Island, p.49
Island, page 49
The beautiful girl phoned to somebody else, and another beautiful girl appeared a minute later, led him through a door and up a flight of stairs and into Fran’s office. It was in the front of the building, with a large window facing the street. With her back to it, at a desk that Fenn R. Wilking would not have been ashamed of, sat Fran. She was wearing a gray wool suit and a pair of large horn-rimmed spectacles. She waited until the beautiful girl had closed the door, then jumped up.
“Fred, what are you doing here?”
“I was in town. I thought I’d drop in.” He had trouble getting the words out.
“You look—You’ve shaved your beard.” She came around the desk and held out her hand. He took it, shook it, didn’t let go.
“You look well, Fred.”
“You look terrific.” Still he held her hand.
She made a small effort to withdraw it. He held on. “Let’s not—” Still he held on. He didn’t know what else to do.
“Fred, you know how we—”
“Yes. How we.” With those unlocking words, he drew her toward himself. Miraculously, she let him. They embraced. Oh, sweet Christ. Maybe there was a chance after all.
“Not here,” she said breathlessly. “Lisa—”
“Lisa?”
“My secretary. She keeps coming in.”
“Do you have a lock on the door?”
“Yes.”
“Lock it.”
“Oh, no.” A shocked voice. “What would Lisa think?”
“The important thing,” he said, still holding her, “is what do you think?”
“Me? I don’t know what to think. You always come up so suddenly. You startle me. Please let me go. Lisa—” She was trying to withdraw her face to avoid his kiss but clinging to him with the rest of herself. “Fred … oh, Fred. Why did you come?”
“You didn’t.”
Her phone rang. She wrestled herself away to answer it. “Yes? But he’s not due till four…. Oh, it is? Uh, I have a … I’ll … Yes, I’ll … Just give me a minute.” She hung up. “I have to see him. I made an appointment. Go down to the shop and buy something. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“I can’t afford anything in your shop.”
“Pretend to buy.” She pressed a button on her desk and urged him toward the door. Lisa appeared. “Take Mr. Fay to the shop. I’ll see Mr. Neefus.”
Lisa did so, although she did give him a glance; his meeting with Fran had lasted about a minute, and Fran must have seemed breathless. He planted himself in front of a glass case full of small square iced cakes, pink and white and yellow ones, with chocolate designs scribbled on them. He studied them with great concentration. Two customers came in, and each parted with thirty or forty dollars before leaving.
“Try one,” said the beautiful girl.
“Uh?”
“If you can’t make up your mind. They’re very good. They have mocha cream inside.”
He pointed to a yellow one.
“You chose the best. They’re made with grated lemon peel. Gives the mocha that tang.”
He bit into it. It was indecently rich and delicious.
“I told you, didn’t I? How many would you like?”
“How much are they?”
“A dollar apiece. Or ten dollars a dozen.”
“Maybe I should try one of the pink ones.”
At that point Lisa reappeared. “Miss Collins will see you now.”
This time he went right to the point. “I came because Mindy told me you had broken off with Corky.”
“You talked to Mindy?”
“She said you did that right after you left Lincoln Harbor.”
“How did you talk to Mindy?”
“She was up there. I think she’s there right now.” He described the incident of the flaming garbage can.
“That was probably a letter she got from Mr. Wright. Mindy is in a terrible situation.”
“Getting back to Corky—”
“Mindy is in a crisis with Ebby.”
“If you’re not going to marry Corky, how about marrying me?”
“They split. You don’t know what a terrible situation this is. Ebby found out about Mr. Wright. What did you say?”
“I said something about marriage.”
“Oh. Oh … that. Fred, I just don’t… Things are in such a terrible mess here right now. I’m so worried about Mindy. And Ebby has been behaving terribly.”
“How about Corky? How’s he been behaving?”
“Corky has been behaving better than Ebby. But not well.”
“Is that why you broke off with him?”
“No, Fred. Another reason.”
“Have you broken off?”
“Yes. Mindy is correct in that statement about me and Corky.”
“So what’s all the big fuss about?”
“It’s such a long complicated story. I just can’t discuss it here. I’m so … I have another appointment at five o’clock. Where are you staying?”
“I’m not staying anywhere. I just got here.”
“Maybe we could meet for dinner and talk. I could talk to you at dinner. I still have to make the waitress assignments for a party tonight. I have to do that now. You don’t know where you’re staying?”
“I could call Bob Dixon.”
“Come back here at seven. I’ll manage something.” She pressed her buzzer again to summon Lisa. “Mr. Fay is taking me to dinner. Please make a reservation at the Caligula. Has Mrs. Buskirk come yet?”
Out on the street, he felt dizzy. She had seen him. More, she had seemed warm, actually more than warm. But it was hard to tell. She was whirling around so fast in the steam boiler of her business that there hadn’t been any time to take reliable measurements.
He boarded a bus, rode down to Seventy-first Street, and rang the bell of Bob’s house, calculating the exact balance of cordiality and reserve with which he would greet Fletcher. But Fletcher did not open the door; a maid did.
No, there was no Mr. Dixon living here.
No, she did not know where he had gone.
No, the owners were away and could not tell him.
Baffled, he walked over to Madison Avenue to consult the nearest telephone book. There was no Robert Dixon listed. Feeling somewhat jarred by the high pressure he had encountered in Fran’s office, and now with his only remaining, reassuring contact gone in this city, which was calling up old insecurities wave on wave, he wondered what to do next, then thought of Walker Virdonette. Walker would know where Bob was. With relief, he located Walker in the phone book—office and home, he was glad to see—and rang the office, hoping that Walker would remember him. How could he not after all those evenings in Seventy-first Street? And the quail shooting in Georgia? And those tall sensational girls Walker liked to bring with him. Just the sound of Walker’s cheerful voice coming over the phone gave him a lift. He explained that he was trying to locate Bob Dixon. “I was hoping to find a bed there, but there are new people in the house.”
“That’s right, he sold it. But if you’re looking for a bed, I have one. In fact, I’m alone tonight. Want to have dinner?”
He explained that he already had a date but could drop in afterward.
“Good. I’m at 808 Park. Just a few blocks up from Bob’s. See you later.”
Now what?
With a couple of hours to kill, it occurred to him to make real a fantasy that had tickled him off and on for a year or more. As events had reminded him of Hennerkop, he had had several imaginary conversations with him, reminding him of the effort he had made to block the move to Lincoln Harbor. “See, it turned out well,” he would say. “Look at me. I’m sober. I’m a respectable person.” Lying in bed at night, it had been easy to conduct those conversations, but now, standing on a street corner in the same city with the man who was privy to the most humiliating and shameful parts of his life, who undoubtedly saw him as a worthless man who, in the end, had run away, could he face that dread authority?
He looked at his watch, remembering that Hennerkop’s office was only half a dozen blocks away. Why not? Didn’t he owe it to himself to show Hennerkop another side, a better side, of himself? And didn’t he owe it to Hennerkop to thank him for whatever he had done to remake him? He went back to the phone booth.
“Yes?”
“This is Fred Fay.”
“Yes?”
That careful, noncommittal, measured voice, that gray voice. In one syllable all the sessions came rushing back. He fought down an urge to hang up the phone. “You remember me?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m in New York. I wondered if I might drop in.”
“Yes.”
“How about this afternoon? I’m free right now.”
“Not this afternoon. I am sorry. But I can see you at ten tomorrow.”
“Same place?”
“The same place.”
Still with time to kill, he strolled up Madison Avenue, looking into the store windows. Never one to pay much attention to furniture or pictures or china—Julia had taken care of all that—he now found himself studying chairs and candlesticks and silver desk sets, feasting on the extraordinary bazaar that Madison Avenue was, as he for the first time began to imagine how this or that object might fit into his own house. He found it hard to do. Everything looked so rich and rare, and such a bewildering variety of styles were represented, that he again felt oppressed by the rush and opulence of this city, by the very crowding of wealth and choice that gushed out on him. Buy me, buy me. Preen yourself with me. Make a statement; let the world know what an appreciator of rarity and, even more important, what an afforder of rarity you are.
He did see one blue-and-white Chinese bowl that he instantly felt would look beautiful in his house. He went inside and asked the price.
“Six hundred dollars.”
“Isn’t that a crack there?”
“Yes, a very slight one. If it weren’t for the crack, the price would be three thousand dollars.”
He continued his walk, dawdling along. Even so, he got to Fran’s house fifteen minutes early and found her in the shop, directing the arrangement of some of the merchandise. She was wearing a plain black dress and a string of pearls and looked ravishing as she scuttled about, getting a better display for tomorrow’s pastries at the expense of the caviar.
“We have to sell these perishable things right away. So we have to give them a chance to advertise themselves. Like these croissants. Up on that shelf, nobody would see them. Down here, how could you resist them?” One of her beautiful girls followed her around, taking notes.
“We’ll go to Caligula now. We’ll talk. It’s right around the corner.” She slipped her arm in his, and he wondered if she remembered all those other times they had walked, dizzied by alcohol and desire, to his office—arm in arm then also, but bodies pressed close. If she did remember, she gave no sign of it but let her arm hang comfortably loose in his.
Caligula’s was on Madison, a sumptuous small restaurant tucked away in the bottom floor of a brownstone. The proprietor greeted Fran effusively and led them to a banquette in the corner, handing out leather-bound menus two feet tall.
“I can’t eat here,” he said, looking at the prices.
“You can tonight,” she said. “This is my treat. Anyway, I have an arrangement with them here. I come here so often and have sent them so many customers that they charge me twenty dollars, whatever I eat. Besides, I’m dieting to try and keep thin, and what they lose on you they’ll make up on me. I think you should have the sweetbreads on toast. They’re a specialty here. And so good. He gave me the recipe, and I use it often as a Fran’s Favorite.”
“I thought Fran’s Favorites were your beautiful girls.”
“No, Fred. A Fran’s Favorite is something I serve. Those are the things I am known for as a caterer. Not a girl. I can’t help it if people think of my girls as favorites. Anyway, every time somebody asks me about those delicious sweetbreads, I tell them that they come from the Caligula. We are good friends here, and when they have something else that seems special enough to be a Fran’s Favorite, they give me that recipe too.” Without even looking at the enormous menu, she signaled the waiter. “Mr. Fay will have the sweetbreads, and I’ll have some veal with lemon. And a nice salad for two. And a glass of Sancerre for me.” She glanced at him.
He shook his head. “Just water, please.”
They were sitting side by side on the banquette. He would have preferred to be facing her so that he could talk directly at her, watch her expression as he spoke to see how she was responding. Now he had to sidle away a little and turn awkwardly to look at her, not the ideal setting for what he suspected would be the most important conversation of his life. Apparently she sensed his dilemma, for she backed away slightly herself and turned to face him. Her loveliness was stupefying, crooked tooth and all. So chic, so up now, so beautiful, so composed. His heart was wallowing in deep troughs, in such imminent danger of swamping that he plunged in recklessly, glimpsing that straight talk, fearsome as it might be, was the way to go.
“You never finished about Corky.”
“Finished?”
“I asked you why you broke up with him. You never said.”
“I am not in love with Corky. I will not marry Corky.”
“Will you marry me?”
The waiter arrived with small slabs of pâté on beds of lettuce, and a plate of delicate melba toast. “Compliments of Monsieur Bourseau.”
“He’s always doing nice things like this,” said Fran.
He shoved his pâté aside. “Will you?”
“Eat it, Fred. It’s delicious.”
“How can I eat it if you won’t answer my question?”
“Fred …” Her face was pink. She picked at her pâté. “Fred, this is a poor time to ask that question.”
“Why?”
“Because everything is in such a mess right now. You don’t know what a mess everything has been since Ebby found out about Mindy and Mr. Wright.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“Everything. Ebby is very angry at me ever since …” Another attempt at her pâté and a nervous sip of the wine the waiter had brought. “Did you ever know that Mr. Wright had an apartment in New York? Not his home—that’s up in Bedford Hills—but right here in New York.”
He remembered, all right. He had been in the room when Mr. Wright set up Mindy with Ebby, promising her an evening in that apartment the following night.
“Ebby got suspicious of Mr. Wright. Up to this very moment right now I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because they were having Mr. Wright to dinner so often because of the advertising connection. Or maybe it was something he spotted between them that they couldn’t hide. Or maybe … I sometimes wonder if Corky didn’t know about this and say something to Ebby. Anyway, Ebby hired a detective to watch Mindy, and when she came home one evening he confronted her. He asked her what she was doing in Mr. Wright’s apartment. She said she had just gone there for a drink after shopping. But it frightened her so that she refused to go back there again. And with no other place to go, she asked me if she could meet Mr. Wright at my place. You know, Mindy was passionately in love with Mr. Wright. How could I say no? So I said yes. And they did meet several times, when I had a party and they knew I would be home late. They always left the place so neat. You would never have known two people had been there.”
She finished her pâté. He ate his, scarcely tasting it. “The trouble is Ebby found out about that also. I think Ginger told him. Ebby and Ginger have been very close lately. Actually they went on a trip together. To Dallas. Ebby has beer business there, and he took Ginger along because he says they should be thinking about opening up a Fran’s Favorites there.”
“A branch?” he asked.
“Actually I think Ebby and Ginger are lovers. Ginger was very cool to me when they got back. Ebby called me down to his office and said he didn’t want Mindy going into my house anymore. I said that Mindy was my friend and that I wouldn’t keep her out of my house. He said it was his house, because I had paid up only about thirty percent of what I owed him, and if I didn’t he would put me out.”
“Could he do that?”
“And the truck. I haven’t paid for it.”
“You could borrow the money.”
“I don’t think so. It’s too much. I still owe fifty thousand on the house and fifteen thousand on the truck. That’s sixty-five thousand dollars.”
“Maybe I could raise it. I’ll sell the island.”
“And if they start bad-mouthing me, I’d lose business. In a way, they own me. Ebby is such a powerful person. And Ginger … I need her. Ginger looks after the girls, finds them for me, makes them behave and all. I can’t do that—even if I had the time. I spend my day preparing parties. And in the evening I’m at them, seeing that everything is going right. I have to go to one tonight.” She seemed on the verge of tears.
He said again: “I could raise the money.”
“Ginger could wreck me just by having a few girls not show up or behave badly on a job. It’s your name, your reputation. It’s all you have. I’m a fad, you know. Fads don’t last very long. I understand that. Rich people want me because other rich people do.”
“But isn’t your reputation based on the good parties you give?”
“That’s part of it, of course. But not all. It’s a risky business, because it depends on rich people. And you can’t always depend on them.”
“But Mindy would continue with you, wouldn’t she?”
“That would depend on what happens to Mindy. I think Ebby wants a divorce. I know he wants a divorce. That’s why he has that detective, to make sure Mindy doesn’t get a big settlement and to make sure he keeps their children.”
“Well,” he said, “let her get a divorce and marry Mr. Wright.”
She gave him a devastated look. “Men in your class don’t marry the girls they love that aren’t in their class. You should know that.”
