The Best of Everything

by Rona Jaffe

  Caroline wandered about the room, undressing, putting on her pajamas and turning down her bed. She washed off her make-up and brushed her teeth and drank a glass of water. Then, with her hand on the lamp to turn it out, a wave of melancholy hit her as strongly as if it had been a wave of nausea. She sat down on the bed, giving herself to the sensation, feehng as if a hand had tightened around her throat. Someone . . . she needed someone to talk to . . . why didn't Gregg come home? It was too early for Gregg, that was why. She knew whom she needed to talk to, whom she wanted to see more than anyone else in the world at this moment. But she didn't want to call him, for what good would it do? What could he do for her? Go to sleep, she thought, and forget it; tomorrow you'll feel fine. But she knew if she lay down on the bed she would never be able to sleep.

  Picking up the phone book was a comforting act in itself. Carohne leafed through it, feeling her heart pounding. She found the name of Mike's hotel and dialed it, realizing only at that moment that it was too early for Mike to be home either. I hope he's out somewhere, she thought, and then an instant later; Please be home, please!

  "Mike Rice, please."

  How bored the switchboard operator sounded, as if she hated

  everybody, and at this moment Mike Rice in particular. There was a long wait. I know he isn't there, Caroline thought, but now that she was sure he was away she was glad she had called just to find out.

  "Hello," Mike Rice said.

  "Oh, Mike!"

  "Caroline?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are you? Caroline . . ."

  "At home," she said lightly. "Where else should I be?"

  "Oh." He sounded disappointed.

  "Well, where did you think I was?"

  "I thought you might be hung up at a dull party, that was all." His voice was as casual as her own.

  "No. I was at a cocktail party and then I went to dinner with a boy I met there. He's a lawyer named Paul Landis."

  "Did you like him?" Casual, very casual, with just an undertone of anxiety that he could not quite hide.

  "He's nice . . . you know what I mean? What somebody else might call Mister Nice, only I don't feel the same way about that kind of person."

  "Of course not," Mike said sympathetically.

  His agreement made her feel that they were both being unfair to Paul. "But he is nice."

  "How old is he?"

  "About twenty-five, I think. It's hard to tell. He's almost no age. But he looks twenty-five."

  "Did he try to sleep with you?"

  "Heavens, no. You seem to think everyone wants to make out with me."

  "Hell try."

  "Not Paul," Caroline said. "I know he won't. He's marriage and two children and a two-car garage."

  "That's what you want eventually," Mike said.

  "I know. But not with him. Or at least, I'm almost positive not with him."

  "Well, I'm glad you had a good evening, anyway."

  "Yes."

  "Are you going to go to bed now?"

  "Yes."

  His voice was hesitant, "Are you tired?"

  "I am now," she whispered. "I couldn't sleep, but it's made me feel a lot better just to talk to you."

  "I'm glad."

  "Well . . ."

  "Caroline?"

  "Yes?"

  "Goodnight . . . sleep well.**

  "Good night, darling," Caroline said softly. "I love you."

  "I love you too." He paused. "I love you too."

  When she had replaced the receiver Caroline felt very tired, a good kind of tiredness that meant relaxation and sleep. She pulled file covers up to her chin and turned the light out, and felt the way she had as a child when her mother had told her a story that the whole room was full of angels guarding over her rest.

  The next afternoon when she returned from the office there was a box of red roses leaning against her door. "You need the candy," the card read, "but flowers are more romantic. Paul."

  She put the flowers into a vase of water and tucked the card next to the base of the vase. Not because she cared, but because Paul would notice it when he came to call for her on Saturday, and it might please him to know that she had saved his card all through the week.

  Chapter 11

  "I'm glad your parents liked me," April Morrison said. "I was afraid."

  April and Dexter Key were sitting on the low stone wall on the clubhouse terrace at the Hudson View Country Club. It was three-thirty Sunday morning, one of a series of clear nights and days in November. Above them were the tiny high stars, and ahead of them were the lighted windows of the clubhouse ballroom, tlirough which April could see the last of the dancers gathered in groups to say goodbye, and the base player putting the case around his fiddle. She

  was wearing Dexter's dinner jacket over her bare shoulders, and all she could see of Dexter here in the quiet shadows was the white of his shirt and the red glow of the tip of his cigarette. When he smiled she saw his white teeth. "Why shouldn't they like you?" he said. "They like all my girls. I have good taste."

  "Well ... I thought they might be a little more critical of me. Because we're going steady and all. And I'm not . . . society or anything."

  "Society?" said Dexter. "Who is society any more?"

  "Lots of people. And you know it."

  There were leaves all around their feet, which made a dry, sad sound when you kicked them. April moved her silver slippers around in the leaves, thinking how it was at home with great piles of leaves lying along the street outside her house. "These are the last leaves for the season," she said softly. "This is the last really fall weekend. I've never had such a good time in my life."

  "You always have a good time wdth me, don't you?" he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  "Yes."

  "We'll drive into town and 111 make breakfast for you," he murmured. "I've never done that, have I?"

  "No ... I'd love it. You know what? Let's stay up all night and then go to church."

  "Church?"

  "I haven't gone once since I met you," April said. "I promised my father I'd go every Sunday when I came to New York, but every Sunday morning I'm sound asleep."

  "And how many times did you go before you met me?"

  "Twice," she said softly, embarrassed. "The first two Sundays I was here. It was mostly because I was lonely, I guess."

  "Then don't blame me," Dexter said, a little defensively.

  "I'm not blaming you, honey. I just thought it would be nice if we went to church together today."

  "I never told you what to do," Dexter said. "I've never made you do anything you didn't want to do—have I?"

  "No . . ."

  "Then stop nagging me."

  Tears came into April's eyes. "Dexter, you get so surly sometimes! I don't know why, either." She wished she might actually cry, it

  would serve him right, it would show him how much he hurt her by these casual comments he flung out.

  "What did I say?"

  "You said I'm nagging you."

  "Well, you are." He stood up. "Let's go," he said, not unkindly. "They'll lock the doors and we'll have to sleep on the terrace."

  She followed him, a step behind him, as they walked across the polished ballroom floor to the checkroom. How handsome he looked in his formal clothes! She was so proud of him. She could see that his mother was proud of him too, the way her eyes never left him. She'd hardly looked at April. But then, at the last, she had shaken April's hand warmly and said, "You must come to lunch with me someday soon." My goodness, April thought, what would I ever say to her? I'd probably drop the lettuce right in my lap. But imagine— Dexter's mother wanted to have lunch with her. It was obvious she knew that April meant more to Dexter than all those other girls he used to take out and even sleep with.

  Dexter put the top up on his Jaguar, and inside it was cozy and warm. April put her hands into her coat pockets and smiled at him. "I'm going to go to church anyway today. By myself, if you won't go."

  Dexter s
hrugged. "What's all this revivahsm all of a sudden?"

  "It's just that I've been so lucky lately. Being in New York, my job, knowing you, aU the things you do for me. I feel as though I ought to do something in return."

  "Well, do something for me, then," Dexter said.

  "I'd do anything for you! Tell me what."

  He was looking straight ahead through the windshield, and he smiled, shaking his head a little. "Stop rejecting me."

  "Oh, Dexter! I'm not rejecting you. I love you."

  "You have a fine way of showing it."

  "You know I do show it," April said, lowering her head as she felt herself begin to blush. Some of the things they did when they were necking; she preferred not to think about them at other times.

  "You have such a strange httle morality," Dexter said. "Do you think it's going to make me think more of you if you keep pushing me away?"

  "I can't help it."

  "That's the weakest logic I've ever heard. Everyone can help every-

  thing he does, or he should do his damndest to be able to. If he's that namby-pamby he's not worth knowing."

  "Please don't fight with me," April said, "I was having such a wonderful time."

  "I'm not fighting," he said coolly. "It's just that I know you're going to give in eventually so I don't see why you have to make us both suffer by dragging it out."

  "I'm sorry."

  "You're obviously not sorry."

  Neither of them spoke for a long time.

  "Dexter?" April said. "Would you ever marry a girl who wasn't a virgin?"

  "Of course."

  "I don't mean a girl who'd had a lot of lovers. I mean—for instance —a girl who was a virgin until she started going with you."

  "I wouldn't even care if she'd had a lot of lovers," Dexter said. "If I loved her, and if I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life, then I'd marry her. Period."

  April was moistening her lips and avidly watching her hand where it was picking at the bits of wool on her coat. "You'd know if you were the first that it was because you meant a very great deal to the girl . . . wouldn't you? That it was a real struggle for her . . ."

  "That's why I hate going to bed with a virgin," Dexter said firmly. "They think they're giving you the greatest thing they have to give in their whole hves. What are they giving you? It hurts them, they don't know one thing about how to conduct themselves in the sack . . . the whole procedure is a pain in the ass for the guy. If I know a girl's a virgin I won't even make a pass at her."

  "WeU, I'm a virgin," April said indignantly.

  He reached over and took her hand. "That's different," he said, half in humor. "I love you, so I'm willing to put up with the inconvenience."

  "Oh, Dexter! Nothing's sacred to you, is it?"

  "Not that."

  "Well, what is?"

  "Love," Dexter said. "What two people have together when they're talking and when they're being quiet together. The ability to feel, to care. If I love a girl I want a whole relationship, not a part of one.

  I want to be with her all the time, every minute, in every way, not have a sophomoric wrestling match every time I say good night."

  "We don't wrestle," April said, hanging her head.

  "Maybe you call it saving your honor. I call it goddam boring."

  "I just don't know what to do," April said.

  His tone was indiflFerent, a little hurt. "Do what you want."

  "I'm afraid to do what I want," April said softly.

  "Don't ask me to lead you down the garden path," said Dexter. "I don't want you blaming me afterward for ruining your life."

  "But you wouldn't ruin my life!"

  "Well, thank you for that, at least."

  "Oh, Dexter."

  There was another long silence between them, April could see the lights of the city in the distance, and for some reason they made her feel depressed. It was the first time that the sight of New York, the realization again that she was coming into the city of her dreams, had failed to thrill her. She was too wound up to feel sleepy, but all the same she was tired. How complicated life had become! There were so many people here, doing so many different things, each living his own life which was so different from the Iffe and wants of his neighbor—it made you have to stop and turn around once in a while to find your own identity. If she had any identity at all, April thought, looking at Dexter's profile (sullen, set against any further argument, and so handsome) it was through love. Being loved made a girl feel secure and strong, it made her feel totally different from the way she had when she'd first come here from home. Then she had been wide eyed, a tourist, a little wraith, skipping along the surface of the fortress city. Now she belonged, to New York, to herself, but most of all to Dexter.

  "Do we have to stop at the all-night delicatessen?" she asked. "Do you need anything?"

  "I think we could use some bread," he said.

  How wonderful it was to be talking of these mundane household things: groceries, meals, things that people did together when they lived together and were used to each other. You'd almost think she and Dexter were living together, you'd think they were married. They would be married someday, April was sure of it. Because with all the time he spent with her, when did he ever get a chance to meet any other girl? She moved closer to him and put her head on his

  shoulder, and after an instant he took one hand oflF the wheel and put his arm around her, holding her to him, safe and warm.

  Chapter 12

  About two weeks before Christmas the tree arrived for the reception room at Fabian Publications and the secretaries began decorating the offices. Wreaths and little colored glass balls were taped to the cubicle doors, and some of the larger offices even sported their own miniature Christmas trees. A week before Christmas five of the girls in the thirty-fifth-floor typing pool spent their entire afternoon putting up a display on one of the manuscript tables which had been filched for the occasion: artificial snow, tiny trees, houses and reindeer, and even a scrap of mirror to simulate a skating pond. They dusted the whole paraphernalia with tinsel, and their bosses, who had stacks of last-minute work to be done before the long weekend, waited for them to be finished with smiles of false jolly cheer on their faces and hot annoyance boiling up in their hearts.

  Since Christmas fell on a Thursday that year, and Christmas Eve was a time that everyone wanted to spend with his family, the annual office party was to be held on Tuesday, two days before Christmas. The grand ballroom at the President Hoover Hotel had been hired for dinner and dancing afterward. Because of the expense, which was rumored to be fifteen dollars a head, no wives, husbands or friends of employees were to be permitted. "This way they encourage incest," Gregg said to Caroline with an uplifted eyebrow when Caroline reported the plans to her.

  "I don't know who I'm going to have incest with this year," Caroline said. "Mike and I are kind of . . . just friends, and most of the other men I've seen around the office give me the creeps."

  She was rather surprised to hear herself talking this way, even as a joke. But she felt nervous and unfulfilled, and making light of it in her conversations with Gregg was an outlet, the only outlet she had. Paul Landis had been taking her out once a week since they had

  met, and although there was a certain pleasure in going out with an attentive escort she liked, someone whose every reaction she could gauge in advance, she just could not feel any warmer toward him than she had the first time they met. He sent her flowers, he took her to night clubs, they had seen all the good shows, and she was eating better than she had in months. In return he asked only for goodnight kisses (three or four now instead of one) and an appreciative companion. He treated her like a glass doll. Necking with Paul was the most harmless, sexless sex Caroline had ever known, and when he stood close to her and she realized it meant more than that to him she was somehow rather shocked. It was as if one were to kiss one's favorite uncle and suddenly find him panting.

  "Besides," Gregg was saying, "t
hey're nearly all married, aren't they? Married or Queersville or so young and poor they'd hardly be able to take you to the Automat."

  "It seems like a waste of money," Caroline said, "to have such a nice party for a lot of people who really don't like one another very much. I don't have to get dressed up to go to the President Hoover to drink eggnog with Mary Agnes."

  "And that expensive orchestra so you can dance with Mr. Shali-mar," said Gregg. "I'm glad I don't work there any more."

  "Paul wants me to meet him after the party," Caroline said. "I suppose I might as well."

  "The other day I was sitting around with nothing to do and I thought of a marvelous name for Paul," Gregg said. "Bermuda Schwartz."

  "Oh, God," Caroline said, laughing.

  "Isn't that perfect?"

  "It is, but we're so mean to laugh at him this way. He's a lot happier now than either of us."

  "Happy like that I wouldn't want to be," Gregg said.

  "Sometimes I think I would, but I can't. Being married to Paul I'd have a diamond ring, a mink coat in twenty years, he'd never forget an anniversary, and I'd be running to the beauty parlor twice a week to forget that I really didn't love him."

  "Has he proposed to you?" Gregg asked, her eyes lighting up.

  "He hints. You know, the usual comparison of interests leading into the topic of the domestic ones."

  "Some nice girl is probably pining over him right now," Gregg said wryly.

  "I know. I'm a fool. But somehow I can't believe that I am."

  "You stick to love."

  "Do you suppose," Caroline said, "that every girl has a Bermuda Schwartz, and every Bermuda Schwartz has someone else who is a Bermuda Schwartz to himF'

  "I'll bet they do."

  "My mother says that everyone wants to better himself; including the men," said Caroline.

  "Especially the men," said Gregg, "the bastards."

  Nevertheless, the day of the Christmas party Caroline found that she was really looking forward to it. She hadn't, after all, seen much of the Fabian summer party, and this would be totally new. There might be someone interesting there from another department, she was thinking. There might even be a vice-president who would throw the caste system aside after a few Scotches. If the rumors were true it hadn't done Miss Farrow any harm to take up with a vice-president. She herself could never become someone's mistress in order to advance her career, but there were other kinds of personal relationships which were not wrong, and which would still help to make her stand out in the crowd of ambitious young Fabian secretaries and readers.