by Unknown
“I’ve heard that before,” Mike said. “From the source.”
She shrank into a corner of the chair. Her love for Gil had influenced her taste in clothes. She had begun to seek picturesque, old-fashioned effects, which on her were charming. She had on a black velvet suit with white ruffles at wrist and neck, and a little black tricorne tilted over one eye and tied on with a black veil. As she sat in the wing chair, touching her nostrils with a lace handkerchief, she was appealing and beautiful.
“Mike,” she murmured, “don’t laugh at me. You know what my life’s been. Can I help it if I’ve fallen in love? He’s everything I’ve dreamed about all my life.”
Mike’s heart was affected, but not his pocketbook. He tried to make Phyllis understand that there was no hope for Gil’s cumbersome, dated play. She listened politely, but Mike’s arguments failed to move her. At the end he felt that he had grown as tiresome to her as Fred Miller.
She had become a woman with a mission. All of her energy was devoted to a single end. Loving Gil, she sought a means of proving herself worthy. She tried, in every way she knew, to find a backer for Gil’s show.
One morning her telephone rang, and there was Nancy, just arrived by plane from Mexico City. She had also called Mike, and suggested that they all meet for lunch. It was like Nancy to have forgotten that she had departed in anger.
• • •
Mike and Phyllis hurried to Nancy’s apartment. It was crowded with open trunks and packing cases, woven baskets, painted furniture, wooden plates, painted trays, serapes, and such an assortment of tin and silverware that it looked as if she were planning to open a shop. She crushed them both in enthusiastic embraces, kissed Mike’s mouth and Phyllis’s cheek, gave them extravagant presents, declared that she had always prophesied Mike’s success, and called to her maid for tequila so they might drink to his career.
She looked serene and healthy. The cadaverous hollows were gone, the angles softened by a few becoming pounds of flesh. . . .
That night Phyllis proved she was the better woman by showing that she possessed something even more dazzling than Nancy’s jewels and furs. The love of Gilbert Jones, his splendid masculinity, gave Phyllis such glamour that Nancy’s sables might have been muskrat. There was no doubt that Nancy was impressed. As was his habit, Gil flirted with a new woman. Phyllis watched as an author might watch actors rehearse the scenes he has written. Her temper was so good that she laughed at Fred Miller’s poor attempts at humor.
It was Mike Jordan’s party. He had given it to celebrate Nancy’s return. Mike had not asked Gil to join these home-town friends, but Phyllis had managed to bring him along without embarrassing either Gil or his host.
Nancy had just seen Mike’s play. “It’s great,” she said. “It’s honest and beautiful, and it’s you, Mike; I can see you in every line.”
“It’s you, too, Nancy. Didn’t you notice that I took all your advice?”
“Nancy helped you with the play?” asked Gil.
“She saved it from being a dreary and morbid little phony. And a flop.”
“Nancy has a great sense of theater, real intuition,” Phyllis added. “She might have been a great actress.”
Nancy laughed. She knew it was cheap flattery but she enjoyed being the center of attention.
Fred Miller pulled out his watch. “I don’t like to break up this party, but —”
“Must we?” Phyllis interrupted. “Nancy’s just come home and we’re having such a good time.”
“I can’t help it if I’m tired, dear. Your friends must understand that a businessman can’t burn the midnight oil like Bohemians.”
Phyllis glanced quickly at Gil. He turned to Fred Miller. “Why don’t you go on and let me bring Phyllis home?”
“That’s kind of you, Jones. Thanks so much. Good night, everyone.”
Farewells were curt. No one bothered to watch Fred go. Gil leaned toward Nancy, whispering some compliment that made her laugh. Phyllis approved.
Presently Gil turned to Mike Jordan: “I know you don’t like my new play, but, frankly, I’m quite mad about it, and so is Phyllis. I’m sure that if Nancy’s critical sense is as sound as you say, she might be able to suggest whatever changes our play needs.”
“Now, Gil,” Phyllis pouted, “we mustn’t be selfish. Nancy’s only just got home and she wouldn’t have time to read it now.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Nancy said. “Bring the manuscript around, will you?”
Mike Jordan sulked. It was contrary of him to be annoyed with Nancy, when his bad temper should have been visited upon Phyllis and Gil. Mike was less distressed by their opportunism than by Nancy’s failure to see through their clumsy ruses. He meant to chide her.
As they rode uptown in a taxi Nancy said, “Did you ever see such an attractive man as Gil Jones?”
“He’s a heel.”
Nancy laughed. “How you loathe handsome men, Mike.”
Mike retreated sullenly to his corner of the cab, deciding that if Nancy was so dull as to let a good-looking ham pull the wool over her eyes, she deserved a lesson. Nancy, enjoying his jealousy, continued to tease him. He lost his temper and reminded her of her faults and the mistakes she had made with other men. The evening was a failure.
The next morning Mike’s agent called and told him that his Hollywood deal had been settled. Mike could get the salary he asked if he would leave immediately for California. The studio wanted him to rewrite a play which had been rewritten only eight times.
Naturally, he spent a frantic day between his agent’s office and the bank and department stores. He closed his apartment and refurnished his wardrobe as though California were a desert island. But he did not intend to desert Nancy. At half-past five he rang her doorbell. The apartment was still cluttered with the woven baskets, silverware, and serapes. The maid, who knew him well, told him to go straight to the living-room.
Gilbert and Phyllis were there. Gil was reading the play. They resented the interruption and were not at all cordial.
“I’m going to Hollywood tomorrow,” Mike announced.
“How nice for you,” Nancy said.
Mike felt that she was glad to have him out of the way. . . .
• • •
A few weeks later Gil handed in his resignation to the manager of Mike’s play, and announced that he was appearing in Jackstraw, A Romance of Cavalier Maryland. A new producer had come to Broadway; her name was Nancy Miller.
Apparently the radiance of Gil’s personality so dazzled her that she had lost all critical judgment. It was a very bad play, and the author, who had come from Moline for rehearsals, refused to rewrite a line. They got Alexandra Hartman for the feminine lead and, while she gave the play some distinction, she was a hellcat at rehearsals. Gil was so busy appeasing his leading lady, convincing Nancy that they needed more money, and wheedling the author to change a line, that he hadn’t a moment for Phyllis.
She was not allowed in the theater during rehearsals. That was Miss Hartman’s unbreakable rule. Although Phyllis had worked so hard to get the show produced, found a backer, and listened to all the early discussions, she was now an outsider, brushed aside with a mechanical smile and polite promise when she waited in the lobby for Gil. She consoled herself with the hope of his gratitude in the happy future, after the show was on and a hit. Some day, she fancied, Gil would take her in his arms and whisper gratefully, “How can I repay you, darling Phyllis, for all that I owe you?”
They were opening in Baltimore, the historical scene of the play’s action. Phyllis bought herself a new outfit, and was about to reserve a seat on the train, when Fred Miller put his foot down. They had the worst fight of their marriage, and Fred finally said, “The trouble with you is that you think you’re Nancy, who can spend a thousand dollars on every whim.”
The rebuke defeated Phyllis. It was like an echo of
her grandmother’s lament. As long as she could remember, Phyllis had been reminded that she could not expect the privileges which Nancy took as her right. She had no money of her own. Fred supported her. When he said, “I won’t have you spending money on trains and hotels to see a show you can see here in a couple of weeks,” she had to submit.
After the Baltimore opening Fred read the reviews and said, “Aren’t you glad you didn’t spend the money? They say it’s the worst show in twenty years.”
Anyone but Nancy would have been discouraged by the reviews. Instead of closing, she put more money into the production, extended the road tour, made drastic revisions in the script, and recast several parts. The author, frightened by the critics, agreed to revisions, but was not able to rewrite, and a play doctor was hired. They took the show on a nine-week tour. Gil was too busy to write a post card to Phyllis.
Fred Miller died suddenly of pneumonia. Phyllis had warned him against going to the office with a severe cold but Fred always had colds, and if he’d quit work every time he sniffled he would never have held a job. He tried to nurse it at night with hot whisky, aspirin, and all the home remedies which he thought as effective as anything a doctor could prescribe. Phyllis was sleeping on a cot in the living-room. One morning she went into the bedroom and found him unconscious. He died at the hospital twenty hours later.
She was very brave, managed everything, took the body home to his parents and the family plot. Half the town attended the funeral, and they said that Phyllis, pale and touching in her black garments, was the prettiest widow they had ever seen. Fred had left her quite a lot of money. She had no idea that the big insurance premiums which she had always resented would bring her a small fortune.
Jackstraw had meanwhile come to New York. Poor Phyllis, cheated of rehearsals and the out-of-town opening, missed the first night, too. She was determined to see it on the night of her return to New York. Mourning or no mourning, she had her duty to her cousin Nancy and to her friend Gil. She still felt close to the play and cherished the memory that she had been Gil’s first audience for it. This thought gave her strength and hope, and as she sat beside the window of the dining car she decided that she would not telephone Gil that day, but would see the play alone and afterward surprise him in his dressing-room.
With her coffee the waiter brought the morning paper. She turned at once to the dramatic section, thinking that she might read Gil’s name in some press agent’s notice. And thus she learned that Jackstraw had closed on the previous Saturday night.
It was the final irony. After all she had given to it, she had not seen a single performance of Gil’s play.
Forlornly she followed a porter through the cold station, and rode to her apartment alone in a drafty cab. The day was miserable. Rain streaked the taxi windows so that she could not even enjoy Fifth Avenue’s brilliance. As soon as she got into her apartment, while the shades were still drawn and the radiators cold, she telephoned Gil. A switchboard operator’s nasal voice informed her that Mr. Jones had given up his apartment.
She called Nancy. Her cousin uttered condolences on the death of Phyllis’s husband, and Phyllis consoled Nancy on the death of her play.
Phyllis said, “How’s Gil taking it?”
“Bearing up bravely, looking for a new part.”
“I must let him know I’m back.”
There was a long silence. A happy thought entered Phyllis’s mind. Should Gil want to put on another show, there need be no long, agonizing search for a backer. Fred was no longer alive to remind Phyllis that she could not expect the privileges that Nancy enjoyed; the money Fred had put into insurance would back Gil’s new play. She was so eager to speak to Gil, to console him with her golden promise, that she paid little attention to Nancy’s unnatural silence.
She did not like to confess to Nancy that she was ignorant of Gil’s whereabouts, and she decided to call his agent instead. She was very fortunate, for Gil had just come into the office. He also expressed sympathy, but he could not say much else as his agent was with him. He promised to come and see her that afternoon.
She dressed carefully; used her best perfume. The failure of Jackstraw did not seem so dismal now. She was almost grateful for it, knowing that as a result of disappointment Gil would be in a soft, self-pitying mood. She sent out for a bottle of his favorite whisky, arranged it on a tray with seltzer and glasses. When there was nothing else to be done, she watched raindrops roll down the windowpane.
The doorbell rang. She sat quiet for a moment lest she betray too large a measure of eagerness, then drew a deep breath and ran to the door.
Gil was not alone. There was Nancy, too. No woman who was not a millionaire would have appeared in public in such an old, streaked raincoat. She had on galoshes and had a green scarf tied around her head.
Gil took both of Phyllis’s hands, gazed deep into her eyes. “Well, dear,” he said, in a thick voice. They held hands until Nancy spoke sharply. “I wish you’d help me with these boots, Gil.”
He turned to help Nancy. “We were sorry to hear about Fred.”
“Thank you,” said Phyllis.
Nancy took her wet things into the bathroom. For a couple of minutes Phyllis and Gil were alone. Neither spoke. They were aware of rain dripping against the window and the sizzling of steam in the radiator.
When Nancy came back, she asked, “Have you told her, Gil?”
He shook his head.
“You might as well know, Phyllis. Gil and I are married.”
Phyllis handed around drinks, then raised her own. “To your happiness,” she said, and finished the highball before she put down the glass. She saw the look of triumph in Nancy’s eyes.
Gil and Nancy soon left; but on Saturday of that week Nancy happened to be in the neighborhood of Phyllis’s apartment and stopped in. Phyllis was not at home, and Nancy said that she would wait. She read a magazine, washed her face, and used the telephone, which was in Phyllis’s room between the twin beds. Before she went, she wrote a note begging Phyllis to dine with them the following Tuesday. Phyllis found it on the bed table, tore it into small pieces, and threw it into the wastebasket.
“No use being a hypocrite about it,” Phyllis remarked several weeks later when she told the story to Mike Jordan.
On the Tuesday of Nancy’s dinner party Gil was called to the telephone by Phyllis’s maid, who told them that Mrs. Miller had been taken to the hospital. When she came to work that morning, the maid said, she had found Mrs. Miller unconscious in her bed. The doctor thought at first that she had taken an overdose of sleeping medicine, but an analysis showed that she had been poisoned. It was a poison that worked slowly and the dose had been insufficient.
Gil suffered extravagant remorse. It was only natural for him to blame himself for the poor girl’s attempt at suicide. As soon as she was allowed visitors he visited her at the hospital. She was sitting up in bed, looking very frail and gentle in a white maribou jacket with enormous sleeves.
She held out both hands. He took them. They were cold and so soft that there seemed no bones under the thin flesh. His eyes filled as he bent over to kiss her.
She looked up at him with burning eyes and whispered, “Someone tried to kill me, Gil.”
His hands dropped. He moved away and stared as though he were looking at a ghost. She shook her head and repeated the astonishing statement. “You don’t believe I’d have done such a thing myself?” she asked. “You know me so well, Gil, you know I’m not brave enough for that.”
It was discovered later that five or six poisoned capsules had been placed in the box with her sleeping pills. . . .
• • •
The telephone rang again. New York Operator Forty assured Mr. Jordan that she was still working on his call. When he came back to the patio, he said, “I’m thirsty, Lissa; may I have a drink?”
We went into the kitchen, which was on the east
side of the house, and about twelve degrees cooler than the patio. I got out some cheese and crackers, and we sat with our drinks in the breakfast nook.
“Had someone tried to murder Phyllis, or was that merely an excuse because she was ashamed to admit that she had tried suicide?” I asked.
“Wait,” Mike said. He was a playwright, and as keenly as he felt this story, he was still too much of a technician to give away the climax before recounting the events that led to it.
He finished his drink and held out his empty glass to me. While I squeezed a lemon, he began the final chapter. . . .
• • •
A few months later Mike Jordan came to New York on a Hollywood writer’s holiday. He had a suite in an expensive hotel and went to night clubs at which he would never before have dreamed of spending money. He saw both Phyllis and Nancy, and each told him in precise detail her separate story.
Phyllis was being frightfully gay at this time, spending Fred Miller’s money wildly and surrounding herself with good-looking young men. She had become extremely chic. This Mike thought was an affectation. Like so many bored women, she was seeking compensation for the dullness of her nights by exhibiting herself in costumes whose extravagance advertised her loneliness.
Frequently at parties or the theater she met Gil and Nancy. They and all of their friends dutifully appeared at all the smart places and saw the same people over and over again. To show that she bore them no malice, she invited Mr. and Mrs. Jones to a couple of her big parties, and Nancy returned the hospitality by inviting Phyllis to dine . . . with seven other guests, four of them male and attractive.
For a few months Gil and Nancy considered themselves the happiest couple in town. Nancy thought her husband the handsomest man in the world and herself an extremely fortunate woman. Gil was good-natured and disinclined to quarrel, and as long as his wife admired him, he was indulgent of her moods. The one subject on which they could not agree was the story Phyllis had told him about the poisoned sleeping pills. Gil still believed that someone had tried to murder Phyllis, and Nancy held to her theory that this was an excuse to cover an unsuccessful attempt at suicide.
