The Lennox apartment was on Knickerbocker Square which is one of scores
of hidden relics of the past concealed on The Rock. There are elongated
sycamore trees corseted with cement, a Greek cross of gravel paths,
four square patches of grass, and a black and brass fence surrounding
all. The houses facing the square are red stone Dutch style with copper
roofs, bottle windows and glass orangeries in the rear. The old night
lanterns and polished stone carriage posts are still standing. Lennox
occupied a floor and a quarter in Number 33.
You entered from the street into the kitchen, decorated with Cooper's
cooking utensils and garish butcher charts he had charmed out of an
influential meat-packer in Grosse Pointe. There was also a lunatic
side-arm Oliver typewriter which he had charmed out of a Brooklyn
druggist. It wrote in minims and other pharmaceutical symbols, and
Cooper typed recipes on it. He once sent me one that read like Witch's
Brew. Turned out to be Fruit Soup.
Past the kitchen, through a short hall lined with cupboards, you came
into the living room. It was forty feet long with high windows looking
out on a rear garden, and had evidently been enlarged from two smaller
rooms because there were two fire-places on the right wall. On the left
was the door to Cooper's bedroom, the door to the bath, and a narrow
flight of steps leading up to the other quarter floor Lennox had. This
was a second bedroom and study where Lennox slept and worked.
The living room contained Cooper's piano, his Hi-Fi system, his records
and his two Siamese which hunted in pack. The mink-dyed skunk had
conceived a passion for the bathtub and only came out grudgingly when
the shower was turned on. Lennox had four or five hundred books in
walnut breakfront cases and a pair of butterfly wing chairs to which he
was devoted and over which he waged relentless war with the Siamese who
well knew how to punish him when he offended them.
There was an Italian couch before one fireplace, which was kept
practical, as we say in the business, and a sawbuck table that doubled
as a bar against the other which contained an aquarium of adenoidal
goldfish. The walls were decorated with smouldering photographs
contributed by Cooper's sister who had studied with Berenice Abbott,
but had not yet recovered from the childhood influence of a Doré Bible.
There was a magnificent refectory table with six captain's chairs near
the windows.
It was a warm, pleasant apartment since Cooper had moved in. His easy
style took the curse off Jake's stiffness. In the past we used to
dread going to Jake's parties. He was such a punctilious host that he
invariably chilled the guests. But Cooper, who came from fresh-water
society, had lived with protocol too long to be impressed by it. He
kidded Lennox into relaxing and showing us flashes of his real self ...
the Lennox that Cooper knew. I think everyone would have loved Jake if
they could have seen him the way he showed himself to his friend.
But this Christmas night Lennox was not lovable; he was impossible. It
was his custom to make his prayers in the shower, asking God to keep
him austere, kindly, infallible and sophisticated. He never begged. He
made his request as one son of the Marquis of Suffolk to another. Now,
however, he was raging. He stood under the hot downpour with uplifted
head, fists clenching and unclenching, furious with himself and God.
"What next?" he asked the shower-nozzle. "What else? Don't pull any
punches. I won't whine or beg off. Let's have it all, and I'll show
You!"
He cut off the water, wrapped himself in a towel, kicked open the
bathroom door and stalked out into the living room. The mink-dyed skunk
galloped past him back into the bathroom and stamped its paws angrily
when it discovered the tub was wet. Cooper had a fire going in the
practical fireplace, and a pot of coffee tactfully exposed on an end
table alongside one of the wing chairs. It was half-past ten and the
Siamese were enjoying their bedtime magic hour, skittering crazily up
and down the apartment with crossed eyes and flattened ears.
Lennox dried his back and rump carefully before he sat down. He poured
black coffee and drank it as though it were poison hemlock. Cooper came
in from the kitchen and appeared to be having a magic hour of his own,
for he was wearing his chef's hat and a dinner jacket. Lennox stared at
him.
"Black tie tonight, Scout Lennox," Cooper told him, removing the hat.
"All out for the Christmas jamboree."
"What the hell, Sam?"
"Pull in your feet." Cooper poked at the logs with an old bayonet.
"Must apologize, Sir Jasper. Only a cad would touch another man's
hearth. They teach you that in Islip? Rules for Perfect Behaviour. Like
passing the port to the left."
"They taught me nothing in Islip," Lennox growled. Nevertheless he
filed this lesson away, until he caught the gleam in Cooper's eye.
He squirmed a little. "What's this black tie routine? More Perfect
Behaviour?"
"I'll tell you, son. There's no food in the house. So I thought we'd
accept Alice McVeagh's invitation and free-load. She's giving a monster
rally. A debutante party. Turkey, ham, chutney, kedgeree, boiled
mutton, boiled guests, boiled debs--"
"Who's Alice McVeagh?"
"You'll like her. She always passes the port to the left. Gives Square
parties. Strictly Square. Nobody in the business. A pleasant change."
"I'm staying home."
"Not a crust in the house, Jake."
"I'm staying home."
"Um. You want to brood, eh? In F-minor."
"Sam, I need a party like a hole in the head."
"The hole's there already. You need to fill it. Get dressed. We'll go
mingle."
"Sit down."
"Get dressed."
"Sit down."
Cooper cocked an eye at Lennox, then sat down in the facing wing chair.
Instantly one of the Siamese leaped on him. Cooper calmly extinguished
it with the chef's hat and deposited it on the floor where it struggled
ecstatically.
"Death to the invaders," Cooper murmured.
After a long pause, Lennox pointed to the frantic hat and said: "Look,
Sam. That's me."
"The cat in the hat?"
"Yes."
Cooper gazed at Lennox with solemn perplexity. "You said you were like
a smoke-stack."
Lennox waved his hand irritably. "I'm fighting blind, Sam. I'm in a
hassle. The show's in a hassle. You know about my blackout. You know
about Mason lousing the grand prize tonight?"
Cooper nodded.
"That's bad enough, but there's something worse. We've been getting
letters. Threatening letters. The filthiest crazy letters you ever saw
in your life. Five already. Blinky tells me there's a sixth up at the
office ... more dangerous than the rest. If I don't do something about
those letters, we may go off; but so help me, Sam, I'm so mixed up I
don't know what to do."
"Told anybody about them yet?"
"No."
"The network?"
"How can I? All they have to do is smell trouble ... particularly dirty
trouble like this ... and they'll yank us off. They've got a dozen
clients hungry for that nine to nine-thirty spot. They've got nothing
to lose."
"Um. Dangerous letters?"
"Filthy dangerous."
"That means trouble if you stay on?"
"Probably."
"What kind?"
"I don't know. It's an audience show. Suppose we let a lunatic in one
Sunday night. You draw the pictures. Anything could happen."
"Police?"
"I'm afraid to go to the police."
"Why?"
"That turns it from a private stink into an official stink. That's why
Blinky and I've been keeping it quiet. If the story gets out we'll be
cancelled."
"Not positively."
"I won't take the chance."
"Why not? So you're cancelled. Is that the end of the world?"
"I won't be cancelled," Lennox said grimly.
"No, I guess not. You won't let anything be cancelled, will you, Jake?"
"Nobody's going to end anything for me except me."
"And you won't ever end anything."
"Why should I?" Lennox exclaimed impatiently. "I like what I've got.
I'm thirty-five, Sam. I've come a hell of a long way from a kid
telegrapher counting words in Islip, Long Island. What kind of a
chicken-gut would I be to let it fall apart?"
"This I don't follow," Cooper said plaintively. "You mean the end of
'Who He?' is the end of everything? Exit Jordan Lennox, homeless,
friendless, trudging back to that clam-shack in Islip, a broken man...."
"For God's sake, will you level with me! I've had a hell of a day and
I don't feel like yakking it up. Who am I fighting, Sam? How am I
going to fight? Jesus Christ on camera!" Lennox pointed again to the
struggling hat. "I'm like that amateur tiger ... banging my brains out
against nothing."
Cooper looked at the bounding hat, then back at Lennox. "Exactly like
that," he said softly. "The cat's doing it for kicks. So are you."
"For kicks!"
"Yep."
"That's a lousy thing to say."
"Why? It's a compliment. Everybody says you've got deep freeze inside
you. I know better. This is proof you've got emotions, Jake. Trouble is
you only let 'em out of hock once a year, so you have to turn it into a
production to make up for lost time."
"Who's making a production? We've got a law suit coming. We've got a
lunatic knocking on the door. I've got a blank day full of memories I
don't want to remember hanging over me. I've got emotions. What do you
want me to do? Whistle 'Dixie'?"
"I want you to calm down and spread it out over the rest of the year.
Make a note in your gimmick book: New Year's Resolution by Jordan
Lennox. I will faithfully--"
Lennox started up from his chair. "My God! Where's the notebook?"
Cooper shook his head.
Lennox raced up the stairs to his bedroom. He carried a famous
black gimmick book in which he noted down ideas, gags, references,
characters, and so on. He had carried it for ten years. He was never
without it, and had developed a nervous mannerism of feeling for it
every few minutes ... a sudden sharp flexing of his right arm against
his chest to see if the precious gimmick book was in place in his
inside pocket.
He came down the steps a minute later. "Where's my overcoat?" he yelled.
"Which coat?"
"The one I wore tonight."
"You weren't wearing any coat."
Lennox raced to the front closet, pulled it open and tore at the racks.
Then he swung around in dismay. "It's gone."
"Which? The burberry?"
"No. Yes. I must have carried it in the coat last night. I lost it in
the blackout."
"Is the coat insured?"
"To hell with the coat," Lennox cried. "I'm talking about my notebook.
It's gone. Lost. The gimmick book, Sam!"
"Forget it. I was hoping you'd lose it. It was beginning to fall apart."
"But I've got everything in it. A year of ideas...."
"You transcribe 'em every week," Cooper said comfortably. "You've got a
complete file upstairs in the office. You haven't lost anything. Calm
down."
"What the hell is the matter with you? Can't you understand? I've
carried that book for ten years. I've never been without it."
"Then it's time you bought another one. Start the New Year right."
Lennox paced in agitation. "I've got to remember where I was last
night. I've got to remember. I've got to find that gimmick book."
"Oh come on, Jake. How long are you going to milk this hysteria
routine? Lost nights, lost books, threatening letters.... What d'you
think you're doing? Auditioning? You need a new script writer, boy."
"You lousy bastard! Maybe I need a new friend," Lennox shouted.
"Maybe you do at that. Want to start a fight? You want to end it right
now?"
"I'm damned well fighting right now."
"Then let's go." Cooper leaped up and faced Lennox aggressively. He
cocked his right fist and pointed to his chin. "Go ahead. Let loose.
I've been waiting three years to watch you throw a punch."
Lennox looked at Cooper uncertainly. In his blind fury he could not be
sure whether Cooper was grinning in anger or amusement. At that moment
the Siamese burst out of the hat, leaped to Jake's rump and clawed its
way up his naked back to his shoulder.
"Jesus!" All the pressure in Lennox exploded in a strangulated yell.
He doubled over. Cooper snatched the cat off his shoulder and hurled
it onto the couch. He shoved Lennox into the bathroom, held his neck
firmly and sluiced his back with rubbing alcohol.
"My compliments to Captain Bligh," Lennox said through his teeth. He
stamped his foot in agony, almost trampling the mink-dyed skunk.
"Mutiny never pays," Cooper murmured, kicking the skunk out of the way.
He swabbed efficiently with iodine, then led Lennox back to the fire
and sat him down on a stool to dry. The Siamese, no fools they, had
disappeared. Lennox sat rigid with control until the pain faded. He
remained rigid.
"Stay mad; stay human," Cooper urged. "On you it's becoming. I could
kill those cats for lousing our brawl. Let's find them, Jake. I'll hold
them while you beat the bejezus out of them. Then the cats can hold me
while you beat the--"
"Shut up. Don't be a damned fool, Sam."
"Which of us is the damned fool, Jake?"
Lennox took a deep breath and relaxed. "Me," he said. "A nuisance and a
noodnick. Don't tell anybody."
"On the contrary. I tell everybody. That's why you're getting popular."
Lennox stood up, took Cooper's shoulder in his big grasp and clutched
hard. He looked at his friend with a secret glance of devotion and
gratitude, then turned away in embarrassment.
"After we eat," Sam said casually, "we'll go look for the gimmick book.
You'll start remembering. We'll find it. And don't worry.... You won't
remember anything to be ashamed of."
Lennox choked. "How's my back?" he asked. "Is there blood?"
"Nope. Just scars."
"Tsk! And me with that Hattie Carnegie backless collecting dust in the
boudoir. Black tie?"
"Black tie."
Lennox went upstairs and dressed.
Myself, I don't like Square parties; neither does my wife. Squares
are all right, but there's an invisible barrier between us and them.
For one thing, our tempos don't match. We can throw away a dozen gags
while a Square is beating a cliché to death. For another thing, Squares
persist in thinking about the entertainment business the same way they
did back in Victorian times. To them we're artificial, child-like and
irresponsible. When Squares learn that I'm a writer, I can see that
look pass over their faces ... the look that says: He's lazy and hates
to get up in the morning.
They reveal this when they invariably ask the question: "Do you work
all night?" If I say yes, they gloat, and I have to restrain the angry
impulse to point out that I'm forced to work at night in order to avoid
the interruption of Square phone calls and luncheon invitations and all
the other pleasant devices which enable them to do four hours work from
nine to five.
My wife has a tougher time. Her face and voice are highly expressive,
naturally, being an actress. Whenever she's with Squares they watch her
with appraising eyes and constantly interrupt with: "Oh stop it. You're
acting now, aren't you? Why can't you be natural?" Once my wife lost
her temper and answered a solid citizen: "You want to go to bed with
me, don't you? Why can't you be natural?"
There was a gratifying hush of horror. I whipped out a pencil and
scribbled on my cuff. "I've been watching you all with my keen eye,"
I announced, "and constantly analyzing ... dissecting. I'm going to
crucify you in the _New Yorker_." We swept out, and at the door my wife
turned and said: "What's more, we're not even married. He's my brother
and we're living in incest."
Jake liked Square parties. He enjoyed winning respect by admitting that
he worked regularly from nine to five, by wearing proper conservative
clothes, by showing the outward signs of success which business
men understood and approved. He spoke about his profession like an
industrialist; and although he was a sensitive, gifted writer, he
pooh-poohed such matters as talent and inspiration, and discussed
creativity as merchandise, his stock-in-trade.
He liked Alice McVeagh's party. It was given in her penthouse on
East End Avenue, a Georgian duplex with delicate curving staircases,
panelled study, oval library, a ballroom and two kitchens, one for
the staff alone. The buffet in the dining room glittered with silver
and crystal ... fresh caviar on crushed ice, scarlet lobsters, smoked
turkeys, great oriental melons oozing thick nectar, a frosted copper
cask in which peaches soaked in liqueurs, and dozens of coffee flagons
bubbling over alcohol lamps.
The guests were charming. Cool young ladies and their energetic
mothers. Pleasant young men Cooper had known at Loomis and Princeton,
and the jolly old gentlemen they would in time become. They were all
exquisitely casual about the perfection of their dress and manners.
They were assured. They belonged. And how badly Jake wanted to belong
on their terms. How badly all of us want to belong on somebody else's
terms.
He was painfully well-behaved. He stood tall and erect and moved
slowly, keeping his voice quiet and his hands at his side. He had two
sherrys at the bar and chatted respectfully with guests ... a burly
gentleman who owned half the cotton mills in New England and was
devoted to game fishing, the goggle-eyed son of a near-East ambassador
who discoursed in French and broken English on _Le Jazz Hot_, a
red-headed man loading up on white Martinis who confessed he taught
scene design at Yale, a pregnant young matron who had been a famous
debutante.... Jake's deep-lined face was wooden and unrecognizable to
Cooper who smiled privately.
There was music in the ballroom and couples dashed in to the buffet
and back; crop-haired young men and boyish girls with delicious young
figures and stereotype faces framed in straight honey hair. Lennox
felt awed and hostile toward them. He escorted a brisk dowager to the
buffet. She took an instant liking to him (older women always adored
Lennox) and favored him with a ringing denunciation of the Metropolitan
Opera Management and glowing praise for Charles of the Ritz.
Cooper rescued him at last and took him to the ballroom. "Eat enough?"
he whispered. Lennox nodded. "All right, boy. Leave us mingle."
There was a Candle-Dance in progress in the darkened ballroom. Ten
couples were turning and circling through a simple dance figure while
the orchestra played "Pop Goes The Weasel." Each dancer carried a
silver saucer candlestick in which a white taper burned. When the
orchestra "Popped" the dance stopped, and the dancers tried to blow out
each other's flames. When a candle went out, the dancer left the floor.
The spinning and weaving of yellow flames gleaming on silk and satin
and jewels made an enchanting picture.
Cooper nudged Lennox and handed him a candlestick and a burning taper.
"No, Sam!" Lennox protested.
"Come on, gents. All out for the sack-race."
Lennox perceived that a second dance circle was forming. There were two
girls alongside Cooper, holding lighted candles and waiting impatiently
to join the circle.
"But I've never danced this before, Sam. We had fire laws in Islip."
"You'll pick it up." Cooper whispered introductions to the girls. "My
great and good friend, Arson Lupin. Ouch! Let's go."
The four slipped into the second circle and began the dance. It was
bewildering for Lennox, but he had been a schoolboy fencer and was
quick and graceful for a big man. Also, he was intensely competitive.
He watched sharply, learned the simple figures and protected his flame.
By the time half a dozen had been eliminated from his circle, he was
able to look around and enjoy himself. There was one hand-clasp in
particular that had electrified him, and he was trying to identify the
owner.
It was a woman's hand, warm, slender and strong. Each time he grasped
it, his spine tingled and he thought of the deep carpets in the
network offices that produced leaping sparks when you touched a light
switch. The hand had been helpful, too, turning him left and right
with friendly pressures, leading him through his first confusion. The
orchestra went "Pop." Lennox stopped, held his candle high and looked
around the circle.
There was Cooper, looking solemn and perplexed in the glimmering light
as he blew mightily in the direction of _Le Jazz Hot_. There were
two honey-haired stereotypes in thin-strapped gowns, shielding their
candles with their hands. There was a horsy woman with an extinguished
flame, tramping off the floor. The music started again before Lennox
could examine the others. He was cynically certain that the horsy
woman had owned the hand. Then, as he circled, again came that
electrifying touch.
He looked quickly at his partner. Lennox had a weakness for
straw-colored blondes, big-boned women who looked Swedish. This was the
exact opposite. She looked like a slave on a Moorish auction block;
cropped jet hair in tight ringlets, deep dark almond eyes, a full
mouth, strong white teeth. The head was beautifully poised on a long
neck. She had wide shoulders and the deep-cut jersey bodice revealed a
high full bosom. Her skin was astonishing, very clear, very dark, and
as lustrous as black pearl under the candle-light. She was slender, not
tall, and moved with a lazy grace that was familiar to Lennox but not
yet identifiable.
The orchestra went "Pop." Lennox and the girl stopped and examined
each other, unmindful of their candles. She smiled. Her smile was
sudden and changing, like the unexpected dazzle of light reflected from
water. The music started again and she danced on to the next partner.
Lennox watched her circling and weaving and suddenly recognized what
was familiar about her carriage. She moved like a slender, graceful,
cow-puncher; the shoulders square, the slim hips swaying, the arms slow
and relaxed.
In that moment Lennox remembered that he had written a thousand love
scenes and knew that every one had been a lie. There was a thundering
confusion in his head; exultation and terror pounded in his heart. His
whole life seemed drawn by the burning glass of this moment into a
focus on this girl. She was smiling now at Cooper and murmuring to him.
Lennox could have killed Sam.
He murdered each of her partners in succession until she came around
the circle to him again. As he reached eagerly for her hand, the
orchestra went "Pop." The other dancers stopped. Lennox continued until
he was close to her and took her hand. In the flickering light, his
face was black and white with shadows and highlights and looked almost
ferocious. The girl's almond eyes widened slightly, and her smile
faded, but her body did not lose its easy poise.
Dancers nudged Lennox politely. The music had started. The girl
released herself and continued. Lennox went through the motions and
grimly defended his flame from extinction while the girl remained
in the dance. _Le Jazz Hot_ left. The stereotypes left. Cooper was
eliminated. Six remained. Then five. Then three. Finally it was Lennox
and the girl, circling and turning, hand in hand, candles fluttering no
more than his own breath.
They danced for timeless moments, and Lennox, dazed and intoxicated,
was not aware that he was speaking to her in silence ... by touch, by
glance, by moving expression ... revealing the secret part of himself
that had never been shown before. Then he did something extraordinary
for Jordan Lennox, the man who never quit, who never conceded, who had
wanted to win a victory before those awesome spectators. The music went
"Pop." He held out his candle to the girl, and with his right hand
extinguished the flame.
There was a burst of applause. The lights went up. The orchestra swung
into a dance tune and the floor filled. Lennox lost the girl in the
crush and wandered aimlessly to the side of the ballroom where an
unidentified person took the candlestick from him. He went to the bar,
now inhabited exclusively by the red-headed teacher from Yale and the
bartender.
"Listen," Lennox began incoherently, "A dark girl. In an
off-the-shoulder dress. She.... With cropped hair and oriental eyes.
She gleamed...."
"Who?" the red-head inquired, weaving violently.
"A girl with black short hair. She--You heard me. Do you know her? Know
who she is?"
The bartender shrugged. The red-head eyed Lennox fixedly, meanwhile
shaking his head. "Never heard of her. Never-never-never. No such
thing's dark girls anymore. Species extinct. Like used t'be everywhere
poodles. Now only boxers. Poodles extinct. Also poodle brunettes,
Q.E.D.?"
Lennox returned to the ballroom. He searched for the girl. He searched
for Cooper. Two steps led up to the white door of the oval library.
Lennox mounted them for a better view and found himself face to face
with _Le Jazz Hot_.
"Who was she?" he burst out.
"Pardon, M'sieur?" _Le Jazz Hot_ goggled at him.
"The dark girl. In the dance with us."
"I am so sorry."
Lennox abandoned him, left the steps and prowled around the edge of
the ballroom. He went again to the bar, regarded the red-head and the
bartender without comprehension, wandered off and discovered, in a
hall of Chinese teapaper, a small Christmas tree hung with corsages. A
honey-haired girl in a thin-strapped evening gown was unpinning some
orchids from the tree.
"I beg your pardon," Lennox mumbled.
She looked at him curiously.
"The dark girl who was dancing with us. Do you know her?"
"Dancing with us?" All her charm disappeared in the bray of her voice.
"My God!" Lennox thought in panic, "I haven't heard her speak. What if
she...." Aloud, he said: "The Candle-Dance. The dark girl in our circle
who--"
"I wasn't in the Candle-Dance," the girl informed him coldly and turned
away. She was the wrong stereotype.
Lennox went back to the library steps and began searching the dance
floor, couple by couple. Below him and to one side a voice called:
"Psst! Hey Jake!"
He looked down. Cooper was standing there, grinning. "Three down from
the drums. With a guy in hornshell glasses."
Lennox glared at Cooper, challenging derision, then stared at the dance
band. He found her and murdered the man in the spectacles. Without
moving his eyes he asked: "Who is she?"
"Don't know."
"I've got to meet her."
"Grab her after this dance."
"I've got to be introduced."
"Come on, Jake! This isn't the nineties."
"I want to be introduced. Can you swing it?"
"I can try."
Cooper departed. Lennox remained where he was, watching the girl as the
man in the hornshell spectacles whirled her out to the middle of the
floor. The dance ended, the couples applauded languidly and shuffled.
Lennox looked around desperately for Cooper. When he turned back to the
dance floor he had lost the girl again. Before he could get panicky
he saw her as the music started. She was alone on the floor, walking
toward him, with square shoulders and lazy arms and hips. He could not
believe his eyes. She came directly to the library stairs, stepped up
and held out her hand. Lennox took it and felt both of them tremble
slightly.
"Why didn't you cut in?" she asked in a candid, transparent voice.
He could not believe his ears. Drawing her with him, he backed into
the white and gold oval library. She was smiling uncertainly. After a
tremulous pause she asked: "Is this how it happens?"
Lennox couldn't speak. There was a long silence; a long communication
that seemed to dread words.
"I'm frightened," she said.
Lennox shook his head.
"At first I thought I'd help. You know, the dance? Then I thought you
were being hasty. And then it happened, didn't it?"
Lennox nodded.
"If you don't let go of my hand, I'll faint ... I think. What do we do
now?"
Before he could answer, Cooper appeared in the door with a magnificent
white-haired woman wearing a bronze dress and a jade necklace. Both
smiled.
"Ah! Just in time," Cooper said, "Our hostess, Madam McVeagh. Jordan
Lennox."
"So nice to have you, Mr. Lennox." Alice McVeagh shook hands
magnificently. Everything about her was magnificent and overpowering.
"Gabby, dear, have you met the gentlemen? Jordan Lennox ... Sam Cooper.
Gabby Valentine." She overpowered Lennox. "Sam tells me you're an
author, Mr. Lennox. Do you write all night?"
Lennox pulled himself together before the Presence. "No," he answered
in the voice of the second son of the Marquis of Suffolk. "I work from
nine to five, Mrs. McVeagh."
"But how disappointing. Aren't you an artist?"
"No, Mrs. McVeagh, I'm a business man. I sell ideas for a living."
"Oh dear! And I had such a lovely picture of you ... working all night
and smoking opium."
"Only when he's plastered," Cooper grinned.
Lennox looked at him stonily. Poor Jake! Standing there on his best
behavior, tall and erect with his hands at his side; keeping his face
wooden and unrecognizable, trying to belong on Alice McVeagh's terms,
and destroying himself before Gabby Valentine. To his hostess he tried
to appear austere, kindly, infallible and sophisticated. To Gabby he
seemed hostile and unyielding. If only Cooper had come five minutes
later. When he finally departed with the hostess and Lennox turned to
resume the intimacy with Gabby, it was too late.
"Gabby...." he began.
"No," she interrupted, bitterly disappointed. "No. It was only the
candle-light." She took a deep breath. Her smile was no longer a
private matter between them. "Please forget everything I said. I
thought you--" She broke off.
"You thought I what?" Lennox asked sharply. He was deeply hurt by her
abrupt change.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Please don't cross-examine me," Gabby said gently. "I made fool of
myself, that's all."
"I think you're trying to make a fool of me."
"No. It's all right. I'm the idiot, not you. What do you write, Mr.
Lennox?"
"I write better scenes than this, Miss Valentine. My characters don't
play games."
"Neither do I."
"Then what the hell happened?"
"Nothing happened. That's why I'm an idiot."
Lennox was furious, and, consequently, icy and sardonic. He imagined
that this was an impudent young society girl, willful and cavalier, who
had taken it into her head to make an ass of him. He couldn't have been
more wrong.
Gabrielle Valentine was a unique creature. You meet people like that
occasionally, and if you're not too cynical you treasure them ...
beautiful beings who've been loved and adored from birth and have grown
up unspoiled and trusting, completely honest and without guile. This
is rare because beauty is more often a curse for a woman and usually
sickens her unless she turns it into her profession. No plain girl will
believe this, but it's true.
Gabby had received affection all her life and gave it as freely.
She was not brilliant, which was just as well. No one really likes
brilliant people. She was a girl of average intelligence who had grown
up in a world which she was able to treat with the disarming confidence
of a child. Half the world treated her with the tenderness reserved for
children. The cynical half could not abide her transparent honesty.
She was twenty-eight. Her father had been an old-line Socialist and had
worked with Eugene Debs. He had come from a French Colonial family
which had lived in Indo-China for generations and, I suspect, probably
intermarried with natives. Certainly Gabby seemed to support the legend
that women of mixed French and Oriental blood are the loveliest in the
world. Her mother was still living and was a very smart couturiere.
Gabby didn't see much of her. She was too busy making her own
affectionate way in the world.
She had trained, of all things, as an architect, and worked as a
free-lance draftsman. Drafting pays well and Gabby was able to afford
her own apartment in one of the better Village studio buildings. She
was political-minded, an inheritance from her father no doubt, and
was an invaluable asset in fund-raising campaigns. She had once gone
down to Wall Street and bearded a Republican financier in his den for
a contribution to the Democratic party. Or maybe it was a Democrat
for the Republican party. I forget which, not being political-minded
myself. The point of the story is that she got the money.
She was an artist, but she didn't understand music. She had learned to
be chic, but wasn't interested in clothes. She liked good food, but had
to be told when it was good. She drank very little. She liked people
more than anything else ... liked to be with them and talk to them,
provided they were honest and unaffected. Everyone came to her with
their troubles and she gave all her affection and help. She had never
been in love.
And then had come this burst of flame in the glimmering darkness with
Lennox, and there was a stranger in his body who had killed the flame
with his rigid poise before Alice McVeagh and was trampling on the
embers in icy fury.
"Please go away," Gabby said quietly. "You're making me hate you, and I
don't like that."
"I'm sorry, Miss Valentine," Lennox answered. "I don't know the rules
of your game. Is that a request or a challenge?"
"Why should it be? Do you like to fight?"
"I'm enjoying this fight ... with all my heart." Lennox showed his
teeth in a smile.
"That's a sign of weakness, isn't it?" Gabby looked at him with steady
eyes. "Like sick dogs that bite. Please go away."
"You've done the biting."
"Oh. You're hurt. I'm sorry."
"No, I'm enjoying the game. What do you do, Miss Valentine, when you
can spare the time?"
"You can't be a very good writer if you talk like that," Gabby said
slowly. "You sound as though you like to hate people."
"I'm a very successful writer."
"There's a difference."
"What big teeth you have, grandma."
"I don't like to be with people who hate," Gabby nodded gracefully.
"Goodbye, Mr. Lennox."
"The end of Round One?"
"No. The end. I don't think we should see each other again."
"You'll see me often," Lennox assured her. "We'll fight this to a
finish."
"There's nothing to fight."
"Something happened, and then you changed your mind. I'd like to find
out how your gears mesh. Professionally, of course. I can always use
a comedy gimmick." Automatically he flexed his right arm against his
chest and was appalled to remember that his gimmick book was lost, but
he was too angry with Gabby to concentrate on it.
"Who did you hope I was in the dark?" he asked. "Aly Khan?"
"You're making it worse."
"Who did you think I was?"
"I thought you...." She shook her head. "How can I say? I thought I--"
Suddenly her dark eyes filled with tears. "You're not very kind. I've
just made a fool of myself and I'm hurt too. Are you enjoying this?"
"Passionately."
"Please let me go."
She broke away from him and descended the library steps to the
ballroom, her shoulders square, her carriage relaxed and graceful.
The bright chandelier lights gleamed on her skin. Lennox followed her
doggedly around the edge of the ballroom and into the bar. He could not
let go. He would not let up. Gabby bent over the red-head sleeping on
the bar.
"Phil," she said. "It's time to leave." She shook him gently.
The red-head snorted and slept. Gabby looked reproachfully at the
bartender who instantly became apologetic, as though he had personally
supervised the downfall of the teacher from Yale.
"It's not your fault," Gabby told him. "He comes down from New Haven
full of undergraduate notions. He had to work his way through college.
He never had a chance to be hedonistic."
Lennox stepped forward. "I'll take you home, Miss Valentine."
"It isn't me that has to be taken. It's Phil."
"To New Haven?"
"What if I said yes?"
"Bon voyage, Miss Valentine."
"Oh, why are you so hostile?"
"Because I'm a damned fool," Lennox answered furiously. "All right.
I'll take him back to New Haven for you."
"Not New Haven. New York. The Harvard Club."
"A neat one-two. Next time I'll know when to duck. I'll take you both
home."
"Not me. Phil."
"You and Phil both."
"That's your price?"
"It's a bargain, Miss Valentine. Snap it up."
"I think I'd better get someone else."
She left the bar. Lennox heaved the red-head up, powerfully but not
unkindly, and hauled him to the door. There, an efficient man in black
uniform located hats and coats without clues and helped Lennox dress
the red-head. Then Lennox dressed himself. When Gabby came to the
foyer with three eager admirers, Lennox looked them over and growled:
"I'm taking you both home. I'm prepared to fight for it. If you don't
believe me get ready for a scene."
Her eyes flashed, but she dismissed the men and got into her coat.
Together they took the teacher downstairs in a burning silence and
propped him in a cab between them. As the cab drove off Lennox asked:
"Why the Harvard Club? He teaches at Yale."
No answer.
He contrived to peer past the red-headed barricade at her. She was
impassive. The street lights flickered on her skin like lightning on
jewels. He had never wanted anyone and hated anyone so badly in his
life; nor known anything so inexplicably out of his grasp.
He said: "I worked my way through college too. I was a telegrapher."
No answer.
After five minutes he said: "Can you spell hedonistic?"
No answer.
They arrived at the Harvard Club and turned the teacher over to a
patient doorman. Lennox did not ask permission to re-enter the cab. He
got in and slammed the door. Gabby gave her address in the Village and
the cab started. Lennox was startled. He had expected a number on Park
Avenue. He revised his guess about her society background.
The cab crunched downtown through crusted streets. The rain and snow
had stopped. There was no wind, but the air was still bitter. A few
blocks from Union Square, Lennox abruptly called to the driver: "Stop
here. On the right, two doors down. Don't argue with me. Stop."
The cab stopped. Lennox opened the door and got out. To Gabby he said:
"Wait here for me. Understand? Wait." He turned and ran across the
sidewalk to the open door of a Salvation Army Mission in a small
store. There were candles burning in the window. He ducked into the
store, removed two candles from the window, dropped a five dollar bill
in their place, and ran back to the cab. He got in and shut the door.
"All right, get going," he told the driver. He handed one of the
burning candles to Gabby without a word.
She smiled; that sudden dazzle of light on water, then her face lost
its expression when she saw the cold fury in him. She shook her head.
Lennox slid the glass partition panel aside. "Can you sing?" he asked
the driver. "Sing Pop Goes The Weasel."
"Have a heart, buddy."
"'Pop Goes The Weasel' ... in the key of C. Take it."
"That ain't no Christmas Carol."
"And this ain't no Christmas present." Lennox poked a bill through the
slit and dropped it. "Sing."
The driver began a miserable croaking. Lennox sat back and eyed Gabby.
She blew out her candle and turned her head away. He dropped his candle
and trampled it.
"Listen to me," he said. "My name is Jordan Lennox, I'm thirty-five
years old. Unmarried. My income is thirty-five thousand a year. I have
no family left, but the Islip YMCA director will provide a character
reference. My blood type is O. My eyes are twenty-twenty. My I.Q. is a
hundred and nineteen. I understand people, but I don't understand you.
I would like permission to get to know you better. If necessary, this
oral request can be followed by a formal letter from my attorney and a
bond will be posted."
The cab stopped before a squat studio building with great duplex
windows, Lennox had the fare ready. He thrust it over the driver's
shoulder, then helped Gabby out of the cab and with a fierce secret
gesture signalled the driver to get lost.
"Well?" he asked.
She shook her head. He would not give up. He took her arm, escorted
her the five steps to the doorway, thrust open the door and handed her
through.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Goodnight."
"Why not?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Make me understand."
"Goodnight."
His fingers gripped her arm. "Make me understand."
"What can I say? I thought you were somebody else. I thought...."
"What?"
"Once," she said slowly, "I had to study chemistry. And in the
stockroom there was a glass jar filled with the most beautiful candy I
ever saw. Then someone told me it was poison. Crystals of poison....
That's what happened."
"Poison!" he exclaimed. "I'm poison to you?"
"No; but you aren't what I thought you were. It's my fault. I made the
mistake and I--" Gabby broke off in astonishment. The color had drained
out of Lennox's face. The fury drained out of his body. He took a step
into the foyer and let go of the door which swung heavily and smashed
his hand resting limp on the jamb. He wrenched his hand free and took
another hypnotic step toward the row of brass letter-boxes on the foyer
wall. Each had a white call button underneath the name plate. In clear
block letters alongside VALENTINE was FOX.
"What is it?" Gabby cried.
"'Fair is my love, for April's in her face,'" Lennox mumbled. "Her
lovely breasts September claims his part...." He turned a wild face to
her. "What made me think of that? What's terrifying about it?"
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know," he answered, swallowing hard and lifting a trembling
hand to his face. It left blood smears on his cheek. "I'm lost. Again.
I.... Christ!" He shut his eyes and pressed his fists together. "Sam,"
he whispered. "Sam. Come and get me. Please."
"You'd better come in," Gabby said in alarm. She took him upstairs to
her apartment and through a barn-like studio to a tailored bedroom
where she helped him off with his coat and sat him down on a chaise
longue. He was shaking. He tried to joke. "We shouldn't be here," he
said. "Very suggestive."
"It's too cold in the studio. What's the matter? What happened to you?"
"Downstairs. That name ... Fox. It cut me off from everything. I don't
know why. I'm crying again," he groaned. "Crying. There's been nothing
but dirt and tears all day. I don't know what happened."
"I'll get you a drink."
"No. Thank you. I'm not sick. It's just something trying to come back
and hurting like sin."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't explain. Give me a minute.... It'll go away again, if I'm
lucky. Then I'll go too."
He sat in silence, trying to control himself, looking around the room
with smarting eyes. Gabby took off her coat, left the bedroom and
returned a moment later with a glass and a sealed bottle of whiskey.
She tried to remove the cap and failed. She handed the bottle to Lennox
who took it, opened it mechanically and then put it down.
"I didn't know you lived like this," he said at last.
"How do you mean?"
"Like this. Not girly-girly. I thought ... Park Avenue and decorators.
This could be a man's place. Do you play Boys' Rules?"
"You didn't."
"I know it. I've been trying to start all over again for the last two
hours." He stood up, went to the bed and touched the pillow gently.
"Hello, Gabby," he said. He went to the dressing table and touched it.
He touched the window drapes, the lamps, the books, the pictures ...
everything that was hers as though he were touching her heart.
Without looking at her he said: "You're right. I'm poisonous ... but I
love you. I'm the wrong man, but I love you. It's too quick ... only a
few hours, but I love you. I hate too much, I hurt too much because I'm
poisonous.... And I love you. I'd better go now. Goodnight."
He searched blindly for his coat, ashamed to meet her eyes, and the
real Lennox appeared, the Lennox she had seen by candle-light two hours
ago.
"Oh!" Gabby exclaimed in tears, "Oh darling ... darling! Why did you
hide from me? Why?"
He caught his breath. She came to him and he took her in his arms.
After a moment he managed to speak.
"Is this how it happens? Has it happened again?"
She clung to him.
"Now I'm frightened, Gabby."
"Why did you hide from me? Why did you change like that? You were so
cold and hateful...."
"I didn't know I was hiding. I didn't know what I was doing. I've been
half crazy all day." He raised her hand and pressed it against his
eyes. "I dreamed about meeting you, but not like this. I was going to
be at my best. You know? Brilliant and successful. Scattering money and
charm in all directions. Winning you ... not whining my way into your
heart."
"No. No. You don't understand. No one wants to be won. We want to be
wanted.... Needed."
"God knows, I need you. God knows, I--"
"Shhh." She seated him again, ran out of the room and returned with a
warm moist cloth. She cleaned his hand and his cheek. Lennox seized her
suddenly as she stood over him and buried his face in her body.
"It's all right, darling," she whispered. "Don't be afraid. You're just
used to taking, that's all. Nobody ever gave you anything."
He looked up at her. "What happened to us after the dance? What did
I do then? What's wrong with me? Was I mean dirty drunk? Did I--" He
stopped. He stood up slowly. In a strange voice he said: "Mean dirty
drunk. Clarence Fox from Philadelphia. The Quaker and the blonde. Yes.
That's where the gimmick book is...."
Gabby was alarmed again. She put her hands on his shoulders.
"But why can't I remember the rest?" Lennox asked in terror. "The knot.
What's so horrible about a knot? What is it? Why can't I remember what
it is?"
She tried to press him back on the chaise longue. He was too big to be
forced but he responded instantly to her pressure.
"You're in trouble," she said. "Let me help."
He tried to smile. "Yes. It's bad. I want to hide things from you, but
you empty me out. Let me keep a few secrets for a little while. I can't
do it unless you let me."
She nodded.
He took a breath. "I'm afraid to break this moment. I'm remembering
what happened two hours ago."
She shook her head emphatically.
"But I.... But something's got to be written down before I forget it
again. Someone has to go somewhere and get something for me."
"I'll go," Gabby offered.
"No," Lennox said sharply.
She picked up a sketch-pad and pencil from the bed table and looked at
him. Lennox spoke as though each syllable were acid on his lips. "Aimee
Driscoll. 900 East 33rd Street." Suddenly he burst out: "There's worse.
There's going to be worse to remember!"
She came to him and took his face in her hands. "This isn't a moment,
is it?"
"No," he said. "Please God, darling.... No." He pulled her down
alongside him and kissed her until he plunged into a darkness which he
did not fear.