Margie

by Howard Fast

  “Margie Beck.”

  “Marjorie Beck?”

  “Not Marjorie Beck. Margie Beck.”

  “Ain’t it the same thing?”

  “No. And will you stop arguing with me and please call the Governor.”

  He shook his head, looked at her bare feet once more, and then went to the inter-apartment phone board and buzzed a number. He spoke for a moment or two and then, as Margie noticed with satisfaction, nodded his head over and over and over. Finally he replaced the phone and turned to Margie and Golden.

  “You can go up.” He pointed. “That elevator there. It’s the sixteenth floor.”

  “I will never be content,” Margie said to Hy Golden, “until I have an apartment on the sixteenth floor overlooking the park.”

  “You wouldn’t settle for overlooking something else, like a river or something or roofs? You get a very nice view over the roofs in lots of places.”

  “I would not,” Margie said.

  There was a small landing on the sixteenth floor and one door that the elevator served, and this door the Governor opened himself, smiling his deservedly famous smile as he greeted Margie, the fur coat, and Hy Golden.

  “So you are Margie Beck,” the Governor said, “and I suppose this is Hy Golden, chief of sales at M.P. Creations—he certainly fits the description. I imagine you weigh in at two twenty, Mr. Golden?”

  “Two forty-five,” Golden said apologetically, grinning foolishly. “But I got a little fat on me now. I am not exactly in condition.”

  “Won’t you come in?” the Governor said. “Miss Beck—Mr. Golden—I just can’t tell you how delighted I am.”

  “And I,” said the Governor’s wife, coming from behind the Governor and greeting them both as they stepped into the foyer. “Really, it’s not the coat at all, or the bracelet, if you have the bracelet—and if you haven’t, the silly thing is insured—but just to meet you, because after last night and yesterday and the lights going out and all that, why, you are both like fictional characters come to life.”

  “We feel like fictional characters,” Margie replied, taking the bracelet out of her coat pocket. “Here’s the bracelet and the coat. Do you know, I haven’t had this coat off my back since yesterday morning.”

  “Poor darling,” the Governor’s wife said, as the Governor helped Margie off with the coat. “Poor darling, you must tell us all about it—but first please join us at the breakfast table. You must be utterly starved.”

  “Yeah,” Hy Golden agreed. “I can eat a cow.”

  “We don’t have a cow, Mr. Golden, but I can offer you eggs and bacon and jam and toast and muffins. Won’t you come with me?”

  For all the fuss they had caused, Margie thought she treated the coat and the bracelet most casually. Her husband handed her the coat, which she tossed onto a handsome Empire love seat that stood in the foyer, and the bracelet she pushed over her hand onto her wrist without looking at it twice. But then she was far from casual as she hooked her arm under Margie’s and said, “My dear, I would rather lose ten coats than to subject you to what must have happened. And those wretched men from Centre Street—particularly a Mr. Comaday—kept insinuating that you had stolen the coat. But do you know, our family doctor grew up in Kapatuk and he knew your father there, and of course he was outraged at even the suggestion that Margie Beck would steal anything. Oh yes, we do have a guest—an old friend, and breakfast was the only time we could see her, and I am sure you’ll be delighted to meet her.”

  They had entered the breakfast room now, a bright, sun-speckled room with yellow and orange tiles on the floor and a great round glass-topped breakfast table at which a young woman sat, a girl who was curiously like Margie yet unlike her—yet prodded at Margie’s memory, as if Margie had met her before but only in passing. She smiled at Margie as they entered, and the Governor’s wife said to her:

  “This is the young lady we were speaking of, Margie Beck, and this”—turning to Margie now—“this is the Countess Danya Hutsinger, whom we all call Danny.”

  The Countess rose and offered her hand to Margie, who took it automatically and just stared, openmouthed, while the Governor’s wife finished the introductions and seated Hy Golden at the table. The Governor held Margie’s chair for her, and when she sat down it was like an action in a dream to her. “Will you have orange juice, my dear?” the Governor’s wife asked—but Margie could not take her eyes off the Countess.

  “Then you two have met,” the Governor said.

  Margie shook her head, still speechless.

  “I don’t know how our friends here feel,” said the Governor, “but in my case in just one hour from now a very trying day begins. I have a hearing with the Federal Power Commission, the State Power Commission, the Society of Electric Power Engineers, the Association of Privately Owned Utilities, a meeting with the Mayor, two political speeches, and one or two other odds and ends. So if no one minds, I would like to spend some of this hour listening to what happened to Miss Beck between the time my wife gave her a coat to hold and now.”

  “I would like nothing better,” the Countess said.

  “And I, of course,” the Governor’s wife added.

  “Sure,” said Hy Golden, through a mouth stuffed with eggs, bacon, and muffins.

  “Well, actually nothing very much happened to me,” Margie began. “It was just that suddenly I was practically alone there on that platform with the coat. It’s such a beautiful coat! Well, I went back to the office—that is, to Mr. Potnik’s place; he’s my boss, poor dear, and he’s so worried about me—and of course I had to try on the coat—and then—”

  An hour later Margie was still talking, having managed to consume a considerable breakfast between words and phrases, and the Governor had postponed his first appointment, and the Countess Hutsinger was staring at Hy Golden with dark-brown eyes that glowed with admiration.

  “And that’s it.” Margie finally said. “Alan told us to take off, and here we are. And as for poor Alan, I suppose they are giving him the third degree somewhere and probably beating the poor man to death—”

  “Oh no!” the Governor’s wife exclaimed, and said to her husband, “Dear, you must do something—right now.”

  “I shall,” the Governor agreed. “Right now. I’ll call the Commissioner.” The phone was at his elbow, and he spoke into it as the Countess said:

  “But, Mr. Golden, I think you are just the most heroic person I have ever known.”

  “No,” Golden shrugged, squiggling up his lips and shaking his head with embarrassment, “it was absolutely nothing. I never liked violence. I think it is degrading to the person who practices it—”

  “Not for a noble cause!” the Countess exclaimed. “Not for the cause of the weak, the innocent, the defenseless! In such cause violence is honor—yet you never inflicted violence for the sake of violence—”

  “Hy couldn’t,” Margie declared. “Hy is absolutely the kindest, most gentle man I have ever known—”

  “Except when I played football at Rutgers,” Hy said unhappily. “It’s hard to be real gentle when you play football. You got all those girl cheerleaders out on the field, and the coach is ready to cut your throat if he thinks you are finking out on any of the plays. But still it’s only a game. You got to remember that it’s only a game and not be carried away by it. My own feeling is that good sportsmanship—”

  The Governor held up his hand for silence, and the conversation paused so that he might listen. He nodded several times, and then he said:

  “Oh no—no. No, I certainly would not try to stop the ship, not if they are out of the Lower Bay. I suppose that technically we might have a case about the mileage limit, but it is still basically a diplomatic matter and much too delicate. Suppose we just let them go, and you can take it up with Interpol once they land in Europe. Yes—oh yes, I would just release them. The fewer explanations at this point, the better. Of course. Thank you.”

  The Governor put down the telephone and said to
his wife, “I think you have been rather hard on Mr. Comaday, my dear. He has been most co-operative.”

  “Has he? I gather from what you said that this whole unsavory crew that almost murdered Margie, and certainly would have murdered Danny had they ever gotten their hands on her, has flown the coop.”

  “Well, yes, they’ve gotten away. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that. There was a Dravinian ship in port, and very early this morning they bundled the whole lot of them on board and put out to sea. Evidently they were ready to sail. I suppose we could stop them, but that would make a diplomatic incident out of it.”

  “You must not think too poorly of our little country,” the Countess said. “We are only coming out of our own long night—and someday the people will get rid of the Alexanders and the Macbains and all the other con men and scavengers and grafters. I hardly know the place myself, but I can’t think of it without invisible strings tugging at my heart—”

  “Of course not,” said Hy Golden. “A person like you could never separate herself from human suffering. I have also been thinking about my brother-in-law, who works at Standard Oil. I think it is time you made an honest deal about those oil lands, because someone like you needs her future safe-guarded—”

  “Hy, I think it is time for us to go,” Margie interrupted.

  “But not before I give you a pair of shoes, my dear,” the Governor’s wife said. “As for the reward—”

  “There will be no reward,” Margie said evenly. “I hate to appear ungrateful, but I must make that plain. There will be no reward.”

  And there was none.

  AND THE FOOTNOTE

  In which Mr. Potnik holds forth on women.

  FIVE WEEKS LATER at nine o’clock in the morning in the showroom of M.P. Creations, Mr. Potnik was attempting to tie a bow on the front of Hy Golden’s dinner shirt and explaining to Golden that sensible men purchased ready-made silk ties that snapped on in one single, easy motion.

  “This is old-fashioned and out of date, Hy, and anyway, you got a throat that is so far up, it’s better you should sit down. It places us on a more even basis.”

  Golden sat down. “I’m still not used to it,” he said, as if to indicate that shock got the better of his tie judgment.

  “Used to what?”

  “Used to the fact that Margie is going to marry Alan Compton today in the Congregational Church in Kapatuk, New York.”

  “What’s to get used to?” Mr. Potnik asked, speaking very softly so that he would not disturb his surprise attack upon the tie.

  “I mean, you don’t understand, Mr. Potnik. It was Margie that made me feel that I was in love with her.”

  “Were you in love with her?”

  “How do I know now? All she kept saying was what a great hero I was and how brave I was and how gentle I was—”

  “Then on three accounts you made a mistake, Hy, and all I can hope is that you learned something from it. Not about selling. For high-type gowns you are already an excellent salesman, but when it comes to women—well, something else entirely.”

  “What else entirely?” Golden demanded.

  “Must I spell it out? Hold still! In the first place, women do not like heroes. Heroes are unnatural. All through history heroes are wondering why they do not win the girl of their choice. Sometimes they do, but that is only when the girl is stupid. A smart girl, she doesn’t want a hero, she wants a man who can take care of her. A hero, he can’t even take care of himself—otherwise how come he is a hero? Secondly, what is brave? Alan Compton, he is absolutely the best man in the design line with high-priced garments on all of Seventh Avenue, maybe in all America, who knows? Because for what they turn out in Los Angeles and in Miami I would not give you twenty cents for when it comes to style—and I am including the big Paris names like Givenchy and Chanel and Balmain and Balenciaga, because when his work is seen enough, Mr. Alan Compton will be on the top of the list—but brave he is not. How can a man with his taste and intelligence be brave?”

  “But he’s got a right,” Hy Golden protested, “He’s five feet, six inches, giving him all the breaks. When I run away, it is like—”

  “I know. So you’re brave. But put yourself in Margie’s place.”

  “I see what you mean,” Golden agreed.

  “And the third thing—gentle. A woman who grabs a man who is gentle, she knows what is good for her. In your whole life, Hy, have you ever known a woman who knows what is good for her?”

  “I have to think about it,” Golden said.

  “Think about it. My lessons on women I don’t charge for, and I cannot tie this tie. Elsie May!” he shouted. “Come out here and tie a bow tie on Golden!”

  She came out, and she was tying the tie when the Countess Danya Hutsinger swept into the showroom. Her face darkened when she first saw Elsie May bent over the seated figure of Hy Golden, but a moment later she observed Elsie May from another angle, and with the realization that Elsie May was on the downhill side of forty and wore a golden wedding band, her face lit up again and her smile flashed across the showroom, shining with grace upon Mr. Potnik and upon Hy Golden. Elsie May finished and stood up, and Hy Golden rose, and the Countess smiled at Elsie May, too, as Golden said:

  “Elsie, hon, this is the Countess Danya Hutsinger—yes, the very same one and a very real countess.”

  “Your grace—” Elsie began to stammer out.

  “Please call me Danny. Everyone else does.”

  “And this is Mr. Potnik,” Hy Golden said.

  “Are you really? Oh, I have heard so much about you from Hy—I just knew you’d be the way you are. Of course, we are going to be great friends, and Hy says that next year he will be a partner in the business, and I am delighted because he has all the ridiculous American scruples about a woman being richer than a man who is interested in her. And isn’t this wedding the most exciting thing? Imagine—a really small-town wedding in a little church in upstate New York. I’m so happy for Margie.”

  “I can see that you are.” Mr. Potnik nodded.

  “And these wonderful things,” she cried, glancing at the racks. “I must come back here when I just have hours to browse—or do you browse with dresses as you would with books. Balmain has been making my things lately—”

  “Compton is better,” Mr. Potnik said decisively.

  “Of course he is, and I am so happy for little Margie.”

  “We had better get going,” Hy said uneasily, “or we’ll miss the plane.”

  “Oh no, we won’t,” the Countess declared. “I decided that it was silly to fly to Rochester and to have to take some small, ancient local flight from Rochester to Kapatuk. So I cancelled the tickets and called the Governor, and he was so delighted to hear that Margie was being married that he didn’t hesitate to place his own private jet at our disposal when I asked him. It’s one of those new small executive jets—you know, whoosh and you’re there—and it’s sitting out at LaGuardia now waiting for us, and an hour after take-off we’ll be in Kapatuk. Isn’t it wonderful, Hy?”

  Hy nodded. Mr. Potnik helped him into his coat and then Hy helped Mr. Potnik into his.

  “I’m best man, so I don’t want to be late.”

  “Of course you don’t my dear,” the Countess agreed.

  “You know, I have the ring. Funny, if I didn’t turn up, poor Alan might be left out on a limb.”

  “We’ll turn up, my dear—never fear,” the Countess said.

  And they did. And when Margie said, “I do,” she just happened to meet Hy Golden’s glance, and she was pleased to see that there was neither discontent nor rancor in his face, only resignation.

  The Countess gave Margie the most magnificent gift of all, even more magnificent than the beautiful set of crystal she received from the Governor and his wife. This was a splendid solid gold tea service, made by Virgil Griffen in 1739 for the first Count Hutsinger, and bearing upon it the curious Latin motto: “Data et accepta.”

  “What an odd motto!” Alan
Compton said to his bride.

  Margie’s four years of Latin failed her, and she whispered to Alan, “What does it mean?”

  “Give and take.”

  “Just that—give and take?”

  “Just that,” Alan said.

  “You know—I don’t think it’s odd at all.” Margie said.

  “Poor Hy.” Alan sighed generously.

  “That’s what you think,” Margie said.

  A Biography of Howard Fast

  Howard Fast (1914–2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast’s commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

  Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast’s mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London’s The Iron Heel, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.

  Fast began his writing career early, leaving high school to finish his first novel, Two Valleys (1933). His next novels, including Conceived in Liberty (1939) and Citizen Tom Paine (1943), explored the American Revolution and the progressive values that Fast saw as essential to the American experiment. In 1943 Fast joined the American Communist Party, an alliance that came to define—and often encumber—much of his career. His novels during this period advocated freedom against tyranny, bigotry, and oppression by exploring essential moments in American history, as in The American (1946). During this time Fast also started a family of his own. He married Bette Cohen in 1937 and the couple had two children.