MARGO DOWLING 5 страница

"Your parents are . . . have been called away, I be-
lieve, Mr. Anderson," put in Mrs. Wheatley. Charley
nodded. "Oh, I'm so sorry. . . . They were from St.
Paul, Gladys says . . ."

Mr. Wheatley was talking again. "Mr. Anderson,
Mother, was one of our most prominent war aces, he won
his spurs fightin' for the flag, Mother, an' his whole career
seems to me to be an example . . . now I'm goin' to make
you blush, ma boy. . . . of how American democracy
works at its very best pushin' forward to success the most
intelligent and bestfitted and weedin' out the weaklin's.
. . . Mr. Anderson, there's one thing I'm goin' to ask
you to do right now. I'm goin' to ask you to come to
church with us next Sunday an' address ma Sundayschool
class. I'm sure you won't mind sayin' a few words of in-
spiration and guidance to the youngsters there."

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Charley blushed and nodded. "Aw, Daddy," sang
Gladys, putting her arms around both their necks, "don't
make him do that. Sunday's the only day the poor boy gets
any golf. . . . You know I always said I never would
marry a Sundayschool teacher."

Mr. Wheatley laughed and Mrs. Wheatley cast down
her eyes and sighed. "Once won't hurt him, will it, Char-
ley?""Of course not," Charley found himself saying. "It
would be an inspiration."

Next day Charley and Mr. Wheatley had lunch alone
at the University Club. "Well, son, I guess the die is cast,"
said Mr. Wheatley when they met in the lobby. "The
Wheatley women have made up their minds, there's
nothin' for us to do but bow to the decision. I certainly
wish you children every happiness, son. . . ." As they ate
Mr. Wheatley talked about the bank and the Tern inter-
ests and the merger with Askew-Merritt that would a
little more than double the capitalization of the new Tern
Aviation Company. "You're surprised that I know all
about this, Charley . . . that's what I'd been thinkin',
that boy's a mechanical genius but he don't keep track of
the financial end . . . he don't realize what his holdin's
in that concern mean to him and the financial world."

"Well, I know some pretty good guys who give me the
lowdown," said Charley.

"Fair enough, fair enough," said Mr. Wheatley, "but
now that it's in the family maybe some of ma advice, the
result of twenty years of bankin' experience at home in
Birmingham and here in this great new dazzlin' city of
Detroit . . ."

"Well, I sure will be glad to take it, Mr. Wheatley,"
stammered Charley.

Mr. Wheatley went on to talk about a lot on the water-
front with riparian rights at Grosse Pointe he was plan-
ning to turn over to the children for a weddingpresent
and how they ought to build on it right away if only as an

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investment in the most restricted residential area in the
entire United States of America. "And, son, if you come
around to ma office after lunch you'll see the plans for the
prettiest little old English house to set on that lot you
ever did see. I've been havin' 'em drawn up as a surprise
for Mother and Gladys, by Ordway and Ordway. . . .
Halftimbered Tudor they call it. I thought I'd turn the
whole thing over to you children, as it'll be too big for
Mother and me now that Gladys is gettin' married. I'll
chip in the lot and you chip in the house and we'll settle
the whole thing on Gladys for any children."

They finished their lunch. As they got up Mr. Wheat-
ley took Charley's hand and shook it. "And I sincerely
hope and pray that there'll be children, son."

Just after Thanksgiving the society pages of all the De-
troit papers were full of a dinnerdance given by Mr. and
Mrs. Horton B. Wheatley to announce the approaching
marriage of their daughter Gladys to Mr. Charles Ander-
son inventor war ace and head of the research department
at the great Tern Airplane Plant.

Old Bledsoe never spoke to Charley after the day the
engagement was announced but Anne came over to Char-
ley and Gladys the night of the Halloween dance at the
Country Club and said she thoroughly understood and
wished them every happiness.

A few days before the wedding Taki gave notice. "But
I thought you would stay on. . . . I'm sure my wife
would like it too. Maybe we can give you a raise." Taki
grinned and bowed. "It is regrettable," he said, "that I
experience only bachelor establishments . . . but I wish
you hereafter every contentment."

What hurt Charley most was that when he wrote Joe
Askew asking him to be his bestman, he wired back only
one word: "No."

The wedding was at the Emmanuel Baptist Church.
Charley wore a cutaway and new black shoes that pinched

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his toes. He kept trying to remember not to put his hand
up to his tie. Nat Benton came on from New York to be
bestman and was a great help. While they were waiting in
the vestry Nat pulled a flask out of his pants pocket and
tried to get Charley to take a drink. "You look kinda
green around the gills, Charley." Charley shook his head
and made a gesture with his thumb in the direction from
which the organ music was coming. "Are you sure you got
the ring?" Nat grinned and took a drink himself. He
cleared his throat. "Well, Charley, you ought to con-
gratulate me for picking a winner. . . . If I could spot
the market like I can spot a likely youngster I'd be in the
money right now."

Charley was so nervous he stammered. "Did . . .
don't worry, Nat, I'll take care of you." They both laughed
and felt better. An usher was already beckoning wildly at
them from the vestry door.

Gladys in so many satinwhite frills and the lace veil and
the orangeblossoms, with a little boy in white satin hold-
ing up her train, looked like somebody Charley had never
seen before. They both said "I will" rather loud without
looking at each other. At the reception afterwards there
was no liquor in the punch on account of the Wheatleys.
Charley felt halfchoked with the smell of the flowers and
of women's furs and with trying to say something to all
the overdressed old ladies he was introduced to, who all
said the same thing about what a beautiful wedding. He'd
just broken away to go upstairs to change his clothes when
he saw Ollie Taylor, very tight, trip on a Persian rug in
the hall and measure his length at the feet of Mrs. Wheat-
ley who'd just come out of the receptionroom looking very
pale and weepy in lavender and orchids. Charley kept
right on upstairs.

In spite of the wedding's being dry, Nat and Farrell
had certainly had something, because their eyes were shin-
ing and there was a moist look round their mouths when

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they came into the room where Charley was changing into
a brown suit for traveling. "Lucky bastards," he said.
"Where did you get it? . . . Gosh, you might have kept
Ollie Taylor out."

"He's gone," said Nat. They added in chorus, "We at-
tend to everything."

"Gosh," said Charley, "I was just thinkin' it's a good
thing I sent my brother in Minneapolis and his gang in-
vitations too late for 'em to get here. I can just see my
old Uncle Vogel runnin' around pinchin' the dowagers in
the seat and cryin' hochheit."

"It's too bad about Ollie," said Nat. "He's one of the
besthearted fellers in the world."

"Poor old Ollie," echoed Charley. "He's lost his grip."

There was a knock on the door. It was Gladys, her little
face pale and goldenhaired and wonderfullooking in the
middle of an enormous chinchilla collar. "Charley, we've
got to go. You naughty boy, I don't believe you've looked
at the presents yet."

She led them into an upstairs sittingroorn stacked with
glassware and silver table articles and flowers and smoking-
sets and toiletsets and cocktailshakers until it looked like a
departmentstore. "Aren't they sweet?" she said. "Never
saw anythin' like it in my life," said Charley. They saw
some guests coming in at the other end and ran out into
the back hall again. "How many detectives have they
got?" asked Charley. "Four," said Gladys.

"Well, now," said Charley. "We vamoose."

"Well, it's time for us to retire," chorused Farrell and
Nat suddenly doubled up laughing. "Or may we kiss the
bride?"

"Check," said Charley. "Thank all the ushers for me."

Gladys fluttered her hand. "You are dears . . . go
away now."

Charley tried to hug her to him but she pushed him

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away. "Daddy's got all the bags out the kitchen door. . . .
Oh, let's hurry. . . . Oh, I'm almost crazy."

They ran down the back stairs and got into a taxi with
their baggage. His was pigskin; hers was shiny black. The
bags had a new expensive smell. Charley saw Farrell and
Nat come out from under the columns of the big colonial
porch but before they could throw the confetti the taxi-
driver had stepped on the gas and they were off.

At the depot there was nobody but the Wheatleys, Mrs.
Wheatley crying in her baggy mink coat, Mr. Wheatley
orating about the American home whether anybody lis-
tened or not. By the time the train pulled out Gladys was
crying too and Charley was sitting opposite her feeling
miserable and not knowing how the hell to begin.

"I wish we'd flown."

"You know it wouldn't have been possible in this
weather," said Gladys and then burst out crying again.

To have something to do Charley ordered some dinner
from the diningcar and sent the colored porter to get a
pail of ice for the champagne.

"Oh, my nerves," moaned Gladys, pressing her gloved
hands over her eyes.

"After all, kid, it isn't as if it was somebody else.
It's just you and me," said Charley gently.

She began to titter. "Well, I guess I'm a little silly."

When the porter grinning and respectfully sympathetic
opened the champagne she just wet her lips with it. Char-
ley drank off his glass and filled it up again. "Here's how,
Glad, this is the life." When the porter had gone Charley
asked her why she wouldn't drink. "You used to be quite
a rummy out at the countryclub, Glad."

"I don't want you to drink either."

"Why?"

She turned very red. "Mother says that if the parents
get drunk they have idiot children."

"Oh, you poor baby," said Charley, his eyes filling with

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tears. They sat for a long time looking at each other while
the fizz went out of the champagne in the glasses and the
champagne slopped out onto the table with the jolting of
the train. When the broiled chicken came Gladys couldn't
eat a bite of it. Charley ate both portions and drank up the
champagne and felt he was acting like a hog.

The train clanked and roared in their ears through the
snowy night. After the porter had taken away the supper-

dishes Charley took off his coat and sat beside her and
tried to make love to her. She'd only let him kiss her and
hug her like they'd done before they were married. When
he tried to undo her dress she pushed him away. "Wait,
wait."

She went into the lavatory to get into her nightdress.
He thought he'd go crazy she took so long. He sat in his
pyjamas in the icy gritty flaw of wind that came in through
the crack of the window until his teeth were chattering. At
last he started to bang on the door of the toilet. "Anything
wrong, Glad? What's the matter, darlin'?"

She came out in a fluffy lace negligee. She'd put on too
much makeup. Her lips were trembling under the greasy
lipstick. "Oh, Charley, don't let's tonight on the train, it's
so awful like this."

Charley felt suddenly uncontrollably angry. "But you're
my wife. I'm your husband, God damn it." He switched off
the light. Her hands were icy in his. As he grabbed her to
him he felt the muscles of his arms swelling strong behind
her slender back. It felt good the way the lace and silk tore
under his hands.

Afterwards she made him get out of bed and lie on the
couch wrapped in a blanket. She bled a great deal. Neither
of them slept. Next day she looked so pale and the bleed-
ing hadn't stopped and they were afraid they'd have to
stop somewhere to get a doctor. By evening she felt better,
but still she couldn't eat anything. All afternoon she lay
halfasleep on the couch while Charley sat beside her hold-

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ing her hand with a pile of unread magazines on his knees.

It was like getting out of jail when they got off the train
at Palm Beach and saw the green grass and the palmtrees
and the hedges of hibiscus in flower. When she saw the
big rooms of their corner suite at the Royal Poinciana,
where she'd wanted to go because that was where her
father and mother had gone on their weddingtrip, and the
flowers friends had sent that filled up the parlor, Gladys
threw her arms round his neck and kissed him even before
the last bellboy had got out of the room. "Oh, Charley,
forgive me for being so horrid." Next morning they lay
happy in bed side by side after they'd had their breakfast
and looked out of the window at the sea beyond the palm-
trees, and smelt the freshness of the surf and listened to
it pounding along the beach. "Oh, Charley," Gladys said,
"let's have everything always just like this."

Their first child was born in December. It was a boy.
They named him Wheatley. When Gladys came back
from the hospital instead of coming back to the apartment
she went into the new house out at Grosse Pointe that still
smelt of paint and raw plaster. What with the hospital ex-
penses and the furniture bills and Christmas, Charley had
to borrow twenty thousand from the bank. He spent more
time than ever talking over the phone to Nat Benton's
office in New York. Gladys bought a lot of new clothes
and kept tiffanyglass bowls full of freezias and narcissus
all over the house. Even on the dressingtable in her bath-
room she always had flowers. Mrs. Wheatley said she got
her love of flowers from her grandmother Randolph, be-
cause the Wheatleys had never been able to tell one flower
from another. When the next child turned out to be a girl,
Gladys said, as she lay in the hospital, her face looking
drawn and yellow against the white pillows, beside the
great bunch of glittering white orchids Charley had or-
dered from the florist at five dollars a bloom, she wished

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she could name her Orchid. They ended by naming her
Marguerite after Gladys's grandmother Randolph.

Gladys didn't recover very well after the little girl's
birth and had to have several small operations that kept
her in bed three months. When she got on her feet she had
the big room next to the nursery and the children's nurse's
room redecorated in white and gold for her own bedroom.
Charley groused about it a good deal because it was in the
other wing of the house from his room. When he'd come
over in his bathrobe before turning in and try to get into
bed with her, she would keep him off with a cool smile,
and when he insisted, she would give him a few pecking
kisses and tell him not to make a noise or he would wake
the babies. Sometimes tears of irritation would start into
his eyes. "Jesus, Glad, don't you love me at all?" She
would answer that if he really loved her he'd have come
home the night she had the Smyth Perkinses to dinner in-
stead of phoning at the last minute that he'd have to stay
at the office.

"But, Jesus, Glad, if I didn't make the money how
would I pay the bills?"

"If you loved me you'd be more considerate, that's all,"
she would say and two curving lines would come on her
face from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth like the
lines on her mother's face and Charley would kiss her
gently and say poor little girl and go back to his room
feeling like a louse. Times she did let him stay she lay so
cold and still and talked about how he hurt her, so that
he would go back to the tester bed in his big bedroom
feeling so nervous and jumpy it would take several stiff
whiskies to get him in shape to go to sleep.

One night when he'd taken Bill Cermak, who was now
a foreman at the Flint plant, over to a roadhouse the other
side of Windsor to talk to him about the trouble they were
having with molders and diemakers, after they'd had a
couple of whiskies, Charley found himself instead asking

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Bill about married life. "Say, Bill, do you ever have trou-
ble with your wife?"

"Sure, boss," said Bill, laughing. "I got plenty trouble.
But the old lady's all right, you know her, nice kids good
cook, all time want me to go to church."

"Say, Bill, when did you get the idea of callin' me
boss? Cut it out."

"Too goddam rich," said Bill.

"S---t, have another whiskey." Charley drank his down.
"And beer chasers like in the old days. . . . Remember
that Christmas party out in Long Island City and that
blonde at the beerparlor. . . . Jesus, I used to think I was
a little devil with the women. . . . But my wife she don't'
seem to get the idea."

"You have two nice kids already; what the hell, maybe
you're too ambitious."

"You wouldn't believe it . . . only once since little
Peaches was born."

"Most women gets hotter when they're married a while.
. . . That's why the boys are sore at your damned effi-
ciency expert."

"Stauch? Stauch's a genius at production."

"Maybe, but he don't give the boys any chance for re-
production." Bill laughed and wiped the beer off his
mouth.

"Good old Bill," said Charley. "By God, I'll get you on
the board of directors yet."

Bill wasn't laughing any more. "Honestly, no kiddin'.
That damn squarehead make the boys work so hard they
can't get a hard on when they go to bed, an' their wives
raise hell with 'em. I'm strawboss and they all think son-
ofabitch too, but they're right."

Charley was laughing. "You're a squarehead yourself,
Bill, and I don't know what I can do about it, I'm just an
employee of the company myself. . . . We got to have

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efficient production or they'll wipe us out of business.
Ford's buildin' planes now."

"You'll lose all your best guys. . . . Slavedrivin' may
be all right in the automobile business, but buildin' an air-
plane motor's skilled labor."

"Aw, Christ, I wish I was still tinkerin' with that damn
motor and didn't have to worry about money all the time.
. . . Bill, I'm broke. . . . Let's have another whiskey."

"Better eat."

"Sure, order up a steak anythin' you like. Let's go
take a piss. That's one thing they don't charge for. . . .
Say, Bill, does it seem to you that I'm gettin' a potbelly?
. . . Broke, a potbelly, an' my wife won't sleep with me.
. . . Do you think I'm a rummy, Bill? I sometimes think
I better lay off for keeps. I never used to pull a blank when
I drank."

"Hell, no, you smart young feller, one of the smartest,
a fool for a threepoint landing and a pokerplayer . . . my
God."

"What's the use if your wife won't sleep with you?"

Charley wouldn't eat anything. Bill ate up both their
steaks. Charley kept on drinking whiskey out of a bottle
he had under the table and beer for chasers. "But tell me
. . . your wife, does she let you have it any time you want
it? . . . The guys in the shop, their wives won't let 'em
alone, eh?"

Bill was a little drunk too. "My wife she do what I
say."

It ended by Bill's having to drive Charley's new Pack-
ard back to the ferry. In Detroit Bill made Charley drink
a lot of sodawater in a drugstore, but when he got back in
the car he just slumped down at the wheel. He let Bill
drive him home to Grosse Pointe. Charley could hear Bill
arguing with the guards along the road, each one really
had to see Mr. Anderson passed out in the back of the car
before he'd let Bill through, but he didn't give a hoot,

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struck him so funny he began to giggle. The big joke was
when the houseman had to help Bill get him up to his bed-
room. "The boss a little sick, see, overwork," Bill said
each time, then he'd tap his head solemnly. "Too much
brainwork." Charley came to up in his bedroom and was
able to articulate muzzily: "Bill, you're a prince. . . .
George, call a taxi to take Mr. Cermak home . . . lucky
bastard go home to his wife." Then he stretched out on
the bed with one shoe on and one shoe off and went
quietly to sleep.

When he came back from his next trip to New York and Washington, he called up Bill at the plant. "Hay,
Bill, how's the boy? Your wife still do what you say, ha,
ha. Me, I'm terrible, very exhaustin' business trip, under-
stand . . . never drank so much in my life or with so
many goddam crooks. Say, Bill, don't worry if you get
fired, you're on my private payroll, understand. . . .
We're goin' to fire the whole outfit. . . . Hell, if they
don't like it workin' for us let 'em try to like it workin'
for somebody else. . . . This is a free country. I wouldn't
want to keep a man against his will. . . . Look, how long
will it take you to tune up that little Moth type, you know,
number 16 . . . yours truly's Mosquito?'? . . . Check.
. . . Well, if we can get her in shape soon enough so they
can use her as a model, see, for their specifications. . . .
Jesus, Bill, if we can do that . . . we're on easystreet.
. . . You won't have to worry about if the kids can go to
college or not . . . goddam it, you an' the missis can go
to college yourselves. . . . Check."

Charley put the receiver back on the desk. His secretary
Miss Finnegan was standing in the door. She had red hair
and a beautiful complexion with a few freckles round her
little sharp nose. She was a snappy dresser. She was look-
ing at Charley with her lightbrown eyes all moist and wide
as he was laying down the law over the phone. Charley
felt his chest puff out a little. He pulled in his belly as

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hard as he could. "Gosh," he was saying at the back of his
head, "maybe I could lay Elsie Finnegan." Somebody had
put a pot of blue hyacinths on his desk; a smell of spring
came from them that all at once made him remember
Bar-le-Duc, and troutfishing up the Red River.

It was a flowerysmelling spring morning again when
Charley drove out to the plant from the office to give the
Anderson Mosquito its trial spin. He had managed to give
Elsie Finnegan a kiss for the first time and had left her
crumpled and trembling at her desk. Bill Cermak had said
over the phone that the tiny ship was tuned up and in fine
shape. It was a relief to get out of the office where he'd
been fidgeting for a couple of hours trying to get through
a call to Nat Benton's office about some stock he'd wired
them to take a profit on. After he'd kissed her he'd told
Elsie Finnegan to switch the call out to the trial field for
him. It made him feel good to be driving out through the
halfbuilt town, through the avenue jammed with trucks
full of construction materials, jockeying his car among the
trucks with a feeling of shine and strength at the perfect
action of his clutch and the smooth response of the gears.
The gatekeeper had the New York call for him. The con-
nection was perfect. Nat had banked thirteen grand for
him. As he hung up the receiver he thought poor little
Elsie, he'd have to buy her something real nice. "It's a
great day, Joe, ain't it?" he said to the gatekeeper.

Bill was waiting for him beside the new ship at the en-
trance to the hangar, wiping grease off his thick fingers
with a bunch of waste. Charley slapped him on the back.
"Good old Bill. . . . Isn't this a great day for the race?"
Bill fell for it. "What race, boss?""The human race, you
fathead. . . . Say, Bill," he went on as he took off his
gloves and his welltailored spring overcoat, "I don't mind
tellin' you I feel wonderful today . . . made thirteen
grand on the market yesterday . . . easy as rollin' off a
log."

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While Charley pulled a suit of overalls on the me-
chanics pushed the new ship out onto the grass for Bill to
make his general inspection. "Jesus, she's pretty." The
tiny aluminum ship glistened in the sun out on the green
grass like something in a jeweler's window. There were
dandelions and clover on the grass and a swirling flight of
little white butterflies went up right from under his black
clodhoppers when Bill came back to Charley and stood
beside him. Charley winked at Bill Cermak standing be-
side him in his blue denims stolidly looking at his feet.
"Smile, you sonofabitch," he said. "Don't this weather
make you feel good?"

Bill turned a square bohunk face towards Charley.
"Now look here, Mr. Anderson, you always treat me good
. . . from way back Long Island days. You know me, do
work, go home, keep my face shut.""What's on your
mind, Bill? . . . Want me to try to wangle another raise
for you? Check."

Bill shook his heavy square face and rubbed his nose
with a black forefinger. "Tern Company used to be good
place to work good work good pay. You know me, Mr.
Anderson, I'm no bolshayvik . . . but, no stoolpigeon
either."

"But damn it, Bill, why can't you tell those guys to have
a little patience . . . we're workin' out a profitsharin'
scheme. I've worked on a lathe myself. . . . I've worked
as a mechanic all over this goddam country. . . . I know
what the boys are up against, but I know what the manage-
ment's up against too. . . . Gosh, this thing's in its in-
fancy, we're pouring more capital into the business all the
time. . . . We've got a responsibility towards our inves-
tors. Where do you think that jack I made yesterday's
goin' but the business of course. The oldtime shop was a
great thing, everybody kidded and smoked and told smutty
stories, but the pressure's too great now. If every depart-
ment don't click like a machine we're rocked. If the boys