The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (70 page)

A long time ago, he had married a girl with splendid long legs and a face that was described as pert (in the blue half-light of dawn she whispered, “darling, darling, darling,” and the legs were strong, the face was wild and lovely). The girl had borne his child (“Oh, George, don't look, I'm so ungainly,” she said, and, “George, I'm going to hate him if he doesn't look like you, or if he's a girl”), but the child had died. Everyone agreed she took it very well, and nothing between them was changed. The girl continued to worry about him and listen to his plans and keep house for him, first on West Tenth Street, where they had a cat, and then in Englewood, where they had a car and a garage. (It was once during the Englewood days that J. C. Farling, the general manager of American Bearing, said, “I want to tell you, George, you got a regular peach of a wife.” And when he told her she laughed. “Oh, aren't they funny, those big, bald, half-articulate men with their terrible neckties? A regular peach of a wife. Imagine what
his
wife must be like. And imagine his being your boss.” And he said: “Well, I'd hardly call John Farling half-articulate, Alice, whether you like his ties or not. You've got to learn to judge people for what they are, and Farling is a first-rate businessman.” And she said: “That's not what I meant, dear; I'm not
judging
anybody.”)

A little later the girl, or rather the woman, the wife who was becoming heavier and more nervous, began to keep house for him in Bronxville, and their lives became more ordered. (“But there's no
reason
for you to take a job, Alice,” he said once, “and there's so much you wanted to do with the house. At Englewood you couldn't wait to get started on it.” And she said: “Oh, George, it
is
a lovely house and I
am
happy here, but
look
at me—I'm getting fat and I sit around all day and I'm damned if I want to be like Mrs. Whiting and Mrs. Clark, with their luncheon clubs.”)

The second year in Bronxville she began buying books of poetry all the time and wearing clothes that were thought a little strange for Westchester, and the third year they went through what he later thought of as their quarreling phase—a series of fights so frequent and bitter that when it ended, in the inevitability of mutual exhaustion, they decided they had reached a new maturity, had learned at last to live together as adults. And for the rest of the decade that changed them from nearly forty to nearly fifty they rarely quarreled at all. Perhaps they had not spent as much time together, perhaps they had fewer common interests, but at least they had not quarreled. And at least he had tried; he had always been gentle with her and tried to understand her. Once he had even bought and read, in private, one of those sensible books on menopause, feeling a little foolish about it afterwards, but reassured, because all the cases it described were real neurotic types and none of its clinical dogma could possibly have applied to Alice. And all along, right up until last night, he would have said they had a settled, well-adjusted marriage, imperfect as all marriages, but basically sound. And then quite suddenly it had all fallen away. She was standing in the middle of the living room when he came in, her face strangely white, and her suitcases were standing beside her. “George, I'm all packed. I wanted to be out before you came home because I wanted to avoid a scene. I was going to leave a note.” He sat down on the couch and looked at her, still wearing his hat and holding his briefcase. “Oh, George, you're
not
shocked. Please don't pretend you're shocked. You know
exactly
what kind of a marriage we've had for the past five—my God, the past
ten
years.”

“But where are you going? I just don't understand it, Alice.”

“All right, then, I'll make it very simple so you can understand it. First I'm going into town to meet Max and then we're going to drive west.”

“Max? Who's Max? You mean Max
Werner
? You mean you and he have been—”

She sat down on a suitcase and squeezed her hands together, looking at him, and then she broke into a shrill, short laugh. “Oh, George you
can't
tell me you didn't know about it!” And it was hard to tell whether she was being cruel or simply embarrassed. Werner was a tousled, intense man who taught history or something at some high school and used to drive her to lectures at some local poetry society. He had come to dinner once or twice, about a year ago. Had it started then? He sat there feeling stunned, that was all, and finally he said, “Well, I suppose there's very little I can say.” After that, for a long while, they talked of legalities: arrangements to be made for a divorce and for the disposal of the house, which was in her name, agreeing several times on the vague statement that there was really plenty of time to take care of these things later, and it was all absurdly unemotional, even when she went to the hall, excusing herself, and telephoned to Werner in some New York hotel to say she would be late. But about seven she said, “You must be hungry, George,” and they moved into the kitchen, where she began to make some coffee and a sandwich for him. And there, while he sat stiffly at the enameled table and watched her familiar movements with the Silex, watched the careful way she measured tablespoons of coffee, blood pumped into his throat in a sudden fury of jealousy and grief and he cried, “But I
love
you! You know I've always loved you!” That started it; for an hour they shouted at each other, dizzy with the release and impact of their terrible words, carried around the kitchen in the stalking, circling ritual of caged tigers, and afterwards he could remember only fragments of what they said.

Once, backed against the refrigerator with her eyes flashing up and down him and her mouth curled for hissing, she said, “Oh, how can anyone hate you; you're not hateful—you're just a pompous, posturing,
fussy
little man!” And another time, when he had turned away from her after saying something long and bitter about Werner, and stood hunched dramatically over the back of a chair, she came up behind him and said, very quietly, “I've never
felt
unfaithful to you, George, don't you see? What was there to be unfaithful
to
?”

It caught him off guard, and for a moment his mind seemed as clear, as grimly logical as her words. Did she really think that? Was it really that simple? He thought of his evenings at the club, playing cards. And he thought, fleetingly, of a pretty Irish waitress at the restaurant where he had lunch every day, the one who called him “Mr. Pollock,” and whom he had watched with a foolish wistfulness only last week. But the moment was brief; as meaningless, probably, as all the things they were saying to each other, and he turned on Alice again. “This is what I get,” he shouted, “after all I've—”

“Oh, yes, tell me, please! Tell me exactly how much you've given me. Give me an itemized goddamned account!” And the mindless ritual of the quarrel was resumed.

Finally she cried, which was a tremendous relief, and then they were both worn out. They drank coffee without talking much, and then she went upstairs to make up her face again. When she came down she telephoned for a cab, and then they were standing in the doorway with strange faces, muttering that they were sorry, and then she was gone. There was nothing to do but walk around the living room, wondering if the neighbors had heard them and seen the cab, wondering how to handle the business of the packing, the storage company, and the hotel.

Now, crossing Forty-second Street, Pollock tried to put his feelings in order. The rankling thought of Werner, the question of whether she would ever come back and the other question of whether he
wanted
her back—these, which had tortured his nerves all night, were now, if not dormant, at least mercifully assimilated in his mind; their shock was gone; he could deal with them later. He pushed through the revolving door into the lobby, where the jaunty young elevator starter made a harsh, annoying
crick-crack
with the gadget in his hand. All that possessed him now was a sense of being alarmingly alone, robbed of security; he knew the fear that grips the bowels of a child lost in a crowd. This was ridiculous, he decided, and as if to prove it he gave the brim of his homburg a curt yank, setting it lower on his forehead as he strode into the elevator. (“I love you in a homburg,” she said once, years ago, when he had first started wearing one and felt self-conscious about it. “It's just right for your face—so neat, sort of, and urbane.”)

“Morning, Mr. Pollock— Hey, the
Journal
really did it up brown, didn't they?” It was young Merton at his elbow in the elevator.

“What? Oh, good morning, Stan. What did you say?”

“
The Accountants' Journal.
Didn't you get yours?”

“Oh, it's out, is it? No, I didn't have a chance to see the mail this morning.”

“Well, look. You even got a spot on the cover.” He handed the magazine to Pollock as they got out, and they stopped on the way to the men's cloakroom while Pollock examined the cover and Merton beamed at him. There it was, about halfway down the index of feature articles, in the tiny black type of the
Journal
's conservative format: “A Few Pointers on the Annual Report,” by G. J. Pollock, page 19.

“How
about
that?” Merton said. He was the younger of Pollock's two assistant comptrollers, less than thirty, tense in his anxiety to please.

“Well,” Pollock said, “I certainly never expected a place on the cover,” although of course he had. Writing the article several months ago, at the request of the publicity department, had been a keen pleasure for him. They had wanted to let one of the publicity boys ghostwrite it, but he insisted on doing it himself and spent a week of evenings on the manuscript. Alice had helped him with the final draft, the day he stayed home with a cold, and she said it was very well written and read certain sentences aloud to show how nicely they were put together. The only thing she changed was the title; he had called it “Streamline Your Annual Report,” and she said it sounded brash and that “streamline” was a commercial cliché. She had always liked essay titles to be dignified and reserved, she said, like “Aspects of the Novel” and “Notes Toward the Definition of Culture.”

“Wait'll you see the inside,” Merton said as they shed their coats and hats. “They gave you a two-page layout and they used both those chart illustrations.”

“Fine,” Pollock said, “fine,” and they walked through the clattering bustle of the accounting department, with its daily barrage of “good morning's,” to the partitioned executive offices in the rear. Old Snyder, the other assistant comptroller, was already at his desk in the outer office, gray and scrawny in his shirtsleeves and wearing his green eyeshade. He had been fifteen minutes early to work every day for as long as anybody could remember. Snyder did not subscribe to the
Journal,
and he clambered eagerly to his feet when he saw it. “Is it out? Let me see.”

“Wait a minute,” Pollock said, holding it back from him. “Haven't even seen it yet myself. Come on inside and we'll look it over together.” They moved into Pollock's private office, where he sat at the desk while Snyder and Merton craned over each shoulder in an unconscious parody of assistantship. “Well, now, that's a very nice layout,” Pollock said. They were all reading the part called “About the Author” that was set off in a neat little box on the title page:

“Well,” Snyder said with a nervous laugh. “You gave us a nice little plug there, that's fine.”

“What? Oh, yes, Snyder. Thought you and Stan deserved
some
sort of recognition in this thing.” Pollock's habit of calling Merton by his first name and Snyder by his last had been unconscious at first, when Merton first came to the office, but it had proved to be a nice piece of diplomacy. Merton, encouraged by this hint of conspiratorial recognition between himself and boss, could afford to be kindly if patronizing to the colorless old Snyder. And Snyder could feel that Pollock's use of his last name implied an old-line, professional dignity; office boys, after all, were called “Stan.” It kept their rivalry constant but muted and worked out very well. They both called him “Mr. Pollock.” “Stan,” Pollock said, “if I may borrow this from you I'll give you my copy when it comes.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk and Mrs. Halbak came in, a gray, businesslike secretary. “First,” he told her, pulling out the writing board, “I want to get a note off before I forget it.” In an instant she was ready, settled beside him with her pencil poised. “Interoffice letter to Mr. J. C. Farling, General Manager,” he said, leaning back in his leather-backed chair. “Subject: Article in
Accountants' Journal,
parenthesis, attached. Paragraph. Thought you might want to look this over, period. A little publicity never hurts, comma, and this magazine is read by some twenty thousand accountants, comma, who are a notoriously talkative breed. Period. Paragraph.” This drew appreciative snickers from Snyder and Merton, who were sidling toward the door. “I guess that's all, Mrs. Halbak. Sign it GJP and attach this.” With a stout blue crayon-pencil he drew a check mark on the cover of the magazine, beside the title of his article.

The rest of the morning went easily enough, checking over some trial balance figures with Merton, and soon it was time for lunch. He went out with Merton (he lunched with Merton quite often lately, and almost never with Snyder) and as they went through the silent foolishness of gesturing for each other to enter the restaurant first, he wondered if the little Irish waitress would be there today. When they sat down, he caught a glimpse of her, slipping through the door marked “In” at the back of the crowded room, and he fingered his menu idly, waiting for her to reappear at the door marked “Out.”