Magician's Wife (5 page)

“To say nothing of flabbergasted?”

“Well, surprised, I admit, but pleasantly.”

“I should have phoned, and would have, except I wasn't sure you'd see me, and so, to head off a brush, I barged.”

“I'm certainly delighted you did.”

“At least it's nice of you to say so.”

By now he had got his door open again and ushered her in. Her reaction to the living room was much like Sally's. And while she marched herself around, taking in various things, he stood taking her in, with more of an eye to detail than had been possible out in the hall. He noted the smart hang of the taffeta dress, and the Continental look of the matching stole that was flung over one shoulder after a turn on her neck. He noted the crimson accessories, of the exact shade to bring up her iron-gray hair. He noted the fresh, handsome face, with large hazel eyes. But most of all he noted the “figure to write home about,” a slim, sinuous thing of no more than medium size, but voluptuous in every curve. “That dress,” he said quickly when she caught him looking at her, “if it was done in dark blue, would be the Portico hostess uniform.”

“It's the original of the Portico hostess uniform,” she said, a bit tartly. “I designed it myself. And I wasn't too pleased, I can tell you, when Bunny Granlund saw it and thought it was just the thing for the Portico girls to wear. I wasn't too pleased, but it means business to the store—to Fisher's, where I work—and I get a royalty, too, so I don't say too much about it. In the meantime I wear it,
as is.
”

“It's lovely. Simple—and beautiful.”

She thanked him and continued her tour of inspection. Then suddenly: “Why this?” she asked. “Why Mexico?”

“Well, why not?” he parried.

“It seems a bit odd somehow. In Maryland.”

“It's a long story. I got into meat and then thought I should learn more about it. So I bought a bunch of books, among them one called
The King Ranch,
that I heard really went into it. It did, all right, but went into other things too, like Texas history, the Mexican War, and that stuff. It cleared up all kinds of things for me, like why they fought that war. Why
we
did was no mystery at all: we just helped ourselves to a strip of desert down there, for no good reason at all except to make a prettier map, and because the Rio Grande was longer than the Nueces and made a nicer-looking boundary. But why would they fight
us?
It was because it just so happened that this strip of worthless desert also included a harbor, the one at Punta Isabella, inside the Brazos Santiago—the only good one they had north of Veracruz. No one is quite sure that
we
even knew it was there. So that's why they went to war, and I don't blame them one bit. When I got through with that book, I was hooked on Mexico, and my hat was off to the writer. His name is Tom Lea, and you never heard of him but—”

“I? Never heard of Tom Lea?”

She seemed dumbfounded, and pointing to a drawing of a horse surrounded by cactus, said: “That
is
a Tom Lea—or I'm crazy. Peering close, she added: “Yes—it's signed.”

“Oh. He's an artist too—as you are.”

“Not in his class—
but I'm working
.”

He said he admired the ads she did for Fisher's, and she seemed pleased, but got back insistently to him. “Why meat?” she wanted to know.

“Well, once again, why not?”

“It doesn't match up, or doesn't seem to anyhow. With these things, this place, or even—you.”

“I wanted something big.”

“Oh. Now I begin to see.”

“Railroads, coal, copper, things like that, which may have been big once, are all washed up now. Power, steel, oil, automation, things like that would have meant more years in college—MIT, some place like
that.
So I happened to think of meat. It's big and has to get bigger—so long as the population keeps increasing and people have to eat.”

“It begins to make sense now, and
is
sort of poetic at that. In a rugged, masculine way. This was before, during, or after Lafayette College?”

“During. But where did you hear about that?”

“You were graduated from there, weren't you?”

“Yes, but I didn't tell Sally.”

“Oh, I haven't discussed you with
her
.”

“Then how do you know so much?”

“There's no mystery. Sally, when she goes somewhere at night, has to be reachable, in case something comes up about Elly. And as I'm sure to be called if she doesn't answer her phone, she always leaves me a number—usually Bunny Granlund's or one I'm familiar with. But the other night it was one I didn't know, and when it happened night after night, I got curious about it and called Information. So once I had your name the rest was ridiculously easy—Fisher's credit department did me your bio sketch, of course thinking it routine, and not knowing my personal interest. I know your New Jersey origin, which accounts for that drag on your speech, your very elegant drawl, also your swimming career and your great success at Grant's.”

“Nothing scandalous, I hope?”

“No, it's all most impressive.”

“Let's talk about you, Mrs. Simone.”

He waved her to one of the sofas, then took a seat on the other, facing her. “Meaning,” she said, “get to it? What I came about?”

“Well? What did you come about?”

“I'm not sure I'm going to say, Mr. Lockwood. You're—not at all what I expected, and I've been getting the shakes. Talking and talking—postponing as long as I can. I may have been losing my nerve.”

“I'll make it easy for you. I think I've guessed why you came, so why don't we—be civilized about it? Go somewhere, have soft crabs on toast or something, maybe wine with bubbles in it—and have our discussion
friendly
.”

“I don't understand you at all.”

“You came to bust it up, so O.K., start busting.”

“To—bust
what
up?”

“What's between me and Sally.”

“Then I'm right in suspecting that something
is?
”

“No—that something
has
been, that's all.”

She sat staring, trying to guess what he meant without trying to straighten it out by questions that made her seem stupid. He smiled, said: “You're very good-looking. I'd enjoy champagne with you. So, if you're busting it up, then bust.”

At last getting the point, she asked: “And you think I'd do that? Try to bust it up by cutting in on my little girl?
Myself?
”

“If you're busting, that's how it's done.”

“And you, Mr. Lockwood, after seeing her every night, would now start up with me? I'm her mother—I thought I made that clear.”

“Invitation withdrawn. What did you come about?”

“I can say, if permitted.”

“I've just been trying to help.”

“I'm not busting it up!
I came to egg it on!
”

She closed her eyes as she said it, as though horribly embarrassed, but pronounced every word distinctly, as though she desperately meant it. He was speechless he was so startled, and sat staring. Then he got up, and after marching around, asked: “
Why?
”

“Well, Sally's my daughter, isn't she?”

“Yeah, as you've said quite a few times.”

“And—I want her happy. Isn't that enough?”

“Wait a minute. Did Sally ask you to come here?”

“No! No, Mr. Lockwood—she hasn't said one word about you to me! And you mustn't divulge to her that I came here tonight. You'll protect me, won't you?”

“Then, I will. Now, what's the rest?”

“The—rest?”

“
What the hell did you come about?
”

He snapped it impatiently, then plowed on fast, to say what a queer thing it was for a mother to pay such a call, “out of the blue—with no more to go on than a name from Information, a gumshoe job by her store and—that's all. Talk about not matching up, this is just plain queer—unless there's more to it. So there is more to it. So why don't you say, Mrs. Simone?”

“Mr. Lockwood, there's
nothing
more to it!”

“Then O.K., let's have the soft crabs.”

“I tell you, I'm Sally's mother.”

“And I tell you, Sally and I are through. Maybe you're her mother, but you're good-looking, I like you and—so let's get at the crabs.”

“No! No!”

“Why no in that tone of voice?”

“Well, Mr. Lockwood, perhaps I
should
have said more. I haven't quite made myself clear. I not only came to egg it on, but to egg it on
now
, Mr. Lockwood. Sally's been—marking time, as she calls it, but why should she, after all? It only puts things off. If she breaks up her marriage now, it's something that had to come. And if it helps, that you've appeared on the scene then, then that could be a way out. The thing would be done and—at last would be over. Now, does that help, Mr. Lockwood?”

He didn't answer at once, but sat looking at her, and then at last said quite slowly: “So
what you're afraid of, what you're terrified of, wouldn't happen, would it?
”

“I—don't know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don't! I swear I don't! I—”

“Won't admit it, and I don't expect you to. You've made things clear just the same, and I get it at last, why you came. And all I can say is, I like you better and better.”

“And—I like you, Mr. Lockwood.”

“What's your name, Mrs. Simone? Your first name.”

“Grace.”

“Mine's Clay.”

“Yes, I know, and—”

“Grace, when Sally left last night, we didn't say good-by, and she may not know that that's what it was. Just the same, I won't see her again. But to let you get things straight, I didn't bring her here just for a few evenings' fun. The very first night, and last night too once again, I put it on the line—asked her to do what you want: make the break now, leave that guy, go to Reno and have it done. I even begged her to stay here with me. Her answer was I was nutty—that to do what I wanted she'd have to give up that dough, what she thinks she'll get of the fortune that Mr. El will leave, what she'll get and what her boy will get. But that wasn't all, Grace. It showed through, like the blue on a corpse's fingernails, what she's hoping for. What she means to do, perhaps.
If
she gets help—of the kind she thinks I can give. I won't! Get that straight, Grace. I won't be her patsy.”

“I haven't the faintest notion—”

“What I'm talking about. That's O.K.”

“But if you took her
now—?
”

“I told you: I tried it. We're past that.”

“But, Clay, you can't give up
that
easy!”

“Why can't I?”

“You're in love with her, that's why.”

“What makes you think I am?”

“Clay, a woman knows. You give yourself away with every word you utter. When you draw your breath in you tremble. Did you know that?”

“So, I
could
be in love with her maybe.”

“The one who could be
is.
”

T
HEY TALKED A BIT
longer, repeating what had been said, but in a more matter-of-fact way, he helping her regain her aplomb, the crisp elegance she had had when she came, and then he took her down, as he thought, to her car. But on finding that she had come on foot, that she had walked from Rosemary Park, where she lived, he insisted on taking her home. So she hooked a hand on his arm and they strolled through the balmy spring night and, in snatches, talked. It was mostly about flowers, and she stopped occasionally to point out the splashes of color the azaleas made on the lawns or to stare at the leaves overhead, now half open, “so feathery, so delicate, so unreal—so like the
Midsummer Night's Dream
overture, those butterflies in the strings.” She went on: “That play is
not
about summer—it's about spring, when everything's moist and fresh instead of all dried up, when the flowers are still singing and the locusts haven't started. But, of course, Midspring Night's Dream is not a title—even Shakespeare, no doubt, had to think of
that
.” He agreed, glad he knew his Mendelssohn, and drew her attention to the splotches of white the dogwood blossoms made, “as though calcimined on.” She said: “Yes, the original Chinese white.” His hand was on hers as they reached her apartment house, another place like his own, if smaller. She stood peering in at the door, then whispered: “It
is
a beautiful night, and not the end of the story. I won't have it that way! You're
not
through with Sally—we have more talking to do! Would you like to come up for a while?”

“I'd love it.”

She took him inside the automatic elevator, then brought him into her apartment, excusing herself after turning on the lights. He wandered about, eying the modernist furniture, the oyster-shell rug, the crimson drapes, the French things on the walls, prints, posters, sketches, and paintings. He scanned the signatures closely, but didn't see one that he knew. She came back with a highball tray, looking slenderer without her hat, gloves, and stole, and younger with her hair fluffed out on her neck. He spoke for Scotch on the rocks, and she filled a glass with ice, then let the whisky cover it. Making a light one for herself, she took a seat on the rectangular sofa, motioned him beside her. They sipped, recalling the dogwood again; then, recalling the overture, he hummed the violin part. She led him back once more to the “proposal” he'd made to Sally, and he told it in more detail, especially her answer to it, with due emphasis on the Wild Man from Borneo and nuttiness. He admitted he had been “rocked,” and solemnly proclaimed how simple it all would have been if “she'd just done nothing at all—stayed there, tucked away with me, and let me handle the rest.”