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“All right, now, listen. Relax. Just relax,” the grayhaired man said. “You know the Ellenbogens, for Chrissake. What probably happened, they probably missed their last train. All three of ’em’ll probably barge in on you any minute, full of witty, night-club—”
“They drove in.”
“How do you know?”
“Their baby-sitter. We’ve had some scintillating goddam conversations. We’re close as hell. We’re like two goddam peas in a pod.”
“All right. All right. So what? Will ya sit tight and relax, now?” said the gray-haired man. “All three of ’em’ll probably waltz in on you any minute. Take my word. You know Leona. I don’t know what the hell it is—they all get this god-awful Connecticut gaiety when they get in to New York. You know that.”
“Yeah. I know. I know. I don’t know, though.”
“Certainly you do. Use your imagination. The two of ’em probably dragged Joanie bodily—”
“Listen. Nobody ever has to drag Joanie anywhere. Don’t gimme any of that dragging stuff.”
“Nobody’s giving you any dragging stuff, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said quietly.
“I know, I know! Excuse me. Christ, I’m losing my mind. Honest to God, you sure I didn’t wake you?”
“I’d tell you if you had, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said. Absently, he took his left hand out from between the girl’s upper arm and chest wall. “Look, Arthur. You want my advice?” he said. He took the telephone cord between his fingers, just under the transmitter. “I mean this, now. You want some advice?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. Christ, I’m keeping you up. Why don’t I just go cut my—”
“Listen to me a minute,” the gray-haired man said. “First—I mean this, now—get in bed and relax. Make yourself a nice, big nightcap, and get under the—”
“Nightcap! Are you kidding? Christ, I’ve killed about a quart in the last two goddam hours. Nightcap! I’m so plastered now I can hardly—”
“All right. All right. Get in bed, then,” the grayhaired man said. “And relax—ya hear me? Tell the truth. Is it going to do any good to sit around and stew?”
“Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t even worry, for Chrissake, but you can’t trust her! I swear to God. I swear to God you can’t. You can trust her about as far as you can throw a—I don’t know what. Aaah, what’s the use? I’m losing my goddam mind.”
“All right. Forget it, now. Forget it, now. Will ya do me a favor and try to put the whole thing out of your mind?” the gray-haired man said. “For all you know, you’re making—I honestly think you’re making a mountain—”
“You know what I do? You know what I do? I’m ashameda tell ya, but you know what I very nearly goddam do every night? When I get home? You want to know?”
“Arthur, listen, this isn’t—”
“Wait a second—I’ll tell ya, God damn it. I practically have to keep myself from opening every goddam closet door in the apartment—I swear to God. Every night I come home, I half expect to find a bunch of bastards hiding all over the place. Elevator boys. Delivery boys. Cops—”
“All right. All right. Let’s try to take it a little easy, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said. He glanced abruptly to his right, where a cigarette, lighted some time earlier in the evening, was balanced on an ashtray. It obviously had gone out, though, and he didn’t pick it up. “In the first place,” he said into the phone, “I’ve told you many, many times, Arthur, that’s exactly where you make your biggest mistake. You know what you do? Would you like me to tell you what you do? You go out of your way—I mean this, now—you actually go out of your way to torture yourself. As a matter of fact, you actually inspire Joanie—” He broke off. “You’re bloody lucky she’s a wonderful kid. I mean it. You give that kid absolutely no credit for having any good taste—or brains, for Chrissake, for that matter—”
“Brains! Are you kidding? She hasn’t got any goddam brains! She’s an animal!”
The gray-haired man, his nostrils dilating, appeared to take a fairly deep breath. “We’re all animals,” he said. “Basically, we’re all animals.”
“Like hell we are. I’m no goddam animal. I may be a stupid, fouled-up twentieth-century son of a bitch, but I’m no animal. Don’t gimme that. I’m no animal.”
“Look, Arthur. This isn’t getting us—”
“Brains. Jesus, if you knew how funny that was. She thinks she’s a goddam intellectual. That’s the funny part, that’s the hilarious part. She reads the theatrical page, and she watches television till she’s practically blind—so she’s an intellectual. You know who I’m married to? You want to know who I’m married to? I’m married to the greatest living undeveloped, undiscovered actress, novelist, psychoanalyst, and all-around goddam unappreciated celebrity-genius in New York. You didn’t know that, didja? Christ, it’s so funny I could cut my throat. Madame Bovary at Columbia Extension School. Madame—”
“Who?” asked the gray-haired man, sounding annoyed.
“Madame Bovary takes a course in Television Appreciation. God, if you knew how—”
“All right, all right. You realize this isn’t getting us anyplace,” the gray-haired man said. He turned and gave the girl a sign, with two fingers near his mouth, that he wanted a cigarette. “In the first place,” he said, into the phone, “for a helluvan intelligent guy, you’re about as tactless as it’s humanly possible to be.” He straightened his back so that the girl could reach behind him for the cigarettes. “I mean that. It shows up in your private life, it shows up in your—”
“Brains. Oh, God, that kills me! Christ almightyl Did you ever hear her describe anybody—some man, I mean? Sometime when you haven’t anything to do, do me a favor and get her to describe some man for you. She describes every man she sees as ‘terribly attractive.’ It can be the oldest, crummiest, greasiest—
