The Troubled Air (12 page)

At Fourth Street, Archer got out. People were buying candy and flowers and long loaves of French bread. Across the street, in front of the women’s prison, a police van was unloading a batch of prostitutes. Everything was normal on Sixth Avenue, now called the Avenue of the Americas, although a report had just come out in which it was stated that several of the countries for which the avenue had been named were plotting invasion of several other good neighbors. A thin tree, which had been planted in the concrete by Mayor LaGuardia, since dead, waited for spring among the cold gasoline fumes, its buds closed and secret and admitting nothing. The heads of families bought newspapers on the corners, folding them under their arms, dutifully taking the poison home to be distributed equitably among the generations. There was the smell of Italian cooking from a restaurant garlic on the foreign air. In Italy, there were riots and ceremonial funerals for the victims of the police, and the Pope mourned publicly for convicted priests to the north and east. A girl in black slacks came out of a drugstore, having just had breakfast at four-thirty in the afternoon. She looked sleepy and as though she were going back to her room and her unmade bed to wait for the telephone to ring. There was a narrow rift in the clouds to the west and the sun appeared there in the green and red sky, falling fast, and making the building fronts look like water colors. The city trembled on the brink of evening, waiting for the first drink.

How is it, Archer thought, walking slowly, that we do not all commit suicide?

S
TANDING IN FRONT OF THE DOOR TO HIS HOUSE, ARCHER HESITATED.
Uncertain at his doorstep, he knew he had to decide, now, whether or not he was going to tell Kitty what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

At another time, there would have been no question about it. He’d have told Kitty exactly how matters stood and gone to her for comfort and advice. But Kitty had had a very bad time for the first three months of her pregnancy and the doctor had privately warned Archer that there was danger both that Kitty might lose the child prematurely and that the birth, if the pregnancy went the full period, might be very hard. He had warned Archer that Kitty was not to overtax herself physically and to be disturbed as little as possible emotionally for the next few months. Archer had smiled wryly at the doctor’s naive faith that a mere husband could keep a grown woman serene in the middle of the twentieth century, but Kitty, surprisingly, had accomplished serenity by herself. She had been sick in the beginning and her face had become bony and exhausted, but after the third month she had retreated, out of some instinctive sense of self-preservation, into an artificial and beneficial childishness. She had refused to see people who were any drain on her, had stayed in bed most of the time, attaching herself almost solely to Archer, but being playful and easily moved to tears and laughter, like a little girl, and avoiding talking to him about anything serious or unpleasant. Archer understood that Kitty was protecting herself and her unborn child by purposely drifting away from the adult woman of thirty-eight she really was into a warm, artificially reconstructed, self-pampered adolescence. And Archer had gone along with it and noticed with satisfaction that it had worked. She was blooming now, full-fleshed, healthy and in high spirits. When she had the baby, Archer did not doubt she would return to her real self, as mature and reliable as ever.

But not now, Archer decided. Not yet. He would tell her nothing. Marriage, among its other aspects, sometimes entailed the duty to lie.

Fumbling in his pocket for his key, Archer experimented with his face. The object, he thought, is to achieve an expression of contentment. Not a permanent one, just a nice fifteen-minute expression to cover the necessary hellos and the small talk before he could escape to his study. Reject worry, fatigue and twilight desolation, but beware a fatuous and incredible grimace of happiness, which any wife would recognize as counterfeit in the space of the kiss of greeting. It took delicacy and a light touch. Talent is required to go through a door. Half-satisfied with what he thought his face looked like, Archer went into his home.

There were voices coming from his study and the clink of cups. Archer listened, as he hung up his hat and coat. Jane and Kitty. Friday night, he remembered, an early dinner because there was a boy coming to take Jane to the theatre. Archer groaned inwardly as he thought of entertaining a shy young man that evening at the table. He fixed the expression firmly on his face and went through the living room into the study.

They were having tea, seated side by side on the old sofa, with the silver teapot and a ravaged chocolate cake in front of them.

“It’s gruesome to have to admit this,” Jane was saying, “but I think store cake is so much more exciting than anything you can bake at home.” She giggled. “And the cheaper the better. I couldn’t resist this little horror when I saw it in the window.” She waved at the remnants of the cake on the coffee table. “I suppose my taste is just depraved.”

“Hi, girls,” Archer said. He went over and kissed Kitty.

Jane stood up and kissed him, hugging him hard. She was a tall, solid girl, with what she despairingly called private-school legs, robust and muscular. She had blond hair that was growing darker and which she constantly threatened to bleach. She had eyes like Archer’s, large and deep blue, but youthfully alert and questioning, and a wide, vigorous, pretty mouth, at the moment several shades of red because she had chewed the lipstick off with the chocolate cake. She smelled scrubbed and young and her arms around Archer held him with enthusiastic strength.

“Daddy,” she said, “we saved you a piece of the goo …” she gestured toward the cake, “at great personal sacrifice.”

Archer grinned, as he sat down in an easy chair, facing his women. “Thank you, no,” he said. “You overestimate my stomach.” He turned to Kitty, who was smiling at both of them, the teacup balanced neatly on the swell of her loose skirt. “How is it today?” he asked.

“I threw up twice this morning,” Kitty said, “but I’ve been eating ever since.”

“I like the way George Bernard Shaw has it arranged,” Jane said, sitting down, with her legs under her and taking up with her cake again. “Back to Methuselah. Come out of the egg at the age of seventeen, speaking several languages.”

“It’s easier on the stage,” Archer said. “As you’ll find out some day.”

“I would have come out just one year ago,” Jane said. “Tapping on the inside of the shell and studying Greek. I suppose it has its disadvantages.”

“Did you go out today, Kitty?” Archer asked.

“No,” Kitty said. “I decided I was going to languish today. I stayed in bed until Jane came home and I’m going to have dinner in bed, too.”

“I thought Jane had a friend coming for dinner,” Archer said.

“Bruce,” said Jane carelessly. “I flunked him. He came up to see me last night and I decided he was weary-making.”

Archer winced at the phrase. There were now about two dozen boys on whom Jane had made that pronouncement who no longer were met, blue-suited and rigidly shaved, in the Archer living room.

“He’s too yearny,” Jane went on. “He wants to marry me. Too utterly sticky.”

Good God, Archer thought, what are the English departments of our women’s colleges doing to the language?

“You’re awfully cold-blooded, darling,” Archer said. He was unpleasantly disturbed by the news that anyone wanted to marry Jane, but he had sense enough not to bring up the subject.

“Mother understands,” Jane said. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, dear,” Kitty said placidly.

“Anyway,” Jane said, “I gave him a life preserver. I told him if he wanted to take a chance he might drop in for an hour later. If he promised not to yearn.”

“Some day,” Archer said, “some man is going to make you pay for this.”

“I dare them,” Jane said coolly. “I just dare them.”

“Oh,” Kitty said. “Dominic Barbante kept calling all afternoon for you, Clement. He wants you to call him.”

“I’ll call him,” Archer said. “Later.”

“He said to call him as soon as you came in,” Kitty said. “He sounded impatient.” She looked inquiringly at Archer. “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” Archer said. “Nothing.”

“You look tired,” Kitty said. “Did you have a bad day?”

“No, not at all,” Archer said. “I just wandered around.”

“Why don’t you take a little nap?” Kitty asked. “You really look dreadfully tired, Clement.”

“I’m not tired,” Archer said, his voice louder than he expected it to be. Women, he thought, are convinced that one way of showing a man they love him is by telling him how badly he looks from time to time. “I feel fine.”

“Dad,” Jane said, putting down her scraped plate reluctantly, “what are the distinguishing characteristics of a thirty-year-old woman?”

“What?” Archer looked at her puzzledly.

“I want to know how a thirty-year-old woman acts,” Jane said. “In all situations.”

“Why don’t you wait and find out?”

“I can’t,” Jane said. “I have to know next week.”

“She’s in a play at school,” Kitty explained. “And she has to be aged for it.”

“Oh,” Archer said. “What’s the play?”

“The Male Animal,”
Jane said. “I’m the wife of a professor.”

“Why don’t you watch your mother?” Archer said. “I guarantee she’s thirty years old.”

“Don’t be ugly,” Kitty said.

“I thought about that,” Jane said candidly. “I’ve been watching her for an hour.”

“Well?”

“She just acts like everybody else. Anyway, she’s just Mother, I can’t make head or tail out of her.”

“I’m mysterious,” Kitty said. “I’m an enigma in a dressing gown. I’m a pregnant enigma.”

Archer grinned. “I understand your problem, Jane,” he said gravely. “I wouldn’t be able to describe the way the old lady acts myself. And I’m in the business.”

“What makes it worse,” Jane said, “is she’s supposed to be funny. It’s a comedy and she’s supposed to make you laugh.”

“Act very serious,” Archer said. “That’ll have them roaring.”

“I have to act exactly twelve years older,” Jane said soberly. “It’s not easy.”

“No it isn’t, darling,” Archer said. He felt touched and curiously moved as he looked at his daughter, sturdy and troubled on the sofa next to his wife, pondering on the problem of seeming exactly twelve years older than she was, reaching uncertainly out to capture the signs and portents of maturity. “Well,” he said, “I’ll try to help. Before you go on the stage,” he said reflectively, “consider your troubles, because that’s what makes people thirty years old. Think of how hard it is to make both ends meet on a college instructor’s salary. Think of how differently your husband acts now, after so many years of marriage, from the way he did when you first met him. Worry about his complexion and if he’s getting enough exercise and if he remembers to wear a coat in the springtime when the weather is changeable. Look in the mirror before you go downstairs for dinner and search for wrinkles and wonder if the wife of the chemistry professor who’s coming to dinner is prettier than you. Worry about what you said to the dean’s wife at the last Community Chest meeting and whether she was offended. Be annoyed at the dress you have to wear because it’s the year before last’s and the length of the skirt isn’t right. Go into the nursery and look down at the baby and wonder if he’s coming down with the measles and if he is going to grow up and be bored with you and if he’s going to be killed in the next war …”

“Clement!” Kitty said sharply. “Don’t be morbid.”

“I’m sorry,” Archer said, displeased with himself for allowing his mood to expose itself this way. “I was just running on.”

“But, Daddy,” Jane wailed, “none of this is
practical.”

“I suppose not,” Archer said wearily. “I’ll try to think of something better over the week-end.”

“I’ll call Vic,” Jane said. “I’ll bet he’ll have dozens of hints.”

“I bet he will.” Archer stood up slowly. He peered at his daughter. “You’re not planning to become an actress, are you?”

“Oh, no,” Jane said carelessly. “It’s just to break the utter boredom. Why? Would you object?”

“Yes.”

“Clement,” Kitty said warningly. She had nervous theories about allowing children to develop themselves.

“Why?” Jane asked.

“Because one person who depends upon the ups and downs of public favor is enough for one family,” Archer said.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Jane said. “I intend to marry and have four children. Let my husband worry about the ups and downs of
my
favor.”

“Excellent,” Archer said. “I approve. Now I’m going to go upstairs and try to nap.”

“Will you call Barbante?” Kitty said. “I promised him faithfully.”

“I will call Barbante,” Archer said. “Faithfully.”

He went out of the room.

“I’m going to have just one more insignificant, imponderable piece of cake,” Jane said as he left.

Archer lay down on one of the twin beds. He closed his eyes. The lids felt weighty and hot. The hell with Barbante, he thought. I’ll call him tomorrow. I’ve done enough for the radio industry today.

He fell asleep quickly, as though he had been exhausted for a long time. He began to dream. Jane was in the dream, in a short, little-girl’s dress, smudged with chocolate cake. There were many boys around Jane and she had a lot of papers in her hand. The papers were like the ones that Archer had marked term grades on when he was teaching in college. Jane had a fountain pen in her hand and she began to mark the papers. Zero, she put down on sheet after sheet, zero, and boy after boy disappeared. Then Jane was a woman of thirty, in a mink coat, looking like Frances Motherwell, and there were grown men around her. She was still marking papers. The faces of the men swam into the dream. O’Neill, Hurt, Pokorny, Atlas, Herres, Archer. “You’re too yearny,” Jane was saying, and she marked zero, zero, on the papers, dropping them on the floor. One by one the men vanished. Archer was the last one left. “You’re utterly weary-making,” Jane said and put a zero on Archer’s sheet. Archer dissolved in the dream. Zero.

“Clement. Clement.” It was Kitty, bending over him, and shaking his shoulder softly. “Wake up.”