Marjorie Morningstar (43 page)

Her mind was in a turmoil of sentimental regret and excited anticipation. She had
read Guy Flamm’s name often in the theatre columns; he wasn’t one of the famous producers,
but a producer he most certainly was. The unexpected letter from Miss Kimble in her
pocket meant more to her than the diploma she was about to receive. It was the real
accolade for whatever she had done at school; more than any diploma, it might light
the way to the future.

She was wondering, too, whether Noel was in the audience, and, if so, how she would
manage matters after the ceremony. Her mother, she knew, would inevitably want to
go to Schrafft’s; and Noel, who could eat with pleasure in the noisiest, dirtiest
cafeterias, had once said that the middle-class miasma at Schrafft’s gave him the
black horrors.

After some remarkably uninteresting speeches, the roll call of the graduates began.
Rank on rank, seven hundred girls marched to the stage, and as their names were called,
they each received from the dean a handshake and a white cylinder tied with lavender
ribbon. It went as regularly and swiftly as bottle-capping. Little lonely handclaps
rose here and there in the hall for each girl. Only the prize winners and a few expert
politicians in the class evoked any real applause. Marjorie tensed as her turn drew
near, and her regret became acute at not having worked hard enough to lift herself
out of this black line of nobodies.

“Felice Mendelsohn…”

“Agnes Monahan…”

“Marjorie Morgenstern…”

A bit dizzily, she walked across the open space to the dean. To her amazement there
was a general outbreak of handclaps. She glanced to her left at the banks of faces.
Even some of her classmates were applauding. The dean’s eyes relaxed from a formal
grinning glitter to friendliness; her hand was hot, moist, and strong. “Good luck,
Eliza.” It was over. Marjorie Morgenstern, bachelor of science, was leaving the huge
stage of Carnegie Hall with a diploma in her hand. “Katherine Mott… Rosa Muccio… Florence
Nolan…” Evidently her production of
Pygmalion
in November—she had organized and staged it herself, after the dramatic club had
rejected the idea as too ambitious—had won her a trace of distinction, after all.

She wept a few minutes later, as did many girls about her, when the graduating class
closed the ceremony with the alma mater hymn:

She had always considered it a silly song—”fame throughout the wide world” indeed,
for this sad crop of subway riders!—and it seemed silly now, too. But it was the end,
and so she wept.

The lobby, jammed and steamy, was pervaded by the smell of rain and wet overcoats.
Marjorie shouldered her way through, clutching the diploma, went outside, and saw
her parents at the outer edge of the crowd under the marquee, talking to Noel. It
was raining very hard, slantwise; the wind on her ankles was icy. She pushed through
to her parents and hugged them, then briefly clasped Noel’s hand. “Quite an ovation
you got,” he said. He wore an old brown hat with a shapeless brim, and a brown herringbone
topcoat slightly frayed at one elbow. Fists jammed in his pockets, shoulders stooped,
a vague smile on his face, he looked ill at ease and almost seedy. His white lean
face fully showed his thirty years.

“That was probably you and my folks,” she said, “clapping hard enough to raise echoes.”

All at once arms were flung around her, and her face was momentarily buried in wet
gray squirrel fur. “Sugar bun, congratulations! Welcome to freedom!”

“Marsha! Hello—”

“Honey, you don’t mind, do you?” Marsha’s face had the old eager look, but she seemed
to be much thinner. “Saw the commencement announced in the
Times
this morning,
had
to beg out of the corset department long enough to see la Morningstar graduate. Darling,
you looked sublime, but the rest of the class—gargoyles, my dear, where does Hunter
collect them?” She turned to the parents. “Look at your folks, will you? How do they
manage to get younger and younger?” She glanced roguishly at Noel. “And if it isn’t
the great Mr. Airman!”

“Hello, Marsha,” Noel said with a smile, his tone faintly weary.

Marsha said, linking her arm with Marjorie’s, “Did you hear that claque in the balcony
when they called your name? That was me. I damn near split my gloves getting it started—”

The wind veered and spattered cold rain over them. Mrs. Morgenstern said, wiping her
face, “Well, it’s silly to stand here in the wet. Schrafft’s is just a few doors down—”

Marjorie was troubled by Noel’s demeanor in the restaurant. He slumped very low in
his chair, smoking, and glancing around at the brown-panelled walls and the parties
of middle-aged women in big hats eating ice cream and shrilling at each other. Automatically,
not watching his fingers, he was tearing apart the paper doily at his place. Marsha
kept chattering about the graduates. When the waitress came the parents ordered ice
cream and the girls cocktails. Noel scanned the menu with drooping eyes. “I’ll have
a cottage cheese and Bartlett pear salad with watercress.”

Marjorie peered at him. “Good heavens, you never eat such junk. Have a drink.”

“It’s a penance. This is like going up a holy staircase on my knees,” Noel said. “I
may as well do it all the way.”

Marsha’s eyes gleamed at Marjorie. “What have you done to him? He’s a broken man.”

“Broken,” Noel said. “Saddled, bridled, bitted, and tamed. Children ride me in Central
Park for a dime.”

The parents smiled uncomfortably. Mrs. Morgenstern said, “Listen, don’t complain,
Noel. That’s steady work.”

Noel laughed and said without rancor, “Mrs. Morgenstern, how would you like to see
me make twenty-five thousand a year?”

“I think Marjorie might like it,” the mother said.

“Would you?” Noel said to Marjorie.

“Look, Noel, what do I care? Do whatever you think will make you happy.” It was an
impossible situation, Marjorie thought, especially with Marsha grinningly absorbing
every word.

Talk started up of what Marjorie was going to do with herself now. Mrs. Morgenstern
said she ought to go to work as a secretary in the father’s office. “Just to find
out what it feels like to make a dollar,” she said. “The whole world looks different
once you’ve made a dollar.”

“That’s absolutely true,” Marsha said.

Marjorie turned on her. “You, of all people!”

Marsha, tossing her head, took a cigarette and a silver lighter from her purse. “Honey,
if the Theatre Guild is holding a part open for you, that’s another matter.” She flicked
a flame to the end of the cigarette. Marjorie had an impulse to drop the Guy Flamm
bombshell into the discussion. But she suppressed it; time enough to talk about that
when she knew what the outcome would be. Marsha went on, “I’ve always believed in
you, and I still do. But it’s just true, you’re only half alive, you’re only a child,
really, until you’ve earned money. You might as well pile up a reserve for the pavement-pounding
next fall. And find out, incidentally, how most of the world lives. It’s a big gap
in your education.”

“On that theory,” Noel said, “she also should go out and get an arm torn off in the
subway or something. One way or another, most of the world lives maimed.”

“What kind of talk is that?” the father said with unusual harshness, and there was
silence until the waitress returned.

Marsha lifted her manhattan and said cheerily, “Well, here’s to the star about to
dawn on the world.”

Noel lifted a forkful of cottage cheese toward Marjorie and ate it.

Mr. Morgenstern pushed his ice cream aside after a few spoonfuls.

“You’ll excuse me, people. We’ll celebrate a little better tonight at dinner. The
office is in a bad mess.”

Noel stretched out a long arm, seized the check from the waitress, and put on his
dingy hat and coat. “Well, rising star, talk to you tonight. I have to go, too. Have
to see about that twenty-five thousand a year.”

Mrs. Morgenstern chatted for a while with the girls, questioning Marsha about her
department store job with more kindliness than she had shown in the old days. When
she left, the two girls glanced at each other and burst out laughing. “How about another
drink?” Marsha said.

“Why not? I have no homework tomorrow.”

Marsha caught the waitress’ attention, and made a swift circle with her forefinger
over the two drinks. “Sublime feeling, isn’t it?”

“Marsha, how much weight have you lost, forty pounds? You look splendid.” Marsha simpered
and put her hand to her hair, which was cropped, thinned, and curled close to the
head. The thick paint and purple lipstick were gone; she wore only a little light
makeup. The loss of weight had brought the outlines of bones into her face. Her frame
was still bulky, but the black suit and plain white silk shirtwaist made it less noticeable.
Gone, too, were the gaudy earrings. Her one ornament was a large curious gold crab
pinned to a shoulder.

Marsha said, obviously enjoying Marjorie’s scrutiny, “Oh well, dear, I’ve done as
well as I can by the old hulk, I guess. Lamm’s has been an education, it beats Hunter
seven ways. I’m not assistant corset buyer yet, so I suppose I shouldn’t have gotten
in touch with you, but—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Marsha, I’m very glad you came.”

“Well, honey, you know you regarded me more or less as a leper not even two years
ago. Maybe after a summer at South Wind you feel a little kindlier toward me. At least
you’ll agree I didn’t invent sex.”

“I was kind of young, you know, Marsha.”

“Oh, darling, I wish to God you’d been right, instead of just young. It’s a nasty
pigsty of a world, and that’s the truth. But I broke with Carlos way back when I went
to work, in case you’re interested—and I’ve been a good girl ever since, honestly.
Not through choice, I won’t claim that much saintliness. I’ve had no chances worth
speaking of. But the hell with all that. Bless you, you little devil, you’ve harpooned
Moby Dick! Who would have thought it? Noel Airman, brought low by little Marjorie!
I’m proud of you, honey, and if you remember, I
told
you you could probably do it.—Well, don’t sit there with a face like a boiled lobster,
tell me everything.”

“I haven’t harpooned him, don’t be absurd.” Marjorie drank to cover her delighted
confusion.

“Oh, please, baby. I never saw a man so thoroughly and hopelessly gaffed. How did
you do it? What’s your secret? Spare no details.”

“Oh, Marsha, it’s awful. I’m in terrible trouble, if you want to know.”

“Poor baby. Are you pregnant? It’s nothing to worry about—”

Marjorie choked over her drink, sputtered into her napkin, and coughed and coughed.
It was some seconds before she could gasp hoarsely, “Ye gods, Marsha. You’ll never
change, will you?”

With a hugely amused grin Marsha said, “Sorry, honey, I’ve never been able to resist
shocking you. You always react like a Roman candle.”

“Oh, shut up and give me a cigarette.” Marjorie began to laugh. “No, I’m not pregnant.
As a matter of fact I think I’ll shock you now. I’m not having an affair with Noel.”

Marsha looked searchingly at her face. “I believe you.”

“Well, thank you—”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Marsha said. “Have you any idea what a feat you’re pulling off?
Men like Noel don’t put up with your West Side brand of inconclusive mush. What’s
been happening?”

Marjorie still felt her old mistrust of Marsha, but the need to unburden herself overcame
it. “Well, Marsha, it’s all so weird I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Are you engaged?”

“Far from it.” She began to describe the summer at South Wind, and soon was pouring
out the story. Marsha listened like a child, her eyes glowing, sometimes holding her
cigarette unregarded until ash fell on her suit. When Marjorie narrated the death
of Samson-Aaron she stammered and her voice became shaky. Marsha shook her head. “You
poor kid.”

Marjorie was silent for a little while. Then she said, “I had the strongest possible
feeling that I’d never see Noel again. I didn’t want to. He wrote and I didn’t answer.
He phoned and I pretended not to be in.”

“Did you go out West?”

“No. Mom took me to one of those hotels in the mountains where you meet nice young
men. She never said she was against Noel. She hasn’t, to this day. Well, I met nice
young men, hordes of them. Doctors and lawyers with mustaches, half of them. They
come out in force in the mountains in August, like goldenrod. I was the belle of the
place, if I do say so. The other mamas would gladly have poisoned my noodle soup if
they’d dared. Well, when I came home there was a big rush of dates, and—this all sounds
pretty boastful, doesn’t it?”

“Darling, we’re old friends,” Marsha said. “Curse your pretty face, I know every word
of it’s true.”

“All I’m getting at is, I was twice as bored as if I’d been a wallflower. All those
fellows seemed so dreary, after Noel! Marsha, I hold no brief for him, but he’s—well,
you know, he’s somebody—”

“Somebody? You may as well know it, kid, Noel Airman is the end of the trail. I hope
you marry him—of course you will, for better or worse, otherwise he’ll haunt you to
your grave. They don’t come like Noel. Men, that is.”

“Now we come to the strange part. It’s a little hard to talk about.” She looked away
from Marsha’s inquisitive eyes, out into the street. The table was near the window.
Rain was showering down, breaking in little gray stars on the pavement. Since her
infancy she had loved to watch those little leaping stars. “It’s a cloudburst, do
you know? Happy day, Marjorie graduates—I think I might have refused to see him when
he finally did phone again, Marsha, late in September, if not for all those dull dates.
But it was such a blessed relief to hear his voice, an intelligent voice. He
sounds
intelligent, you know. So—I did it, I said all right, I’d meet him for a drink. We
went on to dinner, naturally. And there were more dates, and—I don’t know, I hate
getting clinical about these things—”