The Magician's Wife

19

He got on with his life by asking Grace to dinner and taking her to the club, the first time she had ever been there. She was still in her mood of elation, though resentful of “that girl — why, the nerve of her, showing up as she did at the funeral, and after accusing Sally.” To his mouth came a hot retort, but he caught himself in time and said mildly: “Oh, well, it’s been a dreadful time for everyone, and for her too, no doubt. At least she mourned him — she was sorry he was dead, which was more than Sally could say.” It was more than Grace could say, as she had already confessed, in bitter shame — which may have been why she changed the subject to the blue haze on the water. “Do you see how it blots out the shoreline, on the other side of the bay, so everything seems suspended between heaven and earth, day and night, yesterday and tomorrow, in kind of a smoke-blue Nirvana?” But Nirvana got a jolt when three children fetched up against her, all in bathing suits, and a mother called out her apologies. Indeed, the place swarmed with children, and he apologized too. “It’s the pram race they had today,” he explained, “but if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. It goes on all summer this way, but I assure you that after Labor Day it’s a wholly different place.”

When he said “Labor Day,” he remembered, all of a sudden, what he had quite forgotten: the hotel reservation he had, the one Miss Helm had got him, the following week in Atlantic City. It seemed like a thing from another century, but he had it, just the same, and in a moment he said: “Grace, forget the kids. Speaking of Labor Day, I happen to think of something else. Pat Grant kept after me to go somewhere and relax, so they have this beauty contest down at Atlantic City, and I thought: ‘Once in a lifetime, why not?’ So I’m reserved. I have a sure-enough suite — sitting room, bedroom, and bath — forty dollars a day. How’d you like to share it with me?”

“... Are you propositioning me?”

“Well, you’re pretty enough. Yes, I am.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Get thee behind me, please!”

“You sound almost as though tempted.”

“Tempted? I’m practically a gone duck!”

“O.K., then, it’s a date?”

“I didn’t say so. Not — yet.”

Thoughtfully she ate her crab soup and after some minutes went on: “Clay, I never concealed from you how you made me feel, even that first night. That first — evening. ‘Night’ sounds so damned intimate — no doubt I betray myself. Well, I owned up, didn’t I? And I might have landed you, have stolen you away, even from luscious Sal, if I had made the try. I couldn’t, I was bound. By — what I felt I must do, the campaign I had to start. But you know what it was, we’ve been all over that. Now, however, that’s changed. The main thing holding me back, as I said the other night, doesn’t exist any more — Alec’s dead, and I don’t have to fear for him the way I once did. And she seems, the way she talks, just as cold on you as you seem to be on her. So, I’m out of my vows! I’m free — to work my wiles on you.”

“Then, you’re going?”

“Well — I didn’t quite say that.”

“Listen, make up your mind: yes or no?”

“Clay, I have made up my mind. Darling, it’s yes — with beating heart and head all full of thoughts. If, as, and when you up your offer.”

“How can a proposition be upped?”

“It can be done if you try.”

She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth puckered a bit, for some time. Suddenly he knew what she meant. He looked away, took in the wholesome scene of childhood slapping around half bare; of motherhood sipping martinis; of fatherhood smoking cigars; of the smoke-blue Nirvana tinting the sunset with peace. Then a hunger possessed him, for wholesome, clean things, and he reached out a friendly finger to touch the back of her hand. “O.K.,” he said, his eyes growing soft, “I get the point: a proposition is upped when you make a proposal out of it. So consider it upped. But — you made your little speech. Now I’d like to make you one.”

He thought, then went on: “I never concealed from you how I felt that evening. You have to admit I made passes from the start — whatever they are. I’ve never quite known, really, but whatever they are, I made ’em, at you, and meant ’em. So, our stars weren’t in conjunction, and nothing came of it then. But I knew who was good for me, who the deepest part of me wanted, who the best part of me wanted. And that’s why, when we both were going through hell, you because you were decent, I because I wasn’t, at least for a while, that same part of me wanted you and thought of nothing else. Then I woke up. The lightning struck and opened my eyes, so at last I was free too — of my vows, or insanity, or whatever it was. So I hereby up my proposition, from wanting to, and with no regrets at all — especially for anyone else. I propositioned you, with all kinds of thoughts, and for them I don’t apologize. If they don’t go with the package, the rest of it’s not worth much. Just the same, I want you to promise me something. When I take you home tonight, I’ll really give you an earful, begging to be asked up. I want you to tell me no. I want our marriage to be strictly on the beam — the way it is in the books, absolutely according to Hoyle. Do you hear what I say, Grace?”

“I hear you. I’m touched.”

“This is Friday night. We can’t be married tomorrow, as everything’s closed up, license bureau and all. We can’t be married Monday. Tuesday we can be. Is that O.K. with you?”

“Then, Tuesday it’s a date.”

“I’m happy about it. I hope you are.”

“Beautifully happy, Clay.”

When they got out at Rosemary Park and stood hand in hand once more, listening to the crickets, he whispered: “Maybe they’re happy too.”

“It’s a sweet sound, isn’t it?”

“Grace, I want to be asked up.”

“... But what about our beam? And Hoyle?”

“Do you know what Hoyle says?”

“I don’t even know who he is — never did know.”

“He wrote a book on cards, which tells you a royal straight flush of hearts is the rarest hand there is, happening once in a hundred thousand deals, but sweeping the deck when it comes. Grace, suppose one is waiting for us. Up in your little apartment. Suppose it’s the hundred thousandth deal? Do we want to miss it? Do we dare to miss it?”

“... Clay.”

“Yes, Grace?”

“You — come on up.”

They were married by the “judge” in the Channel City courthouse, with two clerks as their witnesses, but not on Tuesday, and not with Atlantic City as the place of their honeymoon. Because when at last they could whisper, that same purple night, the subject of it was Sally and what should be done about her. Grace was for calling her up at Mrs. Granlund’s place at Cape May, and calling her up that night, to give her the news, “and then we go on from there.” But he put his foot down hard. “She’s a special case,” he said sternly, “involving me as well as you, and as such rates special treatment. There’s no point in jumping the gun. I would say that once this summer is over and we’re all back in town, it’ll be time enough to call — in a quiet, friendly way, so one thing leads to another. And what I expect is that you and she will go on, pretty much as you always have, with me out on the edges — there, but not often seen, and certainly not heard. That way there’ll be no friction. And don’t forget: there’s not too much to be settled, one way or the other. After all, we’ll be in Mankato and won’t be seeing much of her.”

“There’s one thing you’ve overlooked.”

“Yes, Grace? And what’s that?”

“She must make the announcement. And she can’t very well announce something she hasn’t been told about.”

“Make what announcement?”

“Of my marriage — as my nearest kin.”

“Well, she’s not announcing my marriage, I can tell you that right now. In the first place I won’t have it, and in the second place she won’t. It should come to her, Grace, as a fait accompli — not something she has a vote about, from any angle at all.”

“Well, of course, nobody votes but us.”

“Then she’s out. We don’t call her.”

“... I just hate one of those crummy things where two people ‘announce their marriage.’ It’s done — it sometimes has to be done — but I don’t like it.”

“You want my mother to do it?”

“No, I want her to do it — Sally.”

“Well, I don’t.”

So, a bit tearfully, Grace yielded, telling him: “All right, all right — go to sleep. You don’t deserve it, but you’re spending the night.” In the morning she lent him the razor she used on her legs, produced a brand-new toothbrush, all sealed up in its case, and stood smiling through the glass as he took his shower. Then she opened the door and stepped into it too. He laughed, sponging her off, and saying: “To hell with Atlantic City — the beauty contest is here, and so is the winner, Miss America, Mrs. America, Miss World, and Miss Universe, all rolled into one!” Gaily, when they had toweled off, he called the hotel on her phone and canceled the reservation. But when he offered to pay, he was told: “No need, Mr. Lockwood — we’ll have that suite rented five minutes from now, maybe sooner. But thanks for your call and thanks for your attitude, which is really most unusual.” That out of the way, he said: “O.K., now for Pat.”

Pat was delighted, wanting to know all details, and Clay told him: “Matter of fact, she’s the artist I told you about. She’s finished my picture now and prettied me up in a way that Grant’s will be proud of. But I thought: cheaper to marry her than pay her so—”

“That’s what you think,” said Pat.

“Anh! Anh!” said Grace, who happened to hear. Then, grabbing the phone: “Mr. Grant? I wasn’t introduced, but my name is Grace Simone, Mrs. — a working widow woman, poor but honest. However, something’s come up. For reasons we won’t go into, mainly the bridegroom’s bullheadedness, my family can’t be asked to make the announcement, and I was wondering—”

Pat got the point at once, volunteering to take care of everything, engraving, addressing, and mailing. She said she would send him the “dope,” what she wanted said, her mailing list, Clay’s mailing list, and so on. Then, handing the phone over: “He wants to speak with you.”

“Clay,” said Pat when Clay spoke again, “that’s a damned distinguished voice. Who is she, for God’s sake?”

Briefly, quietly, proudly, Clay sketched out Grace’s biography, not overlooking “the big job she holds down at Fisher’s, our leading department store.” Pat was enormously impressed, saying: “I couldn’t be better pleased. And Clay: the honeymoon is on us. Don’t forget that swing I’ve been wanting you to take around the circle, to every branch we’ve got. You take her with you, and we’re off on the right foot. Don’t forget: maybe we’re nothing but butchers, but butchers or not, we’re proud. We like manners, we like breeding. We like women with class.”

“Don’t worry. She’s got it.”

They decided, with Atlantic City canceled, to postpone things for a day, from Tuesday until Wednesday, “to give me a chance,” as she said, “to wind things up at the store and also get something to wear. And to give you the chance, Mr. Lockwood, to put twin beds in your place — that is, if we’re using it, as I assume, when we get back from the trip, for the time that’s going to remain before we leave for Mankato.”

“That’s right — thanks for reminding me.”

“Get rid of that bed you have!”

The rasp in her voice startled him, and it was a moment before he realized what she meant. Then: “O.K.,” he said, “Tuesday it goes out.”

“In the meantime you’re staying here.”

But his real reason for blocking the call to Sally was his concern for what it could mean, the explosion it might cause. He pictured her, when she heard of the wedding plans, as going into a panic at what he might tell, the revelations he might make, the full confession to Grace, as a suitable prelude to marriage. In that, as he learned, he badly misgauged her, but it was what he feared, and he racked his brains for a way to reach her, and reach her before Grace did, to give her reassurance that no such disclosure would come. But how he had no idea. He dared not call her at Bunny’s place in Cape May, as he had no way of knowing if she would be free to talk. And he dared not send her a wire asking her to call him, as she might misunderstand it and go off on some tear that he couldn’t anticipate. But on Labor Day he had thought well to visit the shop, make one last holiday check, and see how things were going now that his back was turned. He arrived in late afternoon and spent some time there, not leaving until dusk to keep his dinner date with Grace. His way led up Kennedy Drive, and almost mechanically, passing Elm Street, he glanced toward Sally’s house, catching his breath when he saw a light up on the second floor. Circling the block, he parked near the Harlow Theater, walked down, and rang the bell. Nobody came, and then his ear caught the sound of a child’s laughter. He rang again, and from an upstairs window Sally called down: “I’ll be down in a minute — I can’t come just yet. Please wait.”

He waited, and then a downstairs light came on, and the door opened. Sally, in black, stiffened when she saw him, and her eyes turned to stones. “What do you want?” she snarled.

“Sally,” he said, trying to sound agreeable, “we have business — fairly important business — that should not be discussed out here on the street.”

Uneasily, still coldly hostile, she stood aside for him to enter and he stepped first into the hall, then into the room where she had put on the light. By its location, it was a living room but by its furnishings, it was what she had said it was the first evening she visited him, a “storehouse for junk.” Against one wall were three cabinets of pink brocade with gold fringe, against another a row of great baskets that crowded against a sofa and two upholstered chairs. Derisively, as he glanced uncomfortably around, she asked: “What’s the matter? Afraid something’ll jump out at you?”

“Well, it might at that,” he said grimly.

“Not at me, it won’t.”

“Nice when your conscience is clear.”

“I asked what you want!” she snapped, pointedly not asking him to sit. “Get at it, if you don’t mind. What is this business we have?”

“First: I’m going to marry your mother.”

Her eyes dilated, and she stared for some moments. Then: “Are you being funny?” she whispered.

“No, not at all.”

“You don’t even know my mother.”

“On the contrary, I know her very well.” He recounted briefly his relations with Grace, especially how they had met, “through that number you gave her each night — my number, you’ll recall. She got curious about it and looked it up, finally coming to see me. She approved of me and spent some time promoting the match. With some success, I may add — until, as you know, it somehow fell apart. All that time I was falling for her, and she was, for me. So when she felt, as she said, that you were as cold on me as I seemed to be on you, she felt free to follow her heart, and so, the wedding is going to take place. Don’t try to attend — I won’t have you there. It would make her happy, though, if you called her up.” He waited, studying her, and when he saw she believed him at last, he went on: “However, that’s not what I came about. I just wanted to say I’ve told her nothing, that I’m going to tell her nothing, of what happened a week ago — of your part in it or mine. So you can rest easy and—”

“I had no part in anything.”

“Then — O.K. The case is closed.”

“Oh, no. Not quite.”

“... There’s something I don’t know?”

“There’s that girl that I’m going to get.”

“Are you talking about Buster?”

“Who do you think I’m talking about? She tried to put it on me, she told those lies about me — and for that I mean to get her.”

“Sally, I think you’re out of your mind!”

“Am I? Maybe not. The old man played me tricks and choked to death, so it seems. Alec played me tricks and drowned, so it seems. She played me tricks and she’ll burn, as it will seem.”

“For something we did?”

“ ‘We?’ Who is we?”

“You and I, Sally, both of us.”

“I don’t even know what you mean!”

“I mean I wonder if you’re all there in the head.”

He studied her, trying to make up his mind whether this was just venomous talk or if something substantial lay back of it. He couldn’t tell, but tried to sound reasonable as he said: “Sally, can’t you see you’re rocking the boat? That you’re playing with TNT? You have the money! You—”

“Money’s not all. Oh, no.”

“... Sally, if you’re figuring this as a way to copper-rivet your innocence, it may not work out that way. It could explode in your face in a way to wreck your whole life.”

“That’s my lookout.”

He stood for some moments, rocking back and forth in front of her, then sniffed. “Sally,” he said very solemnly, “if I were you, I’d get treatment for that gland. It not only makes you stink but, as I would say, leaves you a bit unbalanced.”

“Is there something else?”

“You have it straight? What I said?”

“Well, I’m losing no sleep!”

“Then, fine. Did Bunny come back, too?”

“Well, the season’s over, isn’t it?”

Grace was badly upset when he told her about his visit, and for a time it seemed that the marriage might break up before it even got started. But when Sally called she felt better. “I wouldn’t call her effusive,” she remarked on hanging up, “but after all, she’s involved in it too — as I mustn’t forget. She was agreeable enough, though — so perhaps that was the way to handle it, and I’ll say no more about it... Shall we eat at the club again? I’m beginning to feel it’s ‘our place.’ ”

“So O.K., but what can she do, what in the hell can she do? Get on with your life, get on with it!”