by Sloan Wilson
The worst part of such a fight would be, Bernstein thought, that the arguments in favor of allowing Rath to subdivide his land would be as apoplectic as the arguments against it. Bob Murphy, who since 1931 had been a member of the Zoning Board, would use the case as an excuse to continue his unending battle against what he termed “the privileged few.” And old Mrs. Allison, the fourth member of the board, would undoubtedly agree with everyone on both sides of the controversy, but would end by voting for young Rath, because she would be almost sure to judge him the underdog.
If there had been a fifth member of the Zoning Board, Bernstein could have foretold how the case would go with little possibility of error, but there was no fifth member. The post was vacant and seemed likely to remain vacant for a long time. It had been vacant ever since Harold Mathews, a tight-lipped Yankee who had decided each case on its merit, had died a month ago, for every time anyone had been suggested to take Mathews’ place, a great fuss had been made by those who believed the new member would weight the board against them. Sooner or later a new member would have to be named, but meanwhile even Bernstein couldn’t predict how zoning cases would be decided. All he knew was that there would be a bitter fight, the very thought of which made his stomach ache worse than ever. How violent Schultz had sounded over the telephone! “I want justice,” he had said. I wonder how many murders have been committed, and how many wars have been fought with that as a slogan, Bernstein thought. When they say they want justice, they always want someone else to get the sharp end of it. Justice is a thing that is better to give than to receive, but I am sick of giving it, he thought. I think it should be a prerogative of the gods.
20
THAT TUESDAY MORNING Tom perfected the latest draft of the speech he was writing for Ralph Hopkins. The whole text, which was now about thirty pages long (“We can cut it later,” Hopkins said), had come to seem a sort of penance from which he would never escape, an endless tract, a meaningless lifework.
At noon Tom took the speech up to Bill Ogden. He thought he knew precisely what would happen next. Ogden would read it and say it was terrible. Tom would then rewrite it again and be asked to dinner in Hopkins’ apartment. Hopkins would say it was wonderful and tell him to do it over again, and this whole process would doubtlessly be repeated over and over again until September 15th, when Hopkins would presumably walk out on the speaker’s platform in some big hotel in Atlantic City and tell everybody how delighted he was to be there.
But it didn’t happen that way at all. Tuesday when Tom took the speech up to Ogden, Ogden laid it negligently among some other papers on his desk without even glancing at the first page.
“Thanks, Tom,” he said casually. “We’re going to take you off this now and give Gordon Walker a crack at it.”
Tom waited, thinking there would be some other assignment for him, but apparently there was none. Ogden picked up his telephone and placed a call to someone in San Francisco. Tom got up uncertainly, thinking Ogden would tell him to wait, but Ogden just sat there, holding the telephone receiver negligently to his ear, saying nothing. I shouldn’t dislike the guy so much, Tom thought. After all, he’s awfully good at his job. He went back to his own office and sat down. Why had they taken him off the speech? Did that mean he had failed at it? Or was it normal procedure to pass the speech around among several of Hopkins’ assistants? Tom didn’t know.
There was nothing for him to do. Only a few minutes ago he had dreaded the prospect of coming back to his office and starting to rewrite the speech, but now he would have welcomed it. There was nothing for him to do. How long would Hopkins pay him to sit in a neat little office, with a secretary outside, with nothing to do? Maybe that was the way Hopkins got rid of people. In this strange, polite world high in the sky above Rockefeller Center, maybe nobody ever really got fired. Maybe all Hopkins did was to give a man nothing to do, absolutely nothing to do, until he started to go out of his mind sitting uselessly in his office all day, and resigned. Maybe that was the polite, smooth way to get rid of a man nobody wanted.
It wouldn’t work, Tom thought. If they tried that on me, I’d buy magazines and just sit here having a good time, making nine thousand dollars a year. It wouldn’t be so bad to get nine thousand dollars a year for doing absolutely nothing. I’d find something to keep me busy. By God, I’d work on selling Grandmother’s land.
But that state of affairs wouldn’t last long–of course Hopkins would fire a man if he insisted on staying, after he had been given nothing to do for a few weeks. Giving a man nothing to do would just be a warning; it would be offering him an opportunity to get out gracefully.
Maybe that isn’t it at all, Tom thought. Maybe they’re just clever enough to know that a man goes stale on a speech after he’s worked it over a few times. This is probably routine, and because this mental-health thing is a new project, they just don’t have anything else for me at the moment. That’s all it is–just routine. He got up and started pacing up and down his office, feeling much as he had during the war when he heard of another jump coming up. He glanced at his watch and nervously wound it.
I wonder if old Edward really has any proof, he thought; I wonder if Grandmother did write a later will and give it to him, but that’s impossible; she wouldn’t have done that without telling me. I wonder if we really will be able to sell off the land in small lots. This man Bernstein will be able to tell me–I wonder what he’s like.
I shouldn’t be thinking of private business, he thought. I should be showing initiative on this mental-health project. I shouldn’t expect Ogden to keep giving me assignments; I should dream up assignments of my own. I bet Ogden never has to be told what to do. I’ll think of what has to be done, and I’ll do it. How the hell do you start a national committee on mental health? You get a list of big shots for members–Hopkins undoubtedly has that in his mind already. You get the thing financed–and I bet Hopkins already has some understanding with the foundations about that. He could pay for the thing himself as another tax deduction, but he’ll need the prestige of the foundations, and he wouldn’t have gone this far if he didn’t have it all lined up. He’ll need the co-operation of the medics, and that’s why he’s working so hard on this speech. What else will he need? A little knowledge of what the problems in the field really are–that’s the only thing nobody seems to be bothering about. If we’re going to figure out a program, we ought to have a list of what the experts think the basic problems are. I ought to interview the top medics. I ought to see what the public library has on the subject. I ought to become well informed.
I can’t start interviewing people without Ogden’s permission, he thought–that might be tipping Hopkins’ hand too soon. But I can start getting books to read, and I can ask Ogden for permission to interview people–that at least will let him know I’m on the job.
Tom pressed a button on his desk, and when his secretary came in, he dictated a memorandum to Ogden requesting permission to visit the state mental hospitals and several leading psychiatrists to gather information about mental-health problems. He added that he was planning to get together a bibliography on the subject–he thought that sounded quite impressive. He had just told his secretary he was going out to lunch, and that he would spend the afternoon at the public library, when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” a familiar deep voice said. “Is this Mr. Rath?”
“Hello, Caesar,” Tom replied with sinking heart, and he thought, Here it comes. So Caesar wasn’t just embarrassed at seeing me–he was biding his time. I wonder if he’s been in touch with Maria.
“I’m off duty now, and I thought maybe we might have lunch together,” Caesar said.
“Sure!” Tom replied with forced cheer. “Where will I meet you?”
“In the lobby by the information booth,” Caesar said. “What time would be best for you?”
“Right away,” Tom replied. “I’ll be right down.”
Caesar, still dressed in his plum-colored e
levator operator’s uniform, was leaning against the wall by the information booth, smoking a cigarette. He grinned diffidently when he saw Tom coming toward him.
“This is a swell ideal” Tom said heartily, ashamed that in addition to all the other strains involved in their relationship, he should find it awkward to have lunch with a man in an elevator operator’s uniform. “I know a swell little place on Forty-ninth Street, up toward Sixth Avenue.”
“Fine,” Caesar replied, and fell in beside him. They walked rapidly across Rockefeller Plaza. Actually, Tom had no restaurant clearly in mind–he simply wanted to find a place where they wouldn’t be seen. The impulse to keep his connection with Caesar completely private was overpowering. They walked in silence for several minutes. When they finally came to a dingy little Mexican restaurant and bar on Sixth Avenue which looked like an establishment none of his acquaintances ever would frequent, Tom said, “This is the place. I like Mexican food, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Caesar replied.
They went in and sat down at a dimly lighted table. A waiter in a stained apron came to take their orders. Over the bar a radio was playing a song in which a girl kept saying over and over again, “I love you.”
“The drinks are on me,” Tom said. “Order anything you want.”
“I’d like Scotch,” Caesar replied. “Some Black and White.”
“Make it two double Black and Whites,” Tom said to the waiter.
“Funny, the way we just happened to run into each other,” Caesar said.
“I’m falling for you,” the woman on the radio sang. “Falling, falling, falling, head over heels in love.”
“It is funny,” Tom said. “I sure was surprised to see you.”
The waiter put their drinks before them, and Tom lifted his to his lips eagerly.
“Well, this is better than that old jungle juice we used to drink in New Guinea,” Caesar said.
“It sure is!” Tom replied. The phrase “jungle juice” sounded antique to him–he didn’t really remember drinking any at all.
“You’ve sure done all right for yourself,” Caesar said. “Assistant to Ralph Hopkins!”
“The breaks,” Tom said. “It isn’t as much of a job as you might think.”
“Mind you, I’m not complaining,” Caesar said. “Things have gone pretty good for us.”
“You married?”
“Sure. Are you?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I was married before the war.”
The girl on the radio finished her song. “And now the news,” an announcer said. The bartender turned the radio off.
“Did you go back to Rome after the war?” Tom asked.
“Sure–as soon as I got out of the hospital. Gina and I got married in forty-seven. We got three kids now.”
Tom said nothing. He finished his drink and motioned to the bartender to bring two more.
“Three kids,” Caesar repeated. “Things were pretty tough for us for a while, but I’ve got a twenty per cent disability because of my back, and Gina is working now. We’re making out all right. She runs an elevator over in the Empire State building. Sometimes she takes a night shift and sometimes I do–we got it worked out so one of us is always home with the kids.”
“Sounds like a pretty good arrangement,” Tom said.
“We got a nice apartment,” Caesar replied. “It’s a hell of a lot better than we’d have had if we’d stayed in Rome, the way Gina’s folks wanted us to.”
“I guess things are pretty tough back there,” Tom said.
“I’ll say! We hear from Gina’s old lady every once in a while. Those people don’t have it easy.”
Tom took a long sip of his drink. “Caesar,” he said, “did you ever hear anything about Maria?”
Caesar looked down at the table. “I did,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“How is she?”
“I haven’t heard anything lately–not for more than a year. You knew she married that guy who had the bakeshop, Louis Lapa?”
“No!” Tom said. “When?”
Caesar seemed embarrassed. “She married him about two months after we left,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Tom said. “I certainly am glad to hear it. Louis was a nice guy.”
Caesar glanced up. “You knew she had a son?” he said. “She had a son a little while later.”
“No,” Tom said. “I didn’t know that.”
“She’s got a boy,” Caesar said, “and things weren’t going well for them. You know Louis had a bad leg, and it’s given him a lot of trouble.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom said.
“He was in the hospital for a long while trying to get that leg fixed and they lost the store.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom repeated.
“Gina’s folks helped them out for a while,” Caesar said. “I don’t know how you feel about these things, Mr. Rath, but when I saw you, and found you were doing so well and all, I got to thinking about Maria and her boy, and I wondered whether you could do anything for them.”
Tom said nothing.
“Of course, I haven’t heard from them lately,” Caesar continued, “but if you wanted, I could find out about them–Gina’s mother could tell me easy. Maria is a cousin of Gina’s.”
Still Tom said nothing.
“What I mean is,” Caesar continued earnestly, “things are so much easier for us here than they are for them. Gina and I manage to send a little back every month. And I thought the way things worked out for you and Maria . . .”
“I’ve got a wife here!” Tom said. “A wife and three kids!”
“I’m not trying to make any trouble for you,” Caesar said hastily.
“I just thought that if you had a little money you didn’t know what to do with . . .”
“But . . .” Tom began.
“I’m just trying to say it would be a blessing,” Caesar interrupted. “Anything you could do would be a blessing.”
“But I don’t even know whether Maria would want me to do anything!” Tom said. “Maybe Louis wouldn’t like it.”
“I’m not even sure Louis is still alive,” Caesar said. “The last I heard, he was pretty sick. And even if he is alive, it’s hard for a sick man to get work in Rome.”
“You don’t really know, though, do you? For all you know, they might be doing fine.”
“I haven’t heard for over a year,” Caesar said, “but I could find out.”
“You don’t understand,” Tom said. “I’m practically broke. And I never could send Maria much of anything without my wife finding out about it, and how could I ever expect her to understand a thing like that?”
“I’m not trying to make trouble for you,” Caesar said. “I just thought I’d talk to you about it. You ought to know that things are pretty tough back there.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Tom said. “I’d like to hear how they’re doing, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I’ll write a letter,” Caesar said. “It may take a little time to hear. . . .”
“All right!” Tom said. He was breathing hard. “Let’s not talk about it any more now. Let’s have something to eat.”
“Okay,” Caesar said.
Tom beckoned to the waiter, and they ordered hot Mexican chile con carne which burned their tongues. Hank Mahoney’s name was in Tom’s mind constantly, but Caesar never mentioned it. Maria was obviously his only concern.
An hour later Tom returned to his office, feeling exhausted. “Mr. Ogden called while you were gone,” his secretary said. “He asked you not to do anything more now.”
“What?” Tom asked.
“He said he’d just gotten your memo, and he wanted you to know right away that he doesn’t want you to talk about the mental-health committee with anybody. Not now, he said.”
“All right,” Tom replied. “Thank you.” He sat down at his desk and stared out the window. After a few moments he got up and
went to the library. In spite of everything, it was necessary to succeed at his job, he thought–maybe it would be more necessary than ever now.
21
“HOW DID IT GO TODAY?” Betsy asked when she met him at the station that night.
“Fine,” Tom said, just as he always did. There’s no point in carrying your troubles home with you, somebody had said. You’re supposed to leave them in the office.
“There’s a man named Bugala coming to see you,” she said. “He’s a contractor. He spent all morning looking at the carriage house.”
“Bugala?” Tom asked. “He’s not one of the contractors I wrote to.”
“I don’t know about that,” she replied, “but he wants to see you. And he looks to me like a man who can get things done.”
When they got back to the house, Antonio Bugala was waiting, sitting in a battered Chevrolet pickup truck. He was stocky, dark-haired, and had once been told by a girl that he looked like pictures of Napoleon as a young man. This was a compliment he had never forgotten–he much preferred it to the dubious distinction conferred upon him by his nickname, which was “Buggy.” “Buggy” Bugala had been brought up in South Bay and for the past five years had been astonishing everyone by becoming almost as successful as he had always predicted. Already, at the age of twenty-eight, Bugala was a contractor with thirty-four men, including his father, on his payroll.
Now Bugala jumped out of his pickup truck and walked cockily over to Tom. “I’m Tony Bugala,” he said. “I hear you got some building and road work to be done.”
“How did you hear about it?” Tom asked.
Bugala glanced at him sharply. There’s no use in giving this guy a lesson in business, he thought. In point of fact, Bugala had cultivated the affections of a secretary in the office of the leading contractor in South Bay, and she obligingly told him about all jobs on which her boss was asked to bid, but obviously this was a trade secret which could not be divulged.
