Tell your father to go to hell. Try it. It’s a rotten hard thing to do,
even if he deserves it. Merrill Landon did. He was an out-and-out
bastard, but like most of the breed, he didn’t know it. He said he was a
good father: sensible, firm, and just. He said everything he did was for
Laura’s own good. He took her opposition for a sign that he was right,
and the more she opposed him, the righter he swore he was.
But he was a bastard. Laura could have told you that. But she couldn’t
tell _him_, because he was her father. That was why she ran out on him.
Left him high, dry, and sputtering in his plush Chicago apartment with
only his job to console him. And never told him where she went. Never
told him why.
Never told him of the angry agony of her nights, spent torching for a
love gone wrong. Never mentioned his straight-laced bitter version of
fatherly affection that hurt her more than his fits of temper. He never
kissed her. He never touched her. He only told her, “No, Laura,” and
“You’re wrong, as usual,” and “Can’t you do it right for once?”
She had taken it all her life, but it was the worst the year after she
left school. It was a year of confinement in luxury, of tightly
controlled resentment, of soul-searching. And one rainy night when he
was out at a press dinner, she packed a small bag and went to Union
Station. She bought a ticket to New York City. She could never be free
from herself, but she could be free from her father, and at the moment
that mattered the most.
So she rode out of the big city, wet and cold with its January gloss,
and left behind Merrill Landon, her father. The man in her life. The
only man in her life. The only man she ever seriously tried to love.
All she wanted from New York was a job, a place to live, a friend or
two. As long as she won them herself, without her father’s help, she
would be happy. Much happier than when she had been surrounded with
comfortable leather chairs, sheathed in sleek fine clothes, smelling
like an expensive rose.
In school Laura had studied journalism. She did it to avoid a showdown
with Merrill Landon. He had always taken it for granted that she would
follow his profession, just as if she were a doting son anxious to
imitate a successful father. She accepted his tyranny quietly, but with
a corrosive resentment that he was unaware of. There were times when she
hated him so actively for making a slave of her that he saw it and said,
“Laura, for Chrissake, don’t pout at me! Snap out of it. Act your age.”
Laura was more afraid of loving Landon than leaving him. She was afraid
the yearning in her would flare someday when he gave her one of his rare
smiles. When he said, “Klein says you’re learning fast. Good girl.” And
her knees went weak. But he saved her by quickly adding with embarrassed
sarcasm, “But you messed up the water tower assignment. Jesus, I can
never count on you, can I?”
When things became intolerable she left him at last with no showdown at
all. She had considered going in to tell him about it. Walking into the
library where he was working, where she was expressly forbidden to go in
the evenings, and saying, “Father, I’m leaving you. I’m going to New
York. I can’t stand it here anymore.”
He would have been brilliantly sarcastic. He would have described her to
herself in terms so exaggerated that she would see herself as a
grotesque mistake of nature, a freak in a fun-house mirror. He was not
above such abuse. He had done it to her a few times before. Once, when
she was very young and hadn’t learned to tiptoe around his temper yet,
and once when she quit school.
Not all his threats and tantrums could send her back to school, however.
There was a ghost lurking there that Laura could never face, that Landon
knew nothing about. He was forced to let her stay at home, but he
committed her to journalism at once, and made her work on his paper with
one of his assistants.
Even Laura was surprised when she was able to resist him about returning
to school. She wouldn’t have thought she could stick it out. Especially
when he roared at her, “Why? Why! Why! Why! Answer me, you stubborn
little bitch!” And smashed an ashtray at her feet.
She did not, _could_ not, tell him why. It took all her courage to admit
it even to herself. She simply said, “I won’t go back, Father.”
“Why!”
“I won’t.”
“Why?” It was menacing this time.
“I won’t go back.”
In the end he swore at her and hurt her with the same ugly irrelevant
argument he always used when she resisted him. “You know why you’re
alive today, don’t you? Because I saved you! I dragged you out of the
water and let your mother drown. And your brother. I could only save
one, and it was _you_ I saved! God, what a mistake. My son. My wife!”
And he would turn away, groaning.
“You weren’t trying to save _me_, Father,” she said once. “You just
grabbed the nearest one and swam for shore. You screamed at Mother to
save Rod and then you dragged me to shore. It’s a miracle you saved even
me. You see, I remember it too. I remember it very well.”
He turned a pale furious face to her. “You dare to tell me what _you_
remember? You silly little white-faced girl? You don’t remember
anything? Don’t tell me what you remember!”
So she chose a night when he was out and left him without a word, at the
start of an unfriendly January, and came to New York. Her first thought
was to try to get work on one of the giant dailies. With her experience,
surely they could find something for her. But then she realized her
father was too well known in journalism circles. She hated the thoughts
of his finding her. He had struck her more than once, and his anger with
her sometimes reached such heights that she trembled in terror,
expecting him to brutalize her. But it never went that far.
No, newspapers were out. Magazines were out. It would have to be
something completely divorced from the world of journalism. She studied
the want-ads for weeks. She tried to land a job as receptionist with a
foreign airline, but her French was too poor.
Then, after about two weeks, she found a small ad for a replacement
secretary to a prominent radiologist, someone with experience preferred.
It appealed to her, without her exactly knowing why. She didn’t really
suppose she had much of a chance of getting it and it was silly to try.
Who wanted a temporary job? Most girls were supposed to want security.
But Laura wasn’t like most girls. She was like damn few girls, in fact.
She was a loner: strange, dream-ridden, mildly neurotic, curiously
interesting, like somebody who has a secret.
The next morning she was in the office of Dr. Hollingsworth, talking to
his secretary. The secretary, a tremendously tall girl with big bones, a
friendly face, and a sort of uncomfortable femininity, liked her right
away.
“I’m Jean Bergman,” she said. “Come on in and sit down. Dr.
Hollingsworth isn’t here yet; he gets in at nine.”
Laura introduced herself and said she’d like to have the job. She was a
hard worker. Jean was disposed to believe her, on a hunch. It was one of
those lucky breaks.
“I’ve talked to some other girls,” she said, “but nobody seems to have
had any experience. The girls with training want permanent jobs. So I
guess I’ll just have to find a bright beginner.”
Laura smiled at her. She spoke as if it was settled. “The job will last
till June first, Laura,” Jean went on. “I’ll be gone two months. We’ll
spend the time till then teaching you the routine. Sarah will be coming
in in a minute—she’s the other secretary. There’ll be plenty for the
three of us.” She paused, eying Laura critically. “Well? Do you think
you’d like a crack at it?”
“Yes, I would.” Laura felt her heart lighten.
“Okay.” Jean smiled. “I’m a trusting soul. You strike me as the
efficient type. Of course, I’ll have to introduce you to Dr.
Hollingsworth. You understand. Now don’t let me down, Laura.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Jean.”
“You might make yourself indispensable, you know,” Jean said. “I mean,
they really need three girls around here. If they like you well
enough—well, maybe they’ll keep you on in June. It’s just a chance;
don’t count on it.”
Laura felt really worthwhile for the first time since she left home. She
had never considered turning back, but there had been moments when the
barren want-ads discouraged her and the wet biting weather dragged her
spirits down. Now, the sun was shining through the rain.
* * * * *
It turned out to be a fine office to work in. Doctors have a crazy sense
of humor and they are often tolerant. Dr. Hollingsworth was small and
quiet, quite dignified but tender-hearted. He had two young assistants,
Dr. Carstens and Dr. Hagstrom. They were both fresh from medical
school—pleasant young men. Carstens was married, but with a wildly
roving eye. Every female patient fascinated him, even if he saw no more
than her lungs. Hagstrom had a permanent girl friend named Rosie with
whom he conducted endless conversations on the phone. Both were devoted
to Dr. Hollingsworth and considered themselves lucky to be with him.
Laura fell into the routine rapidly. She was much slower than the other
girls at translating the mumbo-jumbo on the dictaphone at first. She
spent nearly half the time looking up terms in the medical dictionary
and the rest beating the typewriter.
The problem of finding a place to live before the hotel bills broke her
was urgent. She discovered in a hurry, like most newcomers to New York,
that it was a real struggle to find a decent apartment at a decent
price. She asked Jean about it.
“I’m stuck,” she said. “Where do people _live_ in this town?”
“What’s the matter with me?” Jean said. “I should have asked you if you
had a place. I know a girl who’s looking for a roommate. The one she had
just got hitched. I’ll call her.”
Later she told Laura, “I talked to her. She says a couple of gals have
already asked her, but to call if you want to. She hasn’t made up her
mind yet. She’s a doll, you’ll like her. Here’s her number.”
“What’s her name?”
“Marcie Proffitt. _Mrs._ Proffitt.” She laughed at Laura’s
consternation. “She’s divorced,” she said.
Laura called at once.
“I’m at West End and a hundred and first,” Marcie said when Laura got
her. Her voice was low and appealing. Laura hoped she looked like she
sounded. “The penthouse,” Marcie said. “It’s not locked. You have to
walk up the last flight.”
“A penthouse?” Laura said, taken aback. “Jean said—”
“It’s not as fancy as it sounds,” Marcie laughed. “In fact it’s falling
apart. That’s how I can afford it. But it has a wonderful view. Come
over tonight. I’ll give you some dinner. I may be late, though, so I’ll
leave a key for you under the doormat.”
“Thanks, Marcie, I’d like to.” Laura wondered, when she hung up, if
Marcie’s hospitality was always so impulsive.
* * * * *
It was dark and getting windy when Laura got off the subway at 99th
Street. She walked the two blocks up Broadway to 101st, holding her coat
collar close around her throat.
The apartment building was a block off Broadway, up a hill at the corner
of West End Avenue. It had been a chic address once, some years ago,
when West End was an exclusive neighborhood. But it was deteriorating
now, quietly, almost inconspicuously, slipping into the hands of
ordinary people—families with lots of kids and not much money, students,
working girls. And the _haut monde_ was quietly slipping out and heading
for the other side of town.
Laura entered the vestibule. It looked like the reception hall in a
medieval fort. The only light came from a small bare bulb on a desk in
one corner. The whole hall was full of heavy shadows.
Laura found the elevator tucked into a corner and pressed the button.
She swung slowly around on her heels to look at the hall while she
waited. It gave her the shivers.
She climbed into the elevator with misgivings. It looked well used and
little cleaned. There was a paper sticker plastered on the wall above
the button panel saying that it had passed inspection until June of that
year. Laura looked it up and down and wondered if it would last till
June. She reached the twelfth and last floor and walked out into a hall.
To the right of the elevator she found a pair of swinging doors, and
beyond them a steel staircase. She climbed the stairs, her heels
ringing, and found herself in a short dark hall with two doors in it:
one to the penthouse, one to the roof. Laura went out on the roof for a
look.
She walked over the red tiling toward a stone griffin carved on the
railing and looked over it to the city. Below her, around her on all
sides, sparkled New York. It honked and shouted down there, it murmured
and sighed, it blinked and glittered like a gorgeous whore waiting to be
conquered. Laura breathed deep and smiled secretly at it. She could live
with a dank front hall and patched up elevator for a view like this.
It was ten minutes before she went into the dark corridor again and
found the penthouse door. She rang twice and when there was no answer
she fumbled in the darkness for the key under the mat and unlocked the
door. It opened into an unlit living room. Laura went in, shut the door
behind her and stumbled around looking for a light switch. She knocked
something off a table and heard it break before she discovered a lamp in
a far corner and pulled the cord.
The room was small and furnished with bamboo furniture—a couch, an easy
chair, a round cocktail table. There was a console radio against one
wall, and books were lying around on the floor and furniture. There were
a couple of loaded ashtrays and one lay shattered on the floor—Laura’s
fault.
Laura found the switch in the kitchen. It was long and narrow, painted a
garish yellow. Beyond that was the bedroom, with two beds and two
dressers jammed into it, and some shoes and underwear scattered around.
It was bright blue, with two big windows opening onto the roof. The
bathroom was enormous, almost as big as the bedroom, and the same noisy
yellow as the kitchen. All the pipes were exposed and the plumbing
looked as if it were full of bugs.
Laura walked back into the living room and sat down stiffly. She began
to have serious misgivings. This was no place for a civilized girl to
live. Surely in this tremendous city there was an apartment for a girl
that didn’t have an astronomical rent. And where she could eat in
private out of cans.
Suddenly the door burst open and Marcie came in. And Laura forgot her
discomfort.
Marcie smiled. “I’m Marcie. Hi.”
Laura cursed the shyness that tied knots in her tongue.
“How do you like this crazy little palace?” Marcie said, gesturing
grandly around her.
“It’s very nice.”
Marcie laughed, and Laura was struck with the sweet perfection of her
features. Her lips were full and finely balanced; her nose was of medium
length and dainty. Hair with true gold hue that no peroxide can imitate
framed her face and hung nearly to her shoulders. She had the lucky
black lashes and eyebrows that sometimes happen to blondes, and high
color in her cheeks. She was, in short, a lovely looking girl. Laura
smiled at her.
“It’s a hole,” said Marcie. “Don’t be polite. The rent is one thirty a
month.”
Laura gasped.
“I know. It sounds awful. But that’s only sixty-five apiece. And it
includes maid service—so-called. The maid doesn’t pick up a damn thing.
Did you see the rest of the place?”
Laura nodded.
“Discouraged?”
“A little.” Laura followed Marcie awkwardly into the kitchen.
“You’d better know the worst right off,” Marcie went on. “Three other
girls have called wanting to share this place with me.” Laura’s
incredulous face made her laugh. “It’s not that the place is
irresistible,” she explained. “It’s just that apartments are hard to get
in this town. Sit down, Laura.” Laura obeyed her, finding a chair at the
kitchen table while Marcie fussed at the stove. “Have you been here
long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, _that_ place. I was there once with Burr. He was my husband.”
“Oh,” Laura said softly, almost sympathetically, as if Marcie had
announced his demise.
“Well, don’t put on a long face,” Marcie said with a sudden laugh. “He’s
divorced, not dead. It was final last November.” Her face became serious
again and she gave Laura a plate of vegetables and hamburger. “He’s very
nice to know,” Marcie mused. “But hell to live with. Laura, do you
cook?”
“I can’t boil water.”
“Well, I can do that much.”
Marcie lapsed into silence then, her burst of charming vitality spent.
She ate quietly, as if unaware of Laura’s presence, gazing at the table
cloth and forking her food up mechanically. She had withdrawn suddenly
and soundlessly into a private corner where fatigue and secret thoughts
absorbed her.
Laura felt more awkward than ever. She was afraid to interrupt Marcie’s
reverie, but like all shy people she was convinced that if you can just
keep the other person talking everything will be all right. It was an
urge she couldn’t resist. After a few false starts she said, “Have you
been in New York long, Marcie?”
Marcie looked at her, mildly surprised to find her still there. “Yes.
Since we were married.” She spoke absently, turning to her plate.
“When was that?”
“Three years ago.” She came suddenly back to the present. “Laura, did
you ever love a man and hate him at the same time?”
Laura was nonplussed. This was more than she counted on. “Well—I don’t
know exactly.” She wasn’t sure if she had ever loved Merrill Landon. She
knew well enough how she hated him.
“I shouldn’t throw my problems in your face like that, before you get
your dinner down,” Marcie smiled. She reached out and gave Laura’s arm a
pat that made Laura jump a little. “It’s just that that damn character
proposed to me again today. I don’t know what to do with him. I thought
maybe you could give me some advice. Have you ever been married?”
“Me? No,” said Laura emphatically, as if it were a slightly lewd
suggestion. “Who is ‘that character’?”
“Burr. My ex-husband.”
“He wants to marry you again?” It seemed unnatural to Laura. If the
marriage were legally over, physically over, emotionally over, why beat
the carcass?
“Yes. The fool.” Marcie smiled ruefully. “He’s a very persuasive fool,
though.”
Marcie was one of those people with the rare gift of intimacy. You knew
her a few minutes, an hour, a couple of days, and you discovered to your
surprise that you felt close to her. It wasn’t the personal revelations
she couldn’t help making, as much as it was her look, her questions that
asked for Laura’s help. Laura felt curiously like an expert on marital
affairs, and it was so ridiculous that she smiled.
“What’s funny?” Marcie asked.
“You make me feel like Miss Lonelyhearts or something,” Laura said.
Marcie laughed. “You don’t have to give me advice, Laura, just because I
ask for it. I guess you can’t anyway if you’re single. But just for the
hell of it, what would you do if a decent honorable sort of ex-husband
chased you like a demon and swore he’d kill you if you went out with
anybody else?”
“I’d send him to a clinic.”
Marcie shook her head. “He’s healthy. If I didn’t know we’d quarrel
twenty-four hours a day, I’d marry him tomorrow.” She sighed. “I almost
said yes to him today. What’s the matter with me? I’m not a dope. Or am
I?”
“You don’t look like one,” Laura said uncomfortably.
“Poor Laura!” Marcie laughed. “I’m embarrassing you to tears. You make a
good listening post. Come on, finish your hamburger. It didn’t kill me.”
When they cleared up the dishes, Marcie turned on the tap in the sink. A
thin hesitant stream of water was called up after some pitiful groaning
from the pipes. Marcie kicked a pipe under the sink.
“It’s enough to drive you wild!” she exclaimed. “Some nights you have to
wait around till the cows come home before there’s enough to wash
anything in. Oh, here it comes!”
With a scream the pipes vomited steaming water. Marcie looked at Laura
and the little smile on her face widened. Suddenly they were laughing
hilariously. Laura felt the laughter soothing and tickling her tight
muscles, making her relax.
“It hates me,” Marcie said to the sink, grasping the faucets and
rattling them furiously. The stream came to an abrupt halt. She turned
to Laura again. “Do you think you can stand it?” she said.
“I think I can.” Laura knew now why she wanted to move in, but she was
ready to ignore the reason. She would bury it, forget it. It had no
place in her world any more. She would say to herself, and half believe,
that she was moving in simply because apartments were hard to find;
because she could pay the rent on this one; because she and Marcie were
congenial. Period. “What’s your job like?” she asked Marcie casually.
“I’m supposed to be a typist-receptionist,” Marcie said. “But I could
never type very well. Mr. Marquardt doesn’t care, though. He just told
me to make a good impression on his customers and don’t chew gum on the
job. I told him that would be a cinch, and he said, ‘You’re hired.’” She
laughed. “He’s nuts. But it’s a great job. I just sit around most of the
day.”
_With a face like that, I’m not surprised_, Laura thought. It gave her a
bad feeling. Laura worked hard, she tried hard at anything she did. It
was part of her nature. Either you did a thing the whole way or you
didn’t do it at all. It was part of Merrill Landon’s code that had
rubbed off on her. It made her a little jealous to hear this lovely girl
brushing idly over a comfortable job that asked almost nothing of her.
Marcie would not have understood Laura’s feelings at all.
“You’ll get along fine with Burr,” Marcie said, drying her hands on a
towel. “He’s always reading something. Those are his books in there.”
She waved a hand toward the living room. “He brings them over in hopes
that I’ll improve my mind.” She made a face and Laura smiled at her.
“Does he come over a lot?” Laura asked.
“Yes, but don’t worry. He’s harmless. He talks like Hamlet
sometimes—gloomy, I mean—but he’s nice to dogs and children. He has a
parakeet, too. I always think a man who has a parakeet can’t be very
vicious. Besides, I lived with him for two years, and the worst he ever
did to me was spank me one time. We shouted at each other constantly,
but we didn’t hit each other.”
“Sounds restful,” Laura said.
Marcie laughed and went into the bedroom. “See if you think you’ll have
enough room in here,” she called to Laura, who followed her slowly.
“It’s pretty crowded, but the bathroom makes up for it. We could fence
it off and make an extra room of it if we wanted to.”
Laura sat down on one of the beds. “I like it fine, Marcie,” she said.
“I’d like to move in. If you think we’d get along.” She looked at her
lap, confused. She never said these things right. Marcie laughed
good-naturedly and flopped on the bed beside Laura, on her stomach.
Laura had to twist around to see her. “Oh, I can get along with
anybody,” she said. “Even you. I’ll bet you’re terribly hard to get
along with.”
“I don’t think so. I mean—” She never knew when she was being teased
until she had put on a solemn face and felt like an ass. “I’m
impossible,” she said with a smile.
“That settles it!” Marcie exclaimed, sitting up with the pillow crushed
against her bosom.