The Troubled Air (14 page)

“Do you like the dress, Daddy?” Jane asked, coquetting. Disagreeably, Archer thought. “It’s new.”

“It’s all right,” Archer said.

“Aren’t you
glum!”
Jane said, pouting.

“It’s beautiful,” Barbante said. “You look as gay as a florist’s window. Never listen to fathers about things like that. Fathers don’t know anything.”

“It’s very pretty,” Archer conceded, feeling that he had to compete with Barbante for his daughter’s good will and hating Barbante momentarily for it. Jane did look very pretty. She had swept up her hair and put on a lot of lipstick and her eyes were glistening, very blue and, deep, at the prospect of the evening. The dress made her look slender and graceful. She had borrowed two of Kitty’s rings and her hands glittered when she moved them. She might have been anything from eighteen to thirty, Archer decided, examining her. Girls these days, he thought resentfully, are impossible to classify. They all look as though they might be any age, of any virtue or experience. What has happened to the ideal of the virgin? Every child looks knowing, wicked, and cynically gay. If he saw her walking on the street beside Barbante, and didn’t know her, he wouldn’t have any notion whether she was the man’s wife, his mistress, the wife of a friend committed slyly to adultery … He looked down at Jane’s feet and saw that she was wearing low-heeled shoes. Usually, when she went out, she wore the highest heels she could manage. But Barbante was small and Archer knew Jane was surrendering, that much, in advance. Even so, Archer noticed with sour satisfaction, she’s taller than he is, even in low heels. But he was annoyed that his daughter had decided to alter herself in this tiny but significant way for Barbante’s pleasure.

“Make sure,” he said, kissing her on the forehead, smelling her perfume, “not to come home too late.”

Barbante chuckled. “The cry of the parent,” he said, “is heard in the land.”

But Archer saw Jane’s mouth stiffen in resentment, although she said, obediently, “Yes, Dad.” She pulled away and started toward the door. “Will you help me on with my coat, please, Mr. Barbante?” she said.

Barbante looked at both of them, knowing what was happening, silently amused. “Good night, amigo,” he said.

“Good night,” Archer said. They didn’t shake hands. In a moment, Archer heard the door open and shut. He stood in the pleasant, rumpled little room, smelling the mixture of perfumes. Then he went to the window and opened it wide.

The night air came in with a cold rush. Across the gardens he could see people sitting down to dinner at a table that was lit by candles. In the next garden a collie dog sat on its haunches, muzzle pointed to the sky, howling deep in its throat at an airplane that was crossing high above the city, its lights winking against the stars.

Archer shook his head and slowly mounted the steps to his wife’s room.

Kitty was sitting up in bed, wearing a pale yellow bedjacket with ruffles around the throat. She was reading a fashion magazine and she had her shell glasses on.

“You look impossibly secretarial tonight,” Archer said.

“I’m examining all the fashions,” Kitty said, waving the magazines, “and plotting to spend a great deal of your money once I get out of bed.”

“That reminds me,” Archer said, seating himself on the chair near the bed. “Who bought that gown for Jane?”

“It wasn’t expensive,” Kitty said hastily, “it only cost …”

“I’m not complaining about the cost.”

“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” Kitty asked.

“It’s pretty all right,” Archer said. “Only I thinks it’s too … too …” He searched around for the word. “Too advanced.” It sounded lame, but it was the only word he could think of.

Kitty giggled.

“Don’t laugh,” Archer said, annoyed that Kitty was taking his opinion so lightly. “She’s just a child, and it’s ridiculous for her to go traipsing around looking like one of Louis the Fourteenth’s favorites …”

“You think it’s cut a little low?” Kitty asked doubtfully.

“I think it’s cut a damn sight too low.”

Kitty chuckled again. “She’s very nicely built,” she said complacently. “Isn’t she?”

“All right,” Archer said, exasperatedly. “I’m stuffy. She told me that, too.”

“Girls have to make themselves look nice,” Kitty said mildly. “You ought to be thankful she’s so pretty.”

“I’m thankful,” said Archer. “I’m delighted. It’s working out fine. It’s working so well she’s out tonight with one of the most notorious men in New York.”

“Notorious!” Kitty pretended to be shocked. “Heavens!”

“Now, Kitty,” Archer shouted, “will you please stop being so damned tolerant for a minute or two?”

“I haven’t heard a man called notorious,” Kitty said, “since our preacher ran off with the telegraph operator’s wife, and that was in—”

“You know what you are?” Archer asked, resigned to the fact that he had already lost this battle.

“What?”

“Slippery. I have what your daughter would call an utterly slippery wife.”

“Don’t take it so hard, darling,” Kitty said. She leaned over and patted his hand comfortably. “I think Mr. Barbante is very nice.”

“He is the most thorough woman chaser in the city,” Archer said gloomily. “He’s at least thirty and has the morals of a Turk.”

“I’m sure Jane will behave very well,” Kitty said primly. “I’m not at all worried about her.”

Archer knew that this was meant as a rebuke for his lack of faith. “Neither am I,” he said quickly. “Not really.”

“It’s all good experience for a girl,” Kitty said. “Let them see the whole line early so they won’t be surprised later in life.”

“If I weren’t so tired,” Archer said, “I would be shocked.”

“Why don’t you try to take a cold shower before dinner?” Kitty asked, instantly solicitous.

“I don’t want a shower. Also—she put on a whole batch of disgusting airs with him and she wore low-heeled shoes because he’s a midget.”

Kitty smiled. “Girls have to grow up sometime,” she said. “You’ve got to try on an air or two when you’re eighteen years old to see what the effect is. And I always wore low shoes myself when I went out with a short man. Don’t be so stern.”

“Anyway,” Archer said, with grim satisfaction, “I told her to come home early. From now on, I’m going to take over Jane’s instruction, and I hope that that one”—he pointed to Kitty’s stomach—“is a boy.”

“My,” Kitty said, wrinkling her nose, “you must have had a bad day. Did you have a fight with O’Neill?”

“No,” Archer said. For a moment, he thought of telling Kitty the whole story. It would be a relief to unburden himself, get someone else’s advice, share the painful interior monologue of the last twenty-four hours. He regarded her thoughtfully. She looked fragile, childish and helpless in the pillowed bed. Then he decided against it. Not now. Not yet. Not until it couldn’t be avoided. He would leave Kitty’s protection intact as long as he possibly could. “No,” he said, “I didn’t have any trouble with O’Neill. Just the regular routine,” he said carelessly. “I spoke to Nancy on the phone. Clement has the measles. I told him I’d come up soon and tell him a story.”

Kitty looked at him strangely. “You don’t plan to go into the room, do you?”

“Of course I plan to go into the room. You can’t tell a four-year-old child a story by coaxial cable, can you?”

“Oh, Clement …” Kitty looked at him reproachfully. “Measles’re so catching.”

“I had the measles,” Archer said, “when I was five years old. And I’ve known young Clement since before he was born and I’m his godfather. What do you expect me to do—stand at the doorway and make him feel like a leper?”

“Now you’re angry at me,” Kitty said. Her voice began to tremble. She had developed an unhappy tendency toward tears in the last few months. “You think I’m unfeeling toward the child.”

“I despise the idea of being frightened of sickrooms,” Archer said. “It’s so cowardly and. …”

“You despise me,” Kitty began to sob.

Archer put his arm around her to comfort her. Her shoulders felt frail and young under the frilly bedjacket. “Now, darling,” he kissed her neck, “I don’t despise you at all. You know that.”

“It’s not for me,” Kitty said. “Or even for you. But even if we don’t get it ourselves, we can carry the infection and then when the child is born. …”

“I know, I know,” Archer said. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be enormously rugged. I guarantee.”

“I feel so queer these days,” Kitty said wetly into his shoulder. “You have to forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you.”

“It’s not like when we were young. I
knew
nothing bad could happen then. …”

“Nothing bad is going to happen now. And we’re not so old,” Archer said. “Stop making us sound as though we’re both ready to fall apart.”

“I don’t have any confidence any more,” Kitty whispered. “I have such terrible dreams. …”

“Don’t cry. Kitty, darling, please don’t cry,” Archer whispered, holding her. “And from now on, whenever you have a bad dream, wake me up and we’ll put on the light, and you can tell me about it if you think that’ll help, or we’ll just sit up and read. …”

Kitty stifled her sobs and rubbed her face against his coat. She kissed him. “I’m all right now,” she said. She smiled wanly. “Is it dreadful, weeping like this? I’m ashamed of myself.”

Archer stood up. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You cry all you want for the next four months.”

“The perfect husband.” Kitty even managed a chuckle.

The phone rang on the bedside table and Archer leaned over a picked it up. “Hello,” he said.

“Clement.” It was Vic’s voice. “I heard you called.”

“Yes.” Archer glanced at Kitty, moist and inquiring on the bed below him. It would be impossible to talk now. “I wanted to see you.”

“I’m afraid it’ll have to wait a few days,” Vic said. His voice w sober. “I’m having a little trouble.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I just got a call from Detroit. I’m taking a plane for there now. I’m leaving in ten minutes. My mother’s had a stroke and the doctors’re being gloomy.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Vic.”

“Well,” Vic said calmly. “She’s a pretty old lady. Maybe you’d better have somebody standing by for me next Thursday, in case I can’t get back in time.”

“Sure,” Archer said. “Don’t worry about it.” He was unhappily conscious that he was annoyed with Vic’s mother for deciding have a stroke at just this time. For a moment he thought of telling Vic he’d see him at the airport. Then he thought better of it. Vic had enough trouble for one night. “Is there anything I can do for you here?” Archer asked.

“You can come up and pat Nancy’s hand from time to time.”

“Of course,” said Archer.

“What did you want to see me about?” Vic asked. “Anything important?”

Archer hesitated. “It’ll have to wait,” he said, “until you get home. I hope your mother. …”

“I know, Clem,” Vic said gently. “Give Kitty my love.”

Archer put the phone down slowly. Kitty was looking up at him inquiringly.

“Vic sent his love,” Archer said. “He’s leaving for Detroit. His mother’s had a stroke.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Kitty said. She put out her hand and to Archer’s, as though the threat of death, even though to an old lady far away whom she hardly knew, had made her seek for obscure reassurance in the touch of her husband’s healthy and robust flesh.

But the news cast a pall on the evening. They hardly spoke through dinner, and Archer wandered restlessly around the house the rest of the night, looking at the clock again and again, thinking of Vic crossing the night sky toward his stricken mother, and wondering where Jane was at that moment and what she was doing. He was unnecessarily brusque with Bruce when he appeared at nine o’clock. He gave Bruce Barbante’s invitation at the door and didn’t invite the boy in for a drink and was irritated with the forlorn, hopeless expression on the boy’s face.

He sat up drinking by himself and resisted going to bed. He didn’t want to dream. Zero, he thought. Zero.

T
HERE WAS ALWAYS SOMETHING DISTURBING ABOUT FRANCES MOTHERWELL’S
voice, even on the telephone. It was low and a little hoarse and suggested, at all times, hidden invitations. “What that girl has,” the agents said, accounting for her success, “is Sex, from Coast to Coast.”

Just now, on this Monday morning, the voice, with its constant undercurrent of energy and excitement, was merely saying, “Clement, darling, I just have to see you.
Tout de suite.”

“Sure,” Archer said. He had been caught by the telephone’s ringing in the hall, just as he was about to go out. He thought for a moment. He had wasted Sunday, tired and lying around and reading the papers, until it had been too late to call Pokorny, as he had planned. Frances Motherwell would do for a starter, he thought grimly. Might as well eat the bitter pill first. “I’m at your service. How about lunch?” Coat the pill with food and drink and keep everything friendly, at least in the beginning.

“Sorry, lover,” Frances said. “I’m waiting for a call from California from a semi-forgotten man. Could you come up to my place?”

“Of course.”

“You have the address, don’t you?”

“Engraved on my heart.” Elephantine gallantry, Archer thought coldly as he said it, brought on by embarrassment. Frances embarrassed everyone. She embarrassed women because they felt that she could take any man in the room from them and she embarrassed men because they couldn’t help wondering if it was true.

“I live on the fourth floor. Can you make the steps?”

“I’ll have a cardiogram and see,” Archer said, displeased that the girl thought he was so old.

She laughed. Her laugh was a little wild, as though there was something in her that was out of control which revealed itself in her laughter. “Don’t be angry, lover,” she said, as Archer winced at the word. “I just want to preserve you for better things. Say a half-hour?”

“A half-hour,” Archer said.

“Promise not to mind how I look. I just got up and my face is folded together.”

“I’ll wear rose-colored glasses,” Archer said. “See you soon.”

Frances lived on a street in the East Fifties. The house was an old mansion converted into small apartments. Archer always got the feeling of transience from these streets. Actors lived there on subleases, ready to go to Hollywood at the first offer; readers for publishers lurked in polite cubby-holes, prepared to switch to larger quarters the day after they were made editors; newly married couples shared a few cubic feet of space, sleeping on daybeds, until the advent of the first child made them move to the country. Still, it was a pleasant street, especially today, with the air clear and the sun glinting on all the windows and making the thin row of winter-bare trees in front of the buildings very black against the clean pavements. Young women strode purposefully out of the gaily painted front doors, carrying their bags slung over their shoulders, like military messengers carrying important information to a higher headquarters. And hatless young men, who had jobs that permitted them to sleep late, strolled back from breakfast at the corner drugstores, their heads bent as they read the morning
Times,
giving a false, week-end air of leisure here in the middle of the busy city.