Splintered Heart (23 page)

It was score THREE for the hostess but the hostess was not counting.

It came over her like the jab of a needle, a rush of blood — frantic thoughts trickling in on her, spreading, overflowing, drowning logic and all sense of proportion.

...
Why wasn't I invited? Are other women going to be there...?

"Horses should be a lot of fun," Marian said.

"I'm not sure how much fun it will be. I haven't been on a horse for a long time. I imagine we'll be doing a lot of sitting around and eating." Ferris' weight, like his hairline, was something he had on his mind. "South Carolina is supposed to be very beautiful this time of year."

She could stop the ugly thoughts.

...I can't go to California, not even for a week, not by myself, not after what happened last time while I was away! But Ferris can go to South Carolina! He blithely made that decision without even asking me...

Marian took up dishes at random, piling them carelessly so that there was a clatter of china plates as the swinging door was closing.

Ferris folded his napkin, thinking about Andrea, what a shock it had been, the girl opening her door, absolutely healthy, in tiptop form and surprised to see him. He'd been angry, and then Andrea was angry. Of course, once they both realized that Myra had been playing one of her games. They'd had a drink — they'd both needed to simmer down and laugh at the hoax that had brought them together so unexpectedly...

"So what does the Professor's wife do all weekend? Supervise the servants? Or does she ride too?" Marian was brushing off the crumbs from the table with her napkin.

Ferris fixed his pipe. "Honey, Courtney Bennett isn't married. He's much too much of a ladies' man for that!"

"So it's to be a bachelor weekend?"

"
Week
!" Ferris reminded Marian, cheerfully.

"Week?" Marian kept brushing the crumbs though there weren't any left on the table.

"Like I said, we'll be going down to Florida. A week should do it. We'll interview some of the customers. I might want to talk to some of the employees, too." The idea excited Ferris. He looked up as he was lighting his pipe. "Marian, what's wrong honey?"

Marian shook her head without answering. His words, his polite inquiry was so far behind the times, so late in the game.

Out from under all the civilized robes came the grubby child who — horror of horrors — had once vomited on a hostess's gown at a party. Splat! There she was, child masquerading as a graceful wife in green taffeta gown with a mandarin's collar. All she could do was wipe her hands on the sides of her gown and try to hold on.

"I said, what's wrong, darling?" Ferris repeated, waiting for Marian to answer a simple, polite question.

...
What's wrong...?
 
Marian's ears refused to accept what she was hearing. ...
How could he not know what was wrong...?

The telephone operator plugging in, holding on to what was left of her family, all those life and death matters that were pending — surely he must know
 
that
 
was wrong! He asked what was wrong but hadn't he noticed the extra housewife routines, all those projects — efforts to re-find herself?
 
What's wrong
 
was the Tower of London postcard, the wrong numbers — he'd never even noticed the twice-a-day, sometimes three-a-day phone calls!
 
What was wrong
 
were a hundred fevered dreams, black thoughts, visions, headaches, self disgust, degradation — it was a Bach Organ swell of fury and pain, crescendo fortissimo in her head.

"Sweetheart, you look so strange — are you O.K." Ferris asked.

"Oh, I'm fine," Marian answered. "I just need a kiss, my darling."

Marian brought two drinks into the bedroom.

Ferris was sitting on the bed with one of the client's books open in his lap.

Marian sat down next to him, kissed his ear.

"That tickles," Ferris turned to the frontispiece so he could show Marian how it was autographed.

Scrawled in a bold handwriting, O.A. had written: "Good thoughts are food for the mind!"

Marian leaned in, rested her head on his shoulder. "Ferris…?" She couldn't see his face. He was examining the haphazard way O.A.'s handwriting wandered across the page. Her voice was very soft. "Ferris, do you want to make love?"

"Hmmm?" Ferris handed Marian the other copy of the book. "Look at how O.A. autographed your copy, dear."

"Do you want to make love?" Marian repeated.

The words sounded awkward, clumsy, crude. To have to ask such a question not once but twice made her feel ugly but Marian had to know that he loved her. She would
 
communicate
 
as per Jeanna's paperback — be tender, gay, silly, aggressive, coy, virginal, anything, but she had to know that he desired her.

It was a test. Marian was committed.

Later, lying naked on rumpled sheets, feeling whorish, grotesquely bloated and ashamed, Marian stared up at the shadows on the ceiling.

On the pillow next to hers, Ferris was asleep.

"Score Number FOUR for the hostess," She announced softly to the room, not wishing to disturb her husband. She opened the client's book. The boldly scrawled message O.A. had inscribed was the biggest laugh of the evening.

"To the Lovely Mrs. Cooper,

Think happy!

All those who love you,

Will be happy!
"

++++++++++

Chapter 32

"Riding boots, Henri!" Charles pointed to the top of the closet.

"Chaussure?" Henri looked puzzled.

"Speak in English or you'll never learn!" Charles made a pantomime of riding a horse.

Henri threw back his head and laughed. "Ah, 'botte,' for riding the horse!" With a graceful releve, Henri rose up on the balls of his feet and reached for them. "You will have a good time in South Carolina, I think. Not so much work. Much pleasure I think with Courtney, such a charming man!"

"He's shrewd. Much more than charming, though I'm sure Courtney found you charming." Charles was packing the boots carefully, symmetrically into the two corners of his suitcase — left boot to left corner, right to the right. "Get me six pair of socks, six jockey shorts. Don't mess anything up."

"Courtney is gay? I did not think so."

"Oh my dear, all the world's gay! Especially if the right adorable boy comes along." Charles took the things from Henri, smiling affectionately. "Except me and thee, luv and sometimes I think thee's a little queer!"

"Chaz, don't worry. I will be waiting for you when you return from South Carolina."

"Just don't bring any of your drooling lady fans here." Charles started to position the underwear symmetrically. "Don't deny it, I know you swing both ways, but dear boy, these American women can't be trusted! They latch on to the men — aggressive bitches — they take over, insist on running a man's life."

"You are speaking of Marian?"

"I would never have gone into the partnership if I'd realized..." Charles was arranging the socks as if the suitcase was to be on display. "Before she got her claws into him, Ferris used to be such fun — drinks for the crew, flowers for the secretaries, everything divinely casual, relaxed, informal, and now..." Charles made a sour lemon face, re-arranging his shirts. "Nag, nag, nag! Business suits! Get to work at nine! Stupid receipts — everyone pads expense accounts — it's not cheating, it's part of the game! Next thing you know, he's going to tell me I can't use naughty words in public!"

Charles stopped packing. "That bitch, she's turned him into a stodgy sourpuss skinflint and wouldn't you know it, now the bastard's up for a
 
Clio
!"

"Maybe I fix you a drink before you go." Henri was already fixing it. "Who is Cleo?"

"Just an award. Not terribly important. The commercials industry tries to imitate the movies!" Charles sipped his drink.

"Ah, like
 
Oscar
? I understand. You are jaloux of Clio as I am of the new boy in the company — Georgio — he does triple tours, fantastique!" Henri laughed sympathetically. "But you are so superb, such an artiste extraordinaire, Chaz!"

"I am, I know it. And extremely clever!" Charles gulped down the rest of his drink. "Lend me your bulky knit, my pet, it's going to bring me luck!"

Henri went to get it.

"I'm going to get Courtney to send you and me, first class, all expenses round trip to Japan."

"But why should Monsieur Courtney send Charles Riche and Henri Jordan to Japan?" Henri put his sweater into the suitcase.

"For research! Courtney adores chic ideas. Let stodgy old Ferris run around Florida with his questionnaires. You and I shall test the foreign market —
 
this
 
time Chaz gets the cat bird seat!" Charles re-folded the sweater, and closed his suitcase.

"The cat bird is the premiere position, yes? And to this Ferris will agree?"

"Ferris Cooper will agree to anything I ask, right now. Dear Mrs. Myra Peterson put Ferris right where I want him, right in the palm of my hand."

"This means what? I think I do not understand?"

Charles held put a hand, pantomimed placing something in the center, then pantomimed squashing it.

++++++++++

Chapter 33

Going in to the conference room, Wexler greeted Marian as if they were best of friends. There were two people with him, whom he introduced, "My trusted associates — Mrs. Pierce and Alan Schmidt."

Since the oval table had been set like a dinner table — water glass, pencils, and note pad in front of each chair — Marian signaled Elena to arrange two more settings.

"Don't bother with pads and pencils, we brought our own!" said Miss Pierce, patting her fat brief case. Alan Schmidt had two briefcases, one in each hand.

It made Marian uneasy. She knew Wexy was there to convince the board. She hadn't expected an entourage with a load of supplies.

Paul Sheldon kissed her on the forehead. "I hope you didn't mind my inviting Mr. Wexler."

"Oh no." Marian replied, but the truth was, she did mind. She would have liked to ask Paul about the corporation by-laws, the parliamentary and voting procedures. The rules had never seemed important. Now, the fact that she didn't know them, seemed like a serious shortcoming.

The meeting was called to order. Minutes were read. Elena and Nancy passed out the folders that contained the eight-page Annual Report. As usual, Paul breezed through it, stopping just before the last page which summarized Marian's plans for the coming year.

Paul coughed. Instead of discussing the summary, he took the page out of the folder and set it beside his note pad carefully, as though positioning a linen napkin.

"Before we consider next year's plans..." He removed his glasses, "We have a dear friend of mine here today — Bob Wexler, I'm sure most of you know who Bob is..."

As Paul went into a glowing resume, there were rustlings of paper. One by one, exactly as Paul had done, board members put the page to the left.

The sheet of paper represented the whole thrust of Marian's business future. It was as if they were playing follow the leader.

Marian's throat was very dry.

"Would you like some water?" Elena whispered, filling the glasses.

Wexler looked very imposing, as he stood. "I've gone over all the figures — the profits and losses of your corporation since its first year — 'Liars will figure, but figures don't lie'. FRE is
 
not
, I repeat,
 
not
 
a
 
not-for-profit
 
corporation. It is a business that's supposed to make money. What I have to suggest will put a little money in your pockets, so, if you'll bear with me and my financial advisor, Mr. Schmidt, we'll show you how it looks on
 
our
 
papers."

Miss Pierce with Elena's help, distributed pink papers — twelve to each board member.

Marian, folding her hands, noticed a broken fingernail. It was all she could do to keep from digging in her purse for a nail file.

Wexler took them through his figures, page by page. It was three-quarters of an hour of profits, nets, grosses, income, percentages, assets, gains.

Bang, wham, tap, tap — Wex was nailing it in and Marian felt her ideas, her ideals for FRE were being boarded up, and buried. He even had a list of other fund-raising agencies that were ready to help in the
 
phase-out
 
of Marian's twenty-two other clients. His last pink page had dotted lines, for board members' signatures.

Marian stood up. She could see dollar signs gleaming in the eyes of all the old family friends as she said, "I can't talk to you about profits. It's never occurred to me to work to make money for you. I tried to pick out good ideas so that FRE could help a lot of people who needed help." She looked at Paul. He was staring at the pink papers as if they were a luscious dessert. "If you want a tasty profit — and that's what Mr. Wexler's offering you — I can't go along with it. But I'm sure you can find another director." She indicated her summary page. "Paul, if we are going to go ahead with FRE and me as its director, I want you to fix it so we can be a
 
not for profit
 
corporation,
 
legitimately
."