Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (34 page)

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the buzz of the interoffice communication box on his desk. He turned it on, and Ralph Hopkins’ cheery voice said, “Good morning, Tom! Ready to go to lunch now? Bring along a copy of the speech!”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Tom said.

Carrying the speech in its manila envelope, Tom stepped into one of the golden elevators. The secretaries in Hopkins’ office all smiled at him, and he smiled back. Hopkins came out almost immediately. “Glad you could make it, Tom!” he said. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Tom said. “The hotel accommodations are all set for you in Atlantic City.”

Hopkins started toward the elevators. “Did you read the speech?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m looking forward to talking to you about it,” Hopkins replied. An elevator door rumbled open, and they both stepped in. The elevator was crowded, and on the way down they both remained silent.

“How about the University Club for lunch?” Hopkins asked when they got out on the street.

“That would be nice.”

“Let’s walk–it’s a grand day,” Hopkins said, and strode rapidly up Fifth Avenue.

I hope he doesn’t ask me what I think of the speech now, walking along Fifth Avenue in the sunshine, Tom thought. It would be very difficult for me to play games with him here and now.

“Did you get a chance for a vacation this summer?” Hopkins asked.

“No–I haven’t been on the job long enough,” Tom said.

“I just got a couple of week ends myself,” Hopkins replied. “Put in some good fishing, though. Have you ever tried landlocked salmon?”

On the way to the University Club, Hopkins continued a pleasant line of chatter about fishing. They sat at a table in the corner of a
high-ceilinged dining room. All around them earnest-appearing businessmen ate and talked. A waiter bowed and took their order for cocktails.

It isn’t quite as I pictured it, Tom thought. Such a respectable place for me to lie about a speech, and there really should be music.

“Well, what do you think of the speech?” Hopkins asked mildly.

Parts of it are wonderful, Tom started to say, but on the other hand . . .

He didn’t say it. Instead, he glanced at Hopkins and saw that he was watching him intently. On his face was an expression of courteous attention, nothing more. There was a pause.

“Would you care to order your luncheon now, sir?” a waiter asked. He spoke in a thick Italian accent.

“I guess we might as well,” Hopkins said. “What will you have, Tom?”

“Anything,” Tom said. “I guess I’d like some cold salmon.”

“Scrambled eggs for me,” Hopkins said. “And a cup of tea.”

The business of ordering luncheon took a few more minutes. A man at a near-by table laughed explosively. The hell with it, Tom thought suddenly, so clearly that he half thought he had said it. It doesn’t really matter. Here goes nothing. It will be interesting to see what happens. In defiance of his intentions, he heard himself saying aloud in a remarkably casual voice, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Hopkins, I read the latest draft of your speech, and I’m afraid I question it pretty seriously.”

“You do?” Hopkins asked. His face did not change expression.

“I’m afraid I just don’t think it’s a very good speech,” Tom said flatly.

“What do you think is the trouble with it?”

“It doesn’t say anything,” Tom replied. “That’s the main trouble I had when I was trying to write it. The only point you really make is that mental health is important, and you can’t repeat that for thirty pages. And frankly, I don’t think an audience of physicians will react very well to slogans.”

“I see,” Hopkins said. “What do you recommend that I do?”

“I think you should come up with some concrete recommendations on how to solve mental-health problems,” Tom heard himself booming confidently.

“I believe that at some point Ogden already has me asking for more mental hospitals and research,” Hopkins said dryly.

“But everybody knows that’s necessary–it’s another repetition of the obvious,” Tom said. “Couldn’t you give some ideas about how to get the research and the hospitals?”

“Wait a minute,” Hopkins said with a trace of impatience. “Don’t let’s forget that I don’t know anything about concrete solutions for mental-health problems, and I don’t want to pretend that I do.”

“But . . .” Tom began.

“Wait a minute. I think you’ve put your finger on something. This draft of Bill Ogden’s rings false because it confuses the job of starting a mental-health campaign with carrying it out. As you say, my audience at Atlantic City certainly won’t need convincing that mental-health problems are important. But it would be just as phony for me to do a little quick research and come up with all kinds of recommendations in a field I don’t know anything about. Let’s go back to the original purpose of this speech. What I’m trying to do is to form a committee to publicize mental-health problems–that’s a subject I do know something about. I’m going down to Atlantic City, not to convince a lot of doctors that mental health is important, but to show them
I
know it’s important. I’m trying to make myself a rallying point, to bring the doctors and a committee of publicity boys together. Somebody’s got to do it if anything’s ever really going to get done about mental health, and it looks as though the finger’s been pointed at me. It won’t be an easy job, but it’s a necessary one.”

“I see,” Tom said.

“Now, I can’t stand up and propose a committee right off the bat–that would be pushing it too hard and would invite misinterpretation. Never forget that there are always a million cynics ready to read the worst motives into anything we do. Before I try to start a committee, I have to demonstrate my interest and my availability. What this speech should say, in effect, is that I know the problem, and Barkus is willing if wanted. That’s all. Do you get the picture?”

“I think so,” Tom said.

“All right. We’ve been way off base on this speech. Try it for me from scratch, will you?”

“Be glad to,” Tom said.

Hopkins turned his attention toward his scrambled eggs. Well, that’s that, Tom thought, feeling a peculiar sensation of letdown.
It all happened awfully fast, and I’m not sure where it leaves us. Hopkins finished his eggs and glanced at his watch. “Say, I’ve got to hurry–some people are waiting for me in my office,” he said. “Can you have something for me by the end of the week?”

“I’ll certainly try,” Tom said, paused, and added, “I was wrong in advising you to make specific recommendations–I can see that.”

Hopkins smiled. “You’ve helped me cut through a lot of fog on this,” he said. “Can’t thank you enough!” Waving cheerily, he pushed his chair sharply backward, and at his usual brisk gait almost trotted from the room.

That night when Tom got home to South Bay, Betsy immediately asked, “Did you see Hopkins?”

“Yes,” Tom replied.

“I suppose you told him his speech is great,” she said bitterly.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?” Betsy asked, her voice quickening.

“It didn’t go the way I expected it to at all,” Tom said. “I was completely honest with him, and I think he was with me. And what’s more, he cleared up a doubt I’ve always had in the back of my mind–he showed me he’s completely sincere about wanting to do something about mental-health problems. All this talk about his starting this committee just for a publicity build-up is a lot of nonsense–I’m sure about that now.”

“You seem so astonished,” she said, laughing. “You sound almost disappointed.”

Tom grinned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’ve been worrying too much about Hopkins’ honesty and not enough about my own. Anyway, from now on I’m going to play it straight with him, and we’ll see how it goes. I’m rather looking forward to fixing up that speech.”

“Thank God!” Betsy said. “You know, for a while there, I wasn’t sure
what
kind of a man I had married.”

Tom glanced at her sharply. “Don’t let’s go into that,” he said. “Let’s have a drink. How about mixing up some Martinis?”

H
OPKINS HAD TRIED
to arrange to have lunch with his daughter the day after he had talked to his wife, but Susan had been busy. Now he was due to meet her in his apartment in half an hour. At quarter after twelve he said to the motion-picture producer with whom he had spent the morning, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be going. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ve got to fly back to the Coast,” the producer said. “How about lunch?”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t today,” Hopkins said. “I’ll be in touch with you by phone.”

The producer was an important man in the business, and he looked a little hurt. Hopkins shook hands with him, apologized effusively, and dashed for the elevator. Miss MacDonald had a taxi waiting for him. He gave the driver the address of his apartment and said, “Hurry.”

When he got to his apartment, he let himself in and looked quickly around the big living room. No one was there. He walked through the dining room and poked his head into the kitchen, where the cook was fixing luncheon for two and the waitress was filling a silver bucket with ice cubes. “Has Miss Hopkins called?” he asked.

“No, sir,” the waitress said. “No one’s called all morning.”

He returned to the living room and sat down. When the waitress brought in the ice, he mixed himself a drink and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to one. He had talked over the telephone to Susan two days ago, and she had said she would be there at twelve-thirty. Well, anyone could be a quarter hour late. He glanced out the window and was suddenly seized with the fear that she simply would not come. Impatiently he got up, walked to his desk, and took out a draft of a promotion brochure. Picking a pencil from his pocket, he sat down and began to edit it.

A half hour later there was a timid knock on the door. He sprang
from his chair, dashed across the room, and opened it. Susan stood there. “Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic . . .”

“It’s all right!” he said. “Come in! Come in and sit down!”

She walked hesitantly into the room, which she had seen only once before, long ago, after her father had taken her and her mother to the theater. She was a slight, dark-haired girl with a good figure, who in a curiously elderly way leaned a little forward as she walked. Her face was beautiful, more because of an intense quality than any unusual symmetry of feature. She sat down and nervously lit a cigarette. “You wanted to talk to me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Have a drink. Ginger ale? Coca-Cola? Or something else? I guess you’re old enough to drink now, aren’t you?”

“It seems so,” she said, smiling. “I’ll have bourbon on the rocks.”

He mixed her the drink, fussing perhaps a little too long with the silver ice tongs and the little tray on which he put the glass. After handing it to her and passing her a plate of canapés, he returned to his chair. She was glancing down into her glass with an abstracted look on her face, as though the glass were a crystal ball in which she could see her future. She is beautiful, he thought, and she’s no child any more. I’ve got to handle this thing carefully.

“I suppose Mother told you I don’t want to go to college, and now you’re going to try to persuade me,” she said suddenly without looking up.

“Of course I’m not!” Hopkins said without hesitation. “I don’t want you to go to college if you don’t want to!”

He had answered automatically, from instinct and long training in the handling of people, in spite of the fact that he had of course intended to try to persuade her. She glanced up at him, surprised. “What do you want to see me for, then?”

The arguments he had planned could not be used now. “I just want to talk to you in general about your future,” he said. “Obviously, there’s no point in our trying to send you to college if you don’t want to go, but what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, appearing a little confused. “I want to get married. Maybe before long.”

“Anybody particular in mind?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“After marriage, what?”

She shrugged. “I’d like to travel,” she said.

He sipped his drink slowly. “I’ve got a problem I’ve never discussed with you,” he said. “It’s a rather hard one to talk about, but perhaps we should.”

“What kind of a problem?”

“It’s difficult to describe. You are aware, I suppose, that the world has treated me pretty well. Over the years, I have gradually accumulated a good many responsibilities. I have been lucky, because they came to me gradually, and I had plenty of time to learn how to handle them. The curious thing is that all these accumulated responsibilities, or at least, a good many of them, could easily fall upon your shoulders quite suddenly, and you’ve had no opportunity to get ready for them. . . .”

“Are you talking about money?”

“In part.”

“I’m not interested in money. I think it’s a bore.”

“No sane person is interested in money as such,” he said.

“You’ve always seemed to be. I always thought it was all you were interested in. That’s what everybody says.”

“I’m sure they do,” he said. “Susan, what’s a million dollars?”