Return to Peyton Place

by Grace Metalious

  The train lurched and Allison's forehead bumped hard against the windowpane.

  “NEW HAVEN” called the conductor. “NEW HAVEN, NEW HAVEN.”

  Oh dear, thought Allison, sitting up and rubbing her forehead. There's still such a long way to go. Does Providence come after New Haven? No, it can't possibly. Damn it, I never can remember.

  She smoothed her skirt and lit a cigarette to try to get the train-sleep taste out of her mouth.

  I hate the snow when it looks stepped on and has black specks all over it, she thought crossly as the train picked up speed. Damn it, my head aches.

  She went to the ladies’ room and swallowed two aspirin and some water, and when she got back to her seat she flipped disinterestedly through the pages of a magazine. There was one of her stories. “Marianne Said Maybe.” Complete with four-color illustration. She read it through, and then flung the magazine down on the seat.

  What inexcusable tripe! she thought viciously. But then her eyes cleared. No more. Not now. Now I'm an author of books. It'll be different now. Now when anyone in Peyton Place wonders what I do for a living and I say that I write, they'll know what I'm talking about.

  The news of the sale of Allison's novel had traveled quickly through Peyton Place, and as she leaned her head against the back of the train seat, she smiled a little and imagined the comments and conversations she had evoked all over town.

  “Allison MacKenzie went and wrote a book.”

  “Some feller down to New York sold it for her, I heard.”

  “Who's he? The New York feller, I mean?”

  “Dunno. Some feller down there makes his livin’ sellin’ books.”

  “What's it about?”

  “Dunno. Calls it Samuel's Castle, so I reckon it's somethin’ to do with the castle up on the hill.”

  “It'd seem that way.”

  “Don't see how anybody could set and write a whole book about some nigger marryin’ up with a white girl.”

  “Don't seem as though anybody could.”

  “Well, Allison MacKenzie was always one for makin’ things up in her head.”

  “Ayeh. Well, there's some calls it makin’ up and there's others call it lyin’. Take your pick.”

  “When you put it in a book and get paid for it, it ain't lyin’. It's makin’ up.”

  “Same thing, if you ask me.”

  “Nope, it ain't. Writin’ is one of them what'cha call creative arts.”

  “Well, listen to him! Where'd you get fancy words like that?”

  “Elsie Thornton, the schoolteacher, told ’em to me. Says writin’ is like paintin’ pitchers and all like that.”

  “Lyin’! Allison MacKenzie was always a little liar.”

  “Don't seem to me,” said Clayton Frazier, putting an end to the conversation, “that any of us got any business discussin’ books. Ain't one of us read one in thirty years.”

  “Well, I'm sure gonna read Allison's.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Talk, talk, talk,” said Clayton.

  Allison was smiling to herself and a young man in the seat across the aisle from her leaned forward and smiled back.

  “Cigarette?” he asked.

  Allison shook herself. “Oh,” she said. “No. No thank you.”

  “GRAND CENTRAL STATION, NEXT” shouted the conductor. “GRAND CENTRAL.”

  Allison jumped up and adjusted the jacket of her suit and straightened her hat. When the train came to a halt, she was one of the first ones off and she carried her two bags herself rather than stop one of the hurrying redcaps who passed her as if she were invisible. Her arms were aching as she came into the main lobby of the station, and she stopped still as she saw Bradley Holmes coming toward her.

  I thought I'd forgotten what he looked like, she thought in sudden panic. I hadn't forgotten at all. I have to get away. He mustn't see me.

  She turned, her eyes seeking the stairs that would take her to the street. But she was too late. Brad had seen her.

  “My dear,” he cried, and put his arms around her. “I thought you'd never get here!”

  “Hello, Brad,” said Allison, and her throat began to ache. “Here I am.”

  9

  LEWIS JACKMAN WAS a tall thin man of forty-five years; he had a cavernous, carved-looking face and smooth, dark hair. His voice was very deep and soft. Allison thought he looked like young Abe Lincoln. There was something dark and brooding, almost melancholic, in his face.

  He looked at her with dark, searching eyes. “You know, Miss MacKenzie, after twenty years of reading manuscripts and meeting authors I have come to be pretty good at guessing what a writer will look like from reading what he's written.” He smiled, but his smile did not relieve the brooding sadness of his eyes. “I must confess that this time I was completely at a loss. I didn't know what to expect. There's youthful energy and curiosity in your novel, but there is also a long lifetime of lived experience. Now that I see you, all I can say is that I'm amazed. And, of course, very proud to be the publisher of your remarkable novel.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackman,” she said.

  “I want to go over it with you,” he said, “page by page. I'd like it to be as nearly perfect as we can make it.” He began to turn the pages of the manuscript, those familiar typed pages that she had given her life to. “There are a few changes—minor ones—that I think will help to give the novel greater unity and more impact.”

  “Changes?” Allison turned to Brad. “You didn't tell me there had to be changes,” she said.

  “It's not unusual for a publisher to request changes, Allison,” said Brad. “Mr. Jackman has had a great deal of experience with books.”

  “What changes?” demanded Allison, turning back to Jackman.

  He fingered pages of her manuscript and Allison wanted to slap him. She felt as if she had had a child and that Lewis Jackman was now fondling that child in a depraved, obscene fashion.

  “There are places, Miss MacKenzie, where your manuscript is a little too much, if you get my meaning.”

  “No, I don't, Mr. Jackman,” said Allison. “I don't get your meaning at all.”

  Jackman put on a pair of heavy, dark-rimmed glasses. “For instance, here,” he said. “In chapter fourteen you have a poor, demented woman committing suicide by hanging. Now, that's all very well, but I think that we could all do with fewer gory details. I don't believe that it is necessary to describe the body swinging on the end of the rope, for one thing, nor to go to such great lengths in the description of the bulging tongue and eyes and the color of the face. In the first place, it's been done many, many times before; and in the second place, it's not very good taste.”

  Allison jumped to her feet. “I don't give a damn if it's been done in every book that's ever been published and I also don't give a damn about what you consider good taste. What I've written happens to be true, good taste or not.”

  “Miss MacKenzie,” said Jackman, “believe me, I know how you feel. All authors of all first novels feel the same way. You have the feeling that I am defiling a child of yours, isn't that right?”

  Allison sat down. “How did you know?” she asked.

  “I've published a great many first novels,” said Jackman, smiling. “Now listen to me, Allison. May I call you Allison?” She nodded. “Allison, I am not going to ask you, as I have never asked any author, to make changes with which you are not in agreement. However, I do think that if we talk a few things over we can wind up with not only a good book, but a fine book. Shall we try?”

  Allison nodded, ashamed of her outburst. “All right,” she said, “let's try.”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon in discussion. On a great many points Allison refused to budge, and Jackman gave in to her. A few times Allison yielded to Jackman, and once or twice Bradley Holmes had his say. Once Allison strode to the window and whirled on both men, crying, “Whose book is it, anyway? If you can both do so much better, why don't you write your own book?” Except for that single
outburst the afternoon went pretty well. She and Jackman signed the contract at four-forty-five, and as soon as she and Brad were out of the office he said, “I need a drink.”

  “I'll treat,” said Allison.

  “No, you won't,” said Brad and took her arm. “Don't let that fifteen-hundred-dollar advance go to your head. It'll be a long time before there's more where that came from.”

  “Why?” asked Allison, as they stepped out into New York's exciting twilight. “How long do you think it'll be before they publish?”

  “Late spring, probably. That'll give you the rest of the winter to make the changes we agreed to make. Perhaps in April.”

  “So long?” asked Allison. “I thought it would be sooner than that. It won't take me long to make the changes. It involves just patching, really. There won't be any major rewriting.”

  “Count on April,” said Brad. “Then you'll be surprised and happy if it's sooner.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the Oak Bar at the Plaza,” said Brad. “It's right over there. Allison, I'll never understand why you didn't want to stay at the hotel. You can't spend the rest of your life staying with people in grubby little flats in the Village.”

  “To me, Brad, it is not a grubby little flat,” said Allison. “I was very happy there once. And I like Steve Wallace.”

  “Steve,” said Brad. “What a ridiculous name for a girl. Really, you'd be much better off here at the Plaza.”

  “It's short for Stephanie,” said Allison and laughed at him. “Besides, I don't like to stay in hotels by myself.”

  They sat side by side on a leather-covered seat in the dark, paneled room. When their cocktails came Brad raised his glass to her.

  “To your success, darling,” he said. “I wish everything wonderful for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Allison and drank. She put down her glass and looked around. “This is a nice room.”

  “Yes,” said Brad. “We should be drinking champagne, but I'm saving that for later, at dinner. I'll take you to ‘21.’”

  Allison did not answer.

  He has no nerves at all, that man, she thought. He acts as if I were merely an old friend, as if there had never been anything more than that between us. She could feel her cheeks begin to redden as she remembered the way they had been together. Her hand trembled when she picked up the glass.

  Brad telling her she kissed like a child and teaching her to kiss like a woman. Brad undressing her, looking at her, making her want him to look at her. Brad with the words of seduction so ready on his lips and the technique of lovemaking so practiced and perfected as to be almost a perversion at his fingertips. And her shamelessness after the first time of pain and fear, wanting him again and again, thrusting herself at him, caressing him with her hands, as he had taught her to do, until he was erect and stimulated and ready to take her once more. And the words of love that had poured from her until Brad put a stop to them and brought to an end all her dreams.

  “But I'm married,” he had said. “Didn't you know?”

  Allison's glass was empty, and Brad signaled the waiter.

  “You will dine with me, won't you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I can't. I have another engagement. In fact, I'm late now.”

  “I've ordered another drink for you, so you'll have to stay a minute anyway,” said Brad. “With whom are you dining?”

  She was suddenly angry at this cold, nerveless man. “With David Noyes,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, David,” said Brad and smiled. “You know, after you left New York the last time, David came to call on me. He seemed highly disturbed that you had left and wanted to know if I knew the reason for it.”

  “And what did you tell him?” asked Allison, her eyes dangerously hot.

  “David Noyes,” said Brad, as if she had not spoken. “A fine talent, that boy. Pity his stuff doesn't sell better. But he gets marvelous reviews and one can't have everything.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Allison again.

  “Tell him?” asked Brad. “What should I have to tell David? I told him that you'd decided you'd had enough of New York and wanted to go home for a while.”

  Allison was furious. “Thank you very much, Brad,” she said. “But you needn't have been so careful of my honor, you know. I told David all about us. I wrote him a letter and told him everything.”

  “Oh?” said Brad, sipping his drink. “And what did our Angry Young Man have to say about that?”

  “How can you act like this?” she demanded, her voice low and trembling. “As if nothing at all had happened.”

  “And what did happen? What happened, Allison, so dreadful that you sound like this now? That your face flushes and you tremble with anger?” asked Brad, and he was not suave and smiling now. He was almost as angry as she. “I'll tell you what happened. You lost your virginity and became an adult. You lost your pretty illusions about sex and became a writer. You stopped thinking of love twenty-four hours a day and began to dwell on reality. What the hell are you complaining about? I think you gained far more than you lost.”

  “I hate you,” said Allison in a harsh whisper. “I hate you.”

  “No, you don't,” said Brad and put his hand on her arm to prevent her from leaving. “You're insulted because I haven't regarded your maidenhead as a pearl beyond price, but you don't hate me. You don't hate me at all, Allison. You're still a little bit in love with me, and I with you, and that's the way it will always be between us. We each have our own reasons for feeling as we do, but the feeling is there and we are stuck with it.”

  “I have to go,” gasped Allison. “I have to leave right now. Don't get up. I'll find a taxi.”

  “Of course I'll get up,” said Brad, and did so. “I never permit a lady to whistle for her own cab.”

  Walking through the lobby of the Plaza, Allison looked at the expensively groomed, beautifully dressed women who sat chatting or strolling about. They were at their ease, in their element; places like this were a customary part of their daily lives. For them, there was nothing dreamlike or exotic about stopping at the Plaza for cocktails. Will it ever be like that for me? Allison wondered.

  As they walked down the steps to the sidewalk, a doorman opened the door of a Rolls. A woman stepped out, a gloved hand holding her fur coat close. She was the most beautiful woman Allison had ever seen. She walked past Allison with unseeing eyes. If Allison had not smelled the odor of her scent, she might have believed the woman to be a ghost.

  Brad touched Allison's arm. “Rita Moore,” he whispered. “The actress.” He smiled, watching Allison turn to catch a last glimpse of the famous actress. “It won't be long now, Allison. I have the feeling that within a few months you'll be getting very friendly with people like Rita. And a few months after that you'll be saying that celebrities bore you.”

  No chance of that, Allison thought, getting into the taxi. The Rita Moores are too many worlds away from me. I am snowbound in my obscurity.

  10

  LATER THAT SAME EVENING, Allison sat with David Noyes in a dark corner of a little restaurant in Greenwich Village. She was wearing slacks and a pullover sweater and David had on an open-necked sport shirt. They had come to this place because Allison had been much too tired to dress and face the chic of an uptown restaurant after her afternoon with Bradley Holmes and Lewis Jackman.

  “Let's see it,” David had said, as soon as she stepped through the front door of Steve Wallace's apartment, holding out his hand for the manila envelope that Allison carried.

  Allison tossed it to him. The manila envelope contained her copy of the contract she had signed that afternoon.

  “Sweetie!” exclaimed Steve. “You're beat. Come on, I'll run a hot tub for you. Let this monster stew in his own juices. Contracts, indeed.”

  Allison had sunk gratefully into the hot, pine-scented water, and felt the tight nerves at the base of her neck begin to loosen. She thought about Lewis Jackman's dark, unhapp
y face; and Brad's harsh, wounding words. Could life really be reduced to Brad's simple equation? She thought not. One plus one makes two—at least, it ought to make two. By Brad's reckoning it added up to one and one, each as separate as before.

  “Allison!” shouted David from the other side of the bathroom door. “This is marvelous! Say what you will about Brad Holmes, there's no one like him when it comes to getting a contract for one of his authors. Come on out of there, I want to talk to you.”

  “Well, I don't want to talk to you,” said Allison. “I want to go somewhere for dinner, somewhere small and French where I don't have to get all dressed up, and I want to drink a whole bottle of wine. Then, maybe I'll talk to you. Can Steve join us?”

  “No,” said David. “She's entertaining one of her buyer friends from out of town.”

  “You go to hell,” yelled Steve, and threw a magazine at David.

  Allison came out of the bathroom, wrapped in Steve's terrycloth robe, a towel around her head.

  “Can't you come with us?” she asked Steve.

  “No, sweetie. I've got a date. And not with a buyer, either,” said Steve. “This one tells me he's going to make me the biggest star in television. Naturally, I don't believe a word of it, but he has a charge account at El Morocco, so who am I to say no?”

  Allison finished picking at the last shred of chicken on her plate and then leaned back against the leather seat. The candle on the table flickered smokily; the muted voices of the other diners swirled around her. Nothing can touch me now, she thought. Her joy in her success was so intense that she felt isolated and unreachable.

  “I didn't realize I was so hungry,” she said, smiling at David.

  David poured wine into her glass. “It's wonderful, isn't it?” he said. “There's no other feeling like it, except for holding your first printed book in your hand. But signing a contract is something you never get used to.” He smiled and picked up his glass. “I've done it four times, and it still makes me feel special.”