I was installing the enclosure when loud talk started coming out of the register. I was at a very tricky point, gluing the waterproof gasket around the rim of the tub with contact cement, so I couldn't close the register. I had to listen to what wasn't any of my business, whether I wanted to or not.
"Don't talk to me about love," Gloria Hilton said to her fifth husband. "You don't know anything about love. You don't know the meaning of love."
I hadn't looked down through the register yet, so the only face I had to put with her voice was her face in the movies. "Maybe you're right, Gloria," said her fifth husband. "I give you my word of honor I'm right," she said. "Well—" he said, "that certainly brings the whole discussion to a dead stop right there. How could I possibly argue with the sacred word of honor of Gloria Hilton?"
I knew what he looked like. He was the one who'd done all the negotiating for the bathtub enclosure. I had also sold him two Fleetwood Trip-L-Trak storm windows for the two bathroom windows. Those have the self-storing screen feature. The whole time we were negotiating, he called his wife "Miss Hilton." Miss Hilton wanted this, and Miss Hilton wanted that. He was only thirty-five, but the circles under his eyes made him look sixty.
"I pity you," Gloria Hilton said to him. "I pity anybody who can't love. They are the most pitiful people there are."
"The more you talk," he said, "the more I'm convinced I'm one of them."
He was the writer, of course. My wife keeps a lot of Hollywood stuff in her head, and she tells me Gloria Hilton was married to a motorcycle policeman, then a sugar millionaire, then somebody who played Tarzan, then her agent—and then the writer. George Murra, the writer, was the one I knew.
"People keep wondering what the matter with the world is," said Gloria. "I know what the matter is. It's simple: most men don't know the meaning of the word love."
"At least give me credit for trying to find out what it means," said Murra. "For one solid year now, I haven't done a single, solitary thing but order a bathtub enclosure and try to find out what love means."
"I suppose you're going to blame me for that, too," she said.
"For what?" he said.
"The fact that you haven't written a word since we've been married," she said. "I suppose that's somehow my fault, too."
"I hope I'm not that shallow," he said. "I know a plain, ordinary coincidence when I see one. The fights we have all night, the photographers and reporters and so-called friends we have all day—they have nothing to do with the fact I've dried up."
"You're one of those people who enjoys suffering," she said.
"That's a smart way to be," he said.
"I’ll tell you frankly," she said, "I'm disappointed in you."
"I knew," he said, "that sooner or later you would come right out and say it."
"I might as well tell you, too," she said, "that I've decided to bring this farce to an end."
"It's nice of you to make me among the first to know," he said. "Shall I notify Louella Parsons, or has that already been taken care of?"
I had the gasket glued onto the bathtub rim, so I was free to close the register. I looked straight down through the grating, and there Gloria Hilton was. She had her hair up in curlers. She didn't have any makeup on. She hadn't even bothered to draw on eyebrows. She had on some kind of slip and a bathrobe that was gaping open. I swear, that woman wasn't any prettier than a used studio couch.
"I don't think you're very funny," she said.
"You knew I was a serious writer when you married me," he said.
She stood up. She spread her arms like Moses telling the Jews the Promised Land was right over the next hill. "Go on back to your precious wife and your precious son," she said. "I certainly won't stand in your way."
I closed the register.
Five minutes later, Murra came upstairs and told me to clear out. "Miss Hilton wants to use her bathroom," he said. I never saw such a peculiar expression on a man's face. He was all red, and there were tears in his eyes—but there was this crazy laugh tearing him apart, trying to get out. "I'm not quite finished," I said.
"Miss Hilton is completely finished," he said. "Clear out!" So I went out to my truck, and I drove into town, had a cup of coffee. The door for the bathtub enclosure was on a wooden rack on the back of my truck, out in the open—and it certainly attracted a lot of attention.
Most people, when they order an enclosure door, don't want anything on it unless maybe a flamingo or a seahorse. The plant, which is over in Lawrence, Massachusetts, is set up to sandblast a flamingo or a seahorse on a door for only six dollars extra. But Gloria Hilton wanted a big "G," two feet across—and in the middle of the "G" she wanted a life-size head of herself. And the eyes on the head had to be exactly five feet two inches above the bottom of the tub, because that's how high her real eyes were when she stood up barefoot in the tub. They went crazy over in Lawrence.
One of the people I was having coffee with was Harry Crocker, the plumber. "I certainly hope you insisted on measuring her yourself," he said, "so the figures would be absolutely accurate."
"Her husband did it," I said. "Some people have all the luck," he said. I went to the pay telephone, and I called up Murra's house to see if it would be all right for me to come back and finish up. The line was busy.
When I got back to my coffee, Harry Crocker said to me, "You missed something I don't think anybody's ever liable to see in this town ever again."
"What's that?" I said.
"Gloria Hilton and. her maid going through town at two hundred miles an hour," he said.
"Which way were they headed?" I said.
"West," he said.
So I tried to call Murra again. I figured, with Gloria Hilton gone, all the big telephoning would be over. But the telephone went right on being busy for an hour. I thought maybe somebody had torn the telephone out by its roots, but the operator said it was in working order.
"Try the number again, then," I told her. That time I got through.
Murra answered the phone. All I said to him was, "Hello," and he got very excited. He wasn't excited about getting the bathtub enclosure finished. He was excited because he thought I was somebody named John.
"John, John," he said to me, "thank God you called!
"John," he said to me, "I know what you think of me, and I don't blame you for thinking that—but please listen to what I have to say before you hang up. She's left me, John. That part of my life is over—finished! Now I'm trying to pick up the pieces. John," he said, "in the name of mercy, you've got to come here. Please, John, please, John, please."
"Mr. Murra—?" I said.
"Yes?" he said. From the way his voice went away from the telephone, I guess he thought I'd just walked into the room.
"It's me, Mr. Murra," I said.
"It's who?" he said.
"The bathtub enclosure man," I said.
"I was expecting a very important long-distance call," he said. "Please get off the wire."
"I beg your pardon," I said. "I just want to know when you want me to finish up there."
"Never!" he said. "Forget it! The hell with it!"
"Mr. Murra—" I said, "I can't return that door for credit."
"Send me the bill," he said. "I make you a present of the door."
"Whatever you say," I said. "Now, you've got these two Fleet-Wood Trip-L-Trak windows, too."
"Throw 'em on the dump!" he said.
"Mr. Murra—" I said, "I guess you're upset about something—"
"God you're smart!" he said.
"Maybe throwing away that door makes sense," I said, "but storm windows never hurt a soul. Why don't you let me come out and put 'em up? You'll never even know I'm there."
"All right, all right, all right!" he said, and he hung up.
The Fleetwood Trip-L-Trak is our first-line window, so there isn't anything quick and dirty about the way we put them up. We put a gasket up all the way around, just the way we do on a bathtub enclosure. So I had some standing around to do at Murra's house, just waiting for glue to dry. You can actually fill up a room equipped with Fleetwoods with water, fill it clear up to the ceiling, and it won't leak—not through the windows, anyway.
While I was waiting on the glue, Murra came out and asked me if I wanted a drink.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"Or maybe bathtub enclosure men don't drink on duty," he said.
"That's only on television," I said.
So he took me in the kitchen, and he got out a bottle and ice and a couple of glasses.
"This is very nice of you," I said.
"I may not know what love is," he said, "but, by God, at least I've never gotten drunk by myself."
"That's what we're going to do?" I said.
"Unless you have some other suggestion," he said.
"I’ll have to think a minute," I said.
"That's a mistake," he said. "You miss an awful lot of life that way. That's why you Yankees are so cold," he said. "You think too much. That's why you marry so seldom."
"At least some of that is a plain lack of money," I said.
"No, no," he said. "It goes deeper than that. You people around here don't grasp the thistle firmly." He had to explain that to me, about how a thistle won't prick you if you grab it real hard and fast.
"I don't believe that about thistles," I said.
"Typical New England conservatism," he said.
"I gather you aren't from these parts," I said.
"That happiness is not mine," he said. He told me he was from Los Angeles.
"I guess that's nice, too," I said.
"The people are all phonies," he said.
"I wouldn't know about that," I said.
"That's why we took up residence here," he said. "As my wife —my second wife, that is—told all the reporters at our wedding, We are getting away from all the phonies. We are going to live where people are really people. We are going to live in New Hampshire. My husband and I are going to find ourselves. He is going to write and write and write. He is going to write the most beautiful scenario anybody in the history of literature has ever written for me.'"
"That's nice," I said.
"You didn't read that in the newspapers or the magazines?" he said.
"No," I said. "I used to go out with a girl who subscribed to Film Fun, but that was years ago. I have no idea what happened to her."
Somewhere in the course of this conversation, a fifth of a gallon of Old Hickey's Private Stock Sour Mash Bourbon was evaporating, or was being stolen, or was otherwise disappearing fast.
And I haven't got the conversation set down quite straight, because somewhere in there Murra told me he'd been married when he was only eighteen—and he told me who the John was he'd thought I was on the telephone.
It hurt Murra a lot to talk about John. "John," he said, "is my only child. Fifteen years old." Murra clouded up, pointed southeast. "Only twenty-two miles away—so near and yet so far," he said.
"He didn't stay with his mother in Los Angeles?" I said.
"His home is with her," said Murra, "but he goes to school at Mount Henry." Mount Henry is a very good boy's prep school near here. "One of the reasons I came to New Hampshire was to be close to him." Murra shook his head. "I thought surely he'd get in touch with me sooner or later—return a telephone call, answer a letter."
"But he never did?" I said.
"Never," said Murra. "You know what the last thing was he said to me?"
"Nope," I said.
"When I divorced his mother and married Gloria Hilton, the last thing he said was, 'Father, you're contemptible. I don't want to hear another word from you as long as I live.'"
"That's—that's strong," I said.
"Friend—" said Murra hoarsely, "that's mighty strong." He bowed his head. "That was the word he used—contemptible. Young as he was, he sure used the right one."
"Did you finally get in touch with him today?" I said.
"I called the Headmaster of the school, and I told him there was a terrible family emergency, and he had to make John call me right away," said Murra.
"It worked, thank God," he said. "And, even though I am definitely contemptible, he has agreed to come see me tomorrow."
Somewhere else in that conversation, Murra told me to look at the statistics sometime. I promised him I would. "Just statistics in general—or some special statistics?" I asked him.
"Statistics on marriage," he said.
"I'm scared to think of what I'm liable to find," I said.
"You look at the statistics," said Murra, "arid you'll find out that when people get married when they're only eighteen—the way my first wife and I did—there's a fifty-fifty chance the thing will blow sky high."
"I was eighteen when I was married," I said.
"You're still with your first wife?" he said.
"Going on twenty years now," I said.
"Don't you ever feel like you got gypped out of your bachelor days, your playboy days, your days as a great lover?"
"Well," I said, "in New Hampshire those days generally come between the ages of fourteen and seventeen."
"Let me put it to you this way," he said. "Say you'd been married all these years, fighting about the dumb things married people fight about, being broke and worried most of the time—"
"I'm right with you," I said.
"And say the movies bought a book you'd written, and they hired you to write the screen play, and Gloria Hilton was going to be the star," he said.
"I don't think I can imagine that," I said.
"All right—" he said, "what's the biggest thing that could possibly happen to you in your line of work?"
I had to think a while. "I guess it would be if I sold the Conners Hotel on putting Fleetwoods on every window. That must be five-hundred windows or more," I said.
"Good!" he said. "You've just made the sale. You've got real money in your pocket for the first time. You've just had a fight with your wife, and you're thinking mean things about her, feeling sorry for yourself. And the manager of the hotel is Gloria Hilton—Gloria Hilton looking the way she does in the movies."
"I'm listening," I said.
"Say you started putting up those five-hundred Fleetwoods," he said, "and say every time you put up another storm window, there was Gloria Hilton smiling at you through the glass, like you were a god or something."