“THE TROUBLE WITH MY HUSBAND,” MRS. SMALLWOOD SAID, NODDING profusely, “is that he thinks he’s God almighty. He thinks he’s God almighty.” She reached out inaccurately for Mrs. James. “Let me fill your glass for you.”
“No thank you,” Mrs. James said quite firmly. She looked uneasily across the room to where her husband sat trying to talk art with Mr. Smallwood.
“My husband,” Mrs. Smallwood went on, “thinks he’s God almighty. That’s the only trouble with him. He thinks he’s—”
“I understand he’s a very fine painter,” Mrs. James said vaguely. She looked at her own husband again; he was leaning forward, gesturing eagerly; Mr. Smallwood was leaning back, arms folded; both of them were very much absorbed. Mrs. James turned back to Mrs. Smallwood. “You have such a lovely place here,” she said. “So attractive.” She laughed deprecatingly. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about art—”
“They’re all his,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “Every damn one of them is his, except the little one by the door.”
Mrs. James leaned forward.
“You can’t see it from here,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “It’s mine.”
“Yours?”
“I painted it,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “You can’t see it from here.” She got up and reached again for Mrs. James’s glass. “Let me just fill,” she said, and went toward the kitchen.
“Arthur,” Mrs. James said. “Arthur, dear.” Neither of the men heard her; they were both talking at once, watching each other intently. “Arthur?” she said again, raising her voice a little.
“He won’t listen,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “They both think they’re God almighty.” She sat down and took a long drink from her glass. “It’s his house, his paintings, his kids, his money, his every goddamn thing.”
“How are your children?” Mrs. James asked. “Such dear boys, both of them. I saw them walking up the hill the other day with their father, and they all looked as if they were having such a wonderful time.”
“His kids, his house, his money,” Mrs. Smallwood said. She swayed over and put a confiding hand on Mrs. James’s knee. “You know,” she said, “I love children. I wanted to have children and Harry didn’t. It was my idea to have children. And you know, the minute I saw those goddamn little helpless little things I had such a real feeling for them; you’ll never know how I feel about kids.”
“They’re such …” Mrs. James thought for a minute. “Such interesting little fellows,” she said.
“I really feel for those kids,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “I spend the whole goddamn day cooking and cleaning and washing and wiping their noses, and I really love those kids. Don’t let Harry say anything to you about that.”
“I suppose they’ll be painters, too, won’t they,” Mrs. James said brightly.
“Like me,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “You go over and look at that little picture I painted. You can’t see it from here. I’ll tell you something,” she said, catching hold of Mrs. James’s arm, “let me just tell you this. Watkins in New York called me the other day. Offered me their whole advertising campaign, just like that. That’s two hundred a picture.”
“That sounds perfectly wonderful,” Mrs. James said.
“I’m not sure whether I want to do it,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “You know, I think when a woman has a home and children she ought to give up art. Would you think I ought to give up my painting just for a home and a couple of lousy children with running noses?”
“Arthur,” Mrs. James said, “Arthur dear, I think—”
“And the rest of it is,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “I think I’ll go on down to New York for a few weeks and see Watkins. He ought to pay my expenses.” She nudged Mrs. James. “I could have a time,” she said.
“It must be wonderful to be able to paint,” Mrs. James said. “To be able to express yourself. I’ve often wished—”
“Let me just show you,” Mrs. Smallwood said. She stood up and went unsteadily across the room to a stack of papers piled untidily in a bookcase. “Let me show you,” she called over her shoulder to Mrs. James. “Pour yourself a drink while you’re waiting.”
“What are you looking for?” Mr. Smallwood said suddenly. He and Mr. James had stopped their conversation to watch Mrs. Smallwood, and now Mr. Smallwood stood up and walked over to his wife. She was a small woman and had to look far up at him when he stood next to her. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” he said. “Going through my stuff.”
Mrs. Smallwood put back the papers she was holding. “I was looking for the sketches I did for Watkins,” she said.
Mr. Smallwood looked down at the drink in his wife’s hand and then gave her a soft tap on the shoulder. “You go back and sit down,” he said.
Mrs. Smallwood came sullenly back to sit down next to Mrs. James. “He hates to have me talk about my painting,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t hurt any of your old paintings,” she said aloud.
“That’s all right, Diana,” Mr. Smallwood said. He turned to Mr. James, but Mrs. Smallwood said loudly, “Think you’re God almighty. You just can’t stand it if Watkins wants me to do a big contract. I might get more money than you do, you and your godalmighty paintings.”
“Arthur,” Mrs. James said, “don’t you think we’d better—”
Mr. James looked at his watch. “Indeed, yes,” he said. “Mr. Smallwood and I were just having a very interesting—”
“I suppose he told you all about how good he is,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “His painting his money his house his kids. I take care of those goddamn kids all day long while he sits there and says he’s painting and he’s so scared I’ll make more money than he does. I have a real feeling for kids,” she said to Mrs. James. “I love those kids. You’ll never know how I felt when I first saw those little helpless things—so goddamn helpless.”
“I know how you felt,” Mrs. James said. She went over and stood beside her husband’s chair. “I’m afraid we really must—”
“And now you’ve got to drive out these people, too,” Mr. Smallwood said to his wife. “Any nice people who come to see us, with your Watkins and your money talk.”
“No, really, it’s late,” Mrs. James said, and Mr. James added, “No, certainly not.”
“He really did call me,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “He called me on the phone, long-distance from New York, and he said he wanted me to do their whole setup this year. He certainly did call me.”
“One day while I was out, probably,” Mr. Smallwood said. “Watkins never talked to you since that trash you sent him three years ago.”
“I did do some good pictures,” Mrs. Smallwood said. “I was looking for them.”
Mr. Smallwood turned to Mr. and Mrs. James. “I feel as though I ought to apologize,” he said.
“Not at all,” Mr. James said.
Mrs. James added hurriedly, “If you would just show us where our coats—”
“Don’t go,” Mrs. Smallwood said. She came over to Mrs. James and put a hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t go on account of me. I want to show you those pictures I did for Watkins. They’re really good, I promise you.”
“You won’t be able to find them,” Mr. Smallwood said.
“I’m afraid we haven’t time,” Mrs. James said.
“Where did you put them?” Mrs. Smallwood asked her husband, and then, to Mrs. James, “It’s so early yet. You only just got here. Where are they?” she said to her husband insistently.
“I’ll tell you where they are,” Mr. Smallwood said. He walked over to the table and picked up his drink, and went on, with his back to his wife. “You tore them up,” he said, “the last time we had company.”