Authors: Garson Kanin
Gene has responded. Thank You, God.
The new book went in on Monday night. How the players did it is something I shall never understand. All last week, they were rehearsing one show all day and playing another at night.
But it all went in and was triumphant. For once, there is absolute unanimity. Gene is the hero of the hour. Art had me buy $1800 worth of solid-gold fountain pen from Cartier. Gene looked at it once, and gave it to me.
“Keep it,” he said. “I’ll lose it and feel miserable.”
Everyone stayed up late. The excitement. A long meeting in Art’s suite.
“It’s
perfect!”
he kept saying. “Perfect! It’s the only perfect show I ever saw in my whole life.
Perfect.”
When the place had cleared out somewhat, Gene said, “No, not perfect, Art. But immensely promising. I believe in it now.”
“I’m not gonna let you change a word. Not a word. Or a comma, even. I love every comma. Every comma is perfect!”
“I’d like Clay to make me a cassette of tomorrow’s matinee,” said Gene.
“It’s done!”
“Then I want to get away for a few days—and get a little perspective on it. After that, I’ll be in a position to polish. There are too many odd little warts and pimples still.”
“Who notices?”
“I
do. Can you spare Midge for two or three days? She’s been a tower.”
“Take her,” said Art. “Is one enough? I’ll get you
four
Midges!”
“One’s enough,” said Gene, gently.
I spoke: “Are you sure you can manage, Art? There’s so much to do right now.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll use Bruce and Kitty from Paul’s office. And listen, if we get stuck, we’ll get a couple dozen Kelly Girls! Hey! Philadelphia. I’ll get
Grace
Kelly. I’ll get the whole Kelly
family!”
“The only thing—”
“Let me handle it, will y’? Nothing more important now than we all have to get behind Gene and help him.”
“Whatever you say.”
So it was that Gene Bowman and I left for Atlantic City the following afternoon.
I got an LTD station wagon from Hertz. We loaded, in addition to our bags: two typewriters (each with a table and chair), a desk-top copier, a stationery supply, two desk lamps, one Line-A-Time (for me), and the bridge table Gene had been using—he insisted on it—all writers are eccentric, some more than others. A hot-cup. A toaster.
Everything else, we assumed, would be available at the Shelburne in Atlantic City, where I had reserved a two-bedroom suite for him, and a double room for myself—all facing the sea.
He drove—concentratedly and conservatively—but asked me to take notes from time to time as changes about the show struck him.
After half an hour, he asked, “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I mean, writing while moving doesn’t trouble you?”
“No—except when you talk about cutting out good stuff. Then I get slightly carsick.”
He laughed. “But some things will
have
to go, partner. We’re still overlong. A visit should go on just so long. A sure way to be a bore is to overstay your welcome.”
He turned on the news, listened to it for twenty minutes, then dictated a few more notes. A few minutes later, he turned the news on again. I laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just all of a sudden I feel like we’re a couple of escaping criminals—bank robbers or something—and that’s why we keep listening to the news.”
“Habit,” he said. “We’re all creatures of habit, aren’t we? Some good, some not so good. News. That’s one of mine. I don’t know if it’s a good one or not—but it’s the principal part of my life.”
“I was joking.”
“I know,” he said, and turned on the news.
The quality of the air changed dramatically as we approached Atlantic City.
“How about this salubrity?” he asked.
“Is that a word?”
“God, I hope so.”
The Shelburne was perfection. Art had phoned ahead and made the most elaborate VIP arrangements. The manager placed two of his assistants at our disposal to help settle us in. The housekeeper appeared and asked what
she
could do. An engineer. The maids. There were flowers in every room. Baskets of fruit. Steamer baskets. A complete bar. And two boxes full of chips for the casino.
Finally, we were alone. Gene looked at his watch.
“Five-twenty,” he said. “What do you think of this? An hour to clean up and change. Then let’s have one drink here. I’ll make you the greatest martini this side of Heaven, where I understand they have trouble getting good gin—it’s all shipped to Hell. Then we walk to Hackney’s—it’s about two miles down the boardwalk. Will you mind that?”
“Love it.”
“Fine. And no dawdling. A brisk walk with lots of deep breathing. Dinner should be smashing if Hackney’s is still Hackney’s. After that—a trip to the, excuse me, facilities—and walk back. I’m afraid it’s still two miles.”
“Fine with me.”
“But this time—not so brisk and not deep breathing. In fact, you don’t have to breathe at all if you don’t feel like it.”
“And what about dawdling?”
“Nothing but. And looking in all the windows. And bidding at a few auctions—no buying, just bidding. And listening to the pitchmen. If you’re not too tired, we can have a look at The Million Dollar Pier and see the horse leap two hundred feet into the water.”
“I’d hate that.”
“Right. No horse. Also no casinos and no gambling. A scourge.”
“I don't know how, anyway.”
“That should bring us back here by ten. We can talk for an hour and plan tomorrow and watch the eleven o’clock news. Salt-water tub, and bed by midnight.”
“And?…” I heard myself ask.
“Breakfast at seven—in here, if you like. Or would you prefer the dining room? Or would you like to have it alone? Many do.”
“Yes, but I’m not many. I’m just
one.”
What the hell was I talking about? I was trying, I suppose, to be sexy and suggestive—but it wasn’t coming out that way at all. He was looking at me oddly, apparently as confused by me as I was by myself.
“So,” he said. “Six-thirty back here suit you?”
“Yes,” I said, but did not move. I was willing him to come to me and…And what? Should I move to him? Kiss him, casually? Why was I standing there, like a dumb dummy? What would he think?
“Would you like a drink now?” I heard him ask.
“No, thank you.” I walked over to him, slowly. His expression changed. What was it? Apprehension? Fear? Irritation? Close to him, I stopped. A long moment.
“Six-thirty,” I said, turned and walked out of the room.
In my own room down the hall, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to regain equilibrium. Why did I look so different to myself? And what did I mean by “different”? I had changed. No doubt about it. Something had changed me. Someone. I looked older than the last time I had looked carefully. Why? Because I
wanted
to look older, that’s why. And infinitely more attractive. My face—always the least of my attributes—had undergone a change and was now alive and shining. Were those my eyes? Since when? And now I was trembling. I threw off my clothes, found a shower cap, and got under the shower. Hot to scalding ice water. What was I doing? I was trying to bring myself back to earth, back to reality by this exposure to a few of the basic elements.
I made up and dressed carefully. I opened the window and breathed deeply.
At 6:27, I went down the hall and knocked on his door. He opened it at once and handed me a martini.
“I
knew
you’d be punctual. How did I know that?”
“No idea.”
“I
love
punctual people. They make life so much easier.”
He raised his glass.
“To beginnings,” he said. “Always beginnings. The secret of life. Don’t tell anybody.”
“Beginnings,” I said, and touched his glass with mine.
We sat on the sofa near the window and looked out at the darkening sky and sea. A tray of hors d’oeuvres was on the coffee table in front of us. We drank and nibbled for a time. I noticed that he did not turn on any lights. Was this a sign of anything?
“Beginnings,” he said. “Think of it. Here am I—well past fifty. Life most certainly more than half over—doing something I’ve never done before, never even
thought
of doing.”
“Maybe you should have,” I said.
“No. Just an accident. I suppose most of existence is purely accidental. We design a plan, but in the end—a chance meeting, an odd happening—a twist of circumstance determines the course of life…If you want the truth,
I’m
an accident.”
“How do you mean?”
“My mother told me so. She was an early champion of Margaret Sanger—name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Oh, time!” he said. “Time!…Margaret Sanger was one of the first of the birth-control ladies when the very
phrase
couldn’t be uttered in polite society. Anyway. My mother knew her—believed in her—and of course followed her teachings. No wonder. She already had five. And that was that, she thought. A year. Two. Everything under control. Or should I say, under birth control? Then something went wrong. She’s not sure what. There are theories and explanations—but, there it was. And I was born. An accident.”
“I’m
so
glad,” I said.
He looked at me, but since I saw him only in silhouette, could not see his face. I put down my glass and turned to him in all expectation.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The next three and a half hours went almost according to plan. The walk, Hackney’s, the lounge, the walk back, the auctions and the pitchmen
and
the diving horse! He bought me a beautiful antique cut-glass bowl on which was engraved: WHEN THIS YOU SEE, REMEMBER ME.
Going up in the elevator at the hotel, he looked at his watch and smiled.
“Nine-fifty-six,” he said.
“Perfect.”
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “There’s such a thing as being
too
organized. I wouldn’t want us to become data computers.”
“Not a chance,” I said.
In the hallway, he took my shoulders and looked into my eyes. I tried to make them say, “Yes!”
“Midge,” he said, “you’re a dear girl, and I want you to know how grateful I am. It’s been grand, and I could not have done it—any of it—without you.”
With that, he put his arms around me and held me tightly for what seemed like a long time. He released me, said, “Thank you,” and went to his door. I went to mine. I was trembling again, but for other reasons. I stood in front of my door, hand on knob, but could not bear the idea of going in and ending the evening. I could not think of what to do. All at once, I found myself moving toward
his
door—my action preceding my thought. I tried to stop myself. I knew that I was on the verge of committing a blunder, but my brain and my body had severed connection. There I was now, in front of his door. Get away, my brain shouted, but already my finger was on the buzzer. I heard the sound within.
“Yes?”
“Me. You promised me the eleven o’clock news.”
The door opened. I walked in and turned to face him. He was still standing at the open door. I came toward him and pushed him against the door, closing it (as has been done to me so many times). He looked startled, but not surprised. I pressed myself against him, full-length—and then I kissed him. I opened my mouth and placed it accurately over his. I moved about for leverage and thrust my tongue as deep into his throat as I could. He shuddered and grabbed me. Was he going to push me off? No. He hung on and I felt his hands on my back, on my hips, on my bottom. Our middles were pressing hard—one against the other. But why was the kiss still all mine? Why were his lips so passive, his tongue so shy? I devoured him. At last his head came to life. He took charge and returned the kiss in kind. I had kissed him. Now he was kissing me, and all at once, we were sharing it. It was one kiss—a remarkable, thrilling creation. I ended it, pulled away, walked out the door, and slammed it shut.
That was it. The eleven-o’clock news.
I went to my room and got ready for bed.
Did I expect to hear his knock? Did I hope for it, want it? Or was what had happened enough for now? A theme stated.
In bed, I listened, straining. Once or twice I though I heard footsteps. Later, I was sure of them—they came and passed, going elsewhere.
Hoping, wondering, wanting, I fell asleep.
I awoke, looked at the clock: 6:40. I cannot explain—even to myself—how it happened that at 7:00 precisely, I pressed his door buzzer.
He opened the door.
“Good morning,” he said.
“I smell coffee.”
“Have some?”
“Please.”
There seemed to be a table full of breakfast.
“I wasn’t sure what,” he said. “So I got one of each.”
The news was on the radio, and he listened to it as we talked.
“Sleep well?” I asked.
“Like a baby,” he said. “I woke up every hour on the hour and screamed.”
“Is that an old joke,” I asked, “or did you just make it up?”
“Old,” he said. “Old, old.”
“I thought so.”
“Question,” he said. “Did we have a great deal to drink last night?”
“I
didn’t. One here, one there, and a glass and a half of wine. What about you?”
“About the same,” he said, and studied me. “Amazing.”
“What is?”
“How are you on bicycles?” he asked.
“I was brought up with three brothers,” I replied.
“Say no more. The point is that until nine a.m. we can ride bikes up and down the boardwalk. A perfect surface. Glorious air.”
“Full of salubrity?” I asked.
“We’ll see.”
The ride was immense, invigorating, and bracing. We rode and raced and said little. At nine, we gave up the bikes and walked.
“There’s still not enough Nora up there,” he said. “What can I do? My feeling is that the show still talks too much—it wants to sing more, dance more. How many numbers does She sing now?”
“Nine,” I said.
“Is that about right?”
“So they say.”
“I worry about more scenes, but maybe the ones that are there can be deepened. We’ll have a look after lunch.”