Winning is Everything (23 page)

49 

Nora and Sam Greene lived in an old brownstone on the Upper West Side, in a floor-through apartment with high ceilings, several fireplaces, and a back garden.

Gary arrived just after five-thirty.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Nora. “Let’s go into the library. I just started a fire, and if you can keep it going, I’ll bring in the pâté I just made.”

“Home made pâté?” asked Gary. “Sounds great!”

It was a small room of wall-to-wall books. Warm and cozy, the furniture was solid, with clunky chairs, a lived-in couch, lots of framed photos on a draped end table. The room matched Nora’s personality.

“Now, if you don’t like this,” said Nora, carrying a small tray, “blame Julia Child.”

“Looks delicious,” said Gary, spreading some of the pulverized meat on a cracker.

“Want a drink?” said Nora, crossing to the bar on the other side of the room. “Bourbon, isn’t it? Jack Daniel’s, a little water?”

“Sounds fine,” said Gary. “What are you drinking?”

“Scotch,” said Nora. “Only I’m a little ahead of you. I started nipping around three o’clock.”

“Something wrong, Nora?” Gary asked.

Nora waved her arm in the air, then lapsed into silence.

Gary looked over at the many photos atop the end table, and hoping to cheer her up, said, “I love your pictures. Look at you guys, skiing, boating. Lots of nice memories, I bet….”

“Oh … did you have to say
that?”
asked Nora, taking a large sip of her Scotch.

“I didn’t mean …”

“Not your fault,” said Nora, stiffening her back. “It’s mine, I suppose. I should’ve known. Should’ve been ready.” Her voice trailed off and she turned her back on Gary.

Gary stood up. “Nora … what is it? Tell me.”

“Nothing,” Nora said quietly, with another wave of her hand. “Nothing …”

Gary put down his drink, took a few steps across the small room, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me.”

“I’ve got to be strong,” Nora told the bookshelf. “I must fight this urge to… to…”

“To what?” Gary asked, holding her shoulders still tighter.

“To … cry!” wailed Nora in a small burst of despair. She turned around to face Gary, and he saw her eyes filled with tears.

“Cry if you want,” said Gary quietly. “Whatever you’re holding back can only feel better if you let it out.”

That was all the license Nora needed. “This can’t be happening to me,” she sobbed.

“It’s okay,” Gary said, patting her.

“Happens to friends, yes. To other people, sure. But not to me!”

“I don’t …”

“Must be my fault. I’ve been going over it again and again.
Must
be my fault. Maybe I’m a terrible person …”

“It’s okay,” Gary said, holding her tightly. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t be burdening you with this nonsense.”

“Yes, you should,” said Gary. “That’s what friends are for. Just relax and tell me …”

“I’m so confused,” cried Nora. “So confused…. It’s Sam.”

“What about him?” asked Gary.

“It’s … He’s …” Nora sank down on the couch. “He came home last night, you recall … and for this we missed our dinner! I should have my head examined.”

“Go on …”

“Anyway, he started telling me how the tour was going, how he missed New York, our friends, all of it very pleasant.”

“And?”

“And he said he’d gotten a call from Russell Baker at the
Times
saying that he was being considered for a Pulitzer Prize for his exposé pieces on retirement homes on Long Island …”

“And …?”

“And on one of his tours, Cornell, I think he said, he met a graduate student, a political-science major—cheap slut—to whom he took a fancy, and they spent a few nights together while he was at the campus, and then, when he left to continue on the road, she went along with him.”

“Christ …”

“So they’ve spent the past three weeks together, balling their brains out. He came back home for the night to tell me not only does he want a divorce, but he plans to marry this child as soon as it’s legally possible. Twenty-two years old, twenty-two. Do you believe it?”

“I’m . . so sorry, Nora …”

“I know.” Nora patted Gary’s hand.

“Didn’t you have some idea things weren’t going well, some hint?”

“There was
nothing!”
Nora slammed the arm of the couch with her fist for emphasis. “Oh, I suppose if I had to reexamine the last five years of our marriage, I’d see we’d reached the point where we took each other for granted, sure. But this. This comes out of left field.”

“Where’s Sam now?”

“Who knows?” asked Nora. “Who cares?” She took a sip of her Scotch and said, “I do, I guess. He didn’t even spend the night here. His love-child was waiting for him back at the Plaza. He told me his news, packed a fresh suitcase full of clothes, and went back off on his tour with her.”

“I’m so sorry, Nora. You can’t imagine.”

“Comes home, explodes his bomb, and leaves without even checking the damage. Isn’t that the worst script you ever heard?”

“I don’t know,” said Gary. “Sounds like there’s a movie in it to me.”

“Will you stop thinking business.” Nora smiled. “This is my life, not some goddamn Richard Brooks development deal.”

“I was kidding,” said Gary. “I was hoping to cheer you up.”

Nora wiped a tear and smiled. “I’m glad you came over. It’s easier facing this nightmare with someone, believe me.”

“Anything I can do, Nora … anything at all.”

“You’re sweet,” said Nora, again patting Gary’s hand. “Okay, hit me with it. Pile some more bad news on my shoulders. Tell me what happened between you and our Uncle Sam today. Spare me no details.”

“Well …” Gary began, and suddenly the well-concocted story he had planned to tell her seemed meaningless. She’d just finished pouring her heart out to him, and damned if he didn’t owe her at least the same courtesy.

“There was this psychiatrist …” he began, and then proceeded to tell Nora exactly what had transpired down at the Whitehall Station.

“You can be grateful for the confusion about your sexual inclination,” said Nora after Gary had told her the whole story. “I know I certainly am. Not only does it mean you don’t have to go marching off like some half-assed wooden soldier, but you’ll also be able to stay on at Cinema Artists with me. I’m not sure how strong I could be losing you and Sam in the same twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you,” said Gary. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Mad?” Nora asked. “What about?”

“About me?” said Gary. “I mean, you’re not disappointed, are you?”

“Stop!” Nora took hold of Gary’s hand and held it tightly. “I don’t care what problems you may or may not have. I want you to be happy, that’s all. You’re my friend.”

Gary breathed a huge sigh of relief. He couldn’t believe how much better he felt.

“Hey!” Nora stood up, dusting the front of her skirt. “Enough pâté and cocktails. Let’s go get something to eat. We may be depressed. We may have problems galore, but hell, we gotta eat, don’t we? I’ll get your coat.”

Gary stood up next to Nora and put his arms around her. “You’ll be all right,” he told her. “I promise you will. I’ll be here with you, ready to talk, ready for anything, whenever you want. Remember that.”

“I’m sure glad you came over,” Nora said again. “Hey! Look out the window … it’s snowing!”

“You’re right!” said Gary as he too looked out the window. “Things can’t be too bad if it’s snowing.”

“True,” said Nora. “But first … what shall we do about dinner?”

“Leave it to me,” said Gary. “I’ve got just the place to cheer you up. You pay for the cab; dinner’s on me! We’re off to a spot in Brooklyn I hear has the best wurst in town. You ready?”

“Lead the way!” said Nora, realizing he meant Nathan’s in Coney Island.

50 

First thing Monday morning, at 8:55, Ron bounded out of the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor and darted toward Herb Nelson’s office, headed for greatness.

Two hours later his dreams of a decorator-furnished office and two-and-a-half-hour lunches at 21 seemed remote fantasy. He was assigned a desk outside Herb Nelson’s office, right next to Nelson’s secretary, who told him he had a forty-five-minute lunch break and if he didn’t choose to nickel-and-dime it in the B&B company cafeteria, he could always splurge on Chock-Full-o’-Nuts across the street.

His future seemed even bleaker the first time Herb called him into his office.

He was on the phone when Ron came in, and without looking up handed him a tall stack of papers, saying, “File these, will you?”

Ron accepted the pile, and rather than saying, “
File them yourself!”
murmured, “I’ve never filed before.”

“What’s that?” asked Herb into the phone. “No, no Jim, not you … I’m talking to my new assistant. One minute …”

Herb cupped his hand over the receiver and asked, “What’d you say?”

“I said I’ve never filed before,” Ron repeated.

“Look …” Herb leaned forward and lifted a sheet off the top of Ron’s pile. “See this?” He pointed to the paper. “’Weekly
Expense
Account.’ Look under E in the file for ‘Expenses.’ Put this sheet behind last week’s copy of my expense account. Any questions, ask my secretary, got it?”

“I think so,” said Ron,-going back outside.

For the next hour Ron filed and pondered. Sure, this was an obvious step up from being a waiter at Arthur. He got to wear a tie and jacket. The office was a fast walk from his apartment. Past that, Ron could find little to recommend his new position.

He had two options.

The first was to apply himself, get to know every facet of this department, and work his energetic way up the corporate ladder.

The second option was Casey Kramer, and Ron began counting the hours before their theater date.

Rhonda Gulreich woke Kip up at half-past nine Monday morning to say she’d arranged a commercial audition for him. The product was Kleenex, the house was J. Walter Thompson, the time was two that afternoon; he’d be reading for the part of a basketball player. All he’d have to do Was look tall and shoot a few balls through a hoop.

“I’m a little beefy to be a basketball player, don’t you think?” asked Kip, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“What do I know from sports?” asked Rhonda. “You’re a jock, aren’t you? Go down there, toss the ball around, see if they like you. Can’t hurt. Besides, you have nothing to worry about …”

“Why’s that?”

“Because all you have to do is bounce the ball.
No lines!”

“Sounds like my kind of commercial,” Kip was sad to admit.

“Good luck. Let me know what happens.”

Rhonda got off the phone and Kip got out of bed.

He waited a full hour in the crowded room. When at last they brought him in for his interview, the five people seated around the table immediately all agreed Kip was too beefy to be a basketball player.

He was about to leave when one of the men at the table said, “Why don’t we read this guy for the part of the lacrosse goalie?”

“An inspired notion!” said the one woman executive at the table, silently admiring Kip’s chest.

“Give ‘im a script,” said someone else.

Script?
thought Kip with a shiver.

One of the executives handed Kip two sheets of paper. “Here you go…. This is what we’re doing. We have a team of basketball players who all come down with colds just before the big game. So of course Kleenex comes to the rescue. The guys spend the first half blowing their noses, and go on to win the game, see? After that we cut to four other jocks: an ice skater, a yachtsman, a swimmer, and a lacrosse goalie.”

The executive pointed to a line near the bottom of the short script. “7
have a code in my doze!’
That’s what you and all the other jocks say. Are you prepared?”

“Prepared for what?” asked Kip.

“To say your line, of course! Stuff up your nose as best you can and deliver the line whenever you’re ready!”

Praying they wouldn’t notice his nervousness, Kip fought to control his shaking as he said, “/
have a code in my doze!”

“Great!” said one of the executives.

“Looks fine for the spot, too,” another agreed.

Kip left the advertising agency still trying to figure out what had happened; how could he have done as well as they’d said? What he didn’t realize was that his nervousness had made him sound as if he, indeed, had a whopper of a stuffed nose.

Rhonda Gulreich called shortly after Kip returned to the apartment.

“Congratulations,” she began. “Folks at Kleenex want you back tomorrow morning for a callback. Speaking part, no less. You must be improving drastically!”

Kip was delighted. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if I landed it?”

“You will, you will,” said Rhonda. “I spoke to the guy who wrote the spot. He said he liked your cold more than all the others.”

Kip celebrated by hurrying over to the Y for a fast workout. Then, once he’d built up a sweat, he went out into the twenty-three-degree afternoon air and jogged around the Sheep Meadow in Central Park.

His plan worked. By the time he arrived at the Blue Owl to meet Adrienne for their date, he was already sneezing.

Once again Kip was kept waiting, this time for twenty minutes, before Adrienne arrived.

“You’re going to kill me,” she said, gracefully plopping down next to him. Once again she was out of breath, once again she was looking fresh and lovely.

“What’s up?” said Kip, stifling a sneeze.

“I’ve got to cancel our date tonight.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I just found out a few hours ago. One of the girls who was supposed to dance in
Don Quixote
tonight came down with the flu, and they asked if I could go on … I just couldn’t say no. So please forgive me … I do have time for a fast drink and a cigarette, though. That is, if you don’t plan to throw me out into the cold.”

“Here!” Kip tapped the club soda he’d ordered earlier. “Drink up, kid. You’ve got a show to do.”

“Oh, good. You do understand. I’m so glad. I tried calling soon as I found out. No answer.”

“I was at the Y,” said Kip with a sneeze.

“Bless you,” said Adrienne. “That doesn’t sound good. You coming down with a cold?”

“I sure hope so,” answered Kip. “I certainly worked hard enough for it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m getting into character for a part,” said Kip.

“Who’re you playing—Cyrano de Bergerac?”

“No,” said Kip. “A lacrosse goalie with a code in his doze.”

“Actors!” said Adrienne. “You’re all crazy.”

“True,” said Kip. “Okay, so we can’t go out tonight. Can I at least come watch you dance?”

“Not tonight, luv. They’re all sold out.”

“So when do I get to see you?”

“Next week,” said Adrienne. “How’s that? The rest of this week is murder. Rehearsal, performance; rehearsal, performance. In fact, if this girl stays out, I’ll be dancing every night. Talk about going to heaven before you’re even dead!”

“You know, seeing you is a lot like dating a married woman. But instead of a husband, you have the dance company.”

“I like that.” Adrienne smiled.

Kip smiled, too. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“Okay,” said Adrienne, glancing at her watch. “We’ve got all of twenty minutes. Surely we can find something else to talk about besides ballet.”

“We can sure try,” said Kip with a dramatic sneeze.