28

Your Sister, Not Mine

There had been a time when a winter in New York had seemed utterly devoid of pattern, always containing an infinite promise of variety, which was difficult now for Jeffrey to visualize. He knew that this was the way Jim now felt about New York. Jim said everything was in New York. Jim said that he was happy, just standing in Grand Central Station, catching scraps of people’s conversations. Jim said that he would not mind standing all day on Sixth Avenue where they had the joke shops and the Orange Drinks, just watching the crowds go by. Jim said he would not mind standing all day in Radio City, where the French and British shops and the travel offices were, and the evergreens at Christmas and the tulips in the spring and where the fountains in summer sprayed ceaselessly around Mr. Manship’s golden boy and where exhibition fancy skaters salved their egos in the winter. If he grew tired of the skaters, Jim said he would not mind standing and staring up and up, watching the mass of building cut into the sky. It made him know what people wanted and what they thought. It taught him more about geology and astronomy and history than he had ever learned at school. Then, Jim said, there was Central Park and the pool with the sea lions—that was something you could always go to; and when you got tired of the sea lions, there were the Fifth Avenue busses and the Madison Avenue shops, and at night there was La Rue where you met everybody you knew, and if you were too broke for La Rue, there were places like Hamburger Heaven. Jim said there was everything in New York, everything. When he was in New York, Jim hated to take time out for sleeping. Jim could not understand why Jeffrey could not see it. He hoped when he was Jeffrey’s age he would not be blasé about New York.

Jeffrey had seen it that way once, and still could up to a certain point. Sometimes in the dusk when all the taxis jammed the cross streets, starting, stopping, starting, he could feel a little of the old excitement, but again, sometimes, he would think that he had seen too much of it. When he had been Jim’s age, he remembered how he had felt about books—Plutarch, The Anatomy of Melancholy, Balzac, Montaigne, Molière, the British poets, the Five Foot Shelf of Books which would turn you into a man of culture if you gave them fifteen minutes a day. Once when he saw a wall of books, he had been sure that he would read them all, someday. There had been nothing impossible in that assurance because he knew that he would have the time—someday—when he could get through with what he was doing. Now he knew he never would read them all. The realization did not make him exactly sad. He had simply grown sufficiently wise to know that there would eventually be an end to himself and everything around him. It was the same way about New York. He would never know it all and he was not young enough to think he would, and what was worse, he was so old that he knew New York did not have anything. There was not the clear cold winter’s silence that he used to know when he was a boy; the snow did not belong there, and neither did the moon.

Nevertheless, he was so used to it that it always called him back. He was so used to it that he entered a winter there much as a horse might enter a stall. He could tell the seasons in New York without knowing that the trees were bare or that the snow was falling. First there was the summer when you kept away as much as you possibly could. Autumn in the city was that period of hope when everyone was coming back … the new cars and the new shop windows and the new plays and the Horse Show. Then you had the Christmas trees and the Santa Clauses on the street, and new ideas for Christmas presents (and did you remember to give a little something to the doorman, and the iceman, although there weren’t many icemen now, and the postman, and the Club employees, and Miss Wynant, your secretary?) and the boys coming home for the holidays, and the wreath you put on the apartment door, and the elevator, all full of hemlock and holly so that you would not forget the elevator boys, and too much food, and Christmas parties and church at midnight. Madge always wanted to go to church at midnight.

Then before you got over Christmas there was New Year’s with eggnog parties given by people who each knew some secret, indigestible way of making eggnogs. Then came first nights and dinner parties and it would not be polite unless you stayed until one in the morning. Then came February with dirty snow being sucked up from the streets, and window displays of skis and bathing suits and sun glasses, all mixed together. February was the time for cocktail parties. Madge used to say, “We’ll go around to see So-and-so and have a cocktail.” Jeffrey always felt tired in February with March and the income tax around the corner. First you paid out to Santa Claus, and then you paid the income tax. There had been the autumn, with a note of hope, then a strange hysterical sort of crisis, then a leveling off in January, and then wondering in February what it was all about. That was the time that everyone needed a stimulant, and then there were the cocktail parties.

All the mechanics of early 1941 were just what had motivated the previous years. Custom moved on doggedly, in spite of the war. It was February and he knew that Gwen would send him a valentine because Gwen still believed in valentines. It was February and he was suffering from a slight cold in the head, so he stayed in for the day to work in his study instead of the office where he usually did his work. It was February and the Greeks were beating the Italians; and General Wavell, too, was beating the Italians. There was an Italian general called Old Electric Whiskers and the Australians, known affectionately to newspaper readers as the “Aussies,” romped through Tobruk, Derna, and Bengasi, singing those songs of theirs, “Roll Out the Barrel” and “We’re Off to See the Wizard of Oz.” The military experts were saying that at last something was clearly wrong with Hitler’s timetable, and Jeffrey realized that there was something wrong with his timetable too.

It was eleven in the morning and he could see ice cakes on the river. The door of his room was closed and the telephone was shut off, but there were familiar sounds beyond the door. Joseph and Harriet, the new couple, seemed to be operating the vacuum cleaner and at the same time moving furniture, and from somewhere in the distance he could hear Madge’s voice on the telephone. Madge could never understand why he did not want to work at home, because she always promised that everything would be quiet. No one would be allowed to disturb him and his study was much more comfortable than an office, and if he had an office, why did he need a study?

Actually, it was quiet enough that morning. It was only the sense of responsibility connected with those vague outer sounds which disturbed him. When he heard Madge on the telephone he wondered whether she was calling long distance, and talking for half an hour, as she sometimes did. When he heard the vacuum cleaner, he wondered how long since it had been oiled. An odor from the kitchen reminded him that there were usually queer things for lunch. He had read the morning paper very carefully and now there were a number of things he should do, but he had no desire to do them. Instead he began looking through the drawers of his desk which should have been cleaned out long ago, and he came upon a first draft of a play, jammed between some old checkbooks and some scenarios from Hollywood. The paper was worn and musty, because he had not looked at it for years, and now it filled him with a sensation of defeat. It was like those books he had always planned to read when he was young, something which he had meant to put his mind on when he had the time, something of his own which he had never discussed with anyone. He did not particularly want to read it now, but it occurred to him that if he went out to the Coast in April as he was planning, he might stay another two weeks alone and finish it. Yet, he wondered whether he ever would, for he knew enough about himself to know that he was afraid to finish it. His powers of analysis had grown so much greater than his creative enthusiasm that he would see its defects, and those defects would be too much a part of him to correct, as he might have done so easily with someone else’s work. He put the manuscript on the desk in front of him. He was looking at the first lines when Madge knocked on the door.

Madge had on that gray flaring dress which she had bought in January and the diamond-and-sapphire clip which he had given her for Christmas.

“I just came in,” Madge said, “to see if you were comfortable. Jeff, it’s awfully nice to have you in the house.”

Jeffrey smiled at her. It reminded him of the years when he had to work at home because he could not afford to work anywhere else. It reminded him of the times when he had talked with her about what he was doing. No matter how often he had asked her not to interrupt, she had never been able to leave him alone for long. She had always said she only wanted to know what he was doing. Now, Madge was just the same. She was looking about the room, mentally putting it back in order, as she always did.

“Jeff,” she said, “it’s stuffy in here. You ought to have more air.”

“No, no,” Jeffrey said, “it’s all right.”

“We’re going to have an avocado salad for lunch,” Madge said. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “that’s fine.”

“Jeff,” Madge said, “what’s that?”

She had seen the manuscript on the desk.

“It’s just something I tried to write once,” Jeffrey said, “about five years ago.”

“Well,” Madge asked, “what is it?”

He wished that he did not think of things so often in terms of fiction or drama. All at once that draft of his had a spurious sort of significance. It was the Great Idea that would make him famous, and he was sharing it with his wife—but he knew it was not a great idea.

“It’s the first draft of a play I started once,” he said.

“Oh, Jeff,” Madge said, “I hope you’re going to try another play.”

If he had not married Madge, if he had not done so much of what she wanted, he might have written plays of his own, and now she hoped he would.

“I’ve forgotten how to write one, Madge,” he said, “I’m a play doctor, an adapter, I’m not a playwright. Besides, I can’t afford it.”

“Darling,” Madge said, “don’t be so silly.”

“I’m not silly,” Jeffrey said.

“Of course you are,” Madge answered. “You don’t have to think about money, Jeff. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.”

“What?” Jeffrey asked.

“If you want to write it,” Madge said, “you can start right now and I’ll pay all the bills.”

“No,” he said, “I can’t do that.”

“Oh, Jeff—” she began.

“Madge,” he answered, “don’t.”

But she still went on.

“Jeff,” she said, “I wish you’d ever be frank about your work. I wish I could make you see.”

“See what?” he asked.

There was a familiar note of insistence in her voice, as she tried to place herself into a part of his life where she did not belong.

“See what it means to me,” she said. “I don’t like to feel I’ve ever stopped you from writing what you want.”

“You haven’t,” Jeff said. “It isn’t your fault, Madge.”

He did not look at her, but he knew that she was standing by the desk very straight and motionless.

“You never say so,” she said, “but I know you think so sometimes. Jeff, I wish you’d tell me what you think.”

He wished that he could tell her. It made him sorry for himself, but sorrier for her.

“You see,” he said slowly, “we’re only talking about a fallacy. If you’re good enough, you do write what you want. I’ve never been good enough, that’s all.”

That was the trouble with being old—you knew too much about yourself, so much that it hurt; but it did not matter as long as you were not sorry for yourself, and he certainly did not want Madge to think that he was sorry.

“Oh, Jeff,” she said, “that’s just a pose. I know how intelligent and clever you are—everybody knows.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, “I’m not good enough.”

“But Jeff,” she said, “you’ve never tried to write what you want.”

He wished that she would not go on with it, arousing old reproaches, old regrets; and that whole expression about writing what you want was the sort of thing they said at cocktail parties—what people like Madge said who could not possibly know anything about it. There was no way of her telling what he wanted to write; there was no way of his knowing himself.

“Oh,” he said, “never mind it, Madge,” and then he was sorry. He did not look at her, but he knew she was still standing straight and motionless. He knew she was unhappy, and he could not help it.

“I’ll pay all the bills,” Madge said, “and if you want to be so silly, why, you can pay me back.”

Jeffrey moved uneasily.

“If you did that,” he said, “you’d be taking away the only thing I’ve ever done. There wouldn’t be any reason for anything. Madge, I can’t do that.”

Suddenly that capacity of his to pay the bills seemed to be everything there was between himself and Madge.

“There’s the telephone,” he said. He had heard the bell out in the hall and he was grateful for the interruption, and he pointed to the extension on his desk.

“If I take it, it’s always for you,” Madge said. “Hello,” and then her expression changed and her smile grew more fixed. “Why, my dear,” Madge spoke in the brittle, hearty way she did when she was surprised and wanted to make the best of something, “why, when did you get here and how long are you staying?”

As she listened to the answer, Jeffrey saw her look at him meaningly.

“Why, that’s wonderful, dear,” Madge said. “When can we see you? We’re all dying to see you.”

“Madge,” Jeffrey asked, “who is it now?” Her voice was sweeter and still more cordial.

“Why, dear,” she said, “it’s so exciting, isn’t it, just coming down suddenly. Now, let me think, we’ll all be just crazy to see you and to hear everything. No, not this afternoon. Jeff and I have to go out this afternoon. Yes, he’s very well and terribly busy. No, we’re not as busy as that. Jeff will be crazy to see you. Why not supper, just the family? Wait, I’ll ask Jeff—if you don’t mind a pick-up supper. It’s Thursday, you know.”

“Madge,” Jeffrey said, “who’s coming to supper? Who is it?”

Madge put her hand carefully over the transmitter and lowered her voice.

“It’s Ethel,” she said.

“Ethel?” Jeffrey repeated.

Madge frowned and shook her head, forming her words very carefully with her lips.

“Your sister, Ethel—and she’s down here with—Gloria.”

“What are they doing down here?” Jeffrey asked.

“She’s on what she calls a ‘spree,’” Madge said, “and they’re staying at the Hotel Lexington. She’s showing Gloria New York. You’ve got to do something about them. It’s your sister and your niece. She isn’t my sister.”

“All right,” Jeffrey said. “All right.”

“Is it all right,” Madge asked, “to have them up for supper? She’s your sister, she isn’t my sister.”

“Ethel’s all right,” Jeffrey said, “even if she isn’t your sister. You don’t have to see her. You can go out.”

“But, Jeff,” Madge said, “I’d love to see her. I’ve always been nice to Ethel.”

“I didn’t say you hadn’t been,” Jeffrey said.

“Don’t argue,” Madge said, and her lips formed the words still more carefully, “and don’t talk so loud. She’s right on the telephone. Shall we have them for supper?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “God, yes. Have them for supper. Is Wilbur there with them too?”

Madge lifted the palm of her hand from the transmitter.

“Dear,” she said, “it’s wonderful. Jeff can’t wait to see you. Gwen will be back from school, and we’ll be just family. Darling, we’re crazy to have you. Jeff would kill me if you didn’t come. We may be a little latish, but Gwen will be here. Jeffrey and I have to go to a cocktail party. Jeff is simply furious, but we’ll get away as soon as we can.”

“What?” Jeffrey asked. “What cocktail party?”

“There,” Madge said, “do you hear him? No, don’t wear anything. No one’s coming. Seven-thirty. We can’t wait to see you.”

Madge put down the telephone.

“Don’t look that way, Jeff,” she said; “she’s your sister, not mine.”

“Madge,” Jeffrey asked her. “What cocktail party? I didn’t know we had to go out this afternoon.”

“You told me you wanted to go,” Madge said. “Don’t you remember? It’s Ella and Sinclair Merriwell.”

“My God,” Jeffrey said, “I never said I’d go to one of those things.”

“It’s for Priscilla Jenks,” Madge said, “a birthday party for her book. The Book-of-the-Month Club’s taken it.”

“Who is she?” Jeffrey said.

“You know who,” Madge told him. “She’s one of Sinclair’s authors. Jenks, Priscilla Jenks. You met her at their eggnog party.”

“Which eggnog party?” Jeffrey asked. “He’s always giving parties.”

“Darling,” Madge said, “you know you like Sinclair, and I like him, too. He wants me to get you to write a book.”

“It’s his disease,” Jeffrey said. “He wants everybody to write a book.”

“After all,” Madge said, “he developed Walter Newcombe.”

“Well, I don’t want him to develop me,” Jeffrey said.

“But you’ll go this afternoon, won’t you?” Madge asked. “Sinclair called me up, and he wants you particularly. Jeffrey, please. You know what a good time we had at Happy Rocks.”

“Sinclair always wants everyone particularly,” Jeffrey said.

“But you know you like him,” Madge said.

“All right,” Jeffrey said, “I like him. I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”

Everybody always liked Sinclair and it seemed sometimes that everybody was under obligation to Sinclair. Madge patted him on the back and placed her cheek beside his.

“Chin up, darling,” Madge said, “and before you go, you’d better shave.”