4

I took Millie to a steak place downtown, not because I wanted to avoid being seen by Evelyn’s friends—most of them would sooner die than eat downtown—but because I wanted to avoid confronting Evelyn with her own date, golf pro or otherwise. I also made the mental adjustment of addressing Millie as a dinner companion rather than as an assistant or whatever she was for the three hundred and fifty dollars a week I paid her. I asked her what name she had been born with.

“Millicent, Mr. Brody. Millicent Patience Cooper. That’s my own name. My husband’s name was MacGeorge.”

“You were married?”

“And divorced. I had twelve rotten months, and then I put an end to it.”

“I think that at dinner you can call me Al. They have New York steak here and probably the best steak in Los Angeles. Back at the office, get formal and call me Mr. Brody if you must. But since you choose to put me down, do it on a first-name basis.”

“Put you down?” She shook her head. “No. Really.”

I smiled at her and she smiled back. She did not have an easy smile, but one that was slow and warm and honest.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said.

“But you did. We always mean the things we say—in one way or another. You had twelve rotten months and you put an end to it. I have had twenty rotten years, and I keep it going.”

“All right, Mr. Brody,” she agreed. It was not easy for her to call me Al. “I have watched and I have wondered. You don’t make passes, you don’t play around …”

“But I remain married to a woman you regard as the ultimate bitch.”

“Yes. Since you put it that way.”

“No one is the ultimate bitch, Millie. Did it ever occur to you what a rotten break it could be to be married to Al Brody?”

“No. No, that never occurred to me.”

“Think about it from her point of view. I am twenty pounds overweight; I have a face like a hairless moon; I am interested in nothing that interests her, and she is interested in nothing that interests me; we have nothing to talk about; and after I learned about her first affair and her second and her third—all imparted to me in a fit of venomous frankness—I became impotent where she was concerned, and since that happened nine years ago, what’s in it for her?”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” she whispered.

“why?”

“Because you won’t like me when you think back about it.”

“You’re damn skillful. I couldn’t replace you, and what difference does it make whether I like you or not?”

“Al—all right, now, I’m able to call you Al. I have been with you for six years. That’s a long time. I had a feeling you liked me.”

“And you waited for me to make a pass at you? Or were you afraid that I would? Do you want another drink?” I asked her.

“Yes, please. I would like to get drunk—not too drunk. A little bit. I know that you’re twenty pounds overweight and that you have a face like a hairless moon and that you feel sorry for yourself because you’re old and fat, but still I would like a second martini and then I want to stuff myself with some steak, and then I want you to come home and go to bed with me. I also would like you to accept the fact that you’re the first man I ever made such a proposition to.”

I thought about it for a little while, and then I told her I could accept the fact. “I’ll get the New York cut for two.”

“That would be nice.”

“You want fried onions, dipped in batter?”

“Please.”

“Garlic bread?”

“Please.”

“You don’t mind if I drink beer?”

“I don’t mind, Al.”