Peter laughed. “Since when is your own any trouble?”
Johnny entered the office thoughtfully. Peter’s voice ringing in his ears. The words kept repeating themselves over and over: “your own.” Did it mean that Peter had an idea about Doris and himself? Maybe she had said something to her parents?
No, that was silly. She had nothing to tell them. It was just Peter’s way of talking. They had been so close that Peter thought of him as part of the family, that was all.
He and Rocco sat in the darkened projection room and watched the screen. When the first picture had been completed he realized the screen itself had improved technically too. A great deal of the flicker from the screen had been cut down. The movements of the actors now seemed more real, more lifelike. The staccato-like movements of yesterday had been slowed down to a point where the figures no longer seemed to jump from place to place on the screen.
The methods of telling a story, too, had improved. The scenario was now a play that was easy to follow. The art of close-up, fade-out, titling, all had been related to make a more harmonious whole. He began to realize that he would have to make a trip out to the studio to learn more about these new techniques. The screen had outgrown him in the short time he had been away.
He lit a cigarette in the dark room. In the glow of the match he could see Rocco’s face watching the screen, enrapt in the story. He smiled to himself. Just seeing Rock there made him feel better. It was funny how the thought that Rock was near him would steady him.
He remembered that dream he had had back in the hospital. Where he was trying to run and he fell and people laughed at him. He had been afraid of that ever since. He did not want people to laugh at him, nor did he want them to feel sorry for him. And when Rocco was around he knew that none of this would happen. Rocco had a way of foreseeing embarrassing situations and avoiding them. He had a way of turning talk away from things that might upset him. He would step between Johnny and any hurt that he felt would come to him.
He was glad that Rock had promised to stick around.
***
“My car is downstairs,” Peter said. “I just called Esther and told her we’d be home in half an hour. She was as excited as a bride the first time her family is coming to dinner.”
“I’m ready,” Johnny answered quietly.
They went out into the street. There was a limousine waiting in front of the building, a chauffeur stood holding the door open.
Peter stood by and let Johnny get into the car first. The inside of the car was luxuriously furnished, all velour-lined. Peter followed him into the car, then Rocco clambered in on the other side of Peter.
Johnny looked around him. “This is class,” he said. “New car, Peter?”
Peter nodded proudly. “Pierce Arrow,” he said, smiling, “with a special custom-built body.”
“It’s okay,” Johnny said.
The big car began to roll silently and smoothly. Soon they were on Fifth Avenue heading downtown. It slid to a stop in front of a large apartment house opposite Central Park.
A doorman opened the door of the car. “Good evening, Mr. Kessler,” he said.
“Evening, Tom,” Peter replied.
They waited for Johnny to get out of the car, then they went into the building. It was a new house.
Johnny looked around him. He didn’t say anything, but he was impressed. You had to have pumpkins to live in a place like this. Now he began to realize in personal terms the import of all he had seen and heard during the day.
He followed Peter into an elevator. The car took them up eleven stories and let them out into a hall that was as luxuriously furnished as the lobby had been.
Peter stopped in front of a door and rang the bell.
Johnny looked at the door and his heart began to pound strangely within him. Unconsciously he braced himself.
The door opened. Esther stood there. For a moment there was an awkward silence while they looked at each other; then she came to him and threw her arms around him. She began to cry.
Johnny stood there stiffly, afraid to take his hands from his crutches because he might fall. He stared over her shoulder as she kissed his face. Doris was in the doorway. Her face was pale and thin and her eyes were wide and dark in the glow of the hall light.
Rocco, standing behind Johnny, could see their eyes talking over her mother’s shoulder. He looked at Doris. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, framing her face into an oval mask. Her hands were clenched tightly. Her lids dropped over her eyes. It was as if someone had suddenly turned the lights off in her face. She looked toward the floor. Rocco could see the hard tears swim reluctantly toward the corner of her eyes. He saw her blink twice, trying to hold them back.
Somehow she knew then what Johnny had made up his mind to tell her. How she knew, Rocco could not determine. Not a word was spoken, but she knew. Her whole body showed that she knew it—the sudden loosening of the tense frame, the slight slumping of her shoulders.
It happened in only a moment, but Rocco knew a lifetime had passed for her.
Esther stopped kissing Johnny, stepped back from him, and holding him by the shoulders, looked at him. “My Johnny,” she cried softly. “What have they done to you?”
“Mamma, don’t be a fool,” Peter said gruffly. “He’s here, isn’t he? What more can we ask?”
***
Dinner was a silent meal. They talked, but no one would speak of what was in their hearts. The silent tears were hidden behind smiling masks.
All through the meal Rocco could see Doris looking at Johnny. They were seated across the table from each other. Whenever he looked up he would see her watching him. Johnny’s face was white and he spoke little. He didn’t know what to say.
She had grown, matured, since he had last seen her. Then she had been a beautiful girl, but now she was a woman—a woman grown beautiful and somehow warm and gracious in a few years.
Dinner was over and they went into the living room. Johnny and Doris were last to leave; and for a moment they were alone in the dining room. She put her coffee cup down and quietly got out of her seat and went over to him. His eyes were on her as she came close to his chair.
She bent over him. Her voice was quiet, controlled. “You didn’t kiss me, Johnny.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes were on hers.
Slowly she pressed her lips to his. For a moment a spark leaped between them. Johnny could feel himself drawing to her, and he held himself back. The corners of her mouth trembled against his lips. He leaned away from her.
She straightened up and looked down at him. Her voice was low, with an undercurrent of hurt running through it. “You’ve changed, Johnny.”
He looked at her. Then he looked down at his leg. “Yes,” he said bitterly, “I’ve changed.”
“I don’t mean that,” she said. “You’ve changed inside.”
His voice was level. “It’s possible. Everything that changes a man’s appearance changes him. You change if you lose a tooth. You don’t smile so often.”
“But you still smile sometimes, Johnny. You don’t grow cold and bitter.”
He didn’t answer.
She looked at him for a moment and could feel the tears come to her eyes and was ashamed of them. She tried to hold them back. Her voice shook a little as she spoke. “Remember when we spoke last—how we laughed and we looked at each other and you promised to bring me back a present?”
He shut his eyes. He remembered. “Yes,” he said, knowing it would hurt her, “I remember. You were a kid then and the war was just another adventure and I promised to bring you a souvenir when it was over.”
She winced as his words cut into her. “Is that all it meant to you?”
He opened his eyes wide and looked at her in apparent innocence. “That’s all,” he said. “Why? Was it supposed to mean anything else?”
He watched her turn from him and run to the door and out of the room. He struck a match with shaking fingers and lit a cigarette. He sat there for a moment before he struggled to his feet to go into the living room.
AFTERMATH
1938
THURSDAY
The sound of the drapes being drawn and the windows opened wide woke me up. For a moment I lay there in bed looking up at the ceiling vacantly. The room was strange to me and then suddenly I remembered where I was. It still seemed all wrong. I was supposed to be in New York. What was I doing in Hollywood?
Then it all came flooding back to me. I suppose it had been driven from my mind by that dream again—that dream in which I was running up a street that didn’t exist to a girl I couldn’t see. I had had that dream ever since the war and it always ended the same way. I fell and people were laughing at me.
They probably were laughing at me this morning. I had asked Farber in. Me. After all that had happened. I let Farber get his foot in the door. Now I had to pry him loose again and shut him out. I had done it once before. Could I do it again? I wasn’t sure. This time it was my own fault.
“Good morning, Mr. John,” Christopher’s voice came from the side of the bed.
I sat up and looked at him. His black face was gleaming and split with a white toothy smile. “Good morning, Christopher,” I replied. “How did you know I was here?” I had given him several weeks off because I didn’t expect to be back for a while.
He looked at me seriously. “I read the papers that Mr. Peter was took sick and I figured that you would come back to be near him.”
I didn’t answer as he put the breakfast tray on the bed. Did everybody know how I would react to hearing about Peter except me? Christopher knew as well as I did about my quarrel with Peter and yet he also knew that I would be back. I couldn’t get away from it. They were right because here I was.
The papers were folded neatly on the corner of the tray. I opened them up while I sipped slowly at the orange juice. The headline in the
Reporter
was simple and right to the point:
Farber in at Magnum
with Million-Dollar Loan
In was right, but not for long if I could help it. If Ronsen hadn’t come into my office just at that particular moment he never would have made it. I read the story with interest:
Speculation was rife today in the industry as to the meaning of Stanley Farber’s million-dollar loan to Magnum. It was well known that Farber had been trying to get an interest in Magnum ever since Peter Kessler sold his interest to Laurence G. Ronsen. It was known at the time that Ronsen was inclined to give Farber this interest, but the one thing that held it up was the opposition of Magnum’s prexy, John Edge. Edge and Farber had been feuding for fifteen years, ever since Edge had crowded Farber out of Magnum in a dispute over the theaters that Farber had been running for them.
Farber’s nephew, David Roth, had been installed as studio exec at Magnum two months ago, before Edge had been elected prexy at the company. The first sign of a rift between Ronsen and Edge became apparent earlier this week when Edge, contrary to Ronsen’s wishes, flew out here to be at the bedside of Peter Kessler, who had suffered a stroke.
It has been rumored but not confirmed that Farber would be given a large stock interest in Magnum as security for this advance and that he and Roth would be elected to Magnum’s board of directors. It is also rumored but not confirmed that Roth would take charge of turning out Magnum’s top product.
Further unconfirmed rumors are that Bob Gordon, studio manager at Magnum, will ankle the lot because of the breakdown of his responsibilities. This will leave Edge without a single representative on his home lot and in turn may cause him to leave also.
In addition to the loan, Farber also signed an agreement with Magnum which gave Magnum an automatic play-off for all their pictures in Farber’s Westco theater chain.
I closed the paper and finished the orange juice. Rumors were as much a part of Hollywood breakfasts as coffee. No breakfast was complete without them. I had had enough for the day.
Christopher poured coffee into my cup and took the cover off the bacon and eggs. The fresh crisp odor of the bacon rose from the plate. Suddenly I was hungry. I grinned at him. “I’m sure glad you came back, Christopher,” I said.
He smiled back at me. “I am too, Mr. Johnny,” he said. “I worries when you’re home alone.”
***
I stood on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette while I waited for Christopher to bring the car around. It was a fresh bright day and I had already begun to feel better. The depression that had settled upon me like a cloud when I had first heard about Peter seemed to be wearing off. It was hard to explain, but I always felt better when I had something or someone definite to fight.
Until now I had been fighting merely to hold the company together. I had never considered Ronsen a genuine problem. He was outside the industry, a stranger, a necessary evil, one that you had to tolerate as long as was necessary; then, when the need no longer existed, you got rid of him. But now that Farber was in, I had a personal interest in the fight. It was no longer a fight to hold the company together; it had turned into a fight over who would hold the company together. If Farber was interested, it meant that he thought there was still a buck to be made in the business. It was up to me to figure out what he planned to do and then screw him and do something better at the same time. This was a business where competition brought out the best in you. If you couldn’t stand the gaff, there was no use in staying with it.
The car came rolling to a stop and I got into it. Christopher’s face turned back to me. “The studio, Mr. Johnny?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, “Mr. Kessler’s house first.”
He turned and put the car into gear. I leaned back against the cushions. There was time for me to get to the studio now. It would be better for me to let Ronsen and Farber set their plans and announce them before I came to work. When I got in then, I would know what they intended to do and I would upset their little applecart. I smiled to myself. There really was no reason on earth why I should feel so good; how could one explain it? The fact remained that I did.
***
The nurse came into the hall and softly closed the door behind her. She spoke in a low voice so that she couldn’t be heard in the sickroom. “You can go in now, Mr. Edge,” she said, “but don’t stay too long. He’s still very weak.”