Part 9 (1/2)

”You know a lot, for a man,” she said, her voice low. ”You knew I didn't want to talk about it before.”

I didn't answer.

After a few minutes she spoke again. ”It started yesterday. A telegram was delivered and the butler took it. I was near the door when it came, so I took it from him.

”It was from the State Department, addressed to Father. I read it first. It's a good thing now that I did, for it read: 'We are informed by our Emba.s.sy in Madrid that your son, Mark Kessler, was killed in the fighting near Madrid.' It was as plain as that. I stood there for a moment, my blood running cold. We knew that Mark was in Europe even though we hadn't heard from him for almost a year, but we never thought he'd be in Spain. We thought he might be in Paris with some of his old cronies, but we weren't worried. Not really. We knew Mark. When he was up against it, we figured we'd hear from him. Meanwhile Papa figured it was a good thing for him to be away for a while after what had happened.”

She took a cigarette from the end table near her and leaned forward for me to light it. Then she settled back again, letting the smoke drift slowly from her mouth. Her eyes were dark and troubled.

”You know,” she said, ”it is something I'll never understand. Mark was one of the most self-centered, egotistical men that ever lived, he never gave a d.a.m.n what happened to the other guy. And yet he went to Spain and joined the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and died fighting for a cause he never truly believed in and against a way of life that he might have admired if he hadn't been a Jew. My first thought was for Mother-how she would take it. She hadn't been well since Mark went away. He was her baby still and she was never quite the same after Papa threw him out of the house. She was always after Papa to get Mark to come back home. I think Papa wanted him to come home too, but you know him-he got his Dutch stubbornness up and kept putting it off.”

She fell silent, looking into the leaping flames of the fire. I wondered what she was thinking. Peter had always favored Mark and she knew it. But she never complained. She never talked much either. I remembered the way we found out she could write. It was the year she graduated from college. She hadn't said anything at all about her writing until her book had been accepted by a publisher. Even then she had used a nom de plume, not wanting to trade on her father's name.

She had called the book Freshman Year. It was the story of a girl's first year in college and away from home, and it was very successful. It was a story of warmth and homesickness and a girl's growing up. The critics made a great deal of fuss over the book. They were all amazed at the depth of understanding and perception of the girl who had written it. She was just twenty-two at the time it came out.

I hadn't paid much attention to it. Matter of fact, I hadn't even read it at the time. The first time I saw her after the book came out was when I brought Dulcie to Peter's home the day after we were married.

They were all seated at breakfast when Dulcie and I came in the room. Mark was about eighteen at the time; he was a tall, thin boy with the acne of adolescence still clinging to his face. He took one look at Dulcie and whistled.

Peter had cuffed him and told him to mind his manners, but I just laughed proudly and Dulcie blushed a little and I could tell she didn't mind. Dulcie liked people to look at her, she was a born actress. Even then, as she stood there blus.h.i.+ng, I knew she was acting and I loved it.

That was part of Dulcie's charm for me. Wherever we went, heads turned to look at her. She was the kind of a woman men wanted to be seen with. Tall, slim, and full-breasted, with a tawny look, she gave an impression of latent s.e.xual savagery that carried every man back about five thousand years.

Esther got to her feet and had chairs brought out for us. Up to that moment I hadn't told them we were married. I began to feel awkward, wondering how I could tell them. I looked around the table and saw Doris looking at us curiously. There was a question in her eyes.

I had a bright idea. I spoke to Doris. ”Well, sweetheart, you won't have to worry about your old Uncle Johnny anymore. He finally found a girl that would marry him.”

Doris's face turned a little pale, but I was too excited to pay any attention to it. ”You-you mean you're getting married?” she asked, her voice shaking a little.

I laughed. ”What do you mean, 'getting married'? We were married last night!”

Peter jumped up and came around the table and shook my hand. Esther had gone over to Dulcie and put her arms around her. Only Doris sat there in her chair looking at me, her face still pale, her blue eyes dark and wide, her head tilted to one side as if to hear better.

”Ain't you comin' over and kiss your Uncle Johnny?” I asked her.

She got up from her chair and came over to me. I kissed her, and her lips were cold. Then she went over to Dulcie and took her hand. ”I hope you'll be very happy,” she said, kissing Dulcie's cheek.

I looked at them as they stood there. They were about the same age, but there were other things about them that suddenly struck me.

Doris's skin was pale and her hair was cut short. Standing next to Dulcie, she looked like a schoolgirl. Dulcie was studying her, too. I knew the look on her face already. To most people it seemed a fleeting glance, but I knew Dulcie well enough by then. She could tell more in a few seconds than most people in hours.

Esther turned to me. ”She's lovely, Johnny. Where did you meet her?”

”She's an actress,” I had answered. ”I met her backstage at a theater in New York.”

Peter had turned to me. ”Actress, did you say? Maybe we can find a part for her.”

Dulcie smiled at him.

”There's time enough for that,” I had said. ”We've got to settle down first.”

Dulcie didn't speak.

When we had left, Dulcie said to me: ”Johnny.”

I was busy driving. ”Yes, dear.”

”You know she's in love with you.”

I took a quick look at her. She was watching me with an amused look in her tawny eyes. ”You mean Doris?”

”You know who I mean, Johnny,” she said.

I laughed. ”You're wrong that time, honey,” I said uncomfortably, ”I'm only Uncle Johnny to her.”

She laughed too, a knowing laugh, full of amus.e.m.e.nt at male ignorance. ”Uncle Johnny,” she said, and laughed again. ”Did you ever read her book?”

”No,” I answered, ”I haven't had time.”

”You ought to read it, Uncle Johnny,” she said with a faint mockery in her voice. ”You're in it.”

Doris began to speak again. Her voice was low. ”I thought of calling the doctor for Mother before I showed her the telegram, and then I thought I'd tell Papa first. He was in the library. I went to the door and knocked. There was no answer, so I went in. He was seated at his desk there, the phone in front of him. He was looking at it. I often wondered why he didn't have it taken out. You know the one I mean-the direct wire to the studio.”

I knew the one she meant. Involuntarily I looked at it. It stood there on the desk with a lonely unused look about it. In the old days, when the receiver was picked up, a blue light would flash on the studio switchboard. It meant that the president was calling. The call took precedence over anything else on the board at the time.

”He was looking at it, a vague longing in his eyes.

”'Papa,' I said. My voice began to shake a little.

”With an effort he brought his mind back to me. 'What, liebchen?' he said.

”Suddenly I didn't know what to say. Wordlessly I handed him the telegram. He read it slowly, his face turning white under his tan. He looked up at me unbelieving for a moment, his lips moving, then he read the telegram again. He got to his feet, his hand trembling.

”'I got to tell Mamma,' he said, his voice dull. He took a few steps, and then he seemed to stumble a little. I caught his arm.

”'Papa,' I said, 'Papa!' Suddenly I was crying.

”He held on to me for a minute, his eyes searching mine. There were tears in his eyes too. Then he crumpled. It happened so quickly that he fell from my grasp. I tried to lift him, but I couldn't. Then I ran to the door and called the butler. Together we placed him on the couch. I ran to the desk and picked up the telephone. By mistake I picked up the wrong one. I picked up the studio phone. The operator's voice came on immediately. There was a question in her voice. 'Magnum Pictures,' she said. I hung up the phone with a feeling of shocked surprise. 'Magnum Pictures,' I was thinking. I began to hate the sound of those words. I had been hearing them all my life, it had turned all our lives inside out. Why did we ever have to go into the picture business?”

She looked at me. Her eyes were wide and strange, filled with flickering lights. ”Why couldn't we have stayed in Rochester and missed all this? Mark dead and Papa lying on the floor with a broken heart. It's your fault, Johnny, your fault. I heard Papa say many times he wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for you. He would never have come to Hollywood if it hadn't been for you. If you hadn't kept talking we could have spent our lives quietly and missed all this.”