Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (33 page)

“About what?”

“About Susan! About the problems she’s going to have.”

“It doesn’t seem to me that she’s in very difficult circumstances,” Hopkins said dryly. “When I was her age . . .”

“You haven’t thought about it, then,” Helen interrupted. “It’s time you did. What do you think is going to happen to her?”

“Happen to her?” Hopkins said. “Nothing, I hope. I hope she marries and has a nice family.”

“What chance do you think she has for that?”

“Not bad, I’d say. She’s pretty, and she won’t be exactly a pauper.”

“No, she won’t be a pauper,” Helen said. “I’m glad you’ve thought about it at least that much!”

“What do you mean by that?”

“To put it bluntly, your little daughter is probably going to be one of the richest young women in the country, and we haven’t done anything at all to prepare her for it. And if she keeps on the way she’s started, she’s going to get into a lot of trouble.”

“I think you’re exaggerating,” he said. “Money is no reason why she has to get into trouble.”

“What do you think would happen if you and I died tomorrow?”

“Susan would inherit a lot of money, but she wouldn’t have to worry about it. My lawyers would take care of all that.”

“For the rest of her life?”

“If she wanted.”

“You’re awfully willing to write her off as an incompetent,” Helen said. “The fact is that sooner or later the child’s going to have tremendous responsibilities, and she has enormous temptations right now. It’s our job to help her handle them.”

“It’s too early for that,” Hopkins said. “Wait till she gets older. Then I’ll see that she learns something about investments and all the rest of it.”

“It’s not investments I’m worried about!” Helen said. “Don’t you see what a difference that money makes for her already? For one thing, everything she does gets in the newspapers! ‘Miss Susan Hopkins seen at the Stork Club last night.’ My God, any little joke she makes gets in the gossip columns. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Not the gossip columns.”

“Well, try them! You’ll learn a lot about your daughter. At the age of eighteen, she’s a celebrity!”

“That’s inevitable,” he said. “She’ll learn to take it in her stride.”

“And the men she goes out with!” Helen said. “They’re not just nice healthy schoolboys–you should see them. A man called for her here the other night who’s older than I am!”

“Who?”

“Byron Holgate, his name is. He drives a ridiculous-looking automobile, he’s had two wives, and he sails in ocean races.”

“I know Holgate,” Hopkins said. “He’s a fool. What’s she running around with him for?”

“She’s not just running around with him in a casual way–she’s with him half the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were thinking about marrying him. And the other people she sees aren’t much better–it’s the whole café society crowd. Do you know what she said to me the other day? She came in here dressed in some horrible thing she’d just bought, and she said, ‘Mother, do you think I’m old for my age? I think boys my age are children.’ ”

“All girls go through a stage like that.”

“Nonsense! Most girls would like to, but they don’t get the chance. You have no idea what’s been going on. The other day a man who had a play opening on Broadway took her to the opening night with him. How can a college boy compete with that?”

“Who was it?”

“Michael Patterson, his name is. He’s forty-three years old and has three children. His wife divorced him last year.”

“His play folded after three nights,” Hopkins said. “You shouldn’t let her run around with a crowd like that.”

“How can I stop her? Do you want me to lock her in her room?”

“Have you had a talk with her?”

“Sure I’ve talked with her! She says I’m old-fashioned and she says . . .” Helen paused before she finished the sentence. “It’s rather funny,” she continued. “She says I’m nobody to talk, because my own marriage has been a failure.”

“That’s not true,” Hopkins said quietly. “I consider our marriage a success.”

“Let’s not go into that,” Helen said. “The point is, I can’t do anything with her. And I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen if she keeps on: she’s going to be one of those women who’s in and out of the divorce courts most of her life.”

“I think you’re being an alarmist,” he said. “She’s young and high-spirited. Give her a few years, and she’ll straighten out.”

“
How
is she going to straighten out?” Helen demanded. “What kind of training is she getting? In the mornings she sleeps until lunch. She spends half the afternoon getting dressed. Most of the time she’s awake she’s getting entertained. Is that going to straighten
her out? My God, she’s already complaining that she’s bored all the time. Bored, at eighteen!”

“She ought to go to college,” Hopkins said.

“Yesterday she flatly refused. College is for children, she said. She claimed most of the men she knows are more brilliant than college professors–I suppose she’s thinking of her playwright.”

Hopkins finished his drink. “Tell that girl to bring a bottle and an ice bucket in here,” he said.

Helen touched the bell pull, and a moment later the maid appeared. “You rang, Madam?” she asked. “Did you ring for me?”

“Bring a bottle of Scotch and an ice bucket for Mr. Hopkins,” Helen said.

“Certainly, Madam,” the girl replied, and scurried from the room.

“That girl makes me nervous,” Hopkins said. “Where did you get her?”

“She’s just inexperienced. I think she’s a little overawed by you.”

“I like to mix my own drinks!”

“Don’t get irritable, dear,” Helen said. “It isn’t like you.”

“I’m sorry,” Hopkins said.

After the maid had brought the bottle of Scotch and the ice bucket, Hopkins filled his glass and took a long drink. “I think you better tell Susan she simply has to go to college,” he said.

“I have, and she told me not to be medieval. That’s exactly what she said.”

“Maybe we’ve got to get a little tough with her. Tell her if she doesn’t go to college we’ll stop her allowance.”

“I’ve already told her that,” Helen said patiently. “She said to go ahead. She said she’s already been offered a job singing with a band, and that she thinks she could get a screen test. And the funny thing is, she’s right: plenty of people would be willing to hire your daughter, and you might as well understand that. Simply because she’s your daughter, she’s not the same as other people. You’ve given her a problem, and it’s time you started helping her to handle it.”

“I don’t see what I can do,” Hopkins said. “She’s not a child any more. If she wants to ruin her own life, there’s not much either of us can do about it. All we can do is watch, and if she runs wild, I’ll set up a small trust fund for her and put the rest into my foundation.”

“The Ralph Hopkins Foundation!” Helen said bitterly. “That and
the headlines about your daughter’s divorces will perpetuate your name.”

“Let’s not get emotional,” Hopkins said.

“I’m not emotional!” Helen replied, her voice rising. “I just want to discuss a few facts. Since they were born, you’ve left the upbringing of the children to me. I’ve done it alone, and up to now, I haven’t done a bad job. Bobby was a good boy–you were never particularly aware of him, but he was. He got good marks in college, and he never got into any trouble, and he enlisted in the Marines because he thought it was the right thing to do. He didn’t even want a commission–he wanted the hardest job he could get, and no favors from you!”

Tears suddenly came to Helen’s eyes, as they still did quite often when she talked about her dead son. Hopkins got up and awkwardly put his arm around her. “You’ve done a wonderful job,” he said.

“But Susan has me licked, and I need your help!”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I don’t know what I can do. You know I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

“You’re not stupid! This is a problem. All I’m asking is that you
try
to do something about it. It would help if Susan just knew you were trying. Don’t go back to that office of yours and just forget about her. By God, if it will help you, think of her as a business problem!”

“I’ll do anything you want,” he said.

“It’s not anything
I
want. I don’t know what to ask you to do. I just want you to figure something out for yourself.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

He handed her a clean handkerchief, and she wiped her face. When she straightened up in her chair she was completely composed. “I just want to tell you this,” she said quietly. “I’m asking you for help. I haven’t done that for twenty-five years. I’ve got to admit I don’t think I’ll get it. What I really think is that you’ll go back to New York, and maybe have a talk with Susan, and then forget all about her and me too. What I want you to understand is this: if that happens, I’m through. I’ll get a divorce, on grounds of desertion.”

“I’m going to try,” he said.

“Trying isn’t enough. I don’t mean you’ve got to succeed with Susan, but you’ve got to do more than just make a halfhearted effort to get yourself interested. And don’t come back to me and tell me
you’re sorry, but you are what you are, and nothing can be done about it. You’ve got to give her
time.
Put her down on your calendar. Treat her as though she were something you were a trustee of!”

A
T NOON
of the day finally set for Tom to have lunch with Hopkins to discuss the speech, Tom’s secretary came into his office and rather incredulously said, “There’s an elevator man here to see you. He says his name is Gardella. Shall I tell him to come in?”

“Yes,” Tom said.

A moment later Caesar entered, shut the door behind him, and rather self-consciously took off his purple cap.

“Hello, Caesar,” Tom said. “Nice to see you.”

“Good morning, Mr. Rath,” Caesar replied. “We heard from Gina’s mother. It’s funny–I thought you’d want to know about it. She doesn’t know where Maria is.”

“Doesn’t know?”

“What I mean is, Maria and Louis and the boy–they’ve gone somewhere. They’re not in Rome any more, or at least they’re not anywhere where Gina’s mother can find them. She hasn’t heard a word from them for six months.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. Things had been pretty hard for them for a long while. Louis was out of the hospital, but with his leg and all, he couldn’t get any work. Gina’s mother had been helping them out, and I guess that bothered Louis a lot. Louis’s a funny guy–he’s proud.”

Tom glanced out the window. He found it hard to look at Caesar.

“Gina’s mother thinks they may have gone to Milan to look for work, and that they didn’t tell anybody they were leaving because they owed so much money,” Caesar continued. “Anyway, there’s no sign of them now. I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks,” Tom said.

“Gina’s mother has an aunt in Milan, and she’s asked her to look for them,” Caesar added. “She’ll let me know if they find them.”

“I guess there’s not much we can do now,” Tom said.

“They’ll turn up eventually,” Caesar replied. “I’m sure of that. Gina has an awful lot of relatives over there. Louis’s funny–if he made some money, he’d come back and pay his debts. And if things went real bad, Maria would have to go to some relatives for help. Sooner or later she’ll turn up. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Tom said.

“Well, so long,” Caesar concluded, awkwardly put on his cap, and went out the door.

Tom got up and walked over to the window. So they’ve disappeared, he thought. I wonder if this is the way it will end–with no ending at all, with me never knowing what happened to them. They’ll turn up, Caesar said. Somewhat to his own surprise, Tom found himself hoping they would–soon. The implications of that startled him a little, and he turned quickly to sit down at his desk. What would I do? he thought: what would I do if right now I knew they were starving and knew where to reach them? I couldn’t do anything without telling Betsy–we’ve got joint bank accounts, both the saving and the checking, and Betsy keeps much closer track of the money than I do. I could take a few dollars out and make up some kind of excuse, sure, but not much and not regularly. And even if I could find a way to get the money without her knowing, it wouldn’t be fair to her. I’d have to tell her, he thought. I’d have to tell her and pray to God she’d understand.

How would you tell your wife a thing like that? he asked himself. Would you go up to her and say, “Look, honey, I’m sorry to have to say this, but during the war . . .”

What would she do? It suddenly seemed to him that his wife was a stranger whose actions he could not predict at all. I don’t know her, he thought with a kind of panic, I don’t really know my own wife at all. Poor Betsy! Betsy had never had anything happen to her which could possibly help her to understand a thing like that. Would she accuse him of being immoral? Would she cry? Would she be angry, jealous? Would she figure that the whole time they had spent together since the war had been a kind of living lie, and would she want a divorce? He simply could not imagine what she would do–he couldn’t picture himself telling her about Maria at all. Maybe I’ll
never have to, he thought. Maria has disappeared as completely as though I had wished her away. She isn’t there any more, or at least no one can find her–it is as though she never existed. I should be glad Caesar can’t find her, he thought; I should be glad, I should feel immensely relieved. He put his hand up to his face and suddenly realized he was praying like a child: Dear God, I want Maria to be all right.