The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (71 page)

“Boy, I'm sure glad you found that snag before we had to run the whole trial balance over again,” Merton was saying, peering over the bent back of a busboy who was clearing their table. “Would've had to waste the whole day.”

Then she came out, walking quickly with a heavy tray, a small, copper-haired girl whose face was very young and serious. She stopped at the next table to serve a chattering party of women, and he watched her precise, graceful movements as she set a dish down, took two steps around a woman's chair, almost like a dance, and leaned forward again to put another dish in its place. When her tray was empty she slid it under her arm and drew her order pad from the waistband of her tiny apron, moving toward them. The seriousness, no more than tiredness, really, vanished from her face in a brilliant, simple smile. “How are
you
today, Mr. Pollock?—Hello.” The added greeting and a fraction of the smile were for Merton, who was studying his menu and hardly seemed to notice.

“Very well, thank you, and you? You're
looking
very well.”

“Oh, I'm so
tired
today; honestly, it's terrible. And six o'clock seems so far away.”

“Well, you may certainly take as long as you like with us,” Pollock said, and she smiled again. “I'd like a very dry martini to start with—will you join me, Stan?”

Merton looked up, surprised. “Why, yes, sure—what's the occasion?”

“Come, now, Stan,” he said. “I'd hate to think I'm old enough to need an occasion, and I'm sure you're not.” Merton laughed self-consciously, the girl politely. “We'll have two, then, Miss—what
is
your name, anyway?”

“Miss Hennessy, Mr. Pollock. Mary Hennessy.”

“Miss Hennessy, then. Fine. Two very dry ones.”

“All right, sir, and what would you like to eat? The lamb is very nice today.”

They both ordered the lamb, asking that their coffee be brought with it, and Miss Hennessy moved off toward the bar. Pollock felt tense and exhilarated, afraid his face must be red. When the cocktails arrived he said, “Well, Stan, here's luck,” and the first cold, wonderfully sour sip began to calm him. Soon he was pleasantly relaxed, and as Merton talked about the trial balance, his young face eager and respectful, Pollock watched him with a certain affection. A good lad, Merton, a very promising young accountant. Still had a few rough edges, but he had matured remarkably in his two years on the job, not only in his work but in his
attitude,
which was the important thing. Clothes, for instance; Pollock remembered the big-shouldered suits and garish neckties the boy had worn at first, and regarded with satisfaction the new Merton across the table: a good conservative tweed, oxford shirt and quiet tie. Pollock felt a sense of personal achievement in Merton, for while it would never have done to advise the boy directly on these matters, he had tried to impart, by his own example and by a phrase dropped here and there, something of his own convictions. It was all right for Farling and his sales executives to dress the way they did and to talk and act the way they did, for they lived in a different world, but an accountant was a professional man, like a lawyer, with a separate set of standards to uphold. Qualities that would be death to a salesman—dignity, reserve, even aloofness—were not only expected of an accountant but important to his success. It was a point old Snyder could never grasp; Merton had grasped it perfectly.

“Stan,” he said, when Merton had finished talking, “you've done a lot of first-rate work for us at American Bearing, but I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.”

“Well, that's very nice of you to say, sir, I appreciate—”

Pollock held up his hand. “Now, never mind, Stan, never mind that. We're out of the office now and I'd like to talk to you as, well, simply as a friend, if I may.” Merton was smiling, a little flushed. “The point is, Stan, I know perfectly well that in a year or so, or maybe sooner, you'll be wanting to leave us for a job with a little more future—perhaps some smaller firm in a new, expanding field, and that's just as it should be.” The girl was putting plates of food before them; he had not even noticed her approaching. “The lamb looks splendid, Miss Hennessy, but suppose you bring us two more martinis. You're with me, aren't you, Stan?” Merton nodded and the girl gave them her smile again.

“I just want you to know, Stan, that I wouldn't stand in your way for anything, and when the time comes for you to consider another offer, I hope you'll feel free to call on me for whatever advice I may be able to give you.”

“Well, that's certainly a nice attitude for you to take, Mr. Pollock. Truth is, I have nothing else in mind at the present time, but if and when an opportunity does present itself it's nice to know that, well, that you feel the way you do, and that I can come to you for advice on it. My wife'll be glad too—” he grinned boyishly. “Otherwise, no matter
who
the offer came from, she'd be skeptical—you know, afraid I might get mixed up in something fly-by-night.”

“Good, Stan,” Pollock said, lifting his fresh cocktail. “I'm glad we had this little talk.” Merton nodded, chewing, and Pollock watched him. His wife would be skeptical; what was she like? Pollock had met her once, a small, not very lively girl with thin lips. Probably the kind they described as cute; in ten years she would be dumpy. Finishing his drink, he watched Miss Hennessy putting dessert dishes before the women at the next table. The uniform was just right for her; a trim black dress with white collar and cuffs, and the small apron—no more than a few inches of starched white cloth. Facing his way, almost as if to pose for him, she stood erect, holding the tray high beside one shoulder, and handed a dish down to the table with a sweep of her other arm, stretching the dress tight across her small breasts. Then she whirled and walked off toward the door marked “In,” a remarkably graceful, remarkably lovely girl.

His food was getting cold. “This little article of mine,” he said, picking up his fork. “In a way I had this—what we've been talking about—in mind when I tacked on that little acknowledgment to Mr. Snyder and yourself. A small thing, of course, but perhaps it might be of some service to you—a trifle of added prestige.”

“Oh, of course it will, sir,” Merton said and grinned. “I'd already planned to make use of it in my résumé.”

“Good, good,” Pollock said, poking at the cold meat and mashed potatoes. He wanted another drink but was afraid Merton might think it strange. “And of course,” he said after a moment, pushing the plate aside and reaching for his coffee, “it's useful to old Snyder too, in a different way. He can take it home and show his wife what an important man he is.”

Merton's sudden, loud laughter startled him. He looked up and saw the boy convulsed, his eyes glittering, as if a shared secret joke had been released. “Jesus,” he said, “can't you
picture
that? Maybe she'll buy him a new eyeshade!”

Pollock laughed too, rather hesitantly, and then looked at his plate, sorry. It was the first time he had ever confided in Merton that way, and he knew it was bad policy. He drank his coffee in silence and when he looked up again the girl was coming back, bringing their check.

“Why you hardly touched your lamb, Mr. Pollock. Anything wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all,” he smiled at her. “I just wasn't very hungry today.” She was adding up the bill, pursing her lips over the figures. Her lipstick was an off-red shade, almost orange, a perfect selection for her ghstening red-brown hair. She did not have Alice's long thighs, but her own looked solid and nicely rounded under the shifting black skirt. When she had gone with a smiled “good afternoon,” leaving them to divide the check and fumble in their pockets for money, Merton looked after her and turned back with a smile that was almost a leer. “Not bad, is she?”

Pollock stood up abruptly and threw his coins on the tablecloth, offended, and as they walked back to the office he talked very little to Merton, and on business matters only. The afternoon was intolerably long. He sat at his desk staring out the window, glad that Merton and Snyder were busy in the outer office. From time to time he felt guilty about his idleness and tried to concentrate on his work, but there was a dull ache in the back of his head, probably from the martinis, and before long he would find himself staring out the window again. At twenty minutes to five the telephone rang, and the voice of J. C. Farling's secretary said, “I have Mr. Farling on the wire, Mr. Pollock.” Then there was a click and Farling came on: “George? Listen, that's a regular peach of an article.”

“Well, thanks, John,” he said, feeling the corners of his mouth curl into a tight smile.

“Why,
damn
, boy,
you
never told me you were a talented writer—stuff makes better sense than half the crap I buy from these advertising geniuses of mine! I mean it, George, you missed your calling—you want a transfer?” He laughed, making the telephone's diaphragm vibrate painfully, and Pollock managed to laugh with him. “—'Course, I'm only kidding, George. Don't any of us know where we'd be at today without you down there in Accounting. No, but listen, in all seriousness, George, it's a crackerjack.”

“Well, I'm very glad you liked it, John. You had no objection to my using your name in that context, then, in the third or fourth paragraph? They approved it at Publicity, of course, but I'm delighted if it meets with your personal approval as well.”

“Well, tell you the truth, George, I've just given it a quick once-over; got it here on my desk now, kind of glancing through, and Christ knows
when
the hell I'll get a chance to really sit down and read it, but listen, anything you want to say in there about me is fine and dandy as far as I'm concerned, so don't you worry.”

“Well, I wasn't
worried,
John, it's just that I—”

“Okay, swell. Tell you, George, I got somebody here in the office and I got to run. Just wanted to tell you it's perfectly swell, all the way down the line.”

“Appreciate that very much, John.”

“Fine, fine, George; okay, then.”

“Right,” Pollock said, “thanks for calling, John.” And before he was quite through there was a click and Farling was gone. He put down the telephone and saw that it was wet; his hands were sweating. He dried them on his handkerchief as he got up and walked to the window. The streets below were pale with early dusk, and he began to be very sure what he would do this evening. He would go back to the restaurant and wait for her. He would sit at the bar, have a cocktail and chat with her as she worked, and when the time came for her to leave—she said she left at six—he would say something charming: “I wonder if I might see you home?” Or perhaps, with a flourish of his hat and a half-clowning, courtly bow: “Look here, Miss Hennessy, I'd like to buy you a drink, and if that's against the rules I'd like to see you home. I'm sure
that
isn't against the rules.”

Through the office partitions he heard the chatter and banging of desks that meant it was five o'clock. He stood over his own desk and put the papers in order, wanting to wait until the crowd was gone, and especially anxious to give Snyder and Merton a chance to leave. He usually walked to Grand Central with one or both of them, and it would be difficult to shake them tonight. Finally, when the noise had subsided, he took his briefcase and left. Snyder had gone home—the ridiculous eyeshade was the only thing left on his desk—but Merton had not. He was out in the nearly empty main office, still in his shirtsleeves, huddled over some papers with one of the bookkeepers.

Pollock waved goodnight, got his hat and coat and hurried to catch the elevator. But before he reached the ground floor it struck him as pointless to be carrying his briefcase, and, hoping Merton would still be busy, he stayed on the elevator to take it back upstairs. As the doors opened again he saw Merton disappearing into the cloakroom. The bookkeeper had been dismissed and there was no one left in the strangely hushed room.

Pollock hurried to his office; if he wanted to avoid Merton now the only thing to do was wait there with the door closed until he heard him leave. It seemed a long time, and he began to feel foolish for hiding, but finally he heard Merton's footsteps come out of the cloakroom and go toward the elevators. Midway they stopped, and Pollock heard him pick up a telephone and dial a number.

“Hello, honey,” the boy said, “listen, I had to work late and I'm just now leaving, so I guess I won't make it to the store before it closes.”

Annoyed, Pollock leaned against his desk, waiting.

“Huh?—Well, okay, then.—Sure.—What?—No, I feel all right, but I got a lousy headache. Had some drinks at lunch and I guess I'm not used to it.—No, with old
Pollock,
believe it or not. Can you beat that? Jesus, it was a riot too; the old bastard got half looped on two martinis and started giving me this big Lionel Barrymore routine. ‘Son, you'll be leaving us soon for greater things, because youth must be served, and yackety, yackety, yack'—
Yeah,
I'm not kidding; and listen, then he says, ‘I want you to know that I won't stand in your way—' What the hell's he think, I'm going to ask his
permission
before I quit or something?—Yeah, that's what I
felt
like telling him. Well, listen, honey, I want to get out of here. Tell you more about it when I get home, okay?—Okay, then. ‘Bye now.”

Pollock waited until the footsteps reached the elevators, and until the elevator doors opened and closed, before he left his hiding place.

The restaurant was almost empty but the bar was crowded. Pollock was relieved to see that no one from American Bearing was there. He took the end stool nearest the restaurant, and saw that she was serving tea or something at a table not far away, with her back to him. He looked away before she turned around, for it would be better if she saw him that way first, it would look less planned.