Magician's Wife (19 page)

“Thanks, Buster.”

“You want me to call?”

“Well, why don't I ring you?”

“I mean, today? Tell you how I make out?”

“Oh, by all means! Please!”

“Well, on that other—of course you have to call me.”

“O.K., we'll leave it like that.”

At last he got her out and shortly after went out to lunch, eating in the drugstore. Then he came back and began marching around, looking at his watch, drying his hands on his handkerchief. Around three, when his phone rang, he jumped for it. “Clay?” said Mr. Pender. “It's all over—the boys did their stuff, police, reporters, and a faceless silent guy that looked like an adjuster. She's in the clear—they really had nothing on her. The insurance, of course, would be bad, back to back with something else, but when nothing else was there, it didn't mean a thing. So she's happy as a lark, having a bath in mud. She's putting her claim in and is going to collect, I think. And next week she goes to work for Mike Dominick, in a show he's putting together to take the place of the magic—ecdizzying, she calls it, and I'm sure it's going to be dizzy.”

But Clay's conscience stirred, he not wanting Buster to bear any part of the cost his act had caused her. He said: “Swell, Nat—you've covered yourself with glory. But what's the tab? On that claim. What are you charging her?”

“Oh, I have nothing to do with that.”

“I thought you'd taken it over.”

“She doesn't need a lawyer, may be better off without one. Of course if there's trouble about it, then I'll step in, of course. But so far it's her affair, and you're all paid up, boy. If that's what you're worrying about.”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“I'm paid in full, Clay. And thanks.”

“Hey, I bet that's ethics.”

“It's good for the grass, makes it grow.”

He had hardly hung up when the phone rang again, and this time Buster gave her account, at somewhat greater length, but even more cheerfully. He gave his congratulations and listened to more of her thanks. She wound up: “I'll be waiting for your call.”

“I'll look forward to it, Buster.”

“I'll make it up to you. Nice.”

“O.K., she's a sweet, harmless thing, and you clobbered that snake but good. All's well that ends well, and now get on with your life.”

H
E 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.”