Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (39 page)

“I guess I better go now,” Barbara said. “My room’s upstairs.” She let go of Tom’s other hand and was immediately swept away in the crowd. A few minutes later Tom caught a glimpse of her going up the stairs at the end of the hall, her small figure very erect.

“Stay with me,” Janey said.

“I’ll take you to your classroom,” Tom said. “Where is it?”

Janey led the way to a crowded doorway and paused. Inside, Tom could see a small room with many desks jammed together. With so many children jostling by, it was hard to stand still. Janey suddenly let go of his hand. “Thanks,” she said. He saw her go and sit at the very back of the room.

When Tom got outside, the fresh air felt good. He drove to the station and walked up and down the platform waiting for his train.

They shouldn’t have a school building like that, he thought. They shouldn’t have a school like that for
anybody’s
children. It wasn’t like that in Westport. It’s not just that I can’t afford to send my children to private school.

I wonder what kind of schools they have for the children of the poor in Rome, he thought. Suddenly he remembered how easy things had been for him in his boyhood. The old South Bay Country Day School had had ten or, at most, fifteen children in a class, and often the teachers had met with the pupils in the big living room of the
old mansion which had been made into the school, and they had all sat in overstuffed chairs. How soft everything was made for me, he thought. Because his father had gone to the South Bay Country Day School, and because his grandmother had given generously to the school in the past, old Miss Trilly, the head mistress, had been especially kind to Tom and had once given a teacher a stern lecture for reprimanding him too harshly. Maybe it’s better for my kids to begin the way they are, he thought, as he paced up and down the platform of the railroad station. Maybe they’ll have less to learn later.

“
Rowdies! Young rowdies! They come from the public school!
”

He remembered those words being spoken in a high, slightly nasal, indignant voice by Miss Trilly–she had said them often. The public-school children had frequently invaded the playground of the Country Day School to play on the slides and swings. Occasionally they had picked fights with the Country Day children, and this is what had inspired old Miss Trilly’s anger.

“They’re from the
public school!
” she had said, incorporating a sly slur in the words which none of her pupils had missed.

Tom wondered whether Janey and Barbara would ever sneak into the playground of the Country Day School to play on the slides and the swings, and whether Miss Trilly, or her successor, would say, “They’re from the
public school!
”

It doesn’t really matter, he thought now, as he reached the end of the station platform and started to pace in the other direction. People are tough, even children. But good Lord, I ought to be able to do something. There’s no particular democratic virtue in jamming so many children into a school like that. Janey isn’t going to learn much by being knocked down in the hall.

Money, I need money, he thought. If they don’t build a new public school, I should be able to afford a private school. I should get everything but money out of my head and really do a job for Hopkins. I ought to be at work now. He glanced at his watch and saw it was quarter after nine–the train was late.

Money, Tom thought. The housing project could make money, but it depends on re-zoning, and Bernstein says we shouldn’t ask for that until they vote on a new school.

A new school, he thought–so much depends on that! Bernstein says there’s going to be a hearing on it and that a lot of people are against it. I should find out all the details. I should work for a new
school, and I should work harder for Hopkins, and I should be making plans for our housing project. Where did I ever get the idea that life is supposed to be anything but work? A man’s work should be his pleasure–I shouldn’t expect anything more.

Far up the track the train blew its whistle. He joined a throng of men pushing to get aboard the train and, with chin on his chest, sat thinking about his daughters’ school.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, Tom moved into Hopkins’ outer office. He sat at a desk in a corner–it had been necessary to move Miss MacDonald’s desk and those of the two typists to make room for him. Hopkins’ office had not been designed with accommodations for a personal assistant. Miss MacDonald seemed flustered by the change. She sat at her desk nervously thumbing through correspondence, and whenever Tom said anything to her, she answered with an exaggerated politeness which was almost worse than the coldness which Ogden displayed. The two stenographers kept glancing from Miss MacDonald to Tom, as though they expected a battle to start between them. Tom missed his private office and his own secretary. In its exterior aspects, the change seemed more like a demotion than a promotion.

A half hour after Tom arrived at his new desk, Hopkins came out of his inner office. “Good morning, Tom!” he said briskly. “Good to have you here!”

“Good to be here!” Tom said. He had developed a hesitancy about whether to call Hopkins by his first name. “Mr. Hopkins” now sounded impolitely formal, and “Ralph” sounded brash. He avoided using either name whenever possible.

“I’ve got some correspondence I’d like you to answer for me,” Hopkins said. “Miss MacDonald, you can give Mr. Rath the morning’s mail after I’ve looked it over and let him rough out the replies.”

“Yes, sir,” Miss MacDonald said.

Hopkins returned to his inner office. An hour later Miss MacDonald
brought Tom a wire basket containing about thirty letters. Some were requests from charities, some suggested various new projects for United Broadcasting, and others concerned complex business transactions already underway. On the latter Hopkins had written in his small, neat handwriting, “See me.” On some of the simple requests he had written, “Tell him no,” and on others, “Tell him yes.” On still others he had written, “Maybe–don’t commit us.”

Tom was not surprised at all this–he knew that the stage after having a girl to take dictation is to have someone to do the dictating. He had often written letters for Dick Haver at the Schanenhauser Foundation. Calling one of the stenographers over to his desk, he began the letters for Hopkins’ signature. In reply to a letter from a newly formed charity on which Hopkins had scribbled, “Tell him no,” he said, “I was most interested to see the information you sent me, and I certainly agree with you that this is an important and worthy endeavor, but it is necessary for us to plan ahead on this sort of thing, and I’m afraid that we’ve already committed ourselves so heavily on other similar projects that we won’t be able to include this one on our list of contributions now. I certainly hope your program is successful, however, and at some later time we would be glad to give your needs thorough consideration. Sincerely, Ralph Hopkins, president, United Broadcasting Corporation.”

When he had several similar letters typed up, he sent them into Hopkins’ office. To his surprise, they came back almost immediately with carefully inked corrections on them. Most of the letters had been made a little more gracious, a little more informal, but on the letter saying no to the charity, Hopkins had written to Tom, “Don’t agree with him that project is important and don’t wish him success. I never heard of this outfit. They might use my letter as an endorsement, and they might be phonies.”

Tom glanced up, and, seeing that Miss MacDonald was looking at him smugly, he realized that she had been the one who had answered the letters before and that she was pleased to see his work needed correction. He called the stenographer to his desk again and redictated the letters.

A few moments later, Hopkins spoke to him through the interoffice communication box. “Come in and bring the rest of the mail,” he said. Tom picked up the letters on which Hopkins had written,
“See me,” and entered the inner office. Hopkins was pacing back and forth, looking ill at ease. “The reason I’m having you start out on this mail is that I think it’s the best way for you to learn how I work and to get an idea of some of the projects we have underway,” he said. “Now, take that letter from Richardson at the Henkel Manufacturing Corporation. That’s a long story. They manufacture television sets which go out under various brand names. For some time we’ve been trying to work out a deal that will let us market our own sets–United Broadcasting Corporation sets. We’ve got two or three other companies interested in supplying the sets, but this is more than a matter of just getting bids. We’re trying to work out a deal where we tie in with some big retailing outfit. . . .”

He talked on for a long time. To Tom, the whole subject seemed hopelessly complicated. “Anyway,” Hopkins concluded, “the point is, we’ve got to stall Richardson now without letting him think we’ve lost interest. Tell him that several other people here want to study the specifications he sent us and that he’ll hear from us in a few days.”

Hopkins went on to discuss this and other letters, while Tom took notes. By the time Tom got back to his desk, his head was whirling.

“Mr. Ogden called you,” Miss MacDonald said. “He wants you to call him back.”

“Thanks,” Tom replied, and immediately called Ogden. “Oh, Tom,” Ogden said. “Can you drop in at about ten tomorrow to review what you’ve done for the mental-health committee?”

“Sure,” Tom said. “I’ll be there.”

“There was another call for you,” Miss MacDonald said as soon as Tom had hung up. “A Mr. Gardella. He said it was personal.”

“Gardella?”

“Yes. He left his number. He wants you to call him back.”

Miss MacDonald handed him a slip of paper with an outside telephone number written on it. Tom dialed it himself. “Hello,” Caesar’s deep voice answered.

“This is Tom Rath. Did you call me?”

“Yes, Mr. Rath,” Caesar said. “I just thought I ought to tell you. . . .”

“Did you hear anything?” Tom interrupted.

“No–not yet. I just thought I ought to tell you that I’ve got a
new job. Gina and I got a job taking care of a new apartment building over in Brooklyn–we’re going to be custodians. We get an apartment for ourselves with the deal and everything. Anyway, I probably won’t be around the United Broadcasting building much any more, but I wanted to tell you that when we hear from Maria, we’ll let you know.”

“You think you will hear?”

“Sure, sooner or later. When Louis gets on his feet, they’ll get in touch with Gina’s mother. Anyway, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, and hurriedly added, “I’m glad you’ve got a good job. I wish you luck.”

“Same to you,” Gardella said. “Good-by.”

Tom put the telephone receiver down. Miss MacDonald was looking at him curiously. Quickly he picked up a letter lying on his desk and started to read it. So Caesar’s got a new job, he thought–I won’t be running into him on the elevators any more. Suddenly he felt sure he would never see or hear from Caesar again. So that is my punishment, he thought–I probably never will know what happened to Maria and the boy. Maybe this is just retribution. The hardest thing of all for me is going to be never to know. She and the boy could be starving. They could be dead. Or they could be getting along fine. How strange it is never to know. He picked up the piece of paper on which Miss MacDonald had written Caesar’s telephone number and carefully put it in his wallet.

The next morning Ogden said to Tom, “For the time being your duties as Mr. Hopkins’ personal assistant will be in addition to your work on the mental-health committee. We’ll start looking for someone else for that, but until we find someone, it’s still your responsibility.”

Tom hoped he’d go on and discuss an increase in salary. Instead, Ogden said, “As you know, Mr. Hopkins wants to get cracking on the mental-health committee. Fill me in now. Where are we?”

“I’ve been getting some tentative bylaws drawn up to show the exploratory committee when it meets,” Tom said.

“Good. How about a statement on the background of this committee–something to tell how it got started.”

“We haven’t discussed that,” Tom said.

“You mean you haven’t even thought of it? It’s the first thing Hopkins
will want. How did this whole thing begin, anyhow? Everybody’s going to be asking that. You’ve got to answer it.”

“I’ll work something out,” Tom said.

“Have you got sample news releases announcing the formation of the committee?”

“Yes.”

“Suggested budget?”

“Nothing yet,” Tom said. “We haven’t discussed that.”

“Haven’t discussed it! Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that someone might inquire how much this whole operation is going to cost? What’s Mr. Hopkins going to say: ‘I’m sorry, but we hadn’t thought of that’?”

“I’ll get some cost estimates together,” Tom said.

“How about plans for staff? How much of a staff is this committee going to need when it gets going? You’re going to have to answer that before you can make out a tentative budget.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said hotly, “but I’ve never been able to get a very clear idea of just how big a project Mr. Hopkins is planning!”

“We’re supposed to do the planning for him! That’s what we’re paid for. Get some data together! How much of a staff does the polio outfit have, and what did it start with? How about the cancer outfit? What are their budgets? You’ve got to think these things out for yourself!”