“What did Gladys have to say about me?”
“Nothing much.”
“I ask that because she’s always had a foul mouth. Always spreading lies about people — me particularly, though I was probably the first person to even take a half-interest in her. She’s another one I made a pact with myself never to speak to or even think about. She’s said some filthy malevolent things about me — to mutual friends, no less, which we’d be cut off the line now if I ever repeated them.”
“For me she’s always had a special ironic place in my memory. Because if you remember, when we finally emerged from that coffee shop ten years ago, Gladys was walking past — the last person we wanted to see at the time, we agreed when we saw her.”
“Now I remember. That bitch always turns up at the wrong moments.”
“She spotted us and smiled and began waving an arm laden with clanky chains, as if this was just the most beautiful day in the most beautiful of worlds for everyone in it. I remember her vividly.”
“You always had an excellent memory. I suppose that’s important in your field.”
“That among other things. But that incident comes back amazingly clear. Even the kind of day it was, with the ground freshly covered with a light snow flurry which we had watched from the coffee shop.”
“That part,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
“Everyone must have a few scenes in his life which stick out prominently. And not just extraordinary or life-changing events — that’s not what I’m driving at so much. For instance, I can remember meaningless, supposedly insignificant incidents which occurred twenty years ago, and also what kind of day it was then and how everyone looked and even what they were wearing down to the pattern of their dresses and ties.”
“What was I wearing that day?”
“That day? — Oh…that green suit you had. And a trench coat. The tightly belted coat I particularly remember, even that the top button was off and that you said that right after you leave me you were heading straight to a notions shop to get the button replaced.”
“That trench coat,” she said. “I got it at the British-American House and did it ever cost a fortune, though I at least got a few years out of it. But the green suit?”
“It was a green tweed, salt-and-pepper style. It was a very fashionable suit at the time — the one you most preferred wearing to your auditions.”
“Nowadays, I just go in Levis or slacks.”
“You usually wore it with the amber-bead necklace I gave you, and so I always felt at least partially responsible for the parts you got.”
“I forgot about that necklace. You know I still have it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wasn’t about to throw it away. It’s a nice necklace.”
“How does your husband react to your sporting these priceless gems from other men?”
“Mr. Cabell? He doesn’t think a thing about my clothes — not like you used to do: nothing. But he’s very nice. A very peaceful man who knows where he is more than most anyone, and extremely generous. He’s a dentist.”
“About my favorite professional group — even if they hurt.”
“But he’s not like any old dentist. He specializes in capping teeth for theater people. Just about every big Broadway or television-commercial name who’s had his or her teeth capped had it done by my husband. That’s how I first met him.”
“You had your teeth capped?”
“Just the upper front part. Only four of them.”
“But you always had such beautiful teeth.”
“Well he thought they should be capped. They were a little pointy — the incisors especially — like fangs. They look much better for it — honestly.”
“What could a job like that run someone?”
“Thousand plus — which is with a cleaning and everything. But then you have to consider the labor and time involved.”
“Did Dr. Cabell make you pay up before he married you?”
“Oh we got married long after that. You see, about six months after I paid up completely, he phoned me out of the blue and mentioned something about my having missed one of my monthly payments. I said ‘Oh no, Dr. Cabell, there must be some mistake,’ and he said he’d have his nurse check it out. Later he called back and said I was right — I was paid up in full. That’s when he first asked me out for lunch — to make up for his misunderstanding, he explained — and later we got married.”
“It sounds as if he were initially feeding you a line.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, quite harmlessly, that he was feeding you a line — which is all right if it works I suppose.”
“But that’s not true. He in fact told me later that I’d probably think his bill call was only an excuse to contact me, but that it wasn’t. He really did think I wasn’t paid up.”
“Then why didn’t he have his nurse phone you about your overdue payment? That would seem both more logical and professional to me, considering how busy dentists always say they are.”
“Simon feels that something like that — when he has the time — ought to be handled by him alone. He’s a very informal man, Arnie, and he’s told me many times that there’s already too much impersonality in the city between dentist and patient.”
“You’re no doubt right. It’s absurd for me to even have brought up such a small point. But I suppose I’ve been hauling around this vision of you being a person who’d be much cleverer than to fall, let’s say, for the kind of business like that.”
“Fall? What are you talking about? I married this man. Even if he was giving me the business with that call — which he wasn’t — what’s the difference now? It’s all water under the cesspool or something when you married the person, isn’t it?”
“Naturally.”
“Oh sure, you really sound convinced.”
“Look, I’m simply against lines and deceptions of all sorts — what can I tell you? I don’t like hypocrisy. I’ve seen too much of it in my work and I simply don’t like it.”
“That’s right — I forget. You’re the big world traveler and interpreter of newsy events.”
“All right, I happen to be a journalist — a newsman, if you like. And I write about things that turn my stomach every day. In politics, diplomacy, newspaper management—”
“You were also always a big one for the soapbox if I can remember. Even in college: always the big speech.”
“No, you’re not catching my point, Miriam.”
“Oh I catch it. I haven’t been sleeping these past ten years. But one would think that during this time you might have changed. But you still have to beat the old drum.”
“I’m not beating any old drum. I was simply saying—”
“And that you might have learned some tact. Because to call up an old friend and insult her husband as if he were the world’s worst hypocrite and schemer, well uh-uh, I’m sorry, that’s not using much tact. That’s not even using much brains, if I can say so without you jumping down my throat.”
“I’m not jumping down anyone’s throat — especially not yours. I happen to like your throat. I once even loved your throat. I’d never try and hurt you — and I didn’t intend to insult your husband. I’m not quite sure I ever did, but let’s drop it.”
“Why don’t we.”
There was a long silence before he said “Miriam. Miriam, you still there?”
“Yes. And I really have to go now, Arnie. The baby—”
“You have a baby? When I spoke to Gladys—”
“It’s not mine — just the child of a friend in the building. I’ll have one though. We’re working on it.”