Chapter 7
Lee breathed a sigh of relief when he saw john and Naomi Hanley in the Stone's living room. There was no doubt in his mind that Hanley shared that sense of relief. To lone it with Stone was no picnic, and Hanley had an extra strike against him. He was human. Being a creative human raised still another strike. If you were an IBM unit, you'd have it made with Stone, Lee decided; you could punch holes together all day dong.
Peggy came rushing over to them, pert breasts bouncing, gushing with hostessy remarks, like "Joan, how are you, dear, and oh, Lee. you're looking marvelous!" She knew how to play the role. Or more precisely, she knew how to play Stone's role for him. She augmented the predetermined pattern.
Alice's assistant took their coats and Peggy guided them into the living room.
Paid was there, talking to Hanley. Naomi pretended to be interested in an ash tray. He saw Lee and Joan approaching, turned to face them.
"Lee, nice to see you. Joan." He shook hands with Lee, and smiled wanly at Joan. He gave her a smile that could almost pass as friendly. For Stone, it was exuberant. "How about a drink?"
"Good. I could use one," Lee said, firing up his pipe. Irish aromatic tobacco hovered in the air around them. They all walked over to the bar together, Hanley and his wife following. While Stone was taking orders and pouring drinks, John stood close beside Lee.
"Welcome to happiness land, old buddy."
"Then how come you're not smiling?" Lee demanded, throwing a smile Naomi's way. "Hi, Naomi."
A big exchange of hi's. Rather late at that.
After the Cooks and four or five other couples, all from the English department, came in, it began to look like a party, or at least a social gathering. There was talk, laughter, cigarette smoke, much liquor consumed.
If you looked through the window, it would appear that they were having fun.
Sharks have fun when they eat themselves.
It's all relative.
There was a lot of noise that sounded like conversation, and it was all one-sided. People talked to themselves, pretending that everyone else was listening raptly to what they had to say. Stone held a lengthy monologue on literary trends over the decades, while Cook went on at length about Chaucer and the profundity of medieval writers in England.
Hanley took Lee aside and said, "Let's talk, old buddy, you know what I mean-one talks, the other listens, and you contribute back and forth?"
Lee picked up the cue.
"Why hell yes, I remember! Let's see, it was back when I was a student, before I was a teacher. We used to do it like that. But you know, things change, all for the better, of course."
"Of course, but you have to think if you do it your way," Naomi said.
"Heaven forbid!" Joan exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "Think! You'll undermine everything if you do that."
"So what do you want to talk about?" Lee asked John.
"You. How's your book doing? Haven't seen you for a while."
"Good. I'm through with the first writing, as a matter-of-fact."
"How do you know it needs rewriting?" John demanded.
"Don't all worthwhile books?"
John sighed, threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.
"Why in the hell don't they teach you guys the facts? Lee, it just depends. I never rewrote anything. I plan so well in advance that I don't have to. I look on myself as a writer, not a rewrite man on some newspaper. How well did you plan your book?"
"Chapter by chapter."
"Did it come off? Did the ending make sense to you?"
"Yes, but...."
"Bring it over tomorrow morning. At the house. I want to read it over the weekend." Lee nodded, thanked him.
"You coming along okay on your book?" Lee asked.
"It'll be a splendid book," Naomi said.
"You're not writing it, dear," John said between clenched teeth.
"No, dear, but I might as well be. When I have to throw food into the study like I'm feeding a lion, and when you scream to the kids to shut up from the third floor and they're in the basement, I know you're working very diligently, dear. That's how you judge great writing, Lee."
"Tell Stone about it," Joan said. "He'd be thrilled to death to hear such a refreshing approach."
It was preposterously funny. They all laughed very hard, but stopped when Cook, number one spy and fink in the English department, came over.
Alone.
He was noted for the way he treated his wife, too.
"A joke I haven't heard?" he asked. The way he asked it sounded more like an order. Tell me or else. Hanley gave him an undisguised go-to-hell look.
"About noon tomorrow, Lee?"
"Okay."
"Let's get a drink. The air's foul in this corner of the room."
Cook's mouth dropped open with unabashed astonishment. Hanley looked at him mildly, or rather through him, and walked away. "See you around, Cook, if I should be so lucky." Lee threw Cook a beseeching, What-can-I-do glance, and followed Hanley, Joan and Naomi.
"What in hell did you do that for, John?"
"The jerk annoys me. He's a fink and a yes-man for Stone, a veritable modern-day Brutus. He's another academic vacuum of mediocrity."
"True, but what the hell, you didn't have to hit him in the face with it?"
"Why not? I'm not about to say one thing and mean another. I don't have to, Lee."
"Like me."
"Like you think you have to. You're a nice guy. I hate to see you play their stinking game. Why do you think I want to help you out with your writing? Because I'm a Samaritan?"
"Yes."
"Maybe. But don't go puking and gushing all over them, Lee. They're not worth it, your job's not worth it. Believe me it's not."
"Maybe I'm not a writer, John. Maybe the book won't make it."
"It'll make it. Maybe not right away, but it will. You can write, whether you realize it or not. Once I make you realize it, there won't be anything that'll be able to stop you."
"You're pretty confident on my account."
"Damn right. And I'm no optimist. If you don't believe that, ask Naomi."
Naomi nodded.
"The most pessimistic idealist that ever lived," she said sagely.
Lee Cushing was a much handsomer young man than Peggy Stone had realized. From a profile view, with the black briar pipe in his mouth, he was very handsome indeed, she decided-a peculiarly perfect blend between distinction and virility. Just a damned good-looking guy. A guy she would like to help, if he needed and wanted it. A guy worth being friends with.
Later in the evening, when almost everyone was in an alcoholic fog, she found Lee in the den, looking out the window. He posed an interesting picture of loneliness and consternation. The thinking man, the man of depth.
He turned when he heard her heels clattering across the linoleum.
"Hello. Bored with the party?" she asked.
"No," he smiled, "it's a lovely party, I just needed some air."
"You needed time to think. Time to get away from all that phony garbage. You don't have to be polite with me, Lee."
"That's a bit harsh, Peggy."
"The truth is harsh, dear. And the truth is that all these parties are the same. You're on review. Why, who knows, you might be passing up that big juicy associate professorship because you had the audacity to come in here by yourself and think."
"That is audacious, isn't it?" he grinned. It didn't take a Holmes to conclude that Peggy Stone was not enchanted with her husband's world. "We're not all pedants, Peg. Some of us even realize that we're at a disadvantage because we prefer teaching to everything else."
"How's your book coming?"
"Fine, I guess. I'll know pretty soon."
"I admire you for that, Lee I think it's wonderful, and I hope you do something with it." Her voice was thick with liquor; she was not uncontrollably drunk, was probably at that transitional stage where you know what you're doing but just don't give a damn.
"Thanks." It struck him as strange that a gorgeous woman like her could marrv such a deadbeat like Stone, good-looking as he was. But then perhaps Stone had something that he just didn't reveal outside his home. Or bedroom. Maybe Peggy liked men of Stone's ilk.
"How important is the promotion to you? I mean, honestly?"
"Pretty important. Important enough so that I've had to do a lot of serious thinking about myself."
"In what connection?" she prompted.
"In connection with what I'd foe willing to sacrifice to get it. I'm not the nice guy I thought I was, Peggy." Lee faced the window, letting the smoke drift heavily from his pipe.
She stood next to him.
He smelled perfume and liquor.
Her face was inches from his when she said, "You're honest, and I like you, Lee. I have a lot of influence with my husband, and...." her hand touched his; it was warm, knowing, " ... not a bit hard to get along with. Remember that." He felt very uncomfortable. "Thanks, Peggy."
"And Paul never gets home before five," she said with a flourish, walking out the room. She trounced, so that her hips and buttocks swished from side to side. God almighty, she was all woman, Lee thought. If he didn't have a wife like Joan, he'd be more than a little tempted to play it her way.
Joan Cushing was a damned charming woman, thought Paul Stone. It was simply amazing how a woman her age could understand what drove, what motivated a man in his work. Why, she understood perfectly. She was complaining how Lee didn't have the experience to channel his ambitions, while an older, wiser man such as himself, knew exactly how to achieve his ends. A damned perceptive, understanding woman who made his wife, in spite of her added years, look like a sophomore.
"You're so right, Joan. But Lee will learn. Tell me, how's his book coming along?"
"He's finished with the first writing. He's going to show the manuscript to John Hanley in the morning."
"Ah, good. Good. Where is Lee? I don't see him around."
"He has a bit of a headache. Maybe he went to the den or to the John."
"Yes. Well, how about a drink?"
"Fine. Will you be going abroad next year, Dr. Stone?"
"I hope so. Call me Paul, please. I'm not the stuffed shirt my colleagues seem to think I am, honestly."
"I know you're not," Joan said. Her smile was warm. Her eyes twinkled with her upturned lips, which made it real and not mechanically pretty, like that of a frozen expression in a picture.
"Scotch?" Paul asked, taking her glass. When she nodded, he took a bottle of Cutty Sark and poured some over the ice in her glass.
"So, you think a man has to do anything necessary to attain his ambitions, do you?"
"Yes, as long as it's honest. A woman should be willing to accept the price of that success. I'm sure your wife does."
"No, she doesn't," he said icily. "She doesn't at all."
"I'm surprised to hear that," Joan said, and she honestly was.
"No, she expects me to leave my work at the office as though I were an assembly man at a plant, working on a time clock. She expects it all to happen magically."
"Maybe you should explain things to her more specifically. I appreciate the way Lee discusses his plans with me. It puts me in a position to help him."
"You're a very smart woman, Joan. I could kick myself for not getting to know you better before."
"We haven't had much chance, have we, Paul? We've been busy, all of us. You with your work, Lee with his. It's unfortunate."
"Yes, it is. He looked at her intently, studied her face, as though trying to read something that he had perhaps overlooked.
He had overlooked nothing.
She was a perceptive, rarely dedicated woman. She was a woman who could understand, who could sympathize, who could sublimate her demands on a man....
A woman who was attractive.
A woman who could let a man forget.
Peggy never let you forget that she could make you forget, he thought; but this girl definitely was not like that. She would do virtually anything for a man, in or out of bed. In all areas of endeavor, she was well versed, understanding.
Not like Peggy at all.
"Does your husband want that promotion?" Paul asked. He knew it was an inherently ridiculous question; of course, Lee wanted that promotion. It meant more money and prestige. Any man wanted it. Even John Hanley, who hadn't applied, wouldn't refuse an offer like that.
"Yes, very much. But you have to understand Lee, Paul. He has certain values, a certain esteem for his talents."
"I know. I'm a great admirer of your husband, believe me."
"Good. He feels he's a much better novelist than critic, and that's the direction he wants to go in. I've been encouraging him as best I can."
"You're a wise and wonderful woman, Joan. And if you need any help on Lee's account, you come see me. Any time at all."
"Thank you. Paul?"
"Yes?"
"This might sound awfully presumptuous, but if you ever need woman-help, you come see me. I'm almost always at home."
"Thank you very, very much, Joan. I might do it." He smiled, put his hand on her shoulder. Joan did not move. The hand was warm, a heavy weight that she was overly-conscious of. Then it became alive, felt good there.
He kept it on her shoulder a long time, kneading the smooth skin. The smooth, bare skin that her husband knew so well. Paul wanted to know it. It was as though Peggy had never existed for him, as though he had never felt the magnetic pull of lust before. Joan Cushing became at that moment a very desirable woman, a woman he would be willing to do devious, not-so Kosher things for. She was a woman who could raise him to great heights or hurl him to yawning depths. She was a Cleopatra, a Siren, a....
She understood.
He wanted her, badly, not just for bed, God knows, but there was that wonderful warm sympathy. No, it was empathy, a real true understanding. Moments like he'd had with Peggy this evening were almost nonexistent. With a woman like Joan Cushing they could be deliciously abundant.