Zoë was not so polite. On one of their rare evenings alone she had put some new Flagstad recordings on the Capehart, and Charlie, clad in robe and slippers, a highball in his hand, kept lifting the needle off the record to replay a passage. “Listen to this, Zoë, see how she takes over from the violins.” And again, “Boy, what a note—even out of her range, it’s absolutely pure.” And the needle scraped a few of the grooves as he sought to find the spot to play it over. Zoë blew up. “For God’s sake, Charlie, sit down and listen and shut up, can’t you! I can’t tell whether it’s Flagstad or Hildegard or you!” Charlie’s face took on his look of being gravely injured but too polite to retaliate. “Sorry, darling; didn’t mean to spoil your fun.” And he stalked off to his room.
He was a happy host, always at his wittiest and gayest with a dozen people around to laugh at him, to admire the perfection of his martinis, to applaud his cynicisms about recent books and plays.
Zoë adapted herself and was content to maintain the frosting on the cake most of the time, to keep a jump ahead of him in matters that took important decisions, for if they were put up to him he would simply avoid them directly, talking at great length, implying that people were “unbelievably stupid,” that “anybody in his right mind” should be able to solve simple problems and not to bother him with such trivialities.
It was a week after they had returned home from California. Without questioning him, Zoë had observed that he had been unusually quiet, truly preoccupied, and not simply off in one of his “sulks.” Daily he read both the morning and evening papers thoroughly, deliberately, without comment.
The grape-colored twilight was deepening outside the long windows of the terrace. A fresh wind, moaning around the towers, had clarified the air and the lights of the buildings sparkled in brilliant splendor. From the dining room came the delicate sound of silver and chinaware being laid for an early dinner, as they were going to the opening of
Blithe Spirit
at the Morosco Theatre. Charlie flung down his newspaper and called, “Zoë, come here a minute!” in a loud voice. The maid, alarmed, appeared at the doorway, saying, “Mrs. Carewe is dressing, sir, do you wish me to call her?” Charlie made no answer, and the maid disappeared. In a moment Zoë appeared in a pale blue crepe robe, still holding a lipstick in her hand, her mouth pale without its covering.
“Charlie, you’d better dress, it’s getting late—Myra says you wanted me?”
“Zoë. What kind of a man is Gregg Nicholson?” His look was serious, his question obviously requiring an answer.
Zoë waited a second, thrown off balance. “I don’t quite understand what you want to know, Charlie, or what you mean.”
“I wonder why he doesn’t like me?”
“Doesn’t like you? Why, Charlie, he’s been a very loyal friend. I thought it was you who didn’t like him. I certainly think a lot more of him than I used to—he was always—well, too quiet at the wrong times, I thought.”
“That friend of his, Dr. Payne—Larry Payne, très intellectual and all that, they’ve always been buddies.”
“So? Apropos of what, my darling?”
“There’re some things I want to know.”
“Such as?”
“Gregg always said I was a good student—actually a brilliant one!” He flashed a smile which disappeared quickly. Zoë waited. “I wonder what there is to this psychoanalysis stuff?”
“Good lord, Charlie, you mean you want Payne to psychoanalyze you? What’s the matter? What’s troubling you?”
“Nothing’s troubling me!” He gestured to the paper on the floor. “Just something I read in the paper. I’m curious, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“Darling, I want to ask Gregg for dinner—tomorrow night——”
“We’re supposed to go to the Hartleys’ for bridge.”
“Cancel it. And tell Gregg I want him to bring Larry with him.”
“Well—I suppose I could, but it’s a little awkward, just to give him orders that way.”
“Don’t have to give him orders. Tell him I want to know something more about Roger Thorne—maybe I might be able to swing something for Payne—maybe he needs money, for a laboratory, or whatever.”
“Who’s Roger Thorne?”
“Just a guy I knew when we were both kids. Do it for me, will you, love?”
The dinner was one of many. It was a restful time for Zoë. Somehow the whole atmosphere of their life changed. Charlie seemed to prefer an evening with the two men, sitting quietly, talking, smoking, to the merry-go-round of their usual social activities. She got caught up on her reading, leaving the men to go to her own room, listening to the murmur of their voices. Later, when Charlie would come in for a minute before he went to his own room, he would hold her chin and kiss her lightly, affectionately. Thoughtfully he would talk about the evening’s discussion. “Fascinating stuff,” he would say, and a little pleased smile would drift over his face.
“You know what I think, Virginia?” Gregg said one afternoon. He had dropped up to the Shelleys’ to bring a present for Alma and to “cadge a drink.” Over frosty daiquiris, he told Virginia of Charlie’s fascination for Larry Payne.
“I think he’s got a load of guilt about the Thorne boy. He asks so many questions; I think he wants to find out just exactly whether or not he contributed to Roger’s blindness.”
Virginia was deeply interested and a little amazed. It warmed her that Charlie should concern himself: maybe he was—at last—growing up.
“Has he talked about it? About how he beat up Roger?”
“No. No, he hasn’t. But Larry tells me that he’s offered to finance a whole clinical research project that Larry has been dreaming about.”
“Well, Gregg, that’s not so unusual. You know Charlie always doles out elaborate presents to anyone he’s briefly interested in. Just make sure Payne’s got it all sewed up in writing. Charlie can afford it—but he can also forget it!”
“Larry is interested in Charlie’s case, of course.”
“What do you mean—case?” Fleetingly Virginia bristled. The old “outsider” feeling. The defense of the clan. Recognizing her feeling, she shook her head a little and went after the facts. “I mean, does he think Charlie is a ‘wrong ’un’ in some way?”
“No. At least he says that Charlie could pass any mental tests quite brilliantly, but he has a slight reservation. He says that there is a classification that is as yet too vague, too mixed with other abnormal pathology. He says it is recognized by most experts, but some call it one thing and others call it something else.”
“In other words, he doesn’t really know, is that it?”
Gregg patted her hand. “Don’t be troubled, Virginia dear; Larry says positively, definitely that there is no such thing as a ‘taint’ that could be passed on to your offspring.”
“Well—offspring is sort of a collective noun, isn’t it—so I don’t have to worry too much anyway?” An old misery gleamed through the words.
“Not always a collective noun; I mean, Alma Bea is your offspring, and a lovely one, as lovely as her mother.”
Gregg took another sip of his drink, commenting on its deliciousness, till the wave of emotion for Virginia had subsided. He remembered how Herb had often suspected him of being in love with Elsie, and he let it go at that, when, of course, it had been Virginia, starry-eyed and in love with Jeff when he first met her. Not that things would have been different without Jeff, he felt; he was not the kind of man who would attract Virginia. But, loving her, he would be her friend, content to be a good friend to both of them, to be helpful if possible, to protect them both from Charlie; although it seemed as though he could relax his vigilance more and more along those lines. The very fact that Charlie seemed anxious to learn something about himself, to gain some sort of insight, was enormously encouraging.
Virginia was saying, “I don’t think I’ll talk about this too much to Jeff. He says I have always been overconcerned about Charlie, too anxious to find out what makes him tick in that offbeat way.”
Gregg laughed. “Jeff is really wonderful—so right, so truly good. We could all take a lesson from him. I think I would have become filled with bitterness if I had had to go through what he has.”
Always, Virginia’s pride made her face glow, whenever Jeff was being talked about. She smiled. “You know what he said once? I forget just the
way
he said it, but it was to the effect that we worry too much about the pains and the evils in the world, when actually we should be continually astonished at the great amount of goodness—something like that. It didn’t sound quite so Pollyannaish the way he said it.”
“I know. Jeff isn’t earthbound. He shows his philosophy in what he does in his work. Everything he builds has its roots in the ground, in reality, but they reach heights in beauty and power.” Gregg examined his empty glass. “Do you know, I think I’m slightly intoxicated? The rum you use must be very potent!”
Virginia laughed. “Have another! It’s good to hear you talk.” She rose and stretched her long arms over her head. “Let me go and pry Jeff loose from that board for a while—I know he’ll want to see you. And let’s skip the subject of Charlie; I’m happy as can be about your news; maybe he’ll give Zoë fewer headaches now; but you know Jeff, he kind of dismisses Charlie as a hopeless louse!”
Gregg watched the tall figure, tall even in the ballet flats she wore around the house, as she went across the hall to knock gently at the door of the studio. She looked so much like Charlie, they seemed cut from the same design, but it was as though Virginia were the model, the original work of the sculptor, and Charlie the empty, counterfeit reproduction.
Charlie got his release from the Navy by the simple method of wetting the bed each morning before he got up. His months of “picking Larry’s brain” paid off, beautifully, as he had planned. He had studied the subject very carefully so that it never occurred to the examiners that his enuresis was malingering, as it was with some. His patriotism, his desire to be a part of the Navy, were obviously sincere. His co-operation, his intelligence, superior. His shame, his pleading for another chance, and finally his admission that deep down he was terrified, were impressive. He was given an honorable discharge on a disability, unspecified.
At the office he carried a “let’s make the best of it” attitude, and people assured him that he was more valuable at home than on a battleship. He dodged any questions that were directly concerned with his discharge, by being slightly mysterious, by “not wanting to talk about it” and at the same time pressing his hand gently over the area of his left breast pocket. It could mean “my heart” or else simply that he was checking the fold of his handkerchief.
There was only one real disappointment in the whole delightful coup to Charlie. Zoë was stubborn or stupid or lacking in appreciation, because she didn’t applaud his cleverness. Naturally he had told her; as his wife, he was sure she would enjoy the secret, delightful way he had put one over on the whole damn Navy.
He waited for just the right moment, the intimate cozy time of pillow conversation. She had been saying how wonderful he was at hiding his disappointment, how proud she was that he hadn’t used his money and influence to get an armchair job in Washington. With his head pillowed on her shoulder, he let her go on thinking she was salving a wounded ego for having been rejected. As though anybody could reject old Charlie boy! Finally he could restrain himself no longer and when she said, “What on
earth
are you laughing at!” he gave her the detailed, day-by-day account of his brief hitch in the Navy.
At first Zoë was too stunned to move and then the darkness of the room, the weight of his arm over her body, became unbearable. She got up and put on the light. Closing the windows against the chill of an early March wind, she shivered and drew on a soft red wool robe. Still in bed, Charlie was apparently unaware as yet of what she was feeling, for he was continuing, “I had soaked my handkerchief at the drinking fountain outside, and kept mopping my brow with it—which of course made it look like I was sweating, and the doe would take a quick look and then look away as though he hadn’t noticed, and all the time I was shaking like this—look, Zoë!” And he held out his long fingers moving in a fine tremor. “But of course, while I had all the symptoms down pat, I talked
against
them, you know—saying, ‘I’ll be all right—really—it’ll just take a few more days,’ and the exasperation angle: ‘I can’t
imagine
why I should be like this! I’m as stable and fit as any guy in the outfit’—hey, where you going, Zoë, wait a minute, I want to tell you——”
Zoë had walked into the living room, turned on the switch that lighted the bar, and was pouring a stiff two ounces of brandy into an old-fashioned glass. “Do you want a drink?” she asked, her eyes on the bottle and the glass.
Charlie was momentarily irritated at the interruption of his story. “At two in the morning? Hell no! Well, maybe, just a nip. You sure drink a lot, Zoë. You want to watch it a little.” He yawned and stretched like a contented cat. “Yes, sir! That was a good investment!” he said, and walked with his glass over to the bookshelves, where he studied the title of a thick volume.
“What was?” asked Zoë, without expression.
“What was what?”
“What was a good investment?”
“The fund—the fund for the great Dr. Payne!” He poked a finger at the book “This is great—boy, I learned a lot from this book. Payne thought it was too technical, thought I’d be bored. Ha! Don’t ever tell the poor guy, will you?” It was a statement of a foregone conclusion, rather than a question.
“You know, it’s interesting.” He wandered back to the bar, swinging a long, pajama-clad leg over the brown leather stool. “You might say I’ve done a good turn for humanity, in exchange for a little, but very valuable, information.”
Suddenly Zoë burst into tears.
For a while he was too astonished to say anything. It was unusual for Zoë to cry about anything. She was just not the weepy type. There was a fleeting moment when he thought maybe the reason was that she was disappointed that he wouldn’t be wearing a uniform. Well, there was that, of course, but, as he said, “Good lord, Zoë, isn’t it more important to you that I don’t have to be killed, maybe?”