John D. MacDonald
The Magic Valentines
It began on a gun-metal evening in early winter, at the end of one of those dreary Manhattan days when the office windows were alight by three in the afternoon. Jerry Bowen, of the Claims Department, had stayed late to finish up a report that had to be typed first thing in the morning. It was nearly six when he walked down the corridor toward the elevators. The whole floor had an empty, echoing, after-hours feel about it.
He looked toward the evening with distaste. Two years ago the town had seemed wonderfully exciting. Now he knew of at least three apartments where friends maintained seemingly permanent parties, where he would be welcome, but he did not want another of those evenings of predictable girls, predictable small talk, and the mild, highly predictable hangover. This was perhaps a night to hole up, eat a quick meal and read a book. But that seemed equally tasteless. He hoped it wouldn’t be another of those restless evenings of walking too many miles through the bright, meaningless streets.
He punched the down button, and as he waited he turned and looked through an open door into the large office which during the day was a gay bull pen of bright-faced girls and chattering office equipment. He wondered idly why the door had been left open, though the room was dark. Then, just as the elevator arrived, he saw a girl in the dark at one of the far desks, silhouetted against the city glow, and in the silence he heard what could have been a sob.
“Down,” the operator said.
He started in, then stopped and said, “Sorry. I forgot something.”
The operator sighed, slid the door shut and was gone. Jerry walked hesitantly into the big office and went over toward the girl. He sensed that mathematically his chances were not good. Half of them were unattractive. He had made constant surveys of the other half, had dated some of them. It was not likely that one of the prize packages would be weeping in the dark.
“That bad?” he asked softly as he approached her.
The oval of her face was pale, unturned, too dim for recognition. “I guess so,” she said. And she snuffled.
Her voice was husky and pleasant. Her arm against the faint light was slim. He flipped his mental coin. He knew he couldn’t very well turn on the lights before asking her.
“I feel dreary tonight, too. How about a mutual cheer association? Some place dim and Italian with trite red wine and a candle and we’ll exchange small talk. Nothing you have to dress for. Right from here.”
She didn’t answer for a long time and then, in a small voice, she said, “Dutch?”
“If it’ll make you feel better about it.”
She stood up slowly. He was pleased to see her tallness, perhaps five eight. Tiny women made him feel excessive.
“Five minutes to repair a ravaged face,” she said. He followed her out into the hall and shut the door behind them. She turned and, despite the puff of tears around her eyes, he saw that she was lovely. A lovely lissome thing named Della Howard, with black hair and a tilt of aqua eyes. One he had admired from afar, with black envy for one Walter Crane of the Actuarial Section, the tall and rather somber young man who marched her away each and every evening. He congratulated himself for his luck, and the courage of impulse.
She looked at him and seemed disconcerted. “You’re Jerry Bowen,” she said, almost accusingly.
“Notorious lupine type? Be not alarmed, fair Della. I’m off duty. Besides, the reports are exaggerated.”
He waited and she came back, smiling shyly, and they went out and he found the sort of place he had in mind. They were together there, and the food was good, the talk was good, and her face was lovely in the candlelight. Both of them took care that Walter Crane did not come into the conversation.
In the lobby of her hotel, he asked her for a date on the following night. She frowned and looked at him almost too directly and said, too emphatically, “I’d like to, Jerry.” All the way back to his place he sang a bass drum solo to himself, soft resonant booms from deep in his chest in time with his step.
There was a date, and more dates. Sometimes he would see Walter Crane in the corridor. Crane would look at him with loathing. Jerry sensed the tenor of the office gossip. It did not bother him. Here at last, maybe, was The Girl. The end of long restlessness. The end of a search. Every hour with her was too short. He could not tire of watching the curve of her lips, the shape of her hands, of hearing the sound of her voice. He knew that he was having a very good time indeed.
The flavor of their first meeting continued. No kisses, no hand holding, no declarations of love undying. It somehow seemed better that way, more valid and more precious.
Once he made her talk about Walter Crane. The pain in her eyes frightened him, made him feel insecure. It was a very usual story. Injured pride. Two proud people. Had he not stepped in when he did, he knew it would have been a rift mended within days, or hours. He was relieved when the conversation moved to other things. He sensed the strain within her. At times she seemed to be pretending to have a good time. He knew that she was trying to get over Walter Crane. He hoped it would be soon. For he was ever more certain this was The Girl — of poem, song and story.
On the tenth of February Jerry Bowen kissed Della Howard for the first time. They had been to a play. They planned to have supper a short walk from the theater. There was a light snow falling, few people walking. She had taken his arm. When they walked under a street light he saw the snowflakes in her hair and caught on her eyelashes. He felt an overwhelming tenderness.
He drew her then into the entryway of a closed shop and took her in his arms. She stiffened at first and then lifted her mouth willingly. He kissed her, and her lips were as warm and soft as he had imagined. Even as he kissed her, he sensed her withdrawal. It was not a physical thing. It was as though she had willed herself to cease to be aware of being kissed, as though she had determined to endure without complaint. It was not the magic he had expected.
Later, over supper in the wintry night, he looked across the table at her and said, in what he hoped was the proper tone of sophistication, “And so the good girl boldly kissed the evil wolf.”
She looked seriously at him. “What’s bothering you? Is that a crazy kind of apology for kissing me? I’m astonished you didn’t a long time ago. I expected you to. And I expect you to kiss me again. Quite often, darling.”
His heart gave a great leap of hope as he looked at her. He looked into her eyes and saw how, with little-girl earnestness, she was trying to play the part she had assigned to herself, saw how this was still a part of her rebellion, and how her heart was forever denied him.
As she had requested, he kissed her once more that evening, but she did not know it was a kiss of parting, a kiss of gratitude for this short time when there had been no restlessness.
He found the cards in a comer store. They were identical cards, small, with a black border that enclosed a red heart broken into two pieces. He found them on his lunch hour on February thirteenth. One went into the box with the expensive silk tie from a Fifth Avenue shop, for delivery to Walter Crane’s apartment. The other went with the tiny bottle of perfume that he had sent to her hotel.
And it so happened that at quarter after five of the day of St. Valentine, he saw them together, Walter and Della, walking hand in hand away from the office.
It had been a day like that other day. Grey as dull steel. He ate quietly and quickly and alone. He went to his room. He put on pajamas, propped himself up on two pillows and tried to read. The print swam and there was no meaning. He fed himself morsels of consolation: They would be very happy. Also, there were three empty desks in the bull pen. They would be filled soon. Maybe one of them would be The Girl. But he knew better. The Girl had been and gone, and he felt he had handled it wrong, but he did not know what else he could have done.