Barking at Butterflies and other stories

The Birthday Party

He was still very intoxicated when the pilot or the purser, or whoever it was, made the announcement. His head rolled over to one side, and he gazed through the window just level with his right shoulder and down to the ground below where he could see beginning pinpoints of light in the distance. He was wondering what it was the loudspeaker had announced, when a blond stewardess came up the aisle and paused and smiled. “Would you please fasten your seat belt, sir?” she asked.

“I would be happy to,” he answered. He smiled back at her, and then began looking for the seat belt, lifting his behind and reaching under him to pull it free, and then fumbling very hard to fasten it, while the blond stewardess stood patiently smiling in the aisle.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Please,” he said.

She ducked her head a little as she moved toward him past the empty aisle seat. Smiling, standing balanced just a bit to his left, she caught up both ends of the seat belt and was clasping them together when he lightly and impishly ran his right hand up the inside of her leg. She did not jump or scream or anything. She just continued fastening the seat belt, with the smile still on her face, and then she backed away into the aisle again, saying, “There you are, sir.”

He was enormously surprised. He thought Now that is poise, that is what I really call poise, and then he wondered whether there possibly hadn’t been a short-circuit from his brain to his hand, causing the brain command to be issued but not executed. In which case, nothing at all had happened and the girl’s tremendously impressive icy poise and aloofness, her ability to remain a staid and comforting mother-image in the face of danger was really nothing to marvel at, boy am I drunk, he thought.

He could not imagine how he had got so drunk since he absolutely knew for a concrete fact that it was an ironbound rule of airplane companies the world over never to serve any of its passengers more than two drinks of whiskey. He suspected, however, that he had been drinking a stupefying amount of booze long before he’d boarded the plane, though he couldn’t quite remember all of it too clearly at the moment, especially since everything seemed to begin spinning all at once, the lights below springing up to his window in startling red and green and white proximity, oh mother, we are going to crash, he thought.

He recognized at once, and to his enormous relief, that the plane was only banking for a turn on its approach to an airport, probably New York though he could not remember ever seeing lights like those on the approach to New York, scattered for miles, spilled brokenly across the landscape, oh that was a beautiful sight down there, he wished he knew where the hell he was.

The poised young blond stewardess opened the folding door between sections, and then walked briskly forward again, preparatory to taking her own seat and fastening her own belt. She was carrying a blanket or something, they always seemed to be tidying up an airplane just before it landed. He said, “Miss?” and when she stopped he noticed that she kept her distance. “Miss, where are we? We’re coming down someplace, aren’t we?”

“Yes?”

“Well, where are we coming down?” he asked.

“Los Angeles,” she said.

“Oh good,” he answered. “I’ve never been to Los Angeles before.” He paused, and then smiled. “Miss?”

“Yes, what it is? I’ve got to take a seat.”

“I know. I just wanted to ask you something. Did I put my hand under your skirt?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Just a little while ago?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The stewardess smiled. “All right,” she said. She started up the aisle again, stopped, turned back, leaned over, and whispered, “Your hands are cold.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“All right,” she answered, and smiled, and left.

He pressed his forehead to the glass and watched the lights drawing closer and closer. He could see moving automobiles below now, and neon signs, and traffic signals blinking on and off, the Lionel train set his father had bought him for Christmas long ago, toy houses puffing smoke, reach down like God and lift the little automobiles, the movie with Roland Young where the huge pointing finger of God came down over his head. There was speed suddenly, a sense of blinding speed as the ground moved up and the airport buildings flashed by in a dizzying blur. He felt the vibration of the wheels when they touched.

He thought, It’s all over.

“We have just landed at Los Angeles International Airport,” a voice said. He knew for sure it wasn’t the pilot this time, unless they allowed women to fly jet aircrafts. “The local time is six forty-five p.m., and the temperature is seventy-eight degrees. May we ask you to please remain seated until we have taxied to the terminal building and our engines have stopped? It has been our pleasure to serve you, and we hope you will be flying with us again in the near future. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” he said aloud, “and a Merry Christmas to you, too.” He immediately unfastened his seat belt and rose to take his coat from the rack overhead. The stewardess’ voice came over the loudspeaker in gentle warning. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated until the aircraft has taxied to a stop. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he said again, “you forgot to say Merry Christmas.” He did not bother to sit because he figured the aircraft must surely have taxied to a stop by now, although he could still hear engines. He was putting on his coat when the blond stewardess came up the aisle to him. “Sir,” she said, “would you please remain seated until we have taxied and stopped?”

“Certainly,” he said, but he did not sit.

“Sir, we’d appreciate it...”

“You are the most poised young lady I ever met in my life,” he said.

“Thank you, but...”

“Are you Swedish?”

“No, sir, I...”

“We have a girl in our office from Sweden, she’s very poised, too. At the Christmas party today, she jumped off the window.”

“She what?” the stewardess said. “She jumped out of the window?”

“No. Of course not! She jumped off the window. Off it. The sill.”

“Oh,” the stewardess said.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Miss Radley.”

“That doesn’t sound Swedish at all,” he said. “My name is Arthur. Everyone calls me Doc.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m an art director, but everyone calls me Doc. What did you say your name was?”

“Miss Radley. Iris Radley.”

“Boy, that is some funny name for a Swedish girl,” he said.

“Why do they call you Doc?” she asked.

“Because I wear eyeglasses.”

“Well, Doc,” she said, “you’ve successfully remained standing all the while we taxied.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Have a nice time in Los Angeles.”

“I will. I’ve never been here before.”

“It’s a nice city.”

“I’m sure it’s a beautiful city. It has beautiful lights.”

“Do you know where the baggage area is?” she asked, concerned. They were walking forward now, toward the exit. His overcoat felt very bulky all at once.

“No,” he said, “where is the baggage area?”

“Have you got your claim tickets?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh, dear, did you lose them?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any baggage. I’m traveling light. Well,” he said, turning to the exit and peering through it down the steps and beyond to the terminal building, “Los Angeles.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye, Miss Radley, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

He went down the steps.

He knew at once that he had done the right thing. The air was balmy, it touched his checks, it kissed his face, it riffled his hair. He took off his coat, oh, he had done the right thing, he had most certainly done the right thing, though it was unimaginable to even imagine having done the wrong thing after so many drinks and kissing Trudy in MacLeish’s darkened office. It was impossible to imagine having made the wrong decision, not after feting old Mr. Benjamin of Benjamin Luggage, and racing out of the building with whoever the hell those girls were from Accounting, her hand so warm and moist in his pocket, the air crisp, church bells bonging, bonging someplace, Salvation Army virgins playing horns and drums. Oh what a city at Christmas, what a New York, how could anything be wrong, everything had to be right, right, right. They talked an off-duty cab driver into taking them out to Kennedy Airport. The cabbie was anxious to get home, “too much goddamn traffic in this goddamn city,” but he slipped him a fin even before they opened the door, and suddenly there was no more traffic in the city, suddenly everything was Christmas Eve again and church bells were bonging joy to the world.

Long Island was where Kennedy International Airport was, you had to remember not to call it Idlewild anymore because that would automatically date you as being forty-one years old, that was very bad, going on forty-two imminently. Trudy was nineteen, she wore candy-striped stockings and a short suede skirt, and he had kissed her in MacLeish’s office. She had said, “Why, Mr. Pitt, how nasty,” but he had kept right on kissing her, and she, too, back. The girls from Accounting, and Arthur, and Benjamin had made the plane in plenty of time, the cabbie was that anxious to show his Christmas spirit after the five-spot tip, had to get old Benjamin Baggage, excuse me, Benjamin Luggage, onto that Chicago plane or else Lake Michigan would drift out to sea or something. They stole a plaque from one of the airline counters, it said, “Mr. Schultz,” and they gave it to Benjamin as a keepsake. The Chicago plane took off in a roar of screaming jets. Arthur and the two girls from Accounting stood on the observation deck and watched as it soared almost vertically into the sky and then vanished into the clouds. He had an arm around each girl. They were all very drunk, and the girls sighed when the plane disappeared.

“Tomorrow is my birthday,” he said to the redhead.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

“I only get one present,” Arthur said, “because they fall on the same day. My birthday and Christmas. I mean, I get a lot of presents, but only once. We only celebrate once, do you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t,” the redhead said, “but you’re very cute. Do you know what he means, Alexis?”

Alexis said, “No, I don’t know what he means, gee I miss Mr. Benjamin.”

“Listen, I have an idea,” Arthur said. “Let’s go to Chicago.”

“Why not?” the redhead said.

“Listen, what’s your name?” he asked.

“Rose.”

“Rose, let’s you and me and Alexis here go to Chicago and surprise Mr. Benjamin, what do you say?”

“Okay, why not?” Rose said. “But first let’s have another drink.”

“Boy, will he be surprised,” Alexis said, and giggled.

“Okay, so let’s go,” Arthur said, but he knew even then they would not go to Chicago. He knew at once that they would all have another drink, and then the girls would start reconsidering and remembering that it was Christmas Eve and they should be getting home to family and dear ones, and after all Benjamin wasn’t expecting them, and did anyone even know where he lived, and how long would it take them to get to Chicago, and all the rationalizing crap that people always came up with when something exciting or adventurous was proposed. He knew they would back out, and he wasn’t at all surprised when they asked him to get a taxi for them.

Well, tomorrow is my birthday, he thought, standing just outside the terminal building and watching their taxi move into the distance. Well, happy birthday old Doc, time to go home to the family and dear ones, the loved ones, time to go home. Nobody ever wants to go anywhere anymore, boy, what a bunch of party poops. He looked at his watch, but couldn’t read the gold numerals on the dial because it was late afternoon, with that curiously flat winter light that causes whites to become whiter and gold to blend indefinably into them, and besides he was drunk. He went back into the terminal to look at the big clock over the counter, and he saw that it was twenty minutes to four, well what the hell, he thought, home James, home to Merry Christmas and such, boy, nobody ever wants to go anywhere anymore, boy, what a drag. He heard them calling a flight, and he walked over to the counter and said, “Excuse me, Captain, but what flight was that you just called?”

“The four o’clock flight to Los Angeles,” the captain answered, though Arthur knew he wasn’t a captain at all, he was just making him feel good.

“I’ve never been to Los Angeles,” he said.

“No?” the captain answered politely.

“No. How much does it cost?”

“How much does what cost?”

“A ticket to Los Angeles, that’s the city of Angels, did you know that?”

“That’s right, so it is. First-class, sir?”

“First-class, of course.”

“First-class round trip to Los Angeles is three twenty-one eighty. Plus tax.”

“How much is the tax?”

“Sixteen-oh-nine, sir.”

“That sounds very reasonable. Will you take a check?”

“Sir?”

“For the flight you just called. I have identification, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“No, sir, it’s just... I don’t even know if there’s room on that flight, sir. Christmas is our busiest...”

“I don’t need a room, just a seat.” Heh-heh, he thought, how’d you like that one, Sonny?

“Well, I’d have to...”

“Yes, well go ahead and do it. You said it leaves at four, didn’t you?”

“Are you serious, sir? Do you really want me to...?”

“Certainly, I’m serious. Of course I’m serious. Nobody the hell goes anyplace anymore!”

He knew he would not go through with it, he was just having a little fun with the captain, what the hell tomorrow was his birthday. He knew he would not do it because old Arthur Doc Pitt simply didn’t do things like that, flying away from home and hearth on Christmas Eve, what would Fran say? Fran would take a fit, that’s what Fran would say. And besides, this really had nothing whatever to do with Fran or anyone else. It had only to do with old Doc Pitt, who knew he could never never never do something like this, the same way he could not that time in Buffalo when the man sitting in the lobby had asked him if he would like to spend the night with a burlesque queen, or was it even a burlesque queen, that part may have been just imagination. In any case, he could not do it then, and he would not do it now, but there was no harm in having a little fun with the good captain here, hanging up the phone now, and putting on a bright smiling cheerful airlines face.

“Well you certainly are lucky, sir,” he said. “There’ve been some cancellations in the first-class section.”

Yeah, well I was only kidding, Arthur thought.

Something started inside him. He knew it was the alcohol, he knew he had had absolutely too much to drink. He knew it was kissing Trudy in MacLeish’s office and putting his hand under the short suede skirt, the candy-striped stockings, he knew it was that, nineteen years old, Trudy. He knew it was the wild ride to the airport with the two girls from Accounting, and the soaring disappearance of Benjamin’s plane into the clouds, the sudden desperate knowledge that the party was going to end without ever having begun. He knew it was all that, but he suspected it was something more as well, and so he allowed the excitement to grow inside him, teasing himself, saying to himself Go ahead, do it, go ahead, why don’t you? And then soberly regarding himself through his eyeglasses, Don’t be ridiculous, and then looking at the captain’s expectant face and thinking the thing to do was reach into his pocket and slap his checkbook on the counter and write that goddamn check, he had always wanted to do things like that. The captain was waiting, and the excitement was rising inside Arthur, something that started down in his groin for which he blamed Trudy in MacLeish’s office, and climbing up into his chest and his throat and then suddenly leaping into his fingertips which positively twitched with the need to reach into his pocket and slap his checkbook onto the countertop, You like that Rolls-Royce, kid? It’s yours.

The captain was waiting.

“Okay,” Arthur said, and reached into his pocket and slapped his checkbook onto the counter.

“Where to, Mac?”

“A good hotel,” he said.

“Lots of good hotels in Los Angeles.”

“Like what?”

“You want the city, or Beverly Hills, or what?”

“Beverly Hills,” he said. “Why not?”

“Which one in Beverly Hills?”

“The best one.”

“They’re all good.”

“There is only one best one.”

The cab driver set the car in motion. “You want the Beverly Hills?”

“I already told you I wanted the Beverly Hills.”

“I meant the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“Okay, why not?”

“You in the movie racket?”

“No, I am in the advertising game,” he said.

“What do you advertise?”

“Benjamin Luggage,” he said. “Among other fine products.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, I never heard of the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.

“They’re crying,” the cab driver answered, and stepped on the gas.

“This looks like Long Island,” Arthur said.

“It ain’t,” the cabbie replied.

“It sure looks like it. What are all these hot dog stands for? What do you do out here, eat hot dogs all the time?”

“That’s right, we eat hot dogs all the time,” the cabbie said.

“That’s what I thought,” Arthur answered. “Boy, what a city. It looks like Long Island. I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

“That’s a shame,” the cabbie answered.

“All you do out here is frolic, huh?” he said.

“Yeah, that’s all we do out here,” the cabbie said.

“What’s this we’re on now?”

“The San Diego Freeway, heading north.”

“Is that where Beverly Hills is?”

“North, right. You been drinking a little bit?” the cabbie asked, which Arthur thought was very clever.

“Yes, a little bit. I have been drinking since twelve o’clock noon New York time.”

“That means you’ve been drinking since nine o’clock this morning, California time.”

“That’s very clever,” Arthur said. “What time is it in London?”

“Who the hell knows?”

“It’s seven A.M. Christmas morning,” Arthur said, not having the faintest idea what time it was in London or even Bangkok.

“Well, Merry Christmas,” the cabbie said, and again lapsed into silence.

“What is this Beverly Hills Hotel?” Arthur asked. “Some kind of fancy hotel, is that what it is?”

“That’s what it is.”

“In that case, you’d better take me back to the airport,” he said.

“What?”

“The airport, the Los Angeles International Airport where it is now six forty-five California time and the temperature is seventy-eight degrees.”

“What?”

“You must think I’m crazy or something,” he said, “coming all the way out to Los Angeles on Christmas Eve when my wife and family are waiting at home for me.”

“Mister, you’re not crazy,” the cabbie said, “you’re drunk.”

“You bet I am,” Arthur said. “I was only kidding, so what the hell am I doing here in Los Angeles?”

“Mister, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m doing here in Los Angeles.”

“Well, I don’t want to go to the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.

“Okay, so where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what my mother told me? My mother told me never pick up no drunks, son, because they will give you gray hairs and a hernia. I’m a working man, mister, I’ve got a wife and kids waiting home for me, too, this is Christmas Eve. I’d like to get a few calls in and then go home to trim the tree, okay? So where shall it be? The Beverly Hills, the airport, downtown Los Angeles, name it.”

“Where’s the Beverly Hills?”

“On Sunset Boulevard.”

“No, sir,” Arthur said. “Absolutely not a hotel on Sunset Boulevard, I saw that movie.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you take me to the airport where I want to go?”

“Okay, I’ll get out at the next exit and swing around.”

“Are you going to take me to the airport?”

“That’s where you want to go, that’s where I’ll take you.”

“Chicken!” Arthur said.

“What?”

“I said you are chicken.”

“Now, look, mister, drunk or not...”

“Running home to trim your goddam tree!”

“Mister...”

“Aren’t there any hotels except on Sunset Boulevard? You think I came out here to drown face down in a swimming pool?”

“You want the Hilton, mister?” the cabbie said, sighing.

“What Hilton?”

“The Beverly Hilton.”

“That’s very clever,” Arthur said. “The Beverly Hilton. I’ll bet my bottom dollar it’s in Beverly Hills, am I right?”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“Boy, that’s clever,” Arthur said. “You people out here are certainly clever.”

“That’s because we eat so many hot dogs,” the cabbie said.

“Yes, and witty, too. Well, do you know what I want to do? I want you to turn off this highway, thruway, freeway, whatever you call it out here, and stop at the first hotel you see. The very first hotel you see, that’s where I want to go. Impromptu,” Arthur said. “Impromptu.”

“Boy, pick up drunks,” the cabbie said.

He felt refreshed and sober when he came out of the shower. There were at least eight mirrors in the bathroom, but he couldn’t see himself in any of them because he had taken off his glasses before climbing into the tub. Besides, the bathroom was all steamed up from the hot water he had used, this was certainly a fine hotel with lots of mirrors and good hot water to sober up a wandering soul on Christmas Eve.

I’d better call Fran, he thought.

He put on his glasses, and picked up his watch. It was still set with New York time, he hadn’t bothered to reset it when he got off the plane. In New York, in White Plains to be exact — which is where he and Fran and Michael and Pam lived, the four little Pitts in a white clapboard house on Robin Hood Lane — it was now eleven p.m., one hour to Christmas, and Fran was probably frantic. Naked, he put on his watch, and walked out of the bathroom. He found a white ivory telephone on the night table near his bed, wondered whether he should call her or not, and then decided of course he had to call her.

He felt chilly all at once. He went to the closet where the bellhop had hung his cashmere overcoat and, lacking a bathrobe or any other boudoir attire, put on the overcoat. The lining was silk. The coat felt luxurious and comforting. He sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his legs and looked at the phone and then became absorbed in reading the dial which listed all the various places you could call in the hotel. There was a little red light on the telephone, too, and he supposed you used that if you wanted a direct line to a red light district, which he might very well want before this night was through. In the meantime, he had to call Fran so that she wouldn’t alert the police or call the hospitals or, God forbid, his mother. That’s all he needed was for Fran to call his mother. What do you mean he’s not home? his mother would shout; his mother always shouted. On Christmas Eve, he’s not home? Yes, Virginia, for that was his mother’s name, your son is not home on Christmas Eve.

That’s right, Mom, he thought, I’m here in Los Angeles.

I’d better call Fran.

He hesitated again, not because he was afraid of Fran — he did in fact feel invulnerable, invincible, courageous, adventurous, a naked wild man in a luxurious cashmere overcoat — but only because he did not want to spoil his party. He had never had a birthday party in his life because dear Virginia his mother had been inconsiderate enough to become pregnant nine months to the day before Christmas. Who wants to attend anyone’s birthday party when the biggest birthday in history is in the midst of celebration? Next Year, Virginia would always say, Next Year, we’ll have some of your friends in later in the day, the afternoon perhaps, or the evening, there’s no reason we can’t celebrate your birthday just because it happens to fall on Christmas. She had said Next Year every year but eventually they ran out of years. By that time he had married Fran, and not having a birthday party had become habit. Besides, you have to have your birthday parties when you’re still a kid wearing eyeglasses. When you’re thirty-five and wearing eyeglasses, and then forty and wearing eyeglasses, it doesn’t matter a hell of a lot anymore. Until you’re about to be forty-two, and still wearing eyeglasses, and a party is about to start and you feel it slipping out of your hands, trickling through your fingers like all the sands of next year, next year, next year — and you want it to be this year, now.

He was not afraid of Fran, but he was afraid she would spoil his party.

He picked up the phone receiver.

Instead of calling Fran, he dialed 7 for the valet and was told the valet had gone home, this is Christmas Eve, sir. He asked if the housekeeper had gone home, too, and was informed that a housekeeper was always on duty and she could be reached by dialing 4. He dialed 4 and a woman with a foreign accent answered the phone. He could not place the accent.

“Do you have an iron?” he asked.

“An iron? To press?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, I have an iron. Why you don’t call the valet? He presses.”

“He’s gone. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. You want to press?”

“Yes. I’d like to press my pants because I’m having a party, you see, and they’re all wrinkled from the plane ride. I don’t like to have a party in wrinkled pants.”

“What room you in? I send.”

“One-oh-eight,” he said.

“You return?”

“Yes, I return,” he said.

“Good. I send.”

“Good, you send. Thank you.”

He hung up. He called the bell captain then and asked if there was a liquor store in the hotel. The captain told him he could order liquor in the pharmacy, which sounded like a peculiar place to be ordering liquor, but he hung up and then dialed the operator and asked for the pharmacy. When he was connected, he told whoever answered the phone that he wanted two bottles of scotch sent to room 108 and charged to his bill.

He did not begin pressing his suit with the borrowed steam iron until after the whiskey was delivered. He poured a stiff double hooker into one of the glasses that were ranged on the counter top facing the entrance door, and then discovered there was an ice-making machine under the counter, this was some hotel all right. From the bathroom, he took a clean towel and spread it out on the counter and then put his trousers on top of the towel and began pressing them while he sipped at the scotch.

The idea was to keep the party going. He did not know what his next move would be after he pressed his pants and his jacket, but he did know that he had two bottles of whiskey and he would not be forty-two for almost an hour, so the idea was to keep the party going. Maybe he would just dial the operator and ask her to ring several rooms in the hotel and when he got them he would say, “Hi, this is Doc Pitt in room 108. I’m having a little birthday party, and I wonder if you’d like to come down and join me. It’s right off the pool, room 108.” Maybe he’d do that, though he doubted it. What he would do was press his pants and his jacket, and maybe his tie as well, and then have a few drinks and then leave this nice hotel room and see what Beverly Hills was all about.

The telephone rang.

He propped up the steam iron, started for the phone, decided he’d better be more careful, went back to unplug the iron, and then ran to the phone to answer it.

“Hello,” he said, wondering who would be calling him in Los Angeles since he didn’t know a soul out here but the movie stars.

“Sir,” a very nice cultured Choate voice said, “I’m awfully sorry to be calling you, but would you mind lowering your radio?”

“My what?” he said.

“Your radio, sir. I’m terribly sorry, but the guest in the room next door is trying to nap, and it seems your radio is on very loud.”

“My radio isn’t on at all,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

He waited.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Is this Mr. Pitt in room 108?”

“Yes, this is Arthur Pitt in room 108, that’s right. That part of it is absolutely right.”

“Mr. Pitt, would you mind lowering your radio, sir?”

“Listen, are you a cretin?” Arthur asked. “I just told you that my radio is not on. Not on. Off. I am pressing my pants and drinking some scotch, and my radio is not on. It is off. O-double-F. Off.”

“Sir, the guest who made the complaint is in the last room on the floor, and your room is the only room next door, so it must be your radio, sir.”

“Is this a gag?” Arthur asked suspiciously.

“No, sir.”

“Then perhaps you would like to take a walk down here and see for yourself, listen for yourself, I mean. My radio is off. Do you hear a radio?”

“No, sir, but the guest in 109...”

“Yes, well you tell the guest in 109 that my radio is off.”

“Yes, sir, if you say so.”

“Thank you. This is some hotel,” he said, and hung up. Boy, he thought, how do you like that? How the hell do you like that? I’m standing here in my undershorts, minding my own business, and some fat old bastard with a cigar begins having auditory hallucinations and calls the desk to tell me to turn off my radio which isn’t even on, boy this is some hotel all right, I’m telling you.

Angrily, he walked back to the counter, plugged in the steam iron, picked up the half-filled glass of scotch, and drained it. Boy, he thought. Next door, he heard the phone ringing. That would be the desk clerk from Choate who would be calling 109 to report that 108 said his radio was not on. The phone stopped ringing. 109 had answered it. Arthur stood silently with the steam iron in one hand and tried to hear the conversation next door. He could not hear a word, some hotel. Well, I’d better press my pants, he thought, and get the hell out of here before they call again to say the wild party in my room has simply got to stop. He ran the iron over his trousers several more times, held them up to examine them, and then pulled them on. They were nice and warm, they made him feel very cozy. He went to the closet for his jacket, studied it when he took it off the hanger, and decided it did not need pressing. He poured himself a very tiny shot of scotch, drank it down, figured he’d have just one more tiny one before leaving the room, and was pouring it over the cubes in his glass when his telephone rang again.

Choate again, he thought. He decided to turn up the radio full blast before answering the telephone, and then did not do it. “Hello,” he said into the receiver.

“Mr. Pitt? This is the desk clerk again.”

“Well, this is a surprise,” Arthur said.

“Mr. Pitt, I wanted to apologize. I spoke to the young lady in 109, sir, and apparently there was some mistake. Apparently what she heard were the loudspeakers around the pool, sir, and she thought it was the radio in the room next door. I’m terribly sorry if I inconvenienced you, sir.”

“That’s quite all right,” Arthur said, “no inconvenience at all. Where’d you go to school?”

“Sir?”

“What prep school?”

“I didn’t go to any prep school, sir. I went to a high school in downtown Los Angeles.”

“Oh. Did you ever hear of Choate?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever hear of the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That just goes to show,” Arthur said, and hung up. He was smiling. He was having a very good time. So the guest next door in 109 was a young lady, huh? Well, good. Maybe he’d just give her a ring on the telephone and they’d have a little laugh together over the misunderstanding. Why not? This was going to be one hell of a birthday party, and he was going to enjoy every goddamn minute of it until it was over. He did not like to think of it as ever being over, especially now when it had just really started, so instead of thinking about it he went back to the counter and poured himself the drink he had promised himself, though not as tiny as he had promised. He drank it down, said, “Ahhhhh,” and was putting on his jacket when the telephone rang again.

“Hello,” he said into the receiver. “Just a minute, I forgot to unplug the iron.”

He went back to the counter, unplugged the iron, poured himself another drink while he was there, and then carried the glass back to the phone with him.

“Yes?” he said.

“This is the bell captain, sir.”

“Yes, hello, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a bottle of champagne for you, sir.”

“You have?” Arthur said, astonished. “Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know, sir. It was delivered just a few moments ago.”

“Well, that’s very nice,” Arthur said. “Put it in an ice bucket and send it on over, why don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the bell captain said, and hung up.

Still astonished, Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, certain that the champagne had been ordered by the hotel management who, in their haste to set things right after the recent misunderstanding, were now outdoing themselves lavishly. Well, never look a gift horse, he thought. A party is in progress, and we need all the champagne we can get, not to mention several satin slippers from which to drink it.

The telephone rang again.

He stared at it unbelievingly, thinking the hotel management was really going a bit too far, really, and wondering what they had up their sleeves this time. Gardenias? A basket of California oranges? He would flatly refuse. He would say Thank you, your apologies are accepted, but if you send any further gifts, I will have to consider us engaged.

Giggling, he lifted the receiver. “Hello?” he said.

“Is this Mr. Pitt in room 108?”

“Yes, this is he,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt.”

“That’s quite all right, no need to apologize.”

“This is the bell captain again, sir. I’m sorry about that bottle of champagne, sir, but it isn’t for you, after all.”

“Oh?”

“It’s for the young lady in 109, sir. I rang the wrong room, sir, I’m terribly sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you,” Arthur said, and hung up.

He felt suddenly demolished. The idea that the champagne was not for him at all but rather for the young lady in 109, the idea that a gift had been extended to him and then just as abruptly withdrawn filled him with a despair that was unbearable. I’d better call Fran, he thought, what the hell.

He picked up the phone receiver.

He was studying the holes in the dial, trying to decide which one would connect him with the long-distance operator, when he heard the splash outside his window. He thought at once that someone had fallen into the pool; it was still winter in his mind, and people did not voluntarily jump into a swimming pool on Christmas Eve. He immediately replaced the receiver and ran to the sliding glass door, peering through at the pool and the lanai area. At first, he couldn’t see anyone either in the pool or around it. Soft recorded violin music was being piped over the loudspeakers. He could see the muted lights illuminating the palms surrounding the pool, and the single immense white Christmas tree in the pocket formed by the U of the hotel’s wings — but no one in the pool or around it. And then a head burst through the water and a blond girl surfaced and swam to the side of the pool, swinging herself up over its tiled lip, and gracefully walking toward the diving board. She was wearing a black, two-piece bathing suit, not a bikini, but cut very low on her waist, the halter top scarcely containing her breasts. She flicked her head to one side, the long mop of blond hair flapping soddenly away from her face, and then continued walking with that peculiar graceful flatfooted stamp of athletes and dancers, one hand cupping thumb and forefinger over her nose to clear it, the other tugging the seat of her trunks down over the partially-exposed white swell of her buttocks. She mounted the ladder to the diving board and walked to its end where she stood with her hands on her hips and stared down at the water.

She stood that way for the longest time, absorbed, her head bent, one hip jutting. He had no idea who she was, could not in fact see her face too clearly in the muted light surrounding the pool. But she was tall and blond and poised, and he could think of only one person in all of Los Angeles who was tall and blond and very poised. It seemed entirely possible to him that she, who else could it be, had come directly to this fine hotel where after her long and tedious flight she had attempted to take a nap only to be awakened by the poolside music — whereupon she had instantly ordered herself a bottle of champagne, of course, and decided on a midnight swim instead. The girl standing still and serene on the end of the board could not conceivably be anyone but Miss Iris Radley, a strange name for a Swedish girl, and what a pleasant surprise, even though he could not yet see her face, who else could she possibly be?

More and more convinced, he watched her captured in reverie, her head and body motionless, her blond hair glittering with reflected light. At last, she heaved a long heavy sigh, her shoulders moving — he could almost hear that long mysterious sigh through the closed plate glass door — and walked back to the ladder. Her body was tight and slim and tanned, she glided through the soft California night and then turned a short pirouette and moved forward suddenly, not running, drifting, moving magically to the very end of the board. Her knee came up, she made a precise figure four with one taut straight leg, one bent, sprang and hung suspended, the board vibrating beneath her. Head back, body arched, arms wide, she hung against the night for an eternity, and then plummeted to the water below, her arms and hands coming together an instant before she disappeared. He watched. She surfaced some ten feet beyond and then swam in an easy crawl to the shallow end of the pool, executed a clean racer’s turn, swam to the deep end, turned again, and continued swimming back and forth tirelessly, effortlessly.

He watched her world.

There was in that world all the things he had never known, the burlesque queen he had not had in Buffalo that time, the birthday gifts that blended with Christmas gifts and left a strange aching void, the bottle of champagne offered and then withdrawn.

He wanted to call out to her, wanted to shout, “Hey, are you really Miss Radley who said my hands were cold? Are you really the girl in 109? Hey, how would you like to come to my party? How’s the water?”

Trembling, he looked at his watch. It was seven minutes to midnight in White Plains. He would be forty-two years old in seven minutes.

Go ahead, he thought. Call Fran.

He reached for the stem of his watch and pulled it out. Slowly and carefully, he set the watch back to ten fifty-three, and then nine fifty-three, and then eight fifty-three. He snapped the stem back into the case with a small final click, walked swiftly to the sliding door, and pulled it open.

The girl was just coming out of the water.

He knew goddamn well she was not Miss Iris Radley, and possibly not even the girl in 109. But his step was curiously light, and his heart was beating wildly as he hurried toward the pool to invite her to his party.