The Troubled Air (33 page)

“Vic,” Archer said, “this is Clement.”

“I remember the name,” Vic said.

Archer smiled. “How are things at home?”

“The measles,” Vic said, “have been contained. I’m spending a quiet afternoon trying to decide whether to take a nap, pay last month’s bills, or go out and get the evening papers. What’s doing in your sector?”

“You’re still in business,” Archer said lightly. “The American public is not going to be deprived of the sweet sound of your voice after all.”

“Oh,” Vic said. There was a pause on the wire. “Many thanks,” he said offhandedly. “How did you do it?”

“I went down to Philadelphia and talked to the sponsor.”

“You must have made quite a speech,” Vic said. He sounded embarrassed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hear the golden flood of oratory.”

“I hardly said anything,” Archer said. “He talked most of the time. But his wife met you at a cocktail party. …”

“I remember her,” Vic said. “Weight one-ninety, growing bald on top.”

“Don’t say anything mean about her. She dropped to the floor senseless with your charm.”

“Delightful lady,” Vic said. “I wouldn’t have her a pound lighter. Still, you don’t mean to say the old man really let that change him.”

“Not exactly,” Archer said. He hesitated, sorry that he was conducting this conversation over the phone. “I told him about the Silver Star and the wound.”

“Oh,” Vic said, “did the patriot weep?”

“He had a kid killed in Tunisia,” Archer said, displeased at Vic’s light tone.

“I will appear at the next broadcast,” Vic said, “in full regimentals, with fourragere, carrying a well-worn carbine.”

“It wasn’t only that, Vic,” Archer said seriously. “I told him what you’d said to me.”

“You mean you vouched for me?”

“I suppose you could call it that,” Archer said.

“I get all kinds of service out of you, don’t I?” Vic’s tone was still light, but Archer could detect the note of tenderness behind it.

“Forget it,” Archer said brusquely, anxious suddenly to hang up the phone.

“How about Hutt?” Vic asked. “Is he being sporting?”

“Not very. He had to cut his vacation in Florida short.”

Vic chuckled. “Sad,” he said. “Oh, that’s very sad.” Then he became serious. “How about the others?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

“Not good, eh?”

“Not too good,” Archer admitted.

“From now on,” Vic said, “have more foresight. Hire character actresses who have the Purple Heart.”

Archer disregarded the sour joke. “When do we see you?” He asked.

“Tonight at five-thirty,” Vic said. “Nancy and I’re going with you to see Jane’s play. Nancy arranged it with Kitty. We’re going in my car. We can eat on the road.”

“Don’t expect too much from the play,” Archer said, protecting Jane in advance. “I heard her reading over her lines on Sunday. She’s not the most accomplished young actress in the world.”

Vic laughed, “Don’t worry, Papa,” he said. “I’ll take into account age, weight and the playing conditions of the field. See you later. And thanks again for Philadelphia.”

“Sure,” Archer said hurriedly. “I’ll let you pay half the fare.”

Vic was chuckling as he hung up. Archer held the receiver down with one hand, while he dug in his pocket with the other hand for some nickels. That was the easy one, he thought, as he put the nickel in the slot and dialed Atlas’s number. Now it gets tougher.

There was no answer at the other end of the wire. Archer waited for five rings, then hung up and took back his nickel with a sense of relief. Atlas, he decided, could wait till rehearsal on Thursday. It was a pleasure that could bear postponement, Archer thought grimly. He put the nickel back in the box and dialed Alice Weller’s number.

“Well,” Alice said worriedly, when Archer asked her if he could see her immediately, “I promised Ralph I’d take him ice-skating this afternoon and we were just going out the door when the phone rang. …”

“Where does he skate?” Archer asked. He wanted to get it straight with Alice as soon as possible.

“Rockefeller Center,” said Alice. “And he likes me to watch him and I …”

“I’m down near there now,” Archer said. “He won’t mind if his mother talks to an old friend while he’s doing his figure eights, will he?”

“Now, Clement,” Alice laughed uncomfortably, “now you’re making fun of me. It’s just that I’ve sort of gotten into the habit of going with him on Tuesday afternoons …”

“Do you skate, too?”

“Sometimes.” She giggled. “Do you think it’s silly?”

“Of course not. Bring your skates today, too,” Archer said. “I can say everything I have to say in fifteen minutes.” He looked at his watch. “It’s three-thirty now. Will you be here by four o’clock?”

“I don’t like to inconvenience you, Clement,” Alice said worriedly. “If you’d prefer coming up here, I’m sure Ralph would understand. …”

There was a murmur on the other end of the wire and Archer was sure Ralph was in the room, listening, and showing signs that he wouldn’t understand at all. “Now, Ralph,” he heard Alice say firmly, away from the phone, “I’m talking to Mr. Archer. …”

“Four o’clock,” Archer said loudly, annoyed with Alice’s self-sacrificing politeness. “At the entrance.” He hung up before Alice could say anything else.

With a half-hour to waste, Archer strolled idly down Fifth Avenue, looking in the shop windows, trying consciously not to think of the interview with Hutt and its implications for the future. He passed the window of a men’s wear shop and remembered that Kitty had told him last week that his tailor had called and asked him to come up for a fitting of a new suit that he was having made. The tailor’s shop was only a couple of blocks away and he turned in that direction.

Teague Brothers was a dark establishment one flight up on a side street. Mr. Teague was a tall, gloomy-looking gentleman who wore a high starched collar and a piped vest. He often worked over the cloth himself, his jacket off, the piping on his vest immaculate, his cuffs impeccably starched. Kitty, who liked more dashing clothes than Archer, complained that Teague Brothers made all their customers look like retired police captains and it was true that most of the people Archer had seen in the course of years in the shop were bulky men with grave, official faces. They all had wide middles that Mr. Teague took a gloomy satisfaction in covering in fine, loose, dark cloth. Mr. Teague always made the waistband of Archer’s trousers an inch too large, as though it was inconceivable to him that any man who could afford his suits would not eat too much in the years ahead. Archer liked the slow, dark atmosphere of the shop and its hushed air of belonging to an older and more substantial time.

Ministerially, Mr. Teague made marks with his tailor’s chalk on the soft tweed of the new jacket, as though he were conducting a baptism. The jacket felt free and light on Archer’s shoulders, and as he regarded himself in the three-way-mirror he looked forward with pleasure to wearing the suit. Mr. Teague disapproved of padding in the shoulders and stiff reinforcements under the cloth. “I send men out of my shop,” he was accustomed to say, “ready to go to board meetings and appear in proper restaurants, not to play in the line for the New York’ Giants.” Many of his customers had found the suits appropriate to be buried in, too, but Mr. Teague, whatever private satisfaction he might have taken in this fact, did not refer to it in his conversation.

“Mr. Spinelli,” Mr. Teague called into the back room, where the cutting was done, “Mr. Spinelli, will you come in here, please?” He turned back to Archer and said, “Mr. Spinelli is our new head fitter, Mr. Archer. He has one or two bad mannerisms; he worked for a department store on Fifth Avenue which will be nameless …” The soul of discretion and disapproval, Mr. Teague lowered his voice as he said this. “But we are working on him.”

“What happened to Schwartz?” Archer asked, looking over his shoulder at the reflection of his back in the mirror. Schwartz, a pale little man with bifocal glasses and a silent, swift, loving manner of touching cloth, had been with Teague Brothers for more than thirty years. He had made perhaps ten suits for Archer without speaking more than a hundred words to him.

“We buried Schwartz last week,” Mr. Teague said, sighing. “He had cancer of the lungs for two years. Worked until the end. We closed the shop for the morning and all went to the funeral. Have you ever been to a Jewish funeral?”

“No,” Archer said.

“Barbaric,” Mr. Teague said. “They all keep their hats on. And the women scream like banshees. He was a good tailor, Schwartz. Irreplaceable. Ah, Mr. Spinelli,” Teague said to a tall dark-faced man with white hair who came in from the back room. “This is Mr. Archer. I’d like you to take a look at the jacket, if you will.”

Mr. Spinelli walked consideringly around Archer, as though he was contemplating buying him. “The shoulders,” he said finally, “perhaps a little low. …”

“Mr. Archer likes the shoulders low,” Mr. Teague said rebukingly.

“In that case,” Mr. Spinelli said, retreating, “the garment is just about right.” Archer felt a momentary touch of pity for the new master tailor, competing with the perfect ghost of the silent Schwartz. Mr. Spinelli, with a little bow, went back to the bench in the rear of the shop.

“You see what I mean,” Mr. Teague said. “And it will get worse. The suits will get uglier and more expensive every year.” He sighed. “Everything goes up but quality. In ten years we’ll be lucky to be able to make a suit to order. The custom trade is dying. People are reconciling themselves to be dressed by machines. In your lifetime, Mr. Archer, I am afraid you will see every man on the street looking as though he has been manufactured by the same company. And it is impossible to find tailors any more. Only old men, who are dying off. And there are no new ones coming up. All the Polish Jews who knew how to sew and who used to immigrate here have been killed off by the Germans. The English …” Mr. Teague stared unhappily up at the ceiling, thinking about the English. “They do not immigrate—and at home—a Socialist government. What does a Socialist care about a fine seam or a good piece of cloth? And young Americans …” Mr. Teague sighed, reflecting upon his youthful compatriots. “They scorn the trade. They’d rather work in a garage or in a factory for less money than sit down and learn tailoring. They turn their backs on the opportunity. They think there’s something degrading about sitting in a nice, warm, comfortable shop sewing on a gentleman’s garment. Sometimes, Mr. Archer,” Mr. Teague said soberly, “I must confess I am tempted to retire once and for all. The suit will be ready next week. I’ll send it down.” He smiled bleakly at Archer and turned toward the front of the shop, where a retired Regular Army colonel was waiting, staring patiently at English magazines from 1925 that were carefully placed each morning on a big oak table.

Archer went into a cubbyhole and dressed slowly, thinking of the silent Mr. Schwartz, only slightly more still now than in life, and of massacred tailors, of stubborn young Americans in workman’s overalls, and of the gloomy, ill-clothed future of the world. I’d better be careful with this suit, Archer thought, taking a last look at the jacket hanging on its hook, who knows when I’ll be able to afford another one?

It was getting late now, and he hurried over to the skating rink at Rockefeller Center, where Alice Weller was waiting for him.

She had arranged the usual disaster with her clothes. A bright red skirt that was too short for her long, thick legs made her seem very wide and it was topped by a bulky jacket of nondescript fur. She had put on red wool socks over her stockings to keep her feet warm, and they made her look like a sorrowful parody of a bobby-soxer. Squarish and sagging, she suffered in contrast to the swift and charmingly dressed girls swooping around the ice with quick swirls of their short skirts. As usual, Archer felt a pang of guilt for noticing these things. She was standing at the railing, peering out at her son Ralph, who was slowly and clumsily making his way around the rink. Ralph was a gangling and serious-faced boy, very pale, and with one look at him you knew that the easy and instinctive movements of an athlete would be forever beyond him. The loud-speaker was blaring a waltz and Alice didn’t hear Archer come up behind her. Archer watched her for a moment, the loving, aging, proud, anxious face below the massive flying gold figure of Prometheus in his ring across the rink. Whatever happens, Archer thought, before touching her shoulder, it is necessary to protect this decent and wavering woman and her awkward, serious child.

“Alice,” Archer said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“Oh, no.” She turned, smiling her soft, uncertain smile. “I love to watch Ralph anyway. Wave to him.”

Archer waved to him. With a great look of concentration, Ralph waved back, once, almost upsetting himself with the movement.

“He’s getting much better,” Alice said, looking fondly at her son. “He’ll be a wonderful skater by the time he grows up.”

“I’m sure,” Archer said.

“He has weak ankles,” Alice said. “The doctor said this would be very good for him.”

“Alice,” said Archer, “let’s go in and get a drink there. We can sit at the window and watch just as well. It’s cold standing down here.”

Alice looked worried, as though even putting just a pane of glass between her and Ralph was a problem. “Ralph,” she called, as the boy scraped slowly toward them, “we’re going in for a minute. We’ll be right at the window, so we can see you.”

“All right, Mother,” Ralph said. “Hello, Mr. Archer,” he said, holding onto the railing.

“Hello, Ralph,” Archer said. “Your mother says you’re improving wonderfully.”

“I have weak ankles,” Ralph said.

“Be careful now, darling,” Alice said. “Don’t try anything too hard.”

Archer watched the boy push cautiously away from the railing, No, Archer thought as he and Alice walked toward the entrance to the cafe that lined one side of the rink, there’s a boy you can depend upon will not try anything too hard. If our new child is a boy, Archer thought unreasonably, I will brain him if he has weak ankles.

They found a table at the large plate-glass window and Archer helped Alice off with her fur jacket before taking off his own coat. They both sat facing the rink. The skaters sailed silently up to the glass, brightly colored figures in a fluid winter mural, making a charming quarter acre of holiday in the heart of the city, young, playful, and oblivious of the world’s work being conducted in the gray buildings which surrounded them. Archer ordered tea for Alice and a whiskey for himself.