The Best of Everything

by Rona Jaffe

  "So am I," April said. Her voice was hardly audible.

  "Well, anyway," Mrs. Bender continued cheerfully, "this girl is two months gone and—"

  "Mother," Caroline interrupted with a touch of acerbity, "we have a wonderful new book coming out that I know you'd love to read. I'll try to steal one of the first copies and bring it home for you next time I come."

  "That'll be nice," Mrs. Bender said. "You'll probably be coming up in about ten days to go to that wedding. You can see the gloating

  bride and the poor foolish boy." She shook her head. "You know, you read about these things happening all the time, but if it ever really happens to someone you know it's such a shock. It's just a shame, a nice young boy like that with his future ahead of him. Now he'll have a stigma over him for the rest of his life."

  "Don't be dramatic, Mother," Caroline said dryly. She turned to April. "My mother's just peeved because she had her eye on him as a prospect for me."

  "Oh, Caroline!" her mother said.

  April could see the room moving in waves of color. She looked down at her plate. The roast beef looked so bloody where she had cut it that it turned her stomach. She could taste something like the beginning of tears in the back of her throat.

  "Well," Mrs. Bender said lightly, "we won't talk about such gruesome things. We'll just be glad we don't hear about more peopla like that, or at least no one we know." She smiled at April. "You don't eat a thing, April, no wonder you're so thin. You and Caro-hne. You must be trying to starve yourselves to death."

  It wouldn't be such a bad idea, April was thinking. She smiled weakly at Mrs. Bender and concentrated on her plate, trying to eat, trying to block out the sound of that cheerful, insensitive voice and the words it was saying, the moral pronunciamentos, the shared hypocritical grief, the shocked glee. She wondered whether things like that would aflfect her now, this way, for the rest of her Hfe.

  Chapter 15

  The tag end of winter is a dull time for actors in New York; the plays have opened for the season and those few that remain to open have already been cast, it is too early for summer stock, and all that is left is television and radio. Gregg Adams was among the fairly lucky ones. She found enough work to keep aUve, and although none of it brought her to the attention of the public it still kept her from having to get a job as a waitress or a filing clerk, as many of her friends had to do. She played one of a group of teen-

  agers in a filmed television commercial, and every time it was put on the air she received a check. She had two small parts in an early-morning radio serial. These paid for her rent and her large monthly telephone bill, and since she had never particularly cared about eating and David Wilder Savage took her to dinner four or five times a week, she managed to get along quite well. During the day she made the rounds or slept, and on the evenings when she was forced to be alone she would go to Downey's in the theater district or to Maxie's Bar near the Winter Garden and look for people she knew so that she could sit with them, drink coflFee, and spend the rest of the early-morning hours peering around looking for David Wilder Savage.

  Occasionally she would see him come into the place with other people and she would sense a strange, sickening tingling of her nerve ends and would hardly be able to breathe. The conversation of the young actors in her booth would fade away as if she were falling asleep and she would get up and walk past the booth where David Wilder Savage was sitting so that he would notice her. Then he would look pleased and surprised and ask her to join him. It never seemed to occur to him how planned these chance encounters had been, or if he knew, he gave no indication.

  She had known him for such a long time now, and yet she could not quite figure him out. She was convinced that he loved her. And still, they had reached a plateau on which she suffered and he seemed quite content. What could she do to break through? She remembered a Chinese proverb she had read: "It takes six years to make a friend and six minutes to lose one." Perhaps this was too cynical. But why hadn't anyone, even the Chinese in their ancient wisdom, made up a proverb to tell how to turn a friendly lover into one who couldn't live without you? Every month when she discovered she was not caught she would give up a little prayer of thanksgiving, and then, because she knew she was quite safe again, she would allow herself to feel the pang of disappointment that was at the back of her mind. Perhaps something drastic would make David take action, something demanding immediate decision, something which would make him take stock of how valuable she was to him. But she knew that a girl had to take care of herself, so she kept on taking precautions not to conceive, not to change the status quo, not to change the even nature of their relationship when all the while

  she was alternately boiling and shivering inside with the force of her emotions.

  She was making curtains for David Wilder Savage's kitchen, at last. Although she hardly knew how to sew, and certainly had never cared about putting up a stepped-in hem when a tiny safety pin could do, Gregg was painstakingly hemming curtains in an expensive fabric that could have sent her on her rounds in taxis for a week. Whoever made their own kitchen curtains nowadays? But there was something symbolic about the act, something that broke through the veneer of Broadway and cocktail parties and bright quips and might even break through the veneer of the man she was desperate to marry. It was so old-fashioned, so out of place with them and their friends. She had the curtains finished on a day in March, just before his play was due to open out of town. She decided to wait and save them for a surprise after he had the suspense of the opening and the reviews and the possible revisions out of the way. When he invited her to go with him to Boston for the opening, after warning her that he would hardly be able to pay any attention to her if she did come with him, she packed her best cocktail dress for the festivities, a pair of slacks for lounging in the front row of the theater during last-minute rehearsals, and put the kitchen curtains in the bottom of her suitcase. It made her feel good just to look at them, as if she really were married to him and had to do domestic things. It was a laugh, really, to look at her own unkempt apartment and then think of all the wifely chores she was anxious to do for his, but Gregg didn't care about her apartment. It was a place to sleep and change her clothes and take phone calls, that was all.

  They arrived in Boston in cold, sleety weather. There was ice packed hard on the paths in the Common, and the sky was as gray as twilight even at noon. Gregg had never been in Boston before, and the city came to her in a series of impressions: the view of a statue from the window of her hotel room, the inside of the theater (just like the inside of any theater), the spires of a subway kiosk, a pair of extraordinarily ugly green suede shoes in a store window which she passed every day on her way from the hotel to the theater. But most of all Boston was a time of painful shock, of picking up the morning papers and reading reviews that made her suddenly feel as if she were not in any land she knew but had been dropped down in the country of the Hottentots.

  The reviews were condescending. There was not praise for the leading lady but pity that she had to suffer so. It was so incredible that were it not for the name of the play and tlie names of the members of the cast and the producer, Gregg would have thought it was a review of some other play entirely. And yet at the back of her mind she had to admit that she had never really liked the script but had thought that if David Wilder Savage had chosen it to produce it must have some theatrical merit that was way above her head. Except for Gordon McKay's play it was his first failxure. Gregg hated her friends in New York already for what they might say, what they might imply. If Tony dared to smirk in front of her and repeat what he had told her months ago she would slap him in the face. It was simply that everyone had a right to make a mistake, and in David Wilder Savage's case the wonder was that the mistake had been so long overdue.

  The play closed "temporarily" in Boston. There was no reason to try it in New York. The morning the reviews had come out David had put on his coat, left the hotel, and not returned for eight hom-s. Gregg
did not know what to do. She had visions of his tall form striding through the gray mists of Boston like an avenging ghost, she pictured him getting drunk in a bar and falling under the wheels of a trolley and being killed; she did not know whether to stay in her hotel room next to the phone or wander from bar to bar in search of him. Every minute seemed like ten, an hour was unspeakable. She finally left a note in the room and a message at the desk and went out into the freezing day. The sleet had turned to drizzle. It was vaguely refreshing against her face, and the cold that hurt her fingertips gave her something to think about. She must have walked for miles, peering into the early gloom, not knowing where to go but not being able to bear staying still. She pictured him walking toward her, and herself falling into his arms with an hysterical cry of relief. It was not so much that she was afraid of what would happen to him, because she knew he was moody but not reckless, but the terror that overtook her without him. She hated Boston as she had hated no other city before.

  Finally she went to the empty theater and entered through the stage door. It seemed to be her destiny that she would find him there and she wondered why she had not thought of it before. He would be sitting alone in the very center of the orchestra, lost in

  thought, his long legs doubled up against the back of the seat in front of him, his neck resting on the back of his. But the theater was totally empty, dark and silent and smelUng of dry old upholstery. She knew then at last, because she had been so sure he would be there and he was not, that it was useless to try to estimate his thoughts. He was too separate from her, his life was a world of his own. And at that moment every importance her own life and privacy had had for her vanished completely.

  When she came back to the hotel, exhausted, he was there, in the brightly lighted drugstore talking to the director, looking not appreciably changed. She ran over to him, squeezed herself into the booth beside him and gasped, "Where were you?"

  He looked down at her with a shght appearance of annoyance. "Do you want some coflFee?" he asked kindly, although he was interrupting a sentence to ask it.

  "Where were you? Where were you?"

  "Ivan and I have been sitting here talking for the last hour. You'll have to be quiet and listen if you're going to stay."

  Gregg wiped bits of ice ojff her hair with her hands and leaned forward to peer at him to see if his eyes were bloodshot or if he had changed in any way at all.

  "She's all wet," Ivan said. "She looks like Little Nell." He was a large, ruddy-faced man with a high voice for someone of his size.

  "You'd better have some coffee," David said, warming her hands in his own. He glanced at her curiously because she seemed so obviously frantic and bedraggled but he did not ask her what the matter was and he gestured to the waitress to bring more hot coffee.

  "We're discussing whether or not we can salvage our poor murdered play," Ivan said. He had several sheets of paper in front of him on the table, covered with tiny handwriting.

  Gregg looked at him. He was friendly, he was kind, and she wanted him to leave so desperately that she almost thought the force of the wish alone would spirit him away. She turned to David, clutching his warm hands in her cold ones. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  "I didn't know what happened to you. Why didn't you tell me where you were going?"

  "Drink your coffee," he said pleasantly. He brought over the

  shaker of sugar from the edge of the table and set it next to her cup. "We can talk later, after this business."

  Gregg drank her coJSee, listening to the voices of the two men and hardly hearing them. He knew how much he meant to her, he had invited her to come all the way to Boston with him, and then when he needed her he had run away. Why hadn't he turned to her for comfort, why hadn't he said something? And here he was, face calm again, trying to save a play that was obviously not worth saving, and leaving her out of it completely. He had asked her for neither comfort nor encouragement, he had simply ignored her. Why had he asked her to come with him if he intended to ignore her? She wasn't his friend only when things were going well. In fact, she would be thankful for a chance to show him how stalwart she could be when things were going badly. Perhaps that would be the chance she had been waiting for, to comfort him when he was in need and no longer the strong one.

  Ivan was standing up now, smiling at her. "So long," he said. "See you on the train."

  "Goodbye." She was so glad to see him go that she could even be cordial. As soon as he had left she turned to David.

  "Are you going to try the play again?"

  "Weren't you listening?" he asked, rather surprised.

  "Of course," she lied. She looked down at her hands. They were warm now and looked red. "You know I would do anything for you. That's what I'm here for. You don't seem to realize that."

  He smoothed her hair gently. "I know."

  "I want to help you," she said.

  "You do."

  "I wonder."

  He stood up and put some money on the table. "We have to go and pack now, we're leaving on the five-o'clock train. I have to see someone first and then I'll meet you upstairs."

  "Please let me go with you," Gregg said.

  "I'll only be gone for half an hom*. Will you do me a favor and pack for me?"

  "Please let me go with you. I missed you when you were gone."

  "There's no reason for you to tag along," he said, still pleasantly and gently, as if he were talking to a five-year-old child. "I'U be right back."

  "Who are you going to see?"

  He suddenly looked very tired, as if the toll of staying up all night had finally caught up with him. "All right," he said quietly. "I'm not going to see anyone. I'm just going to walk around the block. You know what last night and this morning meant to me. I want to walk around the block and think about what I'm going to do."

  Gregg took his hand. "I'll walk with you and I won't say a word."

  He loosened his hand from her grasp. "You said you wanted to help me."

  "I do!"

  "Then let me be by myself for a while. Sometimes the greatest favor you can do for someone is to let him be alone."

  "Come right back," Gregg said, her voice shaking a little, trying to sound cheerful.

  He ruffled her hair, the way he had when he had first made love to her and had left her to talk on the telephone, and walked out of the drugstore. The affectionate gesture melted her completely, she knew he could not possibly be angry at her, and she knew also that she could not bear to sit alone in the hotel room even for half an hour, remembering that gesture and feeling the strange walls closing in about her. She snatched her purse and hurried out of the drugstore after him, not even bothering to button up her coat.

  She saw him at the end of the block, walking quickly, his hands in his coat pockets, his collar turned up. She scurried down the street, hiding behind a parked car when he turned the comer so he would not see her. He did not seem to have any definite direction, he was simply walking. The odd, crazy thought hit her then that perhaps, after all, he was going to meet someone, and he was a little early. Oh, God, Gregg thought, oh, God. Just the sight of David ahead of her reassured her, she felt that as long as she could keep him before her eyes everything would be all right. She was being careful that he would not notice her following him but she half hoped that he would turn around and see her and let her walk with him at last.

  He went into the Common and began to walk more slowly, strolling down the ice-bordered path. The park was deserted, it was a very cold afternoon. The trees looked like thin black lines against the gray sky and the brownish buildings beyond, rows of trees, rows

  of houses, all strange to her and of no importance, as if they hardly existed. The only thing in the world was this man she was following secretly, keeping him always in sight because he meant warmth and life and cheerfulness even in this bleak, empty landscape of the park. She followed him not for half an hour but an hour. She was getting numb with the cold and she was afraid they wou
ld miss tiheir train. Finally David headed back for their hotel, and a moment after he entered the lobby Gregg darted in after him. She waited until the elevator he was in had gone upstairs and then she went to it and rang the bell.

  He was in his room, which adjoined hers, packing his suitcase. "Hi," Gregg said. He didn't answer, he was folding his dressing gown and doing it badly.

  She went to him and took the dressing gown out of his hands. "Let me do that."

  "We missed the train," he said. "Well take the six o'clock."

  "I know. What took you so long?"

  He turned and looked at her. She had never seen his face so withdrawn. "I was waiting for you to get tired of following me and give up."

  What could she say? Bravado was the only answer. "How did you know?" Gregg asked with a nervous little smile.

  "I turned around at least twice and saw you. You don't make a very good detective." The words were pleasant enough but the tone was distant and strained.

  "I didn't bother you," she said.

  "You bothered the hell out of me."

  "Why? Why?"

  "Look . . ." he said. He sighed. "If I want to be alone, alone, and I ask you to let me be alone, can't you respect my wishes? I would let you be alone instantly if you requested it."

  "But I'd never request it. I hate to be alone."

  "Does everyone have to be exactly like you?" he asked quietly.

  "Of course not. But I just want to be with you."

  "You're always with me. You'll be with me for five hours on the train. Do you think you can make it into your room all by yovuself to gather up your things or do I have to come in and hold your hand?"

  "I'm sorry," she said. "1 didn't know I would upset you."

  "You do know," he said, "because I tell you. But you don't seem to care. If you were playing a part in a play do you think I would stand in the wings during the whole performance blowing kisses and whispering and throwing folded-up notes at you?"