All Gone (12 page)

 

He hadn't spoken to her in ten years when he decided to call.

“Hello.”

“Miriam?”

“Yes, this is Miriam Cabell, who is it?”

“Miriam Cabell now—I didn't know. What ever happened to Miriam Livin?”

“If you don't mind who is this please?”

“And Miriam Berman?”

“I asked who this is. Now for the last time—”

“Arnie.”

“Who?”

“Arnie—well, guess.”

“I'm in no good mood for games now, really. And if it's just some crank—well my husband handles all those calls.”

“Then Arnie Spear—satisfied, Mrs. Cabell?”

“Arnie Spear? Wait a minute, not Arnie X.Y.Z. Spear?”

“The very same, Madame.”

“Arnie Spear the famous sonnet writer and lover of tin lizzies and hopeless causes and the world's greatest raw green pea eater?”

“Well I don't want to brag, but—”

“Oh God, Arnie, how in the world did you get my number?”

“I'm fine, thank you—have a little pain in my ego, perhaps, but how are you?”

“No I'm serious—how'd you get it?”

“I met Gladys Pemkin coming out of a movie the other night. She told me.”

“How is Gladys?”

“Fine, I suspect. Haven't you seen her recently?”

“I've been running around so much these days I don't see anyone anymore. In fact, the last time with Gladys must've been a good year ago.”

“Your name,” he said, “—Cabell? That's your new husband, isn't it?”

“Fairly new. We've been married two years now—or close to two. A lovely man—I wonder if you knew him.”

“Don't think so. You happy, Miriam?”

“Happy? Why, was I ever really unhappy? But maybe I should toss this same ticklish nonsense back to you. How about it?”

“I'm happy. Very happy, I suppose. Really doing pretty well these days.”

“I'm glad.”

“What ever happened to Livin—your last?”

“That bastard? Listen, Arnie, I signed a treaty with myself never to mention his name or even think of him, so help me out, will you?”

“What happens if you break the treaty?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if let's say we suddenly begin talking about him. Do you declare war on yourself and sort of battle it out until one or the other side has won?”

“I don't understand. That was a figure of speech. And why would you want to talk about Livin when you never knew him? Anyway, tell me how Gladys looks. Last time I saw her it seemed she'd been drinking it up pretty heavily or at least on pills all day long.”

“She seemed fine. A little tired, perhaps, but not much different than the last time I saw her—which was with you, remember?”

“No, when was that?”

“I don't know. About ten years ago or so.”

“I can only remember old events if I'm able to place in my mind where I was at the time. Where was I?”

“In this tiny coffee shop on Madison and Fifty-eighth. The Roundtree I think it was called.”

“No I don't recall any such place.”

“It folded four years ago. I know because for a few months I had a magazine-editing job in the area and used to walk by the shop daily. And then one day it was suddenly empty of everything except a sawhorse and there was a For Rent sign in front. Now it's a beauty shop.”

“Wait a minute. Not some incredibly garish beauty shop? With lots of pink and blue wigs on these wood heads in the window and with a refreshment counter in front for serving hot tea and cookies?”

“I think that's the one.”

“Do you know, I once went there to have my hair set—isn't that strange? It's not a very good place, which is why I only went once. They dry all your roots out.”

“Well that's where we last saw one another. The place has always been particularly meaningful to me—almost as a starting point in a new phase of my life. Because if it wasn't for what you told me there that morning, I doubt whether I ever would've become so immediately conscious of my hang ups then to flee the city, as I did, and get this fine job out of town.”

“Excuse me, Arnie. You're on that beauty shop still?”

“Don't you remember? We met there for coffee—when it was still a coffee shop. It was an extremely emotional scene for me then—holding your hand, and both of us unbelievably serious and me trying to work up enough courage to finally propose to you. You very mercifully cut me off before I was able to make a big ass out of myself and told me, and very perceptively I thought, what a shell of an existence I was leading at the time and how, instead of trying to write fiction about a world I didn't know, I should get a job and see what the world was about. I was so despondent after that—”

“Yes. Now I remember.”

“Remember how torn up I was? I was a kid then, granted, but it was very bad, extremely crushing.”

“Yes. I hated that last scene.”

“So after that, I quit school two days later and got a cubreporter slot on the Dallas paper my brother was on then, just so I could be away from you and the city and all. And later, I went to Washington for several local Texas papers and then the correspondent jobs overseas seemed to pour in, none of which I feasibly could have taken if I were married or seriously attached at the time.”

“Then things have worked out in their own way, right?”

“I suppose you might say so.”

“And you've also seen a lot of the world, am I right? I mean, Europe and such?”

“Europe, Central America, Rio and Havana and once even a year's stint in Manila as a stringer for one of the TV networks. I've had a good time.”

“I'm glad.”

“I've been very fortunate for a guy who never had a thought of going into journalism—very.”

“It really sounds like it. There can't be anything more exciting than traveling, I think. Besides the fact of also making money from it.”

“Even then, it's not as if I've had everything I exactly wanted—like the wife and kids I always spoke about.”

“That's right. You used to speak about them a lot.”

“Or the home. The even relatively permanent home with some grounds I could putter around with on weekends, for basically I'm a family and fireplace man and I'd be a self-deluding idiot to deny it. But I've been quite lucky all in all.”

“It sounds like it. It sounds very exciting.”

“Yes. Then last night, when we were in the lobby waiting for the movie to break—”

“You were with someone?”

“A friend—a woman I see. Nothing important: someone I was serious about long ago. Well I spotted Gladys, and I don't know, I just ran over to her and for some reason threw my arms around her—something I never would've done ten years ago as I had never cared for her much. But things change. I was actually exhilarated at seeing her. And we naturally got around to talking about you.”

“What did Gladys have to say about me?”

“Nothing much.”

“I ask that because she's always had a foul mouth. Always spreading lies about people—me particularly, though I was probably the first person to even take a half-interest in her. She's another one I made a pact with myself never to speak to or even think about. She's said some filthy malevolent things about me—to mutual friends, no less, which we'd be cut off the line now if I ever repeated them.”

“For me she's always had a special ironic place in my memory. Because if you remember, when we finally emerged from that coffee shop ten years ago, Gladys was walking past—the last person we wanted to see at the time, we agreed when we saw her.”

“Now I remember. That bitch always turns up at the wrong moments.”

“She spotted us and smiled and began waving an arm laden with clanky chains, as if this was just the most beautiful day in the most beautiful of worlds for everyone in it. I remember her vividly.”

“You always had an excellent memory. I suppose that's important in your field.”

“That among other things. But that incident comes back amazingly clear. Even the kind of day it was, with the ground freshly covered with a light snow flurry which we had watched from the coffee shop.”

“That part,” she said, “I'm afraid I don't remember.”

“Everyone must have a few scenes in his life which stick out prominently. And not just extraordinary or life-changing events—that's not what I'm driving at so much. For instance, I can remember meaningless, supposedly insignificant incidents which occurred twenty years ago, and also what kind of day it was then and how everyone looked and even what they were wearing down to the pattern of their dresses and ties.”

“What was I wearing that day?”

“That day?—Oh…that green suit you had. And a trench coat. The tightly belted coat I particularly remember, even that the top button was off and that you said that right after you leave me you were heading straight to a notions shop to get the button replaced.”

“That trench coat,” she said. “I got it at the British-American House and did it ever cost a fortune, though I at least got a few years out of it. But the green suit?”

“It was a green tweed, salt-and-pepper style. It was a very fashionable suit at the time—the one you most preferred wearing to your auditions.”

“Nowadays, I just go in Levis or slacks.”

“You usually wore it with the amber-bead necklace I gave you, and so I always felt at least partially responsible for the parts you got.”

“I forgot about that necklace. You know I still have it.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wasn't about to throw it away. It's a nice necklace.”

“How does your husband react to your sporting these priceless gems from other men?”

“Mr. Cabell? He doesn't think a thing about my clothes—not like you used to do: nothing. But he's very nice. A very peaceful man who knows where he is more than most anyone, and extremely generous. He's a dentist.”

“About my favorite professional group—even if they hurt.”

“But he's not like any old dentist. He specializes in capping teeth for theater people. Just about every big Broadway or television-commercial name who's had his or her teeth capped had it done by my husband. That's how I first met him.”

“You had your teeth capped?”

“Just the upper front part. Only four of them.”

“But you always had such beautiful teeth.”

“Well he thought they should be capped. They were a little pointy—the incisors especially—like fangs. They look much better for it—honestly.”

“What could a job like that run someone?”

“Thousand plus—which is with a cleaning and everything. But then you have to consider the labor and time involved.”

“Did Dr. Cabell make you pay up before he married you?”

“Oh we got married long after that. You see, about six months after I paid up completely, he phoned me out of the blue and mentioned something about my having missed one of my monthly payments. I said ‘Oh no, Dr. Cabell, there must be some mistake,' and he said he'd have his nurse check it out. Later he called back and said I was right—I was paid up in full. That's when he first asked me out for lunch—to make up for his misunderstanding, he explained—and later we got married.”

“It sounds as if he were initially feeding you a line.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, quite harmlessly, that he was feeding you a line—which is all right if it works I suppose.”

“But that's not true. He in fact told me later that I'd probably think his bill call was only an excuse to contact me, but that it wasn't. He really did think I wasn't paid up.”

“Then why didn't he have his nurse phone you about your overdue payment? That would seem both more logical and professional to me, considering how busy dentists always say they are.”

“Simon feels that something like that—when he has the time—ought to be handled by him alone. He's a very informal man, Arnie, and he's told me many times that there's already too much impersonality in the city between dentist and patient.”

“You're no doubt right. It's absurd for me to even have brought up such a small point. But I suppose I've been hauling around this vision of you being a person who'd be much cleverer than to fall, let's say, for the kind of business like that.”

“Fall? What are you talking about? I married this man. Even if he was giving me the business with that call—which he wasn't—what's the difference now? It's all water under the cesspool or something when you married the person, isn't it?”

“Naturally.”

“Oh sure, you really sound convinced.”

“Look, I'm simply against lines and deceptions of all sorts—what can I tell you? I don't like hypocrisy. I've seen too much of it in my work and I simply don't like it.”

“That's right—I forget. You're the big world traveler and interpreter of newsy events.”

“All right, I happen to be a journalist—a newsman, if you like. And I write about things that turn my stomach every day. In politics, diplomacy, newspaper management—”

“You were also always a big one for the soapbox if I can remember. Even in college: always the big speech.”

“No, you're not catching my point, Miriam.”

“Oh I catch it. I haven't been sleeping these past ten years. But one would think that during this time you might have changed. But you still have to beat the old drum.”

“I'm not beating any old drum. I was simply saying—”

“And that you might have learned some tact. Because to call up an old friend and insult her husband as if he were the world's worst hypocrite and schemer, well uh-uh, I'm sorry, that's not using much tact. That's not even using much brains, if I can say so without you jumping down my throat.”