The Towers of Love (10 page)

“A lot of companies want big agencies,” Hugh said. “But plenty of others prefer small ones. If Joe goes on getting bigger, he's going to lose some of his present accounts along the way.”

“Sure,” his father said, nodding. “Sure he will.”

“Anyway,” Hugh said, “that's the situation. As a result I've got quite a lot of money in the bank right now. I've got to start hunting around for some place to invest it.”

“Well, no trouble about that,” his father said. “Talk to Percy Morris at the bank about that. He'll give you some tips on that sort of thing. But what about you, Hugh? You personally.”

“Well, that's what I'm still undecided about,” he said. “I'm still up in the air about that.”

“Well,” his father said, “I'll tell you what I've done, Hugh. I don't know what your mother will think of this, and I hope you won't disapprove. I haven't committed you to anything, of course. But when your mother told me what you'd done, and that she'd got you to come home to think about things, I mentioned you to Walter Owens in New Haven. He's head of New Haven Machine Tool, you know, one of our clients. And I mentioned to him that you'd left your agency and, well, they're looking for an ad. manager and Walter Owens thought that with your experience you might just fill that slot.”

“Well—” Hugh began.

“He'll pay thirteen a year to start. It's a growing company, Hugh. It's a good company. Thirteen a year to start may not sound big by New York standards, but it's a pretty good starting salary for around here, I'd say. And, hell, you don't need a big salary now. And the company's growing fast. It's yours, Hugh, if you want it. Take it or leave it.”

“It would mean—well, it would mean living in New Haven.”

“Hell, you could live right here for that matter,” his father said. “You could commute to New Haven. God knows there's plenty of room here. Your mother would like that.”

“Well, let me think about it, Dad,” he said.

“Yes. You think about it. Your mother will have some idea of her own, of course. Sorry I haven't got any more contacts lined up for you. But if you want any, just give me a little time and I'll line up others.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks very much, Dad.”

“Don't mention it. By the way, how does Anne feel about all this?”

“Oh, Anne is—well, whatever I decide to do will be all right with Anne.”

“I see,” his father said. He looked at him closely. “Say, there's—there's nothing wrong between you and Anne, is there?”

“No,” he said, “there's nothing wrong between Anne and me.”

“Good. Well, I thought—well, I'm glad everything's fine.”

“Yes, everything's fine.”

“Incidentally,” his father said, “are they going to keep your name in the firm? Will it still be Wallace and Carey?”

“No,” he said, “I told Joe he could change it. He's calling it Joseph Wallace Associates.”

“I don't know why he'd want to do that. Why would he want to take your name off?”

“Well, why should he keep my name? I'm not there any more.”

“And the money he paid you—that was all free and clear, wasn't it?”

“What do you mean, free and clear?”

“Well, I seem to remember when you first went with Joe—didn't Joe lend you some money to buy into the firm?”

“Oh, yes,” Hugh said. “He lent me some money to buy in. But that was all paid back, Dad, a long time ago.”

“Oh, good,” his father said. “I'm glad to hear that. Good boy.” He picked up his coffee cup again and stared at it for a moment or two dolefully. “I still don't see why he wouldn't want to keep your name in the firm, though,” he said. “After all, the Carey name means something. After all.”

Pappy had come to the study door and was standing there, head bent respectfully. “Telephone, please, sir,” he said, when Hugh turned to him. “Miss Everett.”

“For me?” Hugh's father shouted. He always shouted when he spoke to Pappy. “Miss
who
?” His big hand clamped down on the phone on his desk.

“No, it's for me, Dad,” Hugh said, standing up. “It's Edrita.”

“Edrita? What the hell's she calling you about? Where is she?”

“She's back here for a few days,” Hugh said, standing up. “She's just calling to say hallo. I'll take it in the library, Pappy.”

He went into the library and, behind him, heard his father's loud voice saying, “Pappy, get me some sharp pencils. Understand? Pencils.
Pencils
, Pappy. There isn't a single god-damned pencil in my desk.”

He sat on the arm of one of the large leather chairs and picked up the telephone. “Good morning, Mrs. Smith,” he said.

“Hallo, Hugh. How are you?”

“Fine. How are you, Mrs. Smith?”

He could hear her laughing softly at the other end of the line. “I told Pappy I was Miss Everett,” she said. “He wouldn't have known who I was if I'd said Mrs. Smith.”

“Well, how are you, Miss Everett?”

“I'm very well.”

“Good,” he said. “Taken any midnight walks lately?”

“What do you mean, Hugh?”

“I saw you last night. I saw you come out of the house. I was on the terrace, watching you.”

“Were you? Were you really?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted a breath of fresh air.”

“So did I,” he said.

There was a little silence on the other end. Then she said, “Hugh, your mother just called me.”

“Oh, did she?”

“Yes. She still wants me to come for dinner. She asked if I could come to-night.”

“Well,” he said, “can you?”

“Do you want me to come?”

“
Can
you come?”

“Answer my question first,” she said. “Do you want me to come?”

“I think it would be very nice if you came,” he said.

There was another little silence. “That's a funny answer,” she said.

“Why is it a funny answer?” he asked her.

“Hugh, was it her idea, or yours—asking me?”

“Well, she wants to see you,” he said. “She suggested asking you for to-night, and I said wonderful. There's a surprise guest coming.”

“Oh.” Then she said, “So this is really her idea.”

“Yes, but I said wonderful. Can you come?”

“I don't know,” she said quietly.

“What's the matter? Washing your hair again?”

“No.”

“Then what's the matter? Why don't you know?”

“I'm just not sure it's a good idea,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked. “Look, there's a surprise guest coming, and—”

“Yes, you said that.”

“And it's a sort of a party.”

“So I gather.”

“Why not come then?”

“Well,” she said, “do you want me to?”

“Look—” he began, and suddenly he felt his voice tightening. “Of course I want you to come, Edrita,” he said.

“All right, then.”

“Then I'll see you to-night?”

“Yes. Will you tell your mother?”

“Yes, I'll tell her. Edrita,” he said, “the reason—I mean, the reason she asked you and not me is—well, after all it's her house. And her party.”

“Oh, I understand that,” she said.

“Good,” he said.

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Good-bye, Edrita.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat for a moment on the arm of the chair, looking out at the morning. He stood up and walked back towards the study door to rejoin his father. But at the door he stopped. His father was deep in his crossword puzzle, frowning intently at it, chewing the eraser of a fresh pencil. Their interview, he decided, was over. He tiptoed away from the door.

He went through the house and out on to the terrace. The fountain had been turned off, the pool around it was still and silent, and the only sounds were from the waterfall and a few morning birds. He crossed the terrace to a far corner where, under a pear tree that was just beginning to be nubbed with buds, there was a curved stone bench. He sat down on the bench and took from his back trousers pocket one of the two letters that had been waiting for him beside his breakfast plate this morning. The first letter had been from Ellen Brier at the office, and had said simply:

This is merely to show you how bleak the new letterhead looks without you. This place seems equally bleak. We all miss you.

E
LLEN

But the other letter he had not opened right away because he had recognised the small, pointed handwriting on the envelope, the tiny o's with which the i's were dotted, knew whom it was from, and was fairly sure he knew what the letter would have to say.

He held the envelope in his hand for a minute or two, balancing it tentatively between its pointed corners, turning it this way and that. Then he ripped open the seal and pulled out the letter. It was written on a single sheet of stationery, folded once, crisply embossed with the words
820 Fifth Avenue
. The letter was very short.

D
EAR
H
UGH
,

Since we have decided to end this thing, I would only suggest that we try to end it with a certain amount of dignity. After all, we began it with some dignity. Let us try to end it the same way.

Let me know how you plan to proceed.

A
NNE

He read it through once again, slowly, and then refolded it carefully along its original crease. Then he replaced it in its envelope and returned the envelope to his back trousers pocket. Without knowing it, he had begun to whistle softly under his breath, “Merrily we roll along … roll along … roll along … Merrily we roll along …”

Six

And so there were to be eight of them for dinner that night: himself, his mother and father, Aunt Reba and her playwright, Edrita, Titi, and Austin Callender. And it was going to be a little awkward, his mother said as she stood in the dining-room surveying the arrangement of tiny, silver-framed place cards on the table, because it was five men and only three women. But perhaps it would be all right, she said, if you counted Titi as a lady. After all, he could be either-or.

The guests started coming at half past seven and the first to arrive, not surprisingly, was Austin Callender, right on the clock stroke, anxious to impress his future parents-in-law with his punctuality.

“Austin, my
angel
!” Hugh's mother cried as she hurried towards him and kissed him first on one cheek, then on the other. She was in a pink velvet dinner dress with a chinchilla collar and deep chinchilla cuffs and, at her throat and wrists, large pink crystal beads that rattled as she moved. Watching her to-night, Hugh decided it was a good thing that he had not seen her during the day; it had spared them both the need for mentioning the scene in her room the night before. And now, with the chinchilla and the beads, she was wearing her best party manner.

“Good evening, ma'am,” Austin Callender said. “Hope I'm not late.”

“But you're right on
time
, Austin!” she said.

“Good evening, sir,” he said to Hugh's father, shaking hands.

“Good to see you again, sir.”

“And this is our Hugh, Austin,” his mother said. “Hugh, this is Austin Callender.”

“How do you do, Hugh?” Austin said. “Gosh, but it's good to meet you.” They shook hands energetically. Austin was a good-looking boy, tall and slender, with a straight-nosed, earnest face and blue eyes.

“Good to meet you, Austin,” Hugh said.

“Well, gosh, but it's good to meet you, Hugh,” Austin said again. “I mean Pryor's told me all about you. Pryor talks about you a lot, and it's good to finally meet you, Hugh.”

“Oh, do you call her Pryor?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” Austin said. “Don't you?”

“Well, I guess we've always called her Pansy. It's just a silly nickname.”

“Oh, yes,” Austin said, “Pryor's mentioned that—how the family always calls her Pansy. She's told me all about the family. I feel I know the whole family very well.”

“Well, don't let them throw you,” Hugh said.

“Oh, they don't throw me, Hugh,” Austin said, looking embarrassed. “They don't throw me at all.” Then, eager to change the conversation, he turned to Hugh's mother and said, “Say, Mrs. Carey, you've done this room over, haven't you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you
like
it, Austin? Please be
brutally
frank with me, Austin. Be dreadfully candid.”

“Gosh, but I like it, Mrs. Carey,” he said.

“Oh,
do
you? Oh, I'm so relieved, Austin!”

“Yes, I really do.”

“
Pappy
!” his mother cried. “Cocktails, Pappy! Cocktails for us all, darling.
Hurry!
”

The next to arrive were his Aunt Reba and her playwright, whose name turned out to be Tom McGinnis. Though he had been described as young, he did not really look young. His hair was thin on top and greying at the temples, and the tuxedo that encased his thin, spare frame looked as if it had been cut for some different, somewhat heavier person. Still, he was at least ten years younger than Reba, who, by contrast, was wearing one of her most extreme dresses—of gold lamé, cut deep in the back, and on her head was a turban, twisted of the same gold fabric, that towered above her like a Grecian warrior's helmet and that made her easily the tallest figure in the room. “We came up from New York by coach,” she was saying to her sister, “because Tom's frantically poor and can't afford a car. In fact, he doesn't even know how to drive one, darling.”

“Oh, I know how to drive a car,” McGinnis said.

“And just as we were getting to the station here in town, Tom said in this marvellous loud voice that simply everybody could hear, ‘What a perfect place for a
derailment
.' It spread absolute panic through the whole car! Isn't Tom marvellous? He's one of the most exciting new voices in the modern theatre, aren't you, Tom?”