by J. J. Murphy
“Good day to you all,” he chimed, seating himself next to Dorothy. “No dead writers joining us today, I trust? No skewered critics on the bill of fare, I hope?”
Gasps emanated from a nearby table. Seated there were two dowdy, middle-aged, eavesdropping women. No one at the Round Table paid them any mind.
Woollcott grinned mirthlessly. “The only critic that should be skewered is you, old chum.”
Benchley’s eyes twinkled as he tugged at his cuffs. “In that case, waiter, give me a skewdriver. I’m parched. Come now, why are you all looking at me like that? Something amiss?”
Benchley expected to be taken to task for wearing the undersized suit. He had clearly intended it. Dorothy could almost see a clever response waiting at the corner of his upturned mouth. But Benchley didn’t know that Woollcott had something else in mind, and she didn’t know how to alert him to this.
“Something amiss? ”Woollcott purred. “Nothing much. Only your writing. It’s more than amiss. It’s a mess.”
Benchley’s smile didn’t falter, but he stopped adjusting his cuffs. “My writing, you say? Or my wardrobe?”
“Today,” Woollcott said, driving the point home, “you come up short on both.”
With delicate, disdainful fingers, Woollcott slid the morning edition of the Knickerbocker News across the table. He had folded it so that the drama page faced up. Benchley didn’t pick it up at first. Then, suddenly, as if spotting his own obituary, he seized it and inspected it closely.
Dorothy leaned over his arm to look. He read aloud. “A DARK DAY FOR BROADWAY, BY ROBERT BENCHLEY, SPECIAL TO THE DRAMA PAGE.” He looked up. “But I never submitted this piece. I never even finished it. Barely got it started.”
Woollcott smirked. “Please continue.”
Benchley read the article aloud:
There are many new shows on Broadway, and I can say with confidence that Twenty-three Skidoo!, produced by Florenz Ziegfeld, is certainly one of them.
Marc Connelly nodded. “Sounds like your writing.”
“Yes, I did write that,” Benchley muttered, as if to himself. “And that’s all I wrote. I had an argument with Mrs. Parker’s typewriter, and the typewriter won. So I stopped there. But the review continues—” He read on.
Leland Mayflower, rest his soul, isn’t the only deadweight on Broadway—
“Oh, dear.” Benchley frowned.
Twenty-three Skidoo! is the familiar kind of musical revue we’ve seen time and again, featuring yet another spanking new ingenue, plucked fresh from the chorus line, with more looks than talent. The evening’s entertainment ends when the opening curtain rises; it’s all downhill from there, with a supply of musical numbers gathered from the refuse of Tin Pan Alley.
This is the same dead horse that Mr. Ziegfeld has been flogging for years. And this dead horse stinks. I had to brush the flies aside to get a good look at Dulcea McCrae, the show’s ingenue. When I finally did see her, and heard her, I stopped swatting. The flies made a more pleasant noise—
“But I didn’t write this,” Benchley said. “How did Bud Battersby print this?”
Woollcott said nothing; he merely scooped a spoonful of butterscotch pudding into his widely grinning mouth.
Franklin Adams narrowed his eyes. “Maybe Battersby wrote it himself. When you didn’t hand in the reviews as promised, maybe he went ahead without you.”
Benchley looked perplexed. “But ...”
Woollcott said, “Please, Robert, continue to indulge us.”
Benchley scanned the article, jumping to the second review.
Meanwhile, down the street at the Sheldrake Theater, Bibi Bibelot and Carl Worthy starred in the debut of Cornell Clyde’s The Winter of Our Marriage. I won’t quip that this Marriage should be annulled. It’s not significant enough for that. It’s not significant for much of anything, really. This lifeless bedroom drama is the apex of mediocrity, if mediocrity indeed has a high point. And if it does, then mediocrity must have a low point also. Interestingly enough—and this is the only interesting thing about this play—The Winter of Our Marriage manages to be the rock bottom of mediocrity as well.
Benchley stopped reading.
Connelly said, “That review sounds like you, too.”
“It sounds like what Benchley might say,” Sherwood remarked. “Not what he would write. Not what he’d put into print.”
Woollcott said shrewdly, “Are those indeed your words?”
“Well, yes.” Benchley allowed himself a sly smile. “But I never actually wrote them.”
“Then how, pray tell, did they appear in the Knickerbocker News?” Woollcott said. “Not that it matters now. What’s done is done.”
“Aha!” Benchley grinned. “I think you wrote them. You were at both plays, too. I think you’re putting one over on me.”
“Would that I had such talent!” Woollcott replied drily. “No, my boy, I could not possibly write my two excellent reviews for the New York Times and also write your ridiculous reviews for the Knickerbocker. I’m flattered that you think I’m capable of such.”
Adams spoke, this time not removing his cigar. “Maybe that’s not all you’re capable of.”
Woollcott drew his marshmallow body as erect as he could. “What are you implying?”
“You know what,” Adams said, leaning forward. “You’ve got a mean streak as wide and as dirty as the Hudson River. You had it in for Mayflower. Now you have it in for Benchley. Watch your back, Robert.”
Woollcott’s white face turned a bright, mottled red. “Withdraw that accusation immediately!”
“Prove me wrong,” said Adams, always the journalist.
Woollcott responded with a blustery retort ... but Dorothy stopped listening. Her hangover nagged at her, and she was tired of their arguing. She was hungry, too. She leaned toward Benchley and spoke quietly.
“What a handsome suit,” she said, “for a ventriloquist’s dummy.”
“Why, thank you,” Benchley said, smiling, tugging again at his short sleeves. “I’ll pass your compliments on to our friend and movie star Doug Fairbanks.”
She took a roll from the bread basket. “Pass the butter instead.”
Benchley handed her the butter dish. “So—ahem— where is our friend Billy? He has an odd habit of turning up at the strangest of times, and in the strangest of places, and in the strangest of ways.”
She looked up from her plate and her heart sank. “You’re right about that. Speak of the devil.”
William Faulkner stood silently at the entrance to the dining room.
Chapter 14
Seeing Faulkner standing there, Dorothy felt both sorry for him and sorry that he had shown up.
Faulkner looked like he hadn’t slept. His loose, tattered coat hung awkwardly from his narrow shoulders. His face was pale and hollow. His thin, scruffy beard was unkempt. His necktie, same one as yesterday, was slightly askew. He approached the table hesitantly.
“Look what the tide dragged in,” Woollcott sneered.
Dorothy jabbed an elbow into Heywood Broun to move to the next seat over. She waved Faulkner to sit down next to her.
“Leave him be,” she said. “He had quite a night.”
“Didn’t we all?” Woollcott said. “I myself was out making merry until the wee morning light. But you don’t see me dragging myself around like I’m the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”
“Of course not,” Benchley said. “No one would mistake you for a ghost, much less a father.”
Woollcott ignored him. He addressed Faulkner. “Look here, young man—Mr. Dachshund or whatever your name is. This suffering-artist appearance that you’re cultivating is beyond the pale. It’s an effrontery. Your disheveled bohemian costume might find you friends with les artistes down in Greenwich Village or on the Left Bank of Paris, but the rest of the world won’t give you the time of day.”
“The time of day is lunchtime,” Dorothy said. “Not time for dressing down Mr. Dachshund because he doesn’t
dress up.”
Woollcott waved a hand in the air. “Mr. Dachshund can dress like Puss in Boots, for all I care. I’m talking about his approach to life from the inside out. It’s an insult to this table, to this room, to this time. Your dingy déshabillé, Mr. Dachshund, clearly displays your dour disposition.”
“My dissa—What?” Faulkner said.
“If clothes make the man, then you’re a sad sack, indeed,” Woollcott continued. “Your depressing dress is an insult to this gay room. To this celestial sunny spring day. To this magnificent, merry time we live in. Cast off those rainy-day raiments, Mr. Dachshund! Lose that bird’s-nest beard. Divest yourself of that derelict’s overcoat. And for God’s sake, rid yourself of that rain cloud over your head.”
Faulkner didn’t—couldn’t—respond.
“You’re asking him to change his entire outlook,” said George Kaufman, often a downbeat person himself. “You might as well ask him to change his skin, or change his soul.”
“Exactly! That’s exactly what I’m asking him—no, begging him—to do,” Woollcott said. “You’re cheating yourself, Dachshund. You’re a young man, just starting out in the world. Do you want to go out there shackled with sadness?”
Faulkner didn’t even attempt to reply.
Woollcott spread his arms wide. “Take your unhappy head out of your navel and look at the bright world around you. By scorning gaiety, you give a black eye to the glorious age in which we live. There’s a party going on, and you’re missing it.”
“Not at the moment, he isn’t,” Dorothy said. “He’s here, isn’t he? Not that this place is much of a party these days. Used to be people would drink themselves under the table. Now they’re found dead there.”
“True,” Woollcott persisted, “times aren’t always grand. The past decade has dished out the worst that Fate could throw in our path. There was the Great War. A hundred thousand young men killed and twice as many wounded. We saw the theater of war firsthand—Adams, Harold Ross and myself. We wrote and edited the soldiers’ newspaper, the Stars and Stripes. We reported it all. We saw men dismembered. Gunned down. Gassed.”
“Now who’s being a wet blanket?” Dorothy said.
Woollcott ignored her and continued to lecture Faulkner. “And my esteemed colleague Mr. Sherwood here was in the trenches. On the front lines, he fell into a so-called German bear trap and took shrapnel in the legs. But does he drag his troubles around like a ragman drags his cart?”
Sherwood shifted in his seat. His long legs still gave him difficulty.
Woollcott kept talking. “And just when the war was barely won, we had the influenza epidemic, the Spanish flu. More than half a million Americans dead. But there was one tragedy yet to come, more pervasive than war or plague.”
Benchley nodded his head. “The Volstead Act.”
“The Volstead Act!”Woollcott wailed. “The Eighteenth Amendment. The prohibition of intoxicating liquors. But did we flagellate ourselves with our misfortune?” He slapped both hands on the table. “No, sir. That was the nail in the coffin of our misery. We had had enough. America gave a collective yell and threw the rule book out the window!”
“Can I get an amen?” Marc Connelly said sarcastically.
“Bad times were banned,” Woollcott said. “And thank God! Cold funeral dirges gave way to hot jazz. Neck-lines plunged and hemlines rose. Booze is now found in every bathtub. And the world is roaring back to life. The stock market is booming. The music is gay. Skyscrapers are touching the heavens and so should we. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die!”
Dorothy held her aching head. “Alas, we never do.”
Broun cracked an easy smile. “Eat, drink and be merry. I’ll drink to that.” He produced his silver flask, unscrewed the cap and dribbled a measure of whiskey into his coffee cup. He passed the flask to Faulkner, who hesitated to take it, then cautiously poured a few drops into his cup. Faulkner passed it to Dorothy, who looked at the flask as if it was a skunk. She shrugged and poured a healthy shot into her orange juice.
“That’s the spirit,” Woollcott said. “What’s Prohibition? Prohibition is the pitiless schoolmaster that compels the pupils to truancy. There’s never been a better time to drink.”
“Hear, hear,” Benchley said. Then he gestured to Dorothy to pass him the flask. “I mean, here. Here.”
Woollcott continued, “Since they shut the saloons down, every back room and every back pocket has a bottle in it. It merely proves my point.”
“And what point is that?” Dorothy said.
“Man should live while the living’s good, and if he’s smart, he’ll find a way to do it,” Woollcott said. “What’s the point to life if not to live? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, I say.” He ended with a flourish of his fork, popping a piece of popover in his mouth. “Now, what do you say, Mr. Dachshund?”
Faulkner didn’t respond. His forehead wrinkled as he gathered his troubled thoughts.
In the absence of Faulkner’s response, Benchley said, “The devil take me for agreeing with Mr. Woollcott, but damned if I don’t. Matter of fact, I’ll go you one better, Aleck.”
“That’ll be the day,” Woollcott said snidely.
“Hear me out, now,” Benchley said, raising a hand. “To expand upon your argument, not only should we live each day to the fullest—we should live every second to the fullest. Drink every last drop of it, I say. Seize the day, yes—and live in the moment.”
“As Mr. Benchley says, drink every last drop of it!” Woollcott cried, pouring the last trickle of liquor into his cup. Then he handed the empty flask to Kaufman, who tipped it over his cup without result.
They all clinked their cups and glasses and congratulated one another on this idea. Except Faulkner.
As they drained their cups, Faulkner cleared his throat, then ventured to speak. “I respectfully disagree with you, Mr. Benchley, Mr. Woollcott. I don’t think that’s right. That can’t be right.”
“He speaks!” Woollcott said. “Can’t be right, eh? What’s your view, then?”
“Man must be more than that,” Faulkner began softly, then gathered steam. “He must be more than the sum of his experiences. He must be more than a gatherer of ephemeral events, like a fat toad sunning himself on a log, flicking his tongue at flies and then forgetting them as soon as they’re swallowed, the way you speak of consuming life’s experiences. Man has a soul burning like a lantern that fickle winds can’t blow out. Man is surely more than just a lowly creature that lives purely for the moment.”
Dorothy sucked on her cigarette and looked at him with pity. “No, Billy, man is indeed just such a lowly creature,” she exhaled. “Now, woman on the other hand—”
“Hold that thought, Dottie,” Woollcott said. His words dripped cold and clear, like water dropping from an icicle. “Though I am but a mere gatherer of ephemeral events, I must ask you a question, Mr. Dachshund.”
Faulkner nodded uncertainly.
“Was the lantern of your soul burning the midnight oil to enable you to put Mr. Benchley’s name on the drama reviews you wrote,” Woollcott said, “and forthwith submitted to the Knickerbocker News?”
All eyes turned to Faulkner. He sat motionless and silent, pointedly avoiding the gaze of Dorothy to his left and Benchley on her other side.
So Faulkner had written Benchley’s reviews?
“Is that true, Billy?” she heard herself say. “Did you come to New York to find your own voice—or to use Mr. Benchley’s?”
She immediately wished she hadn’t said it. She hadn’t intended to, but she’d hurt him, she knew. Why did she sometimes say such vicious things? As she considered an apology, she heard Benchley mutter that it was okay—that he wasn’t using his own voice anyway.
But then a looming shadow fell over her. A large hand clasped Faulkner’s shoulder.
“Dachshund, you old dog,” said Detective O’Rannigan. “Been looking for you everywhere. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
Fa
ulkner’s face turned even paler.
O’Rannigan’s smirk disappeared. He grabbed the back of Faulkner’s chair.
“Get up,” he growled. “Let’s go for a ride.”
Chapter 15
Benchley helped Dorothy put on her coat.
Woollcott sneered from his seat, “Where do you think you two are going?”
“After him, of course,” she said.
Detective O’Rannigan had marched out Faulkner only moments before.
Sherwood stood also. “I’ll come along, if you two don’t mind.”
“Now everyone’s going?” Woollcott said. “The party’s over? Just like that?”
Still seated, Adams, Kaufman, Broun and Ross looked at one another with expressions of insult and incredulity.
Woollcott buoyed himself out of his seat. “Well, if you must go, you can drop me off at the Times Building on your way.”
He hustled past them and sauntered through the lobby and out the door. They finished putting on their coats and met him in front of the hotel.
Out on the sidewalk, Woollcott busied himself with inserting a Lucky Strike into his cigarette holder.
“Benchley,” he said, lighting the cigarette, “be a good boy and have the doorman call us a cab.” He indicated a uniformed man in front of them. The man wore a visored cap and a long coat with gold-braided epaulets on his shoulders. The man was elderly and sported a trim white mustache.
“Good day, sir,” Benchley said. “Would you call us a taxi, please?”
“I’m not a doorman!” he barked. “I’m a rear admiral in the United States Navy!”
“In that case”—Benchley smiled pleasantly—“can you call us a battleship?”
As he said this, a cab pulled to the curb. The old navy officer seized the handle and yanked open the door. But before he could get inside, Benchley ushered in Dorothy, Woollcott and Sherwood. Benchley was halfway inside the door himself as he shoved a quarter into the astonished admiral’s gloved hand.
