Two Much!

41

We had dinner in the library, a Broadway restaurant near her apartment. I’d asked immediately to see the carbon of this famous letter, but she’d said, “Let’s not spoil our appetites with a lot of argument,” so we’d had to go through the entire meal, spoiling my digestion if not my appetite, and at last over coffee she took a well-folded document from her purse and handed it over to me.

Two sheets of paper, typed. Sighing, convinced I was not going to be happy with this letter, I began to read:

I finished reading this remarkable carbon, nodded slowly, refolded the thing on its original creases, laid it on the table, sipped at my coffee, looked at Candy sitting across from me like a sharper who’d just switched decks, and I said, “Do you really have those photostats?”

“They’re in the envelope with the original.”

“And where is this envelope?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “You aren’t getting that. Besides, I can always write the letter again, and I can always get more photostats.”

“Uh huh.” I tapped the folded letter, thinking things over. “Why, Candy?”

She frowned, not understanding me. “What do you mean?”

“Why me? Ralph makes a better living than I do, he’s more reliable, he’s more blind and therefore more safe, and he likes your kids. I hate them, you know, and I always will.”

“You’ll get used to them.”

“Why me, Candy?”

The look she gave me was both vulnerable and defiant. “Maybe I love you,” she said.

“Christ,” I said, in honest depression, “I believe you do.”

“And I can make something of you,” she said.

I half-closed my eyes when I looked at her; I didn’t like seeing her head on. “Make something of me?”

“You’ve never had any ambition,” she said. “You’ve just been content to live on what you can con and cheat and steal. You’re very smart and very imaginative, and if you really tried you could be a big success.”

Four hours ago Liz had married me, and here was Candy trying to turn me into a husband.

“The only kind of big success I want to be,” I said, “is without trying. Money that’s earned by the sweat of my brow is tainted; I won’t touch it.”

She pointed a triumphant red-tipped finger at me. “I’m going to change all that,” she said. “I’m going to make you a success in spite of yourself. You’ll have money, respectability, accomplishment. You’ll be proud of yourself, and I’ll be proud of you.”

“You’ll reclaim me from Satan.”

“You could say it that way,” she said, without flinching.

“And if I say no,” I suggested, “you’ll send Ralph this letter.”

“If you don’t think I should send it,” she told me, innocent and wide-eyed, “then I certainly won’t. I mean, if we’re friends and I think you’re somebody whose opinion I should listen to.”

“Yeah, right.” I tapped the letter again. “But what if you do send it? How is that any skin off my nose?”

“Your nose? I didn’t say anything about your nose, honeybunch.” How sharp her little teeth looked. “Now, with a lot of husbands,” she said, “you might have to worry about your nose, because a lot of husbands might just come over and punch you on the nose a good one. But my husband is a lawyer. He isn’t going to punch anybody.”

“Right.”

“But do you know what I think Ralph might do?”

“What might he do, Candy?”

“Well, he might call a friend of his in one of the big law firms, and all of a sudden your distributor wouldn’t want to handle your line of cards any more. Or he might talk to some other friend of his in the New York City tax department, and they might look at the corporate taxes you’ve been paying. Or he might—”

Shades of Volpinex (another lawyer) and the ghost of the IRS. “Okay,” I said.

“That’s what a lawyer might do,” Candy said. “A husband might poke you in the nose, but a lawyer would do other things. And believe me, Art, when it comes to being either a husband or a lawyer, Ralph is much more likely to be a lawyer. You can take it from me.”

“I’m sure I can.”

She looked very hard at me, and I could see that one insult, one outright rejection at this point, would send her right out into the street and directly to the nearest mailbox. When the only reason for my being here was to take her directly to bed.

On the other hand, would an immediate capitulation be realistic? Unfortunately not. “Candy,” I said, “I noticed this carbon wasn’t dated. Is there a date on the original?”

“There doesn’t have to be,” she said. “He’ll get it when he gets it.”

I looked troubled. I sighed. I gazed away at the other diners.

Candy said, “What’s up?”

“These are new thoughts to me,” I said. I gave her my honest look. “Settling down, taking on the responsibility of a family, trying to make something of myself. I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”

“You’ll do just fine,” she said.

“It’s such a new idea, though.” Her right hand was on the table, and my left hand had been tapping the folded letter; now I reached across, took her hand, and said, “Do I have to give you my answer right now?”

Her first convulsive reaction was to pull her hand away, but then she relaxed a bit, let the hand stay there, gave me a look in which suspicion mingled with hope, and said, “You wouldn’t be trying to stall me, would you?”

“How much time do I have, Candy? Will you mail that letter tonight? Or will you give me a chance to get used to the idea?”

“Or maybe you’d like a chance to skip the country, disappear someplace, put that crummy little card business up for sale, and take off.”

“Take me home with you,” I said, and gave her hand a squeeze.

She frowned at me. “What?”

I gave her as meaningful a look as I knew how. “It’s been a long time, Candy,” I said. “Take me home with you, let me — let me sleep on it. Then we can talk again tomorrow.”

She was weakening, I could see it, but before she made any answer at all the waiter came by: “Check, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” I looked at Candy again, my heart melting into my eyes. “Shall we go home?” I asked her. “Candy?”

She held back a second or two longer, then abruptly nodded. “All right,” she said. But to retain her tough-guy image she added, “So I can keep an eye on you.”

“Right” I said. While I was rooting in my wallet for my Master Charge card I grinned at her and said, “Almost like a wedding night, isn’t it?”