“You’re wonderful. How portable is your typewriter?”
“Not very portable.”
He went over to my desk and lifted up my Remington. “I could carry that,” he said.
“I’m sure you could. But why would you?”
“I have an idea.”
Two days later, I was on a morning train to Albany with Jack. We checked into the Capital Hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Jack Malone. While he went off to see his clients, I sat down at the desk in our room and punched out a “Real Life” column on my Remington. Jack came back from his appointments around five. I had him undressed within a minute. Half an hour later, he lit up a cigarette and said, “This is, without doubt, the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me in Albany.”
“I should hope so,” I said.
It was fifteen below in Albany, so we stayed in that night and ordered room service. The next morning Jack braved the elements to deal with a few more clients. I took a brisk walk around downtown—and decided that I had seen enough of Albany for one morning. So I retreated back to our room, punched out half of my movie column on my Remington, then killed the afternoon at a wonderfully cheesy Victor Mature double feature (Samson and Delilah and Wabash Avenue) at a nearby RKO fleapit. I was back at the hotel by five thirty. As I was about to open the door of our room, I could hear Jack on the phone.
“All right, all right—I know you’re angry, but . . . what’s one more night? . . . Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . you’re right . . . but, hey, it’s not like I want to be away . . . You know I love you . . . Look, an extra night in Albany probably means another ten bucks this week . . . Okay, okay . . . You too, darling . . . Tell Charlie I love him . . . and yeah, five o’clock tomorrow without fail . . . Okay, bye.”
I waited a moment, then opened the door. Jack was lighting up a cigarette and pouring a shot of Hiram Walker bourbon into a hotel tooth glass. He tried to force a smile, but looked strained. I came over, put my arms around his neck and said, “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s hardly nothing if it’s making you look so tense.”
He shrugged. “Just a bad business call, that’s all.”
I let go of his neck, walked into the bathroom, took the remaining tooth glass off the sink, returned to the room, and poured myself two fingers of bourbon.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I hate being lied to.”
“How have I lied to you?”
“‘Just a bad business call.’ I heard who you were talking to on the phone.”
“What do you mean, you heard?”
“I mean, I was standing outside the door . . .”
“Eavesdropping?”
“I didn’t want to walk in right when you were speaking with Dorothy.”
“Either that or you wanted to listen in . . .”
“Why the hell would I want to listen in, Jack?”
“I don’t know. You were the one who was standing outside the door . . .”
“That’s because I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position by bursting into the room . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.
“Never lie to me, Jack. Never.”
He turned away, looking out the grimy window at the dim lights of downtown Albany. “I just thought . . . I don’t know . . . the last thing you wanted to hear was that I’d had a fight with Dorothy.”
“You’re a fool, Malone. I may not like the idea you’re married, but that’s the territory you occupy—and I accept that. But if this is going to continue, you’ll have to keep lying to Dorothy. If you can handle that, fine. If you can’t, I’ll catch the last train back to Grand Central tonight.”
He turned and touched my arm. “Don’t catch that train.”
“What was the argument about?”
“She wanted me back tonight.”
“Then you should have gone home.”
“But I wanted to stay here with you.”
“Much appreciated—but not when you start lying to me, in order to cover up lying to Dorothy.”
“I’m a jerk.”
I managed a smile.
“No—you’re a married jerk. Is she suspicious?”
“Not at all. Just lonely. And I’m so damn muddled. There are times when I wish Dorothy wasn’t so decent and understanding. If she was a bitch . . .”
“Everything would be fine?”
“I wouldn’t feel so bad.”
“Poor, poor you: she’s not a bitch.”
“God, you can be a hard case,” he said.
“That’s because I have to be. It’s not easy loving someone with divided loyalties.”
“They’re not really that divided. I adore you.”
“But you are also committed to her.”
He shrugged. And said, “I have no choice.”
“So, you’re dealing with a conundrum. The question is: are you going to let the conundrum remain insoluble?”
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Work out a way of being with me and with Dorothy. Compartmentalize. Be French.”
“Can you handle that?”
“I don’t know. Time will tell. The real question is: can you handle it, Jack?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Well, I’d try to figure that one out, Jack. Because if this romance becomes one long exercise in bad conscience, I’ll walk. I know what I can—and cannot—expect out of this. It’s up to you, my love.”
We returned to Manhattan the next morning. At Grand Central Station, he held me tightly.
“I’d better stick close to home for the next few days,” he said.
“That’s probably smart.”
“Can I call you?”
“Do you really have to ask that question?”
He kissed me lightly on the lips.
“Love you,” he said.
“You sound tentative.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
I didn’t hear from him the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Naturally, his silence drove me crazy. Because it could only mean one thing: it was over.
The weekend came and went. On Monday, I stayed by the phone all day, just in case. But he never called. Then, at six thirty on Tuesday morning, the doorbell rang. He was standing outside. Behind him, a taxi was waiting in the street. His face lit up when I answered the door—even though I was still in a nightgown and was the picture of postsleep disarray.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked, groggily.
“I’ll talk with you about that later. Right now, I want you to get dressed, get packed . . .”
“I’m not following you.”
“It’s simple: we’re booked on the eight forty-seven from Penn Station to Washington, DC. We’re staying three days at the Mayflower Hotel, and . . .”
“Jack, I’d like an explanation . . .”
He leaned forward and kissed me.
“Later, darling. I’ve got to run to the office before we depart.”
“Who says I’m going. And why the hell are you suddenly springing this on me?”
“Because I just decided to spring this on you ten minutes ago. Track seventeen at Penn Station. Be there no later than eight thirty. Which gives you around ninety minutes to pack and get down there.”
“I don’t know, Jack.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, kissing me again. “Bye.”
Before I could say another word, he turned and headed into the taxi. When he got inside, he rolled down the window and shouted, “Be there.”
Then the taxi headed off.
I went back inside. I kicked a chair. I made a fast, firm decision: I wouldn’t be railroaded into running out of town with Jack—just because he’d suddenly decided I should accompany him. Hell, the bum hadn’t called me in six whole days. So there was absolutely no way that I was going to capitulate to his demands.
Having reached this jud
gment, I went straight into my bedroom and packed a suitcase. Then I jumped into the shower, dressed hurriedly, grabbed my typewriter, and found a taxi heading south on West End Avenue.
I made the train with around ten minutes to spare. As planned, Jack was waiting for me on the platform. A porter walked ahead of me, my suitcase and Remington balanced on his trolley. Seeing me approach, Jack whipped off his snap-brim hat and bowed with a flourish.
“I’m a fool to be doing this,” I said.
“Kiss me,” he said.
I gave him a fast buzz on the lips.
“That’s not much of a kiss,” he said.
“I want some answers first.”
“You’ll get them,” he said, handing the porter a tip.
We found our seats. As soon as the train pulled out of the station, Jack suggested we go to the dining car for breakfast. We ordered coffee. Jack made small talk—breezily asking me about the past six days, what movies I’d seen, how my work was going, and did I really think that Stevenson had a chance against Ike if (as expected) they did go head to head in the ’52 election. Eventually, I cut him off.
“What the hell has you so happy this morning?”
“Oh, this and that,” he said, still sounding far too cheerful.
“Are you going to explain to me why you vanished for six days?”
“Yes, I will.”
The coffee arrived. We fell silent until the waiter left.
“Well, go on then,” I said.
The requisite cigarette was placed between his lips. After lighting it, he glanced around the car, noting that there wasn’t anyone sitting directly next to us. Then he leaned forward and said, “I told her.”
This took a moment to register.
“What did you just say?” I asked.
“I told her.”
“You told Dorothy . . . ?”
“Yes. I told Dorothy.”
My shock was deepening.
“What exactly did you say?”
“I told her everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes,” he said. “Everything.”
SIXTEEN
THE TRAIN WAS just emerging into New Jersey when I was able to speak again.
“When did you tell her?” I whispered.
“The night I got back from Albany with you.”
“How did you explain . . .”
“I gave her the whole story. How we met after I came back to the States in forty-five. How I knew instantly that you were . . .”
He stopped and took a deep drag on his cigarette. After a moment or two he started talking again.
“Dorothy is no fool. She got the entire gist of the story immediately. Then she said, ‘So you’re going to leave us?’ I said no, I wouldn’t leave, because I had made a commitment . . . taken a vow . . . to her. And, of course, because we had Charlie. But I wouldn’t give you up either. Of course, if she now wanted me to leave, I’d go. But it would have to be her choice, her decision.”
“So she threw you out?”
“No. She told me she needed time to think. And she made me promise not to contact you until she had considered all this. Which is why you didn’t hear from me for nearly a week. I respected her wishes—even though she froze me out for five straight days. Then, last night, she finally spoke to me.
“‘I don’t have much choice in the matter,’ she said. ‘But understand this: I never want to know. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on the road a couple of days a week. You are out of town. But when you’re home with Charlie and me, you’re completely with us.’”
I finally spoke again. “Of course she has a choice. She could throw you out. If I was in her position, I would. In a heartbeat.”
“Yeah—I probably deserve that.”
I put down my coffee cup. I leaned forward and spoke quietly. “You don’t really think that, Jack. I mean, you should have seen your face ten minutes ago when you saw me walking down the platform. You looked like the cat who’d gotten the cream. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. Now, of course, I know exactly why you’re so damn happy. What a fantastic position for a guy like you to be in: the loyal little wife at home with the baby . . . and then, there’s the other woman, to whom the loyal little wife has suddenly decided to turn a blind eye, on the proviso that she’s never referred to as anything but out of town. In fact, here’s a thought: why don’t you stop using my real name and start calling me by my new acronym: O.O.T . . . out of town.”
“I thought you’d be pleased with this news.”
“Of course you’d think that. After all, you’re the one who’s suddenly been transformed overnight from a guilt-laden Catholic to a happily polygamous Mormon. Because your poor wife has given you the license to have it your own damn way.”
“I am not being smug.”
“No—you’re just totally pleased with yourself. Why shouldn’t you be? You’ve confessed, you’ve been absolved. And now you can screw me two or three times a week, then waltz back home with a bouquet of roses, feeling irreproachable . . .”
“Shhh . . . ,” he said, nervously looking around the dining car.
“Never tell me to shut up,” I said, standing up.
“Where are you going?”
“Leaving.”
He was on his feet. “What do you mean, leaving?”
I stormed off down the corridor. Jack threw some money down on the table, and chased after me. He caught me between coaches. I shrugged him off.
“I don’t get this,” he said, yelling above the roar of the wheels.
“Of course you don’t. That’s because you never think about other people’s feelings . . .”
“I told Dorothy because I couldn’t lie . . .”
“No—you told Dorothy because you needed her to absorb the remorse that you felt about cheating on her. You gambled that she wouldn’t throw you out. You gambled right. Now you have the ideal arrangement. Except there’s one little problem: I want nothing to do with it.”
“If you’d just let me explain . . .”
“Goodbye,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m getting off at Newark.”
I moved into the next car. Jack followed me. “Don’t get off the train,” he said.
“I won’t be part of an arrangement.”
“It is not an ‘arrangement.’ ”
“Well, it sure as hell looks like that to me. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Darling . . . ,” he said, lightly touching my shoulder.
“Get off!” I barked. Suddenly all eyes in the carriage were on us. I blushed deeply. Jack turned white.
“Fine, fine,” he whispered. “Have it your way.”
With that, he turned and went back toward the dining car.
With my gaze firmly fixed on the ground—to avoid seeing the disapproving glances of my fellow passengers—I slunk back to my seat. I sat down. I stared out the window, feeling the sort of jumpy aftershock that always accompanies an exchange of words. A few moments later, a conductor wandered down the aisle, shouting, “Newark. Next stop, Newark.”
I was about to stand up and grab my suitcase and typewriter. I didn’t move. The train shunted into Newark. I remained seated. After a few minutes, the conductor blew his whistle, and we continued our journey south.
Around half an hour later, Jack came walking down the aisle. He did a double take when he saw me. But he did not smile.
“You’re still here,” he said, sitting down opposite me.
“Clearly,” I said.
“I’m surprised.”
“So am I.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Who said I’ve changed my mind?” I said. “I might still get off at Philadelphia.”
“That’s your choice, Sara. Just like it’s also your choice whether . . .”
“I will not be cast in the role of the other woman.”
“But that is exactly why I told her,” he whispered. “
That’s why I admitted to her that I loved you. Because I didn’t want you to be forced into that mistress role. Because Dorothy had to know—no matter how painful it was—that I was in love with you. Because that, in turn, gave her some options—like throwing me out, if she wanted to.”
“Weren’t you disappointed when she foolishly decided to keep you?”
“On one level, yes . . . I was disappointed. Because it would have freed me to be with you all the time. But it would have distressed the hell out of me as well. Because of Charlie, and because of Dorothy, who is too damn nice to be with a bum like me.”
I sighed loudly.
“I still wish you’d never told her. Because now, every time you’re with me, I’ll find myself thinking: she knows.”
“All right, now she knows. But it’s not as if Dorothy and I were ever the love of each other’s life. She wouldn’t be with me if it hadn’t been for that little accident. She knows that too. So, it’s with her that I have the arrangement. Not you. Never you. Believe me: this is all going to work out fine.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“It will. I promise.”
“Never promise anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because you open up the prospect of disappointment. And because—now that Dorothy knows—things will change between us. Change is always unsettling.”
“I won’t let things change between us.”
“They will, my love. Because we’ll be no longer living in fear of discovery.”
“But that’s a good thing.”
“Agreed,” then I added: “But it will never be as romantic, will it?”
At Washington, we immediately checked into a hotel and made love. We made love again late that night. And the next night in Baltimore. And the night after that in Wilmington. We returned to Manhattan. We shared a cab uptown. He dropped me at my apartment. He kissed me long and hard. He promised to call me tomorrow.
He kept his promise, phoning me the next afternoon from work. I asked him how he was greeted at home yesterday. I could hear him choose his words with care.
“She was happy to see me.”
“No questions asked about out of town . . . ?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How’s Charlie?”
“Wonderful.”
“Did you sleep with her?” I suddenly heard myself asking.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 35
