of the shoulders. It couldn’t have lasted more than a nanosecond. But in the aftermath of that tiny shudder came a question: was that the first twinge of doubt?
Before I had time to consider that query, Emily said, “Boy, are you one lucky girl.”
“Do you think so?”
“Think so? He’s wonderful.”
“Yes. I guess he is.”
“Guess? Guess? Don’t you see what you’ve landed?”
“A very nice man.”
“Nice? What’s happened to you tonight? Did you take ‘understatement’ tablets or something?”
“I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . a little nervous, that’s all. And I could really use another martini. Waiter!”
I caught the eye of a passing man with a tray, and motioned for a refill.
“Of course you’re nervous,” Emily said. “You’re getting married. But, at least, you’re marrying someone who clearly adores you.”
“I suppose so . . .”
“Suppose? He worships the ground you walk on.”
“Wouldn’t you find it a bit worrying if you were the object of such adoration?”
Emily rolled her eyes and gave me a dark frown. “Will you listen to yourself,” she said. “Here you are—a published writer, engaged to a man who actually believes in your talent, who’s going to free you from the worry of earning a living so you can dedicate yourself completely to your ‘art’, and who also considers you the most wonderful person on the planet. And all you can talk about is your fear of being adored. I mean, really.”
“Everyone’s entitled to a few last-minute doubts, aren’t they?”
“Not when they’ve landed the catch of the year.”
“He’s not a fish, Emily.”
“There you go again!”
“All right, all right . . .”
“Tell you what: if you really don’t want to marry George, I’m happy to take your place. In the meantime, try to accept the fact that you’ve struck it lucky in love. I know it’s difficult for you to admit such a terrible thing . . .”
“Emily: I AM in love. I’m just . . . anxious, that’s all.”
“I wish I had your problems.”
“Hey there!”
We both looked up. George was approaching the table, his mouth frozen in an expansive grin. People were always describing him as “boyish”—and with good reason. With his perfectly parted sandy hair, his heavy horn-rimmed glasses, his slightly chubby, freckled face, and his ability to look a little disheveled (even when dressed in one of the made-to-measure Brooks Brothers suits he favored), he always had a certain schoolboyish demeanor: someone who, even at the age of twenty-eight, would still appear at home on a soccer field at Exeter (his prep school alma mater).
But as he came and sat down with us, I found myself looking beyond his current adolescent veneer, and seeing what he would become twelve years from now: a portly middle-aged banker whose youthful countenance had been replaced by a staid stoutness. A man of bulk and leaden gravity, with no lightness of touch, no animating spirit.
“Something the matter, darling?”
His voice registered concern. I snapped out of my anxious trance, and gave him a warm, loving smile.
“Just a little far away, dear.”
“I bet she’s plotting her next story,” he said to Emily.
“Or dreaming about the wedding,” Emily said, with more than a hint of irony which my fiancé failed to pick up.
“Oh, so that’s what you girls were talking about!”
Ugh.
Yes, I knew that George Grey was a deeply conventional man. And yes, I knew that he was someone who would always have his feet firmly planted on terra firma. There was nothing fanciful or capricious about George. When he tried to be passionately romantic, he often came across as downright silly. But he also had the disarming (and rather attractive) ability to admit that he lacked imagination, and couldn’t really engage in flights of fancy. On our third date, he confessed:
“Give me a set of company accounts, and I can be engrossed for hours—like someone turning the pages of a really good novel. But play me a Mozart symphony, and I’m lost. I really don’t know what to listen for.”
“You don’t have to listen for anything in particular. You just have to like what you hear. It’s what Duke Ellington once said, ‘If it sounds good, it is good.’”
He stared at me with wide-eyed admiration. “You are so damn smart.”
“Hardly,” I said.
“You’re cultured.”
“You’re not exactly from the Bronx, George. I mean, you did go to Princeton.”
“That’s certainly no guarantee of ending up cultured,” he said—and we both laughed like hell.
I liked his self-deprecatory humor. Just as I also liked the way he showered me with books and records and nights at the theater and Sunday afternoon New York Philharmonic concerts—even though I knew that, for George, listening to Rodzinski conduct an all-Prokofiev program was the musical equivalent of two hours in a dentist’s chair. But he would never let on that he was bored. He was so eager to please, to learn.
He was also a voracious reader—largely of hefty factual books. I think he was the only man I ever met who’d actually read all four volumes of Churchill’s The World Crisis. Fiction, he admitted, was not one of his great interests. “But you can teach me what to read.”
So I gave him a present of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. The morning after, he called me at Saturday/Sunday.
“God, what a book,” he said.
“You’ve finished it already?”
“You bet. He can really tell a story, can’t he?”
“Yes, Mr. Hemingway does have that ability.”
“And the stuff about the war . . . it’s real sad.”
“Were you moved by the love story between Frederic and Catherine?”
“I had tears running down my face during that final scene in the hospital.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“But you know what I was thinking after I put the book down?”
“What, my love?”
“If only she’d had a good American doctor looking after her, she would have probably pulled through.”
“Uh . . . I’d never thought that. But, yes, I’m sure that’s true.”
“I mean, I’m not knocking Swiss doctors.”
“I don’t think that was Hemingway’s idea either.”
“Well, after reading his book, I certainly wouldn’t want you to have a baby in Switzerland.”
“I’m touched,” I said.
All right, so he was rather literal. But I decided I could live with such artlessness because of his decency, his obliging nature—and because I was so overwhelmed by his devoted attention. In the weeks running up to the wedding, I would silence any of my nagging doubts about my future with George by reminding myself: he’s so nice.
“Yeah, all right, I’ll admit it,” Eric said after he finally met George. “He is a perfectly affable guy. Too affable, if you want my honest opinion.”
“How can anybody be too affable?” I asked.
“He’s so damn eager to please. He wants to be liked at all costs.”
“That’s not the worst thing in the world, is it? Anyway, he was understandably nervous about meeting you.”
“Why on earth would anybody be nervous of meeting me?” Eric asked sweetly.
&nbs
p; “Because, to George, meeting you was like meeting Father. He felt that if you didn’t approve of him, the marriage might not happen.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard in years.”
“He is a little old-fashioned . . .”
“Old fashioned? Try Paleozoic. But it really doesn’t matter what I think—since there’s absolutely no way you’d ever listen to my advice.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then answer me this: if I told you I thought he was a disaster, a huge mistake, would you have agreed with me?”
“Of course not.”
“The defense rests.”
“But you don’t think that, do you?”
“Like I said, he’s a perfectly okay guy.”
“Just okay?”
“We had a pleasant chat, didn’t we?”
Actually, that was true. We all met for an after-work drink at the bar of the Astor Hotel on Broadway—as it was right around the corner from the radio studios where Eric still turned out gags for the Quiz Bang Show. George was nervous as hell. I was nervous as hell. Eric was calm as hell. I had warned George that my brother could be a little idiosyncratic, and had somewhat left-of-center political views.
“Then I shouldn’t tell him I’m on the campaign committee to get Governor Dewey the Republican nomination for President?”
“It’s a free country—you can tell Eric whatever you like. But know this—he’s a real Henry Wallace Democrat, and he hates the Republican Party and everything it stands for. Still, I’ll never, ever dictate what you should say or do. So, it’s your call entirely.”
He thought about this for a moment, then said, “Maybe I’ll sidestep politics.”
He managed to do this during our hour with Eric. Just as he also managed to talk in a surprisingly informed manner about the current state of Broadway, about the work of the Federal Theater Project (he got Eric to reminisce about his years with Orson Welles), and to ask a few intelligent questions about whether this new-fangled medium called television was going to undermine radio (to which my brother mordantly replied: “Not only will it kill radio as we know it . . . it will also reduce the public’s general level of intelligence by at least twenty-five percent”).
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 20
