Heart Troubles (11 page)

Suddenly sad, he remembered Lucille's little attempts to show that perhaps she, too, knew how things should be. At parties, for instance, she would be solemn when everyone else was being witty, and when the conversation was serious she would make jokes. And her jokes, he often had told her flatly, did not come off; her timing was all wrong. Be charming without trying to be funny, he had told her again and again. Her little failures embarrassed him. She had a habit of forgetting to freshen her lipstick and of forgetting to zip the last inch of zipper on the back of her dress—little things, but they were important, weren't they? Of course. She made grammatical mistakes. She tried so hard to play her part that she was pathetic in it, so pathetic and awkward that he was forever having to think up lines to cover her mistakes.

But worst of all, of course, was the way she sometimes managed, with a thoughtless word, to deflate the small balloon of confidence that he liked to keep blown up around him. And when this happened—Well, he thought, perhaps I have a few faults, too.

The sun was gone; a strip of far horizon was in a final blaze of Technicolor; he was driving very fast. He thought, But the point is, I do love her.

Perhaps he was a heel. Probably no other woman in the world would have put up with him for nine whole years, and for this alone he loved her. Of course, just because she had put up with him did not mean she loved him. Yet for a time, when they first were married, it had seemed as if she did. He thought of those early weeks, when they'd been gay together. She loved the sea, the sky, the earth, just being outdoors. They had spent days on the beach, driving in the hills, picnicking in the woods—like happy children. That was it. She had been so young, only twenty then. But he couldn't play forever. And so, for years—those carefree days were long past—she had merely lived with him patiently, putting up with him. How could he expect her to love him? Yes, that one point, that tiny but significant point, had been left out of the script. If he had the script to do over again he would put that in somehow. And all at once, desperately, he knew that he couldn't live without her. She had come to fill too deep a cavity within him.

“Perhaps,” he said, “if we had had children—”

“Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps not. It's too late now.”

“Not too late to have children.”

“No, but too late to
want
them. That's the big thing. For nine years we haven't wanted them. Or, rather, you haven't. You can't start wanting things like children this late.”

“Perhaps if there hadn't been so many parties. Things like that.”

“There are a lot of perhapses.”

“I love you, Lucille.”

“Ah, Hugh,” she said earnestly, “I believe you. I know you love me in your own funny way. But—”

Suddenly something struck the front fender of the car. She screamed,
“Hugh!”

He pressed the brake pedal hard.

“You hit something!” she cried.

“Wait here,” he said. He opened the door and stepped out. He walked slowly back on the edge of the highway, searching along the dark roadside. At last he saw it—a sea gull lying on the asphalt shoulder. He went to it, knelt, and touched it. Its wing jerked slightly under his hand. He picked it up. The bird was limp and surprisingly heavy. He carried it back to the car. “Look,” he said softly.

“Oh, a gull!” she cried. “Oh, the poor thing!”

“It's alive,” he said. “And I think its wings are all right.” Gently he placed it on the seat of the car.

“Hugh,” she said, “what are you going to do with it?”

He got into the car.

“Leave it by the road, for heaven's sake, Hugh!”

He said nothing and started the motor.

“Hugh, if this is going to be one of your jokes, taking a sea gull to the Parkers' party, don't, please! It's not funny—it's horrible!”

He swung the car out into the road again and made a wide U turn, heading back the way they had come.

“Hugh, what in the world are you doing?” Her voice was tearful.

“Quiet! Be quiet,” he snapped. He reached for the gull beside him on the seat and lifted it to his lap. He drove very fast. It was six miles back to the house, but he made it in fewer minutes. He turned into the driveway, stopped the car, got out, and ran up the steps, carrying the bird.

The house was empty, immaculate, filled only with serene white furniture. Lucille's high heels followed him across the polished floor.

“Get me a medicine dropper,” he said. “Quick.”

She ran out, carrying the dropper. He seized it. Cradling the gull in the crook of his left elbow, he lifted the stopper from the whiskey decanter. He jabbed the medicine dropper into the bottle and withdrew a few drops. Then he pressed the bird's bill open firmly with his fingers. Slowly, a drop at a time, he trickled the whiskey into the bird's mouth. Then he waited. Standing tensely beside him, Lucille waited too.

The gull's eyes fluttered open. Hugh took the bird to the wide glass door and carried it onto the high terrace that overlooked the sea. He raised the bird on the palm of his hand and held it outstretched for several moments. Suddenly, with a leap and a flash of wings, the gull rose and soared away into the night.

Lucille sobbed, “Oh, thank God!” and sat down hard on one of the terrace chairs, her face in her hands.

“Come on, let's go,” he said gruffly. “We're going to be late.”

She stood up and followed him to the car.

“When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to love birds. They were a hobby.” He started the car. “It was a funny kind of hobby, I guess. The other kids used to call me Birdbrain.” He laughed softly. “They were jealous because I was the smartest kid in class. So they called me Birdbrain and left me alone with my birds.”

They headed south again, faster than ever, because now they were going to be very late indeed, and he tried to think about Ed Parker and the funny script he wanted Ed to buy.

After a while he said, “Nine years,” and paused. “Look, Lucille, suppose we take a trip somewhere—how about that? How about Mexico? You always loved Mexico. Or Hawaii. What do you think of that, Lucille? I mean, my lord, Lucille, nine years! There must have been
something
to keep us together that long. Look, suppose we sell the house? I mean it. Suppose we move out into the valley? Or suppose we go south?”

“No, no,” she said softly. “That isn't what I want to know.”

“What, then?”

“It wasn't—it wasn't just part of a script, just then, back at the house, was it? You didn't do that, did you, just because—just because you thought the story needed a tender scene?”

He glanced at her. Her head was back against the leather upholstery, and she was looking straight up at the sky that flew by above them, and her eyes seemed stabbed with stars.

Then quickly she said, “No, don't answer. I know it wasn't that. I'm sorry I said it.” He felt her hand touch his arm. “Nine years,” she said. “Shall we try for ten?”

He started to say something; then a memory stopped him. It was a memory of himself not as a boy who loved birds but as a man not so long ago. He had been in his study, talking on the telephone, having an argument with a producer. The producer had wanted some changes in a script, involving lines that Hugh had written for the leading woman character. Hugh had been against the changes and had said, “No, no.… No, she's not that kind of woman! She wouldn't say that. Sure, she's beautiful and warm and tender, but she's got something else, too. A kind of spark, an intelligence, a quality of nobility. She's not just a lovely mannequin; she's a very real woman—someone like Lucille!” And as he had said that he had turned and seen Lucille standing in the doorway. It had been just a year ago.

He couldn't help thinking of what she had said about geniuses—that they seemed to have, when they needed it, a kind of fool's luck. It was a shocking thought. But for the first time in his life he began to wonder whether, indeed, he
was
one.

BRIGHT, YOUNG FACES

Acapulco, Mexico, January 29

Today should have been one of the happiest days of my life. Instead, it has been a jumble. I can't sleep. Sally is sitting now, tailor-fashion, on one of the twin beds across the room from me. The money, all of it, is still spread out in the folds of her skirt. She can't sleep either, but for a different reason.

We have been at this hotel for three days; it was to have been the last stop on our honeymoon. We have come from Mexico City, Cuernavaca, and Taxco. We had planned to fly back home to Chicago tomorrow morning. Next week I was to begin practicing law in Evanston. But tonight the plans have changed.

We have been married exactly two weeks. This evening, to celebrate our two weeks' anniversary, we went to the night club in the hotel for dinner. It is a large, pleasant room with a wide outdoor terrace and dance floor. After dinner Sally and I danced for quite a while. We have always danced well together. We are both small. Sally, in high heels, is just a shade shorter than I am, and that is ideal for dancing. Suddenly, the master of ceremonies announced an elimination dance. Throughout the dance, he explained, the poorest dancers would be eliminated one by one by the judges, until finally only the two best couples would be left on the floor. Then, judging by the applause from the tables, the best couple would be selected. The prize was a bottle of champagne.

Sally and I almost didn't get involved in it. We started to sit down, but then Sally said, “Oh, let's do it,” so we did. We danced all our fanciest steps, all our dips and twirls, until finally Sally and I, and one other couple, were left on the floor. Everybody clapped for us and we were given the bottle of champagne.

They pushed a microphone over to us and asked us to say a few words. But for some reason, instead of saying simply, “Thank you,” Sally began to make a little speech. I don't know what made her say some of the things she did. Perhaps even then, at that point, she had some uncanny knowledge of what would happen. But she began talking, telling the people in the room that we were just married (“As if we couldn't guess!” someone shouted), that we were from Chicago, that we wished we could stay forever in Acapulco—it was so beautiful—but, alas, that we had to leave tomorrow for home. She told them that I was just out of law school, that I was going back to start my own practice “in a little cubbyhole of an office,” and that she was going to help me out every step of the way, typing my letters and briefs, answering the phone for me. It was a pretty little speech, and I suppose the way she said it—all breathless from dancing—made everybody shout and clap some more. The orchestra began playing “Here Comes the Bride,” and the people applauded us all the way back to our table. Before we sat down we waved and they clapped some more.

A few minutes later a tall, heavy-set man came over to our table, “I'm Ed Fenimore,” he said. He was holding a cone-shaped party hat in one hand, with his other hand over the top of it to keep the contents from spilling on the floor. On his finger he wore a big square-cut diamond that caught the lights from the dance floor and sparkled. The red and gold metallic paper hat glittered, and Sally's giant brown eyes were as bright and glistening as Mr. Fenimore's ring. For a moment I was conscious only of glittering. Everything seemed to shine, until Mr. Fenimore removed his hand from the top of the hat and revealed the folded and crumpled bills—tens, twenties, even fifties, stuffed up to the very brim of the hat. “It's for you,” he said.

I took the hat and stared at it. “We can't take this,” I said. “We're not professionals. We were just having fun.”

“I know you were, son,” he said. “Everybody in this room knows you were having fun. That's why we all chipped in. We want you to go on having fun.”

Sally said nothing. She was looking at the money. I kept repeating, “But we can't take it—we were just dancing.”

“Look,” he said. “I know it's a struggle getting started. I've been in business myself. Take this—it'll help. Look at all the old fogies like me in this room. They're all rich. They've made their money. You're just starting out. The rest of them are too old to enjoy their money—you're not. It did their hearts good to see the two of you with your bright, young faces, out there, dancing—”

“But we never dreamed—” Sally whispered.

Mr. Fenimore pulled up a chair. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked. “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, please sit down,” Sally said.

“Let me buy
you
a drink,” I said.

But Mr. Fenimore insisted. He flagged a waiter and gave him the order. Then he turned to Sally. “I hope you don't mind an old coot like me sitting down with you.”

“But you're not an old coot,” Sally said. “You're one of the sweetest men I've ever met. We're—well, we're just overwhelmed!” Her eyes kept returning to the money in the paper hat.

Mr. Fenimore told us a little about himself. He had retired and was a widower. He loved young people. He liked to see young people having a good time. He spent a lot of time in resorts, in hotels like this one. He traveled a great deal.

“I'm a resort bum,” he said. “Nothing else to keep me busy.”

But he was not like the other resort bums, he said, pointing around the room. For one thing, he was not so rich as they. Yes, he said, he had had money once. But he was spending it all. Soon, he said, laughing—he tapped the diamond ring—he'd have to sell that. Then he would be just a bum.

Being a resort bum was a lonely life, he said. There were seldom any young people in resorts like this, except an occasional honeymoon couple like Sally and myself. That was why we were so refreshing—like rays of sunshine.

“You kids are a couple of sweethearts,” he said. “You brought back youth to everybody in this room. Take this money. It's worth it to them. If they can buy back five minutes of their youth with a pathetic ten or twenty bucks apiece, it's worth it.”