Sam by Lonnie Coleman

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lonnie Coleman was born in Georgia in 1920. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he served in the Navy from 1942 to 1946. Since the war he has lived in New York, and written the following books: The Sound of Spanish Voices, Clara, Adams' Way, Ship's Company, The Southern Lady, and Hot Spell. Hot Spell has been made into a film, and Adams' Way has been adapted for the stage under the title of Jolly's Progress.

SAM
--------------------------------Lonnie Coleman

PYRAMID BOOKS, 444 Madison Avenue, New York 22, New York

SAM, by Lonnie Coleman

This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended between any character herein and any person, living or dead; any such resemblance is purely coincidental.

To Paul and Naome Walsh

A Pyramid Book, published by arrangement with David McKay Company, Inc. Pyramid edition: second printing, March 1962

Copyright, © 1959, by Lonnie Coleman All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America

one
WALTER said, ""We really ought to be going, Sam." The pregnant Adeline said, "You don't have to go yet, please? It's Friday night." Sam smiled at her. Walter said, "Everybody's tired." Adeline said, "I'm not tired, even though I've been carrying this child around all day. All day—" She laughed. "All year. Toby's not tired, are you, Toby?" Toby said, "Ad men are never tired," and smiled at them like an advertising man, to prove it. "Who'd like another drink?" Sam looked at Walter. "One more." Walter shrugged and got up from his chair. Going to the mantelpiece, he picked up a figurine. It was the action of an actor in a play. Walter was an actor. He almost never forgot it, nor did anyone else. "It's your party tomorrow, and if you want to start it tired, you can start it tired. You know nobody will leave until you lock up the liquor." On the sofa Adeline squirmed ungracefully, looking a little like a frog. "I'll break everything up at a decent hour. I'll pretend to have labor pains and howl the house down. There's nothing like a pregnant woman to scare the wits out of people." Toby called from the kitchen, where he had gone to get ice and whisky, "You're a fool to go." "It's my last party before the baby, and I'm going," she said, indicating that this was a familiar disagreement by not raising her voice to match his. She dropped her hand to Sam's shoulder. Sam was sitting on a cushion on the floor beside her. He turned his head so that his cheek lay against her hand. She stroked his cheek absently with the back of her hand, and he rubbed his lips against her fingers without kissing them. Toby came in from the kitchen. Walter set down the figurine he had not really been examining, caught Toby's ironic grimace, and looked quickly at Sam. "Aren't they disgusting?" Walter said. "Steady on," Toby answered. "I'm the husband." "Nobody would ever know," Walter said. Adeline roused herself from her little reverie. "That isn't nice, Walter." She smiled at Toby. "We know." Sam got up from the floor and sat in a chair. "Where's your glass?" Toby said to Walter. "I don't know. I don't want anything." "Have a little one," Sam urged, holding out his own glass for replenishing. "I'll look puffy tomorrow if I do, and I'm seeing Eloise McKenzie." "Not until the party," Sam said. "I've got a luncheon date." "With that-who?" "Jane Frisbie."

"Girl reporter," Adeline said. Walter gave her a sharp look, but she smiled with eagerness and good will she did not feel. "We're really going to see old Walter on the stage! Isn't that exciting! No more television— except for big guest spots, of course—" "It isn't at all certain; we're just talking," Walter said warily, but he sat down beside her to show that he was not really cross. She took one of his big brown hands into her small white ones. "Oh, you know it is!" "I haven't met Eva Fairchild yet. She's the one who'll decide." Adeline shook her head. "Eloise McKenzie is the toughest rose petal in New York, and she is not coming to your party because she is just sort of thinking of you for the part. You've got it, old son." Walter looked at Sam, who was sipping his drink and not looking at anyone. "Even Eloise McKenzie is not unaware of the opportunities of a party given by Samuel Kendrick. She has to finance her play, you know. " "Is Sam putting money in the play?" Adeline asked in surprise. "Sam hasn't been asked," Sam said. Adeline clapped her hands. "Wouldn't that be heavenly. So old-fashioned, the rich man putting money into a play to give his —" "Lover," Walter said quickly when she hesitated. "—friend a chance on the silver stage. Just the way I thought New York was before I came to New York. I suppose things never really happen that way. Such a disappointment. New York's as tame as Hiccup, Wisconsin." "Is it really called Hiccup? I've never believed that," Sam said. "Of course it is." "You never showed it to me on the map." "It's too little to be on the map." Toby smiled at them all as he sat down with his drink. "My wife, the milkmaid. Did she ever tell you about the time she delivered her baby brother, Sam? It was winter, and the snow was up to Paul Bunyan's ass. There was no telephone, no way to get a doctor, and her father was too drunk to help—or was he scared, Addie? Anyway, twelve-year-old Adeline boiled lots of hot water, and before you can say, 'O, Pioneers,' the cord was cut; she was holding the little one by his ankles and spanking his bottom. And through the cold farmhouse rang the angry cry of the newborn. Did she ever tell you that, Sam?" "Yes," Sam said, smiling at Adeline. "Yes," Toby said. His eyes closed a little, but he kept his voice light. "I was forgetting. You've known each other such a time. Makes us feel out of things, doesn't it, Walter? As if the play started long before we got to our seats" "What?" Walter said. Sam said, "Toby, don't you know actors never listen when the talk isn't about them?" Adeline had been pressing and rolling a damp paper napkin in her hands, making a small, hard ball of it. "Ah, I'll tell you," she said, shifting her heaviness again on the sofa and blinking her

eyes comically, "any girl in the world would give her eyeteeth or her eyes or her teeth, or all three—that's more than three—well, three kinds of things she'd give to be in my shoes—" "You're not wearing shoes," Sam said. "You a publisher and don't know a figure of speech when it hits you." She threw the ball of paper at him, hitting him on the chest. "Wake up, man. Shake off the shackles of your literal mind and live!" Toby said, "About this girl who'd give everything." "That's what I'm saying," Adeline resumed amiably. "To be sitting here, the only woman in the room with a smart advertising executive, a famous publisher, and a matinee idol." Toby laughed insultingly. Walter, who had been thinking his own thoughts, looked at him with surprise before turning to Sam. "No, Sam won't put money into the play. It would be too chancy." "That's show business," Sam said with a shrug. "He wouldn't," Walter continued, "because I might fail. He wouldn't because I might succeed." "You're too deep for me," Adeline said, pretending to yawn. "Finish your drink," Walter said. "Not yet," Sam said patiently, but with enough firmness to make Walter subside. "Everyone's so snappish," Adeline observed. "After that good dinner I cooked, and me with—" She hugged her belly and looked at it as if it were a person she knew. "It's because it's Tired Friday." "So let's go home." Walter laughed when he said it, but a little sharply. Sam said, "I want to stay a little longer because I'm tired." Toby said, "That makes sense." Sam nodded in a mock-pleased way and looked at Walter again. "If you say, 'Let's go home,' another time, I'll make you take the subway. And I'll make you take a piece of chalk and write on every subway step at the Fourth Street station, 'Next time I will be a good boy and let Sam finish his drink.' So, nnaah." Adeline said, "Toby-sweetie, are you going to wash the dishes in the morning?" "I guess so." Adeline squirmed again. "Oh, boys, you do buck a lady up with your little courtesies and witticisms. Let me tell you, this poor old knocked-up lady appreciates it." Toby said, "One of the boys at the office said to me this morning, "Who was that pregnant lady I seen you with last night?" "And you said," Adeline interrupted, "'That wasn't no pregnant lady, that was my Isetta.'" "How did you know?" "Because I wasn't with you last night." "You thinking of getting an Isetta?" Walter asked. Toby blinked at him. "No," he answered seriously, "it isn't really a family car."

"I'm hungry again," Walter said. "I thought actors were supposed to watch their figures," Adeline said. "You're one to talk," Toby said. "I never gain any weight," Walter said with innocent pride. "Toby, go feed the child," Adeline said. Toby got up. "There's some roast left. Let's go make a sandwich." They went into the kitchen together. "Alone at last," Adeline said with the gentle self-mockery that was characteristic of her. It was a habit of speaking that irritated some people, especially at first acquaintance, because it seemed to indicate that Adeline thought everything she said was witty or droll. It was, instead, a small veil she stretched over her embarrassment at being alive. Sam, who understood this, winked at her solemnly. "Such nice boys," she went on. Sam frowned. "If you like nice boys." "Hell, I like any kind I can get." She smiled quickly with her eyes, but Sam was not looking at her, or really listening to her. He had set his drink down and was looking at the palms of his hands. She said, "Are the pains getting closer together?" This he heard. Without looking up he said, "I haven't timed them." "When they begin to overlap, it's time to go." "It's not up to me. I can't do any more about them than you can about the ones you're going to have." He picked up his glass and took a big swallow. "You look like a frog with your feet under you that way," he said to dissolve the pity he saw in her eyes. "A pretty enough frog, but a frog," he added. She blinked to let him know she was not going to cry. "When I go to the hospital, I want you to stay with Toby." His eyebrows went up in surprise. "I'd rather have you with me, but I can't. So stay with Toby." "Why?" "He's crazy. He might do something strange." "What do you-" "Don't ask questions, Sam. Just promise." "All right." She smiled again with light self-mockery. "I tell you, boy, this is the life. I'm going to stay pregnant all the time." "You're coming back to work in a couple of months, aren't you?" "Why don't you turn over children's books to Joyce? She can do it." "Not as well as you. You're good with the artists, as well as those chirpy spinsters who write the things." "I meant it when I quit, Sam. Don't keep Joyce in suspense by calling it a leave of absence." "You don't know that you won't want to come back." "I want to spend time with my baby." "Which?"

Laughter came from the kitchen. Adeline cocked her head a moment, then nodded. "Toby. I almost couldn't tell which." "They're not alike." "Sure they are. Especially when they're together. They have to join forces against us." "They don't have to." "They think they do. That's why I'm not coming back to work. How old are you, Sam?" "You know I'm thirty-seven. And you're thirty-two." "All right!" she pretended to flare. "You don't have to be that way!" She slipped one of her feet out from under her and wriggled her long toes, looking at them a little distastefully. She was a small, daintily-made woman, and it used to distress her that she had such long feet. "If it's going to be bad, Sam, put it off until I'm able to help." "Being alive, you help." "This is the third time since I've known you. Each is harder." "I'm getting older." "I hate watching you do it. Maybe next time, someone nearer your age?" "I don't go out with a list like a housewife going to market. I meet somebody. Something happens or nothing happens." "Plaything of passion," she said with the old veil of mockery now opened to include him. After a pause she said, "Why does he want to deny it?" "Everyone has a large capacity for self-deception. " He stuck out his tongue at her. "I hope you don't mind our staying on a little." "You know I don't." "I'm too tired to talk to him tonight." "I know. Give me a cigarette." He offered her the pack from his jacket pocket and lit her cigarette with a paper match. Exhaling, she smiled for both of them and said, "Your trouble is, you're too serious. Affect a gay, sophisticated manner. Throw an occasional French phrase into your conversation. Wear an ascot on windy days. Practice laughing in front of your mirror. I do it all the time. See these lines around my eyes? Laughing can be fun. How's business?" "Don't ask." "Publishers always complain. Things are never as good as they used to be. I almost feel sorry for you until I see your list in the ads or have lunch with Joyce. How's old Sophie Rose Glover?" "Regular as a rabbit." "A new book in April?" He nodded. "I read a book of hers once. Zowie. She writes about food as if it were sex and sex as if it were food. Unbelievable." "Well, at least she can cook. I stayed with her a couple of days in Savannah when I was visiting Southern writers. What that woman can do with a little old helpless dead chicken would make your hair stand on end." "Ah, that's better. That's my Sam." She smiled at him lovingly. "Her hush puppies are the hushed-est puppies you ever put tooth to."

"What the hell are hush puppies?" "Honey-chile, you didn't read the right book. In Save Me from Sorrow she wrote four pages about them. The passage stands as her most lyrical." "I'll bet she adores you." "I wish I had more like her. She just writes and sells and never bothers me. But she's sharp with a contract." "How did you get her?" "She came to me. Said she wanted to be on a distinguished list. It was just after Jodelle got the Nobel prize." Sam affected a bad Southern accent. "Said, 'Honey, I know I'm not in that class, but I like good company, and I just wondered if you'd be interested!'" "What did you say?" "I smothered her with kisses and took her straight off to lunch at the Plaza to talk about it. Before we'd finished the first drink, she'd told me half the plot of a new book. But the thing that really tied it up was my having two desserts and insisting that she do the same. Something in her eyes kind of went then. I had a signature on a tentative agreement before four o'clock." He laughed, remembering. "You love all of it, don't you, Sam?" "All what?" he said vaguely. "The good writers and the bad. They're the same to you." "You make me sound remarkably childlike and undiscriminating. Most of it is boring." "Don't kid me, Sam. You're as happy in that office as a flea on a fat dog." He shrugged a little guiltily. "That's nice, then, isn't?" "I think it's very nice." She raised her voice. "Hey, boys!" "What do you want?" Toby called back. "Don't eat all the roast. Save enough for a sandwich tomorrow night after the party." Walter and Toby came in from the kitchen, smiling and in good humor. "See how they miss us?" Toby said. Adeline said, "Come sit by me and hold my hands.” “They're cold." Toby complied. Walter sat on the arm of Sam's chair. Toby said, "Walter was telling me all about Eva Fairchild." "I didn't know you'd met her," Adeline said to Walter. "I haven't. You know how everybody talks. You learn a lot about actors from other actors who've worked with them." "I always thought she was a cozy pudding of a woman with a good sense of humor. That's the way she seems on the stage," Toby said. "But Walter makes her sound like one crazy, mixedup kid." "How can you be a crazy, mixed-up kid at fifty?" Adeline said. "We'll all manage somehow," Sam said. "I hoped it was clear sailing after thirty-five," Adeline said. "Don't look at me," Walter said. "I'm twenty-six." "Twenty-eight," Sam corrected. "And cute as a hound's tooth," Adeline said to mollify him. "Why don't you get a haircut, Walter?"

"I do, every week." "Actors' haircuts!" Adeline scoffed. "Have it cut short like Toby's and Sam's, so we can see that handsome skull structure. We could stuff pillows. Wouldn't it be exciting, Toby, to sleep on a pillow stuffed with Walter's hair? Hot damn." When she looked at Toby, she saw that he was staring at Sam and Walter. Walter had put his arm on the back of Sam's chair. Adeline got to her feet and stretched. "You fellows can bark it up till dawn if you want to, but us old pregs have to get our sleep so we'll look pretty at the party tomorrow." Sam got up and stretched, too. "What are you wearing?" "Two of my old dresses I ripped apart and sewed together. I'll look absolutely stunning. They're almost the same color. I figured on painting big circles on the front like an archery target. If you can't hide it, hang a bell on it, I say." They moved into the bedroom, where Sam and Walter put on their overcoats. Sam looked at the baby bed that stood waiting in a corner. Into it were piled diapers and other baby clothes. Observing Sam, Toby put his arms around Adeline from the back and caught her bigness with his two hands. "Man, I'll be glad when this is out of my bed and in its own," he said, laughing. Toby always began to strut a little when Sam was leaving.

two
ADDIE CAME back from the kitchen with a glass of milk to find Toby on the sofa section where she had spent most of the evening. His knees were swung apart, his hands loosely clenched, and he was staring at the chair Sam had sat in. Sam always sat in the same chair. There was nothing special about it; there were, in fact, two others in the room that were more comfortable. He chose it for its position: it was nearest the end of the sofa where Addie usually sat. Addie lifted her glass an inch in the air, making a casual toast, took a deep swallow, and said, "Coals to Newcastle. Or will be soon." She sipped a little more of the milk. "Ready for bed?" "Not yet." He reached to the table for his glass. "I'll finish my drink." "It's nearly one." "Tired?" "Very." "You weren't when Sam was here." "I am now." She forced a yawn, both to demonstrate and to soften the bareness of her statement. "Come and sit down." She was near the door to the bedroom. "I don't feel like it, Toby. Do you mind?" "I want to talk to you. I haven't been able to all evening."

"We never really talk to each other when we have guests." "Oh, Sam and Walter aren't guests," Toby said. "They're more like part of the family." He spoke softly, but she heard the note of danger in his voice and wondered how best to deal with it: agree, argue, or not answer? She decided on not answering and went to the door, pausing there to drink the rest of her milk to show that she was not intimidated, as a cat will pretend to look away, or pause to scratch his ear, when he is really trying to avoid a fight. The bluff was unsuccessful. "Come and sit down, Addie." She gave no indication that she had heard, but she did not go into the bedroom. Instead, she made a slow circle of the living room, carrying her empty glass, picking up a burnt match from the rug, emptying two ash trays into one. She knew he was watching her, but the most she was ready to concede was, "I hate a messy room." As soon as she said it, she knew she had lost the little game, but she marched off to the kitchen as if she knew no such thing. She banged the ash tray against the side of the garbage can to loosen the end of a cigarette stuck in its own dried tobacco juice. The stream of water she used to rinse her glass was too strong. Such boldness betokened fear. Without turning she knew that Toby was smiling at her from the sofa. There was only one thing to do. Careful not to move quickly, she wiped the ash tray clean with a paper towel. Making her face neither bland nor expressive, she went into the living room with the ash tray and put it down on the table before the sofa. She sat down in Sam's chair. "You flip the coin, I'll call it," she said. He was disconcerted, she observed with mild contempt. "Nothing special on my mind. I just wanted to talk a few minutes. Fifteen minutes can't make any difference in the way you feel tomorrow." "We have often stayed up until four in the morning on that theory." "We don't seem to have time to talk any more." "So, let's talk now." He shrugged and took another swallow of his drink. "You can't talk on order." She made a slight movement as if to rise. "Want a cigarette?" She frowned slightly. He flipped a package from his shirt pocket across the table toward her. She took out a cigarette and lit it. Inhaling deeply, she let her head fall back and looked around the room, her eyes glowing. "Soon, soon," she said. "Soon what?" "Baby makes three." "Just three?" His voice had regained an edge, which she pretended not to notice. "It isn't twins. That much we know." "But not much else. You want this baby, Addie." It was a statement that was too timid to be a question. "Yes." "I'm not sure I do."

"It's too late to back out now." "It's so strange," he said. "Not strange. It will be a little of you and a little of me. Blond like me or dark like you, I wonder?" "Boy or girl or— You still want Sam to be godfather?" "Yes." "I don't see that it's necessary. We don't go to church. The baby won't be christened." "I just like the idea of it." She smiled at him timidly. He suddenly laughed. "Sam, the fairy godfather." She put out the cigarette she had not smoked since the first inhalation. "My feet are cold." She clenched her long toes into the warmth of the rug. "Come over here then." She obeyed, moving to the sofa, putting her feet up between them. He rubbed them a moment in his warm, slightly damp hands, and then covered them with a pillow. "That's better," she said. "That's nice." She snuggled into the curve of the sofa and closed her eyes. "Mmm." Toby was looking at Sam's chair again. "I can't get over it. I accept it, or think I do, and then I see them—like Walter sitting on the arm of the chair leaning over Sam— and something in me wants to point and yell, 'Hey, look at the fairies!'" She kept her eyes closed, but the assumed smile of comfort and relaxation faded. She knew she could delay but not prevent the quarrel. With a hopeless feeling she opened her eyes and said, "I've told you I don't like your using that word for Sam." "You don't mind about Walter, but you mind about Sam." "It's a stupid word." "My dear wife—" His eyes began to glitter. "What words would please you more? Queer, gay, homo—or shall I be really dignified and say homosexual? Well, whatever you want me to call them, I still feel funny as hell watching them and knowing what they do together." "What do they do together?" "Oh, hell-" "We're heterosexual, but so far I know, nobody knows exactly what we do together. Do they?" "More or less. People looking at you could—" "Don't bring my baby into your cheap sex talk." "Oh, ho! The first evidence of the mother tiger snarling over her cub! I'm sorry I'm not refined. But you see I'm just an advertising man. I never had the advantages of working in a publishing house like you and Sam. It must be very uplifting. Was it, Addie?" She looked at him levelly. "I never thought about it, but listening to you, I guess it was." "Of course Walter's not so refined either. But then he's an actor, and they're supposed to be a little stupid. Do you think Walter's finally going to be in a play?" "I suppose so." "He won't have to live off Sam then."

"He doesn't now," Addie said. "He works in summer stock every summer, and he has television parts in the winter." "They can't pay much. The parts aren't big enough. Anyway, he lives at Sam's house." "That's really his and Sam's business, isn't it, Toby? Why should it bother you?" "It's just funny, that's all." "Funny, funny!" "You think maybe Sam gives him an allowance when the television jobs get scarce?" "I'm going to bed." She started to swing her feet to the floor, but he caught her by the ankles and held her. "No, you're not. You're going to sit up and talk to your husband." They glared at each other a long moment, until she made herself relax against the back of the sofa. "Let go my feet," she demanded quietly. He did so, but he smiled at her, too, to show he had won. "You know, I read in a book somewhere that homosexuals are all very sick people. They basically hate themselves, and their falling in love is actually a desire to destroy each other and therefore themselves. Isn't that interesting, Addle?" "Not very " "You don't believe Sam is sick?" "No." "He's healthy and normal, you mean." "More than most," she said after a pause. "How long have they been together?" Toby asked. "A little over two years." "They'd just started their thing when we met?" She said nothing. "I think that's interesting, too." "Do you?" she said. "Yes, I do. I wonder if you'd have been ready for me if you hadn't felt deserted when Sam shacked up with Walter. I take a long time figuring things out, but that's because I'm an ad man —" "Stop pouring garbage over your head with that 'I'm an ad man' talk!" "Well, it's true, isn't it? An ad man isn't much. Everybody says so." "If you don't like it, do something else. But if you're going to stay in advertising—" He interrupted her. "I wrote a novel once." She took a deep breath that made him laugh. "The standard joke about ad men. They all want to write novels. Some of them actually do. Some of them are actually published, and some are even successful. Mine was not published. Maybe I've told you this before." "Yes." "Well, let me tell you again. I like telling it. It makes me feel better. I sent the novel to Sam's firm—Sam was just an editor then—his old man was still alive. And I got a nice note from Sam that said, 'Thank you; no, thanks.' Wasn't that nice of Sam?"

"Most people get a form rejection." "I wonder if Sam remembers." "That was seven years ago, five years before he met you. He writes a dozen letters like that a week." "I know. All publishers do. I have letters from some of the others to prove it. They all say the same thing. They all say nothing. They all say no. " "You're not the first or the last or the only person to have a book rejected." "I know." He smiled. "But you were in the business. You can look at it more dispassionately than I." Her head had begun to ache. She wondered how long he meant to hold her there. He laughed, as if at himself. "I've always kind of hated old Sam for that. He was the first to say no. He got my cherry." He drained his glass and set it down on the table with a bang, facing her again. "Of course that's not all I hate old Sam for. Tell me, Addie. You tell me why I hate Sam." "You have no reason." "Oh, yes. Yes, I have, Addie. I could start out and say I hate him because he's a fairy." Her voice hardened. "You work with a lot of fairies in your business." "Yes," he agreed, "but they're funny. They make little jokes about themselves. They're very funny boys. Sam isn't at all funny. I'm supposed to take Sam seriously, the way you do and the way Sam does, I'm not allowed to laugh or use dirty words, because we're friends and all too fine for that sort of thing." He paused, struck his fist into the pillow that covered her feet, and leaned closer to her. "But that isn't really why I hate Sam. I hate Sam because you love him. I hate Sam because he loves you." "You knew we loved each other long before you and I married. I was with Sam when I met you." He laughed. "I thought you were his girl. But you soon put that straight. How did you do it? I've forgot." He shrugged. "It's a delicate matter, but I suppose you'd had to do it before with other men you met and liked when you were out with Sam. You know, you and Sam puzzled people quite a lot. As a matter of fact, you still puzzle me. You went everywhere together. There were always whispers about Sam, not very loud because he was discreet, he didn't talk in falsetto or swish. Then sometimes you were a threesome. You and Sam and whoever Sam was 'with' at the time. More than once I heard the old speculation, 'Who's doing what, with what, and to whom?' That was before I met you and you let me know —in what delicate way? I wish I could remember—that you were not involved romantically with Sam. Still, you were a good front for him. You muddied the waters and kept his reputation more or less intact. How much do you love me, Addie?" "I can't tell you how much I despise you at the moment." He smiled gratification. This, she knew, was what he had wanted her to say all along. "Well, it's a funny world. You're

married to me, but you despise me. You love Sam, but you're never going to be married to him." "I don't want to be married to Sam." "That's a lie, Addie, and you know it!" "I was never in love with Sam, and Sam was never in love with me. We were and are friends. We did and do love each other. But that has nothing to do with you. I never gave Sam anything that I took away from you." "I've heard that explanation so many times," he said. "I've made it so many times," she said with exhausted patience. He studied her face for a long moment. "Poor Addie," he said finally. "Why 'poor Addie'?" He looked down thoughtfully, as if trying to choose exactly the right words. "Because—I'm going to make you give Sam up." "No, you're not, Toby." "Yes." "We'll see." His face twisted with sudden rage. "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life sharing you with Sam! You give him the best things. All you give me is your stinking whore's body! You lie in bed with me, and we make love like two dogs in the street, and then when it's over, that's all there is to it, it's over, and you go back into yourself and talk to Sam in your mind. I know you do it! I know you do it, you whore!" She slapped him twice, hard, with both hands, and he began to cry. But his tears were not tears of anger or pain, they were tears of relief and fulfillment. He had abased himself before her, and he had made her abase herself, and he was satisfied. "Toby," she said. He dropped his face on her bare legs, and she felt his warm tears wetting them. "Toby, Toby," she repeated soothingly. "Don't, dear. Don't, Toby. It's all right. It's going to be all right." She spoke softly, without conviction. She had spoken the same words in the same way before, and she would probably do so again. His hands closed around her ankles, and his fingers moved up and kneaded the flesh of her calf. She grew still. His hands moved under her knees, under her dress, and his fingers began to work more insistently over her thighs. She stiffened. "No. Toby! Toby, no! You know we can't!" With a great effort she thrust him away from her. He slumped on the end of the sofa, not looking at her, his face flushed and sullen. She did not dare try to comfort him. Silently she got up and went into the bedroom. Silently she undressed, got into bed, and turned off the light. It seemed a long time, but it was probably no more than ten minutes before he came into the room. He did not speak, and he did not turn on the light. When he had undressed and got into bed beside her, she pretended to sleep, although she faced him from habit. He moved very gingerly across the bed, as if he believed she slept. Slowly, carefully, he curled his body around her swollen belly. Presently he slept. She dared not move, or sigh, lest any physical gesture,

no matter how small, release the tight spring within her and set her to screaming.

three
SAM’S HOUSE was on a quiet block of Greenwich Village near Washington Square. The section had changed, was changing still. Apartment houses filled what had been open sky. Many of the old houses remained, but not in sufficient numbers to stamp the area with their character, as they once had done. The house had belonged to Sam's father, and to Sam's grandfather, whose names were also Samuel Kendrick. Sam's grandfather had founded the publishing house of Kendrick's and brought it to its first glory. During the father's time the company flourished for a while; for a longer stretch of years it managed merely to hold its own. When Sam finished his schooling at Columbia in 1942, he went almost immediately into the Navy. The war years were prosperous for Kendrick's, but when the war was over and Sam came to work there, he found that what he had long suspected was true: his father was neither a good businessman nor a good editor, and the firm depended to a dangerous degree on its back list. Sam worked for a year in the sales department. In 1947 he was made an editor. In 1950 his father died of a heart attack. In 1951 Kendrick's had money problems which Sam solved by borrowing from his old friend, Reeve Keary. Since then Kendrick's had prospered. Sam's vitality, his love of publishing, and —soon—his knowledge of it matched his grandfather's. When Sam returned from the war, his father converted the top floor of the Greenwich Village house into an apartment for Sam, keeping the lower floors for himself. On his father's death—his mother had died in 1930 —Sam simply moved downstairs. He thought for a while of renting the top floor as an apartment, but he was reluctant to have strangers, or even friends, in the house that had been home to his family for three generations. He decided, instead, to give the apartment to his houseman. M. L. Custer was a gentle, solemn Negro man in his sixties. He had worked most of his life at Kendrick's. When Sam was a little boy and visited his father at the publishing house, Custer played and talked with him. But as he grew older, there were conflicts between Custer and the younger men who worked in the stockroom. They said his ways were fussy and old-fashioned. He thought they were not "particular" enough, and he did not like hearing their dirty stories. When Sam offered him the job of keeping the house in Greenwich Village, Custer was relieved and happy. He lived on the top floor alone. He had a widowed sister, two nieces, and a nephew living in Harlem, but he was not intimate with them.

As the taxi drew near the house, Walter said, "It's cold!" and dug his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. The taxi stopped and they stepped out. Sam paid the driver; Walter jumped over the dirty snow packed on the curb and ran up the steps where he waited until Sam joined him. Although he had his own key, he always waited for Sam to unlock the door when they came home together. It was a habit they had never spoken of, growing naturally out of the fact that Walter had been in and out of the house for several months as a guest before he moved in. "Shall I light the fire?" Walter said in the living room as Sam turned on the lights. The living room ran the length of the house, and Custer always had wood and kindling laid ready in the fireplace. "I don't know," Sam said indifferently. "It seems warm enough. Will you be up long?" Walter dropped his overcoat on a chair. "Let's stay up a little." "You were so eager to leave." "I wanted to be home with you. Are you really tired?" Sam nodded cautiously. "Oh." Touched, although he knew where conversation would lead them tonight, Sam said, "Go ahead and light it." Walter smiled quickly, struck a long match, and touched it to the added paper under the kindling. The fire caught, and Walter rubbed his hands together before it. Sam took off his coat and loosened his tie. He turned sharply when he heard Walter's laugh. "Andrew isn't tired" Walter said. A full-grown Abyssinian cat entered the room from the stair that led down to the dining room and kitchen. Without a glance at Walter the cat walked over to Sam, his eyes kindling as he went. With a leap he was on the back on the chair, kneading his claws gently into Sam's disputed coat, looking up at Sam. Sam looked down at him without speaking. "Ah, Andrew, silly old Andrew!" Walter exclaimed jollily, coming between them, rubbing the cats back fur roughly the wrong way. The cat leaped to the floor, shook himself, gave two licks to his left shoulder, withdrew a few feet, and turned to stare coldly at Walter. "You know he doesn't like that," Sam protested. "Yes, I know!" Walter said happily. "But he looks so God damn dignified, I have to ruffle him." "Cats don't like being ruffled." "You do, don't you?" Walter caught Sam around the waist and hugged him close a moment. Over Sam's shoulder he saw Andrew's contemptuous stare and thrust Sam away from him, his good humor breaking off into irritability. "That cat, that damn cat. Look at him looking at me.” "Don't be silly," Sam said, going to the fire and poking a log. "He looks at me like I'm a cretin." "That's because he thinks you are." Sam laughed, to make a joke of it. "Custer and Andrew. I'm afraid I'm not their favorite actor.” From the fireplace Sam said, "Don't be a child."

"Do they really like each other, or do they just join forces against me?" "I've never discussed it with them." Sam yawned, bringing Walter to sudden alertness. "How about a beer?" Walter suggested. "Not for me." "I'd like one," Walter said stubbornly, going toward the stair. "Can I bring you anything?" "A glass of milk if you're going down," Sam said unwillingly. Walter disappeared down the stair, and presently Sam heard the refrigerator door open. He turned one of the two large chairs slightly to face the fire and sat down. The cat came out of the shadows and jumped to the arm of the chair, lifting his face into Sam's. Sam wrinkled his lips and nuzzled the cat's neck with his nose. Andrew bowed his back with pleasure, turned, and swept his tail flatteringly under Sam's chin. Sam laughed. "Crazy. Crazy Andrew," he said softly. The refrigerator door slammed. "Enough," Sam said, hastily making a slide of his lap and legs and pushing the cat to the floor. Walter came up the stair with a glass of milk in one hand and a can of beer in the other. He stopped halfway across the room to drink from the hole he had punched in the can. Shifting the other chair to face the fire, he moved a small table between them and set down his beer can. "Why don't you use a napkin or a coaster?" Sam said. "Coaster doesn't fit a beer can." "You'll leave a ring." "So. Custer can wipe it up." "He's already cleaned for the party tomorrow." "Boy, I wish I worked for you," Walter said. "Such consideration." Sam shrugged and dropped his hand along the side of his chair where he knew Andrew was sitting out of Walter's sight. Running his thumb gently along the depression between Andrew's shoulders, he felt that he and the cat were conspirators, and smiled at his fancy. "I forgot," Walter said, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt and withdrawing a note. "Custer left this for you in the kitchen." Sam took the note and read: "I ordered the flowers. Six dozen long-stemmed red roses to be delivered at three o'clock tomorrow. Mr. Keary called and said could you make lunch at one instead of twelve-thirty." Sam wadded the note and tossed it into the fire. "Where are you lunching with Keary?" "Plaza," Sam said, and sipped from his glass of milk. Andrew, sitting very quietly, suddenly lifted his face until his whole head was enclosed in Sam's dangling hand. "Another one," Walter said. "Custer, Andrew—Reeve. I can't get used to calling millionaires by their first names." "Just takes a little practice." "I don't remember his encouraging it."

"He likes you all right. You've never seen much of each other." Sam watched Walter sip from the beer can again, saw the malice enter his smile as he set it down. "It doesn't matter whether Reeve likes me or not. He wouldn't like anybody you shacked up with. He and Addie get on together, though, don't they? "I believe so," Sam said, looking back at the fire. "Well, I don't care. It embarrasses me to be seen in public with him anyway. The way he overdresses. It's a dead giveaway when old faggots become old dandies. His thin Italian shoes and his suits always a little too snug. As if anybody notices what he's trying to show off. Also, the way he talks—about anything he wants to without lowering his voice. It embarrasses me." "It wouldn't if you thought of Reeve or yourself, instead of what strangers might think." "You never know who the strangers might be." "I never wonder." "Well, it's different with you." Walter sipped again from the beer can, and Sam blinked at the ring already showing on the table. He got up, took a magazine from another table, wiped up the ring with his handkerchief, and slipped the magazine under Walter's beer can. "Sorry I'm such a slob," Walter apologized mockingly. Sam sat down again. "What time is your lunch date tomorrow?" Sam asked. "Twelve-thirty." "What's her name? I don't seem to be able to remember it." "Jane Frisbie." "Oh, yes. And she's a reporter. You haven't seen her since I've known you." "She's been away doing free-lance articles. Turkey, Egypt, India. Other places." "Oh." "She's very successful. She used to be mad for me." Sam drank the last of his milk. "I really am tired." Walter said quickly, "Reeve sort of raised you, didn't he?" "No," Sam said, "my father did." "You know what I mean. Showed you—certain ropes. You were his boy." "I think I always knew where the ropes were, and I was never his boy." "Not for want of his trying, I bet." Sam did not answer. He got up and set his glass in an empty ash tray on the low table in front of the sofa. "He saved the old firm for you one time, didn't he?" "I like to think I did that," Sam answered, returning to the fireplace and standing with his back to it. He folded his arms and looked quietly at Walter until Walter's eyes began to shine with anger. "Reeve put money into the business, for which he got shares, the voting power of which belongs to me." "To do that, he must have liked you." "We have agreed that Reeve likes me and that I like Reeve. The investment was a good one for him. I knew it would be. The firm was basically sound; it was simply short of ready cash. My father hadn't put aside enough of the money made during the war

to take care of slack times. Reeve spends more in a year giving presents to chorus boys and subsidizing 'promising' young painters and writers than he put into Kendrick's. Certainly he knew I wasn't trying to use him." "You mean the investment didn't involve any—cozy private services." Sam did not smile. He stared at Walter a long moment, sick at the sight of enjoyment on Walter's face. "No, it didn't involve any private services." "Still," Walter said quickly, "you love the old firm enough to, don't you?" "It's never been necessary to put my love of the firm to that kind of test." Walter laughed outright. "You've had it easy, Sam. You just walked right into it." "I was born into it. Head first. I walked very late. Boy babies often do." "All right, don't get touchy," Walter said in an over-friendly way that was not friendly at all. He let his glance roam over the solid old furnishings of the room. "It's easy for you rich boys to have scruples." Sam said deliberately, "You poor boys always say that to let yourselves off the hook. I believe we've come to the point of the conversation. It was a very long build-up. If I'd read it in a book, I'd have suggested the author cut it. I'm tired, as I've said. What is it you wanted to talk to me about? I'm ready." "It took you long enough," Walter said sulkily. "You don't think I've been having fun, do you?" Sam's face softened. "No." He sat down again, facing Walter. "Sam," Walter said, and then paused to take a deep breath, "I'd screw chickens at a carnival if it got me what I wanted." Sam sighed impatiently. "You know as well as I do New York is white with the bones of actors who thought they could rise to the top by dropping their pants." "I admit I've had my disappointments." Walter forced himself to smile before letting his face harden. "But not this time. Here's the deal, Sam. Tomorrow night Eloise McKenzie is coming down here. She's going to be looking me over more than she ever did in her office or on television. If she decides I'm all right, she's going to fix a date with Eva Fairchild. We all know about Eva Fairchild. She won't do a play that doesn't have a part in it for a young man like me. That young man is always Eva's escort. He takes her to Sardi's. He takes her driving and to the beach on their days off. When she wants him to, he stays at her apartment all night. That isn't very often, I hear. If I get past McKenzie to Fairchild, I've got to make Fairchild like me. I plan to do just that, Sam." "You don't have to do that. I've told you I can get you a job in a minute. A decent job." "With Kendrick's?" Walter said, smiling. "No, not with Kendrick's. With another publisher as a salesman. You'd make a good salesman." "I don't want to be a salesman, Sam. I want to be an actor."

"Then be an actor, don't be a whore. You wouldn't have to do such things if—" "If I were a good actor? Maybe, maybe not. I know you think I'm untalented, but—" "I think no such thing." "Yes, you do, Sam." "I've never seen you in anything that gave you a real chance." "You've seen me in big parts in summer theaters. Arms and the Man—" "I thought you were fine, that with more experience, if you wanted to, you could—" "Don't bull-shit me, Sam. I know what you think of my acting, and I don't give a damn. What I give a damn about is that this is the way I'm going to make it. Do you think I want to be Sam's boy?" "You're not. You make your own money." "I live here rent free. Have I ever paid for a meal I've had here? Custer knows. Andrew knows. Addie knows. Reeve knows. Every time they look at me, I see they know." "You're crazy." "I may be. I'm also sick of it. How do you know I’m not taking you for a ride, Sam?" Sam reflected. "For one thing, you've never taken any help I've offered." "Maybe you didn't offer me the right things. Now if you had cultivated the acquaintance of a few producers—and you could have. Maybe put a thousand or two in their rotten shows occasionally—" "Don't be an ass." "When I was a slum kid, I thought ass was a dirty word, but I've found that all the most cultivated people use it.” "Is that so?" "That's so, old buddy," Walter sneered. When he spoke again, his voice thick with self-pity, and maybe pity for Sam, too. "Old buddy-boy. Sam, if you care about me, tell me it's all right. Tell me we can still see each other." Sam said, "If you go through with this, I never want to see you again." "Sam!" "I mean it." "You really don't give a damn about-me, do you? I'm just a—" "I'm trying hard not to give a damn about you, Walter." "Sam, I can't live the life any more! You're strong, and you can do it, but I'm not, and I can't! People are talking about me, and all I've got is my reputation!" "Your reputation?" Sam was genuinely surprised. "Before I met you, sure I played around some. I played with boys, and I played with girls. But I never got involved with any of them. Nothing serious ever happened. I was my own man. I joined the club at night and resigned in the morning. That was all right. That I could handle. What I can't handle is making a life of it, knowing everybody knows. Do you know what people think

about people like you, Sam? Do you know the words they use to describe you?" Sam frowned and did not answer. Walter's face twisted with self-hate, and his voice was calculated to lash both Sam and himself. "Fairy! Queer! Queen! Homo! Mary! Pansy! Sixty-niner!" "Never mind," Sam interrupted quietly. "I know them all." "Then how thick is your hide?" Walter demanded, trembling. "As thick as it has to be to keep out the cold." "Don't you know that every time they look at you, they-" "They! Who are they? Don't be a fool. You're naive to suppose that every time anyone looks at me or talks to me he’s speculating on my sex life. Do you, every time you see me talk to someone?" Walter laughed helplessly. "More often than not." Sam did not laugh with him, but continued to look at him severely. "When I was younger than you and more emotional about these matters than I am now, I went to my doctor for a routine examination. A little something was wrong—I forget what, it was long ago. But I was so I preoccupied with myself and full of guilt for what I was, everything that went wrong with me seemed God's just punishment for my wickedness. I blurted out, 'Doctor, I here's something I haven't ever told you that may affect me physically—I'm a homosexual!' I wasn't sure he'd heard, he kept writing on his pad. Finally he looked up, and you know what he said? He said, 'Been getting much lately?'" "That was a damn silly thing for him to—" Sam shook his head. "I was grateful. It put me in my place, and it set me to thinking. I realized that I wasn't the only one with my problem, and that my problem wasn't the only problem in the world. Everybody has problems that drive them crazy, and most people never solve them. I asked myself if I really thought my way of life was wrong, or if in thinking so I was merely genuflecting to the ideas of other people. For years I had pretended to myself that I would change. I admitted finally that I was a homosexual, that it wasn't a phase, and it wasn't a disease. I'd I been to bed with women and felt nothing at all, although it was possible for me to make love to them if I shut my eyes and thought of a man. That, I realized, was wrong, that was evil. I swore then I'd be true to myself and not try to be true to the cant of society. Those women I went to bed with, it never really worked, although I 'went I through with it,' as they say. But every one of them, without knowing what was wrong, knew something was wrong and felt unsatisfied, inadequate, unhappy. I, of course, felt miserable. Why should I go to bed with a woman and make both of us unhappy when I can go to bed with a man and make both of us happy? I began to go to bed with men without shame or fear. I made them happy, and I made myself happy. I felt whole and healthy for the first time. For the first time I was a man." "Still," Walter said stubbornly, "you can't buck society, Sam." "I'm not trying to. But I insist on having my place in it. Not theirs. Mine."

Walter shrugged. "So you're got it solved." "I've got it solved," Sam said ironically. "Knowing what you feel and following your way is just the beginning. That was enough for a while, but then I wanted permanency. I wanted somebody to love and live with." "Why don't you get married, Sam?" "You haven't been listening to me." "You could do what you wanted on the side. You could find a woman who'd understand." "I despise men who do that. Have you ever noticed their wives? Tense, watchful women who look at every man they meet with suspicion. Is it worth that to have a child? Not to me. I don't speak lightly. I should like to have a child. I'd like to hold in my arms a—thing whose being was the result of love between me and someone else. But I never shall." He shook his head and repeated a statement that had come into his mind many years ago. "I shall have no child and no child's child to warm my winter years." He frowned. "Of course many married people don't or can't have children. And many people who do have them lose them through death—or hatred. Still, I should have liked being a father." "Instead—" Walter's voice was edged. "You'll go on seeking —‘permanency’!" "What else can I do? I know it doesn't exist for anyone, but I have to act as if I believe it does." Sam tapped himself on the chest lightly with the tops of his fingers. "I'm a nest builder, not a vagabond. This is my house. My father was born in it. I've lived in it a hundred years. I want to go on living in it with somebody who loves Sam, somebody Sam loves and can expect to stick with him tomorrow and next week and twenty years from now." "If you'd like to go out now looking, if you'd like me to move my things out tonight—" "Don't be a fool!" "You've said that more than once tonight!" "I'll say it again!" Sam showed real anger for the first time. "You are a fool to throw away what I have to give you! Do you think somebody like me comes along every day?" Walter shook his head again and again. "I can't do it, Sam. I can't." He threw his hands up, and his voice rose. "I'm glad I can't. I want to be on the other side with the others!" "All right, Walter," Sam said simply. "I didn't force you into this, did I?" "No. I didn't make any promises either." "If you had, what difference would it make, feeling as you feel?" "I've been honest." "More with me than with yourself, I think." Walter stirred restlessly in his chair. Then his troubled lace cleared, and he slumped back again. "Well, you've got Addie. Maybe she's your permanence." "Addie has her own troubles." "She'll always have them, and you will, too—as long as you feel the way you do about each other."

"Let's not talk about Addie," Sam said quickly. Walter looked at him mockingly. "That's sacred, is it? It's all right to give me hell for what I do, but what about you and Addie? You can't shut me up, Sam, and don't try to! If it hadn't been for Addie, maybe you and I would have worked out. And if it weren't for you, maybe Addie and Toby could be happy. Have you thought of that?" "Shut up!" "Oh, no! Solemn old Sam who has everything figured out! Smug old Sam who knows what's right for everybody to do— except himself, except where his own feelings are involved. You're blind, Sam, for all your big talk!" "God damn you!" "Oh ho, oh ho! Sam's mad, because he hates the truth! Easy to put it all off on me, isn't it, Sam? Easy to put Addie's troubles all on Toby, isn't it, Sam? Sam!" Sam had got up from his chair and started for the stairway that led to the bedrooms on the next floor. "Sam!" When Walter ran after him, he stumbled over Andrew. "Have you been there all night?" he demanded angrily of the cat. Andrew backed away from him spitting. When Walter got to the next landing, Sam was in his room, and his door was closed. Walter ran past his own bedroom, rattled the knob on Sam's door, and found it locked. "Sam!" he shouted, pounding his fists on the door. "Let me in! Let me in, Sam!" The door opened, and Sam whispered angrily, "Be quiet, you'll wake Custer!" "I don't give a damn if I wake Custer. Let Custer hear me, let everybody hear me. You're not going to run away from me just because I say something you don't like to hear and won't face!" "Keep your voice down!" Walter looked toward the ceiling and shouted, "Custer! Custer, wake up and listen, you sneering bastard!" Sam slapped Walter hard, and Walter let his knees buckle. He sank to the floor and stretched himself there full length. Presently the telephone on the bedside table began to ring. Sam picked up the receiver. "Yes? No, I'm all right. Good night, Custer." He put the receiver back on the cradle. Walter said, "Custer running to the defense of ole Marse Sam." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Then he got to his feet. They looked at each other with sudden embarrassment. Walter turned to the door. "Sorry, Sam." Sam touched his arm. Walter said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. We both said a lot of things—" "We said true things," Sam said, "and we meant to hurt each other." "I guess we succeeded," Walter said. "Being sorry doesn't change anything." "No," Walter said with difficulty, "it doesn't." He put his arms around Sam's waist. "Tell me good night, Buddy-boy. Buddyboy, Sambo." Sam kissed him gently on the lips. Walter

tightened his grip. Sam tried to jerk away, but Walter held fast, speaking quickly, imploringly, "No, Sam, no, no. Please, Sam. Once more. I can't face it thinking I'll never hold you like this again. Sam, be good to me, be good. Oh, Sam, I love you!" Willingly or not, flesh responded to flesh. Sam ceased struggling and put his own arms around Walter. "I know," he said. “That's the hell of it.”

four
WALTER sipped his drink and looked toward the door of the restaurant, not expecting Jane Frisbie yet, for it was just twelvethirty, the time they had agreed to meet. But he wanted to see her as soon as she came in. When he met people, he liked to arrive first at the rendezvous; there was for him a small gain in poise. Similarly, he liked to see before being seen; surprise threw him off guard. He listened with pleasure to the noise around him: the easy voices of people enjoying themselves in a relaxed way because it was Saturday and not a weekday, the sounds waiters made with silver and glass and china, the soft, mechanical music. He was more pleased with himself than not. Although a little bruised in spirit from the evening before, he felt satisfaction in having been honest with Sam. Across the room was a mirror in which he could see himself, in spite of the dim light of the room. He examined his face without, he thought, seeming to do so at all. There was a slight puffiness about the eyes and nose, but not enough to show unless one were looking for it. He noted with approval the springiness of his red-brown hair, the smooth, strong lines of the face beneath, the straight jaw, the absence of any hint of fleshiness under the chin. A laugh from the table behind him caused him to frown and look down. He had still a youthful self-consciousness that made him for a moment suspect any sudden laughter of being at his expense. He shook out his napkin, pressed it snugly against his thighs, approving the firmness of muscle he felt there. "Walt!" She had surprised him, after all. He rose irritably, dropping his napkin and almost upsetting his drink. Then he really looked at her and felt all right, for she was smiling at him in the eager, admiring way that had always reassured him. He kissed her on the cheek, and she held him against her a moment, until he reached for the back of her chair and said, "Here, sit down!" As soon as he was seated opposite her, she patted his hand, having to touch him because he was near.

"You look wonderful," he said in a whisper, as if he were embarrassed instead of pleased at the looks directed to them by people sitting near. "Do I?" She laughed, eager to think he meant it, that it was not the automatic greeting of old friend to old friend. "Wonderful," he repeated aloud. She did look prettier than he had ever seen her. Her face was flushed from excitement and the cool air she had walked through to get to the restaurant. She wore a black wool dress that molded her bosom and waist. Her thick red hair was arranged in a becoming new way. "You look good," she exclaimed. "Oh, darling, you look simply splendid!" "I'm trying to grow old gracefully." "Old!" she hooted. "I want one of those, too." The waiter who had been waiting, his back discreetly to them, turned to Walter. "A dry martini?" "Yes, please," Walter said, keeping his eyes flatteringly on Jane. "I'm an old-fashioned girl," Jane said to the waiter. "I like them made with vermouth and gin." Walter gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. "There, that's everything," he said with a brief, mocking smile. She exhaled smoke, closed her eyes for a second, then opened them happily. "Everything! Oh! Nice to be here. How many times I've thought of being in such a place with you, just having ordered my first drink and lit my first cigarette, with a whole afternoon ahead for lunch and talk!—You're not in a hurry, are you?" "No, no." He glanced casually at his watch, though. "I've plenty of time. Before we get into things, I'm giving a party tonight. Why don't you come?" It would be fun, he was thinking, to show her off to Sam and Addie. 'Tonight?" "Late this afternoon. I should have asked you on the phone when we made our date, but I didn't, and when I hung up, I didn't know how to get in touch with you." "I didn't tell you—to be sure you couldn't call and cancel!" "How did you get my number?" "Someone I know at Equity." "Where are you staying?" he asked. "Not your old apartment?" "That's a parking lot now," she said. "I've borrowed a place for a month from a girl named Russell who's in Hollywood on a story. Last name Russell, East Sixty-Fourth Street. Phone under her name. Remember, lad." "Russell, East Sixty-fourth. Got it." He scribbled in a small address book and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. "Can you come tonight?" "Won't your girl be there?" "You come and be my girl." "We'll see." For the first time she sounded a little cautious, a little coy. The waiter set down her drink carefully. "To you, and welcome home," Walter said, raising his glass.

"To both of us," she said, touching the rim of her glass to his. They drank, she looking at him, he checking their image in the mirror and approving it. They were certainly the best-looking couple in the room. She set her glass down. "Tell me some more about how wonderful I look." He pretended to scowl. "Women are never satisfied." "That's why we're so maddeningly desirable." She giggled. "Of course I'll come tonight. Where and what time?" She opened her large handbag and found a pen and a slip of paper. "You see, I'm not hard to get. I never was, was I?" she added lightly. "Six o'clock." Walter smiled and gave her the address of the house in Greenwich Village. He was trying to remember what it had been like making love to her. "What floor?" "It's a private house. Just ring and the maid will let you in," he said, enjoying her surprise a moment before adding, "I'm staying with a friend." "Oh." Her voice was carefully without expression, and the narrowing of her eyes almost, but not quite, had an emptiness he remembered in them from the past. "I'll probably be moving soon." She set her bag back on the floor, a hazard for passing waiters. "Now tell me everything you're done," he said. "Two post cards in almost three years!" "Did you want to hear from me?" she asked artlessly. "You ought to keep old friends informed about where you are and what you're doing." "We didn't exactly part old friends." "Now," he said, "none of that." "No." She made herself smile. "I promised myself to be good. I was so awful, wasn't I? Getting drunk and embarrassing you in front of all those people— But we're not going to talk about it. Unless you want to? You wouldn't talk to me when I called to apologize. I couldn't blame you, but it did seem a little cruel when you knew I was going away." "Jane." "All right. Me. Well, I've been everywhere, and if I haven't done everything, I've tried, I can tell you." "I saw some of your stories, although I don't suppose all. There was one about a religious festival in Ceylon." "Did you see that? I liked that one!" He gave her a friendlier smile. "And a piece about houseboats in Kashmir." Walter did most of his magazine reading in producer's waiting rooms. "Harper's? Atlantic?" "Holiday. I just sold them another. Spain." "I thought everybody had had Spain." "No, Spain is still good, but the gimmicks are harder to find." "I didn't know they had gimmicks in Spain. The mewling gimmick makes a strange cry like a cat and lives in reedy marshes. You can't mean that one." "That isn't a true gimmick at all. That's really, to use its Latin name, a spitting image." "Surely you're thinking of the bearded tit."

She assumed a Cockney accent. "'Ere, now, keep your language clean, sir. Oi'm a good gel." The old game did not really work, but they laughed as if it did. "There really is a bearded tit," he said. It was something he had learned in The Illustrated London News, a copy of which he had seen in God knows what waiting room. He frowned, trying to remember. Seeing his attention wander and wondering where, she went on quickly. "I was in Istanbul four months. That was the longest I stayed anywhere except Paris. Both wonderful. And I went to Algeria and Egypt and India and Japan. I almost got into China." "You didn't!" "No, but if I had, I'd be the hottest thing in publishing, although I probably wouldn't have my passport. But who'd care? I'm ready to throw the damn thing away. You see before you a girl who is tired of washing her nylons in the jungle, a girl who doesn't care a hoot what Nasser thinks, or what the shortage of rice will be in Burma this year. I'm going to get a nice nine-tofive job and a nice apartment on a short lease and start stalking a nice man who wants a nice wife, some nice children, and a nice house in the suburbs. Exit, Jane Frisbie, girl reporter. Enter, Jane Frisbie, all-American woman, hewer of wood, drawer of water, driver of station wagon, mother of children, lover of husband. Do you think I can do it?" "I don't see why not." "Don't look nervous. I didn't say it was you I was going to stalk. Tell me what you've been doing. Are you famous? I've been away so long I don't know. Do mobs of squealing teenage girls chase you from taxi to restaurant door? Are Hollywood studios on the phone to your agent night and Jay? Is Cornell-" His laughter interrupted her. "Not exactly. No, not quite that yet." She blushed sympathetically. "Never mind." Her hand was patting his again. He drew it away irritably but managed to smile as he lit a fresh cigarette. "I've been doing a lot of television." "Nothing on Broadway?" "As a matter of fact, Broadway isn't very lively. Oh, there are the usual musicals, some good, some not; the usual comedies, mostly bad; and generally one pretty good serious play a season that manages to be a hit, not so much because people want to see it as because one serious play has to be fashionable each year. It's part of the rule book of New York. Television has done some exciting things. A lot of the classics. Not always well, but at least an actor gets a chance to act in them without holing up in some hall in the Village that smells of garbage, seats twenty people, and doesn't have dressing rooms. As a matter of fact—" He decided to delay the moment he had been building to. "Waiter." The waiter raised his eyebrows agreeably and came over. "The same again, please." The waiter went away. "Well, it sounds like fun," she said, not meaning to be patronizing.

"It is." He smiled at her coolly. "But actually, I think I'm about to land something that will be more fun. You've heard of Eloise McKenzie?" "She's a producer, isn't she?" He nodded. "She's doing a new thing for Eva Fairchild called Mountain High. It's possible I'll get one of the male leads." "Eva Fairchild! But she's—fabulous. She never has a flop! Oh, Walt—you're in, darling! You—" “Now!" He laughed, gratified. "It's not settled. But you'll meet McKenzie tonight at the party." "Not settled, and Eloise McKenzie coming to your party! You let me rattle on about— Walt, I think it's just wonderful! You point McKenzie out tonight and I'll fill her in on everything she wants to know about you—" she stopped suddenly and frowned. "What's the matter?" "I used to hear that Eva Fairchild—" "What?" he asked shortly. She forced a smile, studying his face. "Just that she— likes them young. Have you met her?" "Not yet, but McKenzie promises to fix it up soon." She clicked two fingernails together nervously. "And if she likes you, you'll get the part." "You make it sound like an old movie. If I'm hired, it's because they like my acting. I'm an actor, Jane." "Yes," she said, "I know." The waiter set down their second drinks and went away. "What's the play about?" she asked. "I haven't read it through yet," Walter said. "Just a few scenes for McKenzie in her office. I'm the city boy who's sent out to try to hire this woman who's become popular on a lot of little hick networks. You know, singing a little, joking a little, recipes and old sayings and congratulating people on their birthdays if they send in post cards—" "Is that Fairchild?" He nodded. "And, of course, I fall for her and realize how genuine she is and that she really belongs where she is, that she'd be unhappy in the big city. And, of course, she trips me. You know, the wise bumpkin outslicking the city slicker—" "That's original," Jane said drily. "For Fairchild it doesn't have to be. I have an awful lot of lines. In our two biggest scenes together I have more than she does." "But she has the good ones." "They're not terribly funny, but she'll make them funny. She really is fabulous." "Oh, I think she's great. Well, I hope you get the part, Walt. I think it's-" "In the end I leave without her, and we have a kind of touching thing together." "Who touches whom?" He frowned. "I think that scene will go big." "It sounds good. I'm happy for you, Walt, very. I know how hard you've worked and how much this chance means to you."

He flushed with annoyance. "You, ah—" he ventured, between caution and cruelty, "you seem a little different." "I'm a little older," she said. "Two years!" "Nearly three. You don't seem very different, Walt." He put on a bright smile. "Women. Always wanting to change a man—" "Don't you fret. We never do. I wonder if I could have another?" She tilted her empty glass toward him. He looked at it surprised, having barely drunk from his. "Certainly. Waiter?" This time the waiter did not bother to raise his eyebrows or to come over. Walter held up a finger and formed the word "one" with his lips. "Don't worry, Walt," Jane said, "I'm not going to get messy. I can manage it. I drink a little more than I used to." "Oh?" He smiled, not knowing how he should respond. "I don't mean I start in at breakfast or anything like that. But when I need it, I use it. That's what the stuff is for. I need it now." She reached for his package of cigarettes. "Sorry," he said, and quickly struck a match for her. She looked away from him as she began to smoke, examining the restaurant for the first time since her arrival. "Nice," she said. She discovered the mirror across the room and frowned at their image in it. His laugh was intimate, and when he spoke, he shaded his voice with nostalgia. "We used to have a lot of fun together, Jane." "Yes, we did," she said tightly. "We had a lot of fun together." The waiter set down her drink. He took a quick sip of his own. "You won't join me in another?" "Not yet." "Spoken like a gent." She sipped from her new drink. "Have you seen any of the old crowd since you've been back?" he asked. "Oh—" She thought a minute. "A couple of the girls I knew on the magazine in the old days. Thelma's married and has a baby. Did you know?" He shook his head. "I haven't seen her for years." "Alice told me Joe Crawford is sick. TB." "Oh? I didn't know people got it any more." "Yes. They do." She took another sip of her drink. "Maybe you'd like to order?" he asked. She smiled. "We can look at the menu any time you feel like it." "When I see the waiter," he said. "He's gone to the kitchen." "Who owns this—" She paused to subdue the hysteria even she could detect in her voice. "Who owns this house where you're giving the party tonight, Walt?" "Sam Kendrick. Do you know him?" "I know who he is. Are you old friends?" "I've known him a couple of years." "How long have you lived there?" "Oh—over a year. A year and a half."

"Are you lovers?" she asked evenly. "That's a hell of a question." "Are you going to answer it?" "No." "Walt," she said after a pause, "you're going to hell when you die. You know that?" "Don't be-" "Tell me something. Did I mean anything to you?" "It was very sweet, Jane. But you talk as if we—" "Cut." She stubbed out her cigarette. "Sure. It happened just a few times, usually after a late party. Why be vague? It happened four times, and I remember every time." "We weren't serious. We were just having fun." "I was serious." "You're not being fair, Jane." "I no longer care about being fair, my dear. That part of Jane is as dead as the girl-reporter trick. Over. Finis. Shit." She reached for the cigarettes again. This time he let her light her own. "I'm the biggest fool I know. I'm not blaming you, Walt." She smiled wretchedly. "Not much I'm not. What I mean is, I know I have no right to blame you. I felt it. You didn't. It isn't as if you were the first man I slept with, or the last." "Do you have to—" "What's the matter? Haven't you had a scene with anybody since good old Jane left? You've been protected, boy. Well, you can't say it comes as a surprise. You remember the last time we saw each other. Right in public I asked you if it was true what I'd heard about you and—I still remember his name; I'll bet you don't—Philip Elton." "They're beginning to stare at us." "I forgot how frightened you are of people in public. Maybe that's why you have to be up on a stage to be happy. You should lead a blameless life. Only way to cast fear out of your heart. Only way." "Don't get hysterical." "Hysteria is a very ugly word," she said carefully. "You've used it on me before." "Only when you—" "Don't use it again!" The sharpness of her tone revealed fear as well as anger. She laughed suddenly and finished her drink. "Do you want another?" he asked pointedly. She looked at him, surprised. "You've grown a few teeth. You used to sit and take it. How did you grow teeth so late? Or are they false?" "Try them and see." "Did—Sam Kendrick help you grow teeth, Walt?" "Maybe he did." She closed her eyes. "Do you and he tell each other you love each other? Or do you just do it in the dark and never talk about it?" When she opened her eyes, they were red with tears. She reached for her handbag and found a handkerchief. "My God, how I loathe myself. At the moment I don't love you either, but

that's nothing compared to what I feel for myself. I'll just—go to the ladies' a minute and— Don't get up." By the time he got out of his chair she was walking away with her coat over her arm. Whatever it may have cost her, she walked with dignity and confidence. She went through the bar and out the door to the street. Walter asked the waiter for the check.

five
"GOOD GOD." "What's the matter?" Sam asked, without surprise. Reeve put a hand on Sam's arm as if in need of support; with the other he pointed an outraged finger at a woman who had just come into the restaurant with an elderly man. The woman was short and fleshy and unwisely dressed. "She looks like Arthur Askey got up as the Widow Twankey for a Christmas pantomime. That hat took guts. One has a grudging admiration." The hat was made almost entirely of pink feathers. "Can you imagine her going into a store, pawing over its goods, and emerging triumphant with that as the one outfit that really suited her?" Sam smiled and ate the last of his steak-and-kidney pie. Reeve lit a cigarette and observed the seating of the old man and the fat woman with lively interest. Presently he said, "Do you ever have the feeling you want a cigarette, only to discover you're smoking one?" "No." "I do. I think perhaps it's a simple-minded form of oral eroticism." "You've read a book." Reeve looked irritably at Sam, who was gazing at his water glass and absently twisting the ash tray in small circles. "Leave the ash tray alone!" Reeve closed his eyes. "I won't rest until you get him out of your house and out of your life. You've been unhappy ever since you've known him." Sam raised himself in his chair and laughed. "You don't even laugh the way you used to." Sam laughed again. "Better?" "No." Reeve tapped ash from his cigarette and said silkily, "Why don't you talk to me about him?" "There's nothing to talk about. Especially to you." "You don't think I'd understand." "You'd enjoy it too much." "Things are bad then," Reeve said, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "Are you going to have dessert?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Reeve said. "Am I going to have dessert? Are you trying to rush me?" "No," Sam said, picking up a menu. "Are you having dessert?" "I'm making up my mind," Sam said. Reeve said peevishly, taking the menu from Sam's hand mid closing it, "We're talking like a couple of dowagers at Schrafft’s before a matinee. Waiter! Coffee and two brandies." He looked at Sam again. "About this party. I thought it was just a friendly séance. You make it sound more like a vulgar, job-getting plot for Walter." "Job getting, maybe; vulgar, we'll see." "If Eloise McKenzie is coming, it's vulgar. Why, she used to be a secretary. She's been to those people who teach career women how to walk and talk when they get successful, but her soul is squalid." "Some of your cronies will be there. You can talk to them. But when Mrs. McKenzie comes, try to look rich. That's the idea. To show that Walter has background and the interest of influential people." Reeve's eyes became alert, but when he spoke, his voice affected boredom. "The old idea of not having to spend money so long as you make it clear you can if you want to. I've done it all my life. Very well, I'll do Walter proud. If Walter gets the job, do you think he'll stay with you?" "Why not?" "I've heard about Eva Fairchild and her young men." Reeve's eyes gleamed brighter for a moment before caution lulled them. "McKenzie is married to a very attractive man, by the way. A lawyer. Do you know him?" "I've never met either of them," Sam said, grateful for a change of subject. "Butch, but rather sweet. He's in one of my clubs. Daniel— that's his name. He married her when she was his secretary. That isn't right. She worked for a producer. She stole her first hit from him, they say. What was his name? The one who drank so, and there was a scandal about a call girl—" Reeve snapped his fingers twice, trying to remember. "I don't know," Sam said. "I wonder why he married her. I suppose she has a certain coarse appeal for men, but you don't have to marry for that. Many do though, poor dears. I'm so glad I'm me." The waiter was pouring coffee. "I've decided against brandy," Reeve said to him. "You can leave it for Mr. Kendrick. Be a dear and bring me a stinger." The waiter nodded and went away. Sam looked surprise at Reeve. "A stinger?" "I feel festive." Sam frowned suspiciously. "You need new clothes, Sam. That suit is no longer amusing." Sam examined his jacket cuffs. "Maybe you think it's dignified for a publisher to look shabby. I don't." "I got it just last year."

"Last year!" Reeve rolled his eyes, and his lips set in a brief pout. "You haven't said a word about mine. It's new. Do you think it's too—" Reeve twisted in his chair. "Not in the least." "Wait till I get up. You'll see how it goes in back. I do like a snug fit. Sam!" He slapped his hand on the table. "You're not paying the least attention; you haven't all during lunch. I hear myself babbling on, I loathe every word I'm saying, but how can I talk amusingly if you don't talk to me?'' Sam smiled apologetically. "Sorry." "Don't be sorry. Talk. How's business? Are you making a lot of money?" "Enough." "Sam, sentences can have more than one word." Sam laughed and tried to look as if he were relaxing. "Why don't you ever publish a gay book? Just to please me. I know a young writer who's done one I think is terribly good." "Let me read it, and we'll see." "Your books are always so proper and normal," Reeve began defensively. "If I saw a good one about homosexuals, I'd publish it. The only ones I see are trashy or sentimental. A dream world of television drama, with the sexes changed a little. They all end with a suicide or a murder." "So dwamatic." Reeve batted his eyelashes. "How many of us do you know who’ve killed themselves, or each other?” Reeve pondered briefly. "I can name a few I'd buy guns for. Will you read this book?" "Sure." Sam sipped his coffee, sipped his brandy. "Have the writer send it in. Don't tell him to bring it in himself." Reeve's voice was soft and urgent. "You don't know what it means to a young writer to meet a publisher!" Sam smiled tiredly. "What does it mean?" "Well, he doesn't feel he's writing in a vacuum. He doesn't feel that the people who read his manuscript have blank faces." "We do have blank faces. And he doesn't write in a vacuum very long if he's any good. You know that." "I won't look rich at your party tonight, and Walter won't get his part!" "I hope he doesn't." Reeve spoke in a scolding, hurt way, to hide his feeling of triumph. "Sam, you're being very difficult. He's quite attractive." "Did you promise I'd meet him?" "I simply told him you and I are friends and that I'd ask you— don't laugh!" Reeve himself laughed. "Then it's settled." "Can't I see him after I've read it, if I think it's good?" "Sam!" Sam sighed. "All right. Have him call my secretary." Reeve patted Sam's hand. "That's my sweet Sam." "No more, Reeve. I'll read what they write, or have someone read it, but I won't talk to them. Remember the last one you made me see. He cried."

Reeve frowned. "'Tonio. I've never known a Spaniard who was really sincere. This one's name is Parker. Blond. Rather small but divinely made. Odd for a writer. They usually look like sloths." "Not the ones you know, Reeve." "If you find him interesting, feel free. He's not tied down." "I am," Sam said. "No, Sam, you'd simply like to be. You choose so foolishly. If you'd only picked me—" Sam laughed. "I don't see what's funny. You laugh too much, Sam. It makes lines." "Addie told me last night I should laugh more." "How is Addie?" "Bigger." "She’s really too nice to be a woman. Give her my love." "Give it to her yourself. She'll be at the party." "The boldness of pregnant women! I think she'd approve of us as a couple, Sam." "I don't." "I'm only as much older than you as you are than Walter." "I wasn't thinking of age." "You may not believe it, but I could be good if I had the proper person. Someone solid." Sam shook his head, smiling. "It's a standing offer." Reeve lifted his eyebrows and his shoulders. "It has been for fifteen years." "One day I'm going to scare hell out of you by saying yes." "Rawr!" Reeve growled, and kneed Sam's knee under the table. Sam said, laughing, "You nice old thing." "You make me sound like a collie. I'm really a dangerous man." He sighed. "If only I were. Do you know, Sam, sometimes right in the middle of it I get bored and send them away. What a trollop is the mind. It won't let me rest. Yet often when I do its bidding—or arrange circumstances so that its bidding may be done with comfort and dispatch—all fails, from sheer lack of interest on my part. I haven't really the concentration necessary to be wicked. The one thing there is never a shortage of in the world is young men who are eager for a little attention—or a few favors. Far from my corrupting youth, I have to be very careful not to let youth corrupt me. When all is possible, nothing avails. You be careful, Sam. Stop taking second best. You'll wind up like me." Sam started a sympathetic protest, but Reeve stopped him with a raised hand and a shaking head. "I'm getting old. In a few years I'll be fifty. Not really old. But old. The heart, the breath, the knees—" "Your knees are as strong as ever." "Only for certain efforts. But the will, the desires—they go." He shook his head. "All that is left after a while is habit, and habit is boredom. The flesh loses its hunger, and without the flesh to cater to, what have I?" Reeve narrowed his eyes and stared across the room. "When did he come in?" Sam glanced at Reeve and followed his line of vision. “Just some flesh," he teased.

"Lunching alone and so young. He can't be more than twentyfive, or these old eyes deceive me. Maybe he doesn’t have any friends. Or they all died or moved away. Maybe he's from out of town and hasn't met anyone in New York yet. He sees me—he's blushing! The little devil. I think I'll send a note over. Waiter!" "Reeve, you can't!" "Yes, sir?" the waiter said. Sam said quickly, "Mr. Keary's stinger?" “I’m so sorry, sir," the waiter said. "Right away." Reeve blinked rapidly. "All right, Sam. Let cooler heads prevail. For the moment." He looked across the room again. "I wonder if he has the impression—Sam, do you have any place to go? Or do you intend to crouch there all afternoon making me nervous with your Chinese platitudes?" “I haven't a thing to do until the party." "You should be lying down with a cold pack on your eyes so that you'll look fresh." "I feel fine." "There must be flowers to arrange, or something." "Custer would be inconsolable if I lifted a hand." "Damn you, Sam! It's all right, you can stay a little. He’s just getting his main dish. Sole amandine. That means he isn't Catholic. If he were, he'd have eaten fish yesterday—" "Maybe he's a Catholic who likes fish." "No Catholic likes fish. They eat it to mortify the flesh. I’d like to mortify his flesh." "You will, Oscar. For a tired old man who has forsaken earthly pleasures—" "Don't mumble, Sam." Reeve spoke in the faraway voice people often use when they are looking through binoculars. "I said, now that you've discovered the quiet joys of contemplation and philosophy you'll probably—" "I think liked it better when you were speaking in monosyllables, Sam. Perhaps you should go, after all. He might get the idea we're together." "If I were younger, I'd go to the men's room and cry." "If you aren't out of here by the time I count ten, I'll have you thrown out. One, two—" "We haven't asked for the check yet," Sam protested. "I don't know how much I owe." "I'll take care of it. Just slip your feet into your wedgies, pick up your beaded bag, and get out." Smiling, Sam shook his head and put his napkin on the table. "Will I see you later?" "If I may bring a friend," Reeve said. "It's short notice." "Ten bucks says he'll be with me." "You're trying to make up your losses on lunch. Sorry, Reeve, no. It's not always the woman who pays." Sam got up. On his way to the door he passed the waiter bringing Reeve's drink to him. The young man eating alone glanced up casually as Sam went by. Without meaning to, or

considering it, Sam winked at him. The young man blushed again.

six
WHEN Sam left the hotel he did not button his overcoat; the afternoon was milder than morning had been. The last of the snow was melting. Blue showed here and there in the sky; the low clouds blocking the sun were soft gray. It was the kind of weather New York has occasionally in January, when with spring still far away wet trees look as if they are about to burst their bark with little green leaves, and wet sidewalks take on something of the color of earth. Sam crossed the street and turned into Central Park toward the zoo, glad to be alone. New York belongs to all who live in it and love it, but it never yields itself entirely to any but its native born. Told that New York is an ugly city, they are puzzled and pitying, for their love goes back to a no-time of no-memory. Sam's nurse had most often taken him into Washington Square Park when he was a child, but on certain fine days they had ridden on the old open-top Fifth Avenue busses to Central Park. Sometimes they had even gone to the Bronx Zoo with its rolling plains, its walks that curved up and sloped down, its—to a child —endless space, the thought of which even now induced in Sam a nostalgic tiredness. Right here, when these benches and the people sitting on them had looked monstrously large, he could remember charging into a group of prissing pigeons, and the old woman who scolded him when he laughed, until his nurse, a stout German girl, took him by the hand and led him away. He remembered exactly the feel of the rough bench boards against his naked legs when he wore short pants, and the splinter he got one day. It bothered him all the way home on the bus. His nurse was puzzled and then cross at his excessive squirming, and when they left the bus, pulled him along impatiently until he cried and said he hated her. When he had his bath, the splinter was discovered, and she hugged him and laughed until he laughed, too. What had become of her? He remembered. She married a farmer in Pennsylvania whose family had known hers in Bavaria. Once, a year later, he was taken in a car by his father and mother to visit her. That was a splendid adventure, to run everywhere and see everything, until she took him into the house and showed him a new baby and told him it was her own little boy. Sam stopped and sat on a bench. The wood was nearly dry, but cold when he touched it with his hand. Here and there on other

benches were other people, sitting alone for the most part, huddled in coats, uncommunicative. Presently nostalgia and isolation made him lonely. The native son is used to people and noise when he is not in his own closed quarters. He got up and walked briskly toward an exit on Fifth Avenue. A quarter of an hour later he was pressing the bell of Adeline's apartment on Sixty-fifth Street. Opening the door, Addie said, "Hello," with surprise that was automatic and social, not really surprise at all. "I was walking," Sam explained. "Are you busy?" She shook her head. "I'm by myself." They did not look at each other as she said it, but each knew the pleasure the other felt at the words. Addie was wearing corduroy shorts and a loose sweatshirt of Toby's. Her neck and face were pink and moist. "You're sweating," Sam said. "Glowing," she corrected. "Ladies glow, women perspire, and men sweat." She led him into the living room where the television set was on and her ironing board was set up in front of it. "Are you working?" She snapped off the television. "I'm almost done." Sam slipped out of his coat and dropped it on the straight chair by the telephone. Addie went back to the ironing board and began to fold a shirt. Sam sat down near her. Addie said, "I knew a girl once who was too dainty to sweat. Once a year they had to tap her like a maple tree." "Do you have to iron?" "All right! I'm not trying to look pathetic—" She blew moist, drooping hair away from her forehead. "I didn't know you were coming." She unplugged the iron. "Sometimes I think it's the nicest part of being married. It makes me feel like everybody else." "You do Toby's shirts, too?" "I do them better than the laundry. Toby is not always ungrateful to my farm background. It's an art to iron and fold a shirt. I'm one of the few broads in this town who does it right, I bet you." "Where's Toby?" "In the park playing football." "You're joking." She shook her head. "He still does, once in a while. With the boys from his office." "It's sloppy weather for football." "They play touch, not tackle," she said. "Bunch of sissies, if you ask me. I'm for tackle or nothing." They smiled at each other. "They're probably somewhere drinking beer by now, telling each other how trim they're keeping." She folded the ironing board and took it to the kitchen. When she came back, she had dried her face and neck and put on lipstick. She sat down on the sofa in her regular place. Sam came and sat beside her. "How did it go last night?" she asked, lighting a cigarette. He shook his head. "How about you?"

"All right." She smiled faintly. "Not well. Lunch with Reeve?" "No fun. It was my fault." "Sure," she said. "Reeve's a funny man." "He's funny if you laugh at him. I didn't feel like it. He got peevish." "Poor Reeve. He depends on you," Addie said. "I found him depressing today." "You're getting older than Reeve," she explained. Sam smiled. "I always was." His smile broadened as he remembered something Reeve had said. "He really is funny." She smiled, too, as if she'd heard what Reeve said. "Was he appalled to hear I was coming to the party?" "A little." "I think I'll belly up to him and embarrass him when he's trying to make time with some sweet young thing." "He may bring a new young thing. He was working on it when I left him." "One thing about Reeve," she said. "He doesn't get tired." "It's silly not to get tired of what he does, don't you think?" "I don't think. Anyone who can manage, no matter how, my hat's off to him." "You may keep your hat on in my presence," Sam said. "We'll both stay hatted," Addie said. "Like Jews in a synagogue. Would you like a drink?" "No, thanks," he said. "Beer?" He shook his head. "Tea, maybe?" "Yes." She shifted her feet to the floor and stubbed out her cigarette. "Just when Mother was getting comfortable." "Let me make it," Sam offered. "You rest." "All right," she agreed. "You be my Custer today." She sat quietly, listening as Sam filled the kettle and put it on the stove, as he got out cups and saucers and the tea pot. She was tired; it was good to sit and have someone wait on her. When she heard the whistle of the kettle, she woke from a slight doze and called, "There are cookies in a jar on the second shelf from the bottom all the way to the left." When he found them, he called back, "You make them?" "A&P. They have a lighter hand than I." "I didn't know you had an A&P near." "I take a wire cart. It's not far." Sam came in with a large tea tray and set it down on the table before the sofa. "Ah," she said, "take a powder, Custer, while this gent and I tuck in." She opened the jar, took a cookie, bit into it, and set it down on a saucer. Sam poured tea. "What's all this about doing your ironing and hiking miles to the A&P?" Addie's voice was a little sharp. "Everybody's not rich, Sam." "Toby makes a good salary." "Little things help, and I'm not working. Did I ever tell you how much this apartment costs? Two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month."

"Why didn't you get a cheaper place?" "Cheaper places don't have good addresses." "Does Toby need one for his job?" Addie shrugged, and her voice softened. "Don't blame Toby. I like it, too. Such fun when I give the address to clerks in stores. Their faces brighten, and their voices grow creamy with respect." Sam laughed. "Good tea, Sambo. You can putter in my kitchen any old time." She set down her cup. Sam was watching her. Slowly she turned and looked at him. Sam smacked a kiss through the air at her. "Don't change or die or go away, Sam." "I won't. Don't you." "No," Addie said. "We'll live to be ninety," Sam said. "Oh, I want to live longer than that!" Addie cried. "If I have only that, I've lived a third of it already. I want us to be looking at each other a hundred years from now." "That can't be." "Who says? God? We'll show Him." "All right." Sam smiled. "My, you're pretty," Addie said. "You're kind of pretty, too," Sam said, "for a girl." "Well, hell, you can't have everything. Besides, I like being a woman." "You might as well," Sam said. "Look at you." "I like being alive," Addie said, "in spite of everything." "In spite of every what thing?" "Oh—" She waved a hand dismissingly. "We're supposed to be sick," Sam said. "Everybody says so. It's not possible for a man and woman to love each other the way we do. It's unhealthy, because we're afraid of loving someone we could marry. It keeps everybody else out of our lives, or at a distance—they say." "Off with their heads. What do they know?" "Nothing," Sam said. "Has Walter been talking to you?" Addie asked. "It's a useful explanation of his wanting to leave. It keeps him from feeling guilty. He's as pleased about it as if he'd invented psychology." She nodded. "Toby, too. I loved him when I married him. It's not I who compare him to you. He does it." "Do you think we picked people like Toby and Walter because we didn't want to give each other up?" "Why should we give each other up?" Addie said. "That kind of love is for babies." "Nevertheless," Sam said. "Ah, Sam, what's to be? We used to be confident. I used to look at women I knew and ask myself how they could be such fools as to get themselves into the messes they did. Now look at me. That's something I had to learn: no matter how trite the trouble people get into, don't think you can't do it yourself."

"Never mind," Sam said. "People have to do something. It's only the young who think nothing bad can happen to them." Addie said, "When I was younger, nothing seemed imminent —I mean, unchangeable. I felt that if I didn't like the way things turned out, I could go back to twenty and start over. I'm just beginning to realize it's one life, we're living it, and clean slates and beginning again are for children in school." Sam said, "Your tea is getting cold." She had left it untouched after her first taste. "I like to look at it and smell it more than I like to drink it." Sam poured himself another cup. "Sometimes my father came home from the office to have tea with Mother and me. It was like a little party." "Do you ever miss them?" Addie asked. Sam considered this before shaking his head. "I don't even think of them often. My mother wasn't very strong, so I wasn't allowed to be with her much. I made her nervous. I thought she was beautiful. She was, I have pictures to prove it—" "I know, I've seen them." Sam frowned thoughtfully. "You remember how distant my father and I were. I know it's wrong, but I can't like anyone who isn't bright. He was a slow one. I felt contempt for him, even when I was a child. He had no instinct for the rightness of things, what actors call timing. His timing was always bad, in what he said, and in what he did. I used to be ashamed when I saw people consciously slow down to his pace when they talked to him. It took me a long time to learn that being quicker than he didn't entitle me to sneer at him. What a snotty bastard I was. My father was a good, decent man. You see, I can't call him 'Father' even now. It's always 'my father' when I think of him and speak of him. He can't have found me a rewarding son." Her voice protested. "He must have seen how you were taking hold of Kendrick's before he died. That pleased him." "I suppose he was pleased to know I'd be able to make a living. But I don't think he cared about Kendrick's. It was just something Grandfather started, and he had to go on with. Mother used to have in her room—the one Walter uses now—some water colors my father did on a trip to Rome after he finished Columbia. I went through a phase of romanticizing him, believing he'd wanted to be a painter and given it up for the business." Sam shook his head. "They were the sketches of an untalented amateur. He didn't want to do anything, except live from day to day without fuss and bother." "That isn't bad, Sam." "It was bad for Kendrick's." "And you're good for Kendrick's." Addie took up her cold tea and began to drink it. "Uh," she said, but continued drinking, as if it were costly medicine that could not be wasted. "I wouldn't be anything without Kendrick's," Sam said. "I don't like people the way I used to. I look at them sometimes on a street or in a theater and think: 'My God, what doltish sons of bitches you all are.' I get along with them, but they don't mean anything to me. You do. Walter does. Most of the others bore

me. It's dangerous to feel that way about people. When you do, you've begun to die. Poor Reeve today. He was trying to be nice, and I've laughed with him a thousand times over just such things as he was saying. But I don't have the desire or energy any more." “Because of what's happening, Sam,” she said gently. "It'll pass. You'll get everything back and be yourself again.” “Thank God for Kendrick's. With one hand I hold to it. With the other I hold to you." She smiled at him. "I don't want to be one of those men who thinks and talks about nothing but his business. Shut me up when I do." "You don't talk much about it." "Promise to come back after the baby's born." "I got separation pay, I can't come back." "We'll call it a bonus." "We'll leave it." Her voice sounded a little cold and lightened. "What's the matter, Addie?" She set down her cup and shivered. "My fingers and toes are cold. They're so damned long. When I was a child, I thought of learning to play the piano with them, so I could play duets with myself and join a carnival. Anything to leave home." It was a story Sam had heard many times. He smiled. "And your old man caught you practicing and 'whupped' you.” "Well, he did. He was always 'whupping' me. Until I was sixteen and bought a pistol. One night when I'd gone to bed he came to my room and tried to—I told him if he laid a hand on me again, I'd blow his brains out." "Enter Addie, gun moll." "Exit Addie. I left a few months later and never went back." "Are they still alive? You haven't talked about them for a long time." "I guess so. I send Mother money every Christmas, but I never hear from her. My father won't let her write. She hasn't enough spirit to go behind his back. She never had my spirit at all. I wonder where I get mine?" "Where's your brother?" "I don't know." She smiled. "He must be grown now." She touched his left foot with her right one. "You're my family." Sam lifted his cup to her. "You and me, sugar-pie," he said. "You bet your ass," she said, and finished her tea. She continued after a moment, "So many things happening. I can't sort them out. I feel more me. Grown. A woman, not a crazy girl. I want to be somebody. I want to do something." "You have, you are." "Something big. I don't know what, but something big. Toby won't let me, if he can help it. He's decided he's nothing, and he wants me to be nothing, too. I didn't drive him to it; he'd got to zero by himself before he met me. He wants to die. He doesn't love me, he only wants to kill me. I'm afraid of Toby." "Addie-" "Hear me. I know I shouldn't have married him. You shouldn't have let me marry him. Some little girl who adored him blindly might have been all right for him, might even have saved him."

"Why did you marry him?" "He was good-looking and sweet and gentle—or so I thought. You know what gentleness in a man means to me after all that business with my father when I was young. Then, too, as they say in the books, there was sex. He was the first man I'd felt real desire for. It seems so strange now. There's nothing harder to remember than the feeling of passion for someone you no longer feel passion for. We read books and we hear people talk, but we don't learn until things happen to us. I thought the sex part was great at first. It took me a long time to realize it was all we had; and when it's all, it's nothing. The gentleness was a pose he soon dropped. Oh, he'd have liked it if I'd crawled into the coffin with him. But life's too strong in me for that. I'm not farm-bred for nothing. When you've seen living things struggle to grow, you don't forget it, and you don't hold your own life lightly." She shivered again. "I'd like to have a baby. But not now. And not Toby's. What a horrid thing to say. Here it is in me—but I feel that way. God help it!" "Here" Sam took her cold hands into his and began to rub them roughly. "Here, now." "Sambo." With her hands still in his she leaned toward him and kissed him on the lips. Then she withdrew her hands, began to slap him on the chest and shoulders. He began to laugh. "You're alive—oh, it's good to touch you and know that! It makes me remember I'm alive!" "Enter the husband, unexpectedly." They both turned on the sofa to see Toby standing in the doorway. "I didn't hear you," Addie said. "You were making too much noise." Toby took off his gloves, his cap, and his old Burberry. He smiled at Sam. "Hello, Sam." "Hello, Toby." Toby came around the sofa and took a cookie from the jar. Addie got to her feet. "I'll make fresh tea." "Don't for me," Toby said. "I want a beer." He went into the kitchen. Sam stood up. "I should go." "Not yet," Addie said quickly. Sam looked at his watch. "I was going to read a manuscript this afternoon. Martin gave me a novel he's interested in." "It's too late now." Sam looked toward the kitchen. "If there's time, I'll lie down with a cold compress on my eyes, so they'll sparkle for the party." Toby returned from the kitchen and noted Sam's putting on his coat with mock surprise. "Going?" "I must," Sam said. "I'll see you at the party." "Sure," Toby said, and sipped from the beer can. "Come early," Sam said. "You know how long Addie takes to dress," Toby said. "There's more of me to dress now," Addie said. She went to the door and let Sam out. They did not look at or touch each other.

As she came back into the living room, she said, "I finished the shirts." "Thanks," Toby said, smiling to deny obligation. He watched her lift the tea tray and carry it to the kitchen. When she returned, he said, "Did you and Sam have a good cry together?" She didn't answer. He laughed. "I'll bet Walter and I caught hell this afternoon." She lit a cigarette, turned on a lamp, and picked up a magazine. "Did you have a good game?" she asked. "The ground was mushy. We didn't play long." She turned a page. "What did you do?" "Had a couple of beers." "You'll get fat." "Would you care?" he said. "Or go on loving me just as you do now?" She turned another page and put on a frown, as if she were trying to read. "Did you and Sam arrange today's meeting when I was in the kitchen last night with the other queer?" She made no reply. Her concentration on the magazine was more intense and less convincing. "Stolen moments for two great souls whom nobody understands." Toby drained the can of beer with long, painful swallows. "I don't understand, do I?" he insisted. He studied her face with the hatred of long familiarity. "You bitch, I'm talking to you!" He threw the beer can at her as hard as he could. The magazine crumpled in her hands as the can hit her belly. She sat staring at him palely. The only sound in the room was that of the magazine sliding from her lap to the floor. She leaned forward, holding herself, then got out of the chair quickly and went to the bedroom. By the time Toby decided to follow her, she was in the bathroom, and the door was locked. "You all right?" He rattled the knob. She did not answer, but presently he heard her begin to vomit.

seven
DANIEL McKENZIE let himself into the apartment on Park Avenue and closed the door. He stood still for a moment, catching the inside of his right cheek between his teeth as he listened. Eloise was not yet home. He put his brief case on a side table and turned into the room that opened off the left of the hall. It was not furnished for living, although they had been in the apartment for two years. Eloise wasn't sure what she wanted to do with it, she said occasionally. There were three long coat racks in the middle of it and a dozen straight black chairs set along the walls. Dan removed his gloves, stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat, removed coat and hat and put them into the closet. The closet always held the smell of Eloise's perfume. He left the room, picked up his brief case, and went down the hall. The hall widened before opening into the large living room, the greater width being taken up by a built-in bar. It was, people

said, a perfect place for entertaining, as they left their coats, ordered a drink at the bar, and continued into the living room. The living room was furnished lavishly, without taste. It missed vulgarity by its impersonality. There were three sofas, a number of chairs and small tables that could be moved easily from one place to another as conversational groups blended or split. There were thirty-seven ash trays in the room. Dan had once counted them after a party. There were three rugs, but did little to cover the floor, which consisted of large black-and-white tiles. The floor was, indeed, the only element of the room to give it character. It reminded Dan of a men's lavatory where one is expected to tip a quarter for a towel. He went through the dining room into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and found a can of beer, noting as he did so a large, cream-topped pie loosely covered with wax paper. He frowned at the pie, closed the door, and punched two holes in the beer can. There was a cream pie in the refrigerator every Saturday. Every Saturday night Eloise and Dan made love. Afterward she sent him to the kitchen for the pie. Lying in bed, she gorged herself like a greedy animal. When they were first married he had been amused and even touched by the custom, seeing in it a reflection of Eloise's early poverty, but he had since come to think of it as merely revolting. He took his beer and brief case back through the living room and around the curve of hall that led to their bedroom. The bedroom was always too warm for Dan, but Eloise overheated it so that she could sleep with nothing over her in winter. Dan set the brief case and the beer on a large chest of drawers and began to undress. He was not a tall man, but he had been athletic in his youth and retained at forty-two a body that was firm except for the rounding belly that usually comes to men who sit more than they stand. His black hair was coarse and thick; his eyebrows were very heavy; tufts of wiry hair flourished on his finger joints; and he never looked freshly shaved more than an hour or two. The features of his face were large: full lips, big eyes, arched and fleshy nose, oversized ears that gave him a vulnerable look. It would have seemed a coarse face except for the eyes. They were soft and thoughtful when they were not simply empty. When he was naked, he began to scratch himself. He scratched his chest and belly; he scratched his back as far as he could reach; he bent to scratch his legs; he sat down in a chair to scratch his feet. His excessive hair made him itch in this hot room. Finally, thoroughly scratched and comfortable, he stood with his head back, gulping beer. Then he went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Presently, when he had soaped himself and stood enjoying the hot water streaming over his head and into his face, he heard a loud fart. He stuck his face around the shower curtain. Eloise had come in and was sitting on the toilet stool. "Christ, I couldn't wait. The slowest taxi! Those damn matinee crowds." "You won't hate them when your new show is on."

He drew his face back into the shower. When his body was completely rinsed, he soaped it again, giving Eloise time to finish and leave. But when he had rinsed again and turned the water off, she was still there. He drew back the curtain, reached for a towel, and began to dry himself. "Do you mind flushing it?" he said. She did so. "I forget how dainty you are." She yanked irritably at the paper roll, and yards of green-tinted paper reeled off into her lap. "Any calls for me?" "Not since I've been here," he answered calmly. "How long is that?" "About five o'clock." "You work all afternoon?" "Yes," he said. "Did you?" She nodded. "Went over some drawings with Perkins. And I made Eva promise to meet Walter Roland tonight. Her television show is over at nine. They're letting her plug the show, incidentally. He'll pick her up afterward and take her to Sardi's. You didn't forget the party, did you?" "Yes, I did." "But I told you this morning." "I forgot," he responded calmly. "Sam Kendrick's. He nodded. "Yes." He sat on a low stool and began to dry his feet. "I don't see why I have to go." "Because I want you to." She flushed the toilet again and went into the bedroom. Dan looked at himself in the mirror over the basin, touched his face, sighed, and got out his shaving tools. When he had shaved, he went into the bedroom, took fresh undershorts from the chest of drawers and put them on. Eloise was stretched on the bed naked, her eyes closed. Her girdle was on the floor. One stocking hung on the arm of a chair, the other was crumpled at the foot of the bed. Other clothes were scattered on her dressing table and its chair. Was she asleep? Her face was relaxed. Looking at her, Dan remembered something of what he had felt, being in love with her. She was still a good-looking woman, her hair was reddishblond. Her skin was very white except where it had been pressed and pinched by girdle and clothes, and presently those places would whiten again, he knew. Her breasts were full, with unusually large and vividly pink nipples. Dan lit a cigarette and picked up his beer. "Light me one and lie down," Eloise said. He lit another cigarette and took it over to her. She raised her hand to take it but did not open her eyes. He slipped the cigarette between her fingers and looked down at her. Raising herself on shoulders and heels, she shifted to the side of the bed, making room. He was about to turn away when she said, "What were you working on?" "Dawson found something in one of the old deeds that bothered him. It took a long time to straighten him out." "Don't you want to rest?"

"What time is the party?" She opened her eyes. "When I get there. The party's really for me. It's just supposed to be for Walter Roland." "You've already decided to use him." She nodded. "If Eva agrees. She will. He's just right for her. He can't act, so she won't be jealous. But he's not so bad as to be embarrassing. He's good-looking, he's twenty-eight, and she likes them tender." "Twenty-eight isn't so tender." "This one is. 'Boy' is written all over him—as far as I looked, anyway." "I thought you said he was queer," Dan said. "He's anything. He's nothing." She stubbed out her cigarette. "He wants this part. I could make him do anything to get it. He'd eat a pound of sand to get within licking distance." "Why haven't you signed him?" Eloise smiled. "He mentioned Kendrick. I smelled money. He lives with Kendrick. I said I'd like to meet him—a little quiet group. He jumped. Kendrick would obviously have rich friends. A show can always use extra money." She patted the vacant space beside her. He hesitated, put his cigarette in an ash tray, and sat down on the side of the bed. "You're getting a pot," she said. "Not much yet." He lay on his back quickly and hardened the muscles of his stomach. "You're holding it," she said. He closed his eyes and did not answer. She propped herself on one elbow and rubbed the knuckles of her other hand across the hair on his chest. Her hand slipped under the elastic of his shorts, and she caught him by the hair there. "Where've I got you?" she demanded. "Don't do that," he said, frowning. "I've got you by the short hairs, that's where I've got you." She tightened her grasp until it hurt. He caught her wrist and squeezed until she let go with a laugh. She smelled pungently of sweat and perfume. Dan loved the smell of sweat, but not hers any longer. "Poor old Dan," she said. He frowned, his eyes still closed. "You'd like to be married to a woman who undressed behind the bathroom door, and didn't use the toilet when you were in there, and never touched you unless you touched her first." "I thought you wanted to rest," he said. "Time's getting on." "I told you the party won't start till I get there. It's just six. Did you see if Estelle remembered the pie?" "She always does." "My one indulgence." She smiled. "I should worry. I burn everything up." "You work too hard," he said. "Maybe when the show gets on, I'll take a vacation. You want to go anywhere?" "I don't know when I can get away."

"I don't see why. They work for you, Dan; you always forget that." “If I whipped off every time I got the urge, I soon wouldn't need anybody to work for me.” "Maybe I'll go somewhere by myself." "Okay." "Maybe I'll take along a young actor to keep me company." He didn't answer. "You wouldn't give a damn, would you?" "Why do you have to talk that way?" he said. She looked surprised. "Are you mad about something?" "I'm a little tired," he hedged. They lay for a few minutes without talking. Presently he said again, "I said don't do that." "For Christ's sake," she exclaimed, "I can't do anything! I can't even touch you." "It's the way you touch me." "How I despise a prudish man." "I'm not prudish. You reach for me the same way you'd reach for aspirin if you had a headache, or a bar of soap if your hands were dirty." "What's wrong with that?" He didn't answer. "All right, what's wrong with that?" she repeated louder. "If you don't know, I can't tell you." Her face softened; her voice both teased and humored him. "Ah—you want it a little more romantic." She tickled the hair around his navel with her forefinger. "It isn't that," he said, holding her hand still. "Then what is it?" She spoke with exasperation again. He swung himself to a sitting position, and his bare feet hit the floor. His voice was harsh with the knowledge of how she would respond: "I want it with a little love." She laughed. "You kill me, boy. We've been married ten years. I'm not a little Shirley from the Bronx with her first secretarial job, all starry-eyed when the boss asks her for a date. And you aren't exactly the movie-hero type." "You don't understand it, Eloise. Leave it alone." She knelt quickly on the bed, crooked her arm around his neck, and pulled him flat again, leaning over him so that her breasts tumbled into his face. She reached down and began to tickle him under the knees, a vulnerable spot she had discovered when they were newly married. "I’ll show you loving. No man's going to lie down beside me and pretend it's Sunday school—" She swung her body up and around until it rested on his. Quickly she pushed his shorts down to his knees and began to kiss him. Her tongue, darting like a snake's, roamed his face, pausing on the closed lids of his eyes, then thrusting between his lips and exploring his outer gums when he would not open his teeth. He had lain still, but now he caught her and brought her hard against him, opening his mouth full to kiss her. He rolled her off him so that they were both on their sides and tried to work his hips between her legs. She began to laugh. He stopped kissing her, pushed her away from him, and lay limply on his back.

She laughed harder. "You don't like my loving? Not much you don't! Look at yourself, hot daddy!" He sat up quickly on the side of the bed, covering himself with the shorts again. She got up from the bed and went to the dressing table. Finding a comb, she set about straightening her hair. He lit another cigarette and stared at her. She began to hum, careful not to meet his eye in the mirror. Finally he said, "I'm going to kill you one day when you do that." She affected innocence. "Do what?" "You do it every time." She hummed again, then stopped to ask vaguely, "I do what every time?" She put down the comb and turned to smile at him. "Get me going and then stop. You God damn sick tease." "Why don't you force me?" "Because I don't want it that way!" She picked up the comb again and drew one golden hair from its teeth. "You can't say I deny myself to you." "Every Saturday night. The schoolgirl's orgy of sex and food." "Funny old Dan." She opened a drawer, took out a shower cap and snapped it over her hair expertly. "See? I look like a bald-headed woman. I don't look sexy now, do I?" "Saturday night," he said. "The rest of the times are just to prove yourself. You don't love anything except power." She flicked an angry glance at him, but her voice was cool. "Save your moral fervor for the courts—hot daddy." She smiled again, went into the bathroom, and stepped into the shower. When he heard water running, he followed her, going to the basin and rinsing the tight places her dried saliva had left on his freshshaven face.

eight

CUSTER liked parties. Andrew did not. Two maids and a bartender had been hired for the evening. They had worked with Custer before and knew what was expected of them. The bartender was in the kitchen with one of the maids who would serve drinks and food. The other maid was seated in the hall ready to answer the door and take care of the guests' coats. Custer made a critical tour of the long living room. The logs were burning well. The red roses were arranged in two huge copper vases on tables at opposite ends of the room. Extra ash trays had been set out for the evening. Custer went to the record player and switched it on. Sam had already selected music to be played until people were relaxed enough not to need a background sound to stimulate them to talk. A few minutes earlier Andrew had paused on the stair for an aloof survey of the room before going up to watch Sam finish dressing. He lay now on the bed. Sam, who had changed into a

blue suit, stood before a mirror adjusting a red bow tie. He caught Andrew looking at him in the glass and turned. "Never mind, Andrew," he said. "It doesn't happen often." Andrew closed his eyes slowly, held them closed a long moment before opening them to reveal flashing resentment. Sam knelt on the floor beside the bed and put his face close to Andrew's. "It's my house, not yours." Andrew turned his face a quarter away, but then he got a whiff of the cologne Sam occasionally used and turned back interestedly, spoiling his pose. Sam laughed softly as the cat touched whiskers to his face. Andrew let his head be rubbed and was beginning to look appeased when Walter entered. "Aren't you ready?" Walter wore a dark gray suit, a white shirt, a blue four-in-hand tie. Sam stood, touching his tie again. "This looks a little funny, doesn't it?" "No. All good faggots wear red ties on Saturday night. So goes the legend." "I don't mean that. This end won't flatten." "Let me see." Walter worked over the tie a minute, frowning. "I think it's better." He looked into Sam's eyes and quickly away. "Let's go down," he said, turning. Sam caught his arm, kissed him quickly on the lips, and walked out ahead of him. "I wonder who'll be first," Walter said as they went along the hall. "Let's guess. Sylvia and whoever she brings." "I didn't know you'd asked her," Walter said irritably. "Sure. Why not?" "She's an old windbag when she gets on the theater, and she's sure to with McKenzie." "McKenzie can't be so ignorant as to not know she was one of the best actresses in the world twenty years ago." "And now she gives diction lessons to queens whose voices are too sissy for them to get ahead in business. She's sure to bring one or two along. She always does." "Your lunch made you cross." "Well, thank God she isn't coming," Walter said. They stepped into the living room. "Let the party begin, Custer!" Sam said, raising his arms like a conductor alerting an orchestra. Custer smiled and started the music. "What will you have, Mr. Kendrick?" Custer always served Sam's first drink himself. "I think a tall weak whiskey. It may be a long haul." "What will you have, Mr. Roland?" "The same. Only not so weak on the first one." Custer went down to the kitchen. Sam looked about the room. "The old place always looks good for a party, doesn't it?" Walter nodded. "How many parties have been given here, do you suppose?" He went to the fireplace and held his hands before the flames. "My hands are cold." Walter stepped beside him and took Sam's hands in his. Sam drew away, saying quickly, "The maid's just outside."

Walter shrugged and sat down in a chair. "You'd better sit now. You won't have a chance later." "I'm not tired. I feel fine," Sam said, warming his hands again. He turned his head to see Walter frowning. "Don't be nervous," he said gently. "Everything will be all right. And I'll see that Sylvia isn't rude to McKenzie." "I hope Reeve wasn't successful in his little conquest this afternoon," Walter said. "Relax. It's all right if he brings him." "Sure. Have the place swarming with fairies. That'll look good." "McKenzie is being asked here to buy you. Not my guests, nor my house, nor me." Walter's smile was mocking: "Spoken like a man." The doorbell rang as Custer entered with the drinks on a tray. Sam took his glass quickly, sipped from it, and moved toward the hall. He recognized Addie's voice greeting the maid. "Hello," he said, stepping into the hall. "It's getting cold again," Toby said, helping Addie out of her coat. Sam kissed Addie. "That's some dress." He stood back admiringly. The dress was dark blue wool, and discreetly shapeless. "Bought it secondhand off Sophie Tucker," Addie said. "Had a hell of a time getting her to part with it." Toby went ahead of them into the living room. "Long time no see," he said to Walter, and they smirked at each other. "Hello, Custer," Addie said. "How've you been?" "Fine, Miss Addie." Custer beamed at her. She was the only person he addressed by her first name. "You look beautiful tonight!" "Ah, Custer, you'll turn a girl's head," Addie said, adjusting her left earring which had worked loose. Sam glanced at her and decided that she was paler than she had been in the afternoon. "What will you drink?" he said. "I think a little straight bourbon," she said. Custer looked at Toby. "I think a big straight bourbon with ice." He grimaced at Addie as Custer left them. Addie sat down on the end of a sofa. "I'm staking my claim," she said. "Here I'll stay, no matter if Cossacks ride through with whips." The doorbell rang again. It was Martin Cranch, Sam's senior editor, and his wife Beatrice. Mrs. Cranch had a tight bonnet of gray hair, a pink face, and blue eyes that twinkled so constantly they made strangers assume they'd missed a joke. She ran across the room to Addie. "My dear! Oh, you look sweet! Martin!" she demanded of her husband, "doesn't she look prettier than when we saw her last?" Without waiting for an answer—indeed her husband had not heard her, busy as he was talking to Sam—Mrs. Cranch forged on. "What are you going to name it if it's a boy?" "Sam," Addie said.

"Precious!" Mrs. Cranch exclaimed. "Martin! Did you hear? What are you going to name it if it's a girl?" "Sam," Addie said. Mrs. Cranch blinked her eyes hesitantly. "You mean Samantha! Well, I see you're determined to work Sam in somewhere!" She laughed merrily. "So they say," Addie agreed, exchanging level looks with Toby over Mrs. Cranch's shoulder. Martin Cranch was saying to Sam, "Have you finished the Palmer novel?" "I haven't started it, I'm afraid. I'll get to it tomorrow and let you know what I think Monday." "What's that song?" Mrs. Cranch asked, and began to hum along with the record. Talking to Toby, Walter had his back to the door when he heard, "I'm Jane Frisbie." It was so unexpected he dropped his cigarette. Retrieving it from the hearth, he turned to see Sam greeting her, leading her into the room, by the time he got to them Jane was saying, "I'll bet Walt didn't tell you he'd invited me. Hello, Walt." "Hello, Jane. I'm glad you decided to come." She smiled at him coolly and squeezed the tips of his fingers. "I had to see." "You've met Sam," Walter said. She and Sam said, "Yes," at the same time, smiling almost in the same way. "Walter tells me you've been away a long time," Sam said. "I didn't realize how long until I came back," Jane said. Walter took her elbow. "Come and meet people." Sam turned back to Martin Cranch, but his gaze remained speculatively on Jane and Walter as they joined Toby at the fireplace. "You must make a lot of money," Jane was saying to Toby. "Don't all ad men?" "It's not whether you win but how you play the game," Toby said. Half his drink was gone. "I adore games," Jane said, looking at Walter. "Are we going to play them tonight?" "I shouldn't be surprised," Toby said, smiling at her flatteringly over the rim of his glass. "What will you drink?" Walter asked. "Oh—" Jane frowned. Walter wondered if she had been drinking during the afternoon, and if she were trying to remember what. "I think a scotch with lots of ice." Walter went off to tell Custer. "Walter and I are old friends," Jane said. "I didn't know he knew girls," Toby said. Jane's smile wavered but did not go out. "Do you have a cigarette? I'm always forgetting them." Toby offered his case. "All girls do. My wife—" She smiled relief as he held his lighter. "That's Addie on the sofa. Not the one with gray hair." "She's lovely. She's going to have a baby." "Very," Toby said, and they laughed.

Sam was welcoming the literary agent, Ramona Holmquist, and a friend she had brought along. Ramona was the only agent Sam was fond of, although he got on well enough with the others. She was a tall, handsome woman in her forties. Her black hair was brushed straight back from her forehead, and her suit was beautifully tailored. Her eyes were bold but kindly, emphasized by heavy brows that had never been plucked. "Sam, this is Petalla Cook, one of my new writers. She's not for sale. I've already signed her with Doubleday." "Hello, Miss Cook. You didn't even show me her book," he said accusingly to Ramona. "Have to keep you on your toes, boy." Petalla Cook beamed at the attention. She was a thin-faced but pretty girl—or would be, Sam decided, if someone showed her how to use make-up properly. "How did you get the name 'Petalla'?" he asked. "It sounds a little like a bone." She screamed with laughter. "It does! Nobody ever said so before! My mother wanted to call me 'Petal,' but Daddy wouldn't let her." She added cheerfully, "Thank God for small favors." "Never mind, baby," Ramona said. "Look at mine. Pregnant women shouldn't be allowed to read. I've never liked Helen Hunt Jackson." "Ramona!" It was Addie's voice that cut across the room. "Come and say hello to me!" Addie held out her hand, and Ramona, beaming, marched over to take it and kiss her on the cheek. "What's the matter with you, you can't get up?" "The less moving I do, the better," Addie said. Ramona shook her head, looking at her body. "It doesn't suit you. Rent or adopt next time." "I'm Mrs. Cranch," Mrs. Cranch said twinklingly. Ramona gave her a surprised look. Addie said, "I'm sorry. Beatrice Cranch, Ramona Holmquist." Ramona said, "You must be Marty's wife." "That's right!" Mrs. Cranch admitted. "Is it Miss Holmquist?" "It isn't Mister," Ramona said. Mrs. Cranch insisted on her point roguishly. "I thought there might be a Mister somewhere in the background." "There is," Ramona agreed. "My father." "How's Sophie Rose Glover?" Addie asked. "New one in April," Ramona said. "Sam told me," Addie said. Ramona said contentedly, "It'll sell." "Are you Miss Glover's agent?" Mrs. Cranch wanted to know. Ramona nodded. Mrs. Cranch frowned. "I suppose it's Mrs. Glover. I just love her books. I'm not very literary minded," she excused herself. "Martin says I'm a perfect fool when it comes to books, so I leave all that to him. He likes to rest and forget it when he comes home. But I do think Miss or Mrs. Glover knows more about telling a story than anybody—" Sylvia Sawyer entered a room as if no years had passed since her ascendancy as a dramatic actress. She was more than seventy,

but her figure was still straight and lithe. The face was a ruin, but the deep-set eyes could still command, the voice still ravish and hold. She entered now with two young men who were trying to look poised. "Sylvie dear!" Sam said, kissing her. "Pronounce the a, Sam, or I'll have to give you lessons, too. This is Lucas Webster and this is Claude Lime. Your host, Samuel Kendrick." "You look wonderful," Sam said after nodding to the young men. "Doesn't she?" Claude made bold to say. Sylvia shook her head at him seriously. "I thought we'd got you over that lisp." Lucas shrieked with laughter. "Help me out or this—thing, darlings," Sylvia said, turning herself and raising her arms. The mauve stole she wore over a pink dress was very long. It covered her hair, cross-looped under her chin, folded over her shoulders and back again under her arms. "I feel like a mummy." Giggling, the young men unwound her. "What a lovely party!" Sylvia declared. "You know, Sam, I'd have come if I didn't love you and if you didn't serve the best food and drink in town—just to see the divine Custer." Custer approached with a tray, smiling and bowing. “Good evening, Miss Sawyer,” he said, offering her the drink he knew she wanted. She took a glass from the tray. "Such bearing! Such a head! It should be in a museum, my dear Custer!" She and Custer were old friends; they smiled at each other with pleasure and understanding. "Oh, he is remarkable," Lucas Webster made the mistake of saying. He was humbled by a look from Sylvia Sawyer that had silenced matinee audiences before he was born. "What would you like to drink?" Sam asked them smoothly. "I'd like a martini," they said in unison. "What a room, what a room!" Sylvia boomed. "I must smell those roses," she decided, moving toward one of the copper vases. Sam followed her as Custer directed the maid to serve the young men martinis. "Oh, they don't smell. Roses used to smell heavenly; they don't any more. What happened?" "Who's that?" Jane asked Walter. "Sylvia Sawyer," Walter said negligently. "I thought she was dead," Jane said. "She is," Toby sneered. Walter explained. "Sam went backstage after a matinee of Ghosts when he was fifteen, and they've been friends ever since." "She hasn't acted in years, has she?" Jane asked. "No," Toby laughed cuttingly. "She drinks and does voice training." "She's marvelous looking," Jane said. "Who's the dike talking to Addie?" Toby asked Walter. "I don't know," Walter said untruthfully. "Aren't we all sophisticated," Jane taunted them. "You're running with a fast set tonight," Toby said. "Everyone is so tolerant of everyone else's little aberrations."

"What are yours?" Jane asked. "I like women," Toby said. "Isn't that dangerous for a married man?" "Oh, you know what marriage is." "No. No, I don't. But I plan to." "Are you engaged?" "No." "About to be?" "I'm ready to be." "Are you going to combine marriage and a career?" "Not if I can help it. I want to put on a house dress and live in the suburbs. When my husband comes home from the city, there'll be a feast waiting, and I'll laugh my head off at his every and smallest sally." "What a nice wife you'd be." Toby turned to Walter who had not been listening to them, but watching the door. "How do I get a new drink?" "Oh. You were having bourbon." Walter went off to find the maid. "Does your wife combine marriage and a career?" Jane asked. "Addie combines marriage and everything. She worked for Sam. And may again, for all I know. They're very old friends. They're much older friends than I am." Noting the bite in his voice, Jane looked interestedly at Addie, who was still flanked by Mrs. Cranch and Ramona Holmquist. "Don't get me wrong," Toby continued. "I'm still the—what do you call it in a polite way? I'm the—love interest for my wife, but it's Sam she really —" "You're a very nice man, but should you be talking this way?" "What do you mean?" Toby said, registering little more than the "nice man" part of her remark. "I'm a stranger." "And I sound disloyal. Whooee!" Toby laughed. "You don't know how funny that is. Anyway, you don't seem strange for a stranger. Do you really think I'm a nice man, or, is it just the kind of thing you tell the troops, to keep them happy in the trenches?" Jane laughed and sipped her drink. The ice had melted. The serving maid arrived with new drinks for them. "Well?" he said when the maid left. "You didn't answer my question." She smiled at him, enjoying his interest. "Let's say I mean what I say." "One of the rare ones," Toby said. She laughed. "One of the dull ones." "You couldn't be dull," Toby said seriously. "You know what I think? I think you're the prettiest girl in the room." "How many have you had?" Jane said, smiling at his drink. "Not nearly as many as I'm going to have!" They laughed. "Let's find a quiet corner and neck." They laughed harder, enjoying their silliness, but even in his laughter Toby kept his eyes on Jane's face, pleased at the glow his words had brought there. "I came as Walter's girl," Jane said.

"That's funny!" "I didn't mean it to be funny." Seeing her hurt, Toby calmed and sweetened his voice. "I'm an ass, rattling on at you this way. But I've been under wraps for a long time, and I have a feeling the wraps are coming off. I didn't mean any harm, but you're such a nice girl and I thought—well, you'd known Walter a long time and—knew Walter." "I wonder where he went," Jane said, looking around the room in panic. "Don't go away." He touched her arm. She looked at him questioningly, and her eyes softened. "Say something funny, please. I have the awful feeling I may cry." Toby began a light patter. "I was walking down Madison Avenue the other day on my lunch hour, you know. Us ad men usually have coffee and sandwiches and 'Think Sessions' together instead of lunch, but that day I'd actually managed to leave the building for a quick drink and an oyster stew when what did I see but this horse on the sidewalk looking into the windows of the Liberty Music Shop. So I went up to the horse, nice, intelligentlooking horse, and I said, "See anything that looks good?" And the horse said—" Across the room Walter nudged Sam as Sam left a group of people to go to the door. "Toby's getting drunk." "I know," Sam said. "He's making a friend, too." The people arriving were Professor Adam Boatt and his wife Amy. The professor had edited an anthology of short Spanish novels for Kendrick's which had been successful as a college text. He was a large man whose gray hair, it was often said, bristled with energy. His wife was twenty years younger than he and unenterprisingly pretty. She had been a student of his. Sam made them welcome and took them over to Addie's group at the sofa. Martin Cranch was saying to Sylvia, "You ought to write your memoirs for us. You tell such wonderful stories about the theater. There's a big audience for such books—especially one by you, I'm sure." "Aren't you adorable to say so," Sylvia replied. "But my memories are for myself and my few interested friends, dear Mr. Cranch. I can't be bothered setting them down for a vulgar public that wouldn't remember me." "How well I remember your Arcadina! I shall never forget the way you played the big scene with Trigorin." "What's that in?" Lucas Webster whispered to Claude Lime. "Cherry Orchard" Claude Lime whispered back. "How old you must be to remember that!" Sylvia chided him. "How young we both are!" Martin Cranch replied gallantly. Lucas Webster and Claude Lime edged away. They needn't have bothered to edge, for Sylvia was embarking joyously on reminiscences with Martin Cranch. "Some place," Lucas said when they were out of earshot. "Dowdy," Claude declared, wrinkling his nose. "I'd like to get my hands on it." "Play up to Sam Kendrick." Lucas tittered.

"He's too old for me, Ethel. Now that one over at the fireplace, if he owned it—" “He's talking to a girl,” Lucas pointed out. "What do you think I'm talking to!" They whooped with laughter. Accepting new martinis from a passing tray, they sipped them and smiled at each other, feeling relaxed now that they were away from Sylvia. Suddenly Claude said with feeling, "Look at what's just come in the door!" Reeve Keary had just come in the door, but it was not about him that Claude had exclaimed. With him was the young man who had lunched alone at the Plaza. "Hello, Sam," Reeve said triumphantly. "I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine. Sam Kendrick, Denis Everett." "How do you do?" Sam said. They shook hands. Denis Everett laughed. He had a good-natured, masculine laugh. "Old friends of about four hours," he said. "That's a long time in New York," Sam said. "I love your place," Denis Everett said, sounding a little less masculine. "So do I," Sam said. "Where's that bitch I'm supposed to be glossy with?" Reeve asked. "She hasn't come yet." "Wouldn't you know. The arrogance of the lower classes. We've been drinking scotch, Sam, if it should occur to you to offer us anything." Sam signaled the serving maid and gave their order. "Do you want to meet people?" "Who are those incredible little marys huddling by the aspidistra?" Reeve said. "Lucas Webster and Claude Lime. They came with Sylvia." "Where's my divine Sylvia?" Reeve demanded, and then spied her across the room talking to Martin Cranch. Sylvia said, "They wanted me for it, of course, but couldn't meet my terms. The most ridiculous people are producing plays these days. People with no money, no taste, and no experience. Reeve!" They touched cheeks and held each other by the hands a moment. "How young you look, my dear. You'll look a boy when they stitch you up in sailcloth and slide you into the India Ocean —" "Not the Indian. I'll be devoured by coelacanth, ugly creatures!" He and Martin Cranch nodded and smiled recognition. "I was saying to dear Mr. Cranch, there's nothing in the theater now for my kind, the trained classical actor. It’s all grunting and shuffling, and never mind what the playwright is trying to say. Not that the current ones are saying much of anything. The last of any talent was O'Neill. Do you know my most recent offer? They were thinking of a musical version of Over the Hill to the Poorhouse, or some such thing. Everything changed inside out, of course—the young people being forced into the retirement home and the older ones forsaking their responsibilities, being gay. They wanted me to tap dance. I was to have a sort of ballet

thing, modified, very jazzy and discordant, everyone leaping and floating but me— I was to tap dance. Fancy, my doing that at seventy-three. Well, they may know what they're talking about. There's no overestimating the vulgarity of the critics and public. But I told them I could live on my memories, thank you, and the few pence I earn coaching dear young people." She glanced toward Lucas and Claude who were approaching Jane and Toby at the fireplace. "Sweet boys. They're almost the only ones who remember. And they never saw me. But they remember and pass my legend on to each other." Custer approached with a tray of drinks and canapés. "Thank you, my Othello. They're just a lit-tle bit watery and go so fast. Everything does. No, thank you, nothing to eat just now. I must keep my figure. I can't afford new clothes." Others had arrived. A young soprano, having her first season at the Metropolitan, was giving an imitation of Maria Callas in the death scene of La Traviata for the professor and his wife and a magazine editor. Sam wandered through the room slowly, smiling a little, stopping nowhere more than a moment, listening with mild amusement to the sounds of the party. "I don't care any more, and that's a bore. I don't care what I eat when I look at a menu. I don't care what I wear or who likes me. I don't even care who wins the World Series." "—we must continue to marry. Marry, marry, always and in all ways, right to the grave. What else do we have but each other?" "They say he threatened to kill himself if she didn't marry him, so she did." "There's a good healthy basis for marriage, threatened suicide." "She'd have been a gray sparrow of a woman if she'd married a man half her age instead of twice it." "Maybe she'll do that next time." "—oh, yes, we still go to see Garbo's Camille at the Museum of Modern Art, and fight against using stainless steel, and have kind of got over pottery, but still allow ourselves to like French and Italian films, although it's correct again to make fun of the Japanese. Remember when Picasso was in—and then he was out? Well, he's back in again." "So hard to keep up." "These dreary young people who rush to New York, throwing off the old conformity only to adopt the new. They say they seek individuality. All they seek is a fertile field for their exhibitionism. When that's over—and nobody looked, anyway— nothing to do but marry and move to the suburbs." "Well, it's politics now. If you've run through, or been smart enough to by-pass, communism and psychoanalysis and the Catholic Church, there's nothing left but to read the New York Times and fret about the state of the world." "I couldn't agree with you more!" "No, that isn't what I mean. What I mean—" "Custer, did you say? Has anybody made the obvious remark?" "No, but you may."

"He's big in paperbacks, isn't he?" "He wrote a book, but his mother didn't like it. As a matter of fact, she didn't read it. But she's always willing to believe the worst of him. So she clipped all the reviews she saw and sent them to him, underlining in runny red ink words like 'frank' and 'strong' and 'intimate,' and even 'ambitious.'" "What did he do?" "He cried." "Who?" "You know! She's been married four times and has at least one child by each husband. Every once in a while she gets the vulgar urge to gather her children together and be a mother to them, swears she'll fight for them through every court in the land. But before she's done she finds herself with two black eyes living with some terribly minor poet in Greenwich Village. She'll wind up a character at those parties where they serve cheap sherry from a gallon jug. Instead of a hat she'll wear a helmet from World War I and a string of beads she bought from an Arab in Jerusalem who told her they were once worn by the Magdalen." "They're shiny and new and amusing, but they didn’t live before you opened the book, and they won't go on living when you close it—" "Don't you see what I mean? How can life be good even when it's good, when the end is nothing?" "What do you suggest?" "Another drink." "My dear, women shouldn't be allowed in theaters!" "I don't care about all that, I just want to make a little money-" "Well, we all have to think about security, of course." "But who does any more? Who does? Really, I mean. Real security, not just—" "Did you hear the one about the tourist in Mexico City who didn't know what time it was and stopped to ask a—" "I write a little poetry." "That's the only way to do it." "Of course, those are the figures they give the press, but who knows what they actually made on it?" "How did you ever get tickets? We've been trying to see it all winter." "It's simple. You take money to the box office." "I don't suppose she's what you'd call beautiful, but there's something terribly appealing in her—" "Oh, I grant you, wise in the ways of stage trickery, but not quite an actress, if you know what I mean, and not really a singer. A voice like a peacock's on some notes." The maid had set out ham and turkey and salads on a long table at the end of the room nearest the stairs to the kitchen, and the guests began to drift over and eat. It was seven-thirty. Walter came up to Sam. "Where is she?" "Maybe she forgot," Sam said cruelly. "Why don't you relax and enjoy the party?" "Toby's getting loaded."

"So is your little friend," Sam said. "I shouldn't have asked her," Walter said unhappily. "Did you fight at lunch?" "My God, yes. And she's told Toby about it—and he's been telling her about you and Addie." "Oh, Lord." Walter nodded tensely. "Why don't you break it up?" Sam said. "It's too late. "Never mind. Everybody's drinking enough not to notice if they get a little silly." "I don't care about that. I just hope they behave when McKenzie gets here." "If she comes." "She'll come!" Sam shrugged. "You still have this." Walter nodded. "A party where people who don't know each other talk about things they know nothing about." "Ah, Wisdom from the mouths of babes." Through the noise they heard the doorbell ring again. Walter started quickly for the hall, Sam following. Ramona Holmquist and her friend, Petalla Cook, were standing with plates of food near the fireplace by the time Lucas Webster and Claude Lime got up courage enough to invade the party of two that Toby and Jane had made of themselves. They said who they were and made fluttery motions at Toby, who stiffened and excused himself, waving an empty glass in the air and winking at Jane to tell her he would return. Emboldened by whisky and Toby's attentions, Jane said to the young men, "Are you old friends of Sam's?" "Oh, no," Lucas said. "Are you?" "Never met him before." She shook her head. "Well, who are you old friends of?" They stared at her blankly. "Each other?" They exchanged looks and laughed, not knowing whether she meant to be friendly or rude. "Well," Claude said suggestively as a test, "we're sort of friends of—a lot of people." "New York is big," Jane said. "Isn't it divine?" said Lucas, who had come to the city from Detroit only a few months earlier. Jane felt rage beating in her breast like another heart. "Divine?" she said. "Divine! I've been away, and I'm not really used to the way men talk in New York yet. You sound almost like fairies! Of course you're not, I realize, or you wouldn't have sought me out to talk to, but still-" Ramona stepped, quick and smiling, between the two crimsonfaced young men. "Good ham," she said to Jane, "have you tried it? You must be a friend of Walter's. I'm Ramona Holmquist, and I've met most of Sam's friends at one time or another." "Yes," Jane said as if answering a challenge, "I'm a friend of Walter's." "Any friend of Walter's is a friend of Sam's. You're—" "Jane Frisbie." "I've seen some of your articles."

"Are you a writer, Miss Frisbie?" Claude said, recovering. "A reporter." Ramona said, "I loved that piece on Ceylon—last month wasn't it published?" "Yes," Jane said. Ramona laughed. "I suppose I should explain that I'm a literary agent. But don't worry, I never try to lure writers from other agents." "I don't have an agent," Jane said. "Not any more." Her anger ebbed. She began to be grateful to Ramona. "Then you're fair game. Have you thought of gathering your pieces and making a book of them?" "They're not that good. They have no lasting value, they're just passably entertaining—I hope—to read in a magazine." "How many books have lasting value?" Ramona said. "That's not for you to decide, anyway—" Claude and Lucas edged into the larger swirl of the party. When Toby had found a new drink and started back toward Jane, he noticed Addie sitting alone on the sofa. Her companions had wandered off to get food for themselves or to talk to other people. "Alone?" Toby said. Addie smiled. "And loving it. The grateful pause between this and that. Have you eaten?" "Too many calories in this," he said, rattling the ice in his glass. "I have to watch my figure." "You ought to eat something," Addie said. "I feel great. How do you feel?" "Oh—top hole." Addie nodded toward the fireplace. "She's very pretty." "I told her she was the prettiest girl in the room." "I believe she is," Addie said, smiling. "She's in love with Walter. He once had an affair with her. Then he left her for a man. That was before Sam." Addie's expression did not change. "Nothing gets to you, does it?" "Not from you, Toby." She continued to smile, hoping that anyone noticing them would think they were having the brief exchange of any husband and wife at a large party. "I thought of something tonight," Toby said. "Remember I said I'd find a way to break you and Sam up? I've found it." "Have you, dear?" She nodded again toward the group at the fireplace. A distress between anger and boredom made her say, "Maybe you'd better go protect your investment." "Who's the dike? She was talking to you a while ago." "A very nice woman." Addie watched him as he too obviously inserted himself between Jane and Ramona and put an arm around Jane's waist. It was the time of the party when people did such things; no one else noticed. "Hello, darling." Reeve sat down beside her on the sofa. "Hello, Reeve." She patted his hand as he kissed her cheek. "It's hard to get close to you," Reeve complained.

"Not much longer," she said, marveling that people never tired of referring to her pregnancy. "I've been admiring your suit. Is it a new one?" "Yes," Reeve said. "Do you like it? Sam didn't notice it at lunch until I told him about it. He doesn't notice anything these days. We'll have to do something about him, you and I." "Be sweet and patient and let him alone." "It's all so unnecessary!" Reeve relaxed his frown and winked at her. "I'm hatching a plot." "None of your plots! I'll have your black heart on a skewer if you—" "Ooo," he cooed, "it's a fierce little thing. Don't fret. This plot is for everybody's good." "Nothing is for everybody's good." "For Sam's good. For Walter's good." Reeve smiled, pleased with himself. "Don't mess around, Reeve. Mind your own damn business, or you'll wind up beating on that door from the outside." "You know I wouldn't hurt Sam. He's one of my very dearest friends. Anyway, he'll thank me for it soon." "The big shots haven't shown," Addie said. "They have now," Reeve said, nodding toward the door. Sam had worried unnecessarily that Walter would betray overeagerness to Eloise McKenzie. As soon as she came, he began to act the genial, relaxed host, introducing the McKenzies to Sam with the air of the master of the house. Eloise wore green silk taffeta with a golden antique chain looped twice around her throat and falling below her bosom. Dan stood patiently, not bothering to smile, but trying to look socially interested as she said, "What a charming house, and what a nice party! So many people—I'm shy of strangers. You wouldn’t believe that, would you, Mr. Kendrick?" "No." Sam smiled. "Not in your business." "Oh!" she scoffed. "Theater people are different. I know how to get around them; they're like children. But publishers! I'm sure they're all terribly brainy—" "You're kind, but wrong. Actually, we're like little boys playing with our blocks on the floor." Daniel McKenzie smiled for the first time; Walter looked at Sam uneasily. "You make me feel better," Eloise lied laughingly. She put her hand on Sam's arm and moved into the room. "Isn't that Sylvia Sawyer?" "Yes," Sam said. "I've longed to meet her. Such a wonderful old trouper! I used to sit in the balcony as a little girl adoring her in every play she acted. It was Sylvia Sawyer who gave me my first desire to— function somehow in the theater. She made it so thrilling. Of course it isn't. No, I don't think I should meet her quite yet, not till I've got my courage up a little." "What can I get you to drink?" "I wonder if you have any wine?" Sam decided to test her vulgarity. "Champagne?"

"Marvelous!" Walter had been left with Daniel McKenzie. Disconcerted, he examined the room and the people in it and was reassured. The atmosphere was one of success. "You'll want to meet some people," he said vaguely. Dan's expression said that he wanted nothing of the kind, but Walter was not looking at him. "There's Reeve Keary," Dan said. "Do you know him?" Walter asked. "We're in a club," Dan answered, following Walter to the sofa where Reeve and Addie were sitting. "Hello, Dan." Reeve rose to shake hands, and introduced Dan to Addie. They stood awkwardly for a moment, until Walter remembered his duty and said, "Sit down. I'll get you a drink. What would you like?" Dan said, "Bourbon and soda, please," and Walter signaled to the serving maid. McKenzie, Reeve and Addie had begun to talk, obviously not needing him. Eloise and Sam were looking at a painting on the other side of the room. Walter was suddenly struck by the humor of the situation. The gathering together of all these people was meant simply as a backdrop for Eloise McKenzie's decision to use him in a play. And he was being ignored. Had she already decided, he wondered, or was the game to be cat and mouse? His instinct urged him to parade in the center ring; judgment warned him not to press, to wait for her. He could not join Jane and Toby; he realized they had closed ranks against him and would welcome him as an adversary they could easily best. He would not talk to the little horrors Sylvia Sawyer had brought along; in any event, they were fussing around Reeve's new friend, who seemed to be amused by them. Walter went over to the buffet and picked up a plate. Beatrice Cranch was there, twinkling at the food and candles as she tried to decide what would satisfy her hunger and not betray the diet she had started Monday. "Hello there," she said. "You're Mr.-" "Roland," Walter said. "And you're Mrs. Cranch." "Yes," she admitted, pleased that he knew. "I know I've met you, but I can never remember exactly what you do-" "I'm a communist agitator," he said, and smiled at her quickly to show he was joking. Reeve said to Dan, "I hear that your wife has a marvelous new play." Dan, who had read it and thought it silly, said, "She has great hopes for it." "And Eva Fairchild is going to be in it," Addie observed socially. "Yes," Dan said, taking a swallow of the drink the maid had just served him. Behind her smile Addie was studying him with feelings that were puzzled and antagonistic. "I've never met your wife." Reeve twisted on the sofa, to see where she and Sam were. "What a lovely creature," he said when he found them, "and, I hear, so clever. I should think it a strain living with a clever woman. Does Toby find it a strain living with

you, dear Addie?" Reeve could not resist malice, even with people he professed to like. Addie knew this and didn't mind, but his manner alerted her; the barb was thrown to divert her attention from something more important. "We get away from each other at parties," she said. "That's what parties are for," Reeve said, "to create a charming atmosphere in which we can forget the strains of daily life." "What's your current strain, Reeve?" Addie said. "One of my protégés has just finished a book I'm trying to get Sam to read." "Reeve is always doing things for people," Addie said to let him know she was watchful. Dan looked briefly from one to the other, not caring what was going on between them. Reeve said, "Do you know who wrote 'Rock of Ages'?" "No," Addie said. "Augustus Montague Toplady." He blinked at Dan. "Sam is monopolizing your wife too long. The host's prerogative and all that, but he mustn't keep her entirely to himself, must he?" He rose from the sofa. "About that plot—" Addie said. "Really!" Reeve exclaimed. "Pregnancy has made, you a little peculiar, dear. Half the time I don't know what you're talking about." With a patronizing smile he left them. Addie and Dan sat in silence for a minute or two. Addie began to feel slighted and annoyed. "You should drift and meet people, Mr. McKenzie." "What?" he said, surprised. "You mustn't feel you have to stay and amuse me." "I'm sorry," he said, making no move. "I was thinking about something." "Your wife is lovely." "Yes," Dan said. She tried again. "What do you do, Mr. McKenzie?" "I'm a lawyer." "Do you stalk about hurling questions in court, or are you one of the behind-the-scenes kind?" "Behind the scenes, mainly." He looked directly at her for the first time. She decided that he was simply preoccupied, not rude or shy. "I wonder if you'd get me something to eat?" she said. "I'm so comfortable here, and lazy." "Of course." He set his drink down. "What would you like?" "A little of everything, please." She watched him go to the table and serve a plate and wondered what was on his mind. When he returned with plate, napkin, and fork, he was more relaxed. "I'll be back," he said, and went to the table to serve himself. She decided that he was handsome. The heaviness of his features made for a quality that appealed to her in certain men, in spite of the fact that she had married Toby whose eyes and nose and mouth were small for his size. Toby and Jane Frisbie were getting noisier, but Ramona was still with them, standing guard. As if I care, Addie thought, and realized it was almost true.

"You can't solve it now." "Oh?" Dan McKenzie was frowning at her. He sat beside her instead of taking his original place. "You looked deep in thought." "You were, earlier," she said. They began to eat. "You brought me pickles," she said, discovering them. "Well-" He laughed at her. "I always loved them. I didn't have to wait for this." "What kind of work does your husband do?" "Advertising. That's Toby with his arm around the pretty girl." Dan shrugged. "I don't think she's pretty." "Of course she is," Addie said, pleased with him. "I used to work for Sam—Kendrick." "What did you do?" "Guess." "Printer's devil." She shook her head. "Children's books." "Did you like that?" "I liked working with Sam." "Will you go back?" "I don't know." They ate without talking for a few minutes. "I don't really know about anything," she said finally. He looked at her, quickly and back at his plate. "I know this ham is good." "Isn't it?" She speared a pickle and popped it into her mouth. "Can you hear me?" she said when she had chewed and swallowed it. "Not any more." She set her plate down on the table and lit a cigarette, pleased that he went on eating and didn't fuss with a light for her. "How does it happen you're not afraid of pregnant women? Most men say hello and back nervously into the nearest swimming pool." "Why should I be? My mother was a pregnant woman." "All the time?" "Often." "How many of each?" "Four girls. Two boys." "Which were you?" "One of the boys." "I mean in age." "Second child, first boy." "You have a nice, concise mind," she said. "It comes in handy with law." "I should think it would come in handy all the time." "It's not such a hell of an advantage as you might think." "What do you do for vacations?" "I like Maine. My wife likes Jamaica. She tans well." "Do you hunt?" she asked. "And fish."

"I used to hunt." He looked doubtful. "I was born on a farm." He smiled. "Well, I was." "Okay," he said agreeably. His smile stopped abruptly. "What's the matter?" she asked. "I'm enjoying myself," he said. "You sound surprised. Shouldn't you enjoy yourself?" "I haven't for a long time," he said, looking at her intently. Her sigh mocked him. "That's the way I affect all the boys. They see in me a mother." "I don't." "You need glasses." "I mean that isn't all I see." Addie felt herself blushing. "Eat," she reminded him. As he picked up his fork and began to eat again, he stared thoughtfully at the food on his plate, and she studied his face quietly. "I just adore this room," Eloise said after a sip of champagne. "It suits a publisher." "I didn't have much to do with it," Sam said. "Except for minor changes, it's been this way a hundred years." "Your family was always in publishing, wasn't it?" People like Eloise brought out the worst in Sam. "No. Only the last three generations. Before that it was shipping." “So romantic," she said. "This bowl was brought back from China in the early eighteen hundreds and given to my great-grandmother on her wedding day." "Ah, the past, the past," Reeve said, joining them. Sam introduced them. "Reeve Keary?" Eloise checked carefully. "Your husband may have mentioned me. We have a club in common.” “Of course. But I've heard of you from others." Sam was watching Reeve. Reeve said, "And I've heard of the great Eloise McKenzie. I've seen every play you've done. Such style, such loving care in assembling the best, and nothing but the best, butter and eggs for every production. It must be wearing." "No, fascinating," Eloise said, smiling. "Are you interested in the theater?" "Isn't everyone?" Reeve's eyes glowed. "I understand you have a new play about to rehearse." "Yes. Mountain High with Eva Fairchild." "I simply adore her. Adore her! It's sure to run years. I'll tell my broker to get opening-night seats for me.” "Let me send you tickets," she said. "How nice of you. You must let me do something for you some time." She smiled. Sam began to understand. "Of course the play isn't completely set. We've arranged the out-of-town schedule and reserved a theater— and that's harder to do all the time, even with a Fairchild as collateral. Would you believe it?" "No!" Reeve exclaimed.

"Not all the parts are cast. We're thinking of Walter Roland for the young male lead." "Are you? Isn't that exciting, Sam? Why didn't you tell me?" "It slipped my mind," Sam said without expression. "You live together, don't you?" Eloise asked Sam. "Yes, Walter lives here." "Walter's a splendid actor," Reeve, who had never seen him act, said. "Of course you know that." Eloise nodded. "I do hope it works out. He's read for me, and I think he's right, but the final decision rests with Eva. She has cast approval." "Have they met?" Reeve asked. Eloise smiled. "They're going to tonight. I was about to tell him. Eva is doing a television bit at eight, mainly to plug the new show. I've arranged for Walter to pick her up afterward and take her to dinner, so they can get to know each other." "It's the most exciting thing I ever heard!" Reeve said. "Do tell him now, the dear boy will be so thrilled. Walter!" Reeve saw Walter, went to him, hooked an arm around his waist, and drew him back. "Put down that plate of food. You're not eating with us tonight, you're eating with— Tell him, Mrs. McKenzie!" "How would you like to take Eva Fairchild to dinner?" Eloise asked with a big smile. "Tonight? Tonight?" Reeve and Eloise laughed, and Eloise explained, giving him the address of the television studio. "But it's eight now!" "You've plenty of time. You don't have to reserve. Sardi's always has a table for Eva." Walter looked around at each of them to make sure she was serious. He began to laugh and said, "I'd better go!" and left them. Reeve said, "I don't think I've ever seen him so animated, and I know Walter well." "I thought he'd have too much time to get nervous if I told him earlier," she said. "I'm terribly interested in Walter's career," Reeve said. "Both because he's a dear friend and a good actor. We must all pray that Miss Fairchild likes him. Is it always so stimulating? The theater, I mean?" "Something is always happening," Eloise admitted. "How I should love to have a part in it." "Why don't you, Mr. Keary?" "Oh, I have no talent that could be used." "Many people interested in the theater start out by investing," Eloise said smoothly. "That way they feel—on the inside, you know. They go to all the parties and read plays before the public even hears about them. They often get—quite a good return on their investments." "You've given me an idea, Mrs. McKenzie. But I'm sure your play is too far along for me to ask if I—" "Will you excuse me?" Sam said. He went toward the stairs. Eloise laughed and said to Reeve, "You don't let your enthusiasms cool before acting on them, do you?"

"That's the best way, isn't it?" Reeve said, laughing with her. "All the money is promised for Mountain High. Of course that's easy when you have Eva Fairchild. But you know, I think —I just think now—we might be able to work something out." "Do you?" Reeve cried. "I should so like to have a little investment in Walter's first play on Broadway. Tell me, Mrs. McKenzie, do you think Miss Fairchild will agree to Walter?" "He's a charming boy. I see no reason she shouldn't." Reeve shook his head. "If one could only be sure!" "How much would you think of investing, Mr. Keary —if everything works out? If Eva likes Walter, and agrees, let us say." "In that case I'd like to—I don't know about these things. Is five thousand dollars—?" Sam went directly to Walter's room and found him putting on his overcoat. Walter grabbed him about the waist and swung him around. "Sam, Sam—it's happening! It's going to be! It wasn't a dream this time!" Sam pushed him away. "You don't know what's really happened." "It's hard to believe, but I'm getting used to it!" "I don't mean that. I think you'll get the part, whether you entirely satisfy Eva Fairchild or not." "What do you mean?" "At this moment Reeve and McKenzie are coming to terms, I expect." "I don't understand." "Reeve is anxious for you to have the part." "Don't be silly. You know what Reeve thinks of me." "Exactly. And it's worth to him whatever he'll have to pay to see that you get the job." "Why would he do that?" "To get us apart." Walter leaned against the chest of drawers, looking thoughtfully at Sam. "Good old Reeve." "We mustn't give him too much credit. You probably could have made it by yourself. After all, I've been to bed with you; I know you're pretty good." Walter slapped him quickly but hard. Sam turned to the door. "Well, that's that," he said. "Sam!" Walter caught him by the arm. "I'm sorry. But you didn't have to say that. I may seem dirty to you now, but you shouldn't try to make what we had dirty, too. It wasn't." "Good-by, Walter." "Sam!" he pleaded. "Be nice? Wish me luck?" "Wish you luck?" Sam said. "When do you plan to move?" Walter tried to laugh. "You're really angry, aren't you? Who's had time to think of moving? We'll talk about it later tonight when you've calmed down." "I won't calm down, and you won't be back tonight." "I'll be here before the party's over." Walter made the mistake of smiling. "All the talk about Fairchild is probably exaggerated —"

"The fact that you're willing is what matters. You are willing, aren't you?" Walter looked at him unhappily. To save pride he set his jaw in a bluff of anger. "You'd better wash your face before you go back down," he said. "The mark shows where I hit you." He patted his breast pocket to see if his wallet was there. "Do you have enough money?" Sam asked. Walter's face hardened again. Without answering, he went out the door. Sam stood still a full minute before turning and looking around the room. He went to the chest of drawers, picked up three pennies and a nickel Walter had left, and shook them in his hand. He touched a box that held cuff links and studs. He looked at the photograph of himself that stood in a silver frame on the bedside table, hating the sight of his face, smiling out on a happier day. What he felt, he had felt before, and would feel again, he realized, but familiarity offered no consolation. Behind him he heard a meow and turned to see Andrew perched on the back of the easy chair, kneading his claws into the upholstery. Andrew had not entered the room since Walter moved into it. Sam went to the chair and sat down. Andrew dropped from the back to an arm and into Sam's lap, looked into Sam's face, and meowed again. Sam began to cry: quick, hard sobs that brought pain to his eyes. As suddenly, he stopped, leaned his head back on the chair, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. Andrew leaped from his lap, pounced on a wadded piece of paper on the rug, cuffed it through the air, and chased after it. The battle was on. The wadded paper was a cat-world demon from which Andrew would protect Sam. Cunning, courage, disdain were evidenced by Andrew's eyes and ears and tail. No musketeer raising sword fought off more valiantly a pack of snarling varlets as he backed up a flight of stone stairs than did Andrew fight the paper demon. Sam began to laugh. "Cat—cat!" he said gratefully. Andrew turned to look at him, chin out and up, as if he had no notion of the cause of Sam's laughter. When Sam continued laughing, Andrew tried to look severe, but curiosity and conceit triumphed, and presently he walked quickly to Sam, blinked at him, and meowed again. Sam caught him up and gently blew breath into his face. Andrew shook his head in annoyance. Addie came into the room. "What's going on?" "Andrew was performing," Sam said, "but I think he's winded for the moment." "Where did Walter go?" Sam told her. She came and sat on the arm of his chair, and Andrew jumped out of his lap. She put her hand on the back of Sam's neck and squeezed it. He told her about the conversation between Reeve and Eloise McKenzie. "The son of a bitch," she said. "I knew he was up to something." "It doesn't matter," Sam said. "It's just one added thing." "Let's go down and tell everybody to get out." "Let's stay here a minute."

She put her arm around his neck and kissed him several times quickly on the temple. Presently he took her hands in his and stood up. "All right," he said. They went out of the room and down the stairs. On the stairs she said, "You can always tell by the sound of a party. There's a certain hum like a good motor if it's successful." Dan was alone where Addie had left him. Addie led Sam to the sofa and sat down. "Are you all right?" Dan asked her. "Yes," Addie said in surprise, still holding Sam's hand, pulling him down on the sofa beside her. "I was afraid you might not be feeling well." "Eat something, Sam," she said. He shook his head. Custer arrived with fresh drinks for them. "Everything all right, Custer?" "Yes, Mr. Kendrick." Martin Cranch and Sylvia Sawyer had been joined by Reeve and Eloise. After a reference by Reeve to Eva Fairchild, Sylvia said, "I know she's to the popular taste, but her quality eludes me. I've never understood people's fondness for homely humor. She plays too much to the audience and not enough to the play, although I don't suppose it matters with the sort of vehicle she chooses." Reeve said, "Mrs. McKenzie is producing a new play starring Eva Fairchild." Sylvia, who had never heard of Eloise McKenzie, drew her head back to look at her, and said in tones of honest bewilderment, "A female producer?" Eloise's laugh was forced but quick. "I'm afraid so, Miss Sawyer. Things have changed since your day." "You put it charmingly. I never dispute with inferiors; I simply pay them off and ask them to leave. Now, dear Mr. Cranch, I think I might be persuaded to repair to the buffet." Turning, she swept away. Reeve smiled at Eloise with false sympathy. "Unforgivable." "I suppose the old thing is drunk," Eloise said. "Yes, yes," Professor Adam Boatt was saying impatiently to Petalla Cook. "But then he stops to describe the room in vivid detail, after which he brings you back to one of the minor characters and shows fleetingly the expression on his face, and it's supposed to be subtle and meaningful. Actually, it's his way of avoiding writing the scene he's set up." "I see that," Petalla agreed, "but I do think—" The music was still playing, and Toby and Jane began to dance. "Nobody's dancing," Jane whispered, giggling. "It was the only way I could get you away from Gertrude Stein," Toby said. "Your wife is watching us," Jane said, feeling his arm tighten around her waist. "That's all right. She has Sam with her. Who's that other one?" "I don't know. He came with the woman in green."

"The producer's husband, I guess. You know, all this was to get old Walter a part in a play!" He laughed. "Wonder what happened to him? He’s been keeping away from us. Downright insulting, if you ask me. Leaving his special guest. When am I going to see you again, special guest?" "I told you I don't go with married men." "Ha!" he crowed. "But you gave me your phone number!" "That was because of what you threatened if I didn't." "What was that?" he asked. "You said you'd kiss me in front of everybody." "I'm going to!" he said loudly. "Look, everybody, look!" Before she could stop him he kissed her. She broke his embrace hastily. "Don't you mind," he soothed her. "My wife will give the groom away. Won't you, Addie?" Dan and Sam left Addie and came toward Toby. "Hoo, hoo," Toby caroled, "the viligantes are coming—the vigilantes are here!" Seeing that he was drunk, people turned again to their own conversations. "Who the hell are you?" Toby said to Dan. "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down?" Sam suggested. "Not in this house!" Toby put a finger to his lips. "Beds of sin, beds of sin! Walter's bed's a bed of sin, and Sam's bed's a bed of sin." He turned to Jane. "Want to go lie in a bed of sin?" "I want to go home," Jane said. "I think I—" Dan stood in front of Toby, so that he could not follow. Sam led her to the door. The maid in the hall found her coat and helped Jane into it. Looking at Sam a little drunkenly, she held out her hand. "Well, Mr. Kendrick, I want to thank you." "Walter had to go out unexpectedly. May I say good night for him?" Jane strove for dignity. "And may I ask you to say good night to him for me?" "I'll go with you and see you into a taxi." "No,” she said, putting her hand on his chest to stop him. Sam stiffened at her touch. She gave him a slight, insulting shove. "I'll get my own taxis. No favors. No favors between you and me." Sam closed the door behind him and went back into the living room. Dan was dealing firmly but unsuccessfully with Toby, who now had the idea that he was being kept from Addie, not Jane. "You're the producer's husband, I know you. You're the one who came with her that's supposed to fix things for Walter. That's why this party was given, did you know that? That's why we're all here, making merry and anybody else we can. But that's trimming, and I'm a friend of this house, so what are you trying to do to me?" He had worked his way to Addie by the time Sam rejoined them. "Sam, who does he think he is? Tell him nobody but you stands between me and Addie. Isn't that right, Addiegirl? Has she told you about us? I saw you talking to her. She's not a bad-looking girl when she's not blown up like a balloon." He fell down on the sofa beside her. Addie's face was bloodless; her eyes were closed tight. Sam took one of her hands. "Get me out, Sam." He put an arm around her and helped her from the sofa toward the stairs.

"Hey, where you going?" Toby shouted. "Beds of sin up there!" Dan said, "Your wife's not feeling well. Stay here and be reasonable." "I'm asking you again—who you think you are? Trying to make me do things? Addie's protectors, a whole brigade—and here comes another!" Ramona appeared and stood, feet apart, in front of Toby, who looked up at her laughing. "I'm sorry, sir, this dance is taken, but I'll put your name down on my little old card." Ramona made herself smile. "What you need is a drink" she said. "Come on, let's get one." "Where did Jane go?" "To powder her nose," Ramona said. "She'll be back." "Pretty little nose," Toby said, "prettiest little nose in the whole room. Begging your pardon, sir-madam, but it is. Did you say drink." Dan walked quickly to the stairs and ran up them. Sam had got Addie into Walter's room and onto the bed. Custer hurried out of the room as Dan arrived. Addie said faintly, "I'm sick, Sam. I have to go." "Rest," Sam urged her. Her whole frame shook as she protested, "No, no. Sick Hospital!" Sam turned to Dan. "Stay with her." He went through the hall to his room and telephoned the hospital he knew Addie had made arrangements to enter. They promised to send an ambulance and to get her doctor. Dan McKenzie slipped her shoes off and knelt on the floor beside her, not knowing what more to do than watch her. "Oh, my God," she murmured faintly, and lifted a trembling hand. "Sam." Dan took her hand. "Be quiet," he said. She struggled to open her eyes. "Not Sam. Not—" Her eyelids fluttered and were still; her hand went limp in his. Sam and Custer entered the room at the same time, Custer with a glass and a bottle of brandy. Sam took them from him. "I've called for an ambulance. She's going to the hospital. Go down and close the door from the hall to the living room, and send them right up when they come. Don't let anybody else up here." "I won't, Mr. Kendrick." Custer went out again. "I think she's fainted," Dan said, still holding her hand. Sam went to the closet, snatched down a heavy jacket of Walter's and wrapped it around her feet. Presently her hand moved again. Sweat showed on her cheeks, and her lips flattened in a smile. She parted them and said clearly, "Some party." Dan held her fingers between his palms. Sam sat on the side of the bed and brushed her hair back from her face. She sighed and said, "Stay," and seemed to go to sleep. Sam said to Dan, "Go downstairs and ask Reeve Keary to come up. Tell Custer it's all right." Sam sat watching her until Dan returned with Reeve a few minutes later. Sam drew Reeve back into the hall.

"What's the matter?" Reeve asked, craning to get a look at Addie over Sam's shoulder. "She's going to the hospital. I'm going with her. Take over for me downstairs until I get back." "You want people to leave?" "It doesn't matter. Try to make Toby behave." "Ramona's already doing that." "Get some coffee and food into him. Tell him Addie's resting. Don't tell him about the hospital until he’s sober. And don't let him come to the hospital." "Will you be back soon?" Reeve said. "I don't know." "What happened to her?" "I don't know," Sam answered impatiently. "She's sick." "She shouldn't have come to the party." "Go back, Reeve." "All right!" Reeve said pettishly. "Don't snap at me." Reeve went downstairs, and Sam went back into the bedroom. Dan was on his knees by the bed again, not touching Addie, simply watching her.

nine
HOW many times—going to sleep or waking, waiting for a street light to change, watching the second hand of a clock make its long way from one to twelve— had he dreamed this dream? He did not know. And what emotions had the dream spawned? Satisfaction, selfderision, hopelessness, hope. The dream was always basically the same, but with small and tantalizing variations. The one thing he had never expected was that it could be matched by reality. Yet it had been, and all the variations had merged, so that he believed this was the only way he had ever dreamed it. "Miss Fairchild?" "You are Walter Roland." She said it as if it were something special to be and to acknowledge that you were Walter Roland. His "Yes" was simple, serious, proud, carried a world of meaning, a universe of promise. Had he ever said the word before and understood it? Had anyone, indeed, ever pronounced it more beautifully? Everything was right and inevitable: her interested smile, the easy way she took his arm. Similarly easy, right, and inevitable were the promptness with which he got a taxi, the grace with which they entered it, the firm slam of the door, the direction, "Sardi's," the assurance of his question to her, "All right?" and the complacence of her answer "Perfect." No cigarette before had tasted like the one he smoked on the way from the television studio to the restaurant. Its aroma, mixed with the scent of her perfume, filled the taxi with a real glamour he had never known. All that had gone before was illusion. What did they speak of? Of Eloise McKenzie, the play, casual theater gossip—but as if these were distant and faintly ridiculous things, because they in the taxi, just met, knew each other with an intimacy that nullified the past. What did she look like? Was she fifty? Plain or fair? Walter smiled in the darkness of the taxi. It did not matter what she looked like; she was Eva Fairchild. He was Walter Roland, and —marvel that there was no marvel in it—they were equal and easy together. He felt quite comfortably that he had already done things he had only dreamed of doing. Sam's name came into his mind, but it had no meaning. It was the name of a person he had known so long ago that the name could not again evoke pleasure or pain. "Eloise is naughty. I've wanted to meet you for so long, and she kept putting me off. I finally saw you on television last week. She still wouldn't agree. Said you were considering another offer." "There are no other offers where there is a chance to play with Eva Fairchild."

He had gone too far, too fast. His mind, not entirely used yet to the richness of the living dream, jeered at the words he heard himself say. But her laughter, sweet, pleased, and self-assured, muffled the jeer and reminded him: Eva Fairchild. It was the same when they entered the restaurant. He had not been inside Sardi's before, having vowed never to go until he would be shown to one of the coveted tables in the only really coveted corner. Checking his coat while she waited smiling, he remembered luncheon that day. Jane Frisbie was a piece of gaucherie in a childhood nightmare. Sam—good, serious Sam who meant so well, but who simply didn't know. As they were led to the corner, Eva nodded and smiled at people, and Walter smiled without nodding, walking easily behind her. There are some scenes actors need no rehearsal to play. They ordered drinks, and he lit fresh cigarettes for them. "Lovely dress," he murmured as she wriggled her mink coat off her shoulders. The dress was soft and pink and molded her generous bosom. Her plump arms and shoulders were bare. "I didn't get a proper look at it at the studio." She smiled thanks and looked around the room. Suddenly she giggled like a little girl. "I love coming here," she admitted. "It took a long time for me to become a star, but they were always so sweet to me. I'll never forget—never!—the night Spring Cleaning opened. I came here, and everyone in the room stood up and applauded. That was a moment. There are not many we can remember with complete pleasure. That's one of mine." She put her hand briefly over his, squeezed it, ducking her head intimately toward him. "Now I want to hear about you. Of course I know your experience, but I want to know about you." Walter laughed. "There's nothing to tell about me, because nothing happened to me before tonight." "Do you like dancing?" He did not. "Yes," he said enthusiastically. "I do, too. But there are so few places I can go. I hate people staring. I belong to a little club, people in the theater, you know. We have dances, and that's nice, because there's nobody from outside to stare at us. Would you like to go to the next one?" "I would," Walter said as earnestly as if he were taking a vow for holy orders. Already he could feel comfortably one of the circle that is tired of being stared at. Just now, however, he let himself enjoy it. Eva Fairchild's escort was always a matter of attention and speculation. "Good. Oh-there's Shirley. I didn't see her! Shirley!" Eva called. Shirley Booth was sitting at another of the corner tables. The two actresses smiled at each other, and Eva blew her a kiss. "Don't you love her?" "Oh, yes," Walter said just negligently enough to please Eva. "I don't know the man with her. Maybe somebody from the Coast. I hear she's going out to do a picture." They talked of the theater, of Eva's last play which had run nineteen months. Walter remembered a special piece of business she had used in one of its scenes and detailed it flatteringly. She nodded and explained how she had come to work it out just that

way. She spoke of differences in audiences, of how quickly she gauged them at the beginning of each performance, of how she shaded and varied her playing to fit their responses. It was Walter's turn to nod. As they talked, Walter became aware that both of them were performing to each other as well as to the room. He finished his drink and ordered another. Eva had hardly sipped from hers. "I'll bet you're hungry," she said. "Yes," he said, guessing she wanted him to be. "Have the spaghetti. It's not the kind with garlic and tomato sauce. Just butter and bits of bacon—lovely." "Will you have it, too?" "I'm never really hungry in the evening except after a performance. I think I'll have—" She frowned briefly at the menu and closed it, looking up at the waiter. "Tomato wedges with cottage cheese", she said, "and the special spaghetti. You know." The waiter left them. "It's so good. You won't be sorry. It's the way they do it in northern Italy." Indeed, Walter, who had usually a very healthy appetite, felt that he, too, would never know hunger again, that food would ever and only be a pleasant thing to dawdle over, never savor, never need. A columnist came up to the table, kissed Eva's hand, and pursed his lips at Walter. Eva introduced them. "Mr. Roland is going to be in Mountain High. In fact, he's going to be my leading man." "Roland, did you say?" the columnist repeated. "Walter Roland," Eva said, touching Walter's hand under the table. "W-a-l-t-e-r R-o-l-a-n-d," she spelled it out. When she started to withdraw her hand, he squeezed it and watched her blush as she continued to chat with the newspaperman. Dinner was brought. The spaghetti was good, Walter supposed, eating it without enthusiasm. Eva stole glances at it as she attacked her tomatoes, as if looking at it would enliven the flatness of her Spartan dish. A young Italian film star came in with her husband and another couple and were seated, Walter was pleased to note, at a table in the less desirable center of the room. He leaned his head against the wall a moment, enjoying the luxury and privilege Eva Fairchild's fame assured them. "She's very pretty, isn't she?" Eva said. Walter decided to say, "Who?" She laughed. "The Wampus Baby star." "Too thin," Walter said, and took her hand again under the table. "I don't suppose I can really tell you what it means to me to work with you," he said, and proceeded to tell her. She listened with approval, but when he had repeated himself several times, her attention wandered to his plate of spaghetti. When she interrupted with, "Aren't you going to finish it?" Walter wondered how long she had been inattentive. "I forgot it." Walter laughed and picked up his fork. "I'm talking too much." She patted his free hand absently. He

wondered if he had perhaps been too easy for her, too eager to fit, if he should have flirted and teased a little longer. "There's Nancy Walker and her husband. Such a nice girl, I'm crazy about her. She's changed. She used to be always fizzing, always on. You know what I mean? But now she's relaxed. It shows what being happily married and having a baby can do to women—" The waiter came up to their table. "Mr. Roland?" he said. "Yes," Walter said. "There is a telephone call for you." "Oh?" he said, wondering fearfully if it could be Sam. "I wasn't expecting a call," he said to Eva. She smiled, giving him permission to leave. "Go and find out who it is." "I won't be long." He followed the waiter. "This is Walter Roland," he said. "Eloise. How are things going?" For the first time since he had known her he answered her sharply. "I don't think it was a good idea to call. Eva might think —" "So it's 'Eva' already?" she crowed. "Fine. Don't worry about what she'll think. She wasn't born yesterday. When you get back to the table, she'll probably tell you it was me. I take it she likes you?" "She's a charming woman," Walter said stiffly. Eloise laughed. "I'm glad to hear it. Now get back to that table and work. Give it all you've got, boy. And if you haven't got enough, send out for more. I'm counting on you. What's she eating?" "Tomatoes." "What are you eating?" "Spaghetti." Eloise laughed again. "She adores it, but it makes her fat. She gets her men to order it and enjoys it vicariously." "I'd better go back," Walter said. "Remember what I said: give it everything." "Good-by," Walter said, and hung up. He was able to smile again when he rejoined Eva. She had just finished his spaghetti. "It was getting cold," she explained. "You didn't want it anyway; I could see that." "I was too excited to be hungry." "Was it Eloise?" He blushed; she laughed. "What did you tell her?" "To mind her own business." He began to laugh with her, just as she stopped. "You are her business tonight. She works hard, poor thing. Do you want desert?" "I don't, thanks." "Neither do I. I ordered coffee. Would you like another drink?" "Are you having anything?" Walter said. "Maybe you'd like to come to my place for something. It's cozy, and we could look over the play. There's a scene that bothers me. I'd like to know how you feel about it."

"What scene is that?" Walter said. "The one where I tell you to leave. You know, the CandidaMarchbanks rehash." "Oh, yes." The waiter brought coffee. "It'll be noisier here as soon as the theaters let out." "I'll get the check." She smiled. "Cigarette, please?" When they were both smoking, she said with a sigh, "I always get nervous about rehearsals at this point. I don't know why. But you're never really sure it will go until you're a few weeks into it." Walter smiled reassuringly. "I'm using a new director, John Bullitt. Do you know him?" "I don't think so." "He isn't new, he's done other things; I mean I haven't used him before. He's a nice boy, and I think he's right for this play." Walter wondered jealously what she meant by his being a nice boy. "I don't know his work," he said, shaking his head. "Rehearsals will be tiring. Then the runs out of town." "Where are we playing?" Walter asked, assured in his use of "we." "Ten days in Boston, two weeks in Philadelphia. I'm never at my best till we get to New York and settle down for the run. Then things are pleasant." Walter smiled. "Do you still get nervous about opening nights?" he asked, wishing immediately he'd omitted the "still." "No. I know what the critics will say. 'Eva Fairchild enlivens pedestrian play.' They're sweet, but silly. It isn't a bad little play at all. It just suits my purpose. I never fancied myself as Lady Macbeth." They laughed together. "Wasn't Judy Anderson marvelous in it?" "That was before my time." "Of course," she said quietly. Eloise shouldn't have called; she had made him nervous. "Here's your change. Shall we go?" Eva sounded as if she knew what he was thinking and wanted to be kind. "Yes," he said, putting fervor into his voice, wondering if it sounded merely anxious. Eva Fairchild's apartment was in a hotel on West Fifty-eighth Street. "Convenient for most of the theaters," she said, letting them in and turning on the lights in the foyer and living room. "I walk on matinee days when the weather is nice." The living room was long and rather narrow. Its furnishings were comfortable, rich enough to suit an actress of her position, but not pretentious. She saw him looking at the large television set. "I love television," she confessed. "Isn't that awful? But it's nice to have on rainy days when I've nothing to do but wait for theater time." She really was a sweet woman, he thought, and a little sad. "There's a closet back of you; leave your coat there." "Yes." He realized he had been simply standing in the foyer, looking at things. When he joined her in the living room, she was bending over a vase of bright flowers on the table in front of the sofa. She had

dropped her coat on a chair. Her bosom showed full and rosy over the close-gathered bodice. She broke off a blossom, held it to her nose, and looked at him, smiling. "You want a drink," she said. "Why don't you get the ice? The kitchen's just down the hall past the bathroom. The liquor's over there." She nodded toward an array of bottles on a wheeled table by the television set. "All right." He smiled. The ice bucket was on the sink drain. He filled it and went back into the living room, glancing quickly through the open bedroom door at the end of the hall. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and sitting on the sofa, a play script open on her lap. "Can I get you something," he asked. "A weak scotch," she said without looking up. “A lot of ice, a little scotch, a lot of water.” When he went toward her with the drinks, she said to indicate that he was to sit beside her, "I have only one copy. This is the scene I mean." He set down their drinks. "It's this," she said when he was beside her. "Start reading here —" Walter frowned at the lines. He hated reading "cold" this way, without at least a few minutes to prepare himself. He wondered how important the reading was. It was the scene in which the young man from the city was made to realize that the character played by Eva belonged where she was, and that although she had grown fond of him, she was too wise to suppose there was a future for them together. "'I—I'm not sure I understand,'" he read. "'You will one day,'" Eva read flatly, simply cueing him. "'I don't know what the future holds, but I know this: I'll never change in my feeling for you.'" "'The young always believe that.'" "'If you really mean no, you've taken my youth away from me.'" "'I do mean it.'" Eva began to interpret the lines instead of speaking them colorlessly. "'Nothing can change the fact that you are twenty-five and I am nearly forty.'" "'I can't help being twenty-five.'" "'You mustn’t try. You must live it and enjoy it.'" "'How can I if you-'" "'What you say you feel is very sweet. I shall remember it—if not always perhaps—for a very long time. I shall remember and be grateful.'" "'Grateful for love!'" "'You'll understand that one day.'" "'Everybody loves you!'" "'To say that everybody loves me is to say nobody loves me.'" "'That isn't so! I—'" Walter stopped reading. His hands were trembling; he was filled with panic. Eva looked at him inquiringly but did not speak.

"I wonder—if I may use your telephone?" he said, his agitation emerging as harshness. "Of course. The one in the kitchen is more private than this one." He got up from the sofa and went quickly to the kitchen where he dialed the number of Sam's house. On the fourth ring Reeve answered. "Hello, Reeve? It's Walter. I want to speak to Sam." "Sam?" Reeve repeated. "Yes, yes!" Walter whispered impatiently. There was a pause. Reeve said, "He doesn't want to speak to you." "What?" "I'm afraid you've hurt him very much tonight." "I want to speak to Sam!" There was another pause. "Sorry, Walter, he won't. I hope things are going well." "Tell Sam he has to talk to me!" "He says for me to hang up. I am sorry, Walter. Good night." "Reeve!" Walter held the receiver in his shaking hand a moment before replacing it on its cradle. He turned on a tap at the sink and drank a glass of water when it ran cold. Gradually the panic left him. Knowing he could not turn to Sam gave him no comfort, but it gave him strength. He reminded himself that this, after all, was what he had always wanted. He went slowly into the living room. Eva Fairchild was standing in front of a wall mirror, looking at her face. "Do you think you're too young for the part?" she said slowly, without emphasis. She saw his face then in the mirror, turned quickly, and went to him. "My dear, you were frightened—" she said. She sat on the sofa and pulled him down beside her. "There's no need to be frightened of me." He could not look at her. "You don't have to take the part," she ventured after a moment. "I want it—I want it so much," he said, still not looking at her. Her face cleared with partial relief; her eyes reserved doubts. She said vulnerably, "I won't even ask if it was a girl you called." He shook his head. "It wasn't a girl." She took his hand and rested it on her lap. "Have you had many girls, Walter?" "No." "You—like girls, don't you?" He looked at her. "I like you," he said. She raised her face and kissed him on the lips. "Do you like that?" He had forgot the taste of lipstick. He stared at her so earnestly she drew away, picked up her watery drink, and sipped from it twice before setting it down on the table again. The play script had dropped to the floor. She bent and picked it up before turning to him. The panic was in his face again. "What's the matter?" she said. He could not remember later how the answer came. "There's something I should tell you. It might make a difference to you."

He waited for her to say something, and when she did not, he knew that he had to go on. "My name isn't Roland. It's Rosen." Eva Fairchild began to laugh. It was the first honest laughter he had heard from her, and its healthiness miraculously washed away his fear and panic. When finally she was quiet, she took his hand in her lap and shook her head goodnaturedly. "You are a sweet fool. What do you expect me to do, draw back and shudder? I think it's splendid for you to be Rosen instead of Roland. Did you think Fairchild was my name?" "It is," he protested. "It is now. I was born Eva, but not Fairchild, Heilprin. What do you think of that?" Walter began to laugh. He put his arms around her and kissed her firmly on the mouth. She leaned back on the sofa and pulled his head down, resting it on her soft bosom, as if he were a child who had been naughty and now forgiven. "Heilprin," he laughed against her bosom. "Even if it hadn't been," she said, stroking the back of his head, "do you think I'd have cared? This is the theater, my dear, not life, and that sort of thing doesn't go on much in the theater. You're more innocent than you look. When I saw you first, you looked so strong and handsome and sure of yourself, and I knew everything was going to be fine." He tightened his arms around her, holding her warm body against him. Presently, feeling his growing excitement, she stopped stroking his head, cupped it in her hands, and bent over his lips. It was their first real kiss, and when she drew away, he allowed himself a large happy sigh before pulling her to him again. When he let her go, he said, "You're so lovely," and rubbed her nose tenderly with his own. She studied his face for a moment, knowing he was lying, knowing, too, that he wanted to believe what he was saying. Suddenly she was tired of trying to understand him, of caring what had troubled him earlier. He was a young man and, for various reasons, eager to think her beautiful. They kissed again. After a while she stopped him. "This dress is too expensive to tear." She left him on the sofa after touching one finger to his swelling lips. She picked up the mink coat from the chair where she had left it, took it to the closet in the foyer and hung it carefully on a padded hanger. She was laughing when she came back into the room. "You know what went through my mind when you said your name was Rosen?" He shook his head. "I thought: thank God he's circumcised! I don't like the other. It's the way some of us never learn to eat shrimp, no matter how far behind we leave our Jewishness. Give me a few minutes—then come back." She went through the hallway toward the bedroom. Walter removed his jacket and placed it on the back of a straight chair. He took off his tie, his shoes and socks, his trousers, his shirt. After brief hesitation he discarded his shorts. He had known she was Jewish.

Going through the hallway he wondered half in fear, half in amusement: what if she finds out my name is really Roland?

ten
DR. KAHN was at the hospital on another case when Sam called, so he was ready for Addie when she arrived. Sam waited in the hall until he finished his examination and came out of the room. "You're not her husband. Where is he?" "He's ill." The doctor's frown was skeptical and brief. "I'd like to ask him how she got that bruise. She won't tell me." "Is she all right?" "She's going to the delivery room. Leave her husband's phone number at the desk, so we can call him." "Let me see her a minute?" Sam begged in panic. Dr. Kahn hesitated. "Are you—'Sam'?" "Yes." "Go in. But get out quick." Addie's eyes were wet. She turned away from him when he took her hand. "I sure messed things up," she said. "Don't talk silly," Sam said. "What are they going to do to me?" "Pin a rose on you and declare you Queen of the May." "Where is Toby?" "I didn't tell him." She nodded approval. "Reeve's looking after him." She shook her head. "You promised me!" "Toby's all right." "Sam!" "All right," he soothed her. Her face relaxed, and she held his hand weakly. "Good Sam," she said. Dr. Kahn came into the room. "I have to go," Sam said. "Kiss me?" She watched him as he kissed her firmly on the lips. "If I die—I love you, Sam." He did not speak, but he touched her cheek with his hand. When he went around the end of the bed, he squeezed the long toes of both her feet. In the corridor he leaned against the wall and began to cry, hating the hospital and Dr. Kahn, the dull air of duty and death, the brisk, cheerless sound of nurses' shoes as they went past him. Addie shouldn't be here. It was Toby who had brought her here to prove his manliness. God damn him! God damn, damn Toby! He put his hand over his mouth and gripped hard. It was like the

hand of another, telling him hysteria could not help, would not do. Addie was the first person he really loved he had seen in a hospital. He had known pain, but only his own. It was the first time he had felt another's pain, and he would never be entirely happy again. Happiness supposes security, and there is no security when mortality is comprehended. He should go, not wait until they wheeled her out. He went down the corridor toward the desk. The nurse on duty was a young Negro woman. Sipping coffee, she looked tired. About to speak to her, he saw Daniel McKenzie in the waiting room down the short hallway opposite the desk. Dan got up from his chair when Sam approached. "I took a taxi. I thought I might be—help." "That was kind of you," Sam said. There was only one other person in the room, an old woman who had gone to sleep in her chair, as if she had lived so long and seen so much trouble that it could not again interfere with her normal physical functions. "Sit down," Dan said, offering a package of cigarettes. "How is she?" Sam took a cigarette and said, "She's going to the delivery room. Her doctor was here when we got in." "That was lucky." "Yes." "Is he a good doctor?" "Oh—" Sam gave the standard reassurance to the standard question, "Yes." Dan lit their cigarettes. Sam did not look at him. "The doctor spoke of a bruise." "A bruise?" Dan repeated. Sam nodded. "Look. It's nice of you to bother, but there's no reason to stay. I'm leaving, myself. Addie asked me to look after Toby." "That's her husband," Dan said, frowning. "Yes." "The nurse thought it was funny. Two of us and neither her husband." They did not smile. "They said I couldn't come up, but I did." They smoked in silence. Dan stubbed out his cigarette. "Why don't you go look after Toby? That's what she asked you to do." "In a minute." The nurse at the desk stared at them. "Let's go," Sam said. "You," Dan said. "I'm staying awhile." Sam studied his face. "It's kind of you, but—" "Why don't you stop saying I'm kind and go do what she wants you to?" "Do you have a pen on you?" "Lawyers always have pens," Dan said, and took one from his pocket. Sam opened his wallet and found a blank check. He scribbled on the back of it. "Here are two numbers. This is mine, and this

one's Addie's. I'll be at one or the other place. Ask for me. Don't talk to anybody else." Dan took the check, nodding. "I'll leave the numbers with the nurse, too, so when you leave—" "I won't leave until something happens," Dan said. "It's very-" Dan's eyes warned him not to continue. "Do you have enough cigarettes?" Sam asked. "I don't intend to pace, like in movies," Dan said. Sam took a package from his pocket and withdrew a cigarette. "For the taxi," he said, handing the package to Dan, who took it. "I'll call in an hour or so anyway," Dan said. Sam stood, hesitated. "I'll see you." Dan nodded. As he watched Sam go into the hall to the elevator, he took a cigarette from the package Sam had given him and lit it, leaning his head against the back of the chair. The old woman was still asleep, her lips slightly parted, coarse gray hair pillowing her head. The two men looked at each other briefly, without speaking or nodding, before Sam stepped inside the elevator. When Sam entered the house in Greenwich Village, the maid was no longer on duty at the door, and he could tell by the nearly-empty coat rack that most of his guests had gone. Letting himself into the living room, he found Reeve, Denis Everett, and the two young men who had come to the party with Sylvia Sawyer. "Hello!" Reeve greeted him gaily. "Come and join the party." "Is Sylvia here?" "She went off with the Cranches. Eloise McKenzie just left, livid because her husband disappeared. He just disappeared. Don't you adore her? She's so divinely post-Woolworth's." "Where's Toby?" Sam asked. "He got sick and went upstairs." "Does he know about Addie?" "Everybody knows about Addie. You can't have an ambulance draw up in front of the house without causing at least mild speculation." The two young men laughed; Denis Everett smiled and wrinkled his nose at Sam. "How is the dear girl?" Reeve asked. Sam did not answer. "There was practically a stampede at the door. After everyone had gone, Custer tidied. He left us this —" Reeve indicated the bottles and ice bucket on the table before the sofa. "They're finishing up downstairs. Have you had anything to eat?" "I'm not hungry." "Well, have something and have a drink. It'll cheer you up. You mustn't behave like an expectant father. That's Toby's role." The young men tittered again. "I'd better go see Toby." "Good old plug-away Sam," Reeve said. Sam stopped at the door. "Stay, all of you, as long as you like. Reeve will play host." "You haven’t even thanked me,” Reeve said gaily. "Thank you, Reeve," Sam said.

"We will stay a bit if you don't mind," Reeve said. "Everything's started here, and there's no need to go somewhere else and mess it up, is there?" "Of course not," Sam said. He found Toby in his own room upstairs. Toby was sprawled on the bed, face down and legs apart. He had removed his jacket and tie. Andrew sat on the chest of drawers staring at him with suspicion and disapproval. When Sam came in, Toby raised his head without looking around. "Sam?" "Yes." Toby said, "I'm not so good." "It's all right." Toby struggled, raised himself on both elbows, and then with effort swung around to a sitting position, his feet landing heavily on the floor. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and blew his nose. "Boy!" he said. Sam's face made him pause and remember. "How is Addie?" "Addie's sick." "She's pregnant. It's not the same as being sick." "The doctor said something about a bruise," Sam said. Toby shrugged. "Women are always getting blue spots here and there. Very unattractive." "Are you ready to go home?" "I wish to go home," Toby corrected him. He touched the bed gingerly with his fingertips. "An expectant father can't lie on— bed of sin." "Where's your jacket?" "You'll know it when you see it. It's me. Tie-silk lining." Sam found it on the floor where it had slid off the leather chair. "Don't bother with your tie." "Where'd I put my tie?" "It doesn't matter." "Got to have tie," Toby said patiently. He dropped to his knees on the floor and began searching for it. "I'll give it to you tomorrow!" "Mustn't leave my tie in a strange man's bedroom. People— whisper." Sam wondered how drunk Toby was, how much he was pretending. He saw the end of the tie sticking out under the bed. "Here." He threw it at Toby. Toby caught it and began to stroke it. "Nice tie. Nice red bow tie." It was a brown four-in-hand, but he tied it into a large bow around his neck without bothering to fit it under his collar. "Are you ready to go?" Sam said coldly. "You going with me?" "Yes." Toby's expression was amused. "Addie told you to." "Yes," Sam said. "I got plans for you and me, Sam. All worked out in my mind. I'm going to fix you and Addie." Sam followed him out of the room. In the entrance hall he put on his coat and helped Toby into his. Toby stared at the

remaining four coats on the rack. "Men's," he said. "Party's got down to bedrock." He turned to the living-room door and opened it quickly. "Hello, hello!" he said genially. "Hi, doll," Reeve answered. "Lovely tie. I always thought you were one of us." "I was never—one of us," Toby said, and giggled weakly. Reeve said, "Do you know who wrote 'Rock of Ages'?" "Tell us again," Denis Everett urged. "Augustus Montague Toplady," Reeve said. The young men screamed with laughter. Reeve smiled at them tolerantly. "Come and join us," he said to Toby. Toby glanced around at Sam. "I've got a date. Good night, ladies." "Isn't he droll?" Reeve said to the others. Sam let them out the front door and found a taxi at the corner. They did not talk during the ride uptown. After a block Toby began to whistle. He continued whistling when they got out of the taxi, during the elevator ride, and until he unlocked the door of the apartment and turned on the lights. "The little nest," he said. "Leave your coat on the baby's bed. I'll make us a drink." When Sam joined him in the living room, Toby was setting down a tray with glasses, ice, and a bottle of whisky. He still wore his overcoat. "Tall one? Short?" "Short." Toby poured whisky into a glass and added two ice cubes. "There you are, sir. We try to please when the guest is distinguished, even when he is frequent. Trays, just like at your house." Sam took the drink and sat down on the end of the sofa. He took a big swallow of the whisky gratefully. Toby made himself a drink and sat down in the chair opposite Sam, where Sam had sat the evening before. "Aren't you taking off your coat?" Sam said. "Modesty forbids me," Toby said, tugging the open folds of it together. He smiled and, setting his drink on the table, removed the coat. "The hell with modesty." When he dropped it on the floor, he discovered his tie. He fingered the large bow. "You think I'm a clown. That's part of the game. Make with little jokes and—somebody may laugh at one of them." He untied the bow and dropped the tie on his coat. "Now my jacket." He removed his jacket and placed it carefully on the tie and overcoat. "I'm doing a strip tease, hey?" Toby sat down and picked up his glass. Drinking, he looked around the room. "Spick-and-span, that's how Addie keeps it. I'm going to mess it up. Really mess it up and live in it while she's in the hospital. Dishes in the sink and towels on the bathroom floor—have myself a ball. That's what husbands do when their wives go off and have babies, don't they?" "I don't know," Sam said. "I'm boring you, Sam? I don't mean to, but I have this feeling we should talk, shouldn't just sit and stare at the floor. You're not being cooperative." "I'm sorry. I'm tired. And worried about Addie."

"What's there to worry about? Women have babies all the time —all over the world, every minute. Bloody mess. As for China! —If anybody's going to worry, I'll worry. This is my baby. You can't have a baby. That's something I can do you can't; I can go to bed with a woman and give her a baby. Isn't that something I can do you can't?" "If you say so." "Damn right I say so! I do not have many talents, compared to Samuel Kendrick & Co., but the talents I have must be admitted. One of my talents is screwing women." Toby smiled. "You think that's disgusting—as an idea, I mean: screwing women." "I think the way you talk about it is disgusting, yes." "I don't have much refinement. It's one of the things Addie and I discuss. She likes a cultured type like you. But she married me, so she's up Shit Creek so far as culture in the home is concerned. Of course I give her other things that make up for it. I give her things you wouldn't give her. You know what I mean, Sam?" "Suppose we stop talking about Addie." "Why shouldn't we talk about Addie? We—share Addie. You and Addie talk about me—don't say you don't, I know better— Why shouldn't you and I talk about Addie?" "You and I are not intimate," Sam said. "That’s not strictly true, " Toby said. "Hate breeds a kind of intimacy. I do hate you, Sam. " "I’m sorry, " Sam said stiffly. Toby waved an arm. "You don't give a good God damn. You wouldn't give a God damn if I went to that window and jumped out, would you?" Toby set his drink down, got up from his chair quickly, and lurched toward the window. Sam caught him as he threw the window open. They struggled a moment, and Toby collapsed in Sam's arms laughing. "You thought I meant it! You're not smart. I just wanted to see what you'd do." Sam let him go. Cold air bellied out the draperies. Sam closed the window. "That's the first time you've touched me—except to shake hands on New Year's Eve and things like that," Toby said. "Round one. Round w-o-n," he spelled out the word. "Punning is a constant game with ad men." He molded the air with his hands. "Exploring the language, trying to find new ways to sell old piss. Of course you do something like that, but on a higher level." Toby began to whistle again. When he stopped, he said, "What happened to that girl tonight? You know who I mean?" "Jane Frisbie," Sam said. "Right. She gave me her address." He pawed his jacket on the floor. "Ah—the hell with it. I liked that girl, and she liked me. It's good to have a woman notice you. Something I've missed lately. She liked old Toby. We danced, and I could feel everything, the way she gave it to me." He clutched his chest with both hands. "Big soft tits. Nice ass. No girdle." He laughed. "I could use some of that. I haven't had any for a long time. You can't just before a baby. I mean Addie couldn't, I could. Oh— could I—

could I though! See how horny I am, Sam?" Toby pulled his trousers tight against his thighs. "I'm bored with the man talk, friend," Sam said. Toby laughed pridefully. "Ho! Mustn't bore Sam. I didn't think that kind of talk would bore you. After all, you're supposed to like it. That girl—I bet she hasn't had any for a long time. Like me. I was true to Addie right through the pregnancy. I wonder how many men are true to their wives the way I was. Well, I'm not going to be any longer. I'm going to screw everything that looks screwable. —That poor kid. She went to bed with Walter a few times; did you know that? She told me. She was hot for Walter, but then she found out he liked boys better than he liked girls. They had a hell of a row, and she called him a fairy in front of people at a party. Then she went traveling or something, and they didn't see each other again until today." Toby smiled. "People are interesting, don't you think?" "No," Sam said. "I'm trying to pass the time, Sam. That's all I'm trying to do. We have to talk, and I thought I'd talk about things that interested me. What happened to old Walter tonight?" "He went to meet Eva Fairchild." "Oh, ho! That's why you're nervous!" "I'm not nervous." "What are you—depressed, sad? Shall I play some music? We could both cry a little and comfort each other. I could cry. I could anything. I've turned into a sad damn fellow. I used to be always laughing. Ask anybody. You want to know what's turned me sad?" "No." "You and Addie. With your God damn superiority. Thinking you're so God damn much better than everybody!" "I know what superiority means," Sam said. "You mean I'm too wordy. If I were writing it, I might cut it later. I'm a pretty good writer. I wrote a book once. Did you know that?" "No." "Addie never told you? I figured you and Addie laughed at that a whole lot of times." "We never laugh at you. You're not funny." "I am funny. It's just that I'm not at my best around you. Other people think I'm a clown." "Is that so?" "You bet your ass that's so. Sam, you're lying when you say you don't know I wrote a book." "Why should I lie?" Sam said. Toby wagged his forefinger at him. "Yes, you are. I sent the book to Kendrick's, and I got a letter from you signed Samuel Kendrick, saying you had read it and I could shove it." "Before we met?" "It was a long time before we met. You've forgot, and I've remembered. That's the way things go. Some forget; some remember." "And you hold it against me that your book wasn't published."

"Sure I do." "Did you send it other places?" "Sure I did." "What did they say?" "Same thing you said. Don't try to be reasonable. That kind of crap doesn't work with me. Do you ever think about it—? This town must be full of writers, people you never met and wouldn't know if you passed on the street, people whose books you've rejected, who hate the name and guts of Samuel Kendrick & Co." "That's one of the burdens of the trade," Sam said. "I try not to lie awake about it." "Don't joke with me, boy," Toby said. "This is nothing to joke about." "It's nothing to talk about, for that matter." "I'll talk about what I damn please! And stop telling me what I can and can't talk about. This is my house, and you are a guest in it." "Not a willing guest." "Then leave," Toby challenged him. Sam did not answer. Toby smiled evilly. "You promised Addie. Wonder how old Addie is making out. Oh!—I can't talk about Addie. Excuse me, sir. Excuse poor rotten old Toby who isn't fit for cultivated society." Sam said, "Is there anything to eat?" "Eat this," Toby said, grasping his crotch. "How can you think about food at a time like this? That isn't very sensitive of you, Samuel Kendrick & Co. You should be worrying about—but I mustn't say her name. There's something, there's always something. Go back to the kitchen and look. You know your way. You know your way around everything in this apartment except me. Me, you never touched except to shake hands with until tonight. And that was because you thought I was going to jump out the window. There was some roast last night—was it last night? She who shall be nameless said we'd save it for a sandwich after your party. Time flies." Sam went into the kitchen. He heated water on the stove and put coffee into the pot. In the refrigerator he found the cold roast, butter, and a half loaf of bread. He took out plates, cups, saucers, and made two sandwiches. When the water boiled, he poured it into the coffee pot, put the lid on, and carried the sandwich plates into the living room. Toby accepted the sandwich without speaking. Sam sat down and began to eat. "Coffee will be ready in a few minutes." "You think I'm drunk." "We've both been drinking, and I haven't eaten anything." "Food fattens, it does not feed. Whisky feeds, food fattens. It's one of those sorry truths of modern life. How can you eat, when even now the halls of the hospital are rent with the cries of—she? her?—who shall be nameless. While her tears soak the—" "Shut up!" "Let us eat," Toby said solemnly. "Mayhap our tears will drop on the good bread and cold meat that once was warmed by the hands of the nameless one. Cold meat that once was living. But death came to it, death came." Toby took a large bite of the

sandwich and began chewing. "Good death," he said through the food. The telephone rang. Sam put down his sandwich. "Stay where you are," Toby said. "This is my place; I answer the telephone." "I think it's for me." "Hello," Toby said. "Isn't here. Hello, hello!" There was a pause. Sam tried to take the receiver, but Toby held it. "Not here! I'm here! Go fart in a milk bottle!" He slammed the receiver down on its cradle and began to laugh. Sam dialed the number of the hospital and after a few minutes got Dan McKenzie. "This is Sam," he said. "Did you call just now?" "Yes," Dan said. "How is she?" "She lost the baby." "How is she?" "I don't know. They just took her to her room." "What did the doctor say?" "He wouldn't say anything. Except nobody can see her." "Are you leaving?" "Not yet." "I'll call you back in a little while." "All right." Sam hung up. Toby was sitting again with the sandwich in his hand. Before he bit into it he said, "Leave a dime on the table." Sam went back to the sofa. "Who was it? One of your boy friends?" "It was Dan McKenzie." "Who?" "He's at the hospital. He called about Addie." "What's he got to do with it?" Toby said, rubbing tongue over teeth to dislodge a shred of meat. "She lost the baby," Sam said. "You don't lose a baby. A baby's too big to lose, even a new one." Toby looked at him intently a moment and then picked up his sandwich and took another bite. Sam watched him lick his fingers and rub them on his shirt front. Toby looked thoughtfully at his glass, raised it from the table, and drank half its contents. "She couldn't even do that for me," he said. "She couldn't even have my baby. What a nothing woman." Sam went into the bedroom and took his coat from the baby bed. When he returned to the living room, Toby was where he had left him. He had finished his drink. He turned his head. "Leaving?" "Yes," Sam said. Toby's voice was polite and emotionless. "Sit down and have a drink. You didn't finish your sandwich." "I don't think so." "You mean your obligation is now discharged," Toby said without rancor. "Will you be all right?" Sam asked.

"Will you?" Toby mocked him, and then added quietly, "I'd like you to stay a little longer." Sam hesitated, placed his coat on the back of a chair, and sat down on the sofa. "It's late," he said, looking at his watch. "We should both be getting to bed." "Maybe you'd like coffee," Toby said. "A drink," Sam said. Toby nodded and made new drinks for them. When he handed the glass to Sam, he sat down beside him on the sofa. Raising his glass, Toby said, "To Toby-no-daddy," and sipped from it. "Will you drink to that?" Sam shook his head. "Don't look unhappy, Sam. It isn't your fault. I'd like to think so, but I can't blame you for everything, can I?" "I'm thinking about Addie." "What about her?" "The doctor said she'd been bruised! Do you know how it happened?" Toby nodded. "It was your fault. I threw a beer can at her. I wouldn't have if I hadn't found you here this afternoon." "You did what?" Sam said. "I hit her in the belly with a beer can. In her big baby-belly. I don't know if I meant to or not. I suppose I did. I used to be something of an athlete. I throw straight." "You filthy son of a bitch!" Toby smiled. "Don't carry on so." "Carry on?" Sam shouted. "Do you know that Addie— Have you thought she might die?" Toby answered softly, "That would be an end to it, wouldn't it?" Sam started up, but Toby quickly put an arm around him and held him to the sofa. "Not yet, Sam. I haven't finished with you." They looked at each other. "Nothing is changed. If the baby had lived, she might have loved it, and loved me again. She might have drawn away from you. Now she won't. I could forgive her having an affair with another man, but the thing between you and her is—unnatural. Do you know that word, Sam—unnatural? I’ll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to tell Addie you brought me home drunk, that I went to sleep, and when I woke up, you'd taken off my clothes and were in bed with me trying to—" Sam struggled to get up from the sofa. "Sam, be still!" Toby stood quickly in front of him, pushing him back, thrusting his loins toward him. "Take it, Sam—take it!" Sam forced his way up and threw Toby off balance. He fell so hard against a chair that he and the chair toppled to the floor. Sam put on his coat. Toby stayed on the floor, full length on his back, staring at Sam. When Sam went out the door, Toby began to laugh. He heard the elevator arrive and depart and got up, reached for his jacket, and found his wallet. He took a slip of paper from the wallet, went to the telephone and dialed a number. There were five rings before there was an answer. "Hello, Jane? This is Toby."

eleven
"TOBY?" Jane Frisbie raised her shoulders in the thin robe she had just thrown about her and shivered. "Yes. You remember." "Is the party still going on?" Jane asked. "I don't know. I'm home." "Oh." Toby hesitated. The silence on the wire was long enough to make both of them uncomfortable. "I know it's late, Jane, but can I see you?" "You mean tonight?" "Yes." "I've gone to bed. Toby, are you still drinking?" "I've been drinking, but I'm not drunk. I've got to talk to somebody." Jane laughed kindly. "Maybe you'd better talk to your wife." "She's in the hospital," he said. "She is?" There was another silence, this one not quite a silence, full of their thinking. "She lost the baby." "I'm—sorry!" Tears wet Jane's eyes. Perhaps it was tiredness, the shock of the bare words, the automatic sympathy one woman feels for another in the situation. "Can I come over?" Toby asked. "Oh!—You'd better not. I've already done two fool things today." "Please, Jane," he begged softly. He could hear the sigh of her expelled breath. "Why me?" "Please?" "All right." "Thank you, Jane." By the time he arrived she had changed from robe and nightgown to sweater and skirt, put on lipstick, and given her hair a quick brushing. They did not speak when she let him in and closed the door behind him. He went through the short hall into the living room as if he knew the place. It was like thousands of apartments for single people the world over. There was a small living room, a smaller bedroom, a closet kitchen, a bathroom. Toby sat down in the one easy chair without removing his overcoat. Jane sat on a stool, pushing it close enough to him to show sympathy, not close enough to suggest intimacy. "It's a nice place," Toby said mechanically.

"It isn't mine. I borrowed it from a girl I know until I find something." They both looked around. "I hate it," she said. "Why?" "It looks like places I've had before. I hate places that look like nobody. Is—your wife all right?" "I haven't talked to her." "I suppose they won't let you until tomorrow." Jane lit a cigarette. "Do you want to take off your coat?" she asked. "I'm making coffee." He did not move for more than a minute. When he spoke, it was not to answer her question. "I keep wondering why? How did I get here? It doesn't make sense. I met Addie, we got married. Then: bang, boom—everything happened." He shook his head. "There's a crazy man driving the bus. Tell him to stop and let me off." "Everyone feels that occasionally." "I feel so damn stupid. It never occurred to me anything bad could happen. Everything was going to be all right. Not great, maybe. But good enough. You know?" She nodded. "It's been a rotten day for you, too." "Not one of my best." She tried to smile. "You and Walter-" "There's no me-and-Walter. There never was. I knew it, but I wasn't sure until today. Today's been my day for being stupid." "You're the only un-stupid person I know." Toby gave her a long look. "My wife doesn't love me." "You're upset. Don't say things like that." He shook his head. "I'm not upset. Not that way, anyway. I'm not pulling the line about my wife's not understanding me to try to get your sympathy. Actually, she understands me quite well, from her point of view. It isn't my point of view, but she's entitled to it." "What's wrong between you?" "I told you. She doesn't love me." "Why did she marry you?" "We were attracted to each other." He frowned. "But she's always been in love with Sam." "If that's true, I pity her," Jane said, bitterness tightening her voice. "I might pity her, too, if I weren't married to her. But I am. So I hate her, and I hate him." "Don't hate them," she said earnestly. "Don't hate anybody—it only hurts you." Toby said with satisfaction, "Oh, I've hurt them, too." "Not as much as you've hurt yourself." "And you think," Toby said, smiling sadly, setting his tone between mockery and hope, "that love is the answer to all the world's problems?" "I don't know about the world's problems, but I think it's the answer to most people's problems. I know it sounds easy and simple-minded, but I do believe it." "Everybody says it. Nobody believes it." "I do," Jane said. "I'd better see about the coffee."

Toby took off his coat and, standing in the middle of the room, stretched his arms and legs and torso. "It's good being here," he said, when she returned with two cups of coffee. "Is black all right?" She stared briefly at his arched body before he relaxed it. "I forgot to get milk." "Black's fine," he said, taking it and sitting down again. "You believe in it, do you?" he said when she had taken her place on the stool. His maleness had been, stated; her susceptibility was understood by both of them. "Believe in what?" "Love." She nodded. "We know it from the beginning. But it seems too simple. So we try all the ways to wreck ourselves. But it's there waiting for us when we get tired, the only answer. And I'm tired." "I'm tired, too. God, I'm tired. I want a little peace. I want things quiet and uncomplicated for a while. Forever." She smiled gently. "Things are never uncomplicated." "The complications don't matter if you love somebody and somebody loves you." "Perhaps not," she said tightly. "I wouldn't know." "I don't love Addie any more. All I want is to hurt her." "Toby!" Her voice both scolded and forgave, because what he said was about another woman. He smiled quickly. "I'm not really like that. I've been made to be by what's happened." "It couldn't have been easy for her either," she pointed out, "if what you say is true." "It's true, all right." Toby sipped his coffee. "Hot," he said. "Addie thinks I'm weak. I wonder what it's like being believed in." "I have some eggs. I could make toast. Are you hungry?" "Maybe later," he said, and set his cup on the table. "Did you mean what you said earlier tonight?" "What did I say?" "About wanting to be married," Toby reminded her. "Oh, yes. And have children." He smiled; she smiled. "Oh, yes," she repeated. He sighed. "That's nice. You'll get what you want." "Will I?" Her smile dimmed into self-pity. "They say people always get what they want." "You didn't," she told him. "I was too young to know. I didn't think of what I really wanted. Maybe you don't know until things happen to you. At first it's a matter of learning what you don't want. The other comes later." "Do you know what you want now?" Jane asked. "Yes." He looked at her thoughtfully. "I want you." She looked away. He tried to sound abashed. "It's too early to say that." She was staring into her coffee cup. "Much too early, and the circumstances are wrong." "Circumstances are never right. I know it sounds—my wife in the hospital and everything the way it is."

"It's too easy, Toby." He slipped down from his chair to the floor beside her. "It's not easy at all," he said. "Don't touch me, please." He got slowly back into the chair. "I'm sorry." "It's sweet, but—" "You don't believe me." "You never saw me before tonight." He nodded deliberate misunderstanding. "You mean you don't feel anything for me." "I mean I'm not going to do anything suddenly, ever again." Toby stood and picked up his coat from the sofa. "I shouldn't have come," he said. "I shouldn't have bothered you." She let him get as far as the door. Without looking at him directly she said, "Do you want to go?" "I think you want me to," he answered. "Do you want to go?" she repeated. "I don't want to stay, if all you feel for me is pity." "Be grateful for a little pity," she said, her voice strained. "It's not the worst thing in the world." "It isn't what I want." She wheeled around angrily. "Why does everything have to be settled for you tonight? Why can't you sit, just sit, and let us talk together? I don't know you." Toby came back into the room. He put his hand on her head and smoothed back her hair. At once he realized the gesture carried too much assurance. He edged his words carefully with self-derision. "You look funny without your hair fluffed down. You look like a little kid." "Take your coat off and sit down," she said, ducking her head from under his hand. "What does that mean?" "It doesn't mean anything," she said. "It means I asked you to take off your coat and sit down. No symbolism." He turned to hide his smile and slipped out of his coat. "Where do you want me to sit?" "In the chair where you were." He went to the chair and sat down. "What shall we talk about?" He folded his hands. "Don't be silly." "Shall we sit quietly and let you pity me? Should I blink back tears of gratitude, or let them show?" "You're a fool." She laughed shakily. "Talk about yourself." "To begin with, I was born." "So was David Copperfield," Jane said. "Skip to your first school crush." "I never had a crush on a school." "First girl, stupid." "She was an awful little girl. Ugly as sin. She chewed her pencils, and her teeth were always a little black. I picked her out because I thought nobody else would want her." "Was she grateful?" Jane said.

"No." Toby smiled. "She whacked me over the head with her pencil box every time I went near her." "Good for her," Jane said. "I wish I'd been that kind of little girl." "That doesn't fit in with your theory of love, love, love." "Stop making fun of me." "I'm not making fun of you. I merely point out your inconsistency. You tell me your theory; I offer you undying love and am spurned. What am I to think?" "That I'm inconsistent, I suppose." "Must you be?" "It's safer." "Why?" he asked. "I don't trust you." "That isn't logical, if I'm willing to trust you," he said. "I'm not famous for my logic." "I know what you're famous for," Toby said. "What?" she asked artlessly. "You're famous for the way you look in a skirt and sweater." "I was asleep when you called," she said. Her confusion was almost real. "I threw on the easiest thing." "Thank God it was the easiest." "Oh—you," she said, laughing. "Promise me something," he said. "I wouldn't promise you a cigarette butt," she said. "Promise me that after we're married, you won't wear sloppy house dresses, the way you said you wanted to earlier tonight, but always a sweater and skirt." She laughed again, but suddenly the laugh broke off, and she stared at him. "What's wrong?" She wore a stricken look. "We're here laughing—and that poor girl is in the hospital." “Oh.” Caution, guilt, and fleeting loyalty to her sex made her voice shrewish. "It's a terrible thing she's been through, and it's heartless of us to sit here flirting with each other!" "You weren't flirting," he said. "Yes, I was," she said in eager self-condemnation. "You want me to go again," he said. She did not answer. He got up and put on his coat. This time he did not go to the door. He knelt beside her, not trying to touch her. "Listen, Jane. Tonight I found myself at the end of things, with nothing but ashes all around. Maybe it was wrong to try to get out of them. I don't know. I had to try. I didn't turn to you because you were the nearest, or because I thought you were an easy girl. I came to you because I liked you and because you showed me the first kindness I've known for a long time." "Nothing can grow out of ashes, Toby. I never believed the legend about the bird." "Well, then," he said softly, and got to his feet. "Toby?" He turned slowly toward her, his face blank. The resigned calf lifted its throat to the man holding the knife.

"Toby—I'm going to tell you something, and maybe I shouldn't. You talk about ashes. I've tasted and breathed nothing but ashes for years. When I read the word 'death' in a newspaper or a book, in my head I hear my own name. I don't know how I got to this point, but here I am. I was smart, and I got most of the things I thought I wanted until I wanted Walter. When I found out about him, it was as if every man in the world had turned me down. I've had others since then, but I never could make myself believe they wanted me." She paused, then pleaded, "Is that silly?" "That's very silly," he said seriously. "It's not as simple and trite as I make it sound, but that's the gist of it. My God, that's the gist. Can you help me, Toby?" His smile of triumph she interpreted as one of reassurance. Quickly she slipped her arms under his overcoat and around his waist. He did not move as she kissed him on the lips. She let him go. He blinked to draw attention to the mist in his eyes. "Take off your coat," she said. "What does it mean this time?" he said. "I don't know," she said, "but be good to me, be kind. If I'm wrong, I don't know what—" He laughed. "I'm going to wear this coat to shreds taking it off and putting it on." She clasped her hands behind her back. "You won't have to bother with it any more tonight." Her smile denied belief in the words that followed. "If I go to hell—I go."

twelve
WHEN he left Toby, Sam stopped at a drugstore to make two telephone calls. Dan was able to tell him a little more. The birth had been in the normal way, but the baby had never breathed. Addie was asleep. She would not be told until next day what had happened. He called his house and spoke first to Custer, who asked about Addie, and then to Reeve, who did not. Reeve told him the young men had just gone off together and that he and Denis Everett were about to leave. "I suppose Walter hasn't come in?" Sam said. "You didn't expect him, did you, Sam?" Reeve's voice was sympathetic. "He hasn't called, or anything like that?" "What is 'like that'? No, dear Sam, not a word." "Good night, Reeve. I'll talk to you tomorrow." "Don't call early. I don't expect to get to sleep for a while." Sam could hear faintly over the wire a laugh, not Reeve's. He hung up. He did not go home. He asked his taxi driver to let him out at a bar two blocks from his house in Greenwich Village. It was not an attractive or companionablelooking place. He had passed it a thousand times and never gone into it. He chose it tonight because it was the sort of place to get drunk in, where no one would talk to you or try to make sporting bets or even laugh at the television. There was, in fact, no television set. The bartender was a thin, sour-faced man of middle years; the skin of his bald head was gray and scaly. The other inhabitants were all men. They sat alone without talking, their passive expressions indicating that they were hardly thinking. It took an hour of rapid drinking for Sam to begin to feel the numbness of brain he desired. When it came, he slowed his drinking, but kept at it steadily. By two o'clock he could think of Addie; he could console himself: she didn't die. He could think of Walter up to a point. He could not think of Walter as he might be at this moment. He tried to and was filled with such rage and resentment he switched his thinking quickly to—no, not Toby; he still couldn't think of Toby. Two-thirty, three; and the blurry edges gathered in to the center of his thinking. He remembered promising to read a book for Martin Cranch and give him a report on Monday. Poor writer, to be read by Sam at such a time. He would put it off a couple of days. Martin liked the book; he should give it a careful reading. He'd had a party tonight—was it possible? Only tonight, or last night he'd still had Walter. Go home, Sam. Who said it? Nobody. There was no one to say it or care whether he went home or to the devil. Home was where all the Kendricks had lived; he could not go there feeling as un-Kendrick as he felt now. By three Sam was drunker than he had ever been beore. He left loose change on the bar, slid off the broken-springed stool, and went out the door. It was very cold. He turned up his overcoat collar and stood looking about him. The street was deserted: no cars except parked ones, no people walking. A taxi came slowly along the street. Its light showed that it was free. The driver brought it to a halt and called, "Cab?" Sam knew that if he got into it he would not go home. Home was two blocks away, and if he were going there, he would walk. If he took the cab, he would go to the Turkish bath he had heard of but never visited, the one patronized by homosexuals. "You want a cab, mister?" Sam stepped to the curb. "Yes."

The attendant at the reception desk offered Sam a strongbox for his watch and wallet, gave him his key on an elastic strap, and directed him to a flight of stairs. The stairs were many and steep, and it took Sam several minutes to maneuver them. He was panting when he reached the top. The corridor he found himself in was narrow and dark. He went along it, passing doors that were closed and doors that were open, until he came to a small lighted room where a sleepy-looking attendant was reading a paperback novel. He held out his key. The man took it, looked at its number, selected a cotton robe and towel, and told Sam to follow him. There were small red lights along the dark passageway, and men walked to and fro, some quickly, some slowly, like pre-occupied inmates of a lunatic asylum. The attendant pulled a cord, lighting Sam's room, and held out his hand. Sam tipped him, and he went away. He took off his overcoat and hung it on a splintery hanger before sitting on the wobbly straight chair. Examining the room, he took satisfaction in its sordidness. The green paint on the narrow iron cot was chipped. The sheet and pillow-case were clean but did not quite cover the mattress which was thin, mean, and dirty. There was a spittoon between the chair he sat on and the bed. On the wall was a small, dusty mirror. On the back of the door—the door was not quite closed—a large, obscene drawing had been ineffectually erased. He looked at the smudged lines with wonder. What dreams had been dreamed here, what agonies of desire enacted? This, he remembered, was said to be one of the sinful places of the city. He had never seen a more squalid room in his life. The door was pushed open by a short, stocky man in a cotton robe. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. "Do you have a cigarette?" he asked, entering the room hesitantly. "Sure," Sam said, fumbling in his jacket pocket and holding out a package. "A match?" The man was studying Sam's face. Sam fumbled again and found matches. The man lit a cigarette and gave the matches back to Sam, squeezing his hand. "Are you leaving or just getting in?" the man said. "Just got here," Sam said. The man smiled. "You look all in. You ought to get some sleep." He waved his cigarette in the air. "Thanks," he said, and went out the door, pulling it not quite to behind him. Sam took off his shoes and socks, then stood and undressed. He lost his balance trying to get his shorts off and fell against the bed just as the door was pushed open by another stranger. "What do you want?" Sam demanded. The man fled. Sleep, that was what he needed. But first he had to go to the bathroom. He hadn't been during all the time in the bar. He put on the cotton robe and thin slippers, remembered to take his key, and went out the door. It locked when he closed it. He peered at the number over it and wandered down the passageway. He found the bathroom at the end of another passageway beyond a water cooler. The floor was moderately clean. The two urinals were full of discarded cigarettes. As he stood in front of one, the smells of wet tobacco, stale urine, and the sweet perfume of the deodorizer sickened him. A man came and stood beside him at the next urinal. He stared frankly at Sam, and Sam stared at the wall, hiding himself as well as he could with the robe. He washed his hands with coarse brown soap at a heavy basin. There were no paper towels, and he had not brought the towel from his room, so he dried his hands on the sides of his robe. Trying to find his room, he lost himself. Men were walking, men were standing, men were sitting on window ledges. They stared at him, but none of them spoke. He was surprised to see that many of them were old. Fat men, thin men, tall men, short men, men with gray hair and dark hair and blond hair and no hair. In their robes they looked as sexless and quaint as French school children in smocks on their way to school. He wandered, not trying to find his

room any longer, walking with the other walkers, copying their aimlessness. He felt no desire—he was too tired and unhappy and drunk for that—but he began to feel some of the nervousness that masked the desire of the others. Once he found himself looking through a partly-open door at two men beginning to make love. They saw him, and one of them closed the door. He went on. Stopping to light a cigarette, he was approached by a young man, but after a few words the man saw that Sam was drunk and left him. He turned blindly into a room, and the man there quickly got out of bed, pressed Sam's face against his bare bosom, and implored, "Bite me, bite me hard, daddy!" Sam backed, frightened, out of the room. He went into another room. The man in the dark there struck a match, ostensibly to light a cigarette, actually to see Sam's face and to show his own. Blowing out the match, he said in a matter-of-fact way, "What do you like to do?" Sam said, "I wanted to talk." "I don't," the man said tonelessly. Sam left him. He went into another larger room that was evenly divided between spectators and actors. He found it as briefly interesting and as quickly boring as watching dogs fornicating in the street. He came to a group of three very effeminate men chatting and laughing in the passageway, their string belts tied elaborately in the back, like old-fashioned littlegirl sashes. They stood out because most of the others there were not effeminate. The three were shunned as much as if they had been women. Exhausted, he found himself finally in front of his own door. He unlocked it and went in. Without turning on the light he slipped off his robe and slippers and lay down on the narrow bed. From the room next door he heard movement and moaning. He went to sleep quickly, with an erection. He woke slowly from his deep sleep and did not at first know what was happening. Gradually he became aware that three of the old men he had seen skulking like jackals in the passageway had sneaked in at his unlocked door. They quarreled and fought over his flesh as if it were carrion. Unable to fend them off, or perhaps wanting this final degradation, Sam subsided, whimpering. When they had done, he felt that indeed his body was dead and done, and nothing for it but to shuck it off and get a new one. "Not dead yet!" he protested. They laughed at his craziness, knowing he was drunk and helpless and that they had left nothing. Cackling in self-congratulation, they slipped out the door. Sam turned his face into the pillow and cried exhaustedly. He woke again. Someone had thrown a robe over him. He raised his head and saw that the door was closed. Then he saw a burning cigarette in the dark and the figure of a man sitting in the chair beside his bed. "Who are you?" he said. "It's all right," the man said. "Is it?" Sam said dully. "Yes. I knew they'd get you when I saw you earlier. They wait for someone to come in drunk. Do you feel better?" "I don't know how I feel." "You slept an hour." "How do you know?" "I've been watching you." "Why did you do that?" "Would you like some light?" The man left the chair and pulled the string that turned on the bare bulb set into the wall. When he turned, Sam saw that he was near his own age. He was tall and thickly built, but not fat. His brown hair was neatly combed.

"Do you have a cigarette?" Sam asked, moving his arms outside the covering robe. The man gave him a cigarette, lit it for him, and sat down again. "What do you want?" Sam said. "Nothing." Sam smoked, examining the man's face. The man let himself be examined without changing his expression. When he was satisfied, Sam said, "What kind of ghouls come here?" "Ghouls like you and me. You must have wanted them to come in; you left your door open, it means you don't mind company." "I didn't know that." "Is it your first time here?" "Yes." "It's not a bad place. It's depressing, but a lot of perfectly nice people come here because there's no other place to go. The queer bars are mostly for the flirts and teases." "I don't go to the bars." "What do you do?" "I've been living with someone," Sam said. "I did once," the man said. The man looked around the room. "All kinds of people come here," he said. "Married, single, truck drivers, bankers, punks, and priests. The worst that can be said for them is that they're pathetic, looking for a little love in the dark because they—we—can't bear to try it in the light. Take a good look at the place. You'll be back. And don't sneer. Whatever you find here was in your mind before you came, or you wouldn't have come." "You don't know why I came." "You came looking for something worse than you are, so you could forgive yourself." "You don't know me. I don't have to forgive myself." "You're lucky." "Those old men—" The man nodded. "With grizzled hair on their bodies as dry as dead flowers on a grave. What else can they do?" "Who are you?" "It's not a place to give names." "My first name is Sam." The man stood again. "Get up and dress and go home. I'll help you if you like. Or leave." "Stay, please. What time is it?" "After five." "Is there a shower?" Sam asked. "Downstairs. I'll show you." Sam put on his robe and slippers, found his key, and followed the man out of the room. On the basement floor they went into the steam room for a quarter of an hour and then took cold showers. Sam's head cleared. He felt tired, but himself again. The attendant helped them dry themselves, and they went upstairs. Sam unlocked his door, went into his room, and pulled the light cord. When he turned, the man was gone. Sam began to dress. It was quiet. In one of the far rooms he heard snoring, the only sound. He began to feel lonely and slowed the process of dressing. As he tied his tie, the man's face appeared over his shoulder in the dusty mirror. Sam turned with quick relief. "Hello." The man was fully dressed, wearing an overcoat and hat. "Hello," he said, and smiled for the first time. "You came back," Sam said cheerfully, putting on his jacket.

"Yes," the man answered. "What is your name?" The man hesitated. "My first name is Richard." "Mine is Sam." He smiled again. "You told me." Sam put on his overcoat. "I'm ready," he said. They went downstairs and checked out at the desk. The attendant gave them their wallets and watches, and they went down to the street together. "Would you like to come to my place?" Sam said. "No," Richard said. "You need sleep, and I do, too." "Will I see you?" Sam asked. "What's your telephone number?" Richard asked, taking a pen and piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Sam gave his number. "That's my house, not my office number. You can get me there most evenings around six." Richard looked at the number he had written down. "I'll call you some time. Not soon, though." "Why not?" "Because I think you're in a mess and ought to get out of it by yourself. I don't enjoy holding people's hands through crises." "You did tonight," Sam said. "I didn't enjoy it." "Thanks for doing it." "Sam?" "Yes?" "Don't go back there." "I won't," Sam said. Richard took a deep breath. "I'm going to walk a bit before I get a cab. Good night." They shook hands, and Sam held Richard's. "You will call, won't you?" he said. Richard smiled and took his hand back. "I'll let you worry about that, if you want to." He turned and crossed the street. Sam watched him stride along until he came to a corner, turned it, and disappeared.

thirteen
ELOISE McKENZIE went to sleep and woke up three times. Each time she woke it was harder to go to sleep again, not because she worried about Dan, but because she grew angrier. He had never before done such things: disappeared from a party, left her to get home alone, and not telephoned. When she woke at four, she did not try to sleep again. She lay naked on the bed without sheets or blankets and thought about her play. Walter Roland had evidently been successful with Eva, which was fortunate, because now she could get the money from Reeve Keary. Thinking of Keary made her remember Dan. He had known Keary all along and never mentioned him. With Keary's money conditionally promised for the show, she'd have found a way to make Eva accept Walter as her leading man, even if he hadn't been satisfactory in personal ways; but it was just as well things had worked out as they had. There would be problems enough without pimping for Eva. She got up from bed, opened the brief case she had brought home that afternoon, took out several papers and a pen, and got back into bed. She had forgot her

glasses. She wriggled impatiently off the bed and found them on the dressing table. Back in bed she studied lists and figures she already knew by heart. On paper it looked a simple production and, comparatively speaking, it was. One set and a first Broadway play by two young television writers eager to get into "the real theater." She knew it wasn't the theater they cared about; it was the possible sale of picture rights and the leg-up it would give them to do scripts for Hollywood. Never mind, she mused, they were getting absolute minimum scale. She had seen an hour version of the play on television last year, taken an option on it, and directed revisions and expansion for eight months until she decided it was ready for Broadway. It was trash, but it wouldn't offend. It had two scenes that would play very well indeed, in addition to a dozen or so gag lines Fairchild could make sound like high comedy. Eva was the only one in the cast of six who was getting any real money. Eloise fumed as she thought of the figure. A guarantee of $3,000 a week against 15 per cent of the gross plus 10 per cent of the net profit. Jesus God, Eloise thought, all that for a fifty-year-old broad who likes boys and spaghetti. However, Eloise was wise enough not to grow melancholy over the inequities of the theater. She was aware that Eva was the only thing she had to sell, the only reason anyone would pay a nickel for a seat. The director was young. He'd been a spare card in the event Walter hadn't worked out; although, being a director, there was always the danger he'd have stopped playing with Eva when the show opened. Well, that seemed to be settled. And Reeve Keary's money was a cushion. She could spend a little more on window dressing. There was nothing that made critics more surly than a skimpylooking comedy. After all the work, what did she have? Well, she was the producer, one of the few women in the world who could look at a theater program and see her name before that of the star or writer, before the title. That was worth something. There was the money. And as Dan had pointed out, there was the power. Eloise smiled. The show would open, and the critics would dismiss her year's work with a disdainful belch, while lavishing praise on Eva Fairchild. How they worshiped her. For them she could do no wrong. No matter how dreadful the play she appeared in, it was never Eva's fault. She had been misled, "poorly advised"—and why didn't our better writers set their skills to the service of this gifted artist? The dumb turds, Eloise thought, the big dumb turds. At six o'clock she heard the unlocking of the front door. She lowered the papers to her lap and stared at the door through which Dan would come. When he appeared, he looked surprised for a moment, and then he began to laugh. "What the hell are you laughing at?" she screamed. He shook his head. "Well? Well?" she demanded. He caught his breath. "You look funny!—with the papers and glasses!" He whooped again. The angrier she looked, the more amusing he found her. At last he stopped, more from weakness than will. "Where've you been?" she asked. "With a sick friend." She blinked at him uncomprehendingly. "You mean that—pregnant what's-hername at the party?" "Addie. Adeline." "You don't even know her. Or is she another you've known without mentioning —?" "I know her now." "You stayed with her all night?" She was more puzzled than angry. "At the hospital. Not quite with her." "Did you forget it was Saturday night?"

He looked at her, unsmiling. "Yes. I forgot." "Well, it isn't Saturday any longer." "You're right," he said, and went out the door. After a moment she scrambled from the bed and went after him. She found him in the kitchen opening a can of beer. "You didn't eat your pie," he observed. She made an effort and controlled her voice. "No, I didn't eat my pie." He sat down on a kitchen chair and drank from the can. "How can you drink beer this time of morning?" she asked. "I haven't been to bed. It isn't morning for me. It's still night." She couldn't just stand there; she knew it put her at a disadvantage. Nor could she go to bed without punishing him. She took a glass to the refrigerator and poured milk into it. "Aren't you cold with nothing on?" he said. She leaned against the table. "Why didn't you tell me when you left the party?" "You were busy with Reeve Keary." "You've known him a long time, haven't you?" "I've seen him off and on at the club." "You never mentioned him." "Why should I?" "Because he's rich." "Oh." "Don't give me that gentle, superior look. You know I need all the rich people I can find to get my shows on." He took another swallow of beer. "Did he promise you money?" "I made a deal," she said. "Who did you have to bitch up to make it?" he asked. She looked at him sharply but answered with care, "You don't understand these things." "No, I don't," he said. She took a swallow of milk and frowned, feeling still at a disadvantage. She set down the glass on the sink drain. "Why didn't you call and tell me where you were?" "I didn't think of it for a long time," he said. "When I did, I was afraid you were asleep and I'd wake you." "Considerate." He looked thoughtfully at the swinging door that led to the dining and living rooms. "Do you know how many ash trays are in the living room?" he said. "What?" she asked blankly. He said, "Do you know how many ash trays are in there?" "How should I?" "There are thirty-seven. I counted them once." "I wondered what you did with your time." She poured the remainder of her milk into the sink. "There are two of us and thirty-seven ash trays," he said. She studied his face, not yet understanding what was in his mind, but disconcerted by his calm. "Well. Shall we count the ash trays together and go to bed?" "What are you going to do with that room off the hall?" he asked. "I haven't decided yet. It's useful the way it is." "I don't like it the way it is. This is not just the place you sleep and give parties. I live here." "What would you like?" she said. "A moose head on the wall and a nice leather chair?" "I am also tired of the sarcasm that passes for wit in your depressing set."

She stared at him before answering. "Listen to me, hot daddy. I've been patient, but I'm not going to be patient any longer. Suppose you finish that beer and haul your hairy ass off to bed." "That's another thing. I don't like the bed. I don't like the room. You keep it too hot." "You don't like a lot of things." "That's right," he said, and drank again from the beer can. "We'll have to talk about it some time," she said, and started toward the door. "I'm talking about it now." She stopped and turned. "I'm not." "Eloise, I'm leaving." She came back, placed a chair close to his, sat down and crossed her legs. "Say that again." "I'm leaving." She closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them, she slapped out twice. One blow caught him on the side of the head; the other sent the beer can flying from his hand to the floor where it rolled over, spilling foam until it stopped by the base of the refrigerator. "I don't know what's eating you," she said, "but I've had enough of it, whatever it is. You can do what you God damn please, but don't bother me. I'm working on a play, you son of a bitch! Is that perfectly clear?" Dan got up from his chair, went to the refrigerator opened the door, and took out the large cream-topped pie. He removed the covering of wax paper and studied the pie thoughtfully. As she stood up, he thrust it against her breast and smeared it down her long white body. She was so shocked she neither resisted nor made a sound until he had gone out the swinging door into the dining room. The noise she made then was between a scream and a roar. Dan went into the room with the coat racks and the extra chairs lined neatly against the walls. He took his coat and hat from the closet. Before turning out the light he looked around the room a long, last, unloving time.

fourteen
WHEN he woke shortly past noon, Sam did not open his eyes immediately. He lay for several minutes trying to make his mind focus properly. So much had happened so quickly. He thought of Addie and of Walter. He remembered with physical shock the Turkish bath and opened his eyes to assure himself he was not there. With gratitude he looked about the room at familiar things, most of which he had known all his life. The chairs, the chest, the bed, the pictures on the walls soon gave him back his identity. The windows faced south, and a thin line of brilliant sunshine showed on one side of the draperies. He got out of bed and drew them back, looking down into the little paved garden at the rear of the house. The tree there had still a few dry, clawlike leaves, the stunned evergreens looked artificial. He turned blinking from the strong sunlight. His body felt sore and battered. He did not bother with a robe, but went straight into the bathroom. When he had shaved and showered, he put on slacks and a woolen shirt and telephoned the hospital. He was not allowed to talk to Addie, but was told that she had rested well during the night and that she would be informed of his call. As he put down the receiver, Custer knocked at the door and entered. "Good morning, Custer."

"Good morning, Mr. Kendrick." Custer looked grave. "I brought your breakfast to the library. I thought you'd like to have it there this morning." "Thank you, Custer. I'll come right in." The library was a long, narrow room that also faced south and flanked Sam's bedroom. It contained two easy chairs, a desk at which Sam did most of his manuscript reading at home, and a long table holding a heavy dictionary and the new volumes of the London Times Atlas. A small fireplace broke one of the long walls, which was otherwise lined with books from ceiling to floor. Sunshine came in at the window, a fire was burning energetically, and Andrew sat in one of the easy chairs with the dignity of a pensive bishop. Custer had set the breakfast tray on the desk. The Sunday papers were on the long table beside the dictionary. Sam went to the desk. "Have you heard of Miss Addie this morning?" Custer asked. "Yes. I didn't talk to her, but she had a restful night, they said." The gravity of Custer's expression relaxed a little. "That's good. Will you be going to visit her today?" "Yes. Later." Custer said carefully, as if he had rehearsed it, "Will you please give her my sympathetic regards and tell her I will be visiting her later in the week?" "Yes. I'll do that. Thank you, Custer." Custer inclined his head and turned to the door. As he passed Andrew he said, "Come on, cat, and get fed." Gone instantly was Andrew's ecclesiastic revery. He hopped from the chair without a backward glance and ran into the hall ahead of Custer. Sam began to eat his eggs and sausage. Usually he wanted a light breakfast, but Sunday mornings Custer insisted on a stouter one. He wondered what Custer thought of Walter's disappearance. Whatever he thought, he would make no reference to it. When Walter had moved into the house, and when others before Walter had moved in and out, Custer had given no sign that he understood or thought about it at all. His discretion was extreme and delicate, too extreme to be quite tactful, in fact. Yet he did have ways of expressing approval and disapproval of people. He was especially gentle with Addie and with Sylvia Sawyer. He was a little grand with Martin and Beatrice Cranch, and Beatrice Cranch was terrified of him. She tended to drop things and twinkle even more insistently than was her usual want when he came near her. Martin Cranch occasionally tried jokes about Custer's former job with the publishing house, but they were unsuccessful in thawing Custer's reserve. Toby was not one of the approved ones. Nor was Walter. Nor Reeve. Custer was a gentle man, more gentle than snobbish; it was his gentle look that was replaced by an almost complete absence of expression when he served people he did not like. Sam glanced at the boxed novel Martin Cranch wanted him to read over the weekend. He would get to it tonight after he had seen Addie, he decided. He took his coffee to the easy chair Andrew had deserted before the fireplace, but he had hardly settled there when he heard a noise in the hall. He set the coffee on the mantel and called tentatively, "Walter?" There was no answer, and no one was in the hall, but a moment later he found Walter in his room. "Good morning," he said, waiting at the door, embarrassment making him formal. Removing his tie, Walter turned, and the two men looked at each other. Sam saw in his eyes determination, a beginning of pride of defiance. "May I come in?" Sam said. Walter smiled. "It's your house." Sam went into the room and sat down in a chair. Walter dropped his tie on the chest and sat down on the side of the bed to take off his shoes. Sam watched him, feeling a chill pass over his face and become dryness and ache when it reached his throat. After a moment he said, "How does one ask—'Did it go well'?"

Walter nodded almost absently, stood, and began to unbutton his shirt. "I don't think I need Reeve's help." Sam's voice strained to be normal. "What are your plans?" "Right now a bath." He had removed his shirt. He wore no undershirt. The flesh of one shoulder was red, and his lips were puffy. The chill and ache Sam had felt turned to anger. "After that?" "I'll stay at a hotel until I find a place." "You sound very sure of the future." "Yes, I am, Sam," Walter said, draping his trousers over the foot of the bed. "Anyway, you told me"—his voice mocked with hurt pride "—how does one put it?— 'to get out' if I went through it with Eva." Sam registered Walter's use of her first name without the last. "I see," he said. "And you went through it with—Eva." "Oh yes," Walter said offhandedly. "I had quite a time myself last night," Sam said quickly, hating the cheapness of his words, the transparency of his motivation in using them. "I went to the Turkish bath. You know the one probably." Walter stared at him briefly before discarding his undershorts. "Yes. I used to go there myself. That was," he added, "before I knew you." "It's quite a place," Sam said. Walter scratched his thigh. "If you like boys," he said. At the door he turned his head. "Oh—did the party go on a long time?" "You don't know, of course. Addie got sick and went to the hospital. She lost the baby." "I'm sorry. Is she all right?" "As far as I know." Walter frowned. "Were you here around midnight?'' "No. I took Toby home and stayed with him awhile." "You weren't here when I called then." When he heard the shower running, Sam went back into the library and finished his cold coffee. He looked through the book sections of the papers without concentration, hearing always the sounds of Walter. They were familiar: the quick slam of the door to the medicine cabinet, the brisk brushing of teeth, the sliding of a bottle on a glass shelf. Andrew came back, hopped to the arm of Sam's chair, and looked at him inquiringly. Remembering Walter's dislike of the cat, Sam stroked him. Andrew's enjoyment was too obvious; Sam pushed him to the floor. Andrew hesitated between rage and forgiveness, but Sam's face told him that neither would move him, so he trotted away a few feet, paused to lick his left shoulder, raised his tail, and strolled unconcernedly under the long table across the room. Finally Sam could bear the sounds no longer and went back to Walter's room. Walter had changed into another suit and a fresh shirt, and was packing a large suitcase. Sam sat down on the bed beside the suitcase. They did not speak. The longer they were silent, the more Sam felt that Walter might simply leave without speaking at all. "Walter." Walter wrapped a pair of shoes in a soiled shirt and wedged them into the suitcase. "Walter!" he said again. "Don't act like a baby, Sam. We've talked all we can. There's nothing to say." "What will happen?" "The same thing that's happened before. There'll be someone else for you. I'm not the first person who's lived here, and I won't be the last. That—is the saga of Sam." "Do you have to say that?"

Walter shrugged. "It's true, we both know." "I don't." "Addie will never let you have anyone permanent." "You find her useful," Sam said. Walter shrugged again. "Okay." He cleared out the last drawer of the chest. "I wonder if it'll close," he said. "You always accumulate more than you think you do." "What will happen to you, Walter?" "If you're set on knowing every hurting detail—right now I'm going to a hotel. Tomorrow I'm going to sign a contract with Eloise. Eva's going with me. I told her what Eloise offered, and she said it wasn't enough, so she's going to make Eloise give me more. The middle of the week we're flying to Jamaica for a vacation before rehearsals start." "You've done a lot of planning together." Walter's eyes hardened as he looked at Sam. "You can't screw all the time." Sam got up from the bed and went to the window that looked out on the street. Walter set the suitcase on the floor and tried to close it, grimacing the way people do with the effort. "There," he said when he had managed it. "Should I leave a tip for Custer?" "I don't think he expects it," Sam said without turning. "You know best. After all, I've been a very long-staying guest. Well, Sam, it's back to the world of heterosexuality." Sam did not turn. "No hard feelings. Aren't you going to say good-by?" Sam was motionless, looking out the window. "I don't suppose we'll be seeing each other. Tell Reeve and Addie and Custer and Andrew I hope they like the next one better. I'll send you seats to my show when it opens. Oh —here is your key." He dropped it on the chest. A minute later Sam heard the front door slam, and through the window he saw Walter go down the steps with his suitcase, pause on the sidewalk as if to mark a division in his life, then walk toward the corner. Presently he heard the ringing of the telephone. By the time he reached the extension in his room, Custer had answered the one downstairs. He was saying, "I'll see, Mr. Keary." "I'm here, Custer," Sam said. "Yes, Mr. Kendrick," Custer said, and hung up. "Sam?" "Hello, Reeve." Reeve sounded irritable. "You said you were going to call." "I haven't been awake long." "The most awful thing has happened—I've been robbed." "Oh?" Sam said. "You don't sound awake yet. Robbed, I said, by that sneak I brought to your party." "You mean Denis Everett?" "It probably isn't his real name," Reeve said impatiently. "He came here with me last night. We drank a little, had a bit of fun, and went to sleep. Or I went to sleep. When I woke up this morning, he was gone. So were two suits—three hundred dollars each I paid for them—a suitcase, some jewelry, and a hundred and fiftytwo dollars in cash." "You should live in an apartment house with an all-night doorman." "Is that all you can say? It's ghastly. The most ghastly thing that ever happened to me!" "You'll get over it." "It's so grisly realizing he was thinking of doing it all the time, even when—" "Have you called the police?"

"What could I say to them? You know how stupid they are. It would get in the papers, and I'd be sought out by other Denis Everetts." "Maybe you should stick to promising artistic types," Sam said. "Really, you're most unsympathetic this morning." "I don't feel well." "By the way, how is Addie?" "The baby died." "Oh." There was a pause. "Perhaps it's just as well." "Good-by, Reeve." "Sam!" Sam hung up. While he sat on the unmade bed, the telephone rang again. He picked up the receiver, but before he could say a word Reeve screamed, "Nobody hangs up on me, Sam! That's a woman's trick, the rudest thing anybody can do!" "I thought we'd finished our talk." "You thought nothing of the kind. I suppose you're upset about Addie?" Sam did not answer. "I know how you feel about her, but remember I'm upset myself this morning. Perhaps I wasn't as kind about her as I would have been ordinarily. What I said is true though. That marriage isn't going to last, you know, and children are such a complication in divorces. How are other things?" "What things do you mean?" Sam asked. "Walter." "Your maneuver with Eloise McKenzie was unnecessary." "You mean he—" "How much money did you offer her?" Sam said. "Not much. I'll have to go through with it, I suppose. I did promise. Noblesse oblige, though it comes at a silly time, what with my robbery and all—" "Did Walter call here last night?" Reeve sighed and laughed. "So that's why you're fussing. Was it naughty of me telling him you didn't want to speak to him?" "Did you do that?" There was a pause. "Is Walter there now?" "Reeve, I have to go. I can't talk any longer." "You're rude again. What have you got to do that's important?" "A number of things." "We haven't even dished the party!" Reeve protested. "It was an awful bore, I thought, didn't you? Mixed parties always are. The trouble with you, Sam, is that you don't enjoy homosexual society." "I confess it bores me." "Do I bore you, too?" Reeve challenged. "You have begun to," Sam said. "I never bored anybody in my life!" Reeve declared. "You've got the first blot on your copybook." "Sam, I'll never forgive you for that!" "I'll bear up." "Come, Sam." Reeve giggled. "Irony isn't your strong suit. Let's have lunch and laugh about my robbery." "No, thank you, Reeve. I'm going to be busy.” "I've been patient, but I think really—" "Good-by, Reeve." "Sam, stop your nonsense this instant! What's the matter with you? You've said yourself it isn't my doing your losing Walter." "For God's sake! I'm not trying to punish you." "What are you trying to do? Answer me that!"

"I'm trying to say that for a number of reasons I don't think we are going to be as close in future as we've been in the past." "Sam Kendrick, I've never done anything except for your own good. Well, I've learned my lesson. Never, never try to help people!" "Something else, Reeve. I'm going to buy up your stock in Kendrick's." "Does vulgarity have no limit?" Reeve exclaimed. "None," Sam said. "I won't sell. Those stocks are worth more than—" "I'll pay you more than they're worth. I'll tell my lawyer to get in touch with yours in the morning." "Sam," Reeve said, "you're a vengeful little bitch, and I'll get even with you if it's the—" "This time I really am going to hang up. I'm telling you so you can beat me to it if you like." The wire went dead as Sam listened. Reeve had finally understood. Sam put down the receiver and changed his clothes to go to the hospital. When he left, Custer asked if he would be in for dinner. "I'm not sure," Sam said. "I'll call. Don't do anything special." He had the cab stop at a flower shop where he bought the first tulips he had seen this year. The halls and elevator at the hospital were crowded with Sunday visitors. When he reached Addie's floor, he hesitated, attracted by the noise in the small waiting room that had been so quiet last night. It was full of sisters, cousins, grandmothers, and husbands, all jabbering excitedly. As he turned toward the reception desk, he heard his name called. It was Dan. "Haven't you been home at all?" Sam asked. Dan smiled. "I got here a minute ago." "Have you seen Addie?" Dan shook his head. "Her husband just went in."

fifteen
"HELLO," Addie said. Toby moved from the door to the foot of the bed and stood there with his overcoat on, making no gesture of greeting. "You're thin again. Does anything hurt?" "Everything hurts," she said with some of the old self-mockery. "Sit down." She looked toward the chair, inviting him to use it. When he did not move, she looked slowly back at him. "Have you talked to the doctor?" he asked. She nodded. "A little while ago." "Did he say how it happened?" She frowned at her hands folded over her breast. "Oh —maybe my fault. Could happen to anyone. That's what he says." "How long will you be here?" "I didn't ask. A few days." She looked at a bowl of red, white, pink, and yellow roses on the chest of drawers across the room. "The flowers came," she said. "I didn't send them."

"The nurse said—" "You must have misunderstood her. Maybe your friend in the waiting room sent them." "Did Sam come with you?" Toby shook his head. "The man at the party you were talking to. The producer's husband." "What is he doing here?" Addie asked, frowning. Toby cleared his throat and rubbed finger marks off the metal of the foot of the bed, as if he wanted to leave no trace of himself in the room. "What are you going to do?" "Do?" she asked softly. "About us." She shook her head in a gesture that asked kindness or at least postponement. "I don't feel good, Toby." "You ought to. You did what you wanted." Her eyes were round and steady. "I don't understand." "You got rid of it. You got rid of me." "Toby," she said sadly, "go home." "You got rid of me as if I were excrement." "Toby, please go," she begged. "We have to talk." "I can't!" "Then listen. I'll talk." He dragged the chair over to her bedside and sat down, spreading his overcoat open to rest his elbows on his knees. "I wanted to be a father. You wouldn't let me. That's one of the things I have to say to you. You've decided I'm nothing. Let me tell you something, Addie. You're the one who's nothing, and I don't want you for my wife. I don't want any wife I have in share with another man, even when that man is nothing, more than a fidgety queer who can't keep his hands of me." With an effort she turned her face and looked at him. "Are you surprised?" He smiled grimly. "It's a joke on you. You told him to take me home last night and take care of me. Maybe you were afraid I'd go off with Jane Frisbie?" She stared at him in wonder. "Sam took care of me, all right. I was pretty drunk. When he got me home, I must have passed out and slept. When I woke up. I was in our bed, the one you and I—I was there naked, and Sam was naked, too. His hands were everywhere, and he was begging me to let him—" Addie closed her eyes tightly; tears slipped between her lids; her long white fingers gripped the top of the bedclothes. "Did you ever think he was that rotten? Fancy Sam, your good Sam, Sam the rich and powerful, honest Sam, cultured Sam, Sam of the clear eyes and maggot heart, Sam the—" Her voice shook with weakness and rage. "Do you think I believe you!" "Everything I say is true. I was so disgusted I got up and left the house. I had to see a woman. I went to Jane’s apartment, and she let me stay the rest of the night." "Go away before I ring and have someone—" He snatched the bell cord out of her reach and stood over her. She shrank deeper under the covers and turned her face into the pillow, trying to escape the sound of the words he whispered into her ear. "When I heard about the baby, I hoped you'd die. That would have been a way to end it, you—bad girl." He stepped, trembling, back from the bed. She lay very still. "If you get well," he said, "get a divorce. If you ever see me on the street, run. Because if I see you, I may beat you the way they beat lepers in the Middle Ages to drive them away." He watched her as he buttoned his overcoat. Going to the chest of drawers, he snapped a white rose from its stem and crushed it. "I wish it were you. Good-by, love." Thrusting the rose into his coat pocket, he went out the door. Sam and Dan saw him coming and met him at the elevator. "How is she?" Sam asked.

Toby gave them a short bow. "Gentlemen, I leave her to you." The elevator arrived, and he stepped into it. Sam and Dan looked at each other questioningly. Sam went to the reception desk and asked the nurse if he could go to Addie's room. She took his name and went down the hall. He watched her enter the room and reappear quickly, stepping across the hall to a small service room he had noticed the night before. A minute later she emerged with an interne, and together they went into Addie's room. Sam hurried after them. "Addie!" She was crying, and the interne was trying to give her an injection. "Get out of here!" the nurse commanded. "Sam!" Addie cried, not seeing him, but trying to raise herself in bed and fight the interne. The nurse pushed him into the hall. "What's the matter?" he begged her. "Nothing." "I have to see her!" "You can't." "She called me!" "You certainly can't see her now." "I have to see her!" "If you don't do as I say, I'll call an orderly!" "Tell me what's wrong!" He gripped her waist, but she shook free contemptuously. "You men!" "Did her husband hurt her?" "That's not our business, is it?" the nurse said coldly. "I have to go back. She needs me." "Go back," Sam urged her "I'll wait." The nurse snorted in exasperation and left him. He went to the waiting room and told Dan as much as he knew of what had happened. They smoked and were silent in the midst of chattering relatives paying Sunday visits and celebrating new lives in their families. Eventually Sam said, "Haven't you anything better to do?" "No," Dan said. "Are you going to sit here forever?" "Yes," Dan said. "Why?" Dan blinked at him. "It's winter, and this is a warm place." He picked up Sam's flowers from the floor. "Why don't you send them in? They'll wilt." The nurse returned to her desk with a dark glance toward the waiting room. Sam gestured with his thumb. "I can't face her again. She's a monster." "All nurses are monsters," Dan said. "Part of their training is going to Monster School. If they flunk out there, they're sent to Jolly Big Sister School." Sam took the flowers from Dan and went to the desk. The nurse looked up coolly, without a sign of recognition. "How is she?" Sam asked. "Asleep." Sam laid the flowers on the desk. "Can you take these into her room, please?" She frowned, picked them up. He turned away. Half an hour later Dan said he was hungry, and Sam agreed to go with him for something to eat. They asked about Addie at the desk and were told that she was still sleeping. They found a bar on Madison Avenue and ordered sandwiches and beer. When these were brought, Dan asked, "How did Walter Roland make out with the big star?"

"That's what I like about New York," Sam said. "It's just a great big little town. Everybody knows everybody else's business." Dan shrugged. "I'm the producer's husband. I hear all the inside stuff." "I guess he made out all right," Sam said. "Have you known him a long time?" Sam stared at him reflectively. "Is two years a long time?" "Could be, I guess, with that sort of thing." "What sort of thing?" Sam asked. "If you're Sam Kendrick, word gets around." "Word gets around more than I do." "I don't mean to pry. I didn't know whether it made any difference to you or not. Walter Roland, I mean." "Yes. It made a difference." "I'm sorry," Dan said "I don't understand it, but I guess Eloise made things bad for you. She's good at that. That's how she gets her thrills." Sam looked at him closely. "Do you always talk about your wife to strangers?" "We're not strangers," Dan said, "and she won't be my wife much longer. I ran away." "They'll find you and make you go back. You can't hide in maternity wards forever. It isn't the first place they'll look, but they'll get around to it eventually." "I don't think Eloise will bother," Dan said. "She's busy with her play, and when it opens she'll decide a divorce is just what she wants." "Have you been married a long time?" "It seems forever." "What was wrong?" "Who knows? Eloise was different when I married her. I must have been, too." "The old story." "If the cow fits, milk it." Dan smiled. "I feel good today." Sam said, "That's because of all the sleep you got last night." "I've got myself back. I haven't had much to do with myself for a long time." "I've got myself back, too," Sam said. "But I don't want me." "What's between you and Addie?" Dan asked. "What a chatterbox you are." "It's the new Dan McKenzie. The old one was a tight-lipped lawyer who never asked personal questions." "Don’t lawyers have to ask personal questions?" "Not my kind. I specialize in real estate. About you and Addie." "Addie and I are friends." "What kind of friends?" "Friends." "I mean, what do you want from each other?" "Do you have a right to ask?" "Nobody has any rights. I say that as a lawyer. The best case can be turned upside down. That's why so many good people are in jail and so many bastards are free as air. However, I should have said before, my questions are not prompted by idle curiosity. I'm in love with her." "You can't be," Sam said. "You don't know her." "I know her," Dan said softly. "That husband is wrong for her." "Maybe," Sam admitted. "You don't trust me yet." "Why should I?" Dan squirmed on the bar stool. "I wish you, did." "What do I have to do with it?" "I don't know," Dan said. Sam said, "It's dangerous to rush things."

"I do a lot of dangerous things. I smoke. I drink. I eat. I drive a car. I could die tomorrow. Before I do, I'd like to have some life. I haven't had, I realize." "You talk a lot." "People live and die, and the most they can feel usually is, 'Well, I followed the code.' I don't want to follow any code. I want to get something, give something, be something. So, about you and Addie. What do you want from her?" "If I could answer that in a simple, declarative sentence, they'd give me the Nobel prize." "Well, she loves you and you love her. Start with that. Would you ever want to marry each other?" "No." Dan relaxed and drank the rest of his beer. "That's good. Because I'm going to marry her." "You're in a big hurry." "Not any more. Now I'll go slow. But I had to find out how things stood before I could know what to do." "Do you think Addie will remember you?" Sam said. "If she doesn't, I'll introduce myself." Sam smiled. "Let's go back to the hospital." At the desk the nurse admitted that Addie was awake and wanted to see Sam. "You know where the room is. Don't stay long. She needs rest more than she needs you." "How do you know?" Sam went in quietly, without knocking. Addie's face was half turned away, but he saw that she was wearing lipstick. He said, "Hello, sugar-pie," and she lifted her face. "Have you come to identify the body?" He stepped quickly to the bed, took her long feet in his hands. "Nothing broken. All the same." Her hands reached for him. He bent over her, and they kissed clumsily. She began to cry. "Is Daddy's girl going to boo-hoo?" "You bet your ass she is." He sat on the side of the bed and gave his hands to her. She pressed them around her face. He kissed her again. "Oh, my God, it's good to see you. You're the same, the only same, the only Sam. Everything else is a mess." "No," Sam said. "It's the longest day of my life. It seems one long day ever since the party. Is it just Sunday?" "Yes." "That can't be. I've slept and waked too many times." "It's Sunday. How are you?" "How should I be?" A look of physical pain crossed her eyes. "I shouldn't sit here." "Bring the chair. Very close. So I can touch you if I need to." Sam moved the chair over and sat down, his knees touching the bed. She sighed. "You're more beautiful than God and a heaven full of angels." He took her hands. "Same cold, long fingers." "Warm them for me." He rubbed them between his hands until they took on warmth. "That's better," he said. "Much better," she said. "I hear you and Toby spent a mad, passionate night together." "We saw our chance, with you out of the house." "He's crazy—really crazy, isn't he?" "I guess so."

"I never knew how much he hated me until he told me that. Even though he knew I wouldn't believe it, he had to say it. It was like cursing a corpse. Well, I hate him, too. I'm not going to take the blame. I'm not even going to blame him. I'm not going to explain things to myself at all. Any freshman in psychology could do that. I'm just going to lie here and hate him. That's a good, pure, simple, necessary thing to do. When I get tired of hating him, I'm going to start forgetting him." "Just like that?" "Just like that." "He isn't going to let you go so easily." "Yes, he will. He's at the end of things, too. Like me. What happened with Walter?" "It's over." "So? A real housecleaning." "A special-super-de-luxe-guaranteed-not-to-fade house-cleaning. Yes, ma'am." She took her hands back and pulled the bed clothes high around her, lifting one knee experimentally and quickly flattening it again. "I wish it were next week or next year. I hate this weakness and crawling." "Well, it's today, and here we are." "I don't know where I am." "You don't have to. Live it a minute at a time. The minutes will make an hour; they'll make a day and a year. But don't think about the year yet, just the first minute." "Yes." She nodded. "You're here. I’ll just think about that." "Last night—I thought you might die." "So did I," she said. "I was so scared. I've never been so scared. Not in the war. Not ever. Put on your clothes and let's get out of here. I don't like this place." "I hate this place's guts," she said. She reached for his hand again. He leaned forward in his chair and rested the backs of her fingers against his warm lips. "It's good to say that. A while ago I could only lie here like a dead thing, not caring if they drained off all my blood and covered me with earth. I'd like to see them try it now, boy. They'd get the fight of their lives." "I'd help," he said. "Sure you would. Buddy-Sam. Together we could lick our weight in wildcats." She smiled dimly. "Do you suppose wildcats think they can lick their weight in us?" "Probably." "When I get out of here, when the weather's nice, will you take me to the Bronx zoo?" "Yes." "Oh, how nice that will be. Those wonderful, winding walks. The African plains. The lovely smelly smell of lions. And the seals! And those two big lady cats who live in the same cage together. You remember when we decided they were Lesbian cats?" "Yes." He smiled. "We'll do all that and more." "We'll have to wait till it's warm." "When is spring?" "The first warm day." "I mean, really when?" Sam said, "I always think spring begins—never with St. Patrick's Day, and it doesn't have anything to do with Easter either—but on publication day each year of the new Sophie Rose Glover novel." "Of course! How long away is that?"

"About three months." "Oh—too long," she said sadly. "Easy. A minute at a time, remember." "Yes." She closed her eyes, pressed his fingers, and smiled securely. Presently she said, "Is a minute up yet?" "Yes," he said. "You see how easy it is?" She nodded and murmured, but no word. He sat watching her as if she were a baby going to sleep. She frowned suddenly and opened her eyes. "I know what you were thinking!" "What?" he asked in surprise. "That you'll leave when I sleep!" "I have to leave anyway. The nurse said not to stay." "Tell her to go piss up a rope." "You don't know how much I'd like to tell her that." "Oh, yes, I do." She smiled again. "Oh," Sam remembered. "Custer sent very fancy regards and says he will visit you soon." "Good. Custer's my friend." "He is. Yes," Sam said. "So peaceful." Her eyes looked a little vacant. "I think I can sleep now." "All right. I'll go." "I'll telephone you later," she said. "Fine," he said. "Will you be home this evening?" "Oh, yes." He moved the chair away from the bed, came back, and kissed her. "Where's your coat?" she asked. "I left it in the waiting room. Dan McKenzie's there. Do you feel well enough to say hello to him?" "Why is Dan McKenzie there?" she asked. "I'll be back in a minute." The nurse was not at the desk, so it was easy to bring Dan back to the room. The two men carried their coats. Dan was nervous. "Are you sure it's all right?" "Sure." Sam pushed the door open, and they went in. "I remember you," Addie said. "Hello," Dan said. "Dan stayed here last night after I left," Sam said. Addie looked at the big bowl of roses. "Did you send them?" she asked. "I didn't know what kind," Dan said, "so I got all the colors they had." "I like all colors," Addie said. "Come to the house for dinner tonight, Dan," Sam suggested. "Thank you," Dan agreed. Addie glowered like a child being left out of party plans. Sam smiled at her. "Go to sleep, baby," he said.

sixteen
IT WAS Custer, as it happened, who extended the invitation. He went to see Addie at twelve o'clock on Wednesday, took one look at her luncheon tray, and said firmly, "Miss Addie, that kind of food may be healthy, but it can't be good for you. Why don't you come to us when you leave here?" She said, "Thank you, Custer. That would be very nice. Let me think about it." Dan got into the habit of telephoning Sam each afternoon. They chatted about their day's work and agreed to meet at the hospital at six or six-thirty. Dan was careful to be late sometimes so that Addie could see Sam alone, and once he came at noon so that he could see Addie alone, although his conversation on that occasion was no more personal than it was when Sam was present. The men stayed talking as she finished her dinner, and sometimes an hour beyond. When she saw them grow restless, she urged them to go out to God knew what Lucullan feasts of pheasant, wild rice, and grapes, while she stoically digested the hamburger patty and boiled spinach that had been her dinner. Each night they left and dined together, sometimes at Sam's house, sometimes in restaurants. There were small evidences of jealousy as well as consideration. One evening Dan sat glumly for an hour while Sam and Addie gossiped about people at Kendrick's. Another evening Dan was there when Sam arrived, and throughout the two hours of their visit Sam could not shake the feeling that he was the third one on a date. When it was time to go, Addie watched both a little jealously as they put on their coats and looked cheerful at the prospect of food and drink. Dan never explained or attempted to justify his presence. He was simply there whenever Sam was, and his assumption that he belonged there made them feel that he did. The two men accepted each other without trying to understand each other, as people often do if they are wise or lazy, or both. Toby was mentioned infrequently but without embarrassment. When it was agreed that Addie should go to the house in Greenwich Village from the hospital, she asked Sam to telephone Toby. Toby seemed casual and unconcerned, as if they were people he had known once and nearly forgotten. Yes, he would pack Addie's clothes and leave the suitcase with the doorman of his apartment house so that Custer might pick it up at his convenience. Sam read in Variety that Eva Fairchild was in Jamaica for a short vacation before rehearsals of Mountain High. He assumed that Walter was with her. Joyce Casey, Addie's former assistant in the department of children's books at Kendrick's, came to visit, as did her old secretary, and Ramona Holmquist. Sylvia Sawyer mailed a funny note along with an old valentine she said had been sent her, she thought, by Max Beerbohm during the only season she had acted in London. The fact that Addie was never visited by her husband and that she was regularly visited by two men who weren't relatives made her something of a scandal among the nurses and attendants, but after their first eager shock, they accepted the situation. The fact that there were two of them made it somehow respectable. On Saturday afternoon Addie paid her bill and was escorted triumphantly by Sam and Dan to the house in Greenwich Village. Custer had worked for two days on her room, the one that had been Walter's. Although its character was too strong to yield to the personalities of transient users, it did have, when Custer was done with it, a festive and feminine look. Custer discovered an old rose-splashed

bedspread in the basement storage room. It was a little yellowed, but when he washed and ironed it, it looked fresh and pretty. Custer found in storage also a Dresden shepherdess and a white china cat and set them on the chest of drawers. When Addie came, there were flowers all over the house, and a fire was burning in the small library on the second floor, which Custer had decided and told Sam she would use as her private sitting room during her stay with them. Andrew knew not what to make of any of it. He had ignored the new stranger, Daniel McKenzie, on his appearances at dinner, but when the little party arrived on Saturday afternoon and had champagne in the library, he joined them and sat politely on the large dictionary, managing to convey an air of genteel surprise a lady might evidence on finding herself entertaining unexpected guests. He knew Addie, of course, and they had always got on tolerably well, it being understood that it was really his house. But when she stayed, when, what was more, the new stranger appeared every day now, Andrew gave it up as a hopeless mystery. He assumed that presently they would all come to their senses and go back to wherever they ordinarily lived. Addie walked in Washington Square and through the relaxed, friendly streets of the Village. She read Little Women, which was one of her favorite books and which she managed to reread about once a year. Sam talked more and more to her about his work at Kendrick's, and it began to be understood that she would go back to her old job when she was stronger. "I’m strong as a whore already," she said one evening when the three were having coffee in the library. They never idled in the living room downstairs. It was as if they remembered too well the party and avoided the room from a kind of exaggerated tact. "Then come back to work," Sam said. "Your coffee mug is still on the shelf. But before you do, there's something else." "What?" she said, although she understood him. "You have to talk to Toby about a divorce." She shivered, and Dan watched her closely. "Couldn't I write him?" Sam shook his head. "I don't see-" While she and Sam argued and Dan looked from one to the other, participating by his expression but not vocally, Custer came in and summoned Addie to the telephone. It was Toby, wanting to know her plans. They met at the house the next afternoon while Sam and Dan were in their offices and decided that a quick divorce would be the best thing for both of them. She told him she would go soon to Florida or Nevada. On a warm afternoon Sam left his office and took Addie to the Bronx zoo. But the air was not balmy enough for the animals to have decided it was spring. Even the winding paths were not so inviting as they remembered them. The benches were crowded with young mothers chatting or reading magazines as their wellbundled babies slept in carriages in the sun. They seemed unaware of the wonder of the place, and so it lost some of its wonder for Sam and Addie. When Dan was busy, or pretended to be, Sam and Addie went to a play, or stayed at home and read. Some evenings Sam was busy, or pretended to be, and Dan and Addie went out to dinner. They read in the Times theater column that Mountain High was in rehearsal. Martin and Beatrice Cranch came to dinner. Another evening Joyce came, but it seemed awkward to Sam, their being two men and two women together, and he was careful after that to avoid an appearance of pairing. As the days and weeks passed there grew in the three a feeling of restlessness and discontent. Some hurts heal slowly, some quickly, and some never. Quickness of healing is not a measure of superficiality in a wound. Deep wounds may leave a negligible

reminder, and slighter ones may, by their scars, proclaim a Civil War. So is it with emotional wounds and scars. No man can go to Gethsemane for another. Christ is always alone with His doubt and His sorrow and His courage. They could not say what they felt, although they were thoughtful and verbal people. Communication between verbal people is at least as difficult as it is between those less easy with words. Addie considered herself and Toby, wondering less at their separation than at their marriage. What had each wanted of the other? She didn't know. What had driven them in their last months together to try—she as much as he—to destroy each other? There was no other way to put it; they had wanted to do just that. With the sharpened sensitivity that hate gives they had learned each other's every vulnerable spot. Although they called their battle by Sam's name, Addie knew that its origin was in themselves. She began to realize why Sam meant so much to her. He was the first man she'd known who was kind without making demands, the first man she had been able to love and in loving lose the old fear of her father and of all men. Toby had got to her through his weakness. His being a child and not a man made it possible for her to fancy she loved him—and, of course, there had been sexual attraction. She asked herself if there had ever been sexual attraction between her and Sam. She admitted that she had felt it; she believed Sam had. It was not an important part of their friendship, and it would never become more important; it was simply an awareness of the physical quality of each other, a thing that is commonly felt between men and women, men and men, women and women, most often without the awareness becoming physical desire. There was something else between Addie and Sam, something she could not explain but that she knew. It was what they meant when they said they were family to each other. It was a special intimacy provided by the sensitivity they felt to each other's thoughts and looks and words. The mystery of why it happened between Sam and Addie, and not between Sam and someone else, or Addie and someone else, would remain a mystery to the end of their days. She knew, and Sam knew, and Dan was learning, that no matter what happened to them, no matter whom they married or lived with, in a particular sense they would always be each other's closest family. It was not even—or certainly not only—love. They were each other's identity, each other's link between the world and the loneliness of the human heart. The problem was, what to do with this tie? They could never marry, they knew that. But its existence, for which they were deeply grateful, made chances of success in marriage to others uncertain if not impossible. One evening when they were alone in the library, Addie and Sam talked of these matters, as they had talked of them before. When they had said all they could say, Addie, asked, "What are we to do?" Sam said, "What can we do?" The silence between them was long and fruitless. Finally Sam asked the other question that was in their minds: "What about you and Dan?" "I don't know," Addie said. "He understands about us as much as anyone could, and he still wants to marry me." "Do you love him?" "Anyone with a heart would love him. He's a good and sweet man. But I don't know what would happen if we married." "Well," Sam said inconclusively. Addie roused herself. "I'd like a drink before I go to bed. Wouldn't you?" "Yes," Sam said, and went to the tray Custer brought every night before he went upstairs to his own apartment. Sam made their drinks and sat down again. Addie lit a cigarette and said, "You told me that first day in the hospital not to rush ahead but to live a minute at a time.

The first minute is up. It's time to live the next one. As long as I stay here, nothing can change. I'm going to Florida in a few days for the divorce." "All right," Sam said. "What about money?" "I have some of my own, and Toby agreed to pay his share." "Do you need anything?" Tears came to her eyes. "I feel so old," she said. "Why don't you go out with Dan tomorrow night and talk to him?" "Yes," she agreed. "I'd better do that." The following Monday she went to Florida. With Addie gone, Sam and Dan saw less of each other. They talked on the telephone when they had news to exchange, and they lunched or dined together at least once a week, but they were lonely in each other's company. For the first time since Walter moved, Sam felt his absence strongly. Walter was in many ways a dim ghost, but a ghost that now asserted itself, with the house often empty. Perhaps it was not so much the ghost of Walter as the Ghost of Man, of Companion, the shadow of the real Walter blurring into the shadow of what would come, the next Walter in Sam's life. For Sam knew, as Walter had promised, there would be another. Although he liked to be alone, he could not live alone. He began to understand and appreciate what he had previously considered Walter's negative qualities —his capacity for silence, his lack of understanding and communication, his preoccupation with his own affairs and the future—things that left Sam free to have his own thoughts and do the work he loved, at the same time having physical companionship. Sam filled his days and most of his evenings with work. He had a round of lunches with all the important agents, among them Ramona Holmquist, with whom he discussed the promotion plans for Sophie Rose Glover's new book. He entertained a visiting English publisher and his wife at dinner. He met writers for luncheon and cocktails. He bid on and acquired a new French novelist whose first book had just made a sensation in Paris. He was still lonely. Walter's ghost would not quit the house. One evening he found himself listening intently for the familiar sound of Walter's brushing his teeth—so briskly and vigorously—just before going to bed. He caught himself staring at Andrew with something less than the complete affection and approval Andrew expected as his due, and realized he was seeing Andrew through Walter's eyes. Andrew sensed this. Caution sent him hopping to the floor from the chair arm, but he was not really distressed. He trusted his ability to endure and prevail. Walter sent Sam opening-night tickets to Mountain High, but Sam could not bring himself to use them. Although he enjoyed the theater, this was one play he would not see. He sent the tickets back to Walter at the theater saying he was sorry he could not attend and wishing Walter luck. The reviews were full of praise for Eva Fairchild. The two that mentioned Walter's performance described it as "competent" and "adequate." All dismissed the play as unworthy of its star. Charitable organizations pounced on it for theater parties. It was bought by a Hollywood studio for $150,000. The next time they had dinner together Dan told Sam that Eloise was about to go to Nevada for a divorce. "One of the stipulations," Dan said, "is that I invest ten thousand dollars in each of her next five productions. No alimony. I offered her fifty thousand in a lump, but she refused. Who knows why women like that are like that? Actually, it'll probably turn out to be a good investment. I think she's sore because I never put money in her shows." Sam knew that Dan telephoned Addie every evening. He himself telephoned her once or twice a week, but without enjoyment. Hearing her voice and not being with her made his loneliness only more acute.

And then late on a Friday afternoon in spring, as he sat in the paved garden alone having a martini, he heard the telephone ring in the house. Custer, who was preparing dinner, answered it in the kitchen and called him. "Hello," Sam said. "Hello. This is Richard."

seventeen
"OH!" Sam said, the sound luxuriant with completion and gratitude. "It's been so long." He was still, resting and thinking, until Richard Redman, wondering if he slept, cupped a hand over his shoulder and squeezed. Sam turned his face and reached out a hand quickly. "Where are you? What do you look like?" He snapped on the lamp on the beside table. Richard sat up in bed, crossing his legs under him. "I'm here. I look like me." Sam put a pillow behind his back and reached to the table for cigarettes, all the time keeping his eyes on Richard. "You do," he agreed. They lit cigarettes, and Sam placed an ash tray on the bed between them. Richard caught Sam's hand and studied the palm as intently as if he were a gypsy fortuneteller. Presently he let it go, and they smiled at each other. Sam said, "When you called, I couldn't remember what you looked like. I couldn't remember when you turned the corner that morning at the baths. I thought, 'There he goes,' and wanted to run after you, but I couldn't remember your face. I knew you were about the size you are—" He held up a level hand, as children do when they measure themselves against a wall, "—and about the shape you are—" He closed fingers around Richard's wrist, "— and about the age you are. I remembered the eyes. Deep lines in your face here—" He touched Richard's face. "I remembered you, but I didn't have a face to put on what I remembered. Why did you wait so long to call?" "I told you I would. Did you—get over your trouble?" "I got through it." "I wanted to call you as soon as I got home. I've wanted to call every day since. I was afraid to call ever. When I said, 'This is Richard,' if you had said, 'Who?' I'd have hung up." Sam caught his hand. Reassured, Richard looked about the room. "Where did you get the spread with all those God damn roses?" "It was brought out for Addie." "Who is Addie?" Richard said. Sam stared at him, marveling that one he knew already so well should have no knowledge of another he knew better. It seemed so odd he began to laugh. "Who is Addie?" Sam repeated. Richard frowned. "Well. Put it away tomorrow. Addie doesn't live here any more." He leaned over and kissed Sam, whose lips were still warm from their last kiss. "Doesn't she?" Sam said with a trace of Addie's characteristic self-mockery. "I don't share my bed with women," Richard said. "Neither do I." Sam tried then to talk about Addie. Richard listened, his expression now amused, now troubled, never quite comprehending. Finally Sam shrugged. "You see? I can't explain her."

Richard said, "I'll get to know her my own way." "Yes," Sam said uncertainly. Richard's smile marked a change of subject as well as mood. "If I hadn't been anxious, the whole business of dinner tonight would have been funny. The way we talked—politics and the world, plays, God knows what!" "I couldn't introduce you to Custer. I forgot to ask your last name when you came in." "Yours is—Kendall? "Kendrick." "Anything to do with the publishing house?" "I am the publishing house," Sam said, his tone mocking but not masking his pride. Richard whistled. "I wondered about all this," he said, his head gesturing appraisal of their surroundings, not just the room, the house, too. "Mine. And Andrew's. Custer lives on the top floor." "Who is Andrew?" Richard said. "My cat." Richard nodded, remembering the cat's appearance in the library where they had gone after dinner downstairs. As if he had waited outside the door for his cue, Andrew entered, walked across to the armchair, leaped into it, and stared at them, acknowledging their nakedness with only mild surprise. "That cat doesn't like me," Richard said. Sam stroked Richard's arm. "That cat," he said, more to Andrew than to Richard, "had better watch his P's and Q's or he'll find himself mooching kidneys from the corner butcher." Andrew flattened his ears, relaxed them slowly, and gave an elaborate yawn, after which he began to wash himself with an expression that said a cat of his quality could get a job anywhere. They forgot Andrew and began to explore each other's bodies, as people will who have known each other intimately but not long. They frowned and touched and probed and scratched, exclaiming softly at the discovery of a mole, a solitary stiff hair, a slight ridge of fat, as if these things were not only unique but indeed the result of clever planning. "Why did you help me that night at the baths?" Sam asked. "I saw you when you came in. Everybody saw you. You were so drunk, so intent on having a miserable time. I followed you everywhere you went, wanting to take you in hand, not sure I could.” "Have you been back there?" Sam asked. Richard slapped his knee lightly. "Now you answer that." Sam said, "No. You've been too busy trying to find the guts to call me." "That's right." Richard roused himself. "I may get a call here. I left your number. What time is it?" Sam reached for his watch on the table. "Quarter of one," he said. "You left my number where?" "The hospital." "What do you do?" "I'm a doctor." "Oh, my God," Sam said. "How am I, Doc?" "Sound as a rock and cute as a speckled pup." "Are you a G.P.?" "I'm a surgeon," Richard said. Sam heard the same pride that had been in his own voice a little while ago. "I work mostly with industrial-accident cases." Sam shook his head. "How can I explain you? I can't say, 'I happened to run into this industrial-accident surgeon—'"

Richard stared at Andrew with a frown. "You don't have to explain me. That cat is too fat." "Hear, Andrew? It's yogurt for you, starting tomorrow." Andrew turned such a face to Sam as Caesar might have turned to Brutus in that last moment in the Capitol. When Sam looked from Andrew to Richard, he found Richard studying his face. "Well," Richard said softly, "what is it to be?" "What do you mean?" Sam asked, not quite honestly, but not wanting to make a mistake. "I mean—" Richard stopped and scowled. "I mean, I mean! Every question is more a defense than a question. I mean—" His shoulders relaxed. "I'm not so young any more. If this isn't going to work out, say so. I don't want a little rattail piece of convenience. I want a whole life. I want a marriage the way few people have or dream of having. Convenience I can get from a thousand tight-trousered boys in a hundred queer bars in town. For a few days, a few weeks." Sam said, "You're rushing me." "I know what I feel. I said before that I was afraid to call you. I'm not afraid now. I'm a good man. I know my worth. I offer myself not with fear and trembling, but with pride. Look at me—I'm the best man that ever lived. If you turn me down, you're a fool. I can find someone else, another kind of thing. But it would be second or third best, nothing I wanted. I want you." "How do you know?" Sam said. "I'm not a baby, and neither are you. Of course I know. What you are, I like. What you aren't yet, I think will come. You'll be better for loving me. I'll be better, too. I don't know what you've had, but I'll bet it wasn't very good." He tapped Sam on the chest. "You aren't so much now. Nobody ever asked you to be anything. But I see possibilities in you. I wouldn't have been ready for you if I'd met you five years ago. I had to do all the things I've done, exhaust all the no-answers before I was sure enough to ask for more." Sam returned his look noncommittally. "What were you doing at the baths?" "I found you there, didn't I? There were nights I went and found nothing, or found things I didn't want. Sometimes I found just good, mindless, bang-bang sex. I don't apologize. To say I'm sorry would be to deny a lot of nice men I met there to whom I am grateful and of whom I have pleasant memories. But I was looking for Sam." "Why Sam?" he insisted. Richard patted the bed. "Because it isn't just this I need. I need you." "How do you know it's me?" "I never felt that I was equal before—and equaled at the same time. I know more about you than I know about anybody. People reveal everything in their lovemaking. You know that." "You're in too much of a hurry," Sam said. "Am I?" Richard was very still, not breathing. "I don't know," Sam said falteringly. "Don't be silly, Sam. I know you felt it the way I did. I can't be fooled." "We don't know each other except for this." Sam touched the bed. To soften the words and gesture he touched Richard as if he were blessing him. "Do you have a family?" "A mother, a brother. They live in California." "You have friends?" "Everyone has people he calls friends." "What we'll have isn't all here in intimacy," Sam said. "If that could be, I'd have no qualms. But the world of Sam and the world of Richard may not work together."

Richard took his hand and held it tight. "Then you'll have to change your world, and I'll have to change mine. There's something we have to know and believe: that we are more important than you or I—" He stopped and looked thoughtful. When he spoke again, although his tone was serious, it was joking, too. "—unless it involves our work. I'm thirty-six. I know about work. I know its importance. I respect it. But apart from work, which is something nobody shares anyway, we have to figure things out together. I'll leave the publisher alone. You leave the doctor alone. Everything else is RichardandSam, as if it were one word. I promise you I shall never write a book. Please promise me you'll never operate on anyone." Sam did not smile. "You're worried about Addie, aren't you?" "Yes," Sam said. "You can have any friend you want, as long as it's understood I take precedence over everybody else. I won't abuse my privileges. I won't, if I'm tired and feeling mean, try to bend you my way. But if I ever look at you, no matter where we are or who we're with and say, 'Sam!'—like that!" He gripped Sam's hand even more tightly. "You'll know I need you, and you'll have to walk over no matter how many dead bodies to get to me and help me. I promise, I swear I'll do that for you." Sam took a breath and let it out slowly. "You scare me." "I'm not playing, boy. I want a lot. Wouldn't it be stupid if we asked just a little of each other?" Sam pulled his hand free. "I won't be rushed. I don't do things that way." "Sam-" "You're asking me to swear allegiance to you as if you were the flag." "That's right." "I've known you a few hours, and already you—" "Sam! I'll help you. I'll be patient. Be patient with me, too. It would be sudden if I hadn't been thinking about us ever since I met you. I don't know anything. I'm ignorant. Just born. We have to learn to love each other. It's nothing we've known before. It won't come in a day. But it can come, I know it." The telephone began to ring. Richard was on his feet, everything forgot but the telephone. "Where is it?" "My room." "Where?" Sam led him down the hall and snapped on the light. Richard reached the telephone before him. "Hello.— Redman speaking.—I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He put down the receiver and turned to Sam. "I have to go." Sam stopped in the bathroom to put on a dressing gown. By the time he joined him, Richard was in his shoes, trousers, shirt, and jacket, stuffing his tie into the jacket pocket. Sam said, "What is it?" "A woman with burns." Richard kissed him quickly on the lips. "I'll call you tomorrow." "You can get a taxi on Fifth—" "I have my car." Sam tried to keep up with him. At the front door he called "Good night" as Richard ran down the steps. Richard neither turned nor answered. Sam waited until he drove away. The air was cool on his face and bare legs. He closed the door on the dark street. He went up the stairs and into the room they had left together a few minutes ago, confused at the suddenness with which the evening had ended. He looked at the old rose spread, the tumbled bed, the cigarette ends in the ash tray on the table. He said, "Richard Redman," aloud, as if that would bring him back or convince him Richard had been there. This was what he'd wanted, and now that it was offered, he was frightened. He felt a lift of exhilaration as he recalled the evening, but at the end of exhilaration

was uncertainty again. He was tired. It was "Tired Friday," as Addie called it. But he knew he could not sleep, did not want to sleep. He went into the library and turned on a light. Andrew was curled sleeping in one of the chairs and did not wake. The fire had gone out. Sam looked at the tray of untouched glasses, ice bucket, and whisky which he had brought up after dinner himself, telling Custer he could go to bed when he finished in the kitchen. He smiled, remembering the moment he set the tray down and turned to find Richard behind him. They had reached for each other, and that had been the end of talk for a time. Sam sat down at the desk and opened a manuscript he had brought home from the office. It was a suspense novel by one of his favorite mystery writers, and he read rapidly. It was after three o'clock when he looked up from a page, thinking he heard a noise. Andrew did not stir. There was nothing but silence in the old house. The noise he had imagined was his mind-behind-mind going over the events of the night, pushing him to a decision. Sam left the desk, touching books on the shelves as he passed by them, touching the big dictionary and the atlas on the long table, going softly out of the room into the hall. Through the hall and down the stairs he moved slowly. In the living room he stood with his back to the unlit wood in the fireplace. The room had never, even when he was a child, seemed so large, so empty, so quiet. He went about it, touching its furniture, touching objects on tables, knowing the history of each piece. Together they made a partial history of the three Samuel Kendricks. There was less of him here than of the other two. They had collected; he had inherited. After him there would be no one. Eventually, feeling body tiredness but still too disturbed to sleep, he sat on the long sofa and lit a cigarette. The smoke smelled strange, as it often does late at night in rooms that have grown chill. He was sitting there when the telephone rang. He ran down the steps and grabbed the telephone. "Hello." "I know it's late," Richard said, as if there had been only a moment's interruption in their talk. "I'm in a phone booth at the hospital." "Have you finished?" "Yes. I hope you weren't asleep." "No, I wasn't." "I had to call," Richard said, "and say not to worry about what I said. Let it alone for a while. We'll see what happens." "Are you very tired?" "Why?" "Come back down." "It's late," Richard said. "We can sleep tomorrow. Please come." Sam was standing at the front window when Richard parked his car. He went quickly to the door and opened it. From the bottom of the steps Richard looked up, saw him, and smiled. Sam stood back to let him in and closed the door after him. After a moment of hesitation they held each other, their bodies and faces pressed together. Sam said, "It's the way you said." He could feel the relief in Richard's relaxing body. Richard drew away and looked at him. "That's good," he said. "I don't know what I'd have done if you'd turned me down." Sam said, "I love you." "Say my name with it." "I love you, Richard." "All of it." "I love you, Richard Redman." "I love you, Samuel Kendrick," Richard said, as if they were exchanging vows. "You know or you don't, and nothing is gained by counting to ten if you're sure, is there?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you earlier," Richard said. "My God, what a beauty you are," Sam said. Richard pushed him away, pulled him quickly back, laughing. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat something!" 'We'll get fat, eating so often." "We didn't really eat dinner," Richard said. "Besides, making love is the best exercise there is. You use all your muscles. It's like swimming, only better." Richard led the way into the living room as if he had lived there forever.

eighteen
WHEN Sam woke at noon, Richard was already awake, his hands clasped under his head, looking at the ceiling. "You know what we're going to do today?" "What?" Sam said sleepily. "We're going to drive to my place. I have a house in the country. Little house, big country. Well, fifteen acres. All woods with a brook running through it right by the house. I went out a couple of days ago, gave it a cleaning, and bought supplies. " "What about the hospital?" Sam said. "I'm not on call again until tomorrow night. Joe Proctor and I alternate. Nights, weekends, vacations." "You don't alternate here," Sam said. Pleased, but assuming impatience, Richard explained. "He's forty-eight, married, and has four children." "Never mind," Sam grumbled. "Remember Oscar Wilde." It was a sunny day, and they reached Richard's house in New Jersey by three o'clock. It was shielded from a dirt side road by a growth of willows. Back of it stretched woods; beside it ran a stream. When they got out of the car, Sam strolled over to the stream. Richard followed him. "A big fish lived there," he said, pointing to a heavy rock ledge, "all last year. I wonder if he's still there." He picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. "Let's go see the house," Sam said. "Kitchen and living room on the ground floor. Two bedrooms and a bath on the next." Richard unlocked the front door and stood aside for Sam to enter. "Aren't you going to carry me over the threshold?" Sam said. "I'll knock you over it if you don't get in," Richard said, shoving him inside and closing the door behind them. "I want to kiss you, man. I haven't kissed you for an hour and a half." When they let each other go, Sam noticed the paper streamer over the fireplace. Big letters spelled out, "Welcome, Sam!" Sam said, "You were pretty God damned sure of yourself, weren't you?" "Ah," Richard said, blushing, "but think how sad it would have been if I'd had to come out alone and take it down." Sam put his arm around Richard's waist. "Why don't you show me the bedrooms?" They drove back to New York the next afternoon. Richard let Sam out at the house in Greenwich Village and went on to his apartment, promising to telephone later that evening. He would be busy at the hospital, and they would not see each other again until Monday night for dinner.

On Thursday, when Sam went to the Plaza for lunch with an agent, he saw Reeve Keary across the room. Reeve was lunching with Walter Roland. Neither appeared to have noticed Sam's entrance. Sam had not seen Reeve since The Night of the Party, as it had become capitalized in his mind. He had not seen Walter since the morning after it, more than three months ago. During that time Sam had bought Reeve's stock in Kendrick's, but the two men had not met again. That evening Reeve telephoned. Sam was polite. Reeve was effusive. "Why didn't you say hello at lunch today?" Reeve scolded. "I could never catch your eye when I looked over at your table," Sam said. "I suppose you were surprised to see who I was with," Reeve said. "Yes, I was. How is Walter?" "Oh—splendid. I've got to know him quite well, as a matter of fact. Remember, we never liked each other? It seems so silly now. I suppose we didn't really know each other until recently. Of course I'm very interested in Walter's career." "Of course," Sam said noncommittally, and then could not resist asking, "How is Eva Fairchild?" "Oh!" Reeve said. "That's all finished. She's going around with a young director. She got mad with Walter— I've never known quite why. Something to do with her having thought he was Jewish and finding out he wasn't —isn't it silly? Really! Women—And then somebody told her all about you and Walter." "I wonder who it could have been," Sam said. "Oh, Sam!" Reeve laughed guiltily. "You're funnier than you used to be. By the way, have you seen Toby lately?" "No." "How is Addie?" "She's in Florida getting divorced." "So I heard," Reeve said. "And not a minute too soon. He was mixed up with— do you remember that rather frantic girl he met at your party, the one Walter used to know?" "Jane Frisbie," Sam said. "That's right. Walter was very upset. She killed herself. Sleeping pills, the woman's way. And I have the most divine gossip about Toby! I know people who've seen him in very interesting surroundings, and one person swears he picked him up one night. Isn't that killing, the way he used to pretend to be so butch!" "Reeve, I'm afraid I have to go," Sam said. "Someone's coming in." "Aren't you lucky?" Reeve giggled. "I'll be just a minute. What I called about really is—Walter and I are giving a party Saturday night after the show and hoped you could come. It could be sort of a reconciliation for all of us. Bygones are gone by, and there's no reason we shouldn't be friends again, is there?" "I'm afraid I can't make it Saturday." "I'm sorry. What about lunch next week?" Reeve asked. "I'm busy with agents just now," Sam said. "Oh!" Reeve said, not unhappily. "Well, we'll be in touch. I'm looking for a play for Walter next season. Eloise and I may coproduce. If you hear of something promising through your agents, call me, will you?" "If I hear of anything," Sam said. "Reeve, may I speak to Walter?" "He's at the theater, of course." "Oh, yes," Sam said, glancing at his wrist watch and seeing that it was ninethirty. "I'll be glad to give him a message when he comes in," Reeve offered. Sam hesitated briefly. "You might remind him of a conversation we had once in which he said he'd be willing to screw chickens in a carnival if it meant getting ahead in the theater. Tell him I've heard of a carnival where the chickens are cleaner than the one he has now."

"You—bitch!" Reeve sputtered. "You vindictive bitch! Well, I said I'd pay you back, and I—" Sam set the receiver quietly on its cradle. Richard lowered his magazine when Sam came back into the library. "Who was it?" "A ghost," Sam said, and kissed him on the forehead. "Did you tell him to haunt another house?" "That I did," Sam said with satisfaction. Richard grunted and turned his attention to the magazine. Sam went to the desk and started to work again. Half an hour later Richard put down his magazine and said contentedly, "It's like we’ve been married for years." "So, don't bother me," Sam said, frowning over a page. Richard went over to the liquor tray. "Would you like a drink?" "Not yet," Sam answered absently. Richard made himself a bourbon and water with ice. "I think you'd better have a drink," he said. "Why?" Sam said, his mind still on the manuscript. "Have you written Addie about us yet?" "No." Sam looked up from the typed page. "Don't you think you should?" "What's the hurry?" Sam said. "Because I want you to," Richard said. He put ice into another glass, added bourbon and water, and handed it to Sam. "Here. Why don't you call her?" Sam took the drink and sipped from it. "Have you decided what I should say to her?" "No," Richard said. "But I'll be sitting by you, so if you get nervous or can't find the right words, I'll take over." Sam pushed back his chair. "Come on." The call was put through quickly. Sam sat on the edge of the bed in his room, and Richard slumped against a pillow, watching him. "Addie? Hello, sweet, how are you?" "I'm fine!" she said with a combination of anxiety and pleasure she always felt when surprised by Sam on the long-distance telephone. "Oh, it's warm here! It's already summer. How is it in New York?" "We had our usual one day of spring. It's summer here, too—for a few days, anyway. When do you graduate?" "This week. Have you seen Dan lately?" "Not for a few days," Sam said. Addie laughed. "There's something I want to tell you. I've—met someone." Richard slapped his arm to remind him he was there and to indicate he did not like being called "someone." "Oh!" Addie exclaimed more in surprise than pleasure or fear. "And who and how is someone?" "Watching me closely and listening to every word, so I can't really say." "Oh?" Addie's voice was still warm, but its tone of intimacy was diluted, admitting the presence of a third person to their conversation. "He's a doctor, and his name is Richard Redman." "Oh?" "You told me to get someone older. He's older." "How much?" "Fifty or so, I guess. I've been afraid to ask." Richard hit him on the head with a pillow. "Stop it!" Sam said, laughing. Hearing the scuffle over the telephone, Addie said, "Is it Reeve?" "Nothing so refined as Reeve."

"And he's not a doctor, of course." She hesitated. "You're serious, Sam—about this?" "I couldn't be more." "I'm glad," she said sadly. "You'll meet as soon as you get back. When will that be?" "I'm not really sure, Sam. You see—actually, I was thinking of calling you tonight. When I asked if you'd seen Dan, I was joking. Dan's here." "He is? But I saw him just—" "He's here, anyway." "He didn't tell me he was—" "Sam, we're thinking of getting married." "You are? But isn't he—?" "His divorce comes through next week." "He didn't tell me when we had lunch." "Wasn't it nice of him to come down and cheer me up?" Addie said. "Fine! When do you plan to get married?" "We haven't got that far, we're just talking about it. Do you think it's all right, Sam?" "Of course! I mean—you know how you feel." "I hope I do," Addie said. "You know how you feel—about Richard Redman?" "Yes," Sam said. "It's really quite a coincidence, isn't it? I mean Richard for me and Dan for you—at practically the same time." "Toby wouldn't think so." "What's Toby got to do with it?" "He thought we made such coincidences, you and I." "That's crazy." "Still," Addie said, "I don't think I'd quite decided to marry Dan until you called." "You're not going to marry him just because I called." "No," Addie said. "I'm not a silly girl. I do love him, Sam. You're really sure about Richard?" "Yes," Sam said. "Well, that’s—wonderful, isn't it?" "Yes," Sam said. "For both of us," Addie said. "Yes." "Then why are we acting like a couple of homesick turds floating out to sea?" Addie asked. "They'll cut you off," Sam warned. "They don't listen!" "They might." "Why are we, Sam?" "We have to get used to it, that's all. Things are changing." "I'm scared. Oh, Christ, I'm scared." "Don't be, Addie." "I know it's silly, but before, at least I knew how things were. They were awful, and I knew. I'm as scared of being happy as I was tired of being unhappy!" Sam laughed unsteadily. "Addie!" "Oh, it's good to hear you. Good to talk to you again. I wish you were here." "I don't think Dan would like that," Sam said. "I suppose Richard wouldn't either," Addie agreed. "Am I going to lose you? Are you going to lose me?" "No, of course not." "But we'll be four!"

"We'll be two, Addie. You know that." Richard tried to take the receiver from him, but he jerked it out of his reach. "Yes," Addie said eagerly. "And think of what you're getting." "Yes," Addie said, more eagerly, as if trying to convince herself. "I hope everything's going to be all right." "Don't worry!" Sam said. "Dan's a fine one." "I know that," she said quietly. "You see?" Addie rallied. "Sam, I'm very happy to hear about you and—Richard." "I'm glad about you and Dan." She laughed with some of her old spirit. "We're both being silly, aren't we? You're not, but I am, I mean." "Don't be afraid, Addie." There was a pause before she said, "Maybe I won't be now. Thanks for calling. And tell Richard—give him my love." "I will, Addie. My love to Dan." "Yes! It's really good to be four, isn't it, Sam?" "It's going to be fine," he promised. "Good night, darling. I'll let you know what happens. And whatever, I'll be back in New York soon." "Come back quickly," Sam said. "Sam—will he like me?" "Yes!" Sam said too emphatically. "Now good night, sweet." "Good night. Oh—good night, my dear!" "Good night." He heard her hang up and set the receiver back in its cradle. Richard took his hand. "She's going to marry Dan," Sam said. "Don't you want her to?" Richard said. "Yes. If she wants to." Richard moved his hands over Sam's body, as a mother animal will examine her young when they have been touched by strangers. "Still," Sam said, "it's a little shocking." Richard pulled him gently down beside him and held him in his arms. Presently Sam pressed his face hard against Richard's chest. "I need you!—Is that the way to ask, Richard?" "That's the way," Richard said, stroking the back of Sam's head. "That's the way, baby."

nineteen
WEARING a cloth cap pushed back, so that it showed hair at the front of his head, Toby sat on the bar stool and stared at the liquor bottles behind the bartender. He was finishing his third rye-on-the-rocks, but it was watered whisky, and he was quite sober. The juke box blared a song from a current musical comedy. Around him, speaking loudly so that they could be heard over the music, were a number of men, not all young; those who were not were dressed youthfully. No one had spoken to Toby since he came in an hour and a half ago. It was eleven o'clock. He finished his drink and said to the bartender, "Another rye, please."

The bartender washed a glass and slopped whisky into it over melting ice, staring at Toby, not able to place him in the crowd, wondering if he might make trouble later on. "Thanks," Toby said, and put a dollar bill on the bar. The bartender turned away thoughtfully. The young man sitting next to Toby had been trying to catch his eye in the mirror for the past half-hour. Each time he tried, Toby almost smiled, and then at the last second frowned and turned his head. Emboldened by Toby's ordering another drink, the young man faced him and said, "All that stuff will make you drunk." Toby turned and looked at him. He was probably in his middle twenties. He wore dark slacks and a navy-blue turtleneck sweater. His hair was blond, wiry, curly, and short. "You don't say." The young man laughed. "I do say." "Is your name Sam?" Toby asked. "No." Toby sipped his drink. "I'm waiting for Sam." The young man looked at him questioningly, not sure he wasn't making a joke. Toby rattled the ice in his glass. "Another beer," the young man said to the bartender, and then minded his own business for a few minutes. A little later he almost caught Toby's eye in the mirror behind the bar, but this time he looked away first. Curiosity, however, made him say, "Is Sam late?" "Not late enough," Toby said. The young man smiled, as if it were a joke. "My name is Temple." "You don't say," Toby said. "I do say," the young man said. "My friends call me Temp." Toby raised his glass as if making a toast. "Temple fugit." The young man laughed again and squirmed on the stool nearer to Toby. "What are you going to do if Sam doesn't show up?" Toby smiled. "Oh, I'll wait for Sam. I have lots of time —Temple." "Temp," he corrected. "Temp," Toby said agreeably enough. "Have you seen this show?" Temple said, nodding his head toward the juke box. "No," Toby said. "You must. It's divine. Almost all dancing. All those dear boys prancing around the stage." "You don't say," Toby said. "I do." Temple laughed intimately. They listened in silence to the music for a few minutes. When a song ended, Temple swung around and stepped down from the bar stool, leaving a burning cigarette and a full glass of beer. "Don't let anyone take my place," he said, and went to the men's room at the end of the bar. Toby watched his cigarette burn down, making a nicotine stain on the side of the cheap plastic ash tray. The young man was gone a long time. It was not until he returned looking subdued that Toby realized he had been waiting for him in the men's room. ''Your cigarette went out," Toby said. "Sam not here yet?" the young man said. "Who knows?" Toby said. "Maybe he isn't coming tonight, Temp." Temple's face softened, as if Toby had apologized for not joining him. "You know," he said, "I watched you a long time before I spoke to you. I started to speak earlier, but you looked so—stern, as if you didn't want to talk to anybody." "I wasn't feeling stern," Toby said. "I always give the wrong impression. I was feeling sad." "Because Sam wasn't here?" the young man teased.

"No," Toby said seriously. "I was thinking about a girl." "Oh." The young man squirmed impatiently on the bar stool, wondering if Toby was worth his time. He glanced down the bar to see if he found any of the newcomers interesting. "This girl is dead," Toby said. He found none of them interesting. "Oh," he said sympathetically, turning back to Toby. "Was she someone close to you?" "You might say that," Toby said. "She expected a lot from me. She—I guess she was a little gone on me." "I can understand that," the young man said softly. "I had to tell her finally," Toby said, and stopped, staring into his empty glass. "Another one, please," he said to the bartender. Warily, the bartender made Toby a drink, with more ice and a skimpily-filled jigger of whisky. "What did you tell her?" Temple asked. "I had to be honest. I had to tell her I didn't really feel—strongly about women. You know what I mean?" The young man nodded matter-of-factly. Toby shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, pretending to be a little drunk. "I had to be honest. Didn't I?" "Of course," Temple said. "What did she say?" "Well, I told her about-" "Sam?" the young man said. Toby smiled. "Yes. Sam. I told her—you see, she had been in love with 'one of us' before. You know how some women are. They see in us a challenge. The sentimental female ego says: 'I can change him no matter how sure he is he can't love women.' Maybe the same thing's happening twice to her unhinged her." "What did she say?" the young man urged him. Toby drank from his new drink. "She didn't say anything. Just looked at me." "What did you do?" "I put on my coat and left her." "Well—" The young man considered the confidence, frowning. "I suppose that was the best thing to do." "They found her dead the next day. Her cleaning woman did." "Oh!" "She took sleeping pills." They were silent again. Toby sipped from his whisky. Temple sipped from his beer. "I wish I could stop blaming myself," Toby said, grief strong in his voice. The young man spoke briskly, comfortingly. "You mustn't do that. After all, you were just being honest. You did all you could. It's not as if you deceived her. On the contrary, you were fair as fair could be. People are responsible for the stakes they play for and the leagues they play in. Nobody's supposed to tell them. Nobody asks them to be stupid." Toby sighed. "I wish I could think you're right." "You must. One thing you have to learn right off in this life: you're not responsible for anybody but yourself. That doesn't mean you shouldn't be kind— and nice, but it does mean you aren't to blame if somebody uses you as the excuse and kills herself." Anticipation of what he had decided to do had given Toby an erection. He threw his raincoat open and jiggled his heels on the bottom rung of the bar stool. The young man looked down at his own crotch and then slid his glance to Toby's. "It looks as if Sam isn't coming," he said slowly. "I think you're right." Toby jiggled his heels again. The silence between them was intimate and suggestive. "I don't live far away," the young man said finally. "Perhaps you'd like to come over for a drink." Toby pressed his knees together and smiled. "It's nice of you to ask me."

When he made no move to finish his drink and leave, the young man began to sweat a little. He gulped down the rest of his beer and looked at Toby. "You about ready?" he said. "Oh—I'm ready," Toby said. "You sure you don't mind my coming?' "Of course not," the young man said, relieved. "It's really awfully nice of you," Toby said. The young man smiled indulgently and said, "Let's go." Toby stepped down from the bar stool and buttoned his raincoat. "Good night, bartender," he said, leaving his loose change on the bar as a tip. The bartender nodded but did not answer. On the street they set off briskly. The wind was sharper than it should be in spring. Temple began to whistle. "Don't whistle," Toby asked. "Oh?" They walked on silently. Three blocks away Temple stopped and unlocked the door to his apartment, house. They went into a narrow hall with dark red walls. "It's up a couple of flights," Temple said. It was up three flights of stairs. They went past refuse cans on each landing; here and there outside doors were brown paper bags of garbage. "Nice place," Toby said. Ahead of him on the stairs Temple shrugged. "Who wants to pay for a place with a doorman? They get to know too much." "You don't say," Toby said. Temple laughed shortly. "I do. That's been our theme tonight, hasn't it?" He unlocked the door to his apartment and turned on a table lamp. Toby stepped in and took off his cap, looking around. The windows were cheaply but generously draped in coarse dark-red material. The bed was covered by a fitted spread of the same cloth. Toby wondered if Temple had made the spread and draperies himself. There was a large Picasso reproduction on the wall of a naked youth riding a horse. There was a shaggy white cotton rug on the floor. A large vase of Tiffany glass was the display piece on the low coffee table. "Nice," Toby said. Temple pulled his sweater over his head and dropped it on a chair. He wore nothing underneath. His upper body was thin but evenly tanned, as if he had used a sun lamp all winter. "Get comfortable," he said to Toby, and pulled up a black Venetian blind, revealing a closet-sized kitchen. Toby took off his raincoat and jacket and dropped them by the door with his cap. He untied his tie and dropped it, too. He began to unbutton his shirt. Temple called from the kitchen, "You want anything to drink?" "Yes, a little rye," Toby said. "I'm afraid there's only sherry. Will that do?" "Fine," Toby said. He dropped his shirt on the stack of clothes at the door and unzipped his trousers without taking them off. Temple returned from the kitchen with two glasses of sherry, glancing swiftly at Toby's exposed body as he said, "Here you are," and handed him a glass. "Such a nice place," Toby said. "Too bad we have to mess it up." He smiled quickly. The young man laughed and slipped out of his trousers, keeping on his jockey shorts. "It's been messed up before," he said. Toby sipped from his glass of sherry. "I wonder what Sam's doing." Temple said, "I hoped you'd forgot Sam for the evening." "I never really forget Sam," Toby said slowly. He looked at Temple, saw impatience on his face, and smiled. "Why don't you take those off?" he said, nodding toward the young man's undershorts.

"I'm ahead of you," Temple said, and drank half of his wine, as if urging Toby to hurry. Toby took off his trousers and dropped them on the pile of clothes at the door. "There. Now we're even." The young man finished his wine. Carefully tensing his small stomach to make it look flat and muscular, he discarded his shorts. "Now I'm ahead of you again." Toby stared at his naked young body. "Not for long," he said. Satisfied, the young man swept the spread off the bed and took a pillow from the closet. Leaving the light on, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Toby went to the bed and stood staring down at him. The young man squirmed, parting his lips but keeping his eyes shut. "Do you like me?" he said. "You remind me of Sam," Toby said softly. He made a fist and struck it hard on the young man's smiling mouth. His eyes opened in terror. Toby closed one hand around his throat. "If you make a sound, I'll kill you." "Don't hurt me," the young man begged. Toby slapped him. "Don't!" The young man struggled against Toby's hand that still held him by the throat. Toby slapped him again and waited. "I'll give you all the money I have, but leave me alone!" "I don't want your money, Sam," Toby said. "I want your blood." "I'm not Sam!" "If you scream, I swear I'll kill you." The young man relaxed and began to cry. Toby watched him quietly for a minute, and then he struck him again on the mouth. He pulled the boy off the bed to the floor, straddled his body and methodically beat his face with his fists. First the boy's mouth began to bleed, then his nose. He struggled fitfully, but Toby held him easily on the floor and beat him. The boy moaned until he was unconscious. Toby wiped up blood into his hands and smeared it over the boy's body. When he was satisfied, he stood up and looked down at him. Presently he went into the kitchen and returned with a butcher knife. He knelt beside the boy and took his penis in one hand, holding the knife in the other. The boy revived, opened his eyes. "No! No, no!" Toby stared at the boy's penis and then at the knife. He placed the tip of the knife on the boy's belly. "Say that you're nothing." "—Nothing," the boy mumbled. "Say that you wish you were dead." "Don't kill me!" The boy struggled in terror. Toby pressed him back to the floor with his knees. "Say you're shit." "I'm—shit!" the boy managed to say through his bloody lips. "Say: 'I'm sorry. All queers are shit.'" The boy moaned, "—Sorry!" and lay limply. Toby dropped the knife and got to his feet again. "Stay there." He began to dress. He dressed slowly and carefully, listening with satisfaction to the sound of the boy's crying. The boy moved, trying to get up, and Toby said sharply, "Stay there!" The boy slumped back to the floor. When he was fully dressed, raincoat on and cap on his head, Toby looked at his hands. The knuckles were bleeding. "I hurt myself," he said, and went into the kitchen and washed his hands. When he came back, he flipped bloody water on the crying boy and went to the door. Opening it, he said, "Good-by, Sam."

twenty
ADDIE set her empty coffee cup on the table. "It's a nice room," she said, stretching her arms high before dropping them to her lap and leaning back on the large sofa in Sam's living room. "Part of my life happened here," she said unsentimentally, as a statement of fact. "It's an old room," Sam said beside her. "Enough has happened in it for everything to get lost or mixed together after a time." Addie smiled at Richard and Dan who were at the mantel examining a woodcarving. It was Addie's first evening back in New York. "How long are you staying at the Drake?" Sam asked. "Until we get an apartment. But we want to find one we really like, not just something that will do for a few months or a year." "The Drake's pleasant," Sam said. "Expensive," Addie said. "Did you know Dan was rich? Not as rich as you, but not selling apples." "Where do you plan to look?" Addie said, "Park probably. Dan doesn't care, and of course I don't, but the prestige of his firm—" "So you'll look on Park," Sam said, smiling. She stuck out her tongue at him. "All right!" she said. "Do you think I'll ever get over saying dirty words and be a credit to Dan?" "No," Sam said. "You'll be known as the eccentric but rather sweet Mrs. McKenzie." "You bet your ass, boy," she said. "Where's Andrew? I haven't seen him." "He decided to move in with Custer." "Wasn't that rather sudden?" she asked. "He and Richard had a few sharp words." "And Richard won," she said. "Poor old Andrew." "Don't be silly. He's probably up there making a bomb out of rags and a bottle of kerosene to blow us all to hell." "It would serve you right," Addie said. "How's the new Glover doing?" "Eighty thousand copies sold. Third large printing, as we say in the ads. Can't keep up with orders." "Good old Sophie Rose," Addie said. "Is she working on a new one?" "Not yet," Sam said. "She's making speeches to ladies' clubs all over the South. Why don’t you ever ask me about my important writers? It's always Sophie Rose Glover you're interested in." "I like her. I get out of my depth with those nihilists who are trying to put a brave face on things while insisting that zero is zero. That I can see without their help. It doesn't have to be translated for me from the French. Pretty roses." The copper vases were full of red roses in her honor. "Yes," Sam said. "Custer got them this morning." "Dear Custer. Such a good dinner. Do you think he's pleased about me and Dan?" "Yes. I don't think he knew at first whether Dan was for you or me. I'm sure he's relieved the way things turned out." "How do he and Richard get on?" "Yesterday Custer described to him a pain he's been having in his lower back." "What did Richard say?" "He told Custer to come to his office and he'd look him over." "Is Richard going to live here?"

"We haven't talked about it yet. He has a lease on an apartment and office uptown." "I thought he worked at the hospital." "He does mostly. But all doctors have offices. It's part of the Hypocritic Oath." "There's Andrew!" Addie exclaimed. "You said he was making bombs! Hello, Andrew. Welcome me home." Andrew had come down the stairs and into the living room, walking daintily, tail high. When she called his name, he looked at her as a king might look on a suddenly too-familiar courtier, but he gave no sign of recognition and went on to the stairs that led down to the dining room and kitchen. "Well!" Addie said. "It's not the old Henry James house I used to know." "We haven't changed as much as all that," Sam said. Addie looked at him softly. "It's like saying good-by instead of hello, Sam." "Don't." He took her hand. Addie blinked. "What are you doing this Saturday?" "I don't know," Sam said. "Have dinner with us, you and Richard. Then let's do something we don't even like doing—that can be fun sometimes—like going to a night club and acting silly!" Sam laughed. "All right. I'll ask Richard." She smiled with her old mockery. "Hot damn. I'll be the envy of every woman in the room when I enter with three handsome men." Sam said, "I'll wear a red bow tie and lisp, so they won't be jealous." "You could wear a green lily, and they'd still be jealous," Addie said. "You're pretty." She glanced at Richard who was still talking to Dan at the fireplace. "He is, too," she said, not quite happily. "You'll get to know him," Sam said. "Sure I will," Addie said flatly. "My feet are cold." She kicked her shoes off and lifted her feet to the sofa. "Rub them for me?" Sam smiled at her, took her long feet between his hands and began to rub them vigorously. "Hey, easy!" At the mantel Dan said to Richard, "How long do you think?" "Not long now," Richard said. "Look at them," Dan said. "You'd think they were the ones newly married." "Well, no," Richard teased him. "They look too happy for that." "Hey, boys!" Addie called to them. "What are you doing over there?" "See?" Richard said to Dan. "I told you they'd miss us." Richard and Dan walked, smiling, over to the sofa, drew up chairs, and sat down opposite Sam and Addie. Sam said, "You've met, of course. Addie, Richard. Richard, Addie." "Hello, Addie," Richard said. "Hello, Richard," Addie said, not smiling. "Tell me," Richard said, "what does Addie stand for— adversary?" "That's right," she said. "I suppose Richard is short for prick." "Addie!" Dan said. Sam held tight to Addie's toes. "At least," she said, "you're worth my metal, Richard." Richard made her a little bow. "We don't really need a fire," Addie said. "It's too warm for a fire." She looked at the glowing log which showed no flame. "In memory of old times," Sam said. Custer came up from the kitchen carrying a tray of bottles, glasses, and ice and set it down between the sofa and the chairs. "Will that be all, Mr. Kendrick?" "Yes, thank you, Custer." Andrew trotted in and waited for Custer, ignoring the group.

Custer said, "It's nice to have you back, Miss Addie. We missed you. All of us missed you." "Thank you, Custer. I missed you, too, and I'm glad to be back." "Good night, Mr. McKenzie." "Good night." "Good night, Mr. Kendrick." "Good night, Custer." "Good night, Dr. Redman." "Good night," Richard said. "Call my nurse Monday and see when I have free time for you to come in." "I won't forget, Dr. Redman." Custer turned to go out of the room. Andrew was waiting. "You coming, cat?" Custer said. Andrew streaked out ahead of him. Addie was looking at Richard. "Ah," she said. "Clever, clever one." Richard got up from his chair. "Who'd like a drink?" he said, making himself one. "I," Sam said. "I," Addie said. "Let's live it big," Dan said. "Me, too." To Addie he said, "Bring your long cold feet over here, woman. They're my feet to keep warm." She got up obediently, went to him, and curled herself in his lap. "Now I can't reach them," Dan said. "Never mind," Addie said. "Sam got them warm." Dan kissed her quickly, and after he had kissed her, held her to him. "Things are going to be dandy," she said. "Dan-dandy." She turned her head and watched Richard hand Sam his drink. Sam pulled Richard's head down and kissed him. "Richard!" Addie said. "Don't you know you're supposed to serve the lady first?" Richard touched Sam gently on the chin with his forefinger. "Not always," he said.

The End