A Time to Be Born, page 27
Mr. Julian Evans flew back and forth to Washington in a private plane with his business secretary, Harnett, Amos Cheever, four minor secretaries, a photographer and public relations man, in short, with a suitable staff for a leading public-opinion molder. He had a five-room suite at the proper hotel where he conferred in the greatest secrecy (except for the secretaries, dictaphone, and reporters) with dignitaries too high up to be even named here; reports of these conferences were then photostated, mimeographed, and mailed for further protection of their sacred contents, copies filed in a steel trunk which accompanied Julian on all his trips like a gagman’s joke box. In the city of Washington itself the rest of the country faded away; Washington was America, the rest of the country was spoken of as “the field,” as if its acres and population were the testing laboratory for the myriad experiments being discussed in the Capitol.
Amanda Keeler Evans, in this constant shuffling of events and public names, was less in the public eye on her own merits and more as the charming young wife of the great Julian, who, it was rumored was wanted by the President’s closest chiefs for a post of unparalleled importance. In the magazines, the Washington hostesses took precedence over individual achievements by Amanda; women volunteers and their organizers were publicized, and Amanda had neglected to get into this game. Unknown female patriots were springing up, their greatest vale in their earnest anonymity. Amanda was confused by the masses of women too simple to be rivals, too numerous to be dismissed, and too mass-minded in their ambitions to be even faintly understood by her, let alone led.
“I’m afraid Amanda has missed the boat somewhere in these last crises,” Julian confided candidly to Amos Cheever.
In the midst of all his new dignities and his new hostility toward her, Julian was in no mood to smooth out his wife’s problems or to advise her career. Amanda, conscious of her own recent deficiencies and jealous of Julian’s rising star, jeered at his new honors and ambitions, since they were tacit evidence of who was now top man. She and Julian shouted at each other, disagreeing over the smallest trifle, they banged doors and carried on their wrangling even before the servants and guests, rather than be left alone with each other.
“At the most important period in my entire career,” Julian gravely complained to Cheever, “the person I’ve done the most for in the whole world, the woman I have actually created—”
“You have, you have!” Cheever agreed, shaking his head sympathetically. “No one would ever deny it.”
“—the woman I have not only made the queen of her field but honored with my name, turns against me and mocks me! What would the public say if they could see the torment she causes me? Incredible, Cheever! Incredible! People would laugh at me. They would! Oh, yes, they would! I would be ruined so far as public respect goes. No, no, Cheever, she must be curbed before she ruins us. I don’t see how just yet, but I’ll work it out. Ah, these human problems! They’re the ones that defeat a man!”
It was only natural that hints of such domestic turmoil should reach the gossips, and if Amanda had been in a more perceptive state she might have observed that faint change in the responses of trades people, servants, and opportunistic friends always visible when a separation is in the air and it is not yet known which side is buttered. The abject loyalty, the humble adulation, dwindles to merely respectful attention in preparation for a graceful retreat in case the rich husband is now grooming a new bride. At the same time no open rudeness must be betrayed, for there is always the chance that the retiring wife may have wangled the bulk of the fortune.
Amanda observed none of these changes of wind, absorbed in her own private confusion. She had manipulated her course so far by complete self-confidence, remaining cool and in constant control of her reactions. Now panic was upon her, and she could think of no way to solve it but by destroying everything around her. She fought with her committees, broke lecture engagements, wept all night because she could not sleep, neglected social duties recklessly, allowed Julian to entertain dinner guests alone while she had tea in bed and sulked or else wrote furiously in her new book, which was to be none of Julian’s or Miss Bemel’s business. She telephoned Andrew Callingham every night, just as she had once done Julian, and would not be dismissed or hurt by his suave apologies. If he had not yet married that Swedish dancer with whom he traveled, then there was a fair chance he never would, and Amanda was staking her claim in advance.
“I’m working on an entirely different line, now,” she confided in him. “You’re the one person in the world to understand what I’m attempting. It’s—well, it’s your kind of thing.”
But Mr. Callingham, charmed as he was by her good looks and the power she had over Julian Evans, would not take her literary aspirations seriously. Julian had been too easy game for her, Amanda admitted to herself. His extreme morality had made him a born gull, with no defense against a wily woman. Other men, real men like Callingham with a thousand women after them every minute, wanted to be the pursuers and put up a valiant defense against ladies who took away their hunting licenses. This resistance did not discourage Amanda, but rather gave her added zest for the game. But other matters troubled her, and made her life a nightmare. What was Julian’s talk of being governor or cabinet minister or ambassador, what was a new country dragged into war, what were the new problems of her refugee groups to her own unbelievable dilemma? She might as well have been some debutante virgin, for the complicated horror of her condition. In all her sophisticated life she had never faced such a problem, and since she had never regarded women friends as anything but a burden, she had no one to trust. Here was a situation no lunch with a steel millionaire could adjust, no flattery from a visiting king could settle, this was a problem for the woman friend. Amanda thought fleetingly of Ethel Carey, but Ethel was far away and not likely to be won back to intimacy after Amanda’s recent snubs. Even knowing this, Amanda wired her an invitation to lunch next time she was in New York. It was insulting to be answered, not by wire, but by letter from Miss Carey’s housekeeper in Lakeville, stating that Miss Carey was now in residence in Washington as an official in the A.W.V.O.
“They can’t do this to me,” Amanda thought, indignantly, just as she would have blamed “they” for cancer or old age. Catastrophes happened to people, certainly, because people were stupid, emotional foolish animals. But they did not happen to Amanda. They shouldn’t. If they seemed to be happening to her now, it must be someone’s fault; some dolt had left a door open, some fool had given the wrong address. God himself must have gotten the name wrong. You would have thought that God was accustomed by this time to breaking the backs of those with already broken backs; it wasn’t His way to inconvenience His own special hothouse flowers. He usually shipped them efficiently through life with the warning to all FRAGILE. THIS SIDE UP. Yet here He was, bungling up His own special Amanda Evans’ nice plans with the most reverent inefficiency. Possibly He had been too long with the firm and had delusions of grandeur. The Board of Directors would hear of this. Send a memo, Miss Bemel, that one more mistake like the last one and out He’d go, without his pension, too. Mr. and Mrs. Julian Evans would not tolerate impudence, even from their Maker.
2
IN FRONT of Vicky’s apartment Amanda looked out of the cab curiously. A moving van was backed up to the curb and an entire home was being transferred from truck to sidewalk. A butterfly sofa with a worn Paisley covering went out first, its bottom spilling wire coils and stuffing; a small, old-fashioned pine cupboard with roses and violins painted on its broken doors; an uneven, teetering cherry chest; a needlepoint footstool on beetle legs, and a bushel basket of clay dishes. Why anyone should bother to transfer these treasures from one tenement to another, Amanda could not imagine. She stepped out gingerly among this collection and opened her purse.
“You’re Amanda Keeler Evans,” grinned the driver.
Amanda gave a start, not prepared for recognition in this section.
“Knew you by those News Reels,” said the driver, making change for her. He was beaming over his cleverness in having recognized her from such a vague clue as her picture in constant circulation. Amanda acknowledged his remark with a nervous nod, for she had no desire to be seen making this particular visit. When the man called after her if she’d like him to wait, she hurried on with bent head, pretending she hadn’t heard. As she followed the sofa up the stone steps to the pet shop entrance, she heard the voice of another cabby, “Hey, Mac, wasn’t that Amanda Evans?” and her own driver’s proud assent. It was not easy living in a glass house. There were no provisions for an occasional black out, and Amanda wanted a black out for a little while. She had gone to some trouble to pick up a cab far from her own neighborhood, changing to another one later on but she seemed to carry her notoriety around with her like a hump. This was Vicky’s fault for not being in the Peabody office when Amanda needed her, and for not answering telegrams. It was small-minded of Vicky to stay wounded over that last dinner, small-minded and extremely inconvenient for Amanda.
The moving man, a large red lobster of a fellow with white bristles sprinkled over head, nostrils, wattles and ears, stood in the tiny vestibule pressing a bell while his gaunt gray assistant stared at Amanda and stroked his unshaven cheek reflectively. Likely enough, they knew her too, Amanda thought, disturbed. Propinquity to the masses she championed in public always annoyed her in private, and she let them go ahead with their freight before entering. Then she climbed the stairs slowly, and absently picked up a kitten scampering in the path of the moving men. She heard Vicky’s voice from the hall above.
“Here, Amanda!”
A little surprised Amanda looked up and saw Vicky’s face looking down over the banisters.
“I meant the cat,” Vicky said, embarrassed. “Her name’s Amanda, too. Come on up.”
Amanda handed the cat to Vicky and followed her into the apartment, bracing herself for what she was going to say. The low-ceilinged little apartment was like nothing she knew, and the wonder of why Vicky had thrown over the luxury of the Murray Hill studio for this funny little place made her realize how far removed they were from each other’s understanding. Vicky covered whatever feelings she may have had at this unexpected call, by directing the moving men in placing the furniture.
“I bought out an apartment from a woman on MacDougal Street,” she said, talking rapidly as if a pause between words might allow a real thought to be revealed. “Her husband’s left her for someone else and so she’s going to Africa with the Free French to be a nurse. It’s exactly the kind of stuff I need, and it was cheap.”
“I could have sent you furniture,” said Amanda, sitting down in a little slipper chair and lighting a cigarette. “You could have had all the stuff in the studio. Modern stuff.”
Vicky was pushing the little sofa against the wall.
“This is the kind I like, thanks,” she answered. “I like furniture and houses all warm and used and kind. Old wood. I like old chairs and I like old houses. It’s—well, they’re friendlier.”
Vicky looked confident and blooming in her candy-striped red apron and housecleaning gloves. Sometimes shy, uneasy girls bloomed this way in their own homes or on their own subjects.
“You weren’t at Peabody’s,” Amanda began. “I do think you might have called me.”
Vicky bent her head over the kitten, her hands stroking its black, furry neck. Then she looked up at her visitor with a troubled face.
“What do you want of me, Amanda?” she blurted out. “You want something or you wouldn’t have followed me here. What is it?”
Amanda pressed her hands together tightly, and drew a long breath.
“Vicky, I’m in a ghastly mess. You’re actually the only person who can do anything. Maybe, even you—but you’ve got to. You see, I was told I was sterile and I’ve never given it a thought, but now—” Her voice took on a strange hoarseness, as if confidences were so rare coming from her that they had to pass a dozen censors in her vocal chords before they could come out, and then they came out in a rusty creak with all the hidden corrosion clinging to them. She didn’t look at Vicky who sat on the edge of the couch, staring blankly at her.
“Can you imagine! Like that idiot girl on the other side of the Lakeville Cemetery that everybody made fun of! Like those factory girls at the Fallen Women’s Home outside Cleveland! Here I am—all the money in the world—thirty-two years old—and as helpless as some farm girl in trouble. Not a soul to help me—no one I dare ask!” Once the dam burst, the bitter words poured out, heedless of the effect on Vicky, Amanda being conscious only of the unbearable pressure that was forcing them out. “Half a dozen of the best doctors on Julian’s payroll, but how dare I trust them? They’ll go straight and tell him. He’s tops right now. You’d think I could ask some women, but I don’t gossip with any women. When I try to bring up the subject, they freeze up as if I was accusing them of something. What is it they all do, for God’s sake? How do they get away with it? I know everything going on in the world but that one little matter of where a woman in my position can go for this sort of thing without being blackmailed. Think of it!” She gave a hard little laugh. “All this talk about birth control enlightenment, and what an advantage over the old dark ages! Nonsense! The professionals always knew what to do and still do. But right in the twentieth century a woman in a jam is still a woman in a jam! It’s something to write about, isn’t it?”
She got up and began slowly walking up and down, her slender hands hugging her elbows, her olive face pale and sick-yellow, with dark blue shadows under the eyes, and the eyes looking straight ahead, not seeing Vicky’s numb, stricken figure.
“It’s a joke, oh sure, I know it is,” Amanda went on harshly. “Something cooked up to show me the only thing that matters is what’s happening to you personally that very minute. Something to show me that if I know so much why don’t I know how to get out of a jam that a million dumb clucks get out of everyday without thinking. The admirable Crichton business! Knowing what the categorical imperative is, and five languages including Sanskrit, but no idea of how to open a can of beans. Certainly, it’s a laugh! Oh, Vicky, don’t sit there. Help me.”
Suddenly tears began streaming down Amanda’s face and she dropped on the bed, shoulders shaking, her arm across her face. Quite as suddenly the tears stopped though her face worked for self-control.
Vicky put her hand on her shoulder, unwillingly. The sight of Amanda in hysterics, strange and terrifying as it was, only left her numb. Some persons were suited only to triumph and they existed only in a blaze of glory; in descent they were not the same people, and must find new personalities for themselves. They needed their daily transfusions of victory for their blood and brain, and without this they had no corpuscles for defense, no philosophy for defeat. So Amanda, broken with her little misfortune, was not Amanda to Vicky but the curious awful spectacle of a statue in fragments. The events of the last two months had destroyed all her sentiment for her old idol; all she felt now was despair at the unhappiness Amanda continued to pour over her, mingled with the dreary conviction that once again she must throw herself on the tracks to save the fairy princess.
“I could telephone Corinne Barrows,” she said.
“Dennis Orphen’s girl. I remember. He wrote that satire on Andrew Callingham. I hate him!” cried Amanda. “Don’t tell her I’m here.”
“I’ll ask her advice,” Vicky said. “She’s the only person I could ask. I won’t say it’s for you.”
Fortunately Corinne was in, and being a warm, obliging little creature, was quite free with her information about a certain doctor in old Chelsea who could be obtained by mentioning her name. She would telephone him herself right away.
“You poor darling!” Corinne gasped. “Does Ken know?”
Vicky gulped.
“I haven’t told him,” she said, and hung up. “It’s all right, Amanda. I’ll make an appointment with the man. Or better still, we’ll go right over.”
This was all that Amanda needed to restore a little of her old self. It proved that she could still will things to come out smoothly, at no matter what cost to others. She began to make up her face.
“Why didn’t you tell Julian?” Vicky asked, half-knowing the truth, but for some reason wanting it proved.
“My dear, I haven’t slept with that toad in six months!” Amanda gave a short laugh, her hand on the doorknob. “No, my betrayer is another matter. That’s the whole trouble.”
It was Ken, then.
“Someone you’re in love with—” Vicky heard her own words without wanting the answer.
Amanda did not answer at once, and Vicky could feel her withdrawing now that she had revealed herself so dangerously to another human being. The statue was endeavoring to assemble itself once again.
“Certainly not,” said Amanda. “Someone in love with me.”
Vicky looked at the lovely blonde head, the smooth shining waves gleaming under the tiny figment of ribbons Amanda wore as a hat, the darkly troubled blue eyes, the lips thin but prettily curved, the sleek gypsy brown skin. Nothing so beautiful as this could be so intentionally cruel, so brazen. There must be some excuse, or was it excuse enough that her beauty gave such pleasure to a million undeserving eyes? She must have something beyond that, some inner kindness maybe not for friends or for Ken, but for somebody. But the radiance she cast was deadly, no matter how you excused it, and Vicky felt her own new happiness withering under it like a leaf in the drought.
“I can’t understand why you don’t marry Rockman Elroy,” Amanda said on their way downstairs. “After all there needn’t be anything final about it. A year, and then Reno and a nice alimony. Really, Vicky, you haven’t a grain of sense!”
