Then why do you want to marry me?
Oh, I don’t know, said MacGregor wearily. ‘Maybe just to have a change.
I like that, said Trix, slightly offended. You know what I mean, said MacGregor. Jesus, do we have to become romantic—just to please this guy? I want a home, a real home, that’s what! I’m sick of running around.
Trix looked at me dumbly. She shook her head. Don’t take him seriously, said I comfortingly. He always puts things in the worst light.
That’s it, chirped MacGregor. Now let me hear you say something nice about me. Tell her not to worry, I’ll settle down soon enough. Prove to her what a good husband I’ll make … No, hold on! Better not say anything. You have the god-damndest way of gumming things up.
Let him talk! said Trix. I’m curious to know what your friend Henry really thinks of you.
You don’t think he’d tell you the truth, do you? That guy’s as slippery as an eel. He talks of George Marshall but … well, if I didn’t know him so long and so well I’d have dropped him ages ago.
Henry, said Trix, do you really think I should marry him?
Don’t ask me to answer that, please. I tried to laugh it off.
You see, said MacGregor. He couldn’t say yes or no, just like that. Now what do you mean, Henry? Is it Yes or No?
I held my tongue.
That means no, said MacGregor.
Don’t be so quick! said Trix.
Well, Henry, nothing like being honest, said MacGregor. I guess you know me too well.
I haven’t said one thing or another, said I. Why jump to conclusions? By the way, what time is it?
There you are! Now he wants to know the time. That’s Henry to a T.
It’s only two-thirty, said Trix. Let me fix you some coffee before you go.
Fine, said I. And is there any cake left?
See, now he’s all alert. Always wide awake when you mention food. Jesus, Hen, you’ll never change. I guess maybe that’s what I like about you—you’re incorrigible. He sat down close beside me, flicked the ash off his cigar, and proceeded to unburden himself. Tess has all sorts of connections, you know. She’d like to see me on the bench. The thing is, I can’t run for judge and start divorce proceedings—see. what I mean? Besides, I’m not so sure I want to be a judge. Even on the bench you cant’ keep your skirts clear, you know that. Still, I’m not much good as a lawyer, to be frank with you. Can’t work up any enthusiasm…
Why don’t you pull out and try something else?
Like what—selling tires? What can you do, Henry? One job’s as bad as another.
But isn’t there anything you’re keen about?
Frankly, Hen, no! I’m just a lazy bugger at heart. I want to float along with the least effort.
Then float! I said.
That’s no answer. Now, if I had a hankering to write, it would be different. But I don’t. I’m not. an artist. And I’m not a politician. I’m not a ball of fire either.
Then you’re licked, I said.
I don’t know, Hen, I wouldn’t say that. There must be lots of things a fellow can do without getting all heated up.
The trouble with you is, I said, you always want someone to make up your mind for you.
Now you’re talking, said MacGregor, suddenly more cheerful, though why, I couldn’t understand. That’s why I want to marry Trix. ‘I need someone to steady me. Tess is like a wet sponge. Instead of putting some back-bone in me, she lets me fall apart.
When are you going to grow up? said I.
Come on now, Henry, don’t hand met that line. You’re just a big boy yourself. Running a speakeasy, think of it! And you were going to set the world on fire. Ho ho! Ho ho!
Give me time. I may fool you yet. At least, I know what I’d like to do. That’s something.
Con. you do it? That’s the question.
That remains to be seen.
Henry, you’ve been trying to write ever since I knew you. Other writers your age have had at least a half-dozen books published already. You haven’t even finished your first book—or have you? Come, come, get wise to yourself!
Maybe I won’t begin till I’m forty-five, I said jokingly.
Make it sixty, Henry. By the way, who was that English writer who began at seventy?
I couldn’t remember his name either at the moment.
Trix appeared with the coffee and cake. We moved back to the table.
Well, Hen, he began again, helping himself to a huge slice of cake, all I’ve got to say is—don’t weaken! You may yet be a writer. Whether you’ll be a great one, I can’t predict. You’ve got a hell of a lot to learn.
Don’t pay any attention to him, said Trix.
Nothing bothers him, said MacGregor. He’s even more obstinate than I am, and that’s saying a lot. The truth is, it hurts me to see him wasting his time.
Wasting his time? echoed Trix. And what about you?
Me? I’m lazy. That’s different. He gave her a broad grin.
If you’re thinking to marry me, she rejoined, you’ll have to get on your toes. You don’t think I’m going to support you, do you?
Will you listen to that, Henry, howled MacGregor, chuckling as if it were a great joke. Now who said anything about wanting to be supported?
Well, how will we live? Not on what you earn, I’m sure.
Tush tush! said MacGregor. Honey, I haven’t begun to work yet. Just wait till the divorce is granted, then I’ll get down to brass tacks.
I’m not so sure I want to marry you, said Trix. This in dead seriousness.
Now, do you hear that? said MacGregor. How do you like that? Well, honey, it’s your loss. In ten years I may be sitting on the Supreme Court bench.
But in the meantime?
Don’t cross any bridges before you come to them, that’s my motto.
He can always make a living as a public stenographer, said I.
And a damned good living at that, said MacGregor.
I don’t want to marry a public stenographer.
You’re marrying me, said MacGregor. Who knows what I am?
Right now you’re just a misfit, said Trix.
That’s true, honey, said MacGregor lightly, but so were lots of men before they climbed to the top of the ladder.
But you’re not a climber.!
Right again, said MacGregor. I was only using a figure of speech. Look, you two, you don’t honestly think I’m a failure, do you? I’m only working on two cylinders now. I need inspiration. I need a good wife, a home, and one or two real friends. Like this bloke, for example. How about it, Henry, am I talking sense?
Without waiting for a reply, he continued: You see. Trix, guys like Henry and me are out of the common run. We’ve got quality. If you get me for a husband, you’re getting a jewel. I’m the most tolerant guy in the world. Henry will vouch for that. I can work as hard as anyone … if I have to! Only I don’t see the sense of killing myself. It’s stupid. Now, I haven’t told you anything about this, but I’ve got several bright schemes up my sleeve. More than that—I’m actually carrying them out. I didn’t want to tell you until they panned out successfully. If only one of them comes through, we can sit back and breathe easy for the next ten years.
How does that strike you?
You’re a dear, said Trix, suddenly melting.
I don’t think she believed in his schemes one bit, but she was eager to clutch at any straw.
There! said MacGregor, beaming, you see how simple it is?
On my way home, an hour or so later, I got to thinking of all the wild projects he had hatched, beginning from the time I first knew him—when he was still going to prep school. How he had always complicated his life trying to make things easier for himself. I thought of the hours he had spent doing drudge work, so that later he might be free to do as he pleased, though he never did know precisely what it was he would do when he would be able to do only what he pleased. To do nothing at all, which he always pretended was the summum bonum, was thoroughly out of the question. If we went to the beach for a holiday he was sure to bring his note-book along, and a law-book or two, or even a few pages from the unabridged dictionary which he had been reading, a page at a time, for years. If we flung ourselves into the water he would have to race someone to the raft or propose that we—swim around the point or suggest we play water polo. Anything but float quietly on our backs. If we stretched out in the sand he would suggest we shoot craps or play cards. If we started a pleasant conversation he would turn it into an argument. He was never able to do anything in peace or contentment. His mind was always on the next thing, the next move.
Another peculiar thing I remembered about him was that he . always had a bad cold—a chest cold, as he put it. Winter or summer, it made no difference. A summer cold was worse, as he always said. With the colds he often got hay fever. In short, he was usually in a miserable condition, always ailing, griping, sneezing, and always blaming it on the cigarettes which he swore he would cut out next week or next month, and which sometimes
