An Idol for Others (25 page)

“What?” he asked.

“The McClaren column.”

His eyes ran down it and were caught by the paragraph.

What Golden Boy of Broadway was slapped the other night by a famous Movie Queen at the Garden Room for his oh-so-friendly attentions to her husband? Clue: Rumor has it that he was given his pinkie ring by his producing partner, sometimes known as the Boy Wonder. Whoops, my dears.

Walter’s cheeks were burning before he had finished the short item. This was the fourth or fifth such reference to appear in the column since he had been out of the Army. He hated it. All Broadway would be tittering; he and David had practically been called queers again in public. There was no doubt about the identity of the Boy Wonder. He glanced across the room at the six framed posters of his Broadway productions. His name was in bigger print on each successive one; on the last it was almost top-heavy with the pride that goes before a fall. There hadn’t been much talk about the Boy Wonder for the last year. Now that he was about the resume his career, he didn’t need this sort of talk.

“Damn it,” he burst out. “I wish he’d go further so I could sue him.”

“I shouldn’t think that would help, dearest,” Clara said serenely. “More publicity. Considering the number of certified faggots there are in this business, you’d suppose they’d find somebody else to pick on. I know we can’t do without our precious David, but he does strike an unfortunate note.”

Walter, feeling threatened, pushed the paper from him. It reduced him to angry irrational fear of discovery. There was nothing to discover. His fidelity to Clara probably made a lot of girls think that Walter Makin wasn’t interested in the opposite sex, since fidelity was the last thing that was expected of anybody. His intermittent but long-standing affair with Fay, who had a special status in his mind as the mother of his child, didn’t affect his reputation since nobody knew about it. In the absence of any hard gossip about him, the brand he had always feared remained poised over him.

He wished David didn’t look so flamboyant. They weren’t returning to regular commercial production. He had laid the groundwork for his permanent theater, not completely on his own as he had once imagined but as a major cooperative venture; and he needed the help of all the cultural forces he could activate. The break provided by the Army had been useful to him. He had made important business and political contacts. He had had time to consolidate his thoughts about what he wanted the theater to be. He had his talent lined up. His acting company was assembled on paper. He had several brilliant designers and musicians, and he was encouraging a handful of young writers with option money. He had taken a long lease on a theater. Theatre Today was to be as close to a national theater as the country would permit. He intended to do five or six productions a year in repertory with the emphasis on contemporary native drama, but including classics and whatever new writers he could find in postwar Europe.

He was dealing with state and federal arts councils, theater developments funds, theater wings and theater leagues in an effort to win tax concessions, public subsidy, and massive private financing. Uncle Perry was helpful, but a hint of scandal–he stared at the offensive newspaper that to him carried much more than a hint–could wreck his plans. Girls wouldn’t matter, but anything perverted would be disastrous.

“It seems to me there’s been an awful lot of harping on this whole queer thing since I’ve been back,” he complained. “There was nothing like this before.”

“That’s just it–you’ve been away.” Her discreet campaign was just beginning to take effect. “David’s been in the limelight without you, and he hasn’t always been very tactful. We know him and love him, of course, but some people are shocked by him. He forces this new friend of his down everybody’s throat.”

“So I hear. I suppose I could talk to him about it. But it seems like butting in on something that’s none of my business.” He admired David for leading his own life in the limelight. The lack of privacy imposed by celebrity had alarmed him at first, and he had thanked his stars that he had nothing to hide. The stories he had heard about blackmail made the dangers clear. His marriage to Clara had provided a splendid insulation from gossip, if there had been anything to gossip about. The press had even treated him as something of a hero when, after the years of dodging the draft (Washburn strings had been pulled), he had finally accepted his commission (more Washburn strings). He and Clara were the darlings of the glossy magazines. They dressed and lived picturesquely and were always good for a picture spread; they were already scheduled to be the subjects of a piece about his doffing his uniform for
Harper’s Bazaar
.

Her mouth assumed a series of expressions while she studied the air between them. “I don’t suppose anything David does can really hurt you.” She dismissed the subject and looked at him with her gloating smile. “You’re scrumptious in that dressing gown. We must have you photographed in it. It’s so divinely decadent after all your military austerity. Have you thought any more about what we’ll live on for the next year?”

“David seems to think we’ll be all right. He says I can go on salary as soon as the charter is approved by the unions, or something of the sort. I don’t quite understand it.”

“Oh, I understand that. It’s not the way I’d handle it, that’s all.” Her hair was piled on top of her head so that her neck looked long and imperious. “He can’t get used to the idea that this isn’t a money-making proposition. You should be treated as an expense, like the office. David’s the only person who should get a salary, as business administrator.”

“That sounds like sense. Have you talked it over with him?”

“Not in detail, I wanted to wait till you’d settled in again. We’ll have to spend a day at the office soon and go over it all. We’re going to be quite poor.”

“We’ll be too busy to notice. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s lovely to have you back, dearest.” Her laughter began and ended on a single note. “I’ve been so
bored
all these months.” She was glad they were going to be poor for a while. After their wedding in the Gothic castle in Cleveland and his first total exposure to her family, she had detected signs of his becoming “sensible” about money. Her father talked to him about investments. Walter wanted to move into a proper establishment uptown, possibly on Park Avenue, with servants. She had clung to the place on Tenth Street as tangible evidence that they belonged to bohemia. She was delighted when all the money had vanished in the last production. It was something that would never have happened to a Washburn.

He rose and moved around behind her so that he could touch her under the chin. “I’ve got to get going. I don’t suppose many people who really matter read that bastard McClaren.” He glanced at the paper and withdrew his hand. “I’ve got that lunch on Wall Street. I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon at the office. What about you?”

“Odds and ends. Don’t forget the Brewster dinner.”

“Black tie?”

“Of course, dearest. The war’s over.” She watched him go and then picked up the offensive column again. Life had begun again and promised to be more exciting than ever. Things were going her way. She reminded herself to call her father and ask him to keep the pressure on McClaren’s publisher but to take care how Walter’s name was linked with David’s.

At Walter’s lunch two influential Wall Street men who figured in his plans referred to the McClaren column and wondered if it were true what they said about theater people. From the way they spoke, Walter wasn’t sure they had identified him as the Boy Wonder, but he found it very unpleasant. As much as he disliked doing it, he must talk to David.

“Is the Golden Boy there?” he asked Alice as soon as he reached the office. Alice was his secretary, but doubled as receptionist when they didn’t have a show in production.

“He’s been here all day, unlike some people I know.”

They had long ago graduated to a glittering suite in Rockefeller Center. Walter went along the corridor to David’s room and entered. David was on the phone and rolled his eyes in greeting as he continued to talk. He hung up. “Hello, Wonder,” he said.

“Hi, Goldie.” Walter sat on David’s desk. “I suppose you saw McClaren’s column this morning.”

“Yeah. Not a word of it truth, of course. Lana was drunk and socked her husband, not me. I don’t know why he’s after me. We’ve always been very friendly. How did the lunch go?”

“Ok. The column was mentioned. I don’t like it, old pal.”

David looked at him in silence, and his expression clouded. “I see. We’re going to have to have a heart-to-heart, are we? Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“There’s an easy answer to that Cut out boys. I suggested it before.”

“So you did.” There was a hard little glint to David’s prominent eyes. “If you were me, how would you react if I said that to you?”

The corners of Walter’s mouth twitched. “Tell you to go screw yourself, I should think.”

David laughed. “You’re all right, old pal. I keep expecting you to turn into a shit, but if you haven’t by now, I guess you won’t. So let’s have a heart-to-heart.” He rose and perched on the desk beside Walter. “I know it’s important. If McClaren goes on pushing this thing, I could become a liability. I know that.”

“What happened to your plan to stop playing around and find yourself a nice little wife when you were 30?”

“I have a month still.” David’s laughter turned a trifle rueful. “I’m ready to get married now. Paul’s made me realize that. I’ve never lived with anybody before–it’s fun–but I can’t very well marry him, so I guess some nice little Jewish girl is about to get lucky.”

“Well, that settles that. That’s great, David.” Walter was delighted to drop the subject. There were so many more important things to talk about, but he made a point of telling Clara that David was thinking about marriage as they dressed for dinner that evening. She made no comment but listened with a cryptic little smile.

They were leading a hectic social life in celebration of his return to civilian life so that their sex life had been diverted into odd hours. He was making love to her late the next morning when it occurred to him that it was time for her period. He asked her about it.

She looked at him thoughtfully. “You were so lovely just now that I’d forgotten about it myself. I guess I’m a day or two late.”

His heart stopped. His head swam. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. It was going to happen. Clara was going to have a child. He had given Clara a baby. It was the ultimate consecration, far more binding than the dim ceremony that had been performed over them in Cleveland. They would be truly married after that.

Success had made every attractive girl and boy in the theater available to him. He had resisted all but the most transient temptations–doubling up with young officers in war-crowded hotels had led to a few lapses–but why be obliged to resist temptation at all? Parenthood would make such encounters seem grotesque. So much for McClaren. There would be no more risk of gossip, the pretty youths would no longer dare offer themselves with their eyes if he were a father.

He was careful not to press her with questions while the next few days passed in a blaze of anticipation, underlaid, enriched, made almost heartbreaking by a great unfamiliar aching tenderness for her. Was this finally what falling in love was like?

“I went to the doctor today,” she announced one evening while they were getting dressed for another dinner.

“Why? Is something wrong?” he asked innocently, reminding himself not to leap in the air with excitement.

“You know perfectly well what’s wrong. I’m going to see him again tomorrow, but it’s practically sure. Damn, damn, damn.”

He knew it would be tactless to shout with joy, but he couldn’t keep himself from going up behind her and perching with her in front of her dressing table and putting his arms around her. He immediately wanted her. “I gather you’re not entirely pleased, Clarry, but don’t mind too much. We’re going to have children eventually. Why not start now?”

She made a growling sound in her throat and tried to shake him off. “If you put on a Doting Daddy act, I’ll scream. It couldn’t happen at a worse time.”

Adapting to her mood, he pretended to commiserate with her. “That’s true, I suppose. Nine months. Theatre Today will be just about ready to open. What do you suppose went wrong?” Nothing, he assured fate so as not to put a jinx on the child. Everything was wonderfully right.

“I’ve always known that gadget isn’t foolproof. That’s why I’ve always been so careful to wash. It must’ve happened as soon as you got back. I got a bit carried away the first few days.”

“It’s wonderful, Clarry,” he burst out and hastily modified his tone. “I mean, once you get used to the idea, you’ll probably begin to like it. You’ll be able to work all through the important time while we’re getting everything set up. Once we’re running, there’ll be plenty of money again. We can get a bigger place and somebody to help with the baby. If it’s happened, it’s happened. We might as well think of all that’s wonderful about it.”

His hand was opening her dressing gown, and she pushed it away.

“Who said it’s happened? I’ve heard that if you jump up and down a lot you can cause a miscarriage. I’m going to talk to the doctor tomorrow and–”

“For God’s sake, Clarry, don’t say things like that. You could do something terrible to yourself.” He quickly slipped his hand under her dressing gown and moved it back to unfasten her bra.

“What are you doing, dearest? We’re supposed to be dressing for dinner.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Stop it. You’ll rip something.”

“Then take everything off. I want to look at you.” He rose and pulled her up with him. He had on only trousers and a shirt and removed them quickly while she did as she was told. She stood before him and allowed him to admire her. “You’re really beautiful, Clarry,” he murmured, awed at the thought of her carrying their life within her. Being successful and famous seemed trivial compared to this.

Her eyes mocked him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that maternity has filled me with an unearthly glow.”