Marjorie Morningstar (49 page)

“Oh, no, thanks, Mr. Sigelman, I’ve been dancing and dancing.”

“Horace. We might as well be informal. Something tells me we might be seeing a little
more of you.” He gave her a heavy slow roguish grin. “That Noel, he’s one hell of
a guy, isn’t he? I swear I think he’s the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. Monica
about worships the ground he walks on. Though we never see him. I’ve always said if
he ever married some nice down-to-earth girl, who’d steady him up, you know, why he’d
be famous in short order. He’s an awful wild man. You know, the kind other fellows
envy, until they stop to think about it. I don’t envy him any more. I used to, in
a way. But I don’t now, he’s seemed sort of sad the last few years, lonely, you know,
and not getting much of anywhere.”

Monica said when they returned, “It’s all set, Margie. He’s going to bring you out
for the day to our place as soon as the weather gets better. My brood’ll climb all
over you, and drip ice cream on your dress, and it’ll be fun.”

“Wonderful.”

Noel said, “Providing Margie’s still talking to me.”

The sister took her hand and suddenly kissed her. “ ’Bye, dear, you’re sweet. Pay
no attention to me, I’m a sentimental drunk. Take me home, Norace. Horace—listen to
me—‘Norace.’ ” She reached up, pulled her brother’s head forward and kissed him swiftly
on the cheek. “Goodbye, you scoundrel. Follow Billy’s example, real soon.”

“Gad,” Noel said, looking after her, “she’s ossified. Ordinarily she’d as soon give
me an arm as a kiss.”

“Well, I don’t like to kiss my brother, either, it’s silly. No wonder you’re so fond
of her, she’s charming.”

“Who said I was fond of her? She’s a bore, a suburban slattern with a house boiling
with kids.”

“You told me so yourself, at camp. You also said Horace was a lump of pig fat. I think
you’re wrong there. He’s very likable.”

“Did I call Horace that? That’s rather neat. Weren’t we going outside?”

Some of the couches in the mirrored corridor were screened by fake palms in green
tubs, and on these there were couples talking earnestly, holding hands, kissing. “Here,
you see?” Noel said. “The pairing-off process is well advanced already. A pity Max,
the doctor, didn’t show up. You two are star-crossed lovers. Why, to miss such an
opportunity—”

Marjorie said, “I must have no sense of humor, after all. I don’t think Max, the doctor,
is funny any more.”

“You’re getting sensitive.”

“Well, it’s the drop of water on the stone, you know.”

“I erase that joke from my repertoire. You will never hear it again.”

“Thank heaven.”

“I’ll miss Max, though. I was getting fond of him.”

They were strolling past the ladies’ lounge. Phil Boehm leaned against the wall beside
the door, his hair rumpled, a droopy-eyed grin on his face. Marjorie said, “Hi. Is
Roz all right?”

“Guess so, guess so. Li’l sick, she says.”

“Shall I go in and help?”

“No, no, no. Four gals with her now.”

Marjorie said as they walked away, “Maybe you can tell me why the married ones cut
up so horribly at these things.”

“Good Lord, is that a question? To forget, of course,” Noel said. “To forget their
own high hopes, and their sad mornings after. To forget the budgets that don’t balance,
the friends with bigger cars, the baby’s sore throats, the sleepless nights, the bloody
miscarriages, the procession of quitting maids, the flatness of routine sex, the neurotic
mother-in-law poisoning their lives—”

“You make marriage sound like a nightmare.”

“Do I? I don’t mean to. No, time passes and the path narrows and narrows, and after
a while there’s nothing to do but marry. But marrying doesn’t help, you’ve just got
to do it anyway, and after you’re married life just goes on being a series of decreasingly
pleasant choices. And you wonder why the married ones get drunk—”

“Well, I’ll say this, a girl would be absolutely crazy to marry a man who thinks the
way you do.”

He turned on her, and his look was so scornful that she started back a little. “Aren’t
we past those devious female noises yet? You’d marry me in two seconds if I asked
you.”

“You’re the most unbearably conceited man I’ve ever met.”

“Listen, Marjorie, you’ve been lying awake nights thinking of me. Those rings under
your eyes! You look awful.”

“You fiend, of course I’ve been thinking of you! Haven’t you been making love to me
for a year?”

“Well, why the devil didn’t you telephone me then?”

“Telephone
you
? You said you’d call me.”

His laugh was a short bitter burst. “Christ, that was really it, wasn’t it? Margie,
ever hear of the French king who roasted to death rather than move his chair back
from the fireplace with his own hands? You’ve got him beat hands down. The heavens
can fall, but Shirley’s protocol must be observed, isn’t that the idea?”

She faced him. “You said you were starting work and might be busy for a while. You
know you did. The way you left it, no girl with any self-respect would have called
a devil like you. It would have been nagging, crawling—”

“You’re all wrong. Girls call up devils like me every day in the week, Margie, girls
with all kinds of pride and self-respect. Why, the land rings from coast to coast
with such calls. Only they never call for a date, don’t you see? They call about a
book they meant to borrow, or because they heard you were sick, or they dialled the
wrong number by mistake, or some old thing like that. Naturally.” He put his arm around
her waist. They were at the end of the corridor, looking out of the window at a crimson
sunset over the bluish downtown buildings. He said after a moment, “I’m sorry. I should
have called you, I know. But it was better not to. I’ve been in a foul mood, and still
am, and that’s the truth. Going straight, keeping nine-to-five hours—the old Adam
dies hard, Margie. And of course, in my lowest moments it’s always you I blame. However—”
He kissed her temple lightly. “Come, one dance and then I must leave you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have a date.”

“Anybody I know?”

He grinned. “Janice Gray.” He grinned wider at the fall of her countenance. “Listen,
she’s a lonesome old bat. She’s the mistress of a sweater manufacturer who’s on his
way home from Europe to meet her, and she’s dying of boredom. She doesn’t know anybody
in New York.
She’s
not bashful, she phones me all the time. She doesn’t like me at all, but I’m sort
of a neutral presentable dancing partner. She pays all the checks, so I’m not wasting
my hard-earned funds.”

Marjorie said angrily, “No doubt you’re standing in for the sportswear manufacturer
in bed, too.”

He looked her in the eye. “No.”

“No?”

“No. She isn’t interested, and anyway, she’s inches deep in makeup. It would be like
trying to make love to a greased pig.”

With a nervous giggle Marjorie said, “That’s some way to talk about a movie star.
You’re lying to make me feel good.”

In the ballroom the musicians had stopped playing. Noel said, “Well, guess I’ll pay
my disrespects.” He went up to the exhausted Sundheimers, with Marjorie on his arm,
and urbanely congratulated them. Marjorie Sundheimer looked a little frightened, shaking
his hand. He slapped Billy on the back. “My boy, read your Genesis again. The younger
ones aren’t supposed to marry first.”

Judge Ehrmann said heavily, “You’d better read
your
Genesis again, Saul. That applied only to the daughters.”

“Well, all the same,” Noel said to Marjorie Sundheimer, “don’t be surprised if you
wake up on your wedding morn and find yourself married to me. It’s an old Biblical
custom.”

Marjorie Sundheimer said, “I’m afraid I’d never stop running.”

The judge laughed hoarsely.

“So long, Mother,” Noel said. He bent and kissed her pink wrinkled cheek.

“Are you going already? You just came.” She accompanied them out to the elevator,
saying to Noel, “Why don’t you come up to dinner, say next Friday, and bring your
little friend here, Marjorie? It’s been so long—”

Noel said, “Why, I barely know this girl.”

“Stop your nonsense.” As the elevator door slid open, Marjorie suddenly said, “Mister,
this is your last date with Janice Gray.”

“Who says so?”

“I do.”

“Goodbye, girls. Have a nice chat, now.”

At midnight Marjorie telephoned Noel. There was no answer. She sat in bed reading
her novel until one, and called again. No answer. She dropped the book and thought
about the engagement party. She was still appalled at the wretched incident that had
ended the afternoon. One of Noel’s former girls, married for five years, the mother
of two children, had staggered up to her and, with distorted features and thick speech,
had begun gabbling disconnectedly about Noel. Completely out of control, the woman
had shrugged off her husband’s embarrassed efforts to stop her, and her voice had
become louder and her smile queerer. Sandy at last had hurried Marjorie out of the
room, with the woman shouting after her, “Come back, come back! There’s lots more
you’d better know about Saul Ehrmann—”

When the minute hand stood at exactly two, she called his apartment again.

“Hello?” He sounded sleepy.

“Hello. It’s Shirley.”

“Holy smoke!” His voice rose with pleasure. “Calling a man at two in the morning—”

“I know. I’m totally depraved. You’ve ruined me.”

“Well, it’s nice to hear from you, ruined or not—”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you. Is Janice Gray there?”

“Oh, don’t be a jackass. I dropped her at the Waldorf an hour ago. How about coming
down here? We’ll neck.”

“Not a chance.”

“Well, then, come down here and fight me off.”

“No. I had enough trouble fighting off Susan Hoffen this afternoon.”

“Oh my Lord.” His voice grew cautious. “Don’t tell me—was she drunk?”

“She was mighty strange. All about how nice you are and how pretty I am, on and on,
with her hand gripping my arm, and her eyes popping. It gave me the creeps.”

“Susan can give you the creeps, all right. She hates her husband, and she takes it
out on the world.”

“Just one of the broken blossoms along your path, Mr. Airman.”

“Oh, sure. They litter the West Side. Only Susan victimized me, as it happens. Turned
around and got married because we’d had a fight, and left me stunned for months. Now
it’s all my fault, obviously, and will be till she dies.”

“Obviously. And you’re still brokenhearted about her. Or is it Betty Frank, or Irene
Goren, or Ruth Mendelsohn, or Marilyn Lubin? You ought to write a book.”

He laughed. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“Not a thing.”

“You called me.”

“I know. Just because you made such a silly fuss about it. Also, I want to borrow
a book.”

“Now you’re talking. What book?”

“Oh, I don’t know, any book. Plato’s
Republic
.”

“That’s a honey. Hell of a trick ending. I’ll give it to you when I see you again.”

“Fine. When will that be?”

“Marjorie Morgenstern, are you asking me for a date?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, bless my soul. Let’s have a date right now. I’ll get dressed and come get you.”

She chuckled. “Noel, don’t be insane.”

“Why not? Damn it, the only good hour is the present one. We’ll have hamburgers, and
ride back and forth all night on the ferry, like Edna Millay says—”

“I’m no Edna Millay, mister. And I’m in bed, and my face is all cold cream, and my
hair is a mess, and I wouldn’t get up and eat hamburgers with Clark Gable.”

“You definitely lack romance,” he said in a disappointed tone. “Come on, our future
may hinge on this. In fact it does. Have a hamburger with me, and I’ll marry you.”

“Not even for that.”

“Well, all right. I’m not sensitive. How about lunch tomorrow? Sardi’s at one?”

“Sure.”

“Gad, you’ve actually called me for a date, do you realize that? Shirley is dead.
Long live Marjorie! I swear there’s hope. Good night, my darling.”

Noel cheered up strikingly after that. They called each other several times a day.
It was a rare week in which they did not meet at least half a dozen times for lunch,
cocktails, or dinner. They saw all the best shows and movies, went to the best concerts,
and ate at the best restaurants; for Noel now had a continuing plentiful supply of
money from his Paramount job. It seemed to Marjorie that she was discovering New York
City. Her college set had stayed rigidly in a zigzag path through the town, traversing
a few hotel bars, night clubs, and eating-places which they considered smart. The
rest of downtown New York had been an unmapped jungle of boredom, left to the inferior
animals called older people. Now Marjorie, moving toward her twenty-first birthday,
and imperceptibly becoming one of those older people, saw that the collegians’ tastes
had been as naïve, in their way, as those of small-town visitors. Her brief explorations
with Marsha had been limited by lack of money. But Noel suffered from no such lack;
and he loved New York.

Equally with the expensive fairyland between Fifty-ninth Street and Forty-second Street—which
he knew from river to river like a guide—he loved all the sights and sounds and smells,
wherever they were, provided only that they were poignant and sharp. They would go
in one night from the Club Ferrara, from costly food and wine, murmuring music, and
the aura of celebrities and beautifully dressed women, to the stinking fish market
at the foot of Fulton Street, where, under the glare of big electric bulbs, bright
fish lay in bloody heaps, and trucks ground, and hairy men in ragged sweaters cursed
and yelled. Or they would ride a ferry for a nickel, hugging each other to keep warm
in the icy river breeze, watching the jagged line of black skyscrapers slide past
in the moonlight; and they would laugh at the sluggish roll of the boat, the foul
oil-and-garbage whiffs from the river; then they would go to a big night club for
out-of-towners, a vulgar whirl of colored feathers and naked kicking legs and bad
food and wine, where thirty dollars would melt in an hour. Noel had an insatiable
enthusiasm for this rounding. When Marjorie was ready to drop, he would have some
eager inspiration. “God, this is such wonderful fun, Margie. Let’s keep going. The
night’s young.”