I shut off the present. Her body called me back—but each time I fought it off, making my mind take trips to the seashore, to the zoo, and I even pretended that the pounding was coming from the press run beneath the editorial room, and that I was sitting at my desk reading the funny papers. But—somewhere the crucial point had passed, I knew I could go on forever. She would come up to the precipice, then dodge back again as if she were afraid, but I tightened my arms around her and changed the setting on the metronome to a different rhythm. At last she broke the kiss, noisily, jerking her head abruptly to one side, and the first weak wave broke over the dam. She bit into my neck, whimpered, and the salty waves broke through the concrete of her reserve, one following the other. I tried to follow her then, but I couldn’t; I had waited too long.
“I made it,” she said, and wiped her wet eyes with her fingers.
I rolled away, and lay flat on my back, trying to catch my breath. I managed a shrug, as she caught up my left hand and kissed the palm and fingertips.
I said mockingly: “I didn’t know you were in such a big hurry.”
She laughed joyously, and snuggled close to my side, rubbing her face against my chest. “Don’t worry, darling,” she said softly, “we’ve got all day if we need it, and I hope to hell we do!”
Chapter Six
At three-thirty that afternoon Mrs. Chatham finally got around to preparing some food for us in the kitchen. Wearing her husband’s robe, a yellow, raw silk garment with the initials V.C. embroidered on the left breast pocket, I sat in the kitchen breakfast nook glancing through a copy of Jean Kerr’s Please Don’t Eat The Daisies, while Gladys fried Canadian bacon and scrambled a half-dozen eggs.
“Is this one of the Book-of-the-Month Club books?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Is it funny?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Is my lunch ready yet?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
We both laughed, not with true amusement, but because we were tired and silly. I fell on the simple fare with gusto. For a few moments we ate silently, and then I tapped the book with a forefinger. “Is this one of the books that you and Mrs. Huneker exchanged?”
“Yes, Marion read it, and we discussed it later.”
“I just read a few paragraphs here and there, but it seems to be a very warm and human collection of a homemaker’s anecdotes. How could any woman possibly read this book and then take herself seriously as a housewife?”
“A woman can’t laugh all the time, Richard. Nobody can. I have always been in favor of first things first, as I’ve proven to you today already, I believe. But this tragedy has hit me a lot harder than I’ve let on to you, or even to myself. Marion was a good friend, and I can’t help thinking that if I had just happened to telephone her at the time…we often called each other for no particular reason—just to talk, you know. Or if she had called me. If I had called, and if she had told me what she was planning, maybe I could’ve talked her out of it.”
“I don’t see how you can blame yourself, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t, not at all. What I mean is this—if suicide is as grave a problem as you say it is, why isn’t there an office in every city where a person can call and get comfort? A number that is always available, anonymous, where a despondent person can call and get advice and reassurance from some person gifted in human relations. Don’t you think something like that would reduce the suicide rate?”
“It might,” I said thoughtfully. “And it’s a good point for my series. In Marion’s case, however, she could’ve called her priest and received some comfort. Where were you at the time? Maybe she did call you.”
“No. I was right here, arguing with my husband, and he was sitting where you are now. Victor was complaining about the size of our monthly liquor bill, and objecting violently to my plan for breaking even.”
“What was your plan?”
“Well, I’m not a very good cook. We eat out a lot, and when we do eat at home I either cook steaks or roasts. So I suggested putting in a freezerful of television dinners I could simply heat and serve—to cut down on our food bills. Frozen TV dinners on weekend sales are only about fifty-nine cents, at most, and the savings each month would be more than enough to cover our liquor bills.”
“That’s a shrewd, logical suggestion, Gladys, but I’m glad I’m not married to you.”
“You aren’t any prize yourself.” She favored me with a childlike smile. “My husband is faithful to me, at least, and for some reason, you’ve given me the impression that you wouldn’t be—”
“Look,” I held up my right hand. “We aren’t married, so let’s not argue. Let’s talk some more about Marion. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
“No, I can’t think of anything, and her motive is still as mysterious to me as it was before. Why do you think she did it, Richard?”
“I’ll tell you if I can think of the word.” I frowned, trying to remember, groping through cobwebs for a long forgotten word. “Redintegrated!” I said triumphantly. “It’s a term I recalled from my college psychology course. Psychiatrists use it for the pleasure principle motives. All it means is ‘remembering,’ but it has something to do with anticipation instead of achievement. We get little real pleasure from actually obtaining the goals in life we set for ourselves. The real pleasure is anticipatory, and if you don’t believe me, ask Dr. Freud.”
“But what’s that got to do with ready-integration?”
“Redintegration,” I corrected her, shrugging. “I’m theorizing, but it’s a thought. Suppose that Marion anticipated some kind of an ideal married state with a great deal of pleasure? A successful, well-to-do husband, nice home, two fine children, the whole American Way bit. Could her actual achievement of these things possibly add up to the imaginative anticipation of her youthful dreams? At sixteen, or thereabouts, when Marion first dreamed of all these things, the long-distance goal was a beautiful, and maybe an improbable, dream. So when she finally did get everything she wanted, the goal didn’t turn out to be much of anything, you see. But instead of setting new and higher goals of achievement for herself, she probably kept remembering her anticipation instead, comparing it unfavorably with what she ended up with. And of course, the goal couldn’t possibly measure up to the original dream. Each day she became more and more dissatisfied with her lot, and then—the grim reality was too much for her, and—”
“You didn’t know Marion. She wasn’t that deep, Richard.”
“How do you know? Perhaps she wasn’t that deep consciously, but she might have been subconsciously unhappy. If she could have faced the problem with her conscious mind, there wouldn’t have been any problem. It’s what we don’t know that hurts us.”
Gladys laughed. “I always heard it the other way around.” She made a wry face, and shook her head. “You’ve got more faith in this psychology jargon than I have. I just ‘redintegrated’ something myself. Several years ago, in an attempt to find out more about myself, I took fifty dollars worth of aptitude tests. And do you know what I learned? The psychologist told me that I should be a forest ranger instead of a housewife!”
“Two to one you cheated on the tests.”
“You win. I did.”
“It figures. And I’d better get to work, I’m cheating on the job.” I called the city desk on the wall telephone. I asked Harris to tell the M.E. that I was going to the airport and wouldn’t be in the office until around five.
“You really are going to the airport, aren’t you?” Gladys said sharply, as I racked the receiver. “You can’t hang around here, you know. My husband gets home at six, and I’ve got several things to do.”
“I’m leaving as soon as I take a shower. Don’t you ever read the News-Press?”
“Only the ads. It’s a terrible newspaper.”
“You’re missing a lot then, if you don’t read my wonderful sometime column, Up In The Air with Richard Hudson. I say ‘sometime,’ b
ecause it isn’t scheduled regularly. About two years ago we were getting so many handouts and releases on airplanes, rockets, jets and so on, I got the idea to use some of this gratis stuff in a column. I broached the subject and the M.E. said to try it. So now, when I have enough handouts I write the column. To localize it I lard the column with wonderful tidbits of information from local C.A.P., V.A.R.T., and E.T.C. units concerned with flying and fliers. And once in a while I drive out to the airport and talk to my spies. Items such as, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin C. Benjamin, 9445 Lee Court, flew to Cincinnati to visit their grandchildren,’ and other vital earth-shaking news.”
“Sounds like a fascinating column. I don’t know how I ever missed it.”
“I haven’t written one for more than a month, and I’ve got a mass of material on hand. And sometimes, when I do write one, it isn’t used.”
“Doesn’t that make you angry?”
“Nope. Every day I write a respectable amount of copy. The items that aren’t used doesn’t mean they’re any worse than the stuff that is used. I write local stuff, but any halfway decent national story can crowd it out.”
“Just for fun, I think I’ll watch for your byline from now on.”
“It’s mostly junk, Gladys. Tonight, for instance, I’m covering the first play of the season by the Civic Theater Group. This is a field I really know something about. I majored in speech and theater arts, but even here I cheat. No matter how rotten a community theater production happens to be I unfailingly give it an excellent review.”
“Most of the Civic Theater plays are good.”
“That’s true enough. They’ve had a very good director for the last two seasons. Bob Leanard, a Chapel Hill graduate, and he worked in Nashville for three seasons before he came here. In many ways I envy him because he’s doing what he wants to do, even though he works like hell, and only gets twelve hundred bucks for a season of four plays. He gets impossible performances sometimes out of the amateur talent he has to work with. Have you met him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
I poured a glass of tomato juice, added salt, a dash of tabasco sauce, and considered.…“What’re you doing tonight, Gladys?”
“No plans.”
“Meet me at the theater at eight-ten. I’ve got a couple of reserved seats, and you might like to see the show. It’s Molnar’s Lilliom.”
“That’s a rather ambitious play for amateurs, isn’t it?”
“Not if they can learn their lines. Bob Leanard has one advantage that Broadway directors don’t have. He doesn’t have to use stars and Equity actors; he has the entire city to cast a play from, and he uses people who physically, at least, fit the parts. Anybody can try out for a Civic play, and he always gets a big turnout on casting night.”
“Do you ever do any acting, Richard?”
“Not anymore, although I did some at college. I’m on the night shift for the Morning News, so I couldn’t act now if I wanted to.”
“Something you said a moment ago is beginning to register. Why do you always write a good review? If the production is really bad, isn’t it cheating to encourage people to see it? Even though the seats are only a dollar and a half, as I recall, to—”
“I know, I know.” I shook my head impatiently. “It just happens that the Civic Theater is the only theater group in town. Four measly plays a season, and each play only runs for four nights, Wednesday through Saturday. At the end of the season they’re lucky to break even. And they wouldn’t do that well if a few rich people didn’t kick in with a few checks in order to be listed on the program as patrons. What’s a lousy buck and a half when there’s only one fabulous invalid in the entire city?”
I laughed, snuffling through my nose, a loathsome habit I wanted desperately to get rid of—but every now and then the snuffling laugh escaped when I least expected it.
“You want the real reason?” I went on. “Okay. I’m writing a play, and one of these days it’ll be finished. And when it is finished I want to have the Civic Theater in my pocket for a production. If I’m a proven, staunch supporter of the Civic Theater, they’ll more or less be forced into producing my play when it’s ready, you see. And before it’ll ever have a chance for Broadway, I’ll need to see it staged, even by an amateur group, in order to discover weaknesses and lines that need changes. And, too, I’ll have four nights of audiences’ reaction as a guide. That’s the real reason I’m beating the drum for our local director and his lousy amateur actors.”
“You’re a devious man as well as a serious one, aren’t you?” Gladys laughed.
“True, true, and now to the showers.”
I showered, dressed, and used a liberal amount of Mr. Chatham’s oily pomade on my unruly hair before rejoining Gladys in her shiny, gadgety kitchen.
“You didn’t say if you were coming tonight, Gladys,” I reminded.
“I’ll be there. About eight-ten?”
“Right. In the lobby. You’ll have to bring your own car because I can’t take you home. I have to rush to the office to write my review for the deadline. But here’s one advantage I have over New York critics. Except for revivals they can’t study the plays beforehand in the texts. I have a full month to read the play before it’s staged, and it’s always an old play in book form. I can study the plot, search out the playwright’s essential meaning, and so on. If I wanted to, I could really write a beautiful review. I know Lilliom, for instance, backwards and forward, and can you let me borrow five bucks?”
“What’s that?” Gladys said sharply, narrowing her eyes.
“I usually get a couple of dollars from my wife in the morning, but today I left in a hurry. I’ll need some dough for dinner later.”
“Oh. Will you pay it back if I give it to you?”
“Probably not.”
“I’ll let you have three then, not five.” Gladys found her purse and parted with two one-dollar bills, and not quite a dollar’s worth of change. “Here, you no-good reporter,” she said with genuine amusement, “but I’d rather give you three dollars than to have you offer it to me.”
“Thanks. And by the way, why in the hell did Mrs. Huneker kill herself ?” I said casually.
“If my husband comes home unexpectedly and catches you here, you’ll have the chance to ask her personally.” Gladys walked me to the front door, a possessive arm encircling my waist, the way women do after they give you a little money. “On your next visit, Richard,” she said gaily, “if you make one, park that beat-up Chevy two or three blocks away.”
“Yes, sir, Mrs. Chatham.” I kissed her goodbye.
“Thanks for the demonstration, Mr. Hudson!” Gladys sang out when I was halfway down the walk to my car. “But I already have a good vacuum cleaner!”
I grinned and waved back.
Gladys wasn’t really trying to fool the neighbors, and both of us knew it; and she didn’t call out that way for the benefit of the old Negro gardener sitting on the curb across the street, who was feeding himself a snack of cornbread out of a paper sack. She didn’t give a damn, that was all. As I drove to the airport I reviewed our three or four hours together, wishing there were more women like her in this false and fakey world, but I came to the conclusion that most men weren’t broad-minded enough to accept women like Gladys. Not yet. We men got what we damned well deserved…
Lake Springs was served by one scheduled and two non-scheduled airlines. In addition to a fairly decent terminal, there were two beat-up hangars for the bankers’ half-dozen private planes in the community. After talking to a couple of ticket clerks I climbed the stairs to the manager’s office on the second floor. Johnny Garner, the manager, was an old pilot, who had served in World War II as a service pilot with a commission as a captain, and was considered a permanent part of the airport. He was an all-around nice guy, with a round, hard paunch, and a deceptive look of vacancy in his blue eyes.
When I pushed into his office without knocking, carrying two paper cups, each of them half-filled with water fr
om the hallway cooler, Johnny removed his feet from his desk and reached into his file drawer for a pint of blended bourbon. “Thought you’d forgotten all about us out here, Richard,” he said fraternally, as he added whiskey to the paper cups. “As my favorite actor, Jack LaRue, said on television late, late last night, ‘Long time no see.’ And it was a good movie, too. Jack LaRue— now there’s a man who really knows how to run a night club. It almost makes you want to see Prohibition come back.”
“A 1930 movie?”
“No, 1932, I believe.”
“What’s new?” I grimaced as I sipped my drink. “I promised last time not to mention that whiskey and water tastes worse in a paper cup than it does in a glass.”
“Planes land and planes take off.” Johnny shrugged. “There is one thing though,” he added seriously, “and if you give it a decent write-up I’ll consider it a personal favor.”
“I’ll write it, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be printed.”
“It’ll be printed,” he said strongly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “You know Old Lady Pritchard, don’t you? Blanche Pritchard?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t? I know her husband better, though. He’s the ticket-taker at the Sunshine Theater, a nice old guy. He’s the only ticket-taker in town who makes an effort to learn the names of all the patrons. You’d think he owned the theater, but he only makes about thirty-five bucks a week.”
“And he doesn’t need any money. He’s got plenty; I happen to know. But here’s the story. Mrs. Pritchard was here to see me this morning; she caught the ten-oh-five to Atlanta—”
“I got that downstairs.”
“That isn’t the story. In many ways the old lady’s something of a nut, but all the same, she broke down in here this morning and cried like hell. And damn it all, I feel sorry for her.”
Understudy for Death Page 9
