The Lost Weekend (12 page)

“Have it then.”

“Usual, Sam.”

Sam mixed whatever it was and immediately tried to show, by his preoccupation, that from now on he would be having no part of the conversation, he wouldn’t even hear a thing that was said.

“What’s the matter, Gloria? Blue funk? Brown study? Pink elephants?”

“Say, you know I don’t drink. Not like you I mean.”

“Why Gloria. You’re actually cross.”

“Don’t mind me. I just—” She picked up the drink Sam set before her, probably ginger ale, and slowly sipped. “I don’t know.”

“
I
know.”

“What?”

“Love.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“What’s he like, Gloria? Big and strong? Good-looking as all hell?”

“Oh stop. Please. I don’t feel like it today.”

Suddenly he was terribly sorry for her; and suddenly, too, he felt he was rather drunk. And he didn’t give a good God-damn, either. It was swell. His mind was beginning to pick up and he wasn’t bored not any way you look at it. It must have come on him all of a sudden but it was damned good. He liked it. He felt hellishly sorry for Gloria, poor kid.

“I don’t like you shutting me out in the cold like this.”

“I can’t explain it, Mr. Birnam, so what’s the use of talking about it. It don’t make sense when I do.”

“But I’m interested. Truly.”

She looked up at him for a full moment to see if he meant it. He raised his eyebrows questioningly and steadily returned her steady gaze.

She turned back to her drink. “It’s home. I’m thinking of leaving.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m not very hospitable there. My father—”

Hell, this wasn’t very interesting. But he’d finish this drink and maybe have one more and then go back to the flat where he could really enjoy himself. Take in a few bottles and maybe just stay there the whole rest of the weekend. Meanwhile it wouldn’t hurt him to listen to Gloria for a few minutes. He’d asked for it.

“I certainly’d think twice, Gloria. Or even thrice. Home isn’t something you can find just any day of the week. They don’t grow on every bush. Jeeper’s, Sam, you’re certainly taking your time.”

Sam handed him the new drink without a word.

“I know,” Gloria said, “but if you don’t feel you belong any more?”

“I know what I’m talking about when I talk about homes.”

“Are you married?”

“What do you think?”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know.”

He looked at her a moment before making up his mind. “I’m married, yes.” He picked up his drink and swished the ice slowly around in the glass. “I’m married all right, no fear,” he added with a sigh. He glanced up at the mirror over the bar and at once seemed to become lost in thought.

“What’s the matter,” Gloria said.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you looking like that?”

“You asked me if I was married, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I told you.” He downed the drink and pushed the empty glass across the bar toward Sam.

Gloria waited. When the new drink had been set before him, she said, “Tell me about it.”

He took a deep breath and expelled it with the words: “I’m married and I have two little boys. Anything else you want to know?”

“Is she pretty?”

He struck a note of heavy irony. “Lovely. Lovely, Gloria. She’s so lovely she isn’t human.”

“What’s her name?”

“Theodora. But she’s called Teddy.”

“Teddy. That’s cute.”

“Yes, isn’t it. God.”

“I’d love to see her. I knew you’d have an awful pretty wife, Mr. Birnam.”

“I have. I have that.”

“Does she dress nice?”

“Very. It’s her chief interest in life.”

“More than you?”

“Are you kidding?”

Gloria slid a cigarette from his pack. “Where do you live?”

“We have a little house, just a two-by-four really, in Sutton Place. And then a place in Greenwich.”

“Greenwich Village?”

“God don’t talk to me about Greenwich Village. Stinking slum. Greenwich Connecticut.”

“I never was there.”

“God.”

“Why do you say God all the time?”

“Because that’s the way I feel.”

Gloria considered a moment. “A farm?”

He permitted himself a small rueful laugh. “A farm. Christ I wish it were. That would be something useful, at least.” He took a drink. “No, it’s no farm, dear. It’s just a great God-damned moratorium of a place—mauso
le
um of a place, fronting the Sound. Private beach, stables, gardens. Hell, what’s the use. Let’s change the subject for Christ’s sake.”

“Are you that rich?”

“My wife is.”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh?”

“Is that the trouble? She has the money?”

“You’re just being romantic now, Gloria dear. Money doesn’t necessarily mean trouble. She’s always had it. I’ve always had it too, for that matter. And there are lots worse things in the world than money, Gloria. Lots. Frigidity, for example.”

“What’s that?”

“Leave it lay. Don’t get me started. Hey, what are we talking about this for, anyway? I thought we were going to have fun?”

“I’m interested, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Birnam. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He downed his drink and then started to pay, as if he were about to leave. “Before you get married”—he waved a finger at her—“be mighty sure, Gloria, that your wife isn’t frigid.” He heard himself, and laughed. “Hell, I was forgetting. You’ll be marrying a man anyway—I hope. And they’re never frigid.”

“What’s that word mean?”

“I will a round unvarnisht tale deliver—”

“But what does it mean?”

“Frigid? It’s one of nature’s little tricks of revenge, dear. One of woman’s tricks. It’s all terribly terribly nice and proper, and keeps the lady a lady. Oh, always a lady. And makes a bloody monkey out of the poor sap who happened to marry her—because he loved her. If monkey was the worst of it, the story would merely be comic.” He sighed. “As it is, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word— Well, never mind.”

“It’s a rotten shame.”

“What is.”

“That you’re not happily married. Teddy—I mean, your wife—ought to be ashamed of herself. A nice man like you—”

“Oh-h-h no-o-o!” he said, his voice shuddering humorously. “I’m not nice, Gloria. Not a bit of it. I’m no better than I should
be, like the cat in th’ adage. But I
could
have been a nice guy, if—given a chance. If given half a chance.…”

“By who? Your family?”

“By my wife. My dear beautiful lovely frigid wife. Now look. Are you going to drink with me, or are we going to waste the whole afternoon with wild and whirling words.”

“I never know when you’re kidding and when you’re not, Mr. Birnam.”

He smiled quizzically. “Neither do I, Gloria. Neither do I. Now what about it. Drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have another. The usual, Sam,” she said, and turned back to Don. “I bet you been taking me for a terrible ride, though.”

“Really? That’s not kind. What makes you think so?”

“The way you kid all the time.”

“And if I kid at any mortal thing, ’tis that I may not weep.”

“You see? You are now.”

“I promise not to crack another crack. No, not even a smile.”

Plainly, she was interested in him. “I like you to laugh, but I want,” she said, “I want to believe what you say.”

“You don’t mind if I keep on drinking, do you?”

“You said you had two little boys.”

“My jewels.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Well, I have two little boys. They’re wild as Indians and smart as whips.”

“Funny, a minute ago you were all in the dumps.”

“I’m resilient, Gloria. Mercurial. Volatile.”

“What are their names?”

“Who.”

“Your little boys.”

“Oh. Malcolm and Donaldbain.”

“Funny name.”

“Donald?”

“Oh.”

“Bright as buttons.”

“How old are they?”

“Four and six. Just like that. That’s planning, dear, in
spite
of the frigidity. That’s one time I got my oar in. Or two times.”

“Are they dark like you?”

“Blond, both of them. Just like their blonde lovely frigid mother. A pity, isn’t it? Christ what I am standing here with an empty glass for? Sam what the hell are you doing? Here!”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“I want a drink!”

“Why is it a pity? Don’t you like them to look like their mother?”

“God
I
don’t care. I’m only too thankful they aren’t girls. Because if they were, and if I thought they were going to grow up and put some poor devil through hell, the way—” He broke off, unable to go on, and picked up the glass.

“Are you crazy about them?”

“Gloria, I love those two boys this side idolatry. Now if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk any more about it.”

“I know. Okay.”

He stared at his face in the glass. “Gloria,” he said, without turning toward her, “I’ll tell you something.” He lowered his voice. “And this is something I’ve never confided to a living soul till now, Gloria.”

“Don’t say something you’ll be sorry for, Mr. Birnam. It don’t make any difference.”

“God, I won’t. Maybe I’m even glad to find release, get it off my chest. Gloria look. My wife is a lovely woman, and she’s a good woman, understand? A good woman. Do you know what that means? Do you know what a good woman is? They’re hell on wheels. They’re simply not for men. Not for a man like me they aren’t.”

“What’s there about that? I mean, I don’t get it.”

“Wait a minute, let me finish. My wife, she’d— Yes, honestly. She’d rather have me be unfaithful to her, habitually—rather I’d sleep with one of the chambermaids even—than go to bed with her.” Gloria had colored, but he pretended not to notice. “She tries every trick known to woman to keep me out of her bed. Feigns headaches, reads, falls asleep the minute she hits the hay, has the curse practically every day in the month—” He stopped, aware that Gloria had turned from him and was staring down at her glass.

“You ought not to talk like that, Mr. Birnam,” she said, almost sadly. “It isn’t nice.”

“My dear girl.” He put his hand tenderly on her arm. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Did I offend?” Suddenly he felt all affectionate and warm toward Gloria. “Look Gloria. Have a drink with me now to show that you forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said quietly, “it’s all right.”

“Have a drink anyway. Sam!” He turned to her. “I forgot myself. I was forgetting you were only a child—that you didn’t understand the talk of a man.”

Amazing then, touching too, the way Gloria responded, the way she seemed to open up to him, under the warmth of his words. “You’re a terribly nice person, Mr. Birnam,” she said very soberly. “I want you to
be
nice.”

He could have wept, of course. It was one hell of a long while since anybody’d said anything remotely like that—to him. Gloria plainly meant it. The words were so simple there couldn’t be any thought of trying to fool him. He told her he was touched and grateful. Perhaps he could
be
a nice person, for Gloria. He had an inspiration and suddenly became very happy.

“Gloria listen. What time are you off tonight?”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d do me a great favor and go out with me. Please say you will.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.” He wouldn’t make the mistake of suggesting some place like the Coq Rouge or LaRue’s where Gloria would only be miserable. He’d let her pick the place and then play up to her idea of the evening. “You say where. Wherever you’d like to go.”

“I don’t know if I could.”

He could see she was eager to accept, but holding back. Certainly she must know by now he wasn’t pulling her leg. He’d never been more sincere in his life than he was this minute. “You’d make me a very happy man, Gloria.”

“I’d have to ask the boss.”

“Do. Will you? Right now?”

“Yes.” She flushed, smiling. “Wait a sec, I’ll be right back.”

She left him and went to the rear of the room where the proprietor sat alone at a table reading the evening paper. As she bent over his shoulder and began speaking, he saw the man turn and look up at him with a puzzled frown on his forehead. He bent his attention on his own reflection in the mirror while Gloria continued to talk with the boss.

A wonderful idea—Wick would certainly approve of this! He couldn’t wait to tell Wick—Wick wouldn’t mind any of it in the least. He was doing the girl a kindness, being nice to someone else for a change. For once he wasn’t on the receiving end. He wanted genuinely to put himself in the role of benefactor and gentleman and give Gloria as good a time as he possibly could.

Apart from all that: what an experience it would be; almost a study. He was curious to know what the evening would be like, what kind of place she would want to go to, the things she would say, the things she would find pleasure in. He would try to fill all that Gloria longed for and looked up to in her idea of the ideal escort, which tonight would be him. Think what he himself might learn before the evening was out, about places he’d never seen the inside of (Danceland?), about young aspiring girls of her class to whom a date of this kind (and a gentleman at that)
was as near to romance—so they thought, perhaps—as it would ever be given them to come. He would be careful and watchful to get the most out of it himself, to add to his own experience and knowledge—not drink too much, only enough to make the evening a pleasant social one for Gloria. He would be careful, too, to act the gentleman only insofar as Gloria understood the term. He must not embarrass her by ordering things she had never heard of, translating the French if there was any, taking a taxi when a bus or walking would do. With Gloria at his side he’d remember not to say “Please” and “Thank You” to the waiter; he’d join in the fun with people he didn’t know, if that was what she wanted; buy her a gardenia or an orchid, a lavender orchid of course, but not a camellia. Certainly he would not wear his dinner-jacket.… All this, Wick would understand. Wick wouldn’t mind his drinking at all, under these circumstances. He’d approve, even commend him for it. The evening promised to be a wonderful, a happy experience, something he would enjoy telling Wick all about later and hearing Wick’s approval of the whole thing.