Fast Start, Fast Finish

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Because he could not do that, no. He dismissed those thoughts, ashamed of them. He was a nice person, wasn’t he? He hadn’t wanted what had happened to happen, had he? He had a sense of duty, hadn’t he? And of loyalty? He had not abandoned all those things. Big bright old banners from out of the past came and festooned themselves gaudily across his mind, waving their brave old mottoes: DUTY! LOYALTY! HONOR! PRIDE! they proclaimed. They were old-fashioned mottoes with curlicued letters of tarnished gold printed on bunting of faded purple. But they meant something, didn’t they? They had some value, didn’t they, even though they were somewhat dusty from disuse, having lain so long on his cupboard shelf? Even though he had not hung them out as often as he might have lately, wasn’t it nice to know he still had them? No, of course he would never divorce Nancy. Why, the sheer logistics of it—lawyers, conferences, custody agreements, finances (good God, finances!)—loomed up impossibly, enormous. And besides, he owed her too much, needed her too much. And besides, he loved her. Yes, LOVE! ought to be emblazoned on one of the banners. He made it be. With his eyes closed he watched all the banners flag and flutter there, with all the colors of courage, strung on a long, strong line that led outward from his heart, while he tried to fall asleep. Beside him in the bed he could tell that she was sleepless also. Sleep would mend things. It would take them to separate places.

  13

  “May I see your license and registration, please?”

  Nancy fumbled in her purse for the license and unclipped the registration from the visor of the car. He had driven up so suddenly and silently behind her parked car that he had startled her, and her hands were shaking. “Officer, I was only—I just wanted to—” But it was terribly hard to explain.

  He was looking at both slips of paper. “Do you have some business in Bel-Air, Mrs. Lord?” he asked her. “I see you don’t live here.”

  “No, not really, I was just—”

  “You know these are all private streets,” he said. “Did you check in with the guard at the main gate?”

  “No, I never do that. I just drive through.”

  “Then you come in here often?”

  “Oh—from time to time. Just for the drive. It’s so pretty in here, and I—”

  “Do you know the people who live in this house?”

  “No, I—”

  “Then why were you photographing it?”

  “I’m—I’m thinking of buying it,” she said.

  “Is it for sale?”

  “No. Or rather I don’t know. It’s just that—well, it’s just that it’s such a beautiful house, I’d like to have one like it some day. And if it ever is for sale—”

  He continued to frown at the license and had begun to nibble at the eraser on his pencil. “You’re taking a picture of these peoples’ house just because you think it’s—beautiful?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s awfully pretty?” She laughed weakly. “I’m afraid I’ve rather fallen in love with it.”

  “Well, I’ve heard of a cowboy falling in love with his horse. I guess a woman can fall in love with somebody else’s house,” he said.

  “Is there anything wrong with taking a picture? I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong.”

  His voice turned stern again. “It’s just that there’ve been quite a few burglaries in here lately, Mrs. Lord.”

  “But, officer, surely you don’t think that I—”

  “I’m just warning you, Mrs. Lord. I’d suggest that you not do any more driving around in here. You might find yourself in serious trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble? I—”

  “I’m suggesting that you don’t do any more driving around in here, Mrs. Lord, unless you have some business here. These streets are all privately patroled as well as city-patroled, and a lot of these houses are privately watched as well. So I suggest that you do not take any more pictures of houses without the owners’ permission, Mrs. Lord.”

  “I certainly won’t do it again,” she said.

  “Good.” He handed her back the license and registration. “You know how to find your way out of here?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you, officer.”

  He tipped his cap and walked back to his car.

  She was remembering this episode now as she sat in the little anteroom of Mr. Singleton’s office, filling out the questionnaire. Now, to the question that said, “Have you ever been arrested?” she wrote down “No” and then added, in the interests of total honesty, “Except for minor traffic violations, overtime parking, etc., etc.” She then answered “No” to a few more questions—Was she addicted to any narcotic drugs? Was she subject to epileptic seizures?—and signed her name at the bottom.

  “All done?” Mr. Singleton said when she handed it to him.

  “All done!” she said brightly.

  He was a pleasant man with neatly combed gray hair and a calm face that reminded her of someone else’s. “I’ll try to let you know definitely by early next week,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Lord. There are one or two other girls I’m interviewing”—she rather liked his referring to her as a “girl”; it sounded bright, professional—“and so I can’t make an immediate decision.”

  “Oh, I understand.”

  “There are a lot of things I like about you,” he said, and his critical gaze at her was not at all unkind. “You have a pleasant manner, and you speak well. And you have a certain look of chic that I think goes with the kind of image I want to build for the store. And with the kind of customer I hope to attract.”

  “Chic?” she laughed. “Well, I do like good clothes.”

  “On the other hand, you have no job experience whatever.” He smiled at her. “You understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Is it—” She hesitated. “I wonder, is it too early for me to ask about—salary?” She started to add, “Not that it matters,” but caught herself just in time. She wanted him to think her serious, not a dilettante.

  “Oh, didn’t I mention that? I’m sorry, I thought I had. It would be eighty-five to start.”

  She nodded, thinking, eighty-five what? Eighty-five hundred a year? That was not bad at all, though in her mind she had reached no clear conclusion of what her salary might be—somewhere between five and ten thousand a year was what she had been thinking. Charlie, at his best jobs, even since the good days of the partnership, had always been able to earn something in the neighborhood of twenty thousand, except, of course, from Barry & Kohler, where he had accepted a smaller salary because it had offered such chances for advancement. But Charlie, of course, was a man, with many years’ experience, and she could never hope to earn a salary like that working for Mr. Singleton. Then she knew that he meant eighty-five dollars a week, and hopes rattled nervously about her head while she multiplied by fifty-two, and subsided when she came out with forty-four hundred dollars a year. Her father, she had read once (he would never have told her or anyone), was worth two and a half million dollars. He was sixty-five, almost sixty-six. Her mother would have to die too before she ever came into any of that, but still there would be plenty—plenty. He could never have said, that day on the phone, that he would cut her off without a blessed penny if she stayed married to her no-good husband, and if he said it, he would never have meant it. If he didn’t leave it to her, who was there to leave it to? The Chicago Symphony? Yes. She would write him a nice letter tonight, which he would have by this time tomorrow.

  “It’s a standard starting salary for a job like this one.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “And I think you also understand that—if I do take you on—it will have to be on a more or less temporary basis, in the beginning. This is a pretty small operation here. There’d be just the two of us, working together. It’s important that there not be any personality clashes. You know, little things. Little differences that can arise between two people. If it isn’t going to wo
rk out, I think we’ll both realize it pretty quickly.”

  “Certainly. I understand.”

  “Well, I’ll be in touch with you by next week,” he said.

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “Doctor?”

  Immediately she laughed. “Oh! Isn’t that silly?” she said. “It’s just that you remind me of someone—a friend who’s a doctor. Please forgive me.”

  He smiled at her. “Sure. Well, thanks for coming in again, Mrs. Lord.”

  The four Lane ladies—Vera Phelps, Alice Mayhew, Jane Willey, and Genny McCarthy—were gathered for a Friday afternoon of bridge, as they did perhaps once a month, not on any regular schedule, but whenever the spirit moved them, and the spirit moved them most often when it rained, as it was raining now. They played for very low stakes, a twentieth of a cent a point. As for where they met, they more or less took turns, and today it was Jane’s turn, which meant that it was dressier. Jane’s bridge afternoons were always just a bit more splendacious, for in the middle of the afternoon Jane’s uniformed Mary always wheeled in her beautiful coffee service and her lovely Spode, her pretty little monogrammed linen napkins, and trayfuls of delicious little cakes and cookies. Now the coffee wagon had been wheeled back into the kitchen, and the four were again at the bridge table, which was covered with a plastic cloth on which Charles Goren’s bidding system was printed at each side of the square so each player could see it. The bridge cloth, which belonged to Vera Phelps, went with them wherever they played. It was handy. It prevented arguments.

  “And furthermore,” Genny McCarthy said, picking up her cards and deftly sorting them, “I’ve heard that it isn’t just Tessa Morgan. I’ve heard that he’s the liveliest little swordsman in the club.”

  “Really?” Alice Mayhew gasped. “Who else is he—”

  “I know nothing definite, Alice,” Genny said, “and for God’s sake don’t quote me. I’m only telling you what people are saying.” She looked at the cards in her hand and made a sour face. “Who dealt this mess?” she said.

  “There is an animal quality about him,” Alice Mayhew said. “Wasn’t it your deal, Jane? Yes, I noticed it the first night I met him. It’s a—”

  “Oh, dear, is it? Yes, I guess it is.” She frowned intently, biting her lower lip. “I’ll say a very little club. Of course I haven’t laid eyes on either of them for weeks and weeks.”

  “Two spades,” Alice Mayhew said.

  “By,” said Genny. “Yes, from all I hear all a girl has to do is look cross-eyed at him and he’ll go hopping into bed with her like that. No wonder all the husbands are getting truly boiled off at him.”

  “A—magnetism.… He’s terribly sexy.”

  “Pass,” Vera said.

  “Partner, you can’t pass,” Alice said. “I gave you a demand. Two spades is a demand.”

  “Oh, dear, is it?” Vera said. She studied Goren on the tablecloth, then returned to her hand. “I thought you were just raising.…”

  “Poor Nancy. My heart goes out to her,” Genny said.

  “Does she know about it?” Jane asked.

  “I have no idea. If she does, she’s putting up an awfully good front. Well, what are you doing, Vera?”

  “Don’t rush me!” Vera said. “I have a very unusual situation here. What did you say, partner?”

  “Two spades. Well,” Alice said, “I feel sorrier for him. She strikes me as—cold, somehow.…”

  “I agree,” Jane said. “I think when a husband starts to play around, it’s usually the woman’s fault. We women get exactly what we deserve, I think, when it comes to that.” Genny was giving her a funny look across the table. “There are exceptions, of course,” Jane added quickly. “Vera, are you saying something?”

  “Can we review the bidding?”

  “One club, two spades, pass, to you,” Alice said. “Yes, I’m sure she’s given him plenty of reason.…”

  “Three spades.”

  “Pass.”

  “Pass.”

  “Are you passing, partner?” Vera cried. “I raised you in your suit!”

  “Double,” said Genny. “Partner, they’re vulnerable.”

  “But I thought a demand opener was an invitation to game.”

  “I don’t think we can make four, but three’s a cinch. Lay down, partner.”

  Vera looked doubtful and began laying down her cards.

  “It’s a silly contract, three spades,” Genny said.

  “Very pretty, partner!”

  “Wait till you see the rest of it.…”

  “Oh. I see what you mean,” Alice said.

  “He’s a funny bird, all right,” Genny said.

  “Who is?”

  “Charlie Lord.…”

  “Do you know my cardinal hasn’t been around for three days?” Vera said. “I have the most dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, a cat.”

  “A ladies’ man type. She told me nearly all his friends are women.”

  “Oh-oh!” Alice said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Card out of place. But don’t worry, partner. We’re splendid at three spades.”

  “There’s one thing certain,” Vera said. “This kind of talk going on around town does the Lane absolutely no good. As Vaughan is always saying—Alice!”

  “How was I to know she had the king?”

  “I simply can’t believe Nancy doesn’t know about it,” Jane said.

  “I frankly don’t think she does,” Genny said, gathering up the trick.

  “Then one of us should tell her,” Vera said.

  “Really, Vera?” Alice asked. “Why?”

  “I mean someone should,” Vera said. “I don’t necessarily mean one of us. But after all—the poor woman. If she knew, maybe she’d do something about him. Wouldn’t she?”

  Genny laughed. “What would she do? Buy a filmy French nighty and parade around the room? Get him to stick to his knitting? But seriously, I’m very fond of her. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

  “Still, this kind of talk gives the Lane a reputation for being a—a hotbed of sin,” Vera said.

  “And now,” Genny said, “guess what she’s thinking of doing. She’s talking about getting a job.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Jane said. “How silly. What possible good would that do her?”

  “Except get her mind off it,” Alice suggested. “That is if she knows—and accepts it.”

  “Girls, we’ve simply got to stop gabbing and get this rubber finished. It’s half past four,” Jane said. “Whose two is that?”

  “Mine,” Genny said. “Up to you, Alice.”

  “I’m thinking,” Alice said, biting one lacquered fingernail. Then she played a card.

  Vera said, “You’re suggesting she knows and doesn’t mind, Alice? Goodness, if I ever caught Vaughan at—”

  “Ah, very nice, partner,” Genny said and scooped up another trick.

  “None of my finesses are working,” Alice complained. “I figured Genny for the queen.”

  “Why? Jane bid clubs. Why didn’t you draw trumps in the beginning?”

  “How could I draw trumps, with what you gave me on the board? But don’t worry, Vera, we’ll make our three with no trouble at all. Is it my lead?”

  “Mine,” Genny said, putting down a card. “Of course my guess is they need the dough.”

  “But she’s rich. You said so yourself.”

  “Her father’s rich. Maybe he’s gotten tired of giving them handouts. Just a theory,” Genny said.

  “She was awfully funny about helping out with the road.… Dear me, what’s trump?”

  “Spades.”

  “Oh, good.…”

  “Atta girl!” Genny said as Jane trumped, and Genny gathered up another trick, arranging the tricks in a little zigzag stack. The strong, efficient fingers clicked across the enameled cards.

  “Don’t worry, they can’t possibly set us,” Alice said.

  “Yes, she was funny about that. Do
wnright chintzy, if you ask me,” Vera said.

  “Girls, girls,” said Jane, leading from her hand, “let’s not be catty.”

  “But it’s important,” Vera said. “After all, if they’re running out of money and letting that sweet house go to rack and ruin …”

  “Or maybe the job is her analyst’s idea. Ooops,” Genny said, reaching for the trick which Alice had started to collect. “My trick, I’m afraid, sweetie.”

  “Dummy’s ace!”

  “My trump,” Genny said.

  “Oh, dear, they are going to set us.”

  “Down one,” Genny said, picking up the disputed trick.

  “That’s all we’re down. I didn’t know she was going to an analyst, Genny.”

  “Neither did I,” Jane said.

  “Sure. Goes to Ben Harding. I thought everybody knew.”

  “You might have mentioned your hearts, partner,” Alice said crossly. “We’re in the wrong suit, that’s all.”

  “Genny, you know perfectly well none of us knew …”

  “How could I mention them? You cut me off!”

  “How did you find this out, Genny?”

  With a cigarette clenched between her lips, squinting through the ascending smoke, Genny played her queen of diamonds and said, “Let’s see what they do with this little, mother. She told me, of course.”

  “Genny, I can always tell when you’re fibbing!”

  The cards fell in their expected order, and Genny’s clicking fingers placed another trick on the zigzag pattern. She smiled through her smoke and said, “Okay, okay. I saw a bill from Harding on her desk the other day.”

  “That’s more like it!”

  “I think the rest are mine,” Alice said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Genny said.

  “My heart goes out to those poor children,” Vera Phelps said.

  “The job. Ben Harding. It all ties together!” Jane said. “It means she knows perfectly well what he’s up to and is simply trying to cope as best she can.”