View all notes
Available query params: commented=1, untagged=1
There was the roof and there was the chimney top of it; there were all the windows with the light coming in; there was another approving chuckle from Dr. Alexander Corvo and another submission to the Reader’s Digest; there was another whisper of a chance for a Simon and Schuster contract and a three-million-dollar production starring Wade Manley; and there was another five in the mail for me.
Then she asked me if I wanted to know something, and without waiting to find out whether I did or not, she told me. She told me I was just about the biggest snob and biggest bully and biggest all-around loud-mouthed jerk she’d ever come across in her life.
One thing led to another after that; by the time we were on the subway for our enjoyable get-together with the Silvers we were only barely on speaking terms, and I can’t tell you how grateful I was to find that the Silvers, while staying on ginger ale themselves, had broken out a bottle of rye for their guests.
“I will! I will! I’ll certainly do that for you, Bob,” he said, and so I was glad I’d put it that way. “And now, what I called you about is this.” And he chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, no politics. Here’s the thing. I’ve got this really terrifically talented boy working for me now, Bob. This boy’s an artist.”
And great God, what a sickly, intricate thing a writer’s heart is! Because do you know what I felt when he said that? I felt a twinge of jealousy. “Artist,” was he? I’d show them who the hell the artist was around this little writing establishment.
But right away Bernie started talking about “strips” and “layouts,” so I was able to retire my competitive zeal in favor of the old, reliable ironic detachment. What a relief!
“Oh, an artist, you mean. A comic-strip artist.”
She was a storekeeper’s daughter from a small town in Ohio; she had probably grown up hearing the phrase “good Republican” as an index of respectability and clean clothes. And maybe she had come to relax her standards of respectability, maybe she didn’t even care much about clean clothes anymore, but “good Republican” was worth clinging to. It would be helpful when she met the customers for her garden figures, the people whose low, courteous voices would welcome her into their lives and who would almost certainly turn out to be Republicans too.
“I believe in the aristocracy!” she often cried, trying to make herself heard above the rumble of voices when her guests were discussing Communism, and they seldom paid her any attention. They liked her well enough: she gave parties with plenty of liquor, and she was an agreeable hostess if only because of her touching eagerness to please; but in any talk of politics she was like a shrill, exasperating child. She believed in the aristocracy.
lol
Then it was March. The new President promised that the only thing we had to fear was fear itself, and soon after that his head came packed in wood and excelsior from Mr. Nicholson’s foundry.
It was a fairly good likeness. She had caught the famous lift of the chin—it might not have looked like him at all if she hadn’t—and everyone told her it was fine. What nobody said was that her original plan had been right, and Mr. Nicholson shouldn’t have interfered: it was too small. It didn’t look heroic. If you could have hollowed it out and put a slot in the top, it might have made a serviceable bank for loose change.
lmao
All she had to look forward to now was her romance with Eric Nicholson, and I think she may have known even then that it was faltering—his final desertion came the next fall.
She was forty-one, an age when even romantics must admit that youth is gone, and she had nothing to show for the years but a studio crowded with green plaster statues that nobody would buy. She believed in the aristocracy, but there was no reason to suppose the aristocracy would ever believe in her.
noooooooo
And so he had walked right into it, like a comedian walking into a thrown custard pie.
He knew she might not really have meant it, even if she’d thought she did. Girls of that age were so busy being overwhelmed by romance and sex that they didn’t even know what they were saying half the time. Still, there it was—the last thing he had ever expected to hear from his favorite child.
And he was ready to crumple up and cry all over again as he held the car down to the speed limit on the Interstate, but he fought back the tears because he had to keep his eyes clear, and because his wife and the younger girls were waiting at home, and because everything else that made sense in his life would be waiting there too; and besides, no civilized man would go to pieces twice in the same day.
He hurried to the other dark bedroom, where he allowed himself just enough light from the hall for guidance.
“David?” Susan said, half asleep, turning heavily in the bedclothes. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Yeah,” he told her. “Oh, Jesus, baby, so am I.”
And in her arms he discovered that his life wasn’t over yet, after all.
sweet
Through the difficulties of two more years there were times of peace, times of exultant companionship and other times of exasperation and bickering, or of silence; it all seemed to settle out into what David called a good marriage.
“Hey, Susan?” he would ask now and then, affecting a boyish bashfulness. “Think we’ll make it?”
“Sure,” she would say.
ack
He set his empty glass on the floor and got quickly to his feet, as he always did for shouting, but he didn’t shout. Instead he peered very closely at her face, as if trying to penetrate the surface of it, and said, “My God, you really mean this, don’t you. I’ve really lost you, haven’t I. You don’t—love me anymore.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Exactly. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Well, but for Christ’s sake, Susan, why? Can you tell me why?”
“There is no why,” she said. “There’s no more why to not loving than there is to loving. Isn’t that something most intelligent people understand?”