The Man in the Net (4 page)

When they saw John, the old Careys, as always, pretended they hadn’t seen him. Unless you were a real member of their court, you were given the royal dead-eye until the formal moment of presentation. Brad waved from the bar. Vickie jumped up and hurried toward him.

“Hello, John. How nice to see you. But where’s Linda?”

Her odd, irregular face was almost homely but its spontaneous smile always warmed John. As he presented the gift and made his explanations, she shook her head.

“Poor dear Linda. How miserable.”

Brad, crew-cutted, smooth and cheerful, joined them with a martini for John. In the Carey set you were never asked what you wanted to drink. It was beyond belief that anyone could want anything but a martini mixed to the exact Carey formula. Except Linda, of course. Everyone in the Carey set knew that Linda didn’t drink. For Linda there was always the ritualistic tomato juice with a dash of Worcestershire sauce.

Vickie said, “Darling, Linda’s got another of those migraines.”

“Gee, that’s tough, poor kid.” Brad turned his straight blue gaze on John. “She was so crazy about the birthday party, too. You’re sure she couldn’t make it?”

“I’m afraid so. When it hits her, it knocks her out completely.”

In a loud voice, Mr. Carey, who had a ponderously flirtatious weakness for Linda, said to his wife, “Why do they say she’s not coming?”

Mrs. Carey started, as she invariably did when her husband addressed her. “I think, dear, they say she has a headache.”

“A headache!” Mr. Carey snorted. “What sort of an excuse is a headache for missing a birthday party?”

“It’s migraine, Daddy,” called Vickie. “That’s much worse.” She unwrapped the tray and thanked John warmly.

Mr. Carey said, “What have they given her?”

“I think, dear,” said Mrs. Carey, “it’s a tray.”

As John moved to pay his formal respects to the old Careys, there was the sound of voices in the house singing “Happy birthday, dear Vickie”, deliberately off key. Instantly the terrace was galvanized as Gordon and Roz Moreland erupted on to the porch with Timmie trailing behind them. Roz was carrying an enormous package and was stooping comically as if its weight was crushing her. Gordon had one arm uplifted, and looped on to an arched little finger by a pink bow was a tiny, contrasting package.

The completed Carey set greeted each other with cries and kisses.

“Vickie darling, open the packages. Quick. We brought them all the way from Europe, from a divine little shop in Taormina.”

“Oh, Roz, you shouldn’t …”

The large package turned out to be an embroidered Sicilian peasant dress on a hanger, the little one was a pair of silver earrings made like miniature donkey carts. Vickie was enchanted; old Mr. Carey guffawed. Everyone got their martinis. The Morelands were shown the present the Fishers had sent them from California and had Linda’s absence explained to them, not by John, but by Mr. Carey who had taken over the role of information bureau.

Only Timmie was left out. The Carey set firmly believed that children should go everywhere their parents went, but, as Timmie was the only actual child involved and since the Morelands also believed that you shouldn’t let your children run your life, he hadn’t been given a present to bring Vickie and was now ignored. Inevitably, he gravitated to John. Tense and anxious, he was the least aggressive of the children’s quintet and John had a special protective affection for him.

Timmie was telling him excitedly about the space-suit.

“Daddy said he’d get it in Pittsfield today, but he had so much to do, he said, there wasn’t time. But I’m going to have it soon and it’s going to be a great big space-suit with a great big balloon thing for my head and maybe Buck’s going to get one too. He said that maybe …”

“Now, Timmie darling, don’t be a bore. Poor Mr. Hamilton doesn’t want to hear about your space-suit.” Roz Moreland had swooped over, giving John a rueful “this mother-thing” smile. A long tortoiseshell cigarette holder was in her mouth. “Timmie, dear, go out and look for that cunning little colored boy who’s such a pal of yours. You know, Mr. Hamilton, Gordon and I think it’s absolutely absurd to put up barriers. In Marrakesh, winter before last, Timmie had such a cute little Arab side-kick. Abdullah, such an enchanting
Arabian Nights
name.”

“His name is Ahmed,” said Timmie. “That’s his name. Ahmed.”

Roz Moreland patted him absently on the head. “Now, darling, don’t be difficult. Just run off and play with your little friend. What a pity about poor dear Linda, Mr. Hamilton. And we’ve brought our Sicily slides, too. Aren’t people who travel dreadful, persecuting their friends? But Mr. Carey insisted …”

The rest of them had drifted back from the French windows and were settling down in the wrought-iron chairs. The party—the typical Carey-set party—was under way.

Stubbornly hiding his still unconquered anxiety about Linda, John sat holding his drink while the conversation shifted to the Lake Disaster. Every year Carey parties had their standard topics of conversation. This summer the primary topic was Mr. Carey’s automobile accident, the splendidness of his recent and total recovery from several months of hospitalization and the inferiority of all men, less positive-minded than he, who failed to face up squarely to misfortune. The secondary topic was the Lake Disaster. Certain aggressive selectmen, ignoring the Careys’ moral right to privacy, were anxious to sell the north shore to a promoter of summer hotels, and in three days’ time it was going to be put to the vote at a town meeting.

Soon Mr. Carey was pontificating.

“It’s sticking together that counts. All of us are going to that town meeting—yes, sir, all of us; even you, Hamilton. Every little counts. I’m not scared for a minute. One way or another, I can put pressure on half those selectmen. Young Standon, for example …”

They had their second martinis and then their extra half. The extra half was a traditional birthday excess and a great deal of playful argument went on as to whether the halves had been equably divided by Brad. Then they went in to dinner where family jokes started to spark.

Death was ritualistically drunk to the sponsors of the hotel scheme, and the private world got more and more private.

Although John was, both by his own choice and theirs, only a courtesy member of this private world, he could understand why it meant so much to Linda. This was precisely the life she wanted for herself, shielded from any need to compete by wealth and a comfortable conviction of superiority. Almost certainly, in the excitement of his first show’s success last year, when she had urged him to quit Raines and Raines, it had been this sort of existence she had visualized, with herself at the center of it miraculously converted into a Celebrity’s Wife with him at her side as a kind of glorified Gordon Moreland.

While Gordon told amusing stories about the primitiveness of the hotel in Agrigento, interspersing unintelligible phrases of Sicilian dialect, John thought of Linda lying on their bed in the dark bare bedroom. “If it’s double what you were getting before, it would be twenty-five thousand, wouldn’t it?” That was what would be tantalizing her. That more than anything. With all that money, she would be thinking, I could dress far better than Mary Raines; I could snub the Parkinsons; I could give the most elegant dinner parties …

This vivid, unwanted glimpse into his wife’s reveries threw him off balance. There wasn’t, on the face of it, anything unreasonable about them. Gordon Moreland would sympathize with her. So would old Mr. Carey. For that matter, almost everyone would sympathize. He tried to imagine the faces around the table if he announced he’d just turned down a twenty-five-thousand-dollar job, plus bonuses, merely because he was determined to paint the pictures which, in the Carey set, were considered so “wrong” that they were never even mentioned.

Suddenly the anxiety was back. Was he, after all, just a self-deluding egomaniac? Was he only kidding himself that a return to New York would be fatal to Linda? Dr. MacAllister had given his warning. But if she had a lot more money and the confidence which went with it, mightn’t it be the one thing that would put her on her feet again?

The worm was back, nibbling at him.

After dinner Mr. Carey insisted upon the Morelands’ slides. In the living-room furniture was moved; the screen and projector were hilariously set up. Timmie and even Leroy were tracked down and settled cross-legged on the floor. As the lights were extinguished and Gordon Moreland, in a high stilted voice intended to parody an affected lecturer, started to show the slides, John sat in the darkness, fighting the worm.

They were out of Cortina on their way to Austria when he heard a laugh. It came from behind them, from the hallway—a suppressed, excited, giggling laugh. For one moment of sickening unease he thought: Have I reached a point where I’m hearing her when she’s not there? Then the laugh came again and Linda’s voice called gaily:

“Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?”

A slide of the Tyrol stopped half-way across the screen. Gordon Moreland exclaimed, “It’s Linda.” The others called out, “Linda? Darling! It isn’t you? Linda!”

“Don’t stop. You know I want to see the slides, all of them. Darlings, please. Go on, do. It’s only me.”

Turning, John saw his wife’s figure in the living-room doorway, silhouetted by the hall light behind her.

A LIGHT was turned on. Then another. Everyone had swung round, but, instinctively respecting the theatricalism of the moment, kept their places while Linda came down the few steps from the upper level by the door. She was wearing her new green dress and walking with a carefulness that was only a fraction too careful. She was triumphantly the center of attention. Her smile was only a shade too fixed, her eyes only a trifle too bright. But John, looking at her with a sinking heart, knew she had reached the most dangerous stage, the intermediate stage when she was still in control of the liquor but when her malice was rampant, at its most destructive.

This is it, he thought. How could I have been such a fool as to trust her? And then, with a stirring of hope: Maybe they won’t realize, maybe they’ll think it’s just the migraine, if I can get her out of here fast enough.

The others had all started to converge on her. As he pushed forward too, he saw a puffy red swelling running from under her left eye down her left cheek. So she’d fallen. A sickening picture came of her standing by the bar-table with the metal measuring glass in her hand, sipping the gin, thinking out some devious plan, and then starting for the stairs, stumbling, hitting her face, giggling, getting up, climbing the stairs to put on her green dress …

“Happy birthday!” She had come to a stop on the bottom step and was blowing kisses from her hands. “Darling, darling Vickie, happy birthday. Happy birthday, dear Careys. Happy birthday, dear Morelands. Happy birthday, all.”

John tried to get at her, but Vickie had put her arms around her and was kissing her cheek while the others crowded behind, chattering.

“Darling … how marvelous … but why didn’t you phone? Brad would have come to pick you up … What did you do? Walk? You couldn’t have walked—not all the way.”

“Of course I walked. Down through the woods. It was divine. Once I’d decided to come, it was far more amusing to be a surprise. And I just had to come. I decided it was too absurd, too childish to stay at home merely because …”

She broke off and for the first time her eyes sought out John’s. They were flat and hard, and he knew then that his fears had been right. After he’d gone she’d been lying there, thinking of the twenty-five thousand dollars, flogging herself back into hating him again, distorting him in her mind into the Enemy who was depriving her of all she was entitled to in life. She’d gone down to the bar-table.
He said I was drunk. I’ll show him.
That’s what she’d come here for. He was sure of it now. It was to have her revenge against him.

They were all watching her, not getting on to it yet but reacting to the unnatural tension in her.

Quietly, knowing it wouldn’t help, that nothing was going to help, he said, “Linda, you shouldn’t be here with that migraine.”

“Migraine!” For a second her eyes, still on his, revealed their spite. “So that’s what you told them. I might have guessed. You are such a one for the proprieties, aren’t you?” She turned back to the others, smiling her bright, social smile. “Don’t be fooled, my dear, dear friends. I don’t have a migraine at all. In fact I’ve never felt better in my life. We just had a fight. That’s all. A domestic fracas. Might happen to anyone.” Slowly she raised her hand to the swelling under her eye and, for the fraction of a second, her eyes flashed triumphantly back to John. “Poor darling John, he didn’t mean to do it. It just happened and, the moment after, he felt terrible, as you may imagine. But … he decided I’d better stay home. He thought it really wouldn’t be the height of dignity to bring me to a Carey birthday party—with a shiner.”

There was a politely muted gasp from both of the Morelands. Mr. Carey looked thunderstruck. So that was her plan, thought John. She was hitting as far below the belt as that. He didn’t give a damn for himself. These people were nothing to him. If she wanted them to think he’d beaten her up, to hell with it. All that mattered was to get her away as quickly as possible before she was washed-up with the Carey set for ever.

Still smiling, she had pushed through the others and was taking his hands.

“Please, John, don’t be mad at me for coming after all. I know they won’t mind. They’ll realize that I love them and that, shiner or no shiner, I couldn’t keep from saying Happy birthday.”

“Okay, Linda,” he said. “Now you’ve said it, how about coming home?”

“Home? Are you out of your mind? I’ve only just arrived and I’m determined to see the slides—all of them, all those lovely slides.”

She was still holding both his hands. He could feel her balancing her whole weight on them as she turned back to the others.

“Where have we got to, Gordon dear? Sicily?”

All the others were grouped around them now, even Timmie and Leroy hovering wide-eyed on the fringes. He could, of course, drag her out of the room by force. But that would be playing even further into her hands. This time she’d really thought up a good one. Better leave it, better let her have her fun. Perversely fascinated now disaster was assured, he watched the Carey set reacting exactly as she intended them to react. Even yet they hadn’t realized she was drunk. Because it was such an established fact in the group that Linda never touched alcohol, they hadn’t made the jump. But avid curiosity, imperfectly hidden behind a veneer of diffidence, showed on all the faces except Vickie’s and Brad’s. It was Mr. Carey who took the bait. He, of course, was the inevitable fall-guy because, as the recognized father-image of the group, it was his privilege to be bluff and outspoken.