TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
In the plain text version words in Italics are denoted by _underscores_.
The book cover was modified by the transcriber and has been added to
the public domain.
A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.
Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.
The Table of Contents was added by the transcriber.
* * * * *
IN A YELLOW WOOD
NOVELS BY _Gore Vidal_
IN A YELLOW WOOD
WILLIWAW
IN A
YELLOW WOOD
By
GORE VIDAL
[Illustration]
1947
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1947, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc._
_All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A._
[Illustration]
FIRST EDITION
NO PART _of this book may be reproduced
in any form without permission in writing
from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who wishes to quote brief passages in connection
with a review written for inclusion in
magazine or newspaper or radio broadcast._
_American Book-Stratford Press, Inc., New York_
_For Anais Nin_
_All of the characters, all of the events and
most of the places in this book are fictitious._
CONTENT
Pg.
1 DAY 7
CHAPTER ONE 9
CHAPTER TWO 18
CHAPTER THREE 31
CHAPTER FOUR 46
CHAPTER FIVE 59
CHAPTER SIX 73
CHAPTER SEVEN 86
CHAPTER EIGHT 103
2 NIGHT 113
CHAPTER NINE 115
CHAPTER TEN 143
CHAPTER ELEVEN 166
CHAPTER TWELVE 180
3 THE YELLOW WOOD 195
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 197
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 209
1
DAY
_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller._...
--FROST
From _Collected Poems_ by Robert Frost. Copyright, 1930, 1939, by
Henry Holt and Company, Inc. Copyright, 1936, by Robert Frost.
_Chapter One_
Robert Holton removed several dark hairs from his comb and wondered if
his hairline was receding. He squinted for a moment at himself in the
mirror and decided that he was not losing his hair, not yet anyway.
Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes. He
started to tie the laces of the left shoe when he began to think of his
dream. He had many dreams: of flying through the air, of walking in
empty rooms, of all the standard things that psychiatrists like to hear
about. Unfortunately, in the morning he could seldom recall what he had
dreamed the night before. He would remember the sensation of the dream
but nothing else. He would remember if it had been good or bad but that
was all. Last night his dream had been unpleasant and something in the
room had suddenly recalled it to him.
Robert Holton frowned and tried to remember. Was it the carpet? He had
looked at the carpet while tying his shoe. He looked at it now. The
carpet was dusty and uninteresting. It was a solid brown color; the
same carpet that covered the floor of every hotel room in New York. No,
the carpet was not connected with his dream.
He had been standing at the dresser while combing his hair. He looked
at the dresser: plain dull wood with dull scroll work about the mirror.
On the dresser was a dingy white cloth and on the cloth were a pair
of brushes, his wallet, and a collection of small things. Nothing
suggested an unpleasant dream.
The morning light glowed yellowly through the window shade. There was a
band of brighter light between the bottom of the shade and the window
sill and here the daylight shone into the square room where Robert
Holton lived. He looked at the sunlight a moment and forgot his dream.
He glanced at his watch: fifteen minutes to eight. He had to be at the
office at eight-thirty. Quickly he tied his shoes and got to his feet.
He searched through the bureau drawers for a shirt. He found a white
one and put it on. Before the war he had worn colored shirts but now
plain white ones seemed more sound. And then it was a good idea not to
be too vivid when you worked for a brokerage house.
His tie was pretty, though. It was a striped one, blue and white. Not
a dark sullen blue but a light and casual blue. As he knotted his tie
in front of the mirror he noticed his face was pale. He was always pale
in the morning, of course; still, he looked unhealthy in the city. This
morning he looked paler than usual. There were no pouches under his
eyes, though, and he was glad of that. Robert Holton looked younger
than twenty-six. His features were boyish and undistinguished and
certain women had said that he was handsome. Robert Holton had looked
well in uniform.
He put on his trousers and tightened the belt. Robert Holton, though he
had never been much of an athlete, had a good build. Sitting at desks,
however, would ruin it sooner or later and the thought made him sad.
There was nothing he could do, of course, for he would always sit at
desks.
He picked up his coat from the chair where he had hung it the night
before and put it on. He posed for a moment in front of the mirror.
Perhaps he was not handsome but he was nicer looking than a great many
people and it is better to be nicer looking than a great many people
than to be unusually handsome.
Robert Holton turned from the window and went into the bathroom. His
watch was on the tile floor beside the bathtub where he had left it the
night before. He set the watch by his alarm clock.
Again he tried to recall his dream. On the wall there was a picture
of some apples on a table. A Frenchman had painted the picture twenty
years before. It had been reproduced and the hotel had bought several
copies because they were cheap and because the manager’s wife had
thought the picture pleasant. Robert Holton liked the picture. It
seemed to suggest his dream to him more than anything else in the room.
He studied the picture but he could not remember the dream. The picture
only made him uneasy. He looked away.
He went to the closet and took out his trench coat. He had bought it
when he became a lieutenant three years before.
It was almost eight o’clock now. Robert Holton opened the door of his
room and stepped out into the corridor.
There was a difference in smell. The corridor smelled old and dusty as
though no one had walked down it in years. Robert Holton in the one
year he had lived in this hotel had never seen anyone else come out of
a room. Sometimes he wondered if he might not be the only person living
on this floor, or in this hotel, or in the world.
The ceiling of the corridor was high and he enjoyed walking under such
a high ceiling. He walked to the elevator and pressed the button marked
“Down.”
There was a large pot filled with white sand beside the elevator door.
He had always wanted to put something into that white sand. A cigarette
butt, anything at all to spoil the white smooth surface. One day he
would spit on the sand; he made himself that promise.
There was a clatter as the elevator went past his floor. That always
happened. He pushed the button angrily.
Robert Holton tried to recall what he was supposed to do that day at
the office. He could think of nothing very important that had to be
done. In the afternoon he was supposed to go to a cocktail party and
he looked forward to that. Mrs Raymond Stevanson was giving it and she
was a very proper person to know. She had been a friend of his mother’s
and she had been nice to Robert Holton when his mother had died several
years earlier. His father thought Mrs Raymond Stevanson was stupid but
his father was often harsh and she was, after all, important socially.
When one was starting out in the brokerage business contacts were
important. He began to map his day in detail.
There was a loud rattling and the elevator stopped at his floor. The
door opened and Robert Holton stepped into the elevator.
“Good morning, Mr Holton,” said the elevator boy, a young man in his
middle teens.
“Good morning, Joe. What kind of a day is it?”
“Wonderful out. Real warm for this time of year. Real Indian summer
outside. Real nice weather.”
“That’s fine,” said Robert Holton, glad to hear that the weather was
good.
“Any news on the market?” asked Joe, stopping at the seventh floor.
“Nothing new.” A middle-aged man, tall and thin, came into the
elevator. Robert Holton had seen him almost every day for a year but
they never spoke. The middle-aged man wore a black shiny topcoat and he
carried a large leather brief case in which the outlines of an apple
could be seen.
“I guess there’s nothing for me to put my money in, I guess,” said Joe.
“I shouldn’t advise buying now,” said Robert Holton. It was a daily
joke of theirs. Joe would pretend he had money to invest and wanted
advice.
They stopped at the second floor and another tall thin man in a shiny
black overcoat got into the elevator. This man had a red face, though,
and the other man had a white face. Neither of them ever spoke. Robert
Holton often wondered what they did for a living, whether they had
wives or not.
“Well, here we are,” said Joe, opening the door. “We made it all right
this time.”
“We certainly did.” Robert Holton followed the two older men out of the
elevator and into the lobby.
The lobby was high-ceilinged and old-fashioned. Tropical bushes grew
in buckets and a gray chandelier was suspended from the center of the
ceiling. At the desk sat a faded little woman.
She nodded to Robert Holton and he nodded to her. They never spoke. He
picked up a newspaper from the desk, looked at his mail box to see if
he might have overlooked something the night before. Finding nothing,
he put three cents in a saucer beside the newspapers.
Robert Holton went outside. The morning was clear and cool. There was
a depth, a golden depth in the air. There was no time of the year as
pleasant as autumn, thought Robert Holton; unless it was spring. He
liked spring, too.
He walked down the not yet busy side street where he lived. His
footsteps sounded sharp and loud on the pavement. The brownstone houses
that lined the street seemed large and significant this morning.
Perhaps it was because of the clearness of the day. He noticed details
in the stone that he had never noticed before. For instance, one of
the houses was built of oddly pitted stone. He had seen another place
built of pitted stone. He thought a moment: Notre Dame, the cathedral
in Paris. During the war he had seen it. He had even walked up a great
many winding steps to get to the top. At the top he had noticed the
pitted stone which had proved, somehow or other, that the building was
very old.
Sleepy children were coming out of the houses. They walked down the
street to the bus stop, schoolbooks under their arms. There was a smell
of bacon and coffee in the air and Robert Holton’s stomach contracted
hungrily.
At the end of the street was the subway station. Every morning he
disappeared down it and every evening he came up out of it. He spent a
lot of time in the subway.
He went down the dirty cement steps. He put a nickel into the turnstile
and walked out onto the cement platform. Twenty or thirty men and women
stood on the platform with him, waiting for the downtown train.
The express went crashing by them. The noise of these trains was
terrific. After it had passed he had to yawn several times to clear the
deafness from his ears. Then the local stopped and he got aboard.
He sat next to a stout man who lived in his hotel. Occasionally they
would speak.
“How’s the market?” asked the fat man, deciding not to read his paper.
“The market’s doing fine, should go up.”
“Well, that sure is good news. I’ve a little bit that I’d like to
put in it. I’d like to put it in something safe, though. You know of
something safe? Something that’s going to go way up, say?”
“Well, that’s a hard question. It’s very hard to tell just yet. Sugar’s
doing well,” said Robert Holton. He always said the same things to
these questions. No one cared what he said. They would repeat it to
acquaintances, saying that a friend of theirs in Wall Street had
advised them to buy sugar but they didn’t feel it was such a good buy
at this time.
“You was in the army, weren’t you?” asked the stout man suddenly.
Robert Holton nodded.
“Been out long?”
“Over a year.”
“I’ll bet you was glad to get out. To get away from all those rules and
things, those restrictions. I was in the army in the last war. I guess
the one before last, you’d call it now. I was sure glad to get out.”
“Everyone is,” said Robert Holton and he thought of the things that he
had done in London. He had liked London.
“You went to college, didn’t you?” asked the stout man; he was trying
to clear up something in his mind.
“That’s right.”
“That’s what I thought. Me, I never had the opportunity. I had to go
to work,” said the stout man with pride. “I had to work when I was a
youngster. I never went to college.”
“It’s a good experience,” said Robert Holton, wishing the man would
read his paper and stop asking questions. The train went around a
corner noisily; blue electric sparks sparkled outside the window. Then
the train straightened out again.
“I’m in the grocery business,” said the stout man.
“I know,” said Robert Holton, “we’ve talked about that before.”
“I started right in at the bottom,” said the stout man.
“That’s the best place to start,” said Robert Holton, feeling that
there was no answer to this. He was wrong.
“Well, I don’t know. It’s hard to say. How _did_ you like the
army?”
“It wasn’t bad.”
“It wasn’t good neither. I never got overseas last time, I mean time
before last, but we had it rough in training.”
“I can imagine.” Robert Holton looked away and the stout man stopped
talking. Robert Holton looked at the upper moulding of the car to see
if there were any new advertisements. There weren’t any. His special
favorite, a girl advertising beer, was behind him and he couldn’t see
it. Gloomily he examined a fat red child devouring a piece of bread.
This was the advertisement he liked least. He looked away.
A woman with a small child sat across from him, directly under the
bread advertisement. The woman was heavy with a roll of flesh around
her middle; she wore a tight black dress. The child with her was about
the age of the one in the picture. This child was pale, though, pale
and fat.
A Negro was asleep next to the woman and child. He was long and thin
and his bare ankles and wrists looked like brown wood. Two Jewish
secretaries with yellow hair talked brightly together. They were young
women and wore gaily colored clothes and their plump legs were hairless
and pink.
An old woman with gray hair and deep lines in her face looked at the
two young women and seemed to hate them in a secret womanly manner.
Several young boys, wearing discarded army clothing, sat in a corner,
their schoolbooks beside them. They talked in hoarse changing voices.
Robert Holton could not hear what they were saying but their voices
seemed to speak of sexual things.
The train stopped at a station and the stout man left. Two more stops
and Robert Holton would get off.
The car was beginning to empty. Only the two girls were opposite him.
They still talked brightly and laughed too loudly, conscious that he
was watching them.
The train made its two stops and the girls got off. No one sat opposite
him now. He studied the advertisements.
Then his stop was made. Quickly he got up, his trench coat under his
arm. He went out onto the platform and before the train left he looked
in again through the window. Slightly to the right of where he had been
sitting was the picture of the girl advertising beer. He looked at her
until the train pulled out.
When the train was gone he turned and walked up the dirty cement steps
and as he walked he wished that he had a girl as pretty as the one who
advertised beer.
_Chapter Two_
“Hurry up, Marjorie. Let’s get those tables cleaned up.”
“Yes,” said Marjorie Ventusa, “yes, Mrs Merrin, I certainly will,” she
spoke sweetly, hoping that Mrs Merrin would get the sarcasm in her
voice but Mrs Merrin was already at the other end of the restaurant
talking to another waitress.
Marjorie pushed her natural blonde hair out of her eyes. She was never
able to keep it in order; perhaps she should have it cut shorter, wear
a snood perhaps. Mrs Merrin was watching her, she noticed. Quickly
Marjorie began to put the dirty dishes on her tray.
People were coming in and out of the restaurant. It got a lot of
the less wealthy Wall Street trade. Clerks and secretaries and
stenographers had breakfast and lunch here and the lonelier ones had
supper here. When her tray was full she went back to the kitchen.
On the other side of the swinging doors the cooks, wearing fairly
clean aprons and white hats, were cooking at ranges. There was always
steam and the smell of soap in the air. People shouted at one another
and it was like a war. Marjorie hated the kitchen. The front part of
the restaurant was all right. She had been a waitress off and on for
fifteen years and she didn’t mind noisy people and the clattering of
dishes.
She put some glasses of water on her tray before she left the kitchen.
Then Marjorie Ventusa gave the swinging door a kick and walked back
into the dining room. She had five tables to take care of.
Two women were seated at the table she had just cleared. She could tell
from the backs of their heads that they were secretaries and older
women; this meant they would be very particular and leave a ten-cent
tip for both of them.
“Good morning,” said Marjorie Ventusa, smiling brightly and thinking of
nothing at all. She put the water glasses on the table. The two women
were frowning at their menus.
“How much extra is a large orange juice?” asked one.
“It’s ten cents more if you take it with the breakfast.”
“All right, I’ll take a double orange juice, some toast and coffee. Do
you have any marmalade?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, bring some of that, too.”
The other woman said, “The same for me.” Marjorie Ventusa picked up
their menus. As she was turning to go she saw Robert Holton come into
the restaurant and she was suddenly happy. She smiled at him and he,
seeing her, smiled back. She pointed to one of her tables and he sat
down at it. Quickly she went back to the kitchen to give her orders.
She pushed her hair back from her face and promised herself that she
would get a snood the next day.
Marjorie Ventusa liked Robert Holton. For a year he had been coming
into the restaurant; he always spoke pleasantly to her and they
would joke together. She had never seen him anywhere except in the
restaurant. She knew that he never really noticed her but she was
always glad to see him and she was delighted when he talked to her
and smiled at her; his smile was pleasant and he had nice teeth. She
thought him handsome.
“Good morning, Mr Holton,” she said, putting a glass of water and some
silverware on his table.
“How’re you today, Marjorie? You look perfect.”
“Sure, sure, I do; I’m a real beauty.” Marjorie always felt awkward
with him, as though she couldn’t think of the right words to say. She
was older than he was, too. Marjorie was thirty-seven; she had known a
lot of men and still she was awkward with him.
“What you going to have this morning?” she asked.
“Well....” He drawled the word as he looked at the menu and she had a
strong urge to touch the short dark hairs on the back of his neck. She
tried to think of some excuse to do so. Then she was angry with herself
for having thought of such a thing.
“I guess I’ll have some orange juice and scrambled eggs and bacon.”
“Is that all you going to eat? Why, how you ever going to get big and
strong?”
He laughed. “Not sitting at a desk and eating your cooking.”
“Oh, is that so?” Marjorie Ventusa walked slowly back to the kitchen.
She felt strained as she walked for she could feel he was watching her.
She wished suddenly that her hips weren’t so big and that her legs were
slimmer.
She shouted his order to the cooks, then she took the two secretaries’
breakfasts out to them. They complained bitterly about the size of the
orange juice and one said that it was too sour and the other said that
there were seeds in it.
“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie, “would you like something else?”
They said they would not and acted as if she had grown the oranges
badly and had put seeds in the juice. One of her other tables was full
now and she went and took their order.
Out in the kitchen his breakfast was ready and she put it on her tray.
There were some seeds in the orange juice which she carefully removed
with a spoon.
He was reading his paper when she came back. He didn’t look up as she
arranged the dishes on his table.
“Well, here’s your breakfast,” she said. “You better eat it while it’s
hot.”
“Oh, sure.” Robert Holton folded his paper and laid it on the table.
She watched him as he drank the orange juice.
“Sour, isn’t it?” she asked.
“A little bit, maybe.”
“I’m glad you’re not going to complain. The rest, they all complain all
the time. I get so tired sometimes I could get sick; I get so tired of
listening to them.”
“Just don’t take them seriously. Everybody feels awful in the morning.
You’ve just been awake longer and you feel better than they do, that’s
all.”
Marjorie Ventusa laughed admiringly. “I wouldn’t have ever thought of
that,” she said. “You might be right. Anyway a girl gets pretty tired
of being shouted at all the time like it’s her fault.”
“Well, just relax. I like the food and the service.”
“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound elegant and funny at the same
time.
“When you going to go out dancing with me?” Robert Holton asked,
sawing a piece of bacon in half with a blunt knife.
“I’m pretty busy,” she said; she always said that when he asked her
that question. He would say it because he thought it was funny and she
would answer him as though she thought it was funny too. She wished
that he meant it now. She had always wished that he meant it. “I’m
pretty busy,” she said. “I got so many people asking to go out with me.
You’d have to wait couple of weeks, maybe.”
“I can wait,” he said, smiling at her; smiling the way he would to a
child, she thought suddenly. She watched him eat.
“Marjorie,” said a voice behind her.
“Yes, Mrs Merrin, I’m coming. I’ll be right with you. I was just
cleaning this table.”
Mrs Merrin was tall and stout with a wide loose mouth which she could
make look stern and harsh when she wanted to. She made it look that way
now.
“Marjorie,” she said in a low voice, “you stop your hanging around and
talking to the customers. I tell you I won’t stand for it.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Merrin. I was just cleaning the table.” Mrs Merrin
smiled warmly at Robert Holton and walked away.
“She’s an awful bitch,” said Marjorie Ventusa.
“What did she say?” asked Robert Holton. “I didn’t hear her.”
“She was just running off at the mouth, that’s all. She thought I was
talking too much to you.”
One of her tables called for a check and she walked over quickly and
put their used plates on her tray. Then she went back to the kitchen.
More orders were ready for her. She loaded her tray and went back to
work.
As she worked she watched Robert Holton. It was twenty minutes past
eight and she knew that he had to be at his office at eight-thirty.
She hoped that he would stay as long as possible. His office was only
a block away and he would be able to stay until eight-thirty. He ate
slowly, she knew, and he would read his paper as he ate.
She hurried back to the kitchen. Two waitresses were talking and
laughing together in a corner. They were young and pretty and would
probably marry in another year and never work again; in another year
Marjorie Ventusa would still be waiting on tables.
She stopped in front of the mirror behind the swinging doors. Mrs
Merrin always said that neatness was an important thing.
Marjorie Ventusa rubbed the kitchen steam from the mirror. Her hair was
back in her face again. She pushed it viciously out of her eyes. She
hated its color. It was pale blonde, a real pale blonde. But because
she was getting older and because she was part Italian everyone thought
that she dyed her hair. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have it
colored black. Her eyebrows were dark, thin and dark, and that made the
color of her hair look even more suspicious.
A sailor she had seen several times during the war had told her that
she had a beautiful figure and she had tried to believe him. She was
too heavy, though. Well, she hadn’t been heavy at that time. At least
not quite so heavy as she was now. She wondered what kind of women
Robert Holton liked.
“Marjorie,” said Mrs Merrin. That was all Mrs Merrin said as she walked
by. Marjorie Ventusa was glad. One day she would lose her temper and
get fired.
The mirror had steamed up again. She took her tray and went out into
the dining room. More customers had come. She put glasses of water
and silverware on their tables and took their orders and gave them
instructions in how to order and how to avoid paying extra for what
they wanted.
Robert Holton was halfway through his breakfast. She looked at the
clock over the kitchen doors. It was twenty-seven minutes after eight
o’clock. She would work very hard now to get her orders taken care of
and then she would have a few minutes to talk to him before he left.
She usually couldn’t talk to him at lunch because he was always with
someone else.
Marjorie Ventusa traveled quickly back and forth from kitchen to dining
room and back again. Her hair was hopelessly out of shape now and she
was perspiring.
Finally her last customer was satisfied for the moment. She wandered
casually over to Robert Holton’s table.
“Breakfast good?” she asked.
“Never better.”
“That don’t make it so good.” They laughed. He was always so polite
with her. That was why she liked him, she thought. He was very kind. He
was handsome, too, but that wasn’t as important as being polite. A lot
of fine people were not handsome.
“What’s in the paper?” she asked. She never quite knew what to talk
about when she was with him.
“Not much. The same old stuff. Election stuff mostly.”
“Seems like there’s always an election.”
“There’re a lot of them.”
“I almost don’t read any newspapers. I don’t seem to get time to read
them. I’ll bet you read a lot of them.”
“I have to. I read all about the market.”
“That’s right, you’re in Wall Street. That must be exciting. Working
there where all those big deals are made.”
“They don’t make them where I am.” He laughed. “I’m just another
worker.”
“I thought you were way up in one of the big houses.”
“Well, sort of a clerk which doesn’t pay much. It’s a good way to
starve.”
“You ought to do something different. Suppose you marry some girl....”
“I’m not getting married for a long time.”
“I suppose,” said Marjorie Ventusa calmly, “that you got some nice
society girl all lined up.”
Robert Holton shook his head. “I haven’t any girl anywhere.”
“Isn’t that like life. All the handsome men don’t have girls and they
wonder why so many of us are old maids.”
“You’re not an old maid yet, Marjorie. By the way, what’s your last
name? As long as I’ve known you I’ve never known your last name.”
“Ventusa.” She spelled it for him.
“Italian name?”
“My father was Italian, my mother was Irish.”
“That’s a good combination. I knew a lot of pretty girls when I was in
Italy.”
“Were you there in the war?”
“I was there over a year.”
“I always wanted to travel. I guess I’d rather travel than do
anything. My father, he used to tell me stories about Italy. He came
from Sicily. Were you ever in Sicily?”
“Yes, I was in Sicily.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
“Must be real messed up now.”
“Not too bad. The scenery’s still there.”
“I’m going to go there someday,” said Marjorie Ventusa, knowing that
she never would.
“You’ll like it.”
Mrs Merrin was looking at her and she pretended to be busy at his table.
“Let me get you some more coffee,” she said. She picked up the plates
from his table and put them on her tray. Her arm touched his hand. He
pulled away unconsciously, and she walked back to the kitchen.
She got a cup of coffee for him. Two other orders were ready for her.
She put them on her tray and returned to the dining room.
She noticed a girl was walking over to Robert Holton’s table. She had
seen the girl often before. She worked in Robert Holton’s office.
Occasionally they would have lunch together. She was a pretty girl.
Her hair was dark and her skin white. Her lips were full and painted a
deep red. She had a slim figure and slim legs and her eyes were blue, a
deep vivid blue that Marjorie Ventusa envied. The girl spoke to Robert
Holton. He stood up. Then they both sat down.
Marjorie Ventusa took care of two tables and then she went to Robert
Holton’s table and placed his cup of coffee before him.
“Good morning,” she said to the pretty girl.
“Good morning,” said the pretty girl absently. “I’ll have some
grapefruit juice. That’s all I want. I’m reducing,” she said to Robert
Holton and she patted her slim waist.
“What on earth are you reducing for?”
“You think I look all right this way?” she asked, pretending surprise.
Marjorie Ventusa hurried to the kitchen. She hated this pretty girl.
All day long Robert Holton was with her. Perhaps even at night they
were together. She pushed her blonde hair back out of her face. If
only she had been pretty and young. Of course, she had been young but
she had never been pretty. She was far from old now. They said that if
one wanted something badly enough one would get it. That was foolish;
Marjorie Ventusa had never gotten anything she wanted, except a yellow
satin dress. When she was a child she had wanted a yellow satin dress
and her father had bought her one. The dress was in a box in her closet
now; she had not looked at it in fifteen years. She picked up a glass
of grapefruit juice and put it on her tray.
The pretty girl was laughing when she came back to their table and
Robert Holton was watching her. She wore a gray suit buttoned tightly
across her small breasts.
“Here’s your grapefruit juice.”
“Thank you very much,” said the girl, paying no attention to Marjorie
Ventusa, saying the words mechanically.
The waitress began to clean the table next to Robert Holton’s. She
rubbed the gray damp cloth over the shiny black table-top and she
listened to Robert Holton and the pretty girl as they talked.
“But Caroline” (her name was Caroline then), “I didn’t know you were
expecting me last night.”
“Well, we weren’t really. I just thought you might come on over, that’s
all. We had quite a gang. Jimmy Hammond, he was at Yale about the same
time you were.”
“I went to Harvard.”
“That’s right, you did. Well, you would’ve liked Jimmy Hammond. He was
in the army, too. And there were a whole lot of people around. I just
thought you’d have liked to come.”
“I certainly would’ve but I didn’t remember your inviting me.”
“That’s all right,” said Caroline, drinking her grapefruit juice and
making a face as she did. “God, but this stuff is sour.”
Marjorie Ventusa, having cleaned the shiny black table-top cleaner than
it had ever been before, turned to another table. She was still close
enough to hear what they said.
“What did you do last night, Bobby?” She called him Bobby. Marjorie
Ventusa wondered if she would ever be able to call him that.
“Not a thing. I went home to bed early.”
“Next time I’ll send you an engraved invitation when I want you to come
to the house.”
“You do that. What time’s it getting to be?”
Caroline looked at the clock. “It’s not much after eight-thirty. Let’s
take our time.”
“We don’t want to be too late.”
“You haven’t been around long. Nobody gets there on time. What’re you
bucking for, Mr Holton?”
He grinned at her. Robert Holton had dark blue eyes. Marjorie Ventusa
had never noticed them before. They were beautiful eyes, she thought
suddenly.
One of the waitresses came over to her and said, “Boy, you sure must
like that guy in the corner.”
“What do you mean? What you talking about?”
“Nothing at all. You needn’t get so excited. I was just noticing you
talking to him all the time. I couldn’t help noticing, Marjorie. You
was there so long talking to him.”
“He comes in here a lot and we talk, that’s all. I hope _you_
don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all, Marjorie. I was just kidding you.”
Marjorie Ventusa picked up a cup of coffee and went back to the dining
room. The waitress had irritated her. She didn’t want anyone to think
that she would fall for a man at least ten years younger than she
was. Well, perhaps not ten years. Robert Holton could be thirty. The
difference between thirty and thirty-seven was not so great.
She walked over to Robert Holton’s table. They were talking.
“I don’t see what you have against Dick. He’s an awful nice fellow.”
“I don’t have anything against him. He just doesn’t like me. He thinks
I’m trying to get his job.”
“Well, are you?”
Robert Holton smiled. “I don’t want anything; didn’t you know that?”
“Well, aren’t you the saint. You mean you wouldn’t like to take his
job? Not even if it was offered to you?”
“I suppose if it were easier to take a job than refuse it I’d take the
job. I’m easy to please.”
Caroline sighed. “You’re easy to please. I guess that’s what war does
to you.”
“I was always like that. I was like that at college.”
“Just lazy?”
“Just lazy.”
“Good Lord, it’s almost nine! We have to get out of here.”
Robert Holton waved to Marjorie Ventusa. She came over to their table
slowly. She didn’t want him to leave any sooner than he had to.
“Got my check, Marjorie?”
“I’ll get it for you.” She went to the cashier and had his check
totalled for him. Then she brought it back and he paid her, leaving a
ten-cent tip under his water glass.
Caroline stood up and put her gray coat about her shoulders. Robert
Holton picked up his trench coat and slung it over his arm.
“I’ll see you at lunch, Marjorie,” he said.
“See you,” said Marjorie Ventusa and she watched them as they went out
the door into the bright autumn morning.
“Say, Marjorie,” said one of her regular customers, “how about some
more coffee.”
“O.K., O.K.,” she said.
“When are you going to get those tables cleaned?” said Mrs Merrin who
was back in Marjorie Ventusa’s corner. “I wish you’d try to get them
done right after the customers leave. I wish you’d make some effort,
Marjorie.”
“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie Ventusa.
She began to clear Robert Holton’s table.
“What about my coffee?” asked the customer. “When I going to get it?”
“Right away.” Marjorie Ventusa finished cleaning Robert Holton’s table.
Almost sadly she pocketed the ten-cent tip which he had left under the
water glass.
_Chapter Three_
The elevator door opened and Caroline Lawson and Robert Holton stepped
out of it and into the New York office of Heywood and Golden, members
of the New York Stock Exchange and other organizations equally sound.
The entrance hall was modern and dignified. The walls were clean and
white and there was a thick carpet on the floor. Two heavy leather
couches furnished the entrance. A dark genteel girl sat behind a
reception desk.
“Good morning, Caroline,” she said in a nasal voice. “Good morning,
Bob.”
“Hello, Ruth,” said Robert Holton, and Caroline Lawson smiled at her.
“Anything new?” asked Robert Holton.
“Not a thing, Bob, not a thing. Everything’s just as dull as ever. Of
course, it’s still early.”
“Sure,” said Caroline, amused at the thought of anything interesting
happening to them, “the day’s just started.”
“Is the boss in yet?” asked Robert Holton. He was terribly afraid
of getting in bad, thought Caroline, looking at him. He was rather
cowardly but nice. Perhaps having been in the war had changed him.
Perhaps he would improve.
Ruth shook her head. “No, he’s not in yet. He hasn’t come in yet. He’s
always late, Mr Murphy is.” Mr Murphy was the head of the Statistical
Section where Robert Holton worked. Caroline was Mr Murphy’s secretary.
“Well, I’m glad,” said Robert Holton.
“You certainly _are_ eager,” said Ruth, looking up at him, her
head slightly to one side: the way that movie actresses looked.
Robert Holton laughed. “I guess I am.”
“And after all you’ve been through, too! Why, if I’d seen what you’ve
seen I wouldn’t worry what nob ... anybody thought.”
“That’s what I used to say,” said Robert Holton.
“Come on, Bob,” said Caroline. “Let’s get back to the salt mine.”
Ruth nodded to them and they walked into a long room. On one side of
the room were the doors of offices; the other side was covered with
tremendous pictures of factories and ships and railroads. The pictures
were Mr Golden’s idea. He wanted to explain to customers the real
meaning of the stocks they were buying. Mr Golden always wanted people
to feel that the stock market was a creative, a productive thing.
Women of all ages sat typing at small desks in the long room. The light
was indirect and modern and very even. One could see that Heywood and
Golden was a well-organized house.
People murmured good mornings to Caroline and Robert Holton as they
walked together between the desks. At the end of the room there was a
glass door behind which were a large blackboard, ticker tape machines,
and men recording the prices of the various stocks.
“Look busy, don’t they?” commented Caroline.
“They certainly do. I wouldn’t have that job for anything.”
“I think it’d be sort of exciting.”
“Too much running around for me. I like to sit still.”
“It takes,” said Caroline, “all kinds to make up a world.”
“Isn’t that lucky?” said Robert Holton and Caroline didn’t know whether
he was laughing at her or not. Sometimes he bothered her. She liked
him. Almost everybody did because he was nice-looking and quiet. He was
weak, though, she thought. She didn’t like a man to be weak. She wanted
someone that she could lean on. Caroline Lawson was one of those pretty
girls who could never bear weak men and yet, by nature, hated those who
were stronger.
They stood and watched the ticker tape machines through the glass door.
A tall white-faced boy was slowly marking figures on the blackboard.
He stood on a small stepladder and as he wrote the figures his left
foot tapped regularly and rhythmically on the top step of the ladder.
Caroline wondered what tune he was making.
“You like to dance, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.
“What? Dance? Sure, I like to dance. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking, that’s all. I like to dance a
whole lot. When I was at college we used to have wonderful dances.”
Robert Holton laughed. “That wasn’t so long ago, when you were at
college. Don’t you go out any more?”
“Of course I do. You know I do, all the time, and I’m not trying to get
you to ask me out either.”
He laughed at her and that was all.
Caroline looked at him and tried to guess what he was thinking. He was
probably thinking that she was very pretty and that he would like to
ask her to go out with him. She wouldn’t go out with him, he knew. Not
now, not after she had said these things. Later, perhaps, when they had
forgotten the words she had said. Caroline sighed as she thought of her
own strength and of his weakness.
“Let’s get back to the office,” said Holton.
They walked down a short corridor. At the end of the corridor was the
Statistical room. Here a dozen men and women worked at desks. They
compiled figures for the executives and the customers and everyone else
in the house.
Through a noise of automatic welcomes, Caroline and Robert Holton went
into the office. Most of the desks were on the side of the room away
from the windows. The windowed end of the room was protected by a
railing; behind the railing was Mr Murphy’s desk and at a respectful
distance from his desk was Caroline Lawson’s.
“See you later, Bob,” said Caroline and she opened the door of the
railing and went into the windowed section of the room. She let the
door swing creakily shut and went to her desk. Glancing sideways, she
watched Robert Holton go to his desk at the other end of the office.
Then she sat down.
The desk was neat. A new blotter was in the center. An inkwell, without
ink in it, and a penholder, without a pen in it, held the top of the
blotter down. A slim imitation silver vase sat on one corner of the
desk. Occasionally Mr Murphy would put a flower in the vase and she
would smile at him when he did that and Mr Murphy would wink at her.
One of the two phones on her desk rang. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” Someone asked for Mr Murphy. “He isn’t in right now; shall I
have him call you? You’ll call back later? Thank you.” She cleared her
throat, cleared her professional telephone voice away.
She moved the blotter to one end of the desk. Then she lifted the front
of her desk and a typewriter appeared. She ran her fingers over the
keys, professionally, like a pianist before he begins to play.
She opened the left-hand top drawer of the desk. This was her personal
drawer. Here were several compacts in various stages of use. A slightly
crushed box of pale green Kleenex, a carton of cigarettes, and a box of
fairly expensive candy. The lid of the candy box was off and Caroline
Lawson decided that, since her breakfast had been small, a little candy
wouldn’t hurt her. She picked the largest piece and put it in her mouth.
“Good morning, Caroline. How’s the girl?” It was Mr Murphy.
Caroline swallowed quickly. “Fine, fine, Mr Murphy. How’re you today?”
“Me? I’m just fine today. Certainly is a wonderful day today. Makes
you feel like going out in the country somewhere. Out to Long Island
or some place like that. Go some place to get away from the city.” Mr
Murphy sighed. He had spent all his life in the city and he wanted to
go live in the country. He would not like the country, of course, but
then he would never leave the city and it made no difference.
“Look what I brought you,” said Mr Murphy. He pulled a slightly rumpled
white carnation from his buttonhole. “We had a big blowout at the Astor
last night. It was quite a show we had.”
“Thank you,” said Caroline, smiling at him. She smelled the white
flower; a strong odor of cigar smoke spoiled the scent. “Thank you,”
she said again and she put the white flower in the tall vase.
“Any calls? Anything new?”
“You had one call. No message, though. The man said he’d call back
later.”
“Good.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk.
There was a pile of letters on his desk. Very precisely he cut the
letters open one by one. Caroline watched him with a mixture of
admiration and dislike.
Oliver L. Murphy was a tall man. He was heavy but not in the usual
manner. His arms and legs and neck were long and thin and his hips were
narrow; his stomach and chest, however, were massive. He held himself
erect. His face was red as all Irishmen’s faces are supposed to be. His
eyes and hair were dark and he had a thick curved nose. Mr Murphy’s
clothes fitted him well. They were usually of a somber color and always
correct. His cuffs were beautifully starched.
For five years Caroline Lawson had been his secretary. Her first job
had been as his secretary; her last job, too, she thought to herself:
she would be married soon and that would be the end of typing and
putting cigar-scented flowers in fake silver vases. Caroline Lawson was
not sure whom she would marry but she would certainly get married to
someone soon.
Mr Murphy finished reading his letters.
“Anything important?” asked Caroline.
Mr Murphy shook his head. “Not much of anything. We got one letter here
I ought to answer.”
“I’ll get my pad.” Caroline picked up a lightly ruled pad of paper
from her desk. Then she went over and sat down in a chair beside Mr
Murphy’s desk. She sat close to the window so that the morning sunlight
would warm her. As she sat down bits of dust vibrated up into the
sunlight from her chair seat. The motes of dust danced and glittered
and then slowly sank along the beams of light to the floor.
“I’m ready,” said Caroline Lawson.
Mr Murphy cleared his throat and looked helplessly about him. It was
his usual beginning. Then he picked up the letter he was to answer. He
waited a moment for the words to come to him.
“Dear,” he began. She made the figure for the word. He paused, studying
the ceiling. He began again, “Dear Mr Lachum, In reply to your letter
of the 16th, etc., etc....” He stopped and closed his eyes; this seemed
to help. “I cannot, I fear, agree with you in your analysis of certain
trends now at work ... no, now abroad ... in the financial world.” His
voice became firm and concise, “Although I have the greatest personal
esteem for the opinions of yourself and associates, uh, in re to the
stock market, I must, in this instance, disagree with you, for I am of
the opinion that this is a rising market and will continue to be so.
All statistics at hand ... no, available, point to just that. Hoping to
hear from you again, and so on.” Mr Murphy stopped and opened his eyes.
He looked pleased and exhilarated.
“That’s a very nice letter, Mr Murphy. Knowing Mr Lachum, I think you
were certainly nice to him.”
“Well, it never does to offend people, Caroline. That’s a rule with me.
That’s something I’ve always followed. I wouldn’t be here today if I
hadn’t been that way.” He paused and they both thought of a world where
there was no Mr Murphy because he had offended people.
“All right, let’s hear that letter back.”
Caroline read the letter. Mr Murphy listened, pleased.
“That’s fine,” he said when she had finished. “Type it up please.”
Caroline went back to her desk. The sunlight and the glittering
dust were almost out of the room now. Soon they would turn on the
fluorescent lights over their desks. Caroline sometimes wished that the
morning would last all day.
Caroline put a piece of paper in her typewriter. She started to type;
then she remembered that all letters must be done in triplicate. She
pulled the sheet of paper out of the machine. Wearily, enjoying her
weariness, she arranged more paper in the typewriter.
Her fingers moved swiftly over the keys. She made rhythms as she typed,
as the keys clattered on the white paper.
In a few minutes she was finished.
“Very nice,” said Mr Murphy, looking over her shoulder. “Very nice,
indeed. I’ll sign that now.”
“O.K.” Caroline took the papers out of the typewriter. She removed
the carbon. Mr Murphy signed the letter carefully. During the last
five years Caroline had watched Mr Murphy’s signature change. It was
becoming more original; the upstrokes were stronger and the “M” was
becoming regal.
She blotted his signature. “What’ll I do next?” she asked.
“I expect you’d better get on those reports for Mr Golden. He was
asking for them yesterday.”
“What _does_ he think we are? We were only told to do those
reports last week. That takes a lot of time. I don’t see what he’s
always in such a rush for.”
“Well, you know how some people are,” said Mr Murphy, meaning much more
than he said.
Caroline nodded wisely. Mr Murphy was often opposed to Mr Golden’s
business ideas. Mr Heywood, who had inherited a lot of money and
never bothered much with business, was Mr Murphy’s friend. Mr Golden
was a promoter who had become a partner several years before. The
conservative element of the house stood firmly against him but his hold
over Mr Heywood was equally firm.
“I’ll get to work on it right away,” said Caroline.
“Good, I think I’ll go up to the front office. If there’re any calls
tell them I’ll call back.”
“Yes, Mr Murphy.”
Smoothly Mr Murphy moved across the room. All of his movements were
smooth and swift. He opened the swinging gate that separated him from
his staff. They didn’t look up from their work as he walked between the
desks toward the hall.
Caroline took more paper out of her desk and put it in her typewriter.
She opened a black notebook. Slowly she began to copy. After a minute
or so she stopped. She wasn’t concentrating and she didn’t know what
was wrong.
Caroline Lawson leaned back in her swivel chair and her arms dropped
limply at her sides. The sunlight was gone out of the room and she
could no longer see the dust in the light.
Far away she could hear the sounds of automobile horns blowing, of
newsboy shouts in the street; and, from time to time, their building
would rumble as a train passed underground.
Closer to her were the sounds of the office. The clattering of
typewriters, the constant low buzz of voices; these were the sounds of
her days. Caroline was dissatisfied.
Across the room she could see Robert Holton writing something in a
black book. She pitied him because he seemed to really like what he was
doing. But then it was better than being a soldier: probably anything
was better than that. But then Robert Holton wasn’t a woman. That made
a lot of difference, thought Caroline. He couldn’t be depressed by
things the way she was. Men were never sensitive about such things. She
had a _malaise_. Having thought of this word, she was pleased with
it. The word described her sudden fits of depression.
Robert Holton closed the book on his desk. He looked about him
uncertainly. Then he stood up and walked toward her. He was
presentable, she thought. Certainly better looking than anyone else in
Heywood and Golden, but he was not what she wanted at all. Also, there
was some doubt in her mind that Robert Holton was interested in her.
“How’s it going, Caroline?”
“I’m slowed up.” She sighed loudly and wilted in her chair.