by Max Shulman
“But you said no, no,” said Ira.
“I mean yes, yes,” said Boo. “But not here. Not in this house.”
“Where? Where?” said Ira.
“Come,” said Boo.
“Yes! Yes!” said Ira.
He followed Boo to her car and they sped, tight-lipped and trembling, to her deserted beach house ten miles away.
There, on a bearskin rug in front of a driftwood fire, it was done. In fact, it was done several times, but always with tears, always with a sense of transgression hanging over them like a dark canopy.
“We can’t do this to Polly,” they kept telling each other over and over. And each time, having reached agreement, they fell once more to the pelt before the hearth.
Two nights and two days they cried and made love. Then, serious and sated, they exchanged a solemn promise. They would never see one another again. They would never write, never phone, never send a message through an intermediary. They had sinned against Polly and against God. Separation, permanent and irrevocable, would be their punishment. This they swore.
They kept their oath. This night, eighteen years later, Ira was in Hollywood, and Boo stood alone in the bedroom of her home in Owens Mill, and not once in the eighteen years had there been any sort of contact between them.
Boo turned away from her bedroom window, where she had been gazing across the countryside at the Tatum Tower. How ironic, she thought, that an innocent victim should be paying the heaviest price for her sin and Ira’s. It was not she and not Ira from whom the crudest toll was being exacted. It was their son Gabriel.
His awesome punishment was that he would never know his father. A bribed judge and a forged marriage license had given the boy legitimacy, but it would never give him the joy of clasping Ira to his bosom, of exchanging the tears and kisses that erupted so naturally from their volatile hearts.
Was Ira, too, paying a frightful price? Boo could not be sure, but she fervently hoped he was not. She wanted only happiness for him. She had never told him about Gabriel, nor would she. His all-too-fragile conscience could not bear such an affliction. Let him be peaceful. Let him rejoice in his professional success, in his marriage with good, honest Polly, in his two stalwart sons.
As for herself, she was content. Had she not, earlier this night, counted her blessings and found them abundant? Yes, she was content—not entirely, of course. She would never stop grieving for Ira, but she would grieve sweetly—indeed, grieve lyrically.
She moved to her little white desk. A sonnet for The Mermaid was stirring in her mind. She took out a sheaf of foolscap and uncapped a pen. She wrote a title at the top of the page. “On the Blessings of Sin.” She signed her nom de plume: “by Leda.” She closed her eyes, thought deeply, then began:
The pain delights, the jubilee is triste,
A lover’s moon mounts blackly in the east.
She leaned back and appraised the opening couplet. Not bad, she decided. In fact, rather good. Nice touch, that triste. Rich imagery, that moon rising blackly.
Yes, thought Boo, this could well be one of Leda’s better efforts. Yes.
Chapter 9
At 4:20 of an autumn afternoon a black suit containing Harry Clendennon, president of the Star Spangled Broadcasting Network, boarded the first-class compartment of TWA Flight No. 11, nonstop Idlewild to Los Angeles.
Already aboard the plane, waiting for Clendennon, was his secretary, Haas by name, a man of thirty with pale eyebrows, thin shoulders, invisible lips, a black suit, and an attaché case lying open on his knees. Clendennon never hired women as secretaries because women, no matter how promisingly they started, always ended up behaving like women: they wanted, for instance, to leave the office before midnight, or they insisted on Sundays off, or they fell in love, or their ovaries got murky: always something. “The only kind of secretary to have,” Clendennon frequently told his friends at the National Association of Broadcasters, “is a nonpracticing faggot.”
As the jet reached cruising altitude, Clendennon unfastened his seat belt and turned to Haas. “All right, chickie,” he said, ‘let’s get cracking.”
“Yes, sir,” said Haas. Memos, correspondence, pencils, pens, and pads were neatly arranged on his attaché case. He picked up the top memo. “General Motors, Coca-Cola, and Goodyear Tires have each placed an order for that unsold minute on Rocky Gibraltar.”
“Tell them all yes,” said Clendennon. “Next?”
“A little reckless, isn’t it, sir? Selling the same spot to three different sponsors?”
“That’s show biz, baby. Next?”
“Mrs. Clendennon wants to know whether you’ll be back from California in time for the Cotillion.”
“Tell her yes. Next?”
“You know, of course,” said Haas impassively, “that you won’t be home in time?”
“What I know, pussycat, is that people don’t like to be told no. Next?”
“I called Mr. Shapian for you again, and again he refused to accept the call. This, according to my records, is the eighth consecutive day he has refused your calls.”
“Perfidious Armenian!” snarled Clendennon. “What the hell is he up to?”
“Excuse me, sir, but isn’t it rather obvious? Mr. Shapian’s contract is due for renewal next month. He’s attempting, you might say, a war of nerves in order to get more money.”
“Brilliant, ducks. Only trouble is, I’ve already offered him more money.”
“Oh,” said Haas.
“No, something else is on Ira’s mind—something deep. Real deep. I’ll tell you how deep it is: I happen to have definite information that he’s been showing up at the office in a hound’s-tooth jacket!”
“Shocking,” said Haas politely.
“Well, never mind. I’ve handled Shapian before and I’ll do it again. What’s next?”
“Mr. Davies sent you this memo.”
“Oh?” said Clendennon, sitting upright. His ruddy face went suddenly pale; a shadow of fear scurried across his hard, flat eyes. Clendennon was president of Star Spangled, but Mr. Davies was owner of the network. Mr. Davies was, in addition, a vestryman of his church, a trustee of his university, and the master of his regatta. He was an aloof, austere sort who never sent memos to his employees except when he was displeased about something, and if he was sufficiently displeased, he would aloofly, austerely have a man’s head on a platter.
Clendennon cast out fear, the enemy of thought, for he needed to think. What could be irking Mr. Davies? Certainly it was not that he had gotten word of some of Clendennon’s chicaneries; it was specifically to chicane that Mr. Davies had engaged Clendennon in the first place. Mr. Davies preferred to let hirelings do his throat-slitting, while he stayed clean-handed above the fray—vestryman, trustee, and master of the regatta.
No, it could only be one thing: Ira Shapian. Sure, Ira Shapian. Now Clendennon understood why Ira had been ducking his phone calls; now he knew precisely what game Ira was playing. He was, as Haas had said, conducting a war of nerves, except the war was not against Clendennon but against Mr. Davies.
For all his aloofness and austerity Mr. Davies kept an unsleeping eye on his network. Nothing, large or small, ever escaped his surveillance. He was fully aware that Ira was giving Clendennon a frost. He was further aware that Ira, the man who could nice, was worth his weight in rubies to the network. So foolish Ira was trying to panic Mr. Davies into believing he would not renew his contract as long as Clendennon was in charge. So feckless Ira was hoping to stampede Mr. Davies into firing Clendennon.
That’s it all right, thought Clendennon, confidence flooding back to his breast. That’s it, and I’ve got nothing to worry about. When it comes to a contest of finkery between Ira and me, why, it’s just no contest. I’ll handle Ira. I’ll hold my job, and I’ll also hold that crazy Armenian. Nobody outfinks Clendennon. No, sir! Not old Clendennon, the survivingest predator in the whole tv jungle!
“Okay, doll,” said Clendennon to Haas. “Read me Mr. Dav
ies’ memo.”
“Yes, sir.” Haas held up a sheet of paper and read: “‘Mr. Jefferson Tatum of the Tatum Cigarette Company phoned me this morning and asked me to clear sixty minutes of prime broadcast time for a program that will emanate from Acanthus College. The topic will be the dangerous additives commonly found in food. I agreed to Mr. Tatum’s request.’”
Two emotions hit Clendennon simultaneously: first there was relief that Mr. Davies still had not learned about Ira Shapian’s recalcitrance; second there was annoyance that Mr. Davies should have said yes to Jefferson Tatum. “Goddammit!” Clendennon exclaimed to Haas. “How can we do a program about poisonous food additives? We’ve got forty million dollars a year in General Foods billings.”
Haas, without a pause, continued to read from Mr. Davies’ memo. “‘Yes, I know we’ve got forty million dollars a year in General Foods billings. I also know that the six lowest rated shows on the network are sponsored by Jefferson Tatum. You will therefore produce the program Mr. Tatum has requested. You will, of course, find somebody to present a rebuttal for the food industry during the program. Please take great pains to find a rebutter who is homesy, folksy, winsome, and trustworthy. Make sure his eyes are not shifty and that he does not perspire.’”
Clendennon grinned. No fool, Mr. Davies. “Is that the end of the memo?” he asked.
“One more line,” replied Haas. He quoted: “‘P.S. Why do we still not have Ira Shapian’s signature on the new contract? I should be most unhappy to lose him to another network. Men like Shapian are rather more difficult to replace than men like you.… Best wishes, Davies.’”
A tremor of fright rippled through Clendennon. He cursed himself for being so stupid as to believe Mr. Davies was unaware of the trouble with Shapian.… And yet, thought Clendennon with rising spirits, he really had no reason to panic. One way or another he would keep Ira in the fold. He had done it a dozen times in the past; he would do it again—of this he had no doubt.
“All right, sweetie,” he said amiably to Haas. “What’s next?”
Haas lifted a memo with a faint air of distaste. “I have been in touch with your Hollywood procurer,” he said. “A lady will be at your suite between five and six on Thursday afternoon. I am told she works with patent leather boots and a can of Reddi-Whip.”
“Cancel it,” said Clendennon. “Too busy.”
Haas regarded his employer with something almost like respect. “Yes, sir.”
“Next?”
“That’s all.”
“Mask and pills,” said Clendennon.
“Yes, sir,” said Haas and handed him a black eyeshade and a vial containing one capsule each of Seconal, Miltown, Librium, and chloral hydrate.
Clendennon swallowed the pills, tilted his chair back, slipped the mask over his eyes, and enjoyed a health-restoring nap from Cleveland to Los Angeles.
Chapter 10
Ira Shapian, wearing a hound’s-tooth jacket, drove his Jaguar Mark VII into the crushed rock driveway of his half-timbered house in Bel Air. He switched off the ignition and sat wearily for a moment, his hand pressed against his forehead. He had had an even more galling day than usual at Star Spangled. A John Birching sponsor had deleted all mention of the United Nations from a documentary celebrating the founding of the United Nations, an artsy-fartsy director had shot a Western with such low-key lighting that it looked as though the wranglers were herding cattle inside a shoe, and the star of The Day Lincoln Was Shot had adamantly refused to grow a beard.
Only one small pleasure had accrued to Ira in the preceding twelve hours: he had, for the eighth consecutive day, declined to accept any phone calls from Clendennon. But the luster of this minor satisfaction was rapidly dimming. True, he was curdling Clendennon’s liver by not taking his calls, but also true, and much more to the point, Ira knew that when the time came to sign the new contract he would sign. There was no escape now; the collar and leash were too firmly fastened. A snapping dog Ira might be, but indubitably a dog.
“Arf,” said Ira mournfully and picked up a small, handsomely wrapped package on the seat beside him and got out of the car and went into the house.
“Hi,” said Polly. “You look grisly.”
“Thank you,” said Ira. “Where’s Ezra and Leo?”
“Vic Tanny’s.”
“Where else?” said Ira and sighed.
“Want me to fix a martini?”
“Desperately,” he replied. “But first I want a kiss.”
“You do?” Her eyes grew round with surprise.
“I do,” he affirmed. “But nothing strenuous, mind you.”
“This about right?” she asked and gave him a kiss that fell midway between passion and inadvertence.
“Splendid,” he said. He handed her the little package he had carried in from the car. “In honor of our twenty-first wedding anniversary,” he explained. “Very expensive.”
She unwrapped the package. Inside lay a pair of small, flawless diamond ear-clips. “Thank you,” she said courteously.
“Enough!” said Ira, raising his hand. “You know I can’t stand these unseemly displays of emotion.”
Polly looked him squarely in the eyes. “No, I mean it: thank you. It was thoughtful of you to remember. Trouble is, it’s not what I wanted.”
“So take ’em back to the jeweler and exchange ’em.”
“The jeweler hasn’t got what I want.”
“I know I’ll regret this question, but what do you want?”
“Well, I thought—I’m a dreamer, I guess—anyhow, I thought—no, hoped is the word—I hoped that tonight—I don’t mean to get maudlin, Ira, but after all we are married twenty-one years—I hoped that tonight, as kind of a special treat, we might talk.”
“Possibly the reason we are married twenty-one years,” suggested Ira, “is that we don’t.”
“Possibly,” she said without expression. “I’ll fix your drink.”
He followed her to the sideboard, guilt nipping softly at his vitals. He turned her around as she started working with vodka and vermouth. “Listen,” he said earnestly, “what happens when we talk? You ask me not to sign the new contract. I explain why I have to. You reject my explanation. Then it’s scream time.”
“Is that bad?”
“Polly,” he pleaded, “I’m too old. All day long I scream at the studio. Can’t I have a snug harbor when I come home?”
“Yes, ancient mariner,” she said. “Here’s your booze.”
“You know I can’t quit.”
“Like hell I do,” she answered. She handed Ira his drink and poured one for himself. Mockingly she touched glasses with him. “To you, my dear. To twenty-one years, to love, to life, and to inertia.”
“Sweet,” said Ira, smiling tightly, his knuckles white around the stem of his glass. “Very sweet. And so beautifully timed. I give you diamond earrings, you give me a hatchet in the skull.… Why, Polly?”
“Because I love you, dumbbell!” she cried, abandoning civility. “Because after all these years I love you more foolishly and more completely than ever. And I know that no matter what those people have done to you, you’re still Ira Shapian. Under that heap of trauma there’s still a set of large, perfectly usable balls!”
Ira unhinged his mouth to shout, then with an effort shut it. “I will give you a soft answer to turn away wrath,” he said. “I think you’re an absolutely marvelous woman, and I regret I’m not the man you hoped for.”
“But you are!”
“But I’m not, and finish your drink. We have a nine o’clock reservation at Chasen’s.”
“Yes, dear,” she said, resigned. Then a sudden thought struck her. “Wait a minute! Not Chasen’s. Clendennon is in town.”
Ira paled. “How do you know?”
“His secretary called from the airport a little while ago. Clendennon wants to join us for dinner. I said Chasen’s, nine o’clock.”
“Good thinking,” he said approvingly. “Now let’s see.… Where can we
go where he won’t find us?”
“How about hiring a blimp?”
“Polly, this is serious.”
“Almost as serious as a five-year-old kid playing hide-and-seek. You know Clendennon is going to corner you sooner or later.”
“True.”
“So what do you think you’re accomplishing?”
“I’ll tell you exactly: I’m making Clendennon sweat.… But more important, I’m making Mr. Davies sweat a little bit too, and if Mr. Davies gets sweaty enough, Clendennon is out!”
“Clendennon fired?” said Polly incredulously. “Boy, are you playing a long shot! In fact, an astronomically long shot! But, okay, let’s say you make it happen. Then what? Who do you think Mr. Davies will get to replace Clendennon—Albert Schweitzer?”
“Polly, I’ve been in the business a few years. I know Mr. Davies will go looking for a carbon copy of Clendennon.… But here’s the point: what if, by accident, he hires a nice guy?”
“Then the network will go bankrupt, and you’ll be out of work, and why am I complaining? Come on, where’ll we have dinner?”
“Hey, I got an idea. Feel like eating Chink?”
“With you, pussycat? Anything!”
“I drove past a new place on the way home—not exactly Chink; Polynesian, I guess, or maybe early Dorothy Lamour. Anyhow, the sign said grand opening tonight. Let’s try it.”
They finished their martinis and got into the Jaguar Mark VII and drove to Beverly Hills and stopped in front of a new restaurant built of bamboo and roofed with thatch and adorned with pagan idols and girt with coconut palms and illuminated with tall torches and named, inevitably, the Muu-Muu.
The exterior decor was repeated indoors—more bamboo, thatch, idols, palms, and torches; plus war masks, spears, fan-backed chairs of rattan, and dusky waiters festooned with leis and sporting chicken bones in their hair.
The headwaiter approached, grinning hugely. “Good evening, Mr. Shapian, Mrs. Shapian. Your table is ready.”
“But I haven’t got a reservation,” said Ira.
The waiter chuckled so hard that his chicken bones rattled. “Sahib is humorous tonight,” he simpered, wagging a forefinger. “This way, please.”
