"Could I meet you at the theatre? I have to see somebody with my aunt at six."
"Certainly, if you like."
Here is a note Corinne sent to me:
Bobby,
I didn’t mean to hold out on you when I came to the Big Business. It was just that I didn’t feel up to talking about it. I’ve written it down for you, though. I’ve written it down in the form of a private detective’s log, a technique straight out of a Freshman English Comp I wrote at Wellesley when I thought it might be nice to become a lady detective later on. I got a C-plus for the comp along with an infuriating note from the instructor saying I was quite original, but a little precious, and that we don’t really "tail" a scarlet tanager, do we, Miss von Nordhoffen. . . I’ll take the same grade and a similar remark from you, and gladly, in exchange for the comfortable delusion that I couldn’t possibly have known—in person, I mean—any of the ladies mentioned in the report. Anyway, here it is. Sleep no more.
Love,
C.
On Monday evening, May 10, 1937, Mr. and Mrs. Ford—who had been married three weeks to the day—met Miss Croft outside the Alvin Theatre and the three went inside together to attend the performance of Hiya, Broadway, Hiya. After the theatre the three went to the bar of the Weylin Hotel, where just after the midnight performance of some singers known as The Rancheros, Mr. Ford leaned across the table and in a very cordial manner invited Miss Croft to attend his lecture at the institute the following morning. Mrs. Ford impulsively reached forward and pressed her husband’s hand. The three people remained at the Weylin bar until approximately one A.M., speaking together in a most friendly manner and watching the entertainment. Mr. and Mrs. Ford dropped Miss Croft off at The Waldorf-Astoria at approximately one-ten A.M. Emotionally, almost at the point of tears, Miss Croft thanked both Mr. and Mrs. Ford for "the loveliest evening of my life."
Mrs. Ford held her husband’s hand as the taxi continued on its way to their apartment house. Mr. Ford remarked, as they ascended in the elevator to their apartment, that he had a splitting headache. Once they were inside their apartment Mrs. Ford insisted that Mr. Ford take two asprins: one for being the "best boy in the world" and one to make him eligible to kiss his wife.
On Tuesday morning, May eleventh, Miss Croft attended Mr. Ford’s eleven-o’clock lecture, sitting in the rearmost seat in the lecture hall. She then accompanied Mr. Ford to lunch at a Chinese-type restaurant located three blocks south of the university. Mr. Ford quietly mentioned this fact to Mrs. Ford at dinner. Mrs. Ford asked Mr. Ford which table he and Miss Croft had sat at. Mr. Ford said he didn’t remember; near the door he believed. Mrs. Ford asked Mr. Ford what he and Miss Croft had talked about at lunch. Mr. Ford replied quietly that he was sorry, but that he really hadn’t brought along a Dictaphone for lunch.
After dinner Mrs. Ford informed her husband that she was going to take the dog for a walk. She asked Mr. Ford if he would like to join her, but he declined, saying that he had a great deal of work to look over.
When Mrs. Ford returned to the apartment two hours later—from a walk up Park Avenue almost as far as the Spanish Quarter—the lights were out both in Mr. Ford’s study and in his bedroom.
Mrs. Ford sat alone in the living room until shortly after two A.M., at which time she heard Mr. Ford screaming in his bedroom. She then burst into Mr. Ford’s bedroom, where she found Mr. Ford apparently asleep in his bed. He continued to scream although Mrs. Ford shook him as violently as she was able. His pajamas and sheets were wringing wet with perspiration.
When Mr. Ford came to, he reached at once for his glasses on the night table. Even with his glasses on he seemed unable for several seconds to recognize his wife, although Mrs. Ford frantically continued to identify herself. At last, staring at her evenly, he spoke her name; but with great difficulty, like a man physically and emotionally exhausted.
Mrs. Ford, stammering badly, told Mr. Ford that she was going to get him a cup of hot milk. She then moved unsteadily out to the kitchen, poured some milk into a pot, searched rather wildly for the Magic Ignition Light, finally found it. She heated the mild and returned with a cup of it to her husband’s room. Mr. Ford was now asleep again, with his hands clenched at his sides. Mrs. Ford set the cup of milk of the night table and climbed into bed beside Mr. Ford. She lay awake the rest of the night. Mr. Ford did not scream again in his sleep, but between the hours of four and five A.M., he wept. Mrs. Ford maneuvered her whole body as close as possible to Mr. Ford’s, but there seemed to be no way of relieving him of his sorrow or even reaching it.
Wednesday morning, May twelfth, at breakfast, Mrs. Ford casually (so she thought) asked Mr. Ford what he had dreamed during the night. Mr. Ford looked up from his dry corn flakes and replied unelaborately that last night he had dreamed his first "unpleasant dream" in a long time. Mrs. Ford asked him again what he had dreamed. Mr. Ford replied quietly that nightmares are nightmares and that he could get along without a Freudian analysis. Mrs. Ford said equally quietly (so she thought) that she didn’t want to give Mr. Ford a Freudian analysis even were she qualified to do so. She said she was merely Mr. Ford’s wife and that she wanted to make Mr. Ford happy. She began to cry. Mr. Ford placed his face between his hands, but after a moment he stood up and left the room. Mrs. Ford rushed after him and found him standing in the outer hall, holding his briefcase, but without a hat. He was waiting for the elevator. Mrs. Ford asked Mr. Ford whether he loved her. But at that instant the elevator doors opened, and Mr. Ford, entering the car without his hat, said he would see Mrs. Ford at dinner.
Mrs. Ford dressed and went to her office. Her behavior at the magazine offices, that Wednesday afternoon, might be called "erratic." She was observed to slap the face of Mr. Robert Waner, when the latter lightly addressed her, at an editor’s meeting, as "Mary Sunshine." After the said act, Mrs. Ford apologized to Mr. Waner, but she did not accept his invitation to accompany him to Maxie’s Bar for a drink.
At seven P.M. Mr. Ford telephoned his apartment and told Mrs. Ford that he would not be home to dine as he was obliged to attend a faculty meeting at the university.
Mr. Ford did not come home until eleven-fifteen P.M. at which time Mrs. Ford, who was out walking her wire-haired terrier, encountered him on the street. Mr. Ford objected when the dog attempted to greet him by jumping on his person. Mrs. Ford pointed out that Mr. Ford ought to be flattered that Malcolm (the dog) had learned to love him in such a short time. Mr. Ford said he could get along without having Malcolm jump all over him with his filthy paws. They then went up in the elevator together. Mr. Ford remarked that he had a great deal of work to look over and went into his study. Mrs. Ford went into her own room and closed the door.
At breakfast Thursday morning, May thirteenth, Mrs. Ford remarked to her husband that she wished she hadn’t made a theatre date with the little Croft girl for that night. Mrs. Ford said she was tired and didn’t care to see the play a second time, but that Miss Croft ought to see Bankhead if she had never seen her. Mr. Ford nodded. Then Mrs. Ford asked him if by chance he had seen Bunny Croft again. Mr. Ford asked, in reply, how in the world could he possibly have seen Miss Croft. Mrs. Ford said she didn’t know; she said she just thought Miss Croft might have attended his lecture again. Mr. Ford finished his breakfast, kissed Mrs. Ford good-by, and left.
Thursday evening Mrs. Ford waited outside the Morosco Theatre until eight-fifty P.M., at which time she went to the box office, left a ticket in Miss Croft’s name, and entered the theatre all alone.
At the end of the first act of the play she went directly home, arriving there at approximately nine-forty P.M. She learned at the door from Rita, the maid, that Mr. Ford had not yet come home form his Thursday-evening class and that his dinner was getting "ice-cold." She instructed Rita to clear the table.
Mrs. Ford stayed in a hot bath until she felt a little faint. Then she dressed herself for the street, leashed Malcolm, and took him out for a walk.
Mrs. Ford and Malcolm walked five blocks
north and one block west, and entered a popular restaurant. Mrs. Ford left Malcolm in the checkroom; then she sat down at the bar and, in the course of an hour, drank three Scotch old-fashioneds. Then she and the dog returned to the apartment, arriving there approximately eleven forty-five P.M. Mr. Ford still had not arrived home.
Mrs. Ford immediately left her apartment again—leaving Malcolm behind.
She went down in the elevator and the apartment-house doorman got her a taxi. She ordered the driver to stop at Forty-second Street and Broadway. There she got out of the taxi and proceeded west on foot. She entered the De Luxe Theatre, and all-night movie house, and stayed there throughout one complete performance, seeing two full-length films, four short subjects, and a newsreel.
She then left the De Luxe Theatre and went by taxi directly home, arriving there at three- forty A.M. Mr. Ford still had not arrived home.
Mrs. Ford immediately went down in the elevator again with Malcolm. At approximately four A.M., having twice walked completely around the block, Mrs. Ford encountered Mr. Ford under the canopy of their apartment-house as he was getting out of a taxi. He was wearing a new hat. Mrs. Ford said hello to Mr. Ford and asked him where did he get the hat. Mr. Ford did not seem to hear the question.
As Mr. and Mrs. Ford ascended in the elevator together, Mrs. Ford’s knees suddenly buckled. Mr. Ford tried to draw Mrs. Ford up to a normal standing position, but his attempt was strangely incompetent, and it was the elevator operator who lent Mrs. Ford real assistance.
Mr. Ford seemed to have a great difficulty inserting his key into the lock of his apartment door. He suddenly turned and asked Mrs. Ford if she thought he was drunk. Somewhat inarticulately, Mrs. Ford replied that she did think Mr. Ford had been drinking. Mr. Ford asked her to speak more distinctly. Mrs. Ford said again that she thought Mr. Ford had been drinking. Mr. Ford, successfully unlocking his front door, stated in a loud voice that he had eaten an olive from "her" Martini. Mrs. Ford, trembling, asked from whose Martini. "From her Martini," Mr. Ford repeated.
As the two entered their apartment together, Mrs. Ford, still trembling, asked her husband whether he knew that Miss Croft had left her standing at the Morosco Theatre. Mr. Ford’s reply was unintelligible. He walked, swayed perceptibly, toward his bedroom.
At approximately five A.M. Mrs. Ford heard Mr. Ford get out of his bed, and apparently ill, go into his bathroom.
With the use of sedatives Mrs. Ford managed to fall asleep at approximately seven A.M.
She awoke at approximately eleven-ten A.M., at which time she rang for her maid, who informed her that Mr. Ford had left the apartment more than an hour ago.
Mrs. Ford immediately dressed and without eating breakfast went by taxi to her office.
At approximately one-ten P.M. Mr. Ford telephoned Mrs. Ford at her office to say that he was at Pennsylvania Station and that he was leaving New York with Miss Croft. He said that he was very sorry and then hung up.
Mrs. Ford carefully replaced her phone and then fainted, loosening one of her front teeth against a filing cabinet.
As she was alone in her office and no one had heard her fall she remained unconscious for several minutes.
She regained consciousness by herself. She then drank a quarter of a glass of brandy and went home.
At home she found Mr. Ford’s bedroom and closets completely empty of his few personal effects. She then rushed into Mr. Ford’s study—followed by Rita, the maid, who explained rather laconically that Mr. Ford himself had pushed the desk back against the wall. Mrs. Ford looked slowly around the freshly reconverted playroom, then again fainted.
On May twenty-third—another Sunday—Rita, the maid, rapped imperiously on the door of Corinne’s bedroom. Corinne told her to come in.
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. Corinne was lying on her bed, fully dressed. Her window blinds were drawn down. She knew, vaguely, that she was a fool not to let the sunshine into the room, but in nine days she had grown to hate the sight of it.
"I can’t hear you," she said, without turning over to face Rita’s unattractive voice.
"I said, Chick the doorman’s on the house-phone," Rita said. "He says there’s a gentleman in the lobby wansta see you."
"I don’t want to see anybody, Rita. Find out who it is."
"Yes, ma’am." Rita went out and came in again. "You know a Miss Craft or somebody?" she demanded.
Corinne’s body jumped under the bedspread she had drawn over her. "Tell whoever it is to come up."
"Now?"
"Yes, Rita. Now." Corinne stood up unsteadily. "And will you please show him into the living room?"
"I was just gonna clean in there. I haven’t cleaned in there yet."
"Show him into the living room, Rita, please."
Rita walked sullenly out of the room.
As people do who have chosen to live in a supine position, once she was on her feet Corinne went into action a little crazily. It seemed of prime importance to her to take out from under her night table Ford’s two books of poems and walk up and down the room with them for a little while.
She suddenly replaced the books under her night table. Then she combed her hair and put on lipstick. Her dress was badly wrinkled, but she didn’t change it.
As she walked carefully into the living room, a man with wavy blond hair stood up. The man was in his early thirties, with a physique that was turning fat, but which had a look of tremendous animal power. He was wearing a pale green sports coat and a yellow polo shirt open at the collar. Several inches of white handkerchief drooped out of his breast pocket.
"Mrs. Ford?"
"Yes..."
"My card." He pushed something into Corinne’s hand. Corinne slanted the card toward the daylight:
I’M HOWIE CROFT
Are you, Bud?
She started to return the card, but Mr. Howie Croft sank away from her into the upholstery of the couch, waving a hand. "Keep it," he said generously.
Framing the card in her hand, Corinne herself sat down in the red damask chair opposite her visitor.
She asked a little stiffly, "Are you closely related to Miss Croft?"
"Are you kidding?"
Corinne’s reply was delivered down her handsome nose: "Mr. Croft, I’m not especially in the habit of—"
"Look, hey. I’m Howie Croft. I’m Bunny’s husband."
Impressed, Corinne immediately fainted.
When she came to, she had a choice of looking into either or both of the alarmed, faintly inconvenienced faces of Howie Croft and Rita. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Howie Croft and Rita placed her feet up on the couch. She swung then now, a trifle arrogantly, to the floor. "I’m all right, Rita," she said. "I’ll take some of that, thought." She drank half a pony of brandy. "You can go, Rita. I’m all right. I’m damned sick and tired of fainting..."
As Rita left the room, Howie Croft moved uneasily over to the red damask chair Corinne had vacated. He sat down and crossed his legs—which were huge; each thigh a whole athlete in itself.
"I’m sure sorry to of scared you that way, Mrs. Field."
"Ford."
"I meant Ford—I know a coupla people named Field." Howie Croft uncrossed his legs.
"Uh—so you didn’t know I and Bunny were married?"
"No. No. I did not."
Howie Croft laughed. "Sure. We been married eleven years," he said. "Cigarette?" He snapped the bottom of a fresh pack to cigarettes with his finger, then sociably, without getting up, extended the pack to Corinne.
"What do you mean you’ve been married eleven years?" Corinne demanded coldly.
For a split second Howie Croft looked like a schoolboy unjustly accused of chewing gum in class, but whose involuntary reaction is to swallow when challenged.
"Well, ten years and eight months, if you wanna be so eggzact," he said. "Cigarette?"
Something in Corinne’s face told him to stop offering her a cigarette. He shrugged his forehead, lighted his
own cigarette, put the pack back in his breast pocket, and carefully rearranged his handkerchief.
Corinne spoke to him.
"I beg your pardon?" Howie Croft said politely.
Corinne repeated her question, in a harsh voice.
"What girl’s twenty years old?" Howie Croft inquired.
"Your wife."
"Bunny?" Howie Croft snorted. "You’re nuts. She’s older’n me and I’m thirty-one."
Swiftly Corinne wondered whether doormen and people had sense enough to cover up immediately the bodies of people who jumped out of apartment-house windows. She didn’t want to jump without a guarantee that somebody would cover her up immediately. . . She forced herself to pick up Howie Croft’s voice.
"She looks a lot younger," Howie Croft was analyzing, "because she’s got small bones. People with small bones don’t get old the way people like you and I. Know what I mean?"
Corinne didn’t reply to this question, but asked a question of her own.
Howie Croft didn’t hear her. "I don’t getcha," he said, and cupped his ear. "Say that again."
She repeated her question—louder.
Before replying, Howie Croft got rid of a troublesome bit of tobacco on his tongue. Then he said, not impatiently, "Look, hey. She can’t be twenty. We got a kid eleven years old."
"Mr. Croft—"
"Call me Howie," he suggested. "Unless you wanna stand on this ceremonies stuff."
With a shiver Corinne asked him if he were telling her the complete truth.
"Look, hey. What would I lie for? I mean what would I lie for? How old did she tell you she was?" But he waved away his interest in a reply. "She’s nuts," he pronounced rather cheerfully. "She was always nuts."
He settled back comfortably on the lower part of his spine and assumed the kind of philosophical countenance available to him.
"Look, hey. I come home on Thursday. From this special trip I hadda make for the firm. I look around the house. No Bunny anywheres. Even though she was supposta be back at least a week awreddy. So I call up my mom. My mom tells me Bunny hasn’t got back yet. She starts yellin’ her head off on the phone. She tells me the kid’s broken—broken—his leg climbin’ on some roof. She keeps yellin’ over the phone about how she hasn’t strength enough to take care of the kid and where’s his mother anyways, and so finly I hang up. I can’t stand somebody yellin’ in my ear over the phone.
22 Out-of-print J. D. Salinger Stories Page 23
